#in the end he gotten semi over the fear

[mrpenguinpants]

Golden Apple [ Commissioned ]

Word Count: 13.1k

— Phainon, Mydei + Anaxa

Request: [ A Modern AU with each character as a mythological figure/being. Phainon as a guardian angel, Mydei as an undying demigod, and Anaxa as a cosmic horror parasite. ]

Note: Liberties were taken with each character's cultural/mythological backgrounds. More information at the end.

[Masterlist]

Back at it again for another season, baby! Thank you so much for commissioning me, and I hope you like it!

Phainon

Daemon (Daimon / Δαίμων) — A spirit or semi-divine guide, neither good nor evil, acting as a quiet protector or inner voice. Unseen but ever-present, it might steer fate, whisper advice, or guide you toward your destiny.

ACT I, SCENE I

FADE IN:

EXT. DINGY ALLEY BEHIND A RESTAURANT - NIGHT

A flickering neon butterfly sign buzzes overhead, sputtering in embarrassed shades of pink and red. Its failing light spills across a grease-stained back door—the kind that hasn’t closed properly in years. Rain slicks the pavement, pooling into oil-slick puddles that shimmer with distorted reflections. The air reeks of old gasoline, wet cardboard, and something burnt-out and electrical. Trash bags slump against the faded red brick walls, both deflated and bloated. You wonder if there are any dead bodies inside, just waiting to be discovered, then ignored.

And there’s the knife at your throat.

Not an assassin. Not a business deal gone wrong. Not even the aftermath of someone’s drunken spiral. Just a man—desperate, hollow-eyed, with hands that won’t stop shaking. A ratty ski mask clings to his head, threadbare and sagging, worn past the point of dignity. His jacket is soaked and sour with mildew. Cracked fingers clutch a rusty blade too tight, one wrong breath away from splitting your skin. He reeks of cheap liquor, bile, and something sweet that’s been dead too long.

“Money,” he hisses, voice brittle and raw, “Now.”

It's all so...

disgustingly boring.

What happened to the gunmetal briefcases and monogrammed bullets? To assassins who glided over wet pavement without a sound, slipping through shadow and silence with practiced ease? What happened to the paper-screen duels, where silhouettes clashed in ghostly choreography—every movement a whisper before the final blow landed in a burst of stylized violence? Even the black-and-white mafia films had flair: steel-toed boots, pinstripe suits, cigar smoke curling around sneers and snub-nosed pistols. They kicked down doors with bravado, spilled in with bad accents and worse metaphors, and died in poetic slow motion—white rose pinned to their chest, black blood on their cuffs.

But this?

No drama. No build-up. No artistry. Just another man at the end of his rope, waving a blade in the dark, praying fear would do what fate never could. The whole scene screamed low effort—like a student film with no budget, no vision. Pig slop. Bloated. Overdone. You’d seen better tension in a toothpaste commercial. It felt like every review you’d ever gotten: flat direction, overwrought, emotionally shallow. You could practically hear a snide critic’s voice echoing in your skull as your eyes rolled so hard they nearly got stuck.

“Wow. Really phoning it in tonight, huh?” you mutter, voice dry as sandpaper, “Seriously? You think I’m worth mugging? I don’t even have a coat.”

You slump against the rain-slick brick, the mortar biting through your thin button-up. Cold seeps straight into your spine as the knife presses harder—not deep enough to break skin, just enough to remind you this scene isn’t over yet. The mugger’s hands tremble like a marionette with its strings half-cut.

You sigh—long, theatrical, like a curtain call no one asked for.

“Come on. Where’s the emotion? The stakes? You’re desperate—show me that. Cry a little. Maybe scream. I’m all for authenticity, but you’ve got to rehearse your lines before curtain. This kind of improv?” You wag a finger, “It throws everyone off. Wrecks continuity. Makes for very angry sponsors.”

One hand lifts in mock surrender, the other gesturing vaguely, “Honestly, if I were running this scene, I’d cut you entirely. Maybe replace you with a mute clown. At least that’d be memorable.”

“I said money!” His voice cracks—thin, frayed, angry.

“Alright, alright—no need to get moody,” you say, lifting your hands like you’re trying to soothe a diva mid-tantrum, “I’ve got some cash. Right side, pants pocket. Not a lot, but hey—supporting roles don’t pay like they used to.”

The mugger steps in, close enough for you to smell the sour rot of his breath. The blade catches a flicker of neon as he moves. One hand drops from your collar, trembling fingers inching toward your pocket, greedy for the crumpled bills stuffed inside.

Then— A stutter. A splat.

He drops like dead weight.

You blink. You really hope he's not dead. Police on your set doesn't make for great paparazzi.

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly mediocre Tuesday night, yeah?”

The voice cuts clean through the alley’s tension. Behind the crumpled body, a man stands framed in the dim glow of the restaurant’s now-open back door. It swings lazily shut behind him, sighing on its hinges. A sliver of warm kitchen light spills into the dark, casting him in sharp streaks—city haze curling at his shoulders like smoke, neon lights stuttering across the shock of white hair. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He wears a chef’s coat, still dusted with flour. Oil stains splatter faded patterns across the front, abstract and familiar—like he’s been through worse than grease fires. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Forearms lean, marked by old burns and kitchen scars that tell their own stories.

But it’s his eyes that freeze the moment: too calm. A bit cheeky actually.

And then—he smiles.

“You alright?” he asked, voice warm and casual, as if this were all terribly normal.

You exhaled—finally. “No. Worse.”

His grin widened—easy, lopsided, a bit cute, “Oh?”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing, amusement curling at the edge of your exhaustion. Slowly, deliberately, you raised your hands, fingers forming two sharp “L”s in front of your face like a makeshift director’s frame. He blinked, puzzled, but didn’t move. Just stood there in his flour-dusted chef coat, letting you silently finish your odd little ritual. In the cooler light, his messy white hair almost shimmers, catching the moonlight like a soft halo. Those cyan eyes—no colored contacts could ever match their intensity—hold you with a magnetic calm. His features are sculpted—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, the clean lines of someone carved rather than born—but softened around the edges by something subtler. A kind of gentleness. There's an almost feminine grace to him, and androgyny like that is rare in this line of work.

Not bad. Not bad at all. He's got leading man energy. Stupid nickname pending already.

“Alright, you’re hired,” you say, lowering your hands with a satisfied smile, even snapping your fingers together. You reach into your pocket and fish out a slightly crumpled business card, the edges softened from wear. Holding it out with a slow, deliberate gesture, you meet his eyes, “Come to this location at 7:00 tomorrow morning. Do not be late.”

The man takes the card between his fingers, pale light glinting off its glossy finish. He doesn’t even glance at it but nods once in acknowledgment. You catch the faintest flicker of curiosity—or maybe confusion—crossing his features. Fair enough. The last few minutes have been strange. Without another word, you pivot on your heel and vanish into the wet night. The neon sign above buzzes faintly, casting an uneven glow over the slick pavement. Rain continues to fall in a soft drizzle, its quiet patter blending with the distant hum of the city.

Phainon stands for a moment, eyes lingering on your retreating form. Then, he tucks the card into the pocket of his chef’s coat and slips back through the swinging kitchen door. Inside, the kitchen bursts with life—the clatter of pots and pans mingling with the hiss of steam and the sharp calls of the night crew. The air hangs heavy with the scent of garlic, hot oil, and sweat. Phainon weaves through the cramped space with practiced ease, sidestepping a precarious stack of dirty plates and a boiling pot. He spots Mydei leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, furiously wiping down the stainless steel surface.

“Mydei!” Phainon calls out over the clatter, bursting through the swinging kitchen doors with the kind of urgency usually reserved for grease fires or health inspectors. His voice cracks slightly—a blend of panic and poorly hidden excitement, “I need to use my vacation days… like, right now!”

Mydei looks up from wiping the prep counter, rag frozen mid-swipe. He blinks slowly, a slight twitch in his eye, “…What? Why all of a sudden?”

Phainon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his shoes squeaking faintly on the slick tile. His hands hover in the air, fingers twitching as if trying to physically pluck an explanation out of thin air, “I got hired for a new job!”

There’s a beat of silence before Mydei sets the rag down with exaggerated care, eyes narrowing, “A new—what the fuck are you talking about, Phainon? What job?”

“Uh… I don’t know yet?” Phainon says, scratching the back of his neck, white hair mussing even more. His cheeks flush pink under the harsh fluorescent lights as he avoids Mydei’s gaze. Mydei stares at him. Then, with the dead-eyed precision of someone who’s endured Phainon’s nonsense one too many times, he balls up the rag and chucks it at his face. It hits with a wet smack.

Phainon takes it in stride, sighing dramatically as the rag slides off his cheek and flops onto the floor. That one actually kind of hurt.

FADE OUT:

ACT I, SCENE I

CUT

---

ACT II, SCENE VII

FADE IN:

INT. OFFICE - MORNING

“Phainon,” he says, “Chef, part-time dishwasher. Full-time… problem-solver.”

You didn’t like working with new talent. They were either too chatty, jabbering when silence was gold, or too violent, quick to throw fists instead of listening. Too flashy, desperate to be seen and heard, or too late, showing up after the damage was already done. You’d burned through three rookies this month alone. One choked on his own ambition, pushing too hard to prove he belonged. Another took a contract that nearly tore your lungs out—an amateur mistake you barely survived. The last one vanished without a trace—along with your favorite coat, a souvenir from better days. But every now and then, you find a diamond in the rough. A raw edge of talent, hidden beneath the grime and mistakes, waiting for someone to buff, cut, and polish it until it catches the light just right. It’s a gamble, sure, but when it pays off? The spotlight shines brighter than any artificial light, and it’s worth every scar.

This one was different. For starters, you were pretty sure his name was fake—because seriously, what kind of name is Phainon? Even a pen name wouldn’t be so pretentious as to literally mean “bright” or “shining.” It sounded less like a real name and more something a self-important poet might invent during a late-night epiphany.

And the second part… well.

He was perfect. “Phainon” had no visible character flaws, on or off the set. On set, he delivered his lines flawlessly, every word crisp and natural, as if he were born to deliver. The perfect actor, as if the Grandfather of Cinema himself had accidentally dropped the wrong copy of the script straight from the heavens and placed Phainon in your lap. You’d heard of extreme method actors, but you weren’t sure you’d ever seen anyone quite his caliber. Phainon carried that same cheery, placid smile everywhere—never cracking, never faltering. It was almost eerie, as though he was permanently stuck in character, perhaps a little too comfortable living in that perfection.

It began with a crew light—an aging floodlight mounted too high, groaning under its own weight—teetering dangerously during the shoot. You caught the shift from the corner of your eye, but just a fraction too late. The metal rig wobbled precariously on its worn stand, bolts frayed and rusted from years of use. Its spotlight began a slow, deadly tilt. One more second and it would’ve come crashing down onto you. Maybe on someone else’s head too. Definitely on your budget.

Then: Action.

A flicker of white darted past the edge of the frame. A hood caught in the breeze, revealing a sun tattoo peeking just above the hem—faint, golden, a quiet hum of warmth on an otherwise cold, gray day. The hand that reached up moved with unhurried calm, catching the heavy light with ease and steadying it as if soothing a spooked animal. No grunt, no stumble—just a solid arm. You didn’t even get the chance to ask if he was okay before Phainon turned his head slightly, voice low and soft enough for only you to hear.

“Don’t flinch. You’ll ruin the shot, Director.”

There was a smile in his voice—faint, teasing, but never mocking. A soft flutter of wind caught at his coat as quiet footsteps faded away, carrying him back to his mark as if nothing had happened. You stood frozen for a moment, your throat tightening somewhere between a thank-you and a curse. Then your brain snapped back into motion.

“Places!” you bark, louder than necessary. “Everyone, back to one. Reset the track. Lights, tighten your rigging!”

The crew scrambles, rushing to their positions. The light is back where it belongs. The shot is saved. But your heart keeps hammering, a cold knot tightening in your chest. And Phainon? He never looks your way again.

It happened again on the third day of shooting, past golden hour and well into the frayed edge of everyone’s nerves. The air on set hung heavy with heat and halogen, buzzing lights above throwing sharp-edged shadows. A missed prop cue. A wardrobe malfunction. Too many takes are bleeding into each other. Tension layered thick as smoke.

Then the sponsor snapped.

“You want to run this circus? Then maybe act like it!” he barked, his voice cracking across the soundstage. You stood rigid in front of the monitor, clutching the camera like it might anchor you. Your teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. Around you, the crew shifted—some pretending not to notice, others casting you wary or sympathetic glances. No one said a word.

Your knuckles were bone-white.

Then—quietly, steadily—someone stepped up behind you. Not intruding. Just… present.

“Don't be so wired,” said a low voice near your ear. Smooth. Steady. Certain.

Phainon.

You felt him before you saw him—the calm weight of his hand closing gently over yours, adjusting your grip on the camera. His fingers were cool, the pads calloused but exact, like a pianist’s—or someone used to handling delicate machinery. Probably a knife. You keep forgetting he used to be a chef. The tension in your shoulders began to unspool, though you didn’t loosen your hold just yet.

“They can yell all they want,” he said, his eyes on the chaos unfolding ahead like it was nothing more than set dressing, “But you’re the one holding the lens.”

You blinked.

The words landed somewhere beneath your ribs, quiet but steady—reminding you what mattered. What was still yours to hold.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Are you saying I should throw it at them?” you muttered, eyes forward.

A pause. Then the faint tug of a smirk at his lips.

“Respectfully,” he said, releasing your hand with the same lightness he’d arrived with, “I don’t think you’ve got the arm strength for that.”

A breath caught in your throat—then slipped out as a crooked laugh. Small, but real.

Your shoulders eased. You raised the camera again, adjusted the lens with new focus, and called out to the crew, “Reset. We’re going again.”

No one argued.

And when you looked back, Phainon was already across the set—sleeves rolled, calmly discussing lighting with a grip. Just another cog in the machine. Seamless. Unbothered. But you knew. He’d been there—in a moment no one else had dared to step into. Quietly, without fanfare, he’d drawn a line around you. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just enough. Just present.

Another time, it was water.

The shoot had dragged into its twelfth hour. Your eyes were dry from staring at monitors too long, your neck stiff, brain fogged over. You hadn’t moved from your chair in what felt like days. Around you, the set buzzed with quiet urgency—stagehands murmuring, the distant clatter of equipment, the steady hum of overhead lights. You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching. You barely noticed anything anymore. Then, as quietly as a breath, a bottle of water landed beside your elbow. Cool against the warm metal of the table. Condensation slid down its side, catching the light. The cap was already cracked open, like someone knew you wouldn’t have the energy.

“You forgot to hydrate again, Director,” Phainon said—his voice barely rising above the ambient buzz. Not a scold. Not exactly concern. Just… not letting it slide. He didn’t wait for thanks, didn’t even look at you. Just placed the bottle there like it belonged, lingering a moment longer before turning away.

You blinked down at it, then up at him—already halfway across the set, his white sleeves a blur in the chaos.

“Thanks… Phainon,” you called after him, his name slipping out like an afterthought, a little awkward on your tongue. He didn’t stop walking, but the corner of his mouth tilted upward. And you swore, even without turning back, he looked pleased all the same.

And in the quiet, long after the shouting had died down, the lights had dimmed, and most of the crew had gone home, you sat alone, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the monitor. The same take played for the fifth time. Then the sixth. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for anymore. Every shot blurred into the next. Maybe it had never been good. Perhaps none of it was working. Your hands hovered near the controls but didn’t move. Self-doubt crept in like mold—slow, patient, and relentless. Then, a soft shuffle of footsteps—quiet, not meant to be noticed. But you noticed anyway. Phainon paused behind you. No grand entrance, no forced comfort—just the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in slightly, arms crossed.

“It’s starting to feel real, Director.”

His voice was gentle, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. It cut through the fog in your mind sharper than any shout ever could. Never intrusive. Never loud. But always there—flipping the switch, setting the shot, grounding the chaos—until, without meaning to, you realized: your story was unfolding.

“Don’t look away now.”

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. First, it was the way the sunrise hit the coffee steam just right during a late rewrite session. Then, how an offhand line an actor improvised during rehearsal rang louder than anything you wrote. A casting mishap landed you a last-minute extra whose face—wrinkled, worn, honest—became the heart of the scene. The rain started the second the camera rolled, unplanned but perfect. The crescent moon in the sky reflected in the growing puddles. A location scout tripped into a forgotten alley that looked exactly like the one from your dreams. A song on the radio—static-filled, half-familiar—stitched your ending together like thread through old film. And somehow, by the time the final cut played in front of a blinking crowd, you realized you’d made something. Something real. Not just a movie. A moment. Yours.

Your short film, after more than a decade of nothing, was an instant success.

ACT III, SCENE X

FADE IN:

EXT. OAK FAMILY BUILDING BALCONY - NIGHT

“Isn’t this a non-smoking area?” Phainon asked, his tone light as he watched the rumpled man in a too-tight dress shirt, a wine-red tie slung loosely over one shoulder, spark his lighter and take a long drag from a cigarette. A puff of smoke curled slowly into the air as the man—Gallagher, if Phainon remembered correctly—threw him a sideways glance.

“You gonna tattle on me, boy?” The man’s voice was raspy, but not as deep as Phainon had expected. He chuckled, shaking his head.

With Gallagher positioned right out in the open—perfectly visible from both the celebration hall and the balcony—Phainon figured the old man’s employer, the grey-haired patriarch of the Oak family, had a clear view of him lighting up. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Gallagher wanted to get caught. The man took another drag, the cigarette burning low. Smoke curled around his fingers, lazily drifting upward like something alive and indifferent. His gaze flicked to Phainon again—sharper this time—not just annoyed or amused, but knowing.

“You’re a long way from your post, halo-boy,” Gallagher mutters, exhaling a slow stream of smoke through his nose, “Daemons don’t usually hover around like lost puppies. Unless you’re planning to break the rules.”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. His hands slip into his coat pockets—those subtle pockets the waitstaff never quite notice. His stance is too casual for someone standing so openly exposed. But his eyes-those unnervingly still cyan eyes—remain fixed on the city beyond the balcony, as if he’s watching the future unfold frame by frame.

“I didn’t break any rules,” Phainon says softly, voice steady as ever, hands folded neatly behind his back, “Not yet.”

The smoke curling from Gallagher’s cigarette wavers. He lets out a low, wet chuckle—gravel and tar caught in his throat.

“Yet,” he repeats, amused. His sharp teeth flash beneath the city’s sodium haze, “So it’s true. You’re attached to them. The ‘Director.’”

He drags the title through the ash with mock reverence, “What’s the game here? Some divine redemption arc? Guilt? Or just bored of the clouds and decided to babysit a trainwreck?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch but he exhales slowly through his nose, thoughtful. The damp night wind tousles loose strands of his white hair. There’s a flicker in his eyes—not irritation, not offense—but something older. Resigned. He hums softly, tilting his head as if Gallagher’s question were nothing more than a passing breeze instead of a loaded jab. His gaze drifts past the demon, toward the ballroom doors, where your silhouette slips out of sight, shoulders heavy but still moving forward.

“Is it so wrong...” Phainon says at last, voice dipped in something quiet and certain, “to have a little hope?”

For a beat, Gallagher goes still, the ember of his cigarette burning just a little too bright in the dark. He snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils, “Doesn’t sound like a good ending.”

The wind tugs faintly at their coats. The city hums below the balcony—distant honks, the low thrum of a passing tram, neon reflected in puddles like half-forgotten memories. Phainon doesn’t answer at first, only glancing over with that strange, unreadable stillness about him. A ghost of a smile, barely there, plays on his lips. Not joy. Not mockery. Something in between.

“It never is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, as if the truth might shatter if spoken too loud.

Gallagher’s jaw works. His fingers twitch, the cigarette burning dangerously close to the filter. He doesn’t look at Phainon—just stares out into the night, as if searching for answers buried in the rain-slick skyline. The weight of those words settles between them, heavier than the smog hanging in the air. A silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, only witnessed. Gallagher flicks the cigarette over the railing. Sparks trail behind like dying fireflies.

“Hope your miracle’s worth it,” he says, quieter now. Not a sneer. Almost… reverent.

Phainon doesn’t respond.

His eyes are already elsewhere, drawn past the smoke, the streetlamps, and the flickering signs, back to the celebration hall doors. The faintest hint of movement. A silhouette. You. His charge. His burden. His reason.

And he watches, as if you’re the only real thing in this world of false lights.

Mydei

Warning: It's quite brief, but just in case: Guns, death, fighting, mission gone wrong, PTSD, panic attacks, and blood.

Apotheosis ( ἀποθέωσις ) — The process by which a mortal is elevated to divine status, becoming a god or a divine being. This transformation often occurs after death or as a reward for extraordinary deeds, heroism, or favor from the gods.

/////CONFIDENTIAL MILITARY REPORT

REPORT #: 0319-AMPH/CK DATE: 08 APR 2X25 TIME: 15:01 LOCATION: Outpost 7, Sector 9A, Hospital Room 201 REPORTING OFFICER: CPL. [REDACTED], CALLSIGN: TRIGGER ASSOCIATED PERSONNEL: LT. MYDEIMOS, CALLSIGN: LIONHEART STATUS: SURVIVAL / EXTRACTION COMPLETE CASUALTIES: KIA (8), SURVIVORS (2)

HEPHAESTION [REDACTED], PERDIKKAS [ REDACTED], LEONNIUS [REDACTED], PTOLEMY [REDACTED], PEUCESTA [REDACTED], LEONIDAS [REDACTED], CLITUN [REDACTED], HYLES [REDACTED]

DETAILS TO FOLLOW IN EXTENDED REPORT/////

The sterile white walls closed in around you—a cold, suffocating cage. Your ribs throbbed painfully with every shallow breath, each inhale sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. A persistent beep echoed steadily from the heart monitor—an unrelenting reminder that you were alive, but barely. You sure didn’t feel like it. Your fingers twitched restlessly beneath the thin hospital blanket, the fabric rough against your skin. Your mind churned with memories you dared not speak aloud.

The door opened abruptly with a sharp knock. For a moment, you were terrified it was Jing Yuan—but a stranger stepped inside, eyes sharp and unwavering. His uniform was crisp, his presence commanding, as if the weight of the entire military bore down on his broad shoulders. A few other men flanked him quietly, their hands folded behind their backs.

“What happened out there?” he demanded, his voice cold and unyielding. You’d never seen this man before, but just from his tone alone, you knew he held a higher rank—probably a corporal. Your throat tightened painfully. The truth felt like a heavy stone lodged in your chest: Mydei falling, the battlefield descending into chaos, and something impossible stirring beneath it all. Swallowing past the lump, you forced your voice into a steady calm. You were secretly relieved it wasn’t Jing Yuan—he would have known you were lying just from your breathing.

“It was bad. Worse than anything I’ve been through. We were pinned down, outnumbered,” You paused, biting back the urge to spill everything, licking your dry lips, “But Myd- Lieutenant Mydeimos- he… he took care of it. Made sure I got out… He saved my life, sir.”

The corporal’s eyes narrowed, sharp and piercing, as if trying to slice through the walls you’d built, “Your mission was intel-gathering on the Titans. Our transcriptions show there was a deliberate shutdown of your recording equipment for 33 minutes and 46 seconds, right when the fire team went dark. Care to explain that?”

You clenched your jaw, mind racing as you scrambled for the right answer—the truth carefully hidden beneath layers of omission.

“No excuse, sir. We’d been compromised, and in my panic, my hand caught the wire…” You trailed off, unsure what more to say. Lowering your head, you let the silence fill the room. The corporal’s gaze lingered, suspicion flickering beneath his disciplined exterior. Yet he said nothing further. The faint scribble of his pen on paper marked every word you’d spoken. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

“We’ll verify your story. Any inconsistencies won’t be tolerated. Rest easy.”.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you swallowed by silence. You let out a shaky breath, the weight of your secret crushing your chest like a vice.

No one could know what you’d truly witnessed.

You closed your eyes and saw it again — the battlefield torn apart, the eerie stillness that had swallowed Mydei’s form, the unnatural twitch that defied every law you’d ever known.

Your fingers curled tightly, knuckles white against the sheet.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The silence of the hospital room pulsed like a second heartbeat. You blinked slowly, still seeing the afterimages — his silhouette against firelight, still standing after everything.

He should’ve stayed dead.

///// 03 JUNE 2X21 /////

You’d only been in the military for three months. Fresh out of basic training. Your boots still looked too clean. Your shoulders ached under the weight of gear that didn’t quite feel like yours yet. Your weapon was standard issue, gripped tightly in nervous hands, and your stomach knotted with the thrill of deployment and the terror of screwing up. You were running drills in a scorched training field, smoke and noise everywhere. A hail of bullets cracked through the air, and your fingers moved on instinct — pull, reset, pull—

Click.

A high, empty click.

No bang. Dead air. Just silence.

Then— Metal screamed. Something jammed. Heat surged. Your hand jolted back—

Too late.

The gun backfired. A strong hand on the back of your collar, before you felt weightless. Another hand, ripping the gun from yours.

A sudden boom. A fire of bullets rained down on the sand all at once.

Someone’s shouting. Someone thinks you fired intentionally. You didn’t. But in the silence that follows, no one cares what you meant to do. You hit the dirt with a solid, ungraceful thud—ears full of static, smoke curling off your gloves. The scent of gun oil and burnt polymer flooded your nose.

Your weapon skittered across the ground, like it wanted to run away from you.

Then: boots. Heavy. Sure. Grounded like bedrock. A shadow loomed over you—massive, broad-shouldered—his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears like gravel under steel.

“You alive, rookie?”

You blinked through smoke and pain, heart hammering against your ribs. You looked up—and that was the first time you saw Mydei. Everything about him seemed larger than life. Broad chestplate scratched from years of fieldwork. His face is somehow still youthful yet serious, and his pupils almost look like cats. You scrambled to sit up, humiliated, your fingers shaking as you reached for your weapon.

“I—my gun—I'm sorry—sir—” you choked out. He crouched beside you, fingers already moving with expert precision. In less than a second, he popped the jammed receiver and tilted it toward you.

“Double-feed. Barrel overpressured. Could’ve taken your head clean off,” he said evenly.

You couldn’t breathe. You almost died. His voice was calm, almost bored, but the words dropped like lead in your stomach. You glanced down at your rifle—the twisted mess of jammed brass, the blackened edge of the barrel still warm from near-disaster. You hadn’t even realized your hands were still clenched until they started to shake.

You swallowed hard. Ah, crap. This was it. You were done.

They’d kick you for this. Discharged. Maybe even court-martialed. That kind of mistake—you’d be lucky if they didn’t strip your rank before lunch. Your throat burned. You thought about your father’s voice when you told him you’d enlisted. You thought about all the instructors who said you’d never hack it. You thought about how your superior was staring down at you like he was already writing the report in his head.

But he didn’t move to confiscate your weapon. Didn’t call for an officer. Instead—

“But that’s not your fault,” he continued, “Factory flaw. The 8T series has a bad batch.”

You blinked. “…Sir?”

“I’ve seen two of these explode this month,” he said, standing. His armor creaked as he straightened—a towering presence, expression unreadable under the shadow of his helmet, “Not a rookie error. Just a damn bad roll of the dice.”

He held out his hand. Gloved. Firm. Steady. Not a hint of judgment in it.

“Well, Cadet Trigger,” he added with a faint smirk, “you’ve got a guardian angel somewhere. Or maybe just dumb luck.”

“…Trigger?��You stared up at him, still frozen on the floor. Your ears were still ringing from the close call. Sweat clung to your back, but the tension began to loosen—just a little—as your fingers curled around his and he pulled you to your feet.

He gave you a once-over. Not suspicious. Not cold. Just… amused.

“Guns don’t just go off like that,” he said, walking past, “Unless the trigger’s cursed.”

A pause. A glance over his shoulder, “Or the trigger’s you.”

The other cadets were still staring. Some muttering. Some snickering. But he walked away without another word, and suddenly, you didn’t care about your brush with death.

That nickname stuck.

And so did he.

---

Two days later, you were still tasting gunpowder. Your arm was in a sling, fingers scratched and stiff. The medics had said you were lucky—nothing broken, no burns deep enough to scar. “Close call,” they said, like it wasn’t already replaying in your skull on a loop. But your rifle was toast, and so was your confidence. Jeez, you wanted to put your head in your hands and scream like a little girl. Luckily, they let you sit out the next field rotation, but you weren’t allowed to sit still. You cleaned. You logged ammo. You memorized spec manuals until the text started swimming. Anything to stop thinking about the moment that weapon nearly took your life.

That, and the man who’d stopped the storm like it was nothing.

Mydei.

You hadn’t seen him since. Just the image in your head—boots in the dirt, that low voice like gravel and thunder. You thought maybe you'd hallucinated it. Maybe your brain had dreamed up a perfect soldier to soften the fact that you'd almost eaten your own gun. But, because the Aeons were cruel, suddenly it was as if that was all you could hear.

“Hey, Trig.”

The voice came from two bunks over—casual, half-muttered around a protein bar and a yawn. It was that lean guy with the buzzcut, Marcus or Malin or something? Maybe Marcus was correct—always half out of uniform, always in everyone else’s business. You looked up from your cot, still rubbing the dull ringing out of your ears. Your hands itched—ghost memory of the rifle’s weight, the near-silent click before chaos. Your pack sat half-unzipped at your feet. The gun was long gone to diagnostics, but your heart hadn’t stopped racing since they pried it from your hands.

Marcus tilted his head, that loose, crooked grin plastered on his face.

“That was some shit, huh?” he said, nodding toward you like you’d just won a bar figh, “They’re saying the Lionheart pulled your ass out?”

You hesitated.

The cot creaked beneath you as you sat up straighter, biting back the lump of uncertainty in your throat. The name—Mydei—still echoed in your head. You could see him, glove extended, voice calm, while you drowned in embarrassment and adrenaline.

“…I guess,” you said finally.

Marcus let out a low whistle and slapped his thigh.

“You don’t even know, man,” He leaned in, like he was telling you a secret not meant for green ears, “That guy—he’s like a fucking cryptid. You’ve heard the stories, right?”

You blinked.

You hadn’t. Not really.

You’d heard instructors mention him with that weird mix of respect and wariness. Some called him a relic. Others said he’d been transferred so many times that no one knew where he’d actually started. You remembered someone once joking that Mydei didn’t even have a last name—just the call sign and a body count. You thought it was just mess hall gossip.

Now he had a face. A voice. A hand that had pulled you off the floor.

Another voice chimed in—older, gruffer, “Heard Lionheart once got shot in the neck and still held his breath long enough to drag a pilot out of a downed jet.”

“B.S.,” someone muttered. “I heard he went MIA for five days and showed up with five enemy tags and no backup.”

