#not to hurt the small lungs of my sweet little rats

[esmeraldaka]

Made this today <3

[suzyandthefox]

Anger issues

Old badly written reader X OC drabble that I'm going to post because @opikarts insisted.

Featuring Lumen from my previous Fic but in his normal size snd not his mini size.

Soft safe M/reader g/t vore, unwilling prey and angry pred (happy ending I swear)

Tw: cigarettes and like, two swear words

Taglist: @pineappleparfaitie @opikarts (ask if you want to be added)

I was having a bad night, but you shouldn't have been the victim of that.

I had an argument that night, and I left the apartment to go for a late night walk, but even though the night was calm, my heart was filled with rage.

Each cigarette I burnt and the fire that it created in my lungs was no match for the fire that stirred in my heart.

I was desperate, frustrated, knowing wholeheartedly that my efforts were futile, but it's not that I knew a better way…

Hunger, hunger was eating at my insides, in many ways I was starved.

I walked into an alleyway in hopes of finding a stray animal to feed on, anything, and you, my poor little one, made the mistake of being in my sight.

 I saw you in the corner of my eye, running away, unable to catch your breaths, you must have been running for your life, from a cat perhaps? A dog? A rat?

Being a borrower must be very hard, everything wants a taste of you, especially when you live in a world like ours, where dangers surround you from every corner, like a spider waiting for it's prey.

That night, to my deepest regrets, I was one of those dangers. 

As soon as I found you I reached out to catch you, and I was no cat nor dog nor human, but a creature of the night, a creature beyond what you could imagine.

So it was a chase that lasted a second, you were already doomed as soon as I saw you.

I held your weak, flailing form for a few moments, taking your appearance before I decided what to do with you.

You were thin, frail, so unbelievably…small.

Not just in a physical way, but the way you curled and hugged yourself, I barely saw your frizzy hair as you hid your head between your hands, you truly feared what came next.

You shivered and I was unsure if it was fear or coldness, and either way I pitied you.

But I was hungry, angry, I lost control and I wished to regain it,even if you were going to be the victim of that.

The tragic truth was, no one was going to miss you if you were to disappear.

In my mind the plan was simple enough, I was going to devour you, swallow your weak,frail form whole, and keep you within me until I have calmed down, then let you go.

So I ignored your cries and your desperate begging, they weren't even audible to begin with, I took a drag of my cigarette and blew the smoke in your face in hopes that you would shut up, you only let out a weak whimper.

“I'm sorry” the words were there, at the tip of my tongue, but I was…I couldn't say them, and I couldn't find a reason either.

Instead I shoved you in my mouth, at least I made sure my teeth wouldn't touch you. 

I didn't want to hurt you, and I didn't want to hurt you, you were only a victim of my anger, even in my rage I understood that you were innocent.

You fought against my teeth and tongue,but your efforts were futile, not only you were laughably weak against me, but you were already quite very tired.

You tasted like salt, dirt, rocks… but underneath the grim taste of all that I tasted a hint of sweetness, a sweetness I truly craved.

It made me consider being merciful on you.

I could easily tell, you weren't meant to be on the street, you used to be somewhere nicer… what happened? 

You stopped moving, so I swallowed you…you didn't fight against me.

I felt you…I felt the weight of your sorrows and your fear, to the point where I have almost forgotten my anger, did you truly deserve this?

Did you deserve to be held hostage by me, just because I was hungry and you happened to be snack sized?

I couldn't help but put a hand on where you are, right under my heart.

It worked, I was barely feeling any anger now, but instead I felt pain, your pain, it's almost as if I swallowed your emotions with you…

I considered giving you freedom, you did what you were meant to do, there was no reason for me to make you a prisoner of mine.

But perhaps I should apologize first…explain my intentions to you, at least so you would understand that you weren't meant to be food.

And then I remembered, even underneath the dirt your clothing weren't drags, you weren't meant to be on the street…

 You were going to die if it wasn't for me finding you … perhaps by swallowing you I saved your life.

Thoughts filled my head as I heard you whimper, I felt you curl as if you were trying to hide from me, and it wasn't pity that I felt, not anymore.

I was remorseful, regretful, I did so much harm to an innocent borrower just because they happened to be a borrower, and I happened to be hungry.

“Little one?” The words left me without thinking, you didn't say a word, but you let out a soft squeak, you must’ve been surprised that I would care about you when I just ate you alive.

Like a mouse you were, soft and skittish…and adorable.

“Are you alright? Physically?”

“...yeah…” the dying hope in your voice crushed me into a million pieces.

“I… I'm sorry…I'm so very sorry” 

I finally gathered the courage to say it.

“I was hungry, and angry, and stressed…”

“I let out my anger on you, I shouldn't have, but it made sense, even though it shouldn't have…”

 Just like I was trying to form a coherent apology for you, but even I didn't know why I did that.

My apology was interrupted by your tiny touch, I felt your hand on the wall of my stomach and I wanted to touch you back.

“You were … angry?” You asked through your tears.

“Yes,sweet little one, I was”

“Are you angry now?” You asked me.

I took a deep breath.

“No, baby, I'm not,”

“Would you like me to let you out?”

I, of course, expected the answer to be yes, but to my shock… you refused.

“You are a vampire so…it won't hurt here, right? I'm going to be alright?”

“Well yes, yes you will be safe, but_”

“Then I want to stay here.” You sounded tired, so very tired.

And so was I.

I decided to respect your wishes… Ultimately I was a safer place for you than anywhere else, but it truly pained me, I couldn't help but ask myself:

What is it that you went through, that made you prefer a monster’s stomach over…literally anywhere else? 

“Are you sure you don't_”

“No, I'm good,” you insisted with stubbornness.

“Very well, I guess I'm keeping you for the rest of the night, what's your name?”

“(Your name)”

“I wish I could have met you in better circumstances, that aren't me being angry and starving.”

“But alas, it was charming to meet you nonetheless, thank you…”

“You can call me Lumen.”

“You had a real bad day today, didn't you?” I felt your voice through my bones, as quiet as it was.

“Why don't you sleep, lil’ one? You sound pretty damn tired and so am I…”

At least you had a soft, comfortable place to sleep in, I still had to figure out where I was going to stay tonight if I wasn't going to go back home.

“But I wanted…” you yawned and i felt you move into a comfortable position, which made me at ease…

I truly hoped that you too, were at ease, and that you weren't lying to me…

“No buts, goodnight baby…I'm sorry again…” 

I listened to you and stayed in place, until I only heard soft snoring from you, it was both a great feeling that I was an undead mean of protection for you, and a painful one that I was the mean of protection.

I had decided to know everything about you when you woke up, but at that moment I let you find solidarity in sleep.

I'm sorry…and thank you.

[canyonkingdom]

love i share

(robocar poli oneshot)

(tw: illness, depression, assisted $u|c|d3)

It's the dawn of my creation. The moment I opened my eyes, the world felt otherworldly.

The first faces I saw were of shock,

but they were basking in unmasked love.

They were my family. Poli and Roy served as my older brothers full of responsibility dare they take up. Amber was my mentor, my undying platonic strewn over. (And whenever leaking spur, my mind was all about her uncontrollably.)

I had been the cheery little brother my team, my family, had grown to see. We were happy on our own, but felt happier ruling over the town. Superiority at its finest is when we plead our strength. We have arms and legs while the inept citizens have wheels to compensate.

We were cars, robots, robocars living until the day we rust hundreds of years later. And there was our leader, our stunning, intelligent, beloved leader. She was a human, unlike all of us superiors, but we grew to love her as part of our team.

"I promise," the sweet dripping from her voice, "I will never leave you." Her love bloomed.

She called me Helly. I was the most loved, yet most hated. Childlike and preserved I show, her tiny hands roaming my metal frame as she looked for imperfections.

She was a mother.

Only pure sweet I felt, none drenched in bitterness. A holding hand reaching me out, tenderness when I touch.

Us four do her every bidding. Independent we are, yet dependent on love. She nurtured us despite her lackings. Every rescue, a fresh coat of paint. Every accident, kisses goodnight. We were grown and we cherish a mother's love dearly.

One dawn in October, I scurried to the control room like a lost rat. My mind didn't fathom any activities yet I felt energetic. I was halted by a ear piercing scream.

Mother woke up. I snuck to the door, peeking slightly. Breathing so fast she did, her hair unkempt. Her hand wavered to the air, looked like she was touching something.

Or someone.

"Is it my time now?" she asked bewilderingly.

Slowly, she nodded, I could feel tears running through her. She sighed, yet a big grin flashed on her face. Light through the dusk basking in the headquarters. I felt confused.

I brushed it off soon after.

I should've come back to it.

It deeply hurt us when October came.

"Tuberculosis." I wish I could unhear the doctor's stern words.

How couldn't we notice? Her frequent coughs, fevers, tiredness; Smart us robots are, we aren't devoid of knowledge when in need.

"It has spread outside of her lungs." I forced a sob. "There's a chance she may survive, but I believe it's by a wide margin."

Doctor's appointments mother always missed, as she never came, seeing herself perfectly fine. She didn't care about her deteriorating immune system, even if she couldn't stand up no more. I should've suspected something when she always tightly gripped her chest, wheezing in clear out of breath state, yet I failed to see her pain amidst.

"How much is treatment gonna cost?" Amber asked. Her eyes glowed with hope despite the previous words.

"It's three thousand dollars for the medicine, and if the patient wishes to be confined, it's twenty three thousand."

"That's pocket money!" Roy bellowed a laugh to lighten the grueling mood. "We'll do it-"

"No."

She was smiling.

"I refuse to take the treatment." She repeated in a longer statement.

The doctor was impaled with sympathy.

Arguing aroused at home. Once a happy household drowned in bickering.

"Why would you refuse treatment, Jin?" Amber asked devastatingly. Her voice cracked every cry and her anger chilled me inside. Laidback once now fuming.

Comfortable in her orange pajamas, "I would still die in a few years even if i take the treatment." her voice was small, weaker than of Ambers.

"But you would still live longer..." my voice quivered when I said that statement. I wanted her to live yet I wished for her death.

"My decision." she simply said. A small smile she wore. Her tired eyes extenuated her frail body.

Poli and Roy didn't talk to her out of anger, only when there are rescue missions. Amber frequently tried to get her to reconsider, yet she stayed true to her word. Mourning was pain in their vocabulary.

But I only wished her best.

She still ran the rescue station beneath her crumbling health. Rescue missions continued, the town blissfully unaware of her sickness. Her pain left ignored. Countless pleas made; yet she never complied.

"Please, Jin. Poli and Roy only want you to get better." Amber tried hard, downward spiral ensues.

"They should respect my dying wish." her lips were chapped as forced a smile.

Nothing was the same.

Arguments erupted about her illness I tend to stay sway from. I cower every shout, I fly away when glass breaks. My fingers touch the outskirts of town, where I banter with the inferior townsfolk.

"Wanna play ball, Helly?" Annoying voice Bruner used, I refused instantly. I'm weeping in my own sadness.

I stood at the edge of the cliff, admiring the stars above. I saw her eyes glowing in the stars. Her smile a million stars I felt.

I felt her love.

Yet I can never feel it.

The undying pleasure where love once shined basked in underlying darkness. Depressing environment I flew in, blooming flowers wilting.

Poli and Roy became distant. Sad glares chipped up their frames, dipped in hatred. They didn't speak with her (I didn't understand how they could leave her love untouched.) and came to the headquarters less and less. I worried for them, but I didn't care.

They left her.

Amber stayed, health deteriorated. Her tears made her rust, bright paint once ladled in sad rustic orange. I kept her bright, painting over the scars. Yet they still persisted. Her pain leveled with the tuberculosis.

They couldn't take care of themselves no more.

Thankfully, the missions died down. I became Amber's nurse, ironically. (Mother didn't want a caretaker watching her every move.) Calm her premature tears, engine oil leaking, I become despondent seeing everyone lose hope in my eyes.

I was in the repair center, she looked me dead in the eyes. I didn't feel love pulsating from her veins.

It's sad.

It's been months. Mother's health is down the drain. Amber was getting better, her mental state didn't. Her days spent by looking over the port, finessing the sea. She shouted at me when I disrupted her peace of mind (which it wasn't, she went insane). Amber long ago stopped convincing mother to take treatment.

I have been on her side since illness shown. Making small talk, and didn't rush her need to get treatment. I only wished her wish to come true, live her best life as I serve her day and night. But her love never bloomed once again, like a wilting flower, bits chopped.

It was a cold October night, I finished my patrol immediately going back to her side. I'm greeted by Amber in the door, her eyes sunk, her metal rusting once more. I smile at her dearly, and she smiles back. I make my way to her room.

"Helly," she says bluntly.

I open my mouth to speak, yet interrupted. "Meet me at the garden, strictly midnight." her frail voice reminds me.

This was going down a dark path, but I trust my guts, trust her mind. Her body was of thin breadsticks and a orange bonnet she wore, lost of all her hair. Yet one sweet smile still remained on her face, though pale and wrinkled.

Midnight came by. I spot Amber in the race track. She was sobbing. She was always like this and I leave her be. I fly to the garden solemnly, spotting her amongst the array of flowers.

I retract my propeller as I land. It was so peaceful. She was looking at the sky above, twinkling stars and the glowing moon. I love seeing mother happy.

She looks at me. She smiles. "You came."

"I always will." I reply.

"Helly, do you know why I didn't want treatment?"

I sigh. "Why?"

"I wanted to die, Helly."

My eyes widen with that answer. Never did I see her as suicidal, she showered us with her affection and never showed herself her own. I felt terrible, rust crawling through my metal frame.

"Don't think about it the wrong way," she sighs heavily, "I love all of you, Poli, Roy, Amber, and especially you. But-" she paused.

"Why?" I blurt out painfully.

"They're calling me, Helly. Heaven." angelic tears, "My dad, he's calling me. I've got to leave this world."

Her dad has been a controversial topic. Like her, he had gave her love, looking up to him. Yet he died, sadly.

"Why?" I repeat, more sincerely.

"I miss his love, Helly."

Her painfully stupid but passionate decision shot daggers through my running engine. Death called her attention and was willing to sacrifice it just to feel love.

I forgot she was a real human, one that was amazing.

"I'm sorry," I say,

"I love you," I mutter.

She died, her glow fading in my arms. Her skin as pale as snow. Amber wailed so hard, cursing the world. I felt tears streak my frame.

Mother was a joy.

"I promise," the sweet dripping from her voice, "I will never leave you." Her love bloomed.

Lies.

For once, I hated her love. Selfishness engulfed her being. We wanted her to be okay, and she didn't consider our feelings in the matter. All she wanted was to feel love.

Love.

Poli and Roy returned for the funeral. Awkwardness ensued when we sat together. Though they were deeply cracked inside, they found a way to smile. All of us. Amber's rust didn't show.

"How are you?" Roy asks, his voice husky from crying.

"You left us." Amber mutters harshly.

"I'm sorry." Roy sobs, "I- i'm sorry, I was angry a- and I didn't- I didn't fucking- fuck!"

Poli kept his cool, weeping in silence.

Her dark umbre casket lowered down and covered in dirt. Flowers dumped at the grave. Poli on his knees, begging for forgiveness. I stood there blankly.

Life never returned to normal, for me. Poli and Roy wiggled themselves into Amber's forgiveness, yet I enver forgave them further. They were stupid for even returning after leaving her for a simple misunderstanding of decisions.

Yet the only reason they returned was because of,

me.

Their stupid asses will never know. Never further looking at the autopsy report. They will never know her smile when I wrapped my arms around her neck, the crack of her bones, how I sobbed on her body throughout the night. When Amber found it, she was speechless. Thought she died of her illness.

I hid the autopsy safe in my room, none suspecting a single thing.

That night, she was persistent.

"Kill me, Helly."

Her love blinded me.

I felt it.

Her love, shining once more.

I watched Poli, Roy, and Amber hug each other goodbye. I watched the consequences of my decision thrive.

-///-

I cried a little while making this and that says a lot

pls don't cancel me /j

[cremeriie]

small world (or so it seems)

Osvald truly did not care much about the state of his hair, or any other so-called vanities, really. Unless it seriously impeded his work, the way he looked was simply not important.

Agnea thought otherwise.

"Seriously Professor, it can't be comfortable keeping it all knotted up like that."

"Yeah! You hair looks as bad as mine after a chase in the woods!"

Ochette only caught the tail end of Osvald's sharp stare as she bounded out of the Inn, likely to find something to eat. This left only Agnea as the remaining nuisance.

"Just let me brush it out, please? You can still read while I do it, you don't even have to move."

He was about to deny her, for good that time, but he stopped short at the pleading look in her eyes. Suddenly, his chest ached in a painfully familiar way.

He never could say no to such an earnest face. Not when it reminded him so much of life before the fire.

"Fine."

"Really? Oh thank you Osvald, I'll be right back with my brush!"

She almost tripped rushing up the stairs, grasping clumsily at her skirt as she went. She really was so young compared to the rest of their group and Osvald wondered, not for the first time, if letting her join their travels was a good idea. At the very least, she held her own in a fight fairly well, and she seemed to pick up on the basic wind magic he had taught her quite quickly.

"Oops, sorry about that ma'am! Whew. Alright Professor, let's see what we're working with here."

She softly pulled all of the unkempt strands back towards her to get a better look. Agnea had a usually irritable habit of humming when she was concentrating, but Osvald oddly found the sound less troublesome that night. After a while she dropped the hair and made a 'hmph'-ing noise.

"Your diagnosis?"

"Pretty terrible. But nothing I cant fix with a little hard work. Um, it may hurt a bit, though."

He brushed off the concern with a wave of his hand, to which Agnea shrugged as if to say 'alright then,' and began her attack on the knots. she started at the bottom, which was relatively tidy all things considered. When pain never occurred Osvald turned his attention back to his book and began reading once again.

For a short while the room was filled only with the quiet sounds of humming, turning pages, and brushing. It was almost peaceful, until...

Snag. His head quickly whipped back and into place.

He blinked.

Snag. Again, his vision was pulled away from the pages.

Snag!

"Agnea."

"Sorry, sorry! It's just such rat's nest back here. My mother would be furious if she saw this mess."

"Hm. Did she often brush your hair?"

"Oh yes, all the time when I was small,' a sad, faraway smile fell onto her face, "She always said how lucky I was to have thick hair, and lots of it too. I bet she'd say the same about you."

"I would get rid of it all if I could but..." He trailed off.

"But?"

"My wife. She...liked it."

Agnea could tell from the clipped response that it was not a subject to be pushed further. They slipped back into silence. At the thought of her mother, she was reminded of one of the songs she used to sing when brushing her daughter's hair. The words spilled from her lips.

"O, Lady of Grace, bless me with poise/ With which I may charm my sweet love/ O, Lady of Grace, bless me with voice/ With which I may call my sweet love..."

At first, the lyrics breezed past Osvald's ears disinterestedly. Agnea was always singing to herself, he couldn't possibly keep up with every song. However, once the last line hit the air his lungs abruptly seized, wind violently squeezed out out them. Voice croaking, he turned slightly to look at the girl.

"How...how do you know that song?"

"Hm? Oh, it's a silly old love song my mother wrote. Apparently it was very favourable with young ladies in all the places she visited. Do you maybe know it? I bet she was still traveling around the time you were younger."

"Rita, she--I remember her singing it. She said she learned it from a woman visiting town..."

"Wow. I wonder if it was mom she heard that day?"

"Quite possibly."

"Huh...and now, all these years later, here we are, together...it must be fate."

"If one is to believe in such a thing."

Osvald swallowed thickly. His body was stiff, and he was trying desperately to remain composed. It was not the time to fall apart. For Aelfric's sake, he hadn't even had a drink that evening.

Agnea stopped, noticing the shake in his jaw from how hard he was clenching it. Her movements stilled. Hesitantly, she wound her arms around Osvald's neck. She gently squeezed, before murmuring into his hair.

"Whether it's fate or not, I'm happy that we met."

She quickly untangled herself from his body and stepped back, clapping her hands decisively.

"Um, we're all done! I bet it feels a whole lot better, even if you won't admit it. Maybe next time I can convince you to let me braid it."

Osvald let out a shuddering breath and cleared his throat.

"Certainly not."

Her laugh twinkled across the room, "Oh, we'll see! But it'll have to be later, because I am quite tired after all of that hard labour. Goodnight Professor!"

"Goodnight, and...thank you."

Agnea beamed brightly before climbing the stairs to her room.

He ran his fingers through his hair and was surprised at the lack of resistance. Small and witnessed only by himself, he smiled.

Osvald knew that the pain in his chest might never fully go away, but that night he felt it ease, just a little bit.

[siriuslygay1981]

Have y'all seen the hc where Remus is there when Sirius is arrested. If you haven't, you will now. If I had to see it so do you. So here's my mini version of that!!

Cw- lots of swearing, death, angst and heartbreak

✧⁠◝◜⁠✧ ♡ ✧

Sirius had just gotten there, had just barely comprehended what happened when a loud voice called out to him.

"Sirius black come out with your wand thrown to the floor!"

He wasn't sure what was happening still trying to grasp the fact that James...James was gone. Lily...sweet lovely lily was dead and Harry...just a small boy- he was...he's still here crying. His little screams echoed along with Sirius' racing thoughts, shocking him at the shrill and loud scream that came out of the small baby. He was so small, his tiny hand could barely hold two of Sirius' fingers.

His feet couldn't move, stuck to the floor before slowly snapping out of it. He had stumbled down the stairs after seeing them, had saw James on his way up and felt something inside him break. Half his soul was missing, like a vital fucking organ was ripped out. It was as if someone sucked the life source from his body, sucked the essence in which he was warm, was loved, was soft. Like a fucking sunflower as the sun set, for the last time, the flower wilted slowly, it's whole body sinking down in despair.

He'd never rise with the sun again, would never turn to see that bright grin that always had him grinning just as widely right back.

He hadn't let any air in as he pushed the nursery door open, he had seconds to comfort Harry before he couldn't take it.

