#sorry if this sounds like gibberish i just kind of spit out things and hope they made sense

[krelboyne]

depressing malcolm in the middle headcanons

general trigger warning for things such as self-hx, eating disorders, bullying, abuse, really anything that you’re struggling with please keep a look out and feel free to skip this post. if you got anything to add on, either send me an anonymous ask or send me a DM! please don’t read this if you know you will be significantly upset by this!

- reese has a lot, and i mean a LOT, of negative thoughts about himself that can be. concerning.

- francis often wonders if he actually deserves to be considered a good brother, or even sometimes just part of the family, due to being gone from his younger brothers for so long

- speaking of that, francis sometimes lowkey blames himself for being sent to military school. would he ever bring this up to lois though? HELL NO

- dewey struggles from isolation from his family quite a bit and takes that and turns it into music, hence why music means so much to him and why he got a little offended when malcolm was misunderstanding music so much

- malcolm mentally is just. a mess. a huge, emotional mess. a disaster area. being the gifted child fucked him up GOOD

- this is just. canon. BUT. hal often sees himself in the boys, especially when they’re doing something chaotic. and because of that, he fears that he will accidentally neglect them like his father did to him, so even negative interactions with the boys such as reprimanding them can make him relax, and going too long without doing a little something special with them makes him upset

- lois can occasionally get “flashbacks” to her mother ida when she’s shouting at her children, and she knows she can’t stop punishing them because of her “flashbacks”, but they often make her feel regret later on and it leaves the boys with a much lighter punishment than they would usually receive

- im not sure if anybody would agree with me or not, but i kind of imagined lois with c-ptsd due to past neglect and abuse (i have c-ptsd myself i promise im not just making stuff up out of nowhere)

- malcolm suffers from extreme suicidal thoughts and, on bad nights, self harm

- malcolm’s “confident” (arrogant) act stems from his insecurity. he’s very much aware of his flaws and despises himself because of it, but unsure of what to do about it, he hides it instead

- the same thing has happened to reese, but rather than acting confident, he acts like a bully so people don’t even think twice about hurting him (or his brothers that he deeply loves). this is actually a huge reason of why reese and malcolm can relate to each other so much despite acting very differently

- malcolm and reese find comfort from each other emotionally. they will never, and i repeat never, bring this up with each other, nor would they acknowledge this to themselves, but they struggle with so many of the same things even if the problems presented themselves differently in their lives (ex. they both struggle with school, bullies, making friends, socializing, their family life, life in general). this over the years has formed almost a sort of co-dependency

- dewey feels like he often has to outprove himself in order to get any attention whatsoever, which, unfortunately in his family, is sort of true

- malcolm, francis, and dewey suffer from imposter syndrome

- the whole family has adhd because i said so

- reese and malcolm have bad physical esteem issues, which can result in them occasionally skipping meals and generally feeling quite bad about themselves. it never turns into anything too serious but it’s something they have to conquer

- malcolm has atypical depression and HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE social anxiety. like some of the worst you’ll ever see

- everyone in the family suffers from panic attacks, some more than others

- francis’s relationship with his mother turned sour very early on, but his chaotic streak actually originated as, as cheesy as it is, wanting attention (no matter positive or negative), but over the years he just learned to love chaos

- harvard will hit malcolm like a brick- the stress of being the family “savior”, working multiple jobs, constant nonstop homework, chores, debt... it leads to, unfortunately, quite a bit of trips to the hospital and a bit of time in the psych ward

- they all need therapy let’s be real

[burntpastel]

late

(On AO3)

Summary: Midoriya loses track of time and accidentally stays out past curfew. Mic decides he deserves a reward for having to go out and retrieve him.

Notes: a fic commissioned by Ivyblush and theDavynator on AO3! thanks again!!

italicized dialogue usually indicates usage of english.

raping people is evil. adults who date and/or fuck minors are evil. dont do it, and and don't base any real life relationships or choices off the content of fanfics.

cw rape, underage, impregnation, vomiting, trans deku

Midoriya is still, eyes locked on his target. He tries to focus on his body, his quirk, without tuning out visual information, then makes a quick, practiced movement, kicking out his leg. The force from his quirk carries across the gym, clipping two of the targets hanging from the ceiling instead of moving between them like he'd wanted, taking a decent sized chunk out of one.

Sighing, he moves a couple of feet down the line, to the last of the targets he’d prepared beforehand. He waits for them to settle back into place, then concentrates, hoping this time he can do it without breaking anything—including himself. He then kicks—

“HEY!”

The jolt of adrenaline sends his kick off course, shattering many of the remaining targets to the left of where he was originally aiming. (He’ll need to work on that too.)

“Mic-sensei!” Midoriya turns to him, and boy, does he look annoyed. He’s not even sure what he did this time. “What are you doing here?”

Mic strolls up to him with his hands in his pockets, glowering at him. It’s his turn to watch the dorms this week, and he’s wearing casual clothes. Sometimes it takes Midoriya a second to recognize him with his hair down.

“Looking for my missing student!” he provides with false cheer. Midoriya blinks. Is someone else gone, or has he been labeled missing himself?

He notices Mic’s eyes fixed on his chest and becomes painfully aware that he’s in a thin t-shirt and sports bra. He tugs his shirt away from his chest to hide his form, averting his gaze in embarrassment—not because he thinks Mic's staring is questionable, Midoriya knows he's usually covered up or has his binder on so he doesn't really blame him for being drawn to the unexpected shapes—more in a "sorry for being visibly trans" kind of way.

“It’s passed curfew, you know.”

Midoriya sucks in a breath, looking back up at him. Was he really training that long?

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was so late…”

Midoriya scrambles to collect his things. As he rushes past Mic to return to the dorms, he’s stopped by his outstretched hand, palm splaying against his torso and fingers brushing Midoriya’s chest in the process.

“Hold on a minute!”

Midoriya quickly scrambles back, looking up at his teacher, feeling his face burn at the accidental touch.

Something in Mic’s expression has changed. Instead of the drained irritation he’d shown before, his eyes are now intense as he stares down at Midoriya, though still calm, and he almost looks… pleased…?

Mic gestures to the locker room behind him. ”Go take a shower before we head back—you’re a mess!”

The words just sound like gibberish until his mind shifts to thinking in English. Feeling a little embarrassed that it had slipped his mind, Midoriya quickly nods. “Okay.”

He starts to turn when Mic interrupts him.

”Try again.”

Midoriya gives him an exasperated smile. That’s the fun thing about Mic-sensei—he never really stops teaching. Every moment is another chance for a little pop quiz.

”Yes, sir.”

Mic nods to him, and he sets off across the gym for the locker room. As he’s pushing the door open, Mic calls out.

“One last thing, Midoriya."

Midoriya looks back at him over his shoulder, and Mic almost looks like his usual self with the grin he’s wearing—except, it’s a little more unnerving with the way he’s peering at him over the rim of his glasses.

“Do you know what ‘I’m gonna rail your cunt’ means?”

Midoriya hesitates. He knows some of the words, but not the important ones that make the sentence meaningful. He shakes his head.

“No, sir.”

Mic’s smile grows wider, before he shakes his head, gesturing for Midoriya to go ahead with his shower.

.

Now that his body has realized how late it is and how long he was training for, he feels exhausted all at once. The water seems to be trying its best to lure him into sleep, and it is quite tempting.

After his shower he wraps a towel around himself and walks back to the lockers to get dressed. He’s in the middle of setting the towel down to slip on his underwear when he hears a soft sound—too subtle for his drowsy mind to parse immediately, but pointed enough to catch his attention. He glances around for the source of the noise, and in the same millisecond he realizes it was a laugh he spots Mic watching him from the shadows.

“Way to be alert, hero.”

Midoriya jerks his towel back up to his chest, fumbling to fasten it around himself with one hand while Mic approaches faster than he can figure out what the fuck is happening.

“You don’t like my class as much as All Might's,” Mic says matter-of-factly. “I put a lot of effort into my lessons, y’know.”

His face doesn’t reflect what he’s saying; there’s no trace of hurt, or anger or disappointment, just that same intense stare and grin. Yet, there’s no teasing quality to his voice, either.

“I do!” Midoriya spits, unsure if it’s out of politeness or fear. He takes a half step backwards for every two of Mic’s forward. “I’m just bad at English.”

“Ah, yeah,” Mic agrees. “Your last test came back pretty bad!”

...It did? He thought he’d actually done well on that one.

The amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins has his blood rushing painfully hard against every part of his body—yet, he doesn’t want to assume the worst of his teacher. His mind half convinces him that 'oh, this is about grades. That's important enough to interrupt someone getting dressed for. Yeah.'

He doesn’t run, but he does keep backing away and adopts very defensive body language, hoping that at some point Mic will get the idea that he’s uncomfortable if he curls up enough, tilts his head down, and averts his gaze.

“I know you guys hate all my quizzing, but I think you could use the extra credit!”

Mic finally stops about arm’s length away. Midoriya’s leaning so far back against the bench that he loses his balance and has to just sit down on it. He keeps his chin tucked, but stares up at Mic with wide eyes, subconsciously squeezing his legs together.

“So, I’ll make my last phrase a little easier for you…”

Mic leans down towards him, and it finally clicks in Midoriya’s head that no, he’s not just being paranoid or sensitive—this is wrong.

”I’m going to fuck you."

His stomach drops into ice.

Midoriya lurches to his feet but Mic grabs him by the arm and shoves him back into a sitting position. Midoriya squirms against his grasp, but as he’s trying to twist away and raises a hand to pry Mic off him, Mic lowers his lips to his ear and growls through his teeth, “I could end your hero career right here. Don’t even think about using your quirk.”

Midoriya freezes. Mic licks the shell of his ear before pulling back, looking quite satisfied at this. Midoriya’s eyes dart around the room as his breathing becomes frantic and uneven, lungs torn between hyperventilating and bursting into tears.

He can’t run, Mic’s quirk works from a distance, his feet are wet, and he’s naked. He can’t fight, even if he wanted to; Mic could accidentally kill him just with a cry of pain.

Can’t run... Can’t fight...

“No!” Midoriya squeals in between heaving gasps. His head feels so light he thinks he’ll topple over at any second. “Please, I d—”

“Is that any way to talk to your English teacher?” Mic chides as he reaches for the button of his pants.

“Wh—" He then switches to English, "No!"

“Good!” Mic praises, and for a second Midoriya’s blood pressure drops a fraction. “But nah. I’m pretty ticked I had to come all the way out here to get you, and you have a nice ass, so…”

Mic pulls his dick out of his pants. It’s riddled with piercings, and somehow that scares Midoriya even further. Maybe it just makes him think how this was always lurking under his teacher’s heroic facade, just like a bunch of scary metal studs beneath his clothes. Midoriya’s not even old enough to get piercings like that himself...

Mic's stroking himself and stepping closer. Midoriya wants to wake up. Wants this to be a nightmare that ends before the worst of it comes. He wants to fall out of his body. He wants to melt into the floor.

If he was trembling any harder, he’s pretty sure it would qualify as convulsions.

"I don't have to tell you how bad an idea it would be to bite me, right?" Mic puts his foot up on the bench, standing over Midoriya's lap as he holds his dick in front of his face.

His mind is blank. This isn't like an encounter with a villain—there's no one to protect, no backup coming, he's naked for fuck's sake—he doesn't know what to do. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away, but doesn't get very far as Mic grabs a fistful of his hair so tight he can't move.

"Open up!" Mic chirps, yet seems perfectly content to rub the head of his cock all over his face instead. Midoriya shudders as he nudges it against the fat of his cheek, rubbing up and down and in circles—flooded with the urge to scream, to thrash, to cry and bite and kick.

But he stays still, so rigid every part of him aches. His jaw is shut tight, lips pressed into a firm line as a Mic runs his cock over them. He goes over each multiple times, back and forth leisurely.

"Come on, you never shut your mouth this long…"

He prods at the corners of his mouth, rubs against them in intense small circles. It's much more effective than Midoriya would like; he's never able to press though his lips entirely, but he manages to part them enough to draw out some saliva, especially when the ring at his tip nudges between them.

Midoriya is clutching his towel to his chest so tightly he can't even feel that arm anymore. His stomach is so tight he feels like he's going to die. Part of him welcomes it; he doesn't want to be here.

Mic then thrusts forward, his cock bumping his nose and smearing precome on the ridge of his brow as it slips up against his face. Mic grinds it between his pelvis and Midoriya's cheek as he humps his face. Midoriya can feel the way Mic's skin drags against his own, the gliding metal studs, his balls tapping against his chin with each upward thrust, a mound of wiry hair whenever his cock slips out of place. His mind is in searing, white hot pain. He can feel these sensations carving their way into his brain, never to be forgotten.

The way it feels, the way it smells, the sounds Mic is making as he does it, the fingers knotted in his hair… He already knows that, if his heart doesn't stop in the middle of this (and it might, based on how hard it's beating and how much it hurts,) that one day he's going to be trying to live his life only to be haunted by the sensation of a cock shoved against his face, of all things.

His extremities are freezing, even the tips of his ears feel like ice, but his torso is burning hot as he trembles, legs straining in unnatural ways that would give him a cramp in any other situation. He feels a headache beginning to form where Mic is tugging his hair to keep him in place.

Apparently his dick slips out from between them one too many times, because Mic draws back just enough to grasp the base between his forefinger and thumb and deliver a series of quick slaps against Midoriya's face with it. Humiliation and anger tingle painfully across every inch of Midoriya's skin, beginning from his stomach. He grits his teeth hard, trying to focus on the creaking sound of his jaw.

The contact only dully hurts when concentrated in one area too long, but occasionally one of the metal studs catches his cheekbone, making Midoriya flinch quite uselessly in Mic's grip. The sharper pain brings reflexive tears, which break the dam—his lungs spasm with barely restrained sobs, tears pushing their way through his clenched eyelids.

He hadn't wanted to cry. His lips quiver, making it quite hard to keep them pinched together, while his jaw occasionally cracks open a fraction with a wail it desperately wants to vocalize. His shoulders bounce and chest heaves with silent, choked down sobs. As if his body needed more tension.

"This would be over a lot quicker if you'd just open your mouth..."

Mic seems perfectly content to ignore his tears, carrying on battering Midoriya's face with his cock. If anything, he seems enthused, picking up the speed so that he's practically beating off against him. He moves away from his cheek closer to the center of his face, so that his slaps land partially against his mouth.

In his head, Midoriya toys with the idea of just opening his mouth, just to end whatever torment this is.

Mic groans impatiently, but it just comes out needy. Suddenly, the member assaulting his face is gone.

"Hey, Midoriya, how do you say 'beg' in English?"

Midoriya stays quiet, knowing his cock is hovering just in front of his face, waiting.

"Come on." His cock hits his face again. His nose stings so much from the blow that he doesn't even feel the scratch that the circular ring at the tip leaves on his brow. His cries ramp up another level, a whine emanating from his throat.

"You're gonna get fucked either way. Might as well pass your test too."

Midoriya's mind is eager to latch onto a silver lining.

And he really, really wants Mic's cock to stop touching his face.

"...Be—ghk!"

He's promptly rewarded with a cock inside his mouth.

He doesn't shove it down his throat, at least; still guiding it with his fingers he rubs it around; down against his tongue, or up along his inner cheek, stretching it outward.

"There we go," Mic draws out, sounding quite pleased in multiple ways.

Midoriya almost gags anyway, just out of sheer disgust. He tries to withdraw with tongue as much as he can, but that just seems to give Mic an ample platform to rub his tip against. He then tries flattening it instead, but it allows him to grind a greater length of his cock along it.

He settles for withdrawn.

Midoriya's not sure this is better than just letting him hump his face (or rather the outside of his face, because that's very much still happening.) It doesn't hurt as much, but letting him use his mouth for pleasure is just as humiliating, he thinks, just in a different kind of way.

His jaw aches from how wide he has to hold it open to avoid scraping his teeth against his dick. He's surprised the way his piercings click and catch against his teeth doesn't put Mic off more; it seems like it would hurt. Each time Midoriya feels that circular ring touch his back teeth he has the impulse to bite down on it.

Drool runs down his chin, trailing to his chest. He weeps around Mic's cock as he thrusts it against his inner cheek, his whimpers occasionally interrupted as Mic shoves it a little too far in what might be an attempt to silence him. The tears on his cheeks are starting to itch in places but he's too afraid to open his eyes and doesn't want to chance touching Mic to wipe at them.

"How do you say…” Mic trails off to think, “...'pulse' in English?"

"...Pul-thh." he answers as well as he can while crying with a dick in his mouth, careful as he forms the 'p' to not bite him.

"Mm. What do you do to cool something off?"

"...Blow."

"If a building has electricity, you could also say it has…?"

"Power."

Midoriya isn't oblivious to what he's doing; the answers all force him to seal his lips fully around him or flick his tongue against his shaft—but it's easy to pretend that it's unrelated to the way Mic thrusts into his mouth with each answer.

Just extra credit. Not pleasure.

"Good!" Mic eventually praises, entirely condescending. "Now, wrap your lips around it and suck."

Midoriya's stomach drops, wincing at the thought. He shakes his head as well as he can in Mic's grip.

"Aw, kid, you were practically already doing it before!" Mic insists. "Just like when you made a 'b'."

He tugs on his hair and wiggles his length around in his mouth, tapping it against his tongue as he continues his coaxing.

"Come on, just suck it. Suck it. Suck my dick."

"Just once. Just suck my dick. Just the head?"