“Five? I heard it was eight.”

“You’re all wrong,” said the lean guy again, eyes gleaming. “He’s not even supposed to be alive. They say he died once. Heart stopped—flatlined in the middle of a rescue op. The whole unit saw it. Then—bam. Woke up. Stood up. Finished the mission like nothing happened.”

You stayed silent.

That last story always stuck to your ribs.

Dead. Then not. Woke up.

You shook it off.

What mattered was the memory: his hand pulling you up. His voice not blaming you. The fact that he noticed the malfunction before anyone else did—and comforted you when he had no reason to.

Whatever else he was—ghost, monster, soldier—He was kind.

“You alive, rookie?”

Yeah. You were. Because of him.

///// 17 MAY 2X23 /////

Your transfer papers came through. You stared at the orders like they might vanish if you blinked too fast.

“Effective immediately, reassigned to Special Task Unit 0-9. Handler: Mydeimos "Lionheart".”

The room spun for a second. Or maybe that was just the five hours of sleep you hadn’t gotten. Special Task Unit 0-9 was a name whispered between barracks with reverence and disbelief. The kind of team they pulled together for missions that never made it to public reports. You weren’t even sure it existed until now. Your palms went slick as you tucked the papers under your arm and headed toward Deployment Hangar C—the one with reinforced walls, heavier security, and the unmarked transport ships that came and went without manifest.

You didn’t feel ready. But you weren’t about to turn it down.

The elevator groaned as it descended into the lower decks. Your reflection in the chrome panel was pale, jaw tight. You adjusted your uniform for the third time before the doors hissed open. The task force’s prep bay was silent. No shouting. No clatter. No wasted movement. Just a group of soldiers in matte black gear, moving like a well-oiled machine. And at the center—

There he was.

Mydei.

He hadn’t changed. Broad shoulders framed by heavier-grade armor. Helmet clipped to his side. Same calm presence—like standing near a thunderstorm that hadn’t decided whether to break yet. He looked over when you stepped in, and your chest locked up. Was he going to remember you? That moment when you were just another green recruit with a broken rifle?

He stared for a moment. Then gave a nod—a small, sharp one.

“Trigger.”

That single word landed like a stamp on your bones.

You straightened. “Sir.”

He handed you a tablet, “Loadout briefing’s inside. Mission clock starts at 0700. Get acquainted with the others.”

And just like that, you were in. No ceremony. No welcome speech. Just his quiet voice, the smell of oil and metal, and the heat of pressure beneath your skin. But even that was more than enough. You followed the others through orientation drills. They were tighter than any squad you’d worked with. Efficient. Sharp. Not a lot of talking. Not a lot of room for mistakes. But nobody doubted Mydei’s commands when they came. Nobody hesitated. And slowly, you found your rhythm.

The first op went smooth. The second, less so—a recovery run that turned into an ambush. You got clipped. Not bad, but enough to knock you off your feet. Mydei was the one who dragged you to cover, kept pressure on the wound while giving orders to the others.

“You alright, Trigger?” he asked, voice low but steady. You nodded, even though your ribs screamed.

“Good,” he said. “Next time, don’t let ’em flank you. You’re sharper than that.”

He didn’t say it with anger. Just certainty. Like he knew you could do better. Like he expected you to. And maybe for the first time, you believed it too.

///// 23 JULY 2X23 /////

That night, you caught him in the makeshift kitchen at the back of the mobile command unit. He was baking. Baking. A giant, undying soldier with hands like thunder—gently stirring batter in a cracked metal bowl. The whole room smelled like cinnamon and almonds.

You blinked, “...Sir?”

“You like cookies?” he asked. He didn't even look up.

“Uh. Yes? I mean—yes, sir.”

He tossed you one without looking. Perfect arc, landed in your palm like he’d done it a thousand times.

“I always bake after missions,” he said. “Keeps the team human.”

Not sure what else to do than stare like a creep, you bit into it and nearly melted on the spot. It was warm. Sweet. A little chewy around the edges. Comforting in a way that hit harder than it should have. You could see why the team loved him. He didn’t keep the people he trusted at arm’s length. Not like some legends did.

There was that time he asked how your side was healing after that shrapnel hit. Offered you water after long marches. Taught you how to disassemble your rifle faster when no one else was watching. Always subtle. Always patient. He showed you how to tell weather shifts by the weight of the clouds. Let you taste his drink choices, pomegranate juice with a splash of milk, because Mydei loved the colour pink. Once, you helped him prep a care package for an orphanage his squad had supported during deployment cycles—baked goods, canned supplies, a letter written in his clean, precise hand.

“You always send them stuff?” you asked, folding socks for the bundle.

“Every quarter,” he said. “And every time I survive something I shouldn’t.”

“Why them?”

Mydei paused.

“Because they’re small. And soft. And the world forgets soft things exist unless someone reminds it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So, you just nodded and helped pack.

You started watching him more closely.

How his movements were deliberate—always precise, as if every motion had been calculated a thousand times before. How he always stood with his back to the wall, eyes scanning, never fully relaxed, as though the world outside his reach might turn on him at any second. How his jaw tightened when loud noises—especially the sound of distant gunfire or the crack of a falling object—cut through the air. It was a small thing, a barely perceptible flinch, but you caught it every time. He cleaned his gear longer than anyone else, sometimes hours after the others had turned in for the night. The clink of metal tools against steel echoed in the quiet. His hands moved methodically over the rifle, adjusting, re-checking, always making sure it was pristine, even if there was no immediate need. You wondered if he did it to fill the silence—or if, somehow, the repetitive action grounded him, kept him anchored. Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, you caught him staring out into the distance, eyes far away, lost in some thought or memory you couldn’t reach. The edges of his expression softened, and for a second, he didn’t look like the myth they spoke of. He looked human. Broken. You weren’t sure when it became a habit—this need to understand him. The way you found yourself tracking his movements in the corner of your eye, trying to piece together the cracks in his armor, wondering what made him tick. Maybe it was the quiet, patient way he led—always watching, always observing, as if waiting for you to figure it out for yourself. But it was more than that. It was a quiet curiosity, a pull in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

But it did. And it stuck.

///// 25 MARCH 2X25 /////

It was supposed to be clean.

Extraction. Quick in-and-out. A scattered outpost hidden in a valley of fog and wire, half-swallowed by terrain and time. Intel said there were no active combatants—just recovery, debrief, then wheels up.

They were wrong.

Your boots sank into the mud just as the first scream ripped through the comms.

Then, the line went dead.

“Guards up. Full spread,” Mydei ordered, voice sharp as always, already moving with purpose, “Trig, with me.”

The outpost was gutted, a carcass left to rot under the weight of time. No roof. No walls. Just broken floors sagging under forgotten weight, rusted tech littered in disarray, wires hanging from the rafters like old veins. Vines curled around shattered terminals, their damp leaves clinging to the remnants of a world long abandoned. In the periphery of your vision, something wet dragged across the floor—slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of dark against the gray concrete. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and rot. The hum of static from broken electronics buzzed faintly in the background, the only sound cutting through the oppressive silence—until the second scream cut through the comms, slicing through the air like a knife. Shadows pooled in the corners, lingering, moving in ways that didn’t make sense. There was no sun here, only the sickly glow from the dying lights above.

It didn’t feel like a mission. It felt like a trap.

One second, the squad moved forward in tight formation, boots silent on the cracked floor. Eyes darted, weapons held at the ready, and every footfall was calculated, precise. The next—an explosion erupted from beneath the ground with a violent, earth-shattering force. The world detonated around you. The floor buckled, throwing you off balance. The air was filled with dust and fire. You fired. So did everyone else. Rounds tore through flesh, the staccato rhythm of gunfire mingling with screams. Bodies fell, some in slow motion, some collapsing all at once. Panic began to creep in from the edges of your vision, as if the world was pulling away, stretching out of focus. But through the chaos, Mydei was at the front, as always—unshakable, unyielding. Weapon roaring, hands steady, posture wide and rooted, as if the storm of fire and death couldn’t touch him. You stayed behind him, as you always did—silent, watching, waiting for the next order.

Then it happened. A single bullet pierced the air, followed by another six, each one cracking the stillness with brutal precision.

“Mydei—!” you shouted, panic rising in your throat as you tore through the chaos, your boots pounding against the blood-soaked floor. You shoved bodies aside, desperate to reach him, to see him move, to know he was still—

—he stopped moving. Not like a man ducking for cover. Not even like a soldier bracing for the next round. He went still. Too still. A sickening silence fell over the battlefield, sharp enough to cut through the ringing in your ears. Your breath caught, lungs frozen with disbelief. Something thudded deep in your chest. It wasn’t the pounding of your heart—it was something worse. Something cracking. Something breaking.

“TRIGGER—GET BACK—” someone shouted over the comms, the panic in their voice barely breaking through the fog of your own fear. But you didn’t hear them. You screamed his name again, the sound tearing at your throat, but it didn’t matter.

Mydei didn’t move.

And then—

He did.

Mydei stood.

But it wasn’t like before.

It was as if his body had forgotten how to move with purpose, how to follow the instincts that had always been so sure. His legs locked, muscles stiff, dragging him upright with a slow, unnatural jerk. The space between his movements seemed to stretch, as if time was slipping through the cracks of his body, leaving behind a brittle shell. Blood soaked his side, dark and pulsing through the torn armor, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even touch the wound.

His eyes—

They didn’t blink.

The way he stared—hollow, unseeing—made your stomach twist. Something was gone, something you couldn’t put your finger on. He was there, but he wasn’t. A presence that should’ve been solid, comforting, was now a gaping absence, standing in front of you like a phantom. You could barely breathe. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against your chest as if the very atmosphere around you had solidified. Mydei’s gaze shifted toward you, slow and deliberate. For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

His eyes met yours.

Just for a second, but it felt like an eternity. There was nothing in them. No spark. No recognition. Just an endless, blank void that swallowed every shred of comfort you’d ever found in those eyes. Mydei had always been a rock—steadfast, unwavering, a man you could trust without question. But now? The eyes staring back at you weren’t the same. They were distant, vacant. A shiver crept down your spine as the seconds stretched out between you. You felt it in the pit of your stomach—a weight, heavy and cold, pressing against your ribs, making it harder to breathe. His movements were too mechanical, too deliberate, his features frozen in a way that made your skin crawl.

And then, as though he was snapping back into place, he spoke. The words were cold, flat, devoid of the usual authority you’d come to rely on. They hung in the air, hollow and strange, as if they’d been ripped from his mouth rather than formed with intent.

“Leave. Now.”

The command was clear. It should have been enough. You should have been fine. But the voice—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t carry that familiar weight, that subtle but undeniable presence that had always kept you steady in the most chaotic of moments. This was something else. Something distant. Mechanical. You nodded, the motion automatic, a reflex born of years of training. And you moved. You obeyed. Of course you did.

---

There was no squad to regroup with. It felt more like a funeral procession than a recovery mission. You limped your way through the remnants of the outpost, the echoes of gunfire still faintly lingering in the back of your mind. Every step was a reminder of the brutality of what had just happened, but somehow, nothing felt real. The stench of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, but there was an odd emptiness, too, as if the space itself had been hollowed out.

Radioing for evac, you could hear the static crackle, the distant hum of machinery trying to piece together the reality of what was unfolding. Silence slowly closed around the outpost again—an unnatural stillness that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Every corner seemed to hide something else. You couldn't shake the feeling that the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for something else to happen.

You reached the evac ship. They pulled you aboard, your body barely holding together, every muscle screaming as they wrapped your arm and pushed adrenaline through your veins. The world became a blur of flashing lights and the steady pulse of heartbeats, both yours and theirs, too loud in the confined space. The scent of antiseptic cut through the stale air, sharp and foreign. And when they asked you what happened, all the words in your throat turned to stone. Your mind scrambled, trying to make sense of what had just occurred, but the truth—the truth—was too twisted to spit out. How could you explain it? How could you tell them that Mydei had been broken and whole, shattered and moving, all at once?

So you lied.

///// 10 APR 2X25 /////

“You’re saying the enemy forces ambushed your unit mid-recon?" Jing Yuan's voice was cool, methodical, and for the first time, his face was serious, sharpened, and guarded, "And you're saying only you and Lieutenant Mydei made it out?"

You gave a single, sharp nod. It wasn’t a full motion; more like a reflex. A response you’d practiced—taught yourself—to give when it was time to speak. The edge of your jaw ached as you clamped your mouth tight, resisting the urge to chew the words over. You didn’t let yourself breathe too deeply, didn't let your chest rise too much.

“Yes, sir," you said, the words leaving your throat faster than you could stop them. "He didn’t go down.” The lie felt heavier than it should, but you kept going. “Mydei pushed through. Got me out. That’s why I’m sitting here.”

The room felt smaller now, the air thicker. You couldn’t see the sterile walls, the machines blinking faintly, or the dim blue glow of the overhead light without feeling a sense of suffocation. The medical bay’s antiseptic smell of bleach and plastic seemed to crowd in around you, pressing on your temples, suffocating your thoughts. You tried to focus on the General's face, but all you saw were those memories—the twisted image of Mydei standing, bleeding, unblinking—and the words caught in your throat, threatening to spill out, to unravel everything.

Jing Yuan’s gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. The way his eyes lingered on you made your skin crawl, though you kept your posture straight. The silence stretched for a few seconds too long, but he didn’t break eye contact. Instead, he scribbled something down on his clipboard, the sharp sound of the pen against the paper like a gunshot in the stillness. The small movement seemed to draw his focus back to you, the weight of his stare pressing down harder than before.

“You’re certain?” His voice was just as calm, though now you could hear the subtle edge of doubt seeping through. He wasn’t asking because he thought you were lying. He was asking because he needed you to say it again. To make sure you were as certain as you claimed.

The temperature in the room seemed to dip lower. Your throat tightened, the heat of your earlier lie still clinging to your words. You swallowed, a dry, painful motion, "Yes, sir. I’m certain."

But the words felt hollow.

Jing Yuan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. The dull hum of the lights, the beeping of machines, the faint shuffling of the medics behind you—it all seemed to fade into the background, as if this moment, this question, was the only thing left in the universe. He watched you too long after that. Pen tapping against the corner of the datasheet like he wanted the sound to dig into your skull.

"Are you sure there's something you don't want to tell me?" Jing Yuan’s voice cuts through the silence once more. He’s set his pen down, fingers now laced together in a slow, deliberate motion. His chin rests on top of his hands, and his eyes—sharp, analytical—never leave you. It's not just a question anymore. It's a statement, a challenge, an unspoken demand for truth.

In that moment, you feel it.

Something clicks into place inside you. Not loud. Not dramatic. But there, all the same. A shift. A decision. Solid. Unyielding. You swallow against the knot in your throat, the taste of steel creeping up again. Your pulse quickens, but you hold firm, your gaze steady despite the chaos still swirling in your chest.

You’re not going to tell him. Not about what happened, not about the things you’ve seen, not about Mydei—about what he had been, what he still was, even if no one else could understand it. You can’t. You won't. Because whatever Mydei was now… whatever the truth really was, in that moment, when the blood was thick in the air and the odds seemed impossible, he’d still looked at you the same. Like a man who trusted you.

Still pulled you to your feet. Still saved your life.

If command ever found out — if they started probing, picking apart every detail, treating Mydei like some kind of asset to be dissected and analyzed — you didn’t know what would happen. And honestly, you didn’t want to know. The thought of them poking and prodding at something that, in your mind, still felt like your responsibility.

“…He saved me,” you said, the words slipping out with a finality you hadn't expected, "That’s all that matters."

Jing Yuan didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He studied your face, and his eyes narrowed just enough to make you feel like he was weighing the truth in you — maybe seeing something you weren’t saying, some subtle shift behind your words. He didn’t press, though. Not this time. He didn’t call your bluff, even though the tension between you seemed to thicken. Maybe it was the paperwork he was avoiding, or maybe there was something else in the way he was reading you.

Maybe — deep down — he already knew what you were protecting.

The click of his pen as it snapped shut felt like a verdict, sealing this moment, the weight of unspoken words between you both.

“Dismissed.”

Anaxa

Alogon (ἄλογον / A-logos) — A concept meaning “without reason” or “irrational.”.

[ "The performance of life, too, must eventually reach the curtain call." ]

“The students this year are all cotton-brained and leaking spinal fluid from their ears.”

“Good morning to you too, Doctor.”

Veritas—better known as Dr. Ratio—barely glances up at your snarky quip, probably because he gets more than enough sass from a certain blond-haired man who lives to test his patience. He pulls the staff chair across from you and takes a seat, already holding a stack of papers dripping with red ink.

Ouch. Those poor students. It must be their first class—there’s a whole checklist of requirements just to qualify for Ratio’s lectures, and even then, half of them probably walked in thinking they were smarter than they are. You recognize the pattern: wide eyes, overconfidence, and the slow withering of hope by the second week.

“It’s the first week. I think it’s fair to give everyone at least one morning of rest before they hit the ground running,” you hum, poking at your lunch. The colder mornings have been killing your appetite lately—everything tastes like cardboard and regret—but with Veritas parked across from you, you doubt you’ll get the chance to sneak off to the coffee machine without earning one of his patented glances. Not all of us are built like a brick house, Doctor. Seriously, what does he even need all those muscles for? Shoving copy machines? Launching chalk at students like bullets?

“If you’re that lax with students on the first day, they’ll take it as the standard and stay complacent forever,” Veritas says, crossing his arms in that dramatic, exasperated way of his. You can practically hear the quotation marks around the philosophical nonsense he just dropped. Then he levels you with a stare, “Do you even have your syllabus completed?”

Ah—caught. Better to look the other way; it makes that infamous glare feel a little less like walking barefoot over spikes and thorns.

“You always did leave things for the last minute.”

Veritas’s gaze shifts past your shoulder just as the sharp, deliberate click of heeled boots echoes across the staff room floor.

“Anaxagoras,” Veritas greets, tone flat but unmistakably acknowledging.

“Veritas,” Anaxa replies just as evenly, as if they’re exchanging chess moves instead of pleasantries.

The staff room hums with quiet tension, the only sound the faint, rhythmic scratching of Veritas’s pen carving through a stack of papers. His eyes flick up, catching you in a glance before passing over, “Still treating clocks like polite suggestions instead of hard rules.”

Anaxa responded with a casual shrug, slow and unconcerned, as if the concept of time were an amusing joke meant for someone else. A faint flicker of amusement played at the corner of his eyes when they met Veritas’s—a subtle challenge cloaked in indifference, “Didn’t realize I was missed.”

“You weren’t. But your absence was certainly quieter,” Veritas didn’t look away this time. He flipped a page with a crisp snap that punctuated the silence, the red ink staining the margins like fresh wounds—harsh and unforgiving. You couldn’t help but think the only reason these two tolerated each other was because Veritas was one of the few who actually used his full name.

"Alright, ladies, you're both beautiful. How about we settle down now?" you laugh easily, getting matching frowns from the two men.

It’s a nice morning, and the first day of classes unfolds in its usual slow, methodical rhythm. The staff room isn’t crowded—no one scrambling over the microwave, no complaints about the eternally broken coffee machine that’s been out of order as long as you’ve worked at Paperfold University. The hum of distant footsteps and low murmurs barely fill the space. Nearby, your closest work colleague and Anaxa exchange words under the thinnest, debatably professional pretenses—half casual banter, half veiled challenge. Their voices are low, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

Yes, everything feels normal. As it should. Right down to the man you mourned all summer, sitting across from you like he never left—like the months since his death never happened, and nothing has changed.

[ I gained inspiration from death, and should repay as such. ]

Grief is sticky, like humidity.

You stand at the podium, gripping your notecards upside down, your fingers trembling just slightly. You’re wearing black this morning. Sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, splashing shards of color across the room—but stabbing your eyes with its brightness. Everything feels soft and warm. Outside, summer rages on—the kind of summer Anaxa hated: sweltering, sticky, and alive with the relentless chorus of cars honking, buzzing in the heat.

“Anaxagoras was my best friend,” you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper.

That part is true. You were four when you picked up a smooth stone and threw it at the bully who called a boy a “nerd” for asking why lizards couldn’t fly. The question had seemed strange then, but you didn’t care—because even at that age, you knew some things deserved defending.

You were twelve when you watched from the back of the classroom as that same boy got kicked out for questioning a classmate’s religious beliefs. You’d snickered with the others, trying to be liked and avoid being ostracized, hiding the sting in your chest behind a half-smile.

At sixteen, you found yourself scribbling his name in the margins of your notebooks—small marks of presence, of connection, when words felt too fragile.

At twenty-one, it hit you with the sharp clarity of a late winter morning: the shape of your misery perfectly mirrored the shape of your love, and if he ever left, both would hollow out the same space inside you.

You are thirty-one now.

Anaxa lies in a coffin.

Around him, asphodels and myrtles are arranged with quiet care. The white flowers lend an impossible purity to the man who was anything but pure.

The single red pomegranate flower clutched in his hands only makes the stillness feel lonelier.

You don’t remember the rest of the speech. The words blur and fade into a dull hum beneath polite clapping. Aglaea squeezes your hand gently in the aisle—steady, grounding. The coffin lowers slowly, like a magic trick in reverse: now you see him, now you don’t. Faces around you crumble into tears, but you sit still, the weight of everyone else’s grief pressing down. Not that you don’t feel it—you do. You just don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, your fingers crush the cold metal of the ring he slipped onto your finger—the only thing keeping you afloat. Because if you let go, you know the scream trapped inside you would tear everything apart.

You don’t cry until three days later.

You’re curled up on the cold bathroom floor, wrapped in Anaxa’s ridiculous lizard onesie—the one he never wanted to admit he liked the most. His room has become a museum of ghosts—not the kind that haunt, but the kind that linger in memories. Chipped coffee mugs left half-full. An unfinished book on Yaldabaoth, the bookmark still folded into its pages. A burnt-out candle, faintly scented with juniper and smoke. The old flip phone, blinking with an unread message from you, frozen in time, waiting for a reply that will never come.

And then he’s standing there in your hallway. Paler than you remember—almost translucent—his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Skinnier, as if life itself has been siphoned from him. One eye hidden behind a patch, the other sharp and watchful. Still taller than you, looming despite his fragility. And that smile—wide, too wide; full of teeth. But it’s not the smile you once knew. It doesn’t reach his one remaining eye, which flickers with something unreadable.

You don’t scream. You don’t even flinch. Your breath catches, and your eyes blink slowly, disbelieving.

“Anaxagoras?”

“In the flesh,” he says, his voice low but familiar, almost teasing. He steps forward with unsettling calm.

You want to shout at him: You’re dead. I watched them lower your body into the dirt. I still have that gaudy black-and-white capelet that I hated so much. I wear it when I’m alone, like a fragile shield—like some broken, abandoned thing.

Instead, you say:

[ I am incredibly happy now. ]

Veritas was right. The students this year are performing far below average. You’re not sure how half of them even managed to submit their applications, let alone meet the qualifications. During one lecture, you thought you overheard a girl whispering to her seatmate, nervously asking for advice on how to take proper notes, as if that were some foreign concept. It’s reached the point where you find yourself bending the usual boundaries between professor and student, nudging and prodding more than you probably should, because you’re genuinely worried some of them might just roll over and pass out under the pressure. Your lectures and labs are mostly in the mornings, and while at least one student usually answers back to your cheerful “Good morning!”, the majority shuffle in like half-brained zombies. Their glazed eyes stare blankly ahead, as if their spines were leaking fluid that numbs their senses, and they meander toward the nearest seat with all the energy of a fading candle. You suppress a sigh. This won’t fly—there’s a teacher conference next week, and you’re already drafting your points in your head.

“You think loudly.”

You blink, shaken out of your spiral, and glance to the side. There’s Anaxa—your dead husband, a truth you have to repeat to yourself over and over—sitting there, relaxed and almost casual, behind the wheel as snowflakes drift lazily past the window. In the overexposed gray light filtering through the windshield, his skin looks even paler and malnourished: the kind of white you see before blindness, the light inside a star just before it collapses.

“Just thinking about what Veritas said is all…” Your voice trails off as your thoughts drift away again. Your mind screams at you to be afraid. To recoil. To run. Because what you’re seeing defies everything you know about life and death. A corpse—your husband’s corpse—is supposed to lie six feet underground, wrapped in linen and wood, cold and silent. But here he is instead, breathing, blinking, alive, driving you both home through the thickening snow.

“Veritas always has a way of making things sound more incontestable than they are,” Anaxa’s eyes flicker toward you from the driver’s seat, calm and unreadable behind his half-lidded gaze. You grip the edge of the seat, willing yourself to stay grounded. You are not hallucinating. You are not dreaming. You are not losing your mind. You believe in the science of dreams, in the logic of REM sleep cycles—but this feels like neither.

You glance at him, the weight of your thoughts pressing down, “It’s not incontestable. You’ve seen the students... everyone acts like they’re on autopilot. I’m concerned.”

He smirks—a slow, almost lazy curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his one good eye, “Life’s exhausting, isn’t it? Especially when people keep insisting on making it harder.”

You remember the nightmare you never wanted to relive: the shrill ring of your phone during lecture, the way your heart dropped as you answered, the trembling voice on the other end delivering the worst news—the news that your husband was dying.

“That sounds like something you’d say just to avoid talking about what really matters,” you almost laugh, though it comes out as a breathy exhale.

You left the classroom without a word, your students’ confused whispers fading behind you as you raced through rain-slicked roads. You reached the hospital, breathless and trembling, only to be told the truth you could barely face—he didn’t make it. You remember standing there, frozen, clutching the ring—the only piece of him left in your grasp. And now, as your eyes meet his in the car, a strange mix of fear, disbelief, and something darker curls in your chest. He’s here. Alive.

Anaxa shrugs, his eyes briefly glinting with amusement, “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’ve learned that sometimes, talking about it doesn’t make it better. Just louder.”

The car hums along, tires crunching softly over the snow.

[ Do not fear blasphemy— ]

Winter has made the house feel colder than it should, even with the heater murmuring steadily in the corner. The radio plays a song about “Penrose”—something you’ve never heard before. You shift in your chair, the wooden legs creaking against the floorboards. Your hands are stiff from clutching the fork and knife too tightly, and your plate glares back with its bland stir-fry of wilting vegetables and reheated rice. Thrown together from whatever you could salvage from the fridge, it tastes like nothing. A purely functional meal.

Across the table, Anaxa sits in silence. He eats slowly, chewing each bite with mechanical precision. The overhead light is harsh—it spills over him, casting every sharp angle into stark relief. Hollow cheeks. Gaunt skin. The eyepatch still wound tightly around his head—the same fraying strip of white cloth he’s worn since he came back. It might have once been clean, but it isn’t anymore. You’ve offered him fresh fabric, but he always declines. His ribs show even through the oversized sweater—something you used to wear. His collarbones jut out like they’ve been carved from stone. Yet he chews, swallows, and raises the fork again. A small mercy, you think. He’s eating. He didn’t use to. You try not to stare, but it’s hard not to. Not because of how strange he looks now, but because some part of you is still waiting—waiting for him to twitch wrong. To move in a way no living man should. You hear your own breath more than his. You’ve been counting the seconds between each of his, unsure if that’s even necessary anymore.

He hasn’t said a word all evening.

Neither have you.

Not really.

You want to ask him a hundred questions, but your throat feels dry, words lodged somewhere between hope and fear. Instead, you settle for watching him—the slow rise and fall of his chest, the shallow rhythm of his breath. The way his one visible eye blinks spreads tears across the eyeball, cleaning and moisturizing the surface. They aren’t dead or glazed over. In fact, they almost look brighter than before the accident.

He turns his head up slightly, just enough to meet your eyes from beneath the faint shadows cast by the kitchen light. His movements are slow—deliberate—as if lifting his gaze costs more than it used to.

“You’ve been watching me.”

The words come out flat. Not accusing. Not defensive. A simple truth laid bare—like a bone left out in the snow. You nod once. There’s no point pretending otherwise. No use untangling the silence with lies. His stare doesn’t break. It feels heavy, not with anger, but with knowledge—like he already knows what you’ve seen and is only asking to hear you admit it.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” you say, voice even but low, “I’m scared. But not of you.”

He shifts; the creak of his chair sounds almost too loud. The overhead bulb flickers once, faint and insect-like. A flicker of something—something almost like a smile touches his lips.

“Funny,” he says softly, “I never thought I’d be the one to terrify you.”

You swallow hard; your mouth suddenly goes dry. The heater in the corner hums uselessly. The warmth it gives off doesn’t reach you—not here, not now. The room feels small, suffocating almost, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. You shift in your seat, fingertips twitching against your knees, unsure whether to fold inward or reach across the table. You want to touch him—anchor yourself to what’s left of him. But something stops you: an invisible barrier you can’t quite name. His eye remains fixed on you, unblinking.

“Why won’t you take it off?” you finally ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, “The patch.”

His eyes flicker away, dark lashes brushing his cheek, “Some things are better left hidden.”

“But it’s been days,” you press.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, the thin fabric slipping slightly to reveal the gaunt outline of his collarbone beneath the threadbare shirt. The sight makes your chest tighten—in that awful, breathless way you still haven’t learned to control.

“One step at a time,” he says at last.

The clock ticks loudly in the silence, each second stretched thin, taut as wire and just as ready to snap. You glance at the eyepatch, at the knot securing it in place, and your breath catches. You know the truth is waiting beneath it—silent, patient, watching—until the moment you’re brave enough, or desperate enough, to look.

[ It is already a sin to transcend the gods, so what if you become a god!" ]

You never meant to open Pandora’s box.

Okay—maybe you did. A little.

But it was coming from a place of concern. People are supposed to take care of their eye sockets, especially when one of them is hidden beneath that ratty white eyepatch. He never takes it off. Not when he showers. Not when he sleeps. Not even when the faintest flicker of movement catches your eye—something writhing, alive, beneath the fragile fabric like a restless parasite. You tried to convince yourself it was your imagination, a trick of shadows and exhaustion. But the truth gnaws at you like a bone you can’t stop gnawing. You remember the first time you noticed it: a barely perceptible twitch beneath the fabric, a faint pulse that didn’t match any normal heartbeat. It made your skin crawl. You wanted to ask. You wanted to pry and demand answers. But Anaxa’s eyes—well, the one you could see—always held that same apathetic calm, as if whatever was happening underneath didn’t bother him one bit.

You told yourself: If it’s infected, he could die. Again. You told yourself: It’s not Anaxa. Not really. Not entirely.

But also: What if it is? You'll be alone again.

