#and i mean acute pain is its own thing and it's easier to notice but if something just hurts

[raimi]

the problem with nice pretty pain scales is that sometimes you are slowly coming to the realization that you don't properly know what "not pain" feels like in the first place

[ppersonna]

i’ll float away - myg | m

they show you how to swim, then they throw you in the deep end. what if I don’t float?  - float, the neighborhood.

↳ summary- years after the breakup, yoongi, a successful award-winning rapper with an unhealthy addiction, finds your wedding invite on Facebook.

↳ rating- explicit/18+

↳ word count- 12.6k

↳ pairing- yoongi x reader

↳ genre- idol!au, postbreakup!au, very heavy angst, smut, fluff

↳ warnings- discussions of drugs and death, penetrative sex, oral sex (m/f receiving), creampie, dirty talk, min yoongi being a mental health king

↳ a.n- hi everyone! some of you may recognize this fic.  this fic is my baby. i went through and edited it a little more and put all the chapters together to make it a one shot.  i think it flows better that way!  i hope you enjoy this.  this fic means so so so much to me and while it’s heavy, i hope you enjoy the ride it will take you on.  this fic got me back into writing and i will forever be thankful for that.

↳ this fic contains adult content, such as drug use, discussions of suicide, accidental overdose, discussions of drugs and addictions.  while this is not romanticized, or idolized, it is discussed.  please take care of yourself and proceed with caution.  18+ | discretion is advised.

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt numb.

Yoongi always felt numb, but this felt different, wrong.  Like he was falling and had no ledge to grip.

It felt as if the world had stopped on its axis, and at any moment, gravity would turn off and he would just float, float away to nothingness.

There was no sound. Everything existed in silence.

His fingers couldn’t move. Eyes were glued to his phone screen where he stared at the wedding invite on fucking Facebook.

He wasn’t even sure why he was seeing it, considering you had blocked him on nearly every form of social media. Likely it was from your family, someone that still kept him around despite a million reasons not to.

It felt like centuries before Yoongi noticed his heartbeat again. And when it did, it hurt. It threatened to break his ribs, tear through muscle and sinew, erupt from the skin to go, get away, run run run from this.

The numbness was gone. Now all he felt was the pain.

Yoongi felt like his every cell, every fiber, was burning. Perhaps, they were mourning.

Perhaps, they were dying.

Water dripped onto his phone and it took him a few stunted breaths to realize the water was coming from him, pouring from his eyes like open wounds.

The numb silence surrounding him left him, and now he was too alert, too aware.  The sounds hit him like a tidal wave.

His body was reacting years before his brain could catch up. He could hear himself crying, choking on his sobs, and at first, it didn’t register as his own voice wailing your name.

And then emotion erupted and smashed into his psyche, nothing standing in his way to protect him.

He was heartbroken.

He had felt nothing in years, refused to face the sorrowful demons lurking around him. It was easier to hide, to run. It terrified him to think of what would happen if he allowed himself a chance to feel again. He didn’t think he would make it out alive.

Alive.

Was he? Had he been living since that day?  He wasn’t sure. He breathed, ate, drank, fucked, but he wasn’t positive he was alive at all.

Living? Sure. Existing? Yes. But alive, he couldn’t determine.

Now that he could feel every ounce of pain, his body accepted it tenfold. His throat felt angry and raw. He must be screaming—he thought. His fingers pricked with pins and needles as if they hadn’t moved an inch since the day he last touched you, refusing to believe you were gone. His arms wrapped around his own chest as his body wracked with sobs.

Yoongi hadn’t cried in years.  He hadn’t allowed himself to cry, hadn’t given permission to his mind to even think about it. Surely, once he started, he was confident he would never stop.

His mind reeled. He was only half aware of where he was, what he was doing. It wasn’t until he felt his legs moving, feet shuffling to his nightstand, that he realized what was happening.

He didn’t want to feel. His mind, in an effort to protect, to avoid, was doing the only thing Yoongi knew to do.

He grabbed the bottle of Oxy’s, poured out a handful and contemplated swallowing them.

He didn’t think he wanted to die. To be frank, he felt he was already living in purgatory. He just wanted it to stop, to end, to retreat into nothingness and stop fucking crying.

Swallowing them wouldn’t do. He would fall asleep, and likely stop breathing. Too much. He couldn’t die. He knew in his mind he would feel too guilty to die. He didn’t want death; he merely wanted respite, sanctuary.

He could continue surviving as long as his nerves dulled and frayed, mind sticky and hazy. Exist. Don’t feel.

With skilled hands and tools, Yoongi crushed some pills into a fine powder and sat on his bed to arrange the drug into 4 lines.

He always felt better this way.

He would add a line of coke had his situation been different. It was his go-to, enough to keep himself present, to do what he needed to get through the day while still feeling dissolved.  Sing, dance, record, smile for the cameras, sign for the screaming girls, plaster on that boyish smile, repeat.

He just wanted to sleep.

His body worked on auto-pilot. Yoongi was sure he was still heaving with sobs.  He could feel his chest shaking, and his hands were unsteady.

You were getting married.

One bump. Inhale. Hold it. Don’t think. Breathe.

Someone else was holding you, smiling as bright as your future. Handsome. Kind. Family man.

Alive.

Second bump. Inhale. Don’t let it go. Breathe.

He imagined your hands on someone else’s body, your voice crying out in throes of passion in someone else’s ear. Whispering someone else’s name as you succumbed to your climax.

Third bump, then straight to the fourth without stopping. It burned as it passed through his nostrils, straight to his bloodstream.

Children, a home and a dog. Family dinner. Movies, laughter. All of them without him. An outsider staring in through the window, wondering what it could feel like to be within; wondered what it was like to get what he wanted.

Yoongi leaned back on his bed, feeling the slow, syrupy wave wash over him.

‘Please, take it away’ he pleaded silently as if the drug were his doctor, his therapist. It was, in many ways. ‘I’m not strong enough.’

His eyes drooped and felt like lead. He was tired. So tired. He could feel his sobs slow, before ending in quiet little whimpers and sighs. His breathing mellowed, and he felt his chest deflate for what felt like hours before his lungs pulled in harshly more air.

He ached but felt as if someone had pulled a blanket over him, over his tortured heart and crumbling brain. No more thinking, just sleep. Can’t feel, can’t cry, don’t want to face it.  

Sleep.

Warmth.

Warmth surrounded him. It felt as if he were napping in the shady grass during summer. Warm and comforting.

You were there, in the meadow of his imagination. You were walking to him, a white dress and pretty flowers. Yoongi felt his heart tug at every artery in his body, as if begging him to stop, heel, resist, don’t go.

“Yoongi,” You called across the valley. Your dulcet voice rang through his head as if you spoke directly to his mind.

“Where are you?” You asked.

In a blink, you were in front of him. Your eyes were searching for him, even though he stood inches away.

He opened his mouth to beckon you, but no words came out. He was desperate to call out to you, embrace you. He strained to move his hand. He wanted to touch your cheek, feel real and alive again. His body would not respond.

“Yoongi, go!” You pleaded, eyes filling with tears, still seeking the male. “You can’t be here!”

His body stung, wincing at your words and aching at your distress.

“Yoongi, you need to wake up!”

The warmth faded.

It felt as if something had ripped his comfort blanket from him, exposing his body to the harsh chill of reality.

He could sense he was in a bed, and the lights were bright, so bright. He tried to open his eyes and groaned as the halogen pierced through his skull.

“Yoongi?! Oh my god, he’s waking up!” Distressed voices were too loud all around him, and he felt pokes and prods and beeping of machines.

“Ow-… loud.” His voice was rough as if he hadn’t used it in days.

Yoongi felt more acutely aware of his body as he struggled to wake up. He was so nauseated, stomach churning ferociously, even though he hadn’t eaten since… how long? He wasn’t sure. He wanted to vomit.

He wanted to sleep.

He lifted his eyes again and peered through the harsh lighting. His best friend Hoseok stood over him, along with Namjoon, his manager, and Jimin, his assistant.

Hoseok had tears in his eyes, and the sight made Yoongi wince with grief. Hobi hadn’t cried since high school when he got cut from the dance team. Something awful must have happened.

“Hobi…,” he murmured, coughing to clear his throat. “What happened? What’s going on?”

Adjusted to the light, Yoongi finally glanced at his surroundings and took stock of his environment.

He was in a hospital; he was the patient. An IV was stuck in the crook of his arm, his skin ghostly pale, enormous bags of saline attached overhead. He felt faint.

How had this happened? Did he hurt himself at practice? Was there a car accident? Yoongi could remember driving home from the dance studio but felt foggy about anything else. He didn’t even know what day it was.

His friends blanched at Yoongi’s questioning, side-eying each other.  Who would have to be the one to tell him?

Hoseok’s eyes flooded with tears again as he looked at the rapper and spoke. “Yoongi… you-… you OD’d.”

The words hit him like an oncoming train.

Overdose.  

It had never happened to him before.

He nearly died.

He had, unfortunately, been in the game long enough to watch it happen to others. Some were lucky to make it out okay, most weren’t.

It all flashed painfully in his mind as it all flooded back.

You. Marriage. OxyContin.

Inhale. Don’t breathe. Don’t feel.

“Oh, my god.”

Hoseok let out a soft sob. “Jimin found you in your bed.  Thank god you keep Narcan.”

Yoongi turned to glance at the gentle, pink-haired boy who had already done so much for him. Yoongi felt wrecked, utterly guilty for putting him in such a situation. How many times had Yoongi had to force a needle into a friend’s thigh, watch as their pinpoint pupils widened and lungs gasped for air as their synapses released?  Too many. Each time kept him awake all night and petrified for months. He regularly kept the overdose reversal drug on him, in the studio, in his home.

“Jimin,” he croaked, his own eyes filling with tears. “I’m s-so fucking sorry.”

Jimin couldn’t hold back the tears in his eyes anymore. “It’s okay, Yoongs.” Jimin’s voice was quiet, trembling.

Yoongi felt the tears slip down his cheeks at his best friends and team. He had put so much on them. So much.

“You saved my life, Jimin.” Yoongi’s quiet voice made the assistant cry more.

“You’d do it for me.” He whispered through tears as he pushed forward and fell into Yoongi’s chest, holding the rapper close. “Let’s just… get better, y-yeah?”

The rapper’s heart seized up.

Better.

What was better?  Surely, Jimin meant rehab. Sobriety. Meetings and sponsors.

To Yoongi, it meant feeling. It screamed hurting. It oozed heartbreak.

When Yoongi had been introduced to drugs at the beginning of his rap career, it had been fun and sexy. They used coke at the hottest parties, weed at all the clubs, acid at the raves. Yoongi sampled each like a buffet, found out which made him feel lightheaded and loose, which made him dizzy, which made him ache.

The drugs led to the girls. So many women begging for him. The cloudy haze of his mind found it hard to resist, even knowing you were still his, still waiting for him as you and he promised with thin silver bands symbolizing your shared devotion and dedication.

Therefore, drugs led to regret.

He left you. Days before your wedding. He exposed all of his misdeeds, his infidelity, his vices. He had promised you after he was famous, rich, well known that he would come back to you, start a family with you.

Instead, he turned away and left.

It was easier to avoid it all and leave; he rationalized. Seeing your heartbreak had been his undoing.

After the breakup, Yoongi self-medicated daily. He stuck with opiates and cocaine, finding it just the right combination to get him pleasantly numb from the guilt and loss of you while giving him the euphoric high he needed as a rising star rapper.

He had tried to keep it to himself as long as he could. Hoseok knew about the recreational use but hadn’t realized the extent of the problem until he found Yoongi too high to function, slumped in a chair in the recording studio.

Hoseok told Namjoon, his manager, who interrogated Yoongi’s assistant, Jimin. None had known quite how far Yoongi had spiraled down. And none had an idea to pull him out.

Yoongi didn’t want to go to rehab. He didn’t want the forced positivity. Group therapy. Social workers discussing ‘goals’ and ‘treatment plans’. He would risk his reputation. He was now a top-earning Grammy-winning artist. He was fucking Agust D. He couldn’t be just another celebrity who ended up in rehab. It would ruin everything he built.  He could do it himself, fix his problems alone as he always had.

“Yeah.” Yoongi croaked to his assistant. “I’ll get better.” His smile was weak, and probably unconvincing to the three men who knew him best.

As Namjoon opened his mouth to speak, a knock sounded at the door of his room. Yoongi’s brow furrowed in confusion. He did not know who it could be, the three people he interacted with most already present. His accountant? Wouldn’t seem likely. A fan? Definitely unlikely, Jimin and Namjoon had likely taken major strides to ensure his privacy and ask the hospital to provide security. Was it… you? Yoongi stopped breathing at the thought.

Namjoon strode to the door and opened it a crack, peering out. Yoongi couldn’t see who the manager was whispering too, but moments later watched as the door swung open.

It wasn’t you. He felt relief. He wouldn’t have been able to look at you. But the guest was only slightly better.  

Your mother.

The matronly woman’s eyes were full of tears. Yoongi’s mother had been your mother’s best friend from childhood, to the very day Yoongi’s mother passed away from breast cancer. Yoongi had been 17, void of any motherly contact at such an impressionable age.

Your mother had stepped in, no doubt or worry in her mind about caring for the teen. He was already such good friends with you and she even encouraged and supported the underlying feelings the two had for each other. Yoongi became family and nearly a son-in-law.  

Even after the breakup, after breaking your heart and leaving you at the altar, your mom still kept in contact with him. She still reached out, celebrated his achievements and ensured he was well. She was the picture of forgiveness and compassion.

Yoongi crumbled at the sight of her, suddenly feeling like a teenager again, and sobbed as she moved forward quickly to embrace him.  Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin stepped outside to allow privacy and Yoongi clung to the only mother figure he had.

“I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry.” He bawled. 

He didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for. For hurting you? For avoiding her and the entire realm of anything concerning you? For almost killing himself? Maybe a mix of it all.  

His chest hurt, god it hurt so bad. It felt as if all ribs snapped from the crushing weight of his sorrow and guilt.  

Her hand smoothed his hair, mint-colored now, and held his face to her neck and cried with him.

“Shh,” She soothed. “It’s okay, little lion.”

Yoongi cried harder at the childhood nickname from his deceased mother that followed him to adulthood with the woman holding him.

Yoongi couldn’t stop crying. It wouldn’t end. It felt like an endless river, a torrential storm that never passed. He felt raw, ripped from the inside out.

“You’re alive, Yoongi.” She whispered and kissed his forehead. “You’re still here.  I love you.”

He wasn’t sure what he had done in a past life to deserve this kindness and unconditional love. Yoongi knew he didn’t deserve it, especially not from the mother of the girl he loved and broke completely. Not from the woman who he promised to make a grandmother, only to turn away and leave destruction in his wake.

“She’s getting married,” He choked out, the pain in his chest overwhelming him at his own words, so consuming he felt devoid of air. He gasped, struggling to breathe at all.  “T-that should be me.”

She sensed this and squeezed her eyes tighter, hugging the boy closer to her as sobs wrecked his tired, thin body.

“I know, love.” She whispered. “I know.”  She had no words to quell the heartbreak, just as she had many years ago when you laid across her lap, crying over the boy you loved completely.  Words wouldn’t fix the wounds.  She could only provide comfort; a band-aid on a bullet hole.

Yoongi allowed himself to sob, fully cry until he felt he might pass out. She held him, rocked him like a child, whispered words of comfort as his breathing eventually slowed and even out. His sobs turned to sniffles, and though he stopped crying, his eyes remained glassy and broken.

He had stopped crying; he noticed.  The tears had stopped flowing, the thick pleas escaping his throat dried. But he hadn’t stopped the hurt. It felt as though the hurt was a gaping, infected, open sore that would never heal. He could hide it from the world, cover it up for none to see, but he couldn’t ignore the sting or the pain with every breath.

Yoongi steeled himself to look into the eyes of his comforter, preparing himself for the look of pity or disappointment in her look.

He bit back another cry as he only found compassion, comfort and unconditional love in her gaze. He didn’t deserve her.

“Please, don’t tell her,” he pleaded. “I can’t…,” he gulped. “I can’t let her know about this.”

She grimaced.  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” She sighed, stroking her fingers through his mint colored hair. “She wanted to come to see you, too.”  Yoongi groaned and felt his heart clench. “I told her it wasn’t the best idea.” She murmured.  Yoongi was suddenly comforted and struck by how very much he did not deserve the grace of this woman.

“Fuck,” he sighed. “She thought I was clean. That was the last thing I told her.”

He recalled the last time you two had spoken when he promised to get clean. Instead, he had left and spent the next few years in a haze.

“I think you should talk to her,” she admitted. “Not now. Not until you feel better, but she was distraught at the news.”

The idea of seeing you again plowed through him like a freight train.

“Sure,” he whispered. He couldn’t understand why you’d be concerned. You had swung choice words at him as he left, insults he deserved. “Maybe.”

Yoongi spent more time with his mother figure, comforting him and whispering sweet revelations and promises to keep in touch before his doctor interrupted and encouraged Yoongi to get rest without distraction.

Soon enough, he was alone again. Stuck in the too bright, too white, sterile room he had landed himself in because of his grief.

His attention diverted between the discomfort of his withdrawal and the gaping wound of having to see you again.

Even if he made it out sober, withdrawal free, he wasn’t sure he would make it out for long.

He tried to stay away, stay clean. He managed for a few weeks, immersing himself in writing an album and using his creative expression to medicate his wounds.  And it worked.

Until it didn’t.

It started with the marijuana. He couldn’t resist the way it helped soothe everything. Not just the pain, but the world around him. He could sink into his bed, write away his feelings and worries, and relish in the sensation of absolutely nothing.

That lasted for a few weeks. He’d try to smoke every day, but the darkness continued to creep up, wrapping around his throat like a vice.

He demanded his schedule to get busier, to get tighter, despite the warnings from Namjoon. He insisted on shows, award dinners, radio interviews, everything. If he was busy, he wouldn’t think about you. He could survive another day if you weren’t the first thing on his mind.

That’s when the cocaine started again.

It helped him muster the energy he needed to plaster on Agust D, rapper extraordinaire. He could sing, rap, dance, wink at the girls, sign the scantily clad flesh, throw back a shot of vodka and charm the press.

A few lines of coke every few hours pushed him forward, and towards his end.

But he was handling it. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he working, being successful, making money?  He was rich. He was famous. He was beloved.  He was shining.

Did it even fucking matter?

The shine made his shadow darker. It made his fall from grace longer, more painful.

It didn’t fucking matter.

Yoongi found himself at the corner of the park, the same one you two had grown up playing in. It was in the center of the neighborhood you two lived.  It was where he first chased you around the swings, laughed with you over comics at the picnic table, and fucked you for the first time in the parking lot in the backseat of his car.

He couldn’t stop the memories rolling over him like a boulder, crushing his lungs and threatening to snap his bones into nothing more than dust.

It stunted his breath. He felt as if pulling in a full intake of air was impossible.

He finally sucked up his faux courage and scheduled a time to meet you here at this park. The park that held such significance to both of you.

If he thought it was hard to breathe at the memories of the park, it was even worse when you walked towards him, and planted your feet in front of him.

There was nothing. Stillness. Absolute silence as you both felt as if the barometric pressure dropped around your vicinity. A vacuum. Nothing but you two, and so much hurt it was palpable.

“Y-You’re getting married-..” Yoongi broke the silence, voice dry and quiet. He wanted to say more, but couldn’t. He couldn’t look anywhere but his feet.  Didn’t want to see a ring around your finger that wasn’t from him.

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “Yeah, I am.”

Yoongi couldn’t look at you, couldn’t look you in your eyes.  It was too much. Too painful. Those eyes used to look at him with so much love, so much pride. He couldn’t bear to see what you held in them now.

“Great, that is great,” his voice was flat.  “Happy for you.  I hope it goes well.”

You cringed and turned your face up to stare at the mint-haired boy. The man of your dreams. The one who took so much and left you with nothing.

“Hoseok told me what happened.”

Yoongi closed his eyes, as if blocking out the words.  Fuck. Of course. You and Hoseok were still close; it was bound to happen.

His world now was so dark, so ugly. Yoongi couldn’t bear ruining you any more. You had been the iron rod and lamplight that led him through the darkness. You were his lifeline. Without you, all stability, all light, gone.

“Yeah,” was all he could muster, flickering up to look at you. You were staring back, eyes full of unshed tears.

Yoongi inhaled sharply, feeling each tear from your eyes as a knife to his chest. He hadn’t seen your eyes in so long. Staring at you was like leaving a hand on a burning stove.

“Are you still using?” You asked. Your words weren’t callous or cruel. You asked to gather information, to determine an opinion, not to pass judgement. Yoongi knew you meant no harm and found himself powerless to lie to you, anyway.

“Just…,” he let out a puff of air anxiously.  “Yeah, sort of. Weed and some coke, I guess. Nothing else.” He rubbed his neck anxiously.

Your lips set in a line, and your eyes flicked back down, sadness washing over your features. He could feel it rolling off of you in waves, lumps building in his throat.

“I miss you,” He admitted, words tumbling out before he could catch himself. “So fucking much.  I know this isn’t fair, and I know that I fucked up. I just miss you more than anything else in the world.”

At first, you laughed.  Yoongi felt as if someone had punched him.

Then you cried. Yoongi felt as if he had been shot, point blank in the chest.

“You’re right, Yoongi. It isn’t fair,” You walked closer to him, a mix of grief and anger. “You ruined my fucking life.”

You pushed against his shoulder. “You left me at the fucking altar.  You cheated on me.” The tears came faster down your cheeks. “Then, you almost fucking died. And my mom won’t stop crying. And I can’t stop crying, I fucking cry my eyes out because my wedding is in 2 months and I realize I will never get over you.”

Yoongi felt another shot, execution style, to the head. He couldn’t speak and watched your anger, accepting the jabs to his chest.

“I thought I was happy, Yoongi. I really thought I would get the wedding and life I wanted so badly, and you took it away from me. Twice!” You were sobbing, pushed even closer against him. “You almost fucking dying made me realize I don’t want that life with him.  I want it with you, you fucking inconsiderate asshole!”

Yoongi couldn’t bring himself to speak. Any elation he might have had about hearing your revelation was quickly quelled by the fire of your anguish.  

“And, now you’re still using and there’s no way I could even think about seeing you high. I love you so much and it fucking hurts me knowing you do that to yourself, accepting no sort of fucking help. You can’t do it all yourself, Min Yoongi, no matter how fucking great you think you are!”

He couldn’t reply. He had no words, nothing of value to add. You were right. He couldn’t find a single argument. Your body pressed so close to him and his body ached. It yearned to close the distance and feel your shape against his, slotting together so easily as you always had. It was magnetic. He could almost weep at how badly he needed to hold you, to feel you, to touch you again.

You watched him, unable to stop the flow of tears you promised you would never shed for him again. “Look at me.” You asked quietly.

Yoongi’s own red-rimmed eyes lifted to yours. He looked so broken. So raw. He was crying, years of built up sorrow pouring down his pale cheeks.

You closed the distance and pushed together your bodies, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your face against his neck. He smelled as he always did. Dove shampoo, Old Spice, laundry detergent. You knew Yoongi nearly down to his DNA.

You lifted your face level to his and pressed a kiss to his lips. He felt no heat in the kiss, no desire.

It felt final, resolute.

“Goodbye, Yoongi.” You whispered, pressing your forehead to his.

And you turned. And you left.

And another piece of Yoongi’s broken heart slipped away with you.

Yoongi avoided any semblance of routine. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t feel anything but ache. He saw you in everything he did.

He tried to stay away from the drugs.  He sincerely did. He knew the risks. He knew he had nearly died.

But he could not bear to take the pain anymore. He could not continue fighting his very breath, forcing himself to breathe even though it hurt too much.

He was still standing on the outside of your world, so far away from you. It was so cold. He didn’t remember what warmth was. He didn’t think he deserved to remember, either.

It was easy to score a baggie of smack.  Yoongi had plenty of money and connections. But Yoongi had never done heroin intravenously. He had smoked it with his old dealer, the first man he ever had to revive with Narcan. IV use scared him. But it was what he could get a hold of, and what he needed.

Tie off. Fill up. Inject. Hold it. Breathe. Don’t feel. Release.

It washed over him quickly, the same fuzzy warmth that started at his toes and slithered up to his head. It felt headier than snorting it, less of a slow rush, more of an instant dive into warmth. Comfort.

The knot in his stomach loosened. Yoongi relaxed against his pillows and inhaled deeply before exhaling. He could breathe again.

He was so sleepy. So tired. He could sleep again without the torment of his dreams. He could live again without feeling his shattered heart. No hurt. Only comfort.

His only love.

He wasn’t sure how long he slept for. He didn’t dream. He couldn’t recall if five minutes had passed or five days. His head pounded him back to reality as he woke, and he realized it was dark outside his bedroom.

His phone was still on his bedside table. He checked it and groaned. It was the next day, next evening really. He had slept over 24 hours. He felt like shit.

The nausea and the chills came soon after. He felt as if he was burning. He couldn’t stop puking, even with minimal content in his stomach to begin with. Sips of water would come back up. His fever got worse. He became so drenched in sweat he stripped his clothes and sat in a bath, hoping to sweat the fever out. It chilled him to the bone.  He was so hot, and so fucking cold at the same time.

Yoongi cried as he held himself in the tub. He was alone. He was withdrawing. He wanted more, god he wanted to sleep and feel good again, didn’t want the sickness or the grief. It was so much. So fucking much.

His fingers danced along his phone, dialing your number out of habit, out of a need to hear you.

“Why are you calling me, Yoongi?” Your voice, flat, asked through the phone.