"It's not that hard. Just suck me off. Do it."

Midoriya sobs around him, keeping his jaw stretched wide open. Tension ripples through his body, feeling a strong, reckless urge to bring his teeth down—and an awful, aching helplessness because he knows he can't.

"Hey, if you make me come now, maybe I won't fill up your pussy instead!"

He's going to—?

The wave of nausea that floods him accompanied by Mic thrusting just a little too far into his mouth makes him gag, and bile flows over his lips before he even knows what's happening. Mic withdraws as Midoriya hunches over in a coughing fit, idly wiping away the vomit on his cock with his thumb. Midoriya's head swims as he finally opens his eyes again, feeling disorientation like he just got slammed back into reality.

He really doesn't have the energy to spare for coughing. He forces himself to stop, allowing the remainder of the bile to just burn at his throat. He finally moves his numb arm to scrub at his chin, neck and chest with the towel, staining the white fabric with a sickly yellow.

"Alright, if you can't handle your oral exam, fine. You've got other holes."

Mic steps forward again as Midoriya takes heaving breaths, looming over him. He presses on Midoriya's shoulder, urging him back while his other hand tugs the towel away from his lap.

"How about you lay back and spread your legs for me..."

Midoriya freezes for just a moment, staring up at him in horror, before abandoning the towel and jumping to his feet to slip out from between Mic and the bench.

"No you don't!"

Mic catches his arm, twisting it behind his back as he shoves him towards the bench, exposing his back to him. Midoriya is forced to bend to accommodate Mic wrenching his arm.

"No!" Midoriya sobs as he feels something hard brush against his thighs. Mic tries to push his upper half downwards so that he's face down and ass up, but Midoriya braces his palm on the bench and locks his elbow in time to prevent it.

"Oh," Mic chuckles so darkly it's practically a growl. "You're gonna regret not making this easy for me, kid."

Midoriya clamps his legs shut as tight as he can, but it doesn't help much when he's bent so far forward, pussy poking out from between them with the incline of his pelvis. Mic's free hand slides to the back of Midoriya's thigh, thumb tugging his skin to spread his lips for him. Midoriya squirms and thrashes, but his arm is pushed further in response, a clear threat straining its way through his muscles.

Midoriya screams as Mic pushes inside, a pure, animalistic vocalization of distress, pain and protest; a contrast to Mic's soft groan. His piercings catch on his hymen, ripping through as he presses on anyway. Midoriya flinches hard, legs parting reflexively in an effort to reduce the pain, feeling much like he's being split open. He can't believe his teacher is sinking his cock inside of him. Midoriya wants to lurch away, instincts telling him to vault over the bench and run, but he only moves so far before Mic starts pulling on his twisted arm, threatening to rip it out of the socket—and before he knows it, Mic is fully hilted inside him, cock ring jabbing his cervix unpleasantly.

He freezes, trying to catch his breath with too-small lungs. He can feel his walls throbbing sharply in complaint at the intrusion. It's too big. Too dry. His thighs tremble, so hard that his knees nearly give out at times. It's unlike the fearful tremors from before; he's quite unused to having something shoved between his legs like this.

Mic's free hand grips his hip with a bruising force. "F-uck you're tight!"

If he thought pushing in hurt, pulling out is five times worse. Midoriya yelps as Mic withdraws, cock dragging against his tender insides and torn entrance, until only the head remains. Then he thrusts back in just as harshly, and Midoriya's cry takes on a slightly… different tone, much to his displeasure. Softer, more surprised. It still hurts, especially because his piercings catch on that same ring of skin again, but this time it also sends a different feeling reeling through his abdomen.

He's too breathless to even protest as Mic thrusts into him, caught between gasps, hisses, and sobs as the exact amount of pain and pleasure vary with each one. His cunt is doing its best to provide lubrication to ease the process, but it can only do so much unaroused.

Midoriya feels a sense of defeat; emptiness and humiliation stirring inside him. He's actually getting fucked, in a locker room on campus, by his teacher. He can feel his ass jiggle with each slap of Mic's hips against his skin, the sound echoing off the tiles and bouncing around the room. Midoriya's experienced a lot of unpleasant things, including public, relentless bullying over things he couldn't control, and he's pretty sure none of it was as deeply degrading as having his most intimate body parts used against his will for someone else's pleasure, while being dragged along for the ride, forced to stifle moans as he's violated by someone he thought he could trust.

He wants time to whirl by in a blur, for it to be over before he even knows it, but instead he's hyperaware of every second, every thrust, every painful jolt of forced pleasure that goes through his stomach. Every pant and gasp and groan Mic makes that fills him with a little more nausea, or fear, or anger. Sometimes it feels like it's all about to overflow, but all he does in the end is sit there and take it.

And Mic seems inclined to drag things out even more. His thrusts slow as he runs his hand up over the curve of his ass, humming a content noise behind him.

Without him pounding away, Midoriya is finally able to regain control over his lungs.

"Stop!" he gasps. "Please!"

He hates how soft and whiney his voice is, how he's moaning the words instead of commanding them.

"What was that?"

He pauses, frantically searching his overwhelmed mind. "Please!"

"Please what?"

"Stop!"

"Hmm… No, that's not right. Try 'harder' or 'keep going'."

Midoriya whimpers and hangs his head as Mic chuckles darkly, running his hand up his side. He's fucking him as if he's trying to get familiar with his cunt, like he's mapping out every crease and curve with the tip of his dick. Midoriya is overcome with the urge to crawl over the bench again, but the second he starts forward Mic yanks his arm back. It gives out a loud, threatening pop in response, and a slight pain starts to creep in a few seconds later. Mic huffs out a laugh, and fucks him just that little bit harder, like his efforts aroused him further.

Mic slides his hand underneath him to grope at his breasts, squeezing calloused fingers around them. Midoriya flinches, twisting his body to pin Mic's arm against his torso with his elbow, pressing harder when Mic pinches and tugs his nipple in response.

It's a mistake. With his arm bent Mic easily shoves him down against the bench, where he fucks him much, much harder. Midoriya's back arches, eyes rolling back as Mic pounds brutally into him now that he’s securely braced against something. He releases his arm, but Midoriya's not of a mind to make use of it, clutching at the wood underneath him until his knuckles turn white.

Mic's hands are right next to his. He's keeping him pinned down with his body, panting and grunting just behind his head as he snaps his hips fervently. Midoriya hates how well their bodies conform to each other.

Each of Midoriya's moans has an edge of protest. His cunt is throbbing, slick running down his thighs. He feels nauseous as he realizes he might actually come from this, from Present Mic—his teacher—cornering and fucking him like an animal.

He's so nauseated. The sensations overwhelm his body. Mic's thrusts jostle his insides. The stress of everything is—

He heaves, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the bench. His cunt tightens so hard around Mic’s cock that his piercings dig painfully into the walls of his cunt.

And Mic comes. Mic comes inside him, moaning against his neck and wrapping his arms around his waist, bucking into him as he releases his seed. At this, Midoriya retches again, his vomit flowing over the edge of the bench and splattering onto the floor and Mic whimpers pleasantly, forehead pressed against Midoriya's back as his body inadvertently milks his cock dry.

They stay like that for a while, Midoriya laying across the bench with Mic curled around him, both panting hard. He trembles, head pressed into his arm so that he's not laying in his own puke. Any trace of that building orgasm is gone, and he's not even sure whether he came or not. He’s too exhausted to cry like he wants to.

Mic pulls out, releasing a hot flood that runs down his thighs. Midoriya slowly sinks to the floor until he's sitting, head still buried in his arms upon the bench. His cunt feels quite different; irritated and sore, and... stretched out. An awful reminder.

"Fuck," Mic hisses, "that was good."

Midoriya doesn't even flinch.

He hears shifting fabric, then a zip. "Get cleaned up and let's head back to the dorms."

The idea is almost laughable. Midoriya doesn't see himself moving for a very, very long time, if ever again. The image of a very tender space, flooded with a sticky white that has a very good chance of ruining his life forever, is burned into his mind.

He hears Mic's boots clacking against the tile, getting further, then the creak of the locker room door.

"Hurry up, or I might decide to come back and ruin your asshole, too."

The door shuts.

That gets him moving.

.

Late, late, late.

Late for curfew. Late for school. Late for his period.

He doesn't want to buy a pregnancy test. He can't be pregnant—he's 15! The universe can't be that cruel. It wouldn't make him deal with that after making him quirkless, after the bullying, after all the villain attacks, after… Mic. Nothing is that cruel. It's too much.

But time drags on. He waits on pins and needles for three more days and it keeps being late and eventually his panic outweighs his mortification at having to walk into a store and buy a pregnancy test.

He stares at the box for hours. He doesn't use it. He's not pregnant—he can't be. So he sets it aside, shoved in the back of a drawer that’s promptly slammed shut.

    He gets out of bed and takes it at 3AM.

.

.

And he cries.

[ardentmuse]

Heat (Harry Hart x Reader)

Kingsman - Harry Hart x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 2k

Summary: Harry walks in on you having a rather compromising dream and together you make it a reality. 

Warnings: smut, fluff

A/N: Ahh, the long awaited Harry Hart smut piece. A pseudo-request from the lovely @briars-glenn, though your real request will be coming soon. I’ve been working on this for over a week now and I just couldn’t get it out. I hope it fills the void a little though, friends. :) 

“Sweetheart,” a voice called to you, soft and melodic in the haze of your dreams. But you couldn’t hear a thing. All you could register was heat.

Heat coursed through you, overtaking your limbs until your body felt like putty. You felt the ghosting of calloused fingers across your back, down your spine and cupping your rear. Wet, fevered kisses ran down your jawbone and your neck, aiding in the sheer weightlessness of it all. Hands, strong but nimble, traveled down your body, leaving goosebumps in their wake, lower and lower until your breath caught in your throat and settled into an audible groan.

“Sweetheart.”

That time you heard it.

You shifted and turned at the disturbance, only now realizing you were waking from a rather hot and torrid dream, one involving the exact man who currently was hovering over you, concern etched in the creases of his eyes..

“Are you alright?” Harry asked, “I heard you groaning.”

Oh, god, Harry. Here. In your room. Listening to you moan and writhe as your dreams filled with images of him naked and passionate on top of you. Harry — sweet, perfect Harry — catching you in a moment of near orgasm, waking you just as you were about to shout his name. As it all registered, you knew the darkness of your bedroom wouldn’t be enough to hide your embarrassment.

It was impossible to meet his gaze as you pulled the blankets to cover your sweat-coated body. You did your best to make yourself small, to shrink away from the shame that was beginning to wash over you.

“Yes,” you said with a cough, “I’m— I’m fine, Harry, thank you.”

Harry ran his fingers down the length of your shoulder in an effort to provide you comfort but at the feel of his skin against your bare flesh, your mind conjured images from your dreams, that same hand moving with the same softness on very different curves… You recoiled from him in mental protest.

Harry seemed to process the situation instantly. He stood a moment, shocked, but then made for the door as quickly as he could without being completely rude, his eyes also aimed at the floor.

“I’m— I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll be right down the hall if you need me for anything.”

You were on the verge of shaking with the waves of embarrassment that kept hitting you. You had yourself buried up to your chin in the blankets and still had yet to look at the beautiful, tall, gentle creature who consumed your waking and sleeping thoughts. But hearing him say those words, “if you need me for anything,” sounded so absurd giving the situation.

You tried to swallow the laugh, but you couldn’t. First you spit, and then a fit of giggles took you. Harry rushed to you in an instant, taking a seat on the empty side of your bed. His hands took your shoulders again without any hesitation. After a moment of really catching your breath, you were able to look at the man you loved.

Galahad was kneeling beside you in the middle of your bed and he was looking at you with a tight front.

“I thought you were crying.”

“‘Need you for anything,’ really, Harry?” you said as you wiped at your tears, “I’m sure you are incredibly eager to help me with these sorts of problems.” Your voice oozed with sarcasm.

You watched the softness enter his eyes. He moved his hand from your shoulder up your neck — the sparks it caused along the path completely undeniable — and caressed at your cheek.

He whispered, so low and quiet that you thought you might have misheard him, “Are you so sure, my love?”

His eyes flicked up to meet your gaze and if you had any doubt about the words he spoke, they were gone now. His gaze was powerful and consuming. It was a long moment of looking and of longing, Harry waging a war in his own mind. But the next thing you knew, his hand ran into the base of your hair and yanked you forward into a bruising kiss.

It was hard not to immediately lose yourself to Harry’s kiss. It was fiery and purposeful in a way you always hoped he might be. His other hand had found the small of your back and was pushing you down to recline. All you could do was move in time with him, in passionate, deep circles of your lips and tongue as his weight pressed down upon you. The feel of him against you, the hard expanse of his stomach and the lithe curves of his arms were so much more perfected than your mind had ever imagined. As his chest pressed down on you in earnest, your entire body called to attention. Your skin had already been heated from your dream but the feel of Harry now had your body shivering. Your nipples perked against the silk of your nightdress, eager to be closer to him and the goosebumps on your neck traveled down your torso as Harry’s hands found the hemline of your pajamas.

Harry was perfect as he kissed you deeply, biting at your bottom lip before gently coaxing your tongue forward to meet his in play. You focused all your energy on that kiss, on the sweet taste of his evening wine still on his tongue and the sparks each pass of light stubble created when he tilted his head. If you weren’t focused on that, you would have been paralyzed by the intoxicating feel of his fingers grazing your thighs and moving higher and higher, pushing your sleep dress right along with it.

Harry growled against your jaw as his hand found the lace lining of your panties. It hadn’t been your intention to dress up for bed, but the lace panties had been a mental motivator from your dinner with Harry and the team earlier this evening. Your love for Harry was becoming debilitating, as you often had to work as partners. His easy smiles and ability to always made you feel safe had you swooning for so long now that it was verging on torture. You had wanted to tell him how you felt, needed to really to move forward with your life and confidence sometimes starts with what you’re wearing.

But dinner came and went and you hadn’t said a word. But maybe words weren’t necessary.

“Perfect,” Harry whispered as his fingers hooked on the fabric, tugging them down just a little. His mouth moved seamlessly from your lips to your jaw and lower, though you felt the absence immensely. Harry sucked at the sensitive skin of your neck as you ran your hands down the length of his back. He was wearing long fleece pajamas. He had to be sweating and so you pulled at the hem to lift it over his head, scratching at his back as you did so. Harry lifted himself from you to assist but when the garment was off and he was hovering over you, taking in your reddened lips and disheveled hair, everything came to a halt.

The air grew thick with what had just occurred. In the silence, you moved your legs together, feeling your underwear sitting low on your hips and cursing at just how quickly everything happened. And now Harry looked confused, and maybe a little angry, and all you could feel was embarrassed once again.

After a beat, Harry sighed and looked away from you.

“I’m sorry I took advantage of the situation,” he breathed, leaving you shocked.

“Harry, no,” you said before you could think, grabbing at his arm to pull his gaze back to you.

When he looked at you again, you could see the hurt in his eyes. He bit his lower lip.

“Is this what you want then?” he asked.

You nodded without thought.

“No nods. I need words, Y/N. Tell me now this was just the heat of the moment and I’ll walk away before I ruin our friendship any further. But say yes, darling,” he said, his tone turning to that of warning, “And know I will not be leaving this bed until you kick me out in the morning to get you breakfast because you’re too tired and sore to do it yourself.”

You took a moment to register as butterflies settled into your stomach. Harry, your sweet, innocent, beautiful Harry, was intending to ravish you and your body so thoroughly you wouldn’t find sleep tonight. He wanted you, as much or maybe more than you wanted him.

“Yes,” you said, “Yes, I want this. I’ve wanted you long enough, Harry. I saw it’s about time we see this thing through, don’t you?”

Harry laughed, “Overdue, in fact.” And with that Harry was upon you again, positioned between your thighs and bearing the entirety of the weight of his long, glorious frame upon you.

And this time, like in your dreams, all you felt was heat; the heat of Harry’s thighs as his flannels were abandoned to the floor, the hot press of his kisses upon your breasts, sucking and pulling at your nipples expertly, like he’d known and loved your body for years, the sweet sensation of skin upon skin, sweat against sweat, as Harry slid his hands to push your thighs upwards and abandon you of those lacy bottoms that he seemed to love so, the hot press of his tongue upon your folds, lapping and devouring your core better than any man before him, the intense friction of his fingers against your bud, moving in time with his tongue to bring you oh so close to release, the fevered strokes of his shaft between your lower lips, coating himself in your fluids and sending shock waves of anticipation through you before pressing patiently into your body, the slow, melodic rhythm of his hips against yours as he pushed you deeper into the mattress, the cold rush of the room air against your heels as you wrapped your legs around his torso, holding him to you as pounded with greater force, long sensual strokes that had you dizzy and needy and uttering a gibberish slew of moans, and finally the warm euphoric comfort of release as waves of pleasure passed through you, making your legs quake and your body go numb around him. Soon Harry followed, filling you with a new kind of warmth, one that came as his eyes met yours as you both caught your breath; the warmth of knowing that no part of this was just sex, but the manifestation of years of desire and love and ardent devotion.

“You’re perfection,” he whispered into the stillness of the night and he pulled himself from inside you. The absence had you saddened, but Harry quickly had you pulled against his chest, curling you around him without any intention of letting go.

“You’re pretty great yourself,” you managed. Harry could only laugh.

“The number of nights I spent dreaming of just this…”

You started to laugh, “You walked in on me dreaming of just this.”

