#anyway so he goes in the room with just a regular shitty mask on and i stayed outside bc fuck that im not tryna catch la rona

[lovelylarrie]

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[wkemeup]

The Witness (2)

series summary: After witnessing a Hydra hit and the handsome, flirtatious  cop who had become a regular at your bar takes it upon himself to ensure your safety off the books, you learn to rely on someone else for a change and find you don’t mind it at all. Not when it’s him.

pairing: detective!bucky x reader

word count: 5.8k

warnings: flirty bucky AF 

author’s note: idk about you guys but I’m ready to really get this series to get into the good stuff!  lots of sweet/flirty bucky in this chapter before some angst hits ya soon 😉

series masterlist // previous chapter 

You had only ridden in the back of a police car twice in your life. The first had been when you were seven years old. Legs too short to reach the floor, swinging nervously and tapping against the passenger seat, eliciting a sharp glare from the officer staring at you in the sideview mirror. You had your arms wrapped tightly around a small brown bear. It was old and tattered but it was one you’d had since you were a baby.

There were blood stains in its fur.  

Your father was sitting on your left, staring at the window as he pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes brimming with tears. He’d never been one to let his emotion hang on his sleeve and it was the last time he’d allowed you to witness it.

Sirens wailed as the car zipped through the busy streets of New York at an hour you’d never seen before. Not quite understanding what was happening, you were caught up in the lights of the city, mesmerized as they blurred into colorful streaks the faster the car sped through the traffic. It wasn’t until you arrived at the station and your father had been hulled off for questioning until you told the nice woman in blue about the man who had hurt your mommy.

Your second time was admittedly much worse. The sharp awareness of the events that had transpired rendering on an endless loop in the back of your mind. You couldn’t shake the image from your mind no matter how hard you tried. Charlie’s eyes boring into yours. The deafening sound of the gun shot. The way his body fell so limply to the ground. The blood – so much blood. Cold, distant brown eyes.

“You alright back there?”

You blinked a few times, trying to pull back your focus. You looked up at the review mirror to see Detective Barnes’ glance flickering back to you as he drove; a few seconds on the road, one back at you, repeat. You licked your lips and turned to look out the window – anything to avoid those blue eyes that seemed to see right through you.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, folding your arms protectively over your chest.

He had started to say something else when his partner, Wilson, hit him in the arm. The rest of the ride was silent save for the wailing of the siren.

By the time you reached the station, you were lost in your own thoughts. The door clicked open and you sat there, unmoving, for an additional minute before Detective Wilson carefully led you out of the car. It was quiet by the station, you noticed. Flashes of bright lights of photographers had lined your walkway to this very station when you were a child. Charlie’s murder wasn’t as newsworthy as your mother’s it seemed.

“I’ll get you some coffee,” Wilson said as he opened the door for you to step inside. A wave of cool air hit your skin and you shivered. “Barnes’ll take you to the interview room.”

Your eyes were squinting, attempting to shield yourself from the influx of florescent lighting. You flinched as the copier kicked into gear. It was too busy in this building for this hour of the night. A blinding headache pulsed at the nape of your neck. Twisting in your fingers, you realized you had been fidgeting with your necklace.

“How do you like it?”

You blinked. “W-what?”

Wilson smiled softly, nodding towards the coffee machine. “It ain’t good, but sometimes we can mask how shitty it is if you take something in it. I tend to go for the mocha creamer.”

“Which you steal from me, thief," a red-haired woman called from her desk without missing a beat as she typed away. She didn’t even lift her eyes to look as him.

He feigned offense and then leaned in closer before he spoke again, like he was telling a secret. “I can still get it for you, if you like.”

The red-head rolled her eyes, though she had started to laugh to herself. You found the very edge of your lip tugging, trying to pull a smile out of you, though it fell just as quick as it appeared. You were impressed he was able to get that much from you, anyway.

“Sure,” you said, your voice more broken than you realized. “One sugar, too?”

This got him smiling. He gave you a thumbs up before jogging over to the coffee table.

“Come on,” Detective Barnes gestured, “this way.”

You nodded, following him in a bit of a daze down the long corridor. He glanced back over his shoulder every few paces, almost as if he was checking to make sure you were still behind him. You were busy watching one of the officers dressed in official uniform lean against the wall, his forearm resting above the head of a young woman as she looked up at him over the top of her coffee. They were smiling at one another, laughing quietly as if sharing a secret. You didn’t know the last time you’d ever been on the end of a look like that unless it was surface level teasing. It reminded you a little bit of – oof.

You bumped right into Barnes’ back as he paused unexpectedly, face hitting square between his shoulder blades and he spun around to steady you. Snapped back into reality, your eyes fell down to his hands gripping your arms and he quickly pulled away as if he had burned you. He was being suspiciously quiet for the man who couldn’t stop running his mouth when he sat at your bar.  

“Hey, Barnes, you ready?” A man stepped out from behind the closed door to your left. With a black suit jacket, carefully groomed goatee, and thick rimmed glasses, he didn’t exactly fit the part of the other cops roaming around. He pressed out a smile when he looked in your direction before his eye caught the officer and woman huddled in the breakroom through the window and he shouted, “Flirt with the analysts on your own time, Ward!”

The two quickly ducked away from one another.

“Stark,” Barnes grumbled. He didn’t seem pleased to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought you could use some backup,” he quipped, shoving a file of papers into Barnes’ chest as he gestured for you to follow him into the room. You didn’t know why you did, but you looked to Barnes first, sending him a cautious look and waited until he nodded slightly before you took another step.

Dark grey drywall lined the open space and a long, horizontal mirror was imbedded in the wall to your left. In the center of the room, a metal table. Two single chairs facing one another and a silver bar fastened to the top of the table where a pair of hand cuffs could be woven through to bind the suspect in place. You weren’t a fool. You knew what this was.

“An interrogation room?” You paused at the entry way, nails digging into your skin.

Barnes clenched his jaw and cursed under his breath, though it seemed more directed at himself than anything else. Slowly, he nodded. “It’s just to talk.”

“You think I’m a suspect,” you gawked, more of a statement than a question. There was a reason you weren’t quick to trust cops. First on scene was always the prime suspect; your father had taught you that as a kid. Don’t go to the cops, they won’t believe you. They’ll take one look at your last name and think the worst. You sent an accusatory glare at Barnes and he shook his head, holding his hands up defensively.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not not saying that.”

Barnes sighed, now running his hands through his short, dark hair; couldn’t keep the damn things still. He was looking at you like you were a child, lost and scared, like you were something to be pitied. It was starting to make your skin boil.

“We can’t officially rule it out until we go through the evidence and you give a statement,” he started, “I’m sure you’re familiar with how this goes -”

“What makes you say that?” you snapped, unable to hold your tongue any longer. “You think because of the people I serve in my bar that I’m dirty? Is that it? You don’t know shit about me, Barnes. You come into my bar a few times a week for a month and you think you have some kind of profile on me but-”

“We know your mom was killed by a hitman when you were a kid,” Stark's voice cut you off, carrying the kind of austerity that set you off guard. He said it so simply, so matter of fact, that it made you freeze in your tracks. You swallowed, pressing your lips together tightly as your heart started to pick up in pace. He leaned against the table.

“Tony,” Barnes warned, his voice low. “Watch yourself.”

Stark didn’t pay him any mind as he turned and sat on the edge of the table, folding his arms over his chest. “We know that your father was involved with trafficking drugs for Hydra. The same organization who hired the hitman that killed your mom, by the way.”

Barnes shouted for Stark to ‘back the hell off’, but he didn’t listen.

“We know that you now run the bar he used a front to sell heroin to poor kids on the street,” Stark continued. “We also know you have a big mouth and put on a brave little face for those low-lifes who pay your bills, but underneath it all, you're scared as shit. Maybe you can handle a bar filled of misdemeanors and petty thieves, but you don’t stand a chance against the big guns and you know it.”

You were seething as Stark pushed himself off the table and walked around to kick out the chair closest to the wall.

“Now - Sit. Down.”

Despite the rage boiling in your veins, you crossed the room and sat down in the chair, keeping your eyes trained on his with a burning look of disdain upon your features.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Stark?” Barnes grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You know more than you’re letting on,” Stark sneered at you, slamming a fist against the table enough for it to make you jump. “You’ve had a hand in your father’s business this whole time, haven't you? Haven’t you!”

"Stark!” Barnes barked, enough for his fellow Detective to take a few steps back. You exhaled a heavy breath. “This isn’t how I want you treating my witness.”

“What so she’s your witness?” Stark snapped back, momentum already riling up again. “You think this case is yours because you spend a few nights in her bar and maybe a little something on the si-”

“Enough!”

You sunk further into the chair, heat flooding to your cheeks as you glanced towards the booming voice coming from the doorway. The shadow of a man stood in its frame. As he stepped into the room, you noticed the features of his face were much kinder than his expression suggested. Short blonde hair, toned arms, and dressed in a black tie and white button-up shirt rolled to his elbows, decorated with pins and badges along the left of his chest and a police shield emblem on the sleeves.

“Captain Rogers,” Stark mumbled, shooting Barnes a glare. “What can we do for you?”

“It was getting loud in here,” the captain replied sternly, eyes glancing over to you cautiously before they returned to Barnes. “Is everything alright?”

You clenched your jaw, keeping your arms folded tight over your chest and everted your gaze.

Stark rolled his eyes, tapping his rather expensive looking shoe on the tile. “Look, Cap. This is our first lead on Hydra in months. Permission to treat the witness as hostile?”

“What? Permission denied!” Captain Rogers shook his head, aghast. “You’re not a lawyer, Stark. You’re a detective. Act like it!”

“She’s the daughter of a known Hydra affiant!”

“She’s not a threat, Stark,” Barnes retorted. He stepped out from his position leaning against the wall and into Stark’s direct path to you. His shoulders were so tense you could see the muscle through the thin layer of his shirt. “She’s just here to talk.”

“So you say!”

“Back down, Stark,” the captain warned.

Tony threw his arms in the arm. “Oh, so Barnes can flirt a little with the witness after hours and practically gets the case handed to him but I take this damn thing seriously and you’re punishing me?”

“What Detective Barnes does on his free time does not concern this precinct, Stark, you know that.”

“You’re only defending him because you two used to be partners before Commander Fury promoted you -- which was a serious conflict of interest by the way,” Stark argued.

“I’m still your captain, Stark. Watch it.”

“Am I the only one trying to bring down Hydra here!?” Stark started to pace the length of the room. He took a step to his left and you caught sight of yourself in the reflection of the two-way mirror.

Muffled shouted suggested Stark was still arguing with the captain, but you couldn’t hear much of what they were saying. Drifting out of focus to much of anything besides your reflection, your eyes caught on the red flakes in your hair, sunken skin below your eyes, and a far-off look about you that nearly made you cringe.

You tilted your face to the side, examining the splatter of blood along your cheek and started to rug at it vigorously. Neither Stark or Rogers seemed to notice, but Barnes had narrowed his eyes on you, watching carefully from the other side of the room. He was about to take a step forward towards you when Stark’s voice snapped you out of your trance.

“Have either of you actually read her father’s rap sheet? It’s a mile long and there’s no goddamn way she wasn’t involved!”

Red stained hands slammed sharply against the table, enough to leave a sting in your palms and you were on your feet before you could stop yourself, drawing the immediate attention of the three men in the room.

“I am not my father!”

You were panting, heavy breaths in your lungs as you stared down Stark. Admittedly, he was eyeing you with intrigue, like he was more impressed than suspicious of your claim. Legs crossed as he leaned against the two-way mirror, he started to grin.

“Oh, is this a bad time?” Detective Wilson peaked his head out from behind the captain’s large frame, carrying a cup of steaming coffee in his right hand.

“No, it’s not,” you groaned, waving for him to come in. “Thank you, Detective Wilson.”

He looked towards the captain before he entered, and with a subtle nod from the boss, Wilson quickly skidded into the room, half jogging but careful to keep his hand steady. The sincerity of it got you smiling again.

“Please, it’s Sam,” he smiled, winking at you as he set the coffee down on the table.

“That’s two people flirting with the witness now, Cap,” Tony pointed out, physically snapping and pointing in Sam’s direction. Though, this time, his tone was rather coy.

“Buck, I trust you to take her statement and ensure she gets home safely,” Captain Rogers ordered, nodding for Stark and Sam to exit the room. Sam sent you that flashy smile of his as Tony pushed himself away from the wall dramatically before they both were gone.

A heavy exhale from behind you as Barnes slowly paced around to the other side of the table. He took a seat, clearing his throat before he opened the pad of paper sitting to his left. Just the two of you alone in the room, you could feel yourself start to relax. It felt familiar with the barrier of the table between you, like a rusted metal version of your bar top.

Barnes was clicked the end of the pen, scribbling haphazardly against the paper, growing more and more frustrated when the ink refused to capture on the paper, only the imprint of the ballpoint pen left behind. He grunted and you couldn’t help but giggle under your breath, surprised he was able to turn your mood around so easily without even trying. He tossed the useless pen across the room and pulled a new one from his pocket.

“So, ‘Buck’, huh? Where’s that even come from?”

A smile tugged at his lips, though he kept his attention at the paper as he started to write his credentials at the top. “Middle name’s Buchanan. Friends call me Bucky.”

“Well that’s silly,” you shrugged, trying to suppress the grin on your face as he started to chuckle; the kind of sound that made you forget about the red stains on your skin and the horrors locked inside your mind, horrors he would ask you to relive in just a few minutes. You tried to push the thought away.

“Yeah, well, there were too many kids named James in my kindergarten class.”

You nodded. “Did you go to kindergarten in the 1920’s? You might know my grandfather, goes by Albert.”

He shook his head, a laugh actually escaping him a moment before he bit on his lip to hold it back in. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

A silence took over and you tried to capture the ease you felt in this moment, knowing that it would be difficult to find it again once he started asking questions. Barnes set the pen down on the table, pausing before he looked up at you.

“I’m sorry about Stark, by the way,” he said slowly. “He’s not usually that... abrasive. He’s got a, uh, personal stake in this. We’ve been trying to dismantle Hydra for years and he really thought you’d have answers for him.”

A careful nod as you considered his words. “You seem pretty sure I don’t.”

“I know we talk a lot about your bar being filled with criminals, but the truth is most of them haven’t been incarcerated in years,” Barnes said, a sincerity in his voice you didn’t expect. “They’ve got mostly petty crimes, drug possessions, or misdemeanor assault charges, nothing that would stop them from being a productive member of society since they served their time, but enough that it puts a bad label on ‘em. They’ve got the kinda look that screams ‘bad news’ and an attitude that goes with it, and yet, for some reason they flock to you.”

You blinked a few times, slightly taken back.

He continued. “They respect you. Not because of who your dad is, either. They stop dead in their tracks when you start reprimanding them because they know they disappointed you. You take care of them. You treat them like real people and hold them to a standard they don’t find out on the streets. You tried to save the life of that man in the alley tonight. I saw that. I saw how hard you tried to bring him back and how hard you took it when you couldn’t. Someone like that ain’t got a thing to do with Hydra. I’d bet my badge on it.”

You paused, letting his words sink in. “That’s a heavy wager, Detective Barnes.”

A beat. A soft smile lifting his callused lips. Then, “I thought I already told you my friends call me Bucky.”

***

You spent the next three hours going over those seven minutes of your life in excruciating detail. Everything from when Charlie had tried to escort Matty out of the bar to you hiding in the alley behind the dumpster to when Bucky and Sam had arrived on scene. You had tried to tell him every detail you could possibly remember on the man with the gun, but it was too dark. You’d only seen his face for a second, it wasn’t enough time to do a sketch rendering. All you could tell him about was the tattoo on the man’s neck, but that was something most of Hydra had anyway. Bucky had hoped you’d be able to identify the face in a picture of known Hydra affiants, but that had come up empty.

Nothing you told him seemed to bring him any closer to a lead. It was nearing six in the morning when the frustration that had been building for hours started to snap.

“We’ve been at this all night!” you huffed, pushing out your chair as you started pacing the room. Bucky sat back, folding his arms as he watched you. You pushed away the hairs fallen into your eyes. “What- What good am I to Charlie if I can’t even remember what the asshole who killed him even looked like!”

“Come on, Y/n, this ain’t your fault and you know that,” Bucky reminded you sincerely. He had said it a few times so far this morning, though he didn’t once sound tired of saying it.

“I can’t-” You groaned, leaning against the table for support. “I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Bucky reassured as he set down the pen and flipped back the seventeen pages he had scribbled in the notebook. Seventeen pages of material and you still felt useless. “Why don’t I get you home, okay? It’s been a long day. You can give us a call if you think of anything else, alright?”

You nodded, a yawn taking over before you could suppress it. “Sorry I kept you all night. Bet your wife’s a tough woman for putting up with this life.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah… no wife. This job doesn’t allow for steady relationships.”

“But it does allow for flirting with witnesses,” you accused through a teasing smirk.  

“Didn’t know you’d be my witness yet, Y/n,” Bucky retorted through a smile, gesturing towards the door. He opened it for you and followed you out into the hallway.

Damn those florescent lights.

“Detective Barnes!” A kid dressed in the official blue uniform scurried across the bull pen, skidding around Sam who shot him an irritable glare and nearly crashed into Stark who shouted at him to ‘watch it, Pete!’ He was small, leaner than most of the cops in here and had a boyish smile in his face, eager, like he was constantly searching for ways to prove himself.

Bucky sighed. “What is it, Parker?”

“Heard you had a late night and I’d like to offer to take Miss -- uh, sorry, I didn’t get your name?” he grimaced towards you with a blush in his cheeks.

“Y/L/n,” you replied, too keen to enjoy the kid’s fluster.

He cleared his voice, straightening his back. “I’d like to offer to escort Miss Y/L/n home.”

“That won’t be necessary, Parker, I’ve got it covered,” Bucky replied quickly, a little too quickly, as he started to lead you towards the door.

Parker jumped around to stand in Bucky’s way. When Bucky didn’t stop walking, Parker started moving backwards, pulling off his cap and twisting it nervously in his hands. You glanced between the kid and Bucky, a gleam of welcomed amusement you so desperately needed.

“Well, actually, sir, the thing is, --”

Bucky pulled to a stop and you along with him. “Spit it out, kid.”

“Captain Rogers kinda said that your overtime is killing the budget and you need to go home.”

“Great,” Bucky grunted. “I’ll go home after Y/n does.”

“Actually--”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Bucky threw his arms in the air, glaring over at the office across the bull pen. Behind the semi-open shades stood Captain Rogers, nursing a cup of coffee, as he eyed them from over the mug. Bucky let out an exasperated groan. “Fine! Okay, Rogers?” he shouted towards the office and the captain lifted his mug in acknowledgement. “Fine!”

Bucky sighed, turning to you. “You okay if this child takes you home? I can grab Wilson or maybe Nat if she’s around...”

You shook your head, smiling as you watched Parker celebrate as Bucky’s back was turned. He seemed like a sweet kid. You needed more of that in your life, especially after the night you had.

“I’m fine,” you reassured Bucky, noticing the frustration in his heavy breaths and tensed shoulders. “I bet he’s stronger than he looks. Could probably stop a train with his bare hands, huh?”

Parker nodded vigorously. Bucky rolled his eyes. He turned to the kid, grabbing a hold of his uniform collar.

“Take this seriously,” he warned, leaning in close enough the Parker stretched his neck away. “We’re keeping Y/n’s involvement between just a few of us here in the precinct. The media’s in the dark about this for now and we have to keep it that way. Hydra doesn't know there was a witness and I don’t want that changing, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Parker replied firmly. The second Bucky pulled back, the kid’s smile widened enough to take up his whole face. “I’m Peter. You can come with me, Miss Y/L/n.”

“You can call me Y/n, you know?”

“Don’t bother,” Bucky rolled his eyes, though you could sense the amusement under it. “He’s got an authority complex. Can’t be informal if he tried.”

“Oh, I see,”

“You coming, Miss Y/l/n?” he called from the end of the precinct. How did he get that far so fast?

You nodded, turning quickly to Bucky. “Well, thanks. I guess I’ll see you around?”

“’Course, can’t forget about my key witness,” he grinned.

You smiled, quick to push aside the fluttering in your chest. You had started to walk away when you heard Bucky curse behind you, as if a realization clicked. He jogged back up to you, grabbing you gently by the elbow to pull you to a stop.

“You're not going back to the bar tonight, right?” he asked, concern in his eyes as he studied you.

You shrugged, pulling away from his grasp softly before you started walking again towards Peter. You hadn’t even considered not opening. “I gotta pay the bills, Bucky.”

“W-wait, hold on now--”

“I have to keep my electricity running and I’ll have customers wondering why I’m not opening,” you insisted. “You want to keep this quiet? I gotta show up. They’ll know something’s amiss if I don’t.”

“Let me assign protective detail at least,” Bucky countered, now walking backwards as you crossed half the length of the station to where Peter was waiting.

“Not necessary.”

“Y/n, you’re a witness to a hydra hit--”

“--which they know nothing about,” you finished, forcing out a tight smile. “You said that yourself. Can’t be in danger if they don’t know anyone even saw it happen.” You paused, only a few feet away from the young officer waiting eagerly by the door. “I’ll be fine. Plus, I have that business card of yours tucked away somewhere. I’ll call if I need to.”

Bucky released a heavy exhale, hands planted on his hips as he reluctantly watched you make your way out the door.

“You better.”

***

Officer Parker – or Peter as he insisted relentlessly you call him – had been the welcomed distraction you needed. He looked young for his age, like maybe he belonged in high school, but he swore he was fresh out the of academy and even showed you his badge to prove it. The kid didn’t stop talking for even a second as he drove you home, not even when he asked you questions. He’d paused, give you about two seconds to respond, before he was answering his own damn question and off on a new tangent. He was a sweet kid, one you didn’t mind having around one bit.

He had come up to your apartment, cautiously inspecting the locks and hinges, eyeing up and down the hallway for cameras that didn’t belong – said it was on Detective Barnes’ orders. You had smiled at that.

After Peter left, you had forced yourself to sleep, too exhausted to do much of anything else. When the sound of a car alarm woke you a few hours later, you tried to make busy around the apartment. You cleaned the kitchen, swept the floors, washed down the bathroom and did two loads of laundry and it was only two in the afternoon.  

Unable to sit still in your dingy apartment any longer, you made your way down the street to your bar. You hadn’t been able to finish cleaning up shop the previous night for obvious reasons and you wanted to make sure nothing looking amiss by the time opening came around.

Barnes held true to his word that the media was in the dark about it – the shooting, Charlie’s murder, you as a witness, all of it – which meant that you’d find your regulars waltzing in like they usually do. The newspapers hadn’t gotten word of it at least, and you were sure to check a few of them yourself as you walked by the corner store.

Had to keep up appearances, pay the bills. It was what you were telling yourself anyway. Routine was essential to your survival. Sitting alone in that apartment all day and let your mind wander felt like a worse sentence than Hydra discovering you.

Hands tucked tightly in the pockets of your jacket, you slowed your pace down as you passed the alley next to the bar. You came to a stop and a man behind you had to skid out of your way at the last second, cursing and grumbling under his breath as he continued walking.

There was no crime scene tape up, no evidence markers or silly white chalk drawn in the pavement. No proof at all that anything had happened in this alley – that a man had died in this alley. There wasn’t even blood stained into the gravel. The rain had taken care of that.

Carefully, you made your way down the dark alley, glancing up at the light above the backdoor to the bar to discover it was now fully operational. You sighed and bent down to pick up the broom you had dropped the previous night. Unlocking the door, you stepped inside.

It was just as you left it. Not that it should be a surprise, but it felt like something should be different. You were different, you supposed.

You spent the next few hours tediously cleaning the floors, the bathrooms, restocking the shelves, and washing through the glasses twice. Couldn’t stand still for even a moment, you had even starting wiping down the walls when the bell rang out and the first two patrons strolled in.

“Smells like Lysol in here, Y/n,” the bigger of the two men, a guy called Vinny, grumbled as he pinched his nose. His twin brother Leonard swatted his shoulder, urging him to be nice. Vinny made a look of disgust before he gestured for his usual. You swung yourself around the bar, thankful to have some company as you held a glass under the tap. “I liked it better when this place smelled like stale beer.”

“Thanks, Vinny,” you chuckled, rolling your eyes. Leonard apologized for his brother before leading him back to their usual spot. Odd pair, those two.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the crowd to gather. You didn’t have much of a free moment to think, and that was exactly what you were hoping for. Bustling around from one end of the bar to the other, grabbing empty glasses and refilling drinks. The clientele usually kept their orders simple – beer, hard liquor, occasionally thrown in with some coke. Every once in a while, you’d find a brave soul who’d ask for something frozen or colorful, topped with one of those little umbrellas you’d bought a pack of when you first reopened the bar years back and had used five since. They’d get shit for it, but the ones with the thickest skin would come back for more.

It was nearing nine when the bell rang. Most of your customers came in around six and didn’t leave until two in the morning at close. The stragglers in between were ones you didn’t usually recognize but not this one.

Bucky Barnes sauntered in, hands in his pockets and a shake of his head when he saw you standing behind the bar. “I thought I told you this was a bad idea.”

“And I thought I made it pretty clear I wasn’t gonna listen,” you said simply, handing Bernie his third glass of beer. You wiped your hands on your towel before reaching for Bucky’s usual choice. You set a short glass in front of him as he sat and began filling it. It was a heavy pour. He noticed.

“Which is why I assigned protective detail,” Bucky said he picked up the glass and took a sip. He was getting better about not wincing as it went down.

“I said no, Barnes! I can’t have cops running around this place, it’ll scare off my customers!”

“Relax, doll,” Bucky chuckled and you felt your heart skip at the nickname, “It’s just me. I’m the detail.”

You narrowed your eyes, swallowing back the butterflies in your stomach. “I thought Captain Rogers said you were working too much overtime.”

“What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Bucky shrugged. “Besides, the one-four ain’t got a say in what I do in my free time.”

You paused. “You’re off duty?”

“You think I’d be drinking if I wasn’t?”

“I’m just,” you ran your fingers through your hair in an attempt to hide the red forming in your cheeks, “surprised, I guess. Don’t know why you’d use your own time just to look out for me.”

“Who says that’s what I’m here for?” Bucky smirked. “Maybe I like my bourbon really shitty. Maybe I was getting used to being a bit of a regular in this joint and I’m stuck in my ways. It’s too late for me now.”

“Yeah maybe,” you laughed, folding your arms as you leaned against the bar.

Bucky took a sip from the glass, keeping your stare as he swirled the last remaining sip in the glass before he threw back that one, too. He paused. A shrug.

“Maybe I just like the bartender.”

“Don’t let Stark hear you say that,” you retorted quickly, pushing yourself off the bar and brushing away any sincerity you heard in his words as his typical banter. You reached for a clean glass as you saw Leonard coming up for the second round. “You’ll get in trouble for flirting with the witness again.”

Bucky nodded, smiling to himself as he watched you pull the handle for the tap. You were talking with Leonard, laughing softly as he pointed back to his brother across the room who was clearly whistling along to the Dolly Parton song that he had thrown on the jukebox.

