#fucking shatter there && then && just end up shaking && howling && sobbing. probably then would be expected to admit why it

[akumeis]

sometimes i think about how i hc that aymeric loved haurchefant so dearly, had grown up with him through the friendships of their parents, && they had been together in secret. how afraid aymeric was of admitting to their relationshp && proudly showing it off despite wishing so much that he had the courage to do so. he was too afraid of any harm coming to his beloved if he were to, could never shake that fear despite nothing to prove that it’d even occur.

so now that haurchefant has passed away, not only does he have to live with the guilt of hiding him, of denying him their right to showcase their love for eachother, he has to live pretending that he wasn’t as close to haurchefant as he truly was. he has to pretend that he isn’t so devastated by his death. he has to pretend like time will heal those wounds. he has to, when the wol speaks of how close they were to him, say “ i know you were, you must be so pained “... unable to ever say “ i understand exactly how you feel, he && i were close too “.

:^)))))))))))

[43sparrows]

satisfied - {Five x Reader AU}

Read Part 1 & Part 2 & Part 3 / Part 3.5 & Part 4

Warning: a rollercoaster from start to end

Word Count: 4,512

Note: Here it is. The final installment. I'm also impressed I've managed to pull off my own little goal which was to make each chapter longer as we go deeper and deeper into this relationship. It was fun to write, and I hope you stick with me for my next series

You've ignored four of his calls.

Well, technically, you've only ignored one, deleting the message from the answering machine after a short but brutal internal war. The other three times he's tried to get in touch with you were on the typical ripped out notes taped to your mirror. Each one was plucked down, scanned for words you didn't really expect to find (sorry, mistake, asshole), and then tossed into the waste bin.

You know that even as fucked up as your last encounter was, he deserves more--an explanation or at least a clean break--but you can't bring yourself to give him either. And you hate that about yourself. You hate it because you know why you can't do it, and the feeling that comes from this fact is worse than any of the ways Five's ever made you feel.

So, you don't call him. Instead, you work to erase the little traces of him you find in your apartment and in your thoughts until at last you're faced with something you can't just stick in the garbage: the man himself.

He's standing at the foot of your bed, hands on his hips and brow knit together. The look stops you dead in your tracks as you enter the room.

"You're avoiding me."

You feel like you're going to throw up. The thought briefly crosses your mind that if you do, you might get out of having this conversation. But instead you take a few more steps into the room and close the door behind you. When you face him again, you find his finger tapping at his waist. Your eyes remain on the finger instead of his face and you stay silent. This isn't an admission of guilt, but he seems to take it as one.

"Why?" he demands.

Objectively, you know the words. You're proficient in more than one language, so frankly you have more than enough words to use. But you can't seem to piece them together quite right, and so, no sound comes out. Instead you turn your gaze to your right and it lands on the candle on your bookshelf. The flame flickers, dancing in a breeze you can't feel yourself. You feel like there's a metaphor somewhere in there.

"Look--"

"Why would you do that to me, Five?" Your voice is soft, but the interruption effectively cuts him off. If you were looking, you'd imagine you'd see his eyes squint at you in frustrated confusion. His mouth would be slightly open, and you'd want to kiss it closed. So you can't face him. Your gaze stays fixated on the candle.

"Do what?"

You wet your lips as if that will help get out what you need to say. It doesn't work, but it does buy you a bit of time and makes the tension in the room that much more palpable. You wonder if that's what's guiding the flame through its movements.

"You brought me to Howl's just to fuck me in front of my ex."

Five's quiet now, and you chance a look at him from the corner of your eye. He doesn't look frustrated, but he does look like he's working a math problem and each time he comes to the end he gets a different solution.

He notices you're looking and tries to catch your eye, so you turn back to watch the candle burn it's way down the wick.

"You said you wanted something to shove in his face."

You don't remember saying that, but it's true. You did want something to shove in his face. But not like this. You shake your head at him.  "Not that." Your voice is both airy and tight, and it's not a good sign. "That wasn't anything worth shoving in his face."

"What?" There's heat in Five's voice now, and you can tell that something you've said has pushed a button. "He's working two jobs so he can get married to some boring elementary school teacher, and you're having mindblowing sex with the closest thing this city has to a goddamn superhero. Who came out on top there?"

"You," you say, simply.

"Me?" he repeats, and you finally find the strength to turn and face him. His eyebrows have shot up so high, you're surprised they're not touching his hairline.

"You're the one who got what they wanted out of that show Five. Because he's still happily getting married having been proven right that I'm nothing more than a call girl dumb enough to work for free."

Five narrows his eyes at you, and there's nothing confused about the look. Instead, he looks downright mean. You realize in that look, that he's missed the point completely. He's not listening to you. He's not seeing you. And you're starting to realize that he may not even want to. The realization hurts. It fucking hurts. Like you're being ripped apart from the inside. And the worst part is that you really should have known this.

Before he can get any words out, you beat him to the punch. It's the only way this argument was ever going to end.   "I can't do this anymore, Five."

The look shifts into one of incredulousness and then disgust and then stoniness. And then, without a word, he vanishes.

You feel like you've collapsed on the inside.

Apparently, you look like it too.

Your boss had taken one look at you and tried to send you back home. You'd told her that you were fine to work and made it half the day before she insisted you looked truly terrible and needed to go home. And maybe see a doctor.

Judging by the look on your roommate's face, you look even worse now that you've made it home.

"Are you alright?" she asks, peering up at you from the couch.

"Got sent home early," you mumble. It's not exactly an answer to her question, but you hope that it gets you out of having to talk anymore. It's not that you don't love your roommate. But you'd rather crawl in bed and stay there for a month if it meant that you didn't have to socialize with any humans in the meantime.

You successfully shuffle all the way into your room and drop your things next to your desk before the TV shuts off. Your roommate's footsteps echo throughout the apartment, and then there's silence and the feeling of someone hovering in the doorway behind you.

"I'm worried," she says, and you sigh, your shoulders dropping as you turn around.

"I'm fine."

She hums a no and gestures at your room.  You've let piles of dirty clothes take over most of the floor. There's about six different cups scattered on different surfaces, all with varying levels of water in them. Only one of the candles is lit. Her eyes find yours again, and you can't help but look away. "You've been locked in here all weekend. And most of last week too. I know he hasn't been by. He hasn't even called. What's up?"

You shrug helplessly, and the same way they do any time you think of Five, your eyes betray you and start to water.

"You don't know?" she presses, and you shake your head, looking off to the side, trying to get yourself under control. She walks into the bedroom then, coming around to sit on the edge of your bed and stare up at you. "Talk to me, Y/N. Seriously, I'm worried about you, and I don't know what to do."

"I--" your voice feels too thick, and you're having a hard time keeping it even as it comes out. "It's over." Your roommate's eyebrows draw down in sympathy as do the corners of her mouth.

"He ended it."

You shake your head and swallow. "I did." The pitch is too high now.

"Why?" your roommate's voice softens in response to yours, and it's then that you break, face crumpling, tears falling, and a broken sob escaping. She doesn't say anything more, instead rising from the bed and wrapping her arms around you from the side, leaning her head against your shoulder.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time to stop crying. Then again, any time spent crying over a boy who you weren't dating and never made any promises in terms of feelings or commitments was embarrassing. But, when you do slow down, you finally find the words to tell her everything. What happened while she was away. Your trip to the bar and what you discovered. Your fight. She listens and doesn't say anything, instead doing the one thing that you need most from her: she doesn't let go.

You look less like shit.

But you still feel awful.

It's been just over a week since your fight with Five, and you feel like you should be over it by now. The disappointment, the embarrassment, the hurt. But you're not. Sure, you don't exactly feel like an open wound anymore. But you feel a bit like someone's just put a single layer of gauze on top, and that's not nearly enough.

So, you decide there's only one course of action that will make you feel better on this Saturday morning: Griddy's Doughnuts.

Just walking into the shop makes you feel lighter. The sweet smell of the different glazes and jellies wafts through the air, and kids are crammed up against the doughnut case and perched on stools with their parents. Walking into the place is like a time warp--it feels exactly the same way it did all those years ago when you were the kid tugging at her mom's hand.

And then you make accidental eye contact, and it all shatters. Because the brown eyes you're staring into belong to none other than Vanya Hargreeves.

You pull over to the side of the line to do the right thing and make brief small talk. If it hadn't been for two occasions where she'd come home sooner than planned, you wouldn't be in this situation. She wouldn't recognize you. But this girl's seen you half naked and spoken to you several times over the phone. She knows more of you than you wish she did. She probably feels the same way. Regardless of the willingness either of you have to engage in this conversation, she's coming over, bag of doughnuts and tray of coffee in hand.

"Y/N, hi," she greets, offering a nervous looking smile.

"Hi," Your own attempt at a smile is disastrous. It's too tight and it doesn't reach your eyes. It hardly even reaches your cheekbones. "Seems like we had the same idea for breakfast."

She nods, looking down at the bag in her hand. "Yeah. We have this family tradition to grab Griddy's whenever one of us--"  she stops then, seeming to remember who she's talking to and restarts with a safer question. "How are you?"

Vanya's voice sounds the way Griddy's smells--like nostalgia and comfort and it makes you ache inside. You want to know how her sentence was going to end, but you want out of this conversation more.

"I'm fine," It comes out more of an exhale than a word, and she seems to see right through it.

She nods, her smile taking on a sad quality. "You and Five both then. Guess we did get the same memo about Griddy's."

A silence seeps in between the two of you, and you hate the way this feels--like you're drowning in the middle of a swimming pool and trying not to call attention to it.

"I don't want to pry--" She must see you go rigid because she seems to decide on a different route. "I don't know what happened, but I'm sorry it didn't work out. I know you guys cared a lot about each other."

You don't know how to respond to that. You're not sure if you want to be the fool who fell in love with her friends with benefits or the slut who was just in it for phenomenal sex or the bitch who points out Vanya's brother is a heartless bastard and doesn't deserve doughnuts because he clearly never gave a damn. She must catch the crease between your eyebrows, your lips instinctively puckering into a qualification, because she saves you from responding.