Harry turned to you, running his fingers through your hair. “Don’t get me wrong,” he started, “the sex was— is great. But that’s not what I dreamt of. I dreamt of this, holding you content and spent against my chest in the early hours of the morning, kissing your forehead and telling you I love you without any pressure of Kingsman or decorum inhibiting us.”

His speech, and the thoughts behind them, we simply lovely. But the most lovely part was hearing Harry say what your heart had longed to hear for ages. He loved you.

“I love you, too, Harry,” you whispered just as sleep was about to take you again.

“Sweetheart,” Harry began to say to you, but you couldn’t hear it anyway, only this time there were no dreams to distract you as nothing was better than your reality.

[doeeyeddarlingxo]

Myriad Misadventures - Chapter 63

The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-In-Training - Chapter 63

AO3 | Previous | Next

Word Count: 1293

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Rating: T

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added!): @lokis-girl-in-mischief

Chapter 63

“America is your home country, correct?”

“Yeah, I - and you’re from Germany? You’re from Germany.”

She laughs - not meanly, just a light chuckle. “Yes, Stuttgart.” You must look bewildered, because she goes ahead and clarifies. “My city.”

At sixteen, new to the palace and terrorized by Rosa and terrified out of your mind, you hadn’t had much time to wonder why the name of some random city in Germany had sounded so familiar.

But now you know.

*******************************************

Loki looks at you like you’ve just spoken in gibberish. “What?”

“Her hometown.” You recalls clips of newsreels from years ago: his manic gaze, a horned helmet and glowing staff, screaming at a crowd of terrified civilians to kneel before him. They hadn’t shown much footage past that, but they had announced an estimated twenty or so casualties. Known casualties. You remember that much. “The first invasion - Loki, you went to Germany, be-before New York.”

“That’s right, darling. Remember, Your Majesty? Although, why would you - I was just another head bent to the ground. My father didn’t bend, though. He refused to kneel, and you - you - ” She swallows. “I’ve waited so long for this, you know. I changed my wardrobe, my speech patterns, my whole lifestyle to get here, to the top of the polls, so I could take from you what you took from my father .” She’s practically spitting now. "But now...now I see. Taking your life won’t do anything, will it? Instead, I think - ”

And now her hand, the same hand you’ve seen pen elegant speeches and coax melodies from an out-of-tune piano and brush tears from Sapphire’s cheeks - now her hand is on you . It’s so much stronger than you remember, gripping your upper arm with a deadly force, swinging you around so that you’re held against her as she holds the knife just below your chin.

I probably should have seen that coming... but it’s a little late for should haves at this point.

“R-Rhea.” You swallow as she presses the blade into your skin - gently.

She was always so gentle, there was no way I could have known.

“Ah, ah, ah.” She delivers a sharp look to the approaching guards, who have now frozen in place after a gesture from Loki. “You so much as point a weapon at me, and I slit her throat.”

You try again. “Please, h-hear me out.”

“ H-h-hear m-me out, ” she mocks. “You can’t even get through three words without stuttering.”

“You don’t want to do this.”

“Well, I gave up my life, my time, and a good portion of my sanity to get this far, so maybe, just maybe, I might be just the teeny, tiniest bit invested in this. And you..." She pulls your back tighter to her chest, and you tense up. "Little Lady (Y/N). You were the only thing in the way of my plan, do you know that?"

"You knew he wasn't proposing to you," you choke out. "You lied. "

"I figured if I could get you to think he had abandoned you, you'd leave. For good this time."

“You’ve changed - ”

“No. He,” she snaps, jerking her chin at Loki, “he changed me.”

“The way we’ve changed him?”

She seems taken aback. “What?”

“Yes.” Loki speaks now. “Lady Rhea, you cannot imagine how…”

Her scoff rings uncomfortably close to your ear. “How what? How sorry you are?”

“At least.”

“Apologies won’t bring my father back, Your Majesty.”

“I know.” He takes a step forward, but stops when Rhea drags your back a step in response. “You have every right to be angry with me. But I swear, I was...I wasn’t myself, then.”

Rhea lets out a hysterical laugh. “I’m sure.”

“During the initial invasion of Midgard, my mind and actions were under the control of another.” He presses his lips together tightly. “A fact I should have been more transparent about in the years since.”

If you were in a movie, you’re certain this is the part where the audience of the ballroom would gasp. As it is, a murmur arises, diffusing the tense silence of before.

He's announcing this here ? After keeping it secret for so long?

All to save me?

“But you still...you…” She falters a moment, before steeling up again. “I don’t want excuses, I want my father back .” At this, her grip loosens a bit—not enough for you to pull away, but enough that you can breathe without fear of nicking yourself.

“My family is watching this, Rhea,” you whisper. “My parents. My brother. My little sister. We talked about them, remember? Erik? Carlie?”

“I remember.” You feel Rhea’s hands shaking now—not comforting, since one of them is still holding a knife to your bare throat. Your own hand, clutching at your dress, feels something hanging from it. Something hard and sharp and hidden in the billowing fabric of your skirt.

Yes.  

“You know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” You keep talking, hoping it will distract her as you pull on the chain, sliding the fork up into your grasp. “Don’t take me from them . Please—”

Speech was clearly the wrong tactic, because she tightens her grip again. “He’s going to keep hurting people. He should have given up when he had the chance.”

“I am.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his.

He nods.

Rhea doesn't seem to get it at first. "What?"

"As current monarch of Midgard, it is my duty to act in the best interests of the realm.” He takes a deep breath. Without lifting his eyes from you and Rhea, he raises his voice so that it carries to the rest of the room. “After consulting with some trusted individuals, it's been determined that it would be in the best interests of the realm to relinquish my claim, and allow things to return to the way they were before my rule."

His eyes are determined, but behind that you see a layer of that softness you know. The sincerity. The same look he gave you yesterday when he asked you , “And if I weren’t king?”

This isn’t just something he’s saying to get you out of Rhea’s grasp.

He’s stepping down from the throne.

This seems to hit Rhea like a ton of bricks. The hand she has on your arm goes limp, and you summon up every last ounce of courage you have in your body.

Here goes nothing .

You jab the fork up between the knife and your neck, yanking the chain free of your dress. By some stroke of luck, the blade gets caught between the tines, and you twist it, knocking the knife out of Rhea’s hand and spinning yourself out of her grasp in a movement reminiscent of the Spider’s Waltz you danced in this very room, all those years ago.. The momentum nearly knocks you over, and as the guards descend upon Rhea, you find yourself stumbling forward into Loki’s arms.

He crushes you to his chest, and you return the embrace in kind, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“You’re stepping down?” you half-whisper. You don’t know how her hears you above all the commotion, but he pulls back a moment to catch your eyes in his.

“You said you didn’t know if you could remain your family’s daughter if you were to become my queen.” He cups your face in his hands, looking at you as though you were something unspeakably precious. “You said nothing of the sort with regards to becoming my wife.”

“You - for me?” The tears of fear turn to relief, now, spilling over as your hands find purchase over his. “I can’t believe you’d do that, I can’t believe you did that—”

“For you?” He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Anything.”

[rotworld]

In Betweens

derek blames it on the afterglow.

->derek/izsak. explicit, contains overstimulation, slight emotional sadism.

The bed’s fucked. The whole thing, mattress and all, is going to have to go out with the trash on Monday. The rest of the loft’s not much better but Derek thinks he can just borrow his father’s housekeepers for a weekend and have everything taken care of. They won’t ask any questions.

He hasn’t seen such a mess since the time he got absolutely trashed at his own graduation party but this is better somehow, even more exciting, knowing it only took two of them to completely wreck the place. Izsák is sprawled out on the wine and cum-stained sheets beside him trying to catch his breath, still wrapped in the after-sex high and probably too sore to move. 

Derek reaches out and traces the flushed ring of his teeth marks left in Izsák’s shoulder, a rough, raw arch of scabs that still bleeds when he pushes down around it with his fingers. Izsák hisses and swats his hand away. He’s more fun like this after Derek’s fucked the prim and proper out of him.

“You look like shit,” Derek says, grinning.

“I feel like shit,” Izsák slurs, his words all jumbled together and nearly indecipherable with how strong his accent is now. Lately, he’s been slipping into his native tongue when they fuck. Derek will angle his hips just right and Izsák just fucking loses it, arching his back and shaking and saying shit that Derek mistook for gibberish the first time. Begging kind of sounds the same in every language so he just fucks him harder. 

There’s a solid minute before and after Izsák cums that he just forgets how to speak English and Derek loves teasing him right then, making his thrusts slow and shallow until Izsák’s sobbing in Hungarian and fucking himself on his cock like he’s going to die without it.

Derek stretches and reclines on his side, head propped up on one hand. “You’re hot when you cry,” Derek says. He wraps his fist around Izsák’s spent cock and watches him convulse, overstimulated, whining at the sensation.

“Don’t,” Izsák begs. His mistake, because that just makes Derek smile and slide his hand down his flaccid shaft, feeling the flesh twitch with interest under his fingers. Izsák grabs his wrist and looks him in the eye, pleading. “You cannot really want to go again,” he says, almost a question, a hopeful twinge in his voice.

“Hm. Yeah, not really. Just like seeing you squirm a little,” Derek says, but he doesn’t let go. He pumps Izsák’s cock at a leisurely pace, feels where his flesh is hot and catching against his palm, too dry. They ran out of lube hours ago, empty tubes lying scattered across the floor. They ran out of condoms, too, and Derek scowls at the disgusting sight of half a dozen tied in cum-filled knots on Izsák’s other side. He feels just a little bit of pity for whoever’s gonna clean this later. “How many times did we do it?”

“I—nghh,” Izsák’s eyes flutter shut and he bucks his hips helplessly against Derek’s hand, “I was not counting.” He shivers, making a broken noise, and that’s good but not enough so Derek twists his hand around the head of his cock and gets him to moan out something unrecognizable.

“What’re you saying?” Derek asks curiously, teasing the slit with his thumb. “I always wonder, especially when you get all desperate and rub up against me.”

“I say a lot of things in the heat of the moment,” Izsák mutters, his blush reaching the tips of his ears. “Many of which are obscene.”

Derek smirks and scoots closer, sinking his teeth into the shell of Izsák’s ear. “Yeah?” he growls. “Like what? Don’t get embarrassed now.” Izsák’s starting to wince and go soft so Derek spits into his palm and it’s a sorry excuse for lube but it helps a little.

“J-just...you know,” Izsák stammers, ashamed for some reason all of the sudden. “What I usually say. ‘Please fuck me, please cum in me.’ That kind of thing.”

Derek rolls his eyes, losing interest in the conversation. Izsák’s reactions are still good, though, and he teases him, traces the veins down his length and back up again. “You’ve said way filthier shit in English, I don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“It f-feels different in my mother tongue. More, ah, m-more intima—oh!” Izsák gasps sharply and his chest is heaving with fast, frantic breaths. The sound of him fucking Derek’s hand is wet and suggestive but it’s nothing compared to those sad little noises he’s making, the pathetic mewls and hissed Hungarian swears.

More intimate, Derek thinks with derision. He doesn’t get what the fuck Izsák means by that but it doesn’t really matter. He looks good right now, writhing in the mess they made together. It must hurt but it must feel good, too, his hips losing rhythm as he starts to babble incoherently with his fists tangled in the sheets. It’s so easy to take him apart. 

Derek likes that he knows this is here, this needy, shivering thing is hidden just underneath Izsák’s unapproachable shell and Derek can bring it out whenever he wants with a heated look and a sharp jerk of his head towards a hall closet or shadowed corner of his father’s house. He can’t remember the last relationship he had that lasted this long.

But this isn’t a relationship, is it? The thought makes Derek slow his movements, staring into space. No way. Definitely not. He doesn’t want to date Izsák, he just wants to fuck him sometimes. A lot of the time, honestly, if the last few weeks have been anything to go by, all the sneaking around they’ve done in his father’s house. Dating is fancy dinners and forced smiles and throwing gifts at greedy bitches who always want something else. This isn’t dating. This is just…

Derek looks down at Izsák’s blushing, tear-stained face in confusion. What the fuck is this? What are they doing?

Izsák looks up at him and calls, his voice hoarse and tinged with need, “Sir?”

Derek makes an exasperated noise. “You don’t have to always fucking—no, you know what, whatever. Turn over, we’re going again.”

“You are not serious, I hope.”

Derek doesn’t ask twice. He rolls Izsák onto his stomach and pins him to the bed. “Should probably ask my father to give you the week off,” he growls, sliding his cock between Izsák’s cheeks and prodding at his reddened, abused hole. “You’re not gonna be able to walk.”

“If I have any time off, you will simply take advantage of it,” Izsák mutters. But he’s smirking. He’s got his cheek pressed to the bed and is looking at Derek through his lashes like he’s got him exactly where he wants him. Derek likes that, but he doesn’t like it as much as seeing him sob, so at the same second he presses inside, his own cum squelching out around his dick, he reaches around and gives Izsák’s cock a few quick strokes that have him biting down a moan.

“Exactly,” Derek murmurs, blanketing Izsák ‘s body with his own and feeling him jerk and shudder. “If you’ve got nothing else to do, then you’ve got no reason to be anywhere but around my cock.” He fucks him harder but jerks him off nice and slow. Derek kicks his legs open wider and humps him into the mattress, balls deep in Izsák’s ass with every thrust and wishing he didn’t have to be anywhere else ever again.

“Sir, I—I can’t—”

“You wanna cum, Izsák? You want some mercy?”

“Please, sir,” Izsák sobs, and that puts Derek’s heart into overdrive. He grabs a fistful of Izsák’s hair and drags his head out of the pillows so there’s nowhere to hide and bites savagely into the side of his neck.

“Then fucking beg for it.”

He doesn’t understand a word out Izsák’s mouth for the next hour and a half.

[danfanciesphil]

Some Kind Of Folliful (New Chapter)

Edgelord!Dan x ObliviousBisexual!Phil AU [CHAPTER NINE] (based off the 80′s classic Some Kind of Wonderful)

Synopsis: Dan has one friend, and only because he was forced into it. Phil is loud, excitable, and irritatingly happy all of the time. Phil seems to find Dan’s perpetual attitude funny, and despite Dan’s best efforts to shun him and everyone else, wants to be around him all the time. That is, until Phil starts talking about Amanda Jones. Word Count: WIP (Estimated 12-15 chapters) updates every Tuesday Rating: Explicit Warnings: Smoking, swearing, heavy drinking, drug mentions, implied prostitution, broken home, class divide/classism, pining, light homophobia, sex

[Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three] [Chapter Four] [Chapter Five] [Chapter Six] [Chapter Seven] [Chapter Eight]

[Ao3!]

Phil paces up Dan’s driveway slowly, the car keys digging into his palm. He’s sweating with nerves already, making his t-shirt cling to his shoulders. It’s only a few degrees outside, but he’s warm through and through. He glances behind him to check once again that the car looks unscathed.

He takes a moment to psych himself up, then knocks on the flaking wooden pane. There’s a muffled woman’s voice yelling from inside, telling someone to ‘get the bloody door’. Nobody answers her. Then, footsteps stomping, and the door is wrenched open, revealing a woman, her straw-blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She’s wearing a onesie, pushed down so it’s bunched around her hips, and a ‘Blondie’ t-shirt. At first, Phil assumes she must be a lodger, or a guest, but then he catches sight of her chocolate brown eyes, and the chestnut colour of her roots.

“Hi,” says Phil. “Are you Dan’s mum?”

“Unfortunately,” she says, looking Phil up and down. “Who’re you?”

To begin with, Phil had found it strange that he’d never met Dan’s mum, considering the amount of times he visited Dan’s house. Dan never liked bringing him over, always preferring to meet up elsewhere, or at Phil’s, but he couldn’t always make an excuse. Each time Phil managed to weasel his way into Dan’s place, his mum was nowhere to be seen. Phil learned, eventually, after pressing Dan, that his mum worked night shifts in a care home, meaning she slept in the day. He notes the dark, purpling circles underneath her eyes now, and swallows guiltily.

“Sorry,” Phil says. “I hope I didn’t disturb you. I’m Dan’s friend. Is he here?”

She frowns. “Dan’s friend? He’s never had no friends come round before.”

Phil doesn’t know what to say. She sighs, wiping a hand across her exhausted face. “Look, I dunno where he is. Haven’t seen him since-” She stops, latching onto something in the distance, beyond Phil. “Bloody hell, is that Ricky’s car? Did you bring that here?”

“Um, yes,” Phil says, nervously. He unfurls his fist, revealing the keys and holding them out to her. “I’m returning it.”

“Returning it from when you stole it?” She’s quick to anger, Phil realises. “You’ve no idea what I’ve had to put up with, Ricky’s been ranting and smashing shit. Dan thinks he can do whatever he likes, treating this place like a hotel- I should throw him out for this.” She snatches the keys from Phil, face growing crimson. “And you’re the accomplice, are you? Fuck’s sake, and he’s sent you here instead of facing up to me himself, is that it?”

“Actually,” Phil says softly. “I haven’t seen him since last night. He left Prom early. I don’t know where he went. A friend drove me home.”

“Well, when you see him you can let him know that he can deal with his brother when he shows up here,” Dan’s mum says with a snarl. “If he thinks I’m gonna hold Ricky off, he’s got another thing coming.”

