#the good parts of them are good. the bad parts are brain explosion inducing

[paws4claws]

want claws. can't get long nails tho or paint them. or else the brain will get gender dysphoria. FUCK

[ellie-s-list]

Light in the Darkness (4)

Abby Anderson X Fem!Reader, College AU, Part 4

Since part three was so short I am double posting, so when there is a small journal entry or “thought” chapter then there will usually be a double post because the content was so short.

But I’m not promising anything.

TW: Anxiety, overthinking.

PT. 3 PT. 5

Chapter 4–> Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery, Week 12

Lyrics: “All my emotions feel like explosions when you are around

And I’ve found a way to kill the sound.”

Fuck Max, Tatum, and Bailey. Not literally, but figuratively. Why? Because now you’re in a small club with way too loud music, way too many flashing lights, and way too much of the smell of alcohol induced vomit that could very well be touching every nook and cranny of this hell hole. Of course, you did say yes, so it was partly your fault.

But you were still overstimulated, about ready to explode with anxiety. Tatum was already on the dance floor, dragging Max along behind her. Max was Tatum’s designated ‘gay’ best friend. They’ve always clicked, it’s like they share the same brain.

Bailey was with you, sitting at the bar. She wasn’t drinking, having been the next designated driver in the trio’s rotation. You offered to drive, but they all declined. Maybe it’s because you never went to bars or clubs with them, which was fine. They’ve never been your scene. But Max begged you to go, he felt bad because he thought you felt left out. Even though you explained that you didn’t feel left out, you said you’d go with them tonight.

“You good?” Bailey asked, leaning close to you so you could hear her over the music. Shrugging, you turn to look at the dance floor. There were a lot of people pressed close together, grinding, making out. You couldn’t find Max or Tatum anymore, but someone else caught your eye.

Owen, Abby’s ex-boyfriend. He was making his way through the crowd, stopping to grind on an unsuspecting woman. It was weird, maybe disgusting. Definitely disgusting. You had a weird feeling about him, even when you were bitching at him because of the Red Bull.

“I’m going out onto the floor,” Bailey said, catching your attention.

Nodding, you watch Bailey blend into the crowd. Turning back to the bar, you pulled out your phone. Pinterest seemed to be a good app to get your mind off of the club, cats being your choice of obsession.

“Hey, you’re Abby’s lab partner, right?” A voice too close to your ear caused you to flinch, scaring you from looking at a bright orange picture of a cat.

Turning your head, you saw a dark-skinned girl sitting on the stool next to you. Her body faced the crowd of sweaty college students, but her face was towards you.

“Yeah,” You frown, “Why?” Does Abby talk about you? You would probably be brought up because of her project, but hopefully nothing else would be brought up.

Abby’s friend widened her eyes, “Oh, she didn’t say anything bad, I promise.” She looked as if she let out some horrible secret, her deep brown eyes shifting away. “I’m Nora, I’d like to say I’m Abby’s best friend.”

You raised an eyebrow, not sure why she would approach you out of nowhere. Let alone at a club, and without Abby near. She already knew your name, which was weird considering Abby barely talked about her friends.

“Nice to meet you, is Abby here with you?” You ask, not trying to show your suspicion. It seemed to work, Nora visibly relaxing as she hummed, looking around the crowd.

“She is,” Nora said, “ She arrived a couple hours ago.”

Nodding, you bit your lip, “You brought Owen too?” You couldn’t hide the slight disgust tinting your voice.

Nora sighed, “He’s like the Scott Disick of our group.”

“God he looks like it.”

Nora smirked at your comment, then she pointed at the crowd, “There she is.” You follow the direction of her finger to see Abby. She was dancing with Owen, not seductively, more like she was trying to get away. Nora turned towards you, “I’m going to join them, hope to see you again.” She hopped off the stool, slightly jogging over to her two friends.

