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osamusriceballs · 1 year ago

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The Accident Part VIII

Atsumu x fem reader

Warnings: None

Words: ~ 2k

About: You finally meet your good friend <3

Part I II -> Next part

"You know each other?!"

You stare at Atsumu with wide eyes, who just stares at the short blonde next to you and raises his eyebrows as if he just had an epiphany.

"Where have I—wait. Karasuno. Karasuno's manager! You're a friend of Shoyo-kun!" Atsumu's eyes shine when he talks about Karasuno, and you furrow your brows when you remember that it's the name of Yachi's old school. "Shoyo-kun? Like—Hinata Shoyo?" You ask, recalling a bright orange-haired man you've met a few times already when Yachi had invited you to drink with her and her friends. They had always been a lively bunch, definitely growing on you the more often you saw them.

"Hmm, we work together," Atsumu nods, and you blankly stare at him while you try to digest that piece of information. You know that Hinata is a professional volleyball player. Very professional. Olympics level professional. He offered you cards to his games quite a few times, and you had politely declined, not wanting to cause him trouble, but he had sent you tickets anyway for a game in a few weeks.

That probably means that Atsumu is a professional player too—or he might be some kind of manager, according to the vague statement that they are working together. His physique and his posture tell you that he potentially could be an athlete- you would believe that in a second.

"Working together like... playing volleyball too?" You ask for clarification, tilting your head curiously while you watch his reaction. His lips curl into a smug smile, and the confidence he's radiating now makes your legs turn into jelly.

"Yeah. I'm a professional, just like Shoyo-kun. He loves my sets, by the way. Always aces them with no problem."

His eyes capture yours and you hang on his every word, definitely surprised by the development. You're married to a probably very famous professional Olympia volleyball player. You're not even sure what to think about this; the new details just made the whole situation more absurd and unrealistic. The only good thing is that Yachi apparently knows him. You could maybe get more information out of Yachi about him later.

"I—wait. The marriage—you married ATSUMU MIYA?" Your attention shifts to Yachi, who turns almost worryingly red, and you quickly step closer to her and reach for her arm, trying to calm her down. "Yes, but it's okay. He's a good guy, okay?" You smile encouragingly, and Yachi takes a few hasty loud breaths before she nods.

Atsumu watches you both and awkwardly clears his throat, a faint blush covering his cheeks at your words, and rubs the back of his head. "I'll leave ya two alone then. I'll call ya, y/n."

The last thing you see is his smile before he turns around and walks away with his hands in his pockets now. His broad back is evident, especially when he's wearing the white dress shirt, and you can't help but admire the man for a second before Yachi enters your sight once again.

"Y/n! - what happened?!"

xxx

"I can't believe you're married to Atsumu Miya!" she exclaims, still sounding shocked as she repeats the same sentence for the third time after you managed to tell her the fully story during the car ride. Both of you sit on her comfortable plush couch, adorned with a few of her stylish designer blankets. You're glad to be in a familiar place finally, but you can't help but to think about Atsumu. Will he call or leave a message soon? You wouldn't mind him calling today already- just to make sure you have his number. Nothing else. Just to clear that whole marriage thing. And nothing else.

You nod with a mild smile an attempt to calm her slight panic. Atsumu has assured you that everything will be taken care of, and you find yourself actually trusting him. "It'll be okay. You mentioned he's a good guy, right? I mean, he's friends with Hinata."

Yachi deeply inhales and takes a sip of her tea and nods. "He's close to Hinata. They get along really well. But let me tell you, Atsumu Miya in high school is something else. His serves were powerful and terrifying- not as much as today, but still enough to keep us all on the edge. Even Nishinoya had a hard time receiving them. Atsumu-san and Osamu-san managed to copy Hinata's and Kageyama's special attack effortlessly. It was insane. Maybe we can find a recording of it."

She grabs the remote to turn on the TV, and you lean forward eagerly at the thought of seeing more of Atsumu. "I wonder what Atsumu looked like in high school," you muse, taking a sip of your tea, its slight bitterness complementing the rich flavor. "He basically still looks the same. His hair got a bit brighter, and I think he grew a bit. And gained mass," Yachi responds, finding what she's looking for with an excited squeal. "Here!"

You both watch how a much younger Atsumu raises his arm and much to your surprise the whole crowd falls silent. "What- that's not normal, is it?" You turn to Yachi who seems slightly pale, probably because she remembers the moment vividly. "That's normal for Atsumu Miya. He was so good and popular that he got that special treatment. It helps him to focus. Oh, and watch his steps! You can tell what kind of serve he's going to make by the number of his steps."

You diligently nod and watch him serve again, taking six steps this time. The camera angle is a tad bit closer this time, and you don't fail to see his yellow-ish hair that definitely looks different compared to his looks today. He was very fit, even back then, but he is definitely more buff today.

You watch some more of Atsumu's powerful serves, his form screaming utmost perfection, and memories of the very same strong, muscular arms wrapped around you make heat rush to your cheeks. Yachi continues to share insights about his playing style, and you quickly try to focus on her words.

"...their combined attacks are difficult to anticipate. But look at how Kei blocks it!" You nod enthusiastically while you observe Tsukishima's impressive block. The video then shifts to another game, showcasing Atsumu in a black uniform adorned with yellow claw prints on his sleeves.

"Oh, that's from the MSBY game! You should have seen him; there's this amazing set—" Yachi's words trail off as the camera cuts to an unusual angle, revealing Atsumu's impressive thighs in full glory as he sets the ball with a ridiculously seductive smile. Your jaw drops at the unexpected sight- you know for sure you would have fainted if you saw that scene in live. How dare he look so good while setting the ball?? "Look, Hinata easily managed to hit that! And there's Bokuto-san!" You recognize the orange-haired spiker, sharing a smile and high-five with Bokuto. "I can't believe that they all actually know each other."

"Yeah," Yachi smiles and nods. "Hinata always talks about Atsumu-san. And Bokuto-san is close with Osamu-san, I think. I've seen him post a few pictures with Akaashi-san at Onigiri-Miya."

"Is that the name of his restaurant? Atsumu said he would take me there someday." Yachi gives you a side-eye, and reaches for her phone. "You've gotten pretty close, haven't you? You seemed really flustered when-" You quickly interrupt her, "No! I—I don't even know him. I don't even have his number. He was just being nice, we're not really close."

Yachi nods with a small grin, and hands you her phone. "Here. That's his Instagram. He's also often at Onigiri Miya. It seems like he's very proud of his brother's success. I though you might want to have a look at his life."

"Thank you." Yachi is truly a great friend, and you feel once again fond of being close to her. As you scroll through Atsumu's Instagram, you find a mix of game snapshots, some pictures with Osamu, in which he always has a plate full of food in front of him, and you can't help but zoom into the plates, impressed by the neatly arranged dishes. As you keep on scrolling, you almost gasp loudly when you find a very surprising collaboration with Calvin Klein, featuring a shirtless Atsumu from a very close perspective. At first, you keep on scrolling, too flustered at the sudden revealing picture, but curiosity makes you go back after a few moments, and you look at the picture again.

He looks good. His muscles are well-defined and he grins seductively for the camera while he poses, clad in only a ripped pair of jeans. It's almost unfair how ridiculously attractive he looks, but you still think that he looks even better when he's just woken up, just like he did this morning. You exhale loudly and curiously click on the comments.

"I would pay real money to have him like this in my bed." "Christmas came early this year- and so did I." "Bless the Miya genes. I'd gladly help to spread them." "Thank you Calvin Klein. I'll make sure to get a pair of these pants." "*FAINTS* HE'S SO HOT, I CAN'T-"

You're startled when you notice how the comments get even more unhinged and shameless as you keep on scrolling. "He... has a lot of fans," you remark, scrolling back to the top and handing Yachi her phone back, to which she nods heavily. "He had his own fan club in high school, and ever since the Japanese team won the Olympics, the whole team has been very popular. Especially Atsumu-san and Sakusa-san."