Yoongi croaked. His voice was hoarse due to disuse for over a day. “I fucked up, baby.”

Your heart clenched at the sound of the pet name. It had been so long. God, you had missed it so much. You missed him. You fucking hated him for it.

“Are you okay?” You asked, concern edging out the anger at his call.

“No,” he sighed, shivering and holding his knees to his chest. “I sh-shot up.”

He could not stop the whimper leaving his mouth. “I’m withdrawing. I w-want to keep using it, but I can’t!” Yoongi sobbed, openly weeping at the physical and emotional pain. “I’ll fucking die again. I don’t want to die. I love you.”

Tears poured down your face, heartbroken at his words and actions.

“Yoongi, where are you?”

Yoongi quickly replied. “I’m at home, in the bathtub. The front door is locked,” He whispered.  “I don’t think I can stand.”

“I still uh… have my key.” You admitted. Yoongi felt his heart clench, unsure of what to make of that idea.

Yoongi remained in the bathtub, holding himself and shivering violently when you arrived on scene. Your heart, already so broken, shattered at the impact of seeing the love of your life and the cause of your heartbreak, suffering.

“Fuck,” you whispered, quickly grabbing towels and kneeling by the tub at his side. “Yoongs, let’s get you dry, okay? Can you stand with me?” You grasped his clammy arms and allowed him to use your weight to balance himself on shaky legs.

You were so gentle. So compassionate. Yoongi felt his resolve breaking, wanting nothing but to wrap you up and never let you go again, tell your future husband to fuck off and allow the rapper to take his rightful place.

With your help, Yoongi stood and allowed himself to be dried. He normally would have felt the stirrings of arousal at such an intimate gesture, but all he felt now was unbridled affection and overpowering guilt.

You led Yoongi to his bed, settling him on the soft surface while you moved to dig through his drawers for clothes.

“Don’t make me go to the hospital,” he pleaded softly.  You stole a look back at him, at his words.  

“Yoongi, you need to see someone.  You’re not okay.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m… I’ll be okay.  I’ve gone through the worst of it already.” He rubbed at his sweaty forehead. “Will you just stay with me? I’m so cold.” He shivered.

You glanced at the man on the bed.  He was thin, so sickly thin.  While he had always maintained a lean physique, it looked as if the rapper hadn’t eaten in weeks.  His skin was sallow, paper white with bruises on his arms and legs that seemed onyx against his alabaster skin.

You weren’t sure you could argue with him, but he definitely appeared less ill for wear now that he was out of the bath and dry.

“Yoongs,…” you breathed, dropping the clothing in your hands. “Let me hold you.”  All reservations were held back. The anger dissipated. You couldn’t fight the need to help him, to nurture and hold him.

You moved to tear your thick jacket off your frame and toe out of your shoes before making towards the bed.  Together, you took hands and slid gently in between his sheets.  Yoongi’s body was trembling.  He didn’t know if it was from the withdrawal or his proximity to you.

You pulled the blanket up and over your bodies, pressing yours against his thin body. His skin was freezing, forcing out a shiver of your own.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, forehead leaning to press against yours. You didn’t reply, not sure you’d be able to form words.

You laid in a long, comfortable silence as your warm hands rubbed along Yoongi’s arms and back, willing the blood vessels in his body to expand and return his heat. His breathing was even now, but occasionally let out a groan.  He couldn’t tell if it was a groan of pain, or of pleasure. Your hands on his skin felt like heaven and hell, wrapped in one.  

Everything he loved and lost in one package.

Bringing him to life and sentencing him to death.

“I love you,” his voice was shaky, quiet.  

You nodded, tears now easily slipping past your cheeks. “I love you too.”  There was no use denying it. It was clear in the way you ran to him, in the way you held him tightly, as if he would disappear without you pressed up against him.

His lips found yours easily, as if magnetized.  The kiss was slow, gentle.  You felt your own tears slide down your cheeks and meet his own.  Yoongi couldn’t help them, couldn’t help the simultaneous ache and burn of your touch again.

His hand slid to rest on your hip, underneath your shirt, pulling you even closer.  The kiss deepened, tongues swirling in each other’s mouth, searching for each other in the only place you knew.

It didn’t take long for your shirt to come off, and Yoongi’s hands to slide down your hips to push at your jeans.  This wasn’t passionate or steamy.  It was broken, desperately seeking comfort in the solace of each other.  

Once your clothing laid strewn across the floor, Yoongi wrapped his thin arms around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he could.  He could feel your breasts press up against his chest and was positive you could feel his hardness pressing into your thighs.  

He didn’t want to fuck you.  He wanted to love you, to feel you again. He wanted to hide inside you. He wanted the security that being buried deep within you once gave him.  He wanted to feel alive, feel you. It seemed he could no longer separate the difference.

His tears wouldn’t stop flowing, neither would yours.  

There was no foreplay, no teasing or edging.  Yoongi laid you back against the pillows and kissed at your tears, eyes boring into yours to seek consent.  You nodded, opening up your legs as a response. You needed to feel him too, fill the ache inside of you that widened each day without him. Yoongi lined himself up and slid into the familiar, inviting heat.

You muffled a cry, thrilled at the feeling of him filling you completely.  You missed him.  You loved him.  You hated him. You never felt more complete.  The thought made you cry more, both in pleasure and in sorrow.  The man bringing you so much pleasure had wrought so much sadness and pain.

Yoongi kept a slow pace, uncaring about orgasms or getting off.  His desire to be within you was void of sensuality at this point.  Yoongi only wanted to be within you, to feel safe, to feel anything again.  He felt alive.  

Alive.

His thrusting moved quicker as your lips met and danced together, pouring out emotion through unspoken gestures. He didn’t have the words, couldn’t tell you every single thought ran through his brain.  He hoped he could convey them to you here, in each roll of his hips.

Yoongi felt his release quickly approaching, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t sure what the moral code for cumming inside your ex fiancé was. He groaned as he kissed you.

“I love you, I’m close.  Where…?” He hoped you would understand his broken question.

You sighed with relief, feeling yours coming quickly too. While there had been no fire, no passion, the unadulterated emotion coursing between the two of you was enough to bring you close to completion.

“Inside me, please,” you sniffed, gasping at the tendrils of orgasm beginning to wrap around you.

Yoongi pressed his face against your neck, leaving salty kisses as he felt your channel pulse around him in completion, triggering his own end. He momentarily thrilled at his cum coating your cunt again, but the thought quickly left him.  Not that kind of night, nor that kind of fucking. Your moans were quiet, and he merely breathed a soft sigh into your neck.

It only took a moment for the reality of it all to hit you.

You had just fucked your ex. Who was in the middle of a withdrawal. While you were engaged to another man.  Who you had no desire to ever see again.

Fuck.

Yoongi pulled himself out of you, but pressed you close against him. Despite the agony in his head and his stomach from the pain of withdrawing, he felt secure again. He felt, for a minute, like he was finally on the inside of his dream, no longer looking in from the outside.

It was quickly wrenched away as you slithered out from under him, your tears quickening.

“I need to go,” you murmured. “I can’t believe I-we…,” you shook your head as you pulled your clothes on quickly. “I’m engaged.”

Yoongi winced and sat up as he watched you. “Yeah,” he felt his own tears slip down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re always sorry, Yoongi,” you snapped. It felt like a dagger to his heart.

He was. Always so sorry. He rarely felt anything other than sorry.

You felt guilty at the look that crossed his features.  Fuck.  

“I’ll-… I’ll call Hoseok to come check on you. Okay?”

Yoongi remained solid and didn’t move, only tracked you with his eyes as you shoved yourself into your coat and cried as you put on your shoes.

“Goodbye, Yoongi,” you whispered. He wondered if it was the last time he’d see you.

The door closed; all that was left of his weak heart left with you.

Fuck.

Sorry. Always so sorry.

Yoongi mulled that phrase through his mind since you left.

He was sure at this point sorrow and grief fueled his body alone.

He stopped caring, only subsisted on weed and whatever cans of food he found in his kitchen, or what Jimin would leave out for him.  He stopped caring. The minuscule amount of care inside him evaporated.

He felt like he was wandering an empty, dark pathway with no light. No end in sight.

He hid from the world, stopped all the press conferences, the interviews, the shows. He dropped out of a three-month tour of Europe, one that would have brought him significant money and status. He wasn’t sure he could even perform anymore, drugs or not.

The tabloids started running about him then, too. Tales of drug addiction, of his deep and dark secrets he tried to keep away. They spun false tales of illicit sex, arrests, gang connections, violence. His career was on the precipice of crumbling around him.

He shined, he burned bright and fast.  

Now, he was ashes on the ground.

He burned through his money, ate nothing but packaged ramen and beer, and cried himself to sleep at night.

His life was fucking pathetic.

Namjoon avoided him, only talking to him about business-related concerns and the press. Jimin remained steadfast and loyal, constantly checking in, but only looked at him with pity and sadness.  Hoseok refused to spend time with him, citing his concerns about watching his best friend die in front of him.

Losing everything eventually broke him.

He stayed up all night, every night, so drugged out his mind, and cried. He looked at old pictures of you and him, of his best friends, memories of a time much easier and happier.

He had lost all of it.

For something that was going to fucking kill him.

He let you get away. He lost his friends. All for trying to be rich and famous. And that was quickly slipping through his fingers too.

It was time to stop. It was time to stop fucking around.

It was time to end it all.

With one last jab of the needle, Yoongi slid away.

Far, far away.

Rehab wasn’t as bad as Yoongi had painted it out to be.

There were group meetings, individual therapy, social workers and their treatment goals.  There was crying.  There was pain, so much it felt overwhelming. There were the withdrawals, likely the worst aspect of it all. The nausea, the fever, the stomach churning.  He wanted so badly to end it, just use one more time to stop being sick.

But there he found healing. He found each time he cried, a piece of his heart built back up, sturdier this time.  Each dry heave of sickness brought him one step closer to never feeling it again.

He found camaraderie.  He found wellness. He found his muse and his passion again.

He met new friends, Taehyung and Jungkook, both fellow opioid addicts. Through them, they formed a bond of sobriety and perseverance. They held each other accountable and held each other close through their subsequent relapses and returns to rehab.

Yoongi started working out, started putting weight back on in places it was meant to be: his cheeks, his arms and thighs, around his ribs. Jungkook was a personal trainer and guided him through personalized workouts and a nutrition plan. Yoongi found peace in each 60 minute cardio or weight-lifting session with his new best friend.  He realized he could pour out all his pent-up emotions through his sweat, his hard work.

Taehyung was an artist, a phenomenally gifted and talented man. Yoongi felt inspired by him. Yoongi wrote and wrote. He wrote songs, poems, stories, rap lines. He found that what he couldn’t release physically through his training, he could release through his gift of creative writing.

Yoongi released his album from rehab, with the help of Namjoon. He merely titled it ‘goodbye’. Taehyung’s creative muse helped him finish the lyrics to all his songs. Yoongi felt cathartic, releasing his last record, an ode to Agust D and a goodbye to the live fast, die young lifestyle he no longer wished to partake of.

Yoongi’s therapist, Kim Seokjin, likely made the biggest impact on him.  Yoongi learned about love, actual love. Loving yourself, respecting yourself, allowing yourself to feel the entire scope and range of emotions.

It was amid a therapy session with Jin that Yoongi decided he wanted to be a therapist.

Yoongi stepped out of the spotlight, out of the lifestyle of the rich and famous, and Yoongi returned to school in the fall for his Master’s in Social Work, with Jungkook at his side working towards a degree in exercise science and Taehyung working towards a Master’s in Fine Arts.  

Yoongi followed the Narcotics Anonymous guidelines to a T.  He admitted to himself his faults, his addiction.  He attended all meetings, called his sponsor regularly and in emergency situations where the need to use was so overpowering he felt he might give in.  He apologized to Hoseok, Namjoon, and Jimin. It was important to him to mend those relationships. He felt it was important to right the wrongs he brought upon them over the last five years.

He apologized to your mother.  He visited her weekly, checking in on her and surprising her with her favorite foods and flowers.  She bought 6 copies of his newest album, and together they wept over the lyrics, the intricately weaved storyline, and the stunning change the boy made.

She attended his graduation, too. She cried when Yoongi slid the tassel on his cap to the right, to the left. Yoongi felt a rush that drugs never compared to as he shook the hand of the president of his university and held that thick roll of paper.

He had accomplished something. He had done something; he had worked through incredible odds stacked against him and achieved it. No longer was Yoongi content with watching his life slip by in a haze.

Yoongi became a therapist, a social worker. The same people he thought would drag him down and ruin his career and reputation were the same people who lifted him out of his darkest place.

Min Yoongi, social worker.

He liked that better than Agust D, dead rapper, anyway.

Yoongi was leaving work, a group home for adolescent men suffering from addiction, when he ran into you.

His horn-rimmed glasses framed his face and newly bleached blonde hair fell around his forehead.

His heart stuttered at the sight of you. It all came rushing back.

Pain. Sadness. Drugs. Addiction.

You smiled at him, surprised to see him looking so healthy.  You had heard all about his progress from your mother, eagerness and pride in her voice. But seeing him was as if walking into another dimension.  He looked fit, strong, healthy, intelligent. Frankly, he looked sexy.

“Hi,” you meekly croaked, a blush floating to your cheeks at the thought of finding your ex so dashing.

“Hi,” he replied, a soft smile filling his lips as he practiced his mindfulness to allow the self-sabotaging thoughts to work themselves out, replaced with hopeful and insightful ones.  Min Yoongi wasn’t afraid to feel anymore.

He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to ask you out. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to fuck you.

He felt mildly guilty about wanting to fuck another man’s wife, but shook the thought away. He would settle for talking. You may have been his ex fiancé, but you were also his childhood best friend. He craved to just settle back into that role, alone.

“Do-…” he faltered for a moment, then swallowed harshly and summoned courage. “Do you wanna grab a coffee with me? I was just headed to get one.” He pulled his backpack tighter to his back, unable to part with the bag that guided him through school and into a real-life job.

You nodded, finding it hard to speak. “Yes.”

Yoongi couldn’t stop staring at you. You looked so beautiful, so different while still so similar. Your hair was longer, healthier. Your clothes fit well to your body, accentuating your curves and sliding down elegantly and conservatively. Your eyes glistened with something. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was desire.

“I heard you’re a therapist now,” you murmured as you clutched the hot matcha latte in your hands, sitting across the tiny wood table from the ex-rapper.

Yoongi blushed and nodded. “Yeah, I am.” You didn’t miss the way his voice sounded so confident, so proud.  “I work at a group home for young men with substance abuse addictions.” He smiled, poised and content. The pride clear on his face had never been there when he was a musician.  

You couldn’t help the hard beat of your heart. “Wow,” you sighed. “That’s incredible, Yoongs. Mom said she’s proud of you,” you gulped.  “I’m proud of you, too.”

Yoongi took a moment to nod graciously, feeling a swell within him.  You were proud.  Of him.

“How’s errr…” he faltered, not remembering the name of your fiancé, or husband now, he supposed. “Your husband?”

You blanched at the words. “Oh, we, umm, didn’t get married. It didn’t work out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

You looked at the blonde boy, a smile reappearing on your features.

“It’s okay.  It was for the best,” you surmised. “Everything happens for a reason.”

Yoongi caught the look you sent and smiled. “You’re right.”

You two fell into easy conversation.  He told you all about his new best friends from rehab, Jungkook and Taehyung, and how seamlessly they fit into the friendships he already had.  He discussed stories of their escapades in graduate school and how Namjoon, his manager, quickly fell in love with Seokjin, his therapist, and how Yoongi had played matchmaker for the couple. He discussed concepts he learned in therapy, in school, and now in his practice as a therapist.

You were enthralled and captivated. You were so unabashedly in love with Yoongi and realized you had never stopped.

“Care if I walk you home?” He asked, standing suddenly as he finished his chai, holding out his hand.

Your heart leaped, and you nodded, chugging down the rest of your drink and slipping your hand into his.  He felt warm, strong. So much different from the pale, thin, clammy man you slept with years ago as he suffered through withdrawal.  

This wasn’t the Yoongi of your childhood, who wanted to be famous. This wasn’t the Yoongi who broke your heart, who wanted to hide away in his substances.  This was a culmination of all the Yoongi’s he had been and became. A strong, broken, healed, confident, loving man.

“I would love that.”

This was the Yoongi you were meant to be with. The man who you loved more than life itself.

Yoongi had courted you again since that initial coffee date. He sent flowers to your workplace, asked you out to lunch, kept things simple, proper and conservative.  Yoongi was in this now, for the long haul, and wanted to prove his devotion to you.

While in rehab, they had forced Yoongi to face the fact that everything he did in relation to you was self-sabotaging, self-deprecating; a self-defeating prophecy. Facing that was his greatest struggle through his entire treatment process. He fought against it, even relapsed a few times because of it, and refused to accept that as a possibility.

Yoongi, with the help of Seokjin and his new friends, found that a world that didn’t revolve around you was finally a world he could live in, possibly thrive in. While you could exist in his world, making you his sole singular reason for breathing was dangerous. In that mindset, being without you meant dying.

Yoongi had finally lived for himself.  Not for the money, the fame., the status, the reputation, or even you.  Yoongi loved himself, as he was.  Broken and healing.  Addicted and sober.  Yoongi lived for Min Yoongi, alone.

When he started seeing you again, he reached out to Seokjin. He was terrified that diving back in to you would be his undoing. Seokjin, in all his wisdom, spoke words of comfort.

“She is not your entire world, Yoongi. You are your entire world,” he spoke gently through the phone. “She can be part of your world, an enormous part of your world, but she cannot be the entirety.  Life does not stop without her. Life is better with her, but does not end without her.”

Yoongi had been so obsessed with the idea of never having you, that he lost you.  He stopped loving himself, stopped caring about anything but you and the pain he caused you.

“You hurt her, yes. But, it appears she is ready to forgive you now. Are you ready to forgive yourself and allow yourself to be vulnerable?” He asked the blonde boy.

Yoongi rolled the idea through his mind. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“You are allowed to love and be loved by who you want, Yoongi, but do not make your entire existence rely on that. Loving yourself will extend into all other relationships. And do not allow yourself to be consumed with the mistakes you made a long time ago. Focus on what you can do today. Living in the past causes us the most pain.  Do not run from the pain, allow it to sit within you and give yourself permission to hurt, and then move through it.”

Yoongi allowed it all. Every emotion, every feeling. He cried.  Jesus, he cried so much.  He remembered that he used to think if he started crying he would never stop.

It was true, mostly.

But what Yoongi didn’t know was that within all the crying, all the pain, was a high unmatched by any substance that could be snorted or injected or smoked.  

Yoongi no longer hid himself from feeling the darkness, but he allowed himself to remain in it until the light came back. And it came back ten thousand times stronger.

Yoongi felt encouraged to continue seeing you and progressed in his career and treatment. He took you on dinner dates, movie dates, picnics and theme parks.  The only reservation was the lack of physical intimacy.  He would hold your hand, kiss you, rub your back, but he always left your apartment without lingering. He wanted you to get to know him again, all of him, before he took that step. He wanted to do this right.

It was at the most recent date where things changed. It was a relaxing picnic in the park, the two of you laid in the soft sun-warmed grass, your head resting on his chest.

Yoongi felt content at the feeling of holding you against him. He thought of the dream he had when he was overdosing, nearly dying. Being so warm in the valley and meadows of his imagination, brain synapses firing off as his body shut down. You had been there, pretty white dress, telling him to go back, to wake up.

He admitted this to you, spoke out what he had told no one before. While he knows Jimin, with the help of Narcan, saved you, his subconscious attributed his revival to you.

“I’m in love with you, Yoongi,” you admitted, gently and easily with tears clouding your eyes, as you both watched the clouds roll by.  

Neither of you had uttered those words since you held him in your arms and within you as he came down from his high so long ago.

Yoongi let the words soak over him. If he thought drugs had been like a warm blanket wrapping him up, this was like an absolute inferno of satisfaction and comfort.

The arm he wrapped around your shoulder pulled you close.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Yoongi pressed you up against his wall, lips crashing into yours as his hands desperately sought the skin of your waist.  

After the picnic, Yoongi suggested taking you back to his place for a movie. The charged energy in his car on the way there spoke volumes, knowing you wouldn’t be watching a movie by a long shot. A giddy grin lit up your features.

“God, I missed this,” he mumbled against your lips as his hands lifted your white sundress you bought specifically for the date with your ex-fiancé, now-boyfriend.

You moaned an affirmative reply, gasping as his hands rolled over your breasts, encased in creamy satin.

“I missed you,” he mumbled over your lips, hands tugging down the cups of your bra to rub against hardened nipples. “You’re so pretty, so warm.”

You couldn’t hold back any sound, gasping and keening at his touch. You were soaked, absolutely dripping, from his ministrations against your neck and breasts.  You missed him too. Your short-lived engagement had ended without a wedding, for the second time in your life, and you pined after the boy who stole and broke your heart completely.

Yoongi pulled away from you, using the separation to tug the dress up and over your head and to gaze at you. Your breasts were haphazardly pulled out of the bra, your panties becoming slick against your core. Yoongi was sure he had never felt a pleasure this strong in any high.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured.  Your cheeks heated, you couldn’t help it.  Hearing him speak so gently, so lovingly, after so long and after so much pain flooded your senses pleasantly. His words wrapped around you like cashmere, warming and smoothing every inch of you.

“I need you, Yoongi,” you whispered, hand reaching towards his erection tenting his jeans. “Want to please you.”

Yoongi hissed at the feeling of your hand against his length. He nearly came right then. He hadn’t slept with anyone since your last time, the most heartbreaking sex he had ever had. 

The feeling of you both crying as he entered you kept him turned off of it for over a year. And now you were back, pliant in his arms, and most of all, happy. He never wanted to see your anguished grief during sex again, or ever, if he could help it.

Your eyes looked so determined to please him, how could Yoongi say no?  He nodded and leaned forward to kiss you, before switching positions and resting his back against the wall.

You thrilled at the switch and quickly dropped to your knees.  Being on your knees in front of Yoongi was so familiar, so comforting and so incredibly hot. He looked so good.  You could tell he had been working out. Muscles shone through his skin, and detailed lines appeared at his obliques and hip flexors. He was mouth watering.  You missed him.

You loved him.

You made quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning the black denim and pushing down the zip and sliding the tight pants down and off his legs. He stood in his tight underwear and shirt, eyes so full of love and grace, staring down at you. He couldn’t believe it was happening again, and on such better terms.

Yoongi knew he had so much to make up to you, so much trust to build and apologies to promise you daily. Yoongi was grateful you were giving him that chance again.

Within moments, Yoongi’s boxers laid on the floor next to his jeans and his thick, heavy cock laid hot in your delicate hand.

Yoongi nearly cried at the sensation. Not only had it been long since any stimulation, it had been so long since he had been with you. The fact it was you again after all this time held the most significance to him.

Your eyes flicked between Yoongi’s thick and delicious cock, and his own face.  No longer was the selfish, uncaring man present from so long ago.  No longer was the drugged out, sorrowful, too thin addict in front of you.  

As you pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock and swirled your tongue around the tip, you felt amazed that you now had the confident, lovely, compassionate Yoongi you were in love with.

Yoongi groaned out loud, uncaring if Jungkook or Taehyung heard from their respective rooms in his shared apartment.  

“Oh fuck, baby,” he whined, sucking air in through his teeth harshly. “So good.”

A smile danced upon your features as you stroked each vein and ridge of his cock with your tongue, flicking at the space he liked most.  The resulting gasp encouraged you more. With a quick, deep breath, you lowered your mouth and fully encompassed his length in the hollow of your throat.  

Yoongi nearly screamed, pleasure coursing through his veins as you allowed him to fuck your throat, a mix of gentle and rough. Your moans spurred him on and the visage of you with your lips wrapped around his cock and saliva streaming down the sides of your mouth nearly forced his undoing.

“Shit, C-Christ, baby,” he gasped. “I’m gonna cum if you keep that up… fuck.” He grabbed at your hair to gently pull your mouth away from him.

You pouted for a split second, already missing the luscious heat and weight of his hard cock gagging you. The pout was quickly wiped away as he wrapped his arms around your waist and carried you to the bed, unable to stop the giggles escaping.

“My turn then,” he grinned as he pushed you down to lie on the pillows. He quickly disrobed you of your bra, tits now fully on display.  He sucked one into his mouth, tongue swirling over the bud, while his other hand pinched and tugged at the opposite. He remembered how much you enjoyed the pain of nipple stimulation. The thought made you wetter.

“Yoongi, holy shit,” you cried, dazzled at the pain in your nipples as he bit down gently at the one in his mouth. “Yes!”

Yoongi couldn’t help the smirk on his face as he switched hands and nipples, sucking the other harshly now and twisting at the wet and red nub he released.

“So good, princess,” he cooed. “So good for me.”

His mouth moved south, kisses burning up your skin as he trailed. He suckled at skin here and there, leaving delicious marks on your abdomen and thighs. You loved being marked by him, even more so now.

Yoongi groaned as he pulled your satin panties down your legs. Your cunt was slick and sticking to the fabric. His mouth watered at the sight.

“My sweet, you’re so wet for me. All from sucking my cock?” He murmured, teasing you by kissing at your thighs. “My dirty little princess.”

You mewled in response, aching to feel him where you needed it most.  Words escaped you, unable to speak except in moans and sighs.

Yoongi looked up at you, watched your cheeks turn pink, your nipples hard and moistened from his mouth, marks of him all down your body.   His cock throbbed, and he rubbed himself against the bed once to relieve some tension. He could hold himself back for now, but he knew as time passed he would be absolutely aching to plunge into your depths.