He had stumbled back down the stairs and to the front door with bile rising in his throat. His hand was on the doorknob when the voice had spoke.

It was an order member...maybe some Aurors, they...they could help. Could get Peter and fucking kill him.

Rage took over, boiling, mad rage. He swung the door open, his face dark. Peter did this.. and he was going to pay, even if it fucking killed him, he was going to hurt Peter.

He was surrounded in seconds his whole body immediately wrapped in rope, he started to fall forward but two Aurors rushed forward and caught him, gripping him roughly.

"What-guys he's out there we have to-" he felt desperate as he spoke.

Sirius pushed the grief aside, first Peter had to go down then he could mourn both his brother and the betrayal of another brother.

Remus came into view, his face was ashen, it hardened as he stepped closer.

"Don't fight it Black. We already know."

Sirius huffed annoyed.

"if you already know them release me! We have little time before that rat 🐁 gets away!"

Remus' face went through a whirlwind of emotions as the Aurors started to drag him forward.

He struggled in their grasp trying not to think of the blank wide eyed faces of his brother and his sister in law.

"Stop. Just stop, you can't fool us Black, not again."

It was then he stopped fighting. Thought he misheard the first time. He felt the air leave his lungs, his stomach lurching up once again.

Black. Said with disdain..anger.

He..thinks I did this. He thinks I betrayed them. His stomach drops, his throat tightening.

"What-" he could feel the beginnings of laughter building in his throat. Nothing was funny, nothing except maybe Remus thinks he betrayed lily and James.

His laugh wasn't the typical one from a successful prank or some unfunny joke that was so ridiculous he couldn't help but laugh. No, no, it reminded him of his days in locked cupboards, bloody faces, bruised arms. The laugh of a rebel son spitting in the face of his abusers knowing he'd barely make it out alive for his disobedience. It was hysterical in a way he hadn't felt in so long.

"We know you were working with Voldemort this whole time Sirius. Give it up, you've already killed all our friends, isn't that enough?" Remus didn't make eye contact only spoke in his direction.

"You think-" he couldn't force more out, could barely choke out those two words.

"You-you think-" his heart was crumbling, he was shaking, he doesn't think he's ever felt so fucking hopeless. He didn't realize how much heartbreak, hurt- pain you could put in just two words until now.

He could hear the other Aurors murmuring and could see them eyeing him in disgust. He never cared before now, the ones he loved knew he wasn't like his heritage, that's all that mattered. Now though..he felt the world crumbling beneath his feet, more and more he sunk into the ground, into the concrete, he was weak and breaking as the seconds passed by in slow distorted time, he couldn't hold himself up.

"You think I-" and he was laughing, and laughing and choking on sobs.

You think I did this? You think I hurt James and lily? You think I took Harry's parents from him? You think I killed my brother?

He surged forward cackling wildly, gasps and sobs mixing and melding with his manic laughs. This had to be a joke. Had to be a prank, it wasn't a funny one though, wasn't their usual style.

"Y-you think-"

You think I'm just my last name? You think I'm a black? You think I betrayed them? You think I killed them? You don't believe me? You have been getting closer just to expose me? You don't feel the same..

"It was a bit obvious, no?" Remus said suddenly angry.

"You were trying to gain my trust, my undeniable loyalty-" Remus' voice cracked and oh...oh how it hurt to see Remus explain his feelings away. Sirius wasn't feeling too well all of a sudden. It was hit after hit, he felt worse than the day Regulus turned death eater, felt sick and Merlin if he could just get some air into his lungs.

It struck Sirius all of a sudden, Peter bloody Pettigrew framed him.

"I think you should go for it, I mean you might never get the chance. With the war and all?"

"Peter fucking pettigrew-" he choked out astonished.

One of his best friends, his fucking brother had killed one of their own, had gone and framed him by manipulating his feelings.

"You would disappear at random times, not telling where you were or what you'd done." Remus continued as Sirius was shoved to the floor face first. He breathed out heavily his chest constricting as he struggled to breathe.

"You were the secret keeper, how bloody stupid do you think we are?" Remus shook his head as he stared down at Sirius.

I was framed. I was framed bloody brilliantly because I was an idiot. And no one will ever believe me. Not the man I love, not the friends I had made.

The only ones who know are dead and it's all my fault.

He felt the rocks dig into his face, into his arms and his jeans. He had thrown on an outfit ready for a small outing to the bar in Peters neighbourhood, knew he'd have a few drinks and head home. He even made a list because it was funny, knew he rarely finished lists but he wanted to rub it in Lily's face that he finished one today.

Check on Peter, go to the bar, go home, try to sleep for a few restless hours.

Check on Peter. He had walked up the steps to his flat, had knocked and got no answer, had grabbed his spare key he always hid in the plant and checked inside. He was already halfway done with the first thing, easy peasy.

"I'll be home all night pads."

Sirius was known not to finish lists- assignments, was often too busy with other things. He put things off, procrastinated as long as he could.

He felt his gut tighten with anxiety, wasn't sure yet-or maybe he just didn't want it to be true- about what the feeling of dread meant. He flew out of the house in record time, his long legs running as fast as he could.

To his bike and to the Potters and the door was ajar. It was eerily quiet and he went inside, He stood still for just a moment, his mind was blank.

He wishes, truly aches, to have finished this list. Wishes that it was just a silly nightmare and he'd wake up to go check on Peter. Would greet Peter and tease him about his new girlfriend he visited so often.

But now he was staring at the tall freckled man in front of him. His face was being pushed into the floor, a knee in his back as they waited for backup. He couldn't breathe- the world was crushing him under its boot, he struggled to speak, could barely get coherent words out.

"Remus I- I didn't...Remus it wasn't some grand plot. I L-"

"Black. Im not exactly surprised we are here, wish this could've been different." Moody interrupts, limping over with a grim face.

Sirius closed his eyes. There was no point. No point in fighting, Peter had got him, had pulled the biggest prank on the lot of them.

Of course he was a bloody rat. There were no signs, he had just been Pete, shy Loving Pete. Should he have noticed? He had suspected Remus at one point, and felt ashamed. Was he a bad friend for not noticing the change in Peter? Before it was too late, they were all scared he should've checked in more, surely. Should've Floo'd in or came over for tea. Ask how his mother was, asked more about his girlfriend.

Why fight when no matter what he said, what he did, they'd hold his last name against him. Guess his parents got their last kick of revenge on Sirius. They're probably laughing down in hell, glad he goes down as a traitor.

✷ ⁠๑ ❥๑*｡⁠*ﾟ✷

Bonus;

"Even though we have overwhelming evidence that you were a spy for the dark side, would you want to do a trial?"

Sirius glanced up, his whole body numb. The wind blew against his newly shaved head, his shoulders hunched up against the cold. His limbs felt heavy, heavier with the chunky handcuffs and chains on his wrists and ankles pulling him down. The world was pushing down on him harder, overwhelming, constant, heavy, weight.

James was gone.

He felt a small piece of hope spark, he could get Peter, he could go home. He could mourn then sleep in his warm bed and cry, all he had to do was try to convince them of his innocence.

"We would administer Veritaserum-"

The hope died again, his eyes dimmed. Veritaserum-...he was doomed to this fate, he could see it all go down in his head.

'And how did you become friends with Mr lupin, Mr Potter and Mr Pettigrew?How did you get so close that you were the Potters secret keeper?'

'What are your thoughts about these three?'

The first ones were easy, 'Hogwarts of course.'.

'Well you see Mr minister of magic, we found out our best buddy was a werewolf and as we found a way to illegally help him we grew closer. Usually happens when doing highly illegal things together, builds trust.'

The third was a bit more complicated

'oh well right now I think Peter Pettigrew is a dirty rat, a traitor and that he was my brother and he will die a painful bloody death.'

'James...James was the air in my lungs, the love in my chest. He was the sun on my skin and I was saved by him. He was my brother, my best friend, my everything. And he's dead because of me.'

'Remus..I thought Remus was someone I loved. Really truly loved. He's the light in the dark, he was more than just my friend, he was someone I was willing to do anything for. I might even love him.'

Betrayed by two of his brothers, killed another and the love of his life doesn't believe him.

"No trial." He whispered cutting the Auror off mid-sentence.

What other choice did he have?

'And Mr black could you tell us who the werewolf is?'

'Remus lupin, it's in his name innit?'

Inevitably they'd ask, he'd doom Remus to a worse fate. Would condemn another to take his place in prison or an equally worse situation. He couldn't do that, not to Remus. He could see Remus speaking to Moody his body stiff as Moody nodded slowly to his words.

He was set in his decision when he saw Remus' thumb slide over the bracelet on his wrist. Remus was taking comfort in it, he could feel Remus on his own wrist, the bracelets magically connected in a one way call.

I'll hate you until I can't, love you even when it hurts. I'll be back and then...when I set everything straight I'll mourn more than just our past but our future too.

He looked away as Remus looked over to him.

I'm sorry.

[salty-sith-bitch]

Hey, so I saw you needed some writing ideas. I was wondering if you would be ok writing a platonic Mando/Reader (the reader is like a teenager or young adult), where the reader gets anxious when Mando is gone for long periods of time hunting for bounties due to past trauma of their family leaving them (albeit not on purpose, they were taken away). And since they have to stay on the ship and take care of the child, they can’t go with him to make sure he’s alright. Just something I thought of.

This is very angsty I AM SO SORRY! I absolutely enjoyed writing this and it's probably one of my favorite pieces. 

The reader and Mando have a sweet platonic almost father/ child relationship in this.

Ni cuy' olar ad'ika (I am here Little one)

Wanings: Hurt/comfort, angst

Words: 1557

Ao3

"I'll be back," the Mandalorian said to you as he descended the ramp of the crest.

You nodded as you snuggled the child. Giving a soft coo the child looked up at you and moved his ears. Sighing you turned and entered the crest, heading off to make lunch.

***

You decided to eat lunch outside and enjoy the sunlight with the child while you could. It had been a while since your trio had inhabited a warm plant. The sun's rays kissing your skin left you feeling warm and hopeful. Hopeful for a better future and of not being alone again. 

It felt like home. The home you once knew for nearly 17 years where you had never felt alone or unloved. Where you had a garden and a family. Where cooking lessons from mother took place and sarcastic banter with your father. Where giggles from your brother bounced off the walls as he pulled your hair.

Eyes stinging and bottom lip quivering you looked down at the child as he brought his soup up to his mouth. Just like him, you had been alone until Mando found you. A child without parents or someone to take care of you. Lost and abandoned trying to find your place in the galaxy.

Before you met Mando you had been loved by your parents. They worked hard for you and your brother and made every moment worth living. Your home had been small and your parents would work until exhaustion overtook their bodies, leaving you to cook and look after your brother. You would tend to the garden and sew clothes for the family. Each day you would thank your mother for the skills she taught you and your father for his sense of humor and hard work. Your family was all you had known In life. It was all you needed. It was home. Where you felt safe and adored.

But everything changed when the troopers came. To this day you swear you can still smell the fires and feel your lungs ache as they tried to breathe anything besides ash. The fires and storm troopers engulfed your village, taking the children and killing off anyone who tried to stop them. 

Your parents had gone out earlier that day to the market and had never returned. They had taken your brother as you spent the day reading and basking in the sunlight in the garden. The first sound of blaster fire startled you, your muscles freezing as you pulled a vegetable from the soft soil beneath your feet. It was another couple of moments before the next round of blaster shots could be heard, this time closer.

When you could finally move again you looked off into the distance as the fires grew and smoke filled the sky. Panicking you ran inside and hid in the back of your parent’s closet. That was where your parents had told you to go if there was ever an invasion. They had created a room that was safe and where no one could find you. You waited and waited for your front door to be knocked down and for you're home to be stormed. No troopers ever came in search of you though. 

Neither had your parents.

You had spent days in and out of sleep not daring to leave the confined space of your hideout. On the third day, you had awoken to the noise of the front door opening and the shuffle of heavy footsteps. You waited a couple of minutes silently crying and praying to the maker that you wouldn't be found. Minutes turned into an hour, then two, then three, and eventually, night has fallen.

You knew whoever had intruded your home had not left yet and they didn't seem like they were in a hurry to. You waited until the early morning just before sunrise to try and sneak out from your hidden space and had almost made it to the front door when heard the click of a blaster and felt the barrel of it pressed into your back.

It was then that the Mandalorian and Grogu had found you, starving, dehydrated, and filthy. You broke down crying and begging for him to just kill you. You refused to be taken as anyone's slave, servant or turned into a soldier. 

Watching you shake and please for death Mando had gracefully holstered his blaster and instead comforted you, explaining he would not hurt you and that he could leave once the sun rose and his child woke. In response, you told him that you would instead go. This place was a house but no longer a home.

Putting the pieces together the Mandalorian sympathized with you and offered you a new beginning and what would eventually become your home. He expressed his concern about his son and needing someone to watch him while he went on missions. You considered and said you would think about it. Mando would be leaving later that night and told you that if you decided to join him to meet him at his ship just before sundown.

That evening Mando found you sitting outside of his ship with the few belongings you had and any produce that had not wilted from the ash and fires. The Mandalorian didn't say much or ask much of you and you quickly fell into a routine with him and the kid.

That had been nearly a year ago. You had been too old to be a foundling but too young to become a bounty hunter yourself so you stuck with watching the child much as you did now.

Looking down at the child again you saw his eyes begin to droop. Smiling weakly you packed up the remaining bits of lunch and scooped up the child.

"Naptime my friend."

Grogu cooed, nuzzling his head into your chest.

Making your way into the ship you shut the ramp and laid with the child on Din's cot until you both fell into a deep slumber.

***

Three days. It had been three days since Din left to go search for his bounty. You generally didn't worry but when his adventures hit the three-day mark anxiety started to kick in. You knew Din was capable of handling himself and would always comm you if there was trouble or if he needed you to fly the Crest to him. Despite knowing all of that you couldn't fight the bile that rose in your chest and the tunneling sensation of the world around you.

By sundown, on that night  you felt like a walking corpse. You hadn't eaten but still had to fight the urge to throw up or break down crying. Grogu had watched you in concern all day and had been extra cuddly and affectionate. He could sense your unease and see your fear through forced smiles and glossy eyes. 

Bedtime came early that night for the little womp rat. Trying to comfort you tuckered him out.

Having time to yourself is both a blessing and a curse. You could cry freely without being embarrassed and without tiring out the kid but it also reminded you that you were alone and what you had lost. It reminded you that it could happen again. That the family you now had could be torn apart just as easily as your last.

Sobbing, you sat in Din's chair in the cockpit wrapped in your favorite blanket from home. It still had the smell of your mother's perfume and your father's aftershave on it. Realizing one day that that too would fade and disappear you wept harder, letting out gasps of air as your lungs tried to replenish themselves. The material of the blanket caught the tears that rolled down your face and you wrapped it tightly around you in desperation to feel close to your family again. Eventually, your body gave up on supporting you and you fell out of the pilot's chair and laid on the cold metal ground. Eyes squeezed just hit salty tears continued to flow and splash onto the worn metal of the Crest. 

You don't know how long you were down there or how long you had been crying but you felt yourself being lifted and scooped into a hug. You wailed into Din's chest as he slowly rocked you.

"Ni cuy' olar ad'ika." His unmodulated voice rang through your ears and you felt his own tears fall down and into your hair.

You may have been too old to be a foundling when Din found you but he still adopted you as his own. He treated you as I'd you were his own child, laughing when you laughed, threatened to take away credits when you sassed him and cried when you cried.

He understood your pain and hurt and his chest tightened every time you shed a tear. He knew you longed for your parents as much as he longed for it. If there was a way he could bring your parents back he would. You would do the same for him if you could.

That was not a possibility though and you both knew it. Instead, the three of you made your own family. Your own clan.

This is the way.

Rocking together on the floor of the cockpit you both cried into the night.

[undermattsun-archive]

mouth

(skate rat) kunimi x reader | word count: 1.8k

a/n: i said i was writing a drabble, a simple short slice,, wtf happened?? anyway ty @bakatenshii​ for putting up w my spam about this <3

18+ university age | pls read all warnings

warnings: drug use (weed), bad words, bad (slightly toxic) behavior, toxic relationships, a bit of blood

now with its sequels taste + savor

Oikawa’s parties were never really your scene, considering the amount of greasy touch-starved skaters that were crawling around and all the bad decisions you’ve made with them in the past, you really should’ve tried your best to avoid any function thrown by him. But the promise of some mindless fun after a grueling week of finals made it worth swinging by, even for an hour or so.

You’re seated on the arm of the beat-up old couch near the front door, giving you the perfect seat to watch various people of differing sobriety fall in and out of the party.

Just as the desperate scene of Matsukawa coming on to the fourth girl of the night unfolds before you, there’s the familiar burn of eyes boring into you, acutely aware of who it might be. 

For a moment you wonder if standing your ground would be better, thwarted by your own body moving without a second thought and making a desperate attempt to avoid simple eye contact, you sacrifice your perch,  hoping to find someone that you didn’t have a complicated history with.

“Trying to run?” Cool fingers wrap around your wrist, forcing a groan to escape your lips. It was a mystery how someone who was high most of the time and never wanted to expend any energy could move that quickly across a room.

“Running implies I’m scared, avoiding would be the better term,” you try to pull away from his grip, only to have him tighten his hold forcing you to turn and glare into his hooded eyes, “what do you want?”

“A hello maybe, not nice to ignore me.” He relents his hold and you roll your eyes, he looks deceptively good tonight. You can’t help but take in his appearance, grimacing when you notice he’s wearing the oversized black Champion hoodie you’d given him for his birthday, when you were still on semi-decent terms.

“Yeah about that, I only say hi to people who don’t fuck me over.” You try to move away from him but he quickly crowds into your space, focusing a calculating look on you.

“Fuck you over how?” His expression shifts, he’s giving you that look, the one he gives whenever he has you pinned against a surface and taking everything he wants from you. 

The look he gives before you can’t help but surrender completely to him.

“Forget it, just leave me alone.” You try to look around him, trying to find a familiar face, someone you could cling onto to avoid this uncomfortable confrontation and your inevitable downfall right into his hands.

You shove at his chest and slip by him, deciding that leaving completely would be the best option, only to have hands grip at your waist and pull you back harshly. You land on the couch with a soft thump about to send another scathing comment his way when you notice him reaching behind the couch, pulling out a clear glass bong with a skull engraved on it.

The sight of it fills you with another wave of irritation and nostalgia, another present from you to him, another instance of you practically on your knees begging for his attention. You know this is your real cue to leave, that the second you start smoking with him you’ll truly be putty in his hands.

“Just one or two hits,” he hums, already sensing your hesitation, he pulls out a half empty plastic water bottle and a dime bag, “I'm sure you stressed yourself out this week.”

“Mm how considerate of you.” You shift slightly in your seat, positioning yourself better in case you decide to really escape this time.

“You look good.” It’s nonchalant and almost half-hearted but it still causes a slight tingle to run down your spine. You hate the way his feigned disinterest always has you wanting more, all the times he’s looked at you with rapt attention only to coat it with impassivity a moment later making you crave more and more of him. The imagery fills your head and makes your mouth dry. You push the thoughts away, you’re here to smoke some of his weed, and then leave nothing more.

“Don’t,” he looks up from his ministrations to raise a brow at you, “‘m not playing your games tonight.”

“Fine, you look like shit.'' He hands you the bong and you consider smashing it, but it’d only be a waste of your money and good weed.

“Lighter.” You touch the mouthpiece to your bottom lip and stare at him expectantly. He shakes his head and twirls the lighter in his fingers.

“Payment.” A smug look crosses his features and the temptation to throw the bong itches at your hands again.

“I hate you.” It’s under your breath and both of you know that despite how irritated you are with him, you don’t mean it in the slightest, you never do. You hook your finger onto the collar of his hoodie and tug him forward, slamming your lips together in a chaste kiss, the moment his lips part against yours has you pulling away.  

“Hm? That was too short and sweet for you,” you snort at the comment and try to take the lighter from him, he shakes his head and turns the bong so the bowl is facing him, “you’re just gonna fuck it up and hurt yourself let me.”

“Whatever.” You fix your lips properly, holding eye contact with him as he lights the bowl, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke crawl down your throat and invade your lungs. He grins at you as he pulls the bowl from it, letting you clear it out.

You hold the smoke for a moment, and just as you’re about to blow it out, Kunimi snatches the bong from you and sets it down by the couch, surging forward and capturing your lips. His hand flies up and squeezes at your cheeks as he licks into your mouth, forcing your jaw to drop. His other arm curls around your waist, not bothering to put up a fight as he maneuvers you onto his lap.

Your hands press against him and you finally exhale slowly into his mouth, feeling his chest swell slowly beneath your palms. There’s a pause in his movements, leaving you to think he’ll pull away, only for him to continue his greedy exploration with his villainous tongue. 

Though you’d never say it out loud, you’ve always been impressed by his lungs but the lack of oxygen begins to make your chest tighten and your head feel a little too light.

“Fuck wait.” You gasp, pulling away and resting your forehead against his. His hand drops from your face and slips under the hem of your shirt letting his fingers dance across the small of your back.

“For what?” He nips at your bottom lip, trying to get you to retaliate but you narrow your eyes at him.

“Apologize first.” You drive your index finger into his chest and he scoffs.

“I don't do that,” he leans forward and sinks his teeth into your neck, making you yelp out, you hiss as he pulls off and licks at the raw skin, “take me or leave me.”

“Fuckin’ asshole.” You tangle your fingers in his hair and yank harshly, pulling him into a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything. You feel his fingers continue to massage your back while his other hand runs up and down your thigh.

If you aren’t going to get an apology, you figure there’s other ways to get a bit of retribution. You dig your teeth into his bottom lip, grinning against him when you feel the taste of iron spread across your tongue. his hand on your thigh squeezes tightly making you gasp, only allowing him to delve his tongue further into your mouth, acting as though he has a right to it. 