You hesitate before asking the next question, uncertain of what the answer might bring. "Is there a reason why he's single? He seems like a decent guy, looks good, and he's probably rich. Isn't he the perfect catch?"

Yachi furrows her brows, thinking. "I don't know, actually. It's probably the same as with Hinata and Kageyama. They focus a lot on their careers; they simply don't have time for dating. I also found out that most volleyball boys can be a bit... intense. It's probably hard to find a partner that understands their passion. They prioritize training over anything else. I've never seen Hinata skip a day of training, no matter what happens. Their partners must accept that they put a lot of their energy and time into their jobs."

"Ah," you simply nod, slightly surprised by the revelation. You would have assumed that they have a very lively dating life, but it seems like they just live for work. Sounds a bit lonely.

"I also think that some fans are a bit obsessed with their private lives. There was an incident before with Atsumu-san and one of their fans- but things have calmed down lately, so you should be fine." Yachi reassures you, reaching for a cookie on the couch table.

"I think that—" she is interrupted by the sudden sound of a ringing phone, and both of you exchange confused glances before realizing it's your phone. Yachi's eyes light up, and she squeals, "Maybe it's him—I mean, I could have gotten his number through Hinata, but maybe he's got some news—"

You fumble with the phone, the unknown number undoubtedly belonging to Atsumu. Taking a deep breath, you nod at her and hold the phone to your ear, answering the call with a simple,

"Hello?"

#haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #atsumu #atsumu x reader #atsumu fluff #here you go!!#finally a friend of y/n! <3 #she has some more and you'll meet them soon too!#and you'll find out more about y/n in the next chapter #but don't worry I'll keep it as vague as possible!#ANYWAYS! I'll try to post another chapter this week #but it might take until monday T.T #I'll do my best though!#I'm eager to post the next few parts #and to finally come to the smut #it will take a bit though T.T #and let's not forget about the incoming drama~#ugh I have to get up soon for work T.T #I'm not ready T.T #it's gonna be a long weekend full of work #I hope everyone can relax a bit more #LOVE YA! <3 #BTW #I had such a hard time finding out how Yachi calls Hinata and all the other guys #She started by calling Hinata Hinata-kun but in the end she calls him Hinata #same with Kageyama #I'll just assume that she calls the others with -san #except for...#you might have already noticed who she's on first name base with~ that will be important maybe so keep that in mind~ <3

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spotaus · 15 days ago

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New Age AU (Waking Nightmare)

Heyyy everyone! I'm scheduling this to post rlly early in the morning my timezone so don't mind that- We are officially (at least for a little bit) going in order for these drabbles! So, they may be a bit more boring than some of my other ones, haha-

Having said that, here's a third addition for the main-story! (un-edited as usual so please ignore my fumbles haha!)

(My beloveds @ancha-aus , @papiliovolens, and @mutzelputz ! Hi again!)

Comforting darkness. Night couldn’t be sure of the last time he’d slept so soundly. The remnants of a chill against his bones worn away by heavy sheets and a warm softness that engulfed him.

His mind was bleary as he felt the edge of consciousness snake into his skull. Some little energy that sparked in his chest and urged his mind to catch up with the restlessness of his stationary magic. He was so cozy. His magic was right, though. Like every other day, he had duties to attend to and events to oversee.

A meeting with the lord of a border town at 9 this morning, a temple-leader at 10, a break until lunch which he planned to use to help prepare Horror’s gear for his upcoming mission, then an incoming shipment of goods would arrive around 2, he’d host the merchants for an hour or two, then the Knights training would be at 6. Most of the tasks felt like routine at this point, there was always someone who needed direct audience, and Nightmare saw fit to at least hear them out, though some obviously took priority over the others. The shipments wouldn’t be too difficult either, and the merchants were often simply charmed to spend time in the parlor of the King, he usually only had to sit and listen to grand tales until the merchants excused themselves for their next delivery. Training was likely his favorite daily task, he usually looked forward to it. Getting to be active, see his knights active, it was a treat after a long day.

Hmm. Actually. Why was he having such a hard time remembering his plans for their work today?

Nightmare felt his brows furrow in the blissful darkness of his room at the thought. He always ensured he established a new routine before he turned in for the night. Usually mulled it over during dinner as the others chattered about any sort of interesting topic, and wrote it out in his journal before changing and laying down. Or, more usually, turning to other papers and projects in need of handling.

Only, he didn’t remember doing any of that.

He would blame it on his sleep-addled brain, but as far as he could recall, he only can think of Cross and Horror’s sparring. He’d called it a day when Cross fell into routine, but… That was where his recollection of the day ended. No dinner chatter, no late-night bookkeeping, it was almost distressing.

Maybe he’d simply had a long night. Sometimes when he went without sleep for a week or two his sleep would be heavy and he’d be groggy. Ccino might’ve been right, he’d need to be more aware of his sleep-schedule. Especially if it was starting to affect his memory. He didn’t want to start forgetting things. That would leave him vulnerable, susceptible to trickery and claims against his fitness to rule. He swore he’d ask Ccino about it later, if his journals didn’t provide him with enough context to jog the missing memories, of course.

The only good news was that he must’ve only been asleep for a normal amount of time. There had been no wake-up call, from Ccino, his knights, or otherwise. Perhaps he was lucky enough to have awoken before the rest of the castle deemed him needed and he might get a chance to explore his writing before anyone expected him.

Right, that decided it then. It was time to get up and around.

Soundless, Nightmare outstretched an arm above his head and let his limbs uncoil as well. Cold air surrounded them, and he thought little of it as he moved to shove himself upright. He planted his elbows behind him, lifting, only-

“Nightmare?”

The soft voice didn’t so much as startle him as it confused him. It came from somewhere behind him. Above him? He opened his good socket and found the room was, in fact, not pitch-black like he’d assumed. There appeared to be a single candle somewhere to his left. More alarmingly, however, was the familiar crimson glow of a target-shaped soul. Though, as Nightmare caught sight of it in the darkness with his fuzzy vision, it wobbled a bit, shape becoming unstable.

Why…

He blinked in thought, his mind running slowly to catch-up. That was Ccino’s voice.

Nightmare twisted his head, and spotted, now, Ccino. He seemed tired, and he. He had been tucked under the covers, right beside him. Nightmare realized, with a jolt, that one of his elbows was digging into Ccino’s lap, and he lifted his weight off of him the second he connected the dots. Ccino’s eyelights were wide and bright despite the obvious bags under his eyes, and Nightmare felt like his skull was full of pudding as he tried to figure out why exactly this situation felt so strange.

Of course, Killer probably shouldn’t have been in his quarters, to start with. He was welcome, of course, but the only time Nightmare had asked him in for the night were when he had paranoia fits, back at the start. He doubted he’d ask in both Killer and Ccino at once, though. So perhaps Ccino had asked him in? To watch over them or to deliver something? But that brought him back. Why was Ccino in his quarters? He would never complain, of course, he had always slept best with Ccino nearby, his magic and voice soothed his troubles, but it was strange. He didn’t recall having a break-down. There had actually been very few major stressors over the past few months, and very few which would bother him enough to need comfort.

“Ccino?” He questioned in return after his prolonged silence provided him nothing in the way of answers.

Though. His voice seemed to tip him off to… something. It was tired, a tone Ccino was all too familiar with, but it was not deep. It didn’t rumble in his chest or project beyond himself with ease. His voice was hoarse and weak, as though he’d been crying. And. It was familiar. In the same way that Ccino’s arm which wrapped at his shoulder was familiar.

“You’re awake… How do you feel, my king?” Ccino asked, then.

Yes, something was certainly wrong.

In the corner of his vision he noticed that Killer had gotten closer, stood at the foot of the bed, his soul dimly illuminating the underside of his skull. His grin was wide, the kind which followed naming a new cat or testing the weight of a new knife. Something had made him happy. Nightmare, realized starkly, that he could not feel that happiness. In its place was the cold of the room, and an eerie internal silence.

“Strange. …Cold.” Nightmare spoke without thinking.