“I missed this cunt,” he pressed a kiss to the mound. “I’m sure you taste just as perfect as you always have.  I’m drooling for you, baby.”

“P-please, Yoongi, I need you,” you begged, squeezing your eyes closed in desperation. “So wet.”

“I love hearing you say please, little princess.  So sweet.” He kissed the outside of your lips, between your thighs. He loved teasing you, getting you absolutely fucked out before he even touched you.

“Please, oh god Yoongi! I need you so badly!” You were desperate now, nearly tearing up at the ache in your pussy.

“I can’t resist you when you put it like that,” he teased, before finally descending on your cunt. His mouth swirled around, sucking on your clit. You gasped your satisfaction at his touch, finally satisfying that burning desire.

Yoongi took his time, ensured pleasure at each twist and flick of his tongue.  He fucked into your cunt with his tongue, groaning at the sweet taste of your channel. His mouth suckled at your clit, transitioning between harsh sucks, and tongue flicks. As he flicked up against your bundle of nerves, he slid two fingers into your pussy, hissing at the tightness.

“So tight, my sweet,” he whispered. “Can’t wait to feel you on my cock.”  

You groaned in reply, nodding quickly.  Your fingers tugged at your nipples, relishing in the painful stimulation there and hot mouth coaxing an orgasm out of you.

“Close, Yoongi!” You gasped, unable to complete a sentence. “Right there! So close!”

His fingers thrusted faster, slipping a third to stretch you out. His tongue fired rapidly against your clit, suckling and swirling as he went.  

“Yes, baby, cum for me. Cum on my fingers, my love.” He encouraged, panting with excitement, to watch your undoing.

It only took Yoongi’s salacious words and skilled mouth and fingers toying a few more moments for the orgasm to completely take over.  It rolled over you like an avalanche. You screamed in delight, gasping as you felt your channel grip his fingers and milk them as if it were his cock.

Yoongi believed he was watching heaven, itself.  You looked divine, radiant. The feeling of your convulsions around his fingers made him whine, cock head oozing pre-cum and begging to be stuffed inside your heat.

“Fuck, my love. You came so good, you did so well for me,” he praised. “I love this cunt. I love watching you scream for me.”

Your breath was heavy, chest heaving with exertion. Every nerve, every synapse felt alive, alight with ecstasy.

“I’m going to fuck you, my sweet. I will fuck you and love you, all fucking night.” He sucked at the wetness on his fingers as he pulled out of you, before he kissed back up your body to your lips. The kiss was hot and messy, all teeth and no grace or finesse.

“Please, Yoongi, I need to feel your cock,” you gasped.

Yoongi could not delay any longer. His cock felt as if it might implode if it wasn’t buried into you. He pulled your legs up to his shoulders and gazed at your open slit.

“Mine,” he whispered as he lined himself up and allowed your pussy to swallow his length.

There were no words, no accurate description or way to describe how being inside you again felt. He couldn’t put into words the feeling of your slick heat hugging his cock close, your body heaving with ecstasy, your mouth crying his name in joy and pleasure. Yoongi would go through hell a million times over again to feel this again, to feel the physical and emotional love and pleasure he felt here.  

You were his, again.  He could work to make it right.

Yoongi started a slow pace, transfixed at the vision of you taking his cock so well. Your gasps and whines encouraged him.

“You were made for me,” he whispered as he quickened. “This tight little pussy was made for me, to love and to fuck and to ruin.” His words left his mouth without thought, acting on instinct alone. “You’re all mine. Only mine.”

You clutched at his arms, lifting your hips to meet his harsh thrusts. “Yes, baby, yours!” Your voice was five octaves higher. “All yours!”

Yoongi turned feral, his dominating internal narrative spewing from his lips. His cock thrusted into you quick and fast.

“That’s right, my love.  All fucking mine. Gonna fuck you so good every fucking day,” he promised through gritted teeth. His thumb ran down to the apex of your thighs and rubbed at your clit. “Gonna fuck all my cum into you, baby.  You’re mine.”

He continued his ministrations and your pussy felt like the definition of pleasure, itself.  Sparks felt as if they erupted from your coupling. You cried his name, gasping at his possessive promises.

“Gonna marry you, baby,” he intoned. “Gonna make you my wife.”  He felt his end coming close, your shattered cries and impossibly tight cunt bringing him soaring to the edge.

“Gonna fill you with my cum, gonna make you nice and fucking pregnant with our children,” the idea thrilled both of you. “My fucking perfect wife all swollen with our children.”

You agreed loudly. “Yes! Fuck me! Fuck, I want your baby!”

“That’s right, my little love.  Your greedy cunt takes me so well. I know you want all my cum, wanna be nice and full for me.”

The end was nigh, you could feel the burning in your stomach blaze higher and higher. You begged him for more, harder, deeper, which he was more than happy to oblige.

“Fuck, babe, I’m gonna cum, gonna coat your tight little pussy.”  

It only took a few more rough poundings before Yoongi crushed your lips together.  Your orgasm washed over you with the power of the sun.  Your eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets, gasping for air against his lips as your body convulsed.  You moaned loudly as your walls pulsed around him, as if begging him to give you more and more.

Yoongi closed his eyes and soaked in the feeling, biting your bottom lip as he spilled into you, moaning your name with each pulse. The feeling of emptying himself into you rivaled the highest emotion he had ever felt. It felt like the ultimate expression of his love, his devotion.

He held you close as you both breathed heavily, allowing the afterglow of intense orgasm to bathe you in serenity. He carefully slid his cock from within you, groaning at the sight of a slow drip of seed following out your lips.

“I love you,” he murmured, leaning to kiss your lips tenderly this time. “I meant what I said. I want you to be mine again, forever.”

Tears sparked at your eyes, feeling more full, more loved, more warm than you had ever felt before.

“I love you, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi held you in his arms as he showered you, kissed your body in the warm water, dried you gently with soft towels, and pulled you close in his bed.  You melted against his body perfectly, two puzzle pieces who had been trying to force themselves into the wrong spot, finally coming together.

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt anxious.

His stomach flipped. His palms were sweaty. His breathing was faster.

A warm hand landed on his back as the ex-rapper stared at himself in the mirror.

“You did it,” a gentle voice spoke. Yoongi looked at the male through the mirror.

“Jimin,” he breathed, feeling a bit of his anxiousness float away with his friend’s words.

Jimin smiled, pink lips puffy and sweet as always.

Yoongi felt his heart clench slightly.  Jimin was the one who saved his life, who stuck a needle in his thigh and revived him when Yoongi was on the verge of death. He choked up at the idea that being here wouldn’t have been possible without the pink-haired boy.

He gazed at his trusted friend, no longer an assistant but a constant companion in the tight group of 7.  He wanted to tell Jimin so much, thank him for saving his life, for pressuring him to check into rehab, for feeding him when he was too drugged out to care.  

Yoongi didn’t need to say anything.  Jimin understood at the tears pricking Yoongi’s eyes.  Jimin’s cheeks turned pink, and he nodded slowly.

“You deserve this and more, Min Yoongi,” his voice was full of such care and sincerity. “I may have revived you, but you saved your own life. I just gave you the spark to continue it.”

Yoongi had started his adult life as an addict, as an award-winning musical artist with platinum albums and money, status, reputation.  Grief had consumed Yoongi, along with regret, sorrow, loneliness.

Yoongi fought back, pushed against the odds.

Yoongi was beginning a fresh life—as a recovering addict, a therapist, a best friend, a husband.

He smiled at himself in the mirror as his groomsmen surrounded him and joined in the moment of happiness. It was peaceful. It was joyful.  Yoongi smiled at each of the 6 men who affected him.  

Hoseok, from childhood who allowed him to face the ugly fact that he was killing himself.  Namjoon, his nurturing manager, who protected him at all costs and stood by his side through each dirt-dredging tabloid. Taehyung, his creative muse, his inspiration. Jungkook, his reason for health and wellness, his comedic relief.  Seokjin, the therapist that changed his life and course of his future. Jimin, the man who saved his life, who accepted and expected nothing in return except Yoongi’s sobriety and happiness.

Together, the men walked out of the dressing room and orderly into the reception hall.

Yoongi took his place at the altar, the very one he left you at, and inhaled a breath.

The piano played gently, a soft and light version of the traditional song. It sounded ethereal. Yoongi felt as if he was flying.

The large, oak double doors swung open and the parade of flower girls and bridesmaids walked down the aisle to stand opposite the groomsmen.

Yoongi stopped breathing as the music played louder, more intently, more beautiful.

You appeared.

You looked like an angel.

Your mother flanked you to give you away. You both looked more beautiful than he could have ever recalled.

Yoongi couldn’t stifle the tears that poured out of his eyes. He couldn’t pull his gaze from anywhere but you.

There you were. Walking towards him, as if a dream. The loveliest of dreams. Wrapped in silk and chiffon and lace, delicate pearls around your neck.

Yoongi would endure it all again, feel every ounce, to have this moment.

It was complete as you stood next to him, hands clasped in each other, tears sliding down each other’s face.

At the word of the pastor, Yoongi leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours, sealing you as husband and wife, finally.  

Yoongi was on the inside of your orbit now, basking in the warmth he had desired before on the outside.  Yoongi simmered in the sweet, gentle glow of you and your encompassing love.  

Now, Yoongi knew what it felt like to be the one on the inside of your world, instead of looking in from the darkness. Yoongi knew it now, and knew, with all his heart, that he deserved to remember it for the rest of his long, healthy life.

Yoongi was living.

Yoongi was finally, truly,

alive.

© ppersonna - 2020 - do not repost on any site, or translate without express permission from author.

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Okay... please continue the Bad things Happen Bingo where the tortured supervillian was found in the rain by hero. It was soooooo good.

Aww I am so glad you enjoyed it!

Muddy Rain Part 2

Part 1

Warnings: description of wound tending, needles, broken bones, implied touch starvation, unconsciousness, drugged state, past torture

*not edited*

~

Supervillain drifted in and out of consciousness like a tide, rising to awake fullness then sinking back down to sleep. He was hardly aware of anything, even his own consciousness, during these intervals, other than the pain and the cold cloth on his forward. Every once and a while, he would realize blearily that something of living matter also inhabited the thick air he breathed.

Color seemed to be a whirling tornado. There was no set hue in the ever changing pallette, just the dull mixture of burgundy, gray, and the occasional green. And they never stayed still enough for Supervillain to pick about the various shades like hunter green or lime green.

After a while of watching and calculating the dizzying madness, Supervillain gave up and his brain determined the color to be brown.

Sometimes, he would be more acutely aware of the bodily throbbing throughout his being and other times it seemed to be lessened. During the extinction periods, Supervillain noticed- now this took him a while to recognize- that his body seemed to be floating as if he was suspended in the air while, at the same time, a more pronounced lightheadedness would occur.

Placing these two together, distantly he came to the conclusion that he was being drugged.

He didn’t quite link the absence of pain to the theory yet, that type of thought process was too complicated for his foggy brain cells to muster.

During the times of unconsciousness, that he slowly learned to be appreciative of, he wss thrusted into intense and confusing dreams filled with words and actions that he only somewhat remembered when he would come to.

But probably the most utterly baffling thing about the whole ordeal was the words spoken to him during consciousness.

Muddled, yes. Incoherently spoken, yes. But it was a comfort that Supervillain sought out. He could sometimes feel his vocal cords rumbling from whatever sound they produced in reply to said words. And, after the sensational purring ceased, his skin would shudder under a warm touch, before muscles involuntarily leaned into it.

But it wasn't like Supervillain dreaded his reflexive movements. No, it was quite the opposite.

He enjoyed the warm feeling in his slow beating heart.

《~~》

Hero tried to keep Supervillain cool as her newfound ward battled with fever and pain and all sorts of inflictions of his weakened body.

A damp, cold cloth found its home on his sweaty forehead as bags of frozen peas and carrots were buried into the creases of his neck and under his armpits. All an attempt to comfort and try to lower his rising temperature.

Though one may claim that thr effort was in vain. Supervillain writhed and squirmed under the invisible hellhound's breath. When alseep, eyelids would twitch as brows furrowed in discomfort. Hands clenched as whimpers escaped his hoarse throat, raw and pained.

During moments in which Supervillain was awake, he would melt into whatever touch Hero would offer him. His skin would shudder, Hero assumed it was do to the pain of her fingers on his sensitive skin more than semi-conscious reactions towards touch.

That would be assuming that Supervillain was touched starved, which would imply loneliness, and then in turn it would mean that he either lived alone or tortured for a long time.

And judging by the state of his shattered and utterly broken form, the second of the two was the more likely option.

Hero tried to keep him on a heavy and consistent dose of very, very strong painkillers. Every few hours, she would administer a needle to his elbow's vein, granting him an easier sleep. Though, based on his obvious distress, it seemed as if it only alleviated a small fraction of the agony.

Both of his legs were bound in large casts and elevated by a mound of pillows. His bare chest was wrapped in bandages to help support his shattered and bruised ribs. She was very worried that the bones were piercing his lungs, but she couldn't tell. One must hope for the best.

She stitched up the nasty gash on his temple right after she set his broken legs- an agonizing process that Supervillain passed out immediately from- and tried to use icepacks to lower the swelling and soothe the bruise.

Hero spread some carmex on Supervillain's lips. She hoped that it would heal seal the millions of tiny cuts and disinfect the big gashes.

Just then, Supervillain's eyes fluttered open. He groaned, his dull gaze shifting across the room.

"Hey bud," Hero ran her fingers over Supervillain's greasy cheek. He looked at her, eyes squinting, before leaning into the touch.

Hero smiled, bringing her hand to carress the back of his head. Tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes. Tears that meant either pain or joy or sadness... or all three at once.

Soon, Supervillain couldn't stop crying. He sobbed, chest rattling like a maraca as mucus streamed out of his nose. Hero grabbed a tissue and dutifully wiped it away.

Then she reached down and hugged him, mindful of his broken clavicle, until he fell back alseep.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: mishpachah rating: T+ word count: 3,085 summary: Five years after rebuilding the manor—and the birth of a new Belmont into the world—Trevor decides to share an old recipe with his newfound family.

For @fibulaa 💛  Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

The first bread Trevor Belmont ate while living his newly orphaned vagabond life was so dry it cut at the inner walls of his throat. He swallowed each bite with grimace after grimace, knowing that despite the pain, the already hardened child of thirteen could stave off starvation for a little while longer. Until he tasted the faintest tinge of copper on his ruined tongue.

Putting those years far behind, he now stands in front of a wooden counter, blurry eyed and with a yawn reminiscent of a sun drunk cat. It seems clean at first glance but in every corner Trevor notices fragments of past meals which he tried wiping away once they were finished and placed on a more pristine table meant for family. Bits of salt, half minced vegetables, and crumbs of bread much softer than the ones belonging to a later childhood he would rather forget. This kitchen, warm in its early morning sunlight, was the final instalment of the manor, newly risen from the ashes. Or rather, simply rebuilt thanks to the calloused, blistered, and splintered hands. No more ruined stone, no more fire blackened beams holding together little less than an architectural skeleton. The somewhat mirror image of Trevor’s lost home has been faring better than the castle. Too many memories, fresh, ranging from bitter to incomprehensible.

Slowly, he grows conscious of his surroundings and his own self. A continuing habit of being the first to wake not just in this manor hold but in life. Reluctantly opening his eyes prior to dawn covering the landscape while still traveling alone only to drag a pair of worn boots back along a similar muddy road. Trevor never wanted to wake up before the sun. He just couldn’t bear to stay in the same place for much longer whether due to the laundry list of dangers or more often than not, his newfound hatred of whichever backwater hamlet he unfortunately found himself in.

He’s happy to wake up early. Happy to never feel a need to leave or escape, happy to know that lack of food replaced with pints of liquid pleasure mixed with death will never plague him again. Happy to prepare breakfast in a hot iron pot over a well stoked fire. What he thought he lost forever has come back, along with new additions to the family he’s carved out.

Another presence bounds her way into the kitchen and ambushes Trevor from behind. He’s not old—not yet, he’ll give it time—but years of drinking have made their permanent stay, dulling the more acute senses. Makes it easier for a five-year-old to catch him off guard. Trevor’s eyes bolt open as tiny arms hold him in a tight cage.

“Good morning, papa!”

His ears ring at the sound of Mirele’s loud voice, but at least he won’t have to worry about nodding off. He stares down at the youngest Belmont who looks as though someone had split Trevor and Sypha straight down their centres into four pieces and sewed each differing half onto the other in order to create a new person. A homunculi of messy dark chocolate hair, bright eyes shining with blue ice, full rosy cheeks somehow conspicuously smeared with some sort of dirt or jam, and enough energy to wear out an electric powered jackrabbit. 

“How’s my little monster doing this morning?” Everything Trevor says is laced with his own personal touch of affection and Mirele loves it.

“Mama and papa are still asleep. Help me wake them up! Pleaseeee?”

This doesn’t surprise him; Sypha has always preferred to savour her last moments of sleep longer than normal and Alucard is… well, Alucard.

“Tell you what.” Trevor places a lid onto the simmering pot with a heavy clank. “While this heats up for our breakfast, we’ll go wake up those lazy bones.”

“Right!” Hand in smaller hand, the two make their way upstairs into the shadowy master bedchamber. Curtains drawn with only a sliver of light cutting its singular path across the floor and over two distinct lumps covered by blankets and furs. They seem conjoined, linked in each other’s arms, unaware that a third party has been missing for long enough. Mirele plunges into the room first, jumping onto the bed as all children do when parents refuse to join the land of the conscious. She playfully shoves and cuddles her way between the two bodies who sink deeper beneath the covers, lazily moaning like ghosts.

“Mama! Papa! Wake up! It’s time to get up!”

Trevor hopes that his tactic of throwing open the weighted curtains works in a more effective manner. Listening to the rising chorus of wordless protests coming from behind, he’s pleased with the results. “Never thought I would be the one setting a good example for our daughter.”

“Do not get cheeky, especially this early.” Sypha’s response spills out like running water. It’s clear her mind isn’t quite all there yet. But she can scoop Mirele into her arms, find every ticklish spot, and illicit giggles that only canines might hear. “At least we both know how to have fun, right my sweet?”

“Vampires… nocturnal…” A deeper, muffled voice emerges from under one of the pillows.

“Something you’d like to share with us, Alucard?” Trevor quips, amused at how the other father of the household can never seem to shake off his morning dishevelment. Perhaps sleeping in a coffin would help—a very large one so he doesn’t have to be alone. Alucard reluctantly removes the pillow as tangled heaps of gold fall over his face.

“Vampires are supposed to be nocturnal. Would you rather I burst into ashes upon contact with the sun? Think of our girls, Trevor.”

“We’ve all seen you in the sun before, it’s about as dangerous as a clove of garlic.”

“I have my own means of physical protection. Far beyond your measly human comprehension, love.”

“Personally, I’ve been able to comprehend you plenty.”

Mirele stares up at Sypha, her bushy brows furrowed. “What does… comp… sshhheshion mean?”

“It’s just another word your fathers use whenever either of them want to feel smart.” 

Alucard gives Sypha a gentle pinch on either side of her abdomen. “I thought you were on my side.”

“What about my side?” Trevor asks, excelling at the greatest strength he possesses—the ability to never take anything seriously, only when he must.

“I’m hungry,” Mirele speaks up. “Hungry and bored. Can we eat now?”

--

This life is not normal, but then again it is. It always has been for them. Normal once meant coming together because of violence, encroaching darkness, and some flimsy prophecy stringing them along one dead body at a time. A prophecy which never said what had to be done after they followed it to the hard earned letter. Perhaps that’s why Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard floundered afterwards. No instruction on how to live their upturned lives.

Fuck prophecy.

They made this life by their own standards and in accordance with their own desires. They loved how they wanted to love and no prophecy could have foreseen Mirele. How she calls for her father while both Trevor and Alucard turn their heads at the same exact second. How she quickly calms herself when presented with a bowl of warm oatmeal drowning in honey and wild fruits hand plucked from the surrounding forest. But it’s not enough. Nothing ever is for someone always growing, always wanting more from life at such a young age.

“Can I have bread?”

Trevor, half way through his bitter coffee, turns to Sypha then Alucard as all three parental figures exchange glances. They haven’t the heart to tell Mirele. No bread at the ready, only the necessary ingredients and a considerable amount of flour bags to blanket Enisala. There’s the option of making it themselves, yet it depends on a certain someone’s capacity for patience.

“How do you feel about baking our own?” Trevor’s voice wavers, which he tries to mask with his characteristic dry tone. It’s been a long time since he’s made bread. Then again, helping the manor cooks was a somewhat selfish endeavour as it meant extra servings for the baby of the Belmonts. Yet his proposal goes over well with Mirele, whose inherited eyes light up at the prospect of trying something new.

“I wanna make bread! Can we? Can we please?”

“When was the last time you baked anything, Trevor?” Alucard asks, genuinely curious and with a healthy dose of skepticism. “You still won’t tell us much about anything concerning your former life, let alone the sort of foods your family ate.”

Trevor feels a twinge in his gut—still better than a punch. His two lovers, even his daughter, they only know of his mother; a matriarch in her own right. They know her name, the monsters she killed, and not much else. Trevor’s excuses: he doesn’t remember anything about her, despite the fact that he does. He didn’t know her for very long or very well, so there’s no point in missing her. Trevor did know Sonia and he does miss her, sometimes more than he can handle. Then the easiest excuse: it’s just another self-preservation tactic.

Out of this inner reflection comes an idea. It breaks tradition in a way. For the Belmonts and other Jewish families, everything is passed down through the mother—recipes, forms of worship, blood memories, centuries old tactics of bruising one’s knuckles and temples. Trevor doesn’t think this slight deviation from his culture’s norm will make him any less of what he’s always been. Mirele will simply have to pick up where he left off when she’s grown.

He doesn’t want to think about that now. She’s only five after all. One lesson at a time. 

“Alright. Gather round, pupils. The bread we’re making isn’t just any bread. Forget everything you know and everything you’ve been taught because this will be the closest thing to heaven you’ll ever taste.”

“How dramatic…” Sypha mutters under her breath. Alucard joins her amusement with a subdued chuckle. 

“I believe you were partially his influence.”

Trevor knows how much trouble he’ll be in if he puts Mirele through the most agonizing cruelty of waiting a second longer than necessary. Fearful of her pint-sized wrath, he gives everyone the order to start gathering ingredients: flour, eggs, honey, and some indulgent herbs to make this particular bread something special. As much of a strategic leader in the kitchen as he is when the world is coming to an end. With everything spread out on the countertops, Trevor guides his family step by step through the only recipe he remembers. He calls this bread “challah”, which Mirele immediately strains her freshly green vocal chords, trying to pronounce the word exactly as her father does. She quickly gives up and focuses on mixing the ingredients with an intense look—almost to a fault as bits of sloppy dough fly out of the bowl. Good. This enthusiasm is what Trevor wants to see.

Kneaded and allowed time to rise, the next step is the most important. Trevor divides the dough into four halves, then again, and again until each participant has their own handful of raw unbaked strips. 

“We have to braid them?” Mirele asks following his explanation. 

“That’s right. It’s what makes this bread different from all the rest.”

“Just like when papa let’s me braid his pretty hair!”

Every pair of eyes turns to Alucard, whose smile widens in that way which causes his eyes to shut tightly. Fangs happily bared as he pulls Mirele into his flour and dough covered arms while she giggles in delight. After they all return to work, her loaf turns out the same way as the braids she gives to him—lopsided, uneven, lacking a few outsticking stray hairs, but filled with affection and genuine resolve.

Three loaves are placed into the oven, including a fourth crudely constructed but still adequately done piece. Mirele is now more willing to play the waiting game—so she claims. Sitting in front of the oven while staring directly into its insides, utterly fascinated, oblivious to her surroundings. Unaware that her three parents are whispering behind her back. Eventually, Sypha has to gently pull her away with her bottom dragging along the kitchen floor.

“How about you and I do something a little more interesting while your fathers keep watch over things.”

“But what about the c… the calla!”

“Don’t worry, they will look after it. And we are not going far, my sweet.”

“We’ll make sure nothing burns down.” Trevor assures, despite it being Sypha who usually revels in cinders and ashes, intentionally or not.

The two retreat down the corridor past diamond shaped stained windows and into one of the manor’s smaller libraries where the cabinets reach the high ceiling painted in deep blue hues. Scattered from corner to corner are constellations of stars and midnight clouds obscuring each phase of the moon. Once when Alucard found Mirele curiously asleep atop a number of pillows when she should have been in her own bed, it was his decision to paint the library in new colours. Sypha moves aside an entire shelf of thick volumes as though trying to find a carefully hidden switch that will lead them into a secret chamber. It’s what Mirele hopes but turns mildly disappointed when the books do not in fact magically shift to reveal a stone passageway. Her soured anticipation is only countered when Sypha places a box on the desk.

“Can you guess what’s inside?”

“Is it treasure?”

“Close! You are almost right.” Sypha opens the lid just as Pandora did except there are no horrors, no evils to be wrought upon humanity. Mirele peeks inside and her eyes shine with the glistening silver of trinkets, pendants, and talismans. She resists the innate urge to reach her hands, still white with flour, into the box only to briefly experience the sensation of holding one between her fingers. Even children know when something is sacred.

“These belonged to your grandparents. They used them for protection and strength. A long time ago, before you were born, their home burned down and everything was destroyed.”

“Papa’s home?”

Sypha nods, grateful that this story now has its happy ending, slight as it may be. “However, when your other father started building the manor we live in, he found this box trapped amongst all the rubble. It managed to survive.”

“What do they say?”