“Bong.” He rasps as he pulls away from you, you take a moment to admire the crimson staining his lips. Reaching down you swipe up the bong, handing it to him and scooting back to avoid being burnt. Watching quietly as he fixes it against his mouth, lighting it and taking a long drag.

It was disgusting really, he always looked  good like this, the only thing rivaling this expression was that faintly proud look he got in his eyes whenever he landed a trick. He pulls the bong away and holds it to the side, looking up at you and tilting his head. 

“What?” You frown as you watch his eyes flicker to your mouth, his message loud and clear. with a sigh you inch forward, letting your lips part, you jump slightly when he surges forward to slot his mouth against yours. You inhale slowly as he exhales, reveling in the taste of the weed and his tongue moving across yours.

“You two sure know how to make it seem like you’re the only ones in the room,” you pull away once more, the two of you turning to look at Iwaizumi settling on the couch beside you, “just wanted to warn you that Mattsun is threatening to come join you two.”

“Tch like hell he is.” Kunimi pulls you closer against his body, only making you groan at the sudden wave of possessiveness.

“You’re not my boyfriend.” You really have no interest in letting Mattsun’s slimy fingers and dirty dick anywhere near you, but skipping out on the opportunity to piss Kunimi off, even just a little, would be a waste. you raise a brow as his head falls back against the couch, reddening eyes observing you lazily.

“You want me to be or something?” You ignore the snicker that falls from Iwaizumi beside you two and narrow your eyes at the man underneath you.

“So you can fuck off and forget i exist for another month again? Yeah right.” The flash of anger fades quickly when you start to feel the headiness that comes with your high swirl through you. 

“I'll make it up to you,” the statement punctuated with both of his hands sliding further up your shirt, “mouth.”

“Kunimi.”

“Mouth.” you swipe your tongue over your lips before relenting, letting your jaw drop and your tongue loll out a bit. He swipes his tongue against yours before sucking it into his mouth. He lets out a low groan as you grind down against him and throw your arms around his neck desperately trying to deepen the kiss.

“Don’t fuck down here again, Oikawa’s room should still be open, he keeps striking out anyway.” You kick your leg blindly, satisfied when you feel your foot make contact and hearing Iwaizumi letting out a curse. 

“Oikawa’s?” Kunimi mutters against your lip, and you hum in agreement, sliding off his lap and pulling him along with you. 

“I better not be able to walk tomorrow or I’m never talking to you again.”

[lionar0und]

Kings Roar - Part 2

Ok loves this one is VERY TRIGGERING for mentions of past child abuse to baby Leona and death? Ok? Also sickness and all the grossness that comes with it

A small child was dry heaving into a bucket, caged in a small room. “Mummy! Mummy please- mommy!”

The woman, a lioness with a crown on her brow, two lions ears, almost 6’2 in heels, scoffed at the sobbing child who couldn’t keep his food down. She was at the doorway and he was in the corner. Behind her, a sickly Lioness covered in scars was holding a even smaller baby girl behind her.

“Leona,” she snarled. “You are almost seven years old - Act like it! I am not ‘Mommy’, I am Mother. You - shut the door. I can’t have my sweet baby Farena getting sick now.”

A small protest of a small child. A loud backslap across the face. “Know your place, you nasty girl! You are a SERVANT,-“ a small pause before she turned to the mother. “What’s your little beasts name again?”

“Sanura, my queen.” The woman was trembling. Leona finally looked up, to see a very shaky mother with her hands over her mouth as little Sanura was laying on the ground, no doubt from the hit.

“Sanura, then. A gastly name for a gastly girl. Never defend that, that rat! Am I understood.”

Sanura stood, shaking. She was snarling. “NEVER! FARENA WILL NEVER BE AS GOOD AS LEO-“

An adult snarl. A claw coming down. The horrified scream of a mother and deafing scream of a little girl.

_________________________

Leona shot upward. Gasping for air. So vividly he dreamed. He hated it. So much. He hated how he remembered every feeling of that night. Fever of over 101, passing out every few minutes and unable to breathe correctly, unable to move without hurting.

Mother locked him in a room and took Farena for a walk in the gardens, just where Leona could see his mother kissing him and feeding him sweets. Making her coo’s loud enough for the young prince to hear every word.

Beside him, a sleeping bride. Breathing shakily; his gazed moved to her ear. Looking at the chunk missing out of it that his mother had stolen from her that night. Leona slowly touched her little ear, whispering. “Sanura.” Silence. “Sanura-“ Shaking her slightly she bolted up, growling at the window.

“No, no no no, nobody’s here. We’re safe.” Such a vicious protector she was. Sighing, the little lioness laid back down, coughing softly. Mother had hurt her lung when they were small, probably from the way Mother beat her for cooing out the prince’s praises.

“Yes, my king.” Leona oh so loved that word. King. Him. Nobody else. He let out a wicked laugh, which Sanura simply purred at it. She had always treated him like a king, almost like a God, the way she bowed every time she saw him, praising him immediately. The way she sent him letters to warn when Cheka was coming, the way she wasn’t against getting a fight in his honor. Complete and total devotion.

What a wonderful wife she would be.

“Well my dear, what now?” He chuckled. “We must take care of Cheka and I’ve decided he’s heir, but what next, hmm? Concurring kingdoms? Touring our new realm?” God he loved the way she giggled at the thought of him conquering kingdoms, nuzzling into his shoulder.

Suddenly, she was hugging him. And he was bawling. And he didn’t know how that happened. Gasping for breath and bawling like a child, when all she could do was hold him tight and hum so softly.

“I know, I know. My poor sweet king. You’re trying to focus on the Kingdom and not your pain. The way ” His claws were almost scratching her now, with how tight he was holding her. “They’ve made us all partly mad.” He stopped for a moment, “You knew?” “I was awake, love. I was never asleep. You only say my name twice when you’re hurting, and I didn’t want to startle you worse by waking you suddenly.”

“I’m scared.” He mumbled, “I’m horrified. All I’ve seen is Mother in my dreams; telling me I can’t do anything.”

“Please, my love. You’re a king. A king can do whatever he wants,” A soft peck on his cheek. “Even marry a common rat.”

My love. What an odd choice of words. He didn’t know what love was. His heart was dead. Oh well, this was as close as it would get, probably.

“You need sleep, Darling. The baby’s stirred so much I’m beginning to wonder if we should cancel everything tomorrow.”

“B-Baby!? Wait-“ “CHEKA, darling. Cheka. He’s been in here four times already. Look,” she gestured to a small bundle of blankets and stuffed animals in a cradle MUCH too large for a baby. “He’s asleep over there.”

Great seven, when did he get in there!? Little rat. Leona was so conflicted. He both cared and hated Cheka....It was a maddening feeling. She must have noticed the way he looked at the cradle - eyes dead and knuckles tapping his leg, because she changed the subject quickly. “What happened this time?”

A loud sigh. “It....it was when I was sick. And we were kids.....I don’t wanna talk about it. I’d rather talk about the wedding-“ He stopped, his own words stunning him and his Bride.

God, he hated that wedding. All stuffy nobles sneering at Sanura and Him, some even glaring at Cheka. Someone even ripped her veil, they had held her down and tried to attack her for being a servant. They had even almost broken her glasses.

“Daddy.....?” A soft whimper from the little prince made Sanura’s heart snap in half. She truly was a gentle woman, but had a lot of guard up to prevent anyone from hurting her. Or him. Poor thing was always trying to defend him....she was one of the only ones to ever care.

Poor, Sweet thing. She never was good with hiding her emotions, like a raging storm that could go from content to being angry enough to start beating someone to a pulp to defend Leona’s honor.

He watched her purr over cheka, holding him tightly, humming softly as Cheka laied his head on her shoulder, clinging to her.

“Daddy.....I want Daddy....” “I know baby, I know. I’m sorry.” Leona watched, almost numbly, as she sat down on the bed with Cheka, singing so softly that it was almost a whisper. Both males were glad it wasn’t humming, they loved her voice. She would sing for Cheka in the garden if she asked and Leona, being Leona, slept nearby where he could hear.

Her voice was as gentle as a true princess, and it was amazing that she’d never had a single voice lesson. As she sang, Cheka reached out and grabbed Leona’s hand.

What....What was he supposed to feel? Love? Care? Hatred? Envy? He wasn’t sure about the little cub, but his body seemed to subconsciously choose for him as he held Cheka’s hand and softly rubbed his head.

“I love you, ojitan....” Cheka whispered, causing Sanura to beam and Leona to tear up slightly.

“Love you too.....?” It was almost a question, but he felt something stir in his chest. It wasn’t a heart attack right?? Probably not, but The new King wasn’t sure. That scared him a little.

Sanura purred, nuzzling into the little prince. “You still have us Cheka, We won’t go anywhere, ok my little prince?” A soft yawn with a little mew laced in it seemed to awnsers as Cheka smiled slightly.

“Lay down, we can hold him tonight.” She was stunned, slowly grinning as she laid down while holding the baby, slowly rubbing his back. The hem on his striped Red and White was ripped, it looked like Cheka had ripped it in a frenzy. Leona knew the little prince had always cling to this shirt when scared, so this must’ve been bad.

He rolled over, slowly pressing his head into Sanura’s neck. “What do we do now?” Leona’s voice was shaky as he slowly met his now wife’s eyes.

“We start to heal now.” She purred softly, holding him tightly. “You and Cheka will learn to process and then you’ll heal.”

In the morning, the “old man” walked into something truly surprising, a king and queen holding onto their nephew and each other, a quiet, tender moment before they had to go bury King Farena.

[jamaiskookie]

meet me in your memories (knj)

✂︎ pairing: memory traveller namjoon x gender neutral reader

✂︎ wc: 11.8k

✂︎ TW// car crash, mentions of death, crying, mental health, mental breakdowns, spoilers for frozen 1?? um, vomiting, mentions of PTSD, three seconds of family drama, memory loss

✂︎ notes: a little gift from me for being away so long <3 luv yall also ignore how short and shitty this is!!! ignore it!!!!! 

✂︎ synopsis: namjoon is a memory traveller - he is thrusted back and forth into his world and the world of his memories, forced to re-enact his past experiences. but he doesn’t recognise you, who keeps showing up in his memories. why doesn’t he remember you? why can’t he recall any of these scenes if they’re supposed to be his memories? and why does it always feel like he’s forgetting something? 

he comes to find out that he would choose you over and over again, in whatever lifetime or world he’s in. because he always returns to you. 

✂︎ fic tunes: "eight"- iu (prod. & feat. suga) but you're at your favorite secret spot after a long day by neptjoon

masterlist asks

The road is slippery and Namjoon cranes his head out to look at the window. Rain splattering everywhere, he notes worriedly. He hopes that nobody crashes. The bus driver sitting about three meters in front of him is humming a melody to a song he doesn’t know nor recognise. While listening to the poor man hum the off beat tune, Namjoon sits in silence, wondering how sad it must be to drive a bus with no passengers but himself. 

Suddenly, his stomach drops and his head spins, and this time Namjoon is certain it’s not from the rain or the driver’s subpar driving. He lurches forward, watching as the rain knocks against the window and falls in thick ribbons. 

Click. 

In an instant, Namjoon’s world collapses around him and he is thrown into his mind. 

Seoul is sweltering hot - hot like he’s never felt before. Namjoon reaches up to clutch his head, which is still spinning, and finds himself standing in a pair of light washed baggy jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt, unlike the padding coat and thick boots he had on just a moment ago. 

“Namjoon!” Someone squeals behind him and his heart jumps. He jumps around, facing you and the view of hot street food stalls and tall buildings behind you. Suddenly, his hand is reaching out to grab onto yours and you smile softly. 

He hears his own voice ring out, clear as day: “Don’t run. I was looking for you.” 

“Psh.” You wave off his concern, handing him a shiny golden hotteok. You hold an identical one in your fist, so he accepts it and murmurs his thanks, tearing apart the pancake and stuffing it into his mouth. Sweet, hot honey and small pieces of walnut flood into his mouth, and Namjoon is momentarily surprised. Science states that you cannot taste or physically feel anything in your dreams. 

But Namjoon already proved that wrong long ago. 

He takes you by hand and drags you over to a shelter, for some rest, apparently uninterested in your cries of wanting more tteokbokki or some Chinese food. He flings you over to his side and places his hand over your shoulder, while you both silently devour your hotteoks. 

“This was a nice date.” You mumble tentatively, and oh. That’s what this is? A date? He wants to turn around and ask you for your name. Where are you from? Why am I here again? He wants to scream it out until his lungs hurt and he gets an answer that makes sense, but no matter how much he tries, his throat will not allow those words to tumble out of his lips.  

Why don’t I remember you?

Instead, he replies: “Yeah, it was. This was fun.” He tilts his head down to smile at you and Namjoon finds himself nervous. Nervous enough that his hands are shaking against his will, but he tells himself that the sweat and the nervousness are all side effects of the swampy heat this summer. 

You beam at him and Namjoon thinks you’re an angel. You lean up onto his chest to place a soft kiss onto his lips and Namjoon thinks about when he’s going to be thrown back out of his head. 

“Wanna go home?” He asks, nudging at the sky, which is already filled up with first streaks of the sunset. Purple hues and pinks and blues that all blend together nicely. You watch the sky for a moment.

“Never.” You offer no explanation after that and Namjoon doesn’t pry. He feels like he understands you, which is scarier than any other encounter he’s faced, in real life and in here. You stare up at him more intensely, and a shudder of fear runs down Namjoon’s back. “I just want to stay here forever,” You enunciate, like you want him to remember this. “Just Y/N and Namjoon.” 

Something tugs in his chest and Namjoon screams in his head, no. Longer. Not now. He slips away, gone, disappeared from the world before he can even tell you how pretty your name is. And he awakens back at the bus, where the driver is shaking him and yelling at him to get out. 

Namjoon walks home in the rain, yelling out your name in happiness until his neighbours come over politely asking him to shut the fuck up. 

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N… Y/N?” He keeps repeating the name over and over again, enough to make Seokjin annoyed, who has moved away from Namjoon’s desk to the sofa in his office just to escape the random spiel that Namjoon is hurriedly rushing through. 

“I can’t find a single Y/N in here!” Namjoon cries frustratingly, and the corners of Seokjin’s eyes soften in something that is either pity or empathy. He discards his non-fiction novel about drag queens and wigs to come over and clap a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. 

“My friend, my crazy, idiotic, slightly insane friend.” Seokjin bends down. “You’ve checked all your yearbooks, social media, archives, newspapers… Have you perhaps considered that this person wasn’t that important? Just a passing stranger?”

“No.” Namjoon shoots down stubbornly. “They appear far too often for them not to be important.” So Seokjin shrugs, leaving Namjoon to, once again, search through the Facebook friends of a friend of a friend of a friend. 

But no Y/N’s pop up, and he’s wondering if Y/N was just a nickname. Was it even your real name? With a sigh and one single (rather impressive) agitated brow wave, he lets go and spills. He tells Seokjin about how he finally learned your name, about the places you’ve been together and how much you adore street food. 

He appreciates Seokjin for being a good friend, for sitting there and not interrupting to call him a crazy person, even if he is most certainly thinking about it in his head. Because Seokjin, at least, knows about a miniscule part of Namjoon’s tragic life. He doesn’t understand, but he gets it, and that’s all Namjoon needs in a friend. 

He doesn’t tell Seokjin about how soft and pillowy your lips feel against his, he doesn’t tell you how much he longs to do unspeakable things to you when you show up in those blue short shorts. He definitely doesn’t tell him how much he loves your name. 

Seokjin suggests a number of things. That perhaps you are a character from long ago, or maybe a passing stranger Namjoon once had a summer fling with. You may be someone long forgotten like a mutual friend in high school or college. He also suggests a psychiatric hospital to screw his head back on (as a joke, Namjoon’s pretty sure.) 

But none of those seem right. Namjoon does his best to explain, he really does. For an award winning journalist and aspiring writer, he does just about a terrible job of trying to string his words together. Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose and falls back onto the sofa, already spacing out. Namjoon weakly cries out that he knows you. He really does - he just doesn’t remember how, or why. 

Like a puzzle with a few missing pieces. 

He wonders when and if the missing pieces will ever make their way over to him. 

Namjoon gives up and flops down onto the sofa next to Jin, who squeaks out various protests about how heavy he is and how stupidly huge his arms have gotten after he started working out, along the lines of comparing him to Jungkook and calling him a gym rat. 

As usual, Namjoon doesn’t listen. 

It’s difficult to explain the feeling of falling to someone who hasn’t experienced it. The cursed Click echoes out and suddenly, the world spins around, the axis breaks and he’s physically thrown into another time, another place… another memory that he can’t seem to recall. His stomach lurches, his head hurts and there’s a small breeze flowing in. 

For a short moment, the loops of space and time are completely open to him. He can’t see it, but he can feel it. It flips his mind completely upside down and boom. He’s in a specific, random time and place. His body feels light, and every step he takes, he can physically feel it: He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t supposed to be here. Everything feels different. Even the air is more smoky, because something in this world is suddenly wrong, and it’s him. 

The next time he meets you, he is in just about the worst place to fall. Sitting in a press conference, his stomach drops and he’s dreading the fall. Namjoon can already hear his boss screaming at him, and he desperately tries to root himself to his seat, typing whatever the assemblyman is yapping on and on about. About farming and agriculture and tax cuts… 

Click. 

He can distantly hear the assemblyman candidate talk about corrupt government workers as he’s thrusted out of his world and into another. 

The memory he has the pleasure to be in this time is something not too unfamiliar. For a second, he thinks if this is just a normal day of him in his cramped, tiny city apartment. Until he turns around and realises you’re lying right next to him, sound asleep and nuzzling into the side of his neck. 

The air is crisp. It’s spring, not winter anymore, and he can hear the flower petals outside his apartment complex falling lightly on the ground. This, Namjoon thinks, may just be the best memory he’s been in. The press conference and his life and his boss slips his mind and he cradles you in his chest, holding you closer and closing his eyes shut. 

“Mm?” You mumble, half asleep. “You’re suffocating me.” You hoarsely call out, and Namjoon releases you with an insincere apology. He brushes the hair out of your hair and grins, framing you in his head. He reaches to his alarm clock, which is right next to his bed as it always is to check the time. 

April 1st, 2017. 

Oh god, Namjoon winces. This means he still has that god awful haircut right now. He reaches up to feel his head, and sure enough, the horrible slicked back bleached hair is still there, an unfortunate result of his friend Hoseok daring him to drunk dye his hair. 

“You’re awake?” He asks you, and you nod slowly. 

He wonders if this memory precedes or follows the one he had with you last time, and he desperately hopes things are going in chronological order. He wants to know you just as much as you know him. Namjoon naively prays to whatever deity that controls his dreamworld: Please follow things step by step, follow the clock. 

You roll around, saying something he can’t really catch. He asks you what you said and for the first time today, you peel open your eyes directly facing him. Namjoon’s heart almost falls out of his ass, seeing your eyes bore into his own. 

“Where’s my morning kiss?” You ask cutely, nudging his nose with your own button nose. 

“Right here.” He finds himself saying, leaning in to close the inches in between your two faces. You taste like hotteok, even early in the morning. You taste like a spring day and a never ending forever. As your lips capture his and his everything is consumed by thoughts of you, Namjoon begs himself to kiss you harder. 

His past self declines politely, and Namjoon thinks about whether this counts as himself being controlled if he himself is still controlling what he says and does. 

In that moment, listening to your slow breathing and someone across the street playing simple, melodic piano chords, Namjoon tells himself: Do not ever forget April 1st, 2017. You rise from the bed and some form of protest bubbles up from Namjoon’s mouth, to which you just laugh and drag him out of bed with the excuse of wanting breakfast. 

You push him into the bathroom, where he expects to meet his sad single grey towel and foggy mirror. You push him in front, and he cringes at the sight of his hair in the mirror. You sigh. 

“Calm down. The blonde looks sexy. You can dye it back black later.” He laughs, because it’s clearly not very sexy. For once, his past self is doing exactly what the current Namjoon is pleading him to do. Does it count as reliving your memories if someone else was living through them originally? But, he reminds himself while you hand him a green toothbrush and squeeze a dollop of toothpaste on both your toothbrushes, this is him. He lived through this once and he is just taking a trip down memory lane. 

The person who lived through this before was him. 

He has to remind himself many more times before it sinks in. 

You brush your teeth next to him, fluffing your hair and squinting in the mirror to wake yourself up. Without a second of hesitation, Namjoon brings the toothbrush up and starts to brush his teeth. Nothing has ever felt more domestic or right than this, despite the tentative steps and heavy lead feeling in his throat telling him he still isn’t supposed to be here. 

You spit out toothpaste in the sink to gargle your mouth and Namjoon mimics you exactly. Somehow, you find yourselves in the kitchen, giggling while making some sort of french toast with an abundance of cinnamon floating through the air. Which makes Namjoon cough and makes you laugh even harder. 

“This is a perfect morning.” You say, peering out the window to watch the city life slowly bustling to life. People scrambling out their doors, ushering their children or pets with them. People you don’t recognise going on walks or runs. Mailmen and delivery people dropping off packages and people yelling into their phones as they hurriedly walk along the sidewalk. 

And you and Namjoon, calmly staying in your pajamas while frying toast on the pan. 

“Is something burning?” You ask, sniffing the air, and Namjoon’s blood runs cold. 

“Oh, shit!” 

You smile and shake your head while Namjoon attempts to save the blackened piece of bread to no avail. He catches sight of the corners of your mouth lifting, even as you chastise him about watching the stove and ranting on about how you’re never going to trust him in the kitchen again. Namjoon watches your pink lips, stained with a brown mudge of cinnamon french toast mixture, which lifts up and your head falls back, hair flowing around your head like a halo. 

Your laugh plays out in front of him in slow motion, and absentmindedly, he thanks that deity he prayed to for slowing this moment down. Because if there’s anything he yearns most to remember, it’s the way you laugh. A chuckle makes its way out of his own throat as well, and he’s not sure who’s in control at the moment. 