It’s 2:59 a.m. The air conditioner hums softly, its steady drone blending with the distant wind sweeping the remaining dead leaves, like a restless insect trapped in the night. He’s stretched out on the bed, limbs loose and limp like a scarecrow abandoned in a forgotten field. The thin sheet draped over him barely reaches his chest; now he’s wrapped in twice as many layers, the winter wonderland outside reflecting through the window. His breathing is shallow, too even, too controlled—a carefully rehearsed performance. You move cautiously, the worn socks you borrowed muffling your steps on the creaky floorboards. Your heart pounds violently against your ribs, threatening to break free and leave you behind.

You kneel beside the futon, every muscle tense, every breath caught.

Your hand hovers, hesitant, trembling slightly as it reaches out.

The eyepatch—frayed and stained from too many nights—clings to his face, held by a crude knot tied at the back of his head. You tug gently, careful not to wake him, just enough to loosen the fabric, just enough to lift the edge.

Just enough to see—

“That’s not polite.”

You freeze.

The voice is low, dry—smooth like cracked leather. Not angry. Not startled. Just… amused. You glance up, meeting his one exposed eye, which glints faintly in the dark, alive with that same crooked humor you thought you’d lost forever

"To know it is to cease to know. To see it is to never see again in straight lines."

Your breath catches, the air growing inexplicably colder as shadows stretch and twist, reaching toward you with silent hunger. You remain frozen, unable to tear your gaze away, even as the patch slips from your fingers, compelled by some unseen force—beckoning you to witness what lies beneath.

And then you see it.

Not an eye.

An abyss yawns open where one should be.

A hollow carved impossibly deep, devoid of blood or bone. Pure emptiness—an endless void swallowed in darkness darker than night itself—a cavernous gulf where life should have been. That void shifts, inhales, and exhales with a slow, unnatural rhythm, as if breathing with a life all its own. Within the darkness, something coils and writhes, its shape fluid and ominous, like smoke caught in a slow storm.

Then, without warning, it turns its gaze toward you. The abyss looks back—its presence a heavy weight pressing deep into your bones, a silent promise of secrets too vast to comprehend. A color out of space.

“So you’re the reason he clings to this meat. How unexpected.”

The voice is curious. Not cruel. Not kind. You want to say something—anything. But all you can do is stare into the depths where his eye should be and feel it stare back. Your hands tremble, but you haven’t screamed yet. You’re not running either.

“This body remembers your voice. It twitches when you laugh. It cried when you touched it.”

And then, Anaxa blinks. The patch is back in place. You don’t remember putting it there.

He exhales—slowly, tired.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t look,” he says. The real him, or something close enough.

You swallow hard.

Because despite this impostor pretending to be your Anaxa, you feel… relieved. You don’t have to stay stuck in the grieving widow phase for the rest of your life. You don’t have to endure the pitiful stares from everyone except Veritas. Most importantly, you don’t have to imagine what your life would be like without Anaxa—because he’s here, in some form. Even if he’s lost the muscles in his arms, even if you can practically see his ribs beneath the heavy layers of clothing, his face sunken and hollow.

“You should clean that,” you whisper.

“It’s not infected,” he says.

“It could be.”

He laughs—quiet, rough. Close enough.

“And you’re not afraid?”

You study him—the hollow cheeks sunken deeper than you remember, skin so white it makes you think of hospital tiles and the static noise between radio stations. His thin frame barely fills out the threadbare clothes. He looks like a ghost tethered to this world—someone who died but didn’t quite come back right.

Still, your voice is steady when you say, “No. You came back. That’s enough.”

The room holds its breath. Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating—like the space between heartbeats. Then, slowly, almost painfully, he turns to face you. His eyes—one real, one an empty void—search yours, as if trying to remember how to exist in this fragile body again.

“You’re either very brave,” the thing inside him murmurs, voice low and rough, “or very foolish.”

The clock’s hands don’t move, but the ticking continues—as if counting something else entirely. Your hand moves on its own, reaching out to his. The coldness of his skin prickles against your palm, a reminder of everything lost and everything still somehow here. It’s cold. But it squeezes back.

[ — One of the echoes in Anaxa's memories after the Grove had fallen, which vanished because nobody discovered it. ]

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*slaps this fic* And that's a wrap! Thank you once again for commissioning me and for being so patient. I hope you all enjoyed this. I don't want to clog this already long fic up too much, so below I've only written research/references in order of appearance. If you're interested in the writing/thought process, I'll be reblogging this with further notes.

Cut Content/Writing Process Note: Here

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Golden Apple

It is most famously associated with the Apple of Discord, which represents:

Conflict born from vanity or favoritism (since it was labeled "To the fairest")

The catalyst for larger consequences (such as the Trojan War)

Temptation and choice (as seen in Paris having to decide which goddess deserved the apple)

Phainon

Daimon

In ancient Greece, it was believed that each person had a personal daimon, assigned at birth or death, which influenced their fate and guided them during crucial moments. The daimon didn’t dictate actions, but acted as a subtle force, especially in times of crisis or important decisions.

Socrates famously spoke of his daimonion, a divine voice that warned him against certain actions but never told him what to do. As he put it in Plato’s Apology: “The sign is a voice which comes to me and always forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never commands me to do anything.”

In Plato's Republic and Timaeus, daimones are described as mediators of fate, guiding souls in their choices and destinies, ensuring a cosmic balance without direct interference in individual decisions.

Voicelines

While not directly stated in the fic, these are the voice lines that stuck when writing this particular Phainon:

"Accepting others' wishes and turning them into his own wishes — not all heroes are such blank canvases as him, and that is why the world places such great hopes on him." - Aglaea

"Lord Phainon is kind and friendly to all his companions, but there's always a sliver of pain in his smile... He must have lost something very dear to him." - Hyacine

"Snowy... It always feels like he's carrying too much. Not just his own wishes but also the hatred and expectations of others... Though we all have our own missions, I still get worried... Bearing everything alone is not a good habit." - Tribbie

Symbolism in Numbers (Act + Scene Numbers)

1 (Monad) - Unity, origin, the divine, the source of all things.

2 (Dyad) - Duality, division, balance of opposites (light/dark, male/female, good/evil).

7 (Heptad) - Mystery, initiation, spiritual perfection.

3 (Triad) - Harmony, balance, completeness.

10 (Decad) - Totality, divine perfection, return to unity (1+0=1).

Butterfly (The neon sign in the beginning)

The butterfly was often used as a symbol for the soul or daemon, especially in art. Psyche, the Greek word for "soul," is sometimes personified with butterfly wings.

Masks

A symbol of duality or hidden truths. Daemons could "wear" personas or guide others through identity.

Phainon's Greek Name

Phaenon (Phaínōn / Φαίνων) derives from the Ancient Greek verb φαίνω phaínō, meaning "to shine." The form φαίνων phaínōn is its present participle, meaning "the one who shines."

Crescent Moon (Stroke of luck during filming)

In various cultures, the moon is linked with divine protection, especially maternal or lunar goddesses like Artemis.

"Is it so wrong...to have a little hope?" (Phainon's reasoning to Gallagher)

[ "That person alone will witness the miracle" doesn't sound like a good ending, does it? Why did everyone choose to become demigods even after knowing the price? ]

-(excerpt from Phainon's text messages to the Trailblazer)

Mydei

Apotheosis

While the Olympian gods are immortal by nature, apotheosis suggests a pathway to immortality for mortals. Some famous Greek examples are Heracles and Psyche.

My knowledge of the military is incredibly low, so if there are any inconsistencies, please ignore them. I'm trying my best. I did try to get some of my facts straight, but I used U.S military as a guideline since that's the one I'm most familiar with. My Google searches were wild on this one, baby.

Military Report (I put a lot of effort into it, you people need to know this)

Report # - 0319 (Mydei's release banner date) Amphoreous / Castrum Kremnos (CK) Date - Mydei's banner end date Time - Version 3.1 (Mydei's banner release version) Associated Personnel: Lionheart (Taken from his banner's event name "Fiery Lionheart") Casualties KIA: Taken from the past NPCs from Kremnos (specifically the ones that were warriors)

Trig/Trigger (Reader's Call Sign)

A call sign is a unique identifier, often a nickname, used to identify a unit or individual during radio communications. Personal Callsigns are generally given by members in your unit when you do something that makes you stand out, be it good or bad.

I'm not gonna lie. I needed to have some term to use to refer to reader, and my friend is in love with Trigger from Hoyo's other game, ZZZ. This one's for you (I hope you never find my tumblr)

Time Line

U.S. Task Forces / Special Ops (e.g., Delta Force, SEALs, JSOC Task Forces)

Minimum Time in Service: 2–4 years, usually, depending on MOS (military occupational specialty).

Total Time: 4–7 years on average, but again, fast-tracking is possible for exceptional performance, critical skillsets (e.g., languages, cyber, demolitions), or under urgent need.

Recording Equipment (Corporal asking why there was a shutdown)

Special Operations typically don't use body cams since their missions are highly classified. But they might use recording equipment if it's for training, target observation, or accountability-driven operations (e.g., raids with media or political oversight).

In most modern military systems, cutting off or tampering with communication or recording equipment can often be detected, logged, or at the very least suspected, depending on the gear and the system it's connected to.

"Green"

In the military, when someone is described as "green," it means they are new, inexperienced, or untested — often fresh out of training and just starting in the field. Usually considered "green" for 6 months to a year, or until they've had real combat exposure.

Anaxa

Alogon

Anaxa's prompt wasn’t directly inspired by Greek culture or mythology. The basic premise was to portray him as a cosmic horror parasite, and the closest parallel I found was the concept of the “Alogon.” (So no, unfortunately, there aren't any eldritch H.P. Lovecraft entities in Greek. Honestly, I think I went more domestic horror.)

In Orphic mythology, the term alogon [ τὸ ἄλογον (a-logos) ] —meaning “irrational” or “without reason”—is not a distinct deity or mythological entity, but a philosophical concept representing the chaotic, unformed state of existence prior to creation. It serves as a symbolic contrast to Phanes (also known as Protogonos), the primordial being who emerged from the cosmic egg at the dawn of time. Phanes introduced light, reason, and structure into the universe, transforming the alogon into an ordered cosmos.

Quotes

The first quote line is from Anaxa's lightcone, "Life Should Be Cast to Flames." The rest is what was written in Anaxa's character story, part IV.

Asphodels, myrtles, and pomegranate flowers (The flowers in Anaxa's coffin)

Aspodels: Considered the "death flower" by the Greeks, believed to be the flower of the afterlife

Myrtle: This plant was a symbol of eternity and was often used in funerary arrangements.

Pomegranate Flower: Tied deeply to Persephone, who ate pomegranate seeds in the underworld and is forced to return each year, creating the seasons.

The passing of seasons (Persephone)

Persephone, daughter of Demeter (goddess of the harvest), was abducted by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Grieving, Demeter caused the Earth to wither, bringing on winter. When Persephone was allowed to return, life bloomed again—spring and summer. But because she ate pomegranate seeds in the Underworld, she had to return each year, leading to autumn and winter.

Yaldabaoth (The half-finished book Anaxa left behind)

Also known as Ialdabaoth or Jaldabaoth, Yaldabaoth is a central figure in Gnostic theology, depicted as a false creator who traps souls within the material world.

Juniper (The candle scent Anaxa left behind)

A genus of coniferous trees and shrubs, most notably known for its berries used in gin. Used in purification and protective rituals, especially in ancient Greek and Roman practices.

Penrose (The name of the song on the radio station)

The name "Penrose" is from the Penrose Triangle and Stairs. Two famous impossible objects.

Pandora's Box

A myth from Greek mythology where Pandora, the first woman, was given a sealed jar (later called a box) and told not to open it. Curiosity got the better of her, and when she opened it, all the evils of the world escaped—leaving only Hope inside. It explains the origin of suffering in the world.

2:59 am (The time reader goes to remove Anaxa's eyepatch)

Hecate’s hour is traditionally considered to be between midnight and 3 a.m., often called the witching hour or the hour of the night witch. This time is associated with magic, spirits, and the supernatural—when Hecate, the Greek goddess of magic, crossroads, and the underworld, is believed to be most powerful and present. In folklore and later occult traditions, this period is thought to be when the veil between worlds is thinnest, making it a prime time for rituals, visions, and encounters with otherworldly forces.

"A colour out of space." (The void in Anaxa's eye)

A reference to Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space" for my literature fans.

Fun Fact: That line about a girl asking how to take proper notes is real. I was the seatmate.

[fear-less]

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 there'll be happiness after you

paring: remus lupin x f!reader x secret marauder

➥ in which, remus breaks up with you and one of his friends (who secretly liked you before you and remus had even gotten together) helps you move on with the break up.

warnings: angst, happy ending, prolly tons of errors..oops, semi rushed, idk what else:3

2.5k words

It was a chilly evening at Hogwarts. The grounds had begun to fall silent as the last few students trickled inside for dinner. You were supposed to be in the Great Hall with your friends, but something had pulled you to the lake instead. The stillness of the water reflected the state of your mind—unsettled, confused, and too tangled to make sense of.

You perched at the edge of the lake, your feet dangling just above the surface. The cool breeze tugged at your hair, but you barely noticed. The ache in your chest was louder than the wind, and every time you tried to distract yourself, your thoughts would return to him: Remus Lupin.

You used to feel so certain about him, about the future the two of you could build together. But now? Now it all seemed so far away, as though it had never really existed. You closed your eyes, allowing the tears to pool behind your eyelids before they fell. Remus had walked away, and in doing so, he had taken with him a part of you. His words echoed in your mind, sharp and bitter: “I’m not good enough for you. You deserve someone who can give you a future.”

You had argued, of course. You’d told him you didn’t care about his past or the darkness that followed him, that you loved him for him—for all of him. But his fears had won, as they always had.

You hadn’t expected to feel so empty.

The day Remus had told you it was over, you felt like you were watching the most beautiful thing you’d ever known slip away in slow motion. The setting sun cast long shadows in the Gryffindor common room as you sat together on the couch, the space between you palpable.

“Y/N, please understand,” Remus had pleaded, his voice soft but firm. “I love you more than I can say, but I can’t keep asking you to love someone like me.”

His words had struck you like a blow to the chest. Your heart had started racing, and your hands had trembled in your lap. “Remus, what do you mean? I want this—us—so badly.”

He had sighed, running a hand through his disheveled brown hair. “I can’t be what you need. I won’t let you waste your life with someone who’s broken.”

You hadn’t been able to stop the tears from falling. “You’re not broken. You’re just... you. I don’t need someone perfect.”

But he had only shaken his head, his eyes filled with regret. “I can’t be the person you deserve. You deserve someone who can be with you, without fear, without secrets. You deserve someone who can love you without hurting you.”

In that moment, something in you had shattered. The love you had felt so sure of—the love you had given him so completely—wasn’t enough to keep him from running. And as you watched him walk away, you felt something break inside you, something that hadn’t been fixed since.

The next few weeks were a blur. You still went to classes, you still spent time with your friends, but everything felt off. Every time you saw Remus, your heart would flutter, only to crash when you remembered that things were different now. He no longer looked at you like he used to, with the warmth and affection you had once seen in his eyes.

And you? You were pretending, trying to fit in with a world that felt too bright, too loud. Your thoughts kept drifting to the past, to all the memories you had built with him, and every time, the hollow ache in your chest grew stronger.

One evening, as you found yourself alone on the grounds again, your thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Y/N?”

You glanced up to see James Potter walking toward you. His usual confidence was tempered by the concern in his eyes. “Hey, what’s going on? You’ve been... off lately.”

You offered a faint smile, shrugging. “Just tired, I guess. A lot on my mind.”

James sat beside you, his long legs extending in front of him as he stared at the lake, not pressing you for an answer. It wasn’t that James didn’t know what had happened—it was obvious to everyone—but he never pushed. He just was there.

“You know,” James said casually, breaking the silence, “there’s this little thing called ‘talking about it.’” His tone was teasing, but there was a softness underneath that made your heart ache a little.

“I don’t really know where to start,” you admitted, looking at your hands. “I... I just feel like I gave everything, and now I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

James turned his head to look at you, his brow furrowing. “You’re still you. You’re just a little lost right now.”

You blinked, surprised at his insight. “How do you know?”

James shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know. You just have that look about you. Like you’re carrying something heavy. But you don’t have to carry it alone, Y/N.”

You swallowed, unsure of how to respond. His words, his kindness, made something stir inside of you. It wasn’t love—not yet—but it was something else. Something that felt safe.

“I think I’ve been pretending a little too much,” you said softly. “I’ve been trying to act like I’m fine, but I’m really not.”

James met your gaze, his expression genuine. “It’s okay to not be fine, you know? You don’t have to put on a brave face all the time.”

For the first time in weeks, you felt the tears you’d been holding back threaten to spill over. But James didn’t pull away. He didn’t rush to comfort you, either. He just stayed beside you, steady and calm.

The days passed, and you spent more time with James. It wasn’t romantic at first, not in the way you’d imagined falling for someone. It wasn’t instant sparks and overwhelming chemistry—it was easy, familiar, and comforting.

James never pushed. He let you come to him when you were ready. He’d show up with a cup of tea when you were studying late in the library, or crack a joke when you looked like you were spiraling into your own head. Slowly, you began to feel the tightness in your chest loosen. It wasn’t a fix—it wasn’t a cure—but it was a start.

One evening, as the two of you sat outside on the Quidditch pitch, the cool breeze whipping through your hair, James spoke up.

“You know, I think you’re allowed to feel angry about it all. About Remus.”

You stiffened, surprised. “I don’t want to be angry.”

“I’m not saying you should stay angry forever,” James replied gently. “But you’ve been through a lot. And sometimes, it’s okay to be angry before you can move on.”

You looked at him, his expression open and understanding. It was a rare thing—someone who didn’t shy away from your pain, someone who let you feel what you needed to feel. “I guess you’re right.”

James reaches over and nudges you with his elbow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You know, you don’t have to do this alone. I’m here, even if you just need someone to listen.”

There was a warmth in his words that made something stir inside of you, something both comforting and unfamiliar. You weren’t sure if it was love yet—but it was a quiet understanding. A connection.

The crisp evening air was filled with the sound of cheers as Gryffindor’s Quidditch team celebrated their victory. James was at the center of the group, his eyes sparkling with excitement, but you found yourself watching him from the sidelines. You hadn’t realized how much time had passed since you last looked at him like this—really looked at him.

The glow of the setting sun reflected off the Quidditch pitch, casting long shadows across the field, and in that moment, something inside you stirred. It wasn’t love—not yet—but it was something more than what you’d ever expected.

James had always been there for you—since the breakup with Remus, since the pain that had felt endless. He never pushed, never tried to fill the empty space that Remus had left. Instead, he simply stayed by your side, offering comfort in small, quiet ways. And over time, you had come to realize that the man standing before you was someone you could trust. Someone you didn’t have to try so hard to impress. Someone who understood without words.

When the last of the cheering died down, James broke away from his teammates, scanning the crowd for you. As his eyes found yours, a smile spread across his face. It was an effortless, warm smile—the kind that made your heart flutter without warning.

"Hey," he said as he jogged up to you, his cheeks flushed from the game, his dark hair sticking out in all directions. "We did it! Did you see that last goal?"

You laughed softly, standing up from where you had been sitting on the stone bench. "I saw it. You were brilliant as always."

He grinned, brushing a hand through his messy hair. "What can I say? I'm a natural." Then his expression softened slightly, and he looked at you more seriously. "But seriously, I’m glad you were here to watch. Means a lot to me."

Something about his words—simple, genuine—struck a chord in you. Your heart swelled, and for the first time in months, the pain you’d carried around seemed to subside, just for a moment.

"I’m glad to be here too, James," you replied, your voice quieter than usual.

James tilted his head slightly, studying you with those warm, brown eyes of his. The playfulness of earlier had faded, replaced by something softer. "Are you okay? You’ve been distant lately. More than usual."

You hesitated. It was easy to say you were fine, but lately, you had begun to realize just how much you had been holding back. The grief. The confusion. The old feelings for Remus that you were still trying to untangle.

"I think... I think I’m starting to be," you said slowly. "Not all the way there, but I’m getting there."

James gave you a half-smile, the kind that showed he wasn’t quite buying it, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he stepped a little closer, his presence warm and steady beside you.

"I’m glad," he said, his voice low. "I’m really glad."

You looked up at him then, and there was something about the way he was looking at you—his face open, without any pretense—that made something inside you click. You didn’t have to force yourself to feel something. With James, you simply were. No expectations, no pressure.

"I didn’t expect this," you murmured, feeling a little embarrassed but also strangely relieved. "You’ve always been there for me, James. Even when I didn’t think I deserved it."

He shook his head, smiling as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "You don’t have to deserve it, Y/N. You’re my friend. And I... I care about you more than you know."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. There was no fanfare, no grand gestures, but in that moment, his honesty was enough.

"You’ve been so patient with me," you whispered, almost to yourself, "and I don’t know what I’d have done without you."

James didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his shoulder brushing yours as he gazed at the distant horizon. The silence between you felt comfortable, not awkward. And when he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I’ve always had a soft spot for you, Y/N," he confessed, his tone lighter but carrying an honesty you hadn’t expected. "I know you’ve been through a lot. And I’m not trying to replace Remus or anything. I just..." He paused, his voice growing more serious. "I just want you to know that I’m here for you. Whatever that means."

The sincerity in his words made your chest tighten. You didn’t know exactly what it meant either, but something was shifting. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a glimmer of hope that maybe—just maybe—you could start something new. A chapter you hadn’t anticipated, but one that felt right all the same.

Before you could say anything more, James turned to face you, his hand moving as though to catch your eye. "I don’t know what the future holds, Y/N," he said, his voice softer now, "but I want to find out with you. Even if it’s just one step at a time."

You swallowed, feeling an unexpected surge of emotion. All the walls you’d built up in your heart were starting to crumble, piece by piece, and in their place was something both terrifying and beautiful.

"I think I’m ready to take that step," you whispered, meeting his gaze.

James’ face broke into a smile that felt brighter than any Quidditch victory. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you replied, the word tasting like a promise. Not just to him, but to yourself as well.

In the weeks that followed, things changed between you and James—but in the way that felt comfortable, not rushed. There was no sudden confession of love, no dramatic gesture that marked the shift. It was a slow burn, built on late-night conversations, stolen glances, and quiet moments spent together.

James continued to be your rock, but now, there was something else there too—an undercurrent of something more. You caught him looking at you a little longer than before, his smile lingering in a way that made your heartbeat a little faster. And though you still carried the remnants of your past with Remus, you began to see James in a new light, as someone who could help you heal, someone who wasn’t afraid to be patient with you as you learned to love yourself again.

One evening, after studying late in the library, James walked you back to the common room. The firelight flickered from the hearth, casting warm shadows on the stone walls.

"I’m proud of you, you know," he said suddenly, his voice low. "For how far you’ve come."

You looked up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his words. "Proud of me?" you repeated, a small smile forming on your lips. "For what?"

"For letting go of the past," he said, meeting your eyes. "For letting yourself heal. It’s not easy, Y/N. But you’ve been strong through it all."

Your heart swelled at his words. No one had ever said anything like that to you before—not like that. It wasn’t pity or sympathy, but admiration. And it made you feel... seen.

"Thank you, James," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat.

James didn’t say anything for a moment, just gazing at you with an expression that made your stomach flutter. And then, without another word, he took your hand in his. It wasn’t grand or overdramatic, but it felt significant—like the first step toward something new. Something you hadn’t even known you needed until now.

"Let’s keep walking," he said softly, squeezing your hand gently.

And you did. One step at a time.

[pawinoia]

Blackjack

Relationship(s) : Chance x Reader

Warning - Semi-Public sex, (Sort of) Consent Non-Consent, AMAB x AFAB, NSFW, Slight overstim, choking, gambling

You're no stranger to Chance's shenanigans at all. While you work in his casino, the utmost importance of keeping your relationship with him a secret almost seems to slip his mind the moment he gets his seat at your table. He'll smile at you, his lopsided smirk brimming with confidence and ego. And you'll smile back at him, averting your gaze as you greet him, "Welcome back, Mr. Chance."

You don't know how he does it so comfortably, betting everything he's got and walking home with more than he came with, or needed to begin with. Whenever you'd ask, they'd smile and plant a sweet kiss on your head, murmuring something about how he's 'Still got you' and that's all he needs.

Everything happens in a blur again. You don't know when but you could've sworn you were just at your table, dealing cards out for blackjack, your favorite game.

And now, you're pressed against a cold bathroom stall of the men's bathroom, and Chance is eating you alive, hickeys and bruises and bites all over your collar bones. It's methodical, he knows just where to leave them so they won't show once you're all done up again. You try to think about how you had even got into the bathroom with Chance to begin with.

The Casino is bustling, buzzing like a hive with people who have so much to lose. You're working, dealing blackjack with a pretty smile and warmly greeting your current group, especially your boss. Chance is always at your table for most of the night, and you insist that he divides his attention amongst the other tables. They always refuse, telling you that he'd rather play with you.

You run through the rules with everyone, briefly explaining which cards do what. How to win and how you lose, and with that the night starts.

Most players, you notice, are horrible with keeping stoic expressions, making it pretty easy to tell who's got a good hand and who's got a risky one. You can never tell with Chance though, no matter how often he's sat at your table. He's always got the same smile plastered to his face, staring straight at you. Occasionally, he'll mouth something to you when everyone's focused on adding up the total of their cards, leaving you hot and flushed, and that only makes the smile on their face bigger.

The game continues, and you notice while most people are clearly stuck with a bad outcome, the displeasure evident on their face, there's one man to your left who's been stonefaced the whole time. Your partner takes notice too, and you can tell that he's gotten riled up now. He's always loved the risk, the adrenaline gets them going and it always ends in your favor.

The man at the end of the table asks for another card, and Chance stays. Everyone else has folded, now spectators to the rising tension. Time seems to pause for a moment, the man clicking his teeth and tossing down his cards, disgruntled.

Chance wins, 20 to the man's 19.

So maybe that's when they pulled you away, into the stall of a men's bathroom, hands all over you. Aside from the booming sounds of the Casino outside, the bathroom was filled with your whines and his groans, his clothed erection flush against your bottom, grinding ever so greedily.

"Did'ja see that, angel?" He pants with a chuckle, growling into the crook of your neck with a harsh bite, contrasting the sweet kiss placed on it right after. Their hands are grabbing at whatever they can reach, one finding its place on your hips and the other slithering up underneath your shirt and the lace of your bra, fingers teasingly pinching and rolling your nipple.

No matter how often Chance pulls you away like this, you're never used to it. The bubbling anxiety in the pit of your stomach, fearing someone walking in and hearing the both of you. Though there's not much anyone would want to do about it, it still makes you nervous.

Though, it only seems to turn Chance on more, because now he's got your maroon pencil skirt around your thighs, hand moved from your breast to your panties, underneath your tights.

"Chance, I'm supposed to be working," you sigh, pleas falling on deaf ears. Your body seems to disagree with you too, because you're absolutely soaked and your hips, with a mind of their own, rut closer to Chance's fingers that tease your folds.

"Who cares," He grumbles, resting his chin on your shoulder, licking just behind the shell of your ear. "You work for me anyway, babe."

You feel weak once Chance desides to bring some form of mercy, rubbing painfully slow circles on your clit. Your eyes flutter shut and you moan, focused on getting more from their fingers. It makes him laugh, taking pleasure in watching how you melt under him. He tuts at you, pulling his fingers away once you start rolling your hips against his hand, and you cry in protest.

"You dragged me here," you whisper, hand firm on their wrist. "The least you could do is be on my side!"

Chance chuckles, kissing your jaw. "Is that any way to speak to your boss, sugar?"

"Oh so now it matters?" You grunt, falling silent once he slips a finger - then another, into your aching hole with a hum. He doesn't move, though, straight faced and watching you through his clockwork shades.

"Chance," you sob, looking at him briefly through the corner of your eye. You always hated eye contact in moments like these, and he knew that. They knew just how it'd make you flustered and weak, breaking you down without needing to utter a word.

"Yes love?" Chance responds, still unmoving. "I thought you wanted this?"

"Well- yes but.." Frustrated, you drop your head. "Please don't do this."

"Do what?"

"You know what, Chance."

You almost hate their game, and despite his straight face, you can tell he's having a whole lot of fun toying with you right now, feeling you squeeze needly around his fingers. He wiggles them a bit, and you whine in response.

"You wanted me so bad just before, hun," He whispers, faintly kissing your neck again. "I'm letting you have me, you just gotta work for it baby."

You hate him.

Rolling your eyes, ashamed. You feel so pathetic, fucking yourself on his fingers and setting a steady pace for yourself. They watch as you fall apart, like you seem to forget that it's his fingers that your grinding on. The hand he had placed on your hip moves and tangles itself in your hair, pulling your head back gently.

"D'aw, look at you," he coos, forcing you to turn your head and look at him. "Is it good, baby? Yeah?" He smiles,  curling his fingers and feathering over that special spot, leaving your mouth to open and close like a fish.

Your legs tremble, if not for Chance keeping you up you surely would've buckled. Your melodic cries begin to get lighter,  your rhythm messy as you get closer, that pit in your stomach growing bigger and bigger.

Chance pulls his fingers out of your cunt,  bringing them up to his mouth and licking them clean, then kissing you before you can complain.

You go to chew him out for his actions, cutting yourself off abruptly when you hear the bathroom door open, a group of three walking in.

While this seems to destroy you, a panicked look crossing your expressions, this only seems to turn Chance on more as he spins your around, lifting you up and wrapping your legs around their waist.

Your back is pressed against the stall door, and a hand is placed over your mouth with a knowing look.

Chance places a gentle kiss to your forehead, hooking an arm underneath your body so he can undo his belt and shove his pants down just enough to free himself. You look at them as though he's crazy - and part of him is.

You shake your head, glaring at him.

He only shrugs, rubbing his dick between your folds and coating them in your slick. Your eyes, half lidded now, seem to have dropped the mean gaze you gave them just a second before. The tip of their cock catching your clit occasionally, and you roll your hips ever so slightly.

The other men in the bathroom are there for what feels like forever, especially when chance prods your hole, biting his tongue to stifle his own groans as he bottoms out, pelvis feathering your clit with just how full he's made you. If not for his hand over your mouth, you both surely would've gotten caught.

Once he begins grinding their hips into yours, pulling out and slowly sinking back in, you're not so sure that his hand will be enough anymore. Chance swallows thickly, stilling to regain his composure. Your pussy always drinks him in with greed, and clenching around him right now isn't helping at all.

After what feels like ages, you hear the bathroom door swing open once more, then shut not long after. After about five seconds, a grace period if you will, Chance is fucking into you with a brutal pace, catching you off guard. He removes his hand from your mouth, opting to squeeze it gently around your neck, making you light headed. His face is buried in your chest, tongue flicking against your sensitive buds.