After Nora left, the music seemed to have gotten louder. It pounded through your skull, causing a fog in your brain. Looking around for a bathroom, you sighed in relief when you found one. It wasn’t too far away, just on the other side of the bar.

Making your way over, you cupped your hands over your ears to try to muffle the bass. You pushed the door open, surprised at how small the bathroom was. There were two small stalls on your right, a dingy light bulb flickering above your head. Both stalls were occupied, so you walked to the far side of the room, leaning your back against the wall.

As cramped as the room felt, it did muffle the music enough for you to gather our thoughts. You pulled your phone out again, going back to the pictures of cats to distract you from your anxiety. One of the stall doors opened, and you glanced up to see a woman with smeared lipstick and disheveled hair stagger out. She glanced at you, but then turned to pull the door open.

As she pulled the door, she kind of stumbled backwards. Someone was on the other side, pushing the door open. The girl caught herself, cussing as she held onto the stall door behind her. The other girl, who was pushing the door open, apologized, appearing as she walked in.

Abby was the other girl, peering at the drunken one hanging onto the stall door. The drunk girl stood up, glaring up at Abby. She pushed her way past the blonde, calling her a “sightless whore,” as the door closed behind her.

The blonde shook her head, turning away from the door to see you. Her hair was in her signature braid, some stands having fallen out, they were framing her face. Her cheeks were flushed, probably from the hot air from the outside, probably from the alcohol she’s consumed. Her blue eyes were blown wide, pupils almost overtaking her irises. She was wearing a cut-off black tee paired with green cargo pants and brown combat boots.

“Hey,” Abby murmured, a slur hinting at how drunk she may be. If she was blacked out, she definitely hid it well in front of you.

Giving a half-wave, you smile, “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“In the bathroom?”

“Sure, we could say that,” You laugh, noticing the light dust of pink overshadowing the flushness of her cheeks.

Abby frowned, looking around the dingy bathroom. “Do you want to get out of here?” She asked, placing a hand on the back of her head.

“I didn’t drive.”

The blonde pulled out a set of keys, “I did, but I need a driver.”

With a quick text to Max, you decided to drive Abby to your dorm. You didn’t really have a choice, Abby, having been more drunk than you anticipated, passed out in the passenger's seat as soon as you both got into her car.

The drive back to your dorm was brief. What wasn’t easy was trying to get Abby to stand up to get to the building’s elevator.

The girl was heavy, leaning on you as the elevator rose to the third floor. Abby didn’t smell entirely of alcohol, hints of cedar coming through. Her hair smelled of Pantene, which made some sense. Abby seems like the type to stare at the shampoos, remember Selena liked Pantene, and decide to go with that one.

The elevator doors opened, forcing you to hoist Abby further onto your shoulder as you practically dragged her.

“For how muscular you are, you sure as hell ain’t using any of them,” You grumble, half-dragging the blonde. Thankfully, your dorm wasn’t too far from the elevator, and you made it with minimal casualties. The only one being Abby’s hair tie, which you decided to hate as you vowed never to go back to save it.

Sliding your key card, you push the door open. Abby seemed to have gained a bit of control of her legs, kind of helping you out as you made your way to the couch. Your energy was depleting quickly at the sight of the couch, running on fumes as you dropped her onto it. She landed face first, and if anything hurt, she didn’t show it. Your muscles that were previously screaming at you, seemed relieved as you hunched over.

Turning, you went back to close your door and turn on the main lights. You and Max bought nightlights for the dorm, having both not liking how dark the rooms could get.

Abby grumbled, catching your attention as you made your way back to the couch. She turned over onto her back, blinking languidly. You crouch, taking her boots off.

“Where am I?” She asked as you finished getting her boots off.

You sat on the floor, leaning your back against the couch. Abby dragged herself into a sitting position, rubbing her eyes. She looked confused as she looked around, when her eyes met your face she seemed to have realized where she was. Her name left your lips, but nothing else.

