#my ear is BEYOND fucked and the entire half of my head feels numb and agonizing at the same time

[glacierbash]

It’s so beyond fucked that you can just wake up to some of the most intense and unbelievable pain of your life and be expected to jsut function

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Perfect Score - Chapter 7 - Avalanche | FigureSkating!AU

Summary: With some time to spare before the finals, you return to the Hightower/Targaryen Household, a million questions on your mind | Word Count: 6.8k~ | Warnings under the cut~

Series Masterlist | Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

Warnings: smut straight out the gate, swearing, degradation, aemond being a sexual menace, a lot of dirty talk, p in v unprotected sex, marijuana use, hotboxing, oral (m receiving), face-fuccin, swallowing, toxic family relationships, implied p in v under the influence

A/N: yeah the whole hotboxing in a wendy house is actually a true story, my mum did it with my aunty when I was a kid (I wasn't there lol), so yeah thought it'd be fun to pop that in. ANYWAY feel somewhat self conscious of this chapter cos I feel like not much happens but OH WELL

Comments, reblogs & likes are always appreciated in this household. I love u 😚

You thought he might have been joking.

But he was playing a dangerous game.

Hotel check-out, they said, was 10:00am. Aemond has simply shrugged and hummed in agreement, not giving the receptionist the impression that he cared.

He'd made good on his promise after the match you'd won, practically dragging you to Arryk's car having made his pleasantries, pictures and casual conversations with the judges.

But after that? He was a man on a mission.

Arryk's car was deadly quiet the entire ride back to the hotel, the sun beginning to dip against the buildings by the time you got back. And some of the hotel residents had looked on with one eyebrow raised as Aemond's led you hurriedly through the foyer, still in your outfits.

As soon as the lift doors were shut, he was on you.

Hungry. Like he'd finally been allowed out of his proverbial cage, desperate for a freedom he found in having you all to himself.

He spent the majority of that evening between your thighs, basking in said freedom.

A beam was bleeding through the slits between the curtains, but the light against the warm cotton made the room feel soft and inviting. It was like the feeling of rolling around in fresh bed sheets and tired lazy mornings.

The soft slapping of Aemond's hips against yours was the only sound that managed to disturb this tranquil morning, as well as the hushed murmurs of his words against your tacky skin, and the softened tumblings of tiny moans from your lips.

You've lost track of how many times he's made you cum by now.

It's all a haze of the closest intimacy, the room smells of sex, humid from your bare bodies being pressed against each other.

" - Aemond - we have to - ah, fuck - we have to check out soon -" you manage in a breathless whisper, the air constantly being fucked out of your lungs with each desperate slam of his cock in the deepest parts of you.

You feel him, how his cockhead bullies the rough, spongy spot inside you. Unsure if you can even handle another orgasm. How Aemond is even doing this right now is beyond reason, the amount of sleep this man is running on.

Aemond grins against your ear, groaning lowly at the feeling of your nails scraping against the nape of his neck. If your previous trysts have been quickies, this time it's lazy and languid, almost thoughtful.

"You can give me one more before that" he growls, voice vibrating in his chest pressed flush against yours.

Your eyebrows furrow together, the pressure building whether you want it to or not, the way his length drags against your over-sensitive walls is too much and yet not enough. Feeling both numb and tender. Head feeling as if it's airy and empty, all you're able to think about is him and how he's making you feel.

Your body moves with the pace of his thrusts, breasts faintly bouncing alongside it, sticky from the previous rounds' half-dried spend. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, anchoring you to him, inevitably leaving marks in their wake.

He leans forward on his knees, his firm, muscular and athletic thighs, hardened from years of training, brushing against your own. The movement has his cock brushing against your cervix sensitively.

His hands, fingers long and lithe, hold your thighs and lift them higher and to your sides, widening you for him and granting himself deeper access. Your face heats up instantly being so on show, eyes glazed over with lust when you look at him.

His hair falling around his face, messily. His wide shoulders and slim waist, muscles flexing as he adjusts your position. As well as the warmth blooming in your core, it also does so in your stomach, and you briefly fear what it could mean.

You watch as Aemond keeps your legs elevated, his hips moving once more against you, his skin tapping against yours audibly with how wet you are.

You swear you've never been more aroused in your life.

The coil winds tightly inside you, watching how diligently and carefully he fucks you. As rough as the actions are, there is a softness in the way he holds your flesh in his palms.

"Come on, we don't want to be late now do we, pretty girl" he grins, lips parted to breathe with each thrust, a sheen of sweat covering his neck and chest, catching the light between his pecks.

If his movements don't finish you off, that most certainly does.

It's almost worse being in the back of Arryk's car with Aemond after all of that. Like the tension hasn't disappeared one bit. And you try to busy yourself with something else, like putting some music on or staring out the window. But nothing seems to help.

After successfully making it to the check out time, Aemond smirking the entire time he was giving his keycard back, you both faced the onslaught of reporters who hung around the entrance of the hotel where Arryk's car was parked. All wanting a glimpse and/or a word from the finalists who were warming up to each other visibly.

The flash of the cameras blinded you, and you recoiled with the appearance of several microphones shoved in your path with such personal questions, all talking over one another. 

You at least made out that they suspected there was some romance involved.

Aemond, with his tall, beanpole form, had blocked the view with his body, rounding the car to open the door for you. He didn't seem to flinch as he parted his path between the reporters to get in himself. You supposed being the prodigal son of Viserys Targaryen and Alicent Hightower will do that to someone.

Idly you scrolled through your phone, seeing the various recommended news articles about the famed finalists.

Ice Prince and Princess demolish the semi-finals with their sensual performance. Aemond Targaryen. New partner or new lover? The ice has melted with our finalist couple keeping each other warm.

That last one made you cringe and click off your phone.

Even though things were better, and he had at least apologised, you couldn't help but have more questions. Mostly around Floris? Could you really believe Larys? And did Aemond have this kind of relationship with her as well? Perhaps that had been the reason behind her 'accident'?

Part of you, the doubtful part, thought that he'd only done all this, get close to you and sweeten you up, to improve the performance. Give him a better chance at winning.

You didn't want to think about that possibility. And yet it lingered.

Instead you focussed on the final. The final. 

And against all the fucking people, it was the Martells.

Ugh.

But at least there was more time between the last match and the finals now. Time to prepare.

That meant going back to the large Targaryen House, back to 'normality'. You itched to be around other people again, as being around Aemond made your skin prickle up almost uncomfortably. Maybe it was not knowing where you stood with him.

The car zoomed past the electric gates and Helaena and Alicent were waiting outside, Helaena beaming with joy and waving and Alicent, ever graceful, hands clasped at her front, smiling fondly at the return of her son.

As soon as you got out of the car, Helaena threw her arms around you, her hair emanating her signature lavender-like scent, but as soon as she pulled back she had a knowing smirk on her face, which mildly panicked you.

Alicent made her pleasantries, hugging her abnormally tall son and guiding you both inside. Helaena grabbed your hand, following shortly behind, giving you the side-eye.

"What?" You asked her.

"Oh don't give me that. I have some questions for you later"

You didn't have time to roll your eyes before a loud, ear-splitting bark reverberated off the waxed floor, the click of claw-lined paws echoing as a large Great Dane, who was clearly on the older side, bounded happily towards Aemond, heedless of its true size, and tackled him successfully to the floor.

"Umf! Gods Vhagar" Aemond hummed annoyedly, but the smile on his face when the large dog stood on his chest and licked his face betrayed his true feelings. You'd rarely seen Aemond properly smile, so seeing the boyish excitement on his face was…a strange welcome feeling.

Aemond laid there, back flat on the wax floor, accepting his fate. The dog named Vhagar you surmised, once done with its vicious attack, looked up curiously to you, tongue and tail wagging with equal vigour. Aemond tilted his head back to look at you, amused, the dog's paws planted firmly on his pecks.

"This is Vhagar, she doesn't like gir-"

Vhagar barked and made for you, taking mercy somewhat and only jumped up to rest her paws on your chest, craning her head for pets, which you were more than happy to give, paying special attention to her neck and ears as a wide smile graced your face.

"Good girl, Vhagar" you praised, her tongue still hanging out her mouth excitedly. Aemond raised his eyebrows, shocked and happy to see that reaction, as if to say 'I stand corrected'.

"I didn't know you had a dog" you say, watching as Vhagar gallops back over to Aemond, sitting at his feet as he stands and brushes himself off, looking up to him with admiration.

"We all do. Family tradition. They've been at the kennel for a bit" he explains, shoving his hands in his pockets. At the mention of the word 'kennel', Vhagar puts her tongue away, staring with worry, as if she was horrified. Aemond hums a laugh.

Alicent claps once, gathering all your attention. She's elegant as always, long sleeved top and a black slinky skirt, her hair perfectly tied back and held with a gold accessory.

"Well! It's lunchtime, you can tell us all about the tour over some cheese and wine, yes?" She beams.

Ah yes, back to aristocratic 'reality'.

Outside, the table was set with a gorgeous spread of brightly coloured food, plates and such as well. Otto seemed not to be present, and with that, the mood was lighter, less business-like and more like a family.

That as well as the presence of another silver-haired brother, much too skinny to be Aegon.

Aemond shoved his arm around their neck playfully, dragging him up, “Baby brother, are you geriatric? Your senses are getting worse”

You and Helaena watch with amusement as the smaller silver-haired brother goes pink, stuck in the hold Aemond has him in, “The fuck is wrong with you, Aem, get off!”

“Aeg, get his legs” Aemond smirks, scooping his arms under the smaller brother’s, “Daeron, you look hot, how about a dunk?”

“No! No, Aegon, stop it!” he protests, but the oldest brother simply smirks, a cigarette hanging from between his teeth as the two shuffle over to the pond in the middle of the garden, “Don’t encourage him, Aeg, put me down!”

“Well that’s not fun then, is it?” Aegon grins,

Helaena laughs, simply watching but not helping, “Think of it as punishment for being away from us for so long!”

“That’s not fair, Hel!” he shouts as Aegon and Aemond begin to swing, chanting ‘a leg and a wing, to see the king’.

“Boys, put your brother down, the meat’s getting cold!” Alicent calls, bringing out the iced lemon water.

With a huff, they do as they’re told, Daeron landing to the floor with a thud. The youngest brushes the grass off his slacks, smiling at you as if he’s just noticed you’re here.

“Sorry, Daeron” he smiles politely, shaking your hand.

You smile, “A pleasure”

“Dig in, everyone” Alicent beams, setting down one last plate of bread rolls, “I’ll just get some cutlery”

Aegon huffs in his seat, “Look delicious, mother. Who can I thank for such a spread?”

Alicent taps the back of his head in a playful scold as she’s walking past, “Me, you cheeky little so-and-so”

You laugh as you take your own seat next to Helaena.

Without Otto here, the atmosphere is warm, everyone’s happy. A stark contrast to your first evening spent in the formal cave-like atmosphere of the dining room, feeling left-out and ostracised. 

It’s more like a family now.

Conversation flows exceptionally well, all the tension now completely fizzled out with the soft, warm afternoon sun just dipping beneath the trees, flooding their garden with an orangey glow. Aemond and Aegon badgered their youngest, Daeron, about his studies and why he went to see Aegon instead of Aemond on tour, harmlessly teasing him on having favourites.

Alicent watched her three sons with motherly joy, but mostly chatted idly with you and Helaena.

After a glass of wine, Helaena now loosened, she confided in you quietly about the tour.

"Think I'm losing it" she mused,

"Losing what?"

She looked at you, violet eyes catching the sun, "My touch. The tour was okay but we got annihilated by the fucking Stormlands of all people" she scoffed.

"Who was representing Pairs for that?"

"Cass Barath and some guy she used to go to school with. They couldn't fucking stand each other but won on technical"

Couldn't stand each other.

That sounds familiar.

Or rather sounded.

"Shame. We could've been against one another" you smile, tapping your glass with your nail.

"Gods, if we went up against you after the last performance we'd have no chance" she smirks, "I have questions for you, don't think I've forgotten"

At the idea of telling Hel your face flushes briefly, turning away to try and hide it, just as Aemond has turned to you, Daeron talking his ear off. He gives a lazy smirk, somewhat bashful, as he looks down into his lap where his hands are clasped.

The evening was so peaceful it made a pain in your heart. And you wished it was like this for them all the time.

Alicent smiled, tapping her hand on top of yours, "Congratulations, sweet girl. We're very proud of you both"

You can't help the drop in your heart when she says that.

She speaks to you like she would a daughter.

It's a warmth you've not known for some time.

And she sees the way your face is completely relaxed, like nobody had ever said that they were proud of you before. There's a sadness in her expression.

When was the last time someone said that to you?

Estranged from your own parents, you honestly can't remember.

So you swallow over the lump in your throat and nod gratefully, trying not to show how deeply her small act of kindness has affected you.

"Thank you"

She smiles reassuringly, but it doesn't quite make it to her eyes, like she knows exactly what you're thinking.

A mother's intuition is never wrong.

She pats your hand once before pulling away, "You know, you remind me so much of someone I used to know"

You cock your head, "Who?"

Alicent visibly swallows, her eyes casting back, "An old friend" she says, smiling at the memory, "she was so sure of herself, unapologetically so. And she never let other people tell her what she should think"

You laugh lightly, "She sounds more confident than me"

"You are as well" she reassures, "I remember my last match you know.

I always wore blue, for my performances. But this particular day, my father got me to wear dark green, as an…homage of sorts, to Oldtown" she recounts, "I loved that outfit"

Her face falls somewhat then.

"I still can't watch that performance. Knowing it was my last"

Your heart aches in sympathy for her.

"And I can't look at that outfit without turning sad" she says distantly, her chocolate brown eyes looking down sadly.

You, of course, know this story to some extent. Banned from competing entirely, which seemed a very harsh judgement from the committee, but a decision was made nonetheless. You remember briefly watching reruns of her performance, how happy she looked then. How absolutely natural she was.

She didn't seem like she'd aged much at all. She certainly didn't look as if she had four children all grown.

You can't help but feel as if she had to grow up quickly.

"I'm just going to go and get some napkins, darling" she says with a polite smile, as if the conversation hadn't happened, standing up and excusing herself to the kitchen.

"So!" Aegon starts, "'Ice Princess', huh?"

You give him a playful glare, "Shut up"

"What!"

"I thought it was nice" Daeron says timidly,

"Don't you start" you retort, face heating rapidly as Aemond just sits back and lets the chaos ensue, with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"It was a good routine. Our grandfather wasn't much pleased" Aegon grins,

Aemond does too, "I bet he wasn't"

Helaena cocks her head, "What made you switch up the routine?"

Just as you're about to open your mouth, Aemond gets there before you do.

"I just gave her some advice in the dressing room" he grins mischievously, "looks like it worked"

Your lips slam shut at his words, a kind of dull, ache settling between your legs, reminding you of this morning, when Aemond had you in a rather precarious position. You hope to every god that exists that your face doesn't show it, as you stare him down.

He just looks impressed with himself.

You're not sure if it's the chill of the evening or the effect of Aemond that has goose bumps on your arms.

Just as Alicent comes back outside, Helaena takes your hand, standing quickly.

Thank the gods for that.

"I'm freezing, Mum. We're going to go inside"

"Alright, darling" she smiles.

You spare a look over your shoulder as she hurries you through the glass doors into the kitchen. Of course, Aemond is watching, his gaze unapologetically roaming over what you're wearing.

You don't miss Aegon's knowing smirk either, which never fails to make you roll your eyes.

"Hel, what the fuck is this?" You laugh as Hel hurries you to a secluded area near the trees.

There, nestled between two oak trees, is a tiny little wendy house, clearly purpose built, and by now definitely looking it's age, with single paned windows and fading blue paint.

"Otto had it built it for me when I was five" she uses all her possible strength to pull the door open, the wood having swollen with age and damp. It eventually gives with a squeak, dust billowing between you both, "come on"

You duck, slipping past the threshold, "You're not gonna axe murder me in here, right?"

She scoffs and pulls the swollen wood back into place, the windows rattling in the frames as she does, "If I was an axe murderer you'd be dead by now"

She produces a rather worn plastic bag, with several freshly rolled spliffs stuffed inside.

"Sorry I just assumed you did-"

"I don't often" you shrug, "but when in Rome" you smile.

She passes you one and sticks one into her mouth.

"Where did you even get these?"

She grins as she pulls out a lighter, "Aegon. He sells them"

She blows the first buff out from between her lips, tossing you the lighter, "So you stole them?"

She shrugs, "I'm his sister. I'm just borrowing them"

"Hmm" you hum as you light yours as well. 

You both pull yourself only the ledges opposite each other, knees almost touching as you draw a few breaths in, the effect of it warming your throat and chest, your head already starting to feel lighter. The smoke fills the tiny wendy house, only serving to heighten the intensity.

"Right. Spill" Hel grins.

"Gods Hel, I'm not even high yet!"

"I don't care. Spill"

You give her a look, "He's your brother"

"Yeah I don't want the nasty fucking details, just keep it vague please"

"Alright, alright" you laugh, sighing between drags, "Well…"

"When did it happen?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

You roll your eyes, "The first night at the hotel"

"The first night?!" She shouts in shock, leaning forward and mouth agape, "How-"

You can't help but laugh at her reaction. She'd obviously expected more of a romantic lead up to what occurred on that night, the memory making you squeeze your thighs together.

Helaena listens intently, asking the odd question, the effects of the drug must be getting to her as well because sometimes she asks the same one twice.

Explaining it all to someone else, it makes it all feel a bit more real, and you're eager to see how his sister, the person who knows him perhaps the closest, will react to your side of the story.

"In the dressing room??" She grimaces, "you guys are fucking disgusting. I don't think I can watch that performance the same way ever again"

You laugh, the effect of the drugs now weathering away your inhibitions.

You suppose there's no time like the present to ask an innocent question.

"Can I ask you something, Hel?" 

"I'm all ears" she responds.

Your fingernails tap against the worn out wood, nervously, "Were…Aemond and Floris…"

Helaena doesn't even let you finish.

"Oh fuck no. Absolutely not. When Floris was here he'd find any excuse to not be around her. It was quite funny really. But no, he's not really been with any girl since that fucking dinosaur"

Oh, Alys...

It's embarrassing, the relief that gives you.

"Floris just couldn't hack Aemond, she just thought he was…a cryptid weirdo. Aemond in turn just thought she was dumb and didn't care much for her skills"

"Was she not very good?"

"She'd be alright on her own, but she didn't collaborate well. Couldn't take criticism" she says, and you can tell by the tone of her voice that she's trying to be as nice as possible.

"Right…"

"So, you and Aemond…you're all good now?"

You sigh, honestly not knowing the answer yourself, "I think so?"

"You mean…you don't know?" she snorts, "surely if you two are smashing you're all good"

"Not really. I catch myself half-thinking about what he said, what I said, what's happened-"

"Yes, but Aemond's apologised, you said" Hel reasons, the small stream of smoke blooming from her spliff.

A warmth of embarrassment blooms in your chest.

"Yes but…I haven't"

Hel cocks her head, "What do you-"

Light floods the Wendy house as the door swings open, both of you squinting your eyes shut, having to somewhat sober up as the smoke is sucked out. Aemond grabs the doorframe, showing just how comically small the Wendy house is compared to him, and sticks his head in, crinkling his nose.

"Using your Wendy house to hotbox again?" 

"Yeah until you came to ruin it!" Hel says.

Aemond laughs lowly, sparing a glance at you and plucking the spliff from your fingers to take a drag of his own before returning it. The act, weirdly, has your skin burning where he'd touched.

Hel pushes off the ledge, brushing past her brother, stubbing out her spliff on the side of the doorway, "I'll leave you two"

You look at her in shock as she crosses the greenery, watching as she passes you a smug grin over her shoulder, knowing full well she's leaving you alone with Aemond to torture you.

Aemond barely manages to fit inside the Wendy house with his height as he occupies the spot where Helaena was.

"What were you girls talking about?" He asks, his arms leaning against the ledge. He's wearing his usual, entirely black get up, something so unapologetically Aemond that you don't even question it. But the way his arms look in the short sleeved shirt never fails to send flutters in your belly.

So you just laugh anxiously and stub the spliff out.

"Just girly stuff"

He raises an eyebrow, "girly stuff?" He asks, pushing the hair back over the top of his head with his fingers.

Fuck. Him. For being so attractive.

Your mind whirs uncomfortably, confronted with him. If you don't say anything, who knows is Hel might.

"About you and Floris"

"Ah" he says, smiling, "is someone jealous?"

"No"

He presses his lips together like he doesn't believe you.

"In any case, if you were, there's nothing to be jealous about, princess"

You roll your eyes at the nickname.

You bite your lip, "and about how it's come to this. You and me" you start, "Hel and every other person in Westeros by the sounds of it"

He huffs a laugh, "Yeah I've seen the news articles"

Your mind swirls, his presence coupled by the effect of the drug have made everything feel like it's been turned up to 100. The warmth inside the Wendy house now that the doors closed, your knees nudging against each other, his broad form, almost encompassing every square foot.

It's here you realise he's not taken his gaze off you. Possibly feeling the same way himself.

"What?" You ask with a drowsy smile.

He shakes his head.

"Nothing" he answers, suddenly looking anywhere but at you. You swear you see a blush on his face.

The smoking has made you more aloof, so you step forward, running your hand up the inside of his arm, almost pressed flush with him.

"C'mon tell me" you insist, smiling mischievously, "I could practically hear you thinking"

He turns his head, sighing, but not really annoyed. He's quiet for a moment, like he's considering something, like he wants to say something. But all thoughts are sapped from you when his palm cups your face, his thumb runs across your bottom lip, barely applying pressure.

It's his fixed look that holds you though, his reverent gaze at your lips, flitting to your eyes that glimmer with a sort of drunken haze.

It almost sobers you up entirely.

You wonder what he's thinking, he's so difficult to read.

The thoughts don't last. Aemond leans down to press his lips to yours, the naturally curved shape of them anchors your mouth open to taste you briefly. Both of you taste of tobacco and smoke, mixed together with the musk of his scent. You don't know why it drives you so crazy. Nobody has made you feel like that…ever.

It's tender. Almost loving.

Embroiled in the heat of the moment, arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush to him, and you smile somewhat against his lips feeling his hardness pressed against his sweatpants.

With enlarged confidence due to lack of inhibitions, your hand winds down his body, your palm running over his length, and it's clear by the way he delivers a stuttered groan into your mouth that he enjoys it immensely and was also not expecting it.

You only part when both of your hands stop at the waistband of his sweatpants.

"What are you doing" he asks, his voice hoarse in anticipation.

"What does it look like" you smirk, lips still close to his, teasing him, "taking care of you"

Pushing them just past his hips, your hand slips down the front, past his tummy, to his achingly hard cock, wrapping your fingers around him and pumping slowly.

"I don't hear you complaining..." you smile.

" - fuck - baby…" 

You can't help but love it when he calls you that. Like it just comes so naturally.

A wicked idea strikes across your mind like a match. Your eyes light up, loving the way he's giving the illusion of being at your mercy, when in reality he could very easily flip the switch and be his usual cocksure self.

His breath seems to get sucked from his lungs when you kneel down before him, looking up at him dreamily while tugging his sweatpants down enough to free his cock, standing entirely hard against his muscled stomach, the tip ruddy and leaking with arousal.

He has such a pretty cock it's difficult to look away, and you feel your own arousal pool deep in your stomach in anticipation, tracing your palm from base to tip, caressing his length with care. Watching how his grip is white-knuckled and tight on the ledge, the wood cracking under it.

You've not done this yet with Aemond. It's always been him pleasing you.

This time it'd be different, even if he was only pretending to be in control.

Aemond watches with lips parts as you lower your mouth to the base of him, drawing a line with your tongue agonisingly slowly over the prominent vein on the underside, all the way to the tip, swirling your tongue around where he's most sensitive. It has a shuddered breath escape Aemond, with something akin to a whine.

He shuts his eyes, his fingers carding through your hair at the side of your face, all the way to the back, curling them and tugging at the follicles pleasurably.

You've slept together, but you've never seen his cock up this close, and it's a shame, because he's perfect. Thinking about taking him into your mouth is just too good an opportunity to pass up, and the heady scent of his skin just has you wanting to devour him.

" - please, don't tease m-"

You moan around his length as you take him as far as you can, relaxing your jaw muscles to allow for more, and whatever you can't fit, you caress with your hand. Aemond gasps quietly as your mouth tightens around him when his cockhead hits the back of your throat, his grip tightening in your hair.

It doesn't take long for you to begin properly pleasuring him in earnest, figuring he's been patient enough. You press your tongue to the underside and hollow your cheeks, creating more friction. Aemond looks down, watching the way his cock disappears into your mouth over and over, the length slick with saliva from your efforts.

He meets your rhythm with the soft canting of his hips, using his hold to slightly pull you onto him. You look up at him, watching his hedonistic expression and the way his mouth is slightly open with hurried breaths, pupil blown wide with lust at the lewdness of the act as well as the setting.

" - you're so good - fucking perfect - " he whispers.

The praise goes straight to your core, tightening around nothing, and it only serves to redouble your efforts.

As usual, Aemond feels the need to be assertive, and his hands smooth your hair into a ponytail, one hand gripping it in place and he pulls you off, only a string of saliva connecting either of you.

"Wha-"

"I want to fuck your mouth, baby" He mutters lowly. And in the gentle darkness of the room, with only a whisper of light at one side of his face, he looks mythical. His sudden change of tone has you wet your lips nervously, but also in excitement.

"Can you do that for me?"

You nod once, eager to please him, but also to taste him again.

He smiles slightly, "Good girl"

He pushes off the ledge slightly, standing straight and holding the base of his length, prodding the tip against your lips, the precum making them glisten. Your hands find his muscular thighs for stability.

"Tap my thigh twice if it's too much"

You nod in understanding.

"Open up for me, baby"

He plunges his cock into your mouth, taking his time to sink completely in, until he bottoms out in your mouth, his cockhead now truly tapping the back of your throat. You gag softly at the invasion of him so deeply, your grip tightening.

"Breathe through your nose - that's it - good girl - " He praises lowly, and you do as he says, making the effort to relax.

He starts to slowly fuck your mouth, gauging how much of a pace you're able to take before going any faster. His grip tightens on your hair, tugging at the makeshift ponytail and pulling on it, making you whine around his length, which only serves to urge him on as he uses your head for leverage.

" - such a pretty little mouth - fuck - " he whispers, his hips now moving in earnest, snapping against your mouth with renewed vigour, in search of release, " - you're so perfect - look at me - "

It's hard to look up at him with his cock pistoning into your mouth, but you do, and the look he has is borderline magical. His chest moves quickly with his breathing, a soft smile on his face as he looks down at you with pride.

" - that's it - finally, a good use for your dirty mouth - looks so much better with my cock in it, don't you think?" 

You hum around him, trying to relax your jaw as much as possible as his cockhead bullies the back of your throat, a line of saliva running down the side of your mouth.

He laughs, " - baby you're making such a mess on me - such a good little slut - ffffuck- bet that pretty little pussy is soaked from sucking my cock -" his head tilts back, clearly close, and you can tell by the way he goes faster.

Your stomach rolls with delight, face warm with embarrassment, knowing he's entirely right, you squeeze your thighs together for some semblance of friction.

" - you gonna be a good girl and swallow for me? - want me to cum in your dirty fucking mouth? - " 

As a way of answering, you press your tongue to the underside again, one of your hands going to his balls to caress them, urging him on, with pleasured tears pricking at your eyes.

" - seven fucking - you're bad, aren't you -" he breathes, " - oh fuck - "

He slams into your mouth forcefully one last time, stilling as his cock throbs on your tongue, feeling his cum at the back of your throat. Joining the line down your chin, a line of his spend also runs down, having completely filled your mouth.

You look up at him for a brief moment, appreciating the way his eye is closed, his breath coming heavily from his lips after what sounds like a shattered whine. His shoulders tremble, and the bit of his tummy you can see poking out from under his shirt clenches uncontrollably, his muscles moving with his breath. It doesn't taste unpleasant, but it's salty and coats your mouth in the most lewd, delicious way. To see him so lost in pleasure is worth it.

His fingers loosen, and stroke your hair lovingly as you swallow as much as you can, thrusting shallowly a few more times with a near pornographic sound. After a moment, he pulls his softening length from your mouth, using one hand to tiredly tuck himself away as he looks down at you, his pupil blown wide enough to eclipse the blue and still trying to regain his breath.

"You're amazing" he praises, his thumb coming to your face to wipe the line of his release, dipping it back into your mouth. You eagerly wrap your lips around his digit, making a show of it while your eyes meet.

He pulls you up to your feet, slamming his lips against yours, heedless of the taste of himself on your tongue as he moans into your mouth. It sucks the air from your lungs, his arms wrapping around you and you in turn wrap yours around his neck.

"I could fuck you all night, you know that?" He whispers between breaks for air.

You've spent so much time with Aemond, less time romantically, but even still, it feels nice to be touched by him, to be praised by him.

He breaks and presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut, completely at ease.

You swallow. The haze now dissipated somewhat.

"I…need to say something"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry…"

He opens his eyes, brows arched in questioning, "what for, princess?"

Fuck, he needs to stop saying that. 

You wet your lips, "For calling you a nepo-baby…"

The reaction you didn't expect from Aemond, was to fucking laugh.

But he does, quiet at first, but gaining traction, his eyes crinkling up into something you've barely seen. His white teeth gleaming in the darkness.

"What?" You smile, nudging his shoulder.

"Has that really been eating you up inside?" He jokes,

"Yes!" You insist, "I've said some…nasty things as well"

Aemond rolls his eye, "You don't need to apologise to me"

"Well I did, so now's the part where you say you forgive me" you reply, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He hums a laugh, "forgive you?" He grins, "and what if I don't?"

"You have to"

"Hmm" he smirks, "maybe -" he spins you around, pushing you against the opposite ledge, and you're astonished to find him hard, yet again, against your backside. Your hands find purchase on the ledge, keeping yourself up, and your face splits in a gasp when Aemond swiftly pushes his hand past your tummy at your front and swipes two fingers across your drenched folds.

"-You'll have to earn it, princess"

When you returned to your bedroom, with a pleasant ache between your thighs, having shushed and giggled with Aemond when you snuck back in (apart from when he'd nearly knocked a very precious antique sword off the wall), you'd felt a surge of something deep in your gut when stood outside in the hallway.

Aemond could barely keep his hands away, and as well as that, couldn't let go to say goodnight. He'd pulled you to him, littering your face with kisses that always seemed to end with his lips pressed to yours desperately.

When he'd pulled away, looking down at your face in the soft darkness, there was a tug in your chest. He looked so peaceful like this, so calm. And his thumb caressed the skin of your face with care, taking in every little feature.

He opened his mouth, but swiftly closed it.

And said something else instead.

"You're so beautiful"

Though it made your skin bloom all the same, as he so easily managed to do, you felt as if he wanted to say something else. And there were words on your mind as well, that felt too serious to say out loud. 

Being this close to him, it felt incredibly intimate and rare, as if something precious had been granted to you.

And you could see the way something melted away when you touched his face, your thumb tracing the bottom of his scar carefully.

You wondered if he knew how beautiful you thought he was as well. If he'd ever been told that.

It seemed like he understood just by the gentle touch, all the little thoughts in your head.

Even if you weren't sure where exactly you stood with Aemond, even though you knew something needed to be addressed, to be defined…

…this felt nice.

But you didn't tell El these details. It would mean she'd ask questions, make you question yourself, and how you feel. You weren't sure if you were ready to confront them.

El was absolutely smug and ecstatic when you told her about what happened. As opposed to Helaena though, El did ask for the nasty details, which you provided some of. But not all. Those were for your own benefit.

You didn't tell her about what Larys had said about Floris though, not until you knew for certain. What did Larys have against Otto anyway? And why would Otto do such a heinous thing?

Supposedly.

You woke early the next morning as you always did, and pulled on a hoodie, with the chill of the day still hanging in the air. Your footsteps were soft from the fluffy socks on the staircase, a soft light emanating from the living room, and hushed angered voices within.

You stopped in your tracks, ears pricked.

Otto was here.

"You will not push Aemond as you pushed me, I will not allow it!" Alicent started, in an accusatory tone.

"I pushed you to be the greatest figure skater in Westeros. Or have you forgotten?" Otto replied, and you could tell from the tone of his voice that he looked smug.

"And pushed me into his arms into the bargain!" She retorts, her voice upset and strained, "Because of you, I am banned from skating competitively! Because of you, I cannot have one good thing of my own, and you robbed me of my only friend!"

There's a silence. You sit on the staircase, feeling wholly bad for prying, but too curious to stop. Alicent sounds as if she is catching her breath.

"And you will not take Aemond from me. You will not rob Aemond of her either"

Your heart freezes.

"She has little to do with this" Otto states,

"She is good for him. Aemond likes her"

Otto scoffs, "It is just business. Aemond knows this, it has been discussed. This is why I do not consult you, you get too emotionally invested"

Just business? You think over the words Otto has just said.

Just business partners?

No, surely…

"They are emotionally invested! I have never seen Aemond as happy with anyone as he is with her! You shall not ruin that with your vicarious ambitions!"

You can't bring yourself to truly believe what Otto has said.

Surely what you both had was more than that…

Anger prickles at your insides. 

How he treats his daughter, and by extension his grandchildren, with the exception of Helaena, who he dotes on, angers you.

How could he be so cruel to them like this? Instilling a business-like appearance on a family.

You pull out your phone, typing furiously and quickly, still hearing Alicent and Otto argue in the living room.

What sort of information do you have? 

You wait impatiently, but there's no need. Larys replies a few moments later and your heart pounds.

Good to hear from you. I'll send over all I have as soon as possible. -Larys S

General Taglist: @blairfox04 | @hb8301 | @jamespotterismydaddy | @nenelysian | @natty2017 | @randomdragonfires | @risefallrise | @theoneeyedprince | @thelittleswanao3 | @tsujifreya | @urmomsgirlfriend1 | @valeskafics | @watercolorskyy

Aemond Taglist (1): @asp3nxx | @avidreader73 | @bellaisasleep | @boofy1998 | @cathy1514 | @dahlias-and-marigolds | @fan-goddess

[gingersnaaps]

sandman

to be taken by sleep really isn't such a bad thing - not when osamu's the one waiting in your dreams.

wc: 3.2k

tags/tw's(PLEASE READ): explicit n*fw, dubcon, creampie, breeding mentions, penetration, fingering, sex dreams, sleep paralysis, incubus!osamu vibes, vaguely supernatural, you fall asleep forever at the end, fem!reader with inner genitals

a/n: written for @ultimate-astridwriting's wonderful collab and inspired by my recent stint of sleep deprivation also i feel like i may have strayed a bit from the prompt but oh well

i don’t want minors interacting with my content

You can’t recall when Miya Osamu first started appearing in your dreams.

It was a subtle thing at first: the features of strangers, normally blurred beyond recognition, melded into his half-lidded eyes and soft smile, and you’d catch glimpses of his face in the reflection of windows and out of the corner of your eye. You didn’t think too much of it. You’d read an article somewhere that mentioned how faces in one’s dreams came from the interactions in our real lives, and with how much you’d been frequenting his onigiri shop, you suppose that his appearances were to be expected.

Still felt a little strange for you to be having a dream so intimate, though.

You’re lying on top of his broad chest, one arm on your waist, the other resting gently on your thigh. His thumb rubs tender circles into your skin, stroking softly as you rise and fall with the movement of his chest.

“‘Miya?” you ask tentatively. “How did I end up here?”

He chuckles. It’s a deep, rich, sound, one that reminds you of rivers running steady and full moons in the countryside, the vibrations passing from his body to yours. When he speaks, his voice is low and a little quiet, but with his lips grazing your ear, you don’t miss a single word.

“Call me Osamu.”

The familiarity leaves your face slightly flushed, embarrassment tingling across your skin. He shifts you around in his arms, tilting your body so that you meet his warm, inviting, gaze. The hand on your thigh seems to burn red-hot, and you wonder if he can hear the heartbeat pulsing just inches away from his fingertips.

He smiles softly at you. “You’re a beautiful girl.”

Your heart seizes, malfunctions, pounds erratically-

You wake up in the dark, damp sheets clinging to your skin, heart skipping like a schoolgirl and drunk off the compliment from your dream.

There’s a bad ache in between your legs. You trail a hand down your front, fingers sliding into your pajama shorts to quell your want.

-

Dusk is falling across Tokyo when you head to Miya’s - no, Osamu’s - onigiri shop. Twilight makes giants of the pedestrians, stretches out the shadows that loom tall in the soft gray-orange of the setting sun, the darkened shapes scurrying through the city’s rush hour.

Unlike them, you’re not going home.

A busy schedule meant little time for home-cooked meals, and the food here really was excellent. When you push open the door to his shop, the jangle of a bell sounds somewhere above you, and Osamu barely looks up before a smile settles on his face.

“The usual, I suppose,” he says, beckoning you inside.

You nod gratefully. The atmosphere of the shop is comforting - there’s just a few customers trickling through, picking up their to-go order that he’s prepared. You pick a seat near the window, one that gives you an unobstructed view of the sunset outside.

The chatter dies down as the last customers leave the shop, their onigiri clutched in hand, and a peaceful silence descends on the space around you. He brings out your food just a few minutes later, setting the dish in front of you.

“As requested by my favorite customer,” he says, a wry grin on his face. “Glad to have you back tonight.”

Your stomach flutters at the closeness between the two of you, and you suddenly feel embarrassed - ashamed of how much you’d been thinking about him, of the dreams you’d been having, of the way his touch had left you wanting for more in those same dreams - but it’s a good kind of embarrassed, one that leaves excitement bubbling in your core.

It feels a bit like a crush.

“Couldn’t miss out on the food, could I?” you reply.

“So you’re only here for my onigiri.”

“I- no, of course not."

“Just teasing.”

He smiles crookedly, and for just a moment, there’s a knowing glint that flashes in his eyes - the kind of expression that makes it seem like he’s aware of more than he’s letting on - but it vanishes almost immediately, passing too quickly for you to be sure of anything.

He turns to go back inside the kitchen, lifting up a hand casually to wave goodbye. “See you soon.”

-

Upon your arrival home, the first thing you notice is how very tired you are.

It’s not too out of the ordinary - it was a Monday afternoon, after all, and that had always been your least favorite day of the week - but the minute you crash onto the couch, your eyelids seem to droop with sleep, limbs growing heavy as the room around you swirls into a half-conscious haze.

You’ve still got chores to take care of. There’s dishes from the morning to wash, laundry to fold and put away, a few work emails to respond to that were probably very important, but you just can’t seem to stave off the overwhelming fatigue that seeps through your veins and numbs your entire body.

You need to sleep.

So you let it happen. You let your eyes flutter shut, let yourself relax and melt into the soft cushions of the couch, let your mind go nice and blank and empty.

After you give up the struggle of staying awake, the dreams come quickly.

“Glad to have you back so soon.”

The warm, quiet, voice from yesterday rumbles somewhere above you. You’re laying on his chest again, ear pressed to the soft fabric of his faded black shirt. You make a small, confused, noise, but he just laughs, gently brushing aside your hair, a hand trailing down your body and creeping closer to your inner thigh.

His touch feels electric. Every brush of his fingertips against your thigh, feather-light and teasing, leaves you with your heartbeat thudding in your cunt.

“We’ve gotta get you ready,” he murmurs. “Prep you well enough so that you’ll feel good when the time is right.”

You clench around nothing at his words, and maybe he can feel it with his hand so dangerously close to your pussy, because he smiles lazily and asks, “Are you that desperate?”

You’re not sure whether you should deny it - he can probably tell you are, anyway, but the thought of nodding, of saying yes, ‘Samu, want it so fucking bad - it leaves you with your cheeks flushed hot with shame.

He doesn’t need your explicit confirmation to read the way your body twitches against his, though, and he moves his hand lower to cup around your pussy. His palm is warm, the pressure steady and constant as he holds his hand still against your throbbing cunt. You can’t help but squirm against him, sloppily grinding your clit against his waiting hand, bucking your hips back and forth for any friction you can get. You’re panting, breaths quick and shallow as you feel the drag of the cotton panties in between his skin and yours, and a lewd moan tumbles from your lips. “Touch me,” you mumble, voice thick with arousal.

You look so pretty down there, hair mussed and mouth open slack in a perfect o, getting off all by yourself - he should give you a hand, shouldn’t he?

He nudges your damp panties aside, the thin fabric creasing the fat of your pussy as he brings a thumb up to your clit. His ministrations start slow, circling your clit patiently while you writhe from the pleasure, just barely dipping his index finger into your hole, his long, dextrous fingers skilled and patient as he works to search out the sensitive spots that leave you gasping and delirious.

“I want you dripping,” he says softly, sliding his finger inside all the way to the base of his knuckle. “Want you spread out on my hand, soaking me through, wet enough for me to fuck you full.”

You shudder with anticipation at his words, hips wriggling and rutting against his stiffening cock as his finger drags along the ridges of your g-spot. Every movement of his is accompanied by an embarrassingly audible squelching noise, your cunt already swollen and hot with arousal, your slick running in a cool trail down the crease of your thigh.

He flicks his thumb against your clit, this time more harshly. “ ‘m gonna fill you up so good when you’re ready,” he whispers. “Fuck you until your pussy milks my cock dry.”

Your eyelids flutter, a rush of pleasure crashing down on you as he pops another finger inside. Your hand fists at his shirt weakly, grabbing and pawing at the fabric as he curls his fingers just right inside you.

“You’re gonna feel so fucking good, sweetheart.”

You wake up from your dream as an orgasm ripples through your body, eyes flying wide open as you squirm and thrash on the couch. The pleasure coiling tight inside your core unwinds, pulsing in your cunt as you moan.

The room is dark and empty.

You rub the sleep from your eyes, vision bleary as you reach for your phone - it reads 7:00 AM. You’ve slept for almost twelve hours.

As you get up, swinging your legs off the couch and righting yourself, you notice one intense, overwhelming, feeling that roots you to the couch and leaves your limbs limp and loose:

You still feel so tired.

-

The rest of the week seems to pass by in a blur. You’re so exhausted you can barely think straight, stumbling from your office to your home - and sometimes to Osamu’s onigiri shop - going about your life half-dazed and barely conscious.

The only respite you get is in sleep.

Your dreams have gotten particularly intense as of late, head clouding full of visions where you’re fucked in every position: shoved up against the wall, facedown in the mattress, and even hoisted up on the counter. Through it all, there’s one constant.

Miya Osamu features in every single one of them.

You know his voice by heart now, a low, quiet, rumble that both soothes you and sets your cunt thrumming with anticipation. His silver-gray hair, his round, half-lidded eyes, the softness and the warmth of his body - they’re as familiar to you as your own features by now. You’re pretty sure you’ve even memorized the feeling of his cock buried deep inside you.

In every dream, he whispers the most tantalizing promises in your ear, breathing promises of how he’s gonna fuck you so good, sweetheart, gonna fill you up, gonna breed this pretty pussy until you’re carrying my seed inside you.

And even though you never wake up well rested anymore, you find that you don’t particularly mind. After all, there’s not much you look forward to in your waking hours. Every grating hour you spend working your stupid little job, or attending your lengthy, useless, lectures - it all feels like you’re just going through the motions, like you’re just trying to make it through so that night falls sooner and he can finally come visit you.

The week comes and goes, and soon enough, it’s already Friday.

You stumble in through the front door, a yawn itching at your throat, and you head straight for your bedroom. You pass by the ever-growing stack of dirty dishes in the sink, the stack of bills on the countertop, the laundry you’ve left in the drying machine. You’ll get to it next week.

For now, you just want to sleep.

The bedroom is gloomy and dim, grey light from an overcast twilight filtering through the blinds. The room feels stuffy in the dark, the four walls suffocating the small space, but you don’t bother with turning on the lights. Why would you, when you plan on heading straight to sleep?

You undress clumsily, almost tripping as you pull off your pants and shrug off your blouse, and stagger into the soft, warm, embrace of your bed.

A warm burst of comfort surges through you as the familiar feeling of drowsiness overtakes you. Your eyelids grow heavy, lashes fluttering slightly, the thump of your heart slowing - you’re right on the precipice between the conscious and the unconscious, straddling the border between sleep and waking -

You hear a voice sound from shadowy recesses of your room.

It’s a voice you’d recognize anywhere.

“I missed you at my shop today.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no noise comes out. It’s as if your vocal cords have been plucked from your throat, your voice frozen somewhere deep inside your trachea, and the only sound you can make is that of silence. A bit belatedly, you realize that you can’t move either, your limbs settling uselessly at your side as you lie paralyzed on your back.

A head of gleaming, silver, hair emerges in front of you, and your breath catches in your throat. You’re not sure if this is a dream anymore.

You blink once, and suddenly, you find him in your bed. He’s hovering above you, arms pressed to either side of your head, gazing down with a hungry, hungry, expression. He’s waited all week for this, sweetheart - won’t you finally indulge him?

He pulls the comforter aside, large hands gliding over your body and hoisting up your hips. You feel like a ragdoll in his hands, limp and immobile, and he rearranges your limbs and positions you until he gains easy access to your ready, waiting, cunt - the same cunt that he’s been preparing all week.

He drags a finger through your slick folds, already wet and sticky from the ministrations of the previous few days. There’s no need to bother with prep. He can already feel the way your cunt pulses at his touch, can see the need etched into the gleam of your eyes even as the expression on the rest of your face remains frozen.

His hand glides over his clothed cock, strained and throbbing with need as he pulls it out and strokes slowly, eyes fixated on your body the entire time. His dick is big, flushed almost purple as cream beads at the tip, balls fat and full and heavy.

Osamu’s had enough of waiting.

With a groan, he pops his cockhead into your drooling, twitching, hole, pushing in steady, thrusting all the way into your tightening cunt until he hits your cervix.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, face scrunched with pleasure. “So tight it feels like you’re trying to milk me dry.”