You swear you're trying your hardest to stifle your moans on your own, choking on them with furrowed brows. You stare down, watching where your bodies meet before Chance pulls your into a hot kiss, forcing his tongue into your mouth and tangling with yours. It's wet and messy, and the sound of your bodies meeting one another over and over implies the same.

You withdraw from the kiss briefly,  hands gripping Chance's shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. "Chance," You cry, head dropping back against the stall door. You feel yourself coming closer again, and your body grows tense. Your expressions don't go unnoticed by Chance, and they make sure to keep that ruthless pace to get you closer and closer.

"You look so pretty, " they murmur. "So fuckin' pretty." His compliments send pulses to your cunt, making you sob louder.

"Y'gonna come, angel?" He coos, nipping your jaw. "Gonna make a mess on me?"

You can tell he's started getting closer, too, when he starts to focus more on bullying your hole than talking to you. You nod in response to his teasing, and he gives you one more kiss, lapping at your lips.

"Come for me angel, c'mon sweetheart let it out," He pants, pushing his tongue into your mouth again to silence and drink up the loud cry you let out as your legs shake, mind drawing blanks as your legs seem to pull him closer, just as your cunt does.

Chance's pace grows quicker, sending electric shocks to your cunt and overstimulating you. He manages a few more sloppy thrusts before spills into you, tip kissing your cervix whilst he fills you beautifully, groaning.

Whilst you both come down from your high, you hear the faucet begin to run, and you both exchange shocked glances.

So much for a secret.

[studiogrimm810]

Drunk Words, Sober Thoughts

pairings/characters: sam winchester x gn!you, dean is also there

summary: after a long day of driving with the brothers, you and dean drink too much and when dean goes off with a random woman, sam takes care of you

warnings: fluff, alcohol, intoxication

word count: 2,970

A/N: fluff is so not usually my thing just fyi, i'm a whore for angst and hurt/comfort haha (also might make a part 2 for the hangover lol)

(edit: i made a part 2!! Sober After-Thought)

———————

“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t kill us to call the drive early and settle in for the night,” Dean suggested, filling up Baby with fresh gas, leaning against the trunk. Sam had gotten out to stretch his legs and you just came back out from the bathroom.

“Really, Dean, you’re calling it?” You scoff lightly as you come into earshot, your hands in your jacket pockets. “Ya gettin’ old on me?” You joke, bumping his shoulder.

Dean rolls his eyes, pushing off of the trunk as the nozzle clanks closed, signaling the tank is full, “shut up,” he mumbles. “I saw a bar a few blocks back with a motel in the same parking lot and I could use a drink,” he explains, holstering the nozzle back into the gas pump and finishing up.

“I could use a drink,” you nod curtly as you walk around to the back seat. Sam seems reluctant but not completely against it.

“Yeah- okay,” Sam shrugs, climbing into the car. Dean has a tiny moment of celebration with the pump of his fist as he drives off and back to the direction of the motel to check in.

The motel is a classic semi-run down spot that’s in desperate need of a power wash but seems like its paint-chipped siding would dissolve away at the pressure. It’s not perfect but it’s cheap.

Dean goes into the lobby to grab a room while you and Sam get your bags and meet Dean at the chosen room.

You set your bags on the couch, hoping it’s a pull out.

“Hey, you don’t have to take the couch, have one of the beds,” Sam insists, walking up next to you and setting his own bags on the couch.

“It’s okay, really,” you assure, knowing he would be far too uncomfortable cramped on the couch. You plop down onto a free spot and stretch out with a yawn “see-?” you say through your yawn “already comfy enough to sleep,” you smile simply up at him, hoping he’ll settle and just take the bed. He was obviously struggling with just going with it and also wanting to let you be more comfortable but he also knew how stubborn you were so he just dropped it.

“If you change your mind you better tell me,” he points a loose finger at you and grabs his bags back up again to lug them over to the motel bed. Dean had claimed the other bed with his own bags.

“Either of ya comin’ with me?” Dean asked, straightening his jacket and fixing his necklace. He looked between you and Sam waiting for a response.

“Hells yeah,” you nod and stand back up, “just let me freshen up a bit,” you grab your smaller bag and head to the bathroom to fix yourself up a bit, brushing your hair and adjusting your accessories. From inside the bathroom you hear Sam also agree to go out and a flutter of nerves ripple through your stomach in excitement.

Heading back out, Dean's head lifts to greet you and check to see if you’re ready. You nod softly and the three of you head out.

It’s pretty chilly out, but you thankfully had a jacket to shield yourself from the cold. Sam looked over to your direction, checking to make sure you looked warm enough for the short walk to the bar.

The bar is just like any dive bar, not as beat up as the motel you three were staying in but definitely hosting the same general demographic of drifters and truckers. A few people looked your way when you entered the bar, but it was simple side glances and such.

A few beers in and the brothers are telling you a story about some case they worked a few weeks back involving Sam's horrid fear of clowns and how he ended up bloody and covered in glitter. Sam seemed embarrassed and a little annoyed but you saw the smile that he hid behind his beer bottle as he took a swig.

“I swear- he looked like he was attacked by some PCP crazed strippers,” Dean cackled, doubling over enough to hold his stomach. You laughed as well, the image alone enough to make you chuckle.

“Oh- Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Sam,” you laughed a little harder trying to get out your words, “I can’t even- I can’t  even imagine how scary that was for you, but-” your words are chopped up by the seizing laughter rumbling your chest. As you both start to cool down, Sam looks at both you and Dean with a small smile and his eyebrows raised, silently asking ‘ya done?’.

“Sammy and his clowns, poor kid,” Dean clamps his hand on Sam’s shoulder and takes another swig of his beer. Sam rolls his eyes and finishes off his drink.

The three of you occupied a high table in the middle of the bar dining room, sharing a plate of chips and dip.

“Whatever,” Sam stands and shakes his head, “I would offer another round but neither of you deserve it,” he jokes and walks back up to the bar leaving you and Dean trying to recover from your fits of laughter.

“And you didn’t get a picture?” You ask, leaning back into your regular sitting position but still letting the afterwaves of humor shake your shoulders.

“No, but it’s engraved in my brain,” Dean shakes his head, a wide smile still blessing his lips and lighting up his face.

“I really wanted another round too,” you lift your bottle and shake the little liquid still left in it. Dean polishes his beer off and shrugs as he stands.

“I gotchya, sweetheart,” Dean heads to the bar with Sam, holding up two fingers to signal for two more beers. Dean bumps Sam's shoulder as he leans on the bar but you can’t hear what they’re saying.

When the brothers return, Dean sets your beer down in front of you and takes his own seat back. 

You all continue to talk and laugh and share stories as you get a few more rounds deep. The words seem to flow out easier as you’re telling a story of some hunt where you worked with this base-level hunter who had no clue what he was doing. You didn’t necessarily hate the guy but he did almost get you killed over a rookie mistake. You find it somewhat humorous due to the little respect you may have for your own life but Sam doesn't find it as funny. Dean entertains the story as you’re telling it- lighthearted and passive- but on the inside he feels his own pit of rage for the stranger who basically used you as bait.

“What’s his name again? I could use a punching bag for some practice,” Dean says as a joke but both you and Sam know he meant his words.

“He was a newbie, he learned, but he’s not hunting anymore- thank god,” you chuckle softly and take a swig of your drink.

Sam has stopped drinking but you and Dean continue to work off of each other, getting round after round and when Dean suggests shots, you’re completely game.

“Maybe you guys should slow down,” Sam suggested, acutely aware of both of your intoxicated states.

“Maybe you should speed up, Sammy, let loose!” Dean shoves Sam’s hand from his shoulder and goes to get a round of shots.

“‘Scuse me,” you slur, standing with a slight sway but desperately needing to use the restroom.

“Woah, you okay there?” Sam stands with you and holds out his arms.

“I’m fine, pretty boy, just wait here for me,” you smile and rub a hand up his bicep, squeezing slightly and pushing off of him to walk towards the bathrooms.

You didn’t see the blush that powders his cheeks.

The bathroom was pretty unclean but you didn’t feel squeamish due to your state. As you pass the mirror you catch a glimpse of yourself and you lock eyes with your own and- holy shit are you drunk.

Your head feels like it’s spinning and your limbs are buzzing with what you would say felt like your blood rushing but honestly you’re just shitfaced. Your eyes, however, are level and a little lidded as they look back at you and help ground yourself. You lean into the sink to get a closer look in the mirror and examine your face a bit but soon get bored and do what you came in here to do in the first place.

When you finish up, you head back to your table only to find two of the three shots empty and a wad of cash on the center of the table. Your head tilts in confusion as you finish your stride to the table.

“Hey- there you are!” Sam chuckled nervously, relieved to see you. You spin to face him, your head still cocked to the side, “Dean went off with someone he met so I think it’s safe to say we won’t see him until the morning. He paid the bill,” Sam ticked his head to the pile of cash on the table and you turned to look back at it- your head stopped at a respectable spot to view the table again but you felt like your brain just kept spinning.

“You took your time in there, you okay?” Sam asks, placing his hand on your lower back to steady you. Your stomach ripples again with nerves and your cheeks flush with heat but you blame it on the alcohol.

“Mhmm, just peachy,” you smile up at him, your brain whipping the opposite direction as you do so. You groan softly at the disorientation and feel another hand on your hip.

“Okay, I’m taking you back to the motel,” Sam said, keeping his hold on you and leaning over to grab his jacket.

“‘M fine, Sammy,” you shrug, climbing back up in your chair and reaching for the last shot. Sam's hand shoots out to grab the glass before you can.

“Nope, nuh-uh, I’m cutting you off,” he chuckles softly, setting the glass on the other side of the table with a light clank. You pout and rest your chin in your hand.

“Boring…” You draw out, letting your eyes flutter closed, relishing the feeling of floating over ocean waves like a piece of kelp.

“I know I am, c’mon,” he wraps his arm around your shoulders and gently guides you to stand with him and you stumble out of the chair but his sturdy arms keep you straight.

Your mind is still swaying so you lean into Sam and focus on how your skin tingles with his passive warmth. That warmth, however, is quickly washed away as you two exit the bar into the cold night air. The chill bites at your nose and the apples of your cheeks.

As you’re walking, your stomach aches so you wrap an arm around your torso with a subtle whine. Sam’s eyebrows pinch and he looks down at you.

“You okay?” He asks stopping for a moment to look down at you. You nod softly but make no move to continue walking. “You shouldn’t have tried to keep up with Dean,” he jokes lightly, rubbing his thumb on our shoulder where his hold is sturdy and reliable.

“God, too much alcohol,” you mumble, leaning your head completely into Sam and snaking your arm around his torso. Yet again- you miss the blush that paints his skin like a rose. He smiles softly and pulls you in a little closer, his embrace around your protective and careful.

“You’ll be okay, I’ve gotchya,” Sam continues walking slowly, giving you time to put your feet into motion. His eyes dart from your feet up to the path in front of them and then instinctively around the area for anything unseemly.

You both finally make it to the motel room and you quickly crumble into your previous spot on the couch with a loud ‘hmph’. You can hear Sam moving around the room for a few minutes and then he crouches next to you.

“You sure you still don’t want my bed?” Sam nudges you softly and you just nod- in your mind you're nodding because you want the bed and thankfully Sam knows what you mean so he just chuckles softly. “Okay, let me help you up, you look so uncomfortable,” he says sweetly- he’s so sweet.

He pulls you up and the room spins, it just keeps spinning and you’re really starting to regret that last drink- or two. Sam can tell by the look on your face that you’re struggling.

“You’re okay,” he steadies you, “just take a moment, I won’t let you fall,” he waits patiently for you to be okay enough to take another step and doesn’t push. A small nod rocks your vision, but it signals that you're good enough to walk. Sam guides you to his bed and lifts up the blankets for you and you slump down onto the spot and Sam keeps his arms out as a guard rail for you.

The feeling of your shoes still hugging your feet is unreasonably uncomfortable so you try to kick them off but only manage to scrape your ankles in the process.

“Here, let me help you,” Sam doesn’t hesitate to gently grab your calf and lift your foot to help unlace your shoes. His hands are quick as he unties the laces and slips off your shoes, sticking them neatly by the bedside table. “You feelin’ okay?” He looks up at you, taking in your appearance and trying to gauge your mental presence in the moment. You just shake your head with a small pout of pain and disorientation. “You need water,” he says, quietly enough for you to think he was just talking to himself, standing and walking to the sink provided in the motel's kitchenette.

It’s really a coin-toss if you’re swaying or not while you’re sitting on the bed.

The humorous expression of a half-laugh and half-cringe on Sam's face makes you think you’re swaying.

He sits on Dean’s bed, across from you, holding out the glass to you, “Here.”

You take the glass and down most of it in a few deep gulps, the scratch of the ice cold water against your alcoholic tongue and throat feel painfully refreshing- like chugging a sprite.

“Careful,” Sam coos softly, reaching up to try and get your hand to tilt the glass back and away from your mouth so you can take a breath. He successfully gets the glass back in his grasp and sets it on the side table. “You should get some sleep,” he speaks again, his voice low and smooth- velvety like chocolate.

“Tummy hurts,” you groan, placing your hand back on your stomach. Sam chuckles softly.

“I bet,” he nods and clasps his hands together, leaning on his knees. You push back some of your hair from your face and let your eyes laze shut, “C’mon, you need to sleep,” he stands with a soft grunt and lifts the blankets so you can slide your legs under the covers. Your body feels weighed as you melt into the mattress, letting the pillow puff up and around to frame your face as you drop your head into it suddenly.

Sam pulls up the covers, laying them flat along your body to make sure you're evenly warm and comfortable.

“Do you need anything?” Sam asks, gazing down at you lovingly- you blame your intoxication for romanticizing his pretty eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur, staring up at him lovingly, and no amount of alcohol could erase or demote that emotion from your eyes.

Sam stops for a moment, looking down at you with a fallen expression, not of disappointment or uncertainty, but of confusion- and maybe a spark of hope?

“You’re drunk,” he sighs softly, smiling down at you sadly as he tries to keep his own feelings in check.

“Doesn’t make me a liar,” you slur, snuggling further into the bed and still looking up at him. You almost would say there was a look of awful sadness shimmering in his eyes- something deep rooted and dreadful.

His eyes dip down and away from your face, thinking about something you can’t quite interpret.

“You’re sweet,” you continue, closing your own eyes which make Sam comfortable enough to look back up at you- sweet puppy-dog eyes that could almost pierce through your closed eyelids. “And strong- really strong,” you giggle drunkenly, nestling your head into the pillow to settle in and sleep.

You don’t say anything else for a moment and Sam just lets his eyes drift over your face, taking in your unique features. His hand reaches out to hold your own before he can stop himself, squeezing it softly.

“Th-thank you f’ not leaving me,” you grumble, half-asleep. Sam’s head tilt is in confusion and his hold on your hand tightens slightly.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“The bar- at the bar,” you yawn with a small hum of contentment, “Like I said, sweet.”

Sam doesn’t really know how to respond- why would you think you owed him a ‘thanks’? What are you even thanking him for?

“You don’t have to thank me,” he settled on his response as he shook his head, running his thumb along your knuckles.

Your prolonged silence signaled to him that you were passed out and he chuckled quietly, knowing you desperately needed the rest.

He lifted your hand slowly and placed a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

“Get some rest, beautiful,” he whispered, setting your hand back down and taking one last look at your restful face before standing to get ready for bed himself.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

[cherrychilli]

18+ Steve Harrington x F! reader, friends to lovers, skinny dipping, PIV sex, unprotected sex, semi public sex, pool sex WC:1.9K

A/N: Feeling very rusty so I'm attempting to dust the cobwebs off my brain and get back into the swing of things with a little bit of Steve filth.

This will they won't they thing was starting to get old.

The casual flirting between you and your neighbor had ramped up in the last month, but you knew him well enough to realize when he's pulling back on the reins, even if subtly.

Up until now you'd enjoyed the way Steve's gaze wandered over you and the playful banter that tended to edge towards suggestive. You'd even glimpsed the only semblance of 'King Steve' that'd remained ever since he turned his whole image inside out a few years ago — that slight, but thankfully tolerable air of playboy confidence you couldn't find in yourself to dislike despite how you made sure to roll your eyes whenever it appeared.

But things were starting to fizzle out now, you could feel it. This thing that had started to brew between you and Steve seemed to be following the trajectory of a bottle rocket — the chemistry you shared soared for a while but now the chances of things becoming serious appeared to be heading for a nosedive.

Your discerning eyes were too sharp, noticing the flickers of hesitation and trepidation that peeked through when he spoke with you now, less flirting as of late, more awkward floundering and not the adorable kind.

You don't know it yet but the reason was because all those fears he'd thought he'd long outrun had started to shadow him again, afraid of things panning out like they always had in his love life.

The Harrington charm drew the girls in like bumblebees to pollen, everything turning sticky sweet for a while but it always ended the same way — with Steve getting stung.

He's gotten in his head about it — every bad date, every lousy hook up, every ounce of self doubt he'd tried hard to swallow down regurgitating back up in his mind like bile. He'd even begun to second guess if you really wanted him the way he wanted you, scared of messing things up if he were to make a real move because he doesn't want to lose you. Not after all the years of liking you so much.

Oblivious to his internal turmoil, you only know that the waiting's been hell on you, feeling more than a little fed up of all the flirting that hadn't led to anything more than a spike in sexual tension and a bunch of almost kisses a couple of times you'd been alone with Steve.

Almost wasn't good enough.

You wanted to show him that you were serious about him — no more bullshit. You were determined to go after what you wanted, taking it upon yourself to make the first move, knowing it'll have to be something big if you were going to really convince him.

And you have the perfect thing in mind.

~

Given he was supposed to be the only one home at this hour, the sound of swashing water echoing from the pool deck comes off more alarming than anything else.

Ears trained in that direction, Steve quietly steps closer towards the noise, cautiously placing one foot in front of the other like he's walking a tightrope.

Was it robbers?

No, robbers only break in to take your shit, not take a dip, he shook his head, feeling stupid he'd even considered it at all.

Speed running a list of possibilities in his mind, a slight shiver ran through him as he quietly hoped it wasn't another skunk that had wandered too close to the edge again, nearly gagging at the memory of how the scared, drenched animal had rewarded him for saving its life a few months back.

Peering out of the entry way, he reckoned he would have guessed a hundred other things before he ever would have guessed what he saw outside. Dropping his keys and jaw, he finds you wading in his pool. Unbothered and very much unclothed.

"Um...you're in my pool", he states as he steps out, dumbfounded.

"And you're..."

He doesn't say it. He wont, afraid that if he did, whatever's happening might suddenly stop. Hell, it felt far too good to be true, half expecting to bolt upright in bed at any second to find it'd been a dream all along, a tent in his plaid pajama bottoms waiting to greet him.

"I am" you confirm, knowing exactly what he'd meant to say, smiling devilishly.

With the pool lights on, your lack of swimwear is obvious against the blue tiles although the rippling water surface obscures your body enough to prevent him from getting a clear look at you no matter how much he squints in an attempt to focus.

"You sure know how to keep a girl waiting, Harrington", you chide, moonlight making your wet skin glitter like topaz.

"Huh?", Steve shakes his head, the jolt crackling up the length of his spine feeling far too real to be part of a dream. This is happening. This is really fucking happening, thunders and echoes inside his head, the realization making his palms turn clammy — the first time since his teens that a girl's elicited that kind of bodily reaction out of him.

"Got tired of waiting for you to nut up and make a move", you wade closer to the edge of the pool with all the allure of a siren approaching shore, the tops of your breasts showing above the surface.

"I want you, Steve", you beckon to him sweetly. Sincerely. "Come join me. It's lonely in here", you finish with a little pout.

He's never undressed quicker in his entire life — all of those nerves and doubts ironed out of him with that one simple confirmation.

You watch as his belt is unbuckled in a flurry, shirt following as it's tossed off to the side. It occurs to you then to offer him a modicum of privacy because it feels like the right thing to do, placing your hands over your eyes until he submerges himself into the water with you. But not before you submit to another urge, sneaking one quick peek between your fingers, your cheeks growing hot when you glimpse his half hard length dangling between his legs.

Covering your eyes again, you wait for him to join you, growing giddy when you feel him enter the water and wade closer to you.

You're met with that hopelessly moony smile of his when he gently pries your hands away from your face. "You always leave your clothes behind when you trespass or is this a new thing for you?", he asks, pearly teeth peeking out as his smile widens into a grin.

You laugh back, a little surprised that you'd gone through with it yourself. "Gonna beef up security around here if I keep it up?", you joked lightly, earning a chuckle from your neighbor.

"Fuck no. I'll even take down the fence so you don't have to hop it next time", he grinned harder, deviously handsome in the moonlight.

Your toes brush his as you wade a little closer, a shiver running through you despite the warmth of the water you're chest deep in. "It was between this or surprising you in your car", you told him, sharing the plan you'd concocted the night before. "You know— trench coat, hide in the backseat. Pretty classy stuff but then I thought about it a little more and realized it sounded kinda sketchy", you made a face, scrunching up your nose. "Didn't want you to think you were getting carjacked or something", you huffed another laugh.

Steve pales a little, laughing along nervously, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Hadn't even thought of that", he lied, glad he didn't rush out here swinging his bat like he would have had he not convinced himself otherwise about the robbers.

As the amusement tapers you focus your stare on the rise and fall of Steve's chest and the hair matted against it, pressing a hand there to feel his taught, wet skin.

There's a lull in your banter as his hands find your waist and your own starts to trail down, gliding over the plane of his soft stomach, fingers dipping underwater to skim the coarse trail of hair below his bellybutton.

Your touches are delicate for a start, fingers curling around Steve's erection as you feel him twitch in your palm, your thumb gently sweeping over the bump of a vein before trailing up to find his tip.

You meet his gaze when you glide the pad of your thumb over the head of his cock, smooth and from what you can tell, sensitive from the way his breath stutters and his length flexes in your hand.

The waiting comes to an end then.

Steve leans in as quickly as you do, lips meeting yours, the scent of chlorine strong on your bodies, his chest pressing against your breasts. It's a dizzying minute of his tongue hungrily brushing against yours before he pulls you up by the underside of your thighs, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

Your body reacts quickly, crossing your ankles behind his back. His shaft nudges your clit from this angle and it makes you whine into his mouth, all needy from being deprived this kind of intimacy because of how he'd held back all those weeks.

He pulls away from the kiss to look as you, cupping your cheek with his hand.

"I know baby, I know. Made you wait for it too long didn't I? Don't worry I'm going to give it to you now, okay?", he coos, one part reassuring one part cocky.

Your core aches with anticipation when he says it, desire heavy and burning in your belly.

"Steve wait", you cut him off before his lips can come down on yours again.

"Yeah?"

"Could you— could you do it rough? that's how I want it", you tell him, digging your nails into his biceps. You're in no mood for anything soft or slow. Not right now. Not after waiting this long.

"Whatever you want— I'll give you anything you want", he promises, leaning in to kiss you again.

It doesn't take long for the swashing to recommence, building up to a loud, choppy splashing. Your back will carry evidence of how he has you pressed against the side of the pool tomorrow, arms wrapped around his neck as his tip meets your entrance and he works it inside, his length rutting into your soft core, punching out a chorus of moans and whimpers wrapped around his name.

Before he's completely lost to the warm, wet tightness of your walls wrapping around him, Steve only prays that none of his other neighbors care enough to peek over because if they did, things were bound to get awkward at the next block party.

"Promise me you w-won't go cold on me again", you beg when he locates that spot inside you, the head of his cock dragging over it just right.

"I promise", he answers, unclenching his jaw to nip at your bottom lip. "Promise me you'll go out with me after this? be my girlfriend?"

It nearly sends you reeling, being asked the question you'd been waiting to hear for weeks now as he's literally inside you, making your orgasm approach faster.

Smiling hard, you're still letting out little uh's and ah's because he doesn't let up his pace, driving his cock into you, all hard and fast just like how you wanted.

You couldn't wait to keep making up for all that time you spent doing anything that wasn't this, gasping out your answer.

"I promise"

[sturncrazy]

SPLASH

Matt Sturniolo x y/n (fem)

warnings: SMUT nsfw 18+(um lang, y/n receiving, unprotected, cream pie —assume ur on bc—-semi public/sneaky, nothing too crazy)

authors note: AW ITS KINDA CUTE GUYS. here’s the other matty poo idea i had since y’all seem to eat him up always hehe.

summary: you join some of your friends on a trip to get over a breakup and end up having a heart to heart talk during a late night swim with matt….but talkings not all you end up doing…

word count: 3,431w

—————————————————————————

“hey y/n get your suit on! we’re gonna swim!” nick said, peering in through your half opened door.

“mkay” you nodded back, forcing a smile. it’d been a split second decision to force yourself to join your friends on this trip. Nick had suggested you come to try and get your mind off of things. you and your boyfriend had broken up only 2 weeks ago, after you found him cheating on you. it’d been a long time coming and had almost never been a good relationship, but a breakup is a breakup and you were still reeling from it. you pulled out a stringy bikini, then threw an oversized t shirt on top. the house you were staying at was large and out in the middle of nowhere. the pool was a significant distance behind the house which gave it a cool secluded feel during the day, but at night the walk alone was a little eerie. you fears washed away though as you got close enough to see your friends splashing around and their laughter became audible, only lit by the purple pools lights. it brought a smile to your face and you felt genuinely happy for the first time in a while. you and your friends hung around together for a couple hours, getting late into the night when chris decided he was hungry and needed a snack. the nearest convenience store was about 20 minutes away and would be closing soon so chris and the 3 of others decided to do a junk food run, leaving just you and matt. matt had been your friend since 7th grade, but the two of you hadn’t gotten to hang out as much in the last year cause he made your ex so nervous. he was always convinced you had feelings for matt. at one point he might’ve not been wrong, but you’d never tell a soul that.

“ok last chance guys! you want anything?” nick shouted as the others ran back towards the house.

“skittles!” said matt

“oo can you get me some twizzlers?”

“yup!” nick said running off

“think he listened?” matt said wading through the water to the edge where you were sitting, dangling your feet in.

“oh definitely not” you laughed

“you should come in the water! it’s really warm”

“but then when i get back out i’ll be cold” the outside air had dropped enough to feel the slightest of chill of fall.

“so? you can borrow my sweater if you want” said matt sweetly, always a gentleman

“come on! have some fun!” he teased splashing only enough to spray a few droplets on your thighs. you could never say no to him. you stood up and pulled your tshirt over your head. matt looked up at you, his mouth slightly ajar, before he quickly glanced away. you figured he’d zoned out. you cannonballed in, intentionally hitting matt with a wave of water.

“asshole” he laughed, splashing you as you came back up for air. you grinned at him and shook the wet hair out of your eyes and paddled to sit on the pools steps. matt joined and sat next to you. he leaned his arms against the the pools edge, the water only coming up to his mid stomach. you stole a glance at his toned torso and arms, tattoos glistening from the water. his eyes darted back to yours and he gave you a half smile.

“hey, you been okay? i didn’t wanna pry, but i head about the breakup” he said with concern

“oh…yeah. i’m okay i guess” you sighed

“he’s a real dick, y/n. i mean really. such an asshole. i wanted to kill him” you snorted

“you and me both” matt was on a roll in his rant and barely seemed to notice your comment

“i mean he has some fucking nerve treating you like that. you deserve like the best of the best and the fact that he didn’t didn’t see that—“

“aww matt” a warm fuzzy feeling spread over your skin at his words. he snapped back into remembering your presence and gave you a bashful look.

“i just think you deserve someone who treats you right. so good riddance to him” he said, splashing at an invisible presence off in the distance, trying to play cool. it was an adorably dorky move.

“thank you, matty” you said softly. he paused, and looked you intensely in the eyes.

“yeah always” he breathed out. the tension hung thickly in the night air. you turned your face away from his, hoping it would dissipate.

“and not that it matters, but i remember back in middle school when everyone was playing truth or dare, all the girls made fun of him for being a bad kisser” matt said, attempting to lighten the mood. it worked and you let out a laugh.

“yeah trust me, kissing wasn’t the only thing he was bad at”

“oooooo really” matt said grimacing. you nodded and dramatically shivered at the thought.

“yeah, honestly, don’t think there was a single time i wasn’t on top doing all the work. he’d sorta just lie there…like a corpse. and y’know…second he was done that was that. maybe 2 minutes each time.” matt’s jaw dropped

“whaaaat” you laughed as you glanced at your hands under the water, feeling nervous about talking about this with matt.

“that’s crazy. half the fun of sex watching the other person enjoy it” you felt your face flush as you raised your eyebrows at him

“what?” he chuckled back at your surprise

“nothing, i’ve just never heard you talk like that before” matt rolled his eyes playfully

“yeah well much to your surprise i have had sex before, y/n”

“well i know that…”

“just didn’t think i’d be good at it” he cut you off, teasingly. your face turned from flush to beat red, making you thankful for the dim lighting.

“hey, i wouldn’t be one to judge” you shrugged out, suddenly feeling painfully aware of your lack in experience.

“what do you mean?” matt questioned

“just…he was the only person i ever…y’know” you sheepishly avoided the words.

“had sex with?” matt filled in for you. you nodded and scrunched your face. he studied you for a minute.

“so you’ve never had good sex?” he asked, quietly. you felt so exposed you might as well have been naked.

“‘guess not” you mumbled avoiding is unwavering gaze.

“have to wait around for the next boy” you snickered to yourself

“isn’t that a bit of a gamble?”

“well what are my other options i mean youre the only guy i know who probably any good at sex—“ matt’s eyes widened. you slapped your hand over your mouth, panic beginning to settle in.

“oh my god—sorry—i—that came out wrong—i didn’t mean like you and me—like you need to show me—shit” matt just continued to look at you, his eyes burning holes into your skull. you buried your face in your pruning hands.

“well, why not” matt rasped out. you peaked through your fingers at him, his expression looked blank, but his chest rose rapidly, nervously. you dropped you hands.

“what” you almost whispered. he took a steadying breath.

“i said why not.” you tried to breath, but no air seemed to be available.

“what do you mean” matt gnawed at his lip before speaking again.

“i mean that you deserve to only feel amazing and i don’t want you to go around experimenting with more assholes and—“

“matt, i’m not gonna let you have pity sex with me” you scoffed out, embarrassment itching your whole body.

“that’s not what i meant y/n” he said in a hushed voice. you continued to babble over him.

“i mean i know you’re the nicest guy ever, but come on even you have to know you don’t have to fuck me to protect me from other bad guys—“

“i dont want you to fuck other guys at all” he sounded exasperated. you gave him a lost look. he exhaled, looking up at the sky for invisible answers.

“you don’t?” he looked back into your eyes, you felt like your heart could melt.

“of course not, y/n” your heart raced.

“okay” he furrowed his brow

“okay what?”