Mirele points to one pendant molded in the shape of a sword. Inscribed along the curve of its ash-riddled blade are the Hebrew names of angels which must have been muttered by Sonia or Gabriel. The longer Mirele stares, attempting to decipher yet another new language, the brighter her cheeks grow red with frustration. Her mother acts quick just as her eyes begin to water. 

“It’s alright if you don’t understand what any of them say.”

“I can learn! Please, mama? I promise I’ll study really hard!”

Sypha’s lips curl as Mirele continues her begging. Oh the mind of a child. How quickly it changes.

--

The kitchen feels hotter, wafting through the air. Enveloping the room and everything caught between its walls. Trevor stands by the oven, a thick cloth ready in his hand. It shouldn’t take much longer. At least there’s no stench of something burning. Almost makes him pine for the days of his family’s massive stone oven and how he would sneak around at night and pick out leftover morsels from inside like an insatiable mouse. Not unlike the actual beasts which he hunted throughout the hallways before moving onto larger prey typical of a Belmonts’ work—or as large as his own runtish body mass could handle.

Minutes of quiet pass, still eyeing the loaves with a keen gaze. Trevor’s concentration soon broken by the feeling of two arms wrapping around his softening yet still robust midsection. Slow and careful, until his back is pressed against an equally broad chest.

“Can I help you?” He asks as Alucard buries his face into the curvature of his shoulder blades.

“You’re already helping.” The dhampir, unchanging in his physical appearance (a revelation both Trevor and Sypha refuse to acknowledge for the time being), tightens his embrace.

“Something wrong?”

“No… I just enjoy feeling how much softer and warmer you’ve become.”

Trevor’s cheeks blush ever so pinker and not because of the oven’s heat. By now he should be used to Alucard’s sudden bouts of outward affection.

“You even smell better.”

There it is. Trevor thought he would be waiting forever to hear that little jab, though said with nothing but a good heart.

“That might be the herbs you’re smelling.”

Alucard shifts around so that the two of them are side by side, cheek to cheek, as he chuckles in Trevor’s ear. “Come here.”

He doesn’t offer a kiss, not where Trevor was expecting. Instead of his lips, Alucard singles out every patch of stray flour on his face, kissing, wiping, even licking them clean. Cheek, jawline, and nose. Trevor’s expression twists into a ticklish, surprisingly delighted facade. 

“You’re a half vampire, not a cat.”

“Better to clean you now than later.”

“Always so fucking odd…”

“You love it.”

Much to his lucky stars, Trevor manages one curse mere seconds before Sypha and Mirele return. They let their daughter speak at a breakneck speed neither one can fully comprehend—something about silver pieces and whether they can teach her a new language—until one series of questions finally sticks.

“Is the bread ready yet? Can we eat it now? Can we please?”

Trevor placates Mirele by revealing the fruits of their joint hard earned labour: four freshly baked and perfectly shined challah loaves each representative of whoever did the braiding. She bounces in her chair before simmering down to an excited tremble once Trevor warns her of how they need to cool. In order to make this more of a meal, he rummages about in search of two other beacons from his childhood. He’s rewarded with one of the few fresh apples they have left while Sypha, ever in tune with his inner thoughts, grabs another small pot of honey for him.

Trevor thanks her by gently running his palm across her lower abdomen, over the growing bump. He keeps it there for just a second longer, a subtle gesture of love noticed by Sypha. Fingertips intertwined with each other, they join Alucard and Mirele at the table as the midday sun shines golden through the windows.

[forcefully-awoken]

Summary: What she feels, so does he. It has its drawbacks, but mostly benefits.

Pairing: Loki x Sylvie

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: slightly dubious consent, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, angst, pining, idiots in love ™

It has to be wrong, the way he looks at her.

Morals stopped mattering to him a long time ago, after all what boundaries can be crossed that you can’t come back from in a few decades, one mistake is nothing in the scope of a life that never seems to end. Hell, he and Thor do the seemingly same song and dance every fifty years like clockwork but at the end of the day the only person allowed to kill Thor is him. Their brotherhood goes beyond petty grievances like pretending to be dead, or trying to take over Midgard.

But, he muses, if that’s how he is with Thor, what the hell is he meant to do with her?

Sylvie is… lovely, in her own way, he thinks. Sometimes it feels like looking into a mirror for the first time, being able to truly see what’s being reflected back at him. In her he sees his vulnerability, the desperation to belong, the harsh way she spits her words as if they can shield her from the world. He sees the softness, too, how fiercely she believes in what she’s doing, how her eyes widen seeing new parts of the universe for the first time, the wonder and joy at being a part of it. An extension of himself, a mirror that can touch back.

And therein lies Loki’s problem.

What is she, if not his? Certainly there’s something wrong, something not quite right about the way he looks at her- like he wants to eat her, wants to know if the same points on her body make her moan the way he does? Will she shudder when there’s a hand trailing up her back as he does? He wants nothing more to find some tiny corner of time and space and spend a week cataloging the differences in their bodies. No warning klaxons go off when he looks into her eyes, even when she’s yelling at him, because deep down they both know- it’s inevitable.

Sylvie feels it too, even if she won’t admit it, even if she stops looking in his eyes, turning her back to him when she finally takes a moment to rest. She’s more resistant to him than he is to her, a byproduct of their respective upbringings, he’s sure. She resists, and resists, and starts petty arguments that go nowhere and don’t mean anything in the end, because while Loki jerks himself off with quiet desperation every night, Sylvie only has this to release the tension.

“For being me, how could you be so stupid?!” Her voice is harsh, vitriol trying it’s hardest to seep into every word of it, but all he does is smile at her and think about the way those pretty pink lips would taste against his own. “Are you even listening to me?” Her hair is sparking, the magic too much to be contained, and he wonders if his ever did that without him noticing. There’s a quip on the edge of his tongue, something he knows will start another fight but instead he turns over on his side- for once putting his back to her.

Loki can hear her huff of frustration, something that oddly sends a shiver of pleasure down his spine, makes heat pool low in his gut. He hasn’t felt this way in years, the rush that comes with lusting after someone. He’s made his way through the realms just like a Prince of Asgard should, but after a certain point the names and faces blend together- and yet there is Sylvie, bright and shining like a supernova, a head above the rest with no comparison.

It’s quiet between them, for a little while, at least. Neither of them have been able to get in a decent amount of sleep in what feels like weeks, but time works differently here at the end of it all. He knows the others are somewhere close- Mobius never lets them out of direct sight it feels like, but if he closes his eyes it feels like it’s just the two of them by their little campfire. Everything seems to fade away, until all he can focus on is his incredibly hard cock between his legs.

“D’you know how twins sometimes have a connection?” Sylvie’s voice cuts through the night, a little bit too loud, drawing a little bit too much attention and she must realize because her voice soften when she continues on, “How they can feel each other’s pain? Well, I can feel that.” She spits the last word, before getting up to stalk off to who knows where.

It’s wrong then, how he sneaks his hand down the front of his pants, gripping his cock tightly, thrusting his hips ever so slightly into his fist. Now that he’s looking for it, he can feel the way his pleasure doubles, how it intensifies if he thinks about it too hard. How his hand doesn’t feel so large, how it feels so much softer than normal. How his breath sounds a little whinier, how the head of his cock feels so much more sensitive. He knows she’s feeling his pleasure as acutely as he is, knows it’s probably driving her crazy, but he can’t stop, he only wants more- more of this sensation, more of her, more of everything. It’s almost too much but he doesn’t stop, chasing his high with a practiced ease, biting his lip so his moans don’t escape him.

A thought occurs as he pulls his hand from his pants, trying hard not to get his release on his clothes. Usually he waves it away, off into nothingness without a second thought but now- if she can feel what he does then how far does that extend?

With a furtive glance around to make sure that truly nobody is watching, Loki’s tongue darts out, taking some of his cum into his mouth.

The taste of him explodes across her tongue.

It’s saltier than she remembers cum tasting, but fuck if it doesn’t just rile her up more. Fucking rat bastard- she knew she shouldn’t have confessed that she could feel the dirty things he did at night when he thought he was alone. What is wrong with him, demanding so much of her mental energy with such… mundane things when everything she’d ever worked for was at stake?

She has half a mind to go back over there and kick him, right at the base of his spine, right where she knows it’ll hurt the most (because that’s where it hurt the most for her) but then he flicks his tongue out again, and it’s all she can do to not shove her own hand down her own pants. She’s beyond such pedestrian things, hasn’t had to service herself like that in a while, not since she set herself off on this path.

Sylvie knows that he thinks that this is half her problem, why she’s so prickly, why she’s so downright mean sometimes. But there’s no time in her life for that, there’s only the drive forward, veering off track and into Loki has thrown things completely out of whack, and she doesn’t need to take anything else on. She doesn’t need to complicate things even more.

At least, that’s what she tells herself on nights like tonight, when there’s an electric current running through her veins, a hook behind her collarbone that pulls her in one specific direction. It won’t be worth it- he’ll look at her differently, he’ll expect too much, she won’t like him anymore after that. Her self loathing is too large and encompassing to let her mind rest even for a moment, and she thinks if she looks hard enough into his eyes that she’ll see that same loathing.

They’re the same person, the very thing that pulls them together drives her away, and that’s all there is to it, for her.

But, fuck, if she doesn’t want to give into it. He’s going at it again, somehow, and it’s so hard for her to resist the urge to just relax back into the sensation and let him carry her to completion without even trying. She can feel the way he’s taking his time now, stroking over his nipples, making hers pebble up in response. She bites her lip so hard it bleeds when he trails a delicate finger down his own throat. He’s not playing fair at all, she thinks, but that’s all she thinks before she finally caves.

She’ll show him who the true God of Mischief is.

One hand slides under her tunic, twisting at her nipple so hard it’s almost painful, and she thinks she can hear his tiny yelp of surprise off in the distance. It’s been so long that she almost has to learn her body all over again, but Loki has shown her so much of what he likes there’s a certain path that’s easier to follow. She pays close attention to one nipple, then the other, until she’s panting and she knows they’ll be sore in the morning- every brush of her clothes against them is going to send a thrill of pleasure through them both.

Carefully, quietly, she pulls her pants down just enough to be able to get a hand in between her thighs with no issues. She’s soaked through her underwear, she realizes when she presses her hand against her core. She slips a finger under them, trailing through her folds and collecting enough of her juices to lift her finger to her own lips, tracing them before sucking her finger clean. Her taste is better, she decides, much sweeter than Loki.

Once her finger is wet enough she slips her underwear down as well, rolling her fingers over her clit with an almost leisurely pace. She’s halfway there already, no need to rush anything at this point. This orgasm should be good enough to carry her on for another few decades if she plays her cards right. Pleasure shoots through her at the first brush of her fingers, an undercurrent she hasn’t indulged in years awakening like it was only yesterday. One circle becomes two, becomes three, becomes an easy rhythm that drives her slowly mad.

Her other hand has the more important job, opening her folds, one finger dipping into her cunt, testing the waters as it were. She’s tight, but so wet and needy that her finger slips in easily, teasingly until she needs to add another. Why doesn’t she do this more often? Her two fingers stroke in and out of her lazily, crooking upwards in search of a spot she knows will have her seeing stars, and Loki spilling all over his pants in shock. The thought of that- making him cum from nothing like a teenage boy drives her forward now.

It’s easy now, her fingers slip out as the others circle her clit. Slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes, and it’s certainly holding true. Every little movement she makes pushes her closer and closer to the edge, and she’s so focused on her own pleasure she ignores the world around her. She ignores the strange connection she feels to Loki, the way it seems to be vibrating, pulsing with life. She ignores everything but the heat that builds in her, under her skin, the addicting way she needs to feel hersel cum.

She’s so close now, so close to giving in, biting back a sob as her hips rock forward, fucking herself down onto her fingers one last time as she finally, blissfully snaps. It’s overwhelming, nearly, her head just above water. Just enough to come down, just enough to feel it-

She feels, as easily as her own orgasm, the moment Loki’s self control finally snaps.

It’s so easy, almost absurdly so, to track her down. She hasn’t gone far, hidden in a bus (which gives him a second of pause- what the hell?), and for fuck’s sake her pants aren’t even back up.

“What the fuck,” It’s a statement, not a question as Sylvie scrambles to correct her clothing. She could do it with magic- hell, he could use his own to make it all disappear but that wouldn’t satisfy the pounding of his heart, the need to tear at her, to claim her.

“Minx,” Loki growls out, hands coming up to stop her own. He doesn’t feel so much larger than her when they’re standing face to face but now that he’s on top of her, it’s completely different. His hands cover hers entirely, muscles flexing as he grips the front of her shirt and just pulls. She know he doesn’t do it entirely on his own but the result is the same, the material gives way and her chest is bare before him. He doesn’t bother to kiss her, dipping his head down to wrap his lips around one nipple, pulling it between his teeth.

Sylvie hisses in response, hands coming up to tangle in his hair, and she means to push him away, she really does, but all that happens is she pulls him closer, a moan spilling from her lips, loud and wanton. His teeth come into play as he growls, switching to pay attention to the other pert bud, one hand holding him above her, the other gripping the waistband of her pants to shove them down even more, pulling back just enough to look up at her and demand, “Take them off.”

She’s got half a mind to deny him, but it feels so good that she obeys without question. Her pants don’t even come all the way off, just one leg comes free but Loki takes the moment to fit himself between them anyways. He moves lower, one leg thrown over his shoulder to hold her open for him. It would feel embarrassing if it was anybody else staring at her so intensely. Now, though?

“Get on with it, or get out!” That’s all it takes from her for him to cover her cunt with his mouth, tongue swirling over her sensitive bud, going further down to tease at her opening, like he’s trying to drink her down. She lets her eyes close, head drooping back as he takes the lead. His clever tongue returns to her clit, two of his fingers pressing into her, scissoring her open, preparing her. His fingers find that sweet spot inside of her so much easier, and she feels it when he finds it, her groan matching his. He works at her for what feels like forever, keeping her on the edge until she can decide if she wants to cry in frustration or take matters into her own hands.

Loki finally gives into what he wants, making his way up her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the other pushing his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock. It’s long, thick enough she knows it’ll feel good, with a flushed red tip and pre-cum dripping from it. He doesn’t bother to ask, just lines himself up with her and starts the slow push in.

Both of them exhale a breath neither realized they had been holding when his hips were flush with hers. If the way she feels, and the way tremors run through his body are any indication, this encounter won’t last long. And so, Loki doesn’t hesitate, pulling back until just the tip of him is still inside of her and slamming back in, so hard she’ll feel it for days, and he’ll feel it for longer. It’s a brutal pace, him trying to carve out a piece of her for himself, to write his name in as many ways and shapes and forms on her until she finally gives into what he knows.

He fucks her like it’s a fight, and sucks a bruise on her neck where everyone will see just for the hell of it.

She, in turn, clenches around him just to watch his hips stutter and drags her nails down his back just to watch his pupils dilate.

It’s give and take, push and pull, two halves that are one.

There’s only their moans, the quiet slap of flesh upon flesh in the small space. The others might know what they’re doing, but Loki can’t find it in himself to care, not when Sylvie is making that face, not when her body feels so good. He has to keep fucking her, has to feel her cum on his cock because he’ll go crazy if he doesn’t.

“Please,” One of them gasps out, but neither can tell who. One of Sylvie’s hands snakes between their bodies, rubbing quick, harsh circles around her clit and that’s it for her- she’s cumming again, almost weeping from how good it feels, how complete she is, shuddering and shaking in his arms.

Loki doesn’t last much longer, after her, and the feeling does overwhelm him. He can’t tell where his pleasure ends and hers begin, but maybe it’s the same thing, in the end. He cums deep in her, unable to move back for even a moment. It’s too much, like a punch to the gut, and when it’s finally over he’s panting, breathing heavily like he’s been through battle. He feels like he’s been claimed, all while he thought he was doing the conquering.

Their eyes finally meet, but whatever Sylvie sees in his, she doesn’t like, flinching back away from him like she’s been struck. Something cold claws its way into his chest, making a home there despite how badly he tries to ignore it. He pulls his softening cock out of her with a soft hiss, oversensitive as hell from being with her.

They right their clothes in silence, neither of them looking at the other, though he can feel the way tension rolls off her shoulder in waves.

He doesn’t bother to look back as he leaves.

There’s only their way forward, into glorious purpose.

[easily-infatuated23]

The Tub: Draco Malfoy x Reader

a/n: this is my first one of these so sorry if it sucks but here goes nothing!

Part Two Here

warnings: just some light fluff, small mention of bullying

summary: reader is having a really hard day and when she goes to relax in the prefects bathroom the unexpected occurs 

word count: 2k

The castle is enormous. So enormous that getting lost becomes part of my daily routine. But sometimes, its so crushingly small it's hard to find a place to be alone to get away from the constant noise of what feels like hundreds of middle and high school students. Everyone’s first choice of escape is the astronomy tower, so much so that a Ravenclaw tried to institute a sign up sheet as to insure the crowds wouldn’t mass as much. They were unsuccessful. The truly hidden places of the castle are few and far between and for those of us who aren’t lucky enough to find the Room of Requirement, we must get creative. The most recent spot I have found is the Prefect’s bathroom on the sixth floor. Moaning Myrtle will sometimes float through but we are on good terms so she generally will leave me alone.

As a Seer, the noise of the world is extra loud in my head. It's bad enough to have the regular noise, but the passing through of others’ thoughts is exhausting. I have gotten better at shielding myself but it takes a lot of energy. The Prefect’s bathroom has been a wonderful solution because within the chamber is a large bathtub which I use as a jacuzzi, to relax and reset. I am just so tired. The added layer of being Seer as well as a non pure-blood in Slytherin, takes its own individual toll. My family had been pure-blood until my parents. My mother had married a muggle man.

I started late in the sequence of years at Hogwarts. My family moved from America to England which meant I transferred into school third year. For a while people were interested in me but that died down within the first month. However, when I let my family heritage slip, I became as talked about as Harry Potter. As a descendant of Merlin himself, people began to attempt to get close to me just for the idea of “fame” rubbing off onto them. Harry and I have had discussions about it together but I know he secretly enjoys it, even if he doesn’t know he does.

Today wasn’t just any typical Thursday. The excitement for Christmas break was buzzing around the castle, practically inescapable. The world was loud and I was tired. Luckily, today is a short day so I was able to escape to the Prefect’s bathroom after lunch. I usually waited until I knew most of the castle was either at a meal or doing homework but today the world had been especially loud. I tentatively filled the tub checking my surroundings for a stray ghost or student. Once it was full I climbed in and allowed myself to fully relax. The noise melted away and it was like I could finally breathe.

After only fifteen short minutes I heard footsteps and looked up to see the last person I would expect or want to see, Draco Malfoy. The Prince of pure-blood Slytherin, the cruelest person within the castle besides Professor Snape. He had never gone out of his way to be mean to me in particular, but if one of his buddies started something he would be sure to join in. When people found out about my abilities, I had been forced to read him in front of practically the whole school. I saw such pain and fear in his life that I nearly passed out. To prove to him that my abilities were real, he told me to tell him something from his past only he would know. I said “a talking diary and a ripped page from a bookstore”. Ever since then, he never challenged me again. And yet here he was now, invading my hidden corner, my escape from everyone.

We locked eyes as he walked in and we both froze. “What are you doing in here?” he asked sharply. I didn’t reply but simply began to get out and grab my things when his voice interrupted my actions. “I’m not gonna make you leave I was just asking. You looked dreadful during Potions today, are you ok?”. For the first time, his words and his tone matched and seemed genuine. “Everyone has been really loud today. Let's just say that if I never hear the sentence ‘is he gonna ask me to the Yule Ball’ again it will be too soon” I remarked. He chuckled and looked down at his shoes. I now became acutely aware of the fact that I was standing in front of him in just a bikini in a steamy room. My cheeks flushed and I slipped back into the tub. “Why are you in here Draco?” I asked. He looked up at me and sighed. “This is usually where I come to hide but I got here a bit later than usual, I didn’t think there was competition for this spot”. I frowned and looked away from him. “Yeah that’s my bad, I usually am in here much later in the day. It’s just been such a loud day already. I needed to decompress earlier than usual”. He walked closer to me, then circled the tub to sit on the window sill. After a few minutes he spoke. “Does it actually help quiet the world? To sit in there I mean”. He gestured to the tub. “Yes it does actually”. I replied.

This was the weirdest but nicest conversation I had ever had with him. I had never been fully alone with Draco before, was this how he was when he was removed from his asshole friends? In a moment of impulsive thought I blurted “You are welcome to join me if you’d like”. Shit. Why did I say that? This guy is literally the worst. “Wouldn’t that just add noise in your head?” he asked. “No, when its a group of ten or less I can actually turn everybody off quite easily. Anymore then that and it gets harder and harder”. He nodded and then looked out the window. I could see his mind working through his grey eyes, deciding if he would stay or go. Finally, he shrugged. “What the hell”. He kicked his shoes off and began to loosen his tie. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t help myself watch him undress. I finally looked away and closed my eyes, relaxing my head on the edge of the tub.

The tub was big enough around that he could sit on the other side and we wouldn’t touch. The water churned as he got it. He sat closer to me than I had anticipated but I tried not to think about it as I took a deep breath and let my mind wander. “This is surprisingly relaxing”. His voice for the first time didn’t sound as strained or coarse as normal. “How did you find out about this?” he asked. I opened my eyes and looked at him, puzzled. “Have you never been in a jacuzzi?”. He shook his head. “Wow well that’s one thing wizards should definitely adopt from the muggle world” I replied, with a smile. He looked away from me quickly. Was that a hint of blush coming from his cheeks? Probably just from the heat of the water I rationalized. “Do you do this everyday?” he asked. “At least once a week. It's good for the soul”.

There was then a long period of silence. At first the silence was uncomfortable, but the longer it persisted, the more comfortable it became. A couple times I could have sworn that the water churned in a way that would indicate him moving closer to me. I didn’t dare check. I kept my eyes closed as the odd smile would flow across my face without thought. When I finally did open my eyes, he was less than two feet away from me. We locked eyes and I smiled. He gave a timid smile back before looking away again. I wanted to use my abilities to slip into his mind and hear what he was thinking but I held myself to a strict rule. “This seems like a pretty necessary time to use it” the voice in my head remarked. I physically shook my head to expel that thought from my mind. I felt his eyes on me. “I wasn’t inside your head by the way. I thought about it but decided that didn’t hold up with my rule so I shook it out of my head”. “You can if you want” he replied. I looked at him and sat up a bit. “My rule is I only purposefully do it if absolutely necessary or if the person gives me permission or asks me to do it. Are you asking me Draco?”.

The words flowed out of my mouth before I could filter them. Was that flirty? Did I just flirt with Draco? The thoughts swirled in my head only to be broken by his response. “Yes I am” he said sincerely. “Can I have your hand? It’s easier if I have physical contact”. I said. He nodded  and stared into my eyes as I moved closer to him. I clasped his hand and imagined his energy and thoughts flowing into my brain. His head was relatively quiet, besides one thought practically screaming. I opened my eyes and looked into his, stunned. “What was I thinking?” he asked in almost a whisper. I swallowed hard. “You were thinking ‘is it wrong that all I want to do is kiss her’”. I felt my cheeks turn red but I didn’t break eye contact. “Is it?” he asked. “No” I replied, unaware that a smile had crept across my face. He smiled back as his eyes darted from my eyes to my lips and back. I moved his hand which I was still holding to my cheek. His free hand moved underwater to my lower back as he pulled me onto his lap. Our faces were so close together I could feel his breath. He moved his other hand to my waist as I cupped his cheeks with mine. In a tender moment, not overly embroiled with passion or lust, we kissed. It was innocent and sweet. It made everything else seem unimportant. It was as if time slowed to a stand still. After a few moments we both pulled away and shared a smile that became a laugh. “I can honestly say this is not how I thought my day was going to go” Draco chuckled. “Me neither” I added. Suddenly a thought popped into my head. “Wait what time is it?” I asked. He checked his watch. “Two o’clock, why?”. “Damn, I promised I would meet Ron for a game of wizard’s chess. I always beat him but he insists on constantly challenging me”. I started to pull away when I noticed his face drop slightly. I pulled close to him again. “I am not making up an excuse to run away from you. Believe me I don’t want to go but if I don’t Ron will come looking for me and this would be a hard situation to explain” I remarked with a chuckle. His face picked up a little. “Are you staying here over Christmas?”. “Yes I am” I replied. “I think I will too, I’ve recently started to fancy you and I kinda want to explore this without the pressure of the whole school being here, if that’s ok with you” he smiled. “I would like that”. “But for the moment we can’t tell anyone what happened here or that we are even friends” he remarked suddenly. “It’s not my favorite reputation to uphold but if my father finds out I am seeing or being seen with someone who is not a pure-blood..” he trailed off. I pulled his face close to mine again and looked deep into his eyes. “You don’t have to explain. Remember, when I read you two years ago? I saw all of your past. I understand why”. His eyes were sadder now but he still managed a small smile. “Ok now I really have to go” I said as I kissed him one more time before climbing out of the tub. He watched me as I changed back into my uniform, smiling a bit more smugly now. “When can I see you again?” he called after me as I walked towards the door. “Friday night, let’s meet in the common room. Everyone will be gone for Christmas by then”. “Its a date!”. I turned back and blew him a kiss which he caught and immediately pressed to his lips. My heart fluttered as I jogged to the Great Hall. “Oi, where’ve you been?” Ron questioned impatiently. “Sorry, got a bit caught up” I remarked, smiling at the secret Draco Malfoy and I now shared.