You didn’t notice Bucky’s eyes on you. Under his breath, too quiet for you to hear, “I’ll take my chances.”

part 3

tags 🌻 @sweetheartbarnes / @musiclover1263 / @pies-wands-and-more / @buckygrantbarnes / @mywinterwolf / @lumar014 / @alohafromhell1 / @bucksandroses / @teardropcup / @beautiful-aravis / @me-chi / @somewereinthegalaxi / @marvelfansworld / @whyamidoingthistomyselfhelp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @yourwonderbelle / @fairislesheets / @brokeinflight

(strikethrough means tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you!)

[zippiestdraws]

Choking Curiosity Ch 6

Read on Ao3

ftm reader x michael myers

Everything aches right now.

Considering the circumstances, you could be a lot worse or dead, but that doesn’t make you thankful. You take one step down the stairs and nearly trip, having to blink away a dizzy spell. You need some ice for multiple parts of your body.

You keep a small first-aid kit in the upstairs bathroom, but you don’t think it’ll help the contusions. Your ribs and ankle you can ignore if you lie down, but the red and purple ring around your throat glares at you in the mirror and throbs when you swallow.

You hold an ice pack to your head and breath. You’re exhausted.

The backdoor he left through is unlocked. You stare until you can gather the strength to get up and turn the lock. The practiced motion and click of the tumbler shifts the question to the forefront of your mind.

How long had he been in here with me?

There was evidence of a squatter when you first moved in and you really hope it hasn’t been that long. An odd mixture of horror and embarrassment festers when you think about all the things he could have seen when you thought you were alone.

You really wish you had curtains you could close right now. The darkness has fallen and you need to move on for now, but you grab your bat and keep it close.

*** You wake the next morning, surprised to still be breathing.

With careful probing, the dark corners of the house prove themselves to be empty and you cringe at the inevitability of having to be productive today.

The sunlight streaming through the windows makes you feel guilty for not wanting to leave the house. You’re probably no safer out there than in here even after changing the locks, but at least there are less directions to be attacked from.

Thinking of attacking, that ugly wallpaper is really asking for it. You decide to work on that after putting some food in your stomach.

Easier said than done. Whoever built this shitty house decided to cut corners on priming the walls before gluing the wallpaper down, and now you have the joy of pulling it off in shredded strips like a cheap sticker. After a couple sweaty hours, you almost wished you just left it up because you don’t even know how to cover up the mess with paint.

Frustration gets the best of you so you throw the scraps in a garbage bag and head for the shower. The first aid kit sits out on the counter where you left it, sparking a reminder that you haven’t done your testosterone injection since the move. You cringe and make a mental note to schedule an appointment with a local endocrinology lab before anything happens.

You nearly forget while washing up, prompting you to search the house for a pen while still in a towel. You have to find the number to a place first, though, glancing at the cheap plastic telephone with its tangled cord on the kitchen counter. You bought it because you didn’t want to use a payphone to call Laurie.

Oh shit. Laurie would definitely want to hear about what happened last night. Anxiety wells within you. What would be the purpose of calling her? She couldn’t really do anything to help and she would probably freak out. You consider that she might not believe that you met him and lived, but the bruises on your neck would be proof enough.

Your hand rests on the phone. She has a right to know.

Your hand is slow to punch the numbers on the faded scrap of paper and you hold your breath as it rings.

The phone clicks. “Hello?”

“Hi Laurie, it’s (y/n).” you let your breath out, unsure how you should act in this situation.

“Oh, how are you doing?”, you can hear a little bit of concern through the pleasantry.

“Actually, something’s happened…”, you choke on your words. You didn’t think about how to phrase it and the words feel weird in your mouth. “He was here.”, you exhale the words like a strained whisper.

There’s a pause and there’s a sound like something falling over the phone.

“Michael was there? You saw him?”, her voice demanded. You almost flinch at the name, you didn’t want to say it, like it would manifest.

“Yes,” you answer in a normal voice that seems too loud this time. “He-” your voice breaks unexpectedly and you stop.

You can hear Laurie asking if you’re okay and about what happened while you try to piece together a description that fit.

“He was in my room. I didn’t see him...and he...started choking me.” He was so strong, fighting was useless. Your stomach turns a little bit when you think about how you almost died. And how that shouldn’t sound so hot.

Laurie was silent on the other end, probably waiting for you to finish.

“I think he dropped me. The next thing I knew I was on the floor and he left the room”,

“That’s impossible, he would’ve finished the job…” Laurie mumbles through the phone. You were wondering the same thing yourself.

You recount how you tried to escape the house, how he was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, how he pulled you down on the steps. And how he just left.

You feel drained at the end of it and you doubt that she has an answer for you.

“You need to call the police, he can’t have gone far!”, she sounds angry now.

You huff a defeated laugh. “The cops aren’t gonna help me, they said I was wasting their time and I told them to go fuck themselves...it happened last night anyway, it’s too late now.”

You wince and pull the phone away from your ear at Laurie’s ensuing exclamation.

“-and you didn’t think to call me immediately?!”

You don’t offer an excuse other than the thought ‘I mean I was stupid enough to buy the house anyway.’ *** You triple checked the locks and windows, locked your bedroom door, and slept soundly enough with your bat.

Work wasn’t until noon, but you woke up early to see what you could do about the bruises on your neck. The finger prints turned a mottled purple and yellow over the fading red speckling of broken blood vessels. It’ll probably freak people out, but you don’t have any concealer and it’s too hot for a scarf, so you resign yourself to getting awkward questions.

Halfway out the door, you freeze, thinking about the walk home in the dark. You can’t call off, standing at an impasse before a lightbulb goes off in your head, darting back inside to grab your bat.

It would be a bit odd to carry a small bat with you to a grocery store, so you opt to wrap it in one of your jackets to conceal it. Now you feel ready.

*** Work went about as well as you expected. Nearly every customer asked the dreaded question, and you considered giving a different story each time just for the fun of it. One of the regular old gossips heard that a car was stolen on the radio and asked if it was the same person. You told her you doubt it.

You saw Dwight and Quentin today, and their concern made you feel bad for worrying them, though you don’t know why. You just told them you were mugged and didn’t want to talk about it.

You waved goodbye to Quentin at eight and slipped your bat out of its shroud when you hit the sidewalk. The glow of the streetlights thinned as you walked, but you kept the bat close to your chest anyway. You don’t want the cops to question you after getting on your bad side.

Halfway home, you hear footsteps behind you. You try to look out of the corner of your eye, paranoid. The figure is much smaller than Michael, you sigh in relief. It was too loud to be him anyway.

The back of your shirt is yanked back, giving your shoulders a rug burn as it pulls against your neck harshly.

The point of a pocket knife is thrust into your view over your left shoulder. ‘Am I getting mugged? What an awful coincidence-’ passes through your brain before a harsh voice accompanied by bad breath and the stench of cigarette invades your space.

“Empty your pockets.”

You’re free hand goes up in response to the knife and the man rifles through your jacket and pants pockets, finding only your house key and throwing it on the ground before shoving you.

“No wallet, huh? What’re you carrying, then? I’ll take that.”

Your brain is on autopilot, slowly turning your body with your left hand up in surrender.

“I’m carrying...this” you move like your gesturing it out to him from under your jacket, and when he leans in you swing it like a backhand across his face before turning and running.

Briefly, you hear “you mother fucker!” behind you before he pursues and you start to panic. You didn’t think this through very far.

You make it to the corner of the street and cut through a yard as you turn, running home but with no key. A body connects with yours and you hit the grass on your stomach, knocking the wind out of you. You wheeze with the weight on your back and feel your attacker grab your hair and try to slam your head into the ground.

Kicking your legs into him does nothing, until you feel him suddenly lift off of you and hit the ground. Rolling over, you see a large dark figure loom over the thug on the ground. His angry jeers get cut off by a heavy boot stomped on his chest. You hear ribs crack and then a strangled yelp before a dark spray of blood hits the navy jumpsuit.

Scrambling backwards until you can stand, your wide eyes stare into the white face of the mask that turns to you. He closes the gap and holds a clenched fist toward you.

It’s a staring contest you lose, looking down at his hand, the one that almost ended your life. You hold out your hand.

Into it drops your bloody house key.

*** You get home severely shaken by tonight’s events. After giving you the key, he wiped the blood off his knife on that arm’s sleeve. He lets you leave, but makes it obvious that he’s watching.

You have to wipe the blood off your key when you go to use it. You hope it doesn’t stain this jacket. The house is dark and silent, almost oppressively so. You go to head to the comfort of your room, before begrudgingly walking back down the stairs to check the lock on the back door.

It’s still locked. You peer out the back window.

Almost completely obscured by the dark, a white mask stands vigilant at the fence.

You’re both tired, and filled with butterflies. You open the back porch door and stare back for a long moment. Then you wordlessly go up to bed, letting the door close behind you and making a show not to lock it.

You still lock your bedroom door.

[ofclaires]

SELF PARA.

Date: April 18, 2020, noon in America.

Location: Room 102

Brief summary: Claire calls her mom ! They talk about sheep. This is the happiest thing I’ve ever written and I hate it.

As Mary suggested, it was Claire who made the room look like no one lived in it – spotless, like a hotel room. However, it was not just a coping mechanism to keep her mind off of the way things had happened between her and Kass, she'd been looking for something. It had taken ages, but she'd found it, tucked back behind her desk, precariously perched above an outlet: a postcard. Claire doesn't do anything with it for days, just keeps it under her pillow, but she thinks about it. She's been rereading it a lot.

Claire –

Hope everything is well at your school. You have no idea how thrilled I was so excited to hear from Callum that you were attending college – I never got to go myself, you know, so...you're a first generation! I think they do scholarships for that, you should see what's available. I know it's been a while since we've talked, but Olaf's mom is very sick, so we'll be moving back here to be with her. And we're getting married! We'd love for you to be here, if you can.

Miss you, Your mom +354 267-7777

The postcard is about a year old and worn at the edges. Claire never made any plans to go to Iceland. ( She never liked horses all that much anyway. ) When Claire first got the postcard last year, she’s pretty sure she broke not one but two of the punching bags in the gym – because after everything that happened, her mom wasted little time getting hitched with some guy. Some guy that was gonna treat her like shit, and Claire resolved she was DONE. She has too many memories of laying in her twin bed in the trailer, holding her hands over her ears as she waited for the screaming to stop, unable to sleep until she was sure her mom was getting into bed safely. Sometimes, she would sneak into the next room, crawl into her mom’s bed and wait.

Claire’s tired of waiting for people that don’t come back. After all, she’s been one of those people.

She doesn't know why she's started thinking of her mom so much now. Maybe it’s a result of allowing Callum back into her life or the fact that so many people are thinking of their parents, with the email that came out recently. She feels glad that her mom is semi-normal and clueless about what she does. Claire hopes that keeps her mom safe, from everything that's been going on at Gallagher. It's been a hard year on everyone, that should not be undercut, and while she'd like to say that her fight with Kass is the biggest thing on her mind...terrorism is just a tad more daunting.

Claire keeps her distance from the witness protection students for good reason. But she worries about Francis and his close friendship with one of them, and she worries about Kass, who has a tendency to form friends and attachments everywhere. She never thought she'd be glad about Nudge being totally preoccupied by a boyfriend, but at least it makes her feel like Nudge is safe.

After all, hanging out with one of those kids is what cost Amelia.

She taps her foot anxiously, whole legging shaking, which rattles the desk that she's sitting at. She knows there are things she doesn't want to die without doing, she just doesn't know if she's brave enough to do them. Claire doesn't even notice her own nervous tick until Tilly rolls over and looks down at her from her bunk. She gives Claire a look.

"I'm fine."

Disbelief. Tilly is too smart for that, and Claire has never been great at masking her emotions.

"Well, mostly fine. Do you mind leaving the room for a minute? Nothing freaky, I just want to make a phone call," Claire asks, and Tilly's not the type to be difficult, so she agrees.  But now that Claire's said the words out loud, she realizes that she wants to follow through with them – she's just scared. Granted, she should feel lucky that her mom is some regular lady in Reykjavik rather than some hired assassin or secret member of a terrorist organization. It's the little things.

Claire is pretty sure the dial tone is the worst sound she’s ever heard. She grips her phone tight, like...she might break it, if she squeezed hard enough, and she has to physically calm herself down, remind herself to breathe.

“Halló?” An unfamiliar voice answers the line. “Hver er þetta?”

Claire does not speak any Nordic languages, so she just stutters. “Um, hello? Is Maggie there?”

“Oh, hello! Yeah, she’s around here somewhere...in the garden, probably,” the man chuckles, switching to English without a second thought. “Who should I say is on the line?”

Claire likes how he phrases that, like she can make up anything for him to say and he’s happy to go along with it. She considers it, but shrugs, “You can say it’s Claire.”

The line goes silent for a moment, and she has to assume that this is her new husband – Olaf. He has a nice voice, but the last husband had a nice voice too. She’s met lots of boyfriends with nice voices, and by now, she’s realized there’s no way to really know a person until you get to know them. Instinct means next to nothing, you can’t trust it.

“Yes, of course. Hi – Claire.” He emphasizes her name, like he’s shocked that he’s gotten to say it, and then Claire spends the next ten minutes waiting in anticipation. She starts biting her fingernails, a habit she thought she broke years ago, but waiting on the line for her mom makes her FEEL like a child again.

“Claire, sweetie? Is that you? Oh my god, are you alright?” Her mom’s voice is like honey to Claire’s ears, bringing back memories she thought didn’t exist. Curled up in bed after long nights, pushing Claire’s hair back away from her face as she tells extravagant stories of pirates and vikings, eating junk food until the sun comes up.

“Hi, mom.” Ever reticent.

“How are you? I mean, I’ve heard from Callum a bit, he’s such a nice boy, but really, how are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s – it’s just been a while, so I thought I might...try your line,” Claire’s voice gets choked up near the end, and there’s tears in the corners of her eyes. She used to never cry, but she’s been doing it a lot lately, for some reason. Maybe she’s getting more in touch with her feelings, which is a horrifying thought.

“Well, it’s good to hear from you! It’s the first nice day we’ve had in a while, so I’ve just been out in the garden – I’m making Olaf fix the dishwasher, damn thing is ALWAYS acting up,” she laughs, and Maggie talks fast – it’s apparent she’s nervous, trying to fill the noise with some chatter. “And we’ve got sheep, and chickens, you would love these little guys.”

Claire furrows her brow. “Mom, you...you HATE gardening. And you also hate dirt. And chickens,” she adds, and she can already feel her heart sinking, because it’s just like her mom to meet a guy and completely reinvent herself into someone new. Claire’s seen her mom go through phase after phase – granted, gardening is a bit better than psychedelics, probably.

“Not any more! I’m a changed woman!” Claire can only nod emphatically at that, because, well, of course she is. “What are you studying again?” It’s also just like Maggie to act like it hasn’t been, oh, five years since they’ve spoken. Just launching into conversation like it’s normal, skirting around the rough stuff. Maggie always did that – avoided the tough conversations until it was too late.

“Listen – Mom, I just...I wanted to call to say I’m sorry. About everything that happened, I shouldn’t have...and I should’ve called sooner too, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened, and I still can’t – I –”

“Claire, honey, please. It’s alright, I’ve – I’ve moved past all of that, and...sometimes I do think about it, you know? And I wonder what my life would be like if you hadn’t stepped in when you did, or...if I’d even have one. I made some mistakes too, we both did. That doesn’t matter now.”

But to Claire, it still matters, at least a little. As long as she still dreams about the blood on her hands, it will matter. But it’s nice to hear her mom say it, and it’s a comfort to know that her mother’s life isn’t ruined by what she did – that things go on. She’s spent years imagining worse case scenarios, the turmoil she’d put her mother through, too afraid to reach out for fear of hearing the worst. This, at least, is some comfort.

“It’s okay, I know it can’t have been easy – forced to raise me on your own, and all. If I had a kid I’d probably drop it off on the doorstep of a nunnery or something.” Was that a thing? A nunnery?

“Don’t give me too much credit, I sure tried to get out of it – and god, your dad had it easy, doing God-knows-what in God-knows-where with his shitty band.”

“Is this the part where you tell me my dad is like, Mick Jagger or something?”

“Jesus, Claire, how old do you think I am?”

This makes Claire laugh, and after a moment, they’re BOTH laughing, and if it weren’t for the miles between them, it’d feel nostalgic – like coming home after school and throwing her backpack across the floor of their trailer. She’d sit at the kitchen table, eat dinosaur nuggets and Kraft mac & cheese while her mom would put on the radio, sing along to Dolly Parton in some ridiculous outfit. Claire remembers the bad days best, but when she remembers the good days, they’re really good.

“You’re happy though?” Claire asks, “I mean, you like this guy?”

“Yeah, I really like this guy – and I KNOW I don’t have a great track record, but he’s good. He’s really good. I mean, I’m out here gardening! I have chickens! He’s the real deal, and...he’s a great cook. I know it seems sort of crazy, packing up and moving to another country, but I really love him. You’ll get it someday, when you meet the right person.”

Claire rolls her eyes at that, in spite of herself. She’s glad her mom can’t see her face. She still doesn’t know what to think about love, but she has a feeling that it’s not really for her. She’s the metaphorical equivalent of Iceland – too distant, too much effort.  

Then again, some people seem to think moving to Iceland is worth it.

“Okay.”

“Wait! Oh, Claire, what are you doing this summer? Do you want to come stay with us?”

Claire wrinkles her nose, “And what? Shear sheep?”

“Yeah!” Maggie replies enthusiastically, not picking up on the note of disgust in Claire’s voice ( or choosing to ignore it. ) “It could be fun, and I’d love for you to meet Oly. It’s a great little place, and summer’s really the only time worth visiting because it’s pretty much all darkness from September to March. You’ve seen that little video on the Youtube, with that guy–”

Claire cannot recall the little video on the Youtube. “I don’t know, I’ll think about it. Summer classes and stuff, you know.”

“Oh, of course, I’m sure you work so hard!” Maggie sounds so PROUD over the phone, and Claire wonders what her mom would think if she knew the truth about everything. Claire doesn’t know whether to be happy or sad about the fact that her mom blissfully ignores everything that’s difficult, inviting Claire for the summer as if no time has passed.

“Yeah, so, um...tell me more about the chickens and sheep and stupid dishwasher, I guess. And the city? What’s that like?”

Claire’s happy to sit on the line for thirty more minutes, listening to her mom describe her new life, and they chat animatedly, like they’re at that kitchen table or laying in bed ‘til dawn, uninterrupted by the rest of the world. For thirty minutes, there’s no Blackthorne, no terrorist attacks, no witness protection students, or interpersonal drama. There’s only Claire and her mom ( mostly her mom, going on as Claire shakes her head and interjects, rolling her eyes as her mom teases. ) Although Claire knows better than to trust a calm before a storm, than to believe that nice things like this last. She won’t get her hopes up about the summer, because knowing Maggie, there’s a last-minute cancellation already in the works.

But she’ll enjoy this moment, right now, curling up on her bedspread like she’s a little kid again. So, when they get off the phone after a while, Claire just – she looks up at the slats of the bunk bed and smiles, so wide that it makes her face hurt a little – does smiling usually hurt like that? Now she’s pitying all the happy people.

Claire gets up to pin the postcard above her desk, deciding that there’s no point in hiding it underneath everything again. It’s probably not a good idea to get excited about even something so fleeting as weekly calls, but Claire is a glutton for disappointment, it seems. Lately, it’s felt like a big piece of her life is missing, and even if this one doesn’t fit perfectly in its spot, it’s still pretty damn good, because it fits perfectly in a different place – one she’d stopped noticing because it had been empty for so long. Optimism is a feeling she’s never really afforded herself before, but it feels good.

Well, as they say in Iceland:

Þetta reddast.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

40, 47, 59, 62, 76

lmao hell yeah thanks for All this support i love it!! quastions

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?

really idk i feel like even our schools’s Antics were pretty par for the course and i was just sitting in the corner reading the whole time basically......trying to think if anything wild happened in college but even then it was p similar. well you know what, whatever donors covered the majority of the cost of the school’s black box theater being renovated apparently Stipulated that every other year a rodgers and hammerstein production be put on. absolute freaks. my roommate/friend and their then-boyfriend, the one mormon i have Knowingly Known in my life, were in pirates of penzance (sic?) together. hilarious

47. favorite type of cheese?

i like cheddar and like, parmesan, smoked gouda.....let’s get that shit Sharp!!! and hard lmao

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?

idk i’d be like an npc just doing their weird thing on their own. i’ve never played pokemons unless you count pokemons Go but i think about the famed “i like shorts they’re comfy and easy to wear” npc kid. like, yeah. i feel the same. and would say similar bullshit nobody asked about

62. seven characters you relate to?

oh god.........recognizing the self through the relatable characters :|

well let’s just talk about the wrol roles right off b/c the characters that Most occupy my gay thoughts (which is to say: my general thoughts) will inevitably get priority when it comes to Remembering things

1) whom among us doesn’t relate to jared kleinman........will roland emerging from relative obscurity and coming for our entire fucking lives like the goddamn legend he is. it’s tough b/c it’s like, oh well alana is relatable too, so is evan unfortunately sorry evan, and in ways i might ~usually act~ like one of those two more than jared but. no. it is Jared who wins the relatability contest, and we all get to be beautifully haunted by it forever

2) leaning hard into winston even with the few glimpses of him b/c somehow will Cannot play an allistic cishet. and this is even More of a case where maybe i don’t much have winston’s demeanor.......even without winston being a beacon of confidence, he has more confidence lmao. and he has that ability to just Be Himself in a situation which, i wish i had that moxie lmao. i am a lot more [usually trying to be accommodating wayyyy harder than i should], booo......even though he’s clearly not great at conflict considering how it doesn’t take Too much to put him out, it’d be pretty impossible for me to be all “called them hacks and lame” or carry out a very irritated monologue in front of four people in the first place lmao. but who knows. and it’s more in the details of like, oh no winston’s the odd one out even though he hasn’t really Done Anything, but we all ~understand~ why he Deserves it.........his expectation / treating it basically as Fact that he will disappoint people.......the [weird] [offputting] behaviors and his way of speaking in What he Says and How He Says It seeming wrong to people.......like it’s only 15-ish min of content that we have here and we don’t have the least info about will’s own thoughts on the character but it’s like. how is this such an iconic Gay Autistic Quant b/c these vibes are so rare. and i appreciate that he can be ~difficult~ lmao. same with jared though i didn’t mention it. i can be difficult!! love it for us...

3) briony atkins from murder of bindy mackenzie as a character who Does act more like how i Usually Act Like lmao.....god we’re only on three i forgot there was seven of these. and yet i know there’s probably at least 2 dozen characters who could make this list and i just won’t think of most of them unless directly reminded......but anyways yeah i mean in person i mostly do Not want attention unless i feel comfortable enough / in my element or whatever. especially if it’d be some situation like “sitting in a group of randos” lol. i mean it depends b/c i also can sometimes be ~on~ in terms of Masking and trying to be like Haha I’m Social I’m Regular and i def engage in Nervous Chatter sometimes, but like, very often it’s like god don’t talk to me and i don’t want to talk either.....and then yeah people Will be surprised that like, idk, i’m opinionated as shit and idk that i Enjoy Things / Have Thoughts And Feelings coz the assumption i guess is that you must simply have nothing to say. so the dismissal of this person who seemingly has nothing to contribute and must be Boring rings true lmfao.....but then of course it’s also important that her personality Under that is the one getting mistaken for emily’s lol cuz yeah At Heart i am sure of that dramatic / intense / excitable type Sometimes. but it takes some excavation before i am like “oh i can engage in my actual self” and like weeks and months to get comfortable w/ people and i’m always suspicious that anyone actually would enjoy it and i’m not too much......i am a motormouth actually and have something to say about any and everything and like to Have Fun Here but like. idk i come off as boring and can be Notably Quiet lmao

4) oscar martinez from the office is weirdly [Haha Same] sometimes lmfao. sort of keeps to himself but also has to pipe up with Opinions and Pedantry and the kind of Drama of a restrained theatre gay. some deleted scene from an episode where during an interview clip of Jimothy in a theater lobby and you have oscar call from across the group in that [wearied Ugh God] way of ‘jim, they’re remaking ___’ while jim just kind of gives a cursory “wow gosh” or whatever and like, i sure don’t have lots of Theatre Opinions but that “oh jeez i have a Take on this and have to share it with someone” vibe is like hahaha yeah.....it’s funny in the “the gang goes to the ice rink for a third of the ep” bit where you just catch oscar doing [ice skating turn] with some solemn intensity.......the “here’s a question nobody’s asking: is this worth it” quote.........way at the end where there’s a whole deal with one of the indoor plants and he’s like “why is it a He” @ the collective gendering of the houseplant lmfao.......i love the one thing where he and pam and uhh toby right? have the Finer Things book club or whatever and jim wants to join just like ~ironically~ and pam has to tell him that oscar doesn’t want him to join b/c he’s not going to take it seriously and use it as a Jokes Vehicle. and then you get the scene at the end where jim Is basically doing that and they’re just like taking it out of him and oscar’s all very seriously like “did you get it all out of your system” lmfao like yeah, earnest members only lmao.....the thing where he gets mad at angela’s like Jazz Musician Posed Babies posters all “it’s kitsch it Destroys art” lmaoooo and in a totally different season all “this is the problem with debate” over the completely inconsequential “is [whichever actress, i forget] Hot” “”””debate””””.......the whole tendency to get involved and always have a take to get across.....opinionated-sometimes-to-the-point-of-petty central. also that he’s the canon gay, are there even any others? anyways and as the us office’s spiritual successor i’ll add on to this by uh what’s the name of billy eichner’s character on parks and rec? it’s craig right. that Self-Powered Intensity is very #me as well.

5) augh god........im like lmfao shit who represents my Hater Club side. hmmm. oh no wait you know what. totally different but i love Prof Beatrice Hotchkiss in the trt nancy drew pc game. she’s holed up in her room writing all the time and just is weird when you try to talk to her all like no i won’t open the door, bring me food, do this Research, bring me my Ski Boots i guess......and then when you do meet her it’s all at like post-midnight in the lounge and she’s all like, encouraging you as a Night Owl and your investigative curiosity and all and i’m like oh word yeah being up in the dead of night is the shit. she’s just weird and passionate and this is another character i might not Act hardly at all like but who i vibe with lmfao. hotchkiss was the supportive adult in my life

6) remembering how hotchkiss is a historian made me think of academia which made me think of like, once again with “these vibes are So So Rare” i really ought to put the wrol role of Nato on the list cuz like. that essential representation of “gets gr8 grades but isn’t really ~academic~ / doesn’t care about that and really just cares about Hanging W Friends and [real specific interests]” is like wow damn that’s the Mood. coz like to an extent i can always Relate to the ~overachiever~ types a la the [nerd character gets all-A’s and other nerd shit] deal, but there’s eventually the issue of like.....those characters like bindy mackenzies and alana becks Care about their achievements (not exclusively as some ppl would have it 9_9) and are Studious whereas i always hated school and was a godawful student in terms of Habits and always got good grades b/c the devil was with me or something and like people will think i must have tried real hard and dedicated myself to Academics and stuff and it’s like.........no................not at all hardly, sure i did my hw every night but at like 11:29 pm or studied for a midterm at lunch right before the class lol or flipped through a lil bit of the sat study guide the night prior.........the “low-effort dumbass who Academically Excels Anyhow” representation is so crucial like!! i run into a wall when it’s the Good Grades nerd character who is real studious and focused and stuff like. couldn’t be me. meanwhile the “naturally weird + probably some ‘deliberate’ weirdness” and “likes animals” and “most likely to just wanna Roll With It” and “shitty focus lol” and “non sequiturs” and “without [activity] i do nothing” is all like....ahahahohoho..........nato rly got to make this list. and honorable mention for Wrol Jeremy. again: whom doesn’t relate!!!!!!!!