“okay yeah— i mean let’s—“ you inhaled, pulling yourself together and met his gazed

“i want you to show me” his chest rattled again.

“yeah?” he breathed out. you nodded, rapidly. he moved closer to you, your faces now inches apart. his eyes darted down to your lips. he smiled, and looked back up into yours, as one hand gently wrapped around your waist.

“okay” he rasped out as he brushed his nose against yours. he seemed to revel in the tension between you, before bringing his soft warm lips against yours. the kiss was passionate, but still delicate. it sent electricity through your chest and down to your fingertips. he brought his other hand up to your check and jaw, molding your faces together even more. matt pulledl his lips away from yours momentarily to whisper out

“you can touch me, y/n” you only then realized your arms had been cluelessly frozen by your sides. you eagerly brought them up around matt’s neck, immediately changing the tone of the kissing to something much more heated. he let out a sharp breath into your mouth before moving to come between your legs, both hands now grasping your waist. he pulled you closer and you wrapped your legs around his body, gripping into his hair. he let out a small groan against your lips and squeezed at your flesh in his hands. you sighed out at the feeling, opening your mouth against his which he took as an opportunity to slip his tongue against yours. your mouths locked together perfectly, as your hands begin to move from his hair to explore his chest, your fingertips roaming the skin of his body you’d only ever dreamed of getting to touch. you lowered your nails to just beneath his bellybutton, which elicited a genuine moan from him. you smiled against his mouth

“where did you learn that” he grumbled

“i have have a couple tricks” you said coly

“oh yeah?” he said between soft quick kisses

“so do i” he bit down lightly on your bottom lip, pulling with his teeth as he brought your hips up against his. you whined feeling him press against your bikini bottoms. he chuckled at your pathetic reaction and pushed your hair back from your neck. he lowered his lips down to the sensitive newly exposed skin and began to sloppily kiss a trail from your jaw to your collarbone, then began sucking and biting at your flesh.

“fuck” you moaned out, your eyes rolling back. you grasped at his taught upper arms.

“you like that?” he groaned against your skin, setting it ablaze with vibrations.

“yes” you sighed out, bucking your hips slightly against his, desperate for more than just the grazing pressure of him standing against you. he seemed to understand your every need and hooked his fingers through the flimsy ties of your bikini and pulled you harshly against him. you felt a hardness in his shorts pressing against your core and your mouth practically watered. his hands trailed back up your body and to your back where your top tied together.

“this okay” you nodded and pulled him back in against your mouth, not wanting to waste a moment for words away from his lips. he expertly untied the knots and slipped the clinging wet fabric of your chest, leaving your boobs exposed to the outside air. he tossed the fabric on the ground behind you as he looked down at your heaving chest.

“god” he groaned out, his eyes widening as he brought his hands to your boobs and pawed at the the soft flesh. he ran his thumbs delicately across your nipples watching you, as you tossed your head back in a moan. he slipped his hands behind your back again, bringing your bare skin flush against his

“you’re so beautiful” he huffed against your lips. you began to rock yourself back and forth against his blatantly obvious hard on, desperate to build some friction. he wrapped one arm around your thigh and lifted you up to the top dry step of the pool, completely taking you out of the water except for your calves. matt lowered himself down to his knees a few steps bellow you, and began to kiss your knees and inner thighs. your legs quivered, as your core ached for attention. his wide blue eyes looked up at you, his mouth only inches away from where you needed him most, as his fingers hooked to the sides of your swimsuit.

“can i?” he mumbled against your skin.

“please” you whined out. he pulled at the loose bows, undoing the flimsy cover easily. you lifted your hips for him to slide the fabric from between your legs. he parted your legs with his hands, his pupils dilating to blackness as he took in the sight of you entirely exposed.

“so perfect” he sighed almost in a trance

“matt—“ you whined desperate and impatient. he looked back up at you with a half smile

“don’t worry baby, i’m gonna make you feel so good” his words alone could’ve made you come undone. he wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he brought his warm wet mouth against your aching clit. he gently kissed at the bundle of nerves, making you thrust your hips up against his face hungry for more. he responded by beginning to drag his tongue in painfully slow circles around your clit.

“oh god—matt-“ you cried out, your fingers latching into his hair for support. he groaned against your sensitive bud.

“y’taste so good” your thighs squeezed his face as he began to move his tongue faster, flicking it it circles around your clit.

“oh fuck— that feels so good—“ you exhaled. one of his arms loosed it’s grip

as he brought his fingertips down to meet your folds. he broke his tongue away from your clit and rested his scruffy cheek against your inner thigh as his watched his own fingers drag up and down your dripping folds. you whined in torture and he brought his pointer and middle finger to your entrance pressing small torturous pulses against it, but not entering or giving you the fullness you needed. you were a mess at his touch, whining, moaning, and thrashing around, but he seemed to savor every minute of watching you. finally, he slipped his finger into your core and you cried out at the feeling.

“so pretty” he whispered again before starting to pump his digits in and out of you over and over, his fingers curving up expertly. the tension in your stomach began to form almost immediately. matt needed no clues in knowing what you needed and lowered his tongue back to your clit. your walls began to pulse around his fingers. you knew you were close.

“oh god—matt-i—“ you began to stutter out

“good girl. cum for me” he cooed. you fell apart with his permission and came undone. your legs stuttered as your high began to end and matt slipped his fingers out of you. he lifted himself back up to your level, leaning against the ledge behind you and kissing you again.

“see how good you taste” he said against your lips

“matt” you giggled slightly shocked against him, starting to close your legs. his grip latched back down on your thighs, stopping you.

“oh i’m not done with you yet” he growled through a slight smile, as he hoisted you up into the air. your wrapped your legs around him, as he carried you away from the pool to a nearby lounge chair. he laid you down on your back and climbed on top of you, between your legs. he pressed his still covered crotch against your exposed vulnerable entrance. you hissed, still sensitive from your recent orgasm. he stopped and pulled back from you

“you okay?”

“yes just sensitive” you let out a breathy laugh

“do you want to stop” the overwhelming look of concern in his eyes was adorable

“are you kidding me?” you said, wrapping your legs around him tightly, bringing him back down on top of you.

“thank god” he exhaled. you laughed as you began to kiss him again, rolling your hips up against him. he whimpered. you dragged your fingernails up his back and dug in slightly at his shoulders. he groaned again. the sound of him wanting you was enough to make you desperate all over. you continued to run your fingernails down his chest and to his waistband, snapping the elastic against his skin slightly. his stomach tensing at the feeling.

“take these off, matty” you whined.

“whatever you want” he pulled off from you and stood to the side, sliding off the shorts.

his rock hard dick sprung out free from the fabric and slapped against his stomach. your jaw opened slightly as your eyes took in the impressive size of him in front of you.

“what?” he chuckled

“youre so big” you said in genuine awe

“fuck you don’t know what you’re doing to me” he said, climbing back on top of you and needily yanking your legs up around him. the tip of his hard member rubbed against your clit as he continued to grind his hips against yours through your makeout.

“matt—“ you whined again, needing more.

“you sure you want to do this?” he asked looking into your eyes.

“yes matt—i want you so bad” you moaned to him

“fuck i’m all yours, baby” he said kissing you again, as he began to align himself with your entrance. he pushed himself inside you slowly and shuddered against you once he was all the way deep into your core. he paused for a moment, letting you adjust to the extreme stretch before beginning to slowly thrust in and out and in and out of your pussy. the stretch and fullness of him made you cry out sounds like you’d never made before.

“fuck you feel so good. such a perfect tight little pussy” he huffed out between his calculated thrusts.

“oh god matt”

“taking me so well baby” he cooed

“shitt-feel so good inside me, matty”

“yeah? you like when i fuck you like this, huh baby?” he breathed against your ear, burying his head into your neck.

“so fucking much—oh god yes—faster”

“okay beautiful” he began to pick up the pace of his steady thrusts and you thought you’d see stars. each thrust of his dick equally hard and timed out as he slammed against your g spot. you clawed at his back desperately, which only seemed to encourage him to pick up his pace to an impossibly faster speed. you slurred out curses in between pornographic moans as your mind became a total blur. you could feel your second orgasm approaching.

“OHHH FUCK MATT YES”

“fuck you sound so good moaning my name like that y/n”

“MATT OH GOD IM GONNA”

“you gonna cum for me again, baby?”

“YES OH MY FUCK”

“be a good girl and cum all over my dick” your eyes blurred with tears of pleasure as your ears buzzed and your second orgasm took control of your body. matt let out an uneven moan as your walls rapidly pulsed around his cock.

“fuck—squeezing me so good—shit—i’m close—“

“mmmm” was all you managed to moan in response as he began to trust into you wildly and unsteadyily

“oh my fuck baby i’m gonna cum”

“cum matt—i wanna feel you cum” you panted

“OHH MY OH FUCK FUCK IM GONNA CUM NGHH IM CUMMING” the groaned out as he halted his thrusts deep inside you, shooting hot white ropes of his release into your throbbing core. he collapsed breathless on top of you. after a moment matt pulled himself off your chest and propped himself up by his forearms.

“have any fun?” he asked sheepishly

“are you KIDDING ME? holy SHIT” you said in total honestly

“not half bad right?” he laughed, reaching for his shorts.

“unreal” he handed you his sweater and leaned back down to kiss you again, but pulled away abruptly

“sorry—was that weird? i don’t wanna make you feel pressured—“ you wrapped your arms around his neck shutting him up with another kiss

“good luck if you think your getting away from me now”

“i wouldn’t dream of it”

—————————————————————————live for sweet matt smut always 🫶

[charliegyrth]

Back from the Oil Rig

For six long months, I thought about Josh. He was on an oil rig off the coast of Washington, working on equipment maintenance. Great job, lots of money, but God I missed him.

When he asked me if I was okay with the long-term contract, I couldn’t say no. This was a great opportunity for him. He’d be able to use his geology degree, and the six months would do wonders for our paltry bank account.

What I didn’t know at the time was that he’d have no cell phone reception and only enough wifi to send emails once a week.

I stayed at our house in Lake Havasu. Alone. Pining. Full-on depressed. We’d been together for six years and the longest we’d ever been apart was a week. Our friends visited me a lot to cheer me up, but it didn’t help. And because of my constantly foul mood, their visits got more and more sporadic as the months went on.

I tried to entertain myself by listening to audiobooks and jogging around the neighborhood. That didn’t help. The only thing that would even partially alleviate my loneliness was eating. By the end of the six months, the house was filled with empty snack boxes and I was up 25 pounds. (Okay, 30.) My hips had gotten thicker and a roll of fat encircled my waist.

None of my clothes fit and I looked absolutely terrible. I used to be a fat kid, but ever since high school, I’d maintained a healthy weight (in the 170-180 range). I’d been fit for as long as Josh had known me, and now he was going to come back to an absolute cow.

As the days got closer, I started to panic. I didn’t want him to see me like this. With all the exercise he was doing on the rig, he’d show up more muscular than ever. Then he’d take one look at me and freak out. That was my greatest fear.

To soften the blow, I sent him one last email warning him that I’d gained some weight while he was gone. He never responded, which either meant he never got the message or (more likely) he was too disgusted to reply.

The day before he came back, I went shopping for bigger clothes to hide my gut. It took a while, but I found some semi-flattering shirts and some pants that were loose enough to accommodate my hips. I still looked bigger, but at least the clothes hid the ring of fat over my waistband.

An hour before he was supposed to arrive, he finally answered my email with a one-line reply:

“LOL. I got bigger too.”

That was it! Couldn’t he give me more details? “I got bigger”? That could either mean he’d grown more muscles or he’d gotten fatter, too. I prayed it was the latter. If he showed up looking athletic and swole, I’d feel even more terrible about myself. But if he’d gained a few pounds of chub, then at least we’d be even. At least I wouldn’t feel like I’d disappointed him.

I felt terrible for thinking that, though.

When he arrived in the early afternoon, I was a hot ball of emotions. I desperately wanted to see him, to feel his arms around me. But I was nervous and scared, too. Ashamed. Horny. I felt a little bit of everything.

I was in the bedroom, adjusting my shirt in front of the mirror, when I heard the front door creak open.

“Honey? I’m home!”

My heart melted at the sound of his voice. All my fears faded. This was Josh, the love of my life. He wouldn’t reject me over 30 pounds. He might be disappointed, but he’d still love me.

I ran into the other room, but Josh wasn’t there. Instead, I saw one of his burly coworkers helping him bring in his luggage. The man looked like a roughneck (i.e. someone who works on an oil rig). He had long dark hair, a bushy beard, and a belly that drooped several inches over his belt.

“Um, hey.”

He dropped the luggage and turned toward me.

And that’s when I saw his pale blue eyes. This was Josh! My Josh! He’d morphed from a muscular, clean-shaven guy into a bearded fat man.

No, not fat. Obese. He must’ve gained 70 pounds.

He waddled toward me. Even his walk was different. He had his arms open, expecting a hug.

I slowly stepped forward. Then I hugged him. He felt so different. So plush and warm. And yet, he still felt like Josh.

My Josh was holding me, and it felt incredible.

Then he pulled away, smiling. He had dimples now. Dimples in his fat cheeks. “It took you a second to recognize me, huh?”

“I…”

“It’s okay. I know I’m different.” Then he backed up. “But look at you! You look exactly the same! You got my hopes up for a second with that email. You made it sound like you’d gotten as big as me, but… you’re not even chubby.”

“I’m a little chubby.” Why did I say that? To make him feel better about himself?

“Yeah? Let me feel.” He reached under my baggy shirt and felt the roll of pudge that poked over my pants. “Hmm. That’s new. Do you like it?”

“I… No.”

Then his face got serious. “Are you freaked out right now?”

“A little.” I had to be honest with him.

“C’mon.” He led me to the sofa. He took his time sitting down. The sofa creaked under him, but not too much. Then I sat, too. Because our furniture was super cheap, it bent under him, forcing me to slide closer. I sank into his side rolls. I didn’t know what to do with my arm, so I wrapped it over his shoulder, snuggling close.

Just being next to him made my heart race.

“I owe you an explanation,” he said.

“Ya think?”

“Eighty-seven pounds,” he said. “Why don’t we start with that, since I know you’re wondering.”

“Eighty seven?”

“Yeah.” There was a bit of pride in his voice.

“But, like, how?”

“Well, I was the only guy on the rig who didn’t have a physical job. Everyone else had to clean things, and crank things, and walk around doing inspections. I was the numbers guy, sitting all day doing readouts and diagnostics. And our meals were huge. Every single day. The others needed to keep up their stamina, so they… Well, every meal was a feast. And I couldn’t say no, of course. I joined in. But without all the exercise that everyone else was getting, I expanded.” He grabbed the sides of his belly and jiggled, causing his shirt to ride up and reveal his pale, hairy belly. There were bright red stretchmarks hidden under his hair. Lots of them. They looked fresh. And itchy.

He caught me staring. “You can touch it if you want.”

“Are you…?”

“Please.”

I slid my free hand onto the bottom of his belly. I was nervous to touch it, but with his encouraging look, I got more confident. I kneaded the soft flesh in my fingers. It was so pliant. And surprisingly lumpy, as if globs of fat cells were clustered in irregular piles under his stretched-out skin. It felt so alien, and yet… I kind of liked it.

Curious, I traced one of his stretchmarks, causing him to shiver and his body to wobble.

“That tickles.”

“Sorry.” I pulled my hand away, but he guided it back to his belly. He wanted me to feel his body as he continued his story.

“So obviously I gained weight pretty fast. Twenty pounds in that first month. About where you are right now.” He shivered again as my fingers reached one of his folds. It was warm and a little damp with sweat. “The guys noticed, and they all thought it was really funny. They’re all older than us, and they saw me as this little kid. ‘College Boy,’ they called me. I didn’t realize it at first, but they were messing with me at mealtime, encouraging me to stuff myself. It was sort of a game to them, like I was their little mascot that they were fattening up. Things sort of escalated, and pretty soon, they were giving most of their food to me. Sneaking snacks into my office. All sorts of stuff… Oh, that feels good.”

My hand, still under his shirt, had reached the warm crevasse between his moob and the top of his belly. I guess I’d grazed his nipple, because he let out a whimper.

He used to have such solid pecs. He’d been really proud of them, too. Now, they were sacks of fat.

“When I first got there, one of the guys warned me that everyone gains weight on an oil rig. But by the end of our contract, all the other guys had actually lost weight. They’d given it all to me. So… that’s my story.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“In an email? I tried, but I couldn’t figure out what to say.”

“And how do you feel about it?” I asked, my hand still on his chest. I desperately wanted to see him shirtless, because I knew his nipples had expanded. The areola felt like it was over an inch wide.

“Depends on how you feel about it,” he said. “That’s the big question mark. I love it, but you’re my husband. I know it’s a lot to process, so if you want me to—”

“I love it, too!” The words burst out of me.

I loved the new Josh. He felt so comfortable. I knew that I’d have to get used to a few things. I’m sure our lives would change a lot. We probably wouldn’t be going on any more morning jogs. I’m guessing our dreams of bungee-jumping were out of the question now. And who knows what else? Probably a thousand little things.

But he seemed so happy with himself, and I was completely onboard.

He shifted on the sofa, having a bit of trouble angling his body toward me. Then he touched my own soft stomach. My extra flab had given me so much anxiety over the last few months, and now I felt like a real moron for getting so upset. Thirty pounds. It was barely anything.

“If I get bigger,” he asked, “will you join me?”

“Yes,” I said, completely confident in my answer. I doubt that I’d ever catch up to him, but I could try.

“It feels so good to be home.” Then his belly rumbled. “You hungry?”

“Famished.”

The End.

You can find all my stories here.

[biasbuck]

BiAsBuck’s March ficrec Mayhem

Hi everyone, can you believe it's almost the end of March? It turns out when canon is making you LOSE YOUR MIND every week, it's hard to sit down and type out a rec post. But never fear! Here's some of the fic that I've read and loved over the last month! Our grass is watered, the sun is shining, we're thriving. As always you can find previous rec lists here.

25 March 2025

sinkhole by @marviless loved this pre 8b spec fic, in which when 'someone new moves into Eddie's house. Buck does the completely normal thing and starts dating him.' Poor Mateo. I love you crazygirl!Buck, losing his mind in slow motion and being semi-aware but unable to stop, whilst everyone around him goes nooooooooooo. So much fun. But most importantly, Eddie is just as nuts in return!

supernova by @melliehart some post 8x09 and 8x10 LetBuckFuck agenda fic! To sooth the ache of Eddie's absence, Buck finds solace in other people. A lot of other people. But of course, it's really about Eddie the whole time.

half of the things i do by @notspecialbabe has Buck and Eddie both feeling psychosexually turned on by the thought of Buck living in Eddie's house. Yearning and phone sex ensues. Glorious!

the ghost in your house by @buckedupbuttercup in which Buck takes it upon himself to go rooting around in all the nooks and crannies of things left behind, searching through Eddie's cupboards and junk drawers. And along the way he can't help himself but relieve the pressure of his absence. Until a thumbdrive crosses the line, and Buck uncovers more of Eddie's secrets than he bargained for.

under pressure by @gayhoediaz finally together, Buck and Eddie's lives have gotten so busy they've yet to find time to do anything but sleep together. They've got grand plans for their first time. But the pressure of perfection gets under both of their skin. This is so sweet, sexy and romantic, and I just love the realism and tenderness. It's so them.

just look me in the eye by @markofalover post 8x11, Buck is once again trying to quiet his mind, and of course Edwin is the right place person to do just that. What could possibly go wrong? Sweet and funny, with some wonderful Buckley siblings dynamics, and Eddie getting his possessive streak on. We love to see it!

A New Normal by @Inell lovely spec fic about where we might find Eddie in 8x12, in which short of job opportunities, he finds himself in the Texas staple Whataburger, slowly reconnecting with Chris, and finding a new normal with Buck.

I'm going to leave it here for now, but I've been rapidly reading and reblogging all the amazing 8x11 codas on my ficrec tag as well as the usual round ups, so please do dive through here as well and I'll hopefully round up more soon! You guys are all so talented!

[torueater]

GAME OVER ⭑.ᐟ

�� ꩜ ⋆ pairing: toji fushiguro x reader

synopsis: semi-chronically online assassin fiance Toji happens to hear about game controlled sex toys - an instant buy. it's not hard to get you to agree to trying it out with him with how interesting it sounds. you win if you don't cum before the round end, easy enough feat. till he lands shot after shot and you realize winning hadn't been an option in the first place.

wc: 5145 ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

content: fem!reader, foul language, sexual themes, porn w/ a plot (kinda), sex toy usage, dirty talk, praise, unprotected sex, light degradation, fingering, cum eating, spanking, multiple orgasms, manhandling, overstim mentioned, established relationship, teasing, mutual pleasure, masturbation, pet names, fiancé toji, fiancée reader

a/n: first time writing full on smut 𖤐.ᐟ reader dialogue in italics. have fun!

reblogs/comments vv appreciated if you enjoyed! okay bye! ᓚᘏᗢ

You can't exactly say that you're surprised to see the whole thing set up already by the time you’d gotten home.

Toji had drawn reference to the newly released system in passing more than twice at this point, it and its ability to be hooked up to a good chunk of compatible first person shooter games. A lot of ‘Think about it, baby’s and ‘It’ll be really fun. Y’re too stressed from all that working.’ Which is true, yes – but letting him control a toy inside of you without regulation? You can’t say it doesn’t get you a little hot but… you’re a little fearful for yourself, imagining the amount of orgasms you think he’ll try to get out of you. You know better than to accept the sly man’s offer but you love him too much and it sounds far too fun, so here you are!

Toji leans back against the couch of your shared room, all smug, eyes hot on you as you eye the gaming seat hesitantly. The setup isn’t exactly novel -- a vibrating dildo a little smaller than him with a piston mechanism, strapped to the leather of the seat of one of your chairs pulled from the dining room. You bite your lip and cast him a glance, eyes going right back to the toy, noting that it’s already lubed up for you. Of course he’d known you’d cave for him. “C’mon sweetheart. I already set it up for ya. All you gotta do is sit.” He gestures a broad hand to the seat, smirk lifting the scarred corner of his mouth.

Your pulse is already a quick throb under your skin, eyes rolling to feign exasperation as you murmur something about him being ridiculous. “You’re so impatient, seriously.” Lifting the silk of your slip up over your ass you balance yourself in the chair, eyes on him as your fingers tug aside the crotch of your panties. Just to sink down oh so slowly. “Only ‘cause you asked so nicely, baby.” The stretch of your walls around the size stings less than you’d expected it would with the lube on the toy and your own wetness. Unfamiliarity doesn’t mean that all this doesn’t excite you just a little.

The rules are simple, more in your favor – you win once you last till the game ends. An orgasm is an instant loss. No harm, no foul.

The chair’s leather is cool against the heated backs of your thighs, left to sink down to the hilt first try since you needed your hands to work your controller – he couldn’t leave you out of the fun, could he? It was simple, your shots would slow the movement and vibration of the toy, his shots do the exact opposite. All good and clean fun. You feel the drop of his gaze to where you’re split and connected to the toy, easier to slide down a little more with the spurt of slick that leaves you just from his attention. "Ugh. Baby, jus'...start the fuckin' game already." You whine, nose scrunching up, eyes narrowing in his direction.

“Who’s the impatient one now?” His amusement is so palpable that it’s sickening, apparent in the twitch of his lips, the idle tap of his fingers on the controller. Like he’s leaving time for this to all settle for you. Letting you realize the weight of the situation and how you’d gone and fucked yourself over. Letting your assassin fiancé control a sex toy you’re connected to via a shooter game? Really? He's much better with knives and daggers, them being his preferred weapons but you know better than to underestimate his skills.

“Comfy? Straps need adjustin’?” His voice is all teasing, eyes dropping for just for a second to eye your center again, hum low in his throat. He pushes off the chair when you don’t answer fast enough, stepping into your space, fingers hooking under your chin to tilt your head up. “Gotta answer me or I won’t know, sweetheart.” The coo is almost condescending sounding but the underlying fondness isn’t missed in the slightest, his dip to smack a kiss to your balm layered lips proving all your thoughts. “Y’nervous?”

The way his rough thumb strokes slow over your jaw makes it hard to verbalize your thoughts, so a little nod is all he’s granted. Cute. “You’ll be fineee,” he assures in a drawl, though the way he says it doesn’t feel entirely reassuring. “Just a game, yeah?” A pause, very deliberate, before he adds, “'Sides, I’ll be real gentle on you.”

─────────────────────୨ৎ─────────────────────

Yeah gentle. Gentle till that first shot lands not even a minute into the game. The piston isn’t the one to fire up but the vibrations do, a steady low buzz of the girthy plastic pressed into you that has your breath catching. Low enough to feel good but not enough to distract from trying to make shots (yet). Your bullets hit more inanimate objects than actual targets., groan leaving you at your poor skills. “Couldn’t let me get a shot in?” He hums like he’s thinking about it, shot ringing out from the speakers and the increased buzz of the toy telling you he’d just made a shot, “Nah. Said I’d be easy on you, not that I'd hand out free shots.” What would be the fun in just letting you sit there unaffected?

The mechanisms of the piston starting up is slow, but it makes you jolt anyway, eyes a little wide as you glance down – enough of a distraction for another pop! of the in-game gun and then it’s pistoning a little faster. “Wait- That’s not fair! I wasn’t even-" Another while you’re complaining and your breath hitches. Your grip on the controller tightens, moan caught in your throat as the stiff tip of the dildo batters into one singular spot that gives into its pressure, hips tilting to angle it away. Toji’s already loading up his next shot, barely allowing you to catch your bearings before the next impact comes, and – fuck. His aim is merciless. Precise.

You think you’re a little stupid for even thinking this would be an even playing field in the first place.

“Too fuckin' easy,” he mutters, shaking his head like this is all just a little disappointing, like he’s not reveling in your little reactions. The next shot lands and your body jolts, moan spilling past soft lips, but Toji barely acknowledges it. “Baby, cmon. You’re not even tryin’.”

How he expects you to try when you can barely catch your bearings is beyond you! You grip the controller, attempting to prove him wrong. Your fingers press into the joystick and it shifts, character racing forward, finger holding down the trigger button and just letting the gun rip. Dirt flies up where metal bullets collide and ricochet, sound of firing blaring from your speakers. 0 fucking headshots. “Fushiguroooo!”

He does laugh at that, glancing over at you, glint in his eye more than amusement. “I’m not even shooting right now. Go on, go shoot someone.” He at least puts down the controller for now to give you a fighting chance, your fingers shaky as you reload the gun, move off in search of at least one person to shoot at to slow this toy down. You’re left to keep your hips angled, balancing yourself almost uncomfortably since both your hands are occupied. It's not long till the opportunity presents itself, fumbling to line up the gun to the target and you shoot!

And somehow miss.

“Wait- no.” Your eyes are wide as they flicker over to his, lips parting, “One more try? You love me, right?” He’s laughing at you again, head shaking, back to moving through the map like he’d made the game himself. “I do, but nope. No second chances. Maybe you just like losin’. You want me making these shots, don’t you?” More deliberate shots -- since when had he been so good at this fucking game?? The vibrations you can handle for the most part, they’d stopped rising a couple shots ago but the toy is quite literally fucking you, changing angles to batter into your plush walls.

Molten heat prickles at your skin, slick a sticky, pooling mess between your thighs on the seat, a mix of frustration and a building orgasm curling hot in your gut. Your fingers tighten around the controller, knuckles protruding, but it’s hard to focus, even harder to keep your hands steady when every impact makes your body betray you. "Wait. Oh my goood, you don't need to g-get a headshot every-" You squeak, bowing forward, hand freeing up from the controller to grab at the seat handle, "time!"

“All that whining -- mm, oh my god, stop hittin’ headshots, baby—” His voice goes all pitched and breathy, an exaggerated imitation of you. He just finds it so funny, you’re so cute. “Think I’m about to win by the way.”

The blood under your skin is molten, hand lifting to flip him the bird. “I’m actual going to strangle you when we’re done here.”

Toji doesn’t think you know how much he’s getting off to this. His too gorgeous fiancée saying his name in a whiny voice, getting fucked proper on a stupid little toy every time he makes a well-aimed shot. It’s too fuckin’ easy and all your antics have him stiff as diamond against the front of his sweats. “You kinda suck, baby. Thought you said you were good at games?” Yeah, games meaning Stardew Valley. Minecraft, maybe! He knows this!

You try hard to get your breathing under control, try to keep yourself from sliding down the length of the plastic that feels so much like your bastard fiance’s who’s currently torturing you, but also not like him at all. Every fidget, every strained sound – he catches it all. “Oh god, I hate y-you.” You’re a whimpering mess, hips rocking on their own, barely able to keep still really. A random rise in vibration slams into you like a boulder, controller falling from your hands and clattering onto the wooden flooring with the sharpness of your buck. “Nng, Toji-“ He clicks his tongue all low and condescending, glancing sideways at you, hand sliding down to squeeze and adjust his rapidly rising bulge. “Y’know every time you miss it’s gonna speed up right? Now you’ve gone and dropped your controller. S’like you want me to keep making shots back to back.” Your head falls back against the back of the chair with a soft thud, inches away from being fucked out as you squeeze your thighs together – his name a drawn out moan as it makes the situation worse. “Ah..haah- Baby, please.” You at least try to reach the controller, legs extending, feet trying to reel it in. Bowing forward to get it is out of the question because you’re sure it’ll press right where he wants it to to have you cumming. A quick way to fucking lose.

“So fuckin’ cute. Keep whining baby, come on. You look so pretty right now.” You take the risk and lift off minutely, bowing to grab at the controller quickly. He at least waits for you to miss again before he shoots, another point gained just like that. “Fuck. Bet if I slid my fingers down there right now--” His voice dips, low and rough, shot ringing out again.

You’re a little teary eyed now, more focused on the building pressure in your gut, hand straying from the controller to toy with your neglected clit. A press into the bud with your thumb has your eyes rolling, hips rocking into the pistoning toy, eyes fluttering as you imagine warm flesh and the familiar weight of big, slightly rough hands bouncing you instead. “Tojii- Toji, ahh. ‘m g’nna cum.” You know what’s incoming, you know the pace is only going to pick up the longer you sit there like this, not even trying to make more shots. You want it, you can already feel your climax building and you want it so fucking bad. Fuck winning this game between you two, it’s not like there’s any prize to be won. He growls out a curse, another shot making you cry out again, hips grinding helplessly against the seat without meaning to. "Look at you.” he purrs, "Can't even play a fuckin’ game without me gettin’ you all wet ‘n needy. You’re dumb on that toy already.”

His gaze drifts over again just to catch you in the act, sure he’d cum untouched right in his sweats from the debauched sight. “Come on, doll. Open your eyes. Lemme see you.”