[sondepoch]

Chapter 4

Written in the Stars (Lucifer x Angel!Reader)

Four thousand years is a long time. In the absence of your most cherished friend, it feels even longer. But when a certain student exchange program in the Devildom reunites you and Lucifer, things aren't the same. Because four thousand years of separation is a long time. And the love you once felt for Lucifer has changed into something different—something forbidden. But that might not even be your biggest problem, because with each passing day, your holy wings are turning blacker and blacker.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | ✔

MASTERLIST

Your D.D.D has an awful battery life.

That, or you're using it too much.

In fact, the latter is much more likely—given that, over this past weekend, you haven't gone over two hours without video calling one of the brothers—but that's hardly your fault.

The entire Devildom is in a frenzy right now, every demon going wild with anticipation.

The time has finally come for people to properly prepare for school, either mentally or physically, and the countdown has officially begun: not even twenty-four full hours remain before the first bell will ring, and everyone you know is buzzing about doing last-minute shopping. Neither the House of Lamentation nor Purgatory Hall are exempt from that, and the only reason you're not out of the dorm right now is because Simeon took pity on you and sent you home ahead of him, agreeing to buy the last of the items on the school supply list himself.

Such an angel, you think with a giggle, entering your room.

You waste no time in flopping onto your bed and plugging your D.D.D into its charger, flitting to Lucifer's number.

You don't even bother to take your Celestial cloak off, too preoccupied with the device's ringing to do anything other than use the garment as a blanket while you roll onto your stomach and place the device on your pillow.

This isn't quite your best angle, but Lucifer won't mind, right?

A smile blossoms on your face when you see the video call go through.

"MC, how many times have I asked you to text me in advance if you need me?" Lucifer sighs, acting stoic as he speaks. You can tell he doesn't mean the words, though.

"Aw, what kind of best friends are we if I need to set up an appointment to see you?" You laugh, biting back the sick feeling you get when you say that. Best friends. You still haven't forgotten how Lucifer almost kissed you two days ago when you came to him, crying. And you're certain you'll always remember how he chose not to.

Perhaps, if you hadn't been so focused on your own sorrow, you might have noticed the way Lucifer's eyebrows furrowed momentarily at the words, the demon disliking the label as much as you.

"Very well, then. What need have you of me this time, MC?" Lucifer leans back in his chair, angling his own D.D.D on his desk such that he doesn't need to hold it up.

"Um, just wanted to chat?"

Lucifer groans. "You said the same thing this morning, MC. And at four in the morning, when you called me saying you couldn't sleep—"

"Hey!" You protest. "It's not my fault that the Celestial Realm and the Devildom are in different time zones—"

"And the night before that," Lucifer continues, ignoring you entirely. "And in the afternoon before that, when you called me asking if I thought chairs had feelings."

"It's just such a tragic life, you know?" You ask, heart heavy at the thoughts that had run through your head yesterday afternoon. "They spend their entire lives serving, and people just sit on them. No one even says thank you!"

Lucifer massages his temple with one hand, closing his eyes in frustration. "We are not getting into this again."

"Fine, fine," You agree, pouting. "I just wanted to talk. What's up, Luci? Has Mammon caused any trouble for you since we last spoke?"

"Surprisingly, it's been Levi who's been an issue. Apparently, he ordered all his school supplies online, and they've still yet to come, so he's dragged the entire household out with him to buy the required goods in-person."

You laugh lightly. Even in the Celestial Realm, Levi had always preferred the indoors; imagining him braving the demon crowds of last-minute shoppers is quite the picture.

"Moreover, no one has seen Belphie awake since the last time you came over, so we're not sure if he even has everything he needs, but…"

"They'll manage," You say, interrupting Lucifer with a smile. "Don't stress—your brothers can handle themselves better than you think."

"Maybe so," Lucifer murmurs. "But what about you? How are you faring in all of this?"

You sigh.

Every single time you've called Lucifer these past two days, that's been the one question he's never failed to ask. He does it out of love, you know. He cares, and he simply wants to make sure that things haven't gotten worse.

But in truth…

"I haven't even looked at my wings, Luci." You laugh drily, staring at your pillow instead of Lucifer. You can already see the crestfallen look on his face. "I've been bathing in the dark and switching to my human form as often as I can so that I don't need to see them."

"MC…" He murmurs. You know that if he were here right now, he wouldn't hesitate to wrap you in a warm embrace and kiss your forehead between soft whispers that everything is going to be alright.

"No, you don't need to tell me. I know it's not the right thing to do." You put a hand up, halting him from starting whatever lecture is flitting around through his mind. "It's just...easier, this way."

Lucifer sighs.

"Let me see them," He murmurs. "We have to know if it's gotten worse."

"That's…" That's the reason why you don't want to look at them.

You swallow, suddenly acutely aware of how readily your tears had sprung forth the last time you stared at your reflection. The sight of your wings turning black at the root was too much to bear, and you doubt it's gotten any easier. At the same time, though, you don't want to cry to Lucifer. Not again.

"MC," The demon begins, voice gentle. "You don't have to look. But I need to know if it's gotten worse. Satan had some...theories, but I can't be sure about any of them until I look at the pattern of the growth."

It's a moment before you respond, but his words finally win you over in the end. You release some of your magical power, shifting back into the form you were born in. Burying your head face-down into the bed, you don't watch as your wings spread on your back, so great and majestic that they even push your Celestial cloak away as they rise to their full form.

You feel them flap once, then twice, as they stretch.

Staying silent yourself, you wait for Lucifer to make a comment, for him to say something about them. You just want him to look at them, take whatever notes he needs to, and then tell you you're good to shift back into your human form. You don't even care what they look like at this point; you just don't want to see them.

But when the demon continues to remain quiet, you can't deny that your curiosity is piqued.

"Lucifer?" You ask, peeking up with one eye. You avoid looking at the bottom left circle where your own reflection is, opting instead to stare at the shell-shocked expression on Lucifer's face. "What's wrong, Lucifer? Luci?"

You shift, moving your face up so that you can stare at him entirely, fear beginning to set in as you wonder what your wings could look like to have shocked him into such silence. "Are they…" Your voice trembles as you speak, terrified that you might have the truth of it. "Are they completely black?"

Your question startles Lucifer into alertness, and he blinks before a bewildered smile appears on his face. "No!" He responds, almost too quickly. He double taps on the screen, zooming in on your image. "MC, your…" He hesitates, as if he himself doesn't believe what he's seeing. "Your wings are completely white."

Your eyes widen, darting down to the small bubble where your own camera mirrors yourself back at you and, sure enough, the feathers on your back have turned snowy once more—all the places that were once pitch-black now looking as fluffy and pristine as the clouds of your homeland's sky.

"Let me…Let me check," You murmur to Lucifer, stumbling out of bed to your full-length mirror. It's uncomfortable, because your Celestial cloak is still awkwardly bunched around your shoulders, but there's no doubting it: your wings are white.

You hear a relieved sound come from your phone, bordering on laughter as a wide smile spreads across Lucifer's face. And that same smile comes to your own lips as you twist your body around, even the feathers closest to your back turned whiter than the pearls of your teeth: divine, holy, and angelic.

"We have to celebrate," You say, turning to Lucifer with a beaming grin. "I'm coming over, and don't tell me not to! This is amazing!"

Lucifer chuckles, folding his arms in contentment. "I wouldn't dream of it. My brothers will be delighted to hear this news," He taps on the screen, checking the time. "Meet you in ten minutes?"

"Perfect! I'll see you soon!" You exclaim, practically pouncing on the bed to end the call so that you can run over to the House of Lamentation.

Instantly, you revert to your human form, knowing that it'll offend the demons passing by if you leave the house with your holy wings on display, but you don't waste a moment in yanking your D.D.D from its charger and darting out of the doors, giddy with excitement.

All the pain you felt at learning your wings had turned black is converted to excitement, and you feel like you're floating on the clouds as you skip to where you know Lucifer is. You feel like this is what it must be like to be high, to be so unabashedly happy that nothing feels like it can ever compare—as if nothing can turn your mood sour.

But the universe has never been kind, has it?

Rather, the world loves to give you happiness and then steal it; just like it gave you the Morningstar and then banished him, casting your one source of joy out of reach.

You should have known when your D.D.D began ringing that it wouldn't be good news. Heck, if the fact that someone is calling isn't enough to let you know something is up, you should be doubly on edge when you realize that it's Lucifer's contact who's lighting up your screen.

But in the end, it's the utterly defeated voice of Lucifer that brings you down from your high, halting you in your tracks as he tells you to stop.

"What?" You ask, suddenly concerned.

"Stop, MC." His words come out slow, as if it brings him pain each time he speaks. "Don't come over."

"W-why?" You stammer out, not understanding. The House of Lamentation is within eyesight, you can literally see it in the distance. "Lucifer, what's wrong?"

"You can't come over," He mumbles, and you hear a light clanging over the phone—as if the demon kicked something and it came crashing down. "Just…" He almost chokes, voice thick with emotion. With anger. With sadness. And with something else you can't quite place. "Just don't come."

With that, he hangs up the phone, probably expecting that you'll heed his words and return to Purgatory Hall. But when have you been one to mindlessly follow the orders of others, when your heart is screaming to disobey?

Your footsteps as they bring you to the House of Lamentation are a lot of things: slow, concerned, distressed. But they're not hesitant. There's not a single flicker of indecision in your feet as they move forward, growing faster and faster as Lucifer's drained voice replays in your head.

Never have you heard the demon sound so miserable, so upset, so frustrated.

And you're not going to leave him alone.

It takes nearly a minute of banging on the front door before he finally opens it, trying his hardest to maintain a frown as he looks down at you.

"I told you not to come," He mutters, stepping back. It's not an invitation inside, though. You can't help but feel like it's a strange attempt to create distance between the two of you, but enter regardless.

"Well?"

You remain silent, your lack of words a very question in itself. Rather, it's an inquiry that demands a response, and you won't say a thing until Lucifer explains what has caused his sudden mood shift.

It must be an entire minute before he finally speaks, voice low as he stares at the ground.

"It's me."

You gaze at Lucifer in confusion, not quite understanding. "What?"

"It's me," He repeats, crossing his arms. "I'm…" He hesitates, dark red eyes flitting up to yours, two rubies that never fail to leave you entranced. "I'm the reason your wings are turning black."

"What are you talking about, Lucifer? That's nonsense." The words leave your mouth as soon as you process his words, not even waiting a second to contemplate the truth of them. At your blatant denial, Lucifer chuckles, but it's a sad sound.

"MC." He says your name slowly, as if he's holding onto it. "Your wings turned black for the first time when you came to me, and they've returned to being white after a weekend of separation."

You scoff at his words. "That's so circumstantial, Lucifer. You, of all people, should know that—"

"No." Lucifer's voice is firm. Dejected, despondent, and melancholic, but firm. "MC, this is how it's always been. You're the only angel in all the realms who absorbs light instead of giving it off. You're...you're the child of light. Light nurtures you."

Lucifer pauses, waiting for you to say something, but he continues when you're silent. "My light used to be positive. I could always feel you pulling at it in the Celestial Realm—absorbing it, equalizing it. I forgot what it felt like, but you've been doing it here as well. But I'm…" He clenches his fist. "I'm a demon, now. The light I give off is dark, and it's been corrupting you."

"No," You murmur, the same pain painted on Lucifer's face spreading across your own. "You're wrong, Lucifer. You're wrong!"

With a trembling lip, you let your angel form manifest, trying to show him that your wings are white, but he won't even look at you.

"Leave," He whispers, gesturing to the door that's still open. "Leave now, MC. Before I turn your wings black a second time."

"No!" You exclaim, slamming the door with your foot, moving forward. "It's not true. It's not!"

"Stop," Lucifer warns, a flicker of anger lighting in his dark red eyes. Every footstep you take forward is met by himself retreating, desperate to maintain the distance between you two. "Do not come closer," He cautions you, and you can feel the rage building up as you blatantly ignore his words, dead set on marching forward until he's forced to acknowledge you. "This is for your own good—leave me!"

But you keep walking forward, trying to get closer to him, drawing nearer and nearer to his figure until the deep red eyes are lit aflame with wrath and the man has turned into his own true form, wings and horns sprouting in an attempt to intimidate you.

"Get out," He seethes, hands clenched into fists.

But all you do is reach forward for his hand.

"Stop!" He shouts, angling his body away in a desperate attempt to stop you from touching. "Don't you see?" He roars. "Your wings—they're already turning black!"

But you don't care about that anymore. With that single comment, you remember—you have wings—and all it takes is one flap for them to send you flying forward, wrapping your arms tightly around Lucifer as he breaks your fall.

The two of you collapse on the ground on in a tangle of limbs and feathers, Lucifer continuing to try to push you off of him when all your efforts are directed towards holding onto the demon as tight as you can.

"Your wings," He chokes out, watching as the feathers change colors before his very eyes. It was different before, when one of you were always masking your true appearance with your human form. But now that you're both in your natural states?

There's nothing to obstruct the flow of magic as it flows through your bodies, out of your bodies and into each other. You can feel Lucifer's darkness pumping through your veins, tainting everything from your wings to your halo black with his aura.

"I'm ruining you," He hisses, still trying to shrink away.

"I don't care," You whisper, burying your neck in his shoulder. You hold him tighter when he finally gives up on pushing you off, allowing you to cling to him as closely as you want. "I...I thought my wings were turning black because I was turning into a monster. But if I'm not changing, if this is just my body absorbing your light—then I don't care, Lucifer. I don't want to leave you."

"You're a fool," He spits, ignoring the way you laugh his words off. "You're an angel. You—you don't belong here. Go back to Simeon and Luke. Their light is still pure."

"And then what?" You ask, pulling back so that you can look Lucifer in the eye. You hate the troubled gaze, the raw anguish that spreads across his face as he glances behind you to stare at your wings. From your peripheral vision, you can already see the blackness spreading, but you're true to your words.

You don't care.

"I'm surrounded by demons. If I don't absorb your light, then my wings will turn black because of them, all the same."

"MC," Lucifer chuckles mirthlessly. "None of these other demons were born to be harbingers of light. You forget, I'm the Morningstar. The energy I give off is enough to throw an entire realm out of balance. Other demons can't sully your purity, but I...I defile you with my mere presence."

You're quiet, still holding Lucifer tightly as you remain collapsed on top of him. His hands still rest on the floor, unwilling to taint you with his touch any more than is necessary, but you can see the way his fingers twitch.

He wants to hold you the way you're holding him.

"What if I'm okay with that?" You whisper, gazing hesitantly into Lucifer's eyes. They widen briefly before he masks the surprise.

"You're too much of an angel, MC." He glances away, and this time, you notice the way his throat bobs as he swallows thickly. "You do not understand the meaning of your words. A demon hears them differently."

"What if I do?" You repeat, gently cupping Lucifer's cheek and bringing his gaze back to you. "What if I do understand what I'm saying?"

"You do not." You cannot, he means. Lucifer hasn't been in the Celestial Realm for four thousand years. He doesn't know that angels are no longer the sort of beings to innocently go about, unaware of the effect they have on others. Eons ago, you may not have understood the loaded connotation behind everything you're telling the man. But now?

You know exactly what your words mean.

"You're wrong, Lucifer. I know what I'm saying." You let your head lower, bowing low until your lips are mere inches away from Lucifer. You gaze at his lips, making sure he can see the way you're looking at them before you finally lift your eyes to his own. "I'm okay with being corrupted, Lucifer. As long as it's you."

"You…" His voice shifts, the demonic urges he's been trying so long to resist finally surfacing at your words. You can't be any clearer than that, and the demon finally understands that his feelings aren't one-sided. That you don't look at him as a mere brother. That you want this as much as he does. "You don't know what you're asking for," He whispers, but now his own eyes are locked onto the plumpness of your lips, unable to look away.

"Then show me," You whisper.

That's all it takes for the last of his restraint to vanish, the palms that were once pressed against the floor lifting to hold you close as he captures your lips with his own, connecting your bodies in the most intimate way either of you have ever known.

You can feel everything in him, as your lips meet.

The beating of his heart, growing faster when you wrap your arms around his neck.

The tensing of his shoulders as he shifts upward, sitting up and pulling you onto his lap, ever closer to him.

The rhythmic pulse of his light as it floods into you—and despite having your eyes closed, you know that the edges of your wings have turned fully black, filled to the brim with the essence of the Lucifer.

As your body continues to absorb the waves of light and power radiating off his body, you feel your back burst with power, the Celestial cloak you had on breaking and being ripped off your shoulders as your wings spread even wider, shining the richest shade of black you've ever seen.

"Your wings," He mutters against your lips, leaning his forehead against yours as he slides a hand onto your cheek, rubbing soft circles into the skin. "I've corrupted them."

"No," You murmur, smiling softly. For the first time, you don't hate the ebony color of the feathers, smiling as you gaze upon them. "They're beautiful." You let them flap, entranced. Your eyes dart between your wings and his, pulling his body closer until your wings are touching. "They match with yours."

They match with yours.

Those had been your first words of surprise when Lucifer showed you your reflection in a mirror, on your second day alive in the Celestial Realm. You'd spent nearly every waking moment gazing at the six glorious wings on Lucifer's back, vaguely aware that you had feathers to match but never realizing that yours were just as beautiful.

You slide your hand down to Lucifer's, beaming at him as you intertwine your fingers in his. At last, the two of you are matching once more—no longer separated by the visual differences of angel and demon.

"Are you certain you want this, MC?" He asks. He brings a hand to your hair, a gesture of comfort that he doesn't forget even in the heat of this passion. "I don't want you to feel pressured to do anything with me. It's not too late to take back what you've said."

But you shake your head, an assured smile appearing on your lips.

"I told you, didn't I?" You ask, a light giggle slipping out. "I'm okay with being corrupted, as long as it's you."

And this time, you don't just mean your wings. You're truly okay with every demonic thought flitting through Lucifer's mind as he stares at you, mouth agape in awe of your sweet confidence. 

He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

For the moment, he doesn't even need any of that. You've given him permission, but all he wants is to continue locking your lips with his own, kissing you over and over again until you're both lost in the sensation of each other.

He can feel you pulling on his light, reveling in it the way he's basking in your affection. It's a feeling so blissful only an angel as perfect as you could ever give him such a sensation, and Lucifer feels that there's nothing he needs from the world but you.

Perfection.

For the first time, you're both perfectly in sync, giving in to the emotions that have been hidden in your heart for millennia. It matters not that your wings are black, that your halo is shrouded in shadow, that you're both making out on the floor, of all places.

If anything, it feels like all those little things are what has made this moment so infinitely perfect: like the stars have finally aligned, and nothing can pull you apart now.

MASTERLIST

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | ✔

Word count: 4.0k

Notes: I was on my run this morning and i saw a deer and i just casually glanced behind me and it was just like. really ominously walking in my direction >.> i screamed and began sprinting away (like holy SHIT i did not know i still had that energy in me, i had already run like 2 miles and i was p tired but that was wild). anyway, looking back, i dont think the deer was actually walking toward me i think it just happened to be vaguely coming in my direction, but still that gave me heart palpitations wow im still a mess over it

Comment & Like

Next Update: 6/02/20

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

[general-mahamatra]

It’s a World of Your Spectrum

Focus: George

Genre: Fluff

TW: N/A

Pairing: Platonic Dreamnotfound

Wordcount: 1791

Read it on AO3 here

Note: This was done for a trade with the AMAZING artist @floofdoesart / @floofdoesfandomstuff ! Please make sure you check them out!! They’re absolutely WONDERFUL!

Dream wanted to do something special.

After hearing side comments from George about a pair of special classes that could supposedly help his colorblindness, Dream began to research. He spent hours trying to figure out how well they worked and what exactly they could do. Price, reliability, everything. And to his gleeful surprise, they supposedly worked the best for those who were red/green colorblind.

...It just happened to be a surprise George didn’t expect.

Crouching in the bushes was a young man. Brunette, fair-skinned, average height. Shrouded by the undergrowth with a bow in hand. He was silent, staring blankly into the dark light, white glasses perched on top of his head. It was risky, going out during the night, especially with such bright clothing, but it was worth it. After all, it was almost dawn. Any minute now, the sun would start to rise and the world would grow warm.

Carefully, George pushed the foliage away. Creatures in the forest were peculiar but not uncommon. Wild versions of domestic animals, tougher than the ones who graze in fenced-in pens. Longer tusks, more aggressive natures… They were much more difficult to handle than the farm animals back home.

Not that he cared really. It just made it that much more fun.

With the sun coming up soon, the animals would start to wake up. They’d be tired and slow-moving but out nonetheless--one of the perfect times to hunt if it were up to George. So much easier to get a catch and take it home.

Time passed by, the young man staying in his hiding spot. Waiting, watching, wondering.

The rustle of undergrowth alerted the man, making him perk up and peer out into the clearing. A couple more seconds and the snout of a wild pig jutted out.

Notching an arrow, George raised the bow. An inhale. A step. An exhale.

He let go of the string. With a thwap, the arrow found its new home in the side of the boar, striking a nerve and paralyzing the animal. It collapsed to the ground, wailing and screeching at the initial pain.

Perfect. Didn’t even need a second shot.

Getting to his feet, he shouldered the bow and made his way to the dying animal. It wasn’t much, but there was enough meat there to last him a short while. Better than the cheap shit he could buy when it was easier and far more fun to get his own catch.

George kneeled down, pulling another arrow from the quiver. Grabbing the tusk of the boar, he jerked its head to the side and slit its throat with the metal head. One final squeal and it fell limp.

The preparations of the carcass weren’t too difficult. It was rather fast getting it ready to move. He was maybe a half an hour walk from town, meaning he would have to carry the animal quite a distance. Not something he wanted to do and risk getting blood on his clothing. Especially his blue shirt.

He was finishing up wrapping the creature in leather when a twig snapped nearby.

Immediately he was to his feet and alert. Looking around, he tried to find the source of the sound, acutely aware of the faint sunlight now poking through the leaves. When nothing was immediately in his view, he carefully reached for the bow.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

If it were an animal, there would be more noise.

“Who’s there?”

A couple of seconds passed before a head popped out. Glimmering eyes and a grin laced with mischief greeted him. A white mask sat atop the newcomer's head and a plain hoodie wrapped around his tall frame.

Dream.

“George!” the blonde exclaimed, darting out of the thicket. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

George scoffed, slinging the bow across his shoulder yet again. “Have you now?”

“Yeah, I have.” Dream nudged his friend’s shoulder, earning a small chuckle from the shorter man. “You didn’t tell me you planned on going hunting! Okay, that’s a lie, you did, but you didn’t tell me when!”

“Because I didn’t think I had to!” joked George, earning a whine from Dream. “Besides, since when did you care? You never wanna come hunting with me.”

The taller man gasped, placing his hand across his chest in shock. “That’s a lie! Of course I wanna go hunting with you. I’m the only reason you’re good with a bow anyway.”

George raised an eyebrow.

“You know I’m right!”

George sighed. “Uh-huh, sure. I like to think I taught myself.”

Another offended gasp from Dream. “You were terrible before you met me. C’mon, admit it, I at least helped you somewhat.”

“Meh.”

“George!”

The brunette laughed, placing a hand over his mouth as he said, “okay okay! Yeah, you did help.”

“Aha!-”

“But!” George interrupted. “I taught you how to be better with a sword.”

Dream narrowed his eyes, looking at George for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope. I was already amazing with one.” Silence followed as George stared. And, eventually, Dream caved. “Fineee, you helped me too.”

George smiled softly, finding his friend’s stubborn ego oddly amusing. “Glad to know I could help the almighty Dream.” He squatted back down, returning to tending to the carcass. After a bit, he paused and looked back up. “What did you want?”

For a moment, a blank expression crossed Dream’s face, his train of thought gone. He forgot why he was there, that was clear enough. The silence was enough of an answer as it was.

Then he lit up and seemingly started to vibrate with excitement.

“I have something for you!” he declared, shoving his hands into his jacket pocket. “I don’t know how well it’ll work, but I wanted you to try it.” Carefully, he pulled out a small box, covered in Christmas wrapping paper with a lopsided, haphazard attempt at a bow. “It’s not much, but I couldn’t just wait to give it to you.”

A small frown formed on George’s features as he carefully took the package. It was nowhere near a holiday or his birthday, only causing him to become confused. “What-”

“Open it!” Dream pressed.

George obliged, pulling the wrapping off and removing the cardboard box inside. It looked reused, as though maybe Dream had removed whatever was inside from its original packaging.

Opening the box revealed that to be true as he pulled out a glasses case. Scrawled on the top in a special professional font was a word he thought he’d never see.

EnChroma.

Special glasses, made to help people like him see the world differently.

“Dream…” he murmured, glancing up. “You can’t be serious.”

The blonde nodded, a bright smile nearly taking up his entire face. “Come on, try them on!” he urged, motioning towards the case.

Looking back down, George carefully opened the case. Within it was a pair of sunglasses, discreet with its simple frame and dark lenses. Something so small yet so significant… He was nervous.

He pulled the glasses out and stared at them before turning them over in his hands. After everything he read about them possibly not working, he was scared. No matter how many videos and recollections about them working, he always had that nagging worry. It was what kept him from purchasing the pair himself.

What if they didn’t do anything? What if Dream expected him to react? What if-

George shook his head.

No, it’s fine. Even if they don’t work for everyone, there was nothing wrong with giving it a shot. Besides, the chance of him missing out on something if he didn’t try them on greatly outweighed his worry of failure. So, he slid them on.

And God, it wasn’t what he expected.

He didn’t know how to react to what he saw. He didn’t know what to, he didn’t know what to say… So much was different and bright and…

He was speechless.

Slowly, he reached out, brushing his hands across the grass. It felt the same: coarse, sharp, flimsy--but it was just… different. The way it looked; he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It was nothing he’d ever seen, not in the way he has now.