Ccino had always been able to help him with his troubles. It was second nature to tell his woes to his caretaker- Caretaker? Ccino hadn’t- Nightmare hadn’t thought of Ccino as his caretaker in years. Ccino was- his guardian.

Ccino shifted slightly, and Nightmare felt the arm on his side shift so that it covered more of his side. A significant portion of his upper arm, over his shoulder, and across his back. He leaned into it a bit. Ccino was warm.

He could feel warmth again. And cold. What had happened?

“I… imagine that you would, my king. How much do you remember?” Ccino’s other hand crossed over his chest to rest on Nightmare’s forehead.

It was warm, and he only barely refrained from attempting to throw his whole weight into Ccino’s palm. The back of his hand nearly covered all of Nightmare’s forehead. It was strange.

Nightmare wanted to answer him, to say that he didn’t remember, ask for answers. But he lifted his hand to meet Ccino’s outstretched arm and. Well. Those were white phalanges. Peeking out from his heavy, thick sleeve were little hands with pearly bones and a soft purple hue between the joints. His reaching fell short by an inch or two, coordination lacking, his arm felt shorter than he expected it to be.

And on the same note, his back felt sorely empty. Tendrils missing from his spine. Nothing to wrap around Ccino, subconsciously or not, and nothing to lean back on.

Memories started filtering back. Feeling unsteady, falling off his feet, collapsing and losing his senses. His magic, all draining, all at once. His knights there, arms holding him. Ccino holding him.

“I collapsed. Didn’t I?” He asked, voice small.

There was a gentle hum from Ccino.

“Yes, you did. Your Knights said that just after training your magic seemed to drain away, and they called for me when you became unresponsive. Does that sound right?” Ccino explained quietly, removing his hand from Nightmare’s skull.

He thought about it for a moment, but it sounded right. There was no reason to doubt Ccino was telling the truth, either. Ccino wouldn’t lie to him. He nodded. Yes, it did sound correct.

Nightmare pulled his hand closer into view of his eye, and shoved himself to sit up with a little grunt. His bones ached again at the motion, but he ignored it in favor of looking at his hands in the low light. They both seemed untouched by the dark substance that had made up his body for the past seven years. In fact, they looked like they hadn’t been touched by any injuries at all since he’d acquired the apple. No cuts from catching Killer’s stray knives or blocking Horror’s axe swings, nothing that would even hint at him having been part of any training at all. The only sign of damage, for course, being the groove along his inner left palm. His bone has slowly, but surely, been stripped away in that location from his repeated practice with blood oaths as a youth. He’d nearly forgotten the mark was there at all. The scar hadn’t transferred to the god-like body the apple had given to him.

Tentatively, he pulled up his sleeves just a bit and found the, now unfamiliar, gleam of fragile, thin bone hidden beneath the heavy fabric. He shivered at the invasive chill, but nonetheless dragged the covers back. Someone, likely Ccino, had removed his boots along the way. His feet were just as his hands, pure bone, not a hint of the negative magic left. There was likely none hidden under the rest of his wardrobe either. Entirely gone.

He was entirely small.

By his assumption, and likely the conclusion Ccino had already confirmed to himself, Nightmare was now, physically, exactly as he was the morning of the coronation. A frightened, weak, untrained teenager. He was 13 again.

“This isn’t-” good. He stopped himself.

Nightmare felt his soul pound in his chest for a moment as a realization struck him. As much as he felt young again, as much as sitting beside Ccino brought him calm, time hadn’t fallen back. Just his body. And, considering how slowly it felt he was chugging through realizations, maybe his mind had fallen behind again as well.

He looked back to the end of the bed.

Killer was stood there. Or, well, leaned. He had draped himself partially against one of the banisters which supported the dark cyan canopy above Nightmare’s bed. He was still grinning, though it had been toned down. He worried, for a moment. He couldn’t feel him still. He knew that look was often associated with contentedness from him. But what if he was wrong? What if Killer was only wearing a poker face, already aware that Nightmare had lost the ability to sense his lies-

No, this was Killer. He was Nightmare’s first and most loyal knight. Ccino wouldn’t let him nearby, let alone inside the room, if he was planning anything nefarious.

“Killer.” nightmare drew Killer’s attention, and the other perked up, though he’d already been staring, “What is the status of the others?”

He watched as Killer stood up a bit straighter and chuckled to himself.

“The others are well, my lord. We’ve been taking shifts ensuring this room stays secure, and going about business as usual. Horror and Dust took up Cross’ training the past two days, and we rescheduled Horror’s mission for two months from now, since we weren’t sure when you’d recover and didn’t want to have anyone too far from home.” Killer reported, his voice low, as though expecting someone to be listening in.

Nightmare let the information roll through his skull for a few breaths.

His knights had all stayed. They’d all still been in the training room when it happened, so they weren’t unaware of his… affliction. And. Days. Two days? Killer didn’t just add information like that for nothing. He’d been out for two entire days. Wow. So much for his meetings and shipment-collections.

He felt himself frown in thought, before he caught himself and schooled his expression again.

“And. I assume no one knows about… this. Aside from ourselves, Dust, Horror, and Cross?” He questioned, then.

Killer nodded smoothly, “Our most valuable team player came up with a cover. The rest of the castle believes you’re resting after overworking the past few months. Not a peep outside the grounds far as I can tell.” His hand gestured to Ccino, and Nightmare didn’t doubt that his head of house would be quick on his feet. After all, Nightmare had done similar things, tucking away after working on long and draining new laws or projects. “We threw folks off the scent who visited by letting Dust listen to them. Scary bastard got the information pretty fast, it’s in your study for when you’re feeling better, my Lord.”

That was good. Nothing he’d have to worry about having missed, no tarnished reputation.

He shivered again. It was still cold, even wrapped up in his heavy everyday clothes.

There was much he had to catch up on, much he had to do. First of all being that he’d want to go back to the library, research the ritual. His mother had ruled for hundreds of years and those before her had centuries under their belts. Nightmare had seemingly been stripped of the magic. Only after seven years at that. He’d need answers. For himself, for those who trust him, for his people… Oh he was not looking forward to facing his people.

Point was, this wasn’t normal. Never in their recorded history had a ruler lost the god magic. Maybe his corrupted appearance had always been a warning sign, a connection not made between himself and the apple? Maybe it was that Nim had been somehow tailoring the magic to Dream rather than him, so receiving a host that was incompatible it would only thrive for so long? Or perhaps it was that bloodshed which never happened. Whatever burning desire to kill which had driven him to near madness in those first moments, in the weeks after, maybe because he never fed it enough, the magic starved? He hadn’t gotten blood on his hands since that first year…

“Understood. Thank you, Killer.” Nightmare praised his knight.

He needed to get started. Make up for lost time. He could already feel the nerves of uncertainty starting to kick in.

“If you could, collect them? I want to speak to you all, and-” Nightmare’s voice fell short with the sound of a clearing throat.

He paused and glanced back at the culprit. Ccino.

Nightmare had slipped free of his hold at some point, now only their legs touching through the comforter. Ccino’s arms were crossed and he was watching Nightmare with a look the king knew all too well. It was a dissuading stare, one he knew meant ‘think about what you just said and try again’ without saying it out loud. This was the stare he’d received when he’d brought Killer back to the castle. And hired Dust. And every other questionable character roaming the halls.

The king remained silent in the wake of Ccino’s stare, though he looked at him with what he hoped were the big, watery sockets he used to wield in his youth. Maybe one thing might be working in his favor from this bodily downgrade.

Ccino seemed to give in first, letting out a gentle sigh.

“My king, you are still in recovery, you just woke up from a very large change. The castle won't expect you for at least another two days, maybe longer. Your knights will be patient. Besides, you have a skull wound, and I do believe that if I don’t help you tend to it before Horror sees you again, he may be distressed.” Ccino explained, lifting one hand out to gently pet over the blind side of Nightmare’s skull.

The king was frustrated to find that he let out a little squeak as Ccino’s feather-light touch caught on a crack he hadn’t even realized was there. He flinched down a bit, and Ccino retracted his hand like lightning.