"Look, I know Five can be...a lot. And I don't know what he did, but I can tell it was big and it wasn't good." She looks like she wants to reach out and touch you, but her hands--thankfully--are full. "But you should know, he checks the answering machine every day."

It stings. He still thinks you'll call.

And you almost have.

You can't look at her open and earnest face any longer, so you look down at the ground and nod dumbly. "Thanks." She stays in front of you, and you can feel that she wants to break the silence again.  You swallow hard and force yourself to meet her gaze once more. "Well, I don't want your coffees to get cold. It was nice to run into you, though, Vanya."

She nods, her mouth settling into a line. "Take care of yourself, ok?" she asks, and you lift your lips into half a smile because it's just about as much as you can manage. She nods once more and then turns and leaves the doughnut shop. You get in line.

Your roommate decides it's time for you to leave the house.

You point out that you leave the house almost every day.

She argues that leaving for work doesn't count. It's been two weeks and you need to have fun.

You insist that if you're going to have fun, it's not going to be on a Tuesday.

She informs you that there will be dollar tacos where she's going.

That's how you end up at Don Pablo's at eight o'clock on a Tuesday night with your roommate and two other friends all crowded around a table. It's hard to say what it is, the dollar tacos, the strong margaritas, the good company or the Spanish covers of pop songs, but whatever the reason, you're feeling lighter than you have. You're even laughing as your friend, Faith, updates you on the latest antics of the passive aggressive post-it queen at her work.

"That is...one hell of a story," someone to the right of your table says, and the eyes of the group look up to a lanky man with shoulder length brown hair. He's wearing a mesh crop top that sparkles a little under the light and leather pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, a fact that's captured Sam's attention.

The man pushes off from where he's leaning against the coat rack, and it's a testament to Faith's storytelling prowess that not a single one of you noticed him lurking there until this point. He motions for Faith to budge over, and the motion is so familiar and friendly that she scoots without protest.

"So," he says, resting his chin in both of his palms. "Which one of you radiant young ladies is Y/N?"

The words are objectively skeevy, but much like his admittance to the table, this earns nothing but a few snorts and smiles. He's also smiling like he's in on the joke, and it's genuine and sparkling rather than leering. You're half tempted to tell him, but your roommate stops you.

"Why?" Nasreen asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Because she's the one person who will save us from my brother's broody pining," he says with a faux pout.

Nasreen's eyebrows lift even higher. "Isn't it a little middle school of your brother to send you over here for him?"

He chuckles and lifts his head, shaking a finger at your roommate. She grins back at him. "Yes, it would be, but he very expressly told me not to come over here. I'm here looking for Y/N of my own free will." He glances around the table and steals a chip out of your basket, dipping it into the salsa. "Technically," he says, crunching down on the chip. "I'm risking my life for this."

Sam laughs and the man grins, reaching for another chip. "It's true. He said, and this is a direct quote, 'Klaus, if you go over there, I will drive this tiny umbrella through your eyeball until it hits that thing you call a brain and puts us all out of our misery.'" He pops the chip into his mouth and gives a dramatic eye roll. "Very eloquent, my brother."

Your friends laugh at this, even Nasreen, but you grow cold. Because you know one person with a brother named Klaus.

"So," Klaus bounces his shoulders once, sitting up straighter. "Who am I sacrificing myself for?" He looks around the table pleasantly just as Sam glances at you. It's a small motion, but Klaus latches onto it. "Ah," Klaus says gesturing toward you. "I'm going to need you to come fuck my brother."

Faith spits out her margarita. Sam barks out a sudden laugh. Nasreen blinks and draws back into the booth.

"I know he's an emotionally stunted little asshole, but he's been even more insufferable than usual, and Vanya says it's because of you." He drops his hand onto the table, relaxing back into the booth. "Obviously, he's the one at fault--you seem like an angel. But it would mean the world if you would come fix our little shitheel."

It's the name Vanya that brings Nasreen up to speed.

"I'm vetoing this right now," your roommate says, shaking her head. Klaus presses his hands together and points them at her.

"Your objection has been heard and noted, but let's hear from Y/N."

All of the eyes on the table are on you, and dollar tacos isn't enough to redeem this moment. You shake your head slowly. "No."

"No," Klaus repeats. He seems surprised.

"No, I'm tired of being fucked over so Five can feel better. No." Your roommate's approval radiates over you, strengthening the feeling. Faith and Sam straighten up at the mention of Five.

Klaus heaves a sigh and leans back to rest his head on the top of the booth's cushion. "I don't blame you, but I don't want to go back over there," he says to the ceiling. "Not only is he going to publicly murder me, but he'll probably drive me up this stucco painted wall with his moodiness before he does it." He lolls his head to turn to Faith. "Can I stay here with you?"

Faith laughs a little, looking at the rest of you.

"Depends," your roommate says, leaning on the table.

"On?" Klaus raises an eyebrow.

"If the next round is on you."

When you stumble into your apartment, it's a little past 1 am, and you're not so much as drunk as you are high on a good time. Allowing Klaus to stay at your table had been the best decision you'd made in the past...month? Maybe longer. Not only had he supplied you with enough good stories to take your mind far away from Five (whose gaze you could feel once you knew it was there) but Klaus had also pulled each of you up to salsa with him despite the fact that it wasn't a dance bar at all. Still, several other couples from different tables had followed his lead, and you'd allowed yourself to be spun and turned about until your legs were ready to collapse.

It's hard to imagine that anything can bring yourself down from this feeling as you place a kiss on your roommate's cheek and thank her for dragging you out.

Then again, you hardly imagined Five would be popping into your bedroom at 1:30 in the morning.

His hair is wild, eyes are hazy, and he looks more disheveled than you've ever seen him. "You were there. You were there and Klaus came over, and what the fuck?"

You've never heard so many nonsensical words come out of his mouth.

"Are you...drunk?" you ask, dumping your clothes at the door to your closet.

"Figured that one out," he says, gesturing flailingly at you.  "I got drunk because that's what you do when the one person in this world who doesn't make your life worse won't even look across a bar at you." He says.

You, for your part, remain silent, head tilted, trying to make sense of what's going on--how much of this is him and how much of it is the alcohol. Because you can't believe he's this upset--Five doesn't seem to do emotions other than stressed, horny, and smug.

He sways a bit. "You were right there. Right there. And you didn't even look at me. Not even when fuckin' Klaus went over."

"I didn't realize you cared that much," you say quietly.

Five scoffs. "Why else would I spend five days hunting down your ex just so you could get your closure."

You blink several times at this fact, but you don't have time to formulate some sort of response before he continues. "Do you know how many Jordan Millers there are in this city?"

"You--what?" The words come out as hardly more than a disbelieving whisper.

"Five days and perfect planning to get you there and have it all work out at just the right moment, only for you to end it. No reason. You just ended it."

You swallow hard and then fix him with a stare. Because he's right--he should at least have a reason. "I didn't end it because of Howl's." You pause, and he takes it as the end of the sentence because he continues on.

"I don't even know what happened. I keep trying to work it out. It's all I can fucking think about, and I can't figure it out. You wanted just sex, so I gave you just sex. You wanted to show up your ex, so I made sure you could show up your ex." His voice takes on a hysterical quality as he starts to pace the room. "What am I missing? Please, enlighten me. Because Vanya and Allison are up my ass about trying to fix things with you, and hell if I know where to begin."

"You can't fix this," you shake your head and then wet your lips, steeling yourself up for the most embarrassing truth. "I ended it because I wanted more, and you didn't."

He pauses and then lets out a manic laugh. "So you left because you wanted to be with me?"

"I left because I thought it was just sex to you, and that's all it would ever be."

"That's all it was supposed to be," he says, not stopping his pacing.  "That's what we both wanted."

"Wanted," you repeat, quietly. "Wants change."

He lets out a manic laugh. "Oh, I know that," he says and stalks closer to you. "Why else would I be here right now, still trying to figure out what you want so I can give it to you instead of fucking any of the girls who came up to me tonight?"

You blink a few times, and this has to be an exhaustion induced delusion, because there's no way he's saying what you think he's saying.

"What are you talking about?" you ask, quietly. He doesn't answer, instead closing the remainder of the distance, pulling your body flush against yours and kissing you.

He tastes like margaritas. His kiss is as intoxicating as the alcohol itself, the sensation rushing through your body and urging you to relax into him. He's only kissed you four times before, and all of those were different. In those kisses his hands ran over your body, pushing at your clothes, his frame walking you back towards the bed. But now he's solid, and his hands are still, a vice keeping you close to him as his lips remain on yours.

It takes an extraordinary strength of will to extract yourself from his kiss. "Don't do this," you whisper, your lips brushing his since he's chased after your kiss.

"Why?" he pulls you even closer, pressing another kiss to your lips.

"Because you don't mean this," you say, bringing your hands in between your bodies to push him away. "You're drunk and you're lonely and…"

"And I want you," he says, not moving, ducking his head to kiss you again.

"No you don't."

The words make him step back angrily. "I don't know how to make it any fucking clearer," he says, raking a hand through his hair. "I want you. I want you Y/N. I wish I didn't. I wish things would go back to being just sex. Because my life was so much easier then. But they can't. Not for you and not for me. You want more. I want you. So why won't you just accept that and let me kiss you?"

As far as romantic speeches go, it's pretty shitty.

"Fine," you say.

It's an equally shitty romantic response.

But then he's kissing you again, and you let yourself lean into the hope that maybe, come morning, he'll still mean what he said.

When you wake up, Five's gone.

The other side of the bed is tucked in tightly, like he was never even there. But you know he was. Because if he wasn't, there's no reason for your whole body to ache inside and out. It's tempting to stay in bed and throw yourself a mix of pity party and roast. After all, last night you exhibited top tier dumbassery.

But you're tired of feeling like shit. So you drag yourself out from under the covers and towards your door, hoping that some coffee and a warm breakfast will help you to feel better.