Himself or himself in the past?

Either way, they both did the right thing. Namjoon forgets. He forgets the life he has back home, he forgets Seokjin’s warnings, he forgets that he has at least a hundred articles waiting for him at work to be written. He forgets that this world is nothing but a chance for him to follow the footsteps of what he once did, with no control to say or do anything he wishes to do himself. 

But, oh, he really can’t bring himself to care. 

Those piano chords from before blend together beautifully, and you scrape the black toast into the garbage can, still teasing him relentlessly, and oh. Oh, this is what it means to have a home. You made this junk of a house into a home, and he feels like he has to return here. This is where he’s meant to return to, everyday. Each time. 

You turn around after discarding the toast and with a bright smile, you ask him to kiss you again. Namjoon thinks that he doesn’t ever have the capability to deny you when you smile like that, so he complies and crashes his lips onto yours. 

The lead, heavy feeling in his throat is still weighing him down. Except Namjoon isn’t sure whether it’s weighing him down to this world or the real world.

 The cursed deity pulls him back, pulling him through the time and space back to his own responsibilities and life. His heart is wrenched out and he reaches out, trying to grasp your hand for the last time. He falls back to his own world in a hospital bed and an IV attached to his arm with half a piece of french toast dangling in his mouth and another promise he makes with himself to meet you again with a smile on his face. 

Memories… memories that he’s lived through but can’t remember. Memories he slips into to live momentarily through the actions and words of his old self. 

Somewhere along the line of diving back and forth his own life and this past one, he has forgotten which is which. 

“Most likely due to exhaustion. Lack of sleep, lack of rest. It’s quite common with working young adults, workaholics. I’m putting him on medical leave for the rest of the week. He needs a rest - He needed it yesterday. Don’t worry too much, Mrs. Kim. A long nap and a meal or two will fix him right back up.” Namjoon groggily registers the white walls and beeping noises, the chatter of doctors and nurses rushing around. 

He’s in a hospital, and a rush of fear runs straight through his blood. He sits up to eye his mother, sitting next to him and holding his hand. She shushes him, laying him back down on the bed, but all he can do is panic. 

“No, not here. Not here again.” He mumbles incoherently. His mother puts a hand over his eyes, shushing him again and telling him softly to go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to go to sleep, he wants to get out of here. But his eyelids are already feeling heavy and he weakly fights against his body, but before he can even process it, his eyes are shut and he is asleep. 

Seeing her son close his eyes and drift off to sleep, Mrs. Kim turns back to the doctor. 

“I’m not surprised,” She starts. “He’s always worked himself to the bone. But that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about his brain.” The doctor cocks his head and looks through the papers which are clipped to a clipboard in his arms. 

“Ah, yes. I see he was in a car accident a few years ago.” Doctors are some of the most heartless people, and you can always tell how experienced a doctor is by how much sympathy they show. This doctor shows none at all, which must mean he’s been working for a long time. 

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Kim.” The doctor continues, peering over Namjoon’s sleeping body. “I see he suffered light effects after the accident. Selective amnesia, no external damages to the skull. He didn’t suffer as much. In fact, I believe the doctor in charge believed that the amnesia was mostly due to the shock of the event. But he’s received treatment for PTSD since then, right?” 

Mrs. Kim nods. 

“Good. Doctor Park also noted at the time that his amnesia actually didn’t affect much of his memory. He couldn’t remember distant relatives or kindergarten friends, but that seemed to be the extent of his amnesia. Oh,” The doctor slipped through the clipboard. “He also couldn’t remember certain knowledge about philosophers such as Freud, which he was, quote, ‘devastated over’ un-quote.” 

Mrs. Kim stays silent. 

“So, you don’t have to worry too much. Best thing your son could do for his well being is rest. And a therapist if he has a relapse or shows some symptoms such as sleep difficulties or nightmares, or physical signs like fatigue and nausea.” 

Mrs. Kim nods. “Thank you, doctor.”

That’s it, and she turns back to her son, with her hand in his. She stays there, unmoving until he opens his eyes, mumbling incoherent questions and asking his mother why he is in the hospital again, demanding to be discharged immediately. Her heart breaks a little, small cracks form for her beloved son and she kisses him on the forehead, telling him he’d be out of here in no time. 

“What did you see?” She asks quietly, and Namjoon is surprised. She never asks him about his memory walks. It’s taboo to mention it in his household. Not even his sister is comfortable talking about it. “Anything? At all? You passed out at a rather unfortunate time, I heard.” She continues. 

“Nothing much.” Namjoon replies, lying through his teeth and trying to justify it with the sight of your laugh. He leans back and closes his eyes once more, bringing up his memories of you and your bedhead. He tries to fill the gap inside of him with thoughts of you, as if that can make up for the empty feeling that he’s forgetting something. 

In the hospital, staring at a white ceiling and glaring lights, Namjoon is left to think about what’s happening to his head. During the end of his rather short stay, he comes up with a terrifying conclusion. One that scares him more than he could imagine, but it’s the only one that makes sense. He’s falling in love with you. 

He voices out this concern to Seokjin when he visits after his mother leaves. Seokjin stays silent, mumbling out an apology that feels like the wrong thing to say. The elder boy can only look at his friend with sadness in his eyes, telling him that someone as great as Namjoon shouldn’t be suffering so much pain. Namjoon jokes that a witch must have cursed him when he was born. 

None of the two friends laugh. 

This routine continues on and on, without Namjoon dwelling too much on it. Which is so much unlike Namjoon, whose main personality trait is overthinking about the smallest things. He lets the flow of time and space take him wherever they wish to plop him down. He lets the evil deity toy with his heart and wrench him away whenever you smile the largest. 

It hurts right after he is torn away from you, but he’s filled with so much joy in the moment that he can’t bring himself to do anything else about it. Even if he wanted to do something without it, he has no idea where on earth he might start. 

Sometimes he questions the validity of his memories. What is real, what is fake? He still can’t answer, and this is what he spends most of his time wondering about. The memories he has with you don’t make sense. Those are large gaps in his life that he seems to have no recollection of. 

He goes everywhere with you. 

One day he showed up on November 5th, 2015. 

The next day he jumped to August 23rd, 2017. 

Another time, he was thrown into March 15th, 2016. 

None of it makes sense. Are they not memories? He thinks. There’s no possible way he’s spent this much of his life with you and can’t recall any of it. What is real - the world he spends with you, or the world where he always returns to by default?

And yet, nothing else can explain these short periods of blackouts. Ever since one day in some horrible hospital, he’s gone under and pulled and thrusted into some land where he has no control over his own hands. Everything else makes sense. This world, everything else is accurate from the settings to the props, with one anomaly in his memory. 

A character who goes by the name of Y/N. 

He could go the science-y logic route that he so often frequents, come up with theories that can somewhat explain these periods of time. Theories that include explanations such as hallucinations, or that Seokjin’s right and he’s finally gone crazy. You’re just a figment of his imagination, that this is all in his head and he’s out of his mind. 

But he rejects all those theories when he’s clicked into another memory. Somehow, he just understands. These are memories. These are memories he’s had with you, whether that was in a past life or in some sort of messed up alternate timeline where he’s actually happy. 

Is this a gift or another curse from this stupid deity?

He has too many questions. 

He cannot explain these memories using science, logic, common sense, or even using his own words. But in the moment, while you’re in his arms, he can feel it. He can explain it by describing the way you smell, like pancakes and fresh mint. He can explain it by describing the way you feel, like a warm marshmallow filling up his insides and consuming him. 

It’s cheesy, cringier than Seokjin’s dad jokes, but only he gets it. 

Namjoon is in his living room, switching channels on the TV and thinking about this when his stomach sinks again. He braces himself, and disappears. 

Click.

Seoul is freezing cold. The air is light and he is sitting on a bench on his college campus, rubbing his hands together and zipping up his huge jacket over his sweater. Namjoon shudders, his body not yet used to the bite of the cold compared to the warm breeze he was just enjoying. 

He sniffles, nose slightly red like some knockoff Rudolph and wanders around. His body pulls him to go to the right, despite the warm coffee shop being on the left. He shudders again and tries to protest, but his body won’t listen, standing up and walking over to the right with no particular destination in mind. Students are rushing around, complaining about the cold and talking about their next party or study session. 

Namjoon pulls himself forwards, and thank god this version of himself still has terrible tolerance for the cold, because he reaches up and pulls his beanie down over his ears, still wandering around aimlessly. Where are you going? Namjoon wants to scream out frustratingly. 

His brain doesn’t reply and Namjoon sulks. 

Eventually, he is pulled over to another bench, outside in the cold, and he sits down, deeply resenting himself and wondering why on earth he just stood up from one bench to walk to another one. If anything, it’s colder here. He watches the students that pass by for a minute or two, thinking that this is the most boring memory he’s ever been in. 

There is no snow falling, but almost everything on campus is lined with a sheet of ice or cold steam. Namjoon nuzzles deeper into his own clothes, cursing himself for not being able to go buy another sweater or something to fight the extreme cold. 

Suddenly, you appear in front of him and Namjoon perks up. There you are. He thinks. Finally. You come over and sit down, holding something in your hands. He smiles, waiting for you to speak up and greet him with a kiss that will surely warm him up, but you silently sit next to him, ignoring him. Namjoon urges himself to say something, but instead, he continues to watch the students bustling through campus grounds without looking at you. 

Are we fighting? Is Y/N mad at me? 

This is excruciatingly frustrating, Namjoon bites his tongue and thinks. Why can’t he just say something? Abruptly, something lands on his jacket with a splat and he straightens up, snapping his neck towards you, who is looking at the yogurt splat on his jacket with a look of terror. 

“Oh my gosh!” You squeak out, quickly setting your yogurt aside and reaching for some tissues in your purse. “Oh, god, oh god, I’m so sorry. Please, let me-” Namjoon frowns, taking his hands out of his pockets to thumb at his jacket, debating whether he wants to take it off or not. 

You lean over, pawing at his jacket and wiping the yogurt off of his jacket. “I’m so sorry!” 

“No, don’t worry.” Namjoon says, chuckling. He reaches for another tissue, helping you get the yogurt off of him. “It’s no big deal.” The yogurt is mostly wiped off and you side eye him with the unmistakable look of guilt filling your eyes. Namjoon laughs again. 

“It’s fine, really! No, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m literally so sorry. Do you want me to pay for dry cleaning? Laundry? I can, um, wash it for you! I’m not the best at laundry, but it’s the least I could do?” 

Namjoon briefly wonders why you’re being so polite. 

“No, it’s fine.” The words tumble out his mouth again before he can process it. “Really, this jacket is old, anyway.” Not really, Namjoon thinks. It feels really new. “But who the hell eats cold yogurt in this kind of weather?” He jokes. “You sure you’re not a demon?”

You freeze, terrified before realising he was cracking a joke. “Oh. Hah! Yeah, no, I guess I just really like yogurt.” You offer lamely, and you break out into a small giggle. “Yeah, I guess I kind of am a psycho for eating it right now. It’s freezing today.” 

“God, tell me about it.” Namjoon says, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. 

“Thanks for not going bonkers on me. This jacket looks insanely expensive.” 

“Not really.”

“I’m Y/N.” You greet, holding a hand out for him to shake. I know, Namjoon thinks with a secret smile, but everything makes sense now. You don’t know him yet. To you in this moment in time, he’s just a random stranger who didn’t blow up on you after spraying some yogurt onto you. To him, you’re… you’re… 

“Oh, um, I’m Namjoon.” He says, hurriedly taking a hand out of his pocket to shake your outstretched hand. Your fingers meet and Namjoon swears a small zap just went through his hand. 

“Namjoon. Nice to meet you, Namjoon.” You say with a small smile, yogurt already long forgotten on the bench beside you two. 

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He says in return, even though he doesn’t mean it. He already knows you, he knows you better than everyone. He knows your favourite food is Korean street food, and you always wake him up with kisses and your favourite colour is periwinkle and you absolutely hate abalone with more passion than he’s ever seen in his entire life.

But this is your first time seeing him, ever, he reminds himself. This is your meet cute. This single moment set off the events in the next god knows how many years. This is the first time he ever had your name grace his tongue. This is the first time you’ve seen him. 

Another moment to treasure. You let go of his hand, after realising you two have been shaking hands for much longer than the socially acceptable rate of hand shaking. Blushing, either from the cold or humiliation, you sit, turn back around, grabbing a hold of your yogurt once more. 

Suddenly, Namjoon finds himself blurting out: “Hey, you wanna go get some coffee?” You look over curiously, pointing to yourself like you can’t believe he’s asking you out, because you don’t know that you’re all he ever thinks about at any given moment in any given day. “You’ll probably freeze your ass off if you keep eating that yogurt.” He jokes, pretending like this is all because he’s caring about how cold you are and not how cute or incredible or kind you are. 

“Sure.” You say, nodding shyly. He stands up, leading you to walk over to the left where the campus coffee shop is. Along the way, you throw the yogurt cup in the trash. 

“You can’t bring food brought from outside into a shop, right?” You ask. 

Namjoon smiles. “Yeah.” He stays there until night takes over the sky and one single twinkling star in the sky is signalling that it’s time to go home. Possibly the longest time he’s ever spent in a memory. He keeps glancing at the clock, praying that he gets one more minute with you, one more second, one more moment. 

At any time, he could be pulled out of this world, and he needs to make the most of it. You tell him about your childhood bedroom and your major. You tell him about the love you have for pancakes, and how much you want a puppy even though it’s prohibited in the on campus dorms. He nods, pretending like this is all new information even though it’s not, and he’s known all of this for the longest time. He knows you better than you know yourself, which he keeps to himself. 

In return, he tells you about his own childhood bedroom, which was adorned with posters of western hip hop rappers. He tells you about his passions for writing and music, that if he didn’t major in journalism, he’d be studying music production in school. He tells you that he’s obsessed with philosophy, and in all honesty, is a bit of a nerd. 

Instead of laughing or pulling a face, you nod and smile, saying that you think he should tell you more about philosophy on a second date. 

You leave the coffee shop with a small goodbye, and even though he desperately wants to, Namjoon can’t kiss you. 

He gets pulled back after you disappear pass the corner of the street, and the world morphes into a huge motion blur. When he gets pulled back into his living room, the TV is playing late night TV shows already. Namjoon checks the time. He was pulled in for five hours, the longest he’s ever been in that world. 

After that, no matter how much more he prays and begs, he never stays any longer than that. 

Three days later, Namjoon suddenly pops into Hong Kong, which is hotter than anything he’s ever felt. The streets are heavy with people, squabbling in cantonese while selling raw meats in a wet market. The sun is glaringly bright, and Namjoon starts to sweat almost instantaneously. Taxis and huge buses drive past, Namjoon jumps to a side only to find a vast ocean. He’s at the harbour front. 

The smell of food, of egg tarts and pineapple buns and meat dumplings along with other Hong Kong delicacies waft through the air, combined with the salty air of the sea. It makes for a strange combination that confuses his senses but works nonetheless. 

He thought he knew a city like Seoul, but this is a true city. This is busy and fast paced like he’s never even seen before. People shove each other aside to catch the bus, dogs are yapping everywhere and he soaks it all in before the thought enters his head.

What the hell is he doing in Hong Kong?

It’s like every time he wonders aloud, you pop up. “I’ve been looking for you.” You say, echoing the words he said to you that day in the streets of Seoul. 

“I was exploring!“ He says defensively, and you roll your eyes. 

“Come on.” You say, walking along the harbour front. 

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Namjoon asks, the words spilling out and surprising himself. Are you mad at him? You’ve never been mad at him before, not in the memories he’s seen. He hasn’t ever seen you fight with him, and immediately, he wants to apologise, fix things before he’s pulled back out and he has to live with the guilt and overthinking of whether you’re still mad at him for the next week. 

“Can’t believe you’re mad at me during our vacation.” Namjoon says, and that’s why he’s in Hong Kong, he realises. He’s on vacation. How strange. Namjoon thinks back to when the last time he took a break from work and the only thing he can think of is when that doctor put him on medical leave not too long ago. Oh no, you’re mad at him on holiday?

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” You retort back, and Namjoon has never heard your voice this curt. “Just sit around pretending like everything's okay?”

“What do you want me to do?” Namjoon replies. “You act like this is my fault!” 

“It is your fault!” You cry out indignantly, and Namjoon knows that, but why? What did he do? What did you do? “Is this even a vacation?”

“Yes!” Namjoon cries out again in response, and you shake your head. 

“You promised, Namjoon.” You say like it’s a warning. 

“Yes, I know,” Namjoon says, even though he doesn’t and really, what on earth did he do? “But this is out of my hands! I can’t just say no, you’re not looking at this from my point of view.”

“You’re not looking at this from my point of view!” You argue back, and Namjoon looks around, realising that this squabble is attracting a small crowd of chinese people, gathering around to watch the free entertainment along the sidewalk of Victoria harbour. He awkwardly laughs, raising his hand and bows, a universal sign of apology, grabbing your hand and walking to the other direction. 

“Come on, I’d rather not have the whole city witness our fight.”

“Oh, so this is a fight now?” 

“What? Yes!” Namjoon says exasperatedly. “How else would you classify this argument?” 

Once he makes it to somewhere with at least a sliver of privacy, he turns around with his brows furrowed and a glare etched on his features. Why do you look so angry? Namjoon chastises himself. Just relax, relax, relax. As usual, his body doesn’t listen. 

“Why are you so mad at this?” Namjoon asks, and feels a flow of relief go down his spine. Finally. 

“It’s not just this instance, Joon. I know work is important, but sometimes it feels like you put literally anything else above me! Like last time? You bailed on our date, like, at least twice. You keep saying you can’t say no, but you can. You have that right, Namjoon.” 

Namjoon’s heart softens a little bit. His workaholic tendencies ended up biting him in the ass after all. Sighing he rubs the back of his neck, eyes glued to the floor. “I’m not prioritising work over you, baby.” He tries to explain, and tries to ignore how his heart sinks when your eyes turn stony at the sound of the pet name he often uses to address you. 

“It’s just important to me as well, okay? It’s not my fault my boss heard I was going to Hong Kong and insisted I come to interview some investors about Hong Kong’s economy.” He explains slowly. “It couldn’t take more than a single day to get everything organised and tidied up.” 

“But-!” You huff angrily, spitting out your words. “You don’t understand! You keep doing this, Namjoon. You keep working, working, working. It’s been this way since college. It’s like you’ll die if you just take a break to come talk to me. I even went over to your office to have lunch with you last week and they told me you were in a meeting.” 

“It was important!” Namjoon insists and he can feel things sinking and getting worse and worse with every word he says. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? You can’t expect me to put you in front of all of my responsibilities. I’m sure you have things you can’t give up for me too.”

Hearing that felt like a slap to the face to both you and Namjoon, and he’s screaming at himself internally, why would you say something so, so, stupid?

“Excuse me?” Your broken voice rings out and Namjoon’s accusatory finger falls. 

“Wait.” He mumbles, fumbling with his hands. “Wait, I didn’t mean that. Wait, I-” 

“Fine!” You yell angrily. “You think nothing’s more important than work? You think I haven’t given up anything for you, Kim Namjoon? Because I’d quit and give up anything for you, you asshole.” You bite out, tears desperately trying not to fall. “You fucking asshole.” You say, before turning back around to weave through the crowd. 

“No, wait, baby!” He calls out, and even he knows that he’s messed up. Messed up big time. That was more hurtful than any cuss word or insult he could’ve ever said. “Kim fucking Namjoon, you idiot.” He mumbles to himself. Seeing you cry is more painful than anything else in the world, Namjoon thinks. He’s not ever going to see that sight again if he can help it. 

He walks forward, trying to find you. Maybe you went back to the hotel, or went to look at the sea to clear your head. He thinks he sees the back of your head for a second, and he reaches forward, clutching at air. He’s about to cry, and Namjoon has never seen himself be more pathetic. 

“Oh no, where are you?” He murmurs to himself like a crazed man. What if you were hurt somewhere? He needs to know you’re safe, he needs to know you’re okay, he needs to make everything better. With each step, the lead feeling in his throat grows heavier and heavier until he feels like it’s sunk to his chest. He wants to kneel down, he wants it to stop hurting, but he can’t. 

He must aimlessly follow his shell to do whatever he is doing now. 

The lead feeling continues to grow, and Namjoon feels like he’s suffocating. He’s not supposed to be here, he reminds himself. But he has to find you first, then he can leave. Then he can go, but where are you? He wants to cry, he wants to breathe. 

Namjoon tells himself to gasp for air, but he cannot. He tells himself if this is the last time he ever sees you, he needs to see you smile. He needs to see you laugh. 

Like the pattern in the rest of his meaningless life, an evil deity always pulls him away from the ones he loves when he needs them most. He feels the lead feeling being lifted and pure panic races to Namjoon’s head. He tries to croak out no. He tries to resist, he shoves people aside and calls out your name. But no one answers him, and the cruel deity laughs at his demise. 

He is too weak, too weak to control himself. 

Namjoon is plucked out of the world and transported back to his bedroom with the threads of time slowly ravelling and tangling themselves around his neck, all while he reaches forward, only to grasp at air and pretend in his head that everything’s alright. 

When he reaches his bedroom and wakes up, he stumbles into the bathroom and vomits, all while longing for the warmth of your lips.

-

Walking around dazedly, Namjoon somehow manages to make his way to Seokjin and Jimin’s apartment, knocking and hoarsely asking them to open, open up please. Because he’s not sure he can hold on to another night alone. Jimin opens the door instantly and catches Namjoon in his arms, frantically calling for Seokjin to come fast. 

They lay him on the couch, hearts slowly breaking and trying to convince themselves their friend will be fine as they watch Namjoon whimper in his sleep. 

Namjoon wakes to the smell of breakfast, of bacon on the stove and Jimin chattering around while watering his plants. He gets up, headache pounding and throat sore. Seokjin wordlessly hands him a few pills and a glass of water, while Jimin plates up breakfast, placing the sausage, eggs and toast separately on the plate because Namjoon can’t stand it when food on his plate touches. 