Nightmare noticed, but he didn’t think much of it, too occupied with reaching his own little hands up to touch the bottom of his dark socket and trail up out of his line of sight. It hurt, if felt like his skull was on fire and a headache split through his thoughts when he had seemingly traced too much of it. Near the top of his skull, a little fragment was misplaced, other cracks and crevices trailing from it. Ouch.

Unlike his palm wound, he didn’t recall being so injured on his skull. Unless. Oh, right. How could he have forgotten? At the coronation, before the magic had fully bonded to him. The blow that had made him half-blind in the first place. He hadn’t realized the strike had been so deep.

He focused again on Ccino, and saw how closely he was being watched.

“You- You’re right.” Nightmare practically mewled, “Killer, disregard that request. Continue with what you’ve been doing since I became indisposed.”

He didn’t have to look to the Knight, having heard a ‘Yes, m’lord’ from the end of the bed.

“Then, we should get this wound cleaned.” Nightmare voiced.

Ccino hummed.

…

The water was warm. That he was grateful for. It seemed to chase away the chill of the room he’d left behind.

The bath was connected through a doorway, of course, but he’d asked Killer to stand guard and ensure no one entered. He didn’t want anyone seeing him like this, least of all entirely nude. That would only end in disaster.

It had been years since he’d taken a proper bath, the negativity never quite agreed with water, and yet Ccino had slipped into the routine as though it’d only been yesterday that he’d last done it. He started the water and collected soaps and scrubs and towels. Then he’d helped Nightmare out of bed, and walked with him to the bath. Locked the door behind them, and assisted Nightmare in removing his too-big layers. He was shaky still, with movements. It felt like he couldn’t carry his own weight anymore.

Now, he sat submerged up to his chin in the clear, warm, water enjoying the weightlessness and trying to ignore the strangeness of looking at his own bones again. In some ways he knew this was him, but in others…

“Nightmare, are you alright with me starting to clean your wound?” Ccino’s voice broke him out of his thoughts. When Night looked at him he continued briefly, “Horror said it might hurt, so if you need a break just tell me, alright? We can take as long as you need.”

Night glanced to Ccino, and found that he’d, at some point, removed the apron Night had spotted on him earlier, as well as rolled up his sleeves, and removed his fur shawl. His eyelights met Nightmare’s, but he was pretty sure that they’d been examining his skull again. Based on how it had felt before, he didn’t doubt it’d probably hurt.

“Yeah, okay.” He agreed quietly, leaning his back against the warmed edge of the tub.

It was an inground tub, one seemingly carved into a smooth stone. It was far too big for him, especially now, but it might’ve fit his mother perfectly and given her room to stretch. She was a tall woman. Nightmare was curled nearest to one of the edges where ‘steps’ had been carved in. Ccino sat cross-legged just behind him on the ledge.

He stayed still as Ccino scooped down beside him and cupped some of the water into a little bowl he had on-hand. Carefully, he poured it over Nightmare’s skull, moving one of his hand to make sure none of it went into his dark socket while he closed his other one. The warmth made him shover, but it was nice. He missed being able to feel warm. Maybe now he’d remember to light the hearth in the study more often.

Next, he felt as Ccino must’ve grabbed a cloth, because he carefully slid it across the top of Nightmare’s skull. Just as his finger had, it snagged a few times, but Nightmare bit back the need to flinch. It was fine, he could handle it. This repeated a few more times, before more water poured over his skull. The repetition was calming.

There was a pause, and then the silence of the bathroom was quietly filled with the beginning notes of a hum. Night knew that hum, it was the one that Ccino always hummed for him when he was stressed, or couldn’t sleep, or needed to relax. Of course, sometimes Ccino would hum on his own, too. When he was working, or when they were sitting in the study, or he was pleased with something. It was always a comfort.

He figured it must’ve been to distract him, because a pressure invaded a portion of his skull towards where the big opening had been, and squinting his socket open revealed that Ccino had begun to actually work at the cracks left in his head. He had… some sort of brush, he thought, and scrubbed slowly, but with more force than anything previous. Sure, it hurt, but he didn’t want Ccino to stop, it’d better to get it all over with at once.

The humming persisted, only pausing every once in a while for Ccino to check in with Night, but the young king always just nodded and asked him to keep going.

Only when the wound was entirely clean did Ccino see to stop and let out a breath.

“Alright, all done.” Ccino announced.

If he’d been well, if he hadn’t had such an injury, Night probably would’ve let himself sink fully under the water and sit there for a few breaths. That would’ve been nice.

“Thank you, Ccino.” He said instead.

His skull still throbbed in protest from the cleaning, Ccino probably dislodged particles that had been in place for seven years just waiting to cause him trouble. Despite that, he shifted so that he could prop his arms up and out of the water, to look at Ccino.

His head of house was already going about cleaning his supplies, putting them away all neat and tidy. He didn’t say anything, but when he caught Nightmare looking at him, he gave a soft smile.

Ccino stood to go return the items to their rightful place in the cabinet, leaving only a washcloth, soap, and several warm towels in his wake.

Nightmare took up the washcloth and soap, taking the initiative to start scrubbing away at his own bones. This scenario felt like something straight out of. Well. Before. Before he found the scroll, before the ritual, before the coronation, before sending Dream away, before his rule, before the knights, before all of it. It was as though, in all that time, so little had changed.

“Ccino?” Nightmare spoke up, the other skeleton was still on the other side of the room. He only continued when he heard a quiet ‘yes, my king?’ from across the space. “Ccino. I- I don’t know- I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

He hadn’t allowed himself to have the thoughts before, to doubt himself, but the truth was blaring. He was young again. All the magic that had provided him security, that had been able to earn him a face of fear and power, that had drawn so many to respect him… it was all gone. He would do research, but he doubted he could get it back. The magic was provided by his mother’s soul, and well, he was sure that it was no longer with him. Whatever magic he’d assessed to have lost had to be gone. Long, long gone.

And with the loss of the magic would come the loss of his status, and the loss of his status would mean the loss of everything. One well-placed sword-strike or arrow-bolt could end his life, and the entire kingdom would fall to the wayside in his wake. Of course, he believed in his people to maintain best they could, but he hadn’t even finalized his revisions. The farms were still being subsidized by shipments out of kingdom, the funding for restoration after the floods and storms wasn’t anywhere near finished, and he had no heir or next of kin to pass the throne to… except for Dream. And he loved his twin dearly, but he was sure his brother would seek to undo all his work, would dismiss those he cares for, would reinstate the blood-magic. It would leave way for slave contracts and sacrifices to arise again.

“What do you mean by that?” Ccino asked, crossing the space back to him. Had he spaced out?

Nightmare returned to vigorously scrubbing at his neck and shoulders, using it as an excuse to partially turn away from Ccino’s gaze.

“Everyone has followed me because I could promise protection, safety, a new life. My plans are not finished yet, and I’m weak now. Anyone who were to see me would see me as weak, and an easy target. I-” He paused a second, “I worry I won’t survive to be able to see my promises through. My- my state will only put people in danger. Put you in danger.” He voiced.

He would have died in those first few weeks if not for the might of his magic. It worked as a repellent enough that assassins and rebels learned to not even go near him. Without that…

“My king, are you doubting the skill of your Knights?”

Ccino’s question caught him off-guard, enough-so that he shot his skull around to look at him. What did he mean?

“No, they are highly skilled and powerful.” Nightmare answered.

Ccino was watching him with a stern expression, had he said something wrong?

“Your Knights have been trained, by you, to do two missions. Their second is to serve and assist this kingdom. The first, which you seem to have forgotten, is to protect you.” Ccino explained, tone even. “Until now, you’ve simply been strong enough that they haven’t had the chance to show you just how often they’re looking out for your wellbeing.”

Nightmare felt foolish as he stared at Ccino. He couldn’t muster any words, his mind was racing to figure out if he was right.