He rolls his hips slowly, dragging his cock along the front of your walls, the ridge of a vein pressing right into your sweet spot. Your legs twitch uselessly as he pulls halfway out before slamming his cock back in.

“I wonder if you’d like that,” he muses. He brings a thumb to rest at your puffy, swollen, clit, pressing down in steady circles, his touch unrelenting and firm, sending spasms of pleasure that leave you clenching and gripping down onto his thick cock.

“I think you would. I think you’d love it if I filled you up, if I fucked you full of cum and bred this tight little hole,” he says, the barest hint of an amused smile tugging at his lips. His voice is calm and steady - a striking contrast to his filthy words, his brazen promises.

His slow, steady, strokes quicken, hips slamming roughly into yours, each thrust satiating the want in your cunt. Your walls pulse as if they need to be filled, squelching lewdly as he fucks you hard and deep.

He leans down. His lips hover millimeters away from your forehead, just barely grazing your skin with tender, light, kisses. “Take it,” he whispers, thumb rubbing harshly at your clit. “Take it like a good girl for me. I know you can.”

The kisses he presses to your forehead start to travel down the underside of your jaw, soft little nips and bites with his blunt teeth that leaves a trail of his glossy spit on your face. His mouth finds your ear.

“When I cum, you better not waste a single drop,” he breathes. “Wanna fill you up, make you mine. I want to own this pussy.”

He brings his hand down to pat your stomach where your womb would be, rubbing the soft surface of your skin in tender circles. His balls are aching so badly - he needs to cum, needs that release, needs to stuff your messy cunt.

“Cum with me,” he urges. “Right now.”

The pleasure pulsing inside you draws taught - snaps - and you’re pushed over the edge. If you were still capable of speaking and moving, you’re sure you’d be moaning loudly, hips twitching uselessly as he creams your pussy over and over. He fucks you through your orgasm, spent cock softening inside you as you squeeze his dick. After all, he doesn’t want any of it to leak. He wants it sloshing around in your hole, filling you up until you’re warm and wet and sticky, wants to breed you, to mark you down as his.

You look beautiful with your insides stained white, he thinks.

You can feel your cunt twitching slightly as you come down from your high. He smiles warmly, gives your pussy a little pat -

You blink and he’s gone.

Almost as if he was never there in the first place.

Sleep takes you quickly after that. You’re exhausted from being fucked, exhausted from the constant stimulation, and you quickly fall fast asleep. All is silent and still in your darkened bedroom.

-

The next day, right as the sun starts to drop over the horizon, glinting stars nestled in the sky high above, you find yourself back in front of Osamu’s onigiri shop.

It’s partly due to the hunger gnawing in your stomach, but it’s more out of curiosity than anything. You need to know if it’s real, if he’s real, if the past two weeks were nothing but a fever dream.

And you really want to see him again.

As you push open the door to his shop, you’re greeted with his friendly smile, as usual.

“Same thing again?” he asks.

“Of course.”

The exhaustion hasn’t gone anywhere. You’re still constantly tired, always drifting off during the daytime, limbs weary and worn. When you sit yourself down at the usual spot - the table near the window - that irresistible fatigue seems to creep up on you again.

It’s so calm and comforting in his little shop. The lights are warm, the view is pretty, the quiet chatter of his few customers soothing to your ears. It’s so easy to rest your head in between your hands, shoulders slumping, mind empty of every little unimportant thought, so easy to just close your eyes, so easy to fall into the rose-tinted haze of your nice, pleasurable, dreams.

Osamu comes out of the kitchen in the back of the shop, carrying your food on a plate, and finds you fast asleep with your head on his table.

He’s not surprised. In fact, he’s quite pleased.

In fact, if he has his way, you’ll never have to wake up again.

tyvm for reading!! i really appreciate reblogs and comments - it's part of what motivates me to keep making content :)

here's my masterlist if you'd like more.

[widowsofchaos]

ill wind

summary: A drunken one-night stand takes a turn. pairings: dark!Wanda x black!reader x dark!Natasha warnings: (malevolent advantage of alcohol consumption, power manipulation, dub non-con/smut) I hope ya’ll enjoy! <3 ao3 a/n: Written for @that-damn-girl ‘s PRIDE challenge. Chose a scenario prompt “drunken one night stand” with my two of my fav marvel women. Many apologies for being rusty at my writing! Beta: by the beautiful @imanuglywombat Thank you, Laura for being such a great friend & for proof-reading! Thank you for the amazing commentary, you’ve been such a huge help on this fic! Xoxo psa: I had to repost this story again due to the original post being reported by tumblr for adult content, so here it is once again! Also, a big thanks to everyone liking this fic, I didn’t realize it would be a fan favorite until I kept getting tagged by other writers’ answering asks of readers asking about it! It means a lot, thank you!!

do not repost my works!

A surge of throbbing pain hits your head.

Somber shades of yellow and white marinate into a dewy flourish; trying to break through your fluttering lids. Three hearts beating under smooth silk sheets, limbs entangled, a blooming migraine bestows your crown.

A cheeky god who’s shit-eating grin is flashing before your squinting eyes, you huffed. Serves me right, I guess, you mulled. The rowdy tyke biting more than she can chew.

A cheeky god who’s shit-eating grin is flashing before your squinting eyes, you huffed. Serves me right, I guess, you mulled. The rowdy tyke biting more than she can chew.

Your hooded eyes sharply scan the bedroom, realization hits like a freight train – this isn’t your room. It’s familiar to memory, your mouth curves into a frown, you rub your eyes roughly. Trying to clear your vision, studying your surroundings thoroughly. Powering through blurry perception, your senses are a bit irregular, groggy.

You attempt to twist your body, metal clanks against the skin of your back. Nerves frigid at the slender-shaped leather sensation, your breathing is shallow, your brain is driving into overdrive, grasping at the assumption that it’s a belt; the horizontal form, and the shape of metal is a big clue of it’s identification.

The slick leather sliding against the nape of your back, traveling against the slope of your lower spine, regarding the patterns of the buckle that grazed against your ass.

Peering out of your blurry haze, your moist skin recognizes the flood of body heat.

Overwhelmed by your flush state, your crown shifts down and you almost choke on your spit and you almost choke on your spit. On your right, lying peacefully on her back is the Slovakian witch herself, Wanda. On your left, her face half-smooshed in the pillow, the Russian beauty herself, Natasha.

Anxiety rolls off of you in waves. Naked, and satiated with pouty sleepy lips – yourself bare as the day you were born. Arm draped gracefully over her face, the twinkle of a glimmering rock adorning Wanda’s left palm mockingly winks at you.

Whining very lowly, you leisurely twist your head to face Nat, curled near her head was another shiny rock snickering at you. “Fuck.” You cringe. Biting the bullet, you navigate through the migraine, bent elbows dig into the mattress, lifting your head up, weak fingers grip the sheets to cover your indecency.

On the floor, spews of clothes are scattered – your Alice Cooper shirt, your lace black thong, your denim shorts, your strapless bra – along with other familiar articles of clothing. A red string thong, a pair of high-waisted blue panties, a black button clad blouse, a leather skirt, – it was an Armageddon of fabric.

As your brain fizzles to calculate your escape, a featherlight fingertip grazes and tickles your neck, you gasped at the intrusion. Your head snaps to your left, green orbs pierce through you, “Hey.”, it was sultry, yet raspy.

A twinge at your core – no, no, no – this can’t happen. Becoming a homewrecker isn’t on your bucket list. “Hey – um, I don’t fully remember–” You were stuttering, never have you lost your cool. “I – fuck.” Your eyes downcast from Natasha’s intense stare and shame seeping through your bones; a dark chuckle erupts from her.

“It’s okay.” She cuts you off, with her knuckles caressing your cheek. “No need to be worried – or scared”, a feral grin, all fangs. Your mouth gaps opened, and closed like a blubbering fish. “I’m so sorry, Nat.” A bit breathless, tears form in your eyes.

Your head running miles per hour, tongue thickened with sincerity – worried that you definitely ruined one of your best friendships.

“I shouldn’t be here.” Your fumes are running on auto-pilot. A coy flutter of her lashes, “Why are you sorry? You weren’t saying that last night.” Your chin wobbles, “Excuse me?” A devilish smirk dons her mouth, you can tell she’s entertained by your confusion.

Natasha’s calm stature, coolly lifting herself by the elbows to sit against the headboard, bare milky breasts bounce free from the blanket – it throws you for a loop.

“Whatever I said last night –” Your fidgety fingers grip your messy curls, seeking an ounce of control, “–I was drunk. I – can’t remember. I know I probably said some stupid shit.” You harshly bite your bottom lip, drawing some droplet of blood through split skin, “Not at all, miláčik.” A soft Slovakian timber looms behind you, your entire body stiffens.

French manicured nails graze your tender shoulder blade, weaving a hiss through your teeth. Crudely tracing red claw marks, a shiver crawls through your spine; Wanda stifles a chuckle. “No need to worry, Y/n.” A peck on your shoulder, you gasp, flinching a bit away from her lips.

“No, this is so wrong. I ruined everything – I – need to go.” You stutter, averting your teary gaze away from both women. Fumbling and shaky hands tugging off the sheets, embarrassment surges inside of you due to your bareness.

Covering your breasts with your arms in shame, a disappointed sigh can be heard, a whizz of mesmerizing magenta energy floats and surrounds you. Your brain becomes fuzzy – dizzy numbness infiltrates you. Brown orbs criss-cross, a force heaves on your chest, pushing your body forcefully against the mattress – an ungraceful huff escapes you.

“Oh miláčik, you’re not going anywhere.” Wanda whispers, her knuckles softly caressing your cheek. “I–” Your mouth gapes to speak but you are cut off, “Quiet.” Natasha sternly demands, trimmed brows pinch menacingly. Wanda’s slender fingers flicker hairs-away from your lips; muting you.

“Do I really need to refresh your memory? Or do you want Wanda to just show you?” Natasha pucker lips sporting a faded tint of pink – a hint of last night’s rendezvous. Something is different in their eyes now; something darker. It nerves you, a force is weighing on your chest slightly more — leaving you gasping a bit.

You nod your head in Wanda’s direction, peering through squinted glossy eyes. Wanda’s open palm waves over your face, a flared energy of fluid orchid pink and creamy white whisk in a blurry mix.

Transporting your subconscious through a tunnel of faded memories – a film reel of the past — neon rainbows of worldly splendor travel around you. Kaleidoscope splendor.

Through a murky veil, your airy presence arrives at the living area — Stark’s late night party from last night in full swing. You are befuddled yet amazed beyond belief. The scents of alcohol roars in your nostrils and the crisp clear cadence of your tipsy friends flow through your eardrums – goofing off, and chatting – you can feel the atmosphere differently on your skin.

The chilled air that flows from the open balcony imbibes your flesh, goosebumps littering your translucent skin in its wake; your breath hitches at the tingles soaring through your body.

The powerful gifts Wanda possesses never fails to impress you.

Nimble feet waltz through the hallway, reaching to the common area, it felt as if another unknown force was guiding you – searching for your past self. Assuming by this time of the party you were already impaired off your ass. Your silent steps were transparent, featherily light against the flooring; the cool sensation grazing your toes.

The cheers rising in volume, the coil of anxiety curling in the pit of your belly. Forcing yourself to cease your pace, nerves overriding. Afraid to face the truth – realization that you slipped. How easy of you fall into their bed, like a slithering snake. Tears formed at the brims of your eyes – wiping the droplets away by the back of your palms.

A push collided against your back, an ungraceful yelp escaped you as you toppled over – your entire form floating, twirling a bit. Wiggling legs falter mid-air, hovering over the ground; trying to find your bearings. A force guiding you towards the common area. The aroma of liquor tickles your nostrils and boisterous laughter rings in your ears.

Easily you found past you hanging off of Thor’s extended bicep – like a monkey climbing a damn oak tree. You attempted to face-palm yourself, but your hand went straight through your ghostly face. It was free reign to wonder about the compound.

Fascinated to just linger around, seemingly waiting for your own mistake to be replayed for you. In the corner, you see Sam and Clint chuckling like a couple of knuckle-heads at you trying to bounce off of Thor. It was odd, you felt like you were in the film Ghost.

Wandering among friends, they walk right through your invisible disembodied form. In the corner, you see Bucky and Steve smooching on the couch, stealing cheeky kisses – a bit tipsy chuckles from Thor’s ale.

Your drunken form catches your eye, incoherent words to Thor, Sam, and Clint --- most likely you’re telling them that you were gonna rest for a bit. You saw your past self flop ungracefully on the couch, your eyes wearily fluttering open and shut.

Two shadows peer upon your body and you almost choke on your own spit. Wanda and Natasha sat on both sides of you, petting your hair and caressing your cheeks. Delirious you were, you slurred a hello. You squinted darkly at Natasha’s palm – it was a flask in her grasp.

Taunting you with a shake, promising more alien ale, in exchange to ‘hang out with us’; Wanda’s fingertips grazing your temples, snickering lowly. You are frozen in your spot as if the soles of your feet grew roots planting in the flooring. Deceit. It was a simple trick dealt by your own hand, your own inebriation used against you.

For a millisecond, you feel it was your own fault – following the wolves in sheep’s clothing. Aided by the sneaky claws of Wanda, and Natasha; trolling towards the elevator. Your breathing is sharpening, choppy pants squeezed from your lungs. The walls of the living area began shaking as if an earthquake was occurring.

Your subconscious begins deteriorating piece by piece. Vibrations begin surging throughout your body and in a glimpse, you see every member of your team in a mid-frozen state.

But in a flash, you see Bucky and Steve grinning with toothy Cheshire Cat smiles – following the direction of their gaze, staring at Wanda and Natasha dragging you away. It gives you a weird uncertain vibe, making you shiver.

The walls of the compound begin to crumble upon you. Vibrations surge throughout your body, almost losing your balance on your toes. You hold onto yourself, hugging your head in your arms. An efflux of bursting colors blinds you, swirling and erupting upon you. A force pushing you through the familiar tunnel of mist.

Deafening white noise pound in your ears, as if you are breaking through the ocean surface – wheezing for air, a heavy weight crawling off your chest. The blurry veil clears, your vision sharpens to see Wanda and Natasha hovering over you, smiling like the cats that got the cream. “You tricked me,” You stammered, fuming with rage but a flailing thread of humiliation.

Wanda clicked her tongue, wagging her finger at you – scolding you like a child. “We didn’t trick you. You came willingly. Right, Nattie?” Wanda cooed to Natasha, dreamily gazing at her. Natasha hummed, “Indeed, Maxie. All we did was follow –” the tip of Natasha’s finger softly grazed Wanda’s chin upward, a slow turn back to you, “--- You lead the way.”

“I was fucking drunk. I don’t even remember shit! You took advantage of me!” You barked, green and hazy blue hues darken. Natasha’s palm grips your jaw, emanating an ow from you – a bruising touch.

“Would you like Wanda to give you a repeat of it? I must warn you –” She leaned forward, lips almost brushing yours, “–you were very loud, and wet.” Nat’s voice was laced with malice.

“No.” A muffled whine slip from puckered lips pinched between her fingers. “You know – we could just give her a demonstration.” Wanda purrs, delicate hands find your body; snagging the sheets off your body, Natasha groans at the sight of your bare breasts.

Bending forward Wanda’s pink tongue darts from her plump lips, licking long strides against your dewy skin. Starting at the navel, her tongue traveling up to the valley of your plush breasts.

Cowering thighs clench shut, “Nuh uh, none of that.” Wanda’s sing-song reprimand makes you twitch at the pit of your belly. A fiery carmine mist infiltrates the air, twirling presence swirls around your crotch, and thighs – the force snatches your legs spread eagle-wide.

“You have no clue how long we have wanted you, huh?” Natasha coos crudely as your thighs slowly lift upwards, slowly your thighs lifted upwards, your kneecaps coming to rest against your supple breasts.

“You’re soaked, miláčik.” Wanda’s body glides with smooth precision, downward like agile feline; legs dangle in the air, ankles locked. Comfortably tucked between your legs like it was her rightful reign. Inhaling your sweet tangy scent emanating from your glistening cunt, her pink tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. Long strides stroking inside your wet folds, shamelessly delving between short-fuzz mound.

“Delicious. Like a peach.” Tip of her moist tongue, twirling on your clit, “Hmph – fuck.” Your eyes fluttered to the back of your skull. Natasha licks a trail of warm saliva from your lush breast to your baring neck.

Suckling on your pulse point, you gasp a breathy groan. Teeth nip and scrape the skin ravenously, baring her fangs --- resembling her infamous Araneae emblem.

Sweet kisses to your collarbone, teeth nibble at your brown nipples, tantalizing tugging on the sensitive flesh – red nails painfully scraping into your ass cheeks, whimpers slither pathetically from your lips. Mewls from Natasha, a click of her tongue, tsking you as if you were a cat, a mere pet to play with. Your lips form into a thin line, forbidding any involuntary moans to slip.

“Twah. Don’t hold back those sweet noises, baby.” Wanda lulling you, following with a salacious bite on your inner thigh, you yelp trailing into a pathetic moan as she licks against the mark. “We had you singing like a canary last night,” Natasha speaks huskily against your cheek, nibbling a bit. “You may be restraining, trying to be quiet. But you’re just one loud girl, just like your mind.” Natasha said lowly, your dazed eyes trying to concrete.

“Loud thoughts, and vivid fantasies.” Wanda’s lips pucker to suckle throbbing clit. You grunt, Natasha pinches your nipple — earning a squeal from you. It was painfully delicious — you can’t lie — your body definitely can’t hide the fact. “There you are, darling.” Natasha’s voice drips with husky lust, a second twist.

You yelp, your head tilts back and strains against the pillow — welcoming the sting whole-heartedly. Natasha cups your breast jiggling it a bit; flicks her tongue against the erected nipple and suckles it in her entire mouth. Your whole breast devoured, you hiss, peeking through your lashes — it was sinful how her pink saliva glossed lips engulf your tit.

How her tongue lapped at your nipple with such hunger. Worships you into the cave of her mouth. Her sneaky fingers snatch the other one — twisting and twirling mercilessly between her finger-tips. It’s sloppy, filthy, and fucking dirty — and wrong. You feel as if you could pass out. The soppy slurps from Natasha and the leg-shaky clit bites from Wanda were pushing over the edge.

You push your waist up and down, riding Wanda’s tongue; for a moment you lose yourself. Her hot tongue gliding between your velvet folds, how her tongue coats in your essence.

Wanda’s soft palms glide against the curves of your thighs, her nails scraping against the flesh. You jolt as she swats against your underthighs. Harsh painful slaps, as she eats you out. The heat of the slaps is scorching in your pores, adding salt to the wound — Wanda digs nails a bit more to relish in your squirming.

“Ow.” It’s small, but it’s heard. Wanda removes her lips from your pearl, you pitifully whine — frantically, you hoist your head to glare at her. A trail of white saliva connects from her bottom lip to your clit, she twirls her tongue in a languid twirl; collecting all of it.

Licks her upper lip, like a feline just drank the dairy. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Wanda smacks your glistening cunt, a wicked snicker. You wail, it’s a tug of war for you. You don’t want to be here, getting eaten the day-lights out of you, and your tits suckled.

You need time to decompress on the fact, you had sex with two of your best friends — who are married. Who you had the biggest crushes on – but you can’t risk losing a full-fledged friendship over lust.

Two sets of slender fingers plunge inside you, snapping you out of your thoughts, as the pad of Wanda’s thumb rubs manic circle motions on your throbbing clit.

“Get out of your pretty head, miláčik.” Tears form at the brims of your eyes, shaking it no — you can’t risk losing this friendship. “Do you really think you can bypass a spy and a telepath?” Natasha’s voice was like a crackling fire, dragging you out of your conflicted thoughts.

“Did you think we wouldn’t see how you gaze at us, huh? All those thoughts swarming in there?” Her index gently taps the center of your forehead. It was difficult to fully concrete or even speak coherent words as Wanda was teasingly inserting her fingers in and out of your wet cavern; ceasing her thumb a bit.

Speechless — what could you say to that? “Worried on becoming a homewrecker?” You were stuttering a bit, you still needed space to adjust, what if this doesn’t work out, and you were stuck in the awkward middle? “I–I need some time —” Natasha’s eyes darken, refusing to accept your rejection. You didn’t even have the proper choice — you didn’t have a choice.

It was a drunken one — barely a choice filled with manipulation and trickery. “No.” She hisses, gripping your jaw, you whine lowly in your throat at her harsh grasp.

Without wavering her eyes from yours, as she steals a bruising kiss. Wanda’s eyes ignite to fiery red, hitting your sweet spot hard, and brutal. You shriek, trying to worm yourself from Wanda’s grasp — but no success. Wanda’s mist restricts and pins you against the bed, her jaw tightens and clicks.

“You can’t escape us. We want you just as bad as you want us.” Wanda’s viscous fingers split you open, squelching; not once allowing a second of adjusting. As if her powers were electric at the tips of her witchy fingers, you felt a zap inside you. Oh, how a wicked bulb lits upon her head. “I have an idea.” Wanda hums with an evil smirk, stopping her actions.

“I don’t even have to touch you to make you cum.” Wanda guides Natasha away from your aching body by the shoulder. Her slim fingers contort as she sits on her knees, red energy emits, and swirls from her hands.

Manipulating your senses, fire brewing at your nerve endings, unadulterated ecstasy brimming at the pores. Wails leave you like hymns, your lips forming into an O; eyes pinched shut as your back arches off the mattress.

Hissing through your teeth — it’s electric. Enthralling as you twitch under Wanda’s command. Jittery spasms as a coil at the pit of your belly began twirling bigger, and bigger. “She’s getting close. I can smell it on her.” Natasha whispers, her breasts heaving a bit from her chest swelling from excitement, her smug smile curling from her lips.

“I can feel her energy. It’s heavy and intoxicating.” Wanda’s head was in a haze, as she connected with your spirit, along with Natasha’s. A connection. To intertwine — but not for herself, with extra concentration, it is sizzling erotic as Natasha’s charka intertwine with Wanda’s as it chokes your inner essence.

Wanda’s fingers pinching in the air, weaving your life-force, your hips bucking into the air, as your impending orgasm is roaring — your pussy is swollen and soaking. Your soppy hole clenches and pulsates against an enigmatic fullness, Wanda exploring yet violating your cavern — touching against your moist walls, your clit throbbing and hot.

“Fuck — I — I need to c–cum!” Sputtering over your blubbering lips, a snarl rumbles in Wanda’s chest, as she hovered a bit by the knees, the power over three energies was carnal.

Natasha’s head tilts backward, her fiery hair curtaining her face, her baby-hairs sticking against her forehead from brewing sweat; pinching her nipples painfully between her fingertips, groping her breasts in the cups of her palms. “I need to feel her cunt against mine.” Her voice is hardened and desperate.

Natasha’s head snaps upward, staring directly at your sweltering face, the greenery in her pupils darken and dilate.

A growl seethes from Natasha’s wet lips, low and dangerous. Your muscles shake; pleasure engulfing your limbs, weakly trapped in this mystic force, forced to enjoy Wanda’s manipulation. Moving like rivers upon your skin, unraveling waves washing over you — suffocating, painfully sweet.

Despite Wanda taking unbridled control, ravaging your body as if she owns it, weaving pleasure from you as if she knows your body from the inside out, as if she knows every sweet-spot, and tick inside you for years — there is a layer of gentility. Impulsive, yet soft. A tender lover, a pinch to savor.

Groans, grunts, and high-pitched moans echo as corrupted sympathies and bounce against the wall pavements, ringing in your ears. Flushed cheeks, sepia skin now tinted with pinkish shades spreading throughout your body.

Bliss swelling and sealing in your limber legs, aching in the best possible way. Cattle-wails of desperation, a dribble of cum trails between your wet folds and between your cheeks hitting your puckered asshole.

Wanda’s witchy slender fingers fiddle, makeshift claws to create more pressure — releasing more telepathic vitality for Natasha and yourself to ride out your orgasms.

With a flicker of Wanda’s index finger – maneuvering to the form of a pistol – a trigger, a jolt of energy bolts at your navel. A bullet. You convulse, airy pants, your torso heaving with your thighs quaking in its tight hold.

A snap bursts within you, your eyes opening widely, translucent colors combust upon your vision — worldly satisfaction manifesting into reality. In unison, all three souls unleash guttural moans.

Wanda’s fingers tremble, sucking in breath through her teeth, her energy fading into thin air, retreating back into her palms. A sharp guttural groan spilt from Natasha, a skin-peeling frenzy; basking in the astral aura that is the Slovakian witch. Your thighs collapse down debilitating from your torso.

Almost falling like an empty sack, Natasha tries to steady her breathing, as she loses herself completely at the heightened senses of her orgasm. It was such a sight, heaving over, crooked elbows denting against the mattress — on all fours, her spine heaving upward as tremors convulsed.

Never have you ever seen Natasha lose her stature in all the years of knowing her, ever so the chilling demure nature — only in your wildest fantasies have you dreamt of Natasha torn at the seams.

At the corners of her jaw, was tinged pale pink upon a damp milky surface, with her glossy eyes, adding to the primal gaze. Zoned out, peering through her lashes, her eyes are feral. Unhinged, ready for the kill.

“Keep her legs open.” Natasha hisses, nostrils flaring. Wanda slithers away, wobbling a bit by her knee-caps. Humming with a knowing smirk at Natasha, licking her upper lip with her pink tongue – she knows what Natasha wants. “I want her mouth.” Wanda snickers, a glint of mischief at her eye. Hastening breath fans over your bare shoulder, from her button nose against your sculpted collarbone.

Choking a bit, gasping for a full breath to tame your heightened nerve endings; your mouth parted. Gulping back your dry throat.

Wanda clicks her tongue, her nimble fingers trace the lines of your lips. “Keep that mouth open, dove. I’m going to quench your thirst.” Sneaky mind-reader. Sultry thick accent spells you for a momentary lapse.

“Please, wait. Give me a momen — aggh!” A plea falling on deaf ears is strangled into a wanton cry. Your hands shake, hugging yourself against your chest, arms crossing; trying to comfort yourself.

A painful slap against your clit, over-sensitive and squirming. Heat blooming throughout your hooded clit. “I don’t think so. We’ll stop when we say, got it?” Natasha snipes.

A pregnant pause.

Smack.

“Understood?” Natasha barks again, with a vengeful clap of her hand — as if it possesses the power of a god, unmerciful; but worships you in the smooth rubs on the stinging flesh. Your lips parting into a moan, a few sniffles muffled — it’s whiny and pathetic.

“Don’t cry. We’ll make you feel good again. Don’t you want that?” Wanda’s lips hover over you, against your cheeks, her teeth slightly grazing against your skin. A bite at your inner thigh, a warning. Natasha’s more aggressive. Wild, impatient, and just savage to devour you, for you to comply with their demands.

“Yes. Just wait, I’m sensitive.” You needed a reprieve, a breather from the intense third-eye cosmic orgasm you just had a few minutes ago. “No time to waste.” Wanda perks, a soft kiss on your lips. The witch balances herself over your head, trapping your skull between her thighs. Above your lips was her peach-fuzz cunt, dripping and inviting.

A tiny voice at the back of your head informing you that this is beyond wrong, red flags and alarm bells ringing that the circumstances after this will be catastrophic.

Fingers sliding in your curls, glides open-palm against your head, “C’mon, dove. Open wide. We know you’ve dreamt of having a taste. Don’t be shy now. You weren’t last night.” Wanda’s clutch shifted into an iron grip, pain over-riding your humiliation.

“Loud, wet — very eager to please, to impress.” Natasha kept listing off how you acted in bed, closing your eyes shut in embarrassment. What if this is just a tryst? A mere game for a married couple to spice their sex life? Years worth of emotional baggage and scars begin surfacing to your murky mind. A good lay.

And when Wanda and Natasha are done with you without a second thought, using your body after a good late night and morning fuck, despite questionable undertones --- confusion.

Your body yearns for their touch, going against your better judgement; it’s best to sit down and discuss this like rational adults. Another part of you wants to claw at both of them, for lying to you. Using Thor’s ale against you to lure you to the lion’s den. What if after this, they don’t want you? A mind-game to throw you off. Fearing to lose a friendship over a momentary lapse of hot sex.

Restricting back burning tears, ‘very eager to please, to impress.’ That’s you, always ready to bend over to get people to like you — it even transcended into your sex life. Motivated by liquor and you lost yourself to lust and temptation, although these two used your drunk state against you. A humiliating sight you probably were.

“Get out of your head, miláčik.” You sigh, slowly opening your eyes. Your breath hitches, Wanda stares down at you with sympathetic hues. “We’re not going to throw you away. We’re not going anywhere.” Relenting her harsh grip, the pads of her fingers soothe the remaining ache.

“You’re ours.” Firm and demanding. Natasha spreads your weak legs open once again, positioning herself to sit interlocked with you. Natasha hums, “Don’t even think of leaving us. You know we’re capable of catching you. Chain you to the bed if we have to.” Her cunt against yours, clit to clit.

You can feel the wet slick that coated between her asscheeks, a slip n’ slide as her ass sprawled against your wet thigh. Her fingers clawing against your thigh to top it over her leg. Quaking a bit, a shiver crawls up your spine.

The insanity of it all, you just wanna hide away. “Be good, miláčik.” Wanda descends upon your face, her natural essence wafting deeply in your airways — flooding your senses. You shouldn’t be thriving off of this sex but it was hot and incredible.

Wanda comfortably situates herself as if she sits on a throne —- as if she owns you. Your protests are muffled into mumbles, as your lips wrap around her swollen snatch. Your nose nestled against her short curls, the tender skin was like silk against your palate.

A crude shift from Natasha’s waist, a strident thrust as she begins tribbing you, you are moaning against Wanda, herself shuddering as her hips sway up and down upon your cheeks.

Vulgar Russian curses heave from Wanda’s lips, high-pitched and transcending into orgasmic nirvana. Natasha is growling — slipping into Russian curses and wanton moans — taking what’s hers as she keeps riding herself on you. Sucking through your teeth, you nibble on Wanda’s clit, and tugging her slippery labia between sucked in lips.

Vociferous wails and whimpers, a cadence of sticky slick mixing from one cunt to another. A lubricant that was chafing against flesh. The lewd differences between these two women is clear as day.

Wanda is the bright sunny day and Natasha is the inky night. Soft is Wanda in shades and colors; with benevolent timbre. Amorous is Natasha but in darker tints, with a reserved mask; with raspy timbre. Both ravenous for control. The pinnacles of what many women strive to be with superior intellect, beauty, and brawns.

Being the gay bottom you are, it’s no surprise for you to be charmed by such powerful women. After many hookups with women over the years, this was the most intense and enthralling one yet.

Years of crushing on them from afar has led up to this. Fresh-faced and more enchanting than before, Wanda sighs in content and victory, as she gawks down at you from her tottering head. Her tousled tresses curtaining her cheeks, riding with more enthusiasm as your lashes flutter. With a dominant drive, Natasha’s groans as she’s close to cum.

Her wetness and yours adds to the sensation on your clit. All three bodies fumbling at bit from the brutal-pace of face-fucking and cunt riding. The headboard hits the wall a bit, matching the frenetic grinding of skin to skin.

Shedding their heroic femme skins and turning into savages. Nasty. Filthy. Corrupt. Your fingernails dredge into Wanda’s femurs, prowling skyward the sweaty region of her hips, to the toned plains of her tummy to finally the mountain peaks of bosoms.

Pinching her pink nipples between your fingers to the point of making her yelp, it was an unspoken incentive for her to ride your mouth harder. Teeth tenderly gnashing inside her pussy lips.

Ragged murmurs, clipped curses, and taunts – You like it? Yeah, you were made to be under us, withering, and shaking. You want me to cum all over your face, pretty girl? Have Natasha drown your pussy with her cum? Yeah, dove, I can feel your clit pulse against mine!

Shocked silence as your astonished eyes widen, your mouth is flooded with cum. Rendered speechless, airy gasps from Wanda and Natasha is still upon your cunt, small mewls from her, now beyond sloppy and wet; a mixture of your cum and hers. Natasha’s hips juddering against yours, riding the last of her orgasm.

“What a good dove, we have,” Natasha speaks through the thick silence. Wanda hoists herself up by the knees, as you gasp for more air — your entire mouth now glistening with her fluid.

“Yes, she’s so good. Took everything we gave her like a good girl.” Wanda coos at you, hooded lids with a sultry curve of her lashes flutter at you; jolting away as she laid back on the bed with a wheezing breath. Regaining her composure, her dainty fingertips graze against your sweaty forehead to flip curls that strayed on your eye-lids. It was intimate, too intimate — it is the touch of a lover.

Natasha releases your leg, it was a bit strained from her fingernails and tight grip. Her hands cup your tummy, kissing by the navel; as she repositions herself by your side, mimicking her wife’s action. Caressing hands on your arms, dainty fingers soothing against your breasts, and shushing your rapid breaths.

Sandwiching you between themselves, a sudden direction on your belly was taken. Both Wanda and Natasha soothe the smooth clammy skin, with curling smirks that were both devilish yet attractive.

With a silent conversation that you aren’t privy to, confused as they both looked at each other with knowing gloating stares. Wanda takes her own pillow and fluffs it between her hands, as Natasha upraises your curved hips. Once again, you’re left in the dark, thrusted back into demoralization and bewilderment.

Is this it? Now that this married couple — who you idolized, and cherished this friendship with — has had their fill, who are you to them? Words birthed during the mist of lust are empty promises most of the time. Is this friendship over? Do you even have the mental capacity to continue this friendship after this tirade?

Bone-shattering orgasm after orgasm was ripped from you, and yes, it was amazing to the core, but there was a part of you in the midst of clouded hazy sex, that you didn’t want it. To be touched, you just wanted some space to recollect and process your feelings about this entire messy ordeal. You’re not sure what you want really out of life --- especially out of a polygamorous relationship.

What does this say about Natasha and Wanda?

This was a scene contrasting their usual masks of personalities, yet it molds and blends into their psyches just accordingly. It’s terrifying.

You stiffen at the revelation, serrated images were slowly circulating around your mind like the stingers of raging wasps; the small brushes of knuckles against yours, the over-friendly back massages, the persistent need to have you in their presence at all times that was mislabeled ‘just to hang out’ and ‘we miss our best friend.’ And with your yearning affection, it was easy to follow the wolves to the den for the slaughter.

Facades of kind smiles, words of advice, late-night talks that delved into and entrusted girl nights — was something darker, something sinister boiling underneath the surface.

Palms driven with cursory attached upon your arms, gripping and digging; it is demanding. Scooping underneath your bum, open palms gripping your globes, and heaving upward so your hips are positioned in the air. Wanda grabs an extra plush pillow, and Natasha maneuvers your bottom down on the pillow.

“What are you two doing now?” You are a bit irritated – tone clipped – at your running-at-a-mile per second thoughts, and sore at the muscles.

“Hush, you’ll see.” Wanda snickers, as she plushes the pillow underneath your bum. Natasha gingerly holds you down as Wanda dashes to the nearby bedside drawer. Her open-palms caress your belly, ogling with much affection and pride.

“I can’t wait.” A soft smooch above your located uterus. Anxiety filling your veins at the unknown, you begin wiggling in Natasha’s tight hold. Wondering what in the fuck, she meant. “Relax. Let it happen.” Natasha’s words were not settling your nerves, it only makes the panic hitch.

In Wanda’s palm was a turkey-baster, filled to the brim with white sloshing liquid. Eyeing the baster with pure excitement shining in her eyes, her eyes nearly criss-cross as she inspects the foreign fluid almost oozing out of its confinement.

“Perfectly curated semen for the perfect womb.” A bulb breaks and explodes in your head — emptying your dome into nothingness — thrashing in Natasha’s lethal lock. She sighs with a disapproving shake of the head, stretching your arms into a pretzel lock against your chest; painting brown skin in splotches of lavender hand-prints.

Whilst Natasha confines your fore-arms in her restraints for hands, putting weight on your upper body into the bed; Wanda’s eyes glow with fury, once again forcing down your legs. “Relax, dove. This is what we wanted with you for so long. Don’t you want to be with us?” Wanda seethes with a crooked grin, as she leers down at your shaking body.

How she revels in your weak state under her touch. Makes her urges to fuck you with her strap and make you scream like the perfect little bitch you are. Their perfect dove.

“Why?” A watery cry, before succumbing to your fate — who are you to fight against a powerful telekinetic, and one of the world’s greatest retired assassins? The only outcome would be death.

“Because we love you. You’re the one to carry our baby. I can just —” Natasha groans, her eyes rolling back in yearning. “– imagine your belly swollen, waddling bare-foot. Breast-feeding — fuck — you’re already breath-taking, miláčik, but God, you’re going to give us heart-attacks.” Her voice drops an octave lower. Natasha leans her head lower, a kiss on the crease between your brows.

Your body shivers as you feel the chilled tip of the turkey-baster nearing your gaping hole, you begin weeping quietly.

Wanda shushes you, “It’s okay, milacik. You’re going to be a great mommy. Three mommies and two daddies. The baby will be the most beloved and protected little one.” A warm smile graces Wanda’s rosy cheeks. Three mommies? A dream of having a family now enforced upon you, this is a clusterfuck. Firstly, tricked by your own drunken state, second, pinned down for morning sex, and now you’re going to be impregnated by a fucking baster?

Wait --- two daddies?

“Two daddies? What? Wait, who’s the father?” You shrill, your head struggling to peak down at Wanda as she paused mid-way from inserting the cum; your eyes wild and glossy. Wanda chuckles, it sounds genuine — it’s anything but.

“Not just one father, miláčik. Our dutiful Captain and Sergeant.”

You feel light-headed, a hay fever flooding your dome. The tips of your ears feel hot, your head flops back down onto the pillow with a fluffy thud.

An incoherent whisper. “What was that, dove?” Natasha’s thumb rubbing your wrists, coaxing you to speak up. “How is that possible?” You wept, fresh tears coating your face.

“Anything is possible with modern enhanced technology. Now a baby can be genetically linked to two fathers. Isn’t that marvelous?” Wanda gleamed a cheeky smile, her eyes twinkling with unnerving mirth. “Why Steve and Bucky? Do they know what you’re doing?” You almost choke on a strained whine, your face scrunching up tightly.

Praying that Steve and Bucky didn’t have any involvement, nor a speck of encouragement of this insanity. “Of course, they know. We all made the plans together.” Wanda’s hand rubs your thigh to calm you but it only adds to your fright.

“Steve and Bucky are ready to settle down, they always dreamt of having kids. They love you and know you would be the perfect mother to their child. Our child. We’re all going to be one happy family.” And without any moment to spare, Wanda gently thrusts the baster inside of you, squeezing the silicone bulb firmly. You gasp as you felt every drop paint your walls white, drowning inside you.

You twitch in discomfort, your head thrashing side to side, your cheeks hitting the wrinkled sheets. Mutely screaming, teeth gnashing at the air, refusing to accept the inevitable. Natasha peppers your face with kisses to calm you down.

Whispering declarations of love, you restrain any more tears to escape. Wanda cups your belly, it was very subtly swelled from the massive load. “Look how much went inside, Nattie.” Wanda alleviating your distress by small circular motions.

Natasha halts her kisses. She titters a bit, “Well, I’m not surprised. Two enhanced soldiers will deliver a copious amount of cum.” Natasha joins in on the soothing strokes by her fingers. A splotchy memory of Steve and Bucky wickedly smiling while your drunk-self was dragged away to your fate.

Betrayal.

Two people you trusted for years – who you considered close friends — played a role in this capture of enforcing a life of motherhood upon you. You didn’t realize lone tears were trickling down your face until you felt a thumb wipe away.

“Don’t fret, milacik. This will be good for you. For all of us. We know what you need.” Wanda kisses your waist and travels upward your chest in a trail of kisses; as she climbs on you, cuddling by your side, wrapping her arm around your hips, and a leg around yours.

“We’ll treat you so well. Like a queen.” Natasha loosens her grip on your arms, easing the aches in your muscles, but detaining you, to ensure you won’t escape from their grasp. Natasha plants a leg over your legs, positioning next to Wanda’s, sandwiched, and suffocating.

Laxing your body from stiffening under their touch, just trying to mindlessly drift into an impending hazy slumber. “Let’s rest. We’ll tell Bucky and Steve the good news later.” Natasha says in a lulling tone, as both women cuddle to squeeze much closer to you as if they want to reside underneath your skin — tightly, and smothering.

Sedately, your eyes close. Tentatively, their breathing morphs into your focal point, to hear Natasha’s and Wanda’s settle into steady rest. Urgently needing your privacy in sound, and body --- away from nosey intruding psychic.

As you lay there, mute and digesting the perverse treachery like a dry pill ripping down your throat, your tongue weighing heavy, barely registering reality.

Murky thoughts try to align in correction, not to bemoan over the guile that is Natasha and Wanda that was akin to pistoling barrage upon your spirit.

The soft fabric of the pudgy pillow wedged underneath you was burning against your bum, an indicia that could compel an unsought future. The tact to force maternity upon your life, your womb is now without doubt, fertilizing soldier swimmers.

What can you do now? How can you battle against the odds of the inevitable? Cuffed emotionally, and intimately by ex-friends deformed into duplicitous lovers who are now dead to you, and buried in deep, fresh graves in the crevices of your heart.

You must learn from the suffering, and brace the ugliness of being a fool. Your shudder, and bite back a sob as jagged remnants began floating behind your lids of last-night that was thick of debauched moans as slim fingers plunging into your cavern; it was a fleeting splash of excitement but it simmered and dwindled into a piercing ache in your chest.

It was euphoric, but not simply euphoric, there was fear and confusion intertwined too. For many years, you had grappled many weights of trauma, but you couldn’t stomach two damaged hearts.

Love me, love my dog — or so the saying goes. Can you handle being a mother? Are you even capable of being a good mother? You almost snort at the ridiculous notion.

What if aborti--- Jesus, you wouldn’t be able to go far with that option. It’s not even a fucking option. ‘Not with these two.’ You internally huff.

So you’ll wait. Wait it out, move in silence, map out your next course of action. Figure out escapes, leaving behind your life as an Avenger, and the only family you’ve ever had — just be quiet, comply and wait.

All you could do is wait.

[wyn-n-tonic]

We Can Stay Like This Forever

Word Count: 2,385 Warnings: Uh... yearning. A crumb of smut. Dialogue heavy bullshit tbh. Author's Note: God okay, I've been sitting on this for like a month now? I wrote this when I couldn't focus on my own characters anymore and my brain needed to visualize parts of the scene I was trying to write using the body language of a character I already know and love so well. This is written in second person but the reader has a name. It was an experiment dashed out in a drunken fervor that made my editor weep. Anyway, if you see any of these lines in a book one day... no you don't.

MASTERLIST

“Javi, I haven’t loved you since I was twent—“

“That's bullshit and you know it,” he interrupts, voice coming out hard but arms crossed tighter than they have been all night, replacing the pressure of kevlar he’s so used to. Protective, defensive, stopping the bullets from reaching him where it matters the most.

Your lips are raw from dragging your teeth across them but biting down is the only thing that stops the tears from springing to the surface. You never thought you’d see him again, you never thought he’d be standing in your kitchen only strides away; two for him, four for you. You saw the news coming out of Colombia, heard it in the supermarket passed from ear to ear straight from his dad’s mouth. Javier Peña was the walking dead.

Javi left Lorraine for you. You gave him a choice and he made it and you, being certain he’d lean the other way, couldn’t live with that guilt. When you wrote that first letter, you didn’t expect a response. You just wanted to apologize, you wanted him to know that you were sorry. You didn’t expect to hear his voice on the other end weeks later when you picked up the phone. Hell, you had pushed the letter so far out of your mind that you’d forgotten you’d included your number.

And now he’s standing in front of you, tangible as ever. No longer just the boy you loved but a man aged so roughly by sun and stress that you are breaking within wishing that you had been there to smooth it all over.

“Goddamn it, Clara,” that hard tone reaches towards you again but he loosens his stance, the toned arms still holding close to his body but the tension bottoming out to his exhaustion, “are you going to say anything or are you going to just keep looking at me like I’m a fucking ghost?”

“Is that not what you are?” Your voice is broken when you find it again, the tears really do come now. “A ghost from my past come back to haunt my bad decisions? Tell me I fucked up?”

“Is that what you think I’m here for? Is that why you think I came to you first thing instead of my family?” He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding and drags a hand through his hair, pinning you in place with his eyes. “Can I smoke in here?”

“I thought you quit.”

“Yeah well,” another exhale, the slightest hint of laughter on his lips, “I thought a lot of things I’ve been wrong about too.”

And god, those eyes. Simultaneously the warmest, softest brown but so black they look like blown out pupils. Like he’s the one who’s been snorting the cocaine, not busting those that do. You don’t even register the insult before nodding your head. What’s a little cigarette smoke when you run the risk of him walking out that door and not coming back?

But isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that the purpose of this conversation? Are you not being the same bitch you were all those years ago praying that he’ll be the one to walk out on you this time? Bringing it back full circle to that decision you forced on him half a lifetime ago?

“Yeah?” He doesn’t sound sure and even though your eyes are anywhere but on his now, you haven’t felt his leave you this whole time.

“Yeah,” you whisper to your feet like they’re the most interesting goddamn thing in the world.

After years of practice, he’s quick about it, you don’t even realize he’s lit up until he lets go of that first puff and, with it, the entire room changes. It’s not angry, it’s not hard, it’s… twenty years of heartache and longing compounding, neither party believing they’re good enough for the other.