Phil frowns, shifting from foot to foot as he struggles for a response. She doesn’t seem to care that Dan hasn’t been heard from all night, and it’s baffling to Phil. He imagines his own mother in the same situation - she’d be frantic with worry. He senses Dan’s mum staring at him, as though she’s puzzling over something. He meets her quizzical eye, self-conscious.

“Oi, haven’t I seen you before?”

“I don’t think so.”

She stares a while longer. “Hang on, you’re the little rat I saw sneakin’ out of Dan’s room the night before last.”

Phil flushes bright red, a load of gibberish beginning to spill out. He’d thought nobody had caught that shameful moment.

“You his boyfriend? Or just a quick shag?”

Phil’s cheeks burn. “We- we’re just friends.”

She snorts, then reaches into her pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “I know a walk of shame when I see one, love.” She shoves the cigarette between her lips. The movement is startlingly similar to how Dan does it. “Don’t blame you. That boy’s a fuckin’ nightmare.”

The obvious disdain rips through the soft, supple skin of Phil’s heart. Hearing Dan’s own mother talking about him this way is awful. If this is what Dan has to endure on a daily basis, it’s no wonder he hates being at home. Phil had always assumed that it was more to do with Ricky, but having this on top must make it near unbearable for him. It makes Phil want to wrap Dan in his arms, to yank him out of this house, and keep him safe somewhere, perhaps sat at the stool of his piano that Dan quietly loves so much. Or in Phil’s bed, dressed in a stupid big t-shirt, sipping hot chocolate his mum makes. The guilt surges up inside Phil’s body, choking him from the inside out. What scum he is, for adding to Dan’s pain.

“He’s fucking awesome, actually,” Phil finds himself blurting out, voice louder than he initially intends. “I’m lucky to be his friend, let alone anything else. You should be grateful Dan turned out as selfless, and intelligent, and sensitive as he is. Because he obviously doesn’t owe anything to you.”

He sees the furious retort brewing in Dan’s mum’s throat, but he doesn’t wait around for it. He storms away, blood roaring in his ears, drowning out whatever she might be yelling after him. It only occurs to Phil as he’s halfway back to his own house, that he potentially just made it even more difficult for Dan to return home.

*

Three nights after Prom, and Dan hasn’t slept in his own bed once. He’s stopped home briefly, during the hours he knew his mum and Ricky would be out or asleep, to gather a load of belongings – changes of underwear, a jacket he’d forgotten to take on Prom night, a toothbrush, etc. To his mild intrigue, he noticed that Ricky’s car had been returned to the driveway. Lee must have dropped it back there, after dropping Phil and Amanda home. At least Dan won’t have to track it down.  

The Ozone band is shit tonight. Maybe the out of tune, dissonant noise blaring out of the speakers is the fault of the tone-deaf bassist on stage. More likely, it’s due to the fact that the sound technician currently has his tongue down Dan’s throat. He’s not that attractive, but Sam is easy, and lusts after Dan like a bloodhound. Right now, all Dan wants to feel are grabby, insistent hands and the clack of teeth against his. He needs violent distraction. Sam is all too happy to supply it.

It’s a shame he tastes so vile. Like the cinnamon vape stick constantly stuck between his lips, and warm, ashy beer. Dan pulls back once he can no longer stand it, and shoves Sam’s head into the crook of his neck.

“Bite me if you want,” he mutters, swigging the beer Sam has left on the sound desk. “I don’t give a shit.”

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Sam sinks his teeth in. Dan shuts his eyes as the pain lances through him, picturing the blood vessels bursting, purpling his skin, obscuring the mark that Phil left, that refuses to fade, covering it with something darker, worse. 

And then, in an instant, Sam is being wrenched off him, pulled back with such force that Dan nearly slips off the desk entirely. Sam yelps, not expecting it, and falls flat on his ass. Bleary and vaguely nauseous, Dan fixates on whoever it is that has so rudely interrupted them. Phil stands there, the lines on his forehead pronounced, club lights dancing across his blue eyes as they flick between Sam and Dan, not quite sure how to proceed. Sam is struggling on the floor, clearly too wasted to haul himself up again in the tight space of the sound booth.

“What the fuck’re y’doing?” Dan spits.

“Me?” Phil asks, incredulous. “What about you?! Who even is this guy?”

Just then, Sam manages to wrench himself back to a standing position. He shoves Phil in the chest, hard. Dan rolls his eyes. If he has to jump in the middle of this to prevent a fight, he’ll punch Phil afterwards for making him.

“What’s your problem, dickhead?” Sam yells, spittle flying from his lips.

Phil takes a step backwards, but doesn’t flinch. He ignores Sam, eyes furiously boring into Dan’s. “Come with me.”

“Uh, no.”

“Dan.” Phil’s voice is a warning. Dan’s never heard him sound so serious. It might almost be funny, in another context.

“Listen, pal,” Sam butts in, chest puffed out as he gets closer to Phil. “I dunno who you think you are, but the kid’s not going anywhere, alright?”

“He’s not a kid, you sick fuck,” Phil snarls.

Sam grits his teeth, and Dan can see the flash of fury in his eyes. “You asked for it, ponce.”

Sam grabs Phil by the lapels of his bomber jacket, seething. Dan’s heart leaps into his throat. Mind whiting out, he lurches forwards, shoving himself in between the two of them before Sam has a chance to do anything more.

Facing Sam, Dan uses his body as a barricade. He stares straight into Sam’s eyes, heavy and firm. “Don’t touch him.”

In the back of his mind, Dan wonders vaguely how many instances there will be where he’ll willingly put his own health at risk to defend Phil Lester. Infinite, probably.

“You told me you’re mine tonight, kid,” Sam growls. “I’m doin’ you a favour. I don’t like being messed about.”

Dan grimaces, unmoved by this vague threat. Dan towers over Sam, despite their age difference. It wouldn’t be the best idea in the world to get in fight with the sound tech at his favourite club, but if it came down to it, Dan could definitely take him. 

“Tuck your dick away for five minutes while I deal with this,” Dan tells him, irritable. “You’ll survive.”

Then Dan turns, grabbing Phil by the wrist and pulling him away from the booth. He’s looking for Ben, the security guard, hoping to hand Phil over to him, but Phil isn’t having any of it. He tugs free of Dan’s grip once they’re at the edge of the dancefloor, forcing Dan to spin around.

“Dan, just stop a minute,” Phil says, loud enough to be heard over the music. “I need to talk to you.”

“Well, I don’t wanna hear it,” Dan says. 

His voice is slurring a bit, but he’s sober enough to know he needs to get out of this situation. Talking to Phil is an ache. It aches more than the bruises on his face, more than the cut on his lip, or the soles of his feet from spending three nights on a dancefloor. He can’t stomach the pain of it, can’t bear the thoughts that plague him, so he needs to get Phil away. Again, Dan scans the immediate vicinity for Ben, but in the dark, swirling lights and packed bodies, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Why are you doing this?” Phil asks, apparently incredulous. “That guy is a creep!”

“What the fuck do you care?”

“I care! I care about you.” Phil tries to reach out and touch him, but Dan is quick to move out of his path. “That’s why I’m here,” Phil persists, “because I’m worried. Because I want to make sure you’re okay-”

Dan steps closer to him, and whatever Phil sees in his face makes his sentence fall away. “No,” Dan grits out. “If you cared about me, you wouldn’t’ve stuck your hand down my pants and then pretended it never happened. You wouldn’t’ve coerced me into hauling your ass around town all night so you could get with some other girl.”

Phil’s eyes, usually bright and exuberant, grow dull; he looks dreadful, Dan notices for the first time. His eyes are bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles. His hair is lank and messy. His clothes look a day old.

“Please, don’t,” he says quietly. Over the music, Dan can barely hear him. “I’m sorry.” He bites his lip, and Dan’s gaze falls to it. “I’m so sorry.”

Some small chip of ice flakes away from the block encasing Dan’s heart. He feels his resolve breaking, feels the traitorous affection he feels for this one, infuriating person melting his anger. And then, Dan is being grabbed by the arm, yanked away.

He sees Sam at his side, grumpy and livid. “Right, time’s up. You’re mine now.”

Dan’s about to shrug him off, to placate him with promises he’ll make it up to him later, but then a blur rushes past, and Sam is being tackled. Dan’s mouth falls open as he watches Phil pin Sam to the sticky, disgusting bar floor. Snatches of the things he’s shouting bounce off Dan’s ears, partially drowned out by the terrible band.

“…not fucking yours… your grimy hands off him… taking advantage… my best friend…”

Clumsily, Dan reaches for him, grabbing Phil by the upper arm and pulling. At first, he doesn’t move, but then a second pair of hands join him, then a third and fourth, and Dan looks over to see Ben, along with two other bouncers Dan vaguely recognises, hauling Phil to his feet. They grab Dan too, shoving them both through the crowd towards the fire exit door.

“Ben, mate,” Dan tries to garble as he’s being marched. “Listen, I’m sorry about him, he’s just wasted, you don’t need to kick us out-”

One of the bouncers open the fire exit, holding the door wide. It leads out into a narrow alley at the side of the club, where the bins are. It’s certainly not Dan’s first time in this alley, but he prefers to visit it of his own volition. Ben shoves Phil out first, sending him stumbling against the far wall. He turns to Dan, one hand firmly gripping his shoulder. “Don’t come back here for a while, Dan. You’ve been causing trouble for three nights running. Get your shit together.”

He gives Dan a push outside, then slams the door shut, leaving he and Phil alone in the cold night.

“Fuck!” Dan kicks one of the wheelie bins, and a loud clatter of glass bottles echoes through the alley. “For fuck’s sake, Phil! What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

“Go home?” Phil suggests, panting. He’s leaning against the damp brick wall, catching his breath.

Dan falls back against the opposite wall, head in his hands. “Oh, right, yeah. I’ll just barrel straight into Ricky’s fist, shall I?”

Phil is silent for a while, then Dan hears him step across the space between them. He takes one of Dan’s hands and moves it away from his face. Dan pulls out of his grip sharply, but it doesn’t seem to deter him.

Phil sucks in a breath once he catches sight of Dan’s face, the lines around his eyes crumpling. “Shit, Dan,” he says. 

For a moment, Dan doesn’t know what he’s so upset about. Then he remembers the bruising. From the light of the street lamps lining the road beyond the alley, it’s probably all too easy to see what a mess Dan is right now.

“Yeah,” Dan shrugs. “Hardy’s lacking brains, but he’s got some brawn, I’ll give him that.”

“You should see him, though.” 

Dan lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you fractured his nose.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s the rumour. He’s got a bandage over it.” Phil’s eyes remain fixed on the right side of Dan’s face. “Two black eyes. He’s going around school telling everyone it’s a ‘gym injury’, but pretty much everyone saw you beat him up, so...”

Dan stays silent. This is the first good news he’s heard for days, and he doesn’t even feel anything other than self-loathing for it. Beating up some rich kid is nothing to be proud of. Even if he absolutely had it coming.

“Is he giving you any more trouble?”

Phil shakes his head. “What did you say to him? He won’t even look at me anymore. Or Amanda. Just scurries off if he sees us in the halls.”

Amanda’s name is a sharp stab in Dan’s left side. He lifts his gaze to Phil, wondering if he should tell him the truth. In the end, he can’t be bothered to lie. 

“He got a boner.”

The look of pure astonishment on Phil’s face is almost incredible enough to make Dan smile. Almost. “What? When?”

“When I punched him,” Dan replies. This time, a smirk manages to creep onto his face.

“Fucking hell,” Phil says, blowing a puff of air upwards. He has an odd look on his face when he settles back on Dan. “You’re not…” he trails off.

“What?”

“You’re not, like… into that, are you?”

Dan makes a retching noise. “Fuck off, we’re not all into snobby douchebags.”

Phil frowns, looking away.

Dan runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay.”

Dan pushes off the wall. He’s already feeling a chill, and he left his jacket and bag in the club. He’ll have to beg Ben to let him in to grab it tomorrow. He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and starts picking through the litter to the end of the alleyway.

“Where are you going?” Phil calls after him. There’s a clattering sound, so Dan knows Phil is following him.

“No idea,” Dan says. “You ruined my plans for the night, so I’ll have to make other arrangements.”

“If your plans were to let that creep take you home with him, I’m glad.”

“Look, you don’t get to be jealous of me,” Dan spits, bitterly. 

Phil swallows, eyes fixed to the floor. “You deserve better, that’s all.”  

“Sam’s not that bad,” Dan says in a sigh. He’s on the pavement now, stood under the yellow glow of a streetlight as he fumbles for a cigarette. “He lives in his parents’ outhouse. Hardly dangerous.”

“So what?!” Phil says, approaching him. Dan sticks the cigarette between his lips, fingers shaking with cold. “He doesn’t get the right to touch you just because he’s willing to let you sleep over after you- you-”

Dan waits for the sentence to end, one eyebrow raised. “Fuck?”

The flush whips onto Phil’s cheeks. It makes Dan laugh, hollow though it is.

“No guys should get to touch you unless you really want them to,” Phil says softly.

Dan finds his lighter at last, then looks Phil in the eye as he sparks up. “Oh right, and you’re the exception to that rule, are you?”

It’s as if Dan struck him across the cheek. He doesn’t try to defend himself, for which Dan is both grateful and annoyed. He has more argument in him. He’s pissed at Phil right now, for a plethora of reasons, and would love the opportunity to drag him across the coals for all of it, but at the same time, he never wants to witness the hurt little look on his face again.

“Come over,” Phil says. It sounds like begging. “I know you’re mad at me, I know you should be, and that I’m a dick, and every bit as bad as that douchebag in the club, and Hardy, and everyone else. But I won’t touch you. I just want to give you a place to stay. To make sure you’re safe.”

Dan takes a deep inhale, letting the nicotine wash the exhaustion from his bones. He wishes he had the privilege of saying no, but he has nowhere else to go. He nods once at Phil, then turns on the spot and begins walking back towards their side of town. For a moment, there’s silence, and then the distinct sound of Phil’s stupid nineties Converse All Stars patting the pavement behind.

*

Phil’s room is usually a safe space. It’s calm and quiet, with muted colours and familiar objects. It’s somewhere Dan doesn’t have to be anxious, or cold, or concerned with anything other than which Buffy episode they’re going to watch next. Tonight, he feels out of place here. Perhaps it’s to do with the fact it’s gone 2am, and the light is on, and Dan’s sat on Phil’s big bed, all alone. Perhaps it’s because when they crept in ten minutes ago, Phil had apologised, then moved a girl’s jacket off the bed to make room. Perhaps it’s because Dan doesn’t feel safe around Phil anymore, since four nights ago, when he’d reached into Dan’s well of insecurity, into the part of himself he hates the most, and torn out his heart.

Dan is staring blankly at the far wall. There are twelve photos tacked to it. Three are of Phil’s old rabbit Holly. One is of Phil and his mum. One is of Phil and his older brother Martyn, who moved to Australia before Dan ever had a chance to meet him. There are six of Phil and Dan. Annoying selfies mostly. Driving Susan around town. Sat in a Starbucks at Christmas time because Phil’s one of those ‘festive coffee’ kind of guys. Mucking about in the art studio, Dan annoyed because Phil is using Snapchat filters to give him kitten ears.

The last one – a new addition – is a Polaroid of Amanda. It’s one of those stupid small ones, from the cameras they sell in Urban Outfitters at an absurd cost. But it’s only of her, tiny and perfect, sat on Phil’s bed, right where Dan is now. Just then, the door creaks open, and Phil walks through. He’s holding a blue plastic bowl, moving slowly. There’s a bottle of disinfectant and a few washcloths tucked under his arm. As he sets everything down on the desk, he shoots Dan a questioning look.

“You’ve still got your shoes on.”

Dan looks down at his wet Doc Martens. “Oh. Yeah.”

Phil doesn’t push it. He places one of the cloths in the bowl and squeezes it out. Then he brings it over to Dan, along with the bottle of disinfectant.

“Hold still for a sec,” Phil instructs. He’s kneeling on the floor beside the bed, right in front of Dan’s knees.

Dan’s decidedly not going to picture any of the other times he’s seen someone in the same position, under entirely different circumstances. Instead, he thinks of the old piano in the corner of Phil’s room, imagines it being happy to see him. Nobody else plays it, as far as Dan knows. But then, maybe Amanda sat there when she came round. Maybe she’s a phenomenal musician, with perfect pitch, Grade 8 piano, voice like a damn skylark. Phil pours some disinfectant on a dry cloth, and rises up on his knees, bringing it to Dan’s face. Dan flinches back at once.

“I’m just-” Phil starts to say.

“Yeah, I know,” Dan says. “Sorry.”

Dan holds still this time, letting Phil dab the disinfectant on his split lip. He’s careful, and impossibly gentle, almost cross-eyed behind his thick glasses as he concentrates on the task. It stings, obviously, but Dan’s been feeling pretty numb, so he doesn’t make a fuss.

“You lost your lip ring,” Phil says, sadly.

“Is it gross?”

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches. “No.”

He continues for a little longer, then sits back, hand falling away. Dan can taste the acidic, metallic flavour on his tongue. Phil picks up the damp cloth then, the one he’d dipped into the bowl on the desk.

“Here,” he says, then presses it against Dan’s face, over the bruises.

Dan hisses in surprise. “Fuck, it’s freezing.”

“Yeah, it’s ice water.”

“Oh.”

It’s surprisingly relieving. He imagines there must be some swelling, but he hasn’t looked in a mirror for a while. Phil presses it over his forehead, then his eye, then his cheek, taking his time with each area. He gets to Dan’s chin, then shifts Dan’s jacket collar and sucks in a breath.