7) damnit i know there’s So many answers to [characters i relate to] and whom cover like, more particular Facets here but i’m struggling lmao. Uh. like i’m like, who’s the Hot Mess / continually evolving disaster characters i vibe with......who’s the peak despresso detached Haters rep......who embodies the solo production lifestyle........dammit you know what lol i tend to Feel for like, the background ~nobodies~ who might just get like totally destroyed in some movie with life or death stakes just to like, show how much danger our heroes / Important Complex Protags are. same w/ jeremy not feeling like the Hero / the one who the story’s about / the cool guy / player 1 / etc etc etc i’m like oo i’d be the npc who doesn’t really do anything, i’d be the rando getting blown away in the background of someone else’s story. on a totally different note another shoutout / honorable mention to wybie from the coraline lmfao one of the best characters invented from thin air for an adaptation......tangentially relevant b/c he’s entirely here to support the protag / not his story at all, just here to help and prompt interactions / exposition really.......but love that [weird loner kid who’s best friend is a cat and annoys the other kid and doesn’t Get it and has specific interests and entertains himself and just is doing weird shit around here tf dude lmao killing it] like, #mood. #lifestyle. less dismal to relate to than the bg person who dies......his counterpart who totally dies is somewhat fleshed out / given Investment so it doesnt Really count as [background Nobody who’s really just fodder for “defining the stakes / threat level”] Character Concept

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?

latkes maybe......Yummy

[angrylizardjacket]

but please don’t bite: thin walls lament [1/2]

{Roger Taylor/Original Character/Brian May}

Summary: What happens on Halloween stays on Halloween; or, Ash’s costume catches the eye of more than just Roger, and after weeks of hearing certain noises through the walls, Brian feels like a terrible friend for idly lusting after his flatmate’s girlfriend. Or; friends shag friends and it’s not a big deal.

A/N: 5380 words. NSFW BUT NO SMUT; drinking, discussions of nudity and of sex, but no actual sex. I think I need to make the smut it’s own fic if I write it, because this is already a lot. If you want a follow up PWP chapter lemme know. This is essentially the entire lead up to get the three of them to the point where they’re all comfortable sleeping together, and I wouldn’t have felt right not including this. Anyways; halloween shenanigans and threesome propositions.

[aydtd]

Ash is, for lack of a better word, sharp. There’s a bites to her words and her smile is dangerous and something about her is a little bit vicious, a little bit of an edge to her. At least compared to most of the girls Brian is used to hanging around the band. He’s seen the scratch marks she’s left on Roger, who, at least judging by the noise coming through the - goddamn thin - walls and the hickies she can’t be bothered hiding, he gives as good as he gets, not that Brian tries to think about that. At least not a lot. Okay, at least not a lot while sober.

But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t intrigue him.

Or maybe he’s just fucking sick of hearing them through the walls when he’s trying to sleep, keeping him awake and feeling lonely and hard despite himself. It’s not that he doesn’t get his fair share of girls, it’s not that he’s jealous even, despite Roger’s constant outpacing of him, it’s just that he’s always sort of... played it safe. Sharp is intriguing at times. And from what he’s heard, it’s fun.

It’s easy to put out of his mind most of the time, like now for instance, it’s Halloween after all, he’s got bigger things to worry about. Like a costume.

“And what are you supposed to be?” Freddie doesn’t even stop once the door is opened, just swans past into the shared apartment, making a beeline for the fridge.

“Well I’m James Bond, aren’t I?” Brian frowned, shutting the door and fiddling self-consciously with his buttons. Freddie’s already cracked one of the beers from the fridge as he leans against the counter, appraising Brian and his suit for a long moment.

“You’re no Sean Connery,” Freddie finally concedes, before taking a swig, “though I could see George Lazenby I suppose.” Brian just rolls his eyes and throws himself onto the sofa, waiting for Roger to finish getting ready and John to show up before they all head to the party together. 

Freddie, for his part, is wearing a ratty fur coat that looks like it’s being held together by hope and lint, and calling himself a werewolf, while John shows up with what looks to be a bolt on either side of his neck, his hair slicked back in a way that’s very different from Brian’s, claiming to be Frankenstein’s monster. Roger’s got a plastic knife on a headband, and some fake bloodstained clothes, and he flips off the others as they boo him for his lack of effort. Freddie throws an empty beer can at him. Brian tuts, and tells him that Ash will be disappointed. Roger throws Freddie’s empty beer can at him in response.

The party’s being held by one of Freddie’s friends from university, and Brian is thankful it’s Halloween, because despite the party being held in a flat, they couldn’t get away with music this loud on a regular Tuesday night. The flat turns out to be an entire floor of a dorm, and the party turns out to be a rather rowdy round of predrinks before they all head to the pub to get properly shitfaced, though many seem to be getting close to hammered already, despite it being only eight.

Freddie’s disappeared into the crowd about two minutes after they get in the door. It’s like some shitty, new-age masquerade, between makeup and hair and costumes and masks, absolutely no-one is recognisable, that is, if there was anyone to recognise; there’s even a very tall ghost that Brian deduces is actually one person on someone else’s shoulders beneath a sheet. That seems unsafe.

John makes his way to the kitchen without too much preamble, and Brian follows him with a six pack of beers in hand, though Roger starts searching through the crowd to see if Ash has turned up yet. It’s been a while since Brian had been to a uni bar night, and he’d forgotten how overwhelming they could be. 

John manages to strike up a conversation with a young woman dressed like Wonder Woman who’s sitting on the counter, and Brian spots Freddie in the middle of an animated discussion at the side of the room, but that’s about the same time as the two-person ghost, or at least the top of the two-person ghost, runs smack bang into one of the overhead lights, and even over the music Brian can hear the all too familiar ‘ow, fuck!’.

The bottom of the ghost pulls off the sheet, and there, sitting on her former RA’s shoulders, is Ash, one hand on his head for stability, the other holding a can of beer to her sore forehead. And okay, Brian wishes his first thought was of her safety, to ask if she’s okay, but his words sort of die in his throat because she’s dressed like a gogo dancer and the sight of her in tiny, bright red shorts and a silver, frilled tank top might have broken something in his brain.

Being taller than the rest of the crowd has it’s advantages, however, as the moment she’s back down on the ground, she’s already being greeted by both Roger and Freddie who managed to spot her. Brian gets another drink. His rented suit feels ill-fitting, both because it is, and because he’s far too sober for this crowd.

Brian never seen Ash drunk, he realises when she’s stumbling into the kitchen with Roger behind her absolutely roaring with laughter, and her whole face lights up as she finally spots Brian and John.

“My boys!” She sounds absolutely delighted as she throws her arms in the air, crumpled beer can in her hand. The beer can is thrown into the sink, which John moves to the recycling after she’s done hugging him. She takes a moment before she hugs Brian, exaggerated frown on her face as she smooths out his lapels, before looking up at him.

“You clean up alright,” she says, finally smiling, and he raises an eyebrow at her, his words.

“What glowing praise; you know I straightened my hair for this.” He huffed, to which Ash rolled her eyes, flipping her own hair over her shoulder.

“So did I,” after a beat, her hand came up to pluck at the shoulder of his jacket, “rented?” He nods once and her expression sours. “You put more effort in than that muppet at least.” She grumbles, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder at Roger who was eyeing off the bowl of chips with a surprising intensity, before he gives an indignant ‘hey’. 

Ash’s gogo boots give her a little height when they hug, but he still bends enough so she can wrap her arms around his neck. Drunk, affectionate, and enthusiastic, she presses her cheek to his, leans into the hug, before she leans back and gives him a shove so she can get to the refrigerator. 

“All I’m saying,” the way she starts the sentence makes Brian think it’s a conversation that she was picking up in the middle of, and she emerges from the fridge with two drinks in hand, moving back to stand at the counter by Roger, “is that you could have come to me, I could have made something for you.” 

“And you would have complained the whole time,” Roger counters, opening his drink and wrapping an arm around Ash. 

“Of definitely,” Ash agrees, leaning against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder, “but anything’s better than whatever this is.” With a grin, she pinches at the shirt by his hip. When Roger goes to lean his head against hers, the plastic knife on the headband pokes Ash, and her yelp overshadows his rebuttal. Without hesitating she yanks the headband from his head, stepping up in front of him. “See, this whole design is fucking atrocious-”

“Without the knife” Roger just seems amused, his hands on her ass as he pulls her to stand close, between his legs as he leans against the counter, “I’m just some dickhead in a bloody shirt.”

“Yeah, I said the whole design-” But Ash’s voice dies in her throat at she catches the way Roger’s smiling at her, equal parts amused and endeared; she actually sounds bashful where she’s suddenly fiddling with the headband, looking at it rather than at Roger’s smile, “stop it, I’m trying to make a point.” She muttered, blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Stop what? I’m listening; atrocious design, I’m dating a seamstress, etcetera, etcetera,” he only grins wider when she looks up at him like she doesn’t know whether or not to roll her eyes. He pulls her closer, if it were even possible, his forehead resting against hers, still smiling at her like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and how it makes her heart beat just a little faster, “what point were you making again, love?”

With a grin, Ash leans back, gently putting the headband back, before she wraps her arms around Roger’s neck. Which is about the time Brian decides he needs to leave the kitchen; he gets enough of this at home, he doesn’t need to deal with it on Halloween. He strongly considers grabbing Deaky before he makes a break for it; there’s barely space between Ash and Roger, and proximity like that, especially with alcohol involved, always lead to far more PDA than anyone should rightly have to witness, but Deaky’s already by the record player and bopping along.

It gets easier to go through predrinks and not think about Ash’s thighs in those shorts, which shouldn’t rightly be called shorts, when he finds Freddie, who goes around introducing him to everyone he knows at the party. Ash’s old RA recognises him, makes conversation easily, and the two bond over both going for their Masters degrees. But then the music is off and it’s already almost eleven and everyone’s making their way to the pub, and Brian’s halfway down the street when he hears ‘I can’t walk faster I’ve got little legs and I’m in heels!’

“Barely,” Freddie scoffs in return.

“They’re taller than yours!” Ash snipes back, though there’s laughter in her voice, and maybe it’s because he’s already seen her on someone’s shoulders earlier in the night, the seed of the idea being planted in his mind, but Brian hears himself offering to carry her.

“You never offer to carry me anywhere,” Roger sulks as Ash gleefully climbs onto Brian’s shoulders from a park bench, her thighs smooth against his cheeks when she settles into place. 

“Ask me again when you shave your legs,” Brian says loftily, and Ash actually giggles at that, her hands resting gently on his head, his aggressively slicked-back hair, for stability. Conversation continues as normal, but it’s getting really fucking difficult to not think about how smooth and soft her thighs are, how she still smells faintly like some sort of fruity perfume. At one point she scrapes her nails across his scalp, through his straightened hair in a way that no-one’s really been able to in a long time, and he actually has to swallow and involuntary groan. She seems absolutely oblivious from her perch.

The pub is practically bursting at the seams with people, and within five minutes Brian’s found himself alone. Or well, not alone, there’s been quite a few girls who seem rather enamoured with him and his suit, girls who want to buy him drinks or take him home. There’s a girl with dark hair and dark eyes in a particularly striking cat costume, but there’s just something about her that doesn’t feel right. Or maybe it’s him, maybe it’s the night, maybe he’s tired of safe girls, and of the sound of his best mate getting off with the bartender down the hall. 

Sometimes, like right now, sitting on a sofa in the corner of the pub, he considers being with someone like Ash, a departure from what he liked to consider ‘his type’. Usually he’s fine, he and Ash have been friends for years at this point, she’s been with Roger - okay they won’t say exactly for how long - longer than either of them are willing to admit, which means he always tries to keep his wandering eyes away from her, and yeah okay he’s considered her in the abstract at times - sometimes personal times, when the the flat went quiet and all he had was the echoes of her moans ringing in his ears, which makes him feel both gross, and like a bad friend - but he’s never seriously considered her. 

Halloween’s got him feeling all sorts of ways, none of them good for him.

Besides, she’s too mean for him, too mean by half. Perfect for Roger though.

However, speak of the devil; before he registers what’s happening, there’s a flurry of movement, of shiny fringe and red, leather shorts, of giggling, and Ash bursts from the crowd and falls back onto the sofa, over the arm and into Brian’s lap. It’s as if she barely registers him as Roger follows where he’s holding her hand, and he sits on the little sofa, pulling Ash into a kiss, but she’s still in Brian’s lap. He might be panicking, just a little, caught in red handed in his indecent thoughts.

“Guys,” they don’t seem to be paying him attention, so he gives Ash a gentle, awkward shove, “guys.” He tries more insistently.

“Sorry,” Ash is giggling, leaning back to give Brian an apologetic look, and his chin an affectionate scratch. He notes there’s already a hickey blooming on her collar as she climbs from him to sit herself in Roger’s lap, to straddle him and go back to kissing him. Brian’s still feeling too close for comfort on this two-person sofa.

“Should I crash at Freddie’s tonight?” He asks loudly, and Ash trails kisses down Roger’s throat as he answers.

“I mean if you wanna hear him and Mary go at it, be my guest.” Roger snickered, before he lifted Ash’s chin with his finger, grinning at where she was stifling a laugh of her own, tipsy enough to be amused at the whole situation. 

“Great,” Brian rolled his eyes, muttering low enough that he thought they wouldn’t hear, “hear Freddie and Mary or you guys.”

“Or you could stop sulking and join us,” Ash offers, leaning back to look Brian in the eyes where she may have just broken his brain from a second time that night. After a very long moment has passed, Roger, who hand been waiting patiently, squeezes her ass, the nails of his other hand digging impatiently into her thighs. Sharp. 

Brian looks to Roger now, who would look almost bored if not for his smirk; he’s so carefully casual.

“What?” Brian directs the question to Roger now, and the smirk widens, just a little. His thumb rubs gently over the little half-moon nail indents he’s left on Ash’s thigh that’ll fade in a few minutes.

“Anything to stop you being all passive aggressive about your blue balls around the flat,” he snorts, and Ash grins as Brian feels himself turn scarlet, “you know you can only make tea angrily first thing in the morning so many times before I realise something’s actually wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong!” He tries to protest, “and I don’t need a pity shag, and I really don’t need a pity anything from you, Roger.” He scoffs, and Roger just shrugs, leaning back against the sofa, his gaze sliding to Ash, but he’s still smiling. Ash looks half amused, but there’s something in her gaze, with her pupils blown wide and dark, that has Brian’s breath catch in her throat.

“Christ, you think I’m the kind of person who pity-fucks?” She rolls her eyes, and both Roger and Brian manage to show some restraint; Roger about her colourful first year in London, and Brian about Roger, but the moment passes. “Anyways, don’t mind him, he’s a dickhead,” she swatted dismissively at Roger as he pinched her ass in protest, “but it’s not a pity shag, though he’s right about the tea thing.” She laughs a little at that, “either way, the offer’s-” and her lips twist into a sharp, dangerous smile that has Brian’s heart rate pick up in his chest, “the offer’s there, at least for tonight,” a beat passes before her grin turns to something amused, “you know, if you wanna be on the other side of those thin-ass walls.”

“Maybe you’re just loud,” Brian says before he fully registers what he’s saying, though it delights Ash and Roger. “Well if,” he hesitates for a moment, and the other two occupants of the couch wait, and Ash tries her best not to look to eager, worried that she’s going to scare him off, “if we’re going to do this we’re not doing it here; Freddie would have a field day.” Ash, as if suddenly remembering the presence of everyone else in the bar, nods quickly, a blush rising on her cheeks.

“I would like to still be able to look John in the eye,” Roger agreed. Ash is the first to stand, to offer her hand to both boys with a pleased and knowing little smile that is far cuter than it has any right to be given the situation. They tell the other’s they’re leaving-

“Together?” Freddie smirks, raising an eyebrow at Brian before he looks back at Ash and Roger, “kinky.” He smirks, and Ash pointedly rolled her eyes at him.

“Don’t be gross, Freds.” She admonished before kissing him on the cheek and giving John a hug. He may have been joking, but there’s still a paranoia, a nervousness that permeates half of the walk back to their flat. Roger’s got his arm around Ash and they’re bantering easily in the night air, Roger bringing up other costumes he saw during the night and Ash rating them as either better or worse than his terrible murder-victim costume. Brian is quiet, has a smoke and looks up at the stars while they walk. However, as they get closer to the flat, as Ash takes his hand to give a reassuring squeeze, he can feel the paranoia melting away, and he lets him self actually feel a little excitement. 

It’s weird, of course it’s weird, the moment they step back into the flat there’s a hesitation, a bit of confusion, a ‘okay, we’re here, now what?’ and Ash steps through into the living room.

“Anyone want a drink?” She calls, and the tension breaks as both Roger and Brian agree, following quickly after her. Roger flops onto the sofa to wait for her to come back, but Brian, still a little hesitant, follows her into the kitchen. She’s pulling out beers from the back of the fridge when he finds her, bent over to get at the emergency stash, which was the only thing usually left after a night out. 

He takes a good, long moment to admire the visual before he hears a loud cough, and looking beyond just her ass in those shorts, he sees Ash peering back at him from the fridge, grinning. After a moment, she straightens up and turns back to where he’s fumbling for an excuse; he doesn’t need one, not tonight. She offers him his drink.

“Can I-?” He takes the drink and only pauses for a beat, stepping into her space and putting the can on the counter beside the fridge before he’s cupping her face in his hands. In that moment, he searches her eyes for any hesitation, and sense that something was off or wrong, but instead, she’s smiling.

“Of course, love,” and she raises herself on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck as he leans in, slow and deliberate, before his lips are on hers. She kisses softer than expected, not that he really knows what he was expecting, not that he’s ever really thought of her in this sort of way before; she’s not blind, obviously, but he’s always tried to keep some modicum of professionalism between them. But that’s a problem for tomorrow Brian to mend. 

“Hey-” Brian moves back a little, and Ash takes the moment to hop up onto the counter, and Brian’s hands come to rest on her thighs like he’s seen Roger do so many times before, “don’t call me ‘love’, it’s just- it’s a bit weird.” Ash looks like she wants to make a joke, an amused glint in her eyes, but instead she snaps her mouth shut, nodding, before pulling him to stand close between her legs.

“Noted; can do.” She goes to kiss him again, but Brian can’t help but ask the question that’s been plaguing him since the offer first arose.

“Is this something you two talked about?” He asked, and Ash’s expression became a little wry as she leaned back, her arms moving from around his neck to propping her up as she leaned back, giving him an evaluative stare.

“Of course the possibility came up.”

“Me specifically?” He asks, and Ash seems a little confused, a little fond, as if wondering why he was asking now of all times. After a moment, he hears the soft thump of her heels gentle against the cupboards as she swings her legs.

“Well I called Twiggy but she wasn’t available,” Brian’s eyebrows shoot up at that, and there’s a strange moment that passes as Ash watches him consider the joke and it’s implications, before he decides to let it go, brow furrowing as he returns to his initial dilemma.

“Yeah but-”

“I think I know where this is going;” she cuts him off with a soft smile, sitting just a little straighter, “Freddie is a brother to me and John - how do I put this delicately -” she does actually pause, considering her words and dropping his gaze as her expression edges on self deprecating, though she can’t actually bring herself to voice her thoughts.

“Should know better?” Brian fills in for her, and Ash tips her head from side to side as she turns thoughtful for a moment.

“Not in such blunt terms but yes, essentially.” Finally she looks back at him, green eyes wide and dark, her lipstick having been rubbed off much earlier in the night, with mascara still clinging to her eyelashes. 

“How are you doing with all of this?” She’s so gentle when she asks, taking a completely different tone than just a moment before. There’s no hesitation here, just sincerity and care; they’re friends after all, and Brian knows if he wanted everything to stop here, if he wanted to step away and leave Roger and Ash to their own devices, he could without question. 

“Doing great, actually,” he assured, and Ash visibly relaxed, leaning off her hands so they could join his on her thighs. She echoes his words back at him, confirming, just a little bit teasing, and Brian feels the tension leave him as he just laughs and leans in to kiss her, but she grins.

“And I could tell you liked my outfit,” and she closed the gap between them before he can answer, though the way his hands slide to her ass is enough of a confirmation for her.

It starts soft, her lips gentle against his, but then Brian deepens the kiss, his tongue gliding and insistent against her lips as he pulls her closer to him, and her fingers fumble with the chunky, plastic buttons of his jacket. There’s a deliberation that comes with every move Brian makes, an uncertainty, like he’s still trying to keep that professionalism between them for even a few more moments. The moment the jacket’s unbuttoned, Ash’s hands move across his chest, to his shoulders and sliding the jacket down his arms. It takes only a second to shrug out of the jacket and for Brian to have his hands on her hips, holding firm, and her arms now around his neck.

“Glad to see you’re warming up to the idea,” Roger sounds amused from the door, and Ash has to take a moment to lean back and laugh, and even Brian’s grinning, a little flushed.

“He was wondering why him.” Ash filled in with a grin, leaning around Brian to pass Roger his beer. 

“DId you tell him it’s because I’ve already seen him naked?” Roger asks it like it’s answer enough, and Brian stepped back, turning red at his words, spluttering protests as Ash just laughed harder. “You keep leaving your towel in your room when you shower! It happened enough times that I-”

“Yeah, alright,” An embarrassed flush rising on his cheeks, watching as Roger takes his place, stepping into Ash’s space. 

“Come on, let’s move this somewhere less kitchen,” he suggested, and Ash grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before he wrapped an arm around her to help pull her off the counter and onto her feet, his other hand still holding his drink.

They drink on the sofa, well Brian and Roger do, Ash claims she’s had enough and settles for taking off her boots and putting her feet up. It does a world of good, putting them all at ease that is; they talk about Halloween and about Roger’s awful costume, and Brian careful does not say that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking of those fucking red shorts Ash is still wearing, but he’s got his hand on her thigh, high on her thigh, as they’re laughing and talking and it feels... good. 

And when the drinks are finished and the conversation dies down and Brian moves his hand higher, brushing against her through the leather of her shorts, Ash lets out a pleased sigh, shifting her hips before she makes a face.

“I will need some help out of these pants,” she admits. There’s a beat, both Brian and Roger frown at her questioningly, “like yes in the usual ‘undress me’ way, but also,” and she laughs a little self consciously, “they’re really hard to get into and watching me struggle alone to get them off isn’t exactly the hottest thing in the world, I’d imagine.”

“Here?” Roger asks. “We can’t exactly fit three people on the couch, who’s bedroom do we go to?” And with that one question, Brian felt himself filled with hesitation again.

“We can’t even fit two people on here.” Ash is thoughtful as she takes a moment to consider.

“We can, but it gave you a back ache last time.” Roger reminds her, and Ash snorts at the memory, getting to her feet.

“Guys, gross, I sit here, use some discretion would you?” Brian sighed.

“Alright, you’re not allowed to call any of our sex stuff gross tonight,” Roger argued, turning on Brian with raised eyebrows. Ash had already taken off in the direction of Brian’s bedroom.

“I’ll call it gross if I want to because it is gross; it’s where I eat.” 

“Well I eat in bed sometimes that doesn’t mean-” 

“Roger’s bed is bigger.” Ash calls from the doorframe to his bedroom, interrupting them both. They turn to her, still frowning a little, but as she watches them both, she untucks her singlet from her shorts and pulls it off in one fluid move, tossing the shirt to the side, bra-less and only wearing those damn shorts. “And for the record Brian,” she smirks, gaze flitting to the couch, before she looks back at him. A pause follows, and Ash looks like she’s reconsidering what she was about to say as she turns pink, bursting out with laughter, “no, I can’t say it, I still want to fuck you; if I say it, it’ll just made you mad.”

“Something about eating out?” Roger asks with a cocky grin, and Ash nods, hiding her laughter behind her hand.

“You two deserve each other, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Brian sighs, but he’s grinning, blushing a little at the thought, and the sound of both of them laughing is light and bright and it lifts the awkwardness as they make their way to Roger’s room. 

Roger’s the first in there, Brian hanging back just a little, and when he gets there, he catches the end of Roger’s ‘- great, how about you?’ 

“Yeah, great sounds about right.” She agrees, standing at the edge of the bed so she can pull off his shirt, and Roger peppers kisses to her bare chest now that it’s at the perfect height, and there’s something endearing about the fact that she’s still not taller than Brian like that.

“Oi, voyeur, pervert, whatever you wanna call yourself,” there’s no malice in her words as she looks over to Brian, grinning sharply as she cards a hand through Roger’s hair where he’s got one of her nipples in his mouth, “either that damn rented suit goes, or you do.” She beckons him over, and Brian can’t help but roll his eyes with a smile.

“You’re consistent, you know that? You’re very consistent.” And he’s fumbling with the buttons of the shirt as he crosses to the bed in quick strides, far more confident this time when he kisses her. It’s easier, she’s almost his height, and she’s grinning against him, working to untie his bowtie before it comes loose. The next moment she gasping, hands fisting in the fabric of his now unbuttoned shirt. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” she breathes, grinning and a little flustered as Roger presses a kiss to the bite mark he’d left on her boob, “hey- oi-” firmer this time, she moves back, gently shoving them away, stepping back to look between them, “I feel under-dressed,” she laughs, though there’s a surprising note of honesty in her words, and even in the relative darkness, Brian can see the tense set of her shoulders, can hear the bed creaking, giving away the way her weight is shifting from one foot to the other.

“Are you- Ash are you alright with this?” He asks, voice gentle as Roger reaches out to rest a reassuring hand on her hip. Ash just laughs, loud and dismissive and completely fake.

“Of course, have you met me?” She doesn’t even seem convinced, and it takes only a beat for her to sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. “I want it to be good for you guys so it’s not weird.”

“It’s going to be weird for like two days anyways,” Roger shrugged, pulling his shirt and tossing it to the side, “sometimes friends shag, it’s not a big deal.” After a beat he added, “but if you don’t want to-”

“No, that’s the thing, I really want to,” she half laughs at her own enthusiasm, before dropping her gaze, voice getting a little softer, “I’ve just never really done this before, and, well, um-” she pauses for a moment, face turning scarlet, though they don’t notice, as her gaze flicks to Brian for the barest moment, “how do I put this? Like, physically... I’m little.” It’s Brian’s turn to blush and Roger chokes on a laugh. Ash is quick to backpedal, giggling a little herself at the implications, “I mean, everything’s going to- god this getting worse by the minute - I meant in terms of height, asshole!” She snorts, shoving Roger’s shoulder where he’s smirking at her.