You pad out the door and down the short hallway to come out to the kitchen where your roommate is pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“My head hurts like a sonofabitch,” she says, reaching into the cabinet to grab down a mug for you. “You?”

You give a rueful smile and head over to stand next to her by the coffeepot. “Surprisingly, I’m ok. Better than yesterday.”

“Good,” she says, filling your mug up.

Your toilet flushes, and both you and your roommate look at each other. The silent question is answered not long after as there, appearing in the doorway, still wearing yesterday’s clothes and looking a bit disheveled, is Five.

It’s the first time your roommate has ever seen him.

“Uh…hello?” your roommate says, and Five nods at her, moving forward to steal your mug of coffee. He lifts it to his lips and takes a long sip.

“You’re…here,” you say dumbly, and he nods, drinking some more coffee.

“It’s where I want to be.”

Your roommate looks between the two of you. “And you are…”

“Five,” he says over his coffee, and your roommate looks between the two of you wildly before finally settling you with a significant look.

“You’re going to have to make more coffee, and explain all of this to me,” she says, circling a finger at Five.

You look at him, a small twist of a smile on your lips. “Fine with me.”

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Handled

Whumptober 2020 Day 6: Please... Prompt: “Stop, please”

Summary: Dr. Iplier's been kidnapped by the father of a recently deceased patient, who's determined to make sure he never practices medicine again. (continued from “The Things We Cannot Change”)

Warnings: Referenced death, imprisonment, torture, hand trauma, amputation, blood, gore

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober 2020 series)

Enjoy!

~

Dr. Iplier sighs, wondering how the hell it came to this. How losing a patient that was already beyond saving two months ago led to him being stuck in this cold, windowless basement, handcuffed around a pillar.

He’s only been here for a couple hours – at least, he thinks, it might only feel that long – and his shoulders are already starting to hurt, wrenched back as they are with his hands forced behind himself around the wide pillar. The man who kidnapped him, Roger, is somewhere upstairs. Dr. Iplier can hear him pacing, hear him opening and shutting drawers, probably trying to figure out what to do next.

It’s not like Dr. Iplier doesn’t understand his grief. He only feels a fraction of it whenever Yandere gets hurt, he can’t imagine losing his child the way Roger has. To want someone to blame is perfectly reasonable. To blame the doctor who couldn’t save the day is expected.

But to drag that doctor into a basement at knifepoint and chain him there is extreme, even for the most bereaved parent.

Dr. Iplier has no more time to think about it, as he hears Roger’s footsteps coming down the stairs. He has some items in his arms; a toolbox, a knife block, a tarp. He places these things near Dr. Iplier and goes elsewhere in the basement, looking for something.

“Roger?” Dr. Iplier says, voice smaller than he intended. Roger doesn’t answer, only mumbles to himself.

“Where was it…” he says, rummaging somewhere out of Dr. Iplier’s line of sight. “Ah, here,” he eventually says, and returns with a chain and stake, like one would use to keep a dog in their yard.

“Roger, please,” Dr. Iplier pleads, “You can still let me go. You can let me go and I’ll say nothing. I’ll tell my family I found a car crash or something and stopped to help, and that’s why it took me so long to get home. It’s not too late to stop this.”

“Be quiet,” Roger snaps, “I’m going to take one of the handcuffs off. You better not run.”

Dr. Iplier looks at the knife block on the ground, and nods, knowing he has no choice.

Roger does as he said he would, uncuffing Dr. Iplier’s right hand and then tightening the one on the left. Not enough to hurt much, but enough to impede most movement. He closes the now-empty cuff on nothing, but feeds the end of the dog chain through it. He takes the end of it, intended to clip to a dog’s collar, and clips it to the nearest chainlink, tethering the cuff and chain together. After grabbing duct tape out of his toolbox, he takes the remainder of the chain and winds it around the pillar. Finally, he tapes the chain to the pillar with duct tape, preventing it from unraveling. Dr. Iplier hazards a tug with his left hand, but the jury-rigged system holds fast. But with his right hand free, he could pull off the tape or unclip the end of the chain, freeing himself up enough to escape. There’s no way Roger would leave him like that.

“Stop messing with that,” Roger growls upon seeing Dr. Iplier tug the chain, “Or you’re getting hurt sooner.”

Sooner? Dr. Iplier’s heart beats a little faster as Roger unfolds and spreads out the tarp he’s brought, near and around Dr. Iplier. He stares at him pointedly, and Dr. Iplier stands as much as he can, allowing Roger to put the tarp beneath him as well. Dr. Iplier doesn’t know what the tarp is for, but realizes he doesn’t exactly want to.

“This all could’ve been avoided if you’d saved Kelsey,” Roger mutters, returning to his toolbox and pulling out a mallet.

“I wish I could’ve saved her,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, and even now, that’s still true. “She didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“You’re a doctor!” Roger spits with sudden venom, “Your job is to save people! Yet you just let her die!!”

“I didn’t, Roger!” Dr. Iplier cries, “I tried to save her, I did everything I could! She was beyond saving, there was too much damage!”

“You could’ve, you…” Roger gasps. He turns away, face screwed up with pain. Dr. Iplier can’t help but feel for him.

“Roger, I told you then that I was sorry, and I still am.” Dr. Iplier speaks calmly but lets his sympathy come through. “I still think about her. But not even the best doctor in the world could’ve saved her. You saw her, Roger, you remember–”

“Shut up!” Roger snaps, whipping back to Dr. Iplier, face contorted with rage. “I’m tired of your excuses!! Now…” He approaches Dr. Iplier with the mallet in his hand. “I said I was going to make you pay, and now I will.”

“Roger?” Dr. Iplier gasps, dread creeping over him.

“You don’t deserve to be a doctor,” Roger growls, grabbing Dr. Iplier’s arm and forcing his hand onto the tarp, “And you can’t be a doctor without your hand.”

“No–!” Dr. Iplier shouts, fiercely struggling to pull his hand away.

“I’ll smash this over your head if you don’t stop moving!!” Roger yells.

“Don’t do this,” Dr. Iplier gasps, “Please don’t do this.” He forces himself to stop struggling, but can’t make his body quit shaking.

“You lost your chance when I lost my daughter,” Roger mutters, before raising the mallet above his head.

He brings it down on Dr. Iplier’s wrist as hard as he can.

Dr. Iplier screams, howling as white hot pain rockets up his arm as the bones of his wrist shatter. His wrist flattens and deforms, red and purple spread across the area as blood wells up under his skin. Roger hits him again, and Dr. Iplier screams again, feeling awful pops and snaps in his wrist. Bits of bone are exposed now, blood leaks out from the gashes they leave behind. One more whack and Dr. Iplier is in too much pain to scream, his vision blinks out for a moment as the agony steals his breath. When he can see again, he finds his wrist is nothing but a flattened, shredded mess, made of blood and bone fragments. His right hand is turning blue as the blood that should be flowing into it spills out onto the tarp. Dr. Iplier tries to move his fingers, and finds that he can’t feel his hand enough to do it. He sobs, not just from the pain. Roger merely nods. There’s specks of Dr. Iplier’s blood on his shirt.

“That was to make the next part easier,” Roger says, stepping away to put the mallet back in the toolbox. He moves to the knife block as Dr. Iplier sobs, and Dr. Iplier already knows what’s coming.

“Stop, please,” he gasps, vision blurring with tears. He can still see Roger approach him again, but he can’t see well enough to tell what kind of knife he’s holding.

Roger doesn’t even answer. He only starts cutting.

Dr. Iplier thinks he screams. He doesn’t know for sure. He can’t think, he can’t see, he can’t perceive anything but the agony of the knife sawing through his ruined flesh. The pain ratchets as the knife goes through the last bone fragments holding the wrist together, before crescendoing into fire as nerves are severed. Something is moved away and air hits new parts of his wound, making him jolt. When he can finally blink through the pain to see again, his wrist is a ruined stump, and his right hand is being carried across the room and thrown into a garbage bag by Roger.

“I might let you go in a day or two,” Roger says, “Haven’t decided. I’ll think about whether this is enough punishment.”

Dr. Iplier is too winded and in too much pain to respond. He slumps over, unable to lie down completely thanks to the chain, and pants as he watches Roger pack up his things and leave the basement, shutting the door behind him.

“Fuck,” Dr. Iplier moans.

The messy stump where his hand used to be is still sluggishly bleeding, adding to the already impressive amount of blood on the tarp. and Dr. Iplier wonders how long it’ll take for the bleeding to stop on its own, if it ever will. He’s hardier than the average human, more difficult to kill, but he’s not invincible. If he doesn’t stop bleeding or the open wound gets infected, it could kill him easily. If he did die, he could possibly come back, but he’s not the most popular figment around. Returning from the dead is never guaranteed, even more so for a less-loved figment like Dr. Iplier.

He can only hope that the others find him before that happens.

Dr. Iplier tries to stay awake, fearing what might happen if he falls asleep. He thinks over what he would do to repair the damage to his wrist if he had a patient with the same injury, how he’d cut away the dead tissue, how many stitches he’d need to cover the wound, what kind of follow-up the patient would need, what complications could arise and how he’d fix those, too.

But the stump doesn’t stop bleeding, doesn’t stop throbbing with sharp, angry pulses, and Dr. Iplier can’t fight against his body for long. His eyes close against his will, his body leans back against the pillar without his say-so, and thoughts of surgery fall out of his mind to be replaced with the void of sleep.

[insane-control-room]

The Concept, Chapter 5

Ao3 Link

It’s been too long since I’ve gone on.

Warning: Contains themes and scenes that are not suitable for everyone. Specifics are: overdose, suicidal ideation and related, depression, and insanity

Henry learned rather quickly the place he found himself in was hell.

Then again, he knew it from the time he worked there, but the disheveled state of the building made the tyranny of the aura all the more prevalent.

There were locked doors, broken and flickering lights, creaking floorboards, the massive ink machine he remembered Joey tinkering with and creating.