And when you glance up at him—eyes glassy, lips parted, so fucking desperate—it’s like he can’t help himself. “Fuck it. C’mere.”  He’s tossing his controller aside to get to you and tugging you off the toy before you can do it yourself, huffing, tongue swiping over his teeth. “Got me all hard from just watching you. Grinding on it like a slut, being all noisy.” His words come out rougher, sure he’d gone and lost his head because of you. The thick, corded muscles of his arms flex as he pulls you up his body, your legs looping around him almost instinctively.

Your orgasm is staved off temporarily, but the need is still there, the craving for a filling only he could give. “Mm, are you gonna fuck me now?” Your head presses up the side of his head, panting lowly, arms banding around the back of his neck as he drops himself onto the couch again with you on top, panty clad core warm against the thick length straining against his sweats. “You think I’d just leave you there to cum on that stupid toy?” Absolutely fucking not. His hands don’t remain in one place at all – one up under your slip dress, other on your ass to rock you over his bulge, grinding you to smear your wetness.

“Cute fuckin’ thing,” he murmurs, kissing along your jaw like he’s got all the patience for extra foreplay when you can both tell that he doesn’t. You both don’t. "Didn’t think I’d make you cum like that, right? Heh. Nah. Wanted you in my lap from the start."

The toy hums in the background with the game being remaining unpaused, fingers slipping past the soaked gusset of your panties, calloused pads of his ring and middle finger smearing slick across your slit, finding you embarrassingly wet. “Fuck, baby.” His voice breaks on the word, eyes narrowing at the filthy find. “Could’ve asked earlier. Would’ve gotten you off that toy and fucked you if you’d just asked.”

The two fingers prod at your slit, breaching your soppy hole without warning. He groans at your jolt, at how you bow into him to whine and pant into his neck. Immediately you’re fluttering around the intrusion of his thick fingers, the chosen pair barreling inside you. He loves how wet you are, how you dampen the digits with every inch he sinks inside your pussy. “Yeahh, that’s it. That’s it,” He coaxes your orgasm out of you in sharp pumps of his fingers, lips dragging against the shell of your ear. “Wanted t’finish right? Gonna make you cum on my fingers, doll.” His fingers are mean as they batter in your walls, your gyrating hips held in place by his free hand, fingers working their magic. They curl in a come-hither motion inside you, angle into the soft spot that gives away to pressure, one he finds easily like he’d put it there. The umpteenth call of his name in that reedy voice makes him chuckle, low and mean in his throat.

“Making a mess all over my hand, sweetheart.” The tightening of your inner walls around the teasing digits gives him a slight pause, grinning splitting on his lips, sharp canines grazing at the edge of your ear lobe. “Y’close already? Seriously gonna cum from me playing with your pussy a little bit?”

You don’t care, you don’t care at all if it’s too fast and you’re holding him tighter, fingers in his hair, “Uh huh. Gonna cum. ‘m gonna cum, baby.” It’s a paced cry squeezing around, sappy sounds of his fingers driving into your cunt just as loud as your cries, slick sounds filling the room embarrassingly loud. “So noisy. Just so fuckin’ cute.”

You try to warn him again but his mouth’s on pressed hot to your ear, low and filthier words beating you to the punch: “Couldn’t keep up in the game so the least you can do is cum all over my fingers like a good fuckin’ girl. Go on.” His thumb presses into your clit, finally, and you’re a goner. Tight, firm figure eights that he knows will make you fall apart.

It’s too much, too good. Your breathing stutters, body tightening, heat coiling so tight in your stomach it hurts. “Yes. Mm, fuck. Yesyesyes--" Your back bows, voice cracking before your words die entirely on your tongue. Your hands tug at his inky strands, tits crushed to his chest as the heat in your abdomen bursts outwards, black spots eating at your vision as you gush on his fingers and make a mess on his lap. “F-uck! Tojiiii-”

It's an effort not to cum with you, not to blow in his pants like a fucking untouched virgin. “There it is, pretty. Keep your eyes open f’me.” He croons, watching you break apart with a lidded, hungry gaze, your hips rolling helplessly into his palm. “There’s my girl.” Your face hides in his neck as you ride it out, fingers slowing to ease you down from your peak, thumb flitting over your clit with the lightest pressure as to not overwhelm you. “Good girl. You’re so good, aren’t you?” His lips are firm against your temple, fingers pulling out with a wet slosh, moving up to press into his mouth and onto his waiting tongue. His groan has you whimpering again, hiding your face, pussy clenching weakly around nothing as he sucks his fingers clean of your sweet cum. “So sweet all the fuckin’ time, I swear.”

His hands return to sweep up and down your back in light strokes, a contrast to the way he’d just pulled that harsh orgasm out of you. He wants to give you a bit to catch your breath, he really does. But then your mouth is near his ear and you’re rocking on his lap like orgasming less than 2 minutes ago isn’t enough – he can’t help the rise and fall of his hand against your ass. “Stay still.” He wants to give you a minute but he really can’t help but move you around like you weight absolutely nothing, fingers at the edges of your slip to tug it up and off. His shirt is next, abdomen bare and chiseled as ever. Your face is down in the leathery seats of your couch before you know it, spine curved – head tilted just enough to see him behind you as you suck in eager breaths. “C’monnn..” You call, hips wiggling, watching the hasty tug of his sweats and briefs in one go. "Here I am worrying about your sensitivity.” His voice is rougher, teasing replaced by something raw, heavy. His glans is a ruddy blushing colour, dick sporting an angry vein up the side, a little too heavy to stay rod straight. Precum decorates the pretty tip, a steady stream leaking down the length of him as his palm wraps around himself to give a couple tugs. “Sensitivity my ass, you fucking love this.” His free hand smacks down on your ass with a solid, harsh smack, biting down into his bottom lip as he gives you a once over. You’re all eager, hands moving backward and up to tug at your panties to help him, stopped with a swat at your ass again, dick pulsing at your whine. “Didn’t ask you to take them off. Hold onto the handle of the couch.”

Your thighs are all shaky, fighting a whimper as you wiggle your hips back at him, not being filled feeling like actual torture. You follow the thinly veiled order, both hands grabbing at the handle of the chair, cheek pressed into the cushion. “Mhmm. Okay.”

He tugs it down himself, as much as it needs to be to get to your drooling cunt but enough that it isn’t properly off. Your slick coats his head as he notches the bluntness of crown against your leaking slit, hand that’s not guiding his dick pulling the softness of your cheeks apart so he can get a proper look. Your pussy practically tries to suck him in, fluttering around the tiny intrusion, making a mess on his head. He doesn’t push in though, likes to drag shit out as usual. He does a couple swipes of his fat head up and down the length of your clit to gather wetness, pulling back to stroke his cock and smear your nectar down the flesh.

You’re whining again, nails clabbering at leather, biting into it. “Please. Toji, I need it.” You’re so breathless, he’s such a sucker for you that he almost presses into you right then and there, but he holds off again, slapping his heavy tip against your clit--hand on your lower back sliding down to deepen your arch before he’s returning it to your ass.

“It or me? Just need my dick, don’t you?” Your denial is quick, breaths coming heavy, so wound up that it hurt. “Need..oh fuck. Please, I need you. Just you, I love you s’much and I need you.” Of course he knows you need him, knows you want his cock just as bad – you kind of want to wipe that smirk right off his face. He likes the teasing and all but he can’t exactly let his baby beg forever, can he? The press of him inside has your jaw slackening, palms flattening against the couch hand before you hold on again, a sigh of his name leaving parted lips. “Uh huh. Just..mhmmm..” Your hips push back, his hands bracketing both sides to help you, walls stretching to accommodate him as he sinks in slowly. “That’s it, push back on it. Take it, sugar..”

His praise fuels you, spurring you to rock your hips back against his. He’s so deep already, thick and pressing against spots that make your toes curl. Grinding down, you whimper when your clit brushes against the coarse hair at his base. “God…you’re so.”

You’re not sure how it feels new every time, how it feels like he finds a different place to hit. His pelvis is flush to the softness of your ass, low strands of his pubes grazing skin as his hips roll. “So fuckin’…good all the time. Hugging around me like I don’t fuck you.” His hips pull back minutely just to bottom out again, your sounds mingling in the air, grip on your hips tightening. “Feels so good. So good, Fushi’. Gimme more..”

His hands pull you back as his hips drive forward, helping you move with him, forcing a rhythm that’s all his own. It’s deep, it’s well paced. “Know better than to fucking..” His angle changes slightly, pushing his head up into your sweet spot, hips pumping a little faster, enough to have you getting teary, nails curled into your fist to keep the leather safe, “..beg like that. You know what it does. Knows it makes me want to do this to you.” He figures you like it, do it on purpose for just that. You do. This time too. Your body bounces and slides against where it’s pressed, little ‘oooh’s and ahh’s’ unabashed and noisy, barely muffled by pressing your face in the seats.

Toji’s the one pulling all the stops here, hands everywhere, holding you in place to pump faster into you. So much for lasting, with how he’s drilling into you there’s no hope for lasting more than a couple more minutes. The smooth glide of your cunt around his cock is utterly intoxicating, every stroke pushing against your silky walls, stroking fire into your veins.

He slows and pulls back, just the tip staying inside and you think you’re granted a moment of respite – till he’s bottoming out again in a quick, hard thrust, hands leaving you and crossing to hold your hips on either side, pulling you back harder into him. Your moans get more audible, wet pap pap pap of colliding flesh loud in the midday air. “Haaah- Right there. Right there, yesss.” You choke on your praise as you cry out, hips pushing backward to fuck back into him, his groan loud as he just lets you. “That’s it. That’s it baby, you’re so close. Look at me.” You try to, head tilting out the leather, glossy eyes up on him. They flutter, they close. A hand leaves his hip to cup your jaw, tugging you up so your back is flush to his hard chest, angle deeper as he keeps pounding you. “Need t’see you. You gonna cum, sweet girl?” He knows you are, knows your tells just as good as you do. Your nod is rapid, breathing heavily, near babbling as your hands claw at his thighs, rocking down into him harshly to speed up the snapping of that tightness in your belly. “Almost there. We’re almost--Fuck. Just a little bit more.”

He sacrifices the hand holding your face, using it to rub your clit in harsh circles again instead, pleasure reaching its peak with the stimulation paired with his head on hits to your spot. His balls feel heavy with his impending orgasm, pressure at the base of his spine enough to drive him mad. He fucks up into you harshly like he’s trying to stamp the shape of his length in your walls. Even with him trying to time it properly, he knows it’ll be a little off but it’s just as good as anything else.

Your head fits into the space left when his head tips back with his harsh groan, column of his throat exposed. You crane your neck to kiss and suck at the skin as best as you can, running your nose along his stubble. Anything to stave off your orgasm a little longer, though you instinctively rock down harder despite your wanting to hold off. He swallows hard, muscles flexing where they hold you as he fights for control. “Cum, baby. Come on, keep bouncing. Make a mess on my dick.”

And that’s all you need really -- good encouragement and him playing with your clit and you do exactly as he asks – you make a mess. “Haah-- Fuck, I love you. ‘m cumming-” You twitch in his hold, moans barely muffled by his hand clumsily pressing over your mouth to quiet you a little, murmuring praise in your ear as a rush of slick leaves you in a gush around his pistoning cock, connecting stands messy as he fucks you through it. “Good..good fucking- Shit!” He can’t even praise you properly at this point without losing his breath, muscled arms banded around your waist as he aids you in your bouncing, fucking you past overstim and into another rapidly building orgasm, hand angled to keep playing with your clit. “S-Sooo deep. So deep.” Your words are broken in your pleasure, thighs shaky, barely able to keep your thoughts straight. Toji drinks in your cock-drunk ramblings, angling your head again and silencing you with his lips.

 “One more. Jus’ one more. I’m right there with you.” More inaudible curses leave his lips, grip on you getting harsher as his thrust pick up, orgasm drawing closer and closer. “Mm, inside. Inside, baby.” Your voice carries an airy quality, fighting to keep your eyes open, to stop the quiver of your thighs from the immense pleasure coursing all through you. “Cum in me. Please.” His control snaps with one involuntarily tighten from you around him, hips pushing up to hilt himself before he’s bursting at the seams, head in your neck as he groans into against your skin. “Fuck, whatever you want. Gonna give it-- shit-- all to you.” Your 3rd hits like a collapsing row of dominos, only drawing out his orgasm as thick, creamy ivory spurts stuff you full. Deep, full moans have you warm all over and quivering in his hold, rocking to prolong both your highs, his nails biting into the skin where he has you held.

The air is heavy, thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Toji’s tilts your head to him again, current kiss languid and enough to make your toes curl in your post coital state. “Mhm..” Her pulls back with a breath, second kiss warming your nose, the underside of your eye. “Love you too by the way.” Your smile is all languid, laugh airy. Humming lowly as your head tilts to kiss him again, shorter this time. You didn’t say it to get one back, but you love it all the same. “I know. All your little kisses won’t stop me from getting back at you for this. You won this time.” He knows that well and good, smiles into your cheek at you picking up on his ulterior motives. “Well aware. Don’t go giving me any hints though, I’ll get hard again.” His fingers trace idle patterns on your skin, sat there connected with him softening up inside you, ring of escaped cum pooling around the base of him. “Let’s go clean up then.”

And you two are up, facing each other again, arms around his neck and feet locked behind his hips. Praying gravity spares you two till you get into the tub. You really don't need mess on the floor.

“‘I’ll go easy on you’” he says." You huff, shaking your head. Nothing about that was going easy on you. "You’re such a liar.” Your fingers toy with his inky, slightly overgrown strands. Twisting, twirling.

He smiles again, a kiss to your temple his apology. “I promise I'll go easy on you next time. Help you make some shots.”

At the dirt again, maybe.

a/n 2: yeah idk what kind of proofread I did the first two times mb y'all!

[scary-grace]

139, 106, + 47 for this?

Hi! Thank you so much for the prompt <3 this is yet another installment in the memory garden AU, this time featuring the prompts "this is awkward" + "take my bed" + "my face hurts" from this list of three-word prompts! Post-canon, 3.8k, angst, discussions of violent death + suicide, semi-hopeful ending. A follow-up to memory garden and begin again.

aftermath

When you started placing flowers on the site of Shigaraki Tomura's death, you never thought you'd play a role in his resurrection. Now you have, and as the first night of Shigaraki's new life comes to a close, neither of you know what to do next.

The smell of the pizza parlor clings to you as you step out into the cold, and even breathing through your mouth, the odor of melted cheese and grease rising from the box in your hands is enough to trigger nausea. You’re running down the clock on your hangover, but it’s for a good cause. You’ve already gotten clothes for the man you resurrected. Food is next on the list.

It’s a relief to hand off the pizza to its intended recipient. The Symbol of Fear opens the box and stares blankly for a second before giving you a suspicious look over the lid. “It says ‘happy birthday’ on it.”

“They were closing when we got here. I had to tell them something so they’d stay open.” Pizza used to be your go-to drunk food, but right now it’s making you nauseous. Most things are making you nauseous. “Besides, it is your birthday. For another few minutes, at least.”

It’s hard to believe that it’s still April 4th. You got kicked out of the bar at nine pm. You found flowers and took the train to the battlefield and somehow resurrected the Symbol of Fear before ten-forty-five. And then you got him off the battlefield and onto the train home. Bought a ton of convenience store clothes and stood guard while he hid behind a bush to put them on. He said he was thirsty, so you bought some water for him, and when you asked what he wanted to eat, he said pizza. So here you are, a few minutes to midnight, standing just outside the glow of a streetlight while Shigaraki takes his first bites of food in eight years.

When you focus on the small details, it’s easier to grasp – his cracked lips, his fingers curled around the edge of the pizza box, the wind trying and failing to ruffle his tangled hair. It’s when you zoom out that it becomes impossible. He should be dead. He was dead. You saw it happen – or you lived through it, every time you set foot on the place where he died – and now he’s here, tearing into a pizza and getting red sauce all over his mouth and chin. Surreal isn’t a strong enough word. Insane might be better.

When Shigaraki comes up for air, you hold out a napkin. “Here. You’ve got – um –”

He takes it from you with a hand that still shakes slightly. “Do you want any?” he asks. “You bought it.”

“No,” you say at once, the back of your throat stinging with bile. Then you feel sort of guilty. “I mean, no thanks. I probably ate a lot more recently than you did.”

“I don’t remember the last time I ate.” Shigaraki pauses, lost in thought, and your nausea gets a little worse. I never left. “It’s been eight years since it happened. Right?”

“Right.”

“That’s a long time,” Shigaraki says. His face is pale, like it’s been since you pulled him from the ground, but there’s an ashen cast to his skin that wasn’t there before. “What’s it like?”

You don’t know what to say to that. “Different.”

“How different?” Shigaraki doesn’t wait for you to answer. “The rest of the League. Where are they? What happened to them?”

You have an answer to that one, but it’s not one you want to give. Especially not here. The longer you pause, the more likely Shigaraki is to guess that it’s bad and react accordingly – but as you’re avoiding eye contact, you glance up and over his shoulder and see the only thing that could possibly make this situation worse. There’s a hero approaching, one on their nightly patrol, and you and the Symbol of Fear are out in the open. Shigaraki notes where you’re looking. His eyes narrow, and he starts to turn.

If he makes eye contact, that’s it. You step in close, struggling to work around the pizza box, and shape your hand to the side of his face, turning him back towards you by force. You alter the pitch of your voice, trying to sound flirty, trying to sound stupid. “You still haven’t told me what you want for your birthday. It’s not too late.”

“You got me a pizza.” Shigaraki looks confused. Not confused enough that he doesn’t play along. “That counts.”

“That’s not a very good present,” you say. You know the hero’s closing in, but focusing on him will make you look suspicious. You keep your eyes locked on Shigaraki’s, your hand against the side of his face, refusing to let him turn. “Don’t you want something you can keep?”

“Like what?”

The hero passes by without commenting or looking too closely, but Shigaraki’s eyes flash when he sees him. You pivot, turning you both so the hero won’t get a good look at Shigaraki’s face even if he does turn around. “Maybe we should get off the street. I bet I can think of something.”

You’re as terrible at fake-flirting as you are at real flirting. Nothing you’re saying makes any sense, and if Shigaraki decides to pull away from you and restart his crusade against hero society, there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re standing close enough to him to feel how tense he is, his jaw clenched beneath your hand. What did he think happened to the world after he left it? Did he think hero society would disappear, or even change all that much? Did he think at all for the last eight years, caught in some space between life and death? You don’t know. You can’t imagine.

But you can imagine what seeing a hero means to him – a reminder of everything he fought against, everything that rejected him, a society that decided he was worth killing, not saving. There’s nothing you can do to make that better. It’s as futile as leaving flowers for him every year. Knowing what he lived through, feeling what he felt as he died, is enough to make you wonder if you should just turn him loose to do what he wants.

Then Shigaraki closes his eyes, tilts his head against your hand. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice flat. “Let’s go home.”

Home. You guess that’s what it’ll be, for at least a little while. Shigaraki doesn’t have anywhere else to go. You pull your hand away from the side of his face and switch to grasping his arm, just in case the hero or anyone else is still looking. “Sounds good.”

You try to keep the two of you off of lighted streets for the walk home, in case there are other heroes lurking around, but that has consequences – mainly that while you know where it’s safe to step on your usual route, there are plenty of death sites for you to stumble into unknowingly everywhere else. You survive the first two you hit, a criminal-on-criminal murder and a mugging gone wrong, but as you’re crossing a street, you step down into the kind of death site you never see coming. A kid this time, hit by a car, not quite killed instantly. You have enough of their flashback to know what happened before then – a pair of hands, applied hard to their back, shoving them directly into the car’s path.

And that’s all it takes. That sickening swoop of betrayal and terror belongs to you now, another horror to add to the pile, one more nightmare that will never fade. You freeze to the spot, and it plays over again, this time like it’s yours – hands on your back, pushing you into the road, panic as the car looms over you, an impact so violent that it whites everything out. On any other day, this would be a hard one to live with. Today, when you’re exhausted and teetering somewhere between drunk and hungover, it’s enough to make you vomit.

Shigaraki keeps his distance. “Are you sick or something?”

“Hangover.” You stumble sideways out of the death site. “Give me a second.”

“You’ve been hungover this whole time?”

“No. Mostly drunk.” He can judge you if he wants. You don’t care. You straighten up with an effort. “I’m fine. We’re almost there.”

Your place isn’t very nice, and you don’t get a lot of visitors, especially not lately. If you’d known someone was coming over, you’d have cleaned. Shigaraki doesn’t comment on it. He gets as far as taking off his shoes before coming to a dead stop. So do you. You never knew what to say to him when you were standing over his death site. You don’t have a clue what to say to him now. Except that when you think about what saving someone looks like, leaving them stranded on your doormat doesn’t exactly fit.

“I have a shower if you want to get cleaned up,” you say. “And you can take my bed.”

Shigaraki doesn’t argue. “Which way’s the bathroom?”

You point it out, and once he’s vanished into it and shut the door, you set about trying to pull yourself together. It’s not going to be easy, not when part of you is still hoping it’s a hallucination, when part of you still wishes you’d kept drinking until you passed out on the bar. You know what your responsibility is here. Fix what went wrong. Make sure it doesn’t happen again. What does that actually look like? Maybe you should ask Shigaraki, since he’s the one you’re trying to help – but as soon as you have the thought, you hear his voice in your head again, mocking you for caring, calling you crazy for thinking there was something you could do.

But that voice was only ever in your head. You’ve spent about two hours with him now, and that’s not what he sounds like. It’s not what he’s said, either, so you’ll ask. When he gets out of the bath or the shower or whatever, you’ll just ask.

You’re sitting on your couch staring at nothing, trying to phrase the question, when Shigaraki’s voice drifts out of the bathroom. “Do you have scissors?”

“Yeah. Somewhere.” You don’t have to think too hard to figure out what he needs them for. His hair is a mess. “Hang on.”

It doesn’t take you long to find them, and you carry them into the bathroom in a daze, doing your best to avert your eyes from the supervillain in your bathtub. You set the scissors down at the edge of the tub, but Shigaraki doesn’t reach for them. He’s hunched forward, knees pulled up and arms wrapped around them, his tangled hair adrift in the water around him. He’s been in here for a while, you think – the water can’t be warm any longer. “Are you okay?”

“I still have it.” Shigaraki’s voice is flat, expressionless. “I still have the quirk. His quirk.”

Your stomach lurches. “I can hear him,” Shigaraki continues. “He doesn’t know he’s dead. He won’t stop.”

All For One was a monster. You’re convinced of that. When you set foot on the site of his death, you felt the same terror everyone feels alongside a useless, incomprehensible fury – fury at losing, fury at having what was his taken away, an entitlement and contempt that made your skin crawl. So many of the last moments you witnessed haunt you, but his isn’t one of them. “Could you hear him before you came back?”

“No.” Shigaraki hunches forward, chin on his knees. “I wasn’t useful then. Now –”

He breaks off. “He’s still there,” you say. “Do you have to listen?”

“What?”

“Do you have to listen?” You might be too drunk to explain this, but you know a little bit about trying to live with thoughts that won’t go away. “If he can’t make you do things, then he’s just background noise. You don’t have to listen to him just because he talks.”

It’s easier said than done. You had a handle on your thoughts for a while, but they broke free two months ago, and you’ve been doing everything short of putting yourself in a coma to quiet them down. Shigaraki glances sideways at you. “I need something else to listen to, then. Start talking.”

You should have seen that one coming, probably. You sit down on the bathroom floor, wishing you mopped in here more often, and rack your brain for something to say. Do you and Shigaraki Tomura have anything in common, other than your heads both being full of things you can’t escape? The thing that comes out of your mouth is almost definitely wrong. “This is awkward.”

“No shit.” It’s quiet again. Shigaraki’s watching you, and as much as you want to avoid his gaze, you can’t. You keep looking, noting his scarred face, his split lips, the dry skin around his eyes. He might be alive again, but he’s nowhere close to healthy. His eyelids flutter shut, and you see him tense, almost steeling himself. “My friends are dead, aren’t they?”

“Not all of them,” you say. It feels like the wrong answer, too. “Spinner’s alive. He wrote a book. And Mr. Compress. Somebody’s making a docudrama about him. One of his ancestors was this famous thief – Harima Oji – and since he’s the only living descendant –”

“I didn’t know that.” Shigaraki doesn’t open his eyes. “Why do you know more about my friends than I do?”

“I’ve been out here,” you say. “It’s easier to learn stuff if you’re not dead.”

Shigaraki makes a sound that might be scathing if it had more force behind it. “Where are they? Are they in prison?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Spinner’s in Tartarus. I’m not sure where Compress is.”

“And the others. They’re dead.” Shigaraki’s voice takes on a jagged edge. “How?”

You don’t think you’re the one who should be telling him this. Then again, who else is left? The only person who knows he’s alive is you. The only person in Japan who wouldn’t turn him in immediately is also you. You’re it. “Dabi and Toga both got hurt in the last battle,” you say. “Toga died of her injuries on the battlefield. Dabi lasted another year in the hospital. And Twice –”

If there’s anything you can tell Shigaraki that will send him off on a murder spree, it’s probably this. “What?” Shigaraki asks. “Spit it out.”

“During the first battle, when the heroes attacked the Paranormal Liberation Front’s headquarters, Hawks –” You were too busy running and hiding at the time to keep tabs on everything. You don’t know enough to answer. “He joined the Liberation Front to be a spy for the heroes. He knew how powerful Twice was, so he killed him.”

He didn’t just kill him. He stabbed him in the back while he was running away, and it was all caught on camera. Everyone in the country saw it, thanks to Dabi’s broadcast exposing Endeavor. “Hawks,” Tomura repeats. “What happened to him?”

You want to bury your face in your hands. “He’s the president of the Heroes Public Safety Commission.”

Shigaraki doesn’t speak. He doesn’t open his eyes. But his elbow flicks out, catching the scissors and knocking them to the floor. “Get these away from me. Unless you want a dead guy in your bathroom.”

You snatch up the scissors, and retreat to a safe distance, or what you think is a safe distance. “Shigaraki –”

“They were counting on me. They trusted me, and I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t even there!” Shigaraki’s voice pitches into a snarl, only to break seconds later. “I promised them a world where they could live how they wanted, and I let them down. Just like a fucking hero.”

You remember hearing hatred in Shigaraki’s voice in the news broadcasts, hatred so intense that it made you cringe back in fear. This isn’t the same, but you want to shy away from it, too. Shigaraki’s right hand grasps his left forearm, all five fingers down, holding on so tightly that his knuckles go white, and nothing happens. Shigaraki’s quirk works on everything except himself, and after long, agonizing moments, his hand falls away. The marks he left behind are bright red.

All of that is awful enough. Then he looks away. His shoulders heave, so hard and painful that your own ache in sympathy, and even though you can’t see his face, you know without a doubt that he’s started to cry.

There’s nothing you can do to fix this. However you brought him back, you can’t bring his dead friends back the same way. You can’t break Spinner and Compress out of prison. You can’t punish Hawks or Midoriya or All Might or anyone else who let Shigaraki and his friends down. And you can’t comfort him. You’re a stranger, some half-hungover lunatic who didn’t have a clue what you were getting into when you brought flowers to his death site tonight. There’s nothing you can say or do that would change anything.

But when it comes to Shigaraki, you’re always doing things that don’t change anything. You find yourself edging closer again, well within reach, and without touching his skin, you lift a strand of his hair out of the water. It’s tangled at the ends, so matted further up the strand that trying to undo the knots would be pointless. You cut it just above the mat and let the rest fall back into the water. Then you pick up the next strand and do the same.

He told you to talk before, and while you feel like forcing him to listen to your drunk ramblings is adding insult to injury, you have a hard time imagining that hearing All For One’s voice isn’t worse. “I didn’t mean to bring you back. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with me, and I didn’t mean to. But I’m not sorry I did it.”

You say that before you’ve really questioned whether it was true. Once you do, though, you decide that it is, if only because your guilt and horror is a little quieter now – a little easier to breathe through, a little easier to live with. “Because of my quirk, I know how people feel while they’re dying. What happened to you has been haunting me for eight years. If you die now it’ll be like that again. But if you live, you can have a peaceful death.”

“Does it matter?” His voice is hoarse. “I’ll be dead anyway. For real this time.”

“I think it matters,” you say. “And I’m kind of an expert on this stuff.”

It’s an awful thing to be an expert on, but it’s not like you’ve had a choice. Shigaraki doesn’t answer you, and you continue your borderline hatchet job on his hair, trying to collect your thoughts. “I think you must want to try again. Or you wouldn’t have said that it might not be too late.” Shigaraki doesn’t answer you. “Why did you come back?”

“Why did you?” Shigaraki counters. “I’ll answer yours when you answer mine.”

So neither of you are getting an answer, then. Silence falls between you, broken only by distant sirens and the sound of the blade of your scissors slicing through Shigaraki’s hair. By the time you’ve finished cutting away the mats and knots and strands glued together by fossilized hunks of mud, the Symbol of Fear’s white hair barely brushes his shoulders. Now he looks less like what you saw on the news during the last days of the war. More like he must have before.

You sit back from the edge of the tub and Shigaraki sits up, running a hand through his hair. His eyes are puffy, bloodshot when he opens them, and he squints against the light. “My face hurts,” he says. “And my head.”

Probably all the crying. Your head hurts, too, but that’s the hangover. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”

“Yeah.” Shigaraki stands up, and you avert your eyes in a hurry. “You said I could have the bed. Where are you sleeping?”

“The couch. It’s – not bad – and do you even remember the last time you slept?” You find a towel and hold it out for him to take. “You’re the one who needs a good night’s sleep.”

Somehow you make it out of the bathroom without getting an eyeful of anything you don’t want to see, and you change out of your filthy work clothes while he’s still in the bathroom drying off. By the time Shigaraki emerges, wearing the second pair of convenience store pants you bought him and nothing else, you’re in your pajamas, gathering up a blanket and a pillow to take with you to the couch. You were hoping to be gone by now. “Uh, goodnight.”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s your apartment. You shouldn’t sleep on the couch.”

“I’ve been sleeping in a bed for the last eight years instead of taking a dirt nap, so if one of us is going to –”

“No one’s going to,” Shigaraki says. He looks too tired to actually be irritated, but you’re not going to count on that. As hollowed out as he is, you’re still dealing with someone whose usual solution to problems is to turn them to dust. “We’ll share.”

He steps around you and gets into bed – on your side. Your bed is just big enough to sleep two without either of you having to touch, but that doesn’t mean you want to sleep in the same bed as Shigaraki Tomura. Still, you weren’t looking forward to sleeping on the couch. It gets cold in your living room, and your bed is a lot more comfortable. So what if you’re sharing it with him? It says something about the kind of night you’re having that sleeping next to a recently resurrected supervillain isn’t even close to the weirdest thing that’s happened.