Silently, the three friends eat. Nobody speaks until Namjoon clears his throat and looks up. 

“Thank you.“ He whispers. 

“What are friends for?” Jimin says. 

Namjoon wonders why he’s got such amazing friends. Jin replies that he was born perfect and God created him like this, so Namjoon shouldn’t dwell too much on it. Jimin and Namjoon both throw a spoon of scrambled eggs in his direction simultaneously, high fiving without missing a beat when Jin lets out a protest of unjust behaviour. 

 As the three friends sit quietly, Namjoon says: “I think I’m going mad.”

“I’m glad you’ve realised.” Seokjin replies offhandedly. 

“I don’t think I can keep going between these worlds. I think it’s making me lose my mind.” 

Jimin stills. Seokjin stops washing the dishes and turns off the faucet. 

“Do… do you know how to stop it?” Jimin asks hesitantly. Namjoon shakes his head, and Seokjin sighs, in deep thought, which is a strange and rare sight to see itself. 

“Well, I guess we’ll have to figure this out together.” Seokjin says casually. Jimin agrees and the faucet comes back on, Seokjin going straight back to washing the pan he used to fry up the scrambled eggs. Jimin unplugs the toaster and Namjoon sits, smiling at his beloved friends. 

“You can borrow some of my shirts.” Jimin calls from the bathroom. “You know, if you want to stay over a couple more nights. Feel free.”

“Make yourself at home and shit.” Seokjin mutters, waving his hand around sarcastically. Namjoon almost bursts out into tears of happiness, but he decides to hold it in until Seokjin doesn’t have access to his phone and won’t put Namjoon’s breakdown on instagram live. 

The next day, the entire gang comes over, all with varying degrees of understanding what the hell is going on with Namjoon. For example, Yoongi pretty much knows as much as Seokjin does, who still doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Taehyung was just told Namjoon’s been feeling down because God knows that boy has a big mouth and definitely can’t keep a secret to save his life. 

Seokjin supplies homemade snacks and burgers fresh off the grill, Yoongi brings over his unlimited Netflix and HBO account passwords he probably stole off of some innocent family member to watch Disney movies, Taehyung comes over with Yeontan clutched to his side because that’s the group's emotional support dog. Jungkook and Hoseok offer up their extensive alcohol collection and bring over some quality wines. Jimin, after a long three hours of consideration, gives up his lucky plushies and fluffy blankets to build a fort. 

For one night, the seven boys crowds around the television, watching everything from The Lorax to Tangled to Frozen and bawling their eyes out when Anna turned to ice (spoiler alert!!!) For one night, the fully grown men all turn back into their 8 year old selves, playing video games and staying up as late as they wanted even though they all had responsibilities to tend to the next day. 

When they all awake from their mega-sleepover the next morning, the remaining six friends all insist they just felt like watching Disney movies and drinking wine suddenly. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Namjoon’s been feeling a little off in the past few days. 

Absolutely not. 

Namjoon’s eyes brim with tears and he tackles all the boys to the ground in one incredibly coordinated group hug, ignoring Yoongi’s complaints of being anti-social and that his love language is not physical touch. 

“Thanks, guys.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jungkook mutters. “Now could you please get the fuck off?” 

“Never.” Namjoon says, muffled because he says it while his head is buried in Hoseok’s chest. 

“Love you.”

“... Love you too.” 

The next time he falls, Namjoon thinks he’s prepared. Ready, not to get attached, ready to make clear of what belongs in his world and what doesn’t, after lots of pep talks and therapy sessions with Seokjin and Jimin and Yoongi, who is surprisingly helpful with shooting down ideals of toxic masculinity and talking about mental health. 

He’s wrong- he’s not ready, but he doesn’t know that yet. 

Click. 

He’s come to resent that stupid sound. In an instant, he’s dropped into a car, which is strangely familiar. You are next to him, driving, and thank goodness, because everyone knows Namjoon cannot drive. If he were dropped in the driver’s seat, things may have taken a turn for the worse. 

“You want to play some music?” You ask, and Namjoon nods. 

“Yeah sure, turn up the radio.” You reach over to flip a switch and a pretty tune fills the car, echoing and bouncing off the walls of the small vessel. You bring your hand down and interlace it with Namjoon’s, who is suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings. 

“You’re driving, baby.” He says, and a great sense of relief floods back into his system when he sees you smile at the pet name. He hopes this moment is after the Hong Kong trip. He hopes he did the right thing and made up with you afterwards. 

“We always do this. When there’s not many cars around, anyway.” You hum along with the music. “Nobody’s on the road tonight.” Sure enough, there are no cars in sight and Namjoon sighs, curling his hand tight against yours. He looks out the window. 

“No stars tonight, either.” 

You snort. “There are never any stars around the city, babe.”

“Ahh.” He huffs playfully. “Fuck global warming.”

“Fuck capatalism.” You add on, and he nods, wholeheartedly agreeing. 

“I love you.” He murmurs. 

“I love you too.” You reply with a sweet smile and Namjoon just realises that no, he’s not ready to let go of you, because his heart still flips like crazy when he hears you say that. He’s so unbearably, horribly, absolutely in love with you. Not in a creepy or obsessive way like he was probably in love with you a few months ago, but so in love with you. 

He wonders why on earth he’s so drawn to you, but as usual, there’s no definite answers to his questions. Namjoon thinks about how he likes the way you cook pancakes, and how he likes the way you always reach down to pet a puppy no matter where you are or where you need to be. He loves the way you’d give up anything to defend the people you love. He admires your bravery and your courage. He admires the way you present yourself to the world. 

He loves you simply because you are who you are, unapologetically and unashamed, which is something he never had the guts to do. But he gets pretty damn near to being fully and truly himself when he’s around you, so maybe that’s why he’s so in love with you. 

Namjoon feels bad for a moment because he realises his love isn’t selfless or humble like the ones he sees on dramas and TV. His love for you is shamefully selfish, because he needs you more than anything else. He voices this out to you in a long speech while you keep your eyes on the road. 

“I need you more than you think I do, Joon.” You say, while laughing, and Namjoon doesn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved. 

“You think your love for me can trump my love for you?” He asks with his eyebrows raised.

“One hundred percent.” You drawl out, and this time, Namjoon’s offended. 

“Excuse me? Who the fuck?” He asks, sitting up. You laugh bashfully, enamoured but mostly just entertained by your needy boyfriend who is very willing to prove how much more he loves you right now. “I love you way more than you love me!” 

You laugh, your eyes still fixed on the road. “Oh no, please, we’re not arguing about this.”

“Yes we are!” Namjoon demands with a huge smile on his face. “How could you possibly think you love me more than I love you?” Your laugh only grows louder. 

“I don’t even know if you’re being serious or just joking around anymore.” You say through bit back laughter. 

“I’m being dead serious.” Namjoon softens for a bit, laying a hand on your thigh. “You’re my everything. You’re my future, you’re my present, you’re my past.” A part of you wants to tell him he’s being cheesy again, but the romantic in you who doesn’t want to hurt your boyfriend immediately shuts the realist in you up. 

“That was sweet.”

“I try my best.”

You turn your head back to the road and he keeps his eyes on you. On the hoodie you’re wearing, which definitely doesn’t belong to you and he now has a certain inkling of where his missing hoodie went. He likes how it swallows you up. He likes that you have something of his on you. 

Not as a weird mark of possession, but he likes that you’re comfortable with wearing something that essentially brands you as his. But you are his as much as he is yours and wow, Namjoon thinks in his head, is this the real Namjoon or the past Namjoon speaking? And his brain replies that it’s both. 

“I love you.” He repeats, because as much as he seems to say it, he can’t seem to express how much he loves you (hint: it’s a large amount). 

“I love you too.” You say right back. 

He wants to say it more. He wants to say it better. He wants to repeat it until you get annoyed and tell him to shut up, he wants to let you know how much he loves you. But his lips are sealed, and he can’t say another word. Instead of what he wants to say, the words that come out his mouth are, admittedly, just as true. 

“You’re pretty.” 

You giggle. “Did you just realise?” 

Namjoon shakes his head. “You’ve always been pretty. You were pretty on the day we met. You were pretty the day we fought in Hong Kong. You were pretty the first time you stayed over. You’re pretty when you cry, you’re pretty when you… I wanted to think of something that rhymes with cry, but it slipped my mind and now everything’s ruined.” 

You laugh, a real, huge one this time. He can always tell when your laugh is real or not. 

“Thank you.” You say. “For the record, you’ve always been pretty too.” 

Namjoon leans back into his seat. “Damn straight.” 

“When d’you think you first fell in love with me?” You ask, genuinely curious, and Namjoon thinks for a moment. He thinks about what the Namjoon in this moment would say, and he thinks about what the present Namjoon would say. 

If he had verbal control, what would he say? That he fell in love with you during the very first memory he was thrusted in? But that wouldn’t be true, and that wouldn’t be honest. He fell in love with you during the memory of when you met? But that wouldn’t be true either. He fell in love with you in between memories, when all he could think about was the next time you could be in his arms, or how much he longed for your touch. 

He tries to say that, he really does. 

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is: 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s a specific moment. Maybe it was that time we went to the movies and watched Coco while crying over popcorn, or maybe it was that time we went to Disneyland.” Namjoon’s heart slouches, because he doesn’t know any of those moments. He hasn’t been in any of those memories. 

“But I don’t think falling in love is a one moment, time stops kinda thing. I was always falling in love with you. From the time you spilled yogurt on my jacket to right now, where you’re asking me when I fell in love with you. I’m going to be falling in love with you tomorrow and the day after that, until the day where we shrivel up and die from old age.”

Oh, good answer, Namjoon thinks. 

“Good answer.” You say. “I think I’d say the same thing.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Namjoon sighs out. 

Something strikes Namjoon’s heart. It’s not the lead feeling or the heavy weight he’s grown used to. It’s strange, like a wave of deja vu. And suddenly, Namjoon stops thinking. He glances over to the control board to look at the time, which proudly reads: December 3rd, 2018. 

So that’s why he’s always had the feeling that these were memories. Why he was so adamant to believe these things really had happened to him. Even more strangely, what feelings strike him then is not panic, nor fear. It’s a strange flow of calmness that rushes through his veins. He looks over at you again, driving now with both hands on the steering wheel. 

He wonders why the deity would make him witness something as cruel and horrible as this, and he gets the weird feeling that this will be one of his last memories to enter. Namjoon looks at the dark blanket covering the sky and sadly thinks that the deity could have at least placed a few stars in the sky on this night. As consolation, or perhaps an apology. 

Something is ticking in the background, and Namjoon has no idea if it’s coming from the car or if he’s imagining it. Flashing memories go through his mind, so fast he can barely register them as images or moving pictures before they are gone again. Your smile, your laugh, your first date, your second date. The day he asked you to move in, the day you told him ‘I love you’ for the first time and he literally fainted. 

The day he came to pick you up from work for the first time, the night where he first laid his hands on you and kissed all your worries away. 

It comes fast and hurtles towards the two of you, but Namjoon doesn’t even see it coming because all he is looking at is you. Your face, your lips, your eyes, trying to engrave it all in his memory. You yelp out something to him, which he doesn’t hear. Floating images spin around both your heads and a high pitched screech rings out, a spark of orange lighting up like a stack of fireworks. The dark van shoots forward and collides into the driver’s seat. 

The world collapses. It goes sideways, rotates then flips completely upside down, and the dark fog starts to eat up Namjoon’s eyesight. Oddly, nothing hurts. Perhaps because of the shock, or panic, but nothing on Namjoon’s body is in pain. Everything crashes, Namjoon’s head hits the window with force. Something breaks, glass cracks, people scream and he cannot tell which is which. Red and white flashes are all he can see before everything fades to grey and he can only reach around in the darkness, to find your hand. 

He clutches onto your unmoving, still hand desperately, trying to calm his jumping heartbeat. Are those sirens in the background he hears or is that his imagination? Is that your voice he hears or is that a hallucination? 

In the end, his final thought before leaving the world once again is a wish. A wish that he prays the deity will grant him. He hopes that in your final moments, you were not scared. 

He falls. 

When Namjoon arrives home, his entire body is numb. He doesn’t know where he is, nor what he was doing before he was clicked in. He opens his mouth and screams for a full minute without stopping. 

It feels good in a fucked up way. 

Namjoon has never been one for confrontation. Just ask his middle school bullies, who tormented him all they wanted because he wouldn’t do anything but put up with it. Just ask Mingyu from work, who keeps piling his unwanted projects and articles onto Namjoon because he never protests or complains to the higher-ups. 

But while walking towards his childhood home with the birds chirping and his hands placed casually in his pockets, confrontation is all he can think about. He lets himself in the door; his mother never locks it and walks in calmly. 

His mother is sitting on the couch, stitching up a sock which has a hole in it. 

“Mom. I’m home.” He says softly, and his mother greets him normally. Namjoon leans on the wall and his mother stares at him strangely, calling him over to sit and have some fruit. He declines, telling her he won’t be staying very long. “That car crash that happened two years ago.”

The needle in his mother’s hand stills. 

“They said I had selective amnesia, right?” 

The needle picks up speed, stitching faster and faster, his mother’s hand moving faster than light. 

“What did I forget again?” 

“What did you remember?” His mother asks, never one to beat around the bush. 

“Mom.” He says, firmly this time. “What did you do to me.”

The sock is torn apart in his mother’s hands. “Namjoon,” She starts and Namjoon already has a growing urge to shake the truth out of her. “When you got into that crash two years ago, you came out of it with very little injuries. We were all so relieved. When you woke up, you didn’t remember Y/N.” All that fills the air for another moment or two is the spongy sound of silence. 

The gap in this family became clearer than ever to Namjoon. He thinks about how everyone must have been in on the secret, even his sister. And he was left to suffer, wondering why his life seemed so empty after forgetting something he couldn’t clutch onto. 

“And what?” He demands, screaming and throwing his hands out of his pockets. “Do you think you can just keep something like that from me? The love of my life, and you just decide to erase them from my memory?” His mother stills and looks up at her son. 

“You didn’t remember Y/N. You lost contact with all your college friends, and then when I asked the doctor how selective amnesia worked,” His mother cleared her throat. “Sufferers often forget some parts of their memory. Relationships, talents, skills, certain areas or certain people.” His mother looks up directly in his eyes. “Sometimes, especially after going through a traumatic event, people forget certain parts of their memory as a coping mechanism. To erase bits of pain and regret.”

“I thought,” Her voice breaks and her face twists in regret and bad memories. “I thought maybe by forgetting her, I’d be saving you from more pain and hurt. I just wanted you to stop hurting”

Namjoon held eye contact with his mother for three full seconds before collapsing and gasping for air, lying with his head on her lap. All words of scolding, anger. All the confrontational tactics and all the accusations he’d thought of shooting towards her had gone. 

“Hurts.” He let out through large gasps of breaths. “Hurts, mom.” He lied there, with tears threatening to spill out his eyes for the rest of the night, with his mother caressing his hair and apologising to him with tears in her eyes. 

“Miss Y/N. I miss Y/N.” He hiccups out, and his mother wipes away his tears, but it feels different from when you used to do it. 

“I know, I know.” The woman looking down at her son wonders why she put him in so much pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” The night carries on like that, with the lights eventually dimming and the night covers up the light in the sky. The mother son pair repeat their grievances and apologies to each other until the sun comes back up, peeking through the curtains and extending out their warm embrace as if it wants to comfort the hurting humans. 

It doesn’t take long for Seokjin and co to come knocking on his door, sent by his mother who must have filled him in on everything, judging from the looks on their faces. It only takes one single glance at his friends, tilting their heads and all asking to come in for him to burst into tears. Ugly crying, with snot coming out of his nose and eyes bloodshot red from the nightmares. 

Jimin is the first to reach forwards and bring Namjoon into a hug. Soon after that, the six friends surrounded Namjoon, comforting him with the warmth of their arms and soft spoken words of encouragement. 

“You did well.” Someone mumbles into his hair. 

“We’re all proud of you.” Someone else says. 

Namjoon’s sweater sleeves are sopping wet with tears when he asks the boys to help him get into therapy. 

Things went on like that for another while. 

Therapy isn’t as bad as Namjoon had thought it might’ve been. He wasn’t forced to be vulnerable or open up or confront his worst fears. He certainly didn’t want to tell the truth about the world he’s thrusted in, for fear of getting thrown out of the building and into a mental institution. 

Even his mother didn’t believe him the first time he told her about it. She urged him to visit a doctor. How could a therapist who doesn’t even know him believe the nonsense he spouts? Even he himself wouldn’t believe himself if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand. Slowly, but surely, he began to open up, and to his surprise, there was no calling of hospitals or kicking him out. His therapist sat there and listened like everything he was saying was valid. 

He started eating again, mostly because of Seokjin, stuffing his creations down everyone’s throats every two seconds, claiming he needs opinions on his new recipes even though Namjoon’s fairly certain that the past three dishes of spaghetti were the exact same recipe. 

Namjoon started to workout again with Jungkook, much to the younger boy’s surprise and happiness. They talked about their own struggles while panting on the treadmill and spinner. Jungkook eventually tells him that he also has a secret he keeps from the rest of the guys, which is his high school sweetheart who broke his heart so horribly that he still feels hurt from it. 

Jungkook told him to cheer up though, because most of the pain fades away with time. It’s still there, ever as present, but other things will become more important to you and cover up a scar or a wound with blooming flowers. 

“Like us,” He said cheekily. “Your friends.” 

He talked to Yoongi most days of the week about nothing in particular. He enjoys the time with Yoongi because he’s the only one who never walks on eggshells around him. He still pelts him with pillows and roasts the outfits on Rupaul’s Drag Race with him. Taehyung and Jimin even helped him adopt a dog, an furry white Eskimo named Rap Mon which is literally now Namjoon’s entire life. 

Would likely kill all of his friends if one of them hurt his precious baby. 

Life is good, Namjoon learns. He gets better at his job. He never forgets you, but things seem to hurt less. But he gets relapses sometimes. Some days he wakes up screaming about the stupid lead filling up his throat. Sometimes he gets nightmares so intense he has to take medicine.

Therapy isn’t as bad as he painted it out to be, but recovery is ten times harder than he thought it would be. Some days all he can do is lie in bed or do nothing, thinking of you. 

His therapist tells him that his life is more than his past memories. Both Yoongi and Hoseok agree, when he pulled up a random conversation about it late at night. Hoseok says that there’s never going to be a time where he won’t think of you, or still love you. Perhaps not as much as he once did, but he’ll never forget about you. Yoongi tells him he’s healing, and that they’re all proud of him.

Namjoon meets his friends, for the first time in the two years he’s known them. Taehyung has an extraordinary and (slightly strange) obsession over art museums. He’s been to almost every single one in Korea, and he dragged Namjoon over to one an hour away in Gangnam in the summer. Jimin is an amazing dancer, which Namjoon never knew.

Until Jimin brought it up casually, looking through old footage of his dance competitions. “Nothing big,” He said. “I used to dabble.” Namjoon’s eyes bulged out of his head and he told Jimin if that was ‘dabbling’, then he was wasting away his talent. He asked Jimin why he never made a career out of dance, and Jimin replied casually:

“I feel like if I start to make money off of it, and I’ll lose my love for it. Now that I haven’t really has time for it... I dunno. I feel like I’ve lost the talent a little bit.“

Namjoon told his friend that talent is nothing but a bunch of practice and time dedicated to a certain skill. Nobody loses talent, people just get a little unfamiliar with it. Jimin turned around in deep thought and told him he may just have a point. 

Still, some days, he can do nothing but sulk around, feeling like a waste of space. Take today for an example. He walks down the street and out of the corner of his eye, he thinks, and he might be wrong, he thinks he sees you. The back of your head, anyways, but you’re wearing a red sweater with headphones over your ears and you turn around the corner. 

Namjoon panics. He drops his coffee, which splashes all over his leather shoes and runs. He runs past the corner and he doesn’t know what on earth he’s doing but all he can do is run, and the wind dries his tears faster and faster, and he forgets all over again, that you aren’t here, that there’s no way he can go back and see you unless it’s in his memories, which he doesn’t even know how to control. 

Somewhere deep in the depths of his mind, he knows something about this doesn’t seem right. That it couldn’t possibly be you, because he watched you go right in front of his eyes. He knows that in order to heal, he can’t chase after you or center his world around you. He knows all of that. But in that moment, he forgets that he still doesn’t remember everything about you. 

He forgets that you’re dead. 

And one day he’ll be free from this constant spinning. One day he won’t ever have to think twice when he cooks pancakes but that day and all that work he’s put in is the last thing on Namjoon’s mind and all he can think about is if that’s really you. 

He sprints faster and reaches out, misses your wrist by an inch and ends up clutching at nothing but air. He heaves a huge breath, about to clap his hand over your shoulder-

Click. 

tags; @jksbbyfacebunny @extremeobsessions101 @dwcljh @bishuthot @s0seo @stonyiscanon @cecedrake2217​ 

[moriartysnerd]

Jim Moriarty x rockstar!reader

A/N: this is my first time ever writing with moriartys character. It may be off from his true character and there may be human error. Apologise in advance.