What he saw he couldn’t describe. It just… was. It existed, it was before him, and it was vibrant. Something he’d seen all his life and yet never before.

When George glanced up, it hit him even harder.

The trees were the same. Blaring and in his face, illuminated by the sunlight that now breached the canopy, lighting each leaf.

Oh, how he wished he could describe what he was seeing.

Getting to his feet, he turned, gaze trailing over everything it could possibly take in. It was overwhelming just how different the world looked, even if it was somehow so similar. As if someone dialed up the vibrancy and showed him a world that he used to be unable to see.

And he had no idea how to take it.

When his eyes landed on a bush, he nearly whimpered.

Intense. Brilliant. Psychedelic. The only words he could think of as he started and the flowers now popping off the bush. A color he’d never seen before. Thrust right at him, throwing itself at him as he barely managed to keep up with everything now bombarding his senses.

Reaching up, he lifted the glasses, proceeding to look at the hedge without the lenses altering his vision. It was back to normal, the flower petals blending in with the shrubbery despite the fact they were in his face just moments before.

George went back and forth multiple times, just trying to figure out how it was possible.

Is this what others saw?

Turning to Dream, he choked out a sob.

There his friend stood, the vibrant jacket the first thing George noticed.

Approaching the blonde, George ran his hand along the jacket sleeve. And, again, he removed the glasses to get a sense of just how different the colors were.

It was green.

This was green.

He was seeing green.

Lifting his head, he was greeted by Dream’s soft smile, only illuminating his green eyes.

Green eyes.

“You’re kidding,” he managed to get out, only making Dream’s smile grow. “You have to be kidding. It’s so… it’s so bright… everything’s so green.”

Dream nodded before motioning towards the bush the shorter man had been looking at earlier. “It’s all green, but that? That’s red.”

George vaguely knew what red was already--he wasn’t completely red/green colorblind, which meant he knew there was at least a difference between red and brown. But… he didn’t expect it to be so different.

It was just as intense as blue. Vibrant, colorful… red.

All the times Dream and Sapnap had talked about red… the times they would point something out and George would brush it off… and the nether…

God above, the nether must be something else.

He turned back to Dream, once again ignoring the bush and wrapped his arms around the taller man. Clenched fists wrapped in the cloth, head buried in the crook of his neck. He clung.

He murmured, “thank you…

Thank you so much.”

[tlou-1]

Her Own Worst Enemy | Chapter 7 | A Watchful Eye (Joel Miller Fanfic)

Ada had pulled on the one dress she owned, she had managed to trade some meat for it a couple weeks ago on a whim that she might attend her first dance in Jackson. It was simple but it was still flattering, thin straps leading to a cream crochet dress, she didn’t know how dressed up people got for these things but she did her best. When she arrived at the Town Hall she was still pretty early hoping to arrive before Abby. She spotted Ellie and Dina across the room, picking up a drink from the bar Ada joined them. “Glad I am not the only one who’s early” Ada smiled.

“Well Dina always likes to get here early so she can fit in as many dances as possible” Ellie teased. After some more small talk Ada tried to quiz them on Abby, what story was she going by? Where did she say she came from? But before the words could cross her lips, Ada was distracted as Joel walked in, he seemed to notice her almost immediately. Ada couldn’t help but look at her feet, he looked disappointed at her response and b lined for the bar.

“He seems to really care about you, you know? I know he can be a pain but you seem to keep him on his toes” Ellie chimed in, nudging Ada.

“I don’t think so. We can’t stand each other”

“Doesn’t look like it from where I am standing or sound like it either, he always brings you up any chance he can” Ellie laughed but then she turned serious, “He was going to apologise today. I don’t know what for, but if it was anything to do with last week you should know he wouldn’t have meant it”.

Ada looked confused, “That week is always a bad week for him, he’s gotten better with it but it still brings back memories for him, of Sarah” Ellie elaborated.

“Sarah?”

“His daughter” Ellie sighed.

Ada’s heart sank a little at the thought of Joel grieving his child, who she didn’t even know about, she looked across the room to try and spot Joel. When her eyes found him, she saw that Abby was standing talking to him. ‘It was sick’ thought Ada, like some creature hunting its prey or a cat playing with a mouse. Before she knew what she was doing her feet were carrying her across the room in their direction. Joel seemed surprised that Ada would walk right up to him, he didn’t say anything.

“Dance with me?” Ada asked putting her hand out, to keep Abby away from Joel she was going to have to get closer to him tonight. He took her hand silently and followed her into the centre of the room.

Ada felt his other hand move to the small of her back, moving closer into him she could smell his scent, a mix of the outdoors and fresh soap.

“I wanted to apologise earlier before you ran off” he whispered, his lips were so close to her ear that she could hear it so clearly.

“I know, I didn’t mean to run off”. It feel quiet again for a moment.

“That dress really is something on you” He said his thick accent standing out, Ada could feel him smirking as he said it, she couldn’t help but blush and laugh slightly at the comment.

“Yeah it’s better than the usual muddy jeans for patrol”

“Oh I don’t know, they do it for me too” Joel continued suggestively, his hand traced a line up the curve of her back. She became acutely aware of them being around people, particularly Abby who kept looking at them every so often.

“Joel-“ Ada began, Joel could sense in her tone that he might not like what she was going to say so he spoke before she could finish.

“I am sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean any of it I was drinking and -” He whispered and held onto her hand tighter as he swayed her to the music.

She interjected, “You meant some of it but you weren’t wrong I do find easier to be alone, it’s harder to let yourself care”

“I want to - care that is and I think you do too” he pulled back slightly to be able to look down at her, she smiled at him but quickly pressed her head back to his shoulder.

Ada was completely torn, she had known Abby a long time but they left her behind without a second thought and she had found the young woman incredibly difficult to see eye to eye with back in Seattle. And then there was Joel: although he had committed a terrible crime, he wasn’t a completely bad person, he just did what anyone would if it was their child who had been on that operating table, she looked across the room at Ellie, maybe he saw some of Sarah in her. He had travelled across the country with her, protected her, grown to love her like his own, ‘Alliances change’, Ada thought and nothing was black and white, morals were a grey area in this new world. She didn’t know what she would do but she knew she couldn’t let either of them die now, not if she could prevent it.

The song came to an end and felt Joel lips lightly kiss the nape of her neck, it was so gentle no one really even noticed.

“Sit and have a drink with me?” Joel asked and Ada nodded silently.

Her eyes were fixed on Abby whilst Joel went to retrieve them both a drink. Abby seemed to be trying to acclimatise into Jackson, speaking with different people throughout the night.

“Here you go” Joel chirped breaking Ada’s eyes away from Abby.

“So about last week-“ he continued but Ada stopped him.

“It’s alright Joel… Ellie explained to me, she didn’t tell me everything but I know it must have been a tough week.”

“She told you?”

“She said that you had a daughter, Sarah and that, that week brings back some hard memories. I am so sorry Joel”

He was quiet for a while, “So what do you think about the new addition to town?”

‘Changing the subject’ Ada noted mentally. She looked over at Abby, “I don’t know, what do we know about her? Can we trust her?”

That made Joel laugh, “Well Miss Ada, the same could be said about you”.

“Okay that’s fair. What do you want to know Joel Miller?”, Ada turned her chair into face him directly, he matched her movement.

“So what is Ada short for?” Asked Joel, Ada explained her full name was Adelaine Abertnathy. “That’s a bit of a tongue twister together but Adelaine, well it really suits you” he smiled warmly.

“Fair’s fair. I should get to ask you a question”

“Alright then, shoot”

She asked about what he did before the outbreak, Joel explained he was a carpenter but when he was younger wanted to be a country singer, “You sing? Now that I have to see” she made him promise to at least play the guitar for her once.

“Is this classed as a date or an interrogation?” Ada laughed.

“Which do you want it to be?” Joel smirked taking another sip of his beer.

“Don’t answer my question with a question. That makes it my turn again, how is it that you and Ellie are like family? I hear people call you her old man but you’re not her father?” Ada knew what she was asking and part of her knew the answer but she wanted to understand Joel.

“I ain’t her father but I promised someone I would look after her for a while, and well after months together, protecting each other, picking each other up when we needed it. I decided from there on I would look after her as long as needed.” and what Joel meant by that was until his last day on this earth.

Joel seemed to pause for a moment, almost as though he wasn’t sure if he should ask the next question.

“What happened to your family?” His face earnest. Ada shifted in her chair and began looking out the corner of her eye, where to start. “Well I have parents but they moved away across state. Honestly I don’t know what happened to them but my siblings. I had a younger sister and brother, my sister she got bit and shot herself so she wouldn’t have to turn and my brother well we got set upon my this bunch of vultures. Would shoot you for the shoes off you feet… they shot him two rounds of ammo and a handful of fucking tinned food” her voice broke slightly, Joel didn’t know what to say, “You are lucky to have Tommy and Ellie” she smiled at him, he smiled softly back and took her hand giving it a squeeze.

“Well I think that’s enough questions for one night, what do you say I walk you home?” Joel suggested.

“I’d like that”.

They were standing at the crossroads between Ada’s and Joel’s houses.

“Well I guess this is where we say goodnight” Ada said trying to break the awkward tension in the air. Joel hummed in agreement, before Ada thought about what she should do next her fingers hooked onto Joel’s belt loops and pulled him closer to her. They kissed and this time she made no attempt to pull away. She felt his hands grab at the fabric of her dress, gather it in his hands.

“Come home with me?” Joel asked in between kisses, Ada couldn’t stop herself long enough to say yes but nodded and followed Joel.

Next

[sharkbaitsekki]

Zakkura at the Golden Saucer. Fluffy but funny! Though, honestly, I'll be happy with anything. Thank you!!

The pressure was on Cloud now, and it was nearly palpable in the air around him. All of his muscles were tense as he waited, slowing his breathing and trying to focus. His grip around the leather tightened. His eyes darted around to collect all the information he could later use to his advantage. His entire body was taut like a bow, aimed and ready to find its target true. Cloud only had one mission to fulfill here tonight, and failure was absolutely not an option. Too much hung in the balance of his success. 

“Let’s do this fair and square,” his opponent smirked, and Cloud glared at him in return. 

“Bring it,” he taunted, and took one last deep breath as the announcer chimed in. 

“And... begin!”

The bang of the starter gun was deafening, but not as deafening as Zack’s whooping as he kicked his chocobo into a well-timed starting sprint. 

“Seeya later, Cloudy!” Zack taunted, sticking his tongue out at the blonde who frowned at his own missed start and kicked his canary yellow chocobo into a gallop. 

“It’s okay,” he reassured his mount (and himself). “This is the long track. Zack stands no chance if he doesn’t remember that.”

His chocobo crowed in acknowledgement, and settled into its rapid pace. Cloud kept his eyes peeled for obstacles, leading the animal over the initially simple bumps and turns in the race track. He didn’t mean to brag, but he was actually quite talented at chocobo riding. 

It just so happened that Zack “Golden Child” Fair was also good at it. Unfairly so. Cloud just wanted to knock him down a peg, finally have something to tease Zack about, for all the teasing the latter did for him. 

Speaking of the man, Cloud huffed self-satisfactorily as he saw him turn the next sharp bend. As expected, his charcoal grey chocobo had slowed down after its initial burst of energy, allowing Cloud to catch up with his steady pace. 

“How’s that overconfidence treating you?” he taunted as he came up behind Zack, enjoying the brief flash of panic in the older boy’s eyes. 

“Rather well, thanks for asking!” Zack grinned, not seeming too worried. “Don’t worry Cloudy! I’m sure you’ll look ravishing in that dress!”

“Like I’d actually let you force me into another one of those things.” Having brief flashbacks to Don Corneo’s mansion, Cloud could only shudder. 

He focused on avoiding the more treacherous mountain terrain for a bit, distancing himself from Zack to take it easier and steer his chocobo away from the pitfalls and rocks, smug when he noticed Zack’s chocobo trip and stumble in the distance with a loud crow and an accompanying cry of surprise. That was Cloud’s opportunity to catch up again, this time side-by-side with Zack. 

“Don’t get your feathers too ruffled when I win,” he scoffed, lowering his body to ease his chocobo into a sprint. The wind whipped past him, whistling in his ear, but it wasn’t loud enough to cover up the sound of Zack’s loud, unrestrained laughter. 

“Was that a pun?” he laughed, also lowering his weight to keep up with Cloud in his sprint. “I can’t believe it. A pun! From Mr. Sunshine himself!” 

“Stop talking,” Cloud gruffly said, feeling his cheeks heat up despite the cold wind on his face. “I’ll push you off your mount.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Zack’s voice suddenly dropped and oh, there was the competitive streak that had started this ordeal in the first place. A shiver ran across Cloud’s body, heating him up at the sound of that tone. 

“Don’t test me,” he threatened, bringing his chocobo closer until he was within reach of Zack and shoving his shoulder roughly. At least Zack hadn’t seemed to expect it of him, his chocobo veering off course slightly and narrowly avoiding a protruding tree root in consequence. 

If Cloud wore a smug smirk on his face as he took the lead, nobody saw. 

“Hey, I’m coming for ya!” Never the quitting type, Zack quickly caught back up to him, this time taking the lead on the assault by trying to bump Cloud’s chocobo off the path. Cloud pulled on the reigns tightly to keep his mount on the right track, and while he was focused, Zack leaned over and grabbed his arm. “Two can play at that game!”

“Let go!” Cloud grunted, trying to shake the annoyance off, tightening his legs around his mount to use both of his hands to pry Zack off. The latter only seemed to be having the time of his life like this, also letting go of the reigns in order to wrestle Cloud in what was likely a violation of at least four rules on the racetrack. 

“Come on, Cloudy, you can do better!”

“You’re so annoying... Get off!”

“Can’t make me! I’ll do what I have to to win!”

“In your dreams, weirdo.”

Zack laughed at that, genuinely amused, and perhaps it was the radiant grin on his face that suddenly took Cloud’s breath away. His heart skipped a beat as if free-falling when he looked at the sheer happiness on his partner’s expression. 

Less than a year ago, golden days like these seemed unattainable for both of them, each one stuck in a nightmare of their own. How far they’d come, Cloud realized, simply by never giving up on one another. 

Instead of having his eyes on Zack’s blinding euphoria, however, he should have paid attention to the racetrack. It was the panicked cawing of his chocobo that drew him out of his contemplation, and he turned to the front urgently. 

Too little too late, Cloud noted the boulder in their path at the same time as Zack did. Just when Cloud felt the grip on his arm begin to loosen, their chocobos let out twin cries of panic and each split into a different direction to avoid the boulder. 

“Whoa!” Before they knew it, they were both free-falling off their mounts, hanging on tightly to one another in the absence of all else, the gesture nearly ingrained into them after so long of it having kept them alive. It wasn’t too tall of a drop, but when they landed awkwardly in a tangle of limbs, it was undeniably painful. 

“Oww....” Zack groaned, finally letting go once they were on solid ground, sitting up to rub his head where he’d cracked it against the ground. 

“This is why you should’ve been more careful,” Cloud complained, mimicking the action and cradling his elbow where it had impacted the ground painfully, lightning bolts shooting all the way into his shoulder. At the sight of him, Zack’s face only split into a grin again, despite the spot of blood welling up on his forehead. “Hey, be serious for a second!”

“No way,” Zack chuckled. “That was fun. Sucks we didn’t finish the race though.”

“Zack!”

“Is your arm okay?” 

“Yes, it’s...” Cloud groaned, realizing he wouldn’t be winning this. “It’s fine. Zack, that was dangerous.”

“There are worse dangers in life,” Zack casually said, and meant it. Shrugging, he put his hand out to inspect Cloud’s arm, making sure it wasn’t broken. “So wait... if neither of us won, then who’s going to wear the dress!?”

“Nobody’s wearing dresses!” the blonde grumbled, jumping when Zack touched a sensitive part of his arm. 

“But you’d be so pretty...”

“I will end you.”

Zack laughed at that, letting Cloud’s arm go to instead cradle his jaw in his hands. They were dusty from the fall but warm, and Cloud immediately felt his heart skip a beat. Almost on instinct, his eyes darted down to his lips, feeling light at the sight of the beautiful, simple smile etched on them. 

“Alright, it’s a tie, then,” Zack conceded in a softer voice, caressing Cloud’s cheek. “Consolation prize?”

“You’re such a baby.” He said that, but Cloud did lean in to kiss him, soft and brief, enjoying every moment of it. It was at times like these that he realized how close he’d come to losing Zack forever, and he hated the feeling of anxiety that came with all of their moments together. 

“Mhm,” Zack hummed, drawing back and then back in for another kiss, slightly longer this time. “Sorry for pushing you off. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine.” Cloud didn’t dare open his eyes just yet, just in case this was just another mako dream. “Glad you’re well enough to keep making fun of me.”

“I’ll make fun of you even on my deathbed,” Zack promised lightly, although there was something bitter to it that prompted Cloud to lean in and hold on tight to him. 

The two of them stayed there for a minute, tangled in one another and breathing softly in tandem, letting the joy of their peaceful moment together wash away all the doubts that always sat at the back of their minds. The “what if”s and “could’ve been”s faded from attention, replaced instead by the acute awareness of how warm, solid, and alive they were under one another’s hands. 

Cloud couldn’t imagine where he would be now if not in Zack’s arms. 

“Hey! Lovebirds!”

“Well, moment’s over,” Zack chuckled, moving away from Cloud just in time to see Aerith ride around the bend, heading their way on a beautiful white chocobo. Tifa followed not too far behind on a pink mount, worry etched on her face as she spotted them. 

“We totally saw you wipe out on the cameras!” Aerith laughed shamelessly as she stopped next to them. “You two owe damages to the racetrack owner, just saying.”

“Oh, good. More money we don’t have.” Cloud punctuated that sentence with a glare directed at his other half, who, in return, simply chuckled sheepishly. 

“Oops.”

“Well, climb on. Tifa and I will take you back,” Aerith prompted. “Gotta say, though... there really are more romantic places to make out than on the chocobo racing track.”

“Eh,” Zack shrugged, helping Cloud stand and linking their fingers together. “We’re used to just taking whatever opportunity we can get.”  And Cloud clung on tightly, renewing his eternal vow never to let go.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

and when it’s hard i'll place your head into my hands

Adzri, Alec and Seregil's daughter, falls ill with a summer fever, sending both of her fathers frantic. Even as Alec tries to be strong, he realises it's stirring memories he'd thought he'd buried

Please leave a comment on Ao3 and reblog if you like this! And I’m always accepting requests!

------

Alec didn’t need the talímenios bond to read the anguish on Seregil’s face as soon as the chamber door closed behind them. It only meant he felt it too, a roiling, panicked pressure to thrash in his chest next to his own.

“Talí…” he murmured gently, moving immediately to hold him, “It’ll be alright.”

Seregil’s body moved to be held and hold in return but there was something mechanical about it, some missing part that made it clear his mind was elsewhere. Probably back behind the door they’d just closed, lost in the sickly miasma of illness that had invaded their daughter’s bedroom.

“Valerius said the poultice would help her breathing,” he mumbled, distress cracking the edges of his voice, “He said.”

“I know. And it will, given some time to work,” he put a confidence he didn’t truly feel in his voice, knowing his lover needed to hear it.

It had been harrowing, their little five year old girl crying fitfully at the dull green paste of crushed herbs applied to her chest, only able to sob weakly and croak that it was burning her nose. Seregil had turned away at one point, shoulders tight and tense as he faced the thick, dense summer night outside the window, leaving Alec to finish the job, murmuring soothingly to Adzri as best he could. Watching her cry herself back into a feverish sleep, still not understanding why he wasn’t listening to her had completed the breaking of his heart.

“She’s hurting, Alec,” Seregil whispered, voice raw, and if there had been any part left unshattered, those words did it.

“It’s just a summer fever, talí, I promise. It will break and she’ll be right as rain, back to running around and making our lives absolute chaos.”

The attempt at humour landed as thinly as it had sounded. They were both keenly aware that, for some, the old and young and vulnerable, summer fevers didn’t just fade. They burned and consumed the person from the inside out, racing their heart until it simply couldn’t hold any more. And while Adzri was hale and healthy, as robust as any child with scarecrows like Seregil and Alec for fathers could be, she was frighteningly young.

Alec had been holding himself together as much as he could since Adzri had started to flag just a few days earlier, starting to hack and cough and vomit in the night, as her skin turned a burning red, he’d told himself that Seregil needed him to be strong every bit as much as their daughter did.

But every time he closed his eyes, he felt like a boy again, watching his father waste away and not being able to do a bloody thing about it. The fear he tasted on his tongue was wretchedly familiar.

He shoved the thought roughly away and focused on Seregil, his tense shoulders and how he trembled in his embrace. He couldn’t fall apart now, not with his talímenios about to break in front of him.

“Come, love, you need to rest,” he whispered, kissing his cheek which tasted of salt.

That was terrifying in itself, a bitter counterpoint to the fear on his tongue. He could count on both hands the amount of times Seregil had shed tears in front of him. Though it was an increasing count, since the winter morning when he’d held her for the first time and promptly burst into tears in front of everyone in attendance, most of whom had known him for decades and had never once seen him cry.

“We should have stayed in Bôkthersa,” Seregil murmured, bitter guilt heavy in his voice, “She never once got sick when we were there and then as soon as we came back here…”

Alec sighed, again not needing the bond to feel what his lover was feeling. They’d been welcomed back to Bôkthersa with open arms, tears and relief so their daughter could be born where Seregil had been, in the same room no less, and they’d lived there for some time until she and Alec were strong enough to make the sea journey back. They’d managed to feel like a family, like part of the clan and that shared history. They’d even had a small ceremony, just amongst Seregil’s immediate family, finally making good on the promise held within the rings they’d been wearing, the promise to live as husbands no matter what the law said.

But the sweetness of those long, sunny years only made saying goodbye again even harder. And Seregil was acutely aware that they had to leave because of him, because of the mistakes that still haunted him even after so much hard won change. There was only so much time they could spend as Bôkthersans before other faie would take notice, before they would be reminded of the severing that had taken place. And there was no guarantee it would be a polite reminder.

“Rhíminee is our home,” Alec said gently, wishing more than anything he could pull out the knife of guilt Seregil still felt in his side, “We had to come back some time. Seregil, please, don’t think this is your fault.”

Seregil sighed, eyes far away, both of them well aware he wouldn’t make a promise to his love that he couldn’t keep, “I should stay by her...in case she wakes up…”

“You have been, talí,” Alec reminded him, “For three days straight. And Valerius was just as clear in his instructions for you as he was for Adzri.”

“He said to check her temperature regularly!” Seregil protested, even as the shadows under his eyes looked hollow in the candlelight and his eyes struggled to focus.

“I’ll do it,” Alec said firmly, “I slept last night, it’s your turn now. You promised me, Seregil.”

Beaten, Seregil wavered, though his eyes shone in the candles they’d left burning through the long hot nights as the house had stayed restless.

“I know, my love,” Alec moved up to cradle his face in his hands, “Believe me, I know. But you can’t help her by running yourself into the ground. You’ve done all you can, now we have to wait, as painful as it is. And you may as well do it by getting some sleep.”

Seregil took a shaky breath, now leaning into Alec’s warmth, letting himself take the comfort now with full awareness, “I just can’t bear it. Seeing this hurt her and knowing we can’t fix it.”

“Because we love her,” Alec nodded, resting their foreheads together, “And that’s going to get her through this.”

Seregil nodded slowly, “Very well...I’ll sleep but you’ll wake me at dawn? Or if anything changes?”

“Of course,” Alec promised, sending him off to their chamber just next door to Adzri’s with a last kiss, “I love you, talí.”

“I love you too,” Seregil murmured softly, eyes still sad and worn as he closed the door but there was a slight glimmer of hope under it all, one he’d managed to put back there.

Alec’s relief and triumph lasted all the way until their chamber door closed and he heard the sound of his husband sinking, fully clothed into bed. And then there was nothing but fear in its wake.

He was silent as he stepped back into his daughter’s bedroom, not wanting to wake her, and slid back into the chair that had been keeping an anxious vigil by her bedside since she took ill. It was dark, they’d extinguished all the candles and drew the curtains after it became clear the light was hurting her eyes, but it was only a few moments before his eyes found shapes in the shadows.

She was so beautiful. He was struck by that thought so much, even after years of being her father. Of course the first thing he always saw in her face was Seregil, just as his talímenios always claimed to see him. It was the long, thin nose and the sharp angles that he saw, the messily falling dark curls, the intelligence in her eyes. Though her eyes were closed now, her cheeks red with the fever, her breathing shallow and raspy, a hollow sound in the heavy shadows. Her little chest barely rose and fell, there was hardly movement in the blankets they’d wrapped her in as she lay in the middle of her little bed.

In the silence, pierced by that awful sound of illness that Alec dreaded hearing but dreaded not hearing even more wholly, he couldn’t keep the memories away anymore. Once again he was a much younger man and the shape in front of him wasn’t his daughter. The laboured breathing was deeper but no less sickly, whistling through a much older chest. And instead of the heavy, oppressive heat of a Rhíminee summer, it was so, so cold, a bleak Northern winter.

Once again he was sixteen and he was watching his father die.

All alone and without his husband to comfort, the creeping sense of helplessness set in. Here again was something he couldn’t shoot or snare or beat back with a sword, something invisible and malicious and omnipotent, sliding out one of the linchpins of his life and leaving him reeling. Once again he felt small and naive, an insignificant speck in the middle of a white, empty forest, tears freezing on his cheeks as he vainly tried to light a fire, unable to get so much as a spark.

And suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

Not her too, he begged silently, as tears began to slide heavily down his cheeks, please, not her too.