“I mean, it’s never really been a problem for anyone else,” Brian pipes up finally after clearing his throat, and Ash lets out a tentative smile, “and it’s easier with a bed, too, so... there’s that.”

“There is that,” Ash agreed with a mischievous and renewed energy. There’s another flurry of movement, of her bouncing off the bed, pressing a quick kiss to Roger’s lips, she assures that she’ll be with him in a moment, and he smacks her on the ass before flopping himself onto the bed, already unzipping his pants with a lazy confidence.

Ash steps into Brian’s space; “you’re still overdressed.” But her hand is still when it comes to rest, palm flat, on his stomach just below his navel, her other hand hovering at the waistband of his pants by his hip. “We good?” She asks gently; her nails scrape against his belly and shiver runs down his spine.

“Great.”

[thepartyresponsible]

I have so many ideas about what love could start a war is - I need to know! And not beyond repair sounds amazing just from the title - it sounds like a Jason Todd life motto (or really, for the person paired with him)

ha! i love the idea of “not beyond repair” as jason’s motto. that’s amazing. i talked about that fic right here.

love could start a war is the sequel to shatter together. it’s still in pretty early stages, but here’s how the story starts.

warnings for violence and preemptive apologies for the cliffhanger.

It’s not a regular thing, him and Jason. It’s not a thing at all, and Clint keeps remindinghimself not to think about it like that. It’s just that, every now and then,when he picks up a job in Gotham, he’ll check in with Jason, just to see him.And Jason never tells him to cut it out, so Clint keeps coming back. Because henever learns. Because, no matter how many times he’s taught, he still hears You can stay as Yes, please stay.

In the beginning, he haunts rooftops, wanders the skyline atnight, puts himself where Red Hood is likely to find him.

“Hey,” Jason says, the first time Clint sees him after thenight they met. He pulls his mask off, and his hair falls across his forehead,black and curling, sweat-drenched at the roots. The grin he gives him couldbreak hearts at fifty paces, and here’s Clint, like an idiot, standing at pointblank range.

God, he’s doomed.

“Looking for me?” Jason prompts, when Clint doesn’t sayanything.

“Maybe,” Clint says, trying for cool. “Yeah,” he says,immediately afterward, because he’s not cool. He’s never been cool. Not in hiswhole damn life. He points at Jason’s helmet. “But, if you’re busy, I can–”

“Not busy anymore,” Jason says. It’s nice, that edge ofinterest in his voice. He sounds like he’s happy to see him. “Patrol’s over.”Jason gestures down at the alley, at a motorcycle waiting below. “Wanna get abeer?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, shoulders relaxing. “Sounds good.”

The next time he’s in town, Clint tracks down the bike and thenwaits for Jason to come back to it. The morning after that, when Jason wakeshim up by working a line of kisses and bites from his collarbone to the edge ofhis jaw, he gets Jason’s phone number.

“Just call me, alright?” Jason says, when Clint stares downat the number, written out in bold, jagged handwriting on the back of acrumpled takeout receipt. “You’re too pretty to stand on street corners,waiting for me. Someone’s gonna steal you.”

Clint rubs at his face to hide his blush and wishes he didn’tblush at all. He hasn’t seen Jason blush, not once, and the things Jason saysshould make anyone blush. They canmake Clint blush for days afterward. The things Jason says can send Clint’s bloodrunning several different directions, and he tries not to think about them whenhe’s working. Or in public.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Clint says, but he folds the paper upcarefully and slips it into his wallet.

Jason stares at him for a second with that pinched,skeptical look he gets whenever he hears something he doesn’t like. “I’m notbeing an asshole,” he says. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Don’t stand on streetcorners in Gotham after dark. That’s a real good way to end up less pretty.”

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Clint says.

Jason sighs like Clint’sthe one being weird and difficult, but he climbs in the shower about twominutes after Clint, so he doesn’t seem like he minds all that much.

Clint calls the next time, and Jason answers on the secondring, with a short, unfriendly, “What?”

“Huh,” Clint says, “that’s how you answer the phone?”

“Clint?” Jason’s tone changes, drops to neutral. Or whatClint had thought was his neutral,until he heard the way Jason greets everyone else. “Sorry. Didn’t know thenumber. Thought you were someone else. You in town?”

“For a couple days,” Clint says. “Gotta work tonight, butthen I’ll be around.”

“Okay,” Jason says. “You gonna stop by after? I can leavethe door unlocked, if it’ll be late.”

“In Gotham?” Clint says. “You’re gonna leave the doorunlocked in Gotham?”

“Sweetheart,” Jason says, with a laugh in his voice, “anyoneballsy enough to come after me in this town isn’t gonna be stopped by a fuckingdeadbolt.”

He doesn’t mean anything by it. Clint remembers Jason calledsomeone sweetheart in the bar, onthat first night, and then he’d smashed that guy’s face into a pool table, soclearly it’s not an actual term of endearment. It’s not a petname. It doesn’tmean anything.

“I’ll be by,” he says. He hadn’t planned on it. But hedoesn’t care what his plans were. “Lock your door, though. I’ll pick it when Iget there.”

“Look at you,” Jason says, sounding amused and maybepleased. “Guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Sure,” Clint says, and hangs up before he says somethingstupid like Looking forward to it or It’ll be good to see you again.

After that, Clint always calls, and they plan to meet atJason’s apartment, or at some bar, or in a series of 24-hour diners. Jason’sonly late once, and Clint isn’t worried,because it’s not his place to worry about him, but he goes looking anyway, justto pass the time.

He finds Jason in an alley, fighting three men. All three ofthem have knives, but Jason’s fighting with his fists, and his body armor isgood enough that there isn’t much blood. But there is blood, and it bothers Clint, seeing it.

Clint drops all three of them, arrows punched right intotheir hearts. He waits on the rooftop, catching his breath, while Jason collectsthe arrows and then climbs the fire escape to meet him.

“Hey,” Clint says, when Jason steps onto the roof, arrows inone hand and helmet in the other. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your work.But the bars close in an hour, you know? Kinda want to get a beer.”

“Fuck the bars,” Jason says. He walks right up to him, pinshim against the nearest gargoyle, and Clint can feel the warmth of him, throughall the leather and body armor he wears. “I’ve got beer at home,” he says,mouth right against his throat.

“Shit,” Clint says, tipping his head back to give him moreroom. “Okay, sure. We can go wherever you want.”

So it’s not a thing, but it’s a recognizable pattern. Everytime he calls, Jason lets him in. They never say goodbye, because Clint alwaysleaves when Jason isn’t looking, sneaks out while he’s in the shower ordisappears after Jason goes out on patrol. And that’s shitty, probably, justleaving like that, but Jason never calls him on it, so maybe he doesn’t mind.

It’s not a thing. It’s nothing.

It’s still the closest thing to an actual relationship witha person that Clint’s had since he left the circus. Unless you count AgentCoulson, who’s been dogging him for at least two years. Which Clint sure ashell does not, because he’s runninglow on scraps of dignity but isn’t completely in the red yet.

Whatever they have, it doesn’t explain why Clint’s here,standing outside of Jason’s apartment at a truly unholy hour of the morning,pounding his bloody fist against door.

“Fuck,” he says, quietly, to himself, and tries not to swayin place.  

[phanfictioncatalogue]

(TW) Mental Health Masterlist

Links Last Checked: April 8th, 2022

climbing up the walls (ao3) - revengeavenue

Summary: Dan's journey to feeling real was not an easy one, not at all, but perhaps getting there was worth it in the end.

Code Black (ao3) - starboydjh

Summary: “Code black: An influx of patients so great, there aren’t enough resources to treat them. The average A&E is in code black 5 times per year. St. Thomas’ Memorial Hospital in London is in code black 300 times per year.” Doctors Dan Howell and Phil Lester know all too well that when everything in the busiest accident and emergency department in England and their personal lives goes right, the most incredible of miracles can happen. After Dan bares the struggles of his past to Phil, a member of Dan’s distant and troubled family shows up as a patient in their A&E one night after years of silence, and life starts to feel like one long code black night in more ways than one.

Hello Yellow - analester

Summary: a fic that recounts how dnp spent world mental health day, including phil painting dan’s nails, phil wearing a cheese costume, and the two nerds sharing milkshakes like the saps they are.

I Dare You To Stay (ao3) - realityfallsapart

Summary: Dan Howell is a barista working a shitty job, frequenting his shitty apartment, and living a shitty existence, hiding his asexuality and going for a PHD in self-depreciation and depression. Phil Lester is a part-time intern, part-time employee at a local weather station, trying to get experience in his field and make a name for himself, while juggling a second job at the nearby Tesco's to give him some financial breathing room. Their paths were never supposed to meet, but what happens when they do anyways, one rainy day in Manchester?

in pieces (ao3) - theslytherinqueen

Summary: "I love you Dan," He had said, "but I can't watch you destroy yourself."

In the Shadow of Happiness (ao3) - phantomoftheliving (unmuted_silence)

Summary: After announcing the upcoming world tour, Dan has a mental breakdown. Will Phil be able to save Dan from the demons of his mind or will Dan remain in the shadow of happiness?

Just Take A Shower (ao3) - phandoe

Summary: Dan is depressed. Phil loves him.

Leave A Light On (ao3) - iihappydaysii

Summary: Dan told people he cared about that he wanted to get better.

Moving On (ao3) - adorkablephil (kimberly_a)

Summary: Post-TATINOF. Wanting to move his content in a more serious direction (not to mention the fact that he's been following Phil around since he was a teenager and has no idea who he is on his own), Dan moves out in order to separate his “brand” from Phil’s. Is there any way their friendship can survive? Or will it be changed forever?

Of Earth and Sea (ao3) - aliiciabrux

Summary: Going to Draxicord School of Elements has its many ups and downs. For one thing, Dan and Phil are roommates and they just can't seem to get along. For another, handling element-based powers is a tricky and sometimes explosive act. But it's all worth it in the end.

In which Dan has water powers and Phil has earth powers.

Proud -  phananddragonsfics

Summary: A short fluff fic based on Phil painting Dan’s nails for World Mental Health Day.

Restart My Life (ao3) - maxiemoo01

Summary: Dan Howell is constantly making jokes about death and his mental health, that's all they are though right? Just, jokes.

Sweet Pea - botanistlester

Summary: (tw) A nickname that goes bitter in your mouth. Cries for help that no one listens to. Gentle hands that make you quake on the ground you’re standing on. When Phil first met Nico, he thought he was a gift from the heavens. But behind the mask lies something daunting, something unnerving, that Phil never foresaw. Through his journey, he finds solace in Dan, the regular at his workplace, who seems to be the only one who sees through Nico’s mask to the darkness underneath.

Take Me By The Hand (ao3) - amczingphil

Summary: Dan suffers from a severe genetic disorder that has forced him to spend his entire life indoors, going outside is too dangerous for him as he has no immune system and catching any illness can result in his death.

He was as content as he could be given his situation, he would fill his time watching his neighbours and creating elaborate stories about their lives in his head, until Phil Lester moved in across the street.

Now Dan can’t stop thinking about the man with the plants and suddenly his ‘normal’ life isn’t as satisfying as it had once been.

The Changeover (ao3) - sloppyseconds

Summary: Daniel Howell, occupier of room 110, happens to meet Philip Lester, the man in room 120. Little to his knowledge, this meeting will cause Dan to question everything he’s ever believed and blur the lines between right and wrong.

the one with the fucked up summer camp (ao3) - theaux

Summary: (tw) Dan had only meant to spend a relaxing afternoon in the sun, slowly dying. Instead, he ended up in the children's psychiatric and behavioral medicine unit. It's not all bad though, as there seem to be quite a few friendly faces behind those locked hospital double doors, including a certain black haired boy...

What A Catch (ao3) - hygge

Summary: Phil visits the same cafe every weekday morning without fail. But, when he decides to visit the cafe on the weekend for once, the atmosphere that he had grown used to has completely changed thanks to a piano player named Dan. While Phil is ready to jump into a relationship, Dan is hesitant and is still trying to stitch his life together again after What Had Happened in his past relationship. And that’s easier said than done.

You're Driving Me Mental (wattpad) - dil-finds-phan

Summary: Phil is the new patient at an adolescent mental health unit. A young Dan is told to keep an eye on him but apparently, not caring causing things to go down hill. Will Phil get better, for Dan, as well as himself?

[prorevenge]

Orthodontist Fiasco Gets Fixed

just a heads up, this is gonna get really long

so I’ve always had a problem with my teeth. I have a really bad overbite that pushed apart my two front teeth so wide you could drive a truck through them. It was so bad that I was recommended to get braces as soon as my baby teeth all fell out. So by the time I was 12 I went to an orthodontist that my mom’s friend had spoke well of. The dentist and his staff were pleasant and did their job efficiently. By the time I was 15 (near 16) I got the green light to have my braces removed.

My parents were willing to pay for everything up front. They wanted my teeth to be right. Neither of my parents were able to have much quality work on their teeth when they were my age and they sincerely regretted it. They didn’t want me to be like that.

Anyone who has ever had braces and the subsequent retainers know what’s coming next. The dreaded impressions. Only it wasn’t that bad because the hygienist seemed to understand the basic idea of displacement and just put enough putty in the mold that it was only mildly uncomfortable. During the time that I was getting my retainers set up, the dentist who I had originally started going to was slowly transitioning his practice over to another guy, who we’ll call Dr. Bluff.

Dr. Bluff was very nice and friendly, more so than the original guy. I liked him.

Fast forward about 3 years to now, when I’m 19 and my retainer breaks. It was the bottom one and because of my overbite it threw off the whole system. However, we decided to wait until our next regular dentist appointment to ask what we should do about it. And then we had to push that appointment back because we got sick.

I reasoned that our regular dentist would tell us to just go back to the orthodontist who did the retainer originally and set up an appointment there. We go there (I mean me & my mom since I’m living at home and she’s retired so she can traipse around with me wherever) and as soon as I walk in the office I know in the pit of my stomach something was not going to go right today.

I go back and the hygienist takes a look at my front teeth (which had the gap between them again *SIGH*) and she said 1) she’ll need to take new impressions for my retainer and 2) that Dr. Bluff might want to close the gap before I get my new retainer. I ask her if we should hold off on the impression until after Dr. Bluff has seen it and we make a decision so we don’t waste an impression. She just shrugs and puts the impression tray in my mouth.

Now the thing that should be noted about this particular orthodontist office is that the general treatment area is a big room in the back comprised of five dentists chairs in a semicircle. There is no privacy.

The second she presses the putty against my teeth, it goes down my mouth towards my throat and I start gagging. I’m crying and gagging in the chair and she’s trying to keep me still. After five minutes of hell she finally pulls it out and sends me (and my mouth full of leftover putty bits) over to the communal sink to clean up while i’m embarrassed to hell and blushing like a priest at an orgy.

so i try to mask my light crying and get my mom to come into the back & talk about options on how we’re going to close my front teeth gap. We come up with a solution but it’s going to take two weeks of temporary braces and then another impression for the top. I look at the hygienist, who somehow had the absolute balls to look unfazed.

On the ride home I explain to my mom what happened and she said that she has the same problem re: gag reflex. She said that general dentist work is hell because of it. She tells me to mention it next time. I agreed and added that I would ask the next hygienist to put less putty in the tray so the displaced putty doesn’t trigger my gag reflex. We nod and decide that this is our game plan.

Cut to two weeks later to the day from hell. I had to wake up super early to help my mom take my grandmother to the doctor and after we got that sorted, mom and I went to the orthodontist to get the temp braces taken off and the new impressions done. I wait 30 mins to get called back and then another 15 mins to finally have someone come over and do something. Dr. Bluff takes off the temp braces, grinding the glue off my teeth. Only, as he’s grinding, it’s like he’s oblivious to my very loud grunts of pain. It hurts and it smells and all the debris is either going right up my nose or all over my glasses.

After he’s done I get a reprieve and clean the taste out of my mouth. Back to the chair. I look around and see that they’ve filled all of the other 4 chairs. Oh boy.

So I talk to hygienist that I have a bad gag reflex and I ask her if she could fill the tray not as full because the over-flow/displaced putty/whatever sets off my gag reflex. I joke (but kind of not) that the last thing I wanted to do that morning was throw up on them.

Then Dr. Bluff starts making jokes about previous patients who had puked in the chair. And look, I know that when your job is working in someone’s mouth, puking is going to happen, but at the rate he was mentioning? That’s bad. That’s really bad. That means that there is some fundamentally wrong with what you’re doing.

Impression time! Because I had mentioned gagging and puking they had the tiniest puke bowl known to man under my chin the second the tray went into my mouth. They did this because apparently the hygienist didn’t hear a word I said and filled the tray as full as she could.

The very second she applied pressure to the tray caused the displaced putty to flow out of the tray, down the roof of my mouth, and down my throat. It cut off my fucking air supply. I couldn’t breathe. I was gagging and crying and sobbing and screaming (as well as one can when they can’t breathe). I’m about half a second from blacking out when they finally take the tray out of my mouth- only to have the overflow piece BREAK OFF AND LODGE IN MY THROAT. Cue another five minutes of gagging and crying as they blankly stare at me, trying to figure out what my problem was.

I finally cough it up and they send me over to the sink to clean up. I’m straight up crying and my cheeks are redder than hell and I can feel the other patients’ eyes on me like goddamn bullets in my shoulders. As soon as I can get out of that room I do.

I put on my sunglasses to cover my cry-swollen eyes. The second I walk into the waiting room, my mom knows that something is wrong. I try to hustle the secretaries through making an appointment for the next day to pick up my retainer and I feel like i’m about to die. Mom doesn’t question me because she senses that I Do Not Want To Talk About It Right Here.

So we go down the steps and into the lobby (it’s a second-floor office in a communal building) and before we could even make it to the front door I break down crying. I was fucking hysterical. I was shaking so had my mom couldn’t get a firm grip on me so she could hug me. She makes me take half of a nerve pill which she keeps on her in case of panic/anxiety/nerve attacks. I’m in such a bad state that I can’t drive and I burst into crying fits the entire ride home.

So we get home and the pill’s started to kick in. I’m still really shaken and upset but I’m not literally shaking or sobbing uncontrollably. So I sit and watch some funny videos to calm myself down before I begin to hatch my plan.

I looked up Dr. Bluff and his office on google and on every link on the first two pages of google that had a review function I left a 1-star reviewing detailing my experience. I ended them all by saying that the only reason i would ever go back would be to get my pre-paid retainer and that I was absolutely terrified that I would die in that office.

I sincerely was. I still am.

Anyway. A few hours later, i get a call. IT’S DR. BLUFF AND HE WANTS TO TALK TO ME. He says that he heard that I “didn’t have a good experience today.” He gave a few excuses, tripping over himself to not actually apologize for anything, and then offered to comp the cost of my retainer (which was up to $300 that we paid since we don’t have dental insurance). He only asked that I take down the review (he had only seen one).

But the next day, it got better. We were running like ten minutes late to the appointment and I was freaking the whole time. The second we signed in we got called back. Dr. Bluff invited us into his office and invited us to sit down (we didn’t). He apologized without somehow managing to properly apologize but in the end he comped the cost of my retainer, offer to have a 3D model of my teeth made & shipped to us for future reference FOR FREE, and asked if he could use my review (all versions of which I had since taken down but he had actually saved) for training purposes. I agreed. Mom also made a point of reminding him that he had a lot of younger kids who came through his office and weren’t used to dental work like I was.

To put it in my mother’s words, he was eating crow.

So now, about two weeks later, I’m sitting here with my retainer in my mouth and a dull but persistent ache in my shoulder thanks to the thrashing & gagging that their shitty impression made me do. I actually had to miss a day of work because of the pain. But personally, I think that in end it balanced out.

[botanistlester]

Sweet Pea (12/34)

Summary: A nickname that goes bitter in your mouth. Cries for help that no one listens to. Gentle hands that make you quake on the ground you’re standing on. When Phil first met Nico, he thought he was a gift from the heavens. But behind the mask lies something daunting, something unnerving, that Phil never foresaw. Through his journey, he finds solace in Dan, the regular at his workplace, who seems to be the only one who sees through Nico’s mask to the darkness underneath. Warnings: Abusive relationship, violence A/N: Warnings for this chapter include violence and shaming. There is a slap, so be warned and be safe! Thank you very much to @snowbunnylester for editing this for me! You are beautiful and wonderful. I can't wait for you guys to read the rest of it :') The lyric at the beginning is from Princeton Ave by Issues! Thanks to everyone who participated in the Knock Out Nico 2017 Meetup! That was so funny and amusing and i love you all! Previous | Masterlist

Read it on AO3 Read it on Wattpad

-

Chapter Twelve

What is a man who lays a hand on his lover?

-

About two months had passed since Phil had found the messages on Nico’s phone and Phil tried to pretend as though everything was okay between them. But Nico had become more distant than ever and Phil turned to Dan for company instead. Either Phil would be at Dan’s flat, or Dan would be at his, and it was nice. It was calm between them. Dan made Phil laugh, made him feel as though he wasn’t breaking apart at the seams.

It was going fine, until Phil had decided to ignore Nico’s text messages in lieu of hanging out with Dan. He just hadn’t wanted to deal with the excessive texting for one split second.

The moment a knock sounded on his door, Phil tensed. Dan gave him a curious look, but he refused to meet his gaze.

He didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Nico had been texting him for the past few hours, over and over, and Phil could hardly stomach it. He ended up not responding after a while, tossing his phone to the floor and curling up next to Dan instead. He could still read the texts from the couch.

Nico x - 5:55pm

I love you, babe. Xx

Nico x - 6:10pm

Where are you? X

Nico x - 6:14pm

Hello???

Nico x - 6:28pm

Answer your fucking phone.

Nico x - 6:32pm

I swear to god, Phil.

Nico x - 6:50pm

Do you even love me anymore?

A bad mistake on Phil’s part to just ignore him, and he knew it. He had known it would only be a couple of hours until Nico would show up at his door, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to text back.

Everything was too much. His mind was screaming at him, a plethora of thoughts and emotions that he couldn’t understand.

Recently, he’d been having scary thoughts, thoughts he’d never been plagued with before, and he wasn’t quite sure of how to deal with them.

So he shut Nico out. He made excuses. Said he was busy and then crashed on Dan’s couch. Told Nico he had too much schoolwork as Dan would be eating a bowl of chips and salsa next to him. He never did get around to telling Nico he was hanging out with Dan, after all, especially not since Nico claimed Phil was cheating for having another friend.

He wanted Dan to himself, was that so much to ask for?

Apparently, yes.

It didn’t help that Phil felt trapped, like he couldn’t leave Nico now, because Nico needed him. How could Phil abandon him after the story he’d heard about Nico’s dad? Not that he wanted to leave Nico, it was just - Phil didn’t deserve him anymore.

By the time Nico was knocking on his door, Dan was still in his flat, on his couch, waiting for Phil to answer the door. Except Phil didn’t move. He was frozen, a statue made of ice.

“Are you going to answer?” Dan asked softly, nudging him with his knee.

Phil cleared his throat and nodded, muting the television. “It’s Nico. Wanna go hide out in my room and give us some privacy for a little bit?” he asked softly, knowing that Dan would listen to his wishes.

Just as expected, Dan nodded, patting his shoulder affectionately as he left the room. Phil steeled himself, knowing he was going to have to answer the door.

It was stupid how scared he was. It wasn’t like Nico was going to hurt him or anything; he never, did after all. Phil just hated to disappoint him, hated how he was such a shitty boyfriend that he ignored Nico for hours on end just because he didn’t want to talk. He was so selfish.

Squashing down his self-hatred, Phil answered the door. He expected the look of anger on Nico’s face, but it still punched him in the gut anyways, still felt like a stab right to the heart. Those eyes, which were so soft most of the time, were filled with hurt and rage, a horrible concoction of emotions.

Phil invited him inside and opted for staring at the floor so he wouldn’t have to meet that heavy gaze.

“So now you’re talking to me?” Nico asked coldly, tone as sharp as his butterfly knife.

Phil flinched. “I’m sorry, I was doing a bit of cleaning and forgot to look at my phone,” he lied. Lying seemed to come easier since he’d met Dan, once he’d found something he didn’t want to give up.

Nico scoffed. He shut the door and the lock clicked into place, making Phil’s ears ring. His heart pounded in his ears. Why had Nico locked the door? And why was Phil frightened by that? “I’m not an idiot, Phil. We’ve been dating for nearly a year. I know when you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying,” Phil lied again.

An iron grip found it’s way onto Phil’s chin, forcing him to look up and meet the poisonous gaze he was trying so hard to avoid. Phil felt bile rise in his throat, the anger flickering in Nico’s green eyes. Phil had never seen him so angry before. Usually, Nico was passive aggressive. He would withdraw his attention from Phil, would act as if it didn’t phase him at all. He had never shown Phil how pissed he actually was.

Phil must have truly hurt him. How terrible a boyfriend he must be.

“Do you even love me anymore?” Nico asked, echoing the last text message he’d sent before coming to Phil’s house. “Because it seems like you don’t lately. Is there someone else you’re fucking? Is that why you’re lying to me so blatantly right now?”

“Nico, of course I love you! You know I wouldn’t see anybody behind your back!”

“Oh really?” Nico laughed humorlessly, throwing his head back as he let out a loud bellow. “So if I went into your room right now, there wouldn’t be another guy hiding there, waiting for me to leave?”

Phil’s stomach sank to the floor. Did… did he know? About Dan? Was he just teasing Phil, humouring him because he knew Phil was lying? “N-no!” Phil stuttered.

Nico hummed. He stroked Phil’s cheek softly, soothing the burning where his fingertips had just been pressing into his face. He pursed his lips. “I don’t believe you, sweet pea,” he said simply, and started to pull away. Just the sound of the endearment now was enough to make Phil blanche and want to curl into a ball. It seemed that he was always unable to stop shaking whenever Nico called him that, the knowledge that he also called Chandler that making Phil sick to his stomach.

As Nico began to walk towards Phil’s room, Phil began to protest. He tried to grab Nico’s hand, tried to tug him back. He couldn’t have Nico find Dan, he just couldn’t! If Nico found Dan hiding in his room, he would assume the worst. He would think Phil was cheating on him, which was simply not true. He would think Phil was unfaithful. Phil didn’t want that. He didn’t know what he would do if that happened.

“Nico, don’t you trust me? I love you, I would never cheat on you,” he pleaded. His face was flushed with horror, anxiety rising in his chest in the form of bile and tears. He had to hide Dan. Nico would get the wrong idea, and he’d know that Phil had lied, and then he’d break up with him.

Nico couldn’t leave him! Phil didn’t know what he’d do without him, how he'd be able to live anymore.