Joey Drew. The name left a sour taste in his mouth.

Henry easily powered up the machine

He almost jumped out of his skin when a plank fell from the ceiling, cursing it out and sputtering, hand gripping his heart.

The damn cutout that just… appeared, out of nowhere, almost like it was set up, it’s black, dark, venomous pie cut eyes following him, trained on him, a vice on his body.

He looked beyond it.

He stiffened, walking up to the… thing mechanically, no choice but to investigate, to try and piece together the shattered bits of clues.

The… the sight of Boris’ mangled and vivisected body. It was sick, something very wrong.

Preternatural, twisted a fairytale gone south faster than the stock market crash of ‘29.

Henry did not have very many good memories of working here, but his old desk brought in a wave of nostalgia. But from what? Maybe it was just the joy of animation. Of bringing things to life with his hands.

To grow and create.

Back in the day, Joey made him stay late with him to work on animations.

Pushed him, encouraged his workaholism.

Work hard, work happy.

Then it got worse.

Work hard, work harder.

Happiness ebbed away, and stress alongside exhaustion strained into the job.

More and more effort, pushing himself harder, forcing himself to his limits.

Work your hardest.

Looking at the doodle on his desk, the doodle he had frantically covered, marked with a note for Wally to hide it, he realized how much time he wasted there. Cowering in some strange version of friendship and fear.

Mostly discomfort.

The friend that overstayed his invitation.

The invitation being into Henry’s life.

He tried to force him from his family, pushing the idea of a ‘studio family’, neglecting his own family, his wife and his daughter.

Sure, Diane and he did not last - but he had Linda.

His daughter, who he ignored and pushed away while he worked for Joey. He should have spent more time with her instead of leaving her with Diane or with one of her grandmothers, he should have bonded with her more.

He realized that when he left.

His daughter was so happy, such euphoria coursing through her when he told her that he quit, and she had taken him by the hand to spin around their living room with him, chanting, “daddy, daddy, you’re finally home!”

Now, for some inexplicable, insane, god damned reason, he was back. He was back in the place he lied to himself about. The studio was never anything good, it was a prison, a prison sealed with stockholm syndrome, a jail cell with the most cunning locks.

And here, back in this Hell… something was so very wrong.

Starting up the machine was easy.

The ritual was strangely familiar, as though he had performed it before, but maybe in a vague dreamlike state.

Was it deja vu?

No, he had definitely done this before….

______

Red eyes.

Angry, hurt, red eyes.

Henry stared at Joey. Something was off about him.

_____

The change in the man was obvious now. There was no doubt about it, he was changed. Skin dark like black tea, eyes red like rubies, magenta glasses, a tall stature on his shoulders yet bound to the wheelchair, black jacket, white pants, all familiar and yet so strange.

“Joey?” he murmured. The man ignored him pointedly, eyes narrowing. Red eyes, red, eyes, alexandrite red eyes. Whose were those? Whose lanky body? “... Johan?”

The man before him froze.

Then he smiled nervously, a smile Henry knew very well, but why?

“Let’s talk.”

____

“You promised one more run,” Henry growled, jabbing a finger into Joey’s chest. He rose a hand in a worried protest, a hand that Henry plucked out of the air. Their eyes met, Joey’s puce fearful and confused, he did not recall making such a promise. Henry’s second hand grasped his wrist, and he twisted. Joey howled, back snapping straight with the pain he could not escape from. Seconds, agonizing seconds, passed, and with a sud- SNAP. Joey felt like he could not breathe.

Henry’s hands were on his other wrist, bringing it down onto the counter with a crack. Johan wordlessly howled, doubling over on his broken wrists.

“That should teach you not to lie,” Henry growled. Joey, on his knees, gasped in air as tears spilled over his cheeks painfully. “I expect you to finish on the next run, or if I were you, I would fear for my hands.”

Joey nodded soundlessly and slowly, shaking and shivering.

Henry walked to the door, slipping through it without a word. Johan, stuck in his kneeling position, lowered his forehead to the floor, allowing his tears to drip through his lashes.

Shakily, a smile spread on his lips. Soon it will all be over. Soon it will all end. He would be forgiven! What a benevolent master Henry was! How kind!

Forgiveness!

What a remarkable, impossible, wonderful thought!

___

Dear reader, the next moments are no fault of mine. They are the result of another, whom despite pleading, constantly put aside their wellbeing. And so, it is with a bitterness I divulge the plaintiff cry of self inflicted impairment. This is their fault in two major ways.

I am merely relaying it.

He regretted deleting the Numerica.

He had to have something.

Everything hurt, his wrists ached, more than with the pain of the chains that normally enveloped them, tight and cruel.

He wanted something to relax his mind.

He wanted it.

He NEEDED it.

He groaned.

His closed eyes snapped open, a grin lopsidedly spreading on his lips.

He knew where he could get something of the sort.

He rummaged in another’s dimension, pulling his hand back.

In it, yellow pills.

Half of one was one dose, right?

Shrugging, he tipped the whole thing into his mouth.

He smiled and let the drug take over.

Colors, brighter than he had ever seen in his life, due to his impairment, splashed over his vision. Pain vanished. Ink dripped from his lips.

The colors heightened.

Brighter.

Whiter.

Maybe death would be good.

He did not regret stealing the pills, he never would see him again, anyways.

Johan’s final gift to him, his death with the other’s instrument.

He groaned as the pain from overdose kicked in.

His stomach throbbed and his head ached.

Pain hit every nerve.

He wanted to curse him. To curse them.

But he could not, he was powerless, and he felt tears prick his eyes, only the bright green of the numbers on his vision.

They dripped down the sides of his face, slipping into his hair, shame burning into him again. He cried out in agony, needless needles jabbing into every muscle, tearing him open from the inside out like claws, ripping into every single bone and tendon, a gluttonous devour of any clean feeling he held.

He wanted to die as the pain coursed through him, but he knew he would not be able to.

He choked on his tears, unable to move as the pills wrecked his body, forcing him to scream out, his voice raw and aching, trapped more than before.

He gasped and sobbed, hating himself.

Hating his weakness.

Hating everything about himself.

Pathetic.

He tried to curl up to let the pain ebb away, but the pills kept him still.

He hated himself.

He closed his eyes, and sobbed.

Why did they do this to him?!

Why were they giving him more pain than he was in already!?

Did they hate him?

They must, right?

There was no other explanation.

Confusion sank into him. He thought they loved him. Did… did they never love him?

He felt his shoulders slump.

No one could love him.

Obviously.

He was just a glitch bitch, a worthless shit, empty code, useless machinery. Pathetic, broken, a toy. Nothing. A zero.

They were right to hate him.

He was nothing good, nothing kind, a liar, a drug addict, a murderer, and now, a thief.

Pathetic.

Such a blight.

A disgrace.

He moaned, hand clenching on the pill bottle.

He wanted the pain to end. He wanted it to all go away.

He wanted everything to go away.

He wanted to die.

And this was a reminder he could not.

He hated himself.

____

Henry’s lips kept taking his attention. He had to focus, he needed to barter this right.

“I can do it in a thousand runs,” Johan assertively insisted. Henry shook his head. Joey scowled. “How about you try to repair our world using only ones and zeroes, huh?”

“I’m not the one who committed genocide,” Henry growled, his hand fisting on the table. Johan swallowed roughly. “Fifty at most.”

“Fifty!” Johan exclaimed, disgusted. “Fifty runs will never be enough for me to code even half of south america!”

“Then a hundred will suit you just fine!”

“Seven hundred fifty!” Johan lowered.

“Seventy five!” Henry challenged, eyes narrow.

“Eight hundred!” Joey insisted.

“A hundred,” Henry returned, not planning on conceding.

“Seven hundred is my lowest,” Joey grumbled, eyes looking over Henry, slitted and frustrated. “You can’t rush art.”

“This isn't god damned art!” Henry roared, leaping to his feet. “This is my goddamn life!”

“It’s my goddamn life, too!” Joey seethed. “Y-You don’t understand what you’ll be taking from me! People I love, people I car-”

“What fucking people!?” Henry demanded in an explosion, eyes wild, hands slamming onto the counter, making Johan jump back in fright and shock. “Other yous!? Is that it!? Fuck that, when this is over I’m going to make sure you never see them again! They’re distractions! All of you, every fuckin’ version is a liar! That’s probably why you get along so nice and dandy, oh, he’s a murderer, that’s fine, we all killed someone last week! Is that it!? And how many of you share the same fucking deviance?! How many of you are sods, huh?!”

“Henry!” Joey sputtered, flushing and grabbing at his heart pin. “Y-you’re bisexual, how can you say such a thing? How can you be so, so crude?”

Henry scowled, and then stopped, sighing and slowly lowering himself back onto his chair. Joey watched him with hurt in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, sincere. “I didn’t mean to say that, I got mad and I wanted to bother you. What I said was wrong.”

“It’s okay,” Johan murmured, sitting down in his wheelchair, his hands wrapping around his cup of tea. Henry’s cold hands pressed over his, and their eyes met. Joey’s lips quirked up in a small smile, Henry’s following in his smoother fashion. “Six hundred?”

“Two hundred.”

“Five hundred is the lowest I can do,” Johan shook his head.

Henry sighed, and stuck out his hand.

“Five hundred it is, then,” he said, sealing the deal with a shake.

Johan made his way to the door, opening it, paining a blue tack on the wall.

“This is run one.”

_____

Johan messed up. Repeatedly.

The artist was trying so hard, and Henry continuously got madder and angrier with him.

He wanted to please him so badly.

To be good!

He could be good!

He could!

Please, believe him, he could b-be good….

He offered Henry runs every time he failed.

With bright hopeful eyes.

Tears in them.

He was lowered, down, down, down, to 414.

____

He could not move properly. Something familiar, horrifically, hideously familiar, pressurized his chest. He was… on his knees? Something restraining him from falling. His blue black hair was splayed everywhere, messily spiking over his eyes. He swayed his head side to side, trying to get a bearing of his surroundings. A wry, tight grin crossed his lips, like someone tearing through paper unevenly with a knife.