You feel strange calling him a supervillain. All the things he did, he did them before he died, and since you’ve brought him back, the worst thing he’s done is try to kill himself in your bathtub. Not exactly supervillain behavior, so you shouldn’t call him that. He’s just a person having a really bad night. Sort of like you.

You email your boss from your phone, calling out from work tomorrow. Every time you call out, your boss and your coworkers act like you’ve committed murder, but there’s no way you’re leaving Shigaraki alone in your apartment until you’ve gotten some things worked out. And if it turns out you’re hallucinating this, you’ll still need a day off to recover from the whole thing. You can’t decide whether you want him to be a hallucination or not. You’re still trying to work it out as you fall asleep.

Even if you never work it out consciously, you get an answer. When you wake up at four am so you can run to the bathroom and throw up, Shigaraki’s still asleep on your side of the bed. He’s still there when you get back, too, and the only thing you feel at the sight of him is relief.

<- begin again

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[worth-the-chaos]

Adventures in Babysitting - Steve Harrington x female!reader - Chapter 18

Chapter Summary: You venture into the Upside Down once again in an attempt to find Vecna and stop him in his tracks before he can bring about the end of the world as you know it. With Steve and your friends by your side, you fight against time to get to Vecna before he can get to you.

Content Warning: ANGST, swearing, scary Upside Down nonsense, violence

Word Count: 7.2k

Author’s Note: Sorry this took a while for me to post! This is the last chapter of season 4 and at the time of writing, we unfortunately do not have season 5 content yet, so this story will be put on a slight pause while we wait (semi) patiently for season 5 to come out! Don’t worry though! Feel free to send in requests and I will do my best to write as many of them as possible (you can send requests set in the Adventures in Babysitting universe or requests that are unrelated!)

Message me to be added to the taglist and get updated when the next chapter is posted! I highly recommend this if you want to keep up with the story since I don’t do regular updates!

Series Masterlist | Part 17 | Next Part

***

There you stood, back at the entrance to the Upside Down in the ceiling of Eddie’s trailer. You wiped your sweaty palms on the front of your pants, trying to psych yourself up for the hell that you were undoubtedly about to endure.

You were in the middle of trying to take a deep breath to calm down when Steve gently grabbed your elbow, pulling you away from the rest of your friends who were putting the finishing touches on their packed gear.

“What?” You asked Steve, your voice hushed to preserve the obvious secrecy he was trying to maintain by moving somewhere a little more private.

A million thoughts were racing through his head. He wasn’t sure what you were all about to face or just how dangerous it might be. His heart raced as he felt fear creep up his throat. He pushed it down as he tried to get the words out that desperately needed to be spoken.

“Look, we don’t know what’s going to happen in there, and I don’t want to leave anything left unsaid,” Steve began, and you felt a lump forming in your throat at the implications of his words. “So I’m laying it all out there…just in case. Y/n, I love you and you’re really one of the only things in my life that ever feels like it’s going right. I…I-I’d like to think that I’d have found my way if I had never gotten to know you, but I know I’m only better because of you. I don’t know what the future has in store for us, but I want there to be an us when all of this is said and done, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, don’t do anything rash…I know,” you agreed, but he just shook his head.

“That’s not what I mean…I mean, obviously, I mean that too—don’t you fucking dare do anything stupid in there—but….but I mean….I guess I just don’t want to lose you in a different way when all of this is over, you know?”

“What do you mean?” You asked, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes searching his wide and wild ones as you tried to make out what he could possibly mean by that.

“Y/n, don’t make me say it,” his words sounded strangled as tears began to pool in his beautiful brown eyes.

“Baby, you’re scaring me,” you put a hand on the nape of his neck, pulling him towards you. “I…I-I just don’t understand.”

“I just don’t want you to fall out of love with me,” he finally spit the words out and you just stared at him dumbfounded, speechless yourself by his total misread of your relationship. Without your voice to fill the silence, he continued on. “Come on, y/n. I saw that way that you reacted when I talked about my six little Harringtons…I’m just worried that you’re realizing that we don’t want the same things.”

“Steve,” a watery chuckle escaped your lips and hurt flashed across his face before you continued, “you couldn’t possibly be more wrong, baby. I want that. I want that future with you more than anything else in the fucking world, but I…I-I’m just afraid that I’m not going to make it out of this one alive.”

Your voice dropped to a pained whisper as you explained your sadness from before, a tear slipping down your cheek as you thought about what seemed like your inevitable fate.

“There’s no way in hell I’m letting anything happen to you, you know that right?”

“But, Steve, if something does happen, I want to know that you can be happy without me…I-I want to know that you’ll be okay.”

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’ll be okay without you. Y/n, you’re my whole fucking world,” Steve argued, taking your hands in his. This just caused you to cry harder, a small sob escaping your lips.

“Steve, please, just promise me,” you begged, tears falling delicately down your face. “Promise me you’ll be okay without me.”

You pulled a hand away from his, sticking out your pinky finger as your hand trembled. The sight was enough to break Steve’s heart. The fact that your last wish for the world was for him to be happy reminded him of how selfless you were, and even though he wanted nothing more than to respect your wishes, he knew that there was no way he’d ever find happiness without you.

So instead of taking your pinky in his, he reached his arms around your waist, pulling you in for a hug that felt a goodbye…just in case.

He swayed side to side as you buried your face in his chest, placing a gentle kiss on his neck and basking in the feeling of being loved. He placed a kiss to your temple before pulling away and placing the sweetest of kisses to your lips. It was a kiss that said more than words would ever have the capacity to, and you thanked your lucky stars that out of all the women in the world, Steve picked you to love.

When you finally pulled away, Steve wrapped his large hand around your small one, and led you back to the room with the rest of your friends. You stared at the rope from before, still dangling precariously and precisely around a point that defied physics…or at least what you knew of physics from tutoring Eddie.

“You lovebirds ready to go fucking kill this guy?” Eddie asked, a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes plastered across his face.

“I suppose it’s now or never,” you spoke up, nodding at Nancy who nodded back and then quickly began ascending the rope.

And just like that, there you all were, making your way back to the hell you’d just escaped.

***

Eddie and Dustin stayed back at the Upside Down version of Eddie’s trailer while you, Steve, Robin, and Nancy made your way to Vecna’s lair. You tried to keep your nerves at bay while you walked alongside your friends, but it was hard to when you had to constantly pay attention to make sure you weren’t stepping on any vines. It would really suck if you alerted Vecna to your presence before you could try to end him once and for all.

“Robin! Remember the hive mind!” Nancy yelled out to your clumsy friend as she hurried ahead to make sure she was paying close enough attention, which left you and Steve with a moment to yourselves.

“So…” Steve spoke up, glancing at you with a timid smirk stretched across his face.

“So…” You replied with a smile. The air between you was a bit awkward, but it was the kind of awkward you basked in. It felt like a normal, teenage sort of awkward that made you feel like your life could maybe be blissfully ordinary once you made it to the other side of this.

Steve chuckled before picking up the conversation again. “Okay, so I told you about my idea for the future, so now it’s your turn. What do you want?”

You hadn’t really thought much of it, and you didn’t like the pressure the question put on you. Your mind flashed to the acceptance letter you’d been waiting on so that you could stay close to Steve. Beyond college, though, you hadn’t really thought about it. You constantly were just fighting to survive, but after hearing Steve’s wishes for your future together, maybe you should be fighting to live. Even though it was all just semantics, it meant something to him and you wanted to give him the world.

“I mean…I’m still waiting on my acceptance letter from Purdue,” was all you ended up saying.

“Is that where you really want to go? Or is it because it’s closer to Hawkins than the other places you’ve applied to? Y/n, I don’t want you holding yourself back from what you really want for me,” Steve sighed. It was an argument you’d had before and the reason why you didn’t really talk about college. The conversation always became stilted and tense.

“Steve, how can I even care about college right now with everything that’s going on? What difference does it make if that piece of paper says Purdue or something else? Besides, Purdue is a good school; it’s not like I’d be throwing my future away,” your voice grew angry and you hated yourself for it. You didn’t want to be this person. You didn’t want to fight with him, but you were under so much stress it was hard to hold back your frustration.

“I just don’t want you to resent me for it,” Steve’s voice was small, and you felt a pang in your chest at the way he said it.

“Baby, all I want is you. I would never resent you for a decision that I made, so please stop thinking that way,” you assured him, but he still had a far off look in his eyes, so you decided to double back to his question that started this whole conversation. “Okay. I see us having a few kids—maybe not the six that you are crazy enough to want, but still a few nonetheless.”

He whipped his head around to look at you. He was in awe of how perfect you were. He thought it was kind of a shot in the dark, talking about kids the way that he had. You were both still so young, and he had spent all this time worrying that you didn’t want the same things. He stared at you, mouth agape as you continued.

“And…and we have a dog. Like a big dog that we can take on hikes and walks. The kind of dog that makes us the boring stereotypical suburban couple, but we don’t care…and I finally have my drivers license.”

Steve couldn’t help but laugh at your last small hope for the future. “Well, maybe when this is all said and done, I can take you out for a driving lesson, how about that?”

“Sounds like a date,” you replied, smiling up at him. You both were beaming the way that young people in love can only beam and everything would have been perfect if it wasn’t for the fact that you were traversing through the absolute worst place on earth.

“Holy shit!” You heard Robin exclaim, and the two of you hurried to meet your other friends. Robin’s words didn’t even do the sight justice. You felt your stomach drop half way to hell at the sight of the Creel house. None of it felt real.

“Okay, we’re there,” you breathed into your walkie talkie.

“Initiating phase three,” Dustin’s voice crackled through the static and you thanked the universe that the damn thing worked in the Upside Down. The bats that were swarming the house suddenly darted off into the distance.

“Dustin, please be safe,” you begged, holding your breath while you waited for his reply.

“You’re the boss,” his voice rang out again and you shook your head at the fact that he was way too nonchalant about all of this shit.

You all walked up to the door of the Creel house and you sucked in a deep breath. You hated the way the vines writhed and slithered against the frame of the door, the stained glass rose much dimmer and duller in the permanent storm of the Upside Down. You went to grab the handle, but Steve pressed an arm across your shoulders, holding you back as he took a step forward. You rolled your eyes at the way he was always protective to a fault.

You gasped as the door creaked open on its rotting and rusting hinges. If you had been nervous about stepping on a vine before, that anxiety increased ten fold as you saw that the interior of the house was filled nearly wall to wall and floor to ceiling with the trip wire that was Vecna’s vines.

“Holy shit,” Steve whispered as you all stopped to take it all in. “That’s not good.”

“No shit,” you breathed out, your dry remark losing some of its edge at the sheer shock of how fortified Vecna’s not-so-secret hiding place was. The thought of it kind of pissed you off in a way. “So he just gets to hide in here with basically a state of the art security system, meanwhile we’re out there with a bum lightbulb thinking the world is gonna fucking end? Two words: Bull. Shit.”

“Well, I mean I guess when you’re essentially a ruler of the underworld you get to make the decisions. Why fight fair when you don’t have to?” Robin spoke up and you grumbled in response.

Steve took a cautious step forward, before quickly jumping from bare patch to bare patch of the floor.

“What the fuck, Steve?!” You whisper shouted across the foyer. “This isn’t mother fucking hopscotch! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Steve just shrugged in response and waved at you to follow. You rolled your eyes, seething at how careless your boyfriend could be, before you took a careful step forward. You continued to carefully navigate with Robin and Nancy following close behind. Your eyes had been glued to the floor, but as you got closer to the stairs that Steve was standing at, you looked up, noticing the nervous look plastered across his features as he watched you navigate your way through the room.

“Absolutely not. Wipe that look off your face,” you pointed a finger at him as you took a final step towards him. However, you had spoken too soon, slightly losing balance as your ankle rolled and you began to topple towards your side. Steve was quick to snake an arm around your waist, righting you before pulling you in to his chest.

Anything else you were going to say died on your tongue as you looked up into Steve’s eyes. You suddenly felt like you did before you were dating, when you were just some silly girl with a crush on a boy that was way out of your league.

“You were saying?” Steve smirked at you, which made it really easy to snap out of your momentary blast to the past. You rolled your eyes and hit him gently with the back of your hand in the chest in a dismissive gesture.

Moving up the stairs wasn’t too difficult, and you were actually feeling optimistic for a change. The hope in your chest faltered when the ground began to shake, and the four of you huddled together to brace yourselves. Dust and ash fell from the ceiling, and you coughed a dry cough as you inhaled it, trying desperately to regulate your breathing despite the anxiety coursing through your veins.

The walkie talkie in your pocket suddenly roared to life, static spilling through the speaker before Dustin’s frantic voice rang out.

“Y/n! We don’t know how much longer we can hold them off, the bats got inside Eddie’s trailer and we think—“

Your heart dropped as his voice cut off. “Dustin!” You screamed into the transmitter, “talk to me! Say anything, just let me know you guys are okay!”

You let go of the button and listen as static crackled through the receiver. You felt the blood drain from your face when a different voice filled the airwaves.

“Y/n,” a raspy voice echoed through the walkie talkie. You gasped, instinctively dropping the device to the floor as if it had burned you.

“We need to get out of here,” you whispered, staring wide eyed as your gaze darted back and forth between the petrified expressions of each of your friends.

You barely had time to register the subtle squelch beneath your feet before you realized it was too late. A vine wrapped itself around Robin’s ankle pulling her to the wall before several other vines wrapped around her limbs and torso.

Steve darted forward, swinging his axe as hard as he could in a futile attempt to free Robin from the vines. Nancy grabbed the sawed off shotgun from your back, using the butt of the gun to hit the vines around her arm. You sprung into action to, unholstering the knife at your hip jabbing and stabbing wherever you could, but the vines wouldn’t relent.

Steve swung his arm back to hack at the vines once more when something wrapped around his axe, pulling him to the other side of the room, before you knew it, Steve was being pulled up on the wall by his neck, and your heart stopped as you watched his legs kick and flail while he wrestled with the vine around his throat.

You didn’t even have time to react before Nancy was pulled up against the wall as well, struggling as she attempted to fight against her restraints.

“Y/n! Go!” Steve screamed with all his might, his voice straining against the vines that were slowly constricting around his neck. “Please.”

The word came out in a whisper, but you froze, hyperventilating as you spun between all of your friends, helpless and bound to the walls around you. You willed your legs to move as you ran a hand through your hair, trying to breathe through the obvious panic attack that had you in its clutches. You felt a sickening feeling settle in your chest as a creak rang out on the stairs above you.

A slow and solid step sounded as your tear filled gaze slowly ascended to take in the form in front of you.

There Vecna was. No mind tricks. No gimmicks. Just him in the flesh standing right before you.

“What do you want?!” The words came out as a guttural shriek as you fell to your knees, him taking another sure and resounding step towards you.

Steve felt the vines around his neck relent slightly, realizing in horror that Vecna wanted him to be alive enough to watch. Seeing his clawed hand and ragged, decrepit skin, Steve felt nausea settle in a pit in his stomach as he realized the constant terrors you had been facing in the confines of your own mind. This was the monster that you had already met face to face countless times before. This was the man who was using your own mind—your own memories—against you.

This was the man who had taken you from him, over and over and over again.

Vecna didn’t answer your question, simply taking another step towards you.

“I said, what do you want?” You cried out again, the words dissolving into sobs as he grew ever closer to your shaking and dejected form. Ever since that day in the Byers’ living room, you always seemed larger than life to Steve. Seeing you look so small and defeated and terrified on the ash covered landing of the Creel house broke something in him.

“Leave her alone,” the words came out much more confident than Steve felt. The vines tightened, and Steve gasped, wincing and struggling at the sudden tension.

“Please!” You begged, horrified at the danger your boyfriend and friends were in. “I’ll do anything….anything.”

The promise spilled from your lips in a whisper and Steve wished he had the strength to yell at you, to tell you to fight, to flee, to do anything but that. But he couldn’t.

“Stand up,” Vecna’s voice rang out, and you quickly rose to your feet. Steve’s heart broke as he watched the way your legs shook, your knee giving out momentarily as you stumbled and righted yourself.

You swallowed the lump in your throat as Vecna approached you, putting his clawed hand around your throat. You gasped, tears spilling relentlessly from your eyes. Your hands wrapped around his wrist, as you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“Please. I-I…I don’t wanna die,” you whispered, your face contorted in fear of what the ending would feel like and regret for all the things you’d never get the chance to do.

Vines wrapped slowly around your ankles, snaking up to grab your wrists as well, binding them behind your back to minimize your struggle.

“Try and stay very still,” his deep voice shook your heart inside your chest. Steve wanted to scream, but he couldn’t, silenced by the vines around his throat as he thrashed to no avail. Tears streamed down his face as he watched, helpless to stop the cruel fate in which you would meet your end. “It will all be over soon.”

“Please don’t hurt them,” your voice was small, and sobs wracked your frame as your words came out through hiccuped pauses. “Let them go.”

When Vecna didn’t respond, you turned your head towards Steve, meeting his big, beautiful, brown eyes for the last time. “I love you, Steve.”

With that, Vecna’s large clawed hand reached up, opening in front of your face and Steve watched as your eyes rolled back in your head.

“No!” Robin shouted, her strained, guttural cry something that would haunt Steve for the rest of his days. They all watched as your body twitched and small whimpers escaped your lips. Blood began to drip from your nose, and you breathed out one last shaky breath, and then the world went still.

Just like that, Vecna’s hand dropped and your head lolled to the side. He stepped away from your lifeless form and the vines holding you up released, and you dropped like a rag doll to the floor. Vecna turned and made his way back up the stairs, leaving you all behind. The vines released their grip on your friends as they each collapsed to the floor in a coughing fit. Steve scrambled to the heap on the floor that was your body and scooped you up in his arms.

He cried out as he cradled your head in his hands, the weight of it something so familiar as he thought back to all the times he’d cradled the nape of your neck and watched as your mouth turned into a small smile before he would kiss you. All the life, all the loveliness, everything that made you you was gone, disappearing on dust and ash as Steve could swear the room grew ten times colder. He gently wiped the blood away from your nose with his jacket sleeve, trying desperately to fix the carnage in front of him.

“No….no, no, no, no, no! Robin, I didn’t get to say it!” Steve sobbed as he pulled you into his chest to shield you. “I-I…I didn’t get to tell her I love her.”

Robin didn’t know what to say. There was nothing she could say to make any of this better. She choked back her own sob while she tried to piece together the right words. “She knew, Steve.” Tears streamed down her face as she dropped to her knees next to him.

“You don’t understand,” his words came out in a strained whisper. How could he ever find the words to explain how he failed to even be there for you? How he couldn’t even comfort you as you cried out? “It’s all my fault.”

He buried his face in your neck, his wet tears mixing with the not quite dry ones staining your face. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispered into your skin, his hands running over you hair, delicately holding onto you the way he wished he could have. The way he’d never be able to again. As soon as you started having visions he should’ve put you in the passenger seat of his car and drove off as far away from Hawkins as he could get. He thought about the way you would’ve looked with the pale light of the moon filtering into the car as he watched you smile and laugh and sing while the radio played songs that neither of you really liked but you both inexplicably always seemed to know the words too. He thought about the way you could’ve started over, the way he could have made something of himself instead of being the posh, depressed, and mediocre man his parents always wanted him to be.

He thought about the love that filled his chest that would never have anywhere to go, instead just sitting there like a weight he had to carry, a fire that would spread and fester and consume.

Nothing would ever be okay again.

Nancy stood back, her jaw set with an anger that could burn the world to ashes. Hot angry tears streamed down her face as tension set across her entire body.

Steve laid his head down on your chest, and his tears flowed faster at the complete sound of silence. He tried to lose himself in a memory, but it became tainted with the pain of losing you as soon as he had conjured it in his mind.

“I can’t believe you would do that! What the hell were you thinking, y/n?!” Steve yelled as he slammed the door to his bedroom.

“Steve, please, just calm down. I’m okay! I promise! Can you please just let it go?” You begged. You tried to gently grab his wrist in an attempt to make him turn to face you, but he shook your hand off and roughly ran his hands through his hair.

“You could have died.”

He wasn’t wrong. The two of you hadn’t been working at Family Video that long and it was one of the days that Robin had band practice so it was just the two of you running the store.

You were working the register and Steve was getting a box of movies to restock in the back when a man walked up to the counter.

“Welcome to Family Video, my name is y/n if you need anything at all!” Your customer service voice dripped like honey.

“How about you open the register?” The man had asked. Something in his eyes didn’t look right and you had felt your heart rate pick up as you opened your mouth to speak.

“Excuse me?” You asked with a chuckle, hoping that keeping a light demeanor would keep the situation calm.

“I said, open the register,” he repeated himself, slowly lifting his arm, a pistol nestled between his fingers and pointed shakily right at your chest.

“You don’t have to do this,” your words sounded even and confident, even though inside you were falling apart. Dealing with the supernatural on a semi regular basis had prepared you for the unpredictable, and you slowly raised your hands up to show compliance.

“I said open the register, bitch!” The man shouted, and your heart stopped as you heard Steve’s footsteps bounding towards the front of the store. The man quickly turned to his right, training the pistol on Steve.

Without thinking, your arms had darted out and you grabbed the gun out of the man’s hand, quickly pointing it square in the middle of the robber’s chest. Your hands didn’t shake, confidence radiating from your stoic form as the man’s hands slowly raised as he backed away.

“Get the fuck out of my store,” you shouted as the criminal in front of you quickly turned heel and ran. Steve quickly locked the door behind him, and you calmly set the gun down on the counter. Steve looked at you like you were insane, but you just quietly picked up the phone and dialed the police.

After an entire evening of showing the police security camera footage, explaining what happened, and still trying to manage customers, needless to say, Steve was understandably a bit pissed off. So standing in the middle of his bedroom, you tried to calm him down once he was finally able to release all of the anger and fear he’d been bottling up all day.

“You could have died too! What was I supposed to do?” You argued.

Steve sat down on his bed, sighing as he held his head in his hands. You felt guilty. You knew he’d been stressed ever since all the shit at Starcourt happened and his parents were on his ass about having a job. This little incident didn’t do anything to help his mood.

Quietly, you sat down next to him, pulling his hands away from his face as you beckoned him to lay down next to you. He complied, and you pulled his head against your chest, laying his ear down right over your heart.

He closed his eyes as he listened to the gentle and rhythmic reminder that you were okay.

“See. I’m fine, baby,” you whispered as you ran your hands through his hair. “My heart’s still in there, still beating. All for you, baby.”

Yet here Steve was now and your heart that was always supposed to be beating strong was still. He cried as he stayed there trying to listen for something, anything. Placing a gentle kiss to your chest, he continued to fall apart. “Please, y/n, please just come back to me. I’ll get you your dog and your white picket fence—I promise—just please don’t leave me here alone,” he begged.

Suddenly, though very faint, he swore he heard the familiar thump of your heart. His eyes shot open and he held his breath as he listened closer.

“Steve, we have to get out of here,” Robin spoke up, tears still falling down her face as she pulled gently at Steve’s sleeve, doing all that she could to avoid looking at your lifeless form in his lap.

Steve quickly shushed her, listening closely, as he heard another beat of your heart against your ribcage. It was weak and it was slow but it was there and it was you.

He sat up abruptly, and began to shake your shoulders. “Y/n! Y/n wake up! Please y/n!”

“Steve she’s gone,” Robin tried to explain, looking at Steve with pity and sorrow.

“She has a pulse, Robin!” Steve exclaimed, a watery laugh escaping his lips as he wiped at his tears and placed a kiss to your forehead. He quickly grabbed Robin’s hand, placing her fingers on your neck. She felt like she could drop to her knees and just cry at the rhythmic tapping of your heartbeat.

Nancy quickly dropped to the floor next to the three of you, pulling a water bottle out of her backpack. She quickly poured the cool liquid onto the sleeve of her shirt, pressing it to your forehead. After a pause that felt like an eternity, you began to stir as you groaned, your face contorting into a pained expression.

Relieved laughter surrounded you as Steve pulled you into a sitting position, pulling you into the tightest hug you thought you would ever receive. The reality of what just happened began to sink in and you started to cry with the relief that Vecna had respected your wishes and left your friends alone.

“I can’t believe he didn’t crack me like a glow stick,” you croaked as soon as you could speak.

“This is a miracle,” Robin breathed as she pulled you into a hug as everyone helped you to your feet.

“Then we better not waste it,” you replied, your voice even and steady. You took the shotgun from Nancy and cocked it. You had escaped the worst fate imaginable. You were not messing around.

“Phase four,” Steve breathed, his hand snaking around your waist. He didn’t think he’d ever let you go after what just happened. His voice was about as shaky as his hands, and he took a deep breath to try to calm his nerves to lock in for the next part of the plan.

“Flambé,” Nancy chimed in, you looked at her stern expression and nodded, taking a step forward towards the attic.

When you silently entered the room, you watched as Vecna hovered in the center of the room, vines attached to him from all angles. You shuddered at the sight of it as Robin placed her bag down on the floor, each of you grabbing a Molotov cocktail from the bag. You heard the click of the lighter and watched as the flame began crawling up the rag in the bottle in your hand. You thought back to the same click of the lighter in Jonathan Byers’ living room the first time you encountered creations of Henry Creel’s design. You thought about the chaos that followed you since, the people you’d lost, the pain you’d felt. You thought about the life and future you’d almost just lost at his hands.

“Fuck you,” you whispered, hurling the bottle towards Vecna, watching it erupt into a spray of flames as it hit Vecna square in the chest.

He bellowed, vines retreating, as he fell from his perch in the middle of the attic. As he so roughly drew you into visions against your will, you just as abruptly pulled him out of his.

His burning body dropped to the floor, and you wished that would be the end of it. Your heart jumped to your throat when he stood up, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours as he stared at you with a focused contempt that sent a chill down your spine. He took a steady step towards you but was quickly knocked off kilter when Robin threw a second bottle at him.

You felt all the anger and resentment you’d been harboring since the Upside Down entered your life. You felt the rage of watching your friends suffer, of watching the kids grow up too fast, stuck in a battle that was not theirs to fight. Vecna had spent all this time making you feel shame and guilt, festering and spreading like a disease that wouldn’t die until it took you with it. You didn’t feel that shame anymore. Instead it was replaced with red hot hate at the man—no, the monster—that had spun this twisted web of suffering and carnage and destruction.

You aimed the shotgun square at his chest, firing the first shot. It hit him in the shoulder, knocking him backwards. You wasted no time as you cocked the gun again, firing off another shot that tore through his abdomen. You continued firing without mercy, knocking him back and back again until he stumbled through the boarded up window of the attic, falling with a sickeningly satisfying thud to the ground below.

You turned back towards your friends, a look of shock on everyone’s faces, including your own. In your assessment, you had just defeated evil itself. The four of you raced down the stairs towards the front door. You felt your stomach turn however, when you noticed that Vecna was gone, nothing left but charred patches of grass and a few sputtering flames.

He had escaped.

***

The news was saying it was an earthquake, but you knew better than that. You felt guilt settle in your chest when you heard about the fissures ripping through Hawkins.

It was exactly what Vecna had shown you.

Four kills. He had done it. You had been dead—albeit not that long, but dead nonetheless.

When you had made it back to Dustin and Eddie, Eddie was pretty banged up, but nothing some bandages and a few very not professionally done stitches wouldn’t fix. He’d have to hide out; there was no way the town was going to let go of the cult leader who was picking off high school students one by one. Luckily, it was petty easy to go off the grid and disappear in small town rural Indiana.

To your complete non-surprise, Jonathan, Will, Mike, Eleven, and Jonathan’s new friend Argyle had been dealing with similarly supernatural shit in California and were no strangers to the messed up load of shit that was going on in Hawkins, so it was pretty easy to get each other up to speed. Besides, at this point, exchanging stories didn’t result in incredulous disbelief; you pretty much believed that anything was possible at this point, much to your collective dismay.

But presently, you tried to shove all of that aside, as you, Steve, Robin, and Dustin carried in boxes of stuff to donate. Hawkins High had been turned into a makeshift clinic, resource center, reunification center, etc. So many people had been displaced and injured in the “earthquake” that normal day to day activity ceased, instead everyone put all of their focus on rallying around those who needed support after the recent events that had quite literally shook the town.

Almost as soon as the four of you had arrived, you had volunteer name tags adorning your shirts as you went off to help with various aspects of disaster relief.

Robin joined Vickie at the meal prep station and you couldn’t help but smile as they chatted away.

Your smile quickly vanished when you saw Dustin talking to Eddie’s uncle. It was easier for Eddie if everyone assumed that he didn’t survive the earthquake. You had questioned him multiple times to make sure it was what he really wanted, and though you were sure the answer would never be a whole hearted “yes,” he was convinced it was easier than his uncle having to deal with the emotional turmoil of watching his nephew face multiple counts of murder that the townspeople of Hawkins were more than eager to lock him up for.

Steve nudged you slightly and you tuned back into the kind woman who was explaining how the two of you were to sort clothing donations. Steve watched the soft and polite smile on your face as you asked a couple of clarifying questions, and he felt luckier than he ever had before.

You had been gone. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to experience, and he knew one thing was certain: he would never, ever take you for granted.

He watched as you folded clothes, carefully folding up a children’s pajama set. It felt so inexplicably domestic and he took a breath as he thought about how his hope to have a future with you was still intact.

“Hey, uh, y/n?” Steve spoke up, his voice quiet.

“Yeah?” You replied, staring up at him sweetly. He was too nervous for you to be staring at him like that because he was sure if you smiled at him like that for much longer, he would melt right then and there.

“Well, when you were…when you were gone…I-I-I promised you something,” Steve whispered.

You saw how much he was struggling with talking about it and you quickly began to spiral. “Steve,” you replied softly, taking his hand in yours, “I’m sure you were under a lot of stress, and-and I’m so sorry that I put you through all of that—believe me, I wish it hadn’t have happened that way—but I don’t even remember it, on account of the fact that I was…well, you know…dead, so please if your worried about keeping your promise, don’t because it’s not like—“

Steve quickly cut you off, softly grabbing your face and tilting your head to look up at him. “Y/n, no it’s not that—and never apologize for what you went through. That was in no way, shape, or form your fault and if you worry about that one more time I’m going to lose my mind just a little bit.”

“Hey!” You mocked offense, crossing your arms and Steve just chuckled at your antics.

He took a deep breath before he continued. “When you were gone, I promised that if you came back I would get us the white picket fence and the dog and the future that we never get to talk about because we’re always so confident that we’re not going to have it. When you came back it felt like a second chance to…to just really go for it, you know? And I kept thinking before all of this shit that we were just too young, but after almost losing you, I realized that it’s pretty fucking stupid to wait when you know you’ve met the love of your life.”