You look back at the tired man standing in front of you, “Javier, I—“

“No. No, let me talk,” he rubs his eyes with his free hand, drags it down his golden cheek and smirks. Another inhale and, “I didn’t come here to tell you that you fucked up, you’ve said it plenty. We’ve been talking for months, we fell back in stride like nothing ever happened, like I hadn’t spent years pretending every woman I fucked was you because it was like you’d never left my side. Almost twenty-five hundred miles, Clara, I was a world away from you and when I came home at the end of the day the last six months…” he’s the one biting his lip now, “I could call you no matter the time and the sound of your voice made me feel like a normal person. Like I still had a shot at this world beyond the bounty on my head.”

His exhaustion, his softness, is palpable now as he stops to suck in a breath like he hasn’t taken one this whole time and then…

“If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t have written. If you didn’t love me, you would’ve hung up. If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t answer the phone at one o’clock in the fucking morning to tell me to breathe through the anger and the sadness and the horror I witnessed. But if that’s the story you want to stick with, I’ll go. I don’t expect anything I just…” his voice hitches, the cigarette long forgotten between his fingers, “I just wanted to see if your face still lights up when you laugh or if that had changed after two decades. It hasn’t and it’s still both my favorite sight and sound in the world. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder to watch it grow through the years.”

He looks to the right of him and throws the cigarette in the sink. Pushing off the counter with his other hand, he takes one step forward and fixes his eyes on yours again. “Tell me I’m wrong, Clara. Tell me you don’t love me and I won’t ever darken your home aga—“

“I love you.”

And he’s on you. Just like that. Just one more step to close the distance and his body presses to yours. His large hands come up to cradle your jaw and his nose slots perfectly into place against yours and his lips touch down like a plane with faulty landing gear, crashing against yours all hot breath and stale tobacco and, oh god, the smell of him. Soap and sweat, the chemical make up of his scent flooding your senses to make you feel whole again when you didn’t even know how much you missed it.

His hands are sliding down gently, wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. With his strong arms lifting you away from the counter, you no longer need to support yourself against it and you’re grabbing for him, trying harder to wring the space from between you like a worn rag but nothing is left.

The feel of him is something new, however. He’s not that scrawny kid who awkwardly held you to him, unsure of how his touches were affecting your body and pleasure. No, this Javier is different. Older, experienced, more tender than you remember him ever being, so sure of himself and just… thicker. Two shirt sizes up from the man you walked away from, his formerly wiry muscles are almost bubble wrapped in a way. What used to knot against you in hard planes of flesh and bone now give quietly against your touch as you’re pulling at the only thing that separates you now.

But suddenly, he’s breaking away. All heavy breaths and wildly flushed cheeks, his lips have left yours and the ache you numbed in his absence returns like a migraine after sleep. You need him and he’s gone again and you’re chasing his kiss with a whine as he replaces his lips with a thumb, cradling your face once more and shushing you, “Cálmate, mi amor. Está bien. Are we moving too fast right now?”

And you are breathless as you answer, “We are not moving fast enough, Javier.”

“I just don’t want you to think that this is all that I want. That you will wake to find an empty bed tomorrow.”

“If I woke to find an empty bed tomorrow, that’s exactly what I’d deserve.”

Those eyebrows knit up in confusion, the lines that have made their home on his forehead making you simultaneously weak in their beauty as evidence of his life and sad in the tragedy that you weren’t there to watch him earn them.

“Clarita,” his tone is so soft, the endearment coming to him as naturally now as it did in the before, “If it’s punishment you think you deserve then I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. I chose you, you didn’t beg for it. I did that of my own accord. And when you chose to walk away because you felt guilty, I did beg you. I’ll own it, I begged and pined but you couldn’t get out of your own head long enough to see that you were never the issue, you were the solution. You still are. I have searched for you in everybody I’ve ever met. So tell me,” his hands are wrapping around your arms now, “Are you ready to forgive yourself and find me in your bed tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” comes barely audible through parted lips as his find yours once more, knocking the breath from your chest as his hands slide down to your hips. He digs his fingers into the denim there and slowly starts to guide you through the home that’s not his thinking, correctly, that the only door at the end of the hallway is the destination he really booked from Bogotá.

And he is burning a hole through you, his entire being set on fire against you in the already blazing Texas heat. He is gentle as he pushes you down, climbing on top with one arm out to break both your falls. His shirt was abandoned somewhere in the kitchen, shoes kicked off in the hallway with your shorts not far behind. His belt buckle is riding against you as he rocks his hips down, forgetting the metal between you in his hunger for you to feel him.

He feels you wince, the whine swallowed between his lips but he’s pulling back like he’s electrocuted you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” your hands are shaking as you take advantage of the space between, “just take your pants off.”  

He hits you with that crooked smile and meets your hands where they’re still trembling at his hips and, god, he’s swift. He wastes no time kicking off his jeans and falling back into you, pressing back into you. You can feel him straining against his briefs but his patience is unmatched as he savors every taste of your mouth, every nip at the warm skin of your neck and chest. His hands are exploring the years that have marked your body as you mentally catalogue the scars that have taken over his.

He’s pushed your shirt up as far as it will go without leaving you but when he finally does to lift it away, the separation is so quick that it feels like nothing. He’s everywhere and you’re delirious, half thinking you’re imagining him moaning into you as he takes your hand in his to put it where he wants it.

You almost think…but, no, that’s not how that works. Your brain is fucking with you, unable to reconcile the man on top of you with the memory of the boy you loved once upon a time. But you swear, he’s bigger. He holds his breath as your hand slides between him and his waistband and he’s looking down at you like he’s never been touched at all. The sadness showcased across the softness of his face is made worse by the sheen of sweat and blush across his nose. You’d almost believe it if you couldn’t feel the heartbeat in his hardness, waiting for you to make the next move.

After two beats of aching silence, looking up into the galaxies he has the audacity to call eyes, your other hand moves to push at his waistband. If you thought he was urgent before, the graceful rush to join your efforts is gold medal worthy. Your senses are delayed, you’re not sure if the sound of fabric hitting the ground comes before or after he’s ripping at the only bit of fabric that separates you now.

“Fuck,” he rests his forehead to yours, “I'll buy you another pair.” The confusion bubbles into laughter as you realize that, yes, he actually tore them from your body.

But the bubbling laughter in your throat squeezes into a tight gasp, the air punched from your lungs as he steadies himself against you. His long fingers are brushing your hair to the side as he leans down and whispers against your lips, “Can I?”

“Please,” but your begging is lost in his response before the word has fully left your lips. He is grabbing in a way you haven’t felt in years. Hungry, like he can’t get enough, like it’s all he needs.

It is devastating, the build up. He’s ripping through the deepest parts of you and you’re convinced, wholeheartedly, that the only truth you’ve ever known rides on the waves of his name. His grip tightens, his teeth dragging down your jawline and warmth takes over as an earthquake shatters what little composure you’ve kept.

He moans low in his throat once.

Twice.

Three times it dies out against your ear like it’s only meant for you. Like it was all only meant for you.

He’s smiling as he softens, you can hear it in his voice as he slowly asks, “Can we just stay like this for a minute?”

You press your lips to that dimple, singular and lonely on the right side of his face; so far gone from a five o’clock shadow, you’d almost think he’s been forty all his life.

“Javier,” your fingers wind tighter through the sweat slick curls at the crown of his head, “we can stay like this forever.”

TAGLIST: @justanotherblonde23​ | @greeneyedblondie44​ | @icanbeyourjedi​ | @princess76179​ | @bbuckysbeardd​ | @notcookiebelle​ | @knivesareout​ | @empress-palpat1ne​ | @phoenixpascal​ | @lexi-b-writes​ 

[kurinoot]

care less more

-> his visits are short and are punctuated by the hectic and taciturn. the only thing the budding musician can associate about you is a rebound and the cold, disheveled sheets, and he plans to keep it exactly that way.

pairing: semi x reader

themes and warnings: smut, angst-ish woohoo, cheating, mentions of rough sex, dacryphilia, fingering if u squint

wc: 1.5k

notes: another wip posted woot woot so this piece is my submission for the church of meian’s songfic-themed tune june collab! this song is heavily inspired by olivia o’ brien’s song entitled ‘care less more’ and I HIGHLY suggest that you play it while reading mwehehe. also, thank you so much to @chibi-chanforever, @latrombone​, @oneblonded​​, and @spacesevyn​ for beta-ing this baby! also, take note that the ones in quoted bold italic are some of the lyrics in the song!

chant: care less more by olivia o’ brien

 The distilled moans and wet sounds of skin slapping against skin reverberate throughout the room in a hasty fashion.

“You receive me so well—ugh” you hear Semi groan as his hips continue ramming into your wet, gummy walls, hands clenching at the crumpled sheets and face scrunching at the growing tight sensation welling up against his pistoning cock. Moans effortlessly and wantonly fall out of your lips and fill his ears like a crisp staccato of notes.

He slams his lips against your quivering ones, muffling any possible sounds as he continues to hit your sweet spots. “Oi, you better keep it down low if we don’t want to be found out.” he growls lowly against your lips before pulling at your bottom lip with his teeth.

It has been months ever since he has begun this rendezvous with you, punctuated by crumpled sheets, unregistered phone numbers, and desperate love making.

Except, there’s no love and no strings attached.

You nod at his bequest, trying to ease and soothe yourself at the incessant onslaught of his cock jamming into your core. You run your fingers against his broad chest, instantly clutching them on the expanse of his broad shoulders brimming with sweat as he continues his intense jutting of his hips against yours.

“S-So good, Eita—”

“We don’t use first names here—ngh—I thought—hng—we made it clear last time.”

“I-I’m sorry—ah!”

His hips sharply stutter against you, going harder and harsher at the prospect of his first name ringing against his eardrums. His muscles become more tense, hands tightly gripping your waist as he accepts your half-hearted apology with a rough snap of his hips. It’s no use to him when he knows that you’ll still cry out at his ministrations, so what’s the point?

Might as well fuck you rough anyway while he still has the time.

His breathing becomes more labored and the sweat in his body began falling like droplets of rain. It is no different for you, eyes welling up with more tears and moans slipping out of your sinful mouth ever so carelessly at the rough feel of his dick ramming inside you.

“S-Semi, I—” you choke on your words as his fluttering pace leaves your senses culminating in intense, hot flashes of white.

“Are you going to cum?”

Your muscles and throat tense at the sudden question right while he’s hot-headedly thrusting into the throes of the wet ring of your walls. He has you all whining, toes curling, and creaming beyond comprehension, sweat-riddled fingers digging themselves further into the threshold of his muscle-clad arms.

“Cum for me.”

“You look at me, you see her face. No, you don't like me; I'm just there to hold her place”

Tears have long since stained your face, mixing with eyeliner and mascara to form emotion-riddled trails streaking down your face, which seep into the pillows underneath you, painting you into an inkblot masterpiece

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he groans, sharp pupils burning as they fall upon your wide, quivering ones. You’re not stupid; you understand the intentions behind his words, eagerly nodding at his comment.

You mean her? you reply knowingly in the back of your head and accentuating ‘her’ all intentionally, knowing that you’re just a look-alike that he’d willingly fuck in place of his complacent girlfriend. But you shrug it all off because as much as you hate being a placeholder, you can’t help but be content to have this clandestine rendezvous with him. Nevertheless, butterflies violently rattle against your insides at his double-edged words.

“Hope I distract you enough from the girl that you love 'cause I've been doing the same, you're just a boy that I 'ah'”

You’re not clueless to know and understand that he will never see you in a spotlight beyond the platonic boundary, if you can even call this relationship a platonic one. Sure, you already knew what you were getting yourself into, but the sting and longing in your heart only grows more and more as he continues to use you as nothing but a hole to fuck with when he’s bored and unsatisfied with the woman that he treasures and claims is all his.

You can then feel the tips of his fingers as they explore along the side of your waist and then dig further into the deep recesses of your cunt, adding fuel to the fire as he strums and presses along the swollen nub of your bundle of nerves while he continues to push his dick into you.

“Please, please, please,” you whine in desperation, followed by strings of incoherent babbles as your calves tense and clench, ensnaring his hips tighter and closer into yours and probing his cock to inch way deeper into unexplored territory than last time.

Call reality a bitch whenever you want, but this is miles better than only being another fan lost in the sprawling ocean of other fans.

You can’t have him as your other half? Be a VIP Semi Eita cockwarmer then.

Poor girlfriend having no knowledge that he’s drilling another hole besides hers, you lament in your thoughts as he continues drilling into your wet cavern.

“So close!”

He further cements his grip on you, calloused and nimble fingers letting go of your clit as his hips snap erratically, feeling the growing crest of the wave inching him closer to nirvana.

“G-Gonna fucking cum—holy fuck—cumming!” you scream out, the growing wave of your climax nearing its zenith.

“Good. Then fucking do it.”

With the last snap of his hips finally probing your deepest spots, your fingers dig into his steady arms right as he stutters his hips, plunging into you a few more times before you feel the warmth of his cum bleeding through the latex. A stifled, guttural groan twitches out of his throat, with knuckles turning white as his hands clench the sheets tightly from the climax bursting out of the seams of his groin. You break right at his clutch, gushing right against his twitching cock as your entire being becomes sore and flaring in heat afterwards.

Labored breathing and panting envelops the entire room, the smell of sex and sweat emanating from both of you altogether as his head dips right in the crook of your neck in exhaustion. His breath tickling against your sweat-matted skin only leaves you trembling more as your toes curl and your fingers numbly grasp the sheets tightly, hushed whimpers leaving your sore, dry lips.

He stills in for a couple of minutes, hips still stuttering to let his climax subside bit by bit while he tries to regain some energy before he pulls out of your warmth. Your cum continues to gush out of your pussy, the wet ring of muscle still twitching at the loss of contact.

“Why you wasting all of your time laying next to me? If you really wanted it so bad it's where you'd be”

“This never happened.”

His voice, albeit tired, says it firmly, his words empty and emotionless, like he always does after every meeting that you have with him. You wearily nod at his words, uttering a cold “Of course. No biggie,” right before you let yourself drown in the comfort of the thick pillow lying beneath your head and the thin sheets enveloping your body. 

Of course you know very well how this entire rendezvous can overthrow his career as a musician if you’re not careful enough. Heck, his entire career and image will be in shambles once even a single speck of mistake exposes him and his illicit affairs with you.

He rests for a couple more minutes, breathing slowly steadying back to normal before you hear him ruffle through the sheets. Your head’s all buried in the comfort of the make-up stained pillow, but you can ascertain that he’s already preparing to leave, judging by the sound of his belt clicking back and the once heap of clothes finding its way back to his tall, unabashed figure.

“Why you wasting all of your time busy texting me? If you don't want what's best for me”

The familiar ringtone of your phone beside you flashes right before your eyes. Your hand flimsily picks up your phone just as you hear the door open and close subsequently with considerable force as you read the message softly.

Semi <3: I’ll text you the next schedule :) and try to be less noisy next time.

You can only laugh dryly at his usual message, the growing crack in your heart only reverberating further as you choke at the oncoming onslaught of tears running through your face once again, but for an entirely different reason. Your chest heaves heavily, breathing in mouthfuls of air in an attempt to calm yourself down.

You swallow the lump in your throat, more tears inching away from your swollen, make-up stained eyes as you realize that you willingly let him into your personal life and then realize further that he’s way beyond bone-deep in you. You reluctantly open his message, numb fingers typing a reply trying to ease the hole in your heart.

You: okay :)

As soon as your thumb hits send, your hand languidly places the phone right back beneath your pillow as your tears finally broke through the dilapidated state of your emotions

You could care less but it was already obvious that you care a lot more than what is expected as you cry out every bit of frustrations into the cold, love-devoid sheets.

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[extasiswings]

Hopping on this train of writing to cope with promo image-induced feelings.  No thoughts, just vibes.  Also on ao3. 

The air inside the warehouse is thick with smoke and blisteringly hot.  A snapping sound splits through the crackle of flame and Eddie is abruptly yanked off balance as Buck grabs his arm and pulls hard just as a beam from above comes crashing down. It doesn’t miss him completely—catches the side of his helmet and knocks it off, making his ears ring with the impact. 

He sees Buck’s mouth moving and shakes his head. 

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” Buck repeats, nearly shouting to be heard over the din of the fire. 

A light fixture groans above them before dropping down as well and it’s Eddie’s turn to push Buck out of the way, even if it means a bit of flying glass catches him in the face. 

“We need to get out of here,” he shouts, and it quickly turns into a coughing fit as he chokes on smoke, his throat and lungs burning. 

Buck nods. “Go! I’m right behind!”

Eddie turns and manages to work out a path to the closest exit with a single-minded focus. His head is aching and he’s dizzy, can feel blood dripping down his cheek as well, and when he stumbles out into somewhat fresher air he nearly collapses into Bobby before he’s passed off to the paramedics. 

Hen had been one of the first ones in and out and has since stripped off her turnout coat and is helping the other medics. Eddie doesn’t argue when she checks his throat and pupil responses before pressing an oxygen mask into his hand. 

“Where’s Buck?” Hen asks as she swipes an alcohol pad over the cut on his cheek and secures it with two butterfly strips. 

Eddie lowers the mask and coughs. “He was right—“

Behind me. 

The words fade on his tongue as he scans the area only to come up empty. And then his eyes light on the door he’d come out of, nothing clear beyond the frame but black smoke and the red and orange glare of flickering flames. 

His world tips on its axis.  His vision swims.   And the feeling—

It reminds him a little of the tsunami, when he’d noticed Christopher’s glasses around Buck’s neck and had felt himself fracturing at such a rapid pace that even now he’s sure he wouldn’t have remained standing if he hadn’t caught sight of his son over Buck’s shoulder. He can feel the same sort of cracks spidering up the foundation of his walls—the ones that he throws up when he needs to be Eddie Diaz, firefighter, medic, soldier, competent professional, any version of himself that has to play at having his life together—and he scrambles internally to shut down the panic, to plaster over the cracks before they can spread too far, because if he lets himself think—

“I need to talk to Bobby,” he says, trying to push himself up to standing. Hen shoves him back down with hands firmly on his shoulders. 

“You need to sit and keep breathing into that mask,” she says, her voice sharp with authority before it gentles. “I’ll get him, but only if you stay here.”

Eddie’s jaw tics, but he lifts the mask back up to his face and takes a few pointed breaths while she watches. Finally, she nods. 

“I’ll be right back,” she promises. 

There’s an itch between his shoulder blades that desperately wants an outlet. Something to do, something to control so he doesn’t feel so much like he’s on the edge of a cliff. So that he can work on a solution instead of his mind unhelpfully focusing on Buck’s still in there.  He’s not an idiot, he knows he’s in no shape to go back in himself, but he needs something. 

“We were in the southwest quadrant,” Eddie reports when Hen returns with Bobby, keeping his words short and clipped.  “It wasn’t overrun but there were a lot of things falling from the upper levels. He said he was coming right after me, but he could have gotten stuck.”

This is easier. Staying mechanical. Sticking to facts. There’s no room for getting overly emotional, no allowance for breaking down.  He has a commanding officer in front of him who needs information, and that is something Eddie can handle. 

“We tried him on the radio but there was no answer,” Bobby says. 

“He may have dropped it.”  When he pulled me to safety. Eddie shuts that thought down. 

“There are windows on that side,” he adds. “If the exits are blocked—“

“We’ll look at all possible options,” Bobby replies.  His face is drawn and tired, face streaked with sweat and soot. 

For some reason it’s the flicker of doubt Eddie catches in his eyes that makes him say—

“He wasn’t being reckless. I know—we all know he can be sometimes, but he wasn’t. If he’s not out, it’s because he needs help, not because he’s trying to be a hero.”

Bobby looks at Eddie for a moment, something passing across his eyes like recognition before it fades and he’s left looking more tired than before. 

“We’ll look at all the options,” he repeats finally. He doesn’t make promises. Eddie’s not sure whether or not he appreciates that. 

It takes another several minutes for anything to happen, and Eddie’s shoulders get tighter, his mood blacker. His head aches and he snaps at another paramedic, some clearly new young kid, when he notices him dressing a burn improperly. 

It doesn’t make him feel better.��

Finally though, finally, after a heart-stopping moment when the warehouse windows blow out on the side where they’d last been, Eddie hears shouts. And a figure comes stumbling around from the back of the building, knees giving out just in time for someone to catch him. 

“What happened to I’m right behind?” Eddie asks roughly when Buck is helped over, looking worse for wear but alive. 

Buck coughs and closes his eyes. “Part of the catwalk came down,” he says. “Blocked me in. Couldn’t see you. Couldn’t see anything hardly through all the...everything.”

“I didn’t know.”

Buck shakes his head and dutifully brings his own oxygen mask to his face when one is pressed into his hand. 

“Wouldn’t have wanted you to stay even if you had,” he replies. “At least I had all my gear.” 

Eddie wants to keep talking, keep asking questions, keep reminding himself that Buck is sitting next to him and going to be fine, but that irrational impulse wars with the rational thought that Buck needs oxygen not an interrogation. So he drops it.  And they both withdraw into their own heads. 

Eddie watches though. As Buck flickers between present and vacant, numb. The haunted, hunted look that passes over his face every so often a clear indication that whatever ghosts are whispering in his mind, they’re saying nothing good. When the shift ends and they’re cleaned up, Buck still looks half-dead, so Eddie snatches his keys. 

“I’m taking you home,” he says, tone booking no argument. “I don’t want you driving like this.”

Buck sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay.”

The drive is silent, but there’s a tension in the air, the weight of things unspoken. Eddie’s not entirely sure what exactly would roll off his own tongue if he opened his mouth, his head a mess, but when he parks his truck in front of Buck’s apartment, Buck finally speaks. 

“You know what I was thinking while I stuck in that building? Besides that I was going to die.”  He swallows hard. “That if it had to be someone it was good it was me.”

Eddie’s heart stops, his stomach rebelling violently at sheer wrongness of the thought. 

“That’s not true.”

Buck nods and lets out a small, bitter laugh. 

“See, I do know that actually,” he admits. “It’s one of the things I’ve been working on in therapy. Except then my parents rolled into town and it was like none of that work mattered, I was right back to square one assuming I���m not wanted, that no one would miss me—and I hate, I hate that they have that kind of power, that they can make me feel so fucking worthless.”

“You’re not though.” Eddie reaches over before he can stop himself, his hand curling around the side of Buck’s neck, thumb settling over his pulse to feel that steady thrum of alive alive alive. “God, when I thought—you’re worth everything. You have to know—“

You have to know how much you mean to me. You have to know how much I love you. You have to know I can’t lose you.

You have to know. 

Buck makes a small sound of disbelief, his gaze turning searching as Eddie bites his tongue to keep from saying too much he can’t take back. He feels somehow even more precariously positioned on the edge of a cliff than he had in the field, but that cliff was positioned above an ocean of grief. He doesn’t know what’s at the bottom of this one should he fall. 

Somehow that’s almost more terrifying. 

Eddie sways forward unconsciously and Buck presses his forehead to his. Neither of them are breathing steadily. And they stay like that for a long moment until Buck shivers and pulls back. 

“I want to kiss you,” he says quietly, and Eddie can’t quite help the frisson of want that sparks through him, the whisper of yes, please, do it then that threads through his mind. 

“But,” Buck continues, his tongue sweeping out to wet his lips as Eddie watches. “But it’s been a long and really fucking difficult day and I’m not—I don’t want to fuck this up before it even starts. If—if there’s anything to start at all, I don’t want to assume—“

“There is,” Eddie assures. I love you. I’m in love with you. 

That gets him the faintest smile as Buck reaches up to squeeze his hand. 

“Thanks for the ride home.”

“Of course. Anytime.”  

When Eddie gets home, he pauses long enough to check on Christopher before falling into bed. And only then does he think back over the day and finally, finally let himself shatter. 

[caramelcal]

someone you loved

Request: Hi, could you write some Luke Patterson x Reader based on Someone you loved from Lewis Capaldi, please? But I also would like a happy end if it is possible, although the song is sad one. Thanks in advance :)

Word Count: 2k

a/n: hellooo! its currently 1:15 am and i have school tomorrow lol...im so tired but i needed to finish this so enjoyyy! 

Masterlist

I'm going under and this time I fear there's no one to save me This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy I need somebody to heal Somebody to know Somebody to have Somebody to hold It's easy to say But it's never the same I guess I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain 

Remembering that day was something that you found yourself doing constantly, which was incredibly unfortunate. As you sat up in your room, curled up in a ball your mind drifted to him, the way the other girl had her arms around him, something you and only you were supposed to you.

You remembered the way she leaned against him, her body against his, her short tank top doing nothing to stop her skin from coming in contact with Luke.  Anger had bubbled in your chest as well as your throat tightening up, fists clenching at your sides. You saw the way her lips were pressed against his. Against your boyfriend’s. He pulled back away from her, and the way she went up to his ear, whispering seductively before her eyes caught onto you. Then she smirked.

Luke’s bandmates surrounded him, Bobby with two girls, both with the same minimal clothing that the one that was all over your boyfriend was wearing, Reggie was pawning over one that walked slightly in front of him and Alex looked dreadfully uncomfortable. Yet, you didn’t care about them, all you cared about was the way that girl was all over Luke. And if things couldn’t get any worse, whilst she maintained eye contact with you, she whispered in his ear again, why the hell was he not pulling away from her? Suddenly, after the girl said something, pointing a manicured finger in your direction, and his head snapped over to where you were, your eyes flickering between him and the girl, who was now walking backward away from him like her job was done.

“You know what, Patterson?” You shouted angrily at the boy, getting the entire group’s attention, “Fuck you, we’re over.”

And with that, you stormed off. Yet, it was weeks later and you were still crying about it, you missed the way put his arms around your stomach, pulling your back against his chest, the way he laughed with you, the way he cried with you, how he would have one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh when he was driving, you missed the way you blasted songs and just sang together. You missed everything and even though he hurt you, you still love him.

Now the day bleeds Into nightfall And you're not here To get me through it all I let my guard down And then you pulled the rug I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved

Trying to convince yourself to get ready and go out after so many days of staying in your dark room, in pajamas, and wallowing in self-pity was hard but you did it. You got out of bed, got ready, and went on your way to get a drink at the local cafe; a hangout place that a lot of the students at your school used. You planned on meeting a friend here, but as you walked in and you saw him in there you knew it was a bad idea.

It wasn’t only him either, his bandmates were there too, talking, conversing and he had his arm around another girl. You shouldn’t have been surprised if he was willing to get with a girl when you guys were together, why would it be any different in the weeks after your break up? You’re staring at them for a while before one of them notices you, Reggie, smiling at you and waving you over.

“Y/n! Come over and join us for a milkshake!” Innocent Reggie. You don’t miss the semi-discrete nudge that Alex gives Reggie. He always did seem like the one person in the band with half a brain cell, and he was nice too. He looks up at you, casting you a sympathetic smile as Bobby, who again has another girl with him informs Luke that you’ve arrived. Yet, as your eyes catch onto him, you can’t help walking out.

He frowns at your retrieving figure, his body itching to run out and ditch everyone here to get you but he doesn’t as Bobby nudges him again, “Dude forget about her.”

Luke doesn’t say anything as he hesitantly nods, looking down and meeting eyes with Alex, who is sitting across from him. Luke had known Alex long enough to know what look he was giving him: almost begging him to chase after you, knowing that both you and Luke would benefit from it. But he didn’t. Luke stayed exactly where he was, arm slung over the girl’s shoulder.

He didn’t even remember the girl’s name, she wasn’t a bad looking girl but she wasn’t you. She was nice, but she didn’t know Luke as you did, she didn’t have a laugh that she hated but Luke found so adorable like you. Bobby said that these girls were distractions, to get Luke’s mind off of you but even as he sat there at that moment, not a single one of his thoughts strayed from you.

I'm going under and this time I fear there's no one to turn to This all or nothing way of loving got me sleeping without you Now, I need somebody to know Somebody to heal Somebody to have Just to know how it feels It's easy to say but it's never the same I guess I kinda liked the way you helped me escape

Sleep did not come easy to you that night, it never did without Luke there but after seeing him today at the cafe, you couldn’t even take a sip of water without being reminded of Luke. You knew it wasn’t a great idea, but you needed to clear your head, and if this was the only way to do it then so be it.

With your coat clung tightly around your body, you venture down the street, the window blowing softly against your face. It’s creepy, not something you saw in the peppy little town but as you walked down dimly lit streets, the streetlights buzzing slightly overhead you couldn’t help but feel a little jumpy. 

“You shouldn’t be out here at this time,” You hear a voice call from the shadows, making you jump around with eyes wide. You walk backward slightly as your head whips around, trying to catch where the voice came from as you catch onto his figure.

Clad in a plaid red flannel, Luke leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest with eyes trained on you. You clear your throat, feeling a blush rise to your throat at the thought of Luke seeing you so on edge as you speak, “Luke.”

He’s rather far away from you, still lazily leaning against the building wall with his hair in its usual messy way. You liked it like that. The chain on his jeans rattles slightly as he shifts to face you, but still stays leaning against the wall, “y/n.”

It’s quiet for a few moments and for the first time in forever you feel incredibly uncomfortable around Luke. Even before you two got together you had always felt comfortable with Luke; at home. He can feel how much you don’t want to be there, he’s always been able to read you and you aren’t hiding your awkwardness well.

“Well if that’s all,” You say, clearing your throat as you eagerly swivel on your feet to go in the direction you came in, suddenly feeling like going home.

Yet, as you start to walk, you can’t help but stop when you hear Luke chuckle. Did he find this funny? When you peer back at him, seeing him shake his head as he continued to chuckle quietly, “What?”

“Nothing,” Luke dismisses but yet continues to laugh. His hands are in his jean pockets now, a smirk evident on his face.

“Clearly it’s something, what are you finding so funny?” You ask, not hiding how defensive you are you speak. You’ve completely turned towards him again, eyes watching the guitarist’s figure as he calms his laughing down.

Kicking his feet off of the wall, Luke stands up, walking closer to where you stand in the middle of the sidewalk. He pretty much closes the gap between the two of you, until he’s about a foot away from you, peering at you with hazel eyes.

“I just think it’s funny how because we broke up you think we can’t even speak to each other anymore.”

You almost stutter as you break eye contact with the boy. You knew that whatever you said was probably going to lead to an argument and honestly, that was the last thing you wanted right now, “I have to get going.”

“No you don’t,” Luke swiftly responds, shaking his head at you as your eyes snap back up to him, leaving him to rock on his heels.

Your eyes close into slits as you feel annoyance bubble in your stomach. Even if Luke did know when you lied, he should know to let it go, to avoid confrontation but maybe he wanted this, “I left without letting my parents know. If I’m just missing from my bedroom they’ll probably be worried.”

“Your parents aren’t even home, y/n, they’re away on a trip,” You can’t hide the surprise on your face when Luke says that. How he knew that was beyond you because no one else knew but you and your parents. Yet, he elaborates, eyes never leaving you, “even if I couldn’t tell when you’re lying, y/n, I would still know. Your parents stopped me on the way out of town saying they were leaving town for a bit and wanted me to keep an eye on you. They’re worried y/n, ‘said you haven’t been yourself lately. You didn’t tell them we broke up, did you?”

Lips apart, you stare up at Luke, shaking your head, voice quiet and low, “I couldn’t. They really liked you. I couldn’t tell them you cheated.”

“You wouldn’t have to because I didn’t.”

“I saw you, Luke! I saw you with that other girl!” You yelled, your voice no longer low as you felt the rage start to bubble at the bottom of your chest again. The fact that you caught him in the act and he still denies it angered you, why couldn’t he just own up to it? “Are you going to say I imagined it? That I didn’t see anything?”

“I’m not, no,” Luke replied, keeping his voice calm as he shook his head, “What I am going to say is that you don’t know what you saw.”

And I tend to close my eyes when it hurts sometimes I fall into your arms I'll be safe in your sound 'til I come back around

For now the day bleeds Into nightfall And you're not here To get me through it all I let my guard down And then you pulled the rug I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved

Suddenly, everything made sense. It wasn’t his fault and you felt so dumb. You were almost speechless after he finished talking, leaving both of you in silence for several moments.

“I-I’m sorry,”

“Why are you sorry?” Luke asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked down at you.

“I should have let you explain and we wouldn’t be in this mess, we both wouldn’t have been-”

Luke doesn’t let you finish, almost feeling how guilty you felt for immediately assuming the worst of him. He knew it wasn’t your fault, he would have been just as angry if he was in the situation you were, “Hey it’s alright. I should’ve run after you and explained everything then.”

You don’t say anything as he pulls you into a hug, a warmth that you had yearned for over the past few weeks. He has a hand on your back, holding you close, and a hand on the back of your head, softly running his fingers through your hair.

“I missed you so much,”  He whispered to you, leaving you to hug him closer to you, to enjoy the warmth before it disappeared again. You never wanted to let go, you felt safe in his hold, you felt at home.

He placed a soft kiss against the top of your head, still holding you close before you looked up at him, “I missed you too, Lu.”

He flashes you a soft smile, one that had always melted your heart, “How about we go home, huh?”

[xxdragonwriterxx]

🔥Scalding🔥

A/N: Hello everyone! So, this is actually my first ever Levi x Reader fic. I usually write IzuOcha stuff for MHA on my other blog, xxpadfootxx, but I decided I’d give this a shot. Nobody asked for this, and I apologize in advance if it’s shitty. Thanks for reading anyway, and I hope you enjoy! Requests are open if you guys like this stuff and I have more works on the way so stay tuned!

Warning: this is both angsty and fluffy and very long. I didn’t mean for it to get this long, sorry 😬

~~~ Levi felt nothing but numb self hatred. Blood stained his clothes, some of it even smeared in his hair. Sweat was slicked over his body, making him shiver as it cooled on his skin. Mud and grime covered him from head to toe, but for the first time in his entire life, he had very little desire to actually clean himself.

The Captain ignored everyone he passed, words were beyond him anyway, caught in his throat as he struggled to breathe. He knew to other people he looked almost unaffected, his head held up high and his stride unfaltering as he made his way through the Survey Corps headquarters, but on the inside, he was a raging mess, his emotions threatening to boil over at any second. 

Nobody noticed how his gaze seemed just slightly less focused than normal. Nobody noticed that the look on his face was not his usual scowl, rather, that the lines were deeper, angrier as he battled with his own heart. Nobody noticed how his shoulders were almost imperceptibly slouched, everyone too caught up in their own grief and affairs to worry about the person they all thought was made of stone, the person they all thought was emotionless, cold, and unfaltering in his strength. Nobody, but one.

(Y/N) (L/N) was walking beside her fellow Squad Leader, Hanji, pretending to listen to the bespeckled woman talk about their new plan of attack on the Female Titan, her entire attention focused solely on the raven-haired man walking towards her. Levi bypassed the two of them without any sign that he had even seen them, his eyes slightly clouded, his mind obviously preoccupied with more important thoughts than what was going on around him.

(Y/N) glanced around her, her (e/c) eyes scanning the faces of the soldiers walking around nearby, searching their expressions to see if any of them were paying attention to the emotional state of their Captain, to see if they could even tell that something was clearly wrong with him. A quick survey of the room told her that she was the only one who had noticed. It didn’t surprise her much. 

It saddened her a bit, but she wasn’t surprised. Levi was excellent at hiding what he was thinking, shuttering the emotion in his expressions, and standing up tall despite the obvious weight on his shoulders, the emotional burden he carried. But (Y/N) had known him since her time in the Underground.

The pair had met when they were both very young, fending for themselves after Kenny had abandoned Levi, (Y/N) hiding him in her ramshackle hovel of a home when he was running from the merchants he had thieved from. They had quickly come to realize how effective they were as a team, surviving together until they met Farlan and eventually Isabel. They had been busted together, brought up to the surface together, fought in the expedition together that had resulted in the deaths of their two closest friends, the pair refusing to be separated by anything, no matter what. 

Now they were both high ranking officers in the military, having gone through the worst of the worst together. She knew Levi was the best at suppressing his emotions, no matter how strong they were. But he could hide nothing from her.

(Y/N) didn’t say a word as she gently placed her hand on Hanji’s shoulder, her way of wordlessly excusing herself, before turning on her heel and following where she had seen Levi disappear around the corner.

____________________________

Levi’s mind was on autopilot as he stepped into his private bathroom, reaching into the shower to turn the water to scalding without really thinking. Slowly, he peeled off his uniform, wincing slightly as the dried blood pricked his skin as it was ripped off of him, and threw it in the corner, his mind so hazy he didn’t care about the mess.

When he was bare, he stepped under the spray, wincing as the water seared his back. He held in his scream of rage, his sob of despair, merely hanging his head and standing under the shower head, the water sluicing off his body and the steam fogging up the entire bathroom. 

It was his fault. All. His. Fault. He was their Captain, had been, at least. They had depended on him and he had failed them, watched them as each of his squad was crushed underneath the Female Titan’s rage, their faces contorted in fear. The image of their lifeless eyes, their broken bodies, their flesh stained with blood as they laid in puddles of their own intestines, or hung from tree branches, half of their bodies hanging on an entirely different branch from the other half. Eld, Gunther, Oulo, Petra… they were all gone and he was to blame.

 A small whine escaped his lips despite his efforts to suppress it, his body beginning to shake despite the scalding temperature of the water. All his fault. He was useless. Fucking useless.

Everyone he cared about he was destined to lose. He could see that now as memories of his friends and family flashed in his head. His sweet, abused mother, cooing to him gently, before the memory shifted to the moment of her death, when he was wearing one of her blouses and begging her to wake up, fat tears rolling down his small cheeks. His best friends, laughing and teasing him, loving him despite his surly attitude, before the memory shifted to Isabel’s decapitated head lying lifelessly on the ground as he stared at it, horrified. 

And now his squad, the bright memories of them following him dutifully, training by his side, following his every order as they trusted him to make the right decisions. Their laughter filled his head, their bright smiles and loud cheering whenever they were together, paying no mind to his grumbling, knowing he wasn’t truly annoyed when they were having fun, just so long as they didn’t get too out of hand. The memories shifted again, their laughter rising from shrill squeals into panicked screams, the sound getting louder and louder in his head until his legs could no longer support him.

Levi slowly fell to his knees, his head hanging low as a few stray tears dripped down his cheeks, their pleas echoing in his ears and the sound of their bodies getting crushed thundering in his heart.

“LEVI!”

“Captain! Please!”

“Save us, Levi! Please, gods please no!!!”

“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!”

“This is all your fault! We trusted you!”

“Why did you have to lead us to our deaths, Levi? I wasn’t ready to leave yet…”

Levi choked on a sob as his body shook harder, his shoulders shaking. His hair fell down to cover his face but he didn’t move to brush it away, his hands curled into fists where they rested on his thighs. He was such a fucking disgrace, so fucking disgusting, why did he even try? It was clear he was destined to be alone forever, not only that but it was clear that everyone he was around was lost, so why even fucking bother?

A watery image suddenly fluttered across his mind, giving him pause. It was the image of a woman with a beaming smile, the corners of her lips curving upwards wickedly as she looked at him, her eyes sparkling with mischievous intent. Her face was bright and full, her eyes sharp yet loving as she watched his back. His best friend. (Y/N).

She had been with him pretty much since the beginning. When he had met her, he had immediately been drawn to her, the small girl hiding him from the authorities without hesitation when he had passed by her filthy hovel, desperately searching for an escape route. After she had saved him, he had originally been wary of her, just as he had been with everyone in the Underground, automatically expecting her to want something from him in return for saving his ass. But to his surprise, she had merely wanted to help him, no malicious intent in her gaze.

He had also been surprised by her strength. She was his age, and at the time, she had also been alone, having lost both of her parents at a young age too, her mother abandoning her after her father died. After learning this, Levi had expected her to be sensitive and weak, maybe even wracked with illness like most of the children in the Underground, but she had quickly dispelled that notion, always on par with him, and able to go toe to toe with him in battle, keeping his mind sharp and his reflexes on point. 

She was smart and surprisingly funny, the only person who could genuinely get a laugh out of him, a luxury he knew she treasured and never abused despite her teasing nature. She was a sly little fox that was for sure, but gods did he love her. She had never failed him, always knowing exactly how to treat him. 

He hadn’t lost her. Not yet. He couldn’t lose her, could never lose her. He wanted to fight for her, to keep going for her, but the hatred he felt for himself, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness that flooded him, doused his thoughts of fighting back, making him feel nothing more than a throbbing exhaustion, his eyes fluttering closed as he surrendered to his negative thoughts, his body shaking even worse than before.

Then he felt it. The softest touch of light fingers on his chin. Opening his eyes slowly, his head was lifted, his gaze locking on the (e/c) eyes that were never too far from his thoughts and haunted his heated dreams.

_______________________

(Y/N) had followed Levi to his room but had given him enough distance so he wouldn’t know she was there. She knew under normal circumstances that he would’ve noticed her immediately, his sharp senses never missing anything, but with him in this particular emotional state, lost deep in the labyrinth of his despair and his grief, she knew she could remain undetected.

She desperately wanted to comfort her best friend, but knew that even like this, he would be irritated if he discovered she was trying to help, too worried about keeping up appearances to want to accept her help, even despite their past together. So (Y/N) hung back, waiting for the right moment to confront him.

She had waited until she knew he was in the shower before entering his bedroom from where she had been waiting in his office, sitting on the edge of his bed while she waited for him to get out.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then thirty. Then forty.

When an hour had passed, (Y/N) stood and knocked on his bathroom door, worry gnawing at her gut. When she received no response, (Y/N) took a deep breath and gently pushed open the door.

The entire bathroom was fogged up with steam, to the point where it made her eyes water, her hand coming up to wipe at her now damp brow.

“Levi?”

(Y/N) rounded the corner and gasped at the sight. She had never ever seen Levi like this. Even when they had comforted each other after Isabel’s and Farlan’s deaths, he had never looked like this. Like he had completely given up.

He was sitting on the floor of his shower, his head hanging low as he cried, his whole body shaking like he had a fever. His normally pale skin was an angry red, a testament to the temperature of the water. She could tell he didn’t even know she was there.

Swallowing hard, (Y/N) didn’t hesitate to approach him, keeping her eyes up determinedly as she made her way to him. She crouched, gently touching his chin with her fingers when he still didn’t respond to her kneeling in front of him.

Her eyes bored into his when he met her gaze, his normally bright silver eyes glazed over with sorrow and self-loathing. She honestly didn’t even know if he could really see her, too lost in his own world to really know who he was looking at.

(Y/N)’s gaze hardened as she looked into those empty eyes. This was not the Levi she knew. She knew in that moment, as she looked into the soul of her closest friend, the one who had been with her through thick and thin, and the one who would likely be with her until the end, (Y/N) knew that she would hate nothing more than the look on his face right now.

(Y/N) finally managed to tear her gaze away from his and reached over, hissing at the heat of the water as it burned her bare arm, the tank top she always wore beneath her Survey Corps jacket doing nothing to protect her skin as she turned the handle down, involuntarily sighing a bit as the water cooled.

Levi did not react to the temperature change, he just remained sitting, his eyes closed once more. (Y/N) ignored the worry that clawed at her stomach at his unresponsiveness, and moved to stand behind him, grabbing the shampoo bottle and kneeling down so she was at eye level with his back and shoulders. (Y/N) didn’t mind the feeling of her clothes getting immediately soaked as she set her entire focus on her hurting friend.

“I’m going to wash you, now,” (Y/N) said, and without waiting for a response, knowing she wouldn’t get one, (Y/N) got to work.

Squeezing the soap into her palms, (Y/N) got to work carefully scrubbing the filth from his hair, running her fingers through the raven black strands until the crusted over patches from the blood had been returned to their normal smooth softness. She worked the suds into his scalp, digging her fingers in until it was cleaned to her, and therefore his, satisfaction. Gently grabbing his shoulders, she pulled him under the spray and used her fingers once more to rinse the soap from his hair, making sure she washed it from under every strand so he wouldn’t be itchy later.

As soon as his hair had been soaped and washed, she moved onto his shoulders, grabbing the sponge on his shelf and applying more soap to his skin. Her touch was gentle but firm, almost reverent as she washed him, scrubbing the grime from his body with the utmost care. (Y/N) moved onto his shoulder blades and the rest of his upper back before switching to the front, forcing her eyes to stay modest as she focused on the hard planes of his chest, washing each individual groove with the sponge, the blood and the filth giving under the pressure of the soap and the sponge to slide down the drain.

When she got to just above his belly button, (her eyes latched onto his face like a lifeline), she grabbed his hand and placed the sponge in his palm, meeting his gaze with a smile at the light that she could see starting to return to his silver hues.

“I’ll leave the bottom half for you to enjoy,” (Y/N) said, her tone light but sensitive to his still fresh pain, before moving behind him again and raising her hands to condition his hair.

Levi said nothing as he washed the rest of his body, his mind short circuiting at the feeling of (Y/N)’s nimble fingers running through his hair. He felt like he was going crazy when he had the urge to moan and press his head against her hand like a cat, his eyes widening as he forced the feeling down and focused on washing himself.

When he was all clean, (Y/N) shut off the water and grabbed ahold of both of his hands, gently leading him out of the shower and into the bathroom which had finally been cleared of steam. Grabbing a towel, (Y/N) wrapped it around his waist and tied in the front before grabbing another towel and reaching up to dry his hair, scrubbing at the mussed locks until they were fluffy and dry. 

Moving on, (Y/N) dried his upper body, taking special care to run the towel along the grooves of his muscles, soaking up every drop of moisture.

Since he was covered this time, (Y/N) leaned down and dried his legs herself, keeping her gaze locked on the tiles of the bathroom floor as she dragged the fluffy cloth over his skin. Moving around him, (Y/N) was careful to blot at the welts on his back from the water that had burned him, dabbing around the spots and murmuring soft apologies whenever he winced.

When he was finally dry, (Y/N) threw the towel she had been using into the corner with his discarded clothes and dragged him into his room, quickly moving to his dresser so she could pull out some clothes for him. She originally thought to grab a shirt and some pants, but one look at him showed her that he was barely able to stand on his own, let alone get fully dressed.

Handing him a pair of his boxers, (Y/N) turned to give him some privacy as she heard him drop his towel and shuffle around to put his underwear on. When he was decent, (Y/N) helped him into his bed, pulling back the sheets and slowly pushing him down onto the pillows, her fingers lightly pressing his chest.

“Rest,” was all (Y/N) said as she quickly turned and headed back into the bathroom, pausing only to grab a shirt of his, her own clean clothes still in her room several halls over.

 She stripped and bathed quickly, faster than she ever had before, hopping out of the shower and throwing on Levi’s shirt before sliding her underwear over her thighs just underneath where the shirt covered her, the garment a little big on her.

Opening the bathroom door quietly, (Y/N) peeked her head inside before tiptoeing out of the bathroom towards the door leading to his office, hoping to let him get some sleep for once, now that he was clean. She made it to the door, her fingers resting on the handle when her name being called in the softest voice she had ever heard made her pause.

Turning around slowly, (Y/N) saw Levi watching her, his silver eyes wide as he stared at her. He looked so young at that moment, almost scared. Her heart clenched, he was so open right now, so vulnerable, even in all of her time with him, she had never seen him this bare before her, his emotions laid out for her to see in their entirety for the first time in his life.

(Y/N) didn’t hesitate to move to him, her eyes never breaking from his intense stare as she approached him. When she finally got close enough, his arm shot out, his hand grasping her wrist and squeezing once. A silent plea. A call for help, the kind he didn’t know how to voice out loud. The kind he never had voiced out loud before.

Suddenly, in that moment, (Y/N) realized how stupid it would’ve been for her to leave. She needed to be by his side, just as she always had. (Y/N) glanced at the spot on the bed beside him. They had shared a bed before, but that hadn’t been since their time in the Underground, when they were forced to share, both to keep warm when the lack of sun made the temperatures decline to near freezing and because they only had one filthy mattress for a while, when they lived in that pathetic shack together. Ever since they had come to the surface, they had been in their own quarters, as was expected of them. 

Pausing for only a second longer, (Y/N) nodded. She saw Levi swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and chose to ignore it as she made her way to the other side of the bed, not wanting to think about him being as nervous about this as she was. She needed to comfort him right now, not let her stupid feelings get in the way. She needed to be focused, not flustered.

Levi shifted over slightly to give her more room as (Y/N) lifted up the covers on her end and slid into the bed beside her best friend, laying back into the pillows. She expected him to roll over onto his side and slowly fall asleep like she knew he usually did. Or she expected him to lay on his back with his arms behind his head, his eyes closing gently as she turned away from him. It was how they had slept in the Underground when sharing a mattress together.

What she did not expect was for Levi to immediately throw his arms around her, hugging her close and pulling her to him, burying his face in the curve of her neck while his arms squeezed her tightly.

(Y/N) gasped loudly at the sudden action, her face flushing despite her attempts to cool the flames in her cheeks. Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest, something she knew he felt as the corners of his mouth twitched upward, his face snuggling even closer to her. Her breathing was erratic as she felt his own warm breath fanning out over her neck as it slowed and evened out. She realized a few moments later that he had finally fallen asleep.

(Y/N) could still feel the shock coursing through her, but she managed to calm herself down enough to gently run her fingers through his hair, the strands now silky and unbelievably soft after his shower.

It was relaxing, (Y/N) realized, comforting her hurting friend, as she watched him in wonder while he slept against her. She had always been closer to him than almost anyone on the planet, but even then she had never been this close, physically and emotionally. He had never cuddled up to her before and vice versa.

It was just a line they had never crossed, not wanting to make the other feel uncomfortable or ruin the strong friendship they had with each other despite the growing feelings they had for one another, merely dancing around their relationship as they ignored the pulls of their hearts.

Now, (Y/N) wondered if this wasn’t opening some sort of door for them, as her eyelids grew heavy and she started to yawn. Eventually, (Y/N) completely relaxed against Levi, sighing in bliss as she cuddled up to him, feeling him just barely squeeze her tighter as she lost consciousness.

______________________________

Levi groaned softly as the light attacked his face, his silver eyes blinking open and squinting at the window where the shades had been left open, the sun streaming into his room in bright beams. Grumbling in annoyance, Levi went to turn so he could slide out of bed and shut those damn blinds when he suddenly realized… he couldn’t move. Glancing down, Levi’s eyes widened in surprise for a moment before he remembered the events of the night before as he stared down at his best friend. 

(Y/N) was still fast asleep, her chest rising and falling rhythmically as she breathed deeply. Levi’s mind replayed what had happened last night. He had felt so lost, so empty inside. He had never felt that way before, like he wanted to give up. The closest he had ever gotten to that point was when his mother had been ripped away from him at four years old, not knowing what to do at such a young age other than wait to die. 

But the grief, the hopelessness, the depression that had piled up on him, it wasn’t just from the death of his squad, it was the result of years and years worth of loss. He had just lost all control, both of the situation and himself, and had fallen so far off the edge he hadn’t been able to pull himself back out again, not like he had done in the past.

And then there was (Y/N). The shining light to his world, the one who threw a rope around his waist and tugged, bringing him back from the sorrow and the darkness and the demons. She had lost so much too, her own friends being ripped away from her, her family reduced to none other than himself. The world had been just as cruel to her as it had been to him. He remembered now that Petra had been a good friend of (Y/N)’s, the two often bonding while they rode their horses on the trails around headquarters.

And she had still been the one to bring him back. To save him. He felt like he had just been pulled back from death, yanked back into the brightness of life by the one person who had never left him, the one who refused to.

His eyes roved over her sleeping form, really took in everything about her. He smiled, genuinely smiled with something wicked playing on his lips as he caught sight of her wearing nothing but his shirt and her flimsy underwear, but he forced himself to behave and move on from that fun little detail. 

He took in the way her (h/l) (h/c) hair splayed out across the pillows, the way her soft skin seemed to almost glow in the early morning light. She looked so peaceful, her face curled into his chest, her hands balled into fists in between their bodies, her leg thrown over his waist like she owned it, her body naturally tilted so that she was almost sprawled across him.

Levi used the arm that was still loosely wrapped around her to softly run his fingers up and down her spine through his shirt, his other hand coming up to run through her locks. He grunted a little at how fucking soft her hair was and suddenly seemed to realize how good she smelled, how smooth her skin was, how fucking gorgeous she was, cuddled up to him as she slept, how shockingly beautiful her sharp (e/c) eyes were…

Levi jolted a little when he realized she was staring at him, her (e/c) eyes blinking owlishly a few times. Levi coughed awkwardly and removed his arm from around her as she moved to stretch.

“Good morning,” (Y/N) rasped as she stretched, her eyes closing at the satisfying pop of her shoulder blades.

“Morning,” Levi said gruffly, his husky voice sending shivers down (Y/N)’s spine.

“So… sleep well?” (Y/N) asked, obviously trying to diffuse the awkward atmosphere that had suddenly sprung up without their permission.

“Best I’ve had in years,” Levi answered honestly, smirking a little when (Y/N) whipped around to look at him.

“Really?” She asked in awe.

Levi nodded before reaching out and touching the back of her hand with the tips of his fingers.

“(Y/N), what you did for me, last night, um, thank you,” Levi said, his eyes drifting from hers in uncharacteristic embarrassment as he spoke. (Y/N) could’ve sworn some color even stained his cheeks.

He wished he could say more, damn him for being unable to express his feelings like a normal human being, but he figured he had gotten the point across when he looked into her face once more.

Smiling brighter than the sun, (Y/N) couldn’t help herself as she swooped down and kissed him on the lips, relishing in the warm, soft feel of them before pulling back. Her smile turned sultry then, as she caught sight of his shocked face and darkened eyes, his hair mussed from sleep and his body still only consisting of a pair of boxers under the sheets. She thought he looked absolutely delicious.

Levi’s eyes darkened further when he saw that sultry expression, the wicked light in her eyes as she stared at him. Suddenly, his heart was a roaring inferno in his chest, calling out for her as he let his gaze roam over her possessively, his own smile filled with a dark promise as he took in the sight of her wearing his shirt and almost nothing else, unashamedly this time.

“Anytime, Ackerman,” (Y/N) said, before the pair attacked each other, eager to get lost in each other, to forget the pain, and to start a new beginning, together.