Right.

He gave a hollow laugh, whistling to himself and swaying.

He could wait.

He was patient.

He would wait for the good doctor.

Eventually, the door clicked unlocked and swung open.

Footsteps waxed near him, and he continued to whistle and sway, head rolling on his shoulders and chest like a twisted pendulum.

The footsteps paused, and he tensed, a grin mangling his already eerie features.

Silence.

“Boo!” he sharply snapped his head up, jolting at the doctor before him, wild eyed and beaming maniacally. He dropped his notepad on the floor, the restrained man sticking out a leg to cover it and pull it back. The doctor, with his hand on his chest, glared at him as he cackled and hooted with laughter. “Aw! C’mon doc! You’re as white as a ghost!”

“Enough, Ramirez,” the doctor ground out, trying to get back his notebook. Joey grinned at him, kicking up the pad, bouncing it off his shoulder and catching it in his mouth. Quickly standing to full height, he towered over him, grinning smugly. “Joey Drew.”

“Fine, have it your way, Dr. Stein,” Joey grumbled tossing the book. His terrifyingly happy demeanor shifted to one of melancholy, and he sat back on the floor, straight jacket making him feel horribly itchy. “What’re you here for? To gloat?”

“No.” Henry flatly replied. “The lobotomy procedure was cancelled.”

“Really?” Johan’s head slowly rose, eyes wide with wonder. “And… and that means no split brain treatment either?”

“Neither.”

“Oh, thank you,” he breathed, sagging against the wall. “Oh, Doctor, thank you.”

“Are you going to take your medication without fighting this time?” Henry questioned blandly, measuring out a thick, black liquid, into a thin, cylindrical tube. Joey stared at it in disgust, hesitating before shaking his head in the negative. Henry grimace. “Take the goddamn medicine, Joey.”

“I don’t want that,” he grit out painfully, eyeing it with disgust and some fear. Henry approached him swiftly, holding him down on his shoulder. He glanced at him from the corner of his eye, flushing from embarrassment. “I’ll do it for a kiss.”

“Just take the it,” Henry growled, pushing the vial against his lips. Johan pursed them. “Come on already! Take it!”

He shook his head.

Henry’s nails dug into his shoulder, the glass painful through his lips. Joey reluctantly, feeling contempt toward himself, parted his lips.

“There we go,” Henry hummed, running a hand up and down his shoulder. Joey shuddered, his eyes squeezed shut. The taste of the ink… ink? What ink? INK.

With a skreech, he jolted back to reality, screaming, aching, trembling, thrashing.

He made sure he had command of his limbs, sharply lifting his hands and waving them in his face. He curled up, and cried.

Was that real?

Was his entire world a drug induced nightmare? Were the people he knew here just… just other people in an asylum? Was it all fake? It was, wasn’t it? There was no explanation. He was alone.

No.

He refused to believe that he was nothing more than a dream, he was real.

Think of the others.

More proof he was fake.

No.

He was real.

Nothing could stop him.

He was nothing, and nothing would stop him.

No.

He had to believe.

Belief never got him anywhere.

No.

He had to hope.

He had to hope, as belief abandoned him.

Hope was all he had, and he would use it.

He set his fingers to the keys.

Hours passed in his work. He slipped away to visit the others, having completed the necessary amount for the run, proud of himself.

In a few runs, he would have to meet with Henry.

He was not scared, he finally reconciled with his closest, and he was ready to face one of them again, he was ready.

He saved, and waited for Henry to come.

He fidgeted, an unfamiliar dull aching permeating his body.

What was wrong with him?

He coughed, feeling the throb from the simple action he was all too used to.

What was happening?

He tried to focus on the clock. It made him smile. Time worked again. It was a big accomplishment on his end, even if he saw it as a small feat. It was difficult, but he had done it.

What was wrong, why did he feel so… off?

. .. …

Pain spiked into all his being, every limb screaming, each cell shrieking.

He screamed, darkness flaring through his sight, and he felt the wheelchair dissipate from under him.

All he could feel was pain.

Agony seeped into every pore, his lungs burning, his eyes welling, his chest heaving as torment ripped though his body.

He could not move, all he could do was feel nightmares claw at his eyes, false memories of needles jabbing into him, tight restriction holding him in place as fire swept through him, razing every nerve.

“Johan! Are you alright!?” Henry’s voice cut through like a knife. Johan felt a strong arm on his back pulling him to sit. He felt himself get carried to the couch when it became clear he would collapse again. “Oh, Joey, you weigh less than ever before… Joey, pal, wake up, I’m going to get you something to drink, stay put.”

Joey groaned as he forced his bleary eyes open. To his relief, most of the apartment was still in place, and it seemed no progress was lost. Just a bit longer, and he would finish.

He sighed contentedly, leaning back against the couch, gripping it with one hand. Solid. The sensation made him want to laugh and cry out of elation and anticipation.

“Alright, Joey, I’m ba- holy shit!” Joey’s eyes rose to view the wide eyed stare of the other animator. His gaze was drawn to the top of his own head, following Henry’s look. He looked down at the hand on his lap shamefacedly as he caught the merest glimpse of silver. Silver! The other hand hastily shoved it off his forehead and back, not wanting to see any of it. He felt so young, but he felt so tired and ancient, and his body showed it. Henry rushed over to him, gentle, broad, calloused hands slipping through the locks in wonder and with great curiosity. “Your hair… it’s not black anymore. Or even blue.”

“Sorry it’s ugly,” Johan muttered, reaching to his knees and pulling them to his chest, Henry making an odd noise in his throat. “The cause of it is likely the fact that as our world becomes more filled, and as time measuring objects like clocks and calendars appear, I started to show the age I would be. I don’t suppose I aged very well, did I?”

“Joey, listen to me,” Henry’s voice was strange. Joey slowly looked up at him. “This isn't the first time I saw you with white. This is the first time it stuck. And it’s okay.”

“No it’s! It’s!” Joey made a frustrated sound, gritting his teeth. “I don’t! Want! To die! I don’t want to grow up! I’m still twenty two, no matter what my body looks like! I! I! I!”

“Calm down!” Henry soothed him, taking his hands off his face, where he was not even aware he was clawing at in his panic. "No, hey, don't worry about it! I think it... it looks nice! It suits you. And the tips… the tips are still black and blue.”

“Really?” Joey asked quietly, not wanting to grow a false hope. Henry nodded. “I’m certain I look like a buffoon.”

“Not at all,” Henry chuckled. “It’s kind of like a paint brush.”

He ran his hand through it again, Joey leaning into the gentle caress.

Henry’s hand continued to make its way through his hair repeatedly, until Johan felt his eyes slowly drifting shut. Henry’s hand slipped to his jaw, turning his head gently, until they were face to face. They looked at each other in their daze for a long moment, then eyes widened, and they both snapped away, muttering excuses to no one, Henry’s flush more apparent than Joey’s due to their skin tones.

“Here.” Henry muttered, thursting the cup of water he got at the other old gentleman, the liquid circling the glass as centripetal force tugged on it, a small amount leaping over the side, the drops landing on Johan’s hand. Henry’s breath seemed to freeze, and he shoved the cup into Joey’s hands. “Now, drink it, and don’t stop once you start. Doctor’s orders.”

“You... alright there, Hen?” Joey asked, lowering the empty glass, wiping his lips with a small napkin that moth brought him. “Thank you, Gracehopper. Henry, you look… hungry? Is there something I can get you to eat?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Henry shook himself out of it. “Uh, should we see how else you aged?”

“Sure,” Joey sighed in defeat. “It’s not like I’ve ever had go-”

A rumbling tore them from their conversation. Joey groaned.

“It’s destabilizing again. You should go.”

“Fine.”

Joey glitched himself into his wheelchair as Henry made his way to the door. Joey stirred before his computer before looking over at the man.

“I’m almost done,” he called out behind him. Henry paused, and left.

______

And then he was done.

He wept.

He cried his heart out.

He sobbed and shook.

Since, when all is finished, the shock hits.

Henry stood before him as he cried.

He hugged him, awkward from the wheelchair.

“Ten more runs,” Henry reminded, and Johan nodded and wiped his tears. Time to make them last. Hold each precious moment, for he will never have it again.

____

Johan waited quietly for Henry to appear.

When he did, they strolled onto the streets of Manhattan, weaving through the people.

People, something that had been missing for thirty long, long years.

Still, thirty years of life stolen.

Henry and Joey knew it was time to set things right.

They came back to the studio, the ink machine powered on, the computer on, and the world turning to black and green.

Joey typed in the formula with tears in his eyes.

Tears of hope.

The reset button appeared, and he and Henry silently approached it.

“YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME, JOHAN!” a voice that never was roared, calling the name like a mockery. “LISTEN TO ME, I AM GREATER THAN YOU WILL EVER DREAM TO BE!”

Pipes swirled up onto his ankles and ink welled against his limbs, restricting and grasping him, pulling him back to hell. He cried out, and Henry turned back to ask what the matter was, and his eyes widened as he saw Johan, being pulled back even as he dissipated, an arm wrapped tight around his throat.

Henry let out a battle roar, running back, punching the attacker in the face.

The man, for man it was, swore and stumbled back as Johan wheezed and typed a code as fast as he could to get him and Henry back to the button, and paused everything. Henry looked back at the man behind them frozen in time.

He stared at him.

“Joey?” he said, pointing at the default with confusion, eyebrows quirking at Johan.

“No.” Johan grit out. Henry scowled, pieces falling into place. He forced Johan to face him, the dark man refusing to meet his eyes. “What is your problem?”

“You have to deal with him,” Henry insisted. Joey bit his lip and looked to his shoes. “That man, that thing, that, that monster, he’s your problem to deal with. If you don’t get rid of him, he will always be a part of you. You will never be comfortable with who you are as long as you don’t face him. So go! Fight back!”