All the growing he’d done, the love he’d found, the battles he’d won, what did it really mean if he couldn’t save the people he cared about?

“Alec?”

He jumped, suddenly unaware of how much time had passed, how long he’d been sat in his daughter’s bedroom and in the middle of a Northern forest at the same time, as both a terrified child and a terrified father. But Seregil was in the doorway, easier to see than he should have been at night. Some pale, grey light was filtering through behind him, light that had to be dawn’s.

“Seregil,” he croaked, voice cracking with disuse.

“Oh, talí…” Seregil kept his voice soft but the emotion in it was obvious as he moved towards him, putting his hands on Alec’s shoulders, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think once how this must be making you feel, given everything.”

Whether it was the bond or his panic attack had been that obvious on his face, it was clear Seregil knew what was going on in his mind.

“We’ve both had a lot on our minds…” he murmured, shaking his head, Seregil blaming himself the last thing he wanted, “Adzriel…”

“I should have thought,” Seregil insisted, “I should have comforted you rather than just…”

“Talí, please no,” Alec turned, needing his eyes to find his lover’s, “You could just as easily say I should have told you. And you needed me then, I’m never going to regret giving you comfort when you needed it.”

Seregil let it go but his eyes were still concerned. He did look like he had at least gotten some sleep, his hair was matted on one side and the shadows under his eyes had lessened.

“You don’t talk about your father much, talí,” he murmured, still keeping his voice low, to not wake Adzri, and his tone careful.

Alec shifted, biting his lip slightly, “I...I know I must make him sound cold but my whole childhood, he was the only constant. Some days it would feel he was the only other person in the world. He...he was my world.”

Seregil nodded slowly, hand gently stroking over his hair.

“And watching him die was...difficult,” it wasn’t a large enough word for it but he couldn’t find a right one in the moment, “And afterwards, until I met you, I felt so alone. And now, seeing her like this, it…”

His throat closed again, not in the tight, frozen panic way of before, but in the more natural way of tears being released.

“Because she’s my world too. And I don’t know what I’m going to do if I ever lose her.”

Now it was Seregil’s turn to hold him, his arms strong and safe around his shoulders as he cried quietly against his stomach. He didn’t need much, strange for years of hidden hurt, but Alec was glad the quiet shuddering had stopped so he could hear what happened next.

“Papa? Daddy?”

Both of them immediately jumped as if poked with a sword, whirling around. Adzri sat up in bed, rubbing at her eyes. Her voice was still a little raspy but she hadn’t been so alert in more than a day, her eyes so wide and aware.

“Sweetling,” Alec gasped, lurching forward to feel her forehead. Damp and clammy but perfectly cool.

“Oh, Adzriel,” Seregil moved to sit at her feet, eyes wide with relief, “Oh, look at you. How do you feel?”

“Thirsty,” she decided after some thought, her chubby little hand moving under her nightdress to her chest, where the poultice had dried and cracked, “Itchy.”

“Of course,” Seregil laughed, taking her in his arms and holding her tight, “Breakfast and a bath, then. You can have whatever you want.”

Adzri blinked, smiling hopefully, “Cake?”

“Sure,” Seregil shook with either relieved weeping or helpless laughter, even he seemed unsure, “Why not? Cake for breakfast. Aura knows we’ve earned it.”

Alec smiled, taking a moment to watch them both and let the relief course through him and chase the last of the fear away, before he moved in to share the embrace.

He hadn’t seen Amasa smile often, only on the brightest of autumn mornings or when Alec landed a shot or upon hearing the first of the starlings singing. But he could well imagine he was smiling now.

[eyeless-cunt]

You fools I have more than one chapter on my story and you get I’m gonna share it with y’all

Witness Protection

It’s an EJ x reader and this is chapter two babey😎

The tall man ran over, slapping a liquid coated hand over your mouth and pressing you against a wall. It took you about two seconds to realize that the liquid was blood, the scent of iron overpowering. The door to the hotel room shut slowly, a soft click telling both you and this man that the door was shut. He took his other hand and made a ‘shh’ motion over his mask, slowly bringing his hand away. You gulp and comply, not daring to scream. You wipe a bit of the blood off of your face.

“I-Is he d-dead?” You let your gaze drift to the horror that is the corpse sitting limp on the creamy toned carpet. He nods slowly and walks over, kneeling over the body. He prods it with a gloved finger, like he was making sure it was now nothing more than a sack of meat. You start to creep to the door, but he begins to make his way over to you once more. He reached the door and slid the lock in place, as if it would help. You raise a brow but he grabs one of the arm chairs in the room, getting bloody handprints and footprints all over the place. He slid the chair in front of the door with ease, and you realize he’s blocking your chances of exiting the room and calling the cops. He nods, as if satisfied with the exits blocked and then returns to the body, where he grabs a bloody scalpel out of his pocket.

“Wh-what are you going to do with that?” instead of responding, he cuts away the dead man’s shirt and then presses the blade against the body’s stomach, slicing down. You go green in the face. He continues to cut, blood beginning to pool. Eyes squeezed shut, you try to ignore the revolting sounds of things being removed. The sound of someone eating fills your ears and you crack your eyes open. A kidney is grasped in the man’s hand, his mask is tilted up, but you cannot see his face, it’s blocked by his hood. The kidney goes closer to the man’s face and you vomit before you can think. This strange murderer is eating organs. He doesn’t seem to mind your puking, and keeps eating. You grip your stomach, feeling the need to heave come upon you once more. The chewing stops and you breathe a sigh of relief, glancing up. He’s placing the organs in freezer bags that he probably had in his pocket somehow. The sickening feeling returns. You turn away completely, unable to look. You face the wall for maybe a minute before the sounds of running water fill the air. Slowly, you turn back around. The scene before you still makes you sick to your stomach, but you try to ignore it, and peek into the bathroom. He’s washing his face, splashing water onto the area around his mouth. The water that runs off is tinted red, and you pale more, if possible. Finally, he pulls his mask back over his face and turns to look at you. Instead of attacking you, like you thought he would at any given moment, he walked past you, getting to the body and scooping some blood in his hands, and he threw it on a footprint he left.

He repeats this tedious process with every footprint in the room, including your own. Soon, he finishes, and does a once over of the room before, finally, he turns to look at you. His hands dive into his pockets, and you tense, expecting his surgical blade to appear, gleaming with fresh blood, but instead he produces a small roll of duct tape, unrolling a small portion. He tears off this tiny piece and slaps it over your mouth. Next, his hands grip your wrists and he tapes them together, using multiple layers of the sticky tape and making it go up your arms, not just on your wrists.

“Is there anyone downstairs right now?” his voice is familiar, but you are in too much shock to care. A shake of your head tells him ‘no’, and he moves the chair and unlocks the door, swinging it open. He scoops you up in his arms, holding you bridal style, which was a welcome change from the expected slung-over-the-shoulder-like-a-sack-of-potatoes. He walks calmly to the elevator, pressing the button to bring the elevator to this floor. It dings and he steps in, hitting the button for the ground floor. You wait there, your work uniform soaking through with blood that was clearly not his own as he held you firmly. The doors slide open and he peers out, and as you had said, it was empty. He hustles out of the building and towards a beat up truck with a license plate from a completely different state. He shifts your weight to one arm and pops open the passenger side door. He throws you into the seat and climbs up on the side, strapping you in. He pulls out the tape again and tapes the buckle in place, he closes the door and you hear a click. He locked the doors. A heavy sigh leaves you, muffled by the piece of tape. With nothing to do and no hope of escaping, you lean your cheek against the chilly glass of the window and count the stars, trying to find constellations. You zoned off and failed to notice the driver’s side door opening or the truck turning on. It’s only when the vehicle starts to move that you snap out of your stupor, and you turn to look at him. He says nothing, staring straight ahead. You groan quietly and move to stare out the window again.

Buildings pass as he drove through the city you worked within. He continued to drive in complete silence, the only thing keeping you from going insane was the strange sound the engine made whenever he put his foot on the brakes and the thumping the chassis made whenever it bounced over a bunch of rocks or a crack in the pavement. Each thump made your head smack roughly against the passenger side window. It was really beginning to hurt. How long had he been driving? It was impossible to tell. Your best guess was maybe half an hour. The blood still hadn't dried on your shirt, but you were acutely aware of the crusty feeling your entire left side had, face included. You brought your shoulder up, trying to wipe the bodily fluid that had encrusted itself onto your skin off with the blood stained shoulder of your uniform. It only made it worse. You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration, and thump your skull against the glass repeatedly, trying to knock yourself unconscious so at least you could rest and be free from this seemingly never ending boredom. The man's bloody glove gripped your arm, pulling you away from the window. You whined and tried to pull away, but not only was he stronger, he had the advantage of being able to leave the car. Something happened and he had to put both hands on the wheel, leaving you to try to hit your head hard enough to fall asleep. He let out an audible growl and pulled over. The old truck had been moving along the back roads for quite some time, making getting out and moving to the passenger side door much easier for the man. He climbed onto the step.

"Hold still," he growled, pulling a syringe out of his pocket. A clear liquid barely sloshed around in it, there was so much it couldn't even move inside the plastic tube. You obviously resisted. There was no telling what was in that pointed needle of your possible doom. "Its anesthesia, calm down," You protest through screaming the best you can. He grabs your arm roughly, practically cutting off all blood flow to the limb, and stabs the needle into your neck. It was a sharp, sudden pain that slowly faded as he pushed the liquid in. 'This is it' you thought woefully. 'This is how I die. In the passenger seat of an ancient looking truck with a tall ass man stabbing a needle into my neck. What a way to go-' you cut yourself off as you feel your body numb. This was it, you supposed. End of the line. He pulled the needle out of your neck and held your limp body with incredible and inhuman ease, by which I mean one arm, and lazily, too. The world was beginning to fade into black and that's when you realized he was counting down like doctors do right before a patient goes in for surgery.

"7...6...5…" his voice sounded soft this time, no harshness. Maybe it was because you were slowly losing your ability to think and hear, but it did appear to be quieter, at least a little. And he wasn't growling. "3…" he was growing quieter as the world around you was being engulfed in darkness. You concluded it was whatever drug he gave you. You struggled to keep your eyes open, horrified about what he might do to you once he had you unconscious. You just hoped he wouldn't kill or take advantage of you while you slept.

"No…" you barely managed to let the word slip past your lips before it all went dark.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jack ignored her quiet protest. He wasn't going to do anything to her. It was a simple anesthetic. She'd be awake in a few hours, most likely. He sighed as he pushed her limp body back into her seat properly, slamming the door shut. He dug his hands into his jean pockets, pulling out a slightly busted smartphone to check the time. It was late. If his math was correct, the sun would probably be rising by the time they reached the next pitstop, which was the gas station. He could probably pick up some food for his little hostage while he was there. Couldn't have her dying on him yet. He pocketed the phone after a moment and climbed back into his side of the truck, slamming his own door shut and strapping in. He took a quick glance at the woman beside him. He'd have to get her new clothes too. That is if he decided to let her live longer than after the next hotel. She'd cost him his precious sleep, so now she was going to suffer with the constant fear of what he was to do with her as punishment. A rather vanilla one for Jack, to be completely frank. But he was tired, and she could run basic errands for him like getting simple supplies or keeping lookout for cops while he was hunting.

He took off his mask and dropped it onto a crowded seat in the back. With a heavy, stressed sigh, he pressed the heels of his palms to his sockets and groaned, letting his head fall and hit the horn in the middle of the steering wheel. He wasn't concerned about it honking and waking anybody up. The button had died nearly three years ago. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair before starting the car back up and getting back on the road.

Now he was all for the whole 'time is a social construct thing,' but it still bothered him whenever someone called him while he was trying to sleep, even if it was in an uncomfortable thing, such as his truck. He needed some kind of sleep. So when his phone began ringing violently at 3 am while he was trying to nap, he was more than a little irked. He grumbled, half awake, and unstrapped, clumsily opening the car door and slipping out, grabbing his mask on the way out. The door was lazily shut behind him. He didn't hear it latch, but he didn't care. He had parked in a field by a cliffside to avoid being bothered by some curious teen or meddling dumbass. The phone in his pocket continued to vibrate in his jeans, forcing him to pull it out and answer.

"What?!" he snapped at whoever it was.

"Calm down sir," there was a man on the other end. He didn't recognize the voice, and if they knew him they wouldn't call him sir.

"Sorry," he sighed. "I just woke up. Can I help you?"

"It says here that you left the hotel recently with all of your stuff but left your keycard at the front desk?"

"Ah, yes. I meant to check out but there was no one at the front desk,"

"Alright, thank you, that is all, goodbye," He hummed and then hung up. He pinched the bridge of his nose, careful not to scratch himself with his nails. He glanced at the fence that kept people from falling off of the cliff. He walked over to it and rested his arms on the rotting wood, scrolling through his contacts. He selected a rather important one, and tried calling. It wouldn't let him. Apparently his signal was too weak to make such a long distance call. He grumbled again. Today was not his day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You awoke slowly, blinking away any sleepy sand left in your eyes, before looking around the dimly lit area. You still had tape on your mouth, and your arms. You were still dressed. Relief flooded you. You looked around after your mini euphoric moment to gather where you were. It was hard to tell from where you sat. all you really knew was that it was nighttime and the man was nowhere to be seen. After a lot of shifting, you spotted him leaning against a fence, trying to do something on a phone you didn't know he had. It was all strangely serene. The moonlight lit up the area in dim white light, also bathing the man and his black cloaked self in a pure light. Strange, how simple light can make him look holy despite the man being far from heavenly. He pocketed the phone and returned to the truck.

"Good morning," he grumbled as he opened the driver's side door, voice hoarse. You don't respond. He closed the door and got situated properly in his seat before starting the car and beginning to drive. He says nothing else. Your shoulders sink, and you rest your head against the strangely cool glass of the window.

[genaleah]

I can give the full context! It's going under a cut though because there's a lot to it 👍

So here we go....

TMA!AU

Aka AU², the Nightmare Boogaloo!

So right off the bat, this an AU-within-an-AU of the Wildcards becoming living embodiments of fear ala The Magnus Archives podcast. Here's a list of the Entities on the wiki, though obvious warning for spoilers. (Granted, I've only just started season 4!)

In this AU offshoot, each character becomes a monster tied to a different entity of fear. Nelson with The Eye, Guybrush with The Spiral, Eddie with The Desolation, Manny with The End, and Sam and Max with The Hunt.

Guybrush gets hit first + worst. It starts off very slowly, at first he just feels a little confused/dissociated, but then he starts to have increasing difficulty figuring out when he's asleep or awake, and whether he's in reality or the mindscape. Doorways that exist in reality will suddenly lead him into his dreams with no way out, and then suddenly he's back in reality with no warning. Eventually this crescendos to a point in which he can't find his way OUT of his mind at all, and it all starts warping more and more into something unrecognizable. What feels like months of sleepless, ceaseless wandering is only a single day that he's gone missing. This slip through reality is also what ends up transforming his own body, he changes himself into a reflection of his own state of mind.

When he comes back out, he unwittingly transforms the Motherlobe into another maze. Not everyone experiences this or even realizes that anything is wrong. The victims who get trapped in it become fellow reflections of The Spiral, albeit with their own fears/nightmares influencing how they turn out. The Psychonauts as a whole is being purposefully targeted as a breeding ground of fear & new avatars for the Spiral, and Guybrush was chosen as its architect against his will. He just had the right combination of powers and pain to create a smooth, seamless transition.

Simultaneously, other agents who don't encounter this are being changed by other Fears who don't want to lose their share of influence in the world. Psychics are PRIME fodder.

Manny and Eddie get infected by their respective Fears while they're away from the Motherlobe, just out and about doing their own things.

Manny doesn't even engage with his directly to begin with, other people start becoming increasingly fearful of him until the change in role suddenly overtakes him. People try to make bids for their own immortality, and whoop, suddenly he's got the dice or playing cards or what-have-you, and he always knows that he's going to win in the end. The losers die immediately in front of him. Sometimes he can be more of a direct reaper and make the offer first, but he's not totally comfortable doing that unless he REALLY thinks someone/something deserves it.

Eddie has probably the worst situation. If he touches anybody they will die a painful burning death. A single touch can cause 2nd or 3rd degree burns, prolonged contact will set the victim in flames. But worse than that is the fact that his alignment with the Desolation makes him want to destroy things and people of worth- so that he creates an acute fear of loss and pain to those who would miss them. He’s the most physically dangerous to be around, so he’s taken to wearing a full-body motorcycle get up so that no one can touch him accidentally. He's safe to the touch now, technically, but it doesn't stop him from being ultra careful. He’s trying to abide by some ghost-rider morals here and primarily target bad people or other monsters, but there’s always going to be some collateral damage.

As for Sam & Max... They take a while to really notice the shift happening, but their final stage can best be described as this: Imagine if Noir Sam enjoyed it. That's basically how both of them would behave. They've always loved hunting down perps, but now their chases are a little more... intense. Frantic. If they've had a good one they're satiated for a while, but going too long without it makes them more antsy and violent. The hunting is fun and fulfilling for them!

Sometimes it can ramp up into killing, but considering that the whole gang is out looking for answers, that means a lot of capture and kidnapping instead, with the intent of interrogation (thanks to Nelson). And some monster hunting on the side!

Nelson is one of the last to change, but he gets caught up in the shenanigans pretty early on after first finding Guybrush in his noodley eldritch state. He starts trying to figure out some way to undo all of their conditions and bring them back to normal. Well, "normal".

But slowly he shifts from "I need to know how to help my friends" to "I need to understand what's happening" to "I NEED to know as many deep dark secrets as possible in order to live". With the change in his behavior, he basically becomes a textbook supernatural Man in Black entity, and his clothing starts reflecting that. His eyes become bloodshot and light-sensitive, so he takes to wearing shades while trying to appear normal.

Which also brings me to the next character! @zeroodd​ came up with a great story for Elaine, so I will c/p it here :

What if her and Nelson had teamed up in the beginning for a solution.

Just one night they're both working hard on it and Nelson starts asking about what they've found so far

but then he

keeps asking questions

and Elaine looks over and he's just got a tape recorder right up to her face

"Do you know he's gone for good?"

Course he'd try to backtrack and apologize but Elaine has to face facts that Nelson is as much of a threat as any of them now.

She leaves the group for a while in order to study this fear stuff on her own, and comes to the conclusion that she needs to willingly get in on it if she wants any hope of surviving this increasingly dangerous world. She eventually joins The Web. She starts out feeling nervous about things being out of her control and scary, which suddenly shifts to her wanting to control more things and oh cool, these spiders help me do that! By the time she rejoins with the group everyone is full-blown monster mash so there’s very little to hide from anyone. (Manny still HATES bugs though, and would like the spiders far far away from him, por favor.)

So, how do they all go back to normal? Well... They don't. After hitting dead end after dead end, realizing they're definitely not human anymore, and learning the true nature of the fears as a whole, they're forced to accept it and try to maintain themselves as best they can.

The thing that would make the changes so insidious is that it would all gel with who they are as people. By the time they're at that final point, it would feel like fate that they wound up that way, like it's everything they're supposed to be.

The power of friendship possibly even added to this, because rather than struggling alone and possibly fighting back against it, they understood and cared for each other through the worst of it, which made accepting their new selves a lot easier.

BUT WAIT! There are a few more links left in this story:

How did all of this start, really? Well, consider the fact that in the normal Wildcard AU (???), LeChuck is responsible for a lot of trauma in Guybrush’s past that make his hold on reality a little rough. Add to that his ability to create very life-like illusions, and the poor pirate becomes the perfect conduit for the Spiral to take hold. In this AU, LeChuck was the one who got the ball rolling on his transformation out of hopes that he could control the Spiral itself by making his brother the primary avatar, and then bringing about a new world of madness in which he is the sole, sane ruler. Guybrush hasn’t lost his sense of self yet, but as more and more chaos and fear builds throughout the world as a whole, he’s losing track of himself more often. 

After all of his work and research, Nelson decides to try and bargain with the Fears directly. Dealing with supernatural forces hands-on has worked so far! (I'm not sure if he would have to find other fear avatars to work this out with, or if he could try to ritualistically communicate with the fear entity as a whole, but he figures something out.) His bargain is this:

He offers to lessen the burden of the Spiral off of Guybrush a bit. In exchange for LeChuck being removed as a threat, Nelson will let go of the last vestiges of humanity, and become a full-on fear entity to work for both The Eye AND The Spiral. The Spiral gets all of the knowledge he collects as a watcher for the Eye, The Eye gets to know that someone reasonable is helping to keep the Spiral in check a bit. Diplomacy!

The deal works out, Lechuck gets trapped in the PUZZLE ZONE and Guybrush gets to reclaim a bit of his sanity/sense of self again. In the aftermath, Nelson's got a permanent tape-recorder effect to his voice, but on actual recordings he sounds as clear as if he were right there, with little or no effect where it should be. The pupil of his left eye has become a spiral, while Guybrush's solidified into a round one. Nelson's blending of roles works even better as a MIB: He creates the uncanny feeling of being monitored, and you get the sense that he's always lying about his motives.

This new situation works out even better than expected, and he tries it again in order to help Eddie. Not that he could possibly take on a third fear responsibility, but at least he's living proof that giving the avatars of fear what they want can work out for the best, and make them more effective at being monsters!

Essentially: Give👏us👏work👏benefits👏

The deal between the Desolation and The End gives these boons: Manny can sometimes take a human form (better for targeting victims), and Eddie gets a lot more control over the heat and can turn it down to a low simmer. They get to work in tandem to create a NEW kind of fear, the burning loss of everything you've ever cared about, and the knowledge that at the end of all that suffering is an infinite, inescapable end.

Now the gang lives on a haunted ship (Philadelphia Experiment??) that they use to travel around the world and hunt down worse monsters / evil humans. And maybe save the world if need be? But mostly they just terrorize people and feed off their fear.

In summary: everybody's awful monsters but it worked out fine in the end. For some reason the Magnus Archives made me go "But what if this was a found family story and they unionized and lived on a boat??" I can't do aus normally anymore, maybe I never could.

[witness-protection-official]

Warning, contains mildly graphic depictions of gore, cursing, and a brief mention of sexual assault. Please read at your own risk

Witness Protection - An Eyeless Jack x Female Reader fanfiction

Chapter 2

The tall man ran over, slapping a liquid coated hand over your mouth and pressing you against a wall. It took you about two seconds to realize that the liquid was blood, the scent of iron overpowering. The door to the hotel room shut slowly, a soft click telling both you and this man that the door was shut. He took his other hand and made a ‘shh’ motion over his mask, slowly bringing his hand away. You gulp and comply, not daring to scream. You wipe a bit of the blood off of your face.

“I-Is he d-dead?” You let your gaze drift to the horror that is the corpse sitting limp on the creamy toned carpet. He nods slowly and walks over, kneeling over the body. He prods it with a gloved finger, like he was making sure it was now nothing more than a sack of meat. You start to creep to the door, but he begins to make his way over to you once more. He reached the door and slid the lock in place, as if it would help. You raise a brow but he grabs one of the arm chairs in the room, getting bloody handprints and footprints all over the place. He slid the chair in front of the door with ease, and you realize he’s blocking your chances of exiting the room and calling the cops. He nods, as if satisfied with the exits blocked and then returns to the body, where he grabs a bloody scalpel out of his pocket.

“Wh-what are you going to do with that?” instead of responding, he cuts away the dead man’s shirt and then presses the blade against the body’s stomach, slicing down. You go green in the face. He continues to cut, blood beginning to pool. Eyes squeezed shut, you try to ignore the revolting sounds of things being removed. The sound of someone eating fills your ears and you crack your eyes open. A kidney is grasped in the man’s hand, his mask is tilted up, but you cannot see his face, it’s blocked by his hood. The kidney goes closer to the man’s face and you vomit before you can think. This strange murderer is eating organs. He doesn’t seem to mind your puking, and keeps eating. You grip your stomach, feeling the need to heave come upon you once more. The chewing stops and you breathe a sigh of relief, glancing up. He’s placing the organs in freezer bags that he probably had in his pocket somehow. The sickening feeling returns. You turn away completely, unable to look. You face the wall for maybe a minute before the sounds of running water fill the air. Slowly, you turn back around. The scene before you still makes you sick to your stomach, but you try to ignore it, and peek into the bathroom. He’s washing his face, splashing water onto the area around his mouth. The water that runs off is tinted red, and you pale more, if possible. Finally, he pulls his mask back over his face and turns to look at you. Instead of attacking you, like you thought he would at any given moment, he walked past you, getting to the body and scooping some blood in his hands, and he threw it on a footprint he left.

He repeats this tedious process with every footprint in the room, including your own. Soon, he finishes, and does a once over of the room before, finally, he turns to look at you. His hands dive into his pockets, and you tense, expecting his surgical blade to appear, gleaming with fresh blood, but instead he produces a small roll of duct tape, unrolling a small portion. He tears off this tiny piece and slaps it over your mouth. Next, his hands grip your wrists and he tapes them together, using multiple layers of the sticky tape and making it go up your arms, not just on your wrists.