“You know. He likely won’t say anything, so as to not wound your pride, but when I got to the training room after your collapse? Killer had you tucked in his arms, holding you close. The only reason he let go, I think, is because I showed up and you wanted to get to me.” Ccino explained, and Nightmare felt heat rush to his skull. He remembered collapsing, and Killer caught him, but Ccino was right, he hadn’t ever touched the floor. “And I was there to witness as your other knights agreed to stay. To continue to train, and work, and wait for you to wake up. Even Cross, and he’s hardly been here a fraction of the time the others have.”

Ccino let out a tired sigh, and Nightmare stared at him, wide-eyed. “My point is, my king, that they have all seen you. As I see it, they plan to abide by their oaths, and their own morals, to continue to serve you. Not your magic, but you. So, at least for their honors, don’t dismiss them so readily.”

Ccino moved again to sit at the edge of the bath, and Nightmare hesitantly sat his washcloth back on the edge. A sniffle escaped him as he let Ccino’s words sink in. He was right, of course. Without his being awake, any of them could have simply left, no harm no foul. And yet Killer was outside the bathroom door right this moment, the others working their hardest to keep up appearances.

He sniffled again, and felt tears attempting to well in his sockets.

“Y-you’re right, Ccino.” Night muttered, but, “You won’t leave, right?”

He wished, a part of him at least, that Ccino would. He’d stayed here in this place that tormented him for so long. He’d stayed by Nightmare’s side through it all. But now Nightmare couldn’t protect him. Couldn’t keep him safe. He wasn’t even an adult anymore, he was young and inexperienced again, and- He knew he wanted Ccino close, though. Moments like this, selfishly, he needed. Especially now.

“My Nightmare.” He was only a bit startled as Ccino shifted and cupped his hands around the sides of Nightmare’s skull, careful of his newly revealed injury. He allowed himself to be dragged closer to the edge where Ccino was sat. “You know my answer. I have no plans to leave your side. Not back then, and especially not now. I love you too much to ever think of leaving.” And Ccino gently brought his skull down to nuzzle his nose against the top of Nightmare’s skull.

The little king sniffled again and felt the tears fall from his good socket. He leaned his skull closer to Ccino’s legs and pressed against the soft fabric of his pants leg. Ccino always knew just what to say to him.

“Promise- promise me something?” He piped up, socket closed, trying to stop the flow of tears.

Ccino hummed in question.

“Promise you’ll tell me? If you’re upset, or sad, or mad? I- I can’t just know anymore, and I don’t want to hurt you because I don’t notice.” The again was silent. They both knew that Nightmare had been an ignorant child. That Ccino was good at hiding what he really felt.

“I promise you, Nightmare. I will tell you.” He agreed.

…

“My lord!” Killer greeted enthusiastically when Nightmare trailed Ccino out of the bathroom.

The knight had been standing standing in the space beside the door just next to the bed, and Nightmare looked to him as he exited.

He realized, suddenly, that Killer was taller than him.

Oh. That would take some getting used-to.

“My lord, do I have something on my face?” Killer asked, moving his sleeve to drag across his cheeks.

Night realized, with a start, that he must’ve lost his poker-face along with the negativity which used to engulf his expression. He blinked, and watched as Killer, very much intentionally, smeared the magic which fell from his sockets across the lower half on his face. His grin didn’t fade.

“Well, you didn’t.” Nightmare responded almost out of habit, furrowing his brow. He tried to ignore the fact that he had to reach up in order to plant his hands on other side of Killer’s skull. It only occurred to him in a moment that he no longer had his tendrils to wipe away the excess markings like he would normally do. “Hold still.” Nightmare insisted, even though Killer hadn’t moved an inch.

Instead of tendrils, Nightmare used one of his sleeves, pulling the baggy fabric up and over his fingers, to scrub at the still-fresh magic and wipe it away. It hardly took a few second, but he huff in content when he deemed it a job well-done and released Killer’s skull. The way the other straightened up and his sockets turned to crescents alongside his grin made Nightmare smile a bit to himself too, before he quickly turned away.

Only when he saw Ccino standing near his desk with a fond smile did it occur to him that what he’d done must’ve looked silly now. Actually, he used to do it all the time without a second thought. Had Killer done that on purpose? Well, he usually did it on purpose, but. Whatever. Don’t overthink it!

Nightmare quickly started to walk away, moving himself with wobbling steps towards his desk where Ccino had stood.

He was still uneven on his legs, strides connecting with the ground much more quickly than he was used to, but he’d manage okay. The warm water had helped to loosen his sore magic and now only a dull ache persisted from the wounds in his skull.

He was silent as he popped up onto the stool sat before it and pulled open the main drawer, just below where he would normally be writing. The drawer itself was full of papers, organized and filed away, several being scrapped versions of the newest laws he’d put into place. He moved those aside, lifting them onto his desk, before digging his phalanges beneath a piece of wood in the bottom. Secret pockets in drawers were nothing special, Nightmare had found there was one in about every drawer in the castle with any significant purpose, and so he rarely used them for anything actually important. Except for this one.

He had to take a breath as he stared at the object before him, and lifted it up with careful hands so that the other two could see it.

A mask. One carved out of sacred wood, made for him when he was only five. One of a pair, the other far off, safe in another kingdom with his twin.

This one was flat, shaped like the curious, round face of a barn-owl, the eye-holes round and wide. The wood was an unnatural ashy gray, slightly tinged purple from years and years of exposure to his magic. IOn either side sat a thick, satin ribbon, which would easily support the weight when it was tied around the back of his skull.

Nightmare, honestly, had never intended to bring this relic back out. It hadn’t fit his skull as an adult, and so he’d resorted to hiding it away in storage. A relic of an era behind him. And yet, here it was, back in his hands again. No doubt it would fit his skull just as perfectly as it had the day of the ritual, when he’d finally grown into it.

“I’ll wear this, I think, when I return to my duties.” He voiced to no-one in particular, before turning to Ccino, “Would you do the honors?” He asked, lifting the wood to his skull.

Ccino was quiet as he stepped around and took up the soft purple ribbons. Ccino knew just how secure it needed to be, and we evidently careful of his wound. Nightmare knew when he was finished, and hopped off the stool.

A mirror in the far corner of his room was his goal, and when he stood in front of it, he felt small. The clothes were baggy, his body thin and scrawny, his stature almost hunched. Had he always looked so scared as a kid? Maybe that was why Ccino had always stayed nearer to him than Dream. Most strikingly, his mask, and his socket, looked identical to the last time he remembered looking in a mirror like this. Aside from his dark socket, of course.

No one had directly told him so, but they had been right to keep him inside, to not take him to the healers. He was probably about half his normal height with his bare feet against the carpet covering the stone floor. He looked tired. His magic wasn’t even right anymore.

He laughed, quietly, at the sight.

“It looks like I’ll have to do some training of my own.” he voiced, already feeling tired at the prospect as he moved to untie his mask.

By the time it slipped into his free hand, Ccino was at his side, and Nightmare passed it off to him to hold. He got closer to the mirror now, to get a better look at his skull. The light was still dim, but being more awake his magic was working to make up the difference.

“Training, my Lord?” Killer questioned curiously from somewhere behind him.

Nightmare nodded to himself, prodding at one of the cracks which trailed down to his socket. He hissed before deciding not to touch them again, just look.

“Yes. Not for combat, though. To alter my magic signature and appearance. King Nightmare doesn’t have purple magic, after all.” He explained, “I think if I tried to spar with any of you now I would be tagged in half a second.”

He hoped his tone wasn’t too weary as he admitted it.

Killer laughed from behind him, “I don’t know, I think you’d make it at least a minute if you convinced Cross to a dueling-spar.” He joked.

It was a tease. Nightmare laughed in agreement, feeling a bit lighter. It must’ve been obvious to his knight that his physical condition was poor, and Killer had been there to watch Nightmare learn to fight as they both trained together. He didn’t seem distressed that Night wasn’t much of a combatant anymore.

He could do this. He could do this. He just… needed some time, was all. Just like before.