~~~

A/N: I got the idea for this story from the book Crescent City by SJM. The story I wrote is original, but you will notice some similarities from a certain scene if you’ve read that book so I just wanted to mention it. This story is all my own but the idea was sparked from that novel.

(That book is fucking fantastic btw if you haven’t read it yet. Anything by SJM is amazing, but this one is one of my favorites, so quick plug for her books if you don’t already read her shit. 😂)

[strangeradventuresofp]

protect you (geralt x reader)

warnings : language !

requested by : @wellfuckmyexistence​ -  I know you are probs swamped with requests! But I would be hella interested in seeing you write some Geralt X Reader stuff! Maybe reader is also a Witcher? Maybe some cuddles? Maybe some angst? Some arguing??? Idk anything really tbh!

a/n : i tried to do all lol maybe this was too adventurous. i loved writing this! i had so much fun!! thank you so much, i hope you enjoy this<3333

“No, don’t you fucking dare ignore me!” You spat with clenched fists.

The feelings you felt at this moment couldn’t be determined. Your heart felt as if it were shattering in your chest, like fine crystal china breaking, tiny fragments remaining that were finer that dust. It felt like your heart had been punctured a million times over by thousands of tiny pins; it stings at first, but now it leaves you numb – not even remotely painful, just numb. Your entire body ached with such an overwhelming vigour. For the first time in your life you had felt exhausted. And it terrified you.

Being a witcher surely had it perks, enhanced agility, healing abilities, augmented strength. But it also came with a huge stigma, that was completely untrue. ‘Witchers can’t feel emotion’. Boy, if you had a coin for every time you had heard those words. It frustrated you beyond frustration. Sure, you were pretty much created to be soulless beasts, but that wasn’t the case. You were still a human, only with these superhuman abilities. You hated that you were looked down upon to be entirely emotionless. If anything, you thought that you felt emotions more. Especially the strong ones. Arousal, anger. Love. And that was exactly what had happened.

Geralt of Rivia, perhaps one of, if not the, most famous witchers about. He was easily distinguishable. His pale face and white hair made it obvious to tell that it was him. You had met him in an inn one night.

Apparently, you had caused a ruckus, which you didn’t. It was a perfectly normal reaction to a drunk stranger grabbing your arse. Needless to say, he was up against the wall with a knife against his neck within the same second. It gave you so much satisfaction to watch him squirm and hear him plead for his life, all the while hearing the others in the bar shouting foul things to you. You had heard worse, so you didn’t exactly care. That was when this huge man stood up from his solitary corner and made his way over to you. He leant into your ear, words rumbling from his chest.

“Let him go.” He commanded and you chuckled.

“And what if I don’t? You’re gonna stop me, are you?”

“Let him go.” He repeated, more demanding this time. Rolling your eyes, you forced your knife further against his throat before letting go. The man scampered off and you turned to face whoever the deep voice belonged to with a scowl.

When your eyes landed on him, you recognised him immediately, but you refused to acknowledge that you knew him. He looked confused, stepped back a little as if to get a better look of you.

“If you want to stare, why don’t we get a room?” You teased, a smirk pulling at your lips.

His face didn’t falter. “You’re a witcher.”

“Lucky guess. What do you want?” He looked at you, puzzled. “I doubt you came up to me to save me from a situation that I clearly wasn’t struggling in. So, I’ll ask you again. What do you want?”

“So hostile.” Geralt took a lock of your hair between his fingers before flicking it from your shoulder. A small smirk washed over his lips and you found yourself staring. It wasn’t long after that that you were pinned against the wall by his frame, his face in your neck and his fingers fumbling to get your clothes off of your body.

From that moment, you had travelled with him and Jaskier, the bard that named himself Geralt’s companion. It was nice. You enjoyed Geralt’s company, despite him being a complete brood most of the time. It was nice to have someone understand your struggles and how fucked up you were. You were both turned against your will. It felt good to have someone understand that. As for Jaskier, he was kind to you. You had told him many times that you liked his voice. He often invited you to sing with him, since you had admitted that you often sang to help yourself through witcher training. It led to him subtly changing the words to one of the songs he sang on your adventures; ‘Toss a coin to your witchers, O Valley of Plenty.’

You and Geralt had a very complicated relationship. There were feelings involved on your side and distant ones on his. He had shared your bed many nights, much to the complaint of Jaskier. You understood him and he understood you better than you knew yourselves. You loved him.

One night, after sharing your bed in an inn, he had disappeared into thin air. Neither you nor Jaskier had the slightest idea of where he went. A terrible feeling started to grow in your stomach the longer he did not return to you. Many nights you and Jaskier ate alone. You were not yourself. Jaskier noticed.

“Y/N—”

“I have this awful feeling, Jask, in my stomach. It feels like knots are being tied with my insides. I don’t know what it means; I have never felt it before.”

He let out a small laugh. “You’re worried for him.”

“I am not.” You urged with a scowl. But when you thought about it, the feeling began the morning you had woke up and not found him. You searched outside for Roach, but she was nowhere to be found either. It grew more every day that Geralt didn’t come back.

Now, he had returned, and you were angry. Angry was an understatement. It took everything in you not to bury your knife into his chest the moment he stepped through the inn door.

You slammed the door shut, enclosing the both of you inside the room that you had been living in for months on end. “Where did you go?”

“None of your business.”

“Where the hell did you go?” The poison in your voice would’ve made any other flinch. It pissed you off how Geralt didn’t seem to take you seriously when you were angry. He lay on the bed, just looking at you. Your eyebrows drew further together.

“I can’t believe I told you I loved you.” He avoided your gaze. And in that moment, suddenly everything made sense. The morning that you had awoken to find him missing, the night before you had tiredly let it slip that you loved him. “Is that why?

Did you even plan on coming back?” Quite quickly your eyes were pooling with tears, threatening to fall if he ignored you once more. The tremor in your voice was something that caught his attention and he sat up, looking at you with concerned eyes.

“It was a temporary trip. I came back.” Geralt showed no other indication of his feelings.

“I’m so stupid.” Your breathing was raggedy as you buried your head in your hands, begging for your tears to stay put.

“Witchers can’t feel.” A lie. Why was he trying to lie to you? He didn’t even know himself.

“Come on, Geralt. You and me both know that’s horseshit.” When he didn’t respond, you took the initiative and moved to the bedside table, snatching your knife from it and a small sack of money. Spinning around, you swung the door open, rushing down the inn stairs. You heard him call out your name, but you ignored him. As you tossed the money to the innkeeper, you opened the door that led you outside. Quickly, you mounted your horse, grabbing the reigns.

You felt a hand on your knee.

“Y/N, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Jask. I can’t stay here anymore, not with that brooding prick about. I’m sorry.”

“But Y/N—”