“Did he get you in the neck, too? I didn’t see that.”

Dan stares, incredulous. “Are you joking?”

Phil just stares back, dumbly. He’s so close, it’s difficult to read him.

“You did that, you pillock,” Dan says.

It takes a minute or so for the realisation to hit, but when it does, Phil draws backwards, blushing. “Oh,” he says, then stands up to rinse out the washcloth. “I didn’t see it before… on Prom night-”

“No, I covered it up,” Dan tells him, sourly. “Thought you might not want Amanda seeing.”

The only response Dan gets is the tinkle of the water falling back into the bowl as Phil squeezes out the cloth.

“So how’s it going up on cloud nine?” Dan asks, though he really, really doesn’t want to know. 

Phil turns back to him, smiling sadly. He walks over and gives Dan the fresh cloth. This time, Dan holds it to his own face.

“It’s going really good,” he says, sitting down on the bed. “She came over yesterday. We just hung out. It was nice.” Dan looks towards the jacket Phil had moved, now slung over the back of his desk chair. “She left her jacket behind,” Phil says, answering the obvious.

“Cool,” Dan replies. He doesn’t bother hiding the bitterness.

“Shall we go to bed?”

Dan lowers the cold flannel. “I guess.”

As he unties his shoes, shucks off his jacket and jeans, Dan can’t help but notice how steadfastly Phil is not looking at him. He never deliberately averted his gaze all the other times Dan has changed in front of him. Too exhausted to read much into it, Dan just clambers into the bed, ensuring to keep a sizeable distance between their bodies. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t entirely glorious to slip between thick, warm covers and fresh sheets.

“I’m sorry I got you kicked out of the club, Dan,” Phil says into the dark, once he’s switched off the light.

Dan sighs. “It’s okay.”

It’s not really okay. Ozone is  not just Dan’s favourite club, it’s the only place he can hide out indefinitely when there’s nowhere else to go, where he won’t be judged, and his family won’t find him. 

“And I’m sorry for…” Phil pauses. He sniffs. “For what I did. The other night. I never meant to use you like that. You trust me, I know you do, and I abused it-”

“Phil, it’s okay-”

“No, it’s not fucking okay.” Phil’s voice is raised. “I don’t know why I did it, Dan, it’s like… like I couldn’t help it. It sounds nuts, and I don’t expect you to understand it, or forgive me, but I promise you I’m sorry. I’ll never do that to you again, Dan. I’ll never be like those other guys who use you, who treat you like an object-”

“Phil, stop,” Dan says. He puts a hand on Phil’s shoulder, though it burns him to do it. He tries to keep his voice level, so as not to give away how hard he’s crying. “Please stop. You’re sorry, and I believe you. We can forget it ever happened.”

“We can?”

The lump in Dan’s throat shifts, jabbing its jagged edge into soft flesh. “Yeah. If you want.”

A rush of breath escapes Phil’s lips. “And we can go back to being friends?”

If he tries to answer, Dan knows a sob will escape. Instead, he rolls over, remaining quiet, and shuts his eyes, tight.

“Dan?”

(Chapter Ten coming next Tuesday at 8pm GMT!)

[builder051]

Sorry, if I may, I had perhaps a thought/question/suggestion for daredevil? I haven’t seen the third season yet, but so far I perceive him to be someone deeply self-destructive but utterly unaware of that fact. If this rings true at all, I imagine that the realization would hit him hard, particularly since he’s Catholic. If this were ever something you’d be interested in writing, I’d be interested in reading it, but please don’t feel obligated. I hope that things are going well for you!

No need to apologize for talking to me.  As long as you’re not spewing hate, the askbox is open, and you’re not directly contradicting something I recently stated as a preference, I’m not going to explode at you.  

I’m in the process of watching season 3 now.  I’m really loving it.  The whole thing with messing with Matt’s public image to getto him, I relate so hard.

This is an awesome prompt; thank you so much for sending it. I know you probably wanted something set in the present, but the way this started coming to me really had to be set at Columbia.  I imagine Matthaving a lifelong struggle with self-harm, and Daredevil-ing is like a copingmechanism.  I wanted to explore it before he went that route.

That said, this story contains self harm, but it’s vague. It treats the essence of the issue, not the details.

_____

The chicken or the egg.  

It’s not a bad metaphor.  It does a decent job of summing up the thought circles that are impossible to understand, but insist on baffling Matt anyway.  Normally he’s perceptive enough to suss out the nexus of his issues, and if they’re worthy enough, address them at the source.

Not today, though.  His head’s cloudy and throbbing. He doesn’t think it hurt so much when he first lay down on his narrow dorm bed, but time has given up on being linear.  Matt’s no longer sure if it was the depression or the malaise that hit first.  The chicken or the egg.

Matt’s thoughts aren’t linear either.  Foggy insists on vegetarian fried rice when they go out for Chinese.  “Because it’s weird, Matt.  You can’t have the grown-up and the baby in the same dish,” he’d explained.  “Isn’t there something about that in the Bible?”

Goats, Matt had told him.  It’s about goats.  But Christ declared all foods clean, and that’s why his followers don’t keepkosher.  But Foggy grew up in a deli, so of course he’d see it from the other side.  Funny how the realization only hits him now, when the thought of food makes his mouth water in a way that’s distinctly unpleasant.  And lack of sustenance probably has something to do with the nauseous ache crashing around the inside of his head.

Matt lets out a dejected sigh and shifts onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.  He knows his glasses sit safely on his desk, but he still feels the shadowy indents of the nose pads.  It’s like rubbing his face in powdered glass.  He wishes twin extra-long sheets came in a higher thread count.

Matt’s eyes start to water.  Tears of pain pool beneath his eyelids and run out of the corners.  The pillowcase soaks up the droplets and spreads them, creating wet spots that press against his brows and cling to his cheeks.

The dampness is cold, but Matt’s wires are crossed, and it may as well be burning.  He smells the salt, the stress in his sweat, the sulfates in the laundry soap.  His brain throws in the memory of burned rubber and sunbaked asphalt, and before he can stop himself, he’s on his back, kicking off the covers and floundering.  

He can’t take this pain.  He can’t find his dad.  He can’t see.

But it’s coming through all wrong.  He went blind first. Then Jack died.  Right?  And the migraines came later, at the orphanage.  Along with the nightmares.

And that’s what this is, isn’t it?  Scratchy bedding, a roommate who only pretends to like him.  But Sister Maggie likes him. She comes when he calls out to her.  And when he calls out to his dad.  And even when his brain goes primal and fuzzy and he yells for the mother he’s never even known.

Matt‘s throat is working, his vocal cords pulsing like plucked guitar strings.  But he can’t hear the notes.  He’s too disconnected, his mouth and ears too far apart.  Matt rolls onto his side, dragging his knees to his chest and clamping his arms around them, squeezing himself into aball.  He wraps his palm around the opposite wrist for good measure,sliding the chain on a door that’s already bolted.

But someone’s rattling the knob.  Matt hears metal on metal, the scrape of a key.  There’s a creak, then a slam, then, “Whoops.”

A couple shuffling footsteps.  “Oh, hey, Matt.”

Matt flinches at the sudden influx of sound.  He couldn’t hear himself groaning a moment ago, but Foggy may as well be speaking through a bullhorn.  The jump in logic makes Matt’s temples throb sickeningly. But if Foggy’s here, then Matt’s definitely now.  Pinpointing the x,y, and z of location on coordinate plane grounds him in the fourth dimension too, even though his math classes haven’t taught him how to do that yet.

A bitter taste pools under his tongue.  Matt swallows to slow his racing heartbeat.  He takes a breath.

It’s 2009.

He gets a whiff of candy corn coming off Foggy.  It’s October.

The streetlamp hums outside the window.  Matt can smell beer, too.  And Vaseline.  A hint of latex.  It’s the middle of the night.  He’s definitely in college.

“You ok, buddy?”  Foggy flips on the overhead light. The fluorescent bulbs sizzle to life, and Matt’s stomach flips, bubbling like a cauldron of vomitous witch’s brew.

“Fine,” Matt croaks.  He lifts his head an inch from his still-wet pillow and loosens his tightly wound posture.  His hackles are still up, but Foggy’s buzzed and blissful.  He doesn’t need to worry.

“You sure?  You were in bed when I left,” Foggy says. “And that was, like… early.”

“Hm.”  Matt’s hand is wet, too.  He wipes it on hissheets.

“Party’s still going on, if you wanna drop in.  I’ll go with you.  It’s…”  Foggy laughs.  “It’s a good party.”

“Nah.”  Matt’s senses are going off again.  He smells metal.  But that could just be the nausea crystalizing in his sinuses.

“You really should.  If you’re just sad, you should get up. Do something.”  Foggy’s uneven footsteps approach Matt’s bed. “Come on.”

“Not sad.” Matt means to add some more detail, like the building migraine, the rising urge to throw up.  He means to add the just, theway Foggy did.  He doesn’t mean to lie.

“Yeah, right.”  Foggy grabs Matt’s wrist.

“No, Fog—”  Matt isn’t expecting to be pulled out of bed. And he isn’t expecting searing pain to lance up his arm.

“You’re not— Jesus, Matt!”  The exclamation comes across suddenly as Foggy’s fingers find the half-moon scratches on Matt’s forearm. Surprise ups the spit and anxious vibration in his tone.

For a second, Matt’s lost again.  But then the blocks stack up.  The memories, the hurt, the cycles of illness he has trouble labeling as physical or mental.  It’s happened before.  It makes a sick sort of sense, made sicker by the fact that Matt knows he deserves it.

“You’re not Jesus.”  It’s clear it’s not what Foggy meant to say, but his friend runs with it anyway.

Matt makes a cynical noise.  His mouth is too dry and wooly for him to force out more than one syllable.  If Foggy’s contradicting something, it didn’t come from Matt’s lips.  Even if his head hurts enough to make that kind of gibberish a real possibility.

“You don’t have to suffer.  And, god, I can’t believe you did this to yourself.”  Foggy doesn’t want to touch the wounds anymore. He’s sticky with Matt’s blood.  Matt can hear him bouncing the pad of his index finger against his thumb, repeatedly breaking the seal as the viscous fluid starts to dry.

Matt’s going to tell him he didn’t mean to, but Foggy makes to walk away.   Matt decides it’s not worth opening his mouth.  He turns inward again and tries to talk himself through relaxing the tension in hisneck.  

He doesn’t expect Foggy to swoop back in and pull him out of bed by the shoulders.  “No, no, Fog,” Matt protests, attempting to push him away while also being conscious of the facts that blood is running freely down his arm, and he’s perilously close to vomiting.  “I—my head—”

“Cut it out, Matt.  You’re depressed.  You’re bleeding!”

It’s the middle of the night.  Foggy can’t be dragging him to the campus health clinic.  Matt’s clearly in no shape for a party. He gets a mental image of himself sitting on the bathroom counter, slumped against the mirror, explaining in broken sentences how this is not an intentional act of self-flagellation while Foggy applies Neosporin and Band-Aids.

But they’re not going to make it that far.  They’re not going to make it out of the room.  Matt gags and claps his hand over his mouth.

“Shit.”  This time, Foggy interprets correctly.  He shoves Matt into his desk chair and thrusts the trash can into his lap.

Matt coughs harshly.  He heaves up a dribble of bile, then waits for the room to stop spinning.  He’s definitely dehydrated. Some simple carbs would probably do him good too, but Matt’s not ready to brave anything that will require chewing.  Or anything with a flavor.

“Sorry.”  Matt scrapes his tongue with his teeth and wills them to stop chattering.

“You didn’t have a headache when I left,” Foggy says, a little defensively.

It’s probably true.  Matt doesn’t remember the details well enough to refute it.  “I do now,” he murmurs.

Foggy sighs.  “Yeah.  You do now.”  The mini-fridge opens and closes.  He cranks the top off a bottle of water and nudges it against Matt’s hand.  “Here.  Rinse.  I’ll get you back to bed.  And put something on those scratches, if you want.”

He thinks about it as he swishes the water and spits it into the trash.  The wounds themselves don’t hurt.  But the drying blood itches.

“Or I could go, if you’d rather…” Foggy waffles.

Matt’s taking too long.  Foggy doesn’t want to leave him alone, but he’s going to come out and say it.

Matt hates that he does this to himself.  He hates even more that he’s ruining his friend’s night.  But, truth be told, he doesn’twant to be alone either.

“Sure,” Matt finally says. “You can stay.”  It’s too demanding.  He quickly revises. “I mean…you should.  I want you to stay.”

[iammarylastar]

Hi guys! Here’s my new fanfic, “Hope” sequel of “Morning Cup”. Enjoy!

1. Back from the dead.

I’m dead. The second I opened my eyes, I knew I was dead. My first thought was for Angie. The second was for my brothers. All dead like me I assumed. Glancing around me once the blur has left my eyes, I remember thinking that Heaven really looked Japanese styled.

Wood frame ceiling, thin walls made of paper, through which the light can pass, braided straw-covered floor, like tatamis, a single flat square cushion next to me. No furniture. I’m lying on my back on some sort of thin mattress, directly set on the floor.

My body is hard as stone, I’m totally unable to move. I’m dead, so it makes sense, though I would have assumed that it would have felt more… light and free. I may be in Heaven but all my body hurts like hell. What’s sure is I’m seriously wasted.

The door carefully slides to the side, a woman, some kind of Geisha pads silently towards me and kneels next to where I lay. I didn’t know Heaven had nurses. She’s quickly followed by a grumpy-looking doc, wrapped in a kimono instead of a white coat, his face as closed of as a stone.

Heaven’s medical staff aren’t very friendly. The Geisha is expressionless too but her glance at me is nice and warm. She wets a cloth in some water filled bowl laying there and starts to gently pat my face, which feels delicious. I feel as dry as the desert, my skin rough, thin as cigarette paper, my lips cracked and bleeding.

Life creeps back through my system as she squeezes the cloth over my mouth. Water.

How funny it is. The water that killed me is bringing me back to life.

Wait. Life? Am I actually alive?

The woman wets the cloth again and attacks my torso. I startle at the coolness of the water running down my sides and she glances at me before focusing back on her task.

She softly whispers something I can’t understand. Heaven’s official language sounds like Japanese.

Holy shit.

I’ve fallen into the hands of the enemy. I’m not dead but I suddenly wish I was.

As I realize this, the female Yakuza starts to torture my chest, no doubt they want me to spit out some classified information.

An dreadful burn tears up my chest, like I’m branded, stabbed by a red hot iron that slowly dissolves my flesh.

I try to sit up but the sharpest pain comes from my back, my left leg howls as well. My arms yell from pain and get weak, barely able to support me. They give up and I fall heavily on my back, sending another wave of fire in my lower back. What the hell?

“ Jitto shite!” The doc barks, before he sharply gives orders  and vanishes, leaving me alone with my torturer.

I’m half paralyzed, skinned alive, defenceless before that monstrous punisher… who … shyly flats her delicate hand on my shoulder, soothing me with Japanese gibberish.

Seeing the panick on my face, she cups my cheek and for once stares fiercely at me.

“Remain still. It’s alright.”

Her voice is soft, her English hesitant, her accent… exotic.

“Where am I? What happened? Who are you?” I have so many questions: why the fuck am I unable to move? What’s that pain, those pains all over my body? How did they find me? Where is Angie?

“ You hurt. Bad leg. Back broken. Cuts infected. Got fever.”

Damn that doesn’t sound good.

“ I’m Mikomi. Japanese for hope. I’ll help you.”

She resumes patting my face with the cloth then supports my neck and brings a cup of water to my mouth. It hurts like hell but it feels so good at the same time. I drop my head back to the pillow, exhausted by just taking few sips.

“I’m Cup. Thank you.”

“ You Gaijin.” She rolls her eyes, trying to figure out how to translate it. “ Alien.”

“Yeah, I feel totally like an alien.” I chuckle.

As Mikomi goes on cleaning up my wounds, humming whatever Japanese song and I surrender to the pain and the exhaustion and quickly drift into a deep, solid sleep.

****

I get used to my daily routine, Mikomi proves to be an excellent nurse.

Each day, she expertly massages my legs, stretches and moves them, applies some plaster of whatever mud on my scars, and checks on the stitches she made. She even pins what seems like needles everywhere on my skin, which really calms both my nerves and my pain.

What I can’t get used to is that fucking weakness that keeps me bedridden.

My leg is broken and secured in a sort of bamboo splint, which she removes then ties again between treatments.

My abdomen and chest are ruins, a mix of cuts and burns from both the crash and my journey in the ocean. Through the saltwater kept me from infections, it affected the wound healing by literally eating my flesh and skin, moreover, I’m severely sunburned.

But the worst is my back. It might be broken as well but there’s no hospital nor X Rays here. What’s certain is that it hurts like hell each time I try the slightest move or cough. I’m so lucky my spinal cord is fine, no paralysis just a few sensitivity issues.

Mikomi has always been sweet and patient with me. She has never complained when she had to clean… my mess. I hate being as impotent as a sick old man and unable to relieve myself in the appropriate place. But she always appears when I need her and vanishes as fast as a ghost when I need some privacy. And never makes me feel like shit when she washes me like I’m a baby or carefully turns me on my side. Yeah I even can’t roll on my sides by myself.

She also has been a quite good teacher and I ’ve been a lame student. I got bored to just wait for her to have the job done. All I was able to do was to stare at her and her hands taking care of me, which made her uncomfortable.