#new age au #oh I love writing for these guys (<- I say this but i did go to Ancha to complain about Nightmare several times-)#To clarify things that might not have been super obvious: it's been 3 days and 4 nights since Nightmare collapsed in the training room #This drabble actually takes place midday but Nightmare has some of the densest black-out curtains installed and #Horror suggested leaving the light low incase Night had a headache when he came to. So Nightmare is under the impression that it's like.#really early in the morning and he is. not correct we'll just say that!#Also it's very important to me this Nightmare here is lowkey in a state of shock. It feels like some sort of weird night terror to him and #he's just rolling along #Kinda the way Ccino's survived so long (apple doesn't fall far from the tree-)#I imagine it won't hit him for a while because the knights are really good about still respecting him. and Ccino's comfort feels normal. An #yeag #He's just coming to terms with the big change bit by bit-#Also was this absolutely meant to parallel the chapter in Real Age when Nightmare is getting a bath? absolutely.#I needed to say that one explicitly because as much as this is definitely. uh. growing outside the Real Age box? it's still Real Age #inspired and I love paying tribute to the og!!#Anyways sorry #Nightmare's gonna try to be on a roll for a while here #And also. I do have a favorite moment in this entire drabble and it made me kick my feet and giggle when I thought of it <3

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kinokoshoujoart · 1 year ago

Note

I saw the lack of Rock in skirts reblog and

maybe you should 👁️

you got it🫡 💕

by popular demand: rock wearing a rock

in the jp version he says he mentions he intends his hypothetical book about fashion and stuff for a gyaru audience

and i personally suspect rock also plans to model for every single photo in the book himself since he’s, you know, the ideal man and all

#thank you youhavetofarmatleast for the german lesson. i am in your debt #der rock = the skirt. and it’s a masculine noun #thank you also tomato for the inspiration that caused this to exist to begin with #by pointing out that rock meets all the requirements for a gyaruo #he would have subscription to egg magazine. i think #rock tumbling (sos)#my art #fanart #sos awl #bokumono #hm rock #rock (awl)#featuring cute outfits i saw on pinterest #also some slutcore y2k bimbo elements because rock is kind of all over the place #rock dies of hypothermia trying to be the most fuckable man in the one horse hick town #this is also inspired by my favorite scene in anwl where rock thinks about what it means to be a real man #followed by the most bimbo housewife utterance of all time #need to unpack my wii so i can get screenshots of that scene (it’s a chapter 5 event…)#story of seasons #felt cute might do more later idk idk. my man has one outfit and that is extremely funny but he would also want to be put in every outfit #asks #thank u for causing me to stop being a coward and post it #asks … my one weakness …#gyaruo #gyaru

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unweavinglies · 8 months ago

Note

I’d like to ask a question about Kokichi’s character in Chapter 4, specifically with him seeing the “Truth of the outside world.” Yes, it was a big shift in his character to suddenly want killing, but I’m not entirely convinced that it was because of him losing his mind from seeing the outside world. I think at least some of it was a facade to make others think of him as a bad guy/the mastermind; to make his Chapter 5 character more believable so his plan would work. What do you think?

Well, I'm not here to convince you one way or another.

My theories and personal interpretations are just that--personal interpretations and theories. The narrative is web of interpretations and I only hold a single thread of it.

To me, personally, I think Kokichi's behavioral shift is far too drastic, going from "I'm going to beat this killing game" to "I'm going to become a blackened and kill someone", to plotting with Gonta to mercy kill the whole class. I think this jump has only one true source--the madness of seeing the end of the world you and your fellow classmates have been killing each other over.

I know it's a difficult feeling to imagine--but that's probably why you think differently than me. I cannot fathom what it's like to see the end of the world--and how I personally would react to that, aside from pure devastation. I don't think any human being can truly comprehend what "the end of the world" would look or feel like--which is why the concept often appears in horror plots and the sort. I don't think our brains can truly comprehend becoming an endangered species, the world we knew to be suddenly inhabitable, to be on the brink of death and demise and know that everything you once loved has already left you behind.

So I ask you this as my answer: Do you really think that any human being on this earth could handle the end of the world?

My answer to my own question is: No. I don't think any human could mentally handle seeing what Kokichi saw--and that's why I don't think his "I am the Mastermind" plot is the cause of his personality shift during chapter 4.

It just doesn't make sense to me.

I'm sorry if this comes off as curt or rude--but the amount of asks I've gotten specifically about Chapter 4, and about my Mercy Kill Theory, with the sentiment of "Oh your theory must be incorrect, somehow", is far too grating on me. Never the mind asks that go and try to find loop holes to prove the theory wrong, but I digress--that is neither here nor there.

#Kokichi Ouma #Danganronpa V3 #DRV3 #Theory discussion #Sighs.#I'm sorry Anon I'm /sure/ you mean well but.#The amount of times I've gotten asks on my personal about this theory--everything about chapter 4 #from Kokichi losing his mind over seeing the dead world to the mercy kill plot itself #people kept trying so hard to prove my theory wrong #For some reason this specific theory is one people are especially prone to knee-jerk reactions akin to ''No this is wrong!''#I don't mean to be so salty but. Why. Why this theory.#Why is THIS theory the one people try to disprove to me constantly.#Especially more so when I said in the original theory post that I did not want to argue or discuss it like this?#In the future I might just ignore asks regarding my chapter 4 theories. I am tired of answering them.#Sorry again I know this probably comes off as salty and bitter #but please also understand that when you get people constantly trying to prove you wrong over a theory that--#--you don't even want to have arguments over because it's a bit of a personal one for you?#It's so exasperating.

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cocktopic · 10 months ago

Text

i think my fatal flaw is that i truly believe that no matter who reads it literally everybody can benefit from reading orv. like even tho it’s such a simple message the thought that no matter what I am Loved and Important and i Will survive no matter what was smth that hit me so hard especially in the context orv does it (trying to be spoiler free) making me feel Seen and helped in a way that no other media has. idk. i love kim dokja so much guys

#everybody is like “oh but it’s so long i can’t read all that >.<#but i genuinely believe an orv that’s even a chapter shorter wouldn’t be as effective at getting the message across bc (SPOILERS) but iykyk #also it goes by SO quickly if u let urself rly get involved in the story… i think trying to theorize and hypothesize too much as ur reading #might take away from some of ur immersion if ur trying too hard to figure out the messages and everything but there is no wrong way to enjoy #it… that’s like the whole point… as long as u love the characters u are reading orv correctly u don’t need to be all philosophical abt it #while reading. ofc u can if u want and i love reading posts and theories and such ❤️ but ehejekf idk im just yapping at this point #read orv #orv #🌌

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whumble-beeee · 11 months ago

Text

The Man in the Sweater Vest

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 7

Content: attempted noncon, threatened mouth whump, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, scissors, tied up/handcuffs, noncon unshirtening, noncon touch, past captivity references, graphic threats, blood, crapton of whump. As a treat :)

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[Inevitably, there will be disagreements on how you should treat your captured hero. One villain might want to just hold the hero hostage long enough to finish their dastardly plans. Another will want to break the hero’s will entirely! Or anything else in between!

But when working together with other villains, bounty hunters, henchmen, etc, it is crucial that everyone is on the same page about how your captured hero is to be treated, lest your hero end up with a few less limbs than you meant them too, or your months of breaking down the hero's fragile mind is undone by a single nice gesture.

Always communicate effectively, your hero will thank you for it (or curse the day you were born)!]

* * * * * * * *

Sweater-vest stumbled back, reeling from the punch and clutching his face before pulling his hands down and gawking at the blood staining his hands.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!!” Stan screamed.

An intense elation washed through his chest despite the surprisingly sharp exploding pain that crackled up the very bones of his arm when he punched the man, and the now freshly ripped open scabs and bruises from where he’d forgotten to account for the handcuffs and yanked on them violently, streaming new ruby red over dried light brown that already carved down his arms;

Because he'd got him. He'd got him! Punched him, made him back off! Stan did that! He'd finally managed to actually do something about the atrocities being committed against him and it was so, so sweet.