“I hope we meet again, Jask. You’re a good friend. One which I don’t deserve.” You gave him a half smile before riding off out of the village. Jaskier called your name with a frown as you set off.

~~~

You were a few days ride out of whatever village you were staying in before. It was dark. You unsure of what day it was exactly, and whether it was night or early morning. There was a fire to keep you warm and your cloak, but you used it as a pillow. You had tried the first night to sleep without something to support your head but woke up with a crick in your neck. Supposedly, spending months in an inn that had pillows had meant that you had built quite a tolerance to having one. In complete honest, you had no idea where you were. But you were away from Geralt of Rivia, and that was all that mattered. It was not easy to let the one you loved go, just like it is not easy to fall in love in the first place. This was something you had yet to learn, for Geralt was the first that you had ever truly loved. Sure, you had had harmless flings, but they are harmless. They mean nothing. It was supposed to be the same with him. It turned out to be a lot more harmful to your feelings that it had meant to be.

A snap in the wood behind you captured your attention from your thoughts and you stood, placing your hand firmly on the hilt of your knife on your belt, facing the danger.

“Who’s there?” You cautioned, teeth gritting whilst your eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond the trees. You waited. When you heard another noise to the left of you, you grabbed the lurking body, pushing it hard against a tree. At least you thought you did. The cold of the tree gave you goosebumps up your back and you blinked, attempting the make out the face of the shadow that held its blade against your throat. You stuck your chin up, giving them more access to the skin of your neck. If they were going to cut your throat, they best do it well.

But they released you.

“Shouldn’t you know better than to try to attack me?” The familiar voice made your heart ache.

“I didn’t know it was you.” Pushing his body further away from yours, you sat back down beside the fire, warming your hands by it and rubbing them together. You felt his eyes on you. “If you’re going to just stare at me, fuck off.” Just as you finished your sentence, you shivered. You let out a breath.

Suddenly a pair of large, strong hands wrapped themselves around your figure and pulled you back against a warm, firm object. You could feel his breath against your skin, and you frowned.

“Why did you come looking for me?”

“I was worried.” He said, and your heart fluttered in your chest, though your scowl deepened.

“I am the only female to have ever survived becoming a witcher, and you were worried for me?”

“Hm.” He mumbled.

You sighed deeply. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Being near you. Indulging in my fantasies.” A small chuckle left your lips. “I can’t be around you, Geralt. Not while I still care about you.”

He huffed. “I care about you.” Your heart skipped a beat and your breath hitched in your throat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, pulling you closer into his chest, his arms firmly wrapped around you, as if he would never let you go.

“But, if that’s true, then why—”

“It was dangerous. I couldn’t risk you getting hurt.”

“So instead you left me for months on end after I admitted that I loved you?”

“I was protecting you.”

“You needn’t protect me, Geralt. Don’t you know this by now? I can hold my own. Stop trying to protect me.”

“Never.” A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest and you smiled. You were still angry at him, obviously, who wouldn’t be? “…Do you still…?”

“Do I still, what?” He cleared his throat awkwardly. You chuckled. “It’s not easy to fall in love. It’s harder to fall out of love.” Spinning yourself around in his arms, you looked at him.

“I love you.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia.” He hummed contently at your confession and slid his hand to the back of your neck. He pulled you forward, and you found that his lips were on yours. It wasn’t like the other times that you had shared kisses. This one had an innocence to it. You were being authentically unapologetically yourselves and you were happy to accept each other like that. Like lovers. You were in love with each other.

The two of you spent the night in the forest, cuddled against each other by the fire. And Jaskier was stuck at the inn, with no knowledge of where either of you were.

masterlist

[jtrbluv]

hell-ish | pjm

summary: can be read as a separate oneshot or a continuation of ‘we’re not really strangers’“

“But do you remember when we went on a field trip to that amusement park in 8th grade? Around halloween time? … Yeah, I think that’s the moment I pretty much fell in love with you.“

pairing: jimin x reader

genre: fluff, humor, establisedrelationship!au

word count: 7.7k+

warnings: profanity (they are beyond terrified), inaccurate depictions of amusement park shenanigans, neurotic clowns (but they’re acting)

A/N: IM SO SRY ITS LITERALLY NOT EVEN HALLOWEEN ANYMORE GOODBYE DD; in my defense they typically have these typa things open after halloween ends... miss rona just isn’t allowing it this year ofc ;w; a special thanks to @viopera​ , @koushiningg​, and @bangtans-peaceful-piegon​ for letting me use their likeness, i love u all. and i hope you enjoy this late halloween fic right before thanksgiving break!

The car rolls to a smooth stop. The man in the driver’s seat puts the car into park—turning towards you while placing a reassuring hand on your thigh.

“Hey,” he says, a small close-lipped grin painting across his features, “you excited?”

You reposition in your seat so you can face him, or more specifically, your best-friend-turned-lover—the sight of him smiling causes you to elicit one of your own, your nerves slightly subsiding.

“I am actually,” you admit, “how long has it been? Six? Seven years?”

“Around there I think, but we should probably get going. The lines are probably going to be stupid long like always,” he suggests, his hand leaving your thigh only to ruffle the hair on top of your head, "Here's to new memories Y/N."

You step out onto the pavement—the crisp, cold night air nipping at your cheeks and nose. The cooler temperature serving as a reminder that winter was yet to come and autumn was about to come to a close. You form an O-shape with your mouth, exhaling sharply and seeing your own breath swirling and blending into the air around you.

Footsteps approach you from the side as you shut the car door. Your head whips around to see Jimin walking towards you with a dopey grin plastered on his face. In response, your eyes playfully loll back, a stream of air huffing out of your nose.

You shift your focus back towards in front of you, eyeing the roller coaster that intimidatingly loomed beyond the fence of the park, the drop tower that appeared just as high, and the other neighboring attractions that towered significantly enough to be seen from afar. The whole stretch of the park emitted a red glow, from what you could assume was from the large-scale lighting and technology that was spread out across the expanse.

A soft hand slides its way from your forearm down to your palm, intertwining all in one smooth motion. It was warm and comforting much unlike your frozen, almost entirely numb ones.

“Someone’s a little cold aren’t they,” he teases, using his other hand to attempt to rub more warmth into yours.

“You know my hands are chronically cold,” you pointedly whine, causing small clouds of air to shoot out of his mouth and nose due to his laughter.

He locks the car and you two begin making your way towards the entrance—from what seemed like a mile, in reality, was only a block away. There was practically no gap in between the two of you the entire time, taking advantage of each other’s body heat amidst the numbingly cold weather.

The wait wasn't too shabby, but you knew it was because time always seemed to pass by so much faster when you were with him, most of the pastime consisting of talking about how your past week has been, the fuckton of assignments you two had gotten, and the dangerously high intakes of caffeine you two had consumed as per usual.

The conversation ceased after a while, and it was just the two of you pressed side to side in comfortable silence, hands still intertwined. It was interesting to see such a vast variety of ages all around you—the most common age range were teenagers or people of the same age as the two of you, which wasn’t a surprise. After getting past the ticket booth and security check, you

two finally make it inside.

The first thing you notice is the large, antique carousel that hadn’t changed in the tiniest bit since the last time you were here.

The meticulously decorated entrance—brought to life by the fire torches, heavy-duty fog machines that didn't allow one to see after 10 feet ahead of them, bright lights that were replaced by either no lights at all or a faint red tint, and just the whole ambiance—had greatly juxtaposed the simplicity and familiarity of the carousel that stood in the eye of it all.

The heat of the fire torches allow you to regain some warmth back into your body—you create a small gap in between you and Jimin, in which he pouts and lifts your intertwined hands up to his face, pressing a kiss into the back of your hand.

“So, where do you wanna go first?” He asks, swinging your arm back and forth after passing through the gates.

“I’m fine with whatever,” you enunciate a bit loudly, the usual noises of amusement park shenanigans hindering your hearing.

“You sure about that?”

You click your tongue, “Jimin please, I’m a college student now, not a puny 8th grader anymore,” you argue, watching him turn away as he tries to stifle his laughter, “I swear!”

“Alright! Alright! I’ll believe you,” he eventually caves, frantically waving his hand to dismiss your concerns, “But I won’t believe you until I see it.”

“Oh, so we’re gonna play that game huh,” you retort, brows furrowing as a smirk creeps across your face, “Alright, so what do you think about riding that?” You ask innocently, motioning up towards the drop tower that forced one to crane their neck all the way back just to see the top.

You break your focus as you look back down and turn towards him to gauge his reaction. His jaw dropping down to his knees—eyes widened in complete bafflement and horror.

“Y/N. I am literally going to fucking die if I ride that shit. Oh my god.”

“What do you mean? It’s totally safe! I’ve been on it so many times.” You attempt to console him, knowing it’s futile because of the piercing glare he gives you right after you say that.

“And that’s supposed to make it better how?!"

You soothingly rub the back of his hand in an attempt to ease his nerves, “Of course I won’t push you if you don’t want to, you know.”

He sighs, “Well, now you’re just making me sound like a puny 8th grader.”

“I can assure you that you very much, are not Chim.” And he smirks at that, tightening his grip on your hand, making you wish that you didn't give him that ego boost in the first place because he surely didn’t need any more of that.

You take some time to mull over your options, but instead, go with whatever your gut feeling was initially leaning towards, “Okay, so what if every time you take me to a house, I have to take you on a ride. You get to choose the house and I get to choose the ride.”

He nods in acknowledgment, “I’m listening.”

“Does that sound valid?” You inquire.

He bites on his bottom lip, taking a moment to quickly cogitate between the options you had given him, and at last, he nods, "It sounds like a win-win."

"Or a lose-lose." You chuckle, and he mirrors.

He shakes his head, “I know you like rollercoasters and all that scary shit, but there’s also a ton of stuff that they’ve added since we’ve last been here.” He replies, thinking out loud, while making you feel more content with your decision, “You got a deal ma’am.” He affirms at last—releasing his grip to offer you his hand to seal the deal, in which you confirm resolutely by shaking it.

Just like he said, the amusement park most definitely stepped up their game ever since you both were middle schoolers, navigating the large expanse with a bunch of other measly and equally puny peers.

The deeper you two make your way into the park, the more themed attractions lined the path. At this point, you could barely make out the bottom half of your legs due to the thickness of the fog. Actors were running around left and right—faces decorated with FX makeup that you could barely discern because of the dim lighting—effectively scaring others, clear by the amount of ear-splitting shrieks you've heard in the past ten minutes that was enough to make your eardrums burst.

Jimin takes note of your slight tenseness. He wasn't oblivious and he knew that you were trying to feign nonchalance—but the razor-tight grip on his hand and lack of chatter on your end was saying otherwise. But just like everything you do, he thought it was cute anyway.

He promptly squeezes your hand, making you turn to face him, "Do you want the first pick?"

You hum, "You can have it if you want."

"Are you sure?"

"Yess," you drag out exasperatedly, "how many times do I have to tell you that I'll be perf– !" You abruptly halt as a zombie (that very much isn't real is what you keep reminding yourself) whizzes past you, brushing against your shoulder and making you jump and trip over your own two feet.

The man beside you is quick to react—leaping in front of you with his arms out so you could fall into his grasp. And you do, gripping his arms to better steady yourself and stand up. As you attempt to straighten yourself out, your head sinks into his chest, laughter erupting out of the two of you to the point where his knees almost give out.

You detach yourself from his chest, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes from laughing so goddamn much. Finally regaining your poise, you immediately slip your fingers back in between his. He cards a hand through his locks with his remaining hand while taking deep breaths.

While tugging him away from where you two were standing to avoid another ruckus... granted that you were at a haunted amusement park, you shout into foggy air, "I'm fine, I'll be fine Jimin! Let's go!", hoping that maybe if you spoke it out into the world, you could manifest it into being true.

Well, weren’t you wrong.

-

A rare and near impossible feat is what you were able to accomplish: forcing Jimin to make a decision. Despite him already being a trademark libra, you always believed that one of his most standout and consistent libra-esque traits was the fact that he was so indecisive. To which had resulted in him forcing you to make decisions instead of him most of the time, whether they had been trivial or not.

The moment you realized that this "feat" wasn’t much of a feat, after all, was when you two had finally reached the entrance of the first haunted attraction he had chosen, his impulsive and most likely ulterior-motivated driven decision causing you to retract all preceding moments in which where you were being stubborn and indignant in him making the first pick.

Just your luck, his explanation behind his decision (and your almost near-death experience) is that he says and you quote, “Start off with a bang! We get the worst over with now so it’s all smooth sailing for the rest of the night. Trust me.”

For some context, you had a very  rational fear of clowns. The year of 2016 was already bad enough as it was��a time in which you had gotten out of your first serious relationship, afterward giving yourself the most horrendous haircut in your entire life because you were emotionally strung and the scissors… well they just happened to be within an arm’s reach.

Later on in said year when you had become a junior and assignments had been piling up higher and higher without any shits given whatsoever, your minuscule fear of clowns had been blown out of all proportions—ultimately fueled by the number of clown sightings around your town and one altercation that you still think about until this day. Four years later, you can still vividly recall the time where you were coming home after studying all day at the local library and on the other side of the street, you had spotted a clown—feet planted to the cement sidewalk, body immobile besides their head that would keep its focus on you as you continuously made your way down the street. As you began to quicken up your pace, the clown began to reciprocate your actions from across the way, and you came to the conclusion that you didn’t really wanna die that night so you sprinted the entire rest of the way home.

And here you two were, at the front of the line standing behind the black curtain entrance—next to a rugged wood sign with the words, CLOWNEUROTICS, inscribed with a dripping, rich red liquid which you surmise was fake blood and not Kool-Aid.

“I cannot believe I let you have the first pick and you do this to me” You quip, chewing the chapped skin of your lips, breath shallow and bated.

“Y/N, you’ll be just fine. I’ll be here right beside you, remember?” he assures you once more, giving you another tight squeeze on your hand.

The curtains swish open, the employee in a simple all-black ensemble motioning the two of you to come inside. You close your eyes, taking one deep and steady inhale before stepping in.

You can barely make out your surroundings, let alone Jimin, who was standing right beside you. The worker’s voice hollers over the deafening noises of the tent. “Follow the path, don’t go backwards, or else you'll hold up the line. And you see that green light?” He asks while pointing to the tiny green bulb that was down the hallway in front of you, “Take a right from there.”

Jimin replies, knowing that you’re too fear-stricken to form coherent sentences at the moment, “Alright, thanks.”

The man nods, and Jimin tugs on your hand as he begins to walk forward. You follow closely behind, reminding yourself to take breaths before you flat out lose consciousness.

As you reach the end of the hallway and the green light bulb the man mentioned, Jimin pauses and turns around to stand in front of you, placing his hands on your shoulders.

“Y/N, I know you hate my guts right now, but I’m sorry in advance and just know that I love you, okay? You have full permission to torture me after this.” He reassures with a wide grin.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” you grumble, lips downturned and head hanging low.

You feel his soft lips graze over your cheek, leaving a chaste peck before giving you an airy, irresistible smile that you can’t really help but relent, even though it already feels like your heart is about to implode on itself.

Taking a right, the setting of the attraction comes into periphery. White walls and floors—reminiscent of a hospital, are tainted with blood, a disarray of medical equipment, and severed body parts. You take notice of the vacant hospital beds, sheets crumpled and stained with red. Framed pictures of medical staff were hanging by loose nails, glass shattered, bloody splatters and smears all over the frames, walls, and white tile.

You two reach a doorway, next to one of the hinges was a sign that clearly said, Psychiatric Ward. Well, I guess that explains the neurotics part.

In an attempt to swallow down some of the fear in your throat, you tighten your grip on Jimin’s hand while opting to slither your remaining hand around his bicep.

He takes notice of your actions that were propelled by your increasing fear, and naturally, he can’t help but feel bad, “Hey, you know I’d never let anything happen to you.” He tells you, shaking you out of your slight daze, “You can hold onto me the whole time and stick your head in my shoulder just like you did years ago, I won’t mind,” he teases while booping your nose.

“Alright, let’s just get this over with, please.” You huff out, determined to somehow put on maybe not a brave, but a braver face than what he expects from you.

You manage to fail in a whopping, record-breaking, ten seconds of going inside.

The first jumpscare was so entirely predictable—the thunderous pounds against the wall, the trudging and supposedly neurotic clowns (although clowns are already neurotic enough as they are) had all built up suspense until a head of a clown had shot up from around the corner. Their usual clown features distorted with gashes in their skin and blood dribbling out of the corners of their mouth, clothes ripped and stained. Your entire body violently spasms, a shrill shriek, and an embarrassingly long string of curses leave your lips in a matter of mere seconds.

You don’t even notice the man you’re holding onto folding over in laughter because the clown is still very much still following you even after you turn the corner, but before you can recalibrate and trek forward another clown materializes just sparse inches at your side. Your entire body forcefully jerks back, knocking into Jimin, but the force doesn’t phase him in the slightest as he swiftly brings his arms around your frame to prevent you from falling back.

Next to you, the man’s laughter hasn’t ceased a bit the entire time, and as you quickly dash forward and away from the clowns that you oh-so-wanted to knock a tooth out of, while clinging onto his side, he presses a kiss to the top of your head, “Hanging in there?”

“I think I’m gonna murder you before I murder any of these clowns.”

“Noted!” he chimes while playfully bumping his head into yours.

As you two turn another corner, the sight of more clowns banging against vacant windows on either side of you has you wincing, and you could swear you could feel your left eye start to involuntarily twitch. You come to the indubitable realization that amidst dozens of clowns, you are evidently the biggest one here.

The sounds that blaringly elicit from your lips are the nearing equivalent to keyboard smashes with a variety of curse words in between. In short, if you had a swear jar, you’d be practically penniless at this point.

The clowns are quick to take note of your cowardly conduct, using it to their advantage and targeting you specifically—reaching and intruding so eerily close that you’re almost convinced that they’re actually touching you. You cower in their presence, squirming and sinking deeper and deeper into Jimin’s hold as you make your way down the path.

Beads of cold sweat began to assert their own path down your forehead—heart ricocheting against the walls of your chest, straining the cords of your throat because of your never-ending shouts and shrieks of terror upon terror. Your whole body was convulsing and shivering without fault, even when accompanied by the body heat of the man next to you, the harsh lighting of the overhead lights, and the lack of ventilation in this shoddy tent proved to be no match against your bodily functions that were going completely haywire. If you were an Amazon package, you would have a large ‘Caution: Handle With Care’ sign slapped right onto the box.

The pea-sized amount of pride that remains within you is the only thing stopping you from completely losing your shit.

Jimin's laughter—airy and unwavering, tickling the shell of your ear was the only thing keeping you grounded, serving as a constant reminder that at the very least when you might have lost all your pride and composure, you still had him by your side.

Without much forethought, he continues to lay kisses along your temple, clutching you close to his chest and keeping you upright as your knees constantly buckled under the weight of your looming fear, crumbling composure, and the grisly clowns that were most definitely preying on your downfall.

The ten-minute duration—which to you, had felt like a whole lifetime-and-a-half had finally come to a close. Once you were able to discern what you thought was the exit of the tent—the small opening leading to what had looked like signs of civilization, you booked it without hesitation, hastily tugging Jimin with you to the point where he nearly tramples over his own feet and crashes to the floor due to the sheer and sudden force.

You two finally pass through the exit. Feeling as if you had just ran a timed mile in five minutes, your body caves immediately—hunching over, briskly bringing your hands to your knees to support your deteriorating physiological state. The sound of your heavy breathing gets disrupted by Jimin’s laughter. You stand up, straightening yourself out when you realize that other people were starting to make their way towards the exit too, and you two were clearly blocking the way out.

Jimin takes you by the wrist and swiftly pulls you aside as more people start to trickle out of the tent. You two lean against the metal fence, comfortably silent as he lets you catch your breath.

You huff out, taking deep exhales as you speak, "Holy fuck, what even was that?"

"The funniest thing I have ever seen," he shoots back with a smile, slightly breathless as well.

You blink rapidly, body slumping against the fence, still completely cynical and disbelieving in what you had experienced. Biting the inside of your cheek so hard you're pretty sure you left teeth marks, you wipe your sweat with the hem of your sleeve.

"You okay?" he asks softly, closing the gap in between the two of you.

You nod, affirming your composure in hopes that it would solidify it for real. Giving him a smile to ease the nerves you knew he had, you visibly saw his smile widen, and with that, you ruffle his hair, take his hand into your own, and walk a few steps forward before announcing brazenly into the chilly autumn wind,

"Drop zone time."

"Y/N PLEASE—!"

-

"Don't do this, anything else but this please." He pleads, lips jutting out while childishly tugging on your sleeve.

You groan, "Bub, we had a deal."

He presses his lip together, "I know... but just look at that! How does that even look remotely safe enough for one to ride?" He tries to reason with you, staring up at the attraction that he believes should not even be labeled as an 'attraction' in the first place.

You chuckle softly, shaking your head, "If it was that much of a safety hazard, it wouldn't even exist Chim."

"I will never understand why people ride this out of enjoyment and pleasure. This is insane," he says, his eyes trailing to the long line of people behind the two of you.

"It's three seconds, I swear. Three seconds compared to my ten minutes of cussing and wanting to punch a clown in the face is very reasonable in my opinion. You’ll be just fine, I’ll hold your hand the whole time," you add on.

He quietly freezes in place—eyes fixated on the tower, hands leaving the fabric of your sweater. You feel his warm hand come in contact with yours, the back of his hand grazing your knuckles. Lacing your fingers in between his, he meets your eyes, giving you a timid, lopsided grin. A silent affirmation that had said more than words could’ve. I trust you but I’m still scared shitless.

“You guys are next,” the worker announces, opening the gate and gesturing you two to come inside. Jimin’s smile dissipates, face contorting into a look of mortification at the man’s words—eyes widening to the size of what would be considered as utter shock and lips curling into a form of disgust.

Tugging lightly at his hand, he whips his head towards you, waiting to speak until you two have passed the gate, “Y/N, I’m literally gonna piss my pants like I’m not even joking.”

“Jimin!” you say in a hushed yell, “Please don’t, I know your pride is too precious to you for you to annihilate it by pissing on a ride that even kids go on.”

He scoffs, “Okay fine… but we’re getting churros after this.”

Your brows furrow in confusion, smiling at his tone, “Why would I argue against churros?”

“Hello, miss? Come this way, please,” another worker greets, leading the two of you to two vacant spots of the ride where you presume were going to be yours.

You nod, making your way towards the two seats, hearing Jimin splutter incoherent words and sounds from behind your shoulder.

He immediately plops into the innermost spot, refusing to be on the outermost seat that only had one accompanying seat on one side, albeit it truly didn’t matter. And of course, you don’t tell him that.

Smiling at his overt signs of apprehension, you slide into the spot next to him, beginning to put on the seatbelt over your lap.

Drumming his fingers on his knees, he already has his seatbelt buckled and his over-the-shoulder restraints locked and secured into place.

“Ugh, can these things go any tighter! I can still move under here,” he tuts, vigorously trying to push the restraints closer to his body, yet his attempts are proven to be in vain.

“Bub, they still want you to be able to breathe,” you remind him with a small giggle, your head popping out of the U-shaped bar to look over at him—his brows knit in concentration, nose scrunched, lips tucked into his mouth.

In a final attempt, you hear the man beside you take a sharp and deep inhale, only to hear a tiny click emit from the restraint shortly afterward.

He releases his bated breath, only to come to the realization that he can’t extend his stomach all the way forward, the bar forcing it to come short. He splutters, bringing his hand to cover his face while he coughs only to realize that his arm can’t fully reach around the bar to meet his face.

You watch this entire scene unfold out in front of you—wishing you could do something to help the poor guy, but you already knew your attempts would be pointless in the end as your arms are physically incapable of extending that far. You sink back into your seat to make sure he doesn’t see the fact that you were trying so hard not to laugh.

“Jimin, deep breaths, in and out,” you instruct him as the worker starts to make their rounds around the ride, double-checking for seatbelts and secured restraints.

“Y/N, that’s the problem, I can’t.”

“Try scooting back into your seat,” the worker suggests to Jimin, giving him an empathetic smile.

“What do you mean–oh, erm, thank you.”

She nods, shaking Jimin’s restraint a little more energetically to reassure the man of his safety.

As she leaves, he says to you, “Y/N, I can’t believe you convinced me to go on this.”

“Me too, honestly. I’m really proud of you Chim.” You admit, reaching out a hand towards him in which he takes.

“Three seconds, right?” He reiterates.

“Give or take, yeah.”

“Y/N—!”

Your seats suddenly clatter, signaling the start of your long ascent. Jimin’s grip on your hand tightens substantially, causing you to groan out in pain.

He quickly takes note of the noise, loosening his grip ever so slightly, “Oh my god, sor- oh fucking hell, there’s no going back now?!”

You chomp down on your bottom lip before another sound could escape your mouth—his grip on your hand tightening the higher you two go, “No, no you’re fine, it’s okay..”

“HOLY SHIT WHY ARE WE ALREADY THIS HIGH UP?!” He yelps, kicking his feet against the air—people’s heads starting to look as small as ants, the rest of the park coming into view as if you were experiencing it from a drone’s point of view.

“Dumbass, don’t look down!”

“It’s too late–what the hell, why can I see the whole damn city from here?!” He sticks his head out of his restraint, looking up and trying to find the top, “wHen the FUCK does this shit stop please, Y/N, I cAn’T do this?!?!”

“Chim. Breathe. Deep, steady breaths, okay?” You say while audibly taking breaths so he can do the same.

“Okay, okay,” he says, voice cracking but following suit.

After you think that he finally manages to get a grip on himself, you decide to try to take his mind off the situation at hand, “Jimin, look at the view.”

His breath softens as he begins to take in his surroundings. He could see everything. To him, it feels as if he had the city in the palm of his hand. The rollercoasters that reside next to the tower were practically reaching eye-level to him, and despite the lack of color due to the theme of the park, he thought it was mesmerizing anyway. He marvels at the fact that he could even see past the park—catching a glimpse of the cars zooming on the main highway, minute specks of light emitting from the windows of skyscrapers, people living in their own little worlds in each one, And of course, the envy of it all, the night sky—the dark depth littered with a multitude of stars in their own little patterns and worlds of their own as well.

The overhead speakers trumpet, ripping Jimin out of his trance-like state, “Welcome to the drop zone brave newcomers. I hope you’ve had an enjoyable trip on the way up here. And I hope that your descent is just as enjoyable as well. We will be dropping in... “

Jimin heaves out, “Now that’s just plain rude at this point.”

“Ten.”

“Are you okay?”

He scoffs. “What kind of question is that Y/N?!”

“Nine.”

“Jimin, you’ll be just fine,” You reassure for the umpteenth time.

“I swear if this is longer than three seconds–”

“Eight.”

He frantically kicks the air. “Fucking hell! I can’t believe I’m doing this right now, I miss the ground.”

“Seven.”

“We’ll be back down to earth sooner than you think, I’m telling you.”

“Six.”

“Oh my fucking god, oh my fuck–!”

“Five.”

“Oh fuck, holy shit–!”

“Jimin, I’ll be right beside you–”

“Four.”

“–the whole way.”

“OH MY FUCKING GOD?!”

“Thre–!”

Before the countdown can finish, you two plummet, plunging down at great speeds—a feral-sounding squawk leaving Jimin’s lips when it all happens.

He squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to see what was going on—letting go of your hand, he opts to hold onto the other handlebar on the restraint instead. His breath is caught in his throat, the ride is moving so fast that he can’t even produce any noise, let alone move his body.

Just like you have been saying this whole night, the ride ends in a blink of an eye. Or more specifically, three seconds, give or take.

Jimin slumps in his seat—fingers still curled so tightly around the handlebars that his knuckles turn pale.

You stick your head out of your restraint, craning your neck to look at him beside you, “Jimin, it’s done, it’s over.”

“Are you sure?” He mumbles.

“Open your eyes.”

His head slowly rises, eyes remaining shut. Cracking one eye slightly open, he loosens his grip on the handlebars before opening his eyes and letting out a deep sigh of relief.

"That wasn't so bad, right?" You beam, waiting for the restraints to be lifted.

"I wouldn't know, I had my eyes closed the whole time," he shyly admits, lifting the restraint off of him and unbuckling his seatbelt.

You two jump out of your seats, heading towards the gate and bidding the drop tower goodbye, juxtaposing afterthoughts lingering in the air.

"That felt so weird, I don't know if I wasn't able to move or if there wasn't enough time for me to react," he chuckles dryly while twining his hand with yours once again.

You smile, "Probably a little bit of both," you suggest, eyes scanning the park for any signs of a churro stand, "but hey, you survived!"

He smiles at that, teeth out and all, "We both did," he assures earnestly, "and now as an incentive, we are getting churros."

Your eyes light up—the sight of the bright neon sign being the next destination of the night. Jimin notices your sudden reaction, quickly looking in the same direction as you and pinpointing the small churro stand from afar.

To your luck, the line isn't very long—people are most likely preoccupied with the multitude of attractions that are only going to be available for this appropriate time of the year, taking advantage of the opportunity before having to wait for an entire year before getting to experience it all over again. But you and Jimin weren't like most people, and you two strongly believed that churros should be indulged in at any time during any situation. And right now, it was being utilized as a form of consolation, just in the shape of a deep-fried pastry sprinkled with cinnamon sugar.

After obtaining your consolation desserts, you two resume your journey around the park. Too preoccupied indulging in your churro, you’re temporarily able to block out the commotion that was occurring around you, keeping four out of five senses focused on said churro and churro only. 

“You feel better?” You ask, taking a brief moment to dust off all the cinnamon and sugar off the corners of your mouth. 

“Mmhmph,” he incoherently mumbles, after shoving half a churro into his mouth. He abruptly pauses, cheeks puffed up and eyes wide, realizing he can’t talk and instead he nods with a grin as wide as his mouth would allow him to stretch out. 

You giggle at his actions, taking your focus off of him to take another bite. 

A few moments later, when most of your churros noticeably nowhere to be seen, you ask, “Where should we go next?”

He cinches his brows together, “We probably shouldn’t go on anything to extreme, considering we just ate. How about the ferris wheel?” He suggests, pointing to the attraction that was standing in front of the two of you. 

You nod, “You’re right, these workers already go through enough. And we shouldn’t add cleaning vomit to the list.”

He chuckles, “Agreed. Let’s go, the line is pretty short!” He exclaims jubilantly, flashing you a mega-watt grin while pulling you along with him towards the gated entrance. 

Leaning against the gate, you two wait for the round of riders that were currently riding to finish, mindlessly scrolling on your phones to pass the time. 

The gate entrance opens, tearing your focus off of your phone and back to reality. The enormous and dazzling neon wheel that stood boldly enveloped your vision in replacement of your dim and dark-mode setted phone screen, making you blink a few times to adjust to its harsh hues. 

One of the carts comes to a halt, doors releasing as the group of friends inside it begin to grab their belongings and head out. The worker in charge motions you to step inside after they leave, the two of you following suit. When you two become situated and seated, they press a few buttons on their control panel, the doors promptly swinging close. A few brief seconds after, the cart jolts before moving just enough so the other people behind you could board onto the next cart.

The carts reminded you of the teacup ride at Disneyland—built in a circular shape, seats lined around the border with a small gap made for the entrance door, but of course, it was void of steering wheels in the middle. Now that would just be a recipe for disaster, and a solid segue into Jimin vomiting all over you.

He nudges your leg, “It’s so funny to me.”

You turn to him, “What is?”

“Out of all things to do while being here, and we’re riding the ferris wheel,” he beams, a light chuckle leaving his lips, “I don’t know whether to pity us or not.”

“All my pride has left me already and I’m okay with it,” you tut, lips unwillingly curling upward as you replayed the scenes of what had happened earlier at the drop zone, “I wouldn’t talk too much if I were you Mr. ‘I’m gonna piss my pants.” You tease, poking him in the side.

He scoffs, squirming slightly where you poked him, “I am still proud of myself, I didn’t think I was gonna make it up there.”

You turn away, holding in your laughter, “I didn’t think you were either.”

“Hey! Don’t even get me started on you,” he says, nose scrunching and brows furrowing, “those poor clowns were about to get their noses punched in if it wasn’t for me being there. I think your screams and threats were starting to scare them more than they were scaring me.” He fires back, giggles erupting in his throat and interrupting his words.

“I’m not even gonna argue against that. We are so sad,” you say—laughter flaring up in your chest as well, the two of you keeling over so hard the cart begins to swing back and forth.

“Woah! Woah! Woah! Easy there,” Jimin yelps as you two take notice of the movement and immediately cease your actions, hands grabbing the ends of the cart to try to stabilize it. 

Just as your cart has moved up enough for you to start seeing an overhead view of the park, he whips his phone out before saying, “Lemme take a picture of you, the view is so nice here.”

As he whips out his phone, you scoot to the other end of the cart as he brings his phone up to his face and focuses it on you. Naturally, you bring your hand up, hand changing to a trademark peace sign as you flashed a smile for the camera. He brings his phone down many lock screen worthy pictures later, happy with the result evident from the grin etched onto his face. 

“Your turn,” you say, motioning you two switch spots as you take your phone out of your pocket. 

Jimin, infuriatingly photogenic, simply sits while staring off into the distance, jaw on full display as you begin to rapidly snap pictures. Hearing your camera clicks he changes his position—turning towards you as the chilly wind blows through his hair, eyes crinkling and dazzling smile on full display that you can’t help but smile at the familiar yet all too breathtaking sight. 

Placing your phone in your lap, you scoot closer to him—leaning your back against his shoulder, you prop your legs up onto the seats. Turning towards you, he snakes his arms around your waist as his chest comes in contact with your back. You let yourself sink deeper into his grasp, conforming into his body as warmth spreads to your fingertips. Your head lulls back, falling into the space right below his collarbones as you stroke the back of his hands gingerly with the pad of your thumbs. He rests his chin on top of your head, the two of you simply admiring the view below. 

The ride still hasn’t started—people still boarding the ride as the carts momentarily halt and move from time to time. 

Not long after, your cart reaches the very top. 

Head peering over the edge, he turns back, “See, why did we have to go on the drop tower when we could’ve went here instead,” he grumbles, the peak of the tower standing nearly just as tall as the highest point of the ferris wheel to the point where you could stare directly ahead of you without tilting your head.

“Well that takes all the fun out of it,” you tease, making him frown, “Hey! You keep forgetting what you made me go through before that. Don’t think I’ve gotten over it that quickly.”

Looking displeased at your answer, he quirks a brow, “You seemed to be fine when we were riding the tower.”

“What can I say, you make a very good distraction.”

“I think I could say the same for you,” he proposes, “I swear I saw some of those clowns turn away and start laughing every time you threatened them. I was like ‘Yes! That’s my feisty girlfriend!” he cheers, pumping his fists into the air. You cower down in embarrassment, grinning to yourself while trying to swat his arm away. 

“I feel so burned out already though,” you say, head falling back into his chest, “I think it’s ‘cause we’re here at night.” 

“And because you track-starred your way through that entire maze,” he adds.

“That too.”

“I feel it too, we did more walking than anything else to be honest.” He says, which is very much true. The drop tower was all the way on the other side of the park and the churro stand took you guys a whole twenty minutes just to find. 

You hum, “Should we head out after this then?”

He rests his cheek on top of your head, “Yeah, if you want to.”

“I feel bad though, it feels like we just got here,” you admit, chuckling into his arm. 

He shakes his head, hands reaching over to play with the ends of your hair, “Don’t feel bad, I think we’re still hungover because of midterms. And besides, I’m hungry and I don’t wanna eat a ten dollar hotdog after just eating a stale ten dollar churro.”

“Yeah, we can just eat one dollar ramen, we’re still college students above everything.”

And you truly couldn’t argue with that. “Of course.”

Taking your hands off of his, you prop a hand onto the cart to sit yourself up onto the seats. He releases his hold on you, his arms returning back to his sides as the warmth of your body dissipates to his dismay. 

You adjust your sitting position so you could face him—reaching out to take one of his hands into your own. Your eyes bore into his, gazing into the pools of honey that were his irises. The view is slightly obscured as his eyes crinkle.

He smiles, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You don’t even register that he’s speaking to you until he leans in slightly, his features starting to appear bigger as he starts to close the gap between you two. You shake your head once he gets so close in proximity that you could see each crinkle that etches themself on the sides of his eyes each time he grins. 

Your eyes flicker to his lips, taking notice of the action as you quickly revert back to his eyes. He smirks

“Thank you for taking me here,” you say as your eyes intently gaze into his once more, “above all the trepidation we’ve put each other through tonight, at least we’re here together.”

He nods, gratitude evident without him having to utter a single word. It’s as if time is frozen, everything around you stagnant and still, eyes boring into each other because nothing could just quite compare to this. Not even the surreal view of the city or the ability to see all the bustle within the amusement park or even the stars that littered the sky. 

You press your lips against his. Although you initiated the action, the sensation of his lips against yours, regardless of how natural, sends a flurry of shockwaves down your spine. Your body tingles—as if you’re floating and the cart you were sitting on wasn’t even there to support you. 

And he kisses you back. His lips are warm, welcoming, and comforting—like wrapping yourself in your favorite blanket in the comforts of your bed, the indescribable bliss as the fabric consumes your body and runs over your skin. 

Kissing him felt even more blissful than that.

The kiss isn’t fervent, but it’s full of longing. It’s as if he’s communicating to you, through the way his lips mesh against yours, that he plans on making up for all the lost time. Time that could’ve been spent doing things like kissing you, loving you wholeheartedly and unashamedly, was spent pining for each other with the label of being ‘best friends’ standing in the way for far too long. He wants to make up for it just as much as you do. 

He slides his hand under the crevice of your knee, pulling you closer to him as he continues to kiss you. You bring your hand up to his neck, entangling your fingers into his hair as you lightly scratched at the surface of his scalp. 

He kisses you like he’ll never get to again, which isn’t completely false—the fact that you two were so high up in the air to the point where the stars look tangible, basking in each other’s presence and each other’s presence only. 

Frustrated at the abnormal layout of the seating, he hooks his arms under your legs—hoisting you up and placing you in his lap so you were straddling him—incognizant of how the cart was starting to dip due to the unequal distribution of weight. 

The gesture makes you squeak, and you can start to feel him smile against your lips. Before you could do anything else, the cart totters—rocking a few times before moving, signaling that the ferris wheel is finally beginning its journey. 

“Oh fuck—!”

“Oh shit—!”

The two of you immediately detach from each other as you take notice of the unbalance, hurriedly leaping onto opposite sides of the cart while gripping onto the sides for dear life, the cart rocking back and forth at a concerning extent. You sneak glances at each other, your faces painted with the same expression of shock and distress.  

Seconds pass and the cart steadies—laughter instantaneously taking over the two of you.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” he says, a little breathless while his body hunched over his seat.

“Remind me the next time we kiss to check if we’re less than a foot above the ground first,” you tease, playfully swatting his knee.

He grabs your hand, pressing a kiss onto your knuckles before shaking your intertwined hands up in the air—obnoxiously shouting into the frigid autumn wind, “Yes chief!” 

-

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MASTERLIST

[greenninjagal-blog]

Deja Vu pt 7

Hey guys. Been a hot minute. If it makes you feel any better this was supposed to be a short chapter and it ended up being 25 pages long. :) If you’re new to the story, you can check out the first chapter [here] or if you need a refresher check out the previous chapter [here]!

Summary: Dee takes on The Prince in a fight, and Remus takes on the Prince’s sidekick.

Word Count: 12029

TW: temporary character death, blood, teargas, guns,

Read on Ao3 || Hero Worship Series || My General Writing Masterlist

Remus is twenty-one and he doesn’t think he’s ever been as terrified before in his life as he is the second he sees Dee launch across the stage. 

He’s been scared before though: scared from the moment he saw Roman hit the asphalt at eight years old and there was so much blood outside his body and Mom wouldn’t stop cradling the body even when the EMTs were trying to help; scared from the moment he stood in the gas station bathroom miles and miles from what he’d thought had been his home and trying to tell himself that that was going to be the last time he chose to look at a future where he tossed himself into the jaws of death; scared from the moment when he was laying in Dee’s lap with a million lies stuffed in his throat and still was choosing to tell him the truth about this stupid ability of his that only ever ended with him alone and forgotten and not missed at all. 

Remus has been scared out of his mind, scared in his mind, scared far beyond the way that he thinks that any other living person could understand. He’s been walking with one foot in the grave since he was eight years old and eleven minutes younger than Roman and people still-- since that was still-- since the first time it started mattering to him at all.

He’s been scared.

It’s still nothing compared to the horror that grips his heart in an icy fist as Dee throws himself mindlessly into a fight Remus can’t see the end of.

It’s stupid and Remus doesn’t quite know how it got to this point even though he had been listening so hard to what Dee was saying. Dee is smart. He’s brilliant. He’s the type of kid that grew up excelling in everything he touched and he liked touching everything. He does math in his head like the numbers work for him, he speaks French like his tongue had never known another language, he lies and steals and uses people without them ever knowing they were puppets in his show.

Dee is a genius among idiots.

And somehow Remus is still watching him pitch himself into a physical fight with The Prince despite how he spent the previous three days saying that physical fights weren’t his forte and that their best bet was to humiliate and discredit the man on stage instead.

The Prince is smart and fast and most likely expecting the attack, but even he doesn’t have a chance to dodge against the agility of Dee aided by a surplus of invisible animal speed traits. Dee is moving for less than a second and--

--his claws are morphing right there in front of Remus’s eyes, too slow to make out, too fast to miss and Remus is beyond time and space as he stands there feeling more stuck than he’s ever been before. Dee’s nails are sharp with hatred, with protectiveness, with a selfish defense that Remus had only ever seen in spurts before. The Prince’s throat is soft and fleshy and weak.

One hit would take him out, permanently. One hit could have him covered in his own red blood, one hit could remove him forever and Remus would be in love with a murderer.

Dee lunges for The Princes throat, but at the last second he dips down and aims for an upsweep of his claws, cutting clean through that sash, shallow, painful, but not deadly because Janus is not a murderer.--

--One hit would take him out, permanently. One hit could have him covered in his own red blood, one hit could remove him forever and Remus would be in love with a murderer.

Dee lunges for The Princes throat, but at the last second he dips down and aims for an upsweep of his claws, cutting clean through that sash, shallow, painful, but not deadly because Janus is not a murderer?--

--shallow, painful, but not deadly because Dee is not a murderer.--

--Dee is moving for less than a second, but The Prince is expecting an attack and raises his arm in a flash of green light, and rolls to the side. Dee’s fist misses his face by inches, but it’s enough for the superhero to stumble off the stage which is not right, which is not what Remus saw, not what is supposed to be happening. 

His head is screaming so loudly he can’t piece together a single thought. His stomach lurches up his esophagus, leaving him choking on something that might or might nor be real while Dee fights up on that stage. 

The police bodyguards nearest to the shapeshifter swing into action, with guns or tasers or whatever-- it doesn’t matter because Dee’s body turns to a golden jelly like substance and absorbs the bullets and negates the electrical charge with a near maniac grin.

((And god, is it alluring to see Dee go absolutely feral even when Remus thinks that his own body is trying to kill him. He’s always so posh, so sophisticated, so in control. This is the side of Dee that he hides under a pleasant smile, the part that matches the scales and the fangs and the claws, the part that is half animal and doesn’t care about empty words.))

The crowd screams, chaotic and messy and dangerous and it turns the atmosphere into a thick soup of confusion and desperation. Remus feels one of those stupid fucking signs crash into his shoulder blade as someone gets shoved or hit or slammed or run over-- Remus isn’t sure because his focus is only on Dee, only on The Prince, only on the absolute anarchy that is playing out on stage like a theater production.

Remus remembers suddenly that he’s never made it through the intermission of a theater show, never made it to the second act and never made it to see the lead actors take their bows. Remus always left early.

He can’t leave early now. 

He doesn’t even want to, not really, not in any way that matters. Remus’s lungs are burning and his heart is slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to break out and taste the world for itself. He grips the crowd control fence, so hard he’s not sure anything short of a nuclear bomb can get him off of it-- there’s a cold feeling stroking his spine, a voice in his head that tells him he needs to go and go now or he’s going to end up in one of those futures he promised his seventeen year old self that he’d never go through with. 

He can’t move.

Call him a captive audience but Remus is on the edge of his seat, off his seat, one breath away from joining the actors on stage and ruining everything. 

Dee lunges forward at the police line while The Prince crawls back up to his feet in a stupid daze, too slow, too dumb, too much like someone who couldn’t actually believe this was happening and too thick-headed to keep up with the actions. 

Dee never told Remus that he was an acrobat, that he was as flexible as an Olympic Gymnast, that he could twist in the air and remove his own bones and make use of every breath between him and his enemy. Remus thinks of every time he’d counted the feet, inches, centimeters, between the two of them and for the first time he thinks that Dee might have been counting them too, thinking of every way in which he might be able to use that space as leverage to pin Remus up against the wall--

Dee said he wasn’t good at fighting. But Remus watches him grow claws that slice right through bullet proof armor and then flip in the turbulent air and drive his heel into the soft of someone’s neck. A bullet misses him by a hair’s breadth and Remus catches sight of his fangs dripping with blood or venom or something as he hisses at the unfortunate soul who shot at him, missed, and lost a bullet to the dissonant crowd.

The techie with the bright purple hair stumbles back to the van pressing his hands to his headphones and squeezing his eyes closed like he can make all the bad things go away if he pretends hard enough. Remus wants to laugh at him; can’t he see this is too real to be fake? 

Someone barrels into the side of him, knocking Remus nearly through the crowd barrier. His head rings at the collision, sending sparks of stars shattering over his vision that he thinks match the pattern of tire treads on an eighteen wheeler that once ran him over.

Someone with another ability lets it loose and there’s an explosion from down the street, sending more people running towards the stage and the battle up there. The winds twist unnaturally, ripping the confetti papers into the air again and throwing them straight up into the air along with any loose accessories not pinned down. 

A girl screams right in his ear, an arm jostles into her throat to make her stop and Remus isn’t entirely sure it’s not his arm. Her face is gone in the shifting crowd before Remus can even figure out what she looked like. People shove and jostle and move and tear apart so quickly that Remus can’t keep track of it. 

There’s so much noise Remus can’t think. Gunshots, screams, the screech of metal and whirl of the wind-- it’s so much and Remus is so small against it. He feels the world moving around him, feels the time breathing through his skin, detaching him from reality and yanking him into something else, somewhere else, somewhen else. He’s not breathing, his heart isn’t beating, he’s not moving and his vision is flickering, flashing, fleeting: there and then it’s not and he can’t stop any of it. He can’t figure out what to do, what he needs to do, what’s supposed to be--

There’s a coin in Remus’s hand, pressed in his palm cutting into this numbed skin and he clings to it like a lifeline. There’s a Barney in his hand, the Barney from the night he met Dee, the Barney that means nothing to Dee and everything to Remus, the Barney that represents a decision Remus made when he caught it in the air three days ago.

Who gives a fuck about what’s suppposed to happen? Remus stopped Roman from dying thirteen years ago and the universe is going to have to live with it because Remus is not going to get Dee die, either.

He’s somewhere in the crowd, coming into his body, unsure when he left it, and there’s something thick in his throat he swallows away before he figures out what it tastes like. An arm is in his gut, a body slams into his shoulder. The force of the crowd is tearing him back from the fight, and Remus can’t go against it.

The sky is tinged with a low hanging cloud; something grey green and the screams are largest near it, the people shoving vigorously forward and away as it sweeps over--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. Why are they screaming?

Remus opens his mouth and it’s a mistake, a mistake, a mistake. It smells like vinegar, sharp and pungent and it fights its way down Remus’s throat when he breathes it in. His skin burns and itches and smolders where the smoke touches, where it seeps into his clothes, where it floods over his eyes. He screams as his lungs warp and twist in on themselves, tight, tight, tight and he can’t breathe through it.

He’s dying, he’s dying again, he’s dying and he doesn’t know what he did--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. The gas is everywhere and Remus can’t see where he’s going and if he stops whoever is behind him will run him over.

He shoves forward burying his mouth and nose in his sleeve, but it's not enough. His heart is exploding in his chest splattering across, bursting so hard it shatters his ribs but not enough to break his skin. He claws at his chest certain there’s blood there even though he can’t see it. He dead and dying and he can’t even gasp an apology to Dee he’s sorry Dee please he’s sorrysorrysorry--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. He’s trapped, caught in a gaseous net of tear gas that lives up to its name because he’s sobbing at the burn that he’s sure is the worst death to have survived. He doubles over, and he’s gone and done and dead because he can’t do it a third time. 

He doesn’t have enough sense to brace himself before there’s someone else’s panicked foot on the small of his back. Remus curls on himself covering his head in the chaos to protect himself, but the agony over his body is shredding his insides like razor blades that could pass through anything.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. His eyes flicker trying to catch an understanding of anything around him, but his tears make it hard to make out anything up close and the smoke obscures the world he knows is past that.

Someone is screaming something, but Remus can’t make out the words.

This is the exact thing Dee did not want to happen, he thinks as his body convulses, as a guy with horns trips over him and several more people without powers descend on him with signs and fists and whatever else they have. Remus’s tears are streaking down his face and he weakly raises an arm towards them like he can help anyone when his own body feels like it’s dying. This is the exact thing they were trying to avoid.

It doesn’t make sense, Remus curses as someone steps on his ankle and he feels the bone do something it probably shouldn’t and his throat cremates the air in his lungs. It doesn’t make sense. Dee is smart. He’s brilliant. He’s clever and witty and always seven steps ahead.

Dee was the one who said a fight would cause a riot in the crowd and it would make everything bad. A fight was the opposite of what they wanted. Dee had even said that if he couldn’t get The Prince to agree with him, he’d back off and find another way. 

“It’s not so much for The Prince,” Dee had said. “It’s about getting the message to the people.”

And Remus is twenty one years old and can’t think of what Dee was expecting to happen when he launched across the stage like that when his own head just got kicked again and his lungs are a birthday candle away from engulfing him in flames.

What The Prince was saying was stupid, but it wasn’t something that Dee would have let get on his nerves. Dee was better than that-- Remus had seen him be better than that. Remus had said things that were more annoying, more irksome, more cutthroat than The Pitiful Prince could have thought to say. Dee had been shot half a million times in futures that didn’t happen and Remus had plucked him from the jaws of death every time.

Dee trusted Remus to keep him safe and informed. Even against The Prince.

Dee shouldn’t have been attacking at that point. 

Someone kicks his stomach again, and Remus tastes the dregs of Dee’s latte wander back into his mouth with a burn that reminds him of his worst nights except this is worse than all that. He feels like he’s one open flame away from igniting which doesn’t make sense because fire needs oxygen and he’s not getting any. Something happened to Dee, something wasn’t right-- Dee wouldn’t have attacked unless The Prince did something to him. 

Remus thinks that if he gets up he’s going to put The Prince in the ground, permanently. His earpiece sings with noises from the fight: Dee’s grunts, his huffs, his ha’s. Remus latches on to the sound of them, of Dee being alive, of Dee being completely in the moment rather than his usual twenty steps ahead of it. He’s not sure if the terror is from the shoe that slams into his spine at that moment, the ache of being unable to help, the fear that the teargas is going to kill him, or the idea that whatever The Prince did to Dee is still happening.

He tries to sit up, but someone jumps over him just poorly enough to kick him in the side of the head as they go. Remus feels the sting of wet concrete at 3 AM shock through his body again, stupidly. His brain screams something about windshields and rain and Remus tells it to shut up because Dee was in trouble and Remus had made him a promise to stick around all those lifetimes ago in that Casino where they’d met, on the balcony when he’d been stuck rather than gone, when he was laying in Dee’s lap in their hotel room saying all the words he’d never told anyone else ever before.

There’s wind. Remus blinks hard, choking on a sob that claws through his esophagus far more effectively than glass from a windshield ever did. There’s wind and it’s moving like a storm front, a physical force, direct, and purposefully. The wind is twisting through the crowd and catching the greenish tear gas in its invisible hands; Remus watches in delirious disbelief as it funnels upwards with the remains of confetti and signs, hats and papers, trash and abandoned items, upwards and out of his lungs, upwards and saving his life.

He breathes in a breath that feels like his ribs are going straight through his lungs, and desperately scrubs the memories of things that he swore weren’t going to happen from his mind. Another foot slams down inches from his face, and loose gravel sprays up into this face.