“Nico, please!” Phil exclaimed again, tugging more harshly, just as Nico began to reach for the handle of his door. He pulled a bit too hard, making Nico stumble and stub his toe against the open closet door in the hallway.

“What the fuck!” Nico exclaimed, voice a mix of rage and pain. He turned on Phil then, his cheeks flushed red with fury, leaving Phil to shrink away from him as much as he possibly could. Even though he was taller than Nico by a few inches, Phil felt four feet tall at that moment.

“Wow, you really must be hiding something from me, huh, slut? What, is he more attractive than me? Does he fuck you better than me? Make you feel special?” Nico barked out a laugh and reached out a hand, smoothing Phil’s fringe back with a hand far gentler than his voice. “Who am I kidding, though. It’s not like anyone else would want you. You’re lucky to have someone like me that loves you.”

Phil couldn’t stop the tears from flowing out of his eyes. He hiccupped, reaching out to cup Nico’s cheeks. “Nico-” he started, but he never finished. Before he could, a sharp pain struck his cheek and he was stumbling against the wall, hissing in pain with wide eyes.

“Don’t fucking touch me, whore.”

“Um, what the fuck?” A voice interrupted, and Phil closed his eyes, starting to sob harder. This was exactly what he didn’t need to happen right now.

He didn’t even need to look to see what was going on. Dan had walked out of the room just as Nico had slapped Phil. He was probably thinking Nico abused Phil, too, which wasn’t the case. He just happened to see something with no context, and now Nico was going to know Phil lied to him.

“Did you just hit him?”

“Dan, it’s fine,” Phil said, straightening up. He wiped the tears angrily from his eyes and smiled, ignoring the pain in his cheek and jaw. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but he was sure he was okay. “We were just having a little domestic is all.”

Dan snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned a glare onto Nico, who glared right back. “Domestic my ass! I know an abuser when I see one. I could hear the entire fucking argument through the wall. You can’t just treat people like that, mate.”

“I’m sorry, but who the hell are you to tell me what to do in my relationship?” Nico asked smoothly, standing tall and confident. “He’s fine. Aren’t you, Phil?”

Phil nodded. “I’m fine,” he responded robotically. He was feeling particularly numb, like everything was miles away from him now. It was amazing. He liked the feeling of, well, not feeling.

Dan was shaking his head. “No. No fucking way. I want you out.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Get out or I’m calling the fucking police.”

“Dan,” Phil interjected. Dan fell silent but didn’t turn his gaze away from Nico.

“What?” Dan asked.

“Get out.”

That made Dan look at him. Phil didn’t know what he saw, didn’t know what he looked like. He probably had a disgusting red mark on his face, and his eyes were probably swollen from crying. Maybe he had bags under his eyes and messy hair. Maybe he looked a mile away. Phil didn’t know, and he didn’t particularly care.

All he knew was that he wanted Dan to leave.

“What?” Dan exclaimed incredulously.

Phil glanced into Nico’s eyes, saw the guarded look there, and knew exactly what he needed to do. If he wanted to save his relationship with Nico, he’d have to give up the one thing he hadn’t been willing to give up for so long.

He directed his gaze to stare right into Dan’s eyes. “Get out of my house.”

He saw the pain there. He saw the betrayal. But he couldn’t have Dan in here anymore. The damage was done. His relationship was on the line. Phil would do anything for Nico, didn’t he realise that? He couldn’t throw away the only person who would ever love him, the only person who thought Phil was worth something.

“I’m not leaving,” Dan interjected, and Phil almost expected him to stomp his foot as well.

Phil gave him a pleading look, one that was borderline desperate. He needed Dan out right now. “Dan. Please. Get the fuck out of my house.”

His best friend gave him a long and hard stare. Could he even call Dan his best friend anymore? After throwing him out of his apartment when he’d just tried to defend Phil? He didn’t know.

He tried not to care too much. His fingers were numb, his cheeks were numb, his chest was numb. He wanted time to just slow down for a little bit and let him process what was happening.

“Fine, Phil,” Dan got out, shoving an angry shoulder into Nico’s as he stepped past. “Call me if you need me.”

Then, he was gone.

Phil didn’t know if he should be happy or upset by the fact that Dan had actually left.

A few seconds passed until the front door slammed closed, and Phil didn’t dare move, or breathe, for that matter.

“Not hiding anyone in your room, huh?” Nico muttered, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He raised an expectant eyebrow at Phil. The anger from before had seemed to diminish only slightly, but Phil was still on edge.

“He came by to ask for a textbook,” Phil told him, hanging his head. “Nothing more, I swear. I love you, Nico. He doesn’t mean shit to me.” The words hurt him more than anyone could know, because Dan was a better friend than Phil could ever be to him. Dan deserved so much more than him.

Nico hummed, reaching out his fingers and stroking them down Phil’s stinging cheek. “Did he touch you anywhere?” Phil shook his head no, and it made Nico start to flutter his hands down Phil’s sides. He gently skimmed over Phil’s skin, so light that Phil could barely feel it. His hands flitted under Phil’s shirt until he was lifting it up, pulling the shirt over Phil’s head. Phil obeyed, because he didn’t know what else to do. “Show me how much you love me. You belong to me, Phil. Forever.”

“I’m yours,” Phil murmured in agreement, stepping closer to Nico and pressing his lips to his hungrily. He kissed him with all he had, allowing Nico to dominate his mouth and to bite his lips until they were aching from the sting of his teeth.

He allowed Nico to undress him in the hallway, allowed him to touch him and kiss down his chest. When Nico demanded he suck him off, he obeyed. He didn’t dare challenge him.

They made their way back to the room, a tangled mess of limbs as Nico pressed him to the bed, biting harshly at his neck, hard enough to leave marks. He belonged to Nico again.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” Nico whispered as he kissed along Phil’s jawline, grinding against him softly. “I won’t do that again.”

“It’s okay,” Phil replied, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling.

There was a sharp pain in Phil’s cheek and Nico’s lips ghosted over it, but it felt like poison. His breath fanned across Phil’s face, and Phil resisted the urge to push him away by closing his eyes instead. “I never want you to leave me,” Nico murmured quietly, slowly removing Phil’s shirt. His hands burned as he trailed them down chest, over his skin. “I seriously don’t know what I’d do without you. So you can’t leave me, okay? That’s…” he sucked a mark into Phil’s throat, and Phil clenched his teeth. “That’s my worst fear.”

The words sent a flash of guilt through Phil, and he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Nico was right. He couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t abandon him just like his father had. He couldn’t make Nico scared and alone once more. They could get through this.

They could get through this.

Nico whispered sweet words in his ear as he fucked him, words about how much Phil meant to him and how beautiful he looked. He told him that he was his, that he’d always belong to him, no matter what. He’d mark his words with a bright coloured hickey on Phil’s neck, claiming that it was to keep the other boys away.

It took a long time to finish, and it took Phil even longer. Nico fell asleep almost right after, kissing Phil’s forehead and telling him that he’d see him in the morning.

Phil could not fall asleep. His mind was racing, as it did, and he buried his face into the sheets to try and drown out his thoughts.

It didn’t work, because the bedsheets smelled like Dan, which made Phil’s chest ache in the most unforgiving way. The numbness was starting to wear off, leaving behind a pain far sharper than Nico’s knife, or the slap to his face. Phil was silent as he cried, trying not to wake Nico, and let the tears stain the sheets instead.

He didn’t understand what was happening. Why was Nico getting violent with him? He’d always had a violent streak, but he’d never actually slapped Phil until that day. Why would he do something like that?

Nico had always mentioned that he didn’t want to be like his father. And yet he’d slapped Phil, just like Nico’s father had hit his mum.

And why had Phil pushed Dan away? Dan, who’d always been there for Phil. Dan, who’d let Phil sleep on his couch for two weeks straight. He was Phil’s best friend, there was no doubt about that, and Phil showed his gratitude by kicking him out of his house. Some shitty friend Phil was.

He needed to get out. He needed to get away. He was hyper-aware of Nico’s sleeping body beside him, the weight of him against the mattress, his tiny snores as he inhaled. Every time he moved, Phil twitched, his body seemingly unable to help it now. He needed to get out.

As quietly as he could, he started to edge his way from underneath the covers. His eyes were trained on Nico, awaiting movement, trying not to wake him up. Nico didn’t move, and Phil could hear blood rushing through his ears. His feet touched the ground, the bed squeaking as he lifted himself up, and then a hand was reaching out and wrapping around his wrist.

Phil flinched, trying to yank away from the touch.

Nico’s grip only tightened.

“Phil?” Nico asked, voice slurred from sleep. “Where are you off to?”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Phil hissed, yanking his hand away with more force. He didn’t dare look into Nico’s eyes. He didn’t want to see the expression, didn’t want to feel guilty for being afraid of his own boyfriend.

He didn’t want to feel guilty for needing to leave, to abandon Nico the way his father had.

He started to walk towards the door.

“Phil, what are you doing?” Nico asked loudly. He didn’t sound angry, more concerned. The bed creaked as he stood, and Phil opened the door.

“Just get away from me,” Phil told him. His voice was more steady than he felt. He felt as if his world was crashing down, as if he wanted to sink into the Earth and forget his very own existence.

Nico must have jogged over to him, because his hands were suddenly on Phil’s waist, and they burned. They burned, and Phil felt like he was going to be sick. He wanted to rip his skin off, wanted to scratch at his waist until his flesh was bloody and bruised.

He’d never felt self-destructive before, but considering Nico had hit him only a couple of hours before, he figured today was a day of firsts.

“Come back to bed, love. I’m not going to hurt you.” Nico’s voice was like honey and poison at the same time, but his touch was harsh.

Phil didn’t try to stop himself when he tore away and began to run. He could hear Nico screaming at him to stop from behind him, but it was hard to listen to anything but the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He felt like he was suffocating. He felt like he’d been poisoned to the bone.

He ended up in the bathroom, the door shut and locked tightly behind him. Nico was pounding on the wood, voice quiet as he tried to get Phil to get out and speak to him. When Phil didn’t answer, he began screaming at him to get out and face him like a man.

The door reverberated with each slam of his fist, and Phil feared it would break off it’s hinges. So he pressed his back to it, hoping it would keep Nico out a bit better.

Is this what Nico’s father did to his kids? To his wife? Is this what had happened the night Nico’s mother called the cops and his father went to jail? He could almost imagine it now, the way Yvette was cowering in fear against the bathtub, holding her two kids as close as possible as she reached into her pocket to pull out her phone, much like Phil was doing right now.

His fingers trembled as he pulled the cell phone from his pocket, dialing familiar numbers. He tried to ignore the screaming in the background, tried to ignore his head screaming at him that Nico would die without him, and instead focused on the ringing lullaby.

The ringing stopped. “Hello?”

“Mum,” Phil gasped, and it was then that he realised he was crying again. He didn’t bother wiping away his tears when nobody could see him anyways.

“Honey?” His mum’s voice was concerned. She was probably ready to punch someone for Phil’s sake, probably ready to take the next train to London just for him. “What’s wrong? Who’s screaming?”

Phil didn’t know what to say. His boyfriend hit him? He was terrified of the man of his dreams? Said boyfriend was currently pounding on his door and demanding him to come out? He didn’t say those things. Instead he said, “Can I come stay with you for a while?”

“Of course you can, hun. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Phil lied. He winced as Nico hit the door especially hard, knocking his head against the wood. “Nico and I are just fighting, and I figured my mum’s cooking can always ease the pain.”

His mum sounded even more worried, almost like she was holding herself back from forcing Phil to reveal his emotions right then and there. She didn’t pry though, and Phil was grateful for that. “You know you’re always welcome here, Philip. What about school?”

Ah yes, school. Phil didn’t think he was going to be able to attend tomorrow or the next day, or the day after that. Probably not even for the rest of the week. Thinking about it made his head hurt.

“I haven’t missed any days until now. I’ll be alright,” he murmured, even though he was seriously considering just quitting his job and resigning from school. He wouldn’t tell his mum that, though.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon. Hang in there, and I love you.” Nico’s screaming stopped but the banging didn’t. Phil smiled bitterly.

“Love you too.” And then she was gone, unknowingly leaving her son with a man who scared him more and more each day.

Phil felt dirty, his skin crawling. He was still naked, the remnants of sex and sweat clinging to his skin. His ears were ringing, the banging coming to an end at long last. Through the silence, Nico’s voice rang out, disappointed and upset. “Is this your way of breaking up with me?” Nico asked, voice more of a scoff than anything. “If so, this is pretty pathetic. It’s no wonder nobody loved you before me. You’re not good enough and you’ll never be good enough.”

Phil didn’t know what overcame him. His heart was beating so hard he feared it would burst out of his chest, and his hands were scratching at his thighs, leaving long red marks behind. In a flash, he was standing, banging both fists on the door just as Nico had done moments before. “Shut the fuck up!” he screamed at the top of his lungs through tears and sobs. “I love you, Nico, but you’re scaring me. I need some fucking time, okay?”

Silence.

And then, “Fine. You have three days. If you don’t contact me by then, I’m going to find someone else.”

Fuck you! Phil wanted to scream. You don’t get to control me anymore! I don’t need you! He screamed the words over and over in his head but couldn’t form them on his tongue. He screamed them in his head over and over again until the front door slammed shut and he was left a sobbing mess on the tile floor.

Phil’s body took over then, and he crawled over to the shower, climbing inside of it. With shaking fingers and bleary eyes, he turned the water on, shivering as icy water poured onto his naked body. He turned the faucet to the highest level of heat, squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip as the water burned him to the bone.

There was no doubt in Phil’s mind that his skin was turning red with the temperature, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It made him focus on something other than the pain in his chest, and that was all that mattered.

With numb fingers, he grabbed the shampoo and squeezed too much into his hand. A little fell onto his thigh, and Phil watched the bubbles rinse down the drain as he lathered his hair. Soap was getting into his eyes, so he squeezed them tight and blindly grabbed the bar of soap to start scrubbing at his body.

He scrubbed until his skin was rubbed raw, cracking and bleeding, but Phil still felt dirty. He could still feel Nico’s hands on his waist, his lips pressing against his neck, his fingers twining in his. He wanted to forget, he wanted to wash away all of his skin cells until there was no longer a part of him that had been touched by Nico.

He wanted the past year of his life to wash down the drain with the soapy water.

Chapter Thirteen

[ndrv3winterexchange]

Gift from Mistropolis to idaate

Hello @idaate!! Your long time question is finally answered… I’m your Secret Santa!! Remember you said you literally just asked for angst??? Big mistake, because you enabled me to write this. Enjoy eating your heart out.

“Ouma, did you do the laundry yet?”

Ouma taps down on the ‘grab’ button on the screen, watching as the virtual claw plunges down into the piles of toys lying inside. Amidst the cluster of normal-rated toy-carrying eggs, the claw establishes a tight grip on the Rare egg. Ouma heaves a big sigh.

“Hey, small dick! Uglyrumi asked you a question!”

“Oh, they are in, somewhere over the rainbow!” Ouma replies without once moving his eyes away from the screen of his phone. The egg has a soft vibration to it as the timer goes down, 13 minutes to 12 minutes to 11 minutes.

Toujou neither sighs nor carries out any action expressing dissatisfaction. Or if she is, Ouma can’t see it, for his eyes remain glued to the slight bouncing motion of the egg. The timer is clocked at 9 minutes now.

“Dickichi, you ever thought of doing anything productive around the house or what?” Iruma shoots Ouma a death glare from across the couch. Unlike Ouma’s small phone, Iruma carries a pretty big laptop on which she is apparently trying to crack a code on.

“Doing anything productive like you talking with Kiibaby twenty-four seven?”

Iruma’s instantly rouge-tinted cheeks give Ouma a chuckle. “Kiibo is our only connection with Team Danganronpa, remember? It’s going to the infirmary ourselves, or asking Kiibo to tell us.”

“Oh, since you are so invested in our fake classmates’ health status, I guess you’re just lazing around instead of being productive too, aren’t you?”

“Say that all you like, Dickichi,” Iruma scrolls through something on the pad, lips tugged downwards and even more impossibly furious. “we all know you are worried for Stupidhara and your worry is oh-so-thinly veiled.”

The egg on the screen is now bouncing up and down, waiting to hatch as soon as Ouma taps on it.

Ouma turns off the phone and throws it across the room.

“Tch, Idiotma, there’s no need to get that pissy now…” Iruma closes the laptop and clutches it tight to her chest. If Kiibo can have an audio outlet in that laptop, he might have protested about the situation. “I mean… It’s not like he won’t—”

“Of course I know that you, stupid bitch! Iruma-chan continues to be as dumb as ever even after the simulation. I’m so sorry for your parents!” Ouma springs up from the couch and retrieves the phone. He turns it on again. Apparently, there are no bugs or other issues, but the egg is already open and the pop-up gone.

“Wow! I got a really shitty toy this time. It looks so ugly that I had to throw my phone away on impulse!” Ouma mashes the phone to Iruma’s cheeks, and Iruma swats him away. Ouma giggles. “Hey! Come to think about it, it looks just as ugly as you!”

“Hey! I’m just pointing out a fact, fucker. At least stop pestering me about it!”

Ouma blanches, eyes turning dull as they focus on Iruma’s. “Then why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone too?”

Then Ouma resumes his toy-hunting back on his couch, and Iruma leaves the room hurriedly.

Ouma opens the collection and looks for the new toy. It is a chessboard with a lazily-painted smile on it.

Ouma throws his phone into the rubbish bin properly this time.

⁕

Iruma stops hogging the laptop to herself and plugs up an audio program to let Kiibo vocalize his thoughts. That’s about the only two good things Iruma have done for everyone so far.

To be fair, Ouma has done none. And never will.

“Hello guys! It’s been such a long time since we have convened!” Kiibo’s floating head, or more precisely-speaking, the pixelated image of it, flies around the screen against a blue backdrop.

Ouma scoops another spoonful of cookie and cream ice cream into his mouth. “Last you have convened with us is with Iruma-chan here though, isn’t it?”

“But this is the first time I can talk to you guys instead of just Iruma-san! It is, after all, rather difficult to establish contact in the first place when they have tight surveillance and can cut me if they… Well, but that’s beside the point!” A task window opens in the corner and starts loading, until it divides into four sections, each a birds-eye-view of a locked, private patient room.

All of the walls contain the bloodless white of a regular plain wall, but you could almost imagine the pink bloodstains the walls would have when you saw the patients’—classmates’—violent struggles against their personally hired caretakers.

(your blood is red, like a real human’s)

“Um, Kiibo, I didn’t tell you to show us… Them?” Iruma closes the window. Ouma swears he can hear a peal of laughter before it closes completely. The kind of maniacal laughter that precedes regretful wails.

Kiibo immediately blanches (as much as a robot’s avatar can). “M—my apologies. It is rather hard to remember everyone’s requests. Even not taking that into accounts… No one would have wanted to see that. I truly am sorry for doing so.”

“Oh Kiibaby, if your so-called apologies drill on and on mushrooms will start growing in my ears before we know anything! How horrible of you to want mushrooms to attach to my body!” To add to the punch of his statement, Ouma starts digging his nails into his ears and gasping out (rather dramatically) at the pain.

“That’s a lie! But please if you keep doing that your ears will… Anyway, let me search up the feeds.” Kiibo opens a different task window that has runs through hundreds of items rapidly. Gradually the list stops scrolling and an arrow appears, pointing at one specific item, underlined in red.

survivor-saiharashuuichi

“Kiibo-san, if you don’t mind me asking, how do we know for sure that this is a live feed and not a version that the Team plugged up in order to fool us? Or a past version and such?” Toujou’s equivocal eyes are not doing any favour for Ouma’s stomach and neither is her finger poised to click down on the ‘confirmation’ button.

“It is. I am very sure of it since my network is no longer connected to them, this is definitely live from where it comes from.”

“Okay… Then.” Toujou presses down on the button.

Ouma reaches for his phone. Before remembering that his phone is now in the rubbish bin. He gets off the sofa and walks towards the bin to retrieve it.

“Hey… It’s okay if you don’t really want to—”

“I don’t know what Mama is talking about! Of course I am!”

Ouma launches his face right into the screen of the laptop, expecting animalistic screams to assault his ears and making them bleed.

Only to be met with silence.

Ouma steps back and takes a real look at the screen.

There Saihara is, still asleep, face still attached to the oxygen mask and arms still having IV drips into them.

(still locked in the glass coffin he doesn’t deserve to be in)

“So. He’s still not awake?” Toujou shoves Ouma aside to look at the screen closer herself. “Didn’t the Team’s medical team said that most survivors only need a few weeks to recover at most? What is the meaning of this?”

“Well, obviously that means they are still full of chickenshit and Dickichi’s precious prince isn’t waking up anytime soon!” Iruma slams down the laptop—as Ouma had guessed, Kiibo did let out a sound of protest—and shoves it back into the carrying bag. “Get on with your stupid lives now bitches! Kiibo will meetcha in, like, two weeks’ time.”

“Iruma-san, do you mean that Kiibo-san can’t talk to us anytime we like? Or is there any other technical reason?”

“Take it as both, Slutjou. Kiibo and I don’t have the whole fucking day even when we are roommates.” Iruma takes up the bag and rushes for the door, disappearing in no time.

Ouma boots up the phone and opens the toy-collecting game.

Toujou moves back to the laundry she was tending to. “Ouma-kun?”

“There there, Mama, I already know what to expect, there’s absolutely no need to console me or anything! I know that’s gonna happen and it’s not like I really care or anything, y’know?” Ouma puts down the phone on the table and gets into the pantry for a bag of chips. He takes the garlic flavour, and Toujou, predictably, frowns in an obviously unsubtle manner.

Getting Toujou to frown in contrast to her in-game ability to disagree while agreeing would have been satisfying, if not for the fact that Toujou no longer possesses the full arsenal of the Super High School Level Maid’s tactful proficiency. Doing so doesn’t warrant much effort at all, but seeing Toujou ticked-off by his own hand carries a deeply rewarding sensation.

“Anyway, Ouma-kun, I hope what you said it’s true. For now, I have to head out for the day. Please don’t eat all of the chips.”

“Most certainly, Toujou-chan!”

Toujou strolls out of the room, out of the house, and out of Ouma’s mind. Ouma brings the bag of chips and phone with him to his bedroom, where he lies down and stuffs himself more while waiting for yet another egg to hatch.

Bits of chips fall down and adorn the floor in a pattern that would most certainly tick both Iruma and Toujou off to no end. Getting bored of the game, Ouma opens up an Internet browser.

He turns off the filter function and opens up a search engine.

It only takes the letter ‘s’ to bring up a menu of pain to him.

saihara shuuichi alive? — saihara shuuichi is actually dead conspiracy — saihara shuuichi cheats — saihara shuuichi hat merch

Ouma chances clicking on one that is just ‘saihara shuuichi” and millions of search results sprout from the ground, like a dodder that just found its prey, where Ouma is the healthy tree that it wraps around with. Is he even healthy in the first place? Backtrack; more like the dying tree that the dodders are dead set to consume to the fullest.

Ouma snickerrs at that thought.

He presses down onto the fan forum he had an account in and looks into the ‘Daily Saihara Shuuichi Love Thread’.

Day 389 – I still really really love Saihara Shuuichi! Have you seen that boy’s smile? It can cure depression! At least it definitely can for me!

Ouma presses his lips into a tight fault line and down the checker-patterned keyboard.

oh u again??? don’t u ever get bored of this???

A reply pops back up immediately.

Why does doing that bother you??? Everyone in the game gets a thread like that! I feel like making one for the protag, in particular, shouldn’t be weird!

Ouma continues the game and advances onto the chessboard upon typing a few more black keys.

it is weird dood. cmon think abt it saihara is the only one still not awake why would u still maintain this thread it’s not like he’ll wake up and suck ur dick lol

The anonymous, non-existent opponent of his stands his ground with his white pieces.

Get back into your own cave you fucking troll!!! And whether or not I treat Saihara as my dearly beloved is not your business lmao are you jealous of what I have with him???

lmao ofc i won’t be interested in whatever imaginary thing u have w/ him!!!! i’m just sad that ur this pathetic

Ouma bites back expletives and curses that would poison even the clearest well of water, forcing himself to breathe and keep calm properly.

The chain of replies suddenly break.

i mean whatev ur thinking they are fake dood!! the thread is lit made 10 days ago i watched u make it and start on day 289!! why the fuck u lyin why u always lyin

As the moderator of the thread, Ouma reserves the right to delete messages when he needs to. Usually, he challenges himself to just dissuade trolls like he had just now, but it looks like even the Internet folks don’t approve of his love, after all.

Ouma deletes all the messages back up to “Day 389” and contents himself that this small space still exists, and whether this exists in the void or not it still brings him small relief.

⁕

“Slutjou, is bringing him out with us really a good idea?” Iruma scrunches up her nose and holds back a sneeze. “I mean, God why the fuck would he wear so much fucking perfume! We have enough camouflage materials that are not stupid like perfumes!”

“Hey, Hyena-chan, you do realize I have ears and can hear you, right?” Ouma circles back to Iruma’s side and fake-pounds onto her chest. Iruma lets out a shrill scream, not unlike that of a fire siren. “Nyaaa, Hyena-chan is so loud and rude to me! Mama, what should I do?”

“Ouma-kun, we shouldn’t be making too much noise out here.” Toujou looks forward with remotely no changes in her expression at all. She almost resembles a bit of her older maid self. “Today we are going to have some kind of fun without the burden of our classmates still on our backs.”

“Clever of you to immediately bring them up, Kill-me-san,” Iruma takes out her phone and scrolls up the searches she has done prior to coming out. “There’s a flea market around the corner. Anyone interested?”

Ouma unwraps the end of his scarf and mock slaps Iruma with them. “Why would you bring it up if you weren’t thinking of going?”

“Your astute observations are duly noted and absolutely with no fuck given on it.” Iruma struggles to swat the heavily perfumed scarf away from her face and soldiers into the sea of faceless people. “I’m heading in myself, see ya fucks later.”

Toujou and Ouma, by contrast, are keeping themselves to the sidewalk, where fewer people amble on. The flea market might have more confections and delicacies anyone could obtain if they so desire, but the sidewalk is the only passageway with a more reasonable amount of flow of people.

“Ouma-kun, is there any particular candy you are eyeing for?”

“Candy? How old am I, Toujou-chan? You think some candies can appease my demons and all that? Hmm?” Ouma opens the doors into the small shopping mall nonchalantly, greeting the somewhat festive interior with a bright smile. In the time Toujou has spent with Ouma, it is already obvious that this is not a genuine smile.

“Then is there anything in particular that you want to get?”

“Hmm, these mistletoes look really torn… Must be old ones just being recycled yet again!”

“Contrary to popular belief, we don’t really have much time to be out for that long—”

“Annnnd that doll just looks so ugly! Why did they even put it out—”

“Ouma.”

Toujou stops walking with a telltale clink onto the ground with her heel. Ouma comes to a halt.

“I know you’re heading for the boutique around the corner and I advise strongly against that idea.”

The silence hangs heavy with a palpable tension, one that is not too disparate to that of when Ouma had first woken up. The faux cheerful background music of the mall drones on and on about the miracle of love.