At first, I just hissed in pain, biting my lips or grunting low when she unwillingly hurt me, she always answered by looking down and whispering apologizes. “Gomen nasai.” was my first Japanese lesson. No need to be sorry, you’re just saving me. Arigato Mikomi . Gratitude.

Slowly, I tried to talk to her. Asking about basic words, various items surrounding us. I really tried my best to repeat her words but I failed miserably, eliciting discreet smirks from her.

Japan is the country of manners and courtesy, every attitude and behaviour is strictly codified, as tight as their kimonos.

Laughing at someone is strictly forbidden. Touching someone you’re not married to, speaking with someone you don’t know, and a shitload of other things are strictly forbidden. Basically, as a Gaijin, I am the main source of prohibition. It seems, though, as an injured man, I’m tolerated and as my personal nurse, Mikomi is allowed to spend time with me.

I quickly start to enjoy the time we spend together. I needed to talk to someone and Mikomi is the easiest person to talk to. Mostly because Japanese never would cut you off or make you understand you’re boring as fuck.

I’ve made little progress in Japanese but I’ve helped her to improve her English.

I manage to make her laugh, tricking her as much as I could, struggling with those fucking chopsticks -sorry the sacred hashi -, making unforgivable mistakes with the food.

That day I was finally able to sit up on the futon, I was taught the right and only way to use hashi . There are billion of rules to use them correctly, rules to hold the bowl, rules to pick up the food, rules to drink the soup. I broke all the rules the first time I ate all by myself, and ended up with noddles stuck on my chin, which had my so serious teacher in tears. I think past 8 years old, Japanese stop laughing, so it has been a decade that she hasn’t laugh.

She’s beautiful with that smile lightening her face. She’s beautiful when she sings for me, distracting me from the pain while nursing me. She’s so cute trying to repeat new English word. She’s so cute hiding her smirk behind her delicate fingers each time I joke with her. She’s so patient repeating over and over the same Japanese words that I keep mispronouncing. She’s so patient, listening again and again my rant about Angie, my love, my wife, my baby, all I lost in the crash. My whole life ruined in a blink of an eye.

She’s so cold, her Japanese impassible mask taped on her face, when her dad watches over us. She’s so warm when she lays her eyes on me, when she strokes the side of my head, as I cry for my lost love, as I dive so deep into desperation and pain.

Mikomi slowly becomes my everything.

It’s been more than two months since I’m stuck in that room. More than two months that I haven’t seen the sunshine. Mikomi has been my daily sunshine.

Today has started particularly bad. The nightmares that have haunted me from the beginning trended to decrease as time passes. But not tonight. Once again, Angie and I were walking in the meadow, our hands tightly intertwined, our happiness palpable, indestructible. And once again, she was slowly vanishing, becoming transparent to my sight, inconsistent to my touch. All my screams were in vain, the more I called her name, the more I begged her to stay with me, the more she turned into dust, until the slightest piece of her was blown away by the wind.

I woke up in sweat, in tears, that unsustainable pain tearing my heart apart. Mikomi was already by my side, shushing me, while my hand crushed her tiny fingers.

“Angie, no!”

It’s early in the morning, a shy light pierces through the paper walls, hitting her long, black, straight hair. It’s not tied in a complex and strict topknot, but simply cascading around her face.

Oh my sweet Angel, take me with you. I’m too exhausted. I can’t move. I can’t walk. How could I come back to you?

“Angie…” my hand cups her cheek, I’d give anything to feel her lips on mine. I’m so down. Man down. It’s over.

“Morning Cup!” Angie’s voice caresses my ears, making me startle.

Jesus, I just realize my memories of Angie are fading away, her sweet and delicate features changing into Mikomi’s.

No, no, no, it can’t happen. I can’t let this happen. I have to go, I have to fight for her, I spent my whole life  fighting for her, I won’t stop now.

“ I’m sorry I have to go” I sit up, hissing from pain.

“Don’t move.” She gently pushes me back on the futon.

“Ika sete! ” Let me go! I yelled. I yank at her furiously, I don’t know where this rage comes from but I feel like I can walk on the water, if Angie stands the other side.

She falls back on her butt, her long hair curtaining before her face, her kimono opens on her bare thighs.

God, stay away from me, I’m out of control.

I have to get up on my feet and run. Run back to my love. Run away from those feelings I can’t let in.

I roll to my belly and try to sit up on all four. My back is instantly stabbed by thousands swords and I bite back a grunt. Fuck it, I’ll make it, I’ll stand up, come what may.

I grab what can be called a nightstand and lean over it, trying to lift my ass up to put my good foot on the floor.

Mikomi comes behind me and tries to stop me. “Not now. You’re not ready.”

I don’t give a shit about her advice, I need to stand up, I’m going to.

I grab her shoulder and lift myself up. My back roars in pain, fuck, I grit my teeth harder and manage to straighten my leg. Half up, half bowed down, crushing my weight on Mikomi, with all the force I can gather, I stand up, back on my feet for the first time in months.

I scream under the effort and the agony of all my muscles and spine, before bursting into laughter, the endorphins flooding into my system. I’m turning hysterical, mad with pain, crazy with joy. I made it. Angie I made it for you!

I clumsily turn to face her, she should be so proud of me, I want to see her joy shining in her eyes, I need to hear her voice congratulating me, I crave to kiss her lips, the ultimate payoff to all my effort and pain.

I cup her cheek, my thumb running along her full lips and look up at her. Her almond shaped eyes are dark, terrified. Mikomi.

What the fuck?

Losing balance, I lean on my broken leg, a shot of pure pain explodes through my knee. A bright flash blinds me as the pain devours my back. My good leg gives up and I heavily crash down, atomized by a new, fresh, powerful wave of pain. I hear Mikomi screaming in the distance as I puke out sour bile coming from my stomach.

I may have passed out for a while. All I know is that I’m crying. I’m weeping from agony and desperation. I want to vanish in a pool of tears, I want to stop thinking. It hurts too much to fight for you Angie, I just can’t anymore. I’ve tried and I failed.

Mikomi is rocking me lightly, my head in her lap, her fingers running through my hair and stroking my face. She’s singing that song, the one that soothes me. She’s crying with me, she’s crying for me. And it’s slowly killing me.

@dreamersdreamlife @narfea @smartieblue22 @bookgirlsthing

@kenzieam

@every-jai

@captstefanbrandt

@jojuarez26

@kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995

@athe-krieger-der-elemente

@red-diary

@writingismyhappytime

@lunaschild2016

@bookgirlsthing

@wolfie-132 @bookwarm85 @smartieblue22 @knittingmad @pinkplanetnicki @cry-baby-92 @iago-of-denmark @captainkagtopia @serride @pauwa85 @books-and-sin @onceinabillionlifetimes @sajess98

[gayoongles]

Hold Me

A/N: Chapter 4! Wow this chapter is long overdue rip. This is gonna be the end though, it’s a really shitty ending and it’s a lot shorter than previous chapters, but I haven’t been feeling this fic, and I have other projects I really wanna start working on over my break this week, so I kinda just came up with a bs ending.

Chap 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Rating: T Warnings: None Word Count: 1.4k Chapter summary: Jimin finally confesses his feelings and Yoongi is as oblivious as ever

The next few weeks go by way too fast for Yoongi, but he spends almost every moment of free time he has, and even some moments when he doesn’t, with Jimin. He wants to savor every last moment he has with the younger boy before he gets ripped away from Yoongi, for the second time, mind you.

He’s currently sulking and lying in Taehyung’s lap. The latter had just told him that according to Hoseok, Jimin was planning on confessing today, and Yoongi wanted to cry.

Tae swears that he doesn’t know who the guy is, but Yoongi thinks he’s a fucking liar, “Taehyung please, I know you think I don’t wanna know, and I mean, you’d be right, but that’s not the point Tae. Please, just tell me and get it over with.”

Tae just rolls his eyes, “Stop being so dramatic, hyung. You’ll find out in a few hours, be patient.”

Yoongi groans but gets cut off by the sound of his phone playing Serendipity, and ‘Yes, Taehyung, Jiminie’s ringtone is Serendipity, get over it… and don’t tell anyone.’

He jumps up and answers the phone, flipping off a snickering Taehyung, “Jimin! I uh, I heard you’re confessing today.” His voice gets soft, “I was gonna call and wish you luck, but it’s not like you’d need it. Also, I didn’t know when you were going to, so I’m glad you called. Oh God, unless you already did, then how di-“

“Yoongi.” Jimin cuts him off.

Yoongi blinks, “Yeah?”

“You’re rambling.” He laughs.

Yoongi blushes and he’s honestly never wanted to die more, “Sorry.” He mumbles out.

“Don’t worry about it, hyung! It was cute.”

Yoongi chokes, nearly dropping his phone, “U-uh, um,” He clears his throat, “anyway, what did you want?” He changes the subject quickly and thankfully, Jimin drops it.

“Oh! I wanted you to come over, I have something to show you!”

Yoongi frowns, “Don’t you have…” he trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence, since Jimin probably knows what he’s talking about anyway.

“Just come over, hyung. Please?”

He sighs, “Okay, I’m on my way Jiminie.” He hangs up and turns to Tae, who has a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What the fuck is that face for, asshole?”

Tae just grins wider, somehow.

“Go off to your boyfriend or something, Jimin wants me to come over.”

Tae immediately flusters up at the mention of boyfriend and splutters out what sounds like gibberish to Yoongi before tripping out the door.

Yoongi rolls his eyes and grabs his car keys, leaving to head to Jimin’s.

When he gets there, Jimin is standing outside of his house and his eyes are shifty and he looks nervous.

‘I swear to fucking God, Park Jimin, if you invited me here to watch you confess to someone that isn’t me for some kind of fucking moral support, I’m gonna strangle you.’ Yoongi spits to himself as he parks his car in the driveway.

He gets out of his car and the younger notices him, sending him a wave and a small smile, the nervous look still on his face. Yoongi notices that the younger is in his usual dance attire; leggings, a loose fitting V-neck, and worn-down sneakers. The leggings are practically glued to his legs and his t-shirt rides up when he raises his hand to wave, and Yoongi has half a mind to turn around and leave.

He decided to stick out to at least see what Jimin wants before leaving, so he starts walking towards the boy, “What’s up, Jimin-ah? Um… you’re dressed like you’re waiting for the guy you’re confessing to, so I’m assuming that whatever you need me for is gonna be quick.” Yoongi bites his lip.

“Um, yeah. I just wanna show you something, Yoongi-hyung.” Jimin ushers him inside.

Yoongi sighs and steps inside his best friend’s house, noticing that the living room was completely cleared out except for an arm-chair. Yoongi assumes that it’s for the guy to sit in to watch Jimin’s performance. Yoongi decides he’s gonna ignore it and stand instead.

Jimin follows in a few minutes later, somehow looking even more nervous than before, wringing his hands together.

Yoongi wants to hold them to get him to stop and calm down, but it’s not his place to anymore.

“U-uh, you can sit down if you want to, hyung.”

“I’m good Jimin.” He looks at the seat again and his heart hurts just thinking about the fact that Jimin’s new lover is gonna be sitting there soon, “What did you want to show me?”

Jimin just bites his lip and gestures to the radio and speakers in the corner of the living room, where his end table used to be.

Does… does Jimin want his opinion on the dance he’s gonna be using to ask his new love interest out? Yoongi is practically seething at the idea, but he just stiffly nods his head instead. He doesn’t wanna ruin this for the younger, no matter how much it’s gonna kill him to see Jimin kissing and holding hands and cuddling with someone other than him.

Jimin walks over to the radio and hits play before getting into his starting position. His feet are crossed and his head is down, one arm over his eyes, and the other hanging loosely by his side.

Serendipity starts flowing out of the speakers and Yoongi’s mouth is dry and he feels like he’s gonna pass out. He sits in the chair, much to his dismay, in order to lessen the light-headedness he’s feeling.

Jimin starts moving as soon as his voice starts filling up the room. Slow and sensual movements and Yoongi’s head is racing. The room feels stuffy and suffocating and he wants to look anywhere but at Jimin but he looks so beautiful and his head is tilted back, showing off the smooth expanse of skin from his chest up his neck and Yoongi can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away.

The song is over far too quickly for Yoongi’s liking, and Jimin ends in the same position he started in, chest rising and falling as Jimin takes panting breaths.

After too long, Jimin finally moves from his end position, and is stood straight up to look at Yoongi.

The older is still staring straight at him, licking his lips to try and make his mouth less dry. He notices Jimin gasp a little at the movement, but he’s too caught up in his head to process it.

“Hyung? What- what did you think?”

“I- fuck Jiminie, you shoulda saved your energy for when the guy comes over. Shouldn’t have wasted it on me just because you wanted my opinion. It was beautiful though, Jimin. He’s gonna say yes for sure.” His voice is raspy and unfamiliar to his own ears and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

Jimin tilts his head, “No, I’m not dancing for anyone else. I was hoping your yes would’ve been a little more enthusiastic than that, but I’ll take what I can get, I guess.” He smiles shyly at Yoongi and his neck, cheeks, and ears are bright red.

Yoongi gapes at the younger, “I- what?”

Jimin giggles, and Yoongi thinks it’s the best thing he’s heard in his entire life, “The dance was for you, Yoongi-hyung. You’re the guy I like. You’re really dense sometimes, did you know? I’ve been dropping really obvious hints since me and Kookie ended things, but you never picked up on them.”

Jimin is walking closer to Yoongi with every word until he’s stood right in front of the older.

Yoongi is frozen in shock, he can’t even open his mouth to form words.

“Hopefully this is obvious enough for you.” He presses his lips to Yoongi’s softly, and Yoongi feels like he’s gonna explode.

Once his brain catches up, he starts moving his lips against Jimin’s and his hands are cupping his cheeks, the cold of his hands a stark contrast against Jimin’s heated skin.

Jimin pulls away far too quickly, and he just looks so breathtaking, lips swollen and red, both from the kissing and from Jimin biting at them, and hair sticking to his forehead, and Yoongi can’t stop the next words from leaving his mouth, “I love you, Park Jimin.”

Jimin giggles again and pink spreads over his cheeks as he presses a quick kiss to Yoongi’s lips again, “I love you too, Yoongi-hyung.”

[pkmntrainergreyze]

The Emo School (Chapter 3)

Previous

Chapter 3: Modern Day Pain...

I didn't fail the test, I just found 100 ways to do it wrong. -Benjamin Franklin

09/14/01 FRIDAY

D A L L O N   W E E K E S

"Cocaine is God's way of saying you're making too much money, now that's just bull-f*ckin-sh*t Robin Williams, debunked"

I don't know how I got my hands on a 1000 funny quotes book, I don't know why I'm even reading it. Life sucks, that's how it works.

I'm contradicting myself am I? No? Okay, let's keep it that way-

"Dallon have you seen my cra-" he stopped my destructive train of thoughts that will have me go psycho again.

"No Brendon, ask Pete" I replied with a blank stare

"Uhh... no thanks"

Sycophant

Now, I guess that's my hypocrite self spitting venom. To think that I actually managed to slack off this shift made me wanna throw up. Just anxious stuff, sounds like a blog name, if I had access to blogs and not MySpace would have done things like that a long time ago.

(we have Tumblr Dal— oh wait, this is the early two thousands lel)

I'm think I'll the pink slip anytime soon, I can't help it, those lingering devils are going to be the death of me. I mean, once I enter the class I feel like choking myself for a trip to the clinic.

I sound like a really problematic guy, but then again, almost everyone has bigger problems than me. I just need to thank God I'm not in Pete's shoes.

I promise I'll do much better next Monday.

Seriously.

But then again, the students here are already talented and intelligent, sure with some exceptions nevertheless I'm still frightened by them.

"Are you just going to sit around inside the faculty Dallon? I think your students are worried. You don't have to worry about Miss Flack you know she regretted being the rebellious stage"

Snapping my head to the direction of the voice with a bit of distraught, I sighted Tyler with a box of cereal.

"Hello Tyler"

"Hello to you too Dall-"

"Salutations!"

There popped Josh with his trendy hat on, newly dyed hair, no care, like he didn't interrupted a conversation earlier, but I didn't mind and Tyler didn't seem to be upset either, they're friends after all.

"Have you seen Brendon?" "Yeah, asking for the same question here as well"

After Josh spoke, Tyler indeed raised his hand like an average student. I remained in my position before answering their very opposite toned questions "Yeah, he was just here a while ago before you entered, he probably went back to find his wee- lunchbox"

Josh smiled while Tyler's eyes furrowed a bit, questioning me with a hint of concern. "Thanks Dal, see ya later!"

With that, I was left in the room with an awkward situation with Tyler.

"U-Uh, see you later as well"

Thus, they both left the scene.

Tyler seems a little less confident today, a little more perplexed. Oh well, it is Tyler Joseph.

Sighing a bit, waiting for Brendon to get in trouble later on; I opened the book once more, licking my fingers, before entering page three hundred and ninety-four.

●-----------------------●

"Guys can someone name all the borders Egypt has-"

Riiiiiiiiing

"A-alright I'll see you all next Tuesday"

I didn't even notice the clock, oh well. Maybe I'm not fit for a History Teacher. I'd sometimes wish they could just find a replacement so I could retire and not feel bad about it.

I could hear the continous rumbling noises from the students' side of the room once they dragged the chairs out to stand up and leave. It did took me a while to understand the salty aftertaste it left on my mouth. Instead of complaining I just readied myself for the next class to enter and... Probably chew gum and place another batch underneath the tables... Our poor janitor's been through a lot today.