“HEY!” a voice yells. There are hands on him, Remus realizes in the next second, someone helping move him out from under the current of people that are in too much of a panic to help him. “HEY!--

-- “Are you okay?” the person says, and Remus has to squint to make him out against the tears in his eyes. At first glance Remus thinks he looks like someone important, someone familiar: a teacher he had once, a youth pastor from a church that his family only went to on holidays, someone in the community that all the other kids flocked too, except that they had to be the same age, so Remus’s marks that as his brain spewing nonsense again. He’s got glasses with smudges on the lenses, freckles that dance across his cheeks like a dot-to-dot for adults, and a smile that looks increasingly stupid compared to the background setting.

“You’re going to be okay, sir!” the man chirps right as another round of gunshots go off to their left as the armed guard fires one someone in the crowd and the winds shrivel up and die in response. “We’re going to be okay!”--

 --“Are you okay?” the person says, and Remus has to squint to make him out as his eyes ache and burn and he can’t scrub them. At second glance Remus thinks he looks like someone inconsequential, someone familiar: a college student who came here to follow the rules and trust his government, a guy who is in over his head, a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Remus hasn’t seen any sign of a power at all. He’s got a blue polo on speckled with dust, and bruises and scratches up his arms, a solid footprint on his abdomen that Remus doesn’t need two guesses to figure out where he got it from.

“You’re going to be okay, sir!” the man chirps, but Remus is busy spinning around just in time to see the armed guard fire at a civilian in the crowd and the winds overhead shrivel up and die because they lose whoever was telling them to move in the first place. “We’re going to be okay!”--

-- “Are you--OOP!” the person says as Remus throws himself up and bonelessly tackles that guard before he can fire his weapon. His throat is ragged and strangled and the noise that comes out of his is not even remotely human. His eyes are flashing with the futures he doesn’t want to see and he thinks for a moment if he stops moving he’ll forget which future is the present.

Dee should not have attacked. But he did, and every death that happens now is going to be pinned on him, on them, on anyone who isn’t the government and every plan Dee made will settle into ashes and fall through his fingertips.

Remus is twenty one and knows all too well that he can’t change the past. But he’s going to save the future, their future. His and Dee’s future.

The gun goes skidding across the ground and under the crowd barrier out of reach and out of touch and Remus’s head spins trying to orientate himself. Blood drips down his chin and spatters on the visor shield of the man under him, the would-be murderer, the all-to-willing homicidal maniac. Remus’s heart pounds in his throat, making its way to his mouth, until he’s not sure if he’s biting down on his tongue or the pulsating mass that keeps him alive and the tang of vinegar won’t leave him alone.

People stumble around the both of them, tripping over Remus’s legs, and someone stomps on his captive police guard's wrist so hard Remus feels it snap more than he hears it. The man lets out a yowl, as his eyes roll back and he gives in to the pain of it. 

The guy who does not look familiar in any way that Remus cares about is just a step behind them, grabbing Remus’s armpit as if to pick him up, but his focus is on the person in the crowd controlling the winds. Confetti screws through the air, a sign slams into the face of someone who gets too close to them and the two kids crouching behind them. They’re making a barrier. It’s for protection. They saved everyone who hadn’t been able to to get away from the teargas.

((They’re beautiful, Remus thinks, almost deliriously. The power and control and the fierceness. It’s like watching dancing, like watching pure strength, like seeing a miracle in first person. Remus never thought about other people with powers before, never thought about powers being a good thing when his ruined his life, but now he’s staring at this stranger with burning eyes and one foot in the grave, this stranger who is half wind and all power, this stranger who makes him think he might understand why Dee is so passionate about mutants like them.))

Remus is twenty one years old when he sees out of the corner of his eye, the man in the blue polo’s face screws up in concentration as he throws an arm out at the person controlling the winds and pale white light flickers from his fingers right next to Remus’s face. 

There’s a moment between Remus’s heartbeats where the sound disappears and Remus doesn’t need to breathe and time doesn’t pass at all. There’s a moment where Remus is frozen in place, half standing, half on the ground with his blood making him want to vomit. There’s a moment where he’s staring at the man right next to him and he thinks don’t you fucking dare--

But then the moment is over and Remus is watching the winds drop everything they’re carrying: the accessories, confetti, all of it that had been between them and the armed guard, falls to the ground and Remus watches the surrounding crowd descend on them like a pack of wild animals. His head rings with words that don’t make sense and he thinks that the smile the man gives him has a cold edge to it when he turns back to Remus like he’s expecting a thank you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Remus jerks the man’s hand down, rasping where the words grate on his sandpaper throat and shoving him away. “What is wrong with you?”

He blinks and tilts his head at Remus like he’s not sure where the question is coming from, why Remus is asking, like he didn’t see what just happened right there at all. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, okay? I think you might have hit your head a little hard.” He says, “Wait… Do I know you fr--?”

Something soars overhead, and Remus rolls to the side and hunkers down as Dee’s draconic form sweeps over the crowd and nearly decapitates everyone still standing. Piercing screams echo in the crowd so loud Remus doesn’t hear whatever else the man says.

The man who helped him up, the man who looks like no one to remember, the man who just did something to that other person that made them not use their power, that man shoves both his hands into the air toward where--

--Dee is and Remus watches in horror as Dee’s fierce expression flips to a confused one. His glorious golden wings flap, once, twice, and then they vanish without a trace.

He’s been confused before, he’s been terrified before, he’s been scared. He’s seen Dee get shot, get run over, get hit until he bleeds. He’s seen Dee laugh at broken bones, seen him choke on his own body fluids, seen his eyes good dark and empty and lifeless. Remus has been scared, but that’s nothing compared to his feelings when he watches Dee drop like a stone through the air.

Remus knows what that fall feels like, he knows how his stomach swoops at the sudden empty air, how the air feels like daggers, how dreadterrorregret fills his lungs until he can’t even take that last breath. He doesn’t want Dee to know. Please, he can’t know, please Remus needs to stop this, fix it, please pleasepleaseplease--

--Dee is and Remus moves before he even knows what he’s doing. His blood is pumping so hard he thinks it's amazing that all his blood vessels don’t pop on him. He swings his elbow back with everything that he has in him, everything he can spare and then the stuff he can’t, because that was Dee and Remus would do anything for him. The man’s glasses shatter under Remus’s attack and he stumbles backwards several steps in shock. Remus follows him with a kick to his stomach that throws the stranger who can take away the only thing protecting Dee at the moment to the ground.

“DEE!” Remus shouts, glancing up because he has to make sure that he’s still in the air.

“You!” The man chokes on his own breath, looking up at Remus with something that might have been betrayal. “You’re with him!” 

And then--

--from behind him something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and pinches there touching his skin. Remus inhales just as he realizes what it could be and then there’s white hot electricity coursing through his flesh. Remus feels every joint he has lock up, feels pain wrack through his body and ricochet around his bones like the worst game of pingpong, feels the tortured scream carve out of his lungs as he falls forward and his skin bubbles and melts around the prongs of the taser that does not have a safety setting engaged.

He head hits the asphalt and his vision fades and Janus is screaming his name in the worst way possible--

--from behind him something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and pinches, hooking on his skin, and Remus lunges away, but he’s not fast enough. There’s white hot electricity coursing through his flesh. Remus hears the crackling of violent arcs break through his skin, hears the way that his scream terrorizes the air far worse than that time he dropped a toaster into the bathtub with himself, hears the way that Dee screams his name and lands on the ground next to them.

He head hits the asphalt and his vision fades and Dee wrapping his arms around him in the last embrace he’s going to get--

--from behind him and Remus twists to the side before something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and stick there. He wants to vomit, but he’s more focused on throwing his body forward and tackling the police officer who just killed him twice and will not get the satisfaction of doing it again. Remus snarls as the man tries to bat him away. 

Remus might not have any intensive training, but he spent four years homeless, learning about the world from the streets of it. He spent more than his fair share of nights sleeping in alleys before he realized that he could use his power to find an empty hotel room for the night, a sucker that would give him money, an odd job that would get him off the street. 

He’s been in fights. This is nothing compared to those fights. 

He feels woozy, flighty: like his bones were replaced with helium and lead at the same time. He doesn’t dare let that stop him. He survived a 3 AM that never ended and he’ll survive this too. He didn’t need to see the future for that.

His knuckles hit the bullet proof padding, hard enough to send jolts through both of them. The officer swings an arm out, but Remus ducks under it and kicks his foot around the man’s ankle. There’s blood on his chin, screaming in his ears, the scent of burning flesh in his nose, and Remus grins as he shoves his palm into the officer’s face. Before the guy knows what is happening he’s on the ground again and Remus is slamming his heel into that visor so hard it shatters. 

He thinks he might be laughing, wheezing, as the blood welds up over the man’s nose and his eyes roll back. Remus brings a shaking palm up to his mouth and smears away his blood as much as he can, because it feels like he’s choking on it again. His eyes are searing and he’s almost surprised he’s not bleeding from them too.

Dee uses a brick wall of a building as a launch board to throw himself back at The Prince in the middle of the blocked off area. He flips mid flight, and whips his tail out of nowhere to land a blow that Remus can’t see if it hits or not.

“Motherfuck--” Dee’s shouts through that earpiece Remus forgot he’d been wearing. He hisses, with a stinging edge that matches pitch to the ringing in Remus’s head. “Do you know what this suit cost, you ingrate!”

Remus can’t breathe and is breathing too fast at the same time. He spins around searching through the chaos for something, someone, he doesn’t know-- what does Dee need from him? What is he supposed to do here? The man in the blue polo is gone and Remus can’t find him which means that he can’t see, not that he can see regularly, not that people aren’t still running around, screaming, the water pipes in a building didn’t burst and the metal of a few lamp posts isn’t warping, there aren’t trampled bodies everywhere he looks.

“Dee,” Remus coughs, choking on ragged words. “Hold on a moment. Let me get somewhere…. where I can... fucking see. Fuck!”

“That would be lovely dear,” Dee says although it sounds like he just ate asphalt and didn’t really hear what Remus said. “The Prince is being disagreeable.”

“I can’t...imagine why,” Remus says. “Personally, I love getting my... throat torn out.”

“We’re going to have a lovely conversation about your masochism, darling,” Dee says, and spits out whatever else is in his mouth and then grunts and swears again. There’s the startling sound of metal on asphalt and Remus’s brain tries and fails to configure the scene playing out where they are.

“It might be a pain kink at this point,” Remus says as he dodges between unfamiliar and panicking strangers he can barely see. He’s afraid if he wipes the tears from his eyes he’ll get whatever of the gas that’s in his jacket in them again. He can’t let that happen, not now, not when Dee needs him, and he knows that he can’t stifle the panic if he does. He sends a kick to the back of another armed policeman in the middle of aiming a taser at someone else.

Dee growls something at The Prince. Distantly, Remus hears what sounds like someone or something slamming into a car, and he thinks he sees the roof of the news van jostle along with the new round of screaming. 

“I would love to know all your kinks,” Dee manages after another second. “Fuck-- how is he doing this?”

Remus ducks out of the way of a blue post office mail box sailing through the air, missing him by inches, but taking out a police officer he hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t get to see who threw it, but he thanks them, whoever they are. 

He needs to be closer to the fight again, closer to that eye of the hurricane that’s blocked off with crowd controlling barriers, closer than he is now so that he can do something. He jumps over a body, nearly tripping on an abandoned purse. A large shadow sweeps the area again, and Remus catches sight of Dee in the air, with his arm at a terrible unnatural angle. Remus thinks he feels his blood catch in his body freezing all at once despite the rapid pace of his throat bound heart.

Dee doesn’t seem to see him at all, his gaze is stuck solely on where Remus assumes The Perfect Punchable Prince is. There’s a shattering sound of gunshots from somewhere that echoes off of the walls of the surrounding buildings, but Dee remains in the air alright and fine and holding his shattered arm carefully.

His expression is contorted into something awful, something bad enough that even from the ground Remus can make it out perfectly and hates the sight of it-- the amount of pain he must be in, the pain that he never should have felt, the pain that Remus would take on wholeheartedly without a hesitation if he had the ability to sap it away from Dee. But before he can say anything Dee’s arm warps, twists, snaps back into place, and Dee snarls as he rolls his neck and flexes his fingers again.

“Did you just heal yourself?” Remus asks breathlessly, almost certain that his itching eyes are playing a trick on him. 

“Surely this came up in one of your futures before, darling,” Dee says without taking his gaze off his opponent.

Remus doesn’t say that in all of his futures Dee is too dead to show off, dead before Remus can get to him, dead before there’s even a hope for him to think about healing himself, dead, dead, dead. He doesn’t think it matters. There’s a feeling in his chest that blossoms and blooms and fills him like helium in a balloon threatening to take off with him. Dee’s wings flap powerfully to keep him in the air and Remus wonders how they would feel under his fingertips. Leathery, maybe? Somewhere between vinyl and bare skin maybe-- Remus doesn’t know enough about birds, bats, wings in general to know the answer. 

“Serpent!” The Prince shouts from somewhere on the ground. Remus thinks for a moment he can see the man through the crowd, but it's too much of a blur. There’s smoke in the air now, a fire from a nearby building, and Remus feels it burn acridly in his throat, heavy flumes of it sweeping through the crowd and obscuring the ground around them. Remus can almost hear the sirens in the background.

“I hope you aren’t referring to me, Prince,” Dee says with a bit of a hiss.

“Don’t you see what your actions have caused?” The Prince yells and Remus thinks the sound of his voice is grating. His knuckles crave to jam themselves down the superhero’s throat and rip out his voice box, just to make sure he stops talking forever.

“Me?” Dee says. “You are the one who wanted a crowd and a ceremony and a fight. I shouldn’t be surprised. One can’t pretend to be a hero without making someone else the villain!”

“You started this fight, Wyvern,” The Prince shouts back. “Crashing onto the stage and then attempting to kill me.”

“If you’re going to call names like a child, use my actual name,” Dee says, “Basilisk.”

The name sends shivers down Remus’s spine, and he isn’t sure if it's the good kind or the bad kind. His blood is pumping so heavily he thinks it should have drowned out all the other noise. 

Basilisk. Like the Casino where they had met. Like the mythical animal that could kill with a glance. Like a warning and a threat and a challenge. Remus swells with an emotion that’s so bright he’s not sure he can put a name to it, he just knows that he’s never felt it before: so proud, so happy, so thrilled. Dee chose his name and the rest of the world will know it.

((Part of Remus wonders how long he’s had it picked out, how long had he whispered it under his breath when Remus wasn’t there to hear it, how long Dee had thought about having his name up there in the lights outshining The Prince’s.))

“Basilisk,” The Prince snarls. “What type of person answers to the call of a monster’s name?!”

“The King of Serpents,” Dee shoots back. “The killer of foolish knights, and even stupider princes.”

“Now who’s name-calling like a child?!”  The Prince yells. 

It would have been comedic really, if it weren’t for the smoke and the screams and the gunfire. If it weren’t for Remus’s heart beating out of his chest and his mouth tasting like vinegarcopperasphalt and his ankle crying in a pain he can’t afford to actually think about. He thinks about leaving, about running away, about escaping alone but Dee’s life is on the line and Remus needs to make sure he makes it through this because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Dee dies.

((That’s a lie. Remus does know what he’ll do if Dee dies because he’s seen it a million times before, in a million other places, with a million other feelings and still no one there to mourn whoever he was and whatever he could have been. Remus is twenty one and he knows that if Dee dies there will be no more reasons not to break that promise to his seventeen year old self. He knows, he knows, he knows.))

He’s closer to the fight now, back to where he had been before the riot chaos. Most of the crowd is gone, leaving smokey forms that Remus only semi recognizes from his nightmares. The crowd barriers have been shoved, there are bodies on the ground, the news van is jostled and the crew abandoned it in favor of maybe not ending up with their blood all over the place.

All of them except that techie in purple with the headphones and the face mask. 

“Hey,” Remus says, slamming against the van next to him. The techie stares at him like he’s lost his mind-- and to be honest, that’s fair. He’s got more blood outside of him than inside, and he’s pretty sure the imprint of him is plastered on the side of the car now: a red silhouette to go with the station logo. His eyes are red rimmed, his smile twisted and pained, and it’s only his own inertia that was holding him up. “Don’t mind me.”

The guy is holding a phone peaking, around the corner of the van, dutifully filming Dee barely dodging getting shish kabobbed by The Prince’s rapier and he looks very much like he minds  Remus’s presence within 10,000 feet of him, but is too terrified to move.

Remus doesn’t blame him; where would he go anyway? Into the disassembled crowd where the horror movie screams come with real blood and tear gas was just used on hoards of innocent people for no reason with no warning? Into the arena where The Prince and Dee were taking turns causing massive destruction to public property without a care in the world? Remus doesn’t blame him from hunkering down behind the cover of his news van and praying for this hell to end.

He is a bit curious as to who’s watching this video he’s taking, though. 

Dee twists in the air dodging The Prince’s attacks on his wings, by a hair's breadth. Remus swears for a second that the silver shining rapier slices through Dee entirely, but Dee’s back in the air the next moment, fluttering back out of reach and catching his breath for both of them.

“You fight like a coward!” The Prince yells from the ground, swiping his sword in a motion that is illegal in Fencing. His red mask gleams like blood, but Remus can’t see a speck of it anywhere else on him, not even a scuff from where he fell off the stage moments ago.

((Was it moments? Remus’s head rings with the question. Was it moments? An hour? Days? Lifetimes? He died, Dee died, the strangers in the street died-- how long ago was it that none of that ever happened?))

Dee looks scratched and scarred to high hell by comparison: his suit is in tatters, slices through his left side and his right shoulder, tears in both sleeves where he gave up human hands for scaled claws and sharpened talons, and he was missing a pant leg at the knee, as well as both his shoes that he loved so dearly. Despite his apparent healing abilities blood was trailing from scratches not fully closed up around his elbow, his shoulder, one cheek.

The two of them had to have been fighting this whole time but Remus gets the sinking, sickening, drowning feeling that Dee hasn’t landed a single blow at all.

Which considering the bodies of unconscious police officers piled around them all like lifeless dolls, seems incredibly unreal. Remus saw Dee fight. There’s no way. It’s not possible.

“It’s not fighting like a coward to use your own advantages over your enemies,” Dee says, to The Prince. He steadies himself in the air, his wings and scales glowing gold. “Surely you’re familiar with that idea? You have all the marks of her other training.”

The Prince steadies his stance, shifting his weight around on the toes of his feet like he’s considering the pros and cons of launching himself into the air. Remus hopes he does it just to see Dee catch him by the throat and send him hurling back to the ground hard enough to create a crater he can’t dig his mortal bones out of. 

“If you are trying to suggest something,” The Prince says, “your cryptic theatrics are getting in the way, villain.”

“You think you’re the first Hero she ever trained?” Dee asks. “Think your something special? Going to make all the difference in the world? She’s playing you like a fiddle!”

“You’re one to talk, Janus,” a voice says and Remus swears it comes from everywhere around him. His lungs seize so hard he chokes on the air, the shearing pain in his throat tearing at his vocal chords. The voice sounds like thunder, like a foghorn, like a car alarm at 3AM waking everyone who was previously enjoying their evening.

But Dee doesn’t shift like he heard it at all, and the The Prince doesn’t even look around. Remus’s heart hammers in his chest, stretching his skin, his muscles, his insides as far as they’ll go and the only thing he gets from it is the techie twisting glance at him with a semi raised eyebrow, before he turns back to the standoff in front of them.

Janus. Remus knows that name, doesn’t he? It’s on the tip of his tongue, the edges of his mind, the fog of futures he’s seen and hasn’t seen. He knows that name, he knows who that is, he knows--

--but he doesn’t have a chance to figure it out because Dee is lunging downwards at The Prince, so fast that Remus thinks if he had blinked he might have missed the movement entirely. One moment Dee is in the air, the next his heel is slamming into The Prince’s sword arm shoulder, and from the way that the superhero’s body crumples Remus can bet that his whole foot had shifted into something that was probably lethal. 

The Prince hits the ground with a satisfying smack, letting Dee bounce off him and land another five feet away with a self satisfied, deeply relieved smirk. The Prince cradles his arm, his white outfit soaking with red, his face gnarled with painangerfear as Dee turns around methodically. The hero fruitlessly claws the ground for his rapier but Dee snaps his tail and knocks it out of reach. 

“Give up, Prince,” Dee tells him. “Unlike you, I don’t want a fight. That shoulder needs medical attention and there are people other there that need you.”

“A hero never gives up!” The Prince says and Remus swears that he’s heard that voice before, that tone before, those words before in a way that’s beyond time. They ring in his head, hollow and cold and empty: ghosts made of memories that Remus hated and couldn’t get rid of and that taste like a brother whom Remus once killed.

“She is using you,” Dee says stepping forward until he’s towering over the hero. “Don’t you see that, my prince? You’re worth more than being her puppet.”

“She saved me when I was at my lowest,” The Prince spits back.

“She probably put you there, too,” Dee says, clinically. “Dragana Witchall is not your friend. She’s not a savoir. She’s not a good person, no matter what she’s told you. She doesn’t want what's best for anyone other than herself and the moment you realize that she will do everything in her power to silence you. I’ve seen it happen before.”

There’s a twisted look on The Prince’s face, and Remus’s heart thumps in his chest, near to bursting, his tongue tastes like blood, and his eyes burn with the need to close them and never open them again, but he doesn’t want to miss a second of this.

“She…” 

Dee shakes his head. “Come with us, my Prince,” Dee says oh-so-softly, offering a hand to the Prince. “Shake off her lies and let us save the world before anyone gets hurt anymore. We can do it… together.”

The Prince stares at the hand and Remus, for all that he wants to punch the guy in his teeth, wants to rip out his vocal chords, wants to bury him alive, exhales giddily with Dee when the superhero takes Dee’s hand.--

--but he doesn’t have a chance to figure it out because Dee is lunging downwards at The Prince, so fast that Remus thinks if he hadn’t known it would happen he might have missed the movement entirely. One moment Dee is in the air, the next there’s a flicker of green light and Dee’s fist is--

What the fuck.

Remus hits the side of the news van, choking on blood that’s pouring from his nose and puddling in his throat where oxygen should be. His vision dances with static, buzzing in and out of focus, but he knows what’s going on: Dee’s fist came down on The Prince swinging with a velocity that might have killed a lesser man, but there was a flash of green, a slight side step, and suddenly Dee was on the ground grunting through the pain of a broken hand.

The Prince raises his rapier to Dee’s neck, millimeters from his skin, and Remus’s breathing shallows so sharply it gets clotted up with the blood as well. The Techie inches forward, his hands shaking as he tries to catch every moment of this nightmare. 

“Surrender, villain,” He says. “You cannot continue to heal yourself at this rate.”

Remus feels the scream trapped in his lungs, crushing against his ribs until he’s certain it will shatter outwards. He doesn’t… this isn’t… He didn’t see this. Why didn’t he see this? Why did Dee attack with his fist? How did the Prince know to side step? 

He can’t… It doesn’t make any sense. His palms tingle with the memories of futures that didn’t happen four years ago: shoving a body down the stairs, shattering a snowglobe against a temple, wrapping around a neck and squeezing for so long that his hand print follows Roman to the afterlife. Futures that didn’t happen based on a conversation that had but shouldn’t have. 

Remus’s head pounds, shooting pain from right behind his eyes, that mixes in with the ache from the tear gas. What happened? Why did it… why didn’t it...

“She is using you,” Dee spits up at the hero. “Don’t you see that?”

“You are blinded by your hatred and jealousy--”

“Oh please,” Dee hisses out. “As if I would deign myself to a motivation so cliché.”

“Snake,” The Prince says, but whatever else is drowned out by a strangled yelp when Dee shoves his injured hand up and catches the blade of the sword with enough force to knock it away from his neck. There’s a clattering of scales against metal that Remus thinks he heard once in a movie about slaying a dragon and Dee hisses out in pain as he vaults away to put distance between the two of them again, getting rid of his wings in favor of sharper claws.

“Darling,” Dee says, and it takes Remus a moment to realize he’s the one being addressed. “Enjoying the show?”

“If you aren’t careful... MARVEL is going to be stealing rights for this action sequence from under us,” Remus says, bringing a hand up to clutch at his chest and wondering for a second if it would make sense to tear open his ribcage so that his lungs would have better access to oxygen.

“Disney is a greed based cooperation that’s next on my list to take down, right after the FBE,” Dee says.

The Prince inhales sharply, angrily, offendly. “You would destroy Disney, you monster? I was going to have mercy on you but that’s too far!”

Dee spreads a hand towards the streets around them. “There are people in trouble, possibly dying out there and the thing that makes you upset is Disney?”

The Prince, at least, looks uncomfortable about that. 

“Re,” Dee says, “Lead me.”

The Prince steadies his blade, “I don’t know who you’re talking to but--”

--Remus doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Rush him while he’s talking, go low, and strong arm his legs from under him.”

Dee is moving almost before the words are out of Remus’s mouth and, god, does Remus never get tired of that. Of Dee trusting him, of Dee not hesitating, of Dee believing in Remus. Dee soars across the road, taking The Prince in a razor sharp slice: Dee’s left arm laid out and sweeping under The Prince’s sword to take out his feet. 

The Prince slams forward and hits the ground so hard that Remus thinks his face imprints on the asphalt.

Dee picks up the rapier and lowers it at the hero’s neck just as he rolls over bleeding from every orifice on his face. “It’s over, my Prince. Give up.”--

--Remus doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Rush him while he’s talking, go low, and strong arm his legs from under him.”

Dee is moving almost before the words are out of Remus’s mouth and Remus is so caught up in the jubilee of being heard that he almost misses the flash of green that flickers around The Prince.

“WAIT--!” Remus yells, but The Prince is jumping in the air doing a perfect flip over Dee’s attack that he shouldn’t have ever seen coming and definitely shouldn’t have been able to dodge.

Dee lands with a roll that brings him back to his feet. “Re, what was that?”

“I don’t know,” Remus says, spitting blood from his mouth. “Shit.”

The techie swivels to look at him again, at the blood trailing down Remus’s chin, at the unsteadiness of Remus’s stance. If it weren’t for the headphones the guy would have been able to hear everything already, and Remus isn’t sure if he’d run away screaming, or drop into a dead faint. He wasn’t even thinking about what the guy’s recording was picking up.

That’s a problem for another day. Assuming they make it through this one.

Dee lunges backwards out of the way of The Prince’s next attack, avoiding it without Remus’s help, and part of Remus is grateful for that. He can’t tell which is the terror of Dee being in a fight with The Prince still or the panic of not being able to see what’s happening anymore but he knows he’s drowning in both in a way that’s unhelpful.

Dee rolls under--

--The Prince’s swipe, millimeters away from an unwanted haircut. Remus can hear the heavy huffing of his breath, of the ache of Dee’s bones, the shake in his limbs from exertion. He kicks a foot to force the hero back, but the reprieve is short. The Prince’s charismatic stupid smile is gone replaced with a determination that makes Remus’s teeth grind together.

The Prince lunges forward, blocking Dee from escaping with a motion that swings upwards and across and reminds Remus of how he drew 7’s before his kindergarten teacher verbally humiliated it out of him. Dee’s face snaps to the side glistening with a new cut that digs through his scales and leaves him hissing in pain.--

--The Prince’s swipe and Remus’s mouth is moving as fast as he can: “He’s leaving his right side wide open. If you duck you can get the back of his calf and decrease his range of motion.”

Dee makes a noise that Remus thinks is grateful, hopes is grateful, prays-to-gods-he-doesn’t-believe-in is grateful. Dee is slower than Remus would have wanted him to be, but when The Prince drags his rapier through the air, it sails over Dee’s head and Dee’s claws slice through his calf muscle as Dee slips away.

“Mother of Pearls!” The Prince shouts, stumbling. “How did you…?”

Dee heaves several breaths, flexing his claws dripping with patches of scarlet. “Finally.”

“Villain!” The Prince snarls.

“We’ve been over this, honey. It’s Basilisk,” Dee shows off his fangs. Remus thinks the relief is hysterical, a gulp of fresh air after he’s been underwater for so long. 

The Prince snarls, something animalistic and Remus wishes he could show the whole world it: this is your Prince, this is your fake hero, this is the idiot in charge of everything and look how angry he is over a little cut. Remus has had worse than him and he’s never complained about it!

“ZEAL!” The Prince yells to the open air, “A hand, please!”

“Just one?” A voice responds from across the area, and Remus feels his blood go cold, his knees go weak, his mind go silent in a way it’s definitely not supposed to.

Remus doesn’t know how the man in the blue cardigan who looks like no one at all got all the way over there, but there he is crouching next to a fallen police guard checking for a pulse. He stands up at the call, looking vastly out of place in the scenery.

“Well, if my prince requests it!” He says with his voice drifting like a dream in the chaos. “I’ll give you both of them!”

“Dee, move. Move, NOW!” Remus yells just as the character raises their hands and white lights begin to flicker on the fingertips. They look like stars, like spheres of sunlight, like little harmless rays that probably would feel nice, but Remus can still hear the sound of Dee’s body hitting the ground in a future that he stopped, a future he prevented, a future he does not ever want to see happen again. 

Dee throws himself into a back handspring and twists himself over the beams of light, and Remus can’t catch his breath anyway. 

“Do I want to know what those did, dearest?” Dee puffs out. 

“Bad,” Remus says.

“Delightful,” Dee says, taking another step back, except that he’s sandwiched between the Prince and that guy-- god the partner. Remus can’t believe they forgot about them, the mysterious person only alluded to, and never seen, except that now Remus is seeing him and can’t look away. Of course it would be someone who can take away powers. Of course it would. 

Remus is going to vomit.

 If Dee turns his back to the Prince he won’t see the sword, if he turns his back to the partner, he won’t see the angle of the rays; Remus has a sinking feeling in his… everything all of a sudden.

“I’m running out of patience, Dragon,” The Prince says.

“How hard is it to remember the term Basilisk?” Dee prods.

The Prince sets himself for another attack. “You’re trapped. There’s no way out. Come quietly and we can get you medical attention and discuss whatever it is that you deemed necessary to harm hundreds for.”

“Will that be before or after Dragana Witchall has my head removed from my body?” Dee asks. 

“If you just talk to her--”

“Heh.”

Remus feels the inside of his ears pop from pressure he didn’t know he was experiencing. That voice-- coming from everywhere and nowhere and why doesn’t anyone else hear it? 

“--most of my life actually,” Janus is… no that’s Dee. Remus knows that’s Dee talking. Who is Janus? The pain in his head is sharp, like a nail driving directly into his cranium, like brain surgery without putting him under, like dying but without the death part. He doesn’t know Janus.

Does he?

“She’s not who she says she is,” Dee finishes. “She’s--”

“I’m growing tired of your stubbornness,” The Prince says in an astounding moment of pure irony that twists Remus’s intestines into knots and loops them around his neck like a noose. “Surrender with dignity, snake.”

“We don’t want to hurt you,” the partner, Zeal, adds.

Dee doesn’t say anything to them. Remus focuses on the sound of his breaths, on the movement of his chest, on the phantom feel of Dee’s lips on his own from so long ago. Remus’s brain whispers about rain on a balcony, about fire in a mall, about gunshots in a casino, but he reaches past that, past everything, past the past itself.

His domain is the future. 

“Are you at your limit?” Dee asks him. “I can do this by myself if I must.”

“What’s a limit?” Remus says. “How much blood is a human supposed to have again?” 

“More than that, dumbass,” that voice says, and Remus blinks because Dee’s head tilts and he looks like he heard it too.

“Virgil,” Dee says in a tone Remus can’t describe. “Come to play?”

Remus is vaguely aware of the techie in purple shifting forward, leaning towards the fight, still shaking from every limb. For a moment, he thinks that maybe this mysterious voice is coming from him, but it’s too clear, too loud, too calm to be from someone wearing a face mask and shaking the way this guy is so far away from where Dee is having his standoff.

“You made a friend,” Virgil, whoever he is, from wherever he is, says. 

“I got lonely,” Dee says. “And bored.”

“Bored enough to become public enemy number one?”

“Enough, Basilisk!” The Prince yells, “Give yourself up! You’re surrounded and you have all of this carnage to take responsibility for! Your partner may continue to hide in the shadows, but you can tell him we will find him and bring him to justice as well!”

“Or her! Or them!” Zeal tacks on. “Or xem-- we’re all inclusive here.” 

“Right!” The Prince says, self righteously. He looks a lot like he does on TV and Remus’s fists itch to punch the screen all over again. “Surrender and end this.”

“You know what will happen if you do,” Virgil’s voice says.

“If the peanut gallery could please keep out of this,” Dee hisses. “That would be nice. I’m thinking.”

“Thinking just like you were when you leapt across that stage?” Remus asks. “Or actually thinking this time?”

Dee makes a face that’s vaguely affronted, a dusting of pink over his ears that Remus might have thought was from exertion if he didn’t know better.

“Do you want an apology?” He asks and Remus is only semi thinking about saying yes you motherfucker, when we get out of this I’m going to strangle you myself because somehow you don’t know what you mean to me at all and you just keep dying and cannot handle watching that again, how did I ever do it the first several billion times? 

“I think an apology is a good start,” The Prince says.

“I was not talking to you,” Dee snaps. 

“I’m giving you fifteen more seconds, snake,” The Prince says, anyway. “Put your hands up and get on the ground or I will put you on the ground myself.”--

-- Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and everything that comes with it. The hero shifts as the seconds tick, inaudible and yet unmissable. Then The Prince sighs in disappointment and levels his rapier. 

“You leave me no choice,” he says. “Zeal.”

The man in the blue polo grins again at the call and flicks his hands towards Dee, with balls of white light dancing on his fingertips. Dee launches into the air with his wings flicking out, but the Prince is behind him in the next instant jumping and plunging his blade through the thin skin layers between the bones. 

Dee lets out a scream as the blade tears down and out of the wing, like a knife through a sail, like scissors through fabric, like an earring being ripped out of an ear. He flings downwards and hits the ground again and before he can think of moving a soft beam of white light hits him. 

Dee convulses, he yelps, he tries to get up, but the Prince’s boot is on his chest pinning him down again and Dee’s out of tricks.--

--Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and everything that comes with it.

“Zeal is going to shoot a beam, if you take the sky the Prince gets your wing.” Remus says.

Dee nods, and then without giving anyone any warning he launches towards Zeal, who doesn’t loose his stupid smile at all. He raises a hand like he’s going to high five Dee, and those white lights come out and suck away Dee’s transformation immediately. He lands on the ground at Zeal’s feet, with the asphalt tearing through his human flesh like it’s butter. --

--Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and thinks he hates it even more now. If he ever has to see another theater he’s going to set it on fire.

“Zeal is going to shoot a beam, if you take the sky the Prince gets your wing. Don’t fucking get near Zeal, dumbass.”

Dee nods and then without any sort of warning he lunges at The Prince, who parries him with his blade. The scales meet metal again and Dee hisses like he might spit venom, but the superhero grunts and forces him back with brute strength and not even Remus screaming give him enough time to prevent The Prince from shifting them around so that Zeal’s white beams of light hit Dee’s back.--

-- Dee doesn’t answer the hero.

“Can’t you turn into a beetle or something? Fly out of this,” Remus says. “Please.”

“That hopeless?” Dee asks him. “Okay.” And then he takes a deep breath and his form ripples and waves and pulls in on himself, like the reverse magic trick of pulling a rabbit out of a hat. 

“ZEAL!” The Prince shouts, and the white lights are flying towards him, even as Dee turns into a beetle and takes to the air. Remus screams as Dee is hit, even in such a small form, even at such a far distance, even against those impossible odds.--

--Dee doesn’t answer and Remus feels like throwing up. They need to win this, they need to get out of this, they need to escape, but Dee can’t and Remus can’t make him and… and... 

And there’s a glint of metal in the corner of his vision.

“You leave me no choice,” The Prince says, and Remus barely hears him because he’s staring at a glock of some police guard long lost and long forgotten and long waiting with the safety off already. 

This is a bad idea. Remus knows this is a bad idea. Its a bad idea, bad idea, bad ide--

-- Dee doesn’t answer and Remus is twenty-one years old with nothing to lose if Dee dies.

“Take The Prince, he’ll parry, but you’re stronger.” Remus says lunging for the gun on the ground because he’s insane and courting Death as much as he’s courting Dee. He's never held a gun before. It feels bad in his hands, feels weird, and strange and not at all like what he thought it was going to feel like.

Dee nods and lunges towards The Prince and Remus points his new glock at Zeal. The trigger practically pulls itself. Isn't that crazy?

The kickback is a shockwave that flies through Remus’s arm making it numb and the sound explodes just like his heart does in his chest. The shot goes wide, but it’s close enough to Zeal that he lets out a scream and his little rays of white light sail over both Dee and the Prince. Remus slams back into the side of the van out of sight of the heroes while his body shakes and his face pulls into a grin for a reason he can't explain. The techie is on the ground, covering the muffs of his headphones to press them tighter to his head.

“PAT!” The Prince shouts. 

“Was that you?” Dee asks. “What the fuck, Re!”

Remus shoves his hands over his nose, stifling the blood flow as much as he can, teargas be damned. His head is thrumping with pain, and Remus wants to scream. His vision is blotchy and patchy like the world’s worst video game. He can barely breathe between the metallic taste in his mouth and the liquid flowing out his nostrils . It’s like throwing himself at a brick wall and expecting a different outcome; he’s at his limit, that limit that Dee told him not to cross, that limit that he’ll gladly ignore if it means that Dee will get out of this safe and sound and--

And he can see a flicker of green light and Dee gasps right before The Prince manages to get under his distracted guard and haul him up in the air. Then there’s green light flickering, dancing, flashing and fading and Dee’s body hits the ground so hard it forms a crater around him and--

-- The Prince steps forward gracefully, gallantly. He walks like he’s standing on the air, filled with an energy that Remus thought only came from drinking five Five Hour Energies and besting Death at hand to hand combat even with that torn up leg. His rapier sways through the air pointing down at Dee’s body.

“Tell your partner to surrender,” the hero commands. “Now.” 

“I didn’t... expect him to do it either!” Dee says and it’s funny, Remus almost thinks that Dee is mad at him. That can’t be right! 

“Give up, Basilisk.” The Prince says again, “Before someone gets hurt.” 

Dee spits a mouthful of blood on the hero’s shoes. “People are already hurt! You are leading them to be hurt more, Prince! The FBE won’t help anyone!”

The Prince hesitates, maybe even uses that rusty brain in his head. “I…You truly believe that? Why can't you just trust me at my word?”

“What is the worth of your word?” Dee shoots back, scales glittering on the side of his face. “Anyone can go back on their words!”

Remus clings to the side of the van with white knuckles, tasting blood on his tongue and in the back of his mouth and on his lips. The hero is thinking, he’s thinking, and Remus thinks that maybe he can cross the distance quick enough to tackle the hero away from Dee and he’ll have a chance to escape.

“That is true,” the hero says. “Perhaps a sign of trust is then in order, then.”

Remus freezes.

The Prince reaches up slowly, plucking at the mask.

He should look away. Remus can’t look away.

Because he knows…he knows that face. He recognizes it. He’s seen that face a hundred million times before. He knows those lips, those brown eyes, that crinkle between his eyebrows and those unruly curls. He knows those cheekbones, and that jawline and the way that head tilts back when he laughs, and curls forward when he cries. Remus knows that face because he’s seen it every time he’s looked in a mirror, he’s been haunted by it for years now, been terrorized in the nights by that face. He’d seen that face covered in blood, that face gasping for air, that face crying and begging and anything to get him to stop, that face staring at him with a hateful vengeful ugly expression and saying “You can’t see the fut--”--

Remus leaves a bloody handprint on the hood of the news van as he vaults it and the techie in purple. His lungs scream in agony, but Remus can’t hear it at all. His heartbeat is thunderous, yet even that is nothing compared to the bloodlust washing over his mind.

Dee’s head whips up, his mouth moving in some type of exclamation, but it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters other than the rage in his head, in his body, in his veins that floods his limbs with the need to move.

The Prince hears him coming and his rapier comes up in an offensive attack, that Remus blocks with his left forearm. The blade sinks into his flesh and blood pours down Remus’s elbow and on the asphalt and the only thing he can think is that falling off the balcony, that getting run over on highways, that falling asleep in a motel bathtub with bloody keys in his hands, all hurt a hundred times worse than this itty, bitty little scratch.

He laughs.

"Hey Roman!" Remus says in a parody of a delighted tone, and The Prince stumbles back. "It’s been a while!"

[Chapter Eight]

[smuttyanimeslut]

Dirty Text TicTok Trend

Honestly the tik tok trend where you text your significant other something dirty during a gathering of people has been living in my head rent free for the past couple of days so here’s this.

Pairing : Sakusa x gn!reader, Tsukishima x gn!reader, Kuroo x gn!reader, Tendo x gn!reader

Warnings: cussing, mentions of sexual activity, dirty text

Characters aged up 🥰

Sakusa

Alright so Sakusa is across from you while the whole team is playing a card game. He isn’t actually playing as much as he is drinking but that is besides the point.

That is when the idea struck you. You’ve been seeing people do the tik tok trend with their S.O. quiet a lot recently and you wanted to give it a shot. Now was the perfect time.

You waited until after your turn to begin typing the message. You wrote every fantasy you could think of that you wanted to do to or with this man and let me tell you, ya nasty but me to I stg.

Your message was so steam your OWN cheeks got red. This didn’t go unnoticed, let’s be honest every one is drinking and they’re all to the point where they have no filter.

Bokuto points it out first but you convince him that it’s the alcohol making you hot. Ya dirty lair.

You send the message and automatically grab the sanitizer out of your bag.

Let me tell you when I say his face went red underneath his mask I mean baby boy didn’t have enough blood circulating around his body his toes went numb.

By the time he looked up at you, you were already lathering the sanitizer into your skin.

That did it for him honestly he knew you mean BUISNESS.

literally this man got up from his seat, walked around the table to you very calmly, grabbed your hand and started PuLlInG you from the room.

You hardly had time to shout a goodbye to the group before y’all were out into the hall.

Trust me when I say he did everything on your list babes. And I mean EvErYtHiNg.

Tsukishima

I would just like to start off by saying I SIMP

Let’s just start off with the obvious here. Our baby Tsukki doesn’t like to go out with your guys friends to aften. They are a lot. So when Hinita mentioned a movie night you practically had to force him to join you.

Why you thought doing this trend on Tsukki would be a good idea is beyond me. Baby boy does not do well with embarrassment.

After the first movie ended, which you practically had to make Tsukki cuddle with you during (poor boy is not about PDA even in front of your close friends) everyone headed to the kitchen to refill on snacks.

That is when you decided to make your move. You know that Tsukishima likes to be the dom but you also know that he may or may not have quietly stated that he may or may not want you to take control sometimes.

That’s how you got his cheeks burning. You telling him exactly how you were going to dominate him drove him insane.

When his eyes bet yours over the kitchen island you could tell you were in trouble.

Honestly the part that shocked everyone is when he wrapped his arms around your waist and whispered into your ear. Willingly doing PDA? Unheard of.

“Is that what you want then brat.” He whispered, “then show me.”

Y’all left soon after and I stg his cocky attitude is how he ended up with your underwear in his mouth. Can’t talk now 😇

Kuroo

I wish I could draw I wish I could draw I wish I could draw

Anyways it was after practice. Kuroo had invited you to come watch him before you guys went to your study date. School is hard man.

And he didn’t mean to be ignoring you while he talked to his team but he totally was, dummy brained boy.

That’s when the idea hit you, and you knew it was trouble, but every bodies reaction on TikTok had been golden so you figured his would be to.

Wrong, this boy lives on TikTok don’t even fight me on this. For everyone video you saw, he saw 5. Not to say it prepared him for the dirty message you sent him, bc he stopped breathing for a full 20 seconds before a smirk made its way on to his face.

“Kitten if you wanted to do that you just had to ask.” He started, “there is a storage closet right there we can go to if you want.”

We hate this man I stg. You couldn’t help the blush on your cheeks as the entire team stared at you. He knew what he was doing, and he knew the team would know what he meant by his words.

Evil man.

So what did you do? You turned on your heels and left. What else were you supposedly do, you are litterally dying on the inside.

Kuroo, knowing he embarrassed the fuck out of you, quickly followed behind and wrapped his arms around your waist promising you all the snacks in the world if you wouldn’t be mad at him.

How could you be though, you had tried to embarrass him and he’s just do much better at turning that shit around on you it isn’t funny.

That’s okay though because after you studied for 10 minutes he gave you a different type of lesson.

Tendo

The absolute disrespect on this mans name I stg. Why is there no tendo content? I love him so much

Tendo knew what you were gonna do before you were going to do it. Actually he just knew something was up when you kept trying to text where he wouldn’t see it.

This man, no matter where you are, always has to be touching you. Y’all at a cafe? He sat beside you and your thighs are touching. You’re doing a study date? He has his head in your lap so you can’t study. Handing out with the team? You are between his legs and his head is rested on your shoulder. When I say he is always touching you, I mean it.

It’s his love language what can I say.

The day in question isn’t any different. All of the guys decided that while they had off of volley ball they would do a gaming contest. (I mean ALL the guys. The competition between these school lives on and off the court smh)

So with half the guys playing in one room and the other half in another, there wasn’t much room. Tv wires and gaming consoles took up most of the floor leaving little room to sit.

With all the couch spots taken it wasn’t surprising when Tendo plopped on the ground in front of the coffee table. He pulled you down between his thighs and wrapped his arms around you.

That is how the two of you stayed while he played his game.

While he was preoccupied you made your move.

Honestly it took him a while to check his phone. He forgot it had vibrated three matches ago, and had stumbled across the text when checking the time.

You felt his whole body tense up before it relaxed again except for the now hard member pressed into your back.

You could feel his hot breath on your ear.

You knew he was smiling, he always smiled.

“Is that so?” He questioned placing a kiss to your neck. “Does that mean it’s time to go or should we be quick in the bathroom?”

Honestly friend you decide my simp ass would let him do whatever the fuck he wanted to.

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

[chroniccombustion]

Caught in The Grey (ch 6)

Genre: Trans!AU, hurt/comfort, romance, angst with a happy ending Rated: T Characters: Souji Seta (Yu Narukami), Yosuke Hanamura, Naoto Shirogane, Kanji Tatsumi, Investigation Team, Izanagi/Shadow!Souji Warnings: depression, dysphoria, disassociation, self-hatred, implied suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, mentions of homophobia, implied past child abuse and transphobia, canon-typical violence, mild sexual content Status: multi-chapter, incomplete

Playlist: Spotify | Youtube <- previous chapter | next chapter -> (unavailable)

Souji is talking to Kanji.

Souji is walking with Kanji.

Yosuke feels something inside of him twist sharply. He feels… sick.

Chapter 6: On the Outside, Waiting

“I was only in my mind, You were on the outside waiting. I could feel you all the time. Your voice could save me...”

- (“Echo”, Starset)

Thursday absolutely creeps into existence.

Yosuke wakes with a vicious headache. It doesn’t start off slowly, either; from his first moment of consciousness, even before opening his eyes, his head feels like something has been trying to claw its way out from inside his skull while he slept. It thrums just behind his eyeballs, leaving everything tinted ever-so-slightly yellow around the edges with each pulse. He digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets in an attempt to lesson the pressure, but all he gets for his troubles is a stinging, lingering starburst behind his lids – not even ten minutes into the day and Yosuke’s mood is already beyond all hope of saving. So, bleary and exhausted, he forces himself to ooze out of bed like melted wax. He gets up, frowning against the sickening dizziness, the weird sallow hue, and drags himself through the house to get ready for the day.

Going about his morning routine feels like he’s wading through wet concrete. The constant pain keeps his stomach just barely at the point right before nausea, and as he sidesteps around Teddie in their new “brotherly tradition” of communal teeth-brushing, Yosuke has to actively fight the urge to just go back to bed and stay there until Monday. Maybe if he hits a hard reset he can write off the Endless Week from Hell as just another nightmare; fuck knows he’s had enough weird dreams lately that one more wouldn’t mean much at this point.

He doesn’t though. He powers through the motions on pure muscle memory and diverts what little willpower he does manage to scrape together towards putting on a mask of normalcy. It sticks in place precariously, like dried, cracking glue that’s flaking off under too much heat and wear. He keeps the façade going as best he can, however, because despite wishing he could just evaporate into nothingness, Yosuke doesn’t want Teddie to think he’s pissed off at him. (Because he isn’t, not specifically, even if the bear’s enthusiasm for everything is a dozen kinds of irritating this morning.) So Yosuke does his best to try and keep his mental and physical discomfort as close to secret as possible.

More than being worried that Teddie will take it personally, though, Yosuke just doesn’t want his little brother to ask at all. The reserves of energy Yosuke normally has tucked away have not yet been replenished after days of continuous draining. Even the overflow of nervous, anxious energy that comes from his brain and not his body and makes it impossible for him to sit still half the time; he just… doesn’t have it. There’s simply nothing left that he can spare, not even for Teddie.

So Yosuke swallows down the pressure in the back of his throat that threatens to choke him and pretends that nothing is wrong, that his head isn’t pounding like it’s about to explode and he’s two steps away from giving up for the day. He speaks when Teddie prompts him to, answering questions or responding as needed and staying quiet with it’s not. He lets the chatty blond fill the silence for him, instead, and uses Teddie’s unnatural lack of a need for air to his advantage. For the most part, it seems to work in his favor.

Teddie doesn’t notice – or at least, Yosuke doesn’t think he notices – and by the time Yosuke has to leave for school he’s almost convinced that his act has been bought. It’s only at the last minute, when he glances up for no real reason while slipping on his shoes and spots Teddie in the entryway next to him, that he catches the odd sideways look his brother is pinning him with. Yosuke gives him an overly sunny smile as he opens the door, pretending to both his brother and himself that he doesn’t see the frown on Teddie’s face, and finally slumps out into the chilly morning air.

He tries not to think about it for long.

The sky outside is drearier than it has any right to be as he begins trudging along the path to school. He’s actually a little glad for it – the diluted sunlight is just low enough that it doesn’t hurt his eyes and make his still-present headache worse the way a brighter, bluer morning might. Sadly, with his proverbial battery as drained as it is he can’t take much comfort from the lack of extra pain, and it does nothing to lift his mood from the murky depths of his own self-pity. So, even though the sun doesn’t bother him directly, Yosuke keeps his eyes trained on the concrete beneath his shoes as he walks and distributes his weight onto the balls of his feet to keep his own footsteps from jostling his brain.

He makes his way carefully down the familiar first part of the trek. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t pay attention to anything except the quiet music from his headphones – cranked down today so as not to exacerbate what he’s starting to think might be a migraine. Nothing happens; he’s never been so glad for uneventful monotony. He counts the cracks in the sidewalk as he crosses them and lets himself get lost in the repetition.

He doesn’t want to think – not about Souji, not about the dreams, not about the squirmy, guilty feelings low in his gut leftover from last night’s shitty texts. None of it.

He doesn’t want to think at all.

(He feels his knees start to buckle mid-step and has to forcibly blank out his mind to stop himself from remembering everything that’s made him question his own reality over the past few days, lest he turn right the fuck around and lock himself in his bedroom for a year.)

Surprisingly it seems to work; the awful, mocking voice isn’t there this morning, chewing at his memories and bringing them all into sharp relief. There is no harsh whispering in his ears, telling him all the ways he’s fucked up or how worthless and forgettable he is, how much Souji must secretly hate him or how disgusting Yosuke really is down inside. Instead there’s an eerie quiet, only broken by Yosuke’s own mind when he slips and lets his caged thoughts out for a moment. He can’t tell if he’s glad or unnerved.

He tries not to think about that, either.

(The yellow hue hasn’t gone away – he doesn’t know what that means but he’s pretty sure it’s nothing good.)

The mental silence feels like a cool breeze against a scalding sunburn for the short amount of time it lasts. It follows Yosuke the first third or so of the journey, numbing him to the streets and background highway noise within the couple-block radius around his house. But as much as he wishes it could last the entire day, Yosuke has long-since learned that nothing good or decent lingers around him for very long before vanishing and leaving him desperate for steady ground. All too soon, in little visual bits and pieces, he starts to habitually recognize his surroundings once more.

Just past the point where the sounds from the highway he lives by start to fade entirely, Yosuke’s eyes catch on minor landmarks, reminding him of just where he is and where he’s heading. He slows his already-sluggish pace even further and lifts his head to properly align himself with the rest of reality. Up ahead, about a block away, lies the little stretch of road where he and Souji’s paths usually intersect; he’d avoided it yesterday, and looking at it now, even from a distance, Yosuke can feel his nerve endings beginning to spark and crackle, even as his mind stays unnaturally silent. His muscles tense slightly, like his body is getting ready to break into a sprint at any moment before his head can even fully catch up and register the bitter unease that’s steadily taking hold. He hates this. He hates the way his stomach drops out at the sight of he and Souji’s meeting place. There isn’t even anyone there that he can see – though he’s ashamed to admit the teensy flash of disappointment – because... well, because – and, even worse, how afraid he is to stick around and find out if that’s going to change any time soon.

(The whole world turns sickly bile-yellow for a second; the color disappears when Yosuke blinks and swallows with a dry throat, but for a single instant it’s there.)

I can’t do this.

Just like yesterday, just like the coward he is, all talk and no spine, Yosuke lets his feet turn away from his typical route and down a nearby side street. It’ll take him a little extra time to go around like this, to wind through a different part of town and come out at another spot along the river before heading practically a back way up to Yasogami. He’ll still have to take the path to the front gates – there isn’t really another way he can go – but if he can do enough meandering and time it right then he can (probably, hopefully) avoid Souji until he’s actually in the classroom. He’ll have to figure out the rest of the day as it comes.

He stalls and stalls and wanders and picks his way carefully along a zig-zagging line in the general direction of the high school. He’s familiar enough with where he’s going that the roundabout way itself doesn’t bother him; he’s already spent a lot of time mindlessly exploring the streets of Inaba.