“Forget it,” Johan muttered, wheeling himself to the reset button. Henry let out a huff of frustration, going over to join him. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry curtly answered. “And you?”

“Yes,” he lied. He put his hand to the grey button, watching it fade into a deep indigo. He looked to Henry with a tilt of his head. “Your hand, if you please.”

Henry, saying nothing, placed his hand on the button as well, gold flowing from where his fingers met the code. It entwined with the blue, merging and dancing as one, sapping and strengthening each other, growing and changing and making something completely unheard of. There was a hum, and the button glowed green.

Active.

“Are you ready?” Henry inquired, his fingers twitching on the button, starting it.

“I am,” he fabricated. Inhaling sharply, he said, “Let’s do this.”

“Just so you know,” Henry’s hand tightened into a fist. “I don’t want to see you again. After whatever this is. I never want to see you ever again.”

Johan felt his heart break.

Again.

Something was wrong.

“Okay,” he whispered, ignoring the pang racing through his body.

“Well?” Henry prompted right hand pushing Joey’s left onto the button. “Click it now. On the count of three.”

The world was going to end, and Johan found it shoved in his face.

“Three!”

“Henry! Please, please, wait wait wait!”

“I thought you wanted us to end it all?”

“I don’t know!” he wailed.

“Two!”

“Please no! God, please wait, please, no, wait!”

“One!”

“Henry!”

He pushed their hands onto the button, slamming it and making the bright green glow gleam and glitter and glint and spread, time slowing, Johan able to see the numbers slowly making their way to the activated event.

He stared at the green numbers, eyes widening, and then

NOT THE FIRST TIME.

He gasped.

NOT THE SECOND TIME.

N-no… no, no, that does not make any sense, unless he had…

THIRD TIME.

He deleted his own memories.

Tears dripped down his face, memories flooding him, leaving him trembling, shaking, a tsunami of horror and disgust.

“Are you okay?” Henry’s voice asked him.

“Are you okay?” he asked twice before then.

Johan could not breathe.

Memory wipe?

Again?

Should he do another?

A fourth?

He looked back at the default Joey.

Henry was right, he would never leave him be if he did not fight back against it.

They stared at each other.

With a sharp turn, Johan wiped his memor

Johan Ramirez woke up in an abandoned apartment in Brooklyn.

He went to work and quit it.

He built a studio called “Joey Drew Studios”.

He built a computer.

He built an ink machine.

He deleted himself.

He destroyed his world.

He rebuilt everything, so slowly.

He stared at the default Joey.

Memories flooded back.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

How many times will he repeat this?

How many times will he meet the same people?

If he moves on… what will change?

He would have only met others twice, if met at all.

Could he move on?

He hesitated.

“Joey?” Henry asked for the first time.

A chill ran down his back.

Everything will change.

It is changing now.

He turned his wheelchair slowly to face the fraudulent version of himself, sitting high and proud as he rolled to him.

To it.

To nothing.

He was the mother fucking Johan “Joey” Drew Ramirez, and nothing could take it away.

“You. Are. Not. Real.” he forced from his mouth.

The copy grinned.

“You never were.” he breathed, closing his eyes. “I am me. I am Joey Drew. You are not. You are coding that broke off of the original, because I was afraid of who I was not.”

He rose his head and stuck his chin forward, hands… perfectly steady.

“I’m not good looking. I’m not confident. I’m not smart.”

He inhaled, long and slow.

“And that’s okay. I don’t need to be.”

“I have been told that I am kind. That I am funny. That I am okay. You are not.”

He opened his eyes. The man before him wavered and snapped.

“I love who I am. And you are not me. And I deserve everything I’ve made for myself.”

He turned back around, and wheeled back to Henry.

No more memory wipes. No more feeling wrong.

Meant to be like this.

He was proud of who he was.

He shined his pin on his palm, smiled, and reset with Henry along him.

“Hey, so,” he called to him in the vortex, everything being pulled to them. “Henry, can… do you think we can meet up after all this? I’ve got something to tell you.”

Henry looked at him.

“I know you said that you don’t want to see me again, but… it’s important.”

“Can’t you tell me now?” Henry asked, testily. “While this is all ending?”

“This has happened before,” Joey told him. “All of this.”

“Really now?” Henry asked, curiosity sparked. “Among everything else that’s happened from what you’ve done, this one might just take the cake.”

“Will you meet me?” Johan questioned, tilting his head. “Tuesday, at the old park?”

“I’ll meet you in nineteen thirty, eh?” he smiled at Joey. “Change some things up?”

“N-no,” Joey shifted. “As soon as possible. I’ll probably… go home.”

Henry gazed at him.

“Tuesday at the old park it is,” he quietly affirmed.

Joey smiled at him.

He smiled back.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry muttered. “Love you too.”

Joey blinked, then beamed as reality warped around them.

Things were going to be great.

The end.

.

.

.

No.

He still has so many problems.

So much delicious fear, insanity, pain.

He’s not done yet.

Not by a long shot.

He has a job to do, he has a world to fix, and when all is said and done, it will end.

And it is not the end.

It cannot be….

Three pairs of feet surrounded the code that once was the body of Joey Drew.

It will not be...

“Well?” A wavering, glitching voice prompted. “Do we know who’s next?”

Not for a long long time…

“I believe he is,” a pulsing, tired one replied, turning to the last of them. “What do you think?”

Not until the drawing is done and framed and hung….

The ink demon only grinned, all teeth and no happiness.

…. The End.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

A story about Jacob returning.

———

The wind was howling like a pack of angry wolves, gusting around the two siblings standing before each other in the courtyard. A storm was brewing in the sky, dark clouds gathering together tightly. Perhaps the gods were fighting and their anger was creating this furious weather. Thunder boomed warningly up above. Water began to fall in a light drizzle. But no thunderstorm could wash the pair of siblings clean.

Jacob’s return was a miracle, and no one was happier than Mick. They had thrown themselves into his arms when they first saw him in the great hall, sobbing into his chest and refusing to let go. They cried until they had no more tears left, tucking close to their brother the whole time.

After many, many long talks, Jacob was permitted to continue his studies at Hogwarts. Everything seemed to be perfect after that, at least to Mick. Their brother was back! They were happy again!

But then things went downhill. Jacob wasn’t the same anymore. He was still obsessed with the vaults, but that isn’t what worried Mick. He gave off an almost crazy vibe and seemed dangerous at times. There was a glint in his eyes that they didn’t like. They knew something was up with him and that’s why they had to take charge.

“We’re missing dinner, you know,” Jacob said, glancing up at the sky. “What do you need, kiddo?”

“You’ve changed, Jacob.” Mick said, sounding a lot braver than they actually felt. “You’re not...you anymore.”

“That’s what this is about?” Jacob gives a small laugh, “Who cares? I’m back! People change.”

“You aren’t my brother!” Mick blurted out.

Jacob blinked a few times, taken aback slightly. His expression hardened.

“It’s me. This is me now. You should be happy I’m here.”

“I was,” Mick said. “But now I see what you really are. You’re crazy. You want the secrets of the vaults for destruction and mayhem. That’s not the Jacob I remember.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Mick slowly raised their wand, stepping back into the dueling stance.

“Heh.”

Jacob smirked and copied. He and his younger slowly sibling circled each other like angry cats, never breaking eye contact. Their eyes were narrowed, searching for a weak spot.

Lightning crackled with the first blast of magic. Purple sparks and orange embers and white orbs whisked through the sharp breeze, swirling up into a colorful whirlwind. Each attack is almost blinding because of how dark it is.

Within six minutes, Mick is panting. Their tailbone feels cracked thanks to the amount of times they’ve been flipped over and their skin has yet to stop sizzling. The stench of sharp ozone burns their nose.

“You’re not bad,” Jacob commented, “I could teach you a few things, you know.”

“Shut up,” Mick hissed, readying their next attack.

“Ohoho,” Jacob tutted, “Touchy, touchy.”

He threw his arm outward while calling out a spell and Mick was violently yanked to the ground by an unseen force. He approaches quickly, not giving them a chance to get up this time, and sends his boot into Mick’s chin with a sickening crunch.

“This really isn’t how I wanted things to go,” He said, watching his sibling moan dazedly in pain. “You could help me, you know. We’d be an amazing team.”

He leaned down, hands placed on his knees. There was a smile on his face. It wasn’t crazy at all, but sincere and welcoming.

“Wouldn’t that be nice? We’d be together.”

“Lumos!”

Jacob yelped in pain when bright light flashed into his eyes. He reeled backwards and pressed his palms to his eyelids, rubbing vigorously.

“You bloody git!” He shrilled, “Who uses Lumos in a duel?!”

“Me,” Mick stated while rolling over. Their jaw hurt when that talked; It might be fractured. They stood up, blinking away a wave of dizziness.

For some reason, they decided to take a more upfront approach and made their way over to Jacob. They were fumbling with their wand, possibly thinking about stabbing it through his throat to get this over with. Then, Jacob snapped up from his doubled over position and threw a mean left hook at Mick, clipping the side of their face.

“Wasn’t expecting that, huh?” Jacob chuckled at his sibling’s surprised expression as blood trickled from one of their nostrils. “I’m pretty good at close combat if I do say so myself.”

“Fine by me,” Mick grunted. “I’d like to knock your teeth in for this.”

Jacob laughed loudly before tucked his wand away. He seemed more than happy to not use magic in this fight. It’s almost like he was enjoying this whole thing.

He was much bigger and taller than Mick was, which gave him a major advantage. He easily delivered a teeth-shattering uppercut to his sibling’s chin and then buried his elbow in their stomach. He had no problem with clobbering them, it seemed, which further proved Mick’s point about him being different.

Mick was soon sprawled out on the ground, gasping and wheezing. Sweat burned in their eyes. They ran their tongue over their busted lip, hoping to soothe the stinging sensation. Footsteps approached, but they didn’t have the energy to get up.

Jacob stood over his sibling before lifting his leg and stepping on their stomach. Bending the knee, the warlock applied all his pressure onto Mick’s midriff, weighing them to the ground.