Relatively short-lived, though.

Vaughn, the sweater vest man, started to giggle to himself as he wiped the blood streaming from his nose onto his sleeve. Elation gave way to tentative confusion. Then a sinister seed started to take root in Stan's gut, the roots already reaching out and tightening around his body.

“You-...” Vaughn giggled some more. “You– you think–?...”

He started fully laughing, speech overtaken by an apparent hilarity that Stan must’ve just been too shocked by the sudden mood change to understand. He was cackling. Then practically shrieking, crazy, loud, heaving laughs.

He must be crazy.

Insane.

Well and truly insane, the way he was shriek laughing into his shining red-stained hands.

His gaze snapped up to Stan, and Stan could practically hear the horror movie crackling effect with how fast it snapped up, crazy maniacal shudders still overtaking his body, piercing gaze turned wide, animalistic.

“You think you can HURT ME?! HURT ME?! AHAHAHAHA!!”

Suddenly Stan slammed into the wall, cuffed wrists pinned above his head, chest to chest with the crazy man and staring up into his crazy bloodshot eyes.

“You can't hurt me,” he growled into Stan’s ear through gritted teeth. ”I don't feel pain. I carved that weakness out a long time ago, my brain doesn’t register it anymore! And I did it so I could deal with horrible little brats like you–” he slammed Stan's wrists into the wall, “--however I see fit! So I could do whatever I wanted to them. So that even if they fight back, they always, always, always lose.”

He pulled back and leaned into Stan's face, staring the captive directly in his glaringly defiant, wide and shining eyes. Hot shaking breaths misted surprisingly minty breath onto Stan’s cheeks, nearly overpowered by the metallic tang of blood that still poured down his face.

“Always submit. Just like you're going to.”

Stan pulled down hard against Vaughn's grasp, struggling and wiggling and tugging and screaming and kicking and doing every single little thing he could to, if not escape, at least make this as difficult as possible.

“Get away from me!" He cried. "GET AWAY FROM ME, get OFF of me, I’m not gonna let you do this you sadist, you can’t do this to me!! LET GO–!”

A punch to the gut. Stan tried to double over and wheezed as much as he could with his arms pinned up, which delivered him right into another punch to the face.

Then something cool and sharp stabbed into the soft underside of his chin, straining his neck with how far his head pushed back into the wall.

“This is why I like to keep my victims gagged,” Vaughn gritted. “That bounty hunter of yours never does it, no matter how I tell him to. Always has to do stuff his own way, never listens. All he does is talk talk talk, always has a retort for everything. So defiant, and so is every single subject he brings in.”

A dull aching throb emanated from where Stan’s head pressed into the wall. Black spots dotted his vision.

“You–... y-you can't–”

The scissors pulled back and dove toward Stan's mouth, eliciting a loud cut-off scream of revolt as he cowered and squeezed his eyes shut from some vain, animalistic instinct to protect himself.

Then he pried open his eyes again, confused when no cutting metallic pain ripped through the fragile flesh of his face.

The handle of the scissors were fuzzy, too close for his eyes to focus.

They weren’t that far into his mouth.

Just enough that if Stan tried to close it, his teeth would clip on the tip of the metal blades instead.

The scissors lifted slowly, tapping on his top teeth, tilting his head up until he stared into Vaughn’s metallic blue eyes once more.

“I could always prep your throat with these if you like,” he drawled softly, letting go of Stan’s cuff chain and instead lightly grasping his thumb and forefinger under Stan’s chin, forcing his mouth open further. A small sob crackled out from Stan’s throat.

“It would be so easy… I could just–”

The scissors lurched further into Stan’s mouth, and Stan let out another involuntary squeak and an open-mouthed, unintelligible pleading of “no, no, no, no…” as tears started to sting at his eyes.

But he let him do it.

He even still held his arms up, because surely if he tried to fight back now, with the scissors in his mouth quite literally pinning him to the wall… He didn’t even want to think of the consequences.

“Careful, dropje. Wouldn’t want to cut yourself. Be quiet, be still, be good for me, right? You can be good for me? You can finally shut the hell up. No more fighting.”

He let go of Stan's chin and let his hands wander lower, caressing Stan’s sides, the curve of his waist, making his entire body tense and shudder. His breathing turning loud and shallow as he cringed away.

Vaughn just giggled.

“See? Isn’t this better? You’re not getting hurt, you’re doing what I say…” His fingers slipped under the waistband of Stan’s pants again. Slower this time. More deliberate.

It took all of Stan's willpower to not start hyperventilating at what he knew was about to happen. He knew. It was always this, wasn’t it?

Vaughn’s voice lowered as he leaned closer, pressing his body into Stan’s. He could feel the fibers of the stupid damn sweater vest against his stomach, deceptively soft, almost pleasant. The hard blade of the scissors tapped on the tip of his nose. “Because you physically have no other–”

BANG!!

Stan screamed.

Vaughn screamed.

The ghost of the gunshot echoed off the cinderblock walls.

Vaughn also nearly fell backward, pushing off of Stan just in time for Stan to fall to the floor in a duck-and-cover position and pray to whatever gods would listen that his last day on earth wouldn't have been spent dealing with two of the worst people he'd ever had the displeasure of being kidnapped by.

Wait, scratch that, his knee reminded him. He'd had worse.

His heart threatened to jump out of his chest completely, but he finally realized that in fact, he was still alive. So he opened his eyes to what he never thought to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world;

Deeby.

Gun pointed to the sky and streaming a light grey smoke into a small puff of explosion that hadn't had time yet to dissipate.

“What in the ever-loving SHIT are you doing?!” he shouted.

He was completely maskless, face now on full display, fiery eyes matching his equally fiery sneer. The sudden absence of the mask almost scared Stan more than the gunshot, the sight making his heart beat in his throat.

Then, for just a split second, Deeby's enraged eyes met Stan's stare. His eyes scanned down his body, looking him up and down, his face changing ever so slightly when his gaze caught in Stan’s chest. A slight crinkle of the eyebrows, a small tilt of the head. Then his eyes widened in some sort of realization, and Stan felt his heart turn to ice.

Recognition.

No.

He couldn't have realized who he was.

Just because of the binder?!

Stan choked on his own throat as the collar suddenly constricted once more and he was dragged violently forward to his knees.

“Your fucking dog punched me in the face!” Vaughn shouted, jangling Stan around enough that he had to grab the collar just to gain back his breath.

“Just because–!”

Vaughn jolted Stan's collar back hard and cut him off with a violent gag.

“I was disciplining him.” Vaughn narrowed his eyes at the mercenary. “Like we're supposed to.”

Deeby’s jaw set. And still, he managed to find a slight smug smile within his fury. “That why your face is gushing blood, then? Disciplined him too hard?”

Stan didn't even realize when they started, but tears were practically streaming down his cheeks now, chest heaving in panic. “Deeby, Deeby, he was gonna–”

“Shut up!”

A kick this time, straight to the back of his spine, and Stan's throat strained hard into the collar before breaking free of Vaughn's grasp and nearly face-planting into cold concrete. He scrambled to get up, but the same foot planted on his back and slammed his chest right back to the floor, grinding the heel of its shoe into the captive’s spine. Stan clutched at the ground, screams barely bit back by force of sheer willpower.

“Christ, man! Stop it, get off!” Deeby yelled with uncharacteristic urgency.

The force pinning him down suddenly released, followed by the scattered footfalls of someone catching themself from nearly falling over.

Stan just lay there limp. Heaving and shivering. He couldn't move. His limbs felt like heavyweights, the world tilted on it’s axis, and he was sure that if he lifted his head up, he would lose every last morsel of that protein bar he'd shoved down earlier.

But at least now no one was methodically turning him into a fine red mist anymore.

Deeby stood between the two of them like an impenetrable stone wall, hand resting on the unlatched holster of his gun and pointedly ignoring Vaughn’s stuttering disbelief as he patted at the pockets of his jacket, pulling various probably very sharp things out and shoving them into his pants pockets.

Protecting him.