The sweat dripped down, circling around your body as you continued to prance around the stage. By now the speakers had cut off any noise that wasn’t the beat or your own voice. The constant beat of your guitar bouncing against your abdomen and hips had started to become slightly sore. You flicked your head back, while grabbing your guitar, in an attempt to move the damped mess out of your eyes. The crowed was cheering, almost mimicking the ringing in your ears as you swallowed dryly. You where out of breath and worn out, but by God where you going to give the last verse your all. Finally, you stilled on stage, feet glued to a particular position as the lights faded to black. You panted hard unable to catch your breath, your lungs hurt, your eyes hurt, your throat hurt but holy shit, that was one of the best performances of your life. You’d spent months on this tour, and needless to say, your partner back in London didn’t seem to be too happy about it. He’d warned you how bored he’d be without your undivided attention. James had built your career. He was somewhat of a manger for you. When he first came up to you, you’d never recognised him. It was a cold evening, your fingers hurt twice as much as they did remembering the events

——————————————————

You where softly strumming on your guitar in the middle of London town centre, waiting for your friends to finish up with their classes and come and meet you. The unfortunate thing about going to a separate university was the scattered time tables. You weren’t causing too much attention to yourself, it was a busy day and at worst people would think you where a busker. You where only tuning your guitar back up, it was starting to sound pitchy and unpleasant and you needed it perfect for the bar later tonight. You weren’t just specialised in the guitar. You where a jack of all trades. Could play a lot of instruments. Thinking back that must of been what James saw in you. It had to be. It wasn’t long until you caught the attention of someone, despite it being a humid day he still wore a trench coat and scarf. A shorter man following behind him. They taller man seemed to stop when you locked eyes, hair being brown back by the wind. You found the nerve to atleast smile, he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. The fear finally stuck you when he headed quickly towards you, muttering to himself. He was analysing you. It didn’t take a genius to realise that. His loyal lap dog following short after. The shorter man seemed to limp, he stuttered on a few words but managed to keep a conversation with you going. The questions lingered in your head longer than you’d like to admit, and with the cloaked man looming over you. You felt trapped.

“My names doctor John Watson, and this is sherlock.”

You recognised him. How could you not. The Sherlock Holmes. They wernt there to hurt you. They where there to interrogate you. Johns words seemed to calm you once you realised who they where. Fortunately for you the conversation and answers didn’t last Long when you heard a groan from sherlock, who suddenly stormed off calling back behind him.

“They don’t know anything John. They havnt been here for that long. No change from the music. Even their fingers arnt reddened from playing their guitar. Well loose the suspect if we wait any longer.”

John sighed. It seemed as if he was used to being dragged all over the place. He thanked you before waddling back after sherlock. You groaned softly, you wernt a busker, but you didn’t dare say that out loud. Imagine telling a famous detective he was wrong. You sighed softly, running your fingers through your soft hair, taking a step back you heard a crunch. Instantly looking down, you seemed to pray you hadn’t accidentally stood on a pigeon. Thankfully, it wasn’t. However, what was there seemed somthing more important that the slight decrease in London’s flying rat population. A pendrive. It wasn’t there when you first sat down. And no one other than the detective and his faithful sidekick had been near you. You added up the dots rather quickly. It couldn’t be important, Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t of just simply dropped something right? You picked up the drive, looking around before shoving it into your pocket. Going back to your guitar, finally your friends came from around the corner. They all looked out of breath, it was reliving that they’d actually run to meet you. You loved your group of nerds. However the rest of the day was draining. You couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on you. Not fully anyway. Even with your friends constantly around you there was always something just slightly off. It was later that evening when you met James. You where about to come on stage when a man in a gorgeous black suit came out, he had a soft Irish accent and smelt of mint and old books. He instantly caught your attention. His little smirk covered his face as he realised you where staring.

“Didnt mummy ever tell you not to stare my dear?”

You face flushed with embarrassment as you clutched your guitar case. Biting your lip hard and walking past him to get to the stage. To this day his little chuckle still rang through your mind.

——————————————————

After they lead you off stage you where taken back to your dressing room and completely spoilt. They made sure you had water, and an ice pack just incase and they finally left you alone. Once alone the realness set it and all you could think about was James. How mad you where at him. How you’d left London angry as he screamed about how he’d made you.

“I could just as easily take it away”

you mimicked under your breath. Fists clenching into balls.

“What was that, my love?”

——————————————————

It wasn’t until after your little solo that you ran into James again. This time he was outside when you left. You where planning on leaving with friends but the night hadn’t planned out this way when two of your friends had gotten so drunk they’d thrown up. Another vivid memory you’d never forget. The Irish man approached you, smirking a little wider as you kept your eyes of him

“You’re learning.”

He spoke softly standing just infront of you, you wanted to know what he wanted. He knew it But the drawn out silences caused you to crack faster

“Can I help you?”

You asked, trying to keep it polite. You wernt one to judge based on looks, but he looked important.

“Your preformance. I want to represent you, wouldn’t you like to be a star my dear? I could make you shine.”

—————————————————————

“What was that, my love?” The sweet sound of his voice filled the quiet room as you turned to glare. The second you locked eyes your glare softened. You couldn’t stay mad at him, well you could, just not when he came out all the way from London.

“I didn’t think you’d ever leave London.”

“For you dear the distance was worth it.”

He tried to make a move towards you before you stood up, backing further away. He stopped in his tracks, chuckling and looking down.

“Still bad blood?”

—————————————————————

He’d lied to you. About everything. You’d figured it out a few months after. All because of that stupid pendrive. You’d left it out in the open when James had first visited your apartment. It was quite a cozy small space. You’d put the kettle on and had a cup of tea while discussing what you where studying in uni. The man seemed very enthralled with what you had to say, and everything about you if we’re being honest. By the time he had left the pendrive was also gone. You didn’t think to much of it. A clumsy mistake, you’d misplaced it. That wasn’t the case. You’d found the pendrive in James’s pocket once again when he came to visit. Only it was accompanied by a second one. You bit your lip and placed them on the table while he was in the kitchen. He’d noticed they’d been moved. But didn’t hide them. He didn’t even pick them up when he left. He just left. It had information. Cases on Sherlock Holmes. Most importantly the victims of the London bombings. A full detail description of each and every single one of them And that’s when the knock came on your door. Sherlock Holmes himself.

“He’s stalking me! I don’t know what he wants but he won’t leave me alone Y/N! I never asked for this I never-“

“Jim. Jim Moriarty. He told me James... he told me everything. He had photos. Evidence. He took those pendrives. You’ve been using me as a messenger for months. Sherlock knew that if he faked an interest in me. You’d use me. And that’s what you did. I was secretly passing both of you those pendrives without even knowing. I was helping a criminal!”

James snapped out of his little victim role. He chucked and shook his head

“smart, very smart my dear. It’s a shame, my plans for you wernt over yet...”

You shook your head frantically, and grabbed your suitcase. Leaving soon after. The criminal didn’t even give chase. He watched you leave. He knew he’d hurt you.

“I made you.”

——————————————————

You glared at the now foreign man stood there. Your gaze was burning into his soul. He was right. He made you. He could take it all away. But was it really yours to begin with. Moriarty sensed your thoughts by the look on your face and gently moved to put his arm around your waste, this time you didn’t stop him. You leaned into him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

“See, isn’t it so much better to be in daddy’s arms agian kitten?”

He was a psycho. he’d ruined you. He was a murderer. He killed people. He blackmailed people. But, he was different with you, he was kind and gentle, he’d helped you with you career. You where already in to deep. He wouldn’t let any harm come to you. In that moment. That was good enough. You locked eyes with jim Moriarty. Your Jim Moriarty. And gently placed your hot lips aginst his, pulling him closer by the jacket and slowly letting him claim you. You tried to pull away when you needed air but Moriarty just chased your lips. Even outside of work he couldn’t help the torture. When you two finally separated you looked deep into his eyes, holding his face in the palm of your hand.

“I love you Jim Moriarty.”

“I know you do my love. That was the plan.”

[amxranthiine]

e t h e r e a l (ron weasley x poc!reader)

ethereal (adj.) extremely delicate light, not of this world Pronouns: She/her

Request: Hiiiii! Can I request a Ron weasley x sweet smart reader (if you do POC can she be black?) and she’s a slytherin and friends with a lot of people and has a huge crush on Ron and she’s pretty sarcastic when she needs to be and hermoine is jealous of her because Ron really likes reader and she’s really pretty and smart and Ron plans on confessing to her but hermoine confronts reader trying to tell her she’s not good enough for Ron but reader is headstrong and doesn’t care cuz she loves ron to much and Hermoine and Ron get into an argument about it with her telling him she loves him but he doesn’t feel the same way and asks reader out later she says yes and hermoine is heartbroken(I’m sorry that’s so long I get pretty detailed😭)

A/n: Ahhhh! My first request!! Thank you so much for requesting this darling! Set in third year, the reader is a Slytherin. I’m so sorry if this isn’t what you wanted, I struggled with her being sweet. I had to make it a little angsty, sorry about that! 2.3k words of solid chaos, please enjoy!

Warnings: Bullying? Light swearing? Angst, then a bit of *fluff*, one f-bomb.

Summary: The reader is a POC Slytherin, who is in love with her friend, Ron Weasley. After an awful day, and a run in with his obsessed best friend, can she win the love she desires? (I’m so bad at summaries I’m sorry)

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ Y/n’s POV “What on Earth are you looking at, L/n?” A voice says to my left. A voice that belonged to Draco Malfoy. I snap out of my lovesick gaze and clear my throat, trying desperately not to blush. I had been staring at my longtime crush and friend, Ron Weasley, for the past five minutes. I thought I was being subtle, not that that matters anyway. Ron barely acknowledges my presence and Malfoy notices everything.  I would have been more scared if it were Granger who had caught me. Merlin knows she hates me for no reason at all, other than the fact that, you know, my robes are green instead of red. Oh, and she knows I like Ron. Bloody brilliant. Her catching my heart eyes would send me flying straight off the Astronomy Tower. She would be the one pushing me. It’s not that Hermione is a bad person, per say. It’s just, she’s a little... Possessive when it comes to her friends. Ron, specifically. She hates Slytherins with a passion solely because of Malfoy and his bag of rats, which is understandable. I just don’t understand why we’re hated for being cunning and ambitious, not all of us are dabbling in the dark arts! Malfoy pinched my dark skin, “I asked you a question, blood traitor.” Of course, because I’m friend with Muggleborns and Half-bloods, that automatically makes a traitor. Almost as bad as actually being a Muggleborn. Recoiling slightly, I lie. “I wasn’t looking at anything, Malfoy. I was merely thinking about the Potions essay that’s due on Wednesday.” On the outside, I may have looked annoyed, which I kind of was. But on the inside, I was trembling like a terrified doe. Merlin, why couldn’t he mind his own business? Playing with a strand of my dark hair, I sighed in exasperation. Malfoy snorts from beside me, “That’s a lie and you know it. Everyone knows you could rival that Mudblood Granger with how smart you are.” He spits out Hermione’s name as if it’s poison. I blush at the compliment (at least, I think it was a compliment) and look down and my hands. My green nail-polish contrasted nicely against my chocolate skin and Slytherin robes.  Inhaling sharply, I take a leap of faith and glance over at the Gryffindor table, only to find the man of the hour already looking in my direction with anger and hurt written all over his face. He then looked to my left, where the blonde ferret was sitting, and his hurt turned to fury. If looks could kill, Malfoy would be cremated in a second, just from the look Ron was giving him. My heart jumped to my throat, and I could feel my pulse everywhere. Why is he giving him that look? Why is he angry with me? What did I do?  Draco noticed my attention was no longer fully on him, and followed my eyes to the redhead. A look of realization crosses his face, and suddenly, he’s cackling. “Him? L/n, are you mentally deficient? He’s a Weasley! A blood traitor! He’s friends with Potter!” His words have a sense of venom to them, even if he’s laughing. I glared at him with cold eyes, “Listen, love, I have no reason to dislike Potter, unlike you. I also have no reason to dislike Ron, in fact I quite enjoy his presence. So, if you would please drop the matter and go on with your life, I would be thankful.” Malfoy’s face morphed into one of anger and disbelief. Sure, we may be friends, but I don’t deal with his crap just because he’s rich and a Malfoy. Luckily, or unluckily, Pansy Parkinson saved me from his wrath. “Yeah, okay Y/n, you’ve been in love with him since first year, everyone can see it!” She snorts, and the entire Slytherin table erupts into giggles. “That is, everyone but the Weasel,” She adds on. My face is as red as Ron’s hair and I feel my eyes tear up. Was it true? Did everyone know? I look around the room for a second, only to see Hermione glaring at me with a raised brow. I look away quickly. Malfoy is practically wheezing from how hard he’s laughing, “Honestly, Y/n, do you really think you have a chance with him? He and Granger practically eloped the day we got here! You would be crazy to think you actually stood-” He stops talking when I stand up, tears streaming down my face. “You can burn in hell, all of you.” I whisper, my voice breaking. Everyone suddenly has a look of guilt on their faces, and I look at Ron one last time. I can tell he’s concerned, but I don’t need him. “Wait, Y/n, it was just a joke!” “Merlin, she’s so dramatic.” “Y/n, where are you going? We were just kidding!” I hear yells and shouts from the Slytherin table as I sprint out of the Great Hall. But what really got to me, was the one thing I heard from the dreaded Gryffindor table. “Look at her, pathetic isn’t she? She can’t even take a joke! Ronald wher-” Bloody Granger. Bloody Malfoy. I turn the corner and slump against the wall, sliding onto the ground with my legs straight out in front of me. I struggle to breathe, the sobs are coming out too harshly. I was a liked person in my year, with plenty of friends. At this moment, though, it seemed as if everyone hated me. I tried to muffle the sound of my cries with my hand, but to no avail.  “Y/n! Are you alright?” I eyes dash to the sound of the familiar voice, and quickly wipe my eyes when I see Ron running towards me. “Y-Yeah...” I mutter, “I’m fine.” My lungs hurt from holding back my cries, my lips quivering from the familiar sting in my throat. Ron sat down beside me, my eyes meeting everything but his own. “You’ve always been a bad liar,” he chuckles slightly. I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks. “Have not,” I mumble. As much as I craved his presence, I was not in the mood for games. I looked down at my hands, something that was quickly becoming a nervous habit. Luckily he must have sensed that I didn’t want to talk about what just happened, and stayed silent for what seemed like eternity. Ron examined me for a moment, he was nervous, just like me. I didn’t know what he had to be nervous about, it wasn’t like he liked me as anything more than a friend... “Y/n...” He whispered, I hummed in acknowledgment, looking at him. “I-I just want to say,” He stuttered, “I don’t care that you’re a Slytherin. I know that may seem impossible because I’m a Weasley, and a Gryffindor, but...” He trailed off and took a deep breath, “ I-I care about you...” My head shot up so fast, I’m surprised I didn’t get whiplash. My heart was thumping against my ribcage harder than ever, and my stomach felt weak. “R-Ron?” I whispered, not wanting to believe my ears or what my brain was trying to desperately to tell me. He likes you, you idiot! Why can’t you see it?  He bit his lip and closed his eyes, something I would have found absolutely adorable if I wasn’t about to faint. “Y/n, I-” “Ronald!” Yelled a high pitched voice. My heart (and spirits) dropped and I sighed. Here we go. “Where have you been? We’re going to be late!” Hermione yelled. “Coming, ‘Mione,” Ron called after her. He looked at me apologetically, though he also looked... pained? “Ronald! Stop talking to the snake and hurry up!” She shouted again, and my rage levels increased drastically with those few words. Ron squeezed my hand to try and calm me, or to stop me from pulling out his best friend’s hair. “Bloody hell, woman! I’m coming!” He turned to me, “Bye, Y/n, see you later.” With a small wave, he was off. It was later that night, I was walking back to the dungeons after hours in the library, writing my Potions essay. Humming a tune I don’t remember the name off, I was slightly spaced out as I strolled along the familiar corridors. What wasn’t familiar, though, was the wand at my neck. Hermione-fucking-Granger was standing right in front of me in all her brilliant glory. Her perfect defensive stance with her wand right in my face. “Hello, Hermione,” I say, trying to stay calm. She scoffs, a disgusted look painted on her face. “Don’t ‘hello, Hermione,’ me L/n,” She practically spits. I shrug, and try to move around her. “Okay, then goodnight, Granger.”  She still blocks my path. “What’s going on with you and Ron?” There is an edge to her voice that tells me there are no right answers. I am genuinely confused and befuddled, “Nothing is going on between Ron and I?” I state, though it sounds more like a question. What on Earth made her think that someone was going on between Ron and I? I mean... I wouldn’t complain if something was going on, but alas; absolutely nothing. I suppose that answer only made her angrier; “That’s bullshit.” “Is it?” I question, trying to push her buttons. She scoffs again and pushes her wand closer to my face, “Ron is mine. Not yours, mine. Stay away from him, or you’ll regret it.” I was raging at this point, but I couldn’t say anything... harsh to her, because Merlin forbid anything happen to the Brightest Witch of our year. So, instead of potentially harming my crushes obsessed best friend, I settled with, “Yeah, okay, whatever Hermione. Can I leave now?” Seemingly satisfied with my answer, she steps aside and watches as I walk away. “I’ll be watching you, L/n,” She says, trying to threaten me. I just snort. “I’m counting on it, Granger,” I call back and pranced away. Internally I was screaming, what would she do to me? Why is she so obsessed with him? Is she so jealous that she feels the need to threaten any girl that even comes close to her precious Ronald? Yes, she is.  The next few days, I avoided Ron like the plague. He knew I was avoiding him, too. Anytime he was within fifteen feet of me, I turned around and practically ran the opposite direction. It didn’t help that Granger had such a smug smirk on her face whenever I saw her. All I wanted to do was shove my middle finger in her face and call it a wand.  It was getting increasingly difficult to ignore Ron, and I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up with it. The longing stares when no one was watching, to the daydreams of what we could be during class- I couldn’t stay away. One night, I was- once again- walking back to the Slytherin common after hours in the library. Only, it wasn’t a wand in my face that made me pause. No, it was the distinct sound of arguing around the corner. Curious, I tip-toed towards the noise, trying to be as quiet as possible. Which was hard because of the echoing halls of Hogwarts, but somehow I wasn’t caught. “Why would you do that, Hermione?!” A very familiar voice yelled. “Because, Ronald, she’s a Slytherin!” Hermione yelled back. “That cannot be the only reason! She’s the nicest Slytherin there is! You don’t own me, ‘Mione! You have no right to decide things like that!” Ron was fuming, I could tell just by the sound of his voice. Somehow, I knew they were talking about me. I was the only Slytherin Ron could tolerate. “Fine, you want to know the reason? I love you, Ron! She was getting in the way!” Merlin, I really should stop listening before I start crying. “Getting in the way of what?!” “Us!” “There is no ‘us,’ Hermione! I don’t love you, I love Y/n! And you deliberately sought her out... And threatened her?! Bloody hell, you’re completely mental!” Ron was practically screaming at this point, he was so mad. I was completely shocked, he loved me? He loved me?! Am I dreaming? Apparently my gasp was louder than I thought, because both Ron and Hermione turned in my direction. Well, shit, I can’t run now. “You love me...?” I whisper. My mind couldn’t wrap itself around that fact. My tummy was swarmed with butterflies, my feet tingled and my hands were completely numb. I couldn’t believe it. Ron just stared at me, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I-... I... Urm... Y-eah.. I do,” I could have laughed at his attempt to speak, but I was completely dumbfounded. Not trusting my voice, I raced over to him. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled him into a kiss. This kiss... it was something ethereal. It was slow and passionate, but full of love and desire. There was nothing else like it. Our mouths moved in sync for what seemed like forever. I didn’t want it to end. His hands traveled from my waist to my face, cupping my cheeks gently as he towered over me. Alas; all good things must come to an end. Unfortunately we have lungs that feel the need to burn when you don’t breathe. Pulling apart slowly, I smile at him, genuinely smile. His cheeks are almost as red as his robes, and his hair ruffled from my hands running through it. “I take it you love me too?” He asks, smiling just as wide as I am. I nod, and giggles flow out of my mouth from how happy I am. He looks like he’s in a daze, “Bloody hell, Y/n, you’re brilliant.”  “Y/n L/n, will you be my girlfriend?” He doesn’t leave my embrace as he asks this. I gasp, “Yes! Merlin, yes!” Jumping into his arms at lightning speed. A quiet cry is heard from the right of us, and we look over to see Hermione, a hand over her mouth and tear stains on her cheeks. Ron shrugs, “Sorry, ‘Mione!”

[waywardimpalawriter]

Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone (Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader)

Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: angst, hurt, comfort, 

Word count: 1,795 (It wasn’t suppose to be this long, seems I can never write anything shorter than a 1,000 words.)

Summary: Lone phone booth, broken hearts and empty words, promises he tries to keep. Wanting to make his way back with the sunshine.

Notes: Let me start by saying I’m sorry but I’m not really. You may need tissues. Written for the very lovely @autumnleaves1991-blog​ for Writer Wednesday. I figured since last weeks was fluffy I’d break out a little angst for this week. Set before and right after the events in Triple Frontier. Inspired by the amazing Bill Withers song “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.”

“You’re promised no more trips, you’d stay home help raise Luciana, be here,” last words whispered more to yourself than to the man standing opposite. Knowing what you signed up for being the girlfriend of a military man. It’s different now though he’s out, no more deployments to places all God knew about. Going weeks, mostly months without seeing him. Warm body held tightly in your arms when he came home, soothing the nightmares that followed.  

Dropping his head, chin resting on his chest not wanting to look into those hurt eyes. For anyone else he’d say no but these fella’s are family, you know this having taken them all in like brothers. Frankie understood your anger more directed at the fact he’s leaving you alone when he’s promised that would never happen again. “I’m sorry mi amor,” raising his head to stare at you. Crystalline tears catch light from the near by lamp glinting mockingly. Knowing sorry isn’t enough empty words and promises laying bare between the both of you.

“How…” arms wrapping around you plush middle. Fending off the worry and holding yourself together even for a few moments. “How long?”

Taking a step towards you, “Three days max. Pope says it’s just a quick recon and intel job. You won’t even miss me.” Corny joke tasting bitter on his tongue that licks across dry lips. Unsure if you’d accept him right now but wanting to hold you so badly. “It’ll be quick and easy sweetheart, then I’ll be back with my girls.”