“It’s just one visit, Toujou. It’s not a big deal.”

(The only other occasion to when Ouma dropped his cutesy honorifics for everyone is when he woke up to a tangle of wires, liquid that he will come to repulse at the very sight of dribbling from his mouth and Toujou appearing in front of him helping him to get up)

“Ouma-kun… Despite everything you believe here, I still get to let you know, you can’t keep holding on forever. You still have a life to live.”

Ouma chuckles. His lips seal in a poisonous excursus. “I know that Toujou-chan, and that is the precise reason for why I’m going to get into that boutique and buy the cutest clothes I can find there!”

Toujou’s shoulders tense, a veneer superimposing her exasperation and anger. It must be anger. Ouma sees it too many times to not know the shape of anger and its shadow behind people’s eyes. He prepares himself as well, small frame coiling into a snake ready to bite and tear.

And that’s why Toujou acquiescing with a respire switches off Ouma’s flight-or-flight mode. “Alright, Ouma. Let’s head to that store and gets you some nice and comfy clothes.”

Ouma resists the urge to dissolve right there and bounces up on his heels. “Yes! Let’s go!”

The store greets the two of them with a nice chime completely deviating from the jingle the mall itself uses. The interior is encased in a candy-like decor that embellishes the soft-colored clothes it contains, in hues of purple and pink mostly. Toujou can understand why Ouma seems to dig the aesthetics.

But instead of settling for the rows of soft dresses and sweaters at the front of the store, Ouma instantly scurries to the leftmost corner of the store, a section that is rather invisible to the eye of a mere passer-by.

Toujou follows Ouma deep into the rabbit hole and finds herself in front of a row of velvety black dresses she had once worn with pride.

“There! Aren’t these clothes just wicked, Toujou-chan?” Ouma all but bounces around and touches every single piece of clothing there. “It’s all the Danganronpa Season 53 merchandise! Or you could say, pieces of our pasts!”

“I know that Ouma-kun, why else do you think I will want to…” Toujou’s thoughts are lost in translation as she too, establishes contact with one of the dresses. She contemplates the fact that no one is yelling for them to stop or offers faux-enthusiastic attempts at selling the products, then surmises that it is best not to come up with theory as to why.

“Hey Toujou-chan, are you gonna buy one of these?”

“I. I don’t think I have brought enough for that.” Toujou takes out her wallet and counts two one-thousand notes. “I only have five hundred dollars.”

Ouma narrows his eyes at Toujou then, something almost resembling joy radiating from him. Aureate, but stilted joy. “That’s up to you then! But for me, I’m going to buy a set myself!”

Ouma takes a set of pre-packed clothes (pre-packed? Huh?) and pays for it, promptly walking towards the fitting room.

Toujou swallows involuntarily. The so-called cozy atmosphere of the store is not helping.

A few minutes later, Ouma emerges,

in Saihara’s detective wear and hat.

“Toujou-chan! Do I look good in my beloved’s clothes?”

Toujou surveys this Ouma. She knows the Ouma in front of her has not changed in the slightest. And yet. And yet.

“You… Do look nice.” Toujou dances with the idea of praising Ouma’s new look and resisting gravitation towards the plan of tearing the clothes off him. The latter is coquettish and Toujou feels liable to capitulate to it, but she stands her ground. “They have a pretty good grasp on how to make the clothes, huh?”

“You think so, Toujou-chan? That I really look good in that?” Ouma ruffles the sleeves and plays with the hat, cavalier but almost with a latent astriction waiting to be released.

Toujou wonders why and gambles with a “yes?”

Ouma’s small frame folds in and releases in a strike.

“Well, it shouldn’t!”

Ouma’s fingers enclose seams along the fabric and apply pressure to them, and after a short respite, the fabric starts tearing into nothing. He rapidly tears off the buttons on the shirt and takes it off, along with the hat and the shorts. Before Toujou can gauge Ouma’s reactions further, the clothes are already semi-torn, pieces of the black fabric falling off and with Ouma turning on a lighter and—

“Ouma! No!”

Toujou wrestles the lighter away from Ouma quick enough, toppling Ouma headfirst onto the ground, into the suffocating clothes instead, and Toujou blows off the lighter.

Ouma lies on the heap, torso completely limb, face unidentifiable from being smashed into the clothes.

“Ouma-kun?”

Silence save for the sound of clothes ruffling and the boutique’s chime.

Then Ouma slowly gets himself back up again.

(Only physically and not metaphorically)

“Toujou-chan, now you’ve ruined my master plan of destroying the store!” Ouma kicks the clothes around, in a manner almost like a child throwing tantrums at the parents for not getting their favorite gifts. Or a circus tiger charging at its cage. “Now what am I supposed to do to look normal and walk out of the store alive and free!”

Toujou watches Ouma burying his face in his hands, tears streaming out from behind the gaps of his fingers. Fake crying. Real crying. That’s not something Toujou is in the position of understanding.

“… Hey, Ouma-kun? How about I buy you other clothes?”

Ouma ceases his kicking movements gradually upon hearing that, and he turns around, peeling his own hands off his face finger by finger. “Really?” He asks in the most thespian manner.

“Of course! I have five hundred on me, we can definitely buy something much nicer.” Toujou takes out the banknotes and flaunts them, and Ouma’s renewed smile solidifies. “Go pick what you want!”

“Yay! I know Mama is always the best and I was never wrong about that!” Ouma all but plucks the notes from Toujou’s fingers and runs off to the opposite side of the boutique.

Even when Ouma walks out afterward in the softest and most warmly-colored skirt and stockings and boots, Toujou knows all too well that the latent tautness of the thread linking his conscience and tenacity is slowly threatening to fracture, and this is one knowledge she is in a position to be sure of.

⁕

Iruma slurps up the instant noodles she bought from the flea market—Ouma heard that it’s flavored with something rare and unavailable in any other place, but who is he to know that—in an utterly swine-like and ravenous manner. Bits of the soup keep flying out of her mouth and Ouma tamps down the desire to outright beat the noodles out of her. “What are we watching on Christmas’ Eve?”

“That movie I watched back when I was a kid with the train to Santa Claus’ base of operations.” Iruma takes the remote control as she elucidates, the oil stains from the noodles spilling onto the remote control. Ouma recoils in horror. “It’s a fucking timeless classic and the only movie that yours truly can admit is good despite the utter lack of interesting action!”

“I wonder about your definitions of interesting, but I suppose I will keep quiet!” Ouma wrestles the remote control to him and switches the audio to Polish.

“None of us here know Polish!”

“You will understand it in time Iruma-chan! Even a dust-gathering brain like yours are capable of something eventually!”

“Knock it off now, let’s change it back.” Toujou effortlessly takes back the remote control and switches it back to Japanese. Ouma’s pout springs up on his face instantly. “Can’t we have some fun in this night at all!”

“You’re already having fun with those toy trains I gave you earlier, remember?” Iruma puts down the noodles and moves onto the bag of chips, pulling open it with chips flying everywhere and Toujou’s immediate scowl. “Sorry for that, Slutjou!”

“You will be sorry about that soon enough, Iruma-san,” Toujou comminates gently with the promise, then turns her focus back to the television. The hero boy is now standing hesitantly in front of the train conductor, who is quite ready and eager to leave him shall he not get up onto the train himself.

“Is this how you feel every time a boy tries to date you, abortion?”

“Tch, Iruma-chan underestimated my capacity of shame! I would do so much more! Like—”

“Um nope! Nobody here wants to hear about your nonexistent romantic life here.” Iruma grabs the remote and speeds to a different scene. Now the scene has shifted to when hero boy has to get hero girl’s ticket back to prove her innocence and right to board the train.

“And this is Iruma-chan as she hunts for an opportunity to be even more outrageously disgusting! Look at you go!”

“It is not and it sucks as a metaphor so it doesn’t coun—hey give back the chips!” Iruma makes a wild snatch for the bag while Ouma all but shoves every piece directly into his mouth. Iruma screams and gets up onto the table to obtain a better vantage point to grab back at Ouma. Ouma dodges at the last second with a giggle and the table slides off with a squealing Iruma falling onto the floor.

Toujou gets up and pauses the movie, a capitulator in a war that doesn’t involve her. “Do you ever think twice before deciding on an action?”

“Nope!” They singsong synchronously. Toujou sighs in an almost affectionate manner and starts sweeping away the bits of chips on the floor. “When I come back, at least be done with not killing each other, alright?”

“Maybe!” Ouma aims a bit onto Iruma’s face, and Iruma retaliates without missing a beat. They get bored by it quite quickly, however, so soon they settle back onto the sofa with something else for snacks, and into a rare, agreeable silence.

The silence lasts for some time before Iruma speaks up again. “This is my favorite part when I was a child, and it still is. Look at them!” She points at the hero boy who’s bequeathed with the bell from Santa Claus’ sleigh. “This is the kind of magic that you believe in.”

“Magic? Iruma-chan, I thought you aren’t Yumeno-chan! Are you taking over her role?”

“Jeez, Ouma, don’t you ever take anything seriously at all? Is nothing sacred to you?”

Ouma gives that a hard and good thought. Then he shakes his head.

“Tch. But then again, when you have lived through some bullshit like us, I guess it’s pretty hard to think of anything still as sacred, right?” Iruma redirects her attention to the screen, and now the hero boy is boarding the train back to his home when he found out that his bell is missing.

“So. What really happened to you when you found out this movie isn’t a reality?”

Iruma is silent for once. Ouma waits for a response that he knows very well won’t really come. Toujou, on the other hand, is tempted to break the metaphorical ice the question creates when Iruma suddenly bursts into tears.

“I know it isn’t real… Why else would I do something as stupid as joining Dan—” She grabs a tissue instead of finishing her sentence, harsh breaths expelled in snowflakes that taste of sorrow and penitence. Balls of tissue papers ornate the floor. “I have never… Look. Look I know the truth. I have never even watched this wretched movie. It isn’t me, it was the me in Danganronpa.”

The soft music of the credits underscores the roiling emotions of everyone present. Suddenly the movie is a much more preferable alternative to talking.

But an unspoken moxie takes roots in Ouma, and keeping on talking he must. “And is the you from Danganronpa worthless and means nothing to you?”

Iruma wipes her face harder, as if desperately wiping the smirk the SHSL Inventor wears on a daily basis would yield anything good for the situation. “Funny of you to say that, Ouma. Out of all of us, you have absolutely no change. Zero. Nil. Even Toujou over here loses her super capabilities in doing everything and yet you stay being the liar you always have been in the game.”

Iruma’s words aim a precise laceration on the surface of Ouma’s heart, and it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds more lies. “Iruma-chan, you’d be naive if you think all of me is still here with you.”

“Huh?”

“Because… The truth is… I came back with powers unbeknownst to mortals like you!” Ouma springs up onto the table and dives into Iruma with his hands outwards, and Iruma freezes on impulse and amplifies her whimpers. “I now possess the power of controlling your emotions! And I will use this power for evil! Be sad, you imbecilic temptress!”

“Ouma-kun, what even are you talking about at this poi—” Toujou gets up to interfere, but Ouma pauses right there, hands going limp and staring down at Iruma.

“Why do you have to hang onto me like a lifeline? What did I ever do?”

“What, what are you even talking about?” Iruma attempts to slither out of Ouma’s weight, her features increasingly contorted in confusion.

Ouma, on the other hand, gets up voluntarily and walks back to his room upstairs.

⁕

when ouma’s eyes fluttered open to the bleached white wall of the infirmary, paparazzi were surrounding him in every direction.

― ouma kokichi! you finally wake up! share with us how you feel?

ouma’s throat unfettered a few unintelligible notes into their mics, and the doctors on duty circumscribe him, blocking the paparazzi and stopping them from invading his space. ouma attempts again to talk, and it ends with throwing up onto the floor. at least the paparazzi recede at the sight of that.

― hey team danganronpa were you taking proper care with ouma ― is ouma kokichi-san going to be okay after all ― will they be present for the conference?

gradually security guards entered the scene and herded the thirsty news-hunters out of the infirmary, and a few doctors left with hushed instructions to one another. only one person remained after the tide of people abates from the room and ouma’s consciousness.

― alright, i’m here to gauge your necessity for a memory re-transfer.

shirogane, the blue devil herself, was standing over him, clutching a board with a passive look in her eyes. if not for the obvious eyebags she had and her moribund complexion, ouma would doubt that the game has any ramification on her.

― it’s really quite simple. all i need you to do here is to give me some responses to this survey i’m taking that will determine whether or not you want to get back your memories.

― my memories?

― trust me, this will only take a few minutes. question one, are you capable of thinking about the last seconds of your death?

― i do. but what does that have to do with—

― that’s good. question two, can you describe to details your personality during the game?

― tch… merciless, driven, cruel…

― yeah, that’s enough there to go for. question three, if you have the chance to choose…

shirogane finished asking her questions soon enough and promised to get back to him when the team had determined whether he get his memories back or not. before she could take her departure, however, ouma yelled for her to stop.

― wait! did you have your memories back?

― i don’t have any memories beyond being part of danganronpa, but thanks, the concern is touching.

― no i mean like—do you remember what happened in the game? are you, like, coping at all?

shirogane let out a cold chuckle.

― people like me don’t have any need to remember mundane things like that when i have more i need to do up ahead.

that was when ouma realized that he hasn’t been playing by the rules that shirogane established.

― nishishi, perhaps it’s just that shirogane-chan is too inane to understand my question!

― perhaps that is so! i am but a cosplayer, what do i know about the arts of lies?

― so! shirogane-chan, i think you’re doing just fine because you don’t remember anything about yourself just like the idiot you are! you stink as well! but is that a lie?

― i’m really flattered that you think so, ouma-kun! a mere intern like me needs to do so much more in order to advance in this industry, so it’s only natural that i have to give up my whole self for that! it’s just my passions! so, i do think you state something that is and is not a lie! i don’t remember anything, but i also remember everything! that was nice talking to you, but i gotta go now!

ouma struggled to get up before pain shot through his sternum and ribcage, a paroxysm throwing him into begrudging oscitancy. before shirogane truly leave, however, ouma managed to choke out words he intended to say.

― do i have a say in whether i want this or not?

shirogane pauses.

― are you this desperate to go back to your old self? then why did you join the show to begin wi—

― no. i don’t want any of my memories back. keep them or delete them, i don’t care. i don’t want to go back to my past.

shirogane does a double take.

― why not?

― just respect my wishes. let me keep this me intact.

shirogane blanches, but then a borderline cruel smile adorns her face.

― i see what it is! you’re afraid of going out of money and popularity, so you want to literally keep being this cash cow! very respectful wishes! i will pass them on!

then she truly leaves, taking ouma’s uncertain regrets with her.

⁕

Today is not going to be a good Christmas Day, Ouma surmises.

He is still in his pajamas at the current hour of twelve, when he realizes that he does not even feel like getting up or moving his limbs. Maybe he should stay in this bed forever until even his bones wither into dust. At least Iruma and Toujou will have one less person to worry about, if they ever worried about him.

Before this reverie relatively becomes true, however, Iruma barges in. “Ouma? You awake?”

“Yes, I’m awake, Iruma-chan, doesn’t erase the fact that my soul is still deep asleep in somewhere else!” Ouma reluctantly rolls off the bed and grabs his usual wear of sweater, expecting a crude smile and lewd words barraging from her mouth.

Iruma’s face is not painted with a smile. Rather, there is a vacant look with a latent sense of dread. “Follow me downstairs. Now.”

“What, I can’t even go brush my tee—” Ouma yelps as Iruma establishes an iron grip on his wrist, roughly dragging him with her. “We’re going downstairs right this fucking second, you shit.”

Ouma gulps down his renewed vexation and lets himself be dragged down, right into the hall where the television is located. Loud music blares from it, but that is the only precursor to the pivotal moment of this chapter of his short, nugatory life.

“Saihara Shuuichi is awake.”

⁕

They take slots for everyone who wants to visit Saihara, but Iruma and Toujou take the courtesy of visiting together so that one less slot is placed in front of Ouma.

“Iruma-chan, it is unwise of doing that when you definitely have so many raunchy and oh-so-romantic promises you have to make to the protagonist, right? Why don’t you go take back your slot?” Ouma unwraps one of the gift boxes below their Christmas tree and takes out a generic notebook. “Ha! Even though I have spent so much to buy you guys a gold-generating machine, this is how you guys treated me?”

“Ouma-kun, today is Christmas Day, let’s have the decency to be more honest and open.” Toujou chuckles, and Ouma hates that look in her eyes as if she is a mother watching her child grow up and find a partner. “We know you just bought a roomba for me, and a shampoo for Iruma-san. And the notebook has its crucial functions, trust us. We intend for you to take this to when you see Saihara-kun.”

“And then we make drawings and chat like some nine-year-old boys or something? And what makes you guys think I’m going?”

“Why won’t you go? Do you really not miss Stupidhara even once?”

The question pierces more than Ouma’s usual armor, so he pouts and stays quiet.

“That’s what I’m thinking. Now go prepare for a bit, our session should sometime after one thirty, so be sure you’re there at two.”

With that, Ouma is left alone in the house, feeling like the biggest idiot and asshole in the world.

“Tch… This is so fucking annoying.” Ouma takes one more bite of his toast and shoves everything into the fridge for later. Come to think about it, hasn’t it been some time since Toujou feels happy enough to make them breakfast? Is it just the charity spirit of Christmas Day, or is Saihara Shuuichi’s charm truly that powerful?

Ouma wishes he has requested Shirogane to fracture every single neuron in his head that contains memories of Saihara but well, life won’t ever go the way you want, huh?

You went to forget yourself.

I know.

Or at least, that’s what I’m going to assume, even into the graves.

Ouma takes a water bottle, a small gift, and packs them all into his backpack before gorging out on more rubbish instant noodles and gets on his way.

⁕

When he arrived at the hospital, the influx of reporters and more paparazzi has only calmed down for a bit. After all, the whole world is waiting for him to wake up, but that does not ameliorate that fact at all.

When he passed by, though, the distant sense of claustrophobia only becomes much worse.

“We have more private visitors, so we would appreciate it if you could please take your departure until we notify you of further details regarding this.” A doctor, almost laughably identical to the one that had briefly tended to Ouma, waves the reporters away. They persist, so the doctor called for security backup, and they reluctantly disperse.

Ouma lets out a subtle enough sigh that he hopes will not give away his presence, then he crashes right into a stray reporter with a feverish look in their eyes.

“Oh my… What good fortune! Aren’t you Ouma Kokichi?”

Ouma recalls his irritating perfume and scarf and chastises himself mentally on the fact that he didn’t take them. “I am not—”

“There’s no need to hide! You’re safe here with me! I just need one interview done with you, then I’ll leave!” They whip out a pen and notepad in no time. “So. If you don’t mind, I will also record this interview to serve as audio evidence. As a responsible reporter, I will inform you so as to give you a chance to think about whether you want that. So are you okay with that?”

“I am not—”

“Alright! Good to know you are okay with that, Ouma-san, it really means a lot. My first question is, what do you ultimately think about the entire Danganronpa Season 53? Like were they good with all the preparations and character settings and plots?”

“Why aren’t you listening to me I said I don’t want thi—”

“I suppose that as the supreme leader, you must be rather satisfied with it! Let’s move onto the next question then! My next question as to whether or not you have enjoyed your role as a secondary antagonist right after the mastermind? After all, it is in your script to be the main villain other than the mastermind by the virtue of being a Remnant of Despair following Enoshima Junko. So, is the role enjoyable? Anything you found interesting and memorable in particular?”

“I do not find anything memorable or interesting,” my only thought process was that i want to die, Ouma barely bites back the bullets. “the only thing I found interesting is—”

The reporter closes the notepad all of a sudden and turns to look Ouma into the eyes for the first time in this conversation. “I see how it is! I have wrongly judged your disposition. Your focus is more on the romantic side, right! Let me change my questions then.”

“I never even agreed to—”

“Question one then! Is your love towards Saihara Shuuichi written into the script, or merely improvised? Better yet,” The reporter nigh-pushed themself right onto Ouma’s face. “could it be you fall in love with him on-set?”

Every phantom inside of Ouma, threatening to spill out at any given opportunity, has scooped in for the kill. “What the fuck makes you think you can just keep giving me shit like that? Do everyone a favour, shut the fuck up and take your pathetic excuse for a functional being to nowheresville of asshat-land!”

Taken aback by Ouma’s sudden furor, the reporter stutters a few steps back. “Um, I’m, I mean, I don’t mean any harm and I just want a—”

“Like hell you fucking do! Fuck right off and never appear in front of me ever again!”

The look of admiration behind the reporter’s thick spectacles slowly turns into that of belligerence. “Alright. Alright! I see how it is! You fucking attention-seeking kids just want to be all secretive to keep being celebrities, right? Or is it because you think I’m not a good enough reporter to sell you? Guess what, Ouma Kokichi, I’m exactly going to write an article about how bad your behavior is and how much of a threat you are to society! Let’s see who the world believes in!”

“Don’t, don’t you fucking dare—”

“You’d honestly think any desperate reporter running on only one news article every week is not going to dare to do tha—”

“Hey.”

The duo pauses and turns towards the source of the voice, and Ouma wishes he has just dodged into the room rather than doing whatever he had done to lead to this.

Momota himself is staring down the reporter, an uncharacteristically tired look in his eyes.

“Hey. Leave my friend alone, a’ight?”

Friend? Ouma wisely keeps his mouth shut and panics internally as the reporter stands his ground. “Easy for someone like you to say, when you no longer need to worry about a job or anything! I just need to hand in one article! Why is it so hard for you fucking kids to—”

“There,” Momota stuffs a few notes into the reporter’s outstretched hand. “That should be enough for a whole month for you, right?”

“But…” They grind their teeth together and stares daggers once again at Ouma, then huffs and walks off.

“So, here to visit Shuuichi?”

The unprompted question tingles Ouma’s self-preservation instincts, and they are telling him to run out of the hospital and into a place no one will ever find him in. “W—What if I am, does that matter to you in any way?”

“Well, it’s still gonna be some more time before your slot begins, right?” Momota looks up from his watch and gestures towards a bench. “Wanna catch up a bit?”

The trap tightens up Ouma’s entire body and his lungs collapse.

⁕

Or at least that’s what Ouma feels like. His lungs have not collapsed, but if that really had happened and he is spared from talking to anyone other than Momota, he is looking for a way to punch a hole into his chest right this second.

“I’ve heard from Harumaki that you’re rooming with Toujou and Iruma… So how are you guys doing so far? Gotten into any trouble with them?”

For whatever ungodly reasons, Ouma feels a smirk not truly belonging to him consolidates on his face. “They have been living just nicely with me, Momota-chan. I mean, they are now living with a supreme leader without any other bothersome people attached! Under my glorious leadership, there is no way their lives could go awry!”

Momota looks at him with the same tired look he casts at the reporter. “What is the truth, Ouma?”

Ouma strains himself to mollify, to change into a him that is more palatable for everyone involved in the game, but then he remembers he is never intended for entertainment consumption anyway. “What does it bother you how we are doing anyway?”

“Because I care about you guys and Shuuichi would’ve done the same?”

Ouma bites back more bullets deep back inside of him, which would eventually scorch his insides, he is sure. “Fine. We are doing fucking excellent. End of the story.”

Momota heaves something of an agreeable sigh. “That’s good. Harumaki and Amami have been terrific roommates too, and if Himiko’s condition gets better she may live with us as well. Always good to gain more company if you ask me.”

Ouma keeps his mouth shut and waits, staring across into the infirmary room opposite where they are sitting at. Let this silence commence.

Momota, however, did not get the mental memo. “Are you really doing good yourself?”

“Why does that matter to you? And bringing up Saihara-chan again does not count.”

“Well, then I told you already that I do care about you guys, what more excuse can I use?” Momota puts the plastic bag he has been carrying around onto the seat between them. Then he looks down at it and Ouma can tell from the sparks in his eyes that this tribulation is far from over. “Oh, right. Are you developing a habit or anything? I mean, having no jobs must make everything boring after awhile. I personally have started taking care of potted plants. It’s calming, y’know? Just watering plants and getting rid of bugs occasionally.”

“Nice. I heard those plants are very interesting and challenging to take care of. But then again! Nothing is too challenging for the luminary of the stars, right?” Ouma turns around and plops his head on his hand and elbow on the bench, in the most overt way possible. If he has turned around, he bets he could see Momota glaring daggers at him, probably imagining Ouma with his usual smug face. Two o’clock has never been that far away.

Momota’s voice remains surprisingly calm, or surprisingly enervated, Ouma supposes. “Sarcasm and lies like that aren’t exactly going to get you far, Ouma. It’s fine if you want to say that in front of me, but I’m not discounting the fact that people in the outside world are going to hate you for that.”

The fuse burns in an instant. “And what makes you think you’re particularly good for the outside world right now, Momota-chan? Your indistinct persona? Your ability to indulge in some ultimately meaningless habits that yield nothing? The fact that you have remembered everything about your past and you can just go and give everything you’ve earned in Danganronpa up? Just fucking like that?”

“Then have you considered how much you have fucking done and how little you have done for literally anyone yourself!” Ouma flinches from the screech and balls himself up upon the sound of a pot breaking onto the floor. In the periphery of his vision,  a little bit of dirt is visible, along with the shadow of a raised fist. Ouma hugs himself tighter.

Momota freezes in motion, looking dumbfounded and petrified at his own fist. He slowly puts it down to the side, sitting back down on the bench heavily. “Hey? You okay?”

Ouma’s mouth is sealed with self-administered thorns. “No.”

“Fuck. That’s another thing I fucked up here. Look,” Momota reaches across the empty seat between the two of them, and Ouma flinches away further. “that’s understandable. Wait where was I? Oh, right, I was about to, like, apologize for that.”

“Please don’t apologize for a minor fuck-up that you don’t think yourself wrong for.” Ouma’s voice is raspier than he himself thought, like a blade being dragged across a stone. A senseless act of violence.

“This might surprise you, but I do know what I have done is completely unsolicited and—”

“Unsolicited? Momota-chan knows big words like that?” Ouma tries to bring his leader’s charming smile back on his face, but it takes too much of him. And he is so tired.

“You may not see that coming but anyway,” Momota scratches the back of his neck and looks up at the ceiling. Looking anywhere other than Ouma. “it is a completely horrible move on my part, I apologize to you. That being said, I do think my point still stands.”

“What point did you make at all? That I should get a habit like taking care of potted plants like you?”

“Nah. My point is, you have to learn to move on and stop being the you from the game.” Momota pauses the scratching and digs into his pocket, fishing his phone out. He takes one close look at the screen and promptly turns it off. “Like, seriously, I just talked to you like for two seconds and you are already back to your lying ways and being your supreme leader self like no man’s business. It would actually be fair to say that you have not changed even one bit if I have to be absolutely honest. Except being a bit more rightfully rude, I guess. Scratch the rightfully part, more like unnecessarily.”