When his family first moved from the city, out to this tiny little hole in the middle of nowhere, Yosuke had found himself with too much free time and too few distractions to keep his mind from dwelling on his own misery. Being new meant he had no friends, and being the person everyone seemed to blame for Junes’ existence meant he wasn’t really welcome anywhere either. When he wasn’t at school he was working, and when he wasn’t working he was home alone because his parents were working, and when he was home alone his options were either homework or unpacking boxes. Eventually he ran out of both.

Video games were only fun for a little while before they grew frustrating and boring without someone else to play with. Movies and tv were alright but sooner or later he’d already seen everything twice over. Books where never really his thing because his attention span was always just too short to let him enjoy them; manga was better, but had the same problem as movies. In the end, Yosuke’s only choice for something to do besides sit and stare at the wall had been to go walking – if only to try and familiarize himself with the place he was inevitably going to be stuck in for the rest of his natural life.

So he walked. From the school district down towards his house, looping and doubling back to kill time, or from Junes after an earlier shift and across to the other side of town just to see how far this tiny pocket of rural bullshit extended before he hit the wilderness. He might not have gotten the whole place memorized, but after those first couple of months in Inaba, when his entire experience with the town outside of school, work, or the pile of moving boxes at home had been made up of long walks and lonely hours, Yosuke’s mental map had soon become, at the very least, decent.

He calls on that mental map now as he rounds another corner, pulling at a few staler memories to see if he’s going the way he thinks he is. The house at the end of the street with the blue shutters, the rickety doghouse in the front yard across the road – yep, all still there. He’s probably going to be late again, or very, very close to it, but as long as he keeps moving, as long as he twists and winds and pretends he doesn’t eventually have to join the rest of the student population on the same road to the school entrance, he can keep himself from succumbing to his anxiety. Souji is punctual, Souji likes routine. If Yosuke takes his time getting to school and avoids the usual path, then he theoretically doesn’t have to worry about accidentally running into Souji on the way.

But even as the thought helps to keep the jitters at bay, there is just something so… inherently wrong about it that Yosuke has to bite down hard on the inside of his own cheek to keep himself from choking. This is a violation of his own routine, of everything that has made his world anything considering normal up to this point. Never in a million years would he have ever thought himself capable of outright hiding from his best friend, going out of his way to purposefully avoid him – it feels like a betrayal, like he’s adding just one more slight against Souji to his ever-growing pile of mistakes. A faint echo of loneliness washes over him and clings to his skin like a humid breeze – the morning feels far too much like the walks he used to take before he even knew that Souji existed, all those months ago.

He never wants to go back to that.

He thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe.

Digging his shoes a little more roughly into the sidewalk, Yosuke powers his way up the street – headache be damned – and past the house with the blue shutters, counting his footsteps in his head loud enough to eclipse the lyrics of the song in his headphones. He keeps his head down and his shoulders hunched, only letting his eyes lift from the sidewalk to keep himself from tripping over as he walks like the entire world is clawing at his heels.

He almost doesn’t notice when he’s reached the path that leads through the school district.

He almost doesn’t notice the achingly familiar sound of Souji’s voice further up along the road.

He almost doesn’t notice the figure striding along at his partner’s side.

But then he does.  

Yosuke looks up instinctively as his friend’s voice reaches his ears, startling violently for a moment when he sees just how close he got to Souji without even realizing it. His heart stutters, trembles like the wings of a frightened moth at the flash of silver not even twenty feet in front of where Yosuke has been disassociating as he walks. (And how funny is it that even when Yosuke forgets where he is, his feet always seem to lead him right back to the one thing that’s ever made his life make any sort of sense?) He nearly trips on the next footfall as he overrides his own autopilot and manually slows his pace, falling a little further back from the ethereal swath of black-and-moonlight ahead of him just enough to not be noticed. He makes sure to stay close enough that he can still hear his partner speaking, though – not even the words themselves, just the sound of Souji is all he really needs.

(Just how needy can he get?)

Souji’s voice carries on the slight breeze that blows through and ruffles his hair, moving it enough to catch the muted morning light and make it shine like sunbeams across the Samegawa. Souji's volume is as quiet as ever but unmistakable in its steady timbre, its velvet-softness, and even with his headphones still on Yosuke can hear it. He’s trained himself to pick up on Souji’s commands through his music while in battle. By now it’s almost second nature to him to react every time his friend speaks.

But Souji isn’t speaking to Yosuke. No, Yosuke is still a ways behind him and from the looks of it Souji hasn’t noticed Yosuke at all. Instead, walking side-by-side, so close that their arms nearly brush every time one of them gestures, Souji is talking to someone else. Someone tall, with broader shoulders and a louder voice, bleach-blond hair slicked back to show off the glint of several earrings, a uniform jacket worn like a cape instead of over the arms.

Souji is talking to Kanji.

Souji is walking with Kanji.

Something inside of Yosuke twists sharply. He feels… sick.

It sits like concrete in the pit of his stomach, growing rapidly in its weight until he can barely breathe, can barely see, the edges of his vision almost pulsing with that same ominous yellow. He can't think for a moment, can't focus on anything but the way his best friend – his best friend, goddamnit! - walks just a little too close to Kanji, smiles just a little too widely at Kanji. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's so wrong, and Yosuke can't even begin to peel back his own thoughts from the slow crescendo of screaming now building inside his mind to parse just why he's suddenly so angry. The yellow becomes tinged with something almost like an acidic green, the color of jealousy and vomit and everything Yosuke can feel at the back of his throat like a wad of wet paper. He feels shaky in a new way, no longer afraid but something closer to how he tenses before a strike in battle. Defensive. A snarl curls at his lips before he can stop himself, and it's only because he's still rooted to the spot in a kind of shock that doesn't even feel human anymore that he doesn't go launching himself across the way and yanking Souji back to himself by the arm.

Somewhere, deeper than the anger and the horrible heat trickling down his spine, Yosuke knows he's being unreasonable; after all, Kanji is Souji's friend, too, and it's not like Yosuke has exactly been available for Souji to interact with recently, so there's nothing in the world wrong with the other boy walking to school with another member of their team. He wishes he could pinpoint where this is even coming from, why he's suddenly flipped like a switch from wanting to avoid Souji at all costs to violently wanting to hoard him all to himself. It doesn't make any sense, and Yosuke's actually starting to get a little bit frightened of his own reaction.

It's just too bad he can't feel it properly below everything sinking into his heart, poisoning him from the inside out; maybe it would be enough to snap him out of whatever this is.

He stands stock still, only vaguely aware of the other people around him, some shooting looks at him no doubt, and watches as his Souji (his, something in him hisses,) passes through the gate with someone other than Yosuke. He watches, body frozen and eyes burning, refusing to blink as Souji, his friend, his leader, his partner approaches the school together with Kanji, the same way he used to (used to, should be,) with Yosuke.

It shouldn’t knock the wind from Yosuke’s lungs like he’s taken a Zio straight to the chest; it shouldn’t, because when all is said and done it's almost guaranteed all this is completely innocent – Souji is a friendly guy, and it's never been like him to say no to anyone asking for his time. (Except for when he did, Yosuke thinks bitterly, because wow, that wound is just not closing.)

But that's the thing, isn't it? Because no matter how much it is absolutely Yosuke's fault for putting this newest distance between him and his partner, even if Souji's refusal to talk to him had set everything in motion, no matter who or what is truly to blame for this, it does little to change the very real fact that Yosuke is not the one by Souji's side right now.

That Souji has picked someone else.

The scene is so similar that it’s almost as if Yosuke is looking at a displaced echo, a badly done juxtaposition of two different images made to look like one. Like someone stripped the negative of a photograph and pasted in a poor substitute. Like someone replaced the original and, and...

Told you, the voice inside his brain sneers. For the first time that morning, Yosuke feels that formless smirk stretching wider, curling into his fingers and toes like something settling into its frame after being wadded up, stuffed into a space it didn't fit. It feels simultaneously right and wrong – wrong because he doesn't think it's supposed to be there, hiding just behind his limbs, adhering to his bones and pricking at his nerve endings; right because the thing now wearing his skin alongside him disagrees.

It was only a matter of time before he got tired of your shit.

It was only a matter of time before he got tired of you.

He takes a few steps after them as they start to get just a little bit too far away, hyper -focusing on the way Souji acts, the sound of his voice and the way it lilts and flows, comfortable in a way Yosuke's rattling memories can't recall if he's ever been before. Yosuke zeros in on the lack of distance between the pair ahead of him, scanning them like Rise does in the TV and storing away all the minute details he can suddenly see, focus now sharp as his kunai. He sees the way Kaji's face reddens. He sees Souji looking over at Kanji with a bright expression, with a smile that shows teeth and pulls the corners of his mouth wider than Yosuke has ever seen when Souji is talking to him. He feels a growl rumbling deep in his throat.

Souji tilts his head in Kanji’s direction as the punk says something, swinging a large hand out in front of himself with obvious excitement and nearly smacking into Souji’s side with his elbow. He catches himself before the hit lands and sheepishly pulls his arm away, face going redder. Souji lightly, deliberately, bumps Kanji's elbow with the back of his own hand, no doubt reassuring the blond that his exuberance has caused no harm. Kanji rubs at the spot awkwardly. He says something. He blushes harder.

And Souji laughs.

It not a real laugh, it never really is with Souji, nothing louder than a very quiet chuckle or a huff or a breath, but Yosuke has heard it before, has been the one to bring it out before, so he would know that sound anywhere, will always recognize that silent shudder of his partner's shoulders as the other boy uses his body to communicate instead of his voice. Yosuke doesn't have to hear it – his mind supplies the sound.

That's mine! he snarls.

Not anymore, something mockingly singsongs in reply.

The yellow-green in his eyes grows darker and Yosuke can see the corners start to creep inward with solid color, until all he can see is the fondness on Souji's face that isn't meant for him.

He has to claw his way back to the forefront of his mind in order to get to class on time, just barely slinking into the room with the teacher coming up the hallway behind him. His eyes bore into the soft grey hair at the back of Souji's neck and – for the briefest of moments – he has to quell the urge to lean forward and sink his teeth into his partner's flesh, leave his imprint for all the world to see and claim what's his.

He doesn't even notice the way the thing inside him that before would have been copper and sick now seems to purr at the thought.

---

He doesn't remember the rest of the day.

Yosuke is aware that he somehow makes it through the school day, bounding out of the room at lunchtime to go and... well, he doesn't even know, really. He thinks he may have gone up to the roof but he isn't sure. He knows that he did eventually go back to the classroom – presumably after lunch – but beyond that there's nothing. The end-of-day bell sounds and he's immediately on his feet, out the door, down the hall, head foggy and vision tinted yellow; if anyone says anything to him then he doesn't even notice.

Something ugly is happening to him inside. He knows it, doesn't know how to fight it. Right now, after that morning, after everything swirling around in his chest and his head for most of the week now, Yosuke feels a disconnect between himself and reality. He's spent so much time trying not to think, then over-thinking, the repeating, and repeating, and repeating, that it's like something has finally snapped. He's so tired and wrung out that he can't tell how he even feels right now, whether he's mad at Souji or Kanji or himself. Or all three. Or just fucking everything. It's as if there's a block of ice holding him separate from the dark things twisting like vines behind his heart; he can't look at them, can't pull them apart with his hands and study them, he can only feel them coiling tighter and tighter until his body goes numb.

His phone goes off in his pocket as he stalks his way down the hill away from school, thighs burning despite months of combat toning his muscles inside the TV. He checks it on instinct, feels the vines in his ribs twist in another direction as he reads the “I miss you, Partner,” that Souji had texted him.

Guilt or anger or self-disgust or something climbs its way to the back of his throat and threatens to spill from his lips onto the sidewalk and it's such a mess, such a god-fucking-awful mess that the only thing Yosuke can do is type a quick, dismissive, “sorry @ work” and back out of the text before he chokes on molten, raw emotion. Without even looking he scrolls and clicks on a random chat log further down the list and pulls it up so he doesn't have to look at Souji's name anymore, doesn't have to try and figure out if he's upset or happy or just sick to his stomach. Chie's nickname screams at him from the phone screen, her words from last night still justifiably pissed.

Yosuke takes a second to think of the dirtiest pick-up line he can and sends it off, not even caring anymore. It doesn't feel like anything, he gets no satisfaction from it, doesn't even bother harboring the idea that maybe she'd find it funny like he used to do ages ago. It doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything anymore. He's just hollow.

His phone 'ping!'s and he barely glances at the response. She's mad again. Whatever. Let her be. Yosuke deserves it – the frigid rush he gets from her anger coats his skin and, in a horrible, disgusting way, it makes him feel better. Good. At least someone feels something in his direction. He sends her another message, pretending it was all a joke, that he wasn't punching at the walls of his tiny world just to feel anything anymore. He's gone so far from the constant buzz of anxiety and fear that he's grown immune to it now. Everything is so loud and at the same time it's all too brutally quiet. It's like he's rigged for self-destruction, caught in a loop of feeling betrayed and wanting to betray in return out of spite, folding back around to hating himself for it, wishing everything was back to normal, that he and Souji were back to normal, and then wanting to rip his own skin off when he realizes they aren't and can't. It tilts him side to side and he can't balance. He can't regulate his emotions, can't sort out his feelings, has no outlet – all he can do is take a swipe at everything around him and hope he finds a handhold, something to pull him back to the surface. Maybe if he causes enough damage outside himself then it will make up for all the damage already caused inside.

He wants to scream.

Instead, Yosuke types out another dirty text and hits send with shaking, vindictive hands.

Nothing changes as the afternoon stretches on. Chie spits more fire at him through the phone, apparently borrowing Yukiko's element for a while as she tells Yosuke in loving detail just how many ways she intends to break his knees. He hates that it's almost comforting in its normalcy – albeit in a dark and over-exaggerated way. The ice block sits comfortably in his chest, hindering him from properly feeling the fallout of his actions as the vines dig their thorns in deeper; he knows that if he tries to look behind it then he'll be disgusted with himself all over again, (Chie really doesn't deserve this kind of treatment, for one thing) and so he just. Doesn't. He holds back the part of him still consciously rallying against everything he's doing, yelling at him to stop, throwing itself against the frozen wall to try and make him feel all the remorse and guilt he knows is there behind the ice. It's building, drop by drop, bucket by bucket, action by action, but Yosuke can't make himself stop.

You really are a worthless piece of shit, aren't you?

It's to the point where Yosuke can no longer tell the mocking, hissing, whispering voice inside his head from his own. He thinks there might not be a difference at all anymore.

He wanders through the streets and between the buildings in the same weaving, winding pattern he did that morning, letting the music in his ears and the faint ache in his legs from his ceaseless power walking distract him from all the things he wants to pretend aren't happening. Eventually he reaches the bottom of another hill and doubles back to kill more time before his shift at Junes – because, unlike the night before, he really does have one this time. He debates on calling in as he takes the long way around to the shopping district. Right now he barely feels human, let alone like he's capable of interacting with other people; donning the mask of artificial pep needed to deal with shoppers is draining even on the good days, despite the fact that he's used to being on autopilot while at work with too many years of involuntary customer service making it almost muscle memory by now. In the end, though, he decides against it. Calling in will mean having to make up a good excuse for his dad, which might lead to a far longer and more complicate conversation than Yosuke has any desire to have. There's no way he has the energy to play verbal minesweeper with his parents, whether it be now or later once they get home.

He checks his phone to see how much time he has left to fortify himself, to keep his brain and his heart blissfully, chaotically numb, and sees a trio of new texts from Chie that must have come through while he wasn't looking. He taps her name to bring the chat back up and expects to see more of the usual fair. He doesn't.

Meat-Fu: What's going on Hanamura? This isn't normal.

Meat-Fu: U know u can talk 2 me right?

Meat-Fu: Ur my friend & I'm worried.

Yosuke feels like he's been stabbed.

Nonononono,this isn't right! With all the shit he's pulled to get attention, validation, to force the world to prove he's a bastard, none of it was supposed to result in this. He's sick, he's worthless, why can't everyone just hate him as much as he hates himself?!

Yosuke nearly throws the phone away from him, his body suddenly shaking as the ice cracks and the vines squeeze and he comes dangerously close to feeling something. This wasn't – he doesn't' know how to deal with this. Everything is off-kilter; Souji has gone and replaced him with Kanji and Kanji is stealing his best friend and it's all Yosuke's fault because he's disgusting, of course Souji isn't going to want anything to do with you anymore – and Kanji probably has the same kind of dreams that Yosuke's been having because that's what gay people do, right? And now Chie, of all people is picking up on the stuff Yosuke is trying so hard to shove down because how does he even begin to deal with all of this and he can't let her know, he can't! Not after everything he's done and said and everything he's turning into, oh god.

Blinking through the sudden blur in his vision, (when did he start tearing up, what the hell?) Yosuke grips his phone in both hands and sucks in breath after breath of too-thick air. He's so tired of borderline breakdowns. Typing as best he can with his limited sight, he fumbles out a reply, just something, anything to grind the conversation to a screeching halt before it can even begin.

Yosuke: wth r u talking about? lol ur crazy Chie

He sends it. It's not enough, it's too casual, too easy to brush off, but he can't see the screen anymore and his fingers won't move right. So he sends it and he stands there in the middle of the sidewalk near the bus stop in the shopping district, staring unseeing down at his phone and forcing himself not to blink. The tears stay in his eyes, dry up, fade away. He takes a shaky breath in and lowers his phone.

“Yosuke-kun?”

Oh no.

It's like a nightmare. An actual nightmare. He looks up and sees Yukiko standing a few feet away from him, likely waiting for the stupid bus (why did he have to stop here? Why?) with what looks like a couple of Junes bags draped over the crook of her elbow. She must have just finished shopping and come straight to the bus stop, ready to head home.

Which means Yosuke would have been damned either way – if he'd gone straight to work he would have run into her there, and because he'd stalled for so long he'd run into her here. He shouldn't have answered Chie's text, should have kept moving, should have taken another route or hidden in the stock room at work. He should have--

Yukiko takes a step closer, concern sweeping over her delicate brows. “Are you alright, Yosuke-kun?” She takes another step. Her lips pull into a frown as she looks at him and Yosuke can't even begin to imagine what's she's seeing.

“H-huh?” he squeaks out. His knees don't want to hold him up.

Yukiko's frown deepens. “You look troubled, did something happen?”

Yosuke shakes his head. “No! No, I'm perfectly fine, I'm just uh...” He flounders for a second, staring at her like she's an approaching Shadow four times his size – even if she hasn't moved since that second step in his direction. He knows his eyes are wider than a cat's, he can feel it. Finally he manages to blurt out, “stalling? Cuz I really don't wanna go to work.” (Well it's not... exactly a lie.)

From the way Yukiko is looking at him, he knows she isn't convinced, can already tell she's thinking of saying something. She's quiet and polite most of the time, yes, but she's been getting better at speaking her mind, and that scares him right now. He can barely keep himself together over a text conversation; there's no way in hell Yosuke will be able to make it out of a face-to-face one alive.

So he defaults. He defaults and it leaves him feeling gross and slimy even before it's finished leaving his tongue; “You know, if you're worried about me, you could always come cheer me up.”

(Oh god does he wish he could put the words back in his mouth and swallow them down.)

Yukiko leans back slightly, her expression turning uncomfortable, and it just serves to make Yosuke feel even worse about what he's doing. She opens her mouth to speak. Yosuke cuts her off.

“You never did send me that picture.” He tries to wink. He doesn't like how it feels.

This time, Yukiko recoils as if something foul has been splashed at her. “That's--”

But Yosuke is already turning on his jelly-kneed legs and willing them to carry him just around the corner, just out of sight. “See you tomorrow!” he calls, trying to keep himself from retching as the words come out. Behind him, he hears the sound of the bus' breaks squealing and pushes his legs faster. Yukiko won't follow him, he knows (he hopes,) lest she miss her ride home and have to wait for the next one. Yosuke has been spared for now.

(Except he hasn't really, now has he?)

He's almost makes it up to the top of the shopping district, almost makes it to (possible) safety at Junes where he can hide between the aisles, go and find things to do and redo in the stock room, keep himself busy without actually doing anything. It'll be a welcome distraction at this point, despite how vehemently he doesn't actually feel like dealing with customers, coworkers, hell, he'd even probably dodge Teddie because Yosuke just genuinely can't today. (And on the chance he spots one of his friends walking into whatever area he happens to be in, well... then he'll just have to find something to hide behind and stay there until they go away.)

He's almost to his goal when the universe decides he's not done suffering quite yet. There, coming around the corner, Nanako perched happily on his shoulders, is Souji.

Yosuke stops dead in his track, so abruptly that it's only by some tiny speck of luck that he doesn't fall face-first onto the pavement and break his nose. Panic erupts in his blood like he's been doused in gasoline and set on fire and suddenly his lungs are collapsing in his chest. He doesn't know how he manages to do it, but he dives to the side into an alleyway and tears out the other end as if his life depends on it.

Souji can't see him, Souji can't know he's there, because Yukiko and Chie both talk to Souji and Yosuke hasn't even managed to deal with all the stuff that's already happened this week, hasn't dealt with this morning even! So if Yukiko and Chie talk to Souji and tell Souji about all the horrible shit that's Yosuke's been doing...

Yosuke is doomed. Yosuke will absolutely be doomed. He hasn't spoken to Souji in days and he can't let their next interaction be Souji looking at him with disappointment, with anger, with disgust.

Yosuke runs through back streets and down alleyways until his legs betray him and he collapses against a wall just outside the Shiroku Store. He wasn't even aware he'd managed to book it that far – no wonder his chest feels like it's about to explode. He waits until he can manage to catch his breath, leaning into the bricks so he doesn't sink to the ground. When he thinks he can move again, (ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour later, he has no idea how long he's there,) he pulls himself around the corner and looks first to the left, up towards Junes, and then to the right down the shopping district. No Souji. Good. Hopefully the other boy is still up shopping with his sister and will be for a good long while, (especially if Teddie has anything to say about it.) Tentatively confident that he's not about to be ambushed by his former partner, Yosuke slips shakily out onto the sidewalk.

First thing's first, he shoves his hand into his pocket and digs around until he finds every bit of loose change he's got and shoves it gracelessly into the receiver of the vending machine. He hits a random button, doesn't even care what he gets so long as it's liquid and cold. He chugs the can without even tasting anything and he stifles a wince as the drink hits his burning throat, before the raspy dry feeling finally goes away. He tosses the can away in the nearby trashcan and slinks back into the alley to hide while he calls his dad and tells him he can't make it in for his shift.

(Chie texts him again because of course she does. He doesn't even look at it this time; he just fires off a quick, “@ work can't talk” and puts his phone on airplane mode.)

---

Yosuke makes a quick stop inside Shiroku Store before chancing the trip back home. He grabs a couple of instant ramens for himself, knowing full well no one will be home for a while to make dinner and that his own appetite is questionable after his stomach has been tied up in knots for so long. It'll also give him an excuse not to have to sneak back downstairs later and risk running into his parents. Again, not a conversational minefield he's willing to navigate right now. (He also grabs a pack of mochi to placate his little brother when Teddie inevitably whines about Yosuke not coming in to work.) Once he's out he heads straight home – straight, because the sun has started going down and it's freezing outside, so he feels confident enough in the low temperature to take the gamble on none of his friends being out where he can stumble into them.

He makes it to his house without incident, makes it inside and up to his room, even manages to take a bath without a fuss since Teddie isn't home yet to knock insistently on the bathroom door. For now, he's safe. But even knowing he's at home, alone, with his phone far away from him in the other room, Yosuke finds that he still can't relax. He soaks in the warm water, (he'd washed as quickly as fucking possible because even days later the shower makes his stomach squirm,) and tries to will the anxiety to bleed out through his pores. It doesn't.

Something is keeping his shoulders tense, his nerves frayed and spiked. Even when he gets out of the bathtub after Teddie comes bounding into the house, loud even from downstairs, Yosuke feels like he could jog all the way back to school and have energy left over.

He gives Teddie the mochi, which effectively shuts up any line of questioning that might have been incoming, and Teddie babbles excitedly as he eats. He tells Yosuke all about how “Sensei and Nana-chan” had come by to do some grocery shopping, how he and Nanako had run off to find the groceries together while Souji had wandered off. How they'd found him later after they were all done, around the side of the building, crouched low to pet the stray cats. Yosuke listens to all of this with far more attentiveness than normal; he only breathes once Ted is finished and there has been no mention made of Yosuke whatsoever.

It's... weirdly easier to relax his body after that, though understandably not his mind. His little brother is a small sliver of something normal, oblivious and innocent and forever just happy to be there. It lets Yosuke pretend that nothing bad is waiting for him just outside the house's front door.

Normally he'd play a few rounds of a video game with his brother until one of them felt tired enough to go to bed; tonight, though, Yosuke can't keep his attention on the game, and so gives up after only two failed races. He moves to sit on the bed and picks half-heartedly at his cold instant ramen, only partially watching as Ted plays against the game's AI until the bear starts getting bored. Teddie decides that they're going to have a movie night together after that, and Yosuke lets the blond boy put in some brightly-colored Ghibli thing for them to watch. Yosuke inevitably zones out.

It isn't until the credits end and the dvd menu comes back with a loop of the movie's main theme that he finally looks up, blinking at the red numbers on his alarm clock that read far later into the night than he'd thought, and then down to find his brother passed out cold on the floor. Yosuke sighs and gets up, throwing his unfinished noodles away before awkwardly – albeit carefully – dragging Teddie's slumbering form over to the closet and plopping him onto his futon.

It's as Yosuke is getting ready to turn off the light that he sees Teddie's phone lying on the carpet.

He doesn't know why he thinks it, what makes him link the sight of his little brother's cell phone to the flicker of memory that bubbles up to the surface. He doesn't know where the idea comes from. But he has it.

Rise had taken pictures of everyone and everything at the pageant. Rise had taken pictures of Souji.

Teddie had been begging Rise to send the pictures to his phone.

Yosuke has no idea whether or not Rise had ever actually did, but with how proud of herself she'd been for taking them, he'd bet money on there now being a whole folder of pageant photos residing in the bear boy's phone.

I shouldn't, he thinks, and not just because it'd be incredibly invasive to go poking around in his brother's phone –  if he does, and he finds what he's looking for, then what? He knows neither the girls nor Naoto took any photos of the second pageant, but despite what he let Yukiko believe (and what he's been trying to convince himself of for days,) Yosuke doesn't need those; he'd snapped a few of his own when the event was happening. There aren't many - he'd been a bit preoccupied worrying over Souji's disappearance at the time, and he'd purposefully avoided taking any pictures of Naoto because they'd looked so miserable that it felt almost cruel, but he has some. (And thinking about it now, he realizes he hasn't so much as opened the photo gallery on his phone even once to look at any of them since he took them.)

So no, it's not photos of the beauty pageant he's looking for.

Slowly, as if terrified Teddie will somehow wake up and throw open the closet door to catch Yosuke in the act, he reaches down and picks his brother's phone up off the ground. He's just picking it up, he tells himself; he's just getting it off the floor so no one steps on it. He's doing Ted a favor. He's not going to look, he's not.

(Liar.)

It's not hard to get into Ted's phone – the bear doesn't have any sort of lock on the screen – and because it's a cheap Junes model, Yosuke already knows exactly how to work it. It takes him less than half a minute to find Rise's nickname in the text logs and pull up their last conversation.

There, staring up at him, is the bottom part of a photo, with what looks like the stage in the school auditorium.

Yosuke immediately feels his palms start to sweat. He crosses the room in two quick, silent strides over to the light switch, turning it off with fumbling fingers and plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of his alarm clock and the glare from the phone in his hand. He pads back over to the outline of his bed and throws the covers back, then climbs in, throws the blankets over his head like a child avoiding bedtime, and curls up into a ball on his side with his prize held tight in his nervous hands.

His stomach swoops as he holds his thumb over the up button, ready to scroll past Ted's enthusiastic words of thanks to Rise and see--- but hesitates.

He could stop right now, he thinks; it would be so easy just to shut the phone off, put it on the charger, go to sleep. He could roll over with his face in the pillow and pretend none of this happened. It would be so easy.

Okay, he thinks, momentarily closing the phone. Okay. Okay...

This isn't creepy, it's not; he's just... making sure. Right. Yes. That's all. The dreams started after Yosuke had seen Souji dressed up as a girl – after Yosuke had thought things about Souji dressed as a girl. That had to be the reason, right? He couldn't be gay if he was only attracted to his best friend when Souji was in a skirt, when he looked a little too convincing as a chick. That's where the wires had gotten crossed in Yosuke's head, when his teenage hormones had been confused at the sight of his already-pretty partner making an even-prettier lady. That's all it was, it had to be, and Yosuke was holding the proof, the means to his mental salvation, in his hands. All he had to do was look.

Yosuke closes his eyes and takes a second to brace himself, scared for reasons he doesn't particularly want to explore. He pulls in a deep, unsteady breath. Another. A third. On the final exhale, he opens his eyes and taps a key to wake the screen back up. He stares at the bottom of the photo for just a few moments more and then finally sucks in one more breath, pressing the 'up' as his lungs fill to the brim.

The first few pictures aren't what he needs: a crowded group shot, Teddie flouncing around the stage, Kanji looking ready to break an ankle in his ill-fitting heels, Yosuke hating everything while holding the mic. He keeps scrolling up, growing irritated and more anxious with every photo revealed not to be the one he wants. Eventually he just holds the button down and lets everything scroll by until all the images start to blur together; it's because of this that he very nearly misses a flash of grey and silver as the photo streaks by.

Yosuke immediately takes his thumb off the 'up' and jabs at the 'down' until the picture comes back into view. There, bathed in the harsh spotlight of center stage, stands Souji, expression tightly neutral and face pale. It sucks the breath from Yosuke's lungs.

This. This is what Yosuke has been trying so desperately to find, simultaneously to avoid. It feels wrong, somehow, like an invasion of more than just Teddie's privacy, but the whole school had seen Souji in a skirt so it's not like it's a secret that anyone's trying to keep. Still, as Yosuke stares at the familiar shape of his partner's face, his hips, his hands, Yosuke feels, not the wave of relief he'd been expecting, but sour. He can't even put his finger on it, why his face seems to curl up in frustration without him even consciously bidding it to; Souji's body is just as lean and graceful as he remembers it looking, with the long silver wig framing his face and softening his features and the line of the skirt hugging his waist to give him just the faintest of hourglass figures. It should be beautiful, in a way it is, but the more that Yosuke stares at the photo the less and less attracted he finds himself being.

This isn't right.

(Oh, but isn't it?)

Yosuke scrolls up to look for another photo, finding a better one, a closer one, on the very next try. This time the camera is zoomed in, giving Yosuke a much clearer view of Souji from the waist up. Whatever bra the girls had stuffed him into makes his chest look natural, a petite curve to his body that fits stunningly along with the slender way his figure normally seems to taper slightly at his waist. Objectively, Souji looks great, hot, even in the pageant clothes he'd been forced to wear; Yosuke had thought as much when seeing his partner in person on that nightmare of a day. He squints at the phone in his hands and tries to recall just what specifically he'd found attractive when he'd been staring at Souji backstage in the dim, shitty lighting. His hips, definitely – he remembers thinking how perfect they would be for him to rest his hands on. Souji's waist, his chest, yes, but also his hands. Yosuke remembers how ethereal Souji had looked, too, with his eyes and the wig (an uncannily perfect match for Souji's actual hair color,) shining dull silver in the dark. The curve of his jaw, the hint of skin just above his collar bones, the line of his thighs barely there below the straightness of the skirt.

Looking at the photo now, Yosuke can see all the the things that he found so alluring before – and feels, strangely, next to nothing.

He can't understand it, why is he not swooning over the image of his best friend making the most amazingly convincing girl Yosuke has ever had filthy dreams about? (Something turns over in his mind, and suddenly, sickeningly, Yosuke feels like he's on the highest peak of a roller coaster, staring down at the hundred-foot drop below him just as the cart begins to move.)

The sex dreams hadn't featured a skirt.

They hadn't featured long hair or perky boobs.

In his dreams, Souji had just been... Souji. A flat, smooth chest, all toned muscle and softly masculine edges. The silver had been shorter, the cheekbones sharper, all of it had been Souji as he always is – a guy. No matter how gorgeous Yosuke thinks (or thought) Souji looked in his pageant outfit, the blinding fact remains that the boy in his dreams had stayed a boy.

Slowly, stomach twisting into nausea, Yosuke reaches out from the safety of his blanket shield and picks his own phone up off the night stand beside the bed. Like some kind of gremlin, he snatches his hand – phone and all – back into the darkness beneath the covers, clutching it to him with fingers so clammy it threatens to hinder his grip. His heart flutters in his chest, hard enough that he can feel his own pulse; he swallows and his throat is dry. Trembling, Yosuke holds a phone in each hand, holds them up next to one another. He opens his, and fumbles his way to his photo gallery, clicking through until he comes to a picture of himself and Souji, standing close and smiling as Yosuke snaps the selfie.

Oh god.

It's all still there. The photo is, again, a waist-up shot, but even still Yosuke can see the gentle line of Souji's jaw, the hint of his collarbones just past the open top button of his shirt, the long, delicate fingers on strong and calloused hands. Souji's hair is shorter, of course, and doesn't frame his face the way the wig did, so his cheekbones are more visible, his chin slightly sharper, but his eyes. Souji's eyes are still that same summer-storm hue, round and kind, and full of far more life than any of the photos of him in pageant garb. Pageant Souji looks like a marionette; real Souji looks like rainclouds incarnate.

Yosuke's gaze travels down to the very bottom of the picture, where the image cuts off right below Souji's belt buckle, leaving the dip of his waist, the jut of the top of his hip, all still visible. He's wearing his uniform shirt and jacket, but even with the layers of straight-cut clothing Yosuke can see that same faint, curving line of his partner's body that almost looks like the start of an hourglass. Yosuke can't see the other boy's thighs in this one, but the line of Souji's hip fills outward slightly, instead of carving a path straight down like Yosuke is so used to seeing on most other guys – himself included.  Souji, for all that he's built like an athlete, is only sharp in certain places, soft in others; a graceful blade of curving steel, handle wrapped in velvety leather.

Yosuke tears his eyes away from the photo of him and Souji together and back over to the one of Souji at the pageant. The features are the same but different, radiant in one and hollow in the other – both have the same shape, the same color, the same lines and vivid angles. But even without the false femininity, Souji is still gorgeous. Souji is still ethereal. And Yosuke can feel that swooping in his stomach turn to something warm.

A terrible realization comes dawning over Yosuke's mind like a cold and wretched sun. The people in the photos – excluding Yosuke – though differing in dress, are the same. The things that Yosuke had noticed on the day of the pageant, when he'd stared and stared and stared at his friend like Souji was the most beautiful ghost he'd ever seen, every single one of them was still there. Even without the wig and the makeup and the clothing meant for women, every tiny detail that Yosuke had poured over was unmistakably present; they'd all been there the entire time, never not.  

Which means that Yosuke just hadn't noticed them until he'd stopped and stared. And stared. And stared.

Oh my fucking god.

---

There is a certain kind of quiet mania that comes from not having slept at all; a distant sort of grinding at the threads keeping a person from breaking down, from cracking like a gunshot. It's a mental time bomb, one that can lead to either exhaustion and collapse, or the utter shattering of all rational behavior and thought.

Yosuke sits on the living room couch, already fully dressed for school, watching the sun come up through the window as his body and mind are eerily calm. That internal timer is already running low.

He hasn't slept. After his brain-breaking revelation the night before, Yosuke had lain there, pulling out every memory he had of Souji and turning it over and over in his mind. Each interaction, each time he'd thrown his arm casually across the other boy's shoulders, the way it felt when they sat close enough that Souji's body heat warmed his side. So many times Yosuke had felt his breath hitch, his heart beat just a little bit quicker, but every time he just brushed it off. Adrenaline from talking over the murder case, the heat in the summer air, his now-absent crush on Rise kicking in when she did anything cute. (Because he'd noticed that, too; that his cheeks no longer flushed while thinking about her – not since she went from The Idol Risette to his friend Rise.)

Memory by memory, it felt like Yosuke's self-dug grave had gotten that much deeper, and as he pulled on that first thread of realization, more and more had come. Like untangling a spider web piece by fragile piece. It had left his brain in a jumble, keeping him awake for hours until he'd just given up on sleep altogether.

He hadn't been restless, per se, but there had been enough static in his head that it had eventually threatened to spill out into the dark of the bedroom, and, resigned to being awake forever, Yosuke had peeled back the covers and crawled silently out of bed. Grabbing his wrinkled uniform from the day before and slipping it on, he'd gone to grab his toothbrush and a comb out of the bathroom (fervently not looking at either the mirror or the shower,) and headed downstairs to use the bathroom there instead. Slowly, with all the time in the world, he finished getting ready for school on autopilot, even bothering to make – and eat – a bowl of cereal. From an outside perspective he might have looked relatively normal; internally, however, there was nothing but empty, dissociated quiet. Still waters, deceptive with their glassy surface, poised and ready to drop into the churning rapids below.

Yosuke checks the time on his phone, still on airplane mode.

He stands from the couch without a sound, collects his coat and school bag, and slips out the door into the frigid November morning.

(His reflection in the entryway mirror turns to watch him as he leaves.)

---

He cuts through the back way to school again, though this time he doesn't drag his feet; instead, he stalks down the side streets with his hands shoved in his coat pockets and his shoulders hunched. The lack of sleep and the cold feeling now lingering just at the base of his skull both serve to sharpen the knife's edge of emotional instability he's currently teetering on. He feels... nothing. And everything. All at once. He feels like he could run full-throttle straight at somebody and deck them square in the jaw; he also feels like he could break into hysterical laughter at any moment, or maybe tears. It's hard to regulate what's going on in his everything, because his head is both empty and far too full from all the thinking he'd done the night before, but it's also quiet, which is never a good sign. Normally his brain is too loud, but today...

Today is different.

Today is bad.

If he had to try and put words to it, Yosuke would have probably described his mood (if only to himself) as fragile. It's like the wall of ice that had been blocking him from his thoughts and emotions before has turned to tiny, thin splinters. Sharp and cold and so delicate that one wrong move will shatter them – but they'll also slice everything in their path to ribbons.

The slow, methodical trudge to Yasogami High actually takes far less time than he means for it to, leaving him ample time to loiter unseen around the side of the gate, just out of view of any students passing through it. Somehow, (and he's not sure just which god to thank for this,) he hasn't seen Souji yet, either in flashes on the way as Yosuke ducked away from the normal path, or up already near the entrance. It means that Souji is either already inside or he's still en route. (And Yosuke hopes it's the former, because he's not sure just how well that wafer-thin pane of frost is going to hold. Or, for how long.)

It's just his luck, then, that he catches a glimpse of starlight silver and bleached blond coming up the crest of the hill. Yosuke digs his teeth so hard into his cheeks he can taste the coppery tang of splitting skin – Souji and Kanji are walking together. Again.

So easily replaced.

Yosuke bites viciously into the flesh inside mouth and turns to stalk into the school before either of the other boys – so close together they almost touch – can see him.

---

“Hanamura!”

Yosuke twitches, jerked from the ominous quiet inside his own achingly-empty head. Turning, (slowly, stiffly, with the faintest spark of mania waiting to be fueled,) he turns to see the bearer of the voice that had shouted at him from the stairwell behind. Chie stands on the second floor landing with her hands on her hips, glaring up at him with a look so cold it could rival her Bufu. Yukiko appears just two steps below and finishes the climb to stop beside her, a stern expression locked on her face as if made of iron resolve. Neither one of them looks to be in a forgiving mood.

Yosuke wants to just turn back around and ignore them, wants to say 'fuck it,' and just throw away what's left of his friendships so he can go back to the blissful emptiness of rock-fucking-bottom. It'd be easier that way, and he has neither the time nor the energy to even begin to untangle the knot of mistakes he's made this week.

But the looks on his friends' faces (Chie, especially,) tell him they aren't going to let this go, even for now, so, begrudgingly, Yosuke stands and waits for one of them to speak. They don't disappoint.

Chie, upon seeing him pause, marches up to him with Yukiko hot on her heels and together the pair of them back him up until he's nearly hit the wall. “Alright, you dick, we need to talk.” From around her, Yukiko steps into position and stays at Chie's side, looking for all the world like a disappointed mother as she silently lets Chie do the talking.

Somehow, Yosuke finds his voice. Somehow, despite that momentary fight-or-flight-or freeze instinct when the girls had stormed towards him, Yosuke is calm. (It isn't the normal kind, either, it's the kind of calm that can only be found when someone has reached the threshold of just how much adrenaline their body can handle and they loop back around to apathy.) “Can it wait till we don't have class?” he asks, and the voice that leaves him is so devoid of life and emotion that it actually makes Chie balk. She and Yukiko share a disquieted look, like they aren't sure whether to be startled or mad and Yosuke takes their moment of distraction to try and slip to the side where there's still space to move away.

This snaps the pair out of their hesitation. Chie blocks his path with an outstretched arm, open palm smacking the wall hard enough – though not violently, to his mild surprise – to make a soft 'thwap.' Yukiko, still silent, moves to block Yosuke's remaining escape route on the other side.

“No,” Chie hisses, “it can't. Because the moment we let you out of our sight you're just going to run off into nowhere and go back to avoiding everyone, just like you've been doing for days. We're tired of it, Yosuke.”

Yukiko nods. “I know we're not as close as you and Souji-kun, but you're our friend, too, and this behavior needs to stop.” She strengthens her stance - and it is frightening.

Yosuke can't meet either of their eyes. “...I don't know what you're talking about.”

Chie makes a sound low in her throat. “Like hell you don't; you've been totally MIA with barely a word to anyone, you've been acting shady as hell whenever someone tries to talk to you, and on top of that you've been straight up avoiding Souji – which is insane, considering you two're normally joined at the freaking hip!”

Yosuke must be doing something with his face, because Chie squints at him and says, “Yeeaaaah, don't think we haven't noticed.”

Something sniggers inside Yosuke's head and it makes his vision pulse a faint, sickly yellow. His lip curls in a barely-there sneer. “Look,” he says, a little more life in his words this time. He smacks at Chie's arm with the back of his hand. “It's nothing, will you get off my back? I'm just having a bad week.”

“Bullshit,” Chie growls in response.

From the corner of his eye, Yosuke can see Yukiko take in a long, carefully-controlled breath, as if she's silently counting down from ten to keep herself collected. “This is more than just a 'bad week,' Yosuke-kun,” she says, and the evenness of her tone belies the fire he knows she can conjure during battle. “You've been rude, crass, evasive, and downright belligerent...”

(Yosuke isn't sure he knows what all those words mean but he's pretty sure she's right on every one.)

“Even on your worst days you've never been this bad.”

Yosuke is so, so tired. He's tired of feeling like he's being buffeted by the wind that's supposed to be on his side, unable to find his footing and ready to fall at any given moment. He's tired of the wildly swinging pendulum of his emotions sending him back and forth from feeling everything to feeling nothing. (And deeper, deeper down, he's tired of people leaving him behind, even more so of driving people away; it's a skill he's never asked for but has somehow mastered nonetheless.)

He doesn't answer Yukiko's spot-on accusations. He doesn't answer Chie's too-observant glower. He doesn't look at either of them, he instead stares off to the side, unseeing, just past the arm that blocks his escape.

Chie lets out another sound of frustration and leans further into his space, craning her neck to somehow stare him down despite their height difference. “Well?” she demands, “Anything you wanna say?”

Yosuke takes a long, deep breath through his nose, letting it out so slowly that the yellow creeping into the edges of his eyes dots with black. With the exhale, he feels the last of his energy – physical, emotional, mental – drain away. It hollows him out with each passing second, until he's nothing more than a husk resigned to his fate of forever being the King of Fucking Up; he's already pushed everything this far towards the edge, he might as well take that last step over.

“...Yeah, actually,” he says, and it's a lifeless drawl, almost entirely devoid of anything. (He sees Yukiko stiffen and Chie flinch in his peripherals.) Exhausted, he lolls his head forward and finally turns his eyes to Chie's face, fixing them just above her eyebrows because he can't focus them any lower. False eye contact, something he's picked up in his time working at Junes.

He takes another deep breath, feeling that disconnecting wall of ice closing over his heart, and says, “You should probably lay off the meat, Chie, cuz you're not doing your thick thighs any favors.”

Yukiko gasps.

Beside her, Chie looks stunned, jaw dropped and mouth open like it's trying to form words her head can't find.

(Yosuke tastes bile in the back of his throat.)

Disgusted with himself and just wanting to not be here, Yosuke tries to use the girls' frozen reactions to his advantage. He isn't sure he can move or duck under Chie's arm, so he makes a break for it the opposite direction and attempts to slide past Yukiko – only for her to snap back to attention just as he's almost free.

“Yo--!”

But Yosuke is too far gone. Instead of letting himself be forced back against the wall, he doubles down, gives in to the fatalistic inevitability that he's going to be losing more than just Souji at this point. (Good, he thinks sadly; I don't deserve any of them, anyway.)

Swerving, scraping the wall with his shoulder to try and get as much space between himself and Yukiko as he can, Yosuke reaches out a hand (desperately hoping he misses,) and makes a pinching gesture at her skirt, causing her to jerk back and away. “See? Here's a perfect set right he--”

His face erupts in red-hot pain.

Yosuke staggers backwards, hitting the back of his head against the cold concrete of the wall with an audible 'thump.' Thoroughly bewildered, he blinks over at the space he had just been and sees Yukiko, hand raised, stance wide, and completely, utterly livid.

Oh, he thinks, slowly reaching up to touch his scalded cheek. I've been slapped.

“You!” Chie snaps, just as Yukiko whispers, “How dare you,” in the most bone-chillingly quiet voice he's ever heard.

He... may have gone too far this time.

Chie stalks forward, so close he has to shallow his breathing to keep his chest from touching hers when he inhales. She turns her face up at him and for a moment, through the exhaustion and the resignation and the apathy, he truly believes her to be capable of tearing his throat out with her bare hands.

It's almost impressive.  

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snarls, “You've been acting like a jackass all week!”

Yosuke focuses on Chie's cheekbones as best he can with her so close; he practically has to go crosseyed to do so, even without meeting her murderous glare. It's strange, how he's aware that his cheek is in pain, (and rightfully so, he deserved that slap,) just as he's aware that on any other day before this week he'd be terrified for his safety in a situation like this. He remembers just how hard Chie can kick, having felt it firsthand in delicate places. But his energy is spent at this point, and all the awareness in the world can't conjure up the ability to be anything other than drained.

So he doesn't react, just looks back at his (probably former) friend and huffs, “Chill out, Chie, it was just a joke.”

Both girls visibly tense, shoulders squared and backs straight. Yukiko brings her hand up like she's going to slap him again, rearing it back as she hisses, “It wasn't funny!”

Chie, simultaneously, bares her teeth in vicious rage. “Like hell it was!” she barks, her own voice layering over Yukiko's outburst.

Yosuke just lolls his head to the side slightly and focuses on empty air. “Yeah, well,” he drawls, unable to find the right emotion to put into his voice. “You're girls, of course you wouldn't get it; it's guy humor.”

Chie leans impossibly closer. “You think you're such hot shit,” she seethes, and her tone has gone icy, blisteringly cold. She jabs a finger into his chest hard enough for him to feel it bruise. “We put up with your nasty 'jokes' and your weird staring because you're our friend, but there's a limit, Hanamura!” Her lips curl, the finger digging into his sternum like a silent threat. “And you're freaking pushing it.”

Yukiko leans in as well, her hand still raised and ready, a bow string held taut. “Girls don't like it when you say things like that,” she says, so dark and even that it raises the hairs on the back of Yosuke's neck – but even though his body physically, instinctively reacts, the hollow pit in his chest where the ice now sits keeps his heart and mind numb. He doesn't look at her as she says, “If your brand of humor makes other people uncomfortable, then it isn't really humor at all, it's gross.”

There are people starting to collect around them; Yosuke can see them moving closer just past the haze of his unfocused vision. He can't tell if he cares of not, doesn't think he does anymore. Everything Chie and Yukiko are saying is too right, too justified for him to fight back or defend himself. I deserve this, he thinks, hears his own voice echoing like there's another nearly identical one layering beneath it.

A few other students, faces unrecognizable, gather just a bit too close to the direction he's been staring in. He doesn't feel like letting them think he's acknowledged them, so he rolls his head lazily back so he can pretend to face to the two girls in front of him. He's just going back to fixing his eyes on Yukiko's shoulder when a swath of silver catches in his vision – just barely, just enough to make him look up before he can consciously think about it. He refocuses, and feels his heart come to a painful halt inside his ribs.

Souji is standing there, looking at Yosuke as if he's never seen him before. His eyes are wide and confused, thin brows pulled so low that they're actually visible below his hair; his lips are slightly parted as if he's been caught mid-gasp.

Yosuke stares back at him for a long, panicked moment. A slow, frigid kind of adrenaline begins to seep into this veins, making his hands and knees shake even though he can't feel it. It kick-starts his heart back to life and suddenly it's pounding as he looks into Souji's eyes for the first time in he can't even remember how long, seeing no trace of recognition in the other boy's face. Only pain. Only confusion and betrayal. Souji looks at him like Yosuke is a stranger now, gaze boring into his own like he's looking for someone familiar but just can't find them, can't figure out who Yosuke is.

He saw, the voice that had layered his own whispers, hissing though laughing, jagged glee.

Souji saw.

The floor drops out from under Yosuke's feet and he switches to autopilot to keep from falling, somehow managing to stay upright through sheer force of unconscious will. Chie and Yukiko must notice the change, because he can peripherally see them pause, turning their heads to see what he's looking at. It's enough.

Moving feels like he's underwater, drowning, but Yosuke sees his chance and snatches at it with trembling fingers; as the girls are distracted by Souji, Yosuke pushes himself sideways along the wall until he's no longer pinned by Chie's proximity. Once there's space to do so, he shoves his way forward, sticking out an arm and breaking through the line that Yukiko and Chie's bodies have made. They part in their shock, and he's able to slip between them at last.

“Whatever,” he hears himself say. A verbal barrier, a wall to keep them all at bay while he books it to something resembling safety. He reaches up and palms the headphones resting around his neck. “You guys throw your hissy fit, I'm goin' to class.” He tugs the headphones up as he takes a couple long, quick strides out of their stationary reach, shoving them over his ears without actually turning on any music – using the comforting weight at the sides of his head as a shield. If they try and call out after him, he can just pretend he can't hear them and keep walking.

He makes it all the way to the classroom without being caught; he doesn't dare look at Yukiko, Chie, or Souji (especially not Souji,) as the three of them enter the room. Yukiko first, then the others, and Yosuke busies himself with his school bag until the sound of the door opening signals the arrival of the teacher and the start of class just moments later.

Yosuke keeps his head ducked down the entire morning, just in case of the the girls decides to risk a glance back in his direction. He can't tell with his eyes glued to his desk, but he thinks that none of them do.

(He doesn't know whether he should be relieved or not.)

---

Yosuke is up and moving almost before the lunch bell even rings. Like he's done for the past week, he grabs his stuff and hightails it out the back of the room, pointedly not looking and any of the friends he's managed to alienate in only a handful of days. Headphones snug over his ears and player in his hand, he takes the steps up to the third floor, then the roof, two at a time. It's only once he's up in the cold air and alone that he feels like he can breathe.

Picking a spot as far away from the door as possible, Yosuke drops to the ground and leans his back against the frigid metal links of the fence, barely even feeling the chill through his clothes. The breath he's finally caught starts to pick up – only for a moment – and he has to bring his knees up to the his chest, hands over his eyes and fingers twisting in his hair as he ducks his head and pulls in lungful after lungful of air. It passes just as quickly as it came.

What do I do now?

Despite the hollow feeling encompassing his heart, Yosuke still feels the twinge of anxiety that had brought about the thirty-second panic attack; it sticks to his blood cells, causing his palms to sweat and go clammy in the nippy November breeze. He brings them to his mouth and cups them over his lips, breathing into them to try and warm them back up. It doesn't work.

He sighs and drops his hands back into his lap, tucking them between the bend of his knees. He didn't bother bringing lunch with him again today, though between the rare breakfast that morning and the churning in his stomach he isn't so sure he'd be able to eat anything anyway. Still, even a snack would have provided him something to do with his hands, and so Yosuke is left with nothing but his music and his surroundings to occupy his time. He frowns – being alone with his thoughts recently has been anything but good, and today having gone the way that it has so far, he can feel the incoming uphill battle against his brain. He cranks the volume up on his player in hopes of drowning it all out before it begins, but turns the whole thing off and tugs the headphones from his ears a minute or so later, not wanting to associate any of his favorite songs with the maelstrom already brewing inside his mind.