“Is there anyone downstairs right now?” his voice is familiar, but you are in too much shock to care. A shake of your head tells him ‘no’, and he moves the chair and unlocks the door, swinging it open. He scoops you up in his arms, holding you bridal style, which was a welcome change from the expected slung-over-the-shoulder-like-a-sack-of-potatoes. He walks calmly to the elevator, pressing the button to bring the elevator to this floor. It dings and he steps in, hitting the button for the ground floor. You wait there, your work uniform soaking through with blood that was clearly not his own as he held you firmly. The doors slide open and he peers out, and as you had said, it was empty. He hustles out of the building and towards a beat up truck with a license plate from a completely different state. He shifts your weight to one arm and pops open the passenger side door. He throws you into the seat and climbs up on the side, strapping you in. He pulls out the tape again and tapes the buckle in place, he closes the door and you hear a click. He locked the doors. A heavy sigh leaves you, muffled by the piece of tape. With nothing to do and no hope of escaping, you lean your cheek against the chilly glass of the window and count the stars, trying to find constellations. You zoned off and failed to notice the driver’s side door opening or the truck turning on. It’s only when the vehicle starts to move that you snap out of your stupor, and you turn to look at him. He says nothing, staring straight ahead. You groan quietly and move to stare out the window again.

Buildings pass as he drove through the city you worked within. He continued to drive in complete silence, the only thing keeping you from going insane was the strange sound the engine made whenever he put his foot on the brakes and the thumping the chassis made whenever it bounced over a bunch of rocks or a crack in the pavement. Each thump made your head smack roughly against the passenger side window. It was really beginning to hurt. How long had he been driving? It was impossible to tell. Your best guess was maybe half an hour. The blood still hadn't dried on your shirt, but you were acutely aware of the crusty feeling your entire left side had, face included. You brought your shoulder up, trying to wipe the bodily fluid that had encrusted itself onto your skin off with the blood stained shoulder of your uniform. It only made it worse. You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration, and thump your skull against the glass repeatedly, trying to knock yourself unconscious so at least you could rest and be free from this seemingly never ending boredom. The man's bloody glove gripped your arm, pulling you away from the window. You whined and tried to pull away, but not only was he stronger, he had the advantage of being able to leave the car. Something happened and he had to put both hands on the wheel, leaving you to try to hit your head hard enough to fall asleep. He let out an audible growl and pulled over. The old truck had been moving along the back roads for quite some time, making getting out and moving to the passenger side door much easier for the man. He climbed onto the step.

"Hold still," he growled, pulling a syringe out of his pocket. A clear liquid barely sloshed around in it, there was so much it couldn't even move inside the plastic tube. You obviously resisted. There was no telling what was in that pointed needle of your possible doom. "Its anesthesia, calm down," You protest through screaming the best you can. He grabs your arm roughly, practically cutting off all blood flow to the limb, and stabs the needle into your neck. It was a sharp, sudden pain that slowly faded as he pushed the liquid in. 'This is it' you thought woefully. 'This is how I die. In the passenger seat of an ancient looking truck with a tall ass man stabbing a needle into my neck. What a way to go-' you cut yourself off as you feel your body numb. This was it, you supposed. End of the line. He pulled the needle out of your neck and held your limp body with incredible and inhuman ease, by which I mean one arm, and lazily, too. The world was beginning to fade into black and that's when you realized he was counting down like doctors do right before a patient goes in for surgery.

"7...6...5…" his voice sounded soft this time, no harshness. Maybe it was because you were slowly losing your ability to think and hear, but it did appear to be quieter, at least a little. And he wasn't growling. "3…" he was growing quieter as the world around you was being engulfed in darkness. You concluded it was whatever drug he gave you. You struggled to keep your eyes open, horrified about what he might do to you once he had you unconscious. You just hoped he wouldn't kill or take advantage of you while you slept.

"No…" you barely managed to let the word slip past your lips before it all went dark.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jack ignored her quiet protest. He wasn't going to do anything to her. It was a simple anesthetic. She'd be awake in a few hours, most likely. He sighed as he pushed her limp body back into her seat properly, slamming the door shut. He dug his hands into his jean pockets, pulling out a slightly busted smartphone to check the time. It was late. If his math was correct, the sun would probably be rising by the time they reached the next pitstop, which was the gas station. He could probably pick up some food for his little hostage while he was there. Couldn't have her dying on him yet. He pocketed the phone after a moment and climbed back into his side of the truck, slamming his own door shut and strapping in. He took a quick glance at the woman beside him. He'd have to get her new clothes too. That is if he decided to let her live longer than after the next hotel. She'd cost him his precious sleep, so now she was going to suffer with the constant fear of what he was to do with her as punishment. A rather vanilla one for Jack, to be completely frank. But he was tired, and she could run basic errands for him like getting simple supplies or keeping lookout for cops while he was hunting.

He took off his mask and dropped it onto a crowded seat in the back. With a heavy, stressed sigh, he pressed the heels of his palms to his sockets and groaned, letting his head fall and hit the horn in the middle of the steering wheel. He wasn't concerned about it honking and waking anybody up. The button had died nearly three years ago. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair before starting the car back up and getting back on the road.

Now he was all for the whole 'time is a social construct thing,' but it still bothered him whenever someone called him while he was trying to sleep, even if it was in an uncomfortable thing, such as his truck. He needed some kind of sleep. So when his phone began ringing violently at 3 am while he was trying to nap, he was more than a little irked. He grumbled, half awake, and unstrapped, clumsily opening the car door and slipping out, grabbing his mask on the way out. The door was lazily shut behind him. He didn't hear it latch, but he didn't care. He had parked in a field by a cliffside to avoid being bothered by some curious teen or meddling dumbass. The phone in his pocket continued to vibrate in his jeans, forcing him to pull it out and answer.

"What?!" he snapped at whoever it was.

"Calm down sir," there was a man on the other end. He didn't recognize the voice, and if they knew him they wouldn't call him sir.

"Sorry," he sighed. "I just woke up. Can I help you?"

"It says here that you left the hotel recently with all of your stuff but left your keycard at the front desk?"

"Ah, yes. I meant to check out but there was no one at the front desk,"

"Alright, thank you, that is all, goodbye," He hummed and then hung up. He pinched the bridge of his nose, careful not to scratch himself with his nails. He glanced at the fence that kept people from falling off of the cliff. He walked over to it and rested his arms on the rotting wood, scrolling through his contacts. He selected a rather important one, and tried calling. It wouldn't let him. Apparently his signal was too weak to make such a long distance call. He grumbled again. Today was not his day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You awoke slowly, blinking away any sleepy sand left in your eyes, before looking around the dimly lit area. You still had tape on your mouth, and your arms. You were still dressed. Relief flooded you. You looked around after your mini euphoric moment to gather where you were. It was hard to tell from where you sat. all you really knew was that it was nighttime and the man was nowhere to be seen. After a lot of shifting, you spotted him leaning against a fence, trying to do something on a phone you didn't know he had. It was all strangely serene. The moonlight lit up the area in dim white light, also bathing the man and his black cloaked self in a pure light. Strange, how simple light can make him look holy despite the man being far from heavenly. He pocketed the phone and returned to the truck.

"Good morning," he grumbled as he opened the driver's side door, voice hoarse. You don't respond. He closed the door and got situated properly in his seat before starting the car and beginning to drive. He says nothing else. Your shoulders sink, and you rest your head against the strangely cool glass of the window.

[pilot-boi]

Missing In Action: Chapter Four

Maelstrom

For the moments when you’re in so deep, it feels easier to just swim down.

AO3 LINK

Jaune wished he could say that he woke up gently, smoothly transitioning from the land of sleep to the waking world. That wasn’t even close to what happened, but in dark twisted sort of luck, he couldn’t really remember the waking up process. One minute he was unconscious, and the next he was awake.

There was a searing pain on one side of his face as well, but he was sure that was unrelated.

He couldn’t move his arms, or really his anything. That wasn’t really the best first thought to have, but Jaune supposed it could’ve been worse.

How it could be worse...well he’d get back to you on that. 

How much time had passed? Was it the next day or-?

Another sharp stinging pain, and Jaune nearly fell out of his chair from the force of it. Jaune winced back from the slap and squinted up into the blindingly bright light hanging over him. Right. Kidnapped. Unknown motives and all that. Focus Jaune.

“Good morning, sunshine,”  growled a man’s voice from just out of sight. More than ever Jaune longed for the ability to move, to turn and see who was talking. The man sounded less than pleased to see Jaune awake. 

“What did I say about talking to the kid?” A silky smooth voice with the hint of a threat said from the darkness in front of him. Jaune stopped trying to crane his neck around to see the first voice, and snapped it back to focus on where the voice had come from.

The man’s silhouette was big, all broad shoulders and barrel chest, but he was smiling. A wolf’s smile. Or at least, he looked that way from the limited amount of the man’s Jaune could see through the light over head. 

 “Right, sir. Sorry sir,” the first voice grumbled from behind him. So the big guy was in charge then. That...didn’t help him much admittedly, but it was a mite better than the no information he’d had before. Now if only he could figure out what they wanted.

“Who-Who are-” Jaune got cut off by a rough cough, and changed direction half way through his sentence. “What do you want with me?” He wheezed, squinting through the gloom at the indistinct shape of the guy in charge. Sometimes the best course of action was just to be direct.

“Ah ah ah,” the man chuckled softly, “You don’t ask the questions, kid, I do. And I don’t believe I gave you permission to talk. So let me teach you the rules, kid.” The man’s silhouette nodded to the guy behind Jaune, and suddenly his right arm was caught in a vice grip.

“The rules are simple, easy enough for even you to understand,” the man said, stepping forward into Jaune’s little circle of light. He was big, with features chiseled from stone, and hair buzzed down to the scalp. Like a military officer from an action movie. “Rule one: I ask the questions, not you,” Commando said, and the grip on Jaune’s arm tightened, “Rule two: if you don’t answer, there will be consequences.”

Consequences?! What the hell did that mean?! And gods if that guy could let go of his arm, he’d really appreciate it, because that was starting to really hurt.

“And finally, rule three: I’m like king around here, kind of the head honcho,” Commando continued, the reasonable tone set at odds to the table of “tools” that were revealed when he moved, and the tub of water that Jaune could only hope was for cleaning said tools. “And as a king, I expect respect from my subjects, and that includes you, boy. So talking out of turn…” He waved one hand, searching for the right words. “Such things can’t go unpunished.” Commando settled on, giving the man holding Jaune’s arm the go ahead.

And then he yanked, and Jaune’s shoulder whited out into a pinpoint of agony. 

There was pain, and then there was pain. This definitely fell into the second category. Someone was screaming, it might’ve even been him.

“Now let’s try this again,” Commando’s voice swam back into his range of hearing, just as Jaune’s screams petered off. Tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes, but for now he was back. “I am going to ask you a question, and if I don’t like the answer I get...well, you can guess what’ll happen.” Jaune just nodded, not trusting that he’d be able to get away with a verbal response. 

“We’ll start easy. What’s your name, kid.” Jaune opened his mouth to respond, any name but his own jumping to his mind, but Commando held up one finger to stop him. “And word of advice, no lies, because I’ll know if you’re lying. And you don’t want to lie to me, kid.”

Jaune’s arm gave a particularly painful throb, and his mouth shut with a snap. He’d know if he was lying? But how? Was it his Semblance, or did this guy already know his name? Or maybe he wouldn’t be able to tell, and it was all a trick. Or maybe it was a double trick to see if Jaune would actually answer with his real name. Or maybe-

Commando’s henchman gave a yank to Jaune’s arm that had him yelping out in pain and bursting out with, “Jaune! Jaune Arc! My name’s Jaune Arc!” Well there went any hope of them maybe not knowing who he was. Nice going, idiot. If the questions got more sensitive, he’d have to try harder than that measly effort to keep the answers from them.

“Now, was that so hard, Jauney?” Commando asked, sounding extremely pleased with himself. Jaune glared up at him, but if anything the man looked even more pleased to see him acting defiant. Acting being the operative word, because Jaune was feeling anything except brave at the moment. 

“Let’s try a harder one now, shall we?” the man asked, as if he actually expected a response from Jaune. “Where is Ruby Rose?”

Jaune felt like he’d been slapped again. Whatever question he’d been expecting, that hadn’t been anywhere close to it. Not even in the ballpark of what he’d been expecting. The man who’d dislocated or maybe broken Jaune’s arm was bustling around behind Commando now, pouring more water into the tub and dragging it closer.

“I don’t know,” Jaune said, as firmly as he could with his voice shaking. His eyes flicked down to the tub of water in spite of himself.

“Hm, interesting,” Commando said, sounding disappointed. “Dunk him.”

This wasn’t directed to anyone in particular, but Commando’s taller henchman took it as an order. Jaune was hauled out of his chair and forced onto his knees in front of the tub of ebony black water. “No, no no, no, please-” he was sputtering in sudden panic, but Rando had him by the hair, and then his head was underwater.

It was icy cold. The kind of cold that would steal his breath away if the water weren’t already doing that. Because he’d gone into the water screaming, and inhaled at least one mouthful of water before he could stop himself. Jaune fights to retain what little air he can, but already the freezing water is starting to fill his lungs.

Rando pulled him back out, and Jaune was gulping in breaths of air before he even left the water fully. Coughing desperately to rid his lungs of the hated water and replace it with the air he so desperately needed, Jaune only barely heard Commando say, “I’ll ask again: Where is Ruby Rose?”

“I- I don’t know,” Jaune spluttered, somewhat less confidently than before with his teeth chattering from the cold.

“Dunk him again.”

And he was back underwater. Longer this time. His lungs are screaming with pain from the effort of holding the air in, and before too long he gave in again to the instinctual need to breath. His mouth opened and gulped in the needed air, but water poured into his lungs instead. 

There wasn’t any air. He needed air. Why couldn’t they understand? He’s going to die. This was how he died, drowned in a bathtub a million miles away from anyone he cared about.

Rando pulled him out again. Jaune couldn’t hear anything with how the water was clogging his ears. Rando dropped him to the floor and his injured arm was shaking with effort as he retched up as much water as he could. He needed air, he needed air.

Commando was mouthing words, but he sounded muffled and far away. Jaune couldn’t even see him properly, but his mouth stumbled out what he hoped was a crushing reply.

“Again.”

It must have worked, but Jaune had only gotten a single lungful of air before he was hefted up and dunked.

Pulled out. 

“Where is Ruby Rose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Again.”

Dunked.

How long this continued, Jaune never found out. Commando started switching to other people occasionally. The rest of team RWBY, Jaune’s own teammates, Qrow, Oscar, and others that Jaune didn’t even know. Or maybe he did know them. After a couple dunks in the Tub, Jaune was starting to black out. He couldn’t even remember half of the answers he gave, but he at least had reassurances that he had never answered, because it never stopped.

They tossed him unceremoniously back into his cell.

At least he knew when he landed, if the pain of landing hard on his dislocated and potentially broken arm was anything to go by.

Not bothering to stifle the ragged scream that clawed its way up his throat, Jaune didn’t even notice that his hands were being rechained to the wall he’d woken up by just a few hours ago. Had it only been hours? It felt like a lifetime ago. The only thing keeping him upright now was the insistent tug at his wrists that the chain was providing. His arm was on fire.

The cell door slammed, but not soon enough to hide the casual, almost pleased, laughter from the two men who’d put him in here. The rusty bang of the door plunged his cell back into pitch darkness, and at least helped to snap Jaune out of his pain-filled daze. Cautiously lifting his head from the wall where it had been resting, and deeming it safe enough to move, Jaune’s shoulder decided to remind him that it was still there and hadn’t gone anywhere in the last ten minutes.

You’d have thought that he would’ve gotten used to sudden harsh stabs of blinding pain.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Jaune decided to get it over with and see if he couldn’t alleviate at least a little of the acute pain in his general shoulder area. 

He gathered his legs underneath him so he was sitting on his heels. His muscles creaked in protest as they shifted for the first time in hours, stiff from disuse and from cold. Remembering how this went the last time he tried to stand up, he went more cautiously this time. It wasn’t easy going with no hands to help push him up, but after some maneuvering he managed to get to his feet. 

His hands were still held behind him at an awkward angle, he had to keep them in the small of his back, but he was on his feet. The shaking in his knees made it questionable how long that would last, but whatever. After a minute of working at it, he managed to get the frozen cuffs loose from the hook and lowered his hands down behind him.

The tension started to leave his shoulders as he gingerly lowered himself back to the ground. That was so much better than before. Even now Jaune could feel the tell-tale tingling in his fingertips as feeling returned to them. Painful, excruciating feeling, but feeling nonetheless. Craning his head around to look, he saw the cuffs had cut into his wrists and now he was bleeding. Great, more injuries, and these were his fault.

Gingerly rotating his injured shoulder, probing it as well as he could without being able to see the damn thing, Jaune was beyond relieved to realise that it was not broken. Dislocated? Yes. Bruised? Almost definitely.

Could he fix this? He had to at least try. His ribs felt trampled, his lungs were still screaming from the Tub, and his eyes were burning with tears. Jaune had to try to do something useful today.

Fumbling for a moment, he leant back against the wall to give himself any sort of balance. He’d once fallen down the stairs and dislocated all the toes on one of his feet, and if this hurt even half as much, then he was going to need the extra support.

His depleted Aura would do nothing to help with healing this until he popped it back into place. Oooohh, this was going to hurt. Very much. He just had to grit his teeth and do it, there was literally no other way. He was prepared. He was okay.

Before he could back out of it or tense back up, Jaune yanked his shoulder and popped it back into place.

He wasn’t prepared. 

It popped back in with a sickening noise that vibrated right down to his very core, and he crumpled to the ground with a gasping scream. Knives had to be going into his shoulder socket, that was the only solution. Nothing else could hurt this badly. 

He blinked away his pain-induced tears and took a moment to shakily suck in sharp gasps of breath. There. He did it. All was well in the Jaune Arc world. He’d have to get back to that later, when his shoulder wasn’t still throbbing with pain. And when he wasn’t still trapped in a cell who knows where with no hope of escape.

Shifting as gently and slowly as he could, the knight curled into a ball on the cold stone floor. Jaune had to lock his jaw to keep from screaming profanities as he felt his broken ribs agonizingly rub against each other.

Today had been the worst day of his life, without question. Nothing else even came close. And as he drifted off to sleep, Jaune knew in the depths of his heart that the worst was still to come. They would keep asking questions, and he would gladly die rather than answer them, so there was no way the pain would ever abate.

And with that pleasant thought, Jaune’s exhausted mind and body forced him to fall asleep. 

[odissey061]

Motonari's route

Chapter(s) posted:

1. This freak won't have me

2. Kick him in the teeth

Please, teach me a better way to create link because I can't do it by myself

Chapter 3: This trick never worked at human's memory

Tag: @towa-no-yume @r-f-a-journalists

When I open my eyes the first thing I feel is an acute headache: the hands run through the hair until I discover a bump. I press it to see if I feel the pain and then I whimper like a baby: it hurts a lot. Why I'm so stupid? I take a look around me and I notice I'm in a cold and empty cell. The room is surrounded by three wooden walls and before me there's an iron grille. Here and there on the floor against the wall there are spooky chains that make me chill and smile nervously. At this moment I heard the rolling waves and I understand I'm on a ship.

Where I am? How many time has passed since my kidnap? I must return to the Oda right now! A lot of hours passed since I left Azuchi castle: I told to Hideyoshi I'd come back after lunch, so probably they have already noticed my absence.

I try open the door but, obviously, is locked and I look around to find something to force the look, but the room is empty, except the chain on the wall. Then I took a clip from my hair and, holding it tight in the hand, I pray:"At human memory this trick never worked, but, please, if there's even the littlest chance, make it happens". Great, now I pray to objects like they were gods!

I plug the clasp in the door lock but, as I expected, it doesn't work. Pushed by despair, I retry again and again, but after a large number of failed attempts and swears, finally I give up and I lean my back on the wall. A man appears in front of me: he's very tall and his body is made by tons of muscles, his eyes shining with malice. With a look I understand this man is a brute and he doesn't hesitate to use violence and if I had to fight against him, I'd probably die. "Who are you and why I'm here?" I demand, but he laughs dryly:"I'm the one who makes the questions here, little girl" and he opens the door. As he spoke, I recognize him as the man who kidnapped me. He enters in the cell and leaves open the door. I try to gain more time:"I understand why you kidnapped me: I'm very close to the Oda commanders and your boss wants information about them", Well, at least you are not stupid, that makes easier my work. So little girl, talk about your friends" he comments. "The problem is exactly about this: you see, I'm only their maid and I don't know anything about their future moves, so keep me here is useless" I lie and I walk towards the door. But the man grabs my hair, making me moan for the pain and yells at me:"You think I'm so stupid to believe you? I'm not a fool! In Azuchi people say Nobunaga brought you to battle on his horse  His voice becomes lower, still being threatening:"If you don't tell me spontaneously all you know about them, I'll make you confess with the bad manners". And when he shows a bag full of torture instruments and I'm terrified. I don't know very much about torture, but I can imagine how much they'd hurt my body. I want to scream for help, but I know nobody will save me. My face gets paler. I know already how this will finish: this man will torture me until I speak, but I don't know anything, so he'll kill me for nothing. I'll die for anything!!

"I'm not his lover: I'm his maid and I have been staying in Azuchi for a few days. I don't know anything about them and if I knew something, I surely won't talk to you" I repeat using a quiet voice to not make him angrier. "Bad answer" he smiles sadistically, almost happy about my resistance and slaps me so violently to turn my head. "Try again, little girl, but the next time I won't so merciful".

"And if I don't confess what are you going to?" I bravely provoke him. The Oda forces helped me a lot and I won't betray them for my own safety. "I'll break all of your bones and if you won't talk, then I'll cut the tendons of your hands and your feet. If you still won't confess I'll remove your eyes, then I'll tear your ears and finally I'll cut your tongue" his threats scare me a lot, but I won't give up my loyalty. He takes from the bag a strange object and he places it near to my nails.

No no no no. Please, somebody help me!

I close the eyes too scared to watch, but at that moment I hear a new voice:"Yoshitoko, what are you doing here? I'm sure the captain hasn't told you to torture this girl since he is out to collect information with a few men. So I wonder: whose order are you following?". I open my eyes and I see a young man who's throwing diggers with the glare at the man in front of me. The newcomer is younger than this man, but somehow the eldest has to obey him. "The captain is still a child, quartermaster: if all of us wait for his command, we'd have alredy died. He doesn't know what to do and he's not able to keep the promise he made" he growls, "He's the captain, not you: he knows what's the best for us better than you. You are only able to hurt people and torture them, for this reason you won't be a captain. Now leave, Yoshitoko" The man speaks with a rough voice and I can feel the subtle threat he silently implies. I except a Yoshitoko's reaction, but he obeys whispering something.

Left alone, the young man is more relaxed walks towards me and I step back, so he reassures me:"I don't want to hurt you. I want to check your wound". I let him check my arm. I groan for the pain when he tries to move it. He looks more friendly than his colleague, so I try to ask:"Can you tell me who are you and how many days passed since my kidnap? Will you torture me again to seek information I don't have?". He sighs: "The arm is broken, now I call a doctor so he can help you better. Now you are on a pirate ship and you were kidnapped by Yoshitoko yesterday, following captain's order. Now the captain is away, but in a short time he'll be back and will decide what to do about you". "Earlier I said the truth: I don't know anything about Nobunaga's future plans. Keep me here he's useless" I whisper, "Even if you don't know anything you'll probably stay here as a political hostage to be used against your friends" the man explains my situation. The sadness overwhelms me to the thought I'll be used against my friends: I can't do this to them. "But as I told you is the captain to decide, so he could even release you" he tries to reassure me, but I have no illusions: if I were in his position I'll do the same. I even realize probably I won't be able to go back to my time. No way this will happen! The man says they wait for their captain, so it means the ship is still in the port: that makes my escape more easily. The man is inside the cell and the grill is open: all I have to do is run and don't be caught. But the pirate in front of me is still vigil even if he's more relaxed, surely is ready to catch me and even I'd beat him he'll give the alarm. No, escape at this moment is too risky but if I don't do it right now later would be impossible.

The only thing I can do is talk with the captain: I'm even ready to beg for my release, it's necessary. "The captain will be here in a few hours, so be more patient" he ends the conversation. "What kind of man is your captain?" I wonder, "The captain? Is an edgy man. He treats with respect his subordinates, but he doesn't trust anyone except me on this ship. Is the type of person who can be your friend but he stabs you in the back some minutes after" he responds. So he's a bastard and the possibilities he'd let me go are very low.

* * *

It's almost evening and Hideyoshi is worried: y/n told him this morning she'd have gone in the city until lunchtime, but she didn't come back. He asked around but nobody was able to tell him where y/n was. He alerted Nobunaga who decided to hold a war council to find her. Hideyoshi expresses all of his worry and Mitsunari takes word with a stern look on his face:"I'm quite worried as well, Lord Hideyoshi. We should look after her". 

"Maybe she escaped after she went to war, after all, was her first time on a battlefield. I won't be surprised" Mitsuhide suggests with his cunning tone, but a more careful eye can see a glimpse of worry. In the past days, he went to some places with a very horrible reputation and in a red light district and he noticed a lot of Portuguese men who acted too much secretive for being simply merchant. They were really cautious: they gazed around before speaking with someone and once Mitsuhide risked revealing his true identity. Just today he succeeded to talk with a man after days of failures, but what he discovered was suspicious arms traffic. He didn't discover anything about y/n's missing. And the possibilities she's been kidnapped are not low. "My lucky charm is not a coward, Mitsuhide: she proved it during the war"       

Nobunaga scolds him, "Then I suppose we should look after her" snorts Ieyasu. "As if you hadn't done it before, before" teases Mitsuhide: Ieyasu's contrarian reactions are always a delight for him.

"Lord Ieyasu is always so kind" Mitsunari praises him. Ieyasu scolds him:"I told you I wasn't searchi-", "Enough! Each of you will send your own scouts in the city to collect information" Nobunaga stops the discussion. Once the council ends, all the warlord obey to Nobunaga orders, sending men in the city and its surroundings with the order to search for y/n and arrest everyone look suspicious. But as time passes, nobody finds y/n.