“For all you know, I’m already incorrigible, or I have already tried too many times to want to try again.” The refutation can be shattered by even the most bullheaded Danganronpa contestant, but Ouma spits it out regardless. “I’m just a washed-up Danganronpa competitor who has lost the spotlight. And of course, I love that. Nothing wrong with it. But of course! That could be just my trademark lies!”

Momota starts looking at Ouma with something almost like sympathy. Sympathy from a bystander who has never fallen and is now looking down at him comfortably from the top. “I guess I have overestimated your ability to change then. Like, I understand being defensive and aggressive, but. You are still not opening up.”

“Let me open up to you right this instant then?” Ouma redirects his blank stare towards Momota and forces his mouth open. “I’m done. I have shrivelled up completely into a poor replica of both versions of my former self. I’m too tired. I don’t want to do anything again, save for daily routines and finally going in to see Saihara-chan. Is that satisfying enough for you?”

“Ouma, look, I know all the wrong I have inflicted on you, but if you keep yourself closed up like that—”

“I’ll be just safe and sound because nobody can hurt me and I can’t hurt anybody. Right?” Ouma gets up abruptly, takes his backpack and finally walks into the patient room.

⁕

Saihara is reading a book when Ouma walks in. The cover is blank save for the title, almost reminiscent of the kind of classics that you will find in an English bookstore. The sentiment does not last, however, as Ouma gets closer and realizes that the title says “Saihara’s ideas”. Whatever that means, it has nothing to do with a classic novel.

“Ouma-kun?” Saihara pokes his head out of the book and stares right at Ouma. Unlike everyone’s gazes, Saihara’s always feels soft but firm, without feeling like a piercing glare. It’s crazy that Saihara could pull that off.

“Hello there, Saihara-chan,” Ouma just remembers that he has brought instant noodles here and is tempted to punch himself. “are you doing any better? Feeling any maggot still drilling into your brain?”

“Ouma-kun, you know technically there couldn’t be anything like that in any of our heads…” Saihara puts down the book entirely and sits up. That must have induced some pains onto him, but he still maintains his smile when he looks back at Ouma. “I’m really glad to see you here. I was starting to think nobody would come here after all.”

“Nobody? How could anyone resist the charms of the great Saihara Shuuichi though?” This comes out much more sarcastic and sincere a question, but Ouma asks it anyway. Saihara merely chuckles in his old good-natured manner. “I don’t exactly mean anyone in particular. I was just worried that you wouldn’t come.”

“… Huh?”

“I know what you want to ask, how you matter and all that.” Saihara scratches the back of his left hand, eyes cast down in this opportune moments. Does Saihara fear to look at him? “I start remembering a lot about my past before joining Danganronpa and realize quite a lot of things, I suppose. And looking back at everything that had happened, I think it’s not unfair to come to the conclusion that you are nowhere near as evil as you like to project yourself as.”

“That’s foolish of you to say, Saihara-chan. Do you have any evidence at all that would point to that?”

“Did you watch the in-universe Chapter Six of the game? Wait. That is a terribly awful thing to say, who would want to do that?” Saihara raises his head back up to look Ouma in the eye, unaverted but still with a note of hesitancy. “We found out all that you’ve done to stop the killing game. We know you’re not pure evil because of that.”

“Heh, that doesn’t matter now though, right?” Ouma takes out the instant noodles from the backpack and places them on Saihara’s lap. “We are supposed to move on and forget all these happened and all that.”

“That is absolutely not true.” Saihara picks up the noodles and places them on the counter next to the bed. In the gentle and serious way he puts them down, Ouma almost feels that Saihara does cherish his ‘gifts’. “We all went through this. Just because all our fates vary from one another doesn’t mean we haven’t been victims of this cruel game in our own ways. It is important for us to connect with one another still, and to find a way to heal ourselves by doing that.”

Good luck dragging me into group therapy then. “So, Saihara-chan, do you intend to start anytime soon? Our great protagonist leading us to a peaceful road to healing seems to make a lot of sense if I have to be honest. Or this could lead to us burning and crashing into nowhere, all these could be a lie.”

“It doesn’t have to start that soon. Whenever we are all ready, I hope I still command some sort of respect for you guys.” Saihara takes up the notebook again and opens to a particular page. Ouma takes that as his cue to leave.

“Oh! Right here.” Saihara gestures for Ouma to come closer to the bedside, eyes still glued to the page for no palpable reason. Ouma obeys, moving his own eyes to look into the notebook.

“What exactly are all these?”

“I used to be a writer before joining the game. At least I think so.” Saihara points to a line near the middle of the left-hand page, but Ouma detains himself from reading in too deep into old Saihara’s utterly unintelligible writing. “This used to be one of my ideas. I figured I could use it someday if I want to be a writer again.”

“So what is it about?”

“It’s about a suicidal kid who hires a biographer to write down the story of their life, so when the day they decided to die they could read this biography and feel how deeply worthless and meaningless their life had been. This progresses as a more hopeful story as it goes, however, and in the end, the kid realizes they are not worthless and feeling like living again.”

Ouma frowns. “Why exactly do you feel the compelling need to tell me that?”

Saihara redirects his innocent gaze at Ouma, a harmless smile with knives hidden tugging his lips into a curve. “I reserve myself to share an idea with everyone who has visited me. I thought that could be a fun way for us to connect instead of going directly into the heavy stuff if that makes sense.”

Ouma nods, his head filling up with nothing but dark waters. “That is nice of you, Saihara-chan. I hope that story didn’t turn out bad.”

Saihara smiles again and Ouma feels the knife plunged into him, twisted and turned. “Of course it didn’t.”

⁕

Ouma takes one bite out of the pizza slice Iruma stuffs him with. The pizza is nearly cold with pieces of pineapple on it, creased with the touch of a human being he still despises. All crimes against humanity, if Ouma can count as a human.

Soon enough, however, the cold pizza becomes too much, and Ouma gives up on munching it and opts to survey the room instead. There’s the fourteen of them here. Shirogane and Akamatsu are out of commission for whatever unknown reasons. Let’s hope their declines to this offer doesn’t sting Saihara in any way. If Saihara’s vaguely detached countenance is anything to go by, it does sting.

Once he is done with a cursory glance, however, the smell of bullets overwhelms him again, the latent tension he feels whenever he is around with anyone is at a full time high again, so Ouma goes back to munching on the pizza to alleviate it.

“I do not see how assembling all of us will assist us in any way, shape or form.” Shinguuji raises his voice slightly louder than the volume of a rusty piano choking out its last notes. “… I mean, by all means, don’t let me be a spoilsport, I should not have spoken, I should—”

“It’s alright, Shinguuji-kun,” Saihara stops sipping his fruit punch. “We are here to check on each other and speak our minds after all. Or if you don’t feel like doing so, that’s up to you.”

Silence occupies the room instantly with a side dollop of tension. And nobody feels that it is their responsibility to defuse it.

Except for the ever immobile Kiibo. “So! Perhaps we can start with how everyone is doing? Do you guys have any sort of routine or just doing anything fun in general?”

“I’m rooming with Hoshi and Angie,” Everyone stares across the table towards Tenko, who fumbles around uncomfortably and is leaning towards Toujou next to her as she seeks more words to fill the gap and farther away from the trembling Shinguuji. “Angie and I tried to find some fun for Hoshi, but he is a hard one to please. We tried volleyball and nearly killed him.”

“‘Tis ain’t no fun for me, but at least they have their own fun, I guess.” Hoshi speaks in the most resigned tone Ouma has ever heard, and yet there is an undeniable smile there and everyone is laughing. Everyone. Except him.

“Angie loves volleyball though! She is no expert in sports, but volleyball is just like ‘don’t let the balloon touch the ground’ as a more intense version, and Angie loves games like those!” Angie bounces around wildly, occasionally tripping herself onto the various baggages Saihara has taken into the house. “You keep your hands lower to the ground and punt the ball when it rushes to your direction!”

“That does sound really fun! Is daily life alright with you guys then?”

“Angie is taking Hoshi to therapy sessions and he’s making good progress to quit smoking! Tenko does her best to look for volunteer week outside, and soon Angie would love to join them as well!”

Ouma observes the minute details of everyone’s countenances. They are all changing every time he lays eyes on them, but not once do they look remotely sad or anything resembling brokenness.

“… Anyone else wanna share? Ouma-kun?”

Kiibo’s robotically cheerful inflection brings Ouma’s consciousness back onto the surface. Now everyone’s faithless eyes rubberneck him.

What do they see? Something they hate? Something they could tolerate?

“Of course I have everything to share, unlike you heathens who have nothing better to do in your life other than wasting out the rest of your lives!” Ouma does a fancy pirouette and musters up the most humane gait he could to get to Saihara. “The supreme leader is not just a rusty title! I do everything with gusto and the moxie only someone like me has!”

“If that’s so, Idiotma, you wanna tell everyone about how courageously you go and collect your toys from the ever-dangerous gacha machine?” Iruma’s cackle precedes what might be the most embarrassing moment in Ouma’s short life; with the click of a remote, the room darkens and a screen lights up, with said gacha game showing up in full view for everyone.

Ouma makes a mental memo to tighten up Iruma’s choker and makes the choker actually do its job in the not-too-distant future.

“Oh, so Kokichi does have some sort of gusto and moxie to collect things like that!” Angie instantly rolls with Iruma’s action, hands clasped together like a worshipper who had first witnessed a miracle done by God. Or in this case, by an all-around horrible person. What’s worst, Angie actually goes up and surveys the toys shown on the screen, and some of the others follow suit.

“You… Iruma-chan! Have you considered that while you have my collection in your grips, I also have your collection of erotica in my grips!” The mask slips comfortably onto Ouma’s chassis. “You really think none of us could see those gross books you have on your table all the time? Too bad, while you were setting my phone up, I studied your gross books and took them away!”

Iruma’s face falls faster than a drop tower going awry with no speed restraint. “Hey! What do you mean I own lewd stupid stuff like that! That’s just a lie of yours, right!”

“I am not! A good boy like me never lies! I have leverage against you now, so I’ll suggest handing my phone back!”

“Never! I cannot just stand here and let you slander my name! Now listen, you little twink—”

“Knock it off, both of you.” Toujou gently pushes both away from one another. It feels almost just like any other day in their household, if not for the uproarious laughter going off in the background like fireworks. His lungs getting just a bit easier to breathe, Ouma smiles. A smile he cannot hide and does not want to hide.

“Tch, Twinkma, here’s your stupid phone back.” Iruma pulls Ouma’s violet-shelled phone and hands it back to him. Ouma immediately opens the game and scrolls through his entire catalog of toys before remembering that toys cannot be sold or deleted in any way, and heaves a sigh of relief.

The fireworks gradually ebb into sparkles, and Saihara takes the lead again. “Hm, so, Ouma-kun, you wanna share anything else? Out of your own volition, of course.”

“As a matter of fact, I do!” Ouma points at Iruma yet again. “Iruma-chan loves baying like a hyena every day before breakfast, and it is really really annoying!”

“Hey! I gave you your phone back already, stop slandering me like that!”

“I’m not lying though, you’d know that, Iruma-chan! Sometimes the baying sounds a bit lower, and I think that means it’s mating season to attract better—”

Iruma slams a hand up to Ouma’s face desperately, but Ouma dodges out of the way before Iruma could get anywhere close. Toujou sighs deeply again upon realizing the two are at their throats once again. “Please. I believe you two have a better mode of interactions. Both of you can do better. Otherwise, either of you would be dead already.”

“Toujou-chan, you did forget to remark on the fact that you, me and Hyena-chan have died before though.”

Angie stops jouncing around. Iruma’s eyes ashen and widen. Everyone puts shocked cups down.

The sights are so much more than a verbal declaration of detestation, so much more deafening.

Even Kiibo needs to take this comment in for a few seconds before he could say anything. “So. Does anyone else want to?…”

“Well, not me.” Iruma pushes herself away from Ouma. “Preferably, I’ll go find a pillow to bay like hyena into. It’s mating season.” With that said, she quickly disappears up the ladders, but everyone could see stray tears spilling from the crevices between her eyes and arm.

Toujou looks back at Ouma, then to the staircase creaking with Iruma’s pounding steps, and quietly excuses herself as well.

“Well,” Ouma chokes back the scalding sobs threatening to erupt inside him (those are not sobs, obviously, they are only crocodile’s tears, you can only cry those tears), and along with those all the lies, lies, lies. “I think it really is best if we can just disappear off the face of this Earth and never come back.”

“You know, if you don’t have anything good and comforting to say, Tenko—I think you should shut it, Ouma.”

“Tenko-chan, you know, your lies are very very easy to detect. You could just say it out loud.”

Tenko’s face flushes up. “Ten—I just don’t think you should say anything more when your brain is empty and can’t find any emotion to stuff in there.”

“That’s fair. I never want to speak to any of you anyway—or is that a lie?” There is a crack in the smile, and Ouma imagines it is not pretty to look at.

“Nah, I bet that isn’t a lie, and I don’t need my magic to know that.” Himiko says, then adds air quote gestures just to drive in the point that she is no longer the magician in Danganronpa.

“It could be just that Yumeno-chan is as dense as ever! Anyway, I think it’s pretty unfair that I have to share more when most of you didn’t say anything at all? Anyone else wanna share and make Saihara-chan and Kiiboy happy?”

Nary a susurrus or shift can be detected, until Maki stands up. “I have enough. I don’t want to do this fake-ass group therapy thing anymore.”

“Oh, so you’re just going to disappoint Saihara-chan like that, Harukawa-chan?”

When Maki looks back at her, the flames in her eyes have long cooled into embers. And yet, Ouma can’t imagine a universe where Maki is not staring at him with murder in her eyes. “I’m just tired of all this. I’m tired of everything any of you try to concoct, and especially you, Ouma. So yeah, I’m going to just leave. Momota, if you try to follow me I’ll beat your pathetic ass up. My bat-swinging skills haven’t gotten that rusty.”

“Tch, Harumaki, can’t you just?…” Momota casts another frustrated look towards Ouma, then follows Maki out of the house. The resounding thud of the closing door kills the suspense altogether and Saihara coughs to clear his throat.

“Well then,” He stands up, his fruit punch forgotten on the table. “let’s meet another time when everyone feels up to it again. Or if they don’t ever want to talk, just meeting up is good enough too, I suppose. Thank you for coming, guys.”

⁕

“I’m glad I get to move in with you guys,” Saihara is unpacking a box of novels, putting them all onto a black bookshelf while Ouma is lying on the bed with his phone. His fingers vacillate between the web browser with the forum tab and the gacha machine game. “it’s always a pleasure to see you guys more instead of moving out on my own. That would be really bad.”

“It can’t be any worse with us, Saihara-chan, I mean I’m here to take care of you! So your decision is absolutely right.” Ouma presses on the browser and watches as hundreds of slandering comments pop up below the thread after he forgot to update for a week. He moves to delete all of them.

“That’s true. I don’t mind moving in with anyone in particular, but Toujou-san is really reliable and Iruma-san does bring this house some joy in her own ways, not to mention Kiibo-kun is mainly with us too.”

Ouma throws down the phone with a pout ready. “Saihara-chan! It’s great to hear that apparently, my presence doesn’t mean anything at all! As the supreme leader, I request you to get out until you recognize my reign, which is the only thing that is holding us all together!”

“Yes, you are absolutely right too, Ouma-kun.” Saihara steps away from the bookshelf and sits down on the bed next to Ouma. Ouma consciously moves a few inches further away. “Having you here feels nice too, especially because…”

“Because…”

Saihara looks out towards the window, seemingly at a loss for words. “To be honest, I can’t really pinpoint a particular reason why I think your company is comforting and something I prefer. But I just do. Having you here really feels nice, almost like home in some ways.”

“That’s flattery you reserve for girls and boys outside of the killing game, Saihara-chan. No such thing as feeling like home with us.”

Saihara lies down. “No such thing as feeling like home with you guys? Ouma-kun, the sixteen of us survived a mutual killing game. I think that’s about as bonding as it gets. Fire-forged friends, if you will.”

“As if! Saihara-chan, you aren’t blind, you can definitely see that everyone currently hates my guts, and Shirogane-chan is still so hated that she has to decline coming today. And let’s not even start with Akamatsu-chan.”

Ouma waits for Saihara’s fuse to burn and snap into a million splinters in the form of libels and tirades and leaving this house forever, but the fuse holds tight with a smile. “I think it’s unfair to assume so simply that they cannot change though, Ouma-kun. We all have more capacity for change in us if we just try. I’m sure someday they will turn around.”

Ouma opens his mouth to argue, only to realize all the words about to slip off his tongue are traitors to his mind and heart. So he shuts it, lies down just a little bit closer to Saihara, feeling up the little warmth he gives off in the close distance.

“Hey, Saihara-chan?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever think we can recover from this? Who will we be in the future? The we from the game, or the we from before? Or somebody in-between?”

Saihara tilts his head towards Ouma. “Ouma-kun… Does it matter, really, who we will be right now? There’s no real clear line between who we are. I know this whole memory retrieval procedures still carry fuzzy effects on you, but—”

“Saihara-chan,” Ouma will lose himself after this. “I did not get my old memories back.”

The fuse melts off slowly; so this is what becomes of it instead of the explosive end Ouma predicted. “You don’t. You don’t remember?”

“Yeah, I’m not getting them back, those rusty useless memories. Everyone prefers me as I am now, right? So why bother?” (Now you’re just telling lies for the sake of telling lies) “Why remember the obsolete me?”

Watching that radiance and smile freeze into paralysis is more painful than Ouma has thought, not that he would mind (of course you don’t mind, please keep up the lies we are all thrilled to hear them) “Obsolete? You think your past is obsolete?”

“That’s only a fact here, Saihara-chan.”

“Do you remember all the stories I have told you?”

A part of Ouma nearly switches on. “Stories?”

“All the stories I used to tell you before I gave up on being a writer, do you remember them?”

At that, Saihara starts peddling off congeries after congeries of his story ideas, but Ouma remains static, both his mind and heart and takes in all of them without a second thought, without any input of his own.

Saihara is gradually reduced to tears. “You… Don’t remember anything?”

“Saihara-cha—Saihara,” Ouma gets up and draws himself further away from him, further away from Saihara. “tell me, tell me yourself. Why should I get them back? Because everyone else is? Because this would magically make me more agreeable?” He grits his teeth then, as if that would make these words true. “I’m sorry for making this decision, but there isn’t a version of me that’s agreeable or good for anyone. So this is how I have remained. Better to be what everyone already knows than somebody else entirely.”

“There is a universe where you are agreeable and that’s the you from before.”

“And do you really think I can just abandon everything I have done in the game to be that me again?” Ouma gets up in a fit, looking down at Saihara’s petrified expression. “I can’t. I’m sorry I’m not that me from before or want to be that me anymore, because there’s only the me now. There’s no going back and there’s no returning from.”

Saihara remains silent. Ouma takes that as his cue to exit.

⁕

Ouma is filling up the forms when Shirogane appears in front of him.

“Oh, Ouma-kun? Why are you here?”

“What I am here doesn’t seem to be your business.”

Shirogane narrows her eyes, surveying Ouma in all his checkers-patterned attire glory again. “Perhaps I really have misjudged your disposition. You want your memories back just like everyone else, right? That’s understandable, you aren’t some intern like me who have to go through more and therefore can’t—”

“I’m not here to get back any more memories.” (what have they done for me anyway? what are memories? proof that i exist?) Ouma fills in his name, then moves onto the home address section. It just occurs to him that he doesn’t remember where his “home” really is. “And for the last time, stop pestering me.”

Shirogane fake-pouts (Ouma of all people would recognize that) and walks off mock-casually out of the waiting room.

Ouma’s eyes unintentionally gaze up at the header of the form yet again. Memory Erasure Procedures for Traumatized Participants. It seems hilarious, as if the form indicates that only some participants are traumatized enough to want to forget. As if not all of them are traumatized.

“478. Ouma Kokichi. Ouma Kokichi. Please head to room 14 for your appointment .”

Ouma heads in and is promptly faced with a thickly-spectacled nondescript doctor, one that is just like any other in this bloody headquarters of the producers.

“So, before we can proceed with this series of procedures, it is necessary for you to fill in this questionnaire before we can decide if the procedures fit you.”

Ouma takes the questionnaire and reads.

Can you provide a valid reason why you must go through these procedures?

Is there a possibility of abuse? Will you regret this ultimately?

Ouma skims through the entire thing and tears the paper into pieces.

“Hey, that doesn’t fit our pro—”

“I cannot and will not give two flying fucks about your procedures, mister.” Ouma produces more than twenty banknotes out of his pockets and places them right in front of the doctor. “Either you get me into those erasure head gears and finally wipe all these bullshit memories out of me, or I’m just going to leave this wretched place.”

The doctor casts a skeptical look at him, but they don’t argue any further and pockets the cash. “Do you have a preferred time to carry out the procedures?”

⁕

Ouma pockets the confirmation slip and walks back home. Around this time, Toujou would have been finished with her barista job, and Iruma should be somewhere upstairs carrying out whatever weird experiments she had in mind. Saihara could be in any corner of the house.

Ouma opens the door and Saihara pulls him in.

“Wait wh—” Before Ouma can properly process what is happening, Saihara digs deep into his pockets and scoops out the one thing he never wants Saihara to take possession of.

“Are you going to explain this?”

Ouma forcefully puts on his mask. “Oh, that’s just my backbone surgery paper, Saihara-chan may not know but my back has been hurting like—”

“This is your memory erasure surgery papers, right?”

Ouma does a double take. He didn’t use the house’s landline for the appointment. He didn’t use the computer to send any consultation email.

“I know because Kiibo-kun watches you looking for the Team’s hotline and calling them while everyone else’s out.”

“Well, well, well, Saihara-chan has once again become such a good detective, I’m impressed! And—”

“Ouma, be honest with me once.” Saihara takes a broad step towards Ouma, and Ouma instinctually takes a step back closer to the wall. Upon seeing that, Saihara takes a step back. “What were you trying to do?”

“Nothing! I just realized that taking all these memories along with me while I try to dominate the world will only create obstacles, so I’m making a move to—”

“Your real reasons. Not more lies.” Saihara detaches himself from the wall, leaving a convenient opening for Ouma to run. “Please. I trust you. Please.”

“Trust me? Saihara-chan, you trust a liar like me?”

Saihara swallows hard, but his eyes are not filled with uncertainty. In fact, they have definitely softened somewhat. “I trust you no matter what.”

Ouma takes in his surroundings; the dark house obviously not holding Iruma or Toujou, who might be on his side on a good day, and while Saihara did not do anything more, he is still in front of him and demanding an answer, a truth.

wanting to know an answer, a truth.

“… Once upon a time, I didn’t live in this world.”

Ouma expects another accusation of him lying, but Saihara stays silent, the haze of sadness in his eyes clearing a bit.

“Once upon a time, I am not a supreme leader or live in a TV show to entertain everyone.” Ouma continues. “Once upon a time, I was nothing. Then I came to Danganronpa as a villain.

“A villain of lies who challenges everyone and is rightfully punished at every turn for it. But then it turns out I am not the proper villain and then I am easily vanquished and returned to reality.

“I wonder about my purpose… Everyone else is informed the option to become the nothing they used to be, but I abandoned the choice. I was nothing and so the villain inside of me is all that I still have. I cannot lose it.

“The us now… I am surrounded by the everyone that wants to forget this has happened, despite their promises to stay friends with one another. I cannot tolerate that, but I have no power to overturn it. So, I will remain the one crux of remembrance towards this game. By doing that, I must not fear everyone, I must not continue indulging everyone in their routine of forgetting.

“But I failed. Don’t you see? You may argue it is a one-off occurrence… But it is not that simple. I know that in my bones. I know that as clearly as I know everyone carries a burning hatred towards me except you. My existence no longer carries any meaning beyond as an object of hatred for everyone else and a burden for you and Iruma-chan and Toujou-chan and Kiiboy.

“And thus, I must erase myself, and once again return genuine balance to these people. To this whole world.

“There’s no moral to this story,” Ouma sputters out from loose lips, his frisson increasingly violent and frequent. “it’s just my sto―story and I hope I haven’t wasted too much of your time.”

Saihara takes up Ouma’s hand unwarned, gently dragging him to the sofa in the hall. “Does it make the fact that we are still alive any less impressive though?”

“Anyone else being alive is impressive,” except me, Ouma keeps in those words. But his power of will is not any more powerful than the need to speak them out, so Ouma buries his face into his hands, clawing into the delicate skin that barely keeps in every phantom inside his body. “anyone has a chance to walk a path they believe in. That’s a lie of course. W―Were you, you expecting,” the words splinter and disintegrate into dust before they could come out. “some―something,”

Saihara places his right hand on Ouma’s shoulders, then gradually drags Ouma into an embrace. Ouma starts bawling then, hot tears scorching every inch of his skin, threatening to spill and drag tracks onto the ground.

“Ouma… We all have a story, I believe, and yours is no less important than the rest of us. And the story is far from over.” Saihara tentatively pats on Ouma’s head, reaching for a tissue paper and hands it to Ouma.

“Every story has to have dark chapters before a good ending can be reached. The villain gets the hero’s loved ones, someone the hero considered a friend betrays them… But after the hero gets their loved ones back, and the friend sacrifices themself for the hero and is redeemed, the good ending comes. Or a good interlude. That’s nice too.”

“Then,” Ouma starts wiping his eyes, all raw red from crying too much and being rubbed too much. “what is the moral? Sometimes the hero is the villain?”

“There’s no need for a moral to make a story worth reading and hearing, right?” Saihara softly presses a kiss onto Ouma’s forehead. “What it means to the storyteller and the audience differ, and it’s up to us to give meaning. But if you ask me the moral of this particular story,” Saihara, at last, grips Ouma’s right hand tightly. “I think it’s that everyone deserves a second chance and a chance to be happy.”

[armadil-lo]

Hey, im the original annon that started the whole fakes lay low thing.... sorry! Anyways i absolutly love your additions and i never thought it'd get this big. Your tags kill me. I am curious however how do you think the rest of the crew might react when they finally meet Jeremy? Maybe geoff already had him on his radar. Maybe he is apart of funhuas which is a subsidiary of of sorts to the fahc. (1/?)

Maybe he is apart of funhaus which is a rival gang,maybe that was part of the big battle that caused the fakes to go underground.Like FH found and revealed the location of the penthouse the LSPD, because ifthey’re going down damn it so will the fakes. so Jeremy is just trying to getby after his gang is completely destroyed. And sure he wasnt a very big memeberbut he needed that extra cash to pay rent. And no other gang dare touch anyonethat the fakes may have a beef with (2/?)

So that is why he started joining the fights andstuff…. sorry i kinda got off topic… but the fact that ryan is with someonefrom a rival gang the very gang thay got them into this mess gahhhhhh!!!!! Theangest in the fahc would be so intense. (3/3) p.s. I’ve been follwing your blogfor a while so to see my ask be rebloged by another great person and comeacross my dash really made my day thank you for all you’ve added

OMG hello!!! Don’t be sorry, you’ve given birth tosomething wonderful :D Thank you so so much for the kind words omg, I’m sohappy you enjoy what I added!