Chewing gum isn't cool or the janitor won't have fun in school.

That... It reminds me of Dad...

●-----------------------●

"How can you say sorry to a man who's probably high on drugs?" Ryan pondered as he took a sip of milk through a white and red stripped bendy straw.

I stared at his looking-through-space form.

"You're the philosopher and a very known substitute science teacher here, I'm pretty sure both things go well if you're a pro, you tell us"

Silence.

Then it hit me

"Wait— is that why Brendon's not here?"

That childish man-child wouldn't stop doing weird things huh? Yesterday he texted me saying stranger things with the lines of "quitting pipes", making me look like a very guileless teenager who just learned what methamphetamine means.

What—of course I knew what drugs are!

What do you mean Brendon sprinkled 'magical coke' on me, coca cola isn't a very solid material—

"Yeah, I told him to fuck off yesterday, I was really pissed off when he told me to put back the white cheese in the grocery shelves"

Of course that would happen.

"I don't know Ryan, treat him like a human being-" he gave me a mini glare, oh shit I didn't mean for it to sound... Nevermind.

"s-since some people think stoners don't have a life" I added to make it sound more... decent.

How do you control men at their age of 27? Exactly, I don't get the appeal on doing it as well, let them run around, do weird crap that'll get them fired.

Actually, don't do that.

I wonder if Brendon's interested in things like the 27 club-

No Dallon, bad thoughts Dallon. Bad thoughts.

"Just say sorry or something, give him space when he avoids you a bit too much... "

That advice sucks so bad, just like the way Ryan eats his cheese whiz.

I hope Ryan doesn't blame me if everything went downhill

"I'm blaming you if everything went downhill" He laughed after saying such playful words that make me shiver "You're too easy to read Man-Tree, and yeah, I know, it's okay if you didn't have any idea what to give for an advice"

At least he took a hint on not doing what I said.

Wait did he just compare me to a tree, I feel sorta honored—

From the corner of my left eye; I saw Patrick sprinting away confused and scared of Ryan's words.

"Eh, now I understand why Patrick would start to avoid me" "You can say that again"

●-----------------------●

I'm still unsure how to feel about Miss Williams' presence in the cafeteria. I mean, sure, she's known for being a great librarian and she also teaches in the senior building but still...

I'm still not used to seeing her here rather that seeing her inside the library, reading somethings I don't understand.

"Geez Dal, is it really weird for me to buy food here?"

"Yes Hayley, it just is"

She laughs and put down the tray on top of the cliche tables. The clock strucking on twelve would make sure that break's over.

"Well, get used to it. I'm tired of waking up early to make lunch, and besides food here is amazing" Her laugh has always been familiar for everyone. The Juniors considers her a cool and casual teacher that they'll love to learn from... Wish I could be like that, not complaining though, I love Dadlon.

"Hey, I'm not saying you shouldn't eat here and all"

"I know Dal"

●-----------------------●

"I feel like the electrolyte in a battery terminal"

"Why so Frankie?"

"Please don't call me that Dallon" Frank cringed before rubbing his shoulders while it shook. Seems like only Gerard can get to call him that, what a shame.

"I just got here, what happened?" I threw the plastic from the burgers straight down the trashcan, he just watched and waited until I come back.

"Welp, two of my rad students just roasted one another and now teachers are pretty much asking me things I don't even know" He sighed, stressed.

"I mean, how am I supposed to know what's the cause of the problem?" He flipped his hands and shrugged, as of to look clueless and annoyed.

"Don't you roast people?"

Okay, why did I say that.

"..."

"...Oh yeah I get it, whatever. I'm proud of my students, if I we're the principal I'll let them graduate" His comment of self awareness isn't making things better.

●-----------------------●

"Hey Brendon you alright?"

Brendon's been pulling his hair for a straight minute, he's bent over while sitting on his chair like he's going to break any minute, of course he's not alright.

"I-I can't take it"

His eyes looked puffy from both crying and a side effect of something I wouldn't wanna know.

"Shh, it's going to be okay" I tried removing the hands he used to cup his face but he appears to be much stronger than me.

He curls up, knees now covering his eyes and his arms strengthening the force that defends his pride.

"What happened?"

"Re-relapse? I don't f*cking know. I've been trying to make myself think that I won't be smoking but it always ends up like this Dal"

"Shh, shh, I'll tell Pete you're sick, I'll substitute"

Okay, wrong move, I don't know how to deal with students. But for Brendon... I wouldn't mind helping... He's a great friend after all, even though he's kind of a dick.

"T-thanks..."

"Anytime"

●-----------------------●

"It gets tiring honestly" I sipped on a new batch of coffee I prepared just two minutes ago while Ryan speaks gibberish, well, genius gibberish... That's not a thing I know.

"Sometimes people just forget that they should know who's worth their time and happiness or not, and they'll often use destructive emotions to get into the way of their relationship until two sides wouldn't dare speak with each other while one is hurting" He continued as he licked on the spoon of Cheese Whiz, gliding the cheese up to the tip of the spoon.

"Tell me Dal, have you given up a friendship?"

"Well, I don't think I have the guts to" I spoke with honesty "—but I should do that"

"Wow, that's kind of not conforting my situation right now"

"Oh sorry"

"But in all seriousness, I just hope he makes up his damn mind and if he ever says it's over then he should just keep it like we're strangers."

"Geez, you sure are quite frank with this. Have you lived through a rough path or something?" I successfully lightened up the mood, I can see Ryan smiling fron the corner of my eye.

"Well, you can't trust people easily who knows, they might steal your cheese" I raised my eyebrow in confusion.

"Ryan, no one says that"

"I did so deal with it Dallon"

●-----------------------●

"Hey there Mister Way" Micheal looked from his behind to see me greeting him "I've heard you've been visiting the music room with Mister Toro, what instrument are you interested in again?"

"More like forced by my brother and Ray, they want me to play the bass" Sounds about right.

"I could help you, you know?"

He shrugs "Thanks"

That blank stare would be the death of me, he looks like that one hero in an action movie that does Karate and that has bad temper.

Why is the Way brother's so complicated?

●-----------------------●

"Joshuuuuaa"

"Tyleeeeeer"

I witnessed one of those amazing scenes a human eye could record.

It was the miraculous handshake that the bestest friends does whenever they had the chance. Yeah, it may not be that rare of an action but it something that keeps me going.

"Woah, that's so cool guys!"

That was a big mistake.

Tyler hissed and threw his arms around Josh's neck while he tried hard to carry his odd friend. "Woah Tyler!"

"He. Just. Witnessed. Our. Secret. Handshake!" He hissed once more, emphasizing on each word. He added more stress on it than any normal person would.

"It's not that big of a deal—" "Of course it's a big deal Josh! That was something special to me! To us!"

Can I compare Tyler to a cat by now?

Seriously, he sounds like a cat thats been impaled with a knife to the gutter.

... Don't ask me why I know this.

●-----------------------●

"Okay Brendon, truth or dare?"

"Uhh... I'd say truth"

"If Ryan, Dallon or Spencer were to be hanging at the edge of a cliff, who would you pick?"

Brendon smirked as he continued to share a gaze with Spencer, who's shaking his head with the similar curved line plastered in his face.

"We all know the answer would lead to some four-thousand long *ss fanfiction"

What does he even mean by that? What's a fan fiction? Whatever it's probably Ryan. Although he wouldn't talk about him since...

wait

"What happened with you and Ryan?"

There was this prolonged silence that shouldn't have been that long if Brendon decided to speak early but he decided to go against the idea. He just stared, a little empty, like the time he was pranked

"He's having emotional mood swings inappropriate for his age, is all"

Well, I wouldn't call it a mood swing.

I mean, Ryan just love cheese, it's not like he's actually addicted to it like people joked around, right?

"Not true babe, I remember him using Cheese instead of cucumbers for therapeutic purposes" He emphasized on Babe and Therapeutic Purposes just to lace a sarcastic vibe on the topic about Ryan...

....

Nah, not true.

"Well, suit yourself"

I don't know why I'm easy to read.

"Because you're saying things out loud Mister Weekes!" The british transferee answered in such amusement. Spencer choked on his drink as he attempts to stiffle a laugh while the others, such as Josh and Frank (Iero, getting tired of correcting what Frank am I talking about with how many Franks are there) did not show any shame.

"Am I really saying it out loud?" Murmurous was the way my voice behaved. Patrick frantically nodded "Hells yeah"

"Hells yeah? Mister Stump says Hells Yeah?" Pete chimed in, slipping a seat next to Patrick and Tyler. "For the record Patrick, I am not letting you forget that, it's just historic- oh Mister Sheeran can you please hand the books you used to Miss Williams? It's been a week. Thanks"

As soon as the last student left for such 'delivery', the sounds of students seems to be getting farther and farther; with the exception of those who stays to wait for their service/school bus of course.

"What's up?" Pete joined the party.

"Nothing much, just our traditional Truth or Dare Friday, Brendon's turn to ask" While Joe—who just finished his class at Grade Twelve—spoke, Pete sips into his starbucks coffee.

"Cool, continue Brendon"

"You in?"

"Nah"

"Pay for view."

Joe's small joke sent Pete a payful glare at the Trohman-Fro man. "Later", he answered.

"Well, Gerard" there was this sparking tension once Gerard's responce came knocking "Yes?"

Brendon's face turned rock solid, like some action movie interrogation is about to happen as he stared at what seems to be a "punk criminal" at the moment and he was Clint Eastwood. Gerard didn't even flinch or look fazed, but rather reserved. "Do you believe in aliens?"

The fuc-

The question made him flinch real bad, some shocking news right? Brendon smirks, but no laughter was heard from him, rather the other players—plus Pete—in the game.

"I-I-uh..." Gerard pushes the stray locks of hairs behind the back of his ear, odd enough, I could now feel his nervousness. What, is he an alien or something?

"I-I'd say I'm a little too hesitant to answer that"

"Boo" Pete's response made others laugh along, although Gerard did glare at him.

I never thought a mysterious—and almost nefarious—character like him woulf sound nervous and look sweaty at that moment, "it's like that moment came from somewhere else"

"Agreed" Spencer replied in approval.

I'm speaking out loud again am I? Is this because of my lack of sleep? Yeesus— I mean... Yeah.

"Imagine if Gerard's an alien" The thought was bothering me and I have to say it, sorry "I mean, he looks like he could be one— I mean, he loves the scent of drugstores"

The conversation carried on with Frank adding details and the others consistently listening to his talk about Gerard's secret origins fron Reprise, even made a narration out of it

"And he's the artist who would get out of a planet called Reprise since he's so f*cking lonesome— Oh let's give him a acquaintances" Frank glances at the others with cheeks puffing from the breath he's beginning to hold, Pete laughs "How 'bout an alien space companion?"

"Oh! How about a pink masked alien-"

"no" Gerard blocked but Spencer's muffled laughs is still heard.

"-named Lola!" Josh's voice has audible enough and Gerard-proof for everyone to hear

And thus, this ship about an imaginary alien and a grumpy teacher was born

●-----------------------●

"Are you sure he didn't say that in a more normal way? Are you sure this story is real? I mean, it's a bit too descriptive if you ask me that's kinda skeptical—"

"No, he said it in a Gerard Way, of course he's weird Dallon. All the teachers here are way too young and talented Dal, they say and do weird things" Pete said, pathetically laughing at his own joke. He didn't mind though, he's too happy to even care. "And incase you forgot students here are as talented as well, only this time they're quite well known, and you're special too Dallon, you're a well known bassist not only in town you know? So hearing a story about a drunk comic artist isn't that odd if you know where to go"

"I... I just don't believe he would go around and say Easy Peasy Pumpkin Peasy and stuff like that..."

"He also said Pumpkin pie motherfucker in case you forgot" He added in such delight, I swear if this is some japanese cartoon there would be flying sparkles everywhere.

I stayed behind because I have to prepare myself for upcoming Summative Assessments and since I already noted Pete that Brendon won't come he said I should do his work for tomorrow. Welp, this is what friends are for, some are worth doing examinations for.

"Well, you haven't heard of Brendon's campfire stories back then haven't you?" Pete asked with a small smile, I shook my head to say no.

"No, I haven't"

I just came to this school last year, in November so I missed the month.

"Eheh, he should be doing that soon, our camping is in October after all, shame you didn't git to attend last year too" He teased "—he loves to freak kids out. I remember that one time he told the story of... What was that? LA Devotee was it? Oh, he doesn't only do horror, he actually tells some funny ones... He'd act drunk and tell history stuff just to mock the old history teacher"

I bet you all twenty bucks he was drunk, and about the history thing....

Looks like I'm not looking forward to that.

"Aww, don't be Dal" He pouted as he placed the globe on the top shelf "He just love to tease the guy so much, gosh I couldn't remember his name"

"Looks like you're old enough to retire" Joe chimed in with a small joke that had Pete to glare at him.

"Not yet Joe"

"Heh, my bad"

"I haven't heard of the old history teacher"

"I think his name was Briar or something, we're not that close" Joe shrugged as I almost wanna place my grabby habds to his hair. "He never really came back since he had to take care of something"

"Oh, I see" I just hope Brendon doesn't make fun of me at camping

"Oh dear, you're about to see how things go down in history at October. Some retirees would visit the school at the month" Pete smiled once more before snapping his fingers "Oh yeah! Last time we had Mister Tre to roast the kids' marshmallows"

"Yeah and he almost burned his clothes"

"It was pretty dope to see him roll around" Joe added more to his statement before chuckling loudly.

Our twittering didn't last long, like it usually does. Pete heard a call from his phone in the office, wow, he sure has some very nice hearing.

"Woops, be right back!" He left the room after he pointed his index finger to us.

"Bet you ten bucks it's his father"

"No need Joe, I already know it's him"

"I really love the way Pete still loves his Dad even though he just let him control one school, unlike his siblings" I chortled this time "welp, I think his father's just testing him. I think he's still new for a Principal"

"Yeah that's true, seems like only yesterday we'd jam out into Green Day and Misfits" He reminisced over the past memories.

"Wait, are you guys almost at the same age?"

"Yeah, Pete isn't that old as he looks. He's so fuckin' immature back then you know? God, his hair sucks so bad back in his emo phase"

"I HEARD THAT!"

Joe frozed but then the ice melted away when I snickered at the newfound look

"BUT ITS TRUE!"

Haha, yep. I still wanna teach at this school.

I looked around the office once more and found something pretty odd. It was a picture frame with four veey familiar figures.

"Is that..." I pointed at the object as Joe tilted his head lightly before snapping.

"Oh, that picture? Yeah, that was when we were to take a picture for an album we never really released"

"Really?" "Yes really"

"Then why does Andy looked like he's been edited to the picture?"

Joe snorted

"Andy always poses in that semi-sideview way, he's really there when the picture was shot. I swear" He said in all seriousness to stress on his words. I rolled my eyes.

"I doubt that"

"Oh why wont you ask Andy" "Wont be be offended though?"

"How would Princess be?" Joe stared with sincere confusion "He'd probably laugh cause it's true"

"Would he? That's more like your thing Joe" I muttered lowly but hoped for him to hear the words at the same time.

"... Yeah you're right kiddo"

I picked it out, thumbs onto the front frame and the others to support it. It was filtered in a light blue shade. It was Pete, Andy, Patrick and Joe from left to right. The names were written in beautiful fonts and were printed nicely, although seeing "Peter" and "Joseph" still makes me uncomfortable.

Joe was right, Pete's hair does suck so bad.

"Ouch, you guys are teaming up on me now? Jesus" Pete soon entered without me noticing, eh, I don't care if he heard my thoughs anymore.

"Hey, don't say his name in vain Peter" Joseph scolded with a small smirk when he said his name.

"Don't be a hypocrite Joseph, remember Senior Prom?"

"Oh I remember your geeky dance very well Peter" Joe laughed as he got coffee from the machine. Pete laughed as it seemed like the plan of bringing back awkward memories backfired.

"Whatever Joseph Roughman"

"I'm pretty sure the announcer at that time was kinky as hell" Joe and Pete continued the conversation, forgetting my presence. I don't mind, it's funny to watch them being so comfortable.

"Ah, didn't Patrick had this tied hair to the back that time?" "I think so, although nothing can defeat Brendon's forehead"

"Ye-yeah, right" Pete slyly hid his with his hair with a crooked smile. "Right..." He reassured himself, Joe smirks larger than earlier.

"Welp, we sure had good times with the band huh?"

"Yeah... I miss screaming"

"Eh, I miss Patrick's soul voice more than yours"

Pete glared at Joe as Joe defensively raised his two hands high. "Just sayin'! Just sayin'!"

"So... What was the name of the band?"

"Not was Dallon, it's kind of an underground band but we're Fall Out Boy"

"So you guys still a thing?"

"If you meant in a four-some gay relationship hell no, but sure why not?" Joe winked as Pete shivered in disgust

"Joe you disgust me" "I could tell that myself Pete"

"Don't mind Joe, but yeah, we still are. It's just that we're on a break for a while now" Pete grabbed Joe's empty cup into the trashcan as he asked for. "—I mean, even Ryan and Spencer was in a band with that Brent guy"

"Brent? Like Brendon?"

"Nope, Brent is a different person from our beloved B-den"

"Oh, never really knew about him" I sighed then placed the picture back at the table to which I saw it first. Pete gasped once it processed.