“Micky, this hurts me as much as it hurts you.” He said in his sincere, not-crazy voice. “I’ll let you live. We can find the vault’s secrets together. Wouldn’t that be nice? It’s just how you’ve always wanted it. To be with your big brother again. Right? I’d love that. And you will, too, as soon as you stop thi-“

“Don’t even try.” Mick spat.

They lifted their head and Jacob struck as fast as a bullwhip, smashing their skull back down to ground.

“Don’t talk over me!” Jacob said, his pitch raising slightly. He cleared his throat. “Everything will be fine. You’re just a little blind right now. I can make you see the truth! I mean, everything I’ve done has been for you. It’s always been for y-“

“That’s what they all say,” Mick gurgled, “You’ll probably burn Hogwarts to the ground once you get the power from the vaults. You’d love to watch this place go up in flames and then you’ll dance upon the ashes while listening to the thousands of screams of pe-“

“I said to not talk over me!” Jacob yelled, reaching down and digging his fingernails into the red hot crevices on the back of Mick’s head.

The younger whined sharply in pain, throwing their arms up and crying out a spell in their panic. Jacob jumped backwards before flames could blast into his face. He looked a little spooked for a minute that he almost got melted, but shook his head and washed that expression away.

Mick couldn’t move for a moment. Their head was throbbing and they felt like they were about to black out. Still, though, they shoved themselves up and staggered onto their feet. They were swaying in their place, struggling to keep their lunch in their stomach.

“I know you worked for Him.” They said, narrowing their eyes.

Jacob’s mouth pulled back in a snarl.

“You don’t knew anything!”

He snapped his arm outward, shrieking out a spell like he was a banshee. He watched as Mick was violently thrown into one of the pillars at the fountain before falling into the water.

“You barely even know me because of how long I’ve been gone! Nobody does! People look at me like I’m a zombie raised from the dead now! Do you know what that is like?”

Mick is struggling to get up, coughing up water while grasping for the edge of the fountain. The pool they’re halfway-lying in is turning red. Rain began to fall from the sky heavily.

“I’ll kill you!” They yelled over the downpour, “I’ll fucking kill you! I swear to the gods!”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” Jacob spat, glaring at Mick like they were the devil. “So you would rather fight me then gain unbelievable power? You could crush everyone here! People taunt you all the time. They hurt you! You can get revenge!”

“I’m not like you,” Mick grunted while standing, stepping out of the fountain. “That’s not what I want!”

“What do you want, kiddo?!”

“Stop calling me that!!”

For a moment, they both stopped screaming and stared at each other.

“I want my brother back.” Mick finally said.

Jacob’s stare bore right into their soul.

“He’s gone.”

He turned away to walk back inside. He had had enough of this stupidity. His sibling had changed, too; They were pathetic and worthless.

Then, all of a sudden, he whirled around and stabbed his wand into Mick’s stomach, narrowly missing their heart. His sibling shrieked in pain, instinctively firing a spell at Jacob while stumbling away.

Mick sunk to the ground, wheezing over Jacob’s scream. They didn’t know what spell they had accidentally cast, but it made its mark. Their brother soon joined them on the stone pavement, pawing at multiple bleeding wounds on his torso. Blood dribbles from his mouth.

“Clever kid,” He croaked. “I thought you were done for when you stupidly tried to sneak up on me, but you have good instincts.”

Mick put a hand to the puncture in their side and rose to their feet, pointing their wand at Jacob’s face.

“It’s over, Jacob. Give up.”

“Are you really going to do this?” Jacob asked.

“I have to. You’re suffering. I can tell you want this misery to end.”

“True,” The warlock said with a gargled laugh. “I tried, huh? I never found the secrets I wasted my life on and now I’m about to be killed by a child. At least tell mum and dad I went down cooly, okay?”

Mick shut their eyes tightly as their hands began to shake.

“And tell them I apologize for everything I put them through. They’ll hate me still, but that’s okay.”

The rain began to let up slightly. Jacob tilted his head up and smiled at Mick.

“I’m sorry to you, too. You got beaten up pretty badly. And you wasted so much time here picking up my pieces. Try and make the most of the rest of your years here. Don’t meddle with the vaults anymore. It destroys people.”

The words were on Mick’s tongue.

“Hey,” Jacob spoke again. “I love you.”

A spell was screamed and a tower of flames erupted from the ground, coiling around Jacob in a deadly embrace. The wildfire burned high into the air, a bright beacon of orange and marigold. The smell of burning flesh wafted through the air as Mick picked up Jacob’s wand. It was still caked in their blood.

———

Gasps and murmurs sounded like thunder when Mick hobbled into the great hall. They were limping, favoring their good leg heavily. Their hair was a mess, clumped by blood and strewn in various directions. Dust and ash coated their skin, despite the face that they had been out in the rain. There was a dark red splotch near their side with slowly got bigger as seconds went by. Multiple wounds dotted their shivering body; Scraped knees, bruised ribs, fractured jaw, busted lip, scratched cheeks, bloody nose, bleeding skull.

Mick staggered over to the table where the professors sat and set Jacob’s wand down in front of Dumbledore. It was still dried with bright red.

“He...wanted to give this back.” They rasped.

And just then, realizarion hit them like a freight train. Shock wore off and Mick’s knees buckled. Painful sobs shook through them.

They killed him and they couldn’t even tell Jacob that they loved him.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

DOTW 5 - giving Eren a friend!