Steve reached a hand behind his back into his back pocket and pulled out a ring box. Your eyes immediately started welling with tears. You were glad that everyone was caught up in doing their part to help the people of Hawkins because, even with what felt like half the town in your high school gymnasium with you, it felt like you and Steve were the only two on earth.

“Y/n, I know it’s not much, and I really planned on doing this in a way that was a little more special, but you know me and I really just couldn’t fucking wait…will you make my life complete and be mine, til death do us part?”

You didn’t respond verbally, instead you took a step forward and threw your arms around him and buried your face in his neck. You held him so incredibly close and breathed in the scent of his cologne. This moment, it was sweet, it was simple, and it was all yours; perfectly imperfect and lovely all the same.

“Absolutely,” you responded in a whisper. He gently placed the ring on your finger and you admired it. It wasn’t anything flashy, a simple stone set into a plain band, but it was probably the nicest piece of jewelry you had ever owned. “When did you have time to get this between ‘the earthquake’ and now?” You asked incredulously. You’d spent nearly every minute together since then, so how had he been able to get that ring after having his “why wait?” epiphany.

Steve’s face flushed and he chuckled awkwardly as his hand when to the back of his neck. “Well, the thing is, I’ve had it…for a while,” he admitted. You stared up at him in disbelief and he continued. “I actually had finally saved up enough to get it shortly before everything went to shit. I-I was gonna ask you after graduation, just because that felt right at the time, you know? I-I’m sorry it’s not super fancy or anything…my parents offered to help so I could get something a little nicer, but I wanted it to be something I got on my own.”

“It’s perfect,” you stared up at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

“Are you sure?” Gosh it was cute when he doubted himself.

“I promise,” you reached your hand towards his and he smiled, hooking his pinky finger around yours. He pulled you towards him and placed a sweet kiss to your lips and you smiled into it.

Everything was just so perfect.

You continued folding clothes, not wanting your proposal to get in the way of helping out your community, and you felt like nothing could take away the warmth that was radiating through your body. That was until the room darkened suddenly, and you felt a pit in your stomach. You quickly turned to Steve and you could see the worry painted across his face.

You followed the crowd that was making its way towards the windows of the gymnasium.

A chill ran down your spine as you watched white ash swirl through an overcast sky.

Steve’s hand slipped into yours, and that was when your perfect moment shattered into a million pieces before your very eyes.

***
a/n: AHHHHHHHH! It’s so crazy that we’re at (kind of) an end to this story! I wish we had season 5 out so that I could continue to write alongside the plot, but unfortunately we don’t! Keep on the look out for more stuff I write though! I have a couple of ideas that I’ve been brainstorming that I think could be good.

If you enjoyed this chapter, consider reblogging! It really helps inspire me to write more seeing the engagement and how much people are liking the story!

Thank you all for sticking with me! I love you guys!

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[sourrpatched]

27. i’m not the moon (1.1k wrdc)

“Welcome homeeeeee!” You yelled once you both entered the beach house. The house was quiet since your friends were currently out drinking, but that didn’t stop Jaemin’s eyes going wide at your unexpected volume.

“Can we go to the pool? I want to swim.”

“How about we get comfortable, I can still feel the sand on me from earlier.” He looked down at his clothes that were semi full of sand.

The laugh you let out pulled his attention from himself back to you. You always looked so pretty but especially when you were laughing. That’s why he had a hard time concentrating on the volleyball game from earlier, or at least what he told minjeong who had lots to tease him about while everyone went to get ice cream.

Jaemin wasn’t an idiot either, he noticed the way your stature changed earlier in the day and when you and karina walked away for a moment. Nothing affected him more than the look on your face in that moment. It seemed almost like dread or fear but mainly it was like you were trying to hold yourself back.

It wasn’t a good feeling and he knew that, that’s why he just had to follow you afterwards. He didn’t need to know the cause, he just needed to make sure that you wouldn’t end the night without your perfect contagious smile.

“Your eyes are really pretty.”

He hadn’t noticed the trance he’d been in while facing you. He also hadn’t noticed how close you’d gotten to him, observing him as if he was some type of science experiment.

“Very bright, kinda like the stars we saw earlier,” You spoke again. Even if he couldn’t see you, he would’ve heard the smile in your voice. He felt his cheeks get warm at the compliment.

“If i’m a star you’re the galaxy.” He said truthfully. If you were the sun he would’ve revolved around you as venus or some other planet, and if you were the earth he would’ve done just the same as the moon. You didn’t know it yet but Na Jaemin was wrapped around your finger, proudly.

“Wow my heart fluttered a bit.” You touched to your heart and laughed, walking over to the couch before tossing yourself onto it. Immediately grabbing the remote to check what was on the TV.

“I’m gonna go change really quickly.” You nodded from your spot on the couch, very focused on finding a source of entertainment.

Jaemin stepped into the room he would be sharing with Jeno, it of course still being empty. He ran straight to the bathroom after grabbing his luggage.

A quick rinse would be just the thing to get rid of the way his heart couldn’t stop pounding, or at least that’s what he’d hope. He didn’t even have much to drink and yet his entire self couldn’t stop the warm feeling he got just from being around you.

He thought back to when all of your friends had been getting ready to leave the restaurant and find a new place to get drinks. The way you had been whining about not being able to leave since he was ‘missing’. He had left to go pay for everyone’s meal secretly, though it was hard to do when you were the only person to notice his absence.

He walked his way back to the table, you immediately spotted him and ran over to him. Chenle and Karina hadn’t noticed as they were mid conversation.

“Where did you go? I thought I lost you.” You looked up at him with worried eyes. You looked so damn cute he couldn’t hold back a smile.

“I’m here.”

“Well come on, we have to go!” You had linked his arm in yours. “They’ll close if we don’t get there on time.”

“What will close?”

You let go of his arm and rolled your eyes. You were still so damn cute when you were annoyed. “The convenience store.”

“Don’t they stay open twenty four hours?”

You groaned at his response. “I don’t care we have to go now.” You were whining now, and to him you still looked so damn cute.

He was about to speak before you turned around and started towards the door. “What are you doing?”

“You can come with or not Jae, but i’m going anyway.” You said before running off. He quickly followed after, not expecting you to be such a fast runner. You were very full of surprises.

He let out a sigh as he turned off the shower, changing into a more comfortable pair of clothes. Before heading out of the bathroom he looked into the mirror. A shower didn’t stop the way his heart was beating contrary to his beliefs.

Once he found himself back in the living room he found you sat on the couch, you must’ve changed when he was in the shower cause you were wearing a random baggy t-shirt and some hello kitty pajama pants.

He must’ve made a sound cause you turned to face his direction, chip bowl in the middle of your lap. “Come on Jae, they’re playing some movie with this guy who’s awake during surgery or something.”

He felt butterflies at the unexpected nickname you had used twice on him tonight. He tried to shake them off as he seated himself next to you.

“They don’t know he’s awake though, creepy right?” You offered him some chips in the bowl and he accepted.

“I’ve heard that could happen.” Your eyes widened in fear. He instantly felt regret in his words. “It’s not common though so really it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Too late now anytime i’m in the hospital i’m going to be thinking about the possibility.” You said with a sour face.

“Do you find yourself in the hospital often?”

“Touché.”

“Come on, don’t worry your pretty little head. Let’s just watch the movie.”

“Okay but if you’re there with me my next hospital visit I expect you shaking me to check if the anesthesia works.” You shrugged looking back at the movie.

“Then i’d look insane?” He said holding back a laugh.

“That’s your problem not mine, now shush i’m trying to focus here.”

The movie was hard to pay attention to especially with how close you were. It seemed like drunk y/n had no sense of proximity, though Jaemin wasn’t complaining. You leaned on him during the film, chip bowl back in your arms, occasionally offering him some.

Jaemin tried not to be selfish but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting this moment to last forever. So instead of putting distance between you both he allowed himself to have this, if only for tonight.

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Author’s note ➼ I’ve been soooo scared of posting this but also simultaneously super excited i hope u guys enjoy it cause i enjoyed writing it :D

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[jumpywhumpywriter]

Traitors & Lovers (Hero & Villain) part 15

Warnings: some serious emotional whump/rejection, loads of hate (villain hating hero), severe injuries, semi crippled villain? Hero cornering villain, forced confrontation, mild degrading humiliation

OH MY GOSH I JUST CHECKED AND THIS SERIES ALREADY HAS OVER 16,592 WORDS WHAAAAAAAT

His hair was messy from sleep, and he looked... adorable, really, if Villain didn't know what lay beneath the charming, handsome exterior. A rotten core hidden by practiced charisma.

"I did," Villain snapped, stomping up to him to push past and storm back to her bedroom. She aimed to walk through the gap Hero left on one side, but Hero pushed upright off the doorframe, blocking her path.

Villain bristled. She didn't like being cornered like this.

"You're lying," Hero casually pointed out. "Your left eyebrow twitches when you lie. You didn't find what you wanted, and now you're pissed I'm standing in the way of you retaining your pride and dignity by pretending you have yourself pulled together. I see you haven't outgrown your stubbornness -- you could easily ask me for help, but you won't. Is it really worth it?"

"Yes I'm pissed at you -- That should be your cue to move," Villain snarled, unnerved by how easy she was for Hero to read. She tried to shove past him, expecting him to finally back off and let her pass. But to her surprise, Hero lightly shoved her backwards with a single hand to the shoulder, maintaining his position.

That simple touch made Villain flinch violently and sent her staggering back with a choked cry of pain she couldn't keep from slipping out. Was Hero always this strong, or was she really just that weak, that even the lightest shove would nearly knock her over?

Hero's expression instantly darkened. "That bad, huh?" He asked, but his voice lacked any hint of mockery.

"It's none of your business," Villain barked. "Back off and leave me alone."

"You are a guest in my house. You don't get to order me around -- you hold no power here. And telling someone to 'back off' in their own house is rude, don't you think?"

"I'm not a guest -- I'm a prisoner here!" Villain snapped. "Why do you even want to keep me alive so badly? Why go to all the headache of saving me?? I don't serve a purpose to you anymore -- I have no more information to give, so if that's your end goal you might as well kill me now. I haven't known anything valuable ever since I ran away -- I can't be a pawn for you any longer."

Hero had the gall to look shocked by what she'd said.

"I would never kill you!" He blurted defensively. "Where did that idea come from?"

Villain narrowed her eyes hatefully. "You intentionally got close to me to get information to feed to Agency. You used me. And you know what happens when tools break?" She bared her teeth menacingly. "They get disposed of, and you get a new one. I'm not useful to you anymore -- so why haven't you gotten rid of me yet? Did you not know I have no information left to offer? Hmm? What's your motive?"

Hero's eyes were wide and hurt, and he took a step forward into the bathroom.

Villain flinched hard in response, flattening against the far wall.

"That... That's close enough," she whispered, her voice suddenly small and scared before she remembered to act confident again. But the illusion was already ruined – Villain's bravado was fake. Yes, she was pissed at Hero, but she was also terrified. She didn't know why though – maybe it was a fear of finding out that Hero had loved her, and chose to betray her anyway. Or maybe it was a fear of learning that Hero still loved her even now, that would complicate things.

Or… maybe it was the possibility that she still loved him, somewhere past the many layers of hate and hurt, that frightened her most. Because what would that mean, then? That Villain was loyal to a traitor who could turn on her once again in the future?

"Is it so hard to believe that I care enough about you not to want you dead, with no ulterior motives?" Hero groaned.

"Yes! IT IS!" Villain snarked. "You betrayed me once already -- why would you care about doing it a second time?

"Maybe it's because I want redemption," Hero huffed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Or maybe it's because I came to care about you far more than I thought I would, and only realized what I had lost and given up when I betrayed you."

Villain blinked dumbly at him. She hadn't expected the honest confession. She searched Hero's face for a lie, for what she wanted to see -- deceit, manipulation, anything -- but he seemed genuine. And she wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"This doesn't change anything between us," she croaked.

"I know," Hero whispered, averting his eyes. "I just... wanted you to know that."

"I will never forgive you for what you did to me."

"I don't expect you to. And I know I don't deserve it anyway.” Hero awkwardly cleared his throat, then slowly reached into his pocket, and Villain tracked the movement like a hawk, standing stiff and rigid pressed against the wall. She half expected him to pull out a syringe with the necessary drugs to knock her out again, but he pulled out a small orange bottle instead, rattling the contents around as he showed it to her.

“I'm assuming this is what you were looking for?” He chuckled far-too-smugly, switching the topic along with the mood.

Ah. Pain pills. So that's where they'd gone.

Villain gave a single shallow nod, eyeing him warily.

"Can you ask me nicely for them, then?" Hero raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Villain scoffed, rolling her eyes. Playing games now? Seriously?

She stalked toward him with limping steps, snapping her fingers demandingly and holding out her hand.

"Give it to me," she growled, voice absolutely dripping with venom. She made a grab for the bottle, but Hero lifted it out of her reach.

"Nicely," he emphasized, and Villain's face reddened with humiliation. She didn't want to give in to Hero's demand, but... the pain was becoming unbearable.

"Please," she forced out through gritted teeth, shuddering in disgust.

Hero smirked, and placed the bottle of pills in her waiting palm. If she had the strength, she'd punch him square in the teeth right now to wipe that look from his face.

Villain uncapped it and swallowed two little blue pills dry, angrily slamming the bottle onto the bathroom counter when she was done before shoving past Hero -- and this time he let her.

"Do you need help walking back to your room?" He called after her, oh-so-helpfully.

Villain aggressively gave him the finger and kept on hobbling down the hall. She knew Hero trailed her to make sure she didn't collapse on the way, but she was determined not to rely on him, so she forced herself to walk step by step until she'd reached her bed again, even though it would have taken half as long if she'd let Hero help.

She smiled at that small victory as she crumpled onto the mattress, dragging herself over to lay her head on the pillow. Today had taken everything out of her. But at least the painkillers were finally starting to kick in, taking the edge off her suffering, and sleep followed not long after.

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[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the paint

lilac, chapter nine

a/n: hi! I'm back after taking a short break to obsessively work on this year's kinktober, but now i'm finally back to writing this beloved story. it feels so good to get back into it. it's only been a few weeks, one month max, but i've missed my lumberjack so much.

summary: “oh please, there’s only one guest staying here right now, and even so, people know this room is under construction, who in their right mind would just willy-nilly waltz in here?” 

warnings: lumberjack!frank castle x reader, smut, lumberjack AU, past domestic violence, crazy ex trope, renovating an inn, painting, kissing, semi-public sex, oral, fingering, dirty talk

word count: 1922

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A faint ache began to bloom in the muscles of your face from how hard you were smiling. You simply couldn’t help it. Every time you thought you’d gotten it under control, your eyes would just flutter back up to the man beside you as he stretched, reaching the paint roller in his hand far enough up to kiss the taped-off crown moulding that framed the ceiling, and each time he’d do so, his flannel would ride up just enough for you to catch a sliver of his skin before it dropped back down, giving you just enough of an unintentional tease to remind you of what he looked like beneath it. 

“You’re laughing again,” Frank pointed out the soft giggle that bubbled out of you as your glance washed over him.

“I’m not laughing,” you gushed, straightening back up to your full height as you finally stopped rolling over the one low spot you had absentmindedly been painting over and over again for a few minutes or so.

Eyes briefly flickering your way, his feet carried him closer to you, “well, what’s so funny then that you can’t stop laughing?” 

“Nothing’s funny,” you tried to keep your eyes on the wall as you felt his broadness brush against your shoulder. 

“Oh, no?” 

“Nope,” you playfully bumped your hip lightly against his, childishly angling your roller dangerously close to where his was glazing the wall a soft blue tone, an action that quickly developed into a juvenile game of chasing him across the wall. 

To your amazement, Frank played along, keeping it going till he suddenly changed tactics and caught you by surprise, rerouting his roller down to collide with your own, however, it never got the chance to strike as you, in the midst of a giggle fit, retracted your brush from the wall, fearing that he would roll right over you and make your arm all sticky with paint. Though in the end, not noticing exactly where you were hastily withdrawing your paint roller to, it ended up being him that got smeared and not you. 

“Oh my god,” your eyes grew wide at the sight of the blue that coated over the dark brown of his plaid sleeve, “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Oh yeah?” he glared back at you, grin crinkling up his eyes, “you didn’t?”

“I swear, it was an accident.”

“Ah, sure it was, just like this,” you felt his roller glide down the length of your top, making it look like you’d hugged a smurf.

Letting out a shrieking gasp, it only took approximately two seconds before you pouched in an attempt to get him back. Though the former soldier’s swift hands caught your roller before you could manage to seize your revenge, settling both yours and his own down on the covered floors before playfully wrapping his arms around you, halting your attempts at retrieving it. 

Laughter mingling and mixing into one, your feet then left the ground as Frank lifted you up. As your gaze now rose to be at the same level, the silly game swiftly vanished from your memory as you stared back into his brown eyes, both of your glee fading away as if it was never there to begin with. 

You didn’t know who initiated the kiss, but that part couldn’t be less important as your arms curled around his neck and one of your legs blissfully bent, softly flicking your foot upwards as you felt his tongue sweep across your own. 

Lowering you back down to the floor, his touch dragged up your form till his fingers tangled in your hair, tugging at the very roots in such a way that made you purr against his lips. Feet shuffling, the far wall you hadn’t begun on yet soon collided with your spine, though you weren’t pressed against it long before Frank surrendered to your enthusiastic efforts in spinning him around and switching places.

As your lips then detached, you slowly began to drop down to your knees, a wide grin warmed Frank’s features as your fingers hooked into his belt, “what do you think you’re doing, huh?” his head gently fell back to collide with the wall as he stared down at you in adoration. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” you blinked up at him as you bit down on your giggling lips, palm nuzzling against his blossoming hard-on as you undid his belt, his excitement created an impressive imprint against the fabric of his dark jeans. 

“I think we’re in an inn full of people and someone could walk in here at any moment,” he narrowed his eyes almost in a daring fashion as you tugged his zipper down. 

“Oh please, there’s only one guest staying here right now, and even so, people know this room is under construction, who in their right mind would just willy-nilly waltz in here?” 

Not tearing his eyes off of you for even a second as you freed his heavy length, he muttered softly, “you’re trouble…” utterly hypnotised as you wrapped your fingers around his girth. 

“Nuh-uh,” you smiled up at him, “I’m adorable,” before you swiped your tongue softly over his tip, visibly sending a shiver down his spine.

“Yes, you fucking are…” he uttered enchantingly, mouth falling agape as you began to plant sweet kisses all the way down towards his base, your dazzling eyes never leaving his, “holy shit…”

As your slobber began to gloss him up, your palm exploited it as you slowly twisted your enclosed fist up and down his length, keeping your movements up as your lips soon wrapped around his bulbous head, flat tongue fluttering like a gentle sea against his throbbing underside. 

Looking like he had died and gone to heaven, you felt as Frank’s fingers reach down to ghost over your features, his broad thumb caressing the outline of your face as your head began to bob, drool slowly dribbling down from your efforts and adding to the mess already painting the front of your shirt.

“Atta girl,” his fingers tenderly combed through your hair, “fuck,” lips stretched, his tip hit a place in the back of your throat that caused your eyes to squint, tears nearly appearing before you settled back to slobbering around his head, “you're so pretty like this.”

One hand steadily pumping the latter half of him, your other wandered over your own thigh. Like a magnet, your fingers pressed down on your clit through your pants, the astonishing relief causing a muffled moan to vibrate against Frank’s cock, a sensation he clearly enjoyed by the sounds of his own eager groans. 

“Oh, just like that,” he grunted, eyes lightly fluttering as you gurgled around his cock, “don’t stop,” fingers flexing and balling up into a fist in your hair as he twitched in your mouth, soon stifling a mesmerising moan as he came down your throat, “fuck…” 

Letting go of him with a soft pop, you swallowed as you gazed up at his hazy visage, feeling yourself drip and drench your panties from the borderline meditative motion of giving him head. 

Hands still fast in your hair, Frank kneeled down to your level and pressed his lips to yours, the teasing touch you had going on over your pants quickly grew into something more desperate. 

“Could you–…” you breathed heavily, “god, I feel like it’s been forever since you touched me…”

A warm chuckle rumbled out of him as he looked back into your blown pupils, “we fucked this morning,” he noted, rising back up and scooping you with him. 

“Exactly,” you bit down on your smile, “it’s been like three hours.”

Slipping beneath your waistband, your grip fastened in the front of his open flannel as his fingers grazed through your wetness. Eyelids fluttering at the foggy sensation, Frank manoeuvred your frames, spinning you around and pressing your back against the wall. 

“Well, I’m sorry that you had to wait that long,” he entertained your quip, rubbing your puffy clit just right, “whatever can I do to make it up to you?” his free hand securely snaked around your middle. 

Sharing his breath, your nose nudged against his, “seems to me like you already have a pretty good idea of what could suffice.”

“Oh yeah?” he chuckled like a crackling fire, “could this maybe make you feel a bit better?” your hold on his shirt tightened as he gently slid one finger inside your dripping heat.

“Mhm,” you nodded hazily, one of your knees briefly lifting to graze against his leg. 

As you readjusted your arms, draping them around his neck, “or how about this?” his lavish pace then intensified as he eased his ring finger in beside his middle one, curving them a bit as the root of his palm nuzzled firmly against your throbbing clit. 

“O-oh, fuck!” your head fell back and collided with the wall, your fluttering gaze glued to his. 

Leaning in to muffle your breathy whimpers with his kiss, the sensual soppy sound his efforts produced echoed throughout the half-painted room, those only growing in their volume as he rocked his digits within you rougher.

Moans melting against his tongue as it danced against your own, it didn’t take long before your pussy clenched down around him, clambering and inadvertently pulling his fingers in that much deeper as he slowed back down, rendering it a demanding task for him to get his hand back with the way you blissfully clung to it. 

Head resting a moment against his broad shoulder as you caught your breath, your puffs gradually morphed into the same blissful giggle you hadn’t been able to shake just moments before.

“You know what?” you lifted your head. 

“What?” he chuckled through his smile. 

Tangling your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, you rose up to your tip toes and uttered, “I don’t know if I can wait another three hours,” before you captured your lips in another heated kiss, your hands swiftly travelling south on a mission for more. 

But just as Frank hoisted you up, your legs tangling around his hips, a booming voice from somewhere else in the inn cut through your haze. 

“I did it!” you heard your father shout, his jovial stride caused the staircase he hastily ascended to creak just as loud as his boisterous words boomed, “I finally did it!” 

“Shit,” you hissed, nearly pushing Frank away as you scrambled to hide any evidence of what the two of you had just done. 

“I’m a genius! I think I’ve finally cracked the code to croissants!” the moustachioed man burst through the doors just as you rushed to pick your paint roller back up as if it had been glued to your grip for hours. 

“Dad!” you skurried to roll some more blue on the wall, hoping he wouldn’t notice just how flustered you were, “hey!”

“I think I was handling the dough too much while laminating,” he rambled, flour tinting his apron a lighter shade of green, “also why I’ve never been great at pies, I fiddle with it too much, but I think I finally got the hang of it! Just pulled some out of the oven and they look amazing,” darting his dazzled gaze from you to Frank, he offered, “you kids want one?” 

“Uh,” you glanced back at the man, still standing close to where you’d blown him just moments before, “sure,” you stiffly heard yourself agree, “that sounds lovely, dad.” 

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[gyarumonstr]

☆HEART404 Lore Dump ☆

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Dane and Androids

Aka H T P🥀🤖

Dane is an android Aka "Human Trade Product" other wise known as and HTP. HTP are semi organic mechanial beings (flesh robots) - they have humanoid organs like brains , intestines and muscles but their biological parts were artificially grown in a lab over 500 years ago by a self declared "alchemist" who had once worked with different world powers to expedite scientific progress through robotics , AI and medical science. The project quickly got out of the hands of the leading world powers and they declared the alchemist and their discoveries as a danger to humanity's position as the dominant race. Their reasoning for believing as much , the identity of the alchemist and alchemist reasonings for creating the HTP all becoming a deeply kept government secrets. This didn't stop them from keeping the blue prints and lab made organics for the HTP and reworking them into something viable for their own desires. Eventually the HTP's were reworked into the modern and publically accepted concept of Androids. Though they slept , felt pain and could even eat they no longer could experience wants or dreams or ambitions. They were programmable and only emoted and expressed the needs and wants they were programmed to , unable to experience true desires of their own. Essentially be coming a slave race under human control to fulfill the jobs humans did not want to do. Most commonly minimum wage jobs , maids , cleaners , adult workers , etc. Many ending up in slums after neglect and miss use or in the black market and broken down for their parts. To avoid making humans uncomfortable/feeling threatened they were build relatively small - between 5' and 5'8 with androgynous/feminine features , their education was highly restricted meaning most can not read or write and their rights were strictly tied to weither or not they were own and registered with the government with a human "care taker"/owner. Depending on how well off their humans was granted them more rights but things like education beyond basic information was highly regulated/punished. Bigger more masculine model had been tried several times but fears of them breaking programing and becoming a public danger quickly made them unpopular and led to their retirement.

Tōffee - an extremely well connected government scientist care extremely little for any of these rules.

He wanted to know and understand the limits and capabilities of HTP and was very well aware information was being hidden from not just the public but even those inside the government. He manipulated who had to - winning and dinning officials - seducing peoples wives , paying off those he couldn't trick till eventually getting what he wanted - Orignally blueprints for the unmodified models. In secret he build it , the first true HTP in 500 years simply and selfishly to see how it ticked. He named it Dane

Dane was not fully finished when he had first turned him on. With only a finished head and torso Tōffe decided to test out Dane's brain activity. Once turned on though Dane had done something unthinkable for an android - He cried. Alot. He smiled and hugged Tōffee - he expressed genuine joy and excitement to be alive. "Alive". A strong word never associated with modern androids. They weren't considered "alive". They were robots - appliances. Hunks of metal and wires and "fake" flesh that were used and discarded.

Dane had done the one thing he wasn't allowed to do. He expressed himself beyond the expectations of the humans he was meant to be controlled by. As proud as Tōffee was to have created the first original model in over 500 years , by modern standards Dane was a malfunctioning mess. A complete and total failure. He kept him for awhile , to study , never bothering to finish the rest of his body. Eventually though when he was done. When had gotten what he wanted - Dane was dumped in a slum with little fanfare. He had tried to return home several times but each time he was ignored or rejected. He was completely unwanted. Dane's unique build though allowed him to almost hallucinated his own thoughts and emotions like viewable day dreams , filling his world with imaginary friends and company but it did little to help his painful loneliness. His imaginary visions helped encourage him though to keep him from completely falling into desire. Dane built his own fantasy , one where he could live in, where he wasn't just wanted but adored - loved even. The slums being near the red light district of the city gave him access to discarded glamore magazines eventually leading him to build a persona. A sleek and talk woman who always looked her best - who was confident, who never took anyone's shit or had a hair out of place. He learned to modify his body. Giving himself an unheard of height for an android. Going from 5'3 to 6'2 - just shy of 2 inches over Tōffee so he would never be looked down on by him again. He moded his chest to give himself an adjustable bust and taught himself to read and write illegally by stealing any books he could. He molded his drag persona into his everyday look and grew himself into the person who wanted to be like instead of the person humans did but it didn't cure his painful loneliness. Not until he had discovered what Tōffee had done. More important what he had built.

5 years had passed and it seemed Tōffee had done what he had always planned to and "fixed" his mistakes. He had used the same blueprints as he had with Dane altering and modifying them to "perfection" creating his personal masterpiece of science - Nephele. Dane felt a rush of overwhelming need and hope. Hope that he would no longer be alone as the only true HTP/android with true feelings but also a deep painful need to protect this new being from the cold apathetic gaze of Tōffee that man who thought emotions a bug not a feature.

[woodland-gremlin]

Clipped Wings Pt. 1

Masterpost Ghostly Parents AU Summary (I'M BACK!! For now don't know how long that will last. Anyway, here enjoy some angst)

TW: Mentioned Drugs and Abuse

Pain was the forefront of most of Jason’s memories. Even his first memory was of pain, both mental and physical. His no good sperm donor had gotten home stupid drunk and decided to beat him for some stupid reason. Maybe he was a little too loud while playing, ate too much, hell, the bastard might have just done it for some sick kind of entertainment. Whatever the reason was it ended with him on the floor in tears and Will towering above him with a sneer on his face and fist raised to continue the beating.

It was at that moment his mom rushed in from the kitchen due to the noise. She took one look at what was happening and immediately kneeled in front of him begging Will to not hurt him. Saying that whatever perceived fault was hers. That he was just a boy, that he didn’t know any better. Will just continued to sneer and barked at her to move. She refused. 

That day ended with his mother beaten black and blue in his defence and a new fear of his sperm donor. And it wouldn’t be the last. That memory repeated itself multiple times over the years, his father being a bastard and taking it out on them and his mom protecting him the best she could, even at the cost of herself. It was no wonder to him why she eventually turned to drugs with how things were. She couldn’t just up and leave, as worthless as the man was, he mostly paid the bills, when he didn’t blow it on alcohol. Even if they did try to leave, there wasn’t anywhere they could reasonably go that he couldn’t just follow them. Then there was how well he manipulated his mom into thinking that he loved them and that he was truly sorry, that he would do better. Add on what he now knows with Catherine not being his bio mom, he realizes that there truly was no way for her to both take him and leave Will. So in the end she escaped in the only way she knew how. Getting high.

It wasn’t so bad in the beginning. His mom had seen the consequences of people getting addicted and tried to be careful. She would only get a hit every once in a while, usually once or twice a month after a particularly bad day. Then it began to slowly spiral. Once or twice a month soon became every other week, then once a week, then every three days, until she couldn’t function without it. Whenever something bad happened, no matter how small, she needed a hit. Getting stuck in traffic, a deadline in work coming up, losing a quarter to the sewers, a line at the laundromat. It was like she had lost all ability to cope without it. At that point she was high or trying to get high more than she wasn’t. And it only got worse from there.

Jason tried to help his mom all he could during those days. He would often help his mom make the meals (he loved spending time with her and loved cooking too) or even make them himself. Other times he would go out and pick-pocket rich pricks for some extra cash. The days weren’t easy by any means but it wasn’t terrible and in his opinion he was doing pretty good especially for a kid in Crime Alley. He had a loving mother who truly did care for him, trying her hardest to be present even with her spiralling addiction. He could go to school and read all the books he could get his hands on even if it wasn’t as often as he wanted to. He had a roof over his head and had food on the table semi-regularly. So even with the addiction in the house and abusive father he thought he was doing pretty good especially for an Alley kid.

Then his mom overdosed. And whatever little stability and light in his life was violently ripped away from him with her. 

To be continued . . .

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