OOOH I do like the idea of him being part ofFunhaus or another rival gang - I think I’mma go with another random rival gangthough since I like the idea of Funhaus/Fakehaus being on good terms with theFAHC haha :’) 

Most of it’s under a read more because this got insanely long oops… Also just gonna tag @shadeofazmeinya​ and @miss-ingno​ bc Ifeel like that’s just a given for this AU haha

Jeremy who’s made his living off of undergroundfighting rings finally getting hired to do some grunt work for a crew whosename he actually recognises. He thinks he’s moving up in the world, thinks he’sfinally going to get his big break in crime, actually have a steady cash flow.He never even meets the head honcho of this crew in fact, but he’s only beenworking with them for a short time when he hears the boss just sold out theFakes. He has no idea how that was something a smaller crew like theirs couldeven accomplish, but next thing he knows it’s all over the news how the Fake AHCrew’s official penthouse has been found, how hackers are currently lookinginto the phones and credit cards they left behind, how the LSPD are on a manhunt and they’recertain they’ll be at one of many locations that they’ve now been able to traceback to the crew. And see the thing is, Jeremy always admired the Fakes. Alwayslooked up to them, appreciated what they stood for as a crew. They alwaysseemed so close and it was something Jeremy dreamed about having one day. He’salmost sad that they’ve been taken down by his boss. Scratch that, he isactually kind of upset.

And thenhe learns that the reason his boss fucking did it is because their own gang isgoing under. Only a couple days later and they’re under attack themselves,Jeremy fleeing before things get too intense. There’s a viral clip going aroundof his ex-boss being dragged into a cop car boasting about how “I took down the Fakes before I went down, Idon’t give a shit what you do to me now!” And welp, if Jeremy wasn’t in a rough patchbefore, he sure as hell is now. He goes back to fighting rings and small crimeson the side. It’s all he knows how to do.

Skipping past the rest of the posts that’vealready been made about FAHC going in hiding, Ryan working at Starbucks, Jeremybeing a regular customer there, them falling for each other obviously, etc etcetc…

I imagine it doesn’t take very long afterJeremy finds out Ryan is the Vagabond for Ryan to take Jeremy to the safehouse.Jeremy didn’t run, Jeremy didn’t slam the door in his face. He actually helpedRyan out, even after knowing exactly who he is and what he has done. Ryantrusts him infinitesimally more after that. Ryan is too injured to go back tothe safehouse the day after the return-heist-gone-wrong (I imagine a couplebroken ribs and a bullet graze at the least) and he wakes up to a blanket overtop of him and Jeremy is asleep on the floor beside him and if he hadn’tfallen for him already, boy is that the moment he realises it. Jeremy wakesup and he makes them breakfast and sits by Ryan’s side and Ryan just findshimself spilling everything. What it was like when they got taken down, howtense it’s been in the household for all these months, how fucking ridiculouslyshitty it is to work in Starbucks but that Jeremy is always the best part ofhis day, that this heist felt like it was going to make everything better somehow, like it was just goingto magically solve all their problems and the Fakes would be back on top in notime. How he’s actually quite scared that things will never be that way againafter what happened yesterday. Jeremy listens, and he understands. He knowsthat feeling so, so well. Hope just being shattered in an instant. They spendthe day getting to know each other – actuallygetting to know each other, no veils or masks or secrets anymore. And it’sreally nice.

But then Ryan turns on his latest phone andsees the string of increasingly worried and frantic texts from the others. He finallylets them know he’s okay, which only really increases their panic tenfold aboutwhere he is. Jeremy has been readingover his shoulder (okay so his head is leaning on Ryan’s shoulder actually) andhe asks how far away their tiny base is. Ryan bites his lip and says it’sacross town and immediately starts mumbling about how his motorbike waswrecked, he doesn’t have a car, he walked here from the heist, stealing avehicle now is just impractical probably- and Jeremy interrupts like “Dude. Youdisguised yourself as a citizen for almost a whole fucking year. A shower and a changeof clothes and you could easily just take a taxi.” Ryan protests immediatelythat then the taxi driver will know where their only safehouse left is, towhich Jeremy says, “Then we’ll ask him to stop a block away and I’ll walk youthe rest of the way.”

“…You’re coming?”

“Well I’m guessing you don’t have any moneyon you. And I’m not fucking letting you go alone when you’re hurt like this.”

And if it were anyone else, anyone else, Ryan would probably have toslit their throat for knowing so much. But it’s Jeremy. So that’s that.

Jeremy helps Ryan to the shower (and out ofhis clothes - awkward avoiding looking at his body ensues, because it’s different when he’s not fixing up wounds with Ryan half passed out) and tries to findsome clothes that fit him. He thinks a baggy shirt will do, and the longestpair of sweatpants he owns (which actually belonged to an old friend namedTrevor once upon a time). The clothes cling a little bit, but hugging Ryan’sfigure isn’t a bad thing tbh. Ryan shoves his gear in an old, torn backpack ofJeremy’s and they call a taxi. Ryan tells the driver to go to a street that’s alittle ways away from the safehouse (three blocks actually, just to be careful,plus there’s shortcuts through backalleys and whatnot). Jeremy winces a littlebit at the final cost of the taxi and Ryan feels really bad, he’s known for a while now that money istight for Jeremy, but Li’l J produces what is needed for payment and off theygo, the smaller man helping Ryan walk the rest of the way.

Ryan’s ribs and other wounds are aching bythe time they reach the safehouse but they’re here and they made it and heknocks on the door because he lost his key and it swings open after a secondand Jack is pulling him into a fierce hug. He chokes out a small noise of painbut then hugs her back, albeit a bit awkwardly because he still had one armaround Jeremy for support. Then, from the doorway, Gavin is asking “Who areyou?” And Jack takes a step back and Ryan sees them all crowded behind her now,looking at Jeremy in equal parts confusion, surprise and distrust. Jeremyhimself looks stunned tbh. I mean, c’mon, it’s the Fakes. They’re famous. They were practically his crime idols. Evenif he didn’t know Ryan when he first saw him (or in the many months following)and it took him a second or two to place Jack, he knows Ramsey, and Mogar, andthe Golden Boy. Who in Los Santos doesn’t have their faces burned into theirminds?

So Ryan clears his throat and introduces him.“This is Jeremy. He’s a.. friend.” Jeremy glances over at Ryan and snapshimself out of it to give them a hesitant smile. The Fakes all look fuckingweirded out at that tbfh because since when does Ryan refer to people otherthan them as friends lol? They overlook that for now and pull the both of theminto the safehouse and gather in their little living room around the diningtable and the couch to hound Ryan with questions about what happened to him,where he was, how he got here, if anyone suspects where they are, etc etc.Which Ryan all answers calmly and truthfully, asking them similar questions inreturn and letting Jack hover over his wounds. Jeremy sits by his sideawkwardly through all of this, internally freaking the fuck out that he’s in aroom with the Fake AH Crew and tryinghis best not to pass out, lbr. Also he’s trying to ignore the fact that Geoffhasn’t spoken one word yet and is staring at him with the weirdest look on hisface.

Eventually the questions turn to Jeremy ofcourse. Who are you, how do you know Ryan, what are you doing here, what do youdo for a living. Ryan answers most of these so that he can deflect what heknows Jeremy won’t want to answer more easily, though Jeremy pipes up quietlynow and then. They’re both grateful that the others don’t tell him to leave orthreaten to kill him or anything drastic like that. Until suddenly Geoffinterrupts something Gavin is saying to ask, “You’re not Jeremy Dooley, are you? Rimmy Tim?” Jack sitsup a little straighter at that, face going hard, and the others look at Geoffquestioningly. Jeremy coughs a small laugh, genuinely shocked that Geoff fucking Ramsey actually knows who he is. “Yep, that’s me,” he replies, dazed. He thinksthat this is a good thing for a fleeting moment. He does not know that that is avery, very bad thing.

Geoff immediately leaps up from where he wassitting and slams a fist on the table, fuming in an instant. “I fucking knew it! I’ve had the names, photos and aliasesof all of you fuckers that got away from dayfucking one.” The others are alert in an instant, Jeremy’s blood turningcold at his anger, slowly starting to shake his head, eyes wide. “Are youwired? Who knows we’re here?” Jeremy just starts spluttering nonsense, nothaving a clue what to say. Jack backs away. Ryan looks up at Jeremy with asmall frown. When Jeremy can’t produce a coherent response, Geoff takes a fewsteps closer. “You were with the [gang] when we went down. You assholes fuckingruined us! Look at us! Are you fucking happynow?” Jeremy’s shaking his head frantically now, starting up a whispered chant of ‘no,no, no’ but not able to cut into Geoff practically spitting in his face now. “Weknow exactly how many of you got away, exactlywho you are, and the first fucking thing we’re going to do if we get back ontop is take you and your little buddies out. Rimmy Tim is number seven.”

“He’s about to be number one when I blow hisfucking brains out,” comes Michael’s voice from behind Geoff. Michael may stillbe limping from where cops shot him in the leg, but he was still quick enoughto grab a gun and be pointing it right at Jeremy’s head. Jeremy goes numb andsqueaks out, “I swear, I didn’t-“ Geoff holds up a hand to Michael. Michaeldoesn’t shoot, but he doesn’t put the gun down either. And then Geoff ispicking Jeremy up by the collar and shoving him against the wall. “Are. You.Wired?” Jeremy shakes his head. “Are your friendson their way? To finish up the fucking job their boss started?”

“They’re n- I’m- I didn’t-“

Michael explodes. “Answer the fucking question!”

“N-No. No, nobody’s coming.”

“So whatthen? You found out who Ryan was on your own? Stalked him for however long,finally managed to follow him here? Gonna round them up to kill us all when we’resleeping?”

“Geoff,” Ryan quietly calls from where he’ssitting.

“No,I-I swear, I’d never-“

“You were gonna take us out by yourself?”

“I didn’tknow!” Jeremy cuts in, breathing heavily, absolutely fucking terrified.That makes Geoff pause, his grip loosening a little bit and he squints insuspicion. Michael only takes a small step closer with the pistol. “I swear tofucking God, I didn’t know. I justdid grunt work for them, f-for like two weeks. I don’t even know who was in onit, or where the hell they got the information from, I was sad when you- It felt wrong, it always felt wrong. I haven’t heardfrom anyone else who got out, I didn’t even know anyone else did. I swear, I promise. Please,I didn’t know who Ryan was, I had no fucking idea, not until last night. I’mnot going to tell anyone, I’m not going to do anything, I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” Somewhere in his brokenpleading, Ryan had called Geoff’s name again, and suddenly the older man isripped away from Jeremy and he slumps against the wall a little. Ryan hasgotten up, grabbed Geoff by the shoulder and yanked him away. His expression isgrim and Jeremy has never seen him look this deadly serious. Geoff opens hismouth to protest, but doesn’t. After a moment of tense silence, Ryan speaks up.

“If Jeremy says he didn’t know, then he didn’tknow.”

Nobody in the room speaks after that. Geoffand Ryan stare at each other, Ryan’s hand still on Geoff’s shoulder, Geoffdefiantly setting his jaw. Jeremy glances around the room, sees Michael slowlylowering the gun and staring at Ryan with a bewildered expression, sees Gavinin the corner looking vaguely horrified (he’s kicking himself really, becauseRyan had him look into Jeremy all those months ago didn’t he, but he thoughtnothing of it, only did a surface check. If only he’d looked a little deeper, maybe Ryan wouldn’t have endedup bloody bringing the guy here), sees Jack hovering near Gavin glancing withopen curiosity between Ryan and Jeremy. Because, you see, calling Jeremy afriend is one thing, but the only people Ryan has ever truly trusted in his life as far as the Fakesknow is them. And earning Ryan’strust is not an easy feat to accomplish, either. Really, the fact that Jeremyhas somehow wormed his way into Ryan’s heart enough for the man to totally andcompletely trust him is one thing, but the fact that the others have never heard Ryan breathe so much of aword about him is extremely telling of how much damage these past months have doneto them. Not just as a crew, but as a family.

Eventually, Geoff lets out a long sigh andnods. Whatever facial expression conversation the two of them were having seemsto be over and apparently Ryan trusting that Jeremy isn’t about to stab themall in the back is enough for now. Geoff wordlessly walks into the kitchen andsnags Jack’s arm on the way out, pulling her along with him. “What the fuck,Ryan?” Michael snaps, more out of confusion than genuine anger now. Ryan glaresover at him and Michael mumbles, “wow, okay, fine” before shoving the gun inthe back of his jeans and limping as angrily as possible after Geoff and Jackas well. Ryan’s gaze turns to Gavin, who purses his lips and takes a stepforward. Ryan doesn’t want to talk to him right now though, doesn’t want totalk to any of them really for leaping to conclusions about Jeremy like that, fucking hell, they don’t even know him. Maybe that’s partially hisfault, but shit, when was he meant to bring up that he had a massive crush on aguy while they were meant to be undercover? He looks over at Jeremy now,leaning against the wall, still looking half scared to death, pale as a sheetand shaking. Ryan deflates a little bit at the sight and reaches for him. Jeremyseems to jerk into reality, and looks up at Ryan’s face with wide eyes,standing up and reaching out towards him too. Ryan pulls him in for a hug,cradling him against his chest, careless of how it jostles his ribs. Jeremytakes a few deep breaths and Ryan lightly squeezes him reassuringly. He knows Gavin iswatching, he knows Gavin wants to talk to him. He can’t bring himself to care.He gently pries Jeremy off of him and holds him by the shoulders, leading himback outside. Gavin says his name softly but Ryan ignores him and closes thefront door behind them.

They’re standing on the porch and it’sstarted raining lightly outside and poor Jeremy still looks shell-shocked andRyan just wants to hug the shit out of him. But that would probably hurt themboth so instead he settles for asking, “Are you okay?”

Jeremy looks at him with a tiny frown. “I…”He opens and closes his mouth a few times, not seeming to be able to form thewords. Ryan doesn’t blame him. He knows Geoff – Ramsey – is a terrifying man to have on your bad side. Ryan heardJeremy talking not even a few hours ago about how he had always looked up tothe Fakes – another one of Jeremy’s hopes he supposes has just been shattered.Ryan gives him a sad smile. “Go home, Jeremy. My wallet’s inside. I’ll pay forthe taxi. Go home and try to get some rest. I’ll sort this out.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “What if they don’tbelieve you, Ryan?”

“They will,” he says firmly. He knows he canconvince the others to trust him – but Jeremy doesn’t.

“But what if they don’t? What if they didn’t believe me? Shit, I know theydidn’t. What if they come after me? What if you can’t stop them? I didn’t knowanything about what my boss was doing, Ryan, but they have me on a fucking hit list! I don’t have anywhere to go,Ryan, how am I supposed to go home? Gavin already looked up where I live, Jesus Christ, what if they think I’m-“

Ryan breaks off Jeremy’s ramblings by kissinghim.

They haven’t kissed before, not even comeclose, but it feels like it’s been a long time coming. Ryan presses his lips toJeremy’s and the shorter man melts instantly, tilting his head back andreaching for Ryan, fingers tangling in his shirt. Ryan cups Jeremy’s neck with one hand and the other man leans up on his tip toes as theydeepen the kiss. Jeremy tastes sweet and the air smells like rain and theirbeards scratch together and god, Ryanhas been craving this.

They break apart and Ryan half expects Jeremyto go catatonic, but it’s the complete opposite. Jeremy has stopped shaking,his shoulders have relaxed, and he’s giving Ryan a small smile. Ryan returns itwith a smile of his own. They don’t say anything more. They don’t need toreally. Jeremy trusts Ryan, and Ryan trusts Jeremy.

[deebormzone]

Deep Breath

It’s been about a month since The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild came out, and I haven’t said anything about it yet.

I beat the Wii U version of the game. I’m staying away from the Switch for now since the console has a few technical issues and almost no games. If they clean up their act a bit, it’ll probably be worth it during the holidays alongside Mario Odyssey.

Here’s what I thought about the wildest Zelda game yet.

Is it the best Zelda game? The question comes up fairly often.

I think it has to be. It’s the biggest, but also the most detailed, a huge world built to be explored. The only way an older Zelda game can top it is if you’re ranking them based on their quality “for their time”, and I only care about whether a game is good right now.

It’s very different from the usual Zelda format, which was largely unchanged since Link to the Past. Some have said it’s not a Zelda game at all, but if the essence of Zelda is exploration, Breath of the Wild does a better job of capturing that essence than the rest.

When I started the game, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt. It seemed a little basic, and I wasn’t feeling as enthusiastic as the previewers leaping at the chance to climb stuff. On the contrary, climbing felt like a slow hassle. But things picked up once I made it off the plateau. I may have just been bored by the parts I had already seen.

Once the game had really started, everything was golden. I had loads of fun running around, fighting tough enemies, cooking various types of skewer, and engaging in my number one most favorite video game activity: gettin’ stuff. Some people hate the weapon durability, but not me. Low durability means weapons everywhere, which means more gettin’ stuff. It’s similar to one of my favorite games, Dead Rising, which is one of the reasons I was looking forward to Breath of the Wild so much.

As an extra treat, the world of Hyrule is more fleshed out than ever. All the characters have proper names and unique dialogue. The races (Zora, Goron, Korok, Rito, Gerudo) have beautiful settlements and full sets of equipment and weapons. The Gerudo in particular have gone from being reclusive bandits to having one of the nicest settlements in the game. There are plenty of little moments across the world that are great fun to experience, a couple of favorites being attacks by Yiga clan assassins, the sidequest to build a new town, and the appearance of the blood moon.

Despite all the good to be found in Breath of the Wild, some parts got on my nerves. Shrines, for example. Whenever I found a shrine, I was punished by having to solve a puzzle. I know it’s not kosher to complain about puzzle-solving in a Zelda game, but in this one they’re just roadblocks in the way of fun adventuring. Worst of all are the “apparatus” shrines, which force you to use motion controls to rotate the environment. I like playing with the Pro controller, and whenever an apparatus comes up, I have to go across the room to get the Wii U gamepad. Then the controls are floaty and awful. There’s no reason not to let me tilt the apparatus with a control stick, Monkey Ball style, but they just had to shoehorn in their shitty gimmick. They use it infrequently, but it’s always a letdown when it shows up.

Stasis challenges also bug me. These are physics-based puzzles requiring you to freeze a boulder or something, then hit it with your weapons to send it flying. The trouble here is twofold: it wastes weapon durability, and the boulder’s direction is based on your imprecise position and direction. My response is to avoid using Stasis whenever possible, and I have to give the game credit for allowing alternate solutions... sometimes.

The game feels weakest when forcing specific playstyles. The low point of the whole game, for me, was a stealth-escort mission in the Korok Woods. I usually don’t bother with stealth in any game because it’s slow. Breath of the Wild has a well-developed stealth system, and the best thing about it is that I can ignore it completely and fight with honor instead. The Korok escort, however, is very slow, and there is no escape.

I was a bit let down by the game’s ending, which was a standard “you saved princess. youve winner” ending. Maybe it’s foolish to expect anything more from this series, but it seemed abrupt after all the visions of the past fleshing out Zelda and Friends. Also disappointing: this game’s Ganon has given up on being a character and has decided to be a large spider instead. I guess we all feel that way from time to time, but Calamity Ganon is not very interesting. A shame, but there are so many other interesting folks in the game that it isn’t a huge loss.

Something unfortunate happened once I had finished the main plot: the game didn’t feel as fun. I didn’t get nearly as much pleasure from exploring because nothing held any value. Wearing a full suit of upgraded Soldier’s Armor kept enemies from being able to hurt me. The cooking system, a joy at first, became dull as soon as I realized the best recipe is always one radish plus anything. Maybe it’s just me?

Now, I’m especially interested in the game’s Hard Mode. It’s being added this summer as paid DLC, which is pretty scummy unless real effort goes into building it. My cynical side (I don’t actually have any other sides) is sure it’ll be a hack job with higher damage numbers, but if they’re charging for it there’s a small chance they’re preparing something special.

How special? Here’s a Hard Mode idea I’d pay for: Play as Zelda. Reverse the plot, sealing Link in Hyrule Castle while Zelda sleeps. She’s about the same size and build as Link, and they even wear the same clothes half the time. Making her playable shouldn’t be much of a stretch from a modeling perspective. Besides other Hard Mode changes, Zelda isn’t combat trained, so playing as her would naturally be harder. Give her the chance to forge her own path, just like she wishes in Link’s memories. Loads of people have been asking for it. There’s even a precedent: entering your name as Zelda activates Hard Mode in Zelda 1, and Breath of the Wild takes a lot of inspiration from that game.

Princess Difficulty is such a perfect fit that it almost feels inevitable, but it would screw up their obligatory princess-rescue plot and also ruin all their Hilarious Jokes™ in which Link dresses as a woman. So Hard Mode will probably just be bigger numbers for $20.

Breath of the Wild is most fun as an under-geared, wimpy hero fighting to survive against a dangerous world. My favorite part of the game was Eventide Isle, which takes all your equipment and makes you start from scratch. I was sad to learn it was the only challenge of its kind. How about a game made up of a hundred Eventide challenges? I’d be down for that.

Speaking of which, now that I’ve finished Breath of the Wild, I’m curious about where the Zelda series will go next. BotW feels like a new era, and director Aonuma has said future titles will use a similar open-world structure (which he calls “open-air” because Nintendo loves making shit up). So what’s the next step on this new, airier path?

It might be a mistake to wish for a revisit of the old during a time of new beginnings, but I will anyway: this would be a great time to revisit Majora’s Mask. Breath of the Wild’s detailed open world would pair well with Majora’s scheduled events, adding a fourth dimension to exploration. It could also let me indulge my love of starting over with nothing! Do regular people like that sort of thing too?

To recap... Breath of the Wild is a breath of fresh air for an old series, and I’m sure loads of game journalists have used that metaphor already. Its few flaws are eclipsed by hours of raw adventure. It’s a great game, sorely needed after some mediocre titles, and I’m excited to see what Nintendo does next.

[obarion]

TWO DREAMS LIKE MO V I E S i had a dream that i was at dinner at some rental mansion thing with my family and i do mean my family like, BOTH parents grandparents erica the whole nine yards actually i think we were at uncle tonys ajd i had found this weird mask at a place i guess and i decided to give it to my dad as a present because idk he likes weird shit like that so i take the mask and it looks like the face of like... an okd republican guy. not that creepy. but when i brought it out everyone was TERRIFIED and i was like... its creepy but its just a plastic mask and its not... THAT creepy, its just an old man and everyone disagreed they were like "no that is DISFIGURED and HORRIFFIC and we left the room, with the mask, to go hang out somewhere else my mom took a picture of the mask with her phone so she could show me what the mask really was and it was TERRIFYING and shes like "it changes but this is its true form" and apparently when you gift this mask to someone it starts to reflect their true character, which is why as soon as the mask was given to my father it became grotesque and terrifying. ok but when i woke up from this it was SO NOPE AND SO SCARY most of this shit is paraphrased, not what they literally said the second one ohhhhhh so im in japan hanging w a bunch of jrock idola who are probably hanging out with me bc they think im pretty and they wanna get laid .....aww but i dont wanna say that because they were all nice and didnt treat me like that dont do them like that rose anyway it was aoi and uruha and then i think meto and another guy and we were hanging out in this area with a bunch of stores but in this little hideaway in front of them, like a studio under the stores and the parking lot looked like the one in the bay shore area thing with target and micheals at one point i was driving around in mia's fancy car through the parking lot regretting all my life choices bc i know if i crash his car im fuckin DONE FOR like JROCK IS OVER FOR ME I COULD NEVER EVEN LOOK A PICTURE OF ANY OF THEM IN THE EYE ANYMORE and periodically other jrock stars would come in and i didnt have my glasses on at one point? i think i wasnt being included in a conversation, so i stopped trying so hard and decided to go to the side and fall asleep on one of the cushy chairs but as soon as i did, i just felt this presence and my eyes opened and i saw this blurry image of kamijo just throwing something out in a trash can and i just knew it was him by the shape of his hair and immediately scrambled for my glasses ok but why tf am i wearing glasses around jrock stars thats the worst shit my glasses though were like.... invisible??? anyway im just looking at him like starry eyed and i say his name and he looks at me and im like OH BOY hes just gonna... look at me and go away and go talk to aoi or some shit but NOPE THIS OLD ASS MAN DECIDED HE WAS GONNA SIT WITH THE PRETTY GIRL ok ok this is so weird but also ok this dream is SO weird so.... he acts like he REMEMBERS me from somewhere like he KNOWS me and i assumed he just remembered me from the concert in nyc BUT HERES THE THING LIKE IM P R E T T Y SURE THATS NOT WHERE HE KNEW ME FROM because he just kind of went along with it with a face like. "this one is cute, she thinks i remember her from a concert that was 2 years ago" no, this fucker doesnt remember me from there. he remembers me from the 4 fucking thousand dreams where we've hung out together having a great fuckin time like we're 2 shitty friends. anyway so kamijo is just acting a lot like he knows me and shit and my ass is just EATING it up because i just desperately wanted to talk to him, i was like, hes here, you have dreams, pour them out to him. was talking about the concert with him "you performed at my favorite venue, that i performed in, and then you performed in, and when i performed in it again it was like i was you-" and hes listening to me actually p impressed like this is new one of the guys calls him over he leaves for like 2 seconds comes back like sorry SITS down next to me and KISSES the ABCK of my GODDAMN NECK and im like oH OK AY?? I DIDNT DO THAT YOU DID?? and im just blushing and what happens NEXT is we continue our fuckin conversation THATS WHAT and we talk and talk even after everyone leaves and its literally like kamijo just SO interested in my hopes and dreams and aspirations EATING that SHIT UP VALIDATING THE SHIT OUT OF ME and me running my mouth, periodically apologizing for doing that. not without him talking, though, he talked a lot as the night goes on for some reason he looks progressively more like a regular 40 something year old man and im like wAowh whAT is going on but im like it's kamijo! it doesn't matter if his hair is a wig or something like... hes kamijo and hes like, my biggest inspiration! and im still having this great conversation with him and im all like "whenever im not motivated to do music, i think of your concert in ny and i know i have to do it for kamijo" ANYWAY IT WAS JUST SUPER NICE AND SUPER INSPIRING AND FUN and when it was time to leave he just somehow sprung back into beautiful kamijo and hes like "wait where are you going" gives me this look like w he. r e u g o o in g i r l and im like look kamijo youre 41 im 18 and the look on his face when i said 18 was like DAMN FUCK I DIDNT KNOW SHE WAS 18 but he was like "damn, i need to get younger wOw im sorry" he knew that was a creepy age gap even if im of consenting age and then im like "and im not throwing away a relationship ive had for like, almost 4 years with my boyfriend" and hes like OH SHIT and he found that really admirable even tho like.... like WHY would i hurt nolan like that thats DUMB. even for a jrock idol? DUMB. and hes like you fuckin GO girl FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS I BELIEVE IN YOU and he just seemed kinda happy that i could leave like, my biggest inspiration whos hot af just as someone to talk to and not someone i was filling with lies so hed fuck me.