“Three days?” Seeing him nod you swallow harshly staying still for a moment longer. Till you couldn’t stop yourself from running into his arms, wrapping them so tightly around his body the air is knocked from his lungs. Vise grips of flesh and bone holding on securely, wishing the trip would already be over. “You come back to me you hear Fransisco Morales or so help me I’ll search all over this God forsaken planet till I find you myself.” Words muttered and clogged with tears streaming down cold cheeks. “You have a daughter to raise…”

“And a woman to love,” peeling himself back from your embrace. His own arms resting on your thick waist, large hands splayed out over your back taking in your warmth and love. “I promise mi amor I’ll be back in no time.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask him to stay. Plead your case, demand he make good on those promises spoken with the last deployment. Yet, you know this is different and that’s what scares you the most truly. You’d loose so much with this one trip. They won’t have backing by the government in case… pushing those thoughts away you press yourself deeper into Frankie’s body. Stealing his calm, trying to soak it into your veins and sooth your nerves. Knowing the only way to truly do that is by having him stay and you’d never be selfish to ask.

“You know there’s no sunshine when you’re gone,” pressing your lips to the little patch of missing hair in his scruffy beard. “Come back to me Frankie I can’t do this without you.”

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

It's not warm when she's away

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

And she's always gone too long

Anytime she's goes away

A week and two days he’s been gone. Nerves shot to hell you asked Will’s girlfriend Abby to watch Luciana for a couple of hours. Knowing the other woman needed a distraction from the worry just as much. You scooping up the keys, placing a quick kiss to your daughter’s forehead, a nod to Abby and you’re out the door. Heading to that little spot you and Frankie like to camp. Drawing a smidgeon of peace from the place that’s much loved between you.

Trying to keep those pesky, traitorous thoughts from invading your mind. Imagines long forgotten with the Delta force days behind you, resurface every night Frankie’s gone. Picturing the worst every time your eyes close. Fists clinching at your sides long sorrow filled scream winds itself from deep within your chest. Thankful no living humans are around to hear the agony scare any woodland creatures far away. Screaming till your throat is raw and parched. Dropping to your knees not caring about the dirt and buries that’ll show up later. In the back of your mind the little voice chastising you for having so little faith in Frankie.

It couldn’t be helped thought, you missed your sunshine. Wanted his presence more than your next breath. To see that ratting Standard Heating oil cap cover his curls, left dimple making an appearance when he smiles at you. Wrapping your arms around his body drinking in the scent of piney woods, touched with motor oil and a spice that’s all Frankie. Afraid of what state he’ll be in that is if he returns. Face pressed into shaky hands hiding from the world as tears coat the palms in salty moisture while rocking your body. Trying to push those thoughts out of your mind to form happier, sun filled ones. Not realizing the rain started to fall from heavy laden clouds, promising a soaker of a storm. Till ramblings of thunder make you gasp and look up. Fitting stormy grey skies meet your sorrowful eyes. Raindrops hitting your upturned face, dropping   into your eyes making them blink closed. Heart aching for the man you love and wishing for Aladdin’s magic lamp to grant you just one precious wish that’s all you needed.

Shivering from your soaked clothes, gusty winds howling through the pines returning your grief. Slowly you manage to drag yourself up and back to Frankie’s truck. Sitting watching the rain slash against the aged windshield. Creating different rivers and puddles of water, sunlight catching a perfect drop when the clouds part and shine into the cab and over your face. Warming the cool skin as a sob leaves your throat praying this burst of light is a good omen.

Wonder this time where she's gone

Wonder if she's gone to stay

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

And this house just ain't no home

Anytime she goes away

You stare at the cell phone laying on the seat beside you. Hoping it’ll ring with a number you don’t recognize. Pleading for some kind of answer anything to stop the worry. When no answer me dance lights the piece of tech you slam an open palm against the steer wheel unable to keep the tears from sliding down your face. Unaware of how long you’ve sat there eyes closed rain pouring down around you.

Bill Withers smooth tenor making you jump and clutch at your chest. Eyes flying open to stare out into the utter darkness surrounding you not recognizing the ringtone for half a second. Fear and dread incasing your wildly thumping heart as you reach out for the cell phone. Not recognizing the number, you shakily press and slide your finger. Putting the phone to your ear breath lodged in your throat. Dry and deep from screaming, “Frankie?”

Shattering at the sound of your sweet scratching voice, Frankie sags against the phone booth. Warm glass meeting sweat soaked button up covered back trying to hold in the sob. “It’s me mi corazón,” finally answering short whimper on the end of the endearment. Making him bite the inside of his cheek to stop any other sounds from escaping. Dragging in the humid night air to fill his lungs and steady his heart. The heat is oppressive hanging heavy around the small glass and metal enclosure as his large hand grips the weathered plastic receiver.

“What happened mi sol?” Fear gripping tightly around your heart at hearing the sorrow in his voice. Aching to hold him and chase away the darkness you know will follow.

Pressing a hand to the glass cursing the fact this call wouldn’t be long enough to explain himself. “When I get home I’ll tell you everything sweetheart. I’m on an old pay hone right now so there’s not much time. I just…” swallowing harshly, eyes closing over those sadden brown eyes. “I needed to hear your voice.”

“I’m here baby,” wiping at the tears of relief and sitting up straighter in the bench truck seat. It didn’t matter what happened just knowing he’s alive and coming home to you it all that’s important. They could sort out the rest in time. “When are you coming home Frankie? Luciana misses her daddy.”

Watery chuckle leaves his lips, head resting on the dirty glass behind him, “I’ve missed her to hermosa,” taking another breath to steady himself. “I love you so fucking much.”

Heart clinching tightly at his words the desperation in the tone destroying you. Responding without thought, “I love you to Frankie,” gulping in a breath whimpers bitten off to keep from him knowing how torn up you are. Clap of thunder followed the streaks of lighting illuminating the night sky making you jump and gasp.

“Where are you sweetheart?” Having heard the thunder a little too loudly for you to be at home.

For the first time in your relationship you think of lying to him so he didn’t worry. But you remember the promise made and wouldn’t break it. “Our place,” comes the short answer hearing silence on the other end and you think he’s run out of time.

Finally finding his voice pushing through the pain in his heart. “I’m sorry mi corazón we… I never should’ve…”

“Shh Frankie it’s okay I came here to be closer to you. Wishing for you to call and you did,” soft chuckle leaving your mouth accompanying a small sob. “My sunshine broke through to let me know you were okay and coming home before you called.”

Pulling his cap off to rest on top the worn metal of the cradle and run a shaky hand through his curls. “I think you have that backwards, you’re my sunshine sweetheart and I can’t wait till I see you shine for me.” Electronic voice reminding him of the seconds he has left, precious and too few for his liking. “I’ve got to go mi corazón. I’ll be home soon I promise, I love you.”

“I love…” words cut off making Frankie curse and slam the receiver back into the cradle wanting to kick the old piece of junk. But knowing it wouldn’t get him anywhere but a busted foot most likely. He settles for slapping a palm against the glass before snatching up his cap and leaving the claustrophobic inducing box without a backwards glance. Setting his sights on the airport a short power walk away, towards home and into the arms of his girls.

[saintsurvivors]

For the Whump Drabble prompts: #34 (forced to enjoy it) with Mac? (If you want to!)

No. 34 Forced to Enjoy It

warnings; torture, kidnapping, non consensual drug use, experimental drugs, threats, graphic depiction of injuries, rape threats, hurt no comfort

“This little gem,” The man speaks suddenly, and Mac blinks reflexively, tamps down on the full body flinch he wants to do. The cuffs rattle on his wrists, muffled by the duct tape that the metal and his wrists are covered in. In his hand is a slender syringe, something so small to be so scared off.“This little gem is something I do think you’ve going to enjoy immensely, MacGyver.”

Tiberus Kovac steps closer, and Mac hisses through his teeth, jerks his legs up from the metal table, only to hear the same clatter of cuffs and duct tape there as well, a chill roiling up his spine as Kovac steps closer, rests a gentle hand on his ankle, presses a blunt, close cut nail to the bone. Flinches when the man digs the rest of his nails in, dragging them up the tender flesh of his calve, feeling the way Mac’s muscles twitch. Mac can feel the slightest drip of blood from opened up cuts, form where Kovac had relished in digging a knife into him.

“Truly, you are a magnificent man, MacGyver,” Kovac carries on, and Mac squeezes his eyes shut, feels the burn of tears against the back of them. A hand lands on his bruised knee, dislocated and pulpy, squeezing there. Mac bites down on his cries, feels the way his ribs rattle together when he tries to curl in on himself, only able to land heavily back on what he thinks is a morgue table. “An even more magnificent lab rat, and even more magnificent bait for our shared friend.”

Kovac’s closer now, ghosts his hand gently up the shaking column of Mac’s thigh, dips his fingers into where Mac’s boxers end, and Mac shakes, tries to move but he can’t, can feel the slow release paralytic slowly taking hold of him all over again. Kovac laughs, low and rough, but doesn’t do anything, like every other time he’s threatened without words. 

“I wonder if he’s even realized that you’re gone,” Kovac thinks aloud, digs his fingers into the shivering expanse of Mac’s ribs, as if he can simply claw his way into the viscera of his belly, can slip his fist into where Mac is most vulnerable. Instead of continuing further north, Kovac’s  hand slips to his arm, thankfully the one without the drip already in. “If dear Jack even realizes that he was the one to lead me to you, his beautiful blonde toy. He’s hidden away the rest of his little family, even his daughter that he thinks I know nothing about, dear, sweet Riley, but you- oh you, Angus, he’d not hidden well enough.”

A prick, something hot and hurting lancing through his blood stream and Mac shakes, shivers, shudders. A hurt noise tears itself out of his already torn scream throat. For a single moment, when Kovac presses the very flat of his palm onto chest, over the stretch of his sternum, it burns, white hot, a five point brand of pure agony, heavy and Mac screams, scratched and broken, can taste the blood he swallows with how his throat has been ripped to shreds. 

Cries out, high pitched, breaking, crumbles back into sobs as the agony spirals higher, higher than he can think of, his eyes roll, his vision blurs. That hand is the only thing he can concentrate on, how it makes the agony burn, he’s crying, he doesn’t know if he’s pleading, think’s he might be. His ribs rattle, catch against one another, his lungs are paralyzed, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe please I can’t-

And then, then, like slowly sinking into a hot bath when you’re freezing, it dims. It ebbs and flows, and Mac sighs, moans, it drifts less from agony into something less than that, the hand ghosts upwards, over his heaving chests, pressing against the long column of his throat, those long fingers tucked high and tight against his jawline.

“Theeeere we go, my darling,” Kovac croons, and he tightens his fingers, just enough, and though it has Mac breathless, spots dancing in front of his eyes, it sends sparks up his spine, makes him moan softly, a keening whimper escaping when Kovac’s other hand slips into his hair, nails scratching far too hard but still so presently against his scalp. “That’s better, isn’t it? You’re going to be magnificent, Angus, aren’t you? Such a sweet little lab rat, hmm? Let’s see how dear Jackie takes it when you’re moaning so sweetly beneath my knife and he’s so helpless to stop me.”

His air is cut off and Mac’s eyes roll, pleasure lancing up his spine as he gasps noiselessly.

[atsukashii]

❝chance encounter❞ // k. takami

SYNOPSIS: ➛ bickering with Japans number 2 hero about ice cream flavours in a supermarket wasn’t how you expected to spend your Friday night

» CHARACTER PAIRING: keigo takami/hawks x reader

» WORD COUNT: 2.9K

» GENRE: normal?

» WARNINGS: swearing & fluff and just crack really

« masterlist || ao3 »

You had been craving mint chocolate ice cream literally all day. But then again, craving anything with exceedingly high levels of sugar and crap-loads of chocolate wasn’t anything new recently. In times like these, owning your own bakery was both the best decision you’ve ever made, and a huge mistake. Considering you had been up since three am baking away in the kitchen of your cafe and had snacked on basically one of every sweet thing that came out of the oven and anything you had in the display cabinet, if you kept this up you’d have to get a gym membership. But right now, you wanted mint chocolate ice cream. You look down at your stomach and for a moment, the thought of eating healthily crosses your mind. The thought is, however, instantly pushed out by the idea of you, on your couch, in your pj’s, with a pint of mint chocolate ice-cream, watching TV and de-stressing about the absolutely crappy day you had. That sounds way better. 

Walking straight down the candy aisle of the supermarket, you don't even bother glancing at your basket as you toss in chocolates, chips, soft drinks, and any unhealthy food you can physically get your hands on. Out of the corner of your eye, you see an old lady coming towards you with a trolley, who looks up from her list, and eyes your basket with disdain. 

Cut me some slack, you want to snap at her, I’m heartbroken and pissed off! 

You ignore the dirty look she gives you, and snatch a bottle of Coke off the shelf. You were very much aware that you currently looked like you had been digging through garbage all day. Your clothes - even though you wore an apron - no doubt have flour on them, your hair looks like a rat made its home on your head, and your eyes dry and itchy from crying. You knew you looked like a mess, you have just surpassed the threshold of actually caring about your appearance. Like your ex didn’t care about showing up at your shop with his new thing after dumping me only two weeks ago… 

The second your friend and co-owner of the cafe saw him in the store, they kicked him out, wielding the broom like a weapon. You had wished that they smacked him in the face with it, but fearing assault charges - they didn’t. He didn’t leave however, until after he had flaunted his new relationship in your face. You had thankfully moved on past the whole, ‘why’ stage of the breakup, and came to the conclusion it was purely because he was a trash human being.  However, to say that it didn’t hurt seeing him holding another girl’s hand and acting like he used to do with you, with someone else - well that would be a lie. It had been two weeks after all, and considering you had been together for two years - it felt as if those 24 months had meant nothing to him. 

So now, you wanted to drown your pain in chocolates, and mint chocolate ice cream and no one was going to stand in your way.

You walk over to the freezer section of the store with confidence in your step, suddenly excited to get home and start bingeing the romance section on Netflix. That enthusiasm quickly dies as you reach for the handle of the freezer, your eyes locking onto the empty row where your favorite ice cream flavor always sat. You’re joking… You blinked at the glass as if trying to force the food into being before you. 

There. Is. None. Left.

“You’ve got to be kidding me right now,” you groan. Of all days for there to be a shortage, it had to be today. You look down at your basket of Oreos, pocky’s, soft drink, chips, and everything else you had craved the second you saw it on the shelves. I’d trade it all for ice cream though… Resting your head on the cold glass of the freezer, you let out a groan of frustration. This was just the topping to an already crappy day. It was ironic when people say not to cry over spilled milk - and here you were wanting to cry over ice cream.

“Tough day?” A voice startles you away from the fridge. Following the sound, your head snaps to your left where your eyes immediately meet a golden pair that have your lungs spluttering and frantically, trying to figure out how the heck to breathe. Okay, he’s attractive. Like really attractive. His golden eyes are practically glowing at you with amusement, his hair looking like liquid gold - and super soft. You kinda want to touch it. In washed-out black jeans, a white t-shirt, and a denim jacket stopping the cold from the open freezers, he looks too attractive to be real. But then your eyes lock onto the red wings, peeking from behind his shoulders and you know who he is in an instant. The question though, was why the heck the number two pro hero Hawks was even currently talking to you right now. Realizing you hadn’t answered him yet, and instead, were just checking him out instead for god knows how long, you clear your throat and reply.

“Tough week.” You correct, pulling yourself together before looking down at your basket again, hoping it doesn’t look as pathetic as the rest of you. “And to top it off, there’s none of my favourite ice cream left.” Letting out a groan, you shift on your feet. You don’t know why you just said that maybe you didn’t want the attractive blonde hero to go just yet. 

With an over-dramatic wince, Hawks leans his shoulder against the glass, as chilled out as the food inside the freezer. “Ouch, I know that feeling. That’s true betrayal,” he says, his eyes playful. It brings a small smile to your lips, and he takes that as an opportunity to stick out his hand to you. “Keigo Takami,” Hawks introduces himself as if you didn’t know who he was. Maybe he doesn’t think you would know… With a friendly smile and butterflies flying frantically inside your stomach, you shake his hand.

“Y/n Y/l/n. It’s nice to meet you,” you reply, trying not to think about how big his hand is compared to your own. God, was there flour on your hands right now? You prayed you had managed to wash it all off fully and that you didn’t suddenly look as run-down as you thought you did. Quickly -but not too fast to make him think you didn’t want to touch him- you drop the handshake and wipe your hands as inconspicuously as you can, on your jeans. 

“Beautiful name,” he glances at the empty ice-cream shelf. “But a girl with questionable choices in ice cream flavours.” You gape at Keigo in utter shock. Oh, he did not just say that.

“You did not just say that.” You repeat out loud. 

“I’m afraid so.” He answers, one hand in his pocket the other holding his basket, and a care-free smile covering his lips. “Who likes mint choc anyways?” For a moment you sputter for a response at this blatant ridicule against the best ice-cream flavour to ever exist. You will happily fight anyone on that, including the number two pro hero in Japan.

“Intelligent people, that’s who.” You argue back. “I bet you’re the kind of person whose favourite is vanilla.” His golden eyebrows shoot up at your words. 

“What’s wrong with good old fashioned vanilla Y/n?” Your name slips off his tongue like pure honey and it would normally send shivers down your spine. No, you will not look past this obvious disrespect against your ice cream preferences, not even for hot guys. No, you will not.

“It’s the most boring flavour to ever exist.”

“And mint choc isn’t?” He asks like it's a loaded question. Shaking your head at both his uneducated taste buds and this whole conversation, it begins to dawn on you that you’re smiling. When was the last time you smiled a lot recently? You question yourself, trying to wind back through your hazy memories of the past two weeks - and coming up with nothing.

“Mint chocolate is the best. You should tell your taste buds that what the ice-cream they think they enjoy is crappy ice-cream.” and Hawks is grinning at you, it’s a smile that is contagious, and has your own growing bigger with every passing word. 

“I’ll be sure to let them know.” God this whole conversation was one of the weirdest you had ever had in your life. And the fact that you had it with a pro hero, and Hawks for that matter...that just made it thirty times more strange. Looking back to the freezer, you decide you still want ice cream and settle for strawberry and cream, which earns a look from hawks as you put it in your basket. 

“Shut up,” you defend, fake glaring at the blonde. Holding his hands up feigning innocence, Keigo shrugs at you.

“I didn’t say anything sweet-cheeks.” Your cheeks in question flush hotly at the term, and you quickly fiddle with the handle of your basket, giving you something to do so you don’t stand there looking like a complete idiot at his blatant flirting. 

“But if you’re going to question my taste buds, then yours must be just as bad. Because last time I checked, Wagon Wheels were still way better than Oreo's.” His eyes meet yours, delight swirling inside his liquid golden irises and you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out your lips, shaking your head slightly.

“Okay, you’re definitely crazy.”

“Only a little bit,” Keigo smirks before his smile falls at the contents of your basket. You square your shoulders, knowing that there’s a chance that he might give you shit for its contents like that old lady from before. But the words that do come from his mouth surprise you.

“Was that the last KitKat?” Immediately, you look at the red packaging of the chocolate block inside your basket, and then back to the pro hero who is now gazing at it like it's made of diamonds. Hawks look’s like you imagine you had when you’d grabbed it off the shelf, seeing that it was the last one and deciding that it had to be some sort of sign that things were looking up for you. That was, of course, before you had seen the travesty of the empty mint chocolate shelf of the supermarket freezer. 

“I’ll trade you.” Keigo suddenly says, making you eye the man. “I’ll trade you the KitKat for this,” he finishes, reaching into his basket and… pulls out a fucking tub of choc mint ice cream. Are you kidding me??

“You’re joking.” Staring at him, at the sheepish smile across his face, you shake your head.

“Afraid not.” He tilts his head at you. “That is unless you don’t want it…” going to lower the tub back into his basket, a noise comes out of your throat that has him smirking again. Embarrassment flooding your features, you shift slightly and glare at the hero.

“I thought you didn’t like that flavour?” You point out, wanting to know what the hell was going on. 

“Oh no I do - it's one of my favourites. I just needed a reason to keep on talking to you,” Keigo admits unashamedly as you feel your cheeks warm again. If I was ever questioning if he was hitting on me…

“Oh,” is all you can manage to get out before your brain begins to catch up with the world again. “Well, in that case, I’ll trade.” Agreeing, you pass him the chocolate block and he gives you the tub of ice cream, your hand brushes him and you try not to act like a crazy person about how attracted to him you are.

“Thank you,” you try to say but it comes out as a slight whisper. His mouth morphs into a cocky smile, which just makes you flush even more.

“No, thank you y/n” he says, shaking the Kit-kat for emphasis in his hand. “They’re the best chocolate to ever exist.”

“Finally we agree on something,” You laugh, finally turning you back on the freezer and begin to walk backward, away from the hero. When he notices you moving from him, with every step away from that you make, he takes one forward, following you through the store.

“No, we agreed on the ice-cream too,” he beams.

“That’s right because really, you were just being an ass and hiding that fact from me.” You sass back, spinning around so you can see where you’re going.

“In order to keep talking to you, it was a sacrifice I was willing to make.” He says, hurrying forward until you are walking side by side down a different aisle, moving slowly towards the checkout. Your footsteps are both slow and leisurely as if neither of you wants to reach the check out just yet. “But it worked, didn’t it? So I’d say it was worth your glare.” You turn that ‘glare’ back on him and raise an eyebrow at his antics. 

“You could have said something else you know.”

“Such as?” He asks, genuinely curious. You weren’t an intimidating person, so you weren’t sure as to why a guy such as Hawks would be wary of approaching you. Especially when the reality is that those roles are definitely reversed. Was your resting bitch face that bad?

“You could have said, ‘Hey, I think you’re cute. Can I have your number?” Rolling his eyes at your words, disbelievingly. 

“You’re telling me that line would work on someone like you?” Unsure if that was a compliment or not, you stop in the middle of the aisle causing him to stop next to you. You look into his eyes, trying to judge where his mind is but he’s hard to read. The only thing you knew, was that his smile seemed genuine and very amused by you. That was good enough for you.