“You– You just–...” Vaughn finally composed himself. “You pushed me off! You're saving him? He needs to be taught a lesson!”

Stan tried to push up despite the dizziness. “Only–... D-Deeby, he was trying–”

“Shut up, Stan, I know, let me handle it! Here.” Deeby slid his jacket off and dropped it practically on top of his captive’s head, never once letting his gaze slip from Vaughn. Stan shakily pulled the brown leather of the jacket over his shoulders before he had time to think better of it, doing his best to just enjoy the show and not think about the implications of what was currently happening.

“Because he wouldn't let you put your dick in him without a fight, right?” The bounty hunter said sarcastically. “Or– or– or because he wasn’t gonna let you mouth-gore him without complaint? Let you ‘teach him a lesson?’ Yeah, I am stopping you. Piece of shit.” The bounty hunter grabbed the scissors off the floor where they landed when Vaughn dropped them after the gunshot. Then he used them to point sharply at the door.

“Get out.”

Vaughn scoffed and melodramatically rolled his eyes.

“You got the message from Lana then? Is that why you're acting like such a belligerent wittle babeee?” Vaughn posited in his most obnoxious baby voice.

Deeby bristled. Stan could've sworn for a moment he could see the man shaking.

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “I talked to Lana. Your useless job is done. You can go back to being an even more useless sidepiece now.”

Vaughn’s shoulders tensed, and he laughed.

“Good! And I’ll make sure to tell Lana all about you taking the side of the disobedient dog of a test subject–”

“Yeah, go cry to your girlfriend about it, he's under my jurisdiction and I'm not gonna let you fuck that up because you feel the need to live out your perverse power fantasy with the helpless people you kidnap and torture. As if it isn’t torture enough to have to be in the same room with you at all.”

Vaughn clenched his fists at his side and forced on the worst imitation of a smile Stan had ever borne witness to.

“You better watch your tone, Deathberry,” he said, sickly sweet voice doing nothing to mask the hissing rage. “I could have you in the same spot as him in ten seconds. Don't ever–” he jabbed Deeby in the chest. “–forget that. You're only allowed to be out here roaming around with your fancy gun and your fancy cowboy boots because you're useful, otherwise you'd be locked up with the rest–”

Vaughn had just started to reach for the holster on Deeby's belt when, faster than Stan could perceive, a flurry of movement between the two men, a cry of surprised fear, the shuffling of feet and spinning of bodies and suddenly Vaughn was pinned back first to Deeby's chest, a wire that Deeby pulled from somewhere stretched taut between his fists and pressing a hard line directly under into the skin of Vaughn's throat.

Vaughn's hands quickly flew up to the wire to try and pull it off his throat, then just as quickly let go when he realized the wire would sooner cut through his hands before it would be pried off.

Stan couldn't help but stare.

“You're just about at the end of my rope, Verhulst,” Deeby growled, accent fully presiding now as he stepped backward and pulled Vaughn toward the door. “Don't you ever put your filthy hands on my gun.”

A slight rasp to Vaughn's voice was the only thing that denoted anything was amiss. “You sure this is about the gun, Deebs? Sure you're not taking your frustrations at Lana out on me?”

“Trust me, if I was takin’ my frustrations at Lana out on you, bud, you'd be dead.”

Vaughn's eyes shot to Stan, and his smile broadened.

“Ohhhh, I see. So what then, you are falling for the captive? I'm sure Lana would love to hear about how you're going soft, how you miss her, and how spectacularly you're failing at finding someone better so you have to–”

A small gurk finding its way from Vaughn's throat as he was pulled to a sudden stop.

“You know what, maybe I am. And maybe you should use your mouth to do something not completely useless for once.” He spun the both of them around to face Stan again.

“Apologize to ‘im.”

What?

Vaughn stared at Stan, apparently more stunned by the notion of apologizing than the motion of having a garot wire to his throat. Stan… honestly had to agree.

“Come again?”

“Apologize to Stan. For tryin’ to rape him. It's the least you could do.”

“You want me to… apologize?? To the test subject? You really are losing it, Deathberry, let me go.”

The wire dug into his throat more. “Say sorry, doctor.”

Vaughn glared at Stan. Stan glared back as well as he could.

“I can't feel the pain of this, you know,” Vaughn's voice came, even raspier. “You're not doing anything.”

“You can still bleed out from a slit throat. Still drown to death in your own blood as it slowly fills your lungs,” Deeby dismissed lightly. “Still bleed out. Very quickly. I wonder what would happen if I hit your carotid–

“And I wonder how Lana would feel about you slitting her head scientist and boyfriend’s throat.”

“Probably call you a little bitch boy for invoking her name every time you need to defend yourself like a spoiled toddler ‘steada bein’ a man about it and defending yourself. Or maybe not. You’d never know, you’d be dead.”

“You wouldn't–”

Deeby twitched the wire across Vaughn's throat and a line of red bloomed across the light tan of his neck. Vaughn's face grew just a little bit paler. He brought his hands up to graze across the wire and felt the warm wetness smear across his fingertips.

“Apologize.” Deeby growled. “Now.”

Vaughn's eyes flitted back to Stan, fully appraising the wonderfully wide-eyed mess he'd had pinned against the wall only moments before.

He narrowed his eyes.

Took a deep breath.

Stared daggers directly into Stan's soul.

“Sorry.”

Oh you bastard.

“Go jump off a cliff!” Stan yelled, erratically reaching into the jacket pocket he'd seen Deeby pull the protein bar out of earlier and luckily finding many more, one of which was immediately thrown directly at Vaughn. He couldn't even attempt to dodge it, and it hit him directly in the chest.

The mercenary let out a singular loud laugh and spun Vaughn back around, letting the wire retract into what Stan now realized was a little housing box on his weird arm sleeve thing and shoving Vaughn at the door as hard as he could.

“Guess he doesn't forgive you. Better luck next time!” he laughed. Stan genuinely thought (and hoped) Sweater-vest would fall flat on his face, but he managed to grab the door and right himself before that happened. Shame.

“Now get out.” Deeby said.

Vaughn glared with a literal snarl, jaw half a second away from cracking in two. Right before he took a slow, deep breath and reset his features to a forced neutral. Then an easy smile. “As you wish, my liege.”

He bowed exaggeratedly low in a show of mock respect, retrieving his scissors from the ground in a surprisingly graceful sweeping motion as he went. Deeby just rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and Stanny?” He drawled, peeking back from the door as he left and pointing his scissors directly at Stan's face with a flourish. “I look forward to seeing you soon~.”

“Get outta here!” Deeby yelled with a threatening stomp toward the door, at the same time Stan stuttered out a very surprised and agitated “In hell!”

The door slammed shut.

Stan could swear he could still hear Vaughn's deranged laugh echoing through the room even as an eerie silence fell over them.

He was finally gone. Finally.

See you soon.

He didn't completely understand why his breath continued to quicken. He'd won that encounter, right? Or… well, Deeby had. But still.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

He felt dizzy. More than the concussion could have caused. This was different, made him feel like he was suffocating, even though Vaughn was no longer here to strain the collar against his throat. Yet he could still feel the knuckles digging into the back of his neck.

I look forward to seeing you soon. In hell.

* * * * * * * *

#whump #heroes and villains #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #hero whump #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #captivity whump #trans whumpee #disabled whumpee #(un)official guide #attempted noncon #noncon undressing #IT'S BACK BABYYYY #GAH I've been so excited to post this #I missed this so much #extra long and extra whumpy for all your waiting #whos idea was it to let me go on an accidental month long hiatus #WHO WAS IT #anyway I'm going into tech week irl for the musical i'm in #so I might not get to the next chapter next weekend #I'll definitely try to tho #I genuinely missed writing and posting this story too. I've got so much more of it to tell #anyway I hope you like this chapter it was a bitch to wring it out of me but I did it #and its glorious #Also vaughn is such a cringefail I love him so much #and we've got some secret hidden Deeby lore sprinkled in there!#making this like an easter egg hunt #did you find it?

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