It starts with a replay. Every single thing he'd said and done that morning in the hallway with Chie and Yukiko. It twists at his gut with each image, each remembered word he'd vomited out like a bio-weapon; he barely recognizes himself in his own memories, and honestly that is the part that scares him the most. No wonder Souji had looked at him that way.

And oh, if that hadn't been the worst part of it all. Yukiko and Chie he already hated himself for, already felt sick over how he'd treated them both since even before this all began, starting with the festival. He wishes he could go back in time and stop himself from ever putting their names down – all of them – because not only was it just a shitty, immature thing to do, but it also violated their trust. He sees that now, and it feels like a hammer to the head, because with everything that he's turned into in the days since, he knows it all started with that one first terrible decision. Most of the low points in his life have started with terrible decisions, he just hadn't been aware enough to put the pieces together until now. Had things been different, Yosuke wonders if Souji would have been proud of him.

That, however, is the thing that brings Yosuke's already-simmering self hatred to a rolling boil. Of all the people he's hurt so far, Souji is the one that makes Yosuke feel like he's beyond all hope of redemption. Souji had been his partner, his best friend, and Yosuke, stupid, stupid Yosuke had taken that bond and thrown it right in the garbage. They were supposed to be equals, but Yosuke had been too busy sinking into his own head, too mired in self pity and selfishly wanting things to go back to a normal that likely didn't even exist anymore. Not after all of this. For all the maturing Yosuke feels he may have done – the only silver lining in the storm that he himself created – focusing only on his own hurt and blaming Souji for it is by far the most childish thing he's done.

(Inside his skull, stretched out as though sliding into Yosuke's skin like a glove, he can almost feel something like a head being tilted, an eyebrow raised. There is a quiet, contemplative, 'hmmm,' as if his mind is thinking thoughts without him. He doesn't know how to interpret the sensation, so he tucks it away on the back burner for now.)

Somewhere past the door leading back into the school, Yosuke faintly hears the warning bell sounding, signaling the end of lunch and the resumption of classes for the day.

Yosuke doesn't move.

He sits there and leans his head back against the fence in utter exhaustion; he doesn't have the energy or will power to get up and go back inside. He doesn't want to feel the others' eyes on him when he walks in the door, or, equally painful, being entirely unacknowledged instead. Having done the same to Souji for days,Yosuke will admit his hypocrisy in that he doesn't know if he'd survive having his former partner do the same to him - even if Souji had scared the shit out of him, neglected to communicate with him, left him to wonder and worry and want after the pageant.

Then again, some part of Yosuke quietly relents, Souji... really isn't obligated to tell Yosuke anything. And while their leader should have at least been courteous enough to let someone know he was still alive, he'd eventually told Naoto. Which had hurt Yosuke – pretty badly, in fact – to not be the one Souji had talked to first, but at least he'd talked to someone. (Even though Yosuke is still adamantly sure the “food poisoning” excuse had been complete bullshit.) But... it wouldn't be fair to expect Souji to never have secrets; after all, Yosuke still has secrets of his own, even after confronting his shadow.

Some are just far, far more shameful than others.

Thoughts swirling, Yosuke can feel a headache beginning to build behind his eyes. He keeps going around and around; he's mad at Souji, he's not mad at Souji, he's mad at himself, he's not mad at himself for being hurt – on and on and on. It's a loop that doesn't seem to have an end, and it's making Yosuke dizzy.

He sighs again, and there's an echoing sigh inside his skull, albeit one that sounds far more frustrated than his own audible one. He's too tired to suss it out, though, and because all this thinking is starting to spiral, he digs his player back out and tries one more time to drown out the thoughts with music. He's relived when his attention stays on the lyrics and doesn't go careening off again; he closes his eyes and lets himself go blank for a little while, almost-but-not-quite dozing, tucked away in his little patch of rooftop in the brisk November air.

Sometime later – he doesn't know how long – Yosuke is pulled from his trance by the sound of a far-off school bell. His player apparently ran out of battery long ago, because the screen is dark and his headphones silent. Yosuke feels like shit.

He's chilly to the point where his skin doesn't really have much feeling anymore; his neck is stiff from the cold and the position it'd been kept in while he was out of it. His ears ache a little, too, and it's probably more from the headphones than the weather. Groaning, Yosuke sits up and peels the headphones off, setting them in his lap and rolling his neck to try and get his full range of motion back. He feels something pop. With another groan, he makes it slowly to his feet and stretches, every muscle in his body protesting as he does.

Fully aware that he hadn't gone back in after lunch, Yosuke has absolutely no idea what time it could possibly be; judging by the position of the sun over the treetops, however, and the sound of the bell from earlier, he can guess that it's probably well into the afternoon. “Fuck,” he mutters to the empty rooftop. He's more than likely missed most of the rest of the school day, though if that's the case then he can't bring himself to care. There was nothing waiting for him back in the classroom anymore, anyway.

Reluctant still to make his way inside lest someone catch him, Yosuke takes his time gathering his bag, tucking his player away, setting his headphones carefully on top because, well, they aren't any use to him right now, are they? It's only once he's run out of stuff to do that he finally fishes his pone out of his pocket to check the time.

Weirdly enough, there are no new messages – which, he isn't surprised at but also is? If no one had wanted to talk to him after that morning, he would have understood. However, with as rightfully angry as they both had been, he would have expected there to be something from Chie at the very least – even if not from today, then something else from last night, surely. Curious and a little uneasy, Yosuke stares at his phone until the screen goes dark. Oh, he realizes finally; he'd forgotten he'd put it on airplane mode the night before.

(He'd wondered why his phone had been so blissfully, ominously quiet all night.)

He taps the keys lightly to get the screen to wake back up and goes to take it off airplane at last – only to hesitate just before pressing the button, thumb hovering as Yosuke chews on his lip. His gut curdles. Whether there are a slew of missed texts or none at all, Yosuke knows that whatever is waiting for him once he hits confirm isn't going to be good. He has to brace himself; he just isn't sure what for.

With a deep breath in and a quick breath out, Yosuke takes the plunge and hits the button, not looking at the screen as his thumb presses down. He doesn't want to see just yet. At first there is nothing – no belated notification sound, no vibrations, nothing. He thinks maybe he's safe for the moment, simultaneously unsettled by the lack of any apparent messages...

...Until his phone vibrates, just once, in his hand.

Yosuke's breathing sticks in his throat for half a breath, head instinctively tilting to look down at the notification that just jostled his anxiety. It isn't from Chie, which is not what he expected, nor is it from Yukiko, which also would not have surprised him. It isn't even from Teddie, whining that Yosuke had left without partaking in their new morning ritual of communal teeth-brushing. No, the sender, devastatingly, is Souji.

Prtnr: I'm sorry. I won't bother you anymore.

Everything stops.

[heartofsnark]

Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter Ten): Aint It A Gentle Sound, The Rolling In The Graves

Notes:  Cyberpunk had consumed my brain, it is official, so have more fic. This and the next chapter are both uhhh heavy, the next chapter moreso in my opinion. So, please heed the warnings carefully. 

Word Count: 10323

Chapter Warnings:  Violence, gore, blood, suicidal thoughts/mentions, suicide baiting, physical assault/attacks, choking, depressive thoughts. 

If you haven’t yet, you can read the previous chapter here!~

She heard him. 

Doesn’t hear the breaths that rattle and shake her chest. Didn’t hear her own cries, her own curses. Couldn’t hear the thumping of trash as she climbed from the pit. 

But she heard him. 

“What?” It's but a whisper on her lips, staring at the man with blurry halved vision, and she can’t hear it. 

Bile rushes up her throat, stomach churning as it tries to empty its contents. V rolls over to her hands and knees, retching into the mud and filth. Puke and blood heavy on her tongue, more blood than anything else. She spits the last of it out, pushing already blood matter hair from her face on instinct. 

Then she moves her hand back further, to her ear, nothing in it, but she feels for a hearing aid. There has to be a logical explanation, why she heard him but not her own gagging. Why she heard him but not the wind whipping through the trash, why does she hear him. 

No hearing aid, not even a broken remnant of it lodged in her ear, the other side the same. And her touching, she feels something else… The hole in her skull, part of her head open to the world. She feels the edge of bone, gore clinging to her digits and she doesn’t know what she touches beyond it, prodding at her flesh with filthy fingers. When she pulls her fingers away, she looks at the tissue, the fragment of bone, all sticking to her hand. How the hell is she alive? 

And the man, she knows him, the memories and cyberspace. He should be dead too, Arasaka killed him… 

“John...ny?” 

She tests his name on her tongue, can feel the reverberation of it in her chest, but not hear it. V waits for a response, waits to hear him, to know she can again. But nothing. Maybe it was a fluke, maybe, an auditory hallucination. She twists to face him again. 

“What the- what the fuck?” 

He’s gone, was he ever there? Bullet to the brain, maybe he’s all a hallucination. Maybe the memories and cyberspace just long form hallucinations? That happens, right, why some people claim to see heaven? The brain hallucinates when deprived of oxygen...or maybe when a bullet goes through it, touching parts that shouldn’t be touched?

That’s it. That’s all it is. Hallucinations of a damaged brain. She needs a doctor, needs Vik. She gathers her strength, attempting to push herself back up on her feet, legs giving out as she hits her knees into the mud, digging her fingers into it. 

Just stand up, just stand up and walk damn it. She screams at herself, then she sees something, a flash of movement in her blurry vision. At first just a shadowy figure standing amidst the trash. Focusing harder so she can make out who it is. 

Dex starts to wander into the landfill, boots crushing through mud, towards her. Adrenaline spikes, anger in her center as she glares at his fuzzy figure. The man who killed her blew her brains out and threw her away like trash. She still has Yorinobu’s gun tucked into her belt. 

V grabs the gun and suddenly she gets on her feet real fucking easy. 

Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe it’s spite. But it makes her steadier and she knows if it’s the last thing she fucking does, she’s taking Dex down with her. She makes it halfway through the passageway through the trash and takes aim. 

Dex’s eyes go wide, looking over her, she has no idea what she looks like. But she’s sure it’s horrifying, a walking corpse. 

“H...fuck!?” her contact struggles to read his lips, but she tries to fill in the blanks, practically laughing. 

“What’s wrong Dex, you come to see if you can get it right this time? Think you can manage to not fuck it up this time?” 

“How...fuck...alive?” 

“Bad news, apparently one of us has shit aim, Good news is it ain’t me.” 

And she pulls the trigger, directly through the center of Dex’s head. Brains and blood spraying as he hits the ground, dead at her feet. And she expects to feel better, for her, for Jackie, for Bug. The man who set this shit show up is gone, the man who blew her brains out, would have Jackie’s too if he had the chance, is gone. But she just feels empty, body still a mangled mess and standing in a landfill. 

Then she sees a flash of black fabric, a person. Before she can raise the gun or do anything, there’s a hand of flesh and chrome grabbing her wrist. Arm twisted and she’s yanked over, losing her balance, crying out as the gun falls from her fingers. The hand over where her blade would come out, when she tries to let it out it won’t budge under the grasp. She’s pulled back and towards them, back knocking to her chest as she struggles to fight a grip strong enough to crack bone if she let it. Their other hand is on her throat in a moment, tight and crushing as she’s pulled flush to their chest. 

V gasps as the hand tightens, already damaged vision blurring further as she gasps for air. Calloused fingers and chrome digging into her windpipe, tears stinging her eyes. She scratches and claws with her bad hand, but can seem to get a grip on him. Held tight to their chest, she cranes her neck, fighting the hold on it and looking up with darkening vision to see him. The bodyguard from Konpeki, brown silver ringed eyes and long graying hair pulled back off his face. Metal etched face like stone as he strangles the merc. 

What bit of strength and consciousness she regained is sapped quickly under his heavy hand, body starting to go limp as she starts to pass out. Then she’s thrown to the ground, on  her hands and knees as she tries to break the fall; gasping desperately for air. She feels even weaker now, adrenaline fading, pain hitting her again. Why is an Arasaka fucker here? Who the hell sent him? Did Dex drag him here? 

She twists to sit down, leaning against a rusted fridge as she touches her bruised throat. The guard stalks closer, shiny shoes walking through muck before he crouches down in front of her. Her contact subtitles start in Japanese before trying to translate what bits they catch from his lips. 

“Arasaka-sama….found….father’s killer,” his eyes staring her down, “...her….no...doubt. Yes. Expect… hour.” 

He’s going to drag her in, throw her to the non-existent mercy of Arasaka. Flashes of those memories, Johnny’s death, if it’s even real and not just a story from her damaged brain. But she remembers his death, the pain of what they did, every neuron on fire. Is that what they’ll do to her?

“Go fuck yourself!” 

She gathers all the spit and blood in her mouth, she hopes traces of puke too out of spite. And she spits on him, right in his face, all she can muster. Spittle coats his bearded face and she feels a moment of sick satisfaction, no matter how small. 

“Quiet!” 

He backhands her, a sharp slap that forces her head to move. Then he wipes her spit off on his sleeve. Her vision blurs, consciousness threatening to slip away as she feels his hands lifting her up. The world going dark for a moment as she’s carried away by the bodyguard. 

When the world returns for a brief moment, she’s in a passenger side seat, laying against the leather. The driver side door opens and she watches as he sits behind the wheel, for a moment his eyes linger on her. His nose wrinkles in disgust as they start to drive out of the landfill. 

“...smell...shit.” 

She wants to cuss him out, but she can no longer summon the energy. Blood loss catching up with her. If she’s lucky, she’ll die before she ever sees the inside of an Arasaka interrogation room. They can play with her corpse to their heart’s content, as long as they don’t get anything from her. Her eyelids are heavy, the world going dark again. 

It’s a sharp pain that brings her back, a choking gasp for air as her entire body convulses, pulling at raw nerves and muscles. The UI in her contact blinks system malfunction, blurring distorting, glitching already damaged vision. Every part of her seizing, she has to remind herself to breathe, tell her heart to beat. 

Chrome etched fingers push an airhypo into her hand, the guard is twisted up behind the wheel, holding at his stomach. He’s hurt, but how? Why is he giving her first aid? It could be a trick, but she takes that risk, knowing she’ll die without something anyway.  She wraps bloodied twitching fingers around the airhypo and punches it directly into her chest, a needle of medication plunged into her system. A brief booster of relief. Her lungs able to breathe, pain numbing for a moment, muscles relaxing. 

The wind is whipping as he drives. An orange sky around them, car driving down a a highway, the sun just starting to come up. Beautiful for a moment.

tHE she goes to toss the hypo container out of the convertible, throwing it right into the face of a man driving a motorcycle up along side of them. His eyes an intense red, optic glow. Dressed in Arasaka uniform, his eyes on her. Friends of the bodyguard? The motorcycle accelerates, moves in front of them, then the man pulls a gun. Another motorcyclist races past the drivers side. Glass shatters as bullets blast the windshield. A third one weaving into the fray. The long haired guard punches the gas, ramming into the back of one of the bikes. It sparks and flames, sending it’s rider flying before the motorcycle rolls off the windshield over their head. 

The hell is going on? Why is he fighting his own men? Why are they fighting him? A black and red gun is pushed into her hand, the intention clear without words. Half blind, half dead, but hopped up on a booster; she takes aim. 

Its not her best work, firing at the cyclists. She focuses on the one lingering towards her side, closer to them. She aims for tires first, bullets sparking and pinging off the bike, but not quite make the impact she needs. V tries hard, tries to focus harder on his head, trying to land a headshot as the pair continue to shoot at the car. The movement of which does nothing to help. 

His motorcycle starts to flame up, streaks of red flickering as he rides. When it stalls in the middle of the highway, the long haired guard hits the gas harder, catching the front of it and destroys it, sending him across the road. 

They get neck and neck to the other rider, cold red eyes glaring at them before drifting off to another lane, picking up speed before he guns it back towards them, slamming the bike into the side of the vehicle. Knocking the car off course, they slam into oncoming traffic, head on into someone else's car. But the long haired man doesn’t slow down, swerving pack into their lane, too quick, as he ends up half on the curb. The side of the car scratches an NCART stop as the guard turns them around; driving in reverse to face the motorcyclist. He drives head on towards them and V starts shooting again, trying to get clear aim. 

One lucky shot hits where she needs, bike combusting and rider flying. As breathing gets harder for her, her muscles start to tighter, pain in her...everything starting to come back. The boost of adrenaline from the hypo is fading. And another motorcycle comes speeding at them, riding through the dust and smoke of the former. How many are there?

The bodyguard starts to turn the car back around, a vehicle merging clips against them, sending the civilian car right into the path of the motorcycle. He hits the hood of it, motorcycle sparking and man sent flying, but he leans into the launch of it, mantis blades extending from his arms as he lands on the back of their car. 

And the flames weren’t just from his bike, he’s more metal than flesh. Charred remains of skin giving way of the metal bones beneath. He sweeps his blades back and forth, the rock of the car and the heat of fire on his skin making his aim messy, just missing their heads. He flips to the front, clinging to the grill of the car as the bodyguard drives. 

Mantis blades sink into the hood as the man starts trying to climb his way up and to them, a flaming metal skeleton with half melted skin. She desperately tries to shoot him off as he pulls himself forward, a turn pushing him back, but the grip of his blades through the metal stays. He just nearly reaches, swiping a blade out but a swerve of the car makes him miss. A blade hooks into the dashboard in front of her and he punches out the other, stabbing between them. 

“Traitor!”

Her contact reads the words on the man’s lips, clear as day. The long haired guard, Saburo's own bodyguard; a traitor? 

The car smashes into the bottom of a billboard, cracking and buckling. Her head slams against the dashboard, darkness swimming through her vision, consciousness fading, she’s not sure how much more she can handle. She blinks, but maybe it was more than a blink, the long hair guard gone. 

Then her door opens, hands hook beneath her arms and she’s dragged out of the car, across the road. Taking in the crash. Pinned between the car and a pole, the flaming metal exoskeleton of a man convulses, mouth opened in what looks like a scream, maybe he still has nerve endings. His body is crushed, his bladed arms swinging out. 

Hands leave her body, the guard crouching in front of her, his movements slow. He’s injured too, clutching at a bullet wound. She tries to focus on his lips. 

“Do not pass...again.” 

“No promises…” She croaks out. 

“...eyes...open…” 

Her eyes drift to whats left of the other man, still struggling, still pinned. She levels the gun with his head as best she can, pulling the trigger and putting him out of any pain he may be in. Or may she’s simply saving her own ass by killing a witness. She’s not entirely sure. The bodyguard takes the gun from her hand, looking at her like he’s caught a child misbehaving. She lets out a soft laugh. 

Bleeding out on the highway, skull caved in, a mangled corpse. And she laughs. Maybe her and Jackie aren’t that different, maybe he’d be proud of her…maybe. 

“We both...medical attention. Do...know...ripperdoc… trust?” 

“Vik Vector.“ 

“Must...quickly,” 

“He can help, he’s the best.” 

“Have...get...somehow. Call...anyone.” 

“He’s behind Misty’s Esoterica in Watson, you’ll get there faster without me… I’m...not...gonna…” 

“Make the call.” 

He speaks slow and clear enough, the contact translating perfectly. He’s got no reason to want to save her, she doesn’t know what his game is. But, she sends a call through her holo, to Delamain. She doesn’t know why that’s the first thing to come to mind, maybe the cab will tell them to fuck off, the ride paid for by Dex after all. But the taxi service is the first thing that comes to mind. The avatar comes up in her contact. 

“Greetings, my scanner indicates you are outside the service area.” The contact reads him clearly, maybe the holo feeding subtitles better. 

“Pick me up, please… I have to get to Vik’s clinic, behind Misty’s Esoterica,” she tells him, her eyelids starting to grow heavy again. 

“Of course,” he agrees with no hesitance, “a vehicle en route. It should arrive in less than twenty minutes.” 

And her eyes close, blinking and eyes going dark again. It feels like only a moment. 

But when she opens her eyes again, she’s in a Delamain, stretched across the backseat with her head in the guard’s lap. He’s leaning over her, able to see through blurry vision, the heavy gray around his temples and the blood splattered across him. His hands are pushing through her hair. 

“Please proceed to insert the jack below the ear, though not too deep. There should be auxiliary neurosockets between her lymph nodes, beneath the SCM muscle.”

The subtitles filter across her contact, Delamain by the choice of words, but she’s not reading his lips. Unable to look directly at his AI avatar, she's not sure how, but doesn't have the energy to question it. The guard holds a jack between his fingers, brows furrowing for a moment. 

“...hit vein...mistake...die.” 

“As she will if you do nothing.” 

“I think I have the socket…” 

“Now proceed to connect.”

The world goes dark again, V barely able to stay conscious for more than a moment. This is it, she’s really dying. So much for laughing in the face of it and making Jackie proud. 

And when she opens them again she’s being pulled from the back of the car, the guard’s hands hold her. His grip is slipping, barely able to lift even her small frame, he’s hurt badly. Familiar hands interrupt, stronger in this moment, a ripperdoc glove on one hand. Vik pulls her from the cab easily lifting and holding her. He starts to walk away with her, the Arasaka bodyguard starting to follow, but his steps are staggering. 

“Can’t..” 

Then he’s falling, hitting the ground of Vik’s garage, his back leaning against the Delamain cab as he clutches at his bleeding arm, his face starting to go gray. V can feel the reverb in Vik’s chest, cracked open skull leaning against it as he calls out. 

And it feels like a blink. Just a moment, a bit of darkness, but the world has shifted again. A bright bright white light glows over head, she’s on Vik’s operating table, the ripper doc standing over her. 

“It’s neurogenic shock, she’s dying,” Delamain’s subtitles come across her contact. 

Tears burn at her eyes. This is it, she’s really dying, after all this trouble. She’ll bleed out in Vik’s chair. Vik’s lips move, but the contact reads nothing, only a blip. He twists and turns her face where he needs her. 

“There is risk of-”

Vik cuts the taxi cab AI off, but she doesn’t know what he says, light too bright to see anything else. Only able to catch the movement of it. And she’s been expecting this, each moment since Dex shot her feeling like her last. But this has to be it the end, heart slowing again, eyelids heavy again. Her skull has been cracked open, brain exposed to trash and air for the past several hours. She’s been bleeding out for god knows how long. She was never going to make it out of this, was never meant to. 

A billion thoughts dance in her head, of Jackie, of all that’s happened. She reaches out and grabs Vik’s shirt, bloody fingers twisting into the blue of his shirt. Her grasp is weak, but Vik stops when he feels the feeble little pull on his clothes, looking down on her. And he looks so scared, green eyes wide as he stares down at her. 

“I’m sorry…” 

Its all she can think to say, she’s sorry. She’s sorry about Jackie. She’s sorry she didn’t listen to Vik. She’s sorry she took the job. She’s sorry she couldn’t save him. She’s just sorry..  And she hopes Misty hears it, hopes it gets back to Mama Welles. Hopes they know she’s sorry, hopes they know she tried… 

And it all goes dark again, that void that welcomes her time and time again. She doesn’t expect to come out of it, truly she doesn’t. Stuck in the dark for who knows how long. 

For a moment the world comes back, mind fuzzy, she can see Misty checking something. Wants to reach out and touch her, say something. But her body won’t move, her mouth dryer than the desert. That Arasaka guard is in Vik’s other chair, Vik working on him. And she blinks again. 

Vik is at his work bench, watching a boxing match. Her clothes are changed, her skin cleaner than it was before, her vision glitching but no longer halved. Does she still have contacts in? The question is foggy in her brain, barely formed before she’s falling into darkness again. 

The guard and Vik are standing before where she lays. How much time has passed? The long haired bodyguard looks healthier now, healed up, dressed in white. Not a trace of blood on him, no more gray in his face. 

“How is she?” Subtitles form across her vision, clearer than usual, able to pick it up at a further distance. 

“Slower on the mend than you, but lookin' better every day.”

Day… has it been days? Her eyes are drifting shut again, unable to keep them open for long. But the void doesn’t greet her this time, instead fuzzy dreams...memories. Being on a stage, being at a nomad camp. Sometimes she’s her. Other times…. 

Her eyes open again. And this time the Arasaka guard is closer, hands fussing with something. Touching her shoulder, her skin. He pulls away after a moment, then taps her shoulder, a heavy pap against her flesh. Then she’s gone again. 

Dreams and memories drift into each other. 

Drinking in some shitty bar with Misty and Jackie, capping the night off with booze as they talk let loose after a week of shitty jobs and annoying customers, She throws back her favorite bourbon and cherry coke, but it turns to tequila in her mouth. Shot glass hitting the table, Misty and Jackie replaced with Kerry and Rogue, snickering as she grabs another shot. 

Vik repairing a knife wound in her gut, teasing her nose for trouble, but when he goes to turn he becomes Milt, a man she knows, though she doesn’t know why.  He’s replacing her liver for the third time that month, tells her she needs to cool it on the booze. 

Entangled in the sheets with Sabrina, a short lived flame. But when they twist to roll over, its not Sabrina looking up at her. A blonde with freckles across her nose and soft green eyes instead of the dark haired woman V thought she could love. 

She’s on stage, screaming lyrics into a mic and the noise doesn’t bug her, she screams her rage, her message. But fingers meet guitar strings and the world shifts, electric axe becoming acoustic. A dirty club becomes a tent and instead of playing to a crowd she’s in her mother’s lap, mom humming Rhiannon as she teaches the young nomad to play. 

Busting through the doors to Arasaka tower, nuke on her back, but the doors open to Yorinobu’s suite, Jackie shushing her to stay quiet. As if she’s ever struggled to be quiet. 

She’s got a blade in the side of Konpeki Plaza, grabbing Jackie, but the moment her hand wraps around his wrist she’s the one dangling, holding onto Rogue as she dangles above Arasaka Tower. 

Sometimes who’s in what memory switches, changes. Sometimes it’s her setting off the nuke in Arasaka, painted nails clicking against the bomb. Sometimes it’s tattooed and silver hands softly correcting Jackie’s sign language. 

It all blurs and blurs and blurs until she’s not sure who did what. Who’s the deaf merc and who’s the rocker who nuked a tower? And her head aches to keep track, to know who she is, the pain building and building which each twist of it, each change in those dreams that muddy the waters of who she is and who he is. Until the pain is overwhelming. 

“Argh ahh, fuck!” She gasps and screams out, waking up in agony. She grabs and clutches at her head, trying to soothe it. 

Hands come and touch her face, looking up at Vik, eyes kind as he slides a spare pair of hearing aids on her. Able to hear her own panicked breathing as Vik soothes his hands across her jaw. 

“V? You in there?” he asks her, his wording strange, who else would she be? 

“Vik..” she speaks and signs, hands trembling and voice rough, her vision still glitching and distorting. Her torso is wrapped in bandages, a pair of pajama pants on her for modesty. There’s more bandages wrapped around her head, down her forearm. There’s no markings of the mantis blades on her right arm. 

“How you feeling?” 

“Everything hurts...visions...do I have contacts in?”  

“Yeah… lots to discuss, kid,” he says, swallowing hard and crossing his arms, “had to install optics on you…” 

“What?” Her eyes are gone, replaced with tech, just that easily. The eyes she sees through no longer the ones genetics or her father gave her, but corp created metal. 

“Bullet damaged the optic nerve, I had no choice, I-” 

“I know,” she says, arm and hand too sore to sign,  Vik would never install them if it wasn’t necessary, she trusts that.

“On a brighter note, switched you to the projectile launcher.” 

“Huh?” She checks her left arm, indentations of chrome, similar but slightly different from the mantis blades. 

“The blades work best together, I would have just repaired the right and spruced up the left, but… when the blade ripped out, the muscle was damaged beneath it. It can’t support anymore cyberware, to install a new blade in it, I’d have to remove the full arm. Figured, be better to give you the tech you wanted more, anway.” 

“I owe you, a lot, seriously. May...take longer to pay you back than I thought.” 

“That’s, uh, that’s not the most important thing right now. V, what do you remember?” 

“Dex… shot me and then I started seeing things…” She explains, sitting up a little straighter and pulling her knees closer, body aching at the movement. 

“These...hallucinations, describe ‘em to me.” 

“There’s a lot, it’s like, I’m someone else, but still me. Seeing someone else’s life. I’m on stage in some grimey little club, bright lights. I start playing, screaming into the mic, letting out my hatred...screaming out a message. Got something to say, desperate for anyone to listen. Then I finish the set and… head my ass to Arasaka Tower, nuke the whole damn place… I don’t know if it was a dream or. I know it sound’s ridiculous.” 

“Not ridiculous at all, kid,” Vik tells her, nodding along and sitting down, fiddling with his glasses, a nervous tic she’s rarely seen. 

“Night City looked different, older and I hated it. Then… they killed me, Arasaka scorched me with something, every nerve frying. It felt real, so- so fucking real, I knew it wasn’t me but it felt like it. Never had a dream like that…” 

“You weren't dreaming, V. Those were memories. There's a personality construct on that shard, Dreams you had were from his past.”

She blinks, processing the words for a moment. That makes sense, when she thinks about it. Commercials for the relic advertised it as a storage for a person’s engram, something akin to an imaginary friend. It didn’t cross her mind in the moment, but logically Jackie and her should have seen someone with the chip slotted in… Right?  But either way, she had a chip with someone’s intel, she got fucked up and maybe the chip activated, triggered, and showed her whoever was on it. Johnny… who gives a fuck. 

“Okay, so, it was just the chip… Where you put it?”  It may be too hopeful, but if the chip is in good enough shape, Vik is savvy enough, he may have had a container that would work. If so, she may be able to get in contact with Evelyn. Close the deal, for Jackie. 

“V… I…” 

“Did it get destroyed?” She reaches up to her chip slot, without thinking, touching her fingers against it. 

“Don’t touch it,” Vik yells out, calloused fingers wrapping around her wrist just as she feels the edge of something in her chipslot. He didn’t pull it, which is odd enough, but why is he so worried of her doing it?

“Why? Something wrong, if the chip is fucking with me, I can just pull it out, right? No harm, no foul.” 

“It’s not that simple, V.” 

“What do you mean, it’s not that simple? Its just a shard, a chip like anything else.” 

“Not quite, you two're connected in a way I can't make head or tail of.” 

“Connect- what do you mean, me and who?” 

“Johnny Silverhand. A terrorist - real talk o' the town back in my day,” he lets out a heavy sigh, leaning forward , “ Anyway, that's not what's important right now….” 

And there’s something in the way his body language changes, the shift in expression. She’s seen him worried to death, seen him nag her time and time again. Tell her in a thousand different ways she had to stop knocking on death’s door or it’d start knocking back. But he barely meets his eyes now, face drained of color, like he’s the one who took a bullet. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was about to cry. 

“So, new eyes, new chrome, and reliving a terrorist’s life; none of that's important. So, what exactly is?” 

“You, uh, don't got a lot of time left, kid,” he tells her, voice cracking in a way she’s never heard. 

“Wha-what do you mean?” She’s hurting sure, that’s to be expected, but she doesn’t feel like she’s on death’s door, not anymore. She should be out of the woods now.

“ The biochip… It's basically a bomb, fuse lit already. You don't have much time left, much… life. A few, maybe six months tops. Silverhand's construct is overwriting your consciousness - gradually taking over your body until one day you'll just be… gone” 

He can only meet her eyes for a few words at a time, blinking and looking away each time his eyes start to look watery. V’s breath catches in her throat, Vik’s words pinging around her skull. She believes him, no reason not to, he’d never lie about something like this. Hell, she doubts he’d ever lie at all. Death has teased her relentlessly all her life, but never so much as it has in this past...day, weeks? Since Dex shot her, moment after moment of thinking she’d met her end. Each time convinced it was the end, that she’d bleed out in a motel, thrown away in landfill, die in Vik’s chair. 

But this… this isn’t what she imagined. A bullet, a knife wound, a quick hack, someone’s chrome; all things she could see taking her. Bleeding out in an alley, in a car, shot point blank dying before she hits the ground. Those are merc deaths, the kind of death that’s been awaiting her. Culled at the hands of her family, a quick clean captive bolt shot to the skull. 

Becoming someone else, mind twisted and warped, a terrorist taking her place. Her brain and being carved away to let someone else take root. Is it even a death? Or just ceasing to be? Rewritten, reworked, turned into someone new. A terrorist, a rockerboy; taking her place, wearing her like a cheap suit. 

Vik rubs at his forehead, refusing for another moment to make eye contact, giving her a moment. Letting this settle in or maybe he’s just trying to collect himself, after another beat of silence he meets her eyes again. 

“V. It's important you get all this,” he tells her, but, Vik can help her. He’s the best, pulled miracles out of nowhere, for fucks sake, he pieced her head back together. The fact she’s here right now means…

“That’s okay, you’ll fix me up. Right, Vik?”

And his face falls, a quiver in his jaw, “If I could, I would, V, believe me. But this is… Way beyond what I know how to do.” 

“You're the best of the best, Vik,” her voice is higher than she wants, shakier than she’d like, as he puts his head in his hands again,  “Why can't you help me?”

“Want the long story or the short?” He sits up straighter, takes in a deep breath, trying to pull himself together. 

“I want- I need to know everything, Vik, what’s happening to me?” 

“OK. There was, is, a construct, a psyche on the chip. That of Johnny Silverhand. You jacked it in your chipslot. Nothing happened, right? Until you died.” 

“Shot point blank by Dex Deshawn...how…” 

“Low caliber - you lucked out. Not least thanks to another poor decision by Mr. DeShawn. The nannites off the chip started fixing the damage. Biochip revived and... short-circ'd you. Started uploading data into your head. As far as it was concerned, your brain was an empty vessel that needed to be filled by the engram it was carrying.” 

“But-but, I’m here, this is me. I’m me, I-” 

And he nearly breaks, she can see it in him, A grown man, old enough to be her dad, looking down like a kicked dog. Like he’s about to break down in tears and when did she start crying? Her eyes stinging, tears running hot down her cheeks, she doesn’t know when the dam bursted, when her voice started sounding so pathetic. But...this is her, she’s here, she doesn’t want to become someone else… 

“The shard doesn't read, it writes. Headache of yours? It's the biochip rewiring your neural pathways, building new neural structures, doing away with the old. From the biochip's perspective, your brain cells are a tumor that needs to be scooped out, while your body's an empty shell to hold the construct. You’re….just a cancer, an intruder.” 

An intruder, a cancer in her own fucking body. It’s almost poetic, if it wasn’t so infuriating. Her body trying to destroy itself for years and now this chip is joining the fight, like her body was never meant to be her’s. But it is, this is her. Years under someone else's thumb; she fought for the right to herself, her body, her life. And now some wannabe rockstar is out to ruin that?

“So, that’s it? Johnny What’s His Fuck is out to kill me? Booting me out of my own damn body and taking my place?” 

She tries to turn it into anger, blaming him, because who else does she blame? Anger is easier, safer, she can work with anger better than the anguish in her chest, the tears soaking her face. 

“It's not willful on his part. It's automatic, inevitable. And neither of you can stop it.” 

The finality makes her choke. Nothing to do. Nothing to stop it. This is happening. All she can do is wait to rot inside her own body, wait for the moment where Johnny claims it as his own. She’ll be gone, wiped, the world forgetting she was ever part of it. Just a weak little merc killed by her own body, never truly meant to be here in the first place. 

“Ca-can’t we just take it out? Turn it off-I, something?!” 

“Either way's out of the question. You'd die, immediately.”

“What do you mean?” “Chip saved you… it’s killing you, but, it’s also the only thing keeping you alive. Without it keeping your brain going… life support and a death sentence, all in one. “ 

“Vik, you’ve always come through for me, there’s nothing you can’t do. If-if you can’t help...what-what the hell do I do? Please… I,”  Vik stands up, looks at her like she’s already gone, arms crossed over his chest, “Vik?” 

“I wish I knew, kid.” And he turns his back to her, walking away. 

“Vik?” 

“Misty!” He calls the woman’s name half in a yell and half in a sob, breaking down. 

For a moment she’s left alone, wiping tears from her eyes. The look on Vik’s face trapped in her mind, looking at her like she’s already dead and this is her funeral. Looking at her like a wounded dog. Like her mother  and sister did when she lost her hearing. Pity, despair, mourning what’s been taken. And she cries into her hands, because this time it’s not her hearing. It's her everything. Years of trying to feel like she had an ounce of fucking control, just for it to be taken. Years of searching for a place in this world, for the world to tell her one never existed. Her own brain reworking itself to be anyone else, even a terrorist. 

There’s a creak of wheels against the floor, a wheelchair being pushed into her peripheral vision. Misty’s pushing it towards her, V doesn’t lift her head to make eye contact, just watching the chair wheels spin. 

“You're askin' too much from an old-timer like Vik,” Misty speaks softly, touching V’s hand and the merc finally meets her gaze, “C'mon, V, let's get you home.”

Misty helps V into the wheelchair, the merc’s legs shakier than she expected, and she curses under her breath. She hates it, needing the help, needing Misty’s hands to steady her. Feeling weak. But Misty helps her happily, wheeling her out the garage of Vik’s clinic to a car. Misty tucking her into the passenger seat and helping buckle her seat belt when the merc’s hands are too clumsy. 

V watches the world go by as Misty drives, looking at the city that passes by. A world, a city, she wanted a place in. That she wanted to respect her, to know her. A world she wanted to matter in, to prove she was strong, to feel like she meant something. And now she’ll just vanish from it, with no one caring. A world that will never miss her, because it never knew her to begin with. 

And a part of her wants to climb across the console and into Misty’s lap, to throw her arm around the older woman and sink there. To hug someone who to some extent, if only because of Jackie, cares about her, who maybe, just maybe she matters to. But for a billion reasons, ranging from the fact Misty’s driving to the fact she can’t imagine why Misty would ever want to hug her. While kind, V can’t imagine anyone wanting to curl up with the person who got their boyfriend killed. V promised to keep him safe and couldn’t. 

“You wanna talk, V, about what happened?” 

V doesn’t respond right away, unsure of what to say, there’s so much swimming in her head. So many words that just die on her tongue. Does she talk about Jackie, does she apologize? Does she act selfishly, talk about what’s happening to her? It’s all a mess. Then they’re pulling into the parking garage of V’s building. Misty gets the folded up wheelchair out of the back of her car, holding a bag with V’s belongings in it, bringing them to the passenger side. The older blonde opens V’s door and helps her into the chair, wheeling her to the elevator. 

The doors to the elevator close, ads playing across the screens, V fiddles with the fabric of the sweatpants that Vik put her in. She tries to speak, words don’t come out. She tries to sign, her fingers clench but don’t move beyond it. The elevator shaking as it takes them up to V’s floor. 

“Its-it’s all so hard to make sense of…” she finally says, just being honest, as the doors open and Misty wheels her down those dirty halls. 

“I know it is, sweetie, you’ve been through so much.” 

“We were just stealing the chip and then everything… went to shit…. And, and, then he died and I thought I was gonna die too with him in my sleep...if that’s what it was, like I was dreaming but...not.” 

“Sleep's a… Small hint of death, the inevitable,” Misty tells her as they reach V’s door, the older woman scooping up a box by the door as the merc unlocks it. 

Memories of her door fucking up flicker around her head, Robert Linder… No… that’s not possible. They hadn’t even touched Konpeki yet, but she swears she knows that name. That it’s him, his birth name. Robbie, Robert, before finally settling on Johnny. Her throat feels tight, chest constricting, how is that possible. Then Misty is pushing her through the doors. 

“I-I can't actually tell if I'm awake now, right now. Nothing feels real, I mean, I could be dead already, right?”

“Not something to think about right now, V,” Misty tells her, stopping the chair by her bed, before coming to stand in front of her, “Here, got some meds for you.”

There’s two pill bottles in Misty’s hands, blue and orange. She crouches down in front of V, meeting the merc’s eyes without looking down at her. Misty rattles the blue pill bottle. 

“Omega blockers - taken regularly, they'll keep things from progressing too quickly. Also, they should keep that guest of yours calm, quiet.”

Quiet. Because she’s going to see him, going to hear him, already has. The memory of hearing his voice, seeing him above her in the landfill. She’s not alone in her own head and putting him in a chemical straight jacket is all she can do. She takes the blue bottle from Misty, shaking the pills around inside, her only hope of squeezing out even six more months of life… before she becomes someone else. 

“Pseudoendotrizine's from me,” Misty shakes the orange bottle, “Effect'll be opposite. It'll speed things up, free the demon, so to speak.”

V takes the second bottle from Misty, shaking them around, as the older woman stands. Suicide pills… Misty is giving her a way to kill herself, only instead of getting to go to sleep and never wake up, it will speed him up. Rewrite and rework her. Death without the dignity of a true end, one day she just won’t be her.  She’d rather bleed out, rather have been left to rot in that landfill. At least then she would have died as herself.  Least she wouldn’t have to watch and feel as she becomes someone else, as she loses everything that makes her, her. And Misty wants to speed it up… wants to watch her die quicker… 

“Giving me a pill to kill myself… so I can die faster…” V’s broken little voice comes out and she see’s Misty’s eyes go big for a moment, soft and looking at V like a dying animal. Just a sad little thing to be pitied. 

“Listen, you're likely to be fine for a while. But some time down the road. It could turn into pure agony. I'm givin' you options, honey.”

“I have painkillers...I-” 

“Your psyche's gonna die, V. You'll feel… your old self slipping away. At some point, you won't recognize yourself. It'll be terrifying. It'll be painful. But it doesn't have to be.”

V nearly cries, but forces it back, thinking of the road ahead of her. The finality in Misty’s voice echoing Vik’s. So, why is she here, six months of suffering? If she’s lucky. She should have been left to die, least then it’d be a quicker one. A real one, instead of just becoming a stranger in her own body, instead of being rewritten, replaced. 

“Might as well just blow my brains out, be easier.”

Misty shakes her head, “Well, that way you'd kill two souls. Is that what you want?”

And maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t. V isn't quite sure of the answer, herself. She just doesn’t want to hurt like this, doesn’t want to be here in this moment. Doesn’t want this.  A clean death is easier, instead Vik pieced her back together just so she could suffer. She thinks of laying down in the landfill, before she saw him, and wishes it back. To lay down in the muck, a bleeding mess, and never get back up. 

“I think...I need to lie down,” she says, her bed never looking so tempting. V pulls herself from the wheel chair and sits down on her bed, legs over the edge as she just feels herself sink into her mattress for a moment. After a moment, she feels Misty sitting down next to her. 

“Here,” Misty holds something in her hands, soft green eyes looking at V, “got one more thing for ya. Vik pulled this outta your skull.’

Misty gently pulls on V’s wrist, touch gentle as she makes the merc roll her hand over and presses a necklace into her palm. A circular pendant on a chain, wires suspending a bullet in the center of it. The merc rubs her fingers over the metal, the bullet that killed her. 

“Wha-?”

“A lucky charm?”

“Haven’t you heard, I got a terminal case of bad luck.” 

“Don't be silly. As long as you're alive, there's hope. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

Misty says that and a part of V believes she believes it. But she said not moments okay, with that same confidence that V is going to die. And the merc can’t help but wonder if Misty even knows which one she believes more. How could V possibly stop this? Vik doesn’t even know what he’s looking at, how the hell could she? Her brain is destroying itself, turning itself into someone new. How do you stop that?

“Really think I can survive this?” V asks, just wanting to know how Misty really feels, if there’s any hope in this situation. 

“'Course you can. I mean, you did already die and come back once, didn't ya?”

“Technically...I guess.” 

“Promise you'll try to get some sleep?” Misty pats her thigh and starts to get up. 

“Misty, wait, um I, about Jackie...” She tangles her fingers in Misty’s sweater, voice catching, she can’t let her go without saying something about him. Misty sits back down. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m, I’m...I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I…” 

“V… “

“I can’t believe he’s gone… It doesn’t feel real…” Tears burn at V’s eyes, falling down her cheeks with a blink. 

“Jackie…  was special. Really spiritually rich. He touched so many people with his love. Don't worry, he'll be around. I don’t think… we ever truly lose the people who meant something to us, a part of them always stays with us, ya know?” 

“Maybe… he… talked about yout lots, you know that? He loved you to pieces.” 

A soft smile starts to pull at Misty’s black painted lips, before it falls again, fingers messing with her hair as she weighs what V’s said. 

“We got into a fight right before he went off to do this job.”

“He wasn’t mad at you. I hope you know that, loved you more than anything.” 

“I know. I just… wish our last moments together could have been… different.” 

“Sure you'll be okay?” 

Misty is too good for all of this, truly, she deserved so much better. And V just wishes she could have brought Jackie home to her.  Misty chews her lip and after a moment she nods, looking up to V. 

“Life is so beautifully powerful, so much more powerful than death, so yeah, I’ll be fine. Not today and probably not tomorrow, but I’ll get there. And so will you.” 

“Maybe…” 

“But right now,” Misty squeezes V’s shoulder,  “you need rest. So sleep, please sleep.”

With that desperate plea, Misty stands up, pushing the wheelchair out through V’s apartment. She only stops once, casting a final somber look at V, as if checking to see if the merc has moved at all. Then she leaves. And V is left alone with her thoughts, with her worries, with her guilt, and fear. 

Body and mind heavy with the weight of it all, she takes out the loaner hearing aids that Vik gave her and pushes herself back into bed. She lays down, feeling the soft of the mattress sink underneath her. V takes another look at the bullet pendant, holding it over her head as she stares at the thing that killed her. Pried from her head and now in her hand, it seems surreal. Everything feels that way lately. 

She lays her head down on her pillow, holding the pendant close as she lets herself just relax for a moment. To just let this all go if only for a few hours, to let her mind and body rest, to figure out what she’s going to do when the morning comes. Her eyelids grow heavy, slipping into sleep. 

There’s an odd, almost electric sound that starts to gently stir her from sleep, like a tv glitching. Followed by a soft thunk, thunk, of something hitting something else. Her heavy eyelid slowly pull open. A man against the wall between her bed and window. Overgrown dark hair, aviators hiding brown eyes, dressed in a bullet proof vest and leather pants. He thumps his head back against the wall, a pent up energy drawing every muscle in his body tight, like a tiger about to pounce. 

“Gotta get out of here, understand? And I kill anyone who gets in my way.” 

And he’s on top of her, in a flicker, a flash, he’s suddenly crouching over her body, staring down at her. Close enough to smell cigarette smoke and a hint of sweat, close enough to see the dirt that clings to his skin, scratches in his flesh.  His silver hand presses against the mattress beside her head, 

“You included.” 

She flinches and kicks out at his warning, the gravel of his voice promising to end her if he has to. And he’s gone, just as easily as he arrived. A dream?  Her heart hammers in her chest, breaths shallow as she tries to calm down. 

Her mind is still foggy  as she starts to sit up in her bed, then she hears the glitching sound again, the thumping noise of a head hitting the wall. V swallows a lump in her throat, blinking at the man who’s back against the wall, thumping his head. 

“Need a smoke,” he demands, seemingly annoyed he has to say it, “where’d you stash yours?” 

A stranger in her apartment, in her mind, trying to bum cigarettes. Her hearing aids still tucked away, yet she hears him clear as day. It’s all surreal. She can’t bring herself to answer immediately, still half out of it, her vision seeming to glitch as she moves. A cyan fuzz to the world as she slowly sits up on the edge of the bed and brings herself to stand up, looking at him. He’s not real, she has to remind herself, even though he looks and smells like it. Just a figment in her head, threatening her life and demanding nicotine. 

“D-don’t smoke.” Is all she can think to say, as stupid as it is, thankful for a moment she can’t hear herself say it, can’t truly take in her own idiocy. As if that’s the most concerning part of this whole mess. 

“Then go out and get some! Just need one last one!” He screams at her, making her flinch, head hurting already. 

“Jesus christ, man,  calm the fuck down.” 

“The fuck kinda joytoy are you s'posed to be?” He sneers at her, looks down his nose at her. Heat and anger rush through her, face warm, asshole. Snide, fucking prick. Not worth it, though, just some asshole rattling around her skull. 

“No, I- I’m not dealing with this.” 

She shakes her head and turns to go to her closet; grab some clothes, pop the pills, take a shower, and figure out what to do from there.  Then he’s in front of her, before she’s even made it past her desk, hands slamming into her chest as he pushes her back. She cries out as she hits the ground, pain shooting through her already injured body. He stands over her, right hand pulled back, ready to strike and his left in front of him. 

“Who you work for? Start talkin'!”

He points a chrome finger at her and her left finger points back him, moving without her consent, world glitching with cyan fuzz around her. She tries to clench it, to pull it back, to control her own body. But nothing and behind his eyes, she sees him looking. Testing it, he unclenches his hand and her own mirrors the motion. He twists his hand around and hers does the same in turn, in perfect sync, like she’s just a puppet. She tries to pull her hand down, but nothing. 

His right arm moves and her own follows the motion, no matter how much tries to pull it back, as muscles aching from her rebellion. Her body listens to him, not her. This can’t be happening, he can’t control her, he can’t make her do things. Vik said six months, it's barely been hours and she already can’t move her own body.

“Fuck…” The man above her curses, turning his palms to his face, her hands doing the same. 

For a moment, she considers begging him to release whatever control he has on her, if he even knows how to do it but stops herself before the broken plea can be heard, nothing but a soft noise dying on her lips. Disgusted she would ever have to beg to have control over her own body, cursing herself as his right hand pushes back into his hair. Her hand does the same, pushing through her hair to rub over her chip-slot.

“Fucking chip,” her fingers pry at the biochip without her permision and she’s reminded of Vik’s warning,  “Rip the thing out myself!

Let him, let the dumb bastard kill them both; she decides just before he tries to rip the chip out. Fingers prying at the damage tech left in her skull,  And she screams, like a shock to her brain, a bolt through every nerve as her vision glitches. Her body tenses, seizes, and somewhere she hears him yell too.  World going dark for just a moment. 

Then red dances across her vision, world and sense slowly returning, she’s somehow twisted to face her window. Not sure how she ended up there, if she had a seizure, if he dragged her. But it looks like he gave up on prying the chip out, because shes’ alive, she thinks. There’s that blue fuzz and static floating around her vision again as she starts trying to get up. 

Before she can get both feet under her, there’s a hand wrenching into her hair, twisting the strands around his fingers and yanking. She cries out as she’s pulled up to her feet by her hair, freshly stitched together scalp being pulled on. V presses her hands to the window sill and glass, trying to get her bearings as she’s pulled back back by the hair. Her reflection stares back at her, her pitiful face wincing in pain, Johnny behind her pulling her around like a ragdoll. 

“I’ll take control!” 

It’s a snarled yell into her ear, his breath on her neck as he slams her head against the window, the a heavy sound of flesh cracking against glass. 

“I’ll find a way!” 

He reels her head back and does it again, glass starting to splinter and break apart under the force. Then he pulls her back, twists her around to face him, moving fast. Hands quick and harsh, tearing at her skin as he wraps both around her throat. Flesh and metal cutting off her air as he slams her against the window, head bouncing against it as she claws at his hands. Finally in control of her limbs, but unable to do anything as he cuts off her air, leaning close enough for her to smell the smoke on his breath. 

“You hear me?!”

He screams in her face, brown eyes glaring over his aviators, harsh and burning into her skin. She can feel the hatred, the anger, all coming off of him in waves. It swims in her head and chest, pressing against her own fear as he strangles her, a snarled look on his face. He wants to kill her, to see her go limp and die under his hands right then and there. She knows that, can feel and read him, knows it as well as she knows her own name. 

Just as darkness pinpricks her vision, she feels the air return, rushing into her… just a moment before he lets go, letting her slide down the window onto the ground. She’s in no place to question it, sucking in deep grateful breathes, lungs burning for it as she watches him pace. 

Haphazardly, she pulls herself to her body, sitting on the edge of it; putting more distance between herself and the window he seems so fond of. She digs through her pockets, finding the omega blockers Misty had given her. V needs him gone like yesterday, to vanish like a bad fucking dream. 

“Not like that!” He yells and smacks the pill bottle from her hand, metal fingers stinging her skin and sending the medication across the room. 

“Fuc-ah!” V yelps as his right hand wraps tightly into her hair, again, yanking at the roots as he forces her to look directly at him, unable to see his eyes through his aviators. 

“Stick some iron in your mouth and pull the trigger!” 

He lets her hair go to reel back his hand, it cracks across her cheek in a heavy smack that sends the merc reeling to the ground. Sharp pain pinkening her cheek as she braces her hands against the floor, everything hurts. Her scalp torn at, her cheek struck, and her throat bruised. She feels it all, a brutal assault as real as anything she’s ever felt. 

“I can feel it,” he talks as he walks across the room, glitching with her vision, “our minds… touching…” 

Across the room, she sees it, beneath his pacing feet is the bottle of pills knocked down. Every muscle seizing, legs refusing to work as her body seems determined to shut down on her. But if she can just get to the pill she can shut him out. 

“I'm like mold on fruit… creepin' into you… Nothing I can do about it,” he rambles to himself, voice tight and angry as she drags herself across the floor, trying to reach the blockers. 

“You hear me!?” He yells, crouching to one knee just over them, taunting her before he flickers across the room again, “I'd puke if I fuckin' could!” 

She focuses on the pills, he’s irrelevant, not even real. Even if he feels like it, even if every strike and yank has left her hurting, he’s not real. V is nearly there, stomach rubbed raw at the drag of her body over the floor. She just needs him gone, far far away, put into whatever corner of his mind she can lock him away in. 

“It's just a copy of the engram - I'm out there somewhere, gotta be…” He keeps talking, keeps rambling, won’t shut the fuck up. 

“Just leave me the fuck alone! Get the fuck out, just go!” 

“Lead to the head is the only thing that’ll fix it,” he points his fingers like a gun at her head, before dropping to a knee in front of her sneering, “hear me bitch!? A bullet to the fuckin’ brain!” 

She grabs a pill from the floor, cramming it in her mouth and swallowing it try, rolling over onto her back as she begs for it to work. And he flickers into view, standing over her, looking down at her like she’s less than filth. Before he glitches out in a mess of static, cyan fuzz erasing him. 

And there’s a moment of relief, left in silence, safe from his hands. Safe from a touch too real for a brain supposedly only in her mind. Him being gone brings a moment, a glimmer of hope, the merc able to breath. To know for however long the pill lasts, she won’t be struck, or taunted. Won’t be plagued with his voice, the rough boom of it still ringing in ears that shouldn’t have heard it. 

This whole thing, the chip, her inevitable death… Vik said Johnny couldn’t help that, had no choice. And she knows from his memories he was put in the chip against his will. 

But this was a choice. The hair yanking, the choking, the screaming, the threats, all of that was his choice. And he made it clear, if it was up to him she’d just die faster. If it was up to him, he’d get the satisfaction of killing her with his hands rather than the chip. A stranger in her body, in her mind, able to control her and he wants her dead, he wants to hurt her. 

She cries, because what else can she do? Tears rushing out anew, it seems to be all she can do lately. V has no idea how to handle this, no idea how to stop it, how to keep him from getting control back. She doesn’t even know how long the pills will last, no clear dosage or instructions, just ‘regularly’. It feels pathetic, crying and weeping with no idea of how to fix it. But she allows herself that much, laying on the floor surrounded by pills, a new intruder in her body; she cries and curls into herself, hugging herself like a child.