“Try me.” You test, confidence coming up from who knows where. With raised eyebrows and calling your bluff, Hawks smirks at you. 

“Hey y/n, I know we just met but I think you’re really cute. Can I have your number?” He teases.

“Sure.” Keigo blinks at you for a moment, then two - as if he can’t believe the words that came out of your mouth. First, it comes out slowly, then all at once, the corners of his mouth pull up into a dazzling smile, and a deep laugh rumbles from his chest. It’s the smile though, and the happiness that seeps from him that has your head feeling dizzy. A small smile cracks across your face as you begin to rattle off your number. Keigo scrambles for his phone and quickly types it in, not missing a beat for a second. One he slips it back into his back pocket, you move your basket to your other arm and walk away from the hero. Only looking over your shoulder when you’re a few feet away. 

“It was nice to meet you Hawks.” Keigo runs a hand through his blonde hair, a delighted chuckle slipping past his lips that has you grinning. He had so underestimated you.  

“You’re going to keep me on my toes aren’t you?”

“Oh, you bet bird boy.” You say, turning away from him and walking to the checkout. Today might not be that bad after all, you think as the older lady scans your items and bags them. It’s only then that you realize again that the whole time you had been talking to Keigo, your crappy day had been forgotten and you had actually laughed. The entire thing, he did because he noticed you frazzled and looking down. Your respect for the hero grew, and it took everything in you to not turn around to where you knew he was now standing a few people behind you in the line. Instead, you left the store, the smile not moving from your face. You don’t even make it a few feet from the glass automatic doors of the supermarket before your phone pings, vibrating in your jacket pocket.  Reaching inside you look at the new text, immediately knowing who it’s from. 

From Unknown: Want to go get dinner with me sometime this week? - the KitKat fiend. 

You giggle at the way he ends it, and quickly tap out a response. 

As long as it’s not seafood I’m there. You reply, before you turn around, looking through the glass windows and finding his golden hair quickly. In the midst of a conversation with the store clerk, he suddenly reaches for his pocket and grabs his phone with furrowed brows. Suddenly, a beautiful, bright smile that even has the shop lady hesitating with her scanning just to witness it, stretches across his face. Keigo quickly fiddles with his phone before putting it away and turning his attention to the blushing woman behind the counter. Looks like he has that effect on everyone.  Your phone vibrates in your hand.

To bird-boy: It's a date. 

Who would have thought a small chance encounter with the number two hero where you bicker over ice cream would change your life in such a monumental way.

©️ 2021 all rights reserved to atsukashii, do not change, edit, translate, or repost any works on any platform.

[adarlingwrites]

Taste

Summary: The blue bard is sickeningly sweet for Astarion's preferences, but he'll never forget her taste.

Author’s Notes: Taste is a collection of retellings of Astarion's scenes with the player character from the Baldur's Gate 3 early access, but with a little more embellishments. Plus, it has glimpses of my tiefling's backstory.

I had horrible, horrible artist's and writer's block and I needed to get this out of my system to get the creative juices flowing again. Please excuse any typos or lack of quality.

Larian give us the bard class pls I am begging of you

I - Blueberry Wine

The time for rest has come.

Bedrolls are strewn on the campgrounds, and most of its inhabitants are already asleep. Nothing can be heard save for the crackle of fire, the chirp of birds in the woods, and soft snoring.

If it wasn’t for their common goal of removing those damned illithid tadpoles from their heads before they undergo ceremorphosis, the members of this party wouldn’t even spend five minutes within each others’ presence. Now, they’re sleeping in one place. It takes some measure of trust for that.

The dreams of the tiefling in their ragtag group aren’t sweet tonight, to say the least.

Brows furrowed as another nightmare wormed into her psyche, the tiefling tosses and turns in her bedroll, a thin film of sweat giving her forehead a slight sheen in the firelight. Eyes shooting open, she choked back a gasp, lest she wake up her companions in the camp. The crackle of the campfire and the smell of burning wood gave her some semblance of comfort, at least, reminding her of distant memories.

A warm hearth, a kind face, the smell of freshly baked blueberry pie; simple comforts from her youth that she missed terribly.

The comfort that accompanied the nostalgia was enough to make her drift back to sleep. Woefully, it didn’t stop the nightmares from coming back, now centered around the tiefling’s early years.

Small, bare feet pitter-pattered on the wet pavement, frantic gasps escaped her dry mouth. Choking back a sob, more people went after her, shouting, hurling words that scraped her heart.

“Stop! Thief!”

“Devil!”

“Slay the demon!”

Lungs burning from exertion, the little tiefling whelp coughs, rasps for air, and slides under a cart. In the dark, she can see a narrow alleyway, which she scurries into. The men run past her hiding spot, cursing and muttering amongst themselves. Relief floods through her as their torchlights grew dim.

Safe, at last.

Her trembling arms had been holding on to precious cargo; a stale loaf of bread, wrapped in linen. It’s not a delectable morsel of steak, or rich bone marrow, but it’s better than the rocks she grinded with her sharp teeth for breakfast.

As she takes it out of the cloth, a stone drops in her stomach and horror twists on her young face. The tiefling isn’t holding a loaf of bread, but a severed head of a drow. A scream threatened to escape her throat and pierce the night air, but the tiefling maiden could only gasp as she felt a presence behind her.

Wine red eyes still heavy with sleep met with alert, ruby ones. She isn’t dreaming any longer.

In the dim firelight, she sees him. Astarion.

Truth be told, she doesn’t quite know what to feel about the posh elf. Astarion’s handsome face and fair curls are easy on the eyes, but it only reminded her of how hellish she looks in comparison due to her infernal ancestry. His sharp, calculating eyes puts her at unease, even when his gaze isn’t directed towards her. He has a way of making people feel beneath him, like vulnerable prey. Serenity is not exempt from that, despite her efforts to be pleasant to him. Not to mention, Astarion’s attitude and mannerisms reminded her of the uppity nobles she had the displeasure of encountering in her colorful past.

In short, he’s a handsome fellow with a revolting attitude, at least to Serenity’s standards. Lust and indignation battles with each other in the tiefling’s psyche.

It doesn’t help at all that the elf is fond of calling her pet names, such as “sweetheart” or “dear”. No one calls her such sweet things with genuine intent, not after she saw the drow’s head on a pike, and to hear them from his condescending mouth stirs something dark in her heart.

It especially inflames her whenever he calls her “darling”.

She wanted to pounce on him. However, she wasn’t sure what she wanted after that.

Tear his pretty face asunder with her nails and watch his handsome features contort in agony, perhaps? Or watch him writhe underneath her in a more… carnal manner as she takes out all of her frustration by mashing her ravenous mouth against his lovely lips?

Maybe both?

“Oh, Serenity. You have no need for that sort of… decadence,” she thinks to herself.

Alas, her body says otherwise.

“Shit,” he says upon meeting eyes with her, distracting the tiefling from her thoughts. Serenity didn’t expect such a vulgar word to come out of his pretty mouth, and she didn’t expect the gleaming fangs inside of it either.

How could she not see it the first few times?

The dead boar they found on the road, the fact that she had never seen him consume any food, and the wolfish way he eyes her neck when he thought she wasn’t looking should’ve given it away.

Astarion is a vampire. Worse, he's a vampire who’s intending to sink his teeth in Serenity’s neck.

Whatever terrible things she secretly wanted to do to him, she had no chance of enacting them in this situation. Hells, if anything, Astarion is the one with the capacity to do terrible things to her. The tiefling will be at his mercy, if she doesn’t act fast. So, why isn’t her body doing anything to move?

Heart racing, she needed to say something, at least.

“Stop,” Serenity warns him, voice low, baring her own sharp teeth. The tiefling had considered smashing her precious lute over his head as a last resort. Before the bard can lash out, he pulls back, alarmed.

“No no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” Astarion hastily blurts, panic evident in his voice. “ I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed- well, blood.”

The elf’s admission confirms it; Astarion is a vampire, a creature enslaved to sanguine hunger.

At that moment, an expression that Serenity hasn’t seen on the elf before twists his features: guilt. The vampire knew he’s betraying her trust, and it shows.

“How long since you killed someone? Days? Hours?” Serenity asks, on guard now, but still sitting on her bedroll.

Eyes widening, Astarion’s tone becomes defensive. “I’ve never killed anyone!” he exclaims. Then, his expression turns grim. “Well, not for food. I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds! Whatever I can get.”

The lass feels slightly reassured that she’s not dealing with a blood-sucking serial killer, but the possibility of him lying puts her on edge again.

“But it’s not enough,” the pale elf speaks again. Serenity half expected him to say this, he did try to bite her after all. “Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak.”

And there it was, the last thing she expected from him: vulnerability. His reluctance to show weakness was written all over his face. Perhaps it wounds his pride? Regardless of the doubt she has for him, it changed Serenity’s perception of the vampire ever so slightly.

“If I just had a bit of blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

Now this is a pleasant surprise. Astarion saying please? Is this a dream?

Still, the tiefling wanted to dig deeper at the truth. Brows knitting together in concentration, she knew better than to use the tadpole, but the damn thing established a psionic link with other infected individuals. 

Serenity pushes into the vampire’s mind to search for the truth.

“I- what’s this? What’s happening?” Astarion blurts, experiencing slight discomfort from the intrusion.

Pushing deep into the elf’s cracked and quivering memories, Serenity strains as she sifts through centuries worth of them, until she has reached its heart. There, she found herself in Astarion’s shoes; quite literally. She sees dark eyes that commanded her to feed, and instinctively, her body follows suit. Serenity, experiencing this through Astarion’s memory, opens her mouth, biting down, but not into a tender, pulsing neck. Though she wanted to recoil in disgust, there was no other choice; she couldn’t physically resist. The choice had been made for her- no, made for Astarion.

Astarion’s fangs pierce the twisting body of a rat - the only thing his master allows him to eat.

In return, Serenity’s own memories leak through the cracks of her psyche, and Astarion finds himself in the body of a wee girl with horns too big for her head. Ravenously, he inhales the sweet, buttery aroma of a freshly-baked pie resting on a windowsill. Astarion’s hands, now small and of bluish color, reach for the baked good with caution. A warm, ash-colored hand presses on his shoulder, and he sees the smiling face of a tall, drow man. Instead of hurting him for attempting to steal, the dark elf ushers him to a table, and offers him a slice with a compassionate smile. Serenity will never forget her first taste of the buttery pie crust, the sweet blueberries, and a hint of lemon and salt.

Now, Astarion will never forget that taste, either.

The connection between them severed, Serenity takes a moment to collect herself.

“You ate animals because you were forced to. Not because you wanted to,” she mumbles, eyebrows knitted together. Is it sympathy? Or perhaps his experiences reminded her of her own relationship with food?

Whatever it was, the tiefling’s perception of Astarion drastically shifted. On the surface, Astarion is a noble who turns up his nose at folks like her, but in truth, he suffered under the hands of a cruel master.

Being a pompous ass is a defense mechanism for him.

“I- yes,” Astarion says with resignation. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So, you can see why I’m slow to trust you,” he continues, and Serenity swore the expression he wore on his face tugged a few strings in her heart.

“But I do trust you, and you can trust me,” Astarion tells her.

Serenity thinks it might not be fair for her not to. How can she say that she can’t, after she saw his past for herself, and he didn’t show any hostility towards her for intruding upon his darkest, most haunting memories?

“I do. I believe you,” the bard responds, and she can hear his relief when he mutters “Thank you.”

Perhaps Serenity had judged him too harshly in the past. The drow who took her in cultivated compassion in her heart, and it’s beckoning to her.

“Do you need blood?” Serenity asks him, and there is genuine surprise on his face.

“I was about to ask,” he tells her, expression shifting into something more pleasant. “I only need a taste, I swear.”

“As long as you don’t take a drop more than you need,” Serenity replies, loosening her clothing slightly, her smallclothes peeking through.

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds almost eager.

“I- of course. Not one drop more.”

That damn vampire flashes her a smile that sends lightning rippling through her veins.

Astarion’s yearning eyes flicked to her exposed flesh, barely making out the purple tinge on her bluish skin as blood rushed from her chest to her face. Seeing where his eyes are roaming, Serenity feels her heart racing faster, and she swiftly lies down, back turned away from him. The tiefling bard is not about to let her companion see her flustered state.

Face inches away from her head, Astarion catches a whiff of the tiefling’s scent. He quietly thanked the gods that she didn’t smell of sulfur or rotting meat; instead, the bard smells of ash from freshly burned incense, laced with a warm, spiced scent.

The vampire holds her gently, delicately, until he strikes.

Astarion sinks deep, fangs like shards of ice piercing her neck. Serenity lets out a gasp, and her face contorts into an expression of pain and discomfort. Thankfully, the pain is quick and sharp, and as the vampire continues to feed, it fades gently into throbbing numbness. The bard feels her blood coursing through her body, into Astarion’s mouth, who sucked and slurped it hungrily.

He leans forward, one arm almost draping over the bard’s torso to support his weight, while the other still holds her head. Palm running through her short obsidian hair, he stops as they touch one of her horns, hand enclosing into a fist around it. Gently tugging, the elf tilts  her head for better access.

Astarion’s lips are wet from his meal’s blood and sweat, and his own saliva. They glided on the sensitive skin ever so slightly as he pursed them and sucked harder. Serenity found her breath catching in her throat from his actions, pulse quickening as her hand flew to grasp Astarion’s arm, filed fingernails turning white at the end.

In a figurative and literal sense, she’s holding on to dear life.

“Ah, Astarion, that’s enough,” she mewls, hand moving to grasp his hair, fingernails running through his scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough for the vampire to snap out of it due to the sensation it produced.

The vampire moans, almost carnally, then it is followed by a surprised, questioning grunt. Serenity’s pleas, and the scrape of her fingernails took him from his trance-like state. Immediately, he removes himself from her neck, swallowing thickly.

“Oh. Of course.”

Serenity sits up as he pulls back, light-headed from the blood loss. She turns to the pale elf, her breathing ragged as her fingers gingerly pressed on her bite wound. The tiefling felt a blush creep on her face, neck, and pointy ears as she gazes upon Astarion’s face. In the firelight, she can see that his pupils are blown out in ecstasy, and blood is trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“That- that was amazing,” Astarion purrs, wiping off her blood and bringing his fingers to his mouth, savoring it to the last drop. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

He pauses, and Serenity stopped breathing for a moment.

“Happy,” he continued, sighing in contentment as he gave her a gentle, genuine smile.

Serenity had to blink a few times to confirm that she wasn’t seeing things.

She clears her throat, hoping to dissipate the delicious tension between them. “I look forward to seeing you fight,” the bard says to him, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” Astarion responds, bowing ever so slightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

The pale elf turns around and just like that, he is back to normal, snobbish self.

Serenity slumps back on her bedroll, exhaling slowly as her heart finally slows down. Her body crashes from the surge of adrenaline and the blood loss. Turning her head, she watches as the elf stalks towards the forest; stronger, more confident, and ready to hunt.

“This is a gift, you know,” Astarion tells her, back still turned from her, looking over his shoulder.

“I won’t forget it.”

Serenity won’t forget it either.

It didn’t take long before Astarion found a deer in the forest. As he drank the beast’s blood, he couldn’t help but compare the taste to Serenity’s blood. The animal is more filling indeed, but now? Nothing compares to the taste of the tiefling’s delicious blood.

She is the first humanoid he ever tasted, after all.

And how will he describe her taste?

The darling tiefling is bubbly, gentle, and sweet, much like her demeanor; almost sickeningly so, for his standards. It’s comparable to the Monastery of the Yellow Rose’s blueberry wine: a fragrant dessert wine he had the pleasure of consuming with delicate cheeses and light cakes back when he didn’t have any fangs.

Or perhaps he had associated her with the fruit due to her memories mingling with his.

Either way, when he said that he won’t forget it, he wasn’t just referring to the favor she did for him. Astarion was referring to Serenity’s taste as well.

Meanwhile, in the camp, Serenity draws her lute to her chest, plucking the strings softly in an attempt to lull herself to sleep. It doesn’t ease her into slumber like it usually does. Sighing, she squeezes her thighs together, heat pooling between them as she recalled the vampire’s lips on her pulsing neck. Perhaps it’s not the lute that she should be plucking at.

Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, the bard gives in to her secret desires.

At least there weren’t any more nightmares for the night.

[rhysreece]

Five in a bed and the Sixth one said.

6/7

The room is dark when Janus opens his eyes. When it doesn't get brighter, he realises he's blind. Shit. That is not supposed to happen. Last he remembers, Patton poisoned his tea, the conniving rat. But hey, he survived. Knowing Virgil, the others know he's alive too. So he waits.

He feeds the giant boas in their herpatorium, his own invention. An entire room heated to the right temperature, with everything a snake could ever want. On the lonelier nights, he sleeps with them, their twin bodies curled around him like the arm of a prince- or anyone. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

He listens the news, regrets it, and throws his phone, feeling it remateralise next to him, unscathed. Infuriating device. Wars and violence and chaos isn't what he needs right now. What he needs is the pair of footsteps approaching his door. Janus' heart flutters a little as his stormcloud knocks on the door. The brief wave of nostalgia nearly floors him, but he recovers and opens the door, confused as to their horrified response.

"Jan- Oh my god Janus sit down. You look awful."

"Why thank you, I try my best.

"Seriously, you're sheet white, what the hell."

"I wouldn't know. I'm blind."

"You're what. Blind?! That's the absolute last thing we need!"

Logan has to interject before Virgil throws something in a fight or flight reflex.

"If I may, Janus?"

"Why of course, Logan. Why are you grabbing my face-"

He starts examining Janus' eyes, and then his mouth. He winces at the residual swelling, and gags at the rotten flesh that was his tonsils. Staying clear of his fangs, fully extended as an impulse reaction, he probes around a bit more, then nods.

"The blindness is a side effect of dying by poison, and will fade. We will however need a surgery once this is over to deal with the remains of your tonsils. In the meantime, we need to go save the twins."

With no one okay with what just came out of Logan's mouth, the three make their way all over the mindscape, turning in every direction, trying to find the twins, before Janus stops, functionless eyes wide.

"I have absolutely no idea where they could be, and I'm going this way for no discernible reason and you shouldn't follow me under any circumstances."

And he's off, aided by his staff, hobbling at a fairly quick pace, only walking into a tree twice. (No one laughed, it wasn't funny.) They eventually arrive at a large, futuristic building buried in deep, tall trees.

"I think we're here. Boys, help me inside."

"Jan what is this place? It's so… Creepy."

"Well, my hoodied, hackles-raised friend, this is a cottage, and not a laboratory used to restrain sides when they get too Patton."

"Oh great. Who's in here?"

"Last I checked, everybody, but Patton has been here."

"I can't tell if that last one was a lie or not" Virgil has to stand on his tiptoes to whisper to Logan, looking far too skeptical to actually go in. The overly white box gives him so many bad vibes, but Janus is already hobbling forward, scanning himself in, so the others follow.

The inside of the lab isn't much better. Bleach white halls with stainless steel equipment, and suffocating smell of bleach and ethanol. His trainers stick out like sore thumbs against the smooth, endless white tiles, and the phantoms, yellow smoke forming ghostly figures, move in their small animations, manning reception desks, shops, and waiting areas.

Logan is doing very well to disguise his bone chilling terror of this accursed place. The faceless nurses, the endless corridors, it's given him a fair share of nightmares, and a hatred of reflective surfaces that plagues him to this day.

He follows as Janus leads them through the labyrinth, eventually ending up at a ward labelled 'Isolation Station' in colourful crayon. Three guesses as to who wrote that. He isn't sure if Virgil could tell how tightly his fists are clenched as they enter a room, with rows of square rooms, with a fake wall, one way, so the people inside could be observed without noticing. Logan has to bite back tears, and fights very hard against the urge to run. For Remus.

There, next to each other, are the twins. Remus is muttering to himself, clearly fighting against a concussion. Roman is tearing at his own skin, blood staining the white floor red with a mix of blood and tears. With a slam, Janus unlocks the stations, and feels his way to Roman's sobs, Virgil next to him, trying to calm down a violent Roman. Logan practically runs to Remus, dropping any pretenses and throwing himself into his arms, clutching him so tight it hurt them both.

"Oh my Morningstar I've missed you so much. Oh god your head. Here, lie down."

"Starlight…? I held on, like you'd tell me to. Did- Did I do okay?"

Logan practically sobs through his grin, kissing Ree's forehead gently. God he loved this man.

"Yes, dear, you did so wonderful. Rest now, I'll wake you up in a bit, and we'll deal with this concussion. I'll look after you, my sweet."

His eyes are shut before the sentence ends. Logan looks over at the others, cradling a broken Roman in their arms, and carries Remus over to join them.

"Roman. I'm glad you're okay-" "Remus!"

Roman lunges for Remus, holding him close and crying again, mumbling incoherently.

"Ro, buddy, it's okay. We're here. We're real. We love you."

"Virgil is right, Roman. The side effects of the hallucinogens will wear off soon, I can see the residue on the floor. Remus has a nasty concussion that I need to treat, and we're all hurt. Can you help us get him somewhere else?"

Roman just nods numbly, not letting go of his brother the entire time. A few hours of medical attention later, they're all properly sewed back together, and napping on two mattresses pushed together on the floor. Remus and Roman are tangled together, Logan is slumped with his head on Remus' stomach and his legs serving as pillow for Virgil, whose feet are resting next to Janus, who is cuddled up to Roman's back. Logan is the only one awake, and the feeling is overwhelming.

After months of preparing for Patton, and not touching anyone, every ghost of a breath on his palm consumes him with a burning, frantic need for more, drawing, for the first time in a very long time, tears of happiness at this brief respite, this moment to breathe and focus in the quiet. The contact is the only thing grounding him in this nightmare hospital, but for now, the imminent threat, looming and foreboding, simply doesn't exist.

As he starts to drift off, he looks over the six of them, cuddled together in this frantic, desperate drive for physical contact, and smiles, finally at peace for a brief moment.

Hold on.

Six?