"Leeeeevi! You'll never guess what happened last night!" Levi knew opening the door to Hanji was a terrible idea. Work hadn't been great. They'd attended a head on collision, where the male driver had died on impact. Doing everything they could for the female driver of the other car, she died on route to the hospital. Thankfully neither of them had passengers, but the female driver had been stinking drunk. Losing patients always hurt, but losing a patient to drink driving... it seemed so pointless. She could have just called a taxi. She could have slept it off. But instead, her carelessness had resulted in the death of man. Scrubbing his face tiredly, Levi wanderer back to his sofa where Titan climbed into his lap. The fat cat swatting at his hand as he picked up his long cold cup of tea "Levi?" "Rough day" "Right... I heard about that. Is there anything I can do?" "No..." Letting out a sigh, he continued his sentence "... you said something happened?" "Yeah, but it can wait" Dropping down into the sofa across to his, Hanji pulled her thick parka off "You came all this way. You might as well spit it out" "Weeell, of you insist. Eren was in the ER today" Levi growled. He was annoyed that she'd even go there, not when it was none of his business what the kid did "I know. But the kid... he interests me" "Why? Did he sprout a hundred shitty pickup lines?" "No. He was with his brother" Hanji's face darkened "What is it?" "Levi, I think Eren's being abused" "Abused?" A headache was already forming, and he didn't need this "His brother... there's just something unnatural about it" "Hanji, it's none of our business" "But he was scared Levi. Mike said he smelt sick and scared. Zeke was a total arsehole too. Demanded Eren be seen by another a doctor" "I'd demand another doctor if you were treating me" "I'm worried about him. His ankle was broken. It wasn't too terrible, and we only used a plaster cast. His brother didn't want anything fancy or complicated... it still looked horrible on his leg. His skin is like so soft... wait, I'm getting off topic. You didn't seeeeee him. He said he tripped when he got out of bed, but I don't believe it" "If he said he tripped, he probably did" "Don't you think..." "No. No, I don't. It's none of our business what he gets up to. We don't know him. He means nothing to either of us. Stop trying to make something out of nothing" "I'm worried about him. If his brother is treating him badly..." "Eren is big enough to take care of himself" "But Levi, I just... I don't want something happening to him, when we could have helped" Hurling his teacup across the room, Titan flew from his lap as Hanji flinched "It is none of our damn business, and I am sick of you constantly dragging me into your messes" "God forbid you actually let someone in and help you! I saw the connection you had with Eren! The way you looked at him! The way you touched him! You like him!" "So what if I do! He obviously doesn't like me! He doesn't even know me and if he did, he'd take off at the first chance he got!" "So what? You're not even going to try?!" "Of course I'm not going to try! He's a stranger Hanji. He has his own life! If he's sleeping with his brother, that's his business!" "The kids being abused! I know it! He had scars Levi. He had scars on his legs and when I asked, he got defensive. What kind of a reason does he have not to tell a doctor?!" "Everyone has things they want left in the past" "I'm worried for him... and I'm worried for you. I know you Levi. I know how hard the job is and I want you to be happy. That's all I want" "Then leave it alone Hanji. It's none of our business. He's not our friend. He was our patient. Was. We have no connection at all. So I don't understand why you can't just leave this in the past" "If I was to see him again, and he agreed to go on a date with you... would you agree?" "Because he's just going to go out with the first available alpha. Hanji, you need to come out of that deluded head of yours and see the real world" "My headspace is just fine, thank you. And you didn't answer the question" "No. Ok. No. I wouldn't go on a date with him. Working in a shitty place like that... who knows what he does" "Well he won't be working for the next 6 weeks, at any rate" "And how is that supposed to affect me? I don't care, so stop trying to force me to" He was so sick of seeing those green eyes. Eren's gentle face. His soft words. His pink lips and smooth skin "Fine. I only came by to tell you I'd seen him, and to check in with you. Seeing I've done both, I'll be leaving" After Hanji left, he felt like an arsehole. Alone with Titan, the fact cat was mad at him for shooting him away from the broken teacup so he wouldn't get shards of ceramic in his paws. He was just so sick of not knowing what Hanji expected him to do. He couldn't very well track down Eren. He may have slightly googled the kids name, only to find no results. He hated being so stuck on someone, and their 15 year age gap made him feel like a pedophile for even feeling the slightest something for the teen. Eren would be 20 soon... but 15 years was a lot. Just because his alpha fancied Eren, didn't make it mutual. Still... He couldn't get the thought of the kid being abused out of his head. His wide green eyes had been so bright. Far too bright for someone being abused or hiding a secret. The goddamn, shitty brat had gotten under his skin, and he hated it. His life had steadily gone down hill since that night Hanji had forced him through the strip clubs doors. Nothing seemed to hold his interests the way they used to. Work felt like he was just going through the motions, and every time someone called in over an omega, his mind leapt to the green eyes brat. Now that Hanji had mentioned her suspicions of abuse, how was he supposed to react to each call? How could she do this to him? He hated everything he was feeling as it was. He hated it and she knew it. She scratched and kept scratching. Forcing the barely scabbed over wound of their meeting to begin bleeding all over again. * Eren tried to dance, but with a cast on his moves felt stiff and wrong. His leg wouldn't move the way he wanted. He tried yoga to keep flexible, but being cage inside all day... it was stirring up memories and feelings he'd rather forget. His nightmares of the past left him shaking, or even worse, he'd wake up screaming. His depression and anxiety levels were off the charts. The slightest thing going wrong had him crying. He hated it. His favourite mug had fallen to the floor while unloading the dishwasher, and he'd sobbed. He'd howled as he picked up the pieces, until Zeke took them from his hands. The days rolled slowly into weeks. Zeke was at work for most of it. His body felt weak from his body hovering in a state of near heat. He'd cleaned and cleaned, his hands cracked and pealing from the harsh soaps against his skin. It was crazy how much he missed the club. How he missed the way his body moved to the music. How he could escape from reality, even if it meant being watched by alphas like he was bitch in heat. The power he had to reduce them to their base desires and shatter the masks they wore during their every day life. It was intoxicating and nauseating. He hated it. Yet he wanted it He wanted to be free. It was about four weeks after his accident that his brother sat him down. Picking at the sleeves of his hoodie, he tried to make himself as small as possible. His brother didn't look happy, and he didn't want to say the wrong thing. Taking his hands in his, Zeke leant in, kissing his forehead "Eren, we need to talk" A lump formed in his throat "Y-yes?" "I had a phone call from the club earlier today. They've let you go" The words hit him blankly, taking a few moments to sink in "They fired me?" "They couldn't hold your position any longer. Not while you can't dance" "But..." "Eren, you know I need you to pay your rent" "How can I do that? If I can't dance..." "I have a friend from work. He's recently found his omega partner is infertile and is looking for a second..." Eren gasped. How would the omega feel about a second? Let alone a second who feared alphas and was as useless as he was "You want to sell me?" "Not sell you. Can't you see, you need to pay your own way" "Maybe if I talk to the club..." "They won't take you back if you can't dance" "Then... I'll do something else" "Eren, you have no skills. I don't want to kick you out. But you haven't paid me any rent for the last four weeks. You haven't contributed towards any of the food" "Please. Please let me call the club" "Eren..." "Zeke, I can't do anything! I only know how to do what I'm told. Please let me dance..." "You can't with a cast on" "Then... then I'll go see the doctor. I'll get it off. My ankle feels fine" "Eren..." "No. I need to contribute! I need to be useful to you. I can't be here if I'm not" "I'll let you think about it, but you know I have to do what I have to do" "Yes, Zeke" "Good boy" "Why don't you go back to your room and think. We can talk about it after you have" Retreating to his room, Eren grabbed his phone. He hated calling his boss at the best of times, but he really needed his job. His heart was in his throat as his boss answered, Eren glad the man couldn't see his scrunched up face, or the tears in his eyes as he all but begged for his job back. Lying smoothly, he said his cast had already come off, and that he was ready to get back to work. Of course, his boss didn't make it easy. He could come back, but his pay would be docked by nearly a third, and he wasn't to cause anymore trouble. He was an omega and he needed to remember his place, because, he should be grateful to have a job at all. Ending the call, he threw his phone on his bed. He had his job back... but how the fuck was he supposed to get his cast off? He had no idea what the thing was even made of... he wasn't supposed to get it wet... maybe if he soaked it? Getting it wet was supposed to be bad... And then he could cut it once it was softer? Hobbling from his room and into the kitchen, he rifled through the top draw until he finally found the large breadknife he was looking for. It had teeth like a saw... and they sawed casts off... didn't they? Zeke must have been in his room, as he wasn't there to witness him make yet another stupid decision... which was definitely for the best. Armed with the breadknife and a plastic bag, he made his way into the bathroom. Soaking the cast, it seemed to take forever for the white monstrosity to finally begin to come apart enough for him to get the bread knife in. It took forever, all over again, before he finally got it broken enough for the stupid thing to give under his insistent fingers. He could have moaned in relief, if moving it hadn't hurt. Scrubbing the pealing skin, Eren hissed and winced at the touches. Wearing heals or even flats were going to hurt like a bitch, and he had noooo idea how he was going to work the pole... he'd have to look extra nice as well. If he didn't, his boss wouldn't let him on the stage. Cleaning the plaster and cast fragments from the bottom of the bath, he had to rinse it twice to get everything out. Once he was certain all he could collect was tied up in the plastic bag, he started getting ready for work. Scrubbing himself clean with vanilla scented soap, he washed and blow dried his hair, ratting it up into messy bun with three horizontal braids on the left side of his head near his temple. Painting his lips gold, his eyeshadow was a deep green to enhance his eyes, while his eyeliner and mascara were both gold. A pair of teal and gold war stripe on each cheek completed the look. He'd have to swallow down every ounce of pride he faked having. He didn't want to look like a girl, but the customers loved it. It all added to the fantasy that omegas were loveable and could be forced to do anything. His outfit was plain black jeans and a zip up hoodie. He'd change once he got to work. When Eren walked out the bathroom, Zeke wasn't home. He messaged his brother to tell him they wanted him to come into the club to talk about his job in person. His ankle was already protesting him moving around so much, he couldn't risk strapping it. He couldn't go onto the stage with it strapped, and then there was the risk of leaving tape residue behind... which was hardly sexy. By the time Eren reached the club, his ankle felt like it was on fire. A fine layer of sweat had his hoodie clinging to his back, while sweat beads rolled down his arse from his back. Taking the cast off had been a horrible idea. One he severely regretted, even if it had been a necessity. Zeke told him to think about it, and he had. He had to be useful. He had to push down his pain. He'd done this to himself, and had no right to complain. Letting himself into the club through the staff entrance, he gave a few small waves as he tried not to limp. Knocking softly on his bosses door, he waited to be called in. He hated the man's office. He hated the tacky shades of red and black. It was supposed to look sexy and erotic, but he'd seen more appealing things stuck to the bottom of his shoes. Reiss was a creep. The man treated all omegas like shit, even the male omega he kept "chained" in his office with him "Eren. I see you're back on your feet" "Yes, sir" "From my conversations with your brother, I was under the impression you wouldn't be returning" "Zeke was just worrying. He knows my health better than I do, but my cast is gone now" Reiss leant forward in his chair, interlacing his fingers as he dug his elbows into the leather part of his desk "You know Eren, its omegas like you that cause all the problems in life. If all omegas just listened to what they were told, we wouldn't have so much trouble with our customers. You are the single most troublesome omega here, but I can't deny you do get the alphas hot and heavy. The more worked up, the more they drink. If your body wasn't so appealing to them, I wouldn't have let you back through the doors. Am I making myself understood?" "You want me to keep my mouth shut and dance" "Exactly. You'll be on a probation trial for now, dancing with a new omega we've hired" He hated dancing with other omegas. They were supposed to touch and kiss... all but fuck right there in front of everyone. It wasn't so much dancing as soft porn "Yes, sir" "If I have even a single complaint about you, you're gone. And don't you dare think of sending that thug brother of yours here to cause trouble. I have enough worries without having an angry alpha taking his frustrations out on me because he's screwing his brother" Eeeew... he didn't need those mental images. Nope. He knew it seemed that way to a lot of people, but Zeke didn't touch him like that. He kept him close to keep him safe, reassuring him because he was so useless. He didn't touch him down there unless it was to clean him up during his heat "I understand" "Good. Now go. I don't need you in here stinking up the place" He hated this. He hated being treated like he wasn't anything. He just wanted to dance, and Reiss was the only way that was happening. He wasn't even the boss of the club, just the manager of the dancers. Wincing with every step, Eren made his way into the dressing room they had to share. Making his way to what he'd deemed his usual seat, he dropped down with a long groan "Are you alright?" Jumping back up, he eyed the freckled faced stranger in fear "Sorry! Sorry, I'm new here. I'm Marco. I didn't mean to scare you, you just looked pained" Letting out a small laugh of relief, Eren sank back down "I'm fine. You just scared the fuck out of me" "Sorry..." Eren waved his hand, turning to look at himself in the mirror. He didn't look great, but his makeup was still perfect, so that was a win "It's fine. I'm Eren, I've been off for the last month" "Oh! You're that Eren" Raising eyebrow, he tore himself away from his reflection "That Eren?" Marco blushed "Sorry. I've just heard a lot about you" "That I'm a notorious trouble maker?" "That you're the best dancer here" "Oooh. Yeah. Maybe... I rolled my ankle so I've been out. It's not that interesting. How about you? How long have you been here?" "Um... since last week. My alpha and I are moved out here, but no one wants to hire an omega... this was the only place I could get a job" "You have an alpha?" "Yeah... do you?" "No. No, but I've got an over protective older brother who's an alpha" "Really?" "Is it that strange?" "You're just so pretty" Eren snorted, shaking his head as he looked back at himself "Thanks Marco. You're not so bad yourself. Did Reiss tell you what he wants us in today?" "No..." "Awesome. That means we can just make ourselves look good. Your freckles make you look innocent, so we'll go with something cute for you... how much experience do you have dancing?" Marco stuttered "N-not much..." The kid was some kind of freckled Jesus. Way too pure for this line of work. Sure there other dancers who could step in, but Marco looked so lost. He couldn't help but want to protect the omega, even though he'd just met him "Let me help you. Take a seat and I'll check out the wardrobe" "No offence, but you look you should be the one sitting" "Trust me, I've been through worse than a busted ankle... hmm... I didn't have much luck with the angel wings, but they'd look great on you. Marco the Angel..."