"Wait, you haven't heard of it yet? They'd use to play as Slight Anxiety or something, but Brent left and all. They're pretty well known in Nevada, New Jersey and Chicago. You probably heard of them from Mister Gioia as well" After Joe stated it I just brushed it for now, I should ask him that tomorrow.

"Nah, not really"

"I should lend you my copy of the cds sometime. Although don't forget, the titles are really wordy" His offering made me smile. Joe did the same. Wow, they're acting like a very supportive family, I might get my Dad vibes on.

"Oh, thank you. I'd love to hear it— I mean it's not like I'm doing that cause you're my boss or something but—"

"It's okay Dal. No problem" He understands.

[justine1518]

PORTENTS

Positive, she said cheerily, as if I shouldn’t go out and hang myself this instant. I held on to the phone for a long time; I was sure that if I let go I would fall down. The coffee turned to mud in my mouth—I ran to the sink and heaved. Congratulations, it’s a fetus. You frigging idiot. 

Afterwards I sat at the kitchen table and tried to make sense of the stuff swirling around in my head. Visions of blood and umbilical cords and feeding bottles whirled before my eyes like malevolent frisbees. The newspaper was lying next to the platter of toast; I read the headline about two hundred times. “May use poison gas, Iraq warns.” Next to it a picture of a dead Kurdish woman clutching the body of her dead child. Mother. Child. I felt like throwing up all over again. I imagined a creature ripping out of my stomach in a gory mess, like the monster in Alien. 

There was a Post-it note on the mirror: “Lunch with Lawrence, 12:30,” Lawrence being a fifty-fifty candidate for the father. I painted a face on and stared at the mirror. I saw my belly swelling up, my clothes rising like a circus tent, and all I could think about was the ten pounds I’d just lost, and the new dress I bought to mark the occasion. Finally I got my new dress out of the closet and put it on while it still fit. 

In the elevator my next-door neighbor smiled and said Good morning. She had this sort of knowing smile, and I found myself wondering if she knew about me. I wasn’t just being paranoid; this is Manila, the neighbors know everything. They are extremely sympathetic, and if you let them they will take over your life. It turned out she was just trying to sell me a watch. Her husband had managed to get out of Kuwait by driving across the desert, and when he got home the banks refused to change his Kuwaiti dinars. That’s why she was selling his watches. I felt kind of sorry for Mrs. Santos, setting out with her imitation Gucci handbag and several dozen gold bracelets to sell her husband’s watches. Or was it Mrs. San Juan, I can never remember.  A nervous breakdown would’ve been in order, or a fit of tears and keening, the kind that comes with a runny nose and smeared mascara. But I’ve never been one for hysterics. Thanks to my parents, by the time I was eight, the sight of a chair being hurled across the room was no longer cause for alarm. Maybe there is something to be said for a lousy home life. Ramon says my emotional range is limited to rage, guilt, and occasional hilarity. He neglected to mention blanknesss—there are times when I just don’t feel anything.  Ramon also claims he can read my thoughts by looking at me—he says I’m transparent. I hope so; it’s embarrassing to tell somebody there’s a fifty per cent chance that he may be a father in several months.  By the time it occurred to me to catch a ride I was halfway to my office and decided to walk the rest of the way. I was swallowed up by the crowd of people hurrying to work; rising above the din of traffic, their footfalls sounded like the marching of a distant army.  In front of the church where rosaries and good-luck charms were sold under the baleful stare of the Archangel Michael’s statue, a strange figure appeared on my right; a filthy man with long, matted hair. A tattered bag was slung across his bare chest, upon which his ribs protruded like spikes. A thick layer of soot covered his emaciated body—he looked like a walking pile of ashes. He started speaking to me in urgent tones, as if he were revealing important secrets, and there was a crazy glint in his eyes. I understood nothing. He was speaking either in dialect of in gibberish, I couldn’t tell, I looked on stupidly. People stared, expecting perhaps that he would produce a cleaver and hack me to death. The man went on with his weird recitation; why he chose me I had no idea, maybe he could see past the designer clothes into my dark and grimy soul. After a while he frowned like a teacher who had just given up on a particularly moronic student. Then he wheeled and dashed into the church, stopping a moment to rub with his filthy hand the scowling face of the Archangel Michael.  Through the glass I could see the cashier, Wilma, on the telephone, spewing vile words like poisoned toads into the receiver. She was screaming at some poor bastard who owed her money. Across from me, Pocholo, in his pink shirt and red paisley necktie, sat flipping through the morning papers.  “It’s exactly as Nostradamus said,” Pocholo said. “He predicted earthquakes signaling the end of the world, and we had that big one last month. Then he said a leader from the Middle East would launch a world war. I thought it would be Khadaffi but no, it’s Saddam Hussein.  “Sure,” I said. I watched Wilma slam the phone so hard it fell to the floor. Cursing mightily, she stopped to pick it up. On this particular day she was clad in polyester cloth abloom with pink and purple flowers, which made her look like a demented sofa.  “Anyway,” Pocholo continued, “my aunts say they saw this vision in Taal.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They saw a horseman in the sky.”  “A what?”  “A man on a horse. Riding across the sky. A hundred schoolchildren saw it. According to my aunt it looked like the statue of St. Martin that stands in their church.”  “St. Martin on a horse?” I said. “Maybe it was St. George or Joan of Arc. I don’t think St. Martin rode a horse.”  “No, stupid,” he said. “You’re thinking of St. Martin de Porres. We’re elating about St. Martin of Tours. And you know what? My aunt says they saw the same vision just before World War II. Then the Japanese arrived.” He ran his fingers through his artfully moussed and tousled hair. “Oh my God, what if it’s really the end. I mean, I don’t even have a kid yet.”  I looked away so he wouldn’t see me grimace, and was just in time to see Wilma spitting into her wastebasket.  All morning I wondered whether I should ask Wilma for her abortionist’s address. She would give the address, I knew, even accompany me to the place. Probably some decrepit wooden house in the fetid alleys of Tondo, where the gangs hunted each other down with homemade revolvers. Wilma hid nothing, she wore her brazen honesty like a soiled and rusty halo. She had had four abortions, she told me casually while I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom; the washerwoman down her street performed the operation, she owed Wilma money. I imagine Wilma’s insides, as torn and bloody as a battlefield. She said she’d regretted her last abortion: it was a girl, she’s always wanted a baby girl. She put the fetus in a jar of formalin and kept it in the drawer where her wedding dress, which had outlasted her marriage, lay yellowing among mothballs and dead flowers.  The others she’d flushed down the toilet.  Lawrence ate his lunch the way he lived his life: very carefully, as if he would choke on it. Everything about him was resoundingly correct, from his hair to his Italian shoes, from the schools he’d attended to the fashionable gym where he wrestled with machines three times a week. I knew that as he read the menu he was figuring out how much cholesterol, how much sodium and fat were in the entrees.  “It’s going to be bad,” he was saying. “By next year the official exchange rate could be 28 pesos to the dollar. That’s a conservative projection. We haven’t considered oil prices and the damage from the earthquake.” Daintily, he chewed on his vegetable. “Inflation will go through the roof,” he added, almost with relish.  While he delivered his analysis of the economy, I twirled the noodles around my fork but I hardly ate anything. No appetite. Idly, I wondered if Lawrence was sleeping with someone else. One of the girls from his office, someone tall and svelte who worked in PR, shopped in Hong Kong, and wore linen suits with tiny skirts. I concluded that he wasn’t—I had no illusions about his undying love and fidelity, but I trusted his fear of AIDS.  “Am I boring you?” he said at last. Mr. Sensitive. He put his hand on my knee—maybe he expected me to salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know we haven’t seen each other much lately, but it’s been hell at the office.” Without missing a beat he slid his hand up my skirt. Boy, he was smooth, no one would’ve suspected that the earnest-looking young man in the pinstripe shirt could be doing something as ignoble as giving a girl a feel in a restaurant. “That guy from the head office is a major asshole. Goes around trying to catch people loafing. The office feels like a...”  Abruptly he withdrew his hand and stood up. A large, red-nosed white man in an ill-fitting brown suit was approaching our table.  “Mr. Fowler,” said Lawrence.  “Alvarado,” said the man, shaking the hand Lawrence extended.  “How was the beach?” Lawrence said. I had to restrain myself from calling the waiter and asking for a receptacle I could puke into.  “Fine,” said Fowler, “Well. Enjoy your meal.”  “Is that the asshole from the main office?” I said.  “Sssh,” Lawrence hissed. “He might hear you.”  “Let him.” I reached over with my fork and speared food off his plate. He hated it whenever I did that. Lawrence had a very definite concept of “mine.” For instance, all his books were stamped “Private Library of Lawrence R. Alvarado.” The strange thing was, he didn’t even read his books. They were lined up according to height on his antique bookshelf, neatly covered in plastic. One time I took a book out of the shelf, and it had been there unopened for so long the pages stuck together.  “Anyway,” Lawrence said, “where were we?”  “You mean until your sahib came along?”  “What’s the matter with you?” he said. Funny he should use the exact same words he said coming up to me at Diday’s birthday party while I stood in a corner holding my breath to get rid of my hiccups. He said he was Lawrence and I should breathe into a paper bag, so we went into the kitchen and rummaged in the closets. There weren’t any paper bags, and when he found a plastic shopping bag I didn’t need anymore, my hiccups were gone. He got my name and my telephone number, it was as easy as that.  “Miggy,” he said. Miggy, for Chrissakes. I knew Lawrence wasn’t going to follow me, he hated scenes—and I walked out of the restaurant, it was as easy as that.  I wandered around the mall for a while. I went into stores and looked at things. There was this outfit that looked like our uniform at the Academy of Our Lady’s Seven Sorrows—white blouse, blue necktie, and a navy-blue skirt—only the skirt was too short. At Seven Sorrows, skirts had to cover the entire knee area. If your knees were exposed the nuns would give you a lecture on modesty. There was no spanking—the nuns were an enlightened bunch—but after fifteen minutes of having guilt laid thickly on you, you’d wish they’d give you ten lashes instead and get it over with.  Corporal punishment would simplify everything. For sleeping with a guy you weren’t married to, you’d get, say, five hundred lashes. For sleeping with two guys, neither of whom you were married to, one thousand lashes. For even thinking about abortion, ten thousand lashes. And I’d been such a good girl too, until recently, anyway, so I’d probably get five hundred extra lashes for being such a disappointment.  I made a mental list of the reasons for and against having this baby. Pro: This child would be mine, really truly mine, which couldn’t be said of a lot of things. Pro: Maybe I’ll turn out to be a genius who will invent something beneficial to mankind, like a device that would cause world leaders to self-destruct if they got the urge to wage war.  Anti: I’m not sure I’d be such a hot parent. I have serious deficiencies in the responsibility department, as the credit card people will attest. Anti: The lack of a husband, the resulting social stigma, and if not that, my own paranoia. I would drive myself crazy wondering if someone was going to cast stones at me. Anti: my mother would freak. She’s in California, running a Filipino restaurant, and she’s always going on about the decline of traditional Filipino values. I don’t think she would appreciate having me prove her theories. I can just see her talking to my father, blaming him for dying young and leaving her to raise his daughter to adulthood (I was always “his daughter” everytime I screwed up).  When I got back to the office people were scurrying about like newly-beheaded chickens.  “What’s going on?” I asked Pocholo. He was alternately squirting his asthma medication into his mouth with an inhaler and stuffing folders into his briefcase.  “There’s going to be a big earthquake at 2:30,” he said, only there were no pauses between his words.  “Says who?” I demanded.  “It was on the radio,” he said. He snapped his briefcase shut. People were running into elevators. Wilma let loose a steady stream of obscenities while she stuffed into shopping bags the fake Benetton shirts she sold on installment.  “That’s crazy,” I said. “You can’t predict exactly when an earthquake will happen.”  "It was on the radio,” Pocholo repeated, as if media coverage were an infallible confirmation of truth. “2:30. Powerful earthquake, intensity nine.”  “Well, I’m not leaving,” I declared. “I’m not going to fall for an idiotic prank.”  “This building could collapse!” he screeched. “Like the Hyatt Terraces!” “You can’t predict an earthquake exactly.”  “What if there is one? Be reasonable!”  Reasonable! I nearly laughed at that. Pocholo gave up, gathered his briefcase and inhaler, and ran to the elevator.  “Come on,” said Wilma, “It’s almost time.”  “It’s a prank,” I said. “I’m not leaving.”  “They’re closing the building,” she said. “Everyone’s getting out. Do you want to get locked in?”  She had a point. I got my bag—I could use the afternoon off, anyway.  I figured I’d go home and get some sleep; maybe when I woke up this whole thing would turn out to be a bad dream like the one that killed my Uncle Danding. One night he ate too much rice and stewed pork, then went to bed and started screaming horribly in his sleep. They slapped him, poured cold water on him, pounded and bit him, but he never woke up. He died uttering strange garbled noises. The official cause of death was cardiac arrest, but everyone said it was bangungot, the sleeping sickness.  It did seem like a dream, the crowd of people gathered at the parking lot and looking at the building, waiting for the swaying to start. Idiots, I muttered, as I flagged down a taxi.  “Where to?” the driver snarled.  “Salcedo,” I said.  “Too near,” he snapped, zooming off before I could get in the cab. Taxi drivers! This was not a great moment for humanity: everyone was being an idiot or an asshole.  All the taxis were taken, and the buses were so full people were sprouting out the windows. I could see the passengers crammed together like fillings in an enormous sandwich, bumping and rubbing against each other with every lurch of the bus. Maybe if something asks who my kid’s father is, I could say I took a really crowded bus and got knocked up.  By the time I got back to my apartment my feet were throbbing. A menu from a pizza parlor that delivered had been shoved under my door; reading it I had a sudden wild craving for anchovy pizza. Pregnant women are supposed to have these wild cravings, but I was slightly worried. I’ve heard old people say that what you crave during pregnancy determines how your child will turn out. For instance, if you crave guavas, your child will be stubborn. My friend claims her clumsiness was caused by her mother’s fondness for noodles. And singkamas is supposed to produce fair-complexioned children, no matter how dark their parents are. I thought, if I ate a lot of anchovies, would my child have scaly skin, or look like a fish?  I phoned the pizza place anyway, and when I put the phone down it rang. “Hi,” said Ramon.  “How did you know I was home?” I said.  “You’re always home on Sunday.”  “It’s Monday.”  “Oh. Are you going out tonight?” he said. “Can I come over?”  “Okay.”  When I hung up I noticed how quiet the building was. No radios blaring, no TV, no brats squalling down the hall. For a second I wondered if there really was an earthquake. The last time, when the tremors started there was a stunned silence. The phones stopped ringing, the printers stopped whirring, conversations paused in mid-sentence; everyone sat gripping their desks, their eyes wide open and their mouths shaped into O’s. Then people dove under tables and Wilma was saying “OhGodOhGodOhGod” and there was a loud wailing in the air. When the tremors stopped I heard Pocholo’s radio, and the B-52s were singing, “Cosmic! Cosmic!”  I switched the TV on. There was this soap opera about a little girl whom everyone maltreated. The actress was played by a little girl was so good at being a martyr, it was as if she had a sign on her forehead that said, “Kick me.” The soap was interrupted by a news broadcast: 262 more Filipinos had fled Kuwait. A middle-aged woman told a reporter she had been raped by Iraqi soldiers. Why should I be ashamed, she said, I didn’t want it to happen. It was amazing how casual she was. How could she be so cool? War could break out any second, and that madman could use chemical weapons. I thought of worldwide recession, rioting for food, and pictures I had seen of Hiroshima after that blast.  Maybe Pocholo and his aunt were right, the world was coming to an end. What a lousy time it was to be born, with madmen waiting to gas you or blow you away, and the earth opening up to swallow you. On the other hand, with everything going against you, you didn’t need your own mother plotting to get rid of you.  Ramon came in at six. His hair looked like he’d cut it himself, which he often did. He brought a take-out box of friend noodles and a videotape of Road Runner cartoons. I heated the pizza leftovers and he ate them on the card table on the terrace.  He looked exhausted. “I stayed up late filling out the forms for my grant,” he explained, rubbing his eyes.  “I had a weird day,” I said. I told him about the street crazy in front of the church, and his strange message.  He rubbed a spot of sauce off my chin with his thumb. “Maybe it was an obscene proposal. Or maybe he was speaking Aramaic. Repent or else.”  “My officemate says the world is ending,” I said.  He ate the last crumb of pizza. “Maybe.”  “Doesn’t it worry you?”  “It’s not like I can do anything about it. If it’s true. What’s scary is being the last person on earth,” Ramon said.  "Everyone else is dead, and you wander around the rubble and slowly realize you’re alone.”  “God,” I said. “What would you do?”  “Keep looking for another survivor. Try to go crazy,” he reached over and picked a noodle from my plate. “We’re being morbid tonight.”  “I can’t help it,” I said. “All this talk about war.”  It started to rain, so we got up and went inside. As I closed the door to the terrace I thought I saw something in the sky—a man on a black horse, riding through the rain.  “You want some coffee?” Ramon called from the kitchen.  “Yes, please,” I said. My knees were wobbly, I had to sit down. You’re seeing things, I told myself. Pregnant women do it all the time, it’s hormones or something.  “What’s wrong?” said Ramon.  “Nothing,” I said, and in the pit of my stomach I felt a little kick.

Malevolent- having or showing a wish to do evil to others.

like malevolent Frisbees- The persona in the story feels like the problem she is facing is being thrown towards her.