“What?” You ask, staring at her ruffled hair that was quickly falling out of its braid.

Drearily, Abby patted the cushion beside her, “Sit with me.”

Standing up, you sat beside her, turning to face her. She was looking at you, back slightly hunched. You leaned forward, propping your elbows up onto your knees as you rested your head onto your hands.

“You’re so pretty,” Abby murmured, a hand slowly reaching up to touch your cheek.

She was drunk, she didn't know what she was doing. The heat that rose to your cheeks was embarrassing, a direct reaction to her touching you and her compliment. She was drunk, she couldn't be in the right state of mind. Abby leaned forward though, and you didn’t lean away. She was a couple inches now from your face. She had to be able to hear your heart racing, the loud thumping pounding in your ears.

“I mean it,” Abby whispered. “You’re so pretty.” Time slowed down as she leaned closer, her lips bridging the gap as she kissed you. Her lips weren’t chapped, having a minty taste to them. Abby kissed lightly, as if questioning you.

The blonde pulled away, suddenly looking sick. She leaned forward again, but this time not to kiss you. Instead, she puked onto your lap.

Posted on: 4/21/23

WC: 1,732

[dycefic]

Have An Evil Day

No prompt this time, just a sequel to ‘Welcome To Evil-Mart’

Working at Evil-Mart is usually… well, it’s retail. It’s physically exhausting, you have to deal with a lot of idiots without being overtly rude, and your feet hurt. Even though the hours and pay are very good, the benefits are great, and our bosses treat us well compared to most retail employees, it’s still not what I’d call a fun job.

But it’s not what I’d call dull, either. Especially not on days like today.

I was promoted to supervisor after the Food Poisoning Incident, so I have a little more authority and a little less obligation to be pleasant and I got issued a weighted cosh because sometimes Evil-Mart customers get… feisty. I’d never had to use it, though, because those who hadn’t seen what I did to Majority Rules, either in person or on one of the cell-phone videos that circulated afterwards, had at least heard about it.  They didn’t give me any trouble.

I was halfway through my shift, and the worst things that’d happened had been running out of croissants and a machine oil spill in Aisle Seven, when our greeter pressed the alarm button, which sent an alert to my handset. As front-end supervisor, that meant me, so I went over. Sam, who is unusual in the henching community for having actually aged out rather than ‘being retired’ jerked his chin in the direction of a tall, swaggering figure. “He just came in,” he whispered.

I did a full double-take before I took it in. Superdyne. Fucking Superdyne.

We’d all heard about his dramatic heel-turn a couple of months ago. The whole world had heard about it. Superdyne, who’d skated closer and closer to the line for years, had decided to cross it in a blaze of bloodshed. He was a villain now, he said. There’d been a whole speech about how ingratitude had driven him to it blah blah blah.

I work at Evil-Mart. I’m from a hench family. If someone becomes a supervillain because they hate Mondays or want to turn us all into dinosaurs or whatever, I don’t judge. I will sell depth-charges and laser guns to anyone who can prove they’re over eighteen without hesitation. But even we get kind of grossed out by the ‘I am forced to turn evil because I haven’t been given enough love’ thing. People who are actually so fucked up by emotional abuse or neglect or some superhero killing their family, we’re fine with them. But they don’t say that’s why they do it, and most of them need a lot of therapy to even realize it. People who actually say that’s why are entitled dickwads.

And now the dickwad had walked into Evil-Mart like he was entitled. Like he thought he was one of us.

“Lockdown protocols,” I told Sam quietly. “On my authorisation.” That takes a minute or two, though, so I went over to talk to Superdyne. “Sir, I have to ask how you even knew where to find this place.”

He smirked at me. “I have my ways,” he said smugly. He’d either bribed or beaten someone, that was my guess. “So this is where the villains shop? We all thought you went to Wal-Mart.” He laughed, like he thought it was clever.

“Yes, so you all say,” I said dryly. I didn’t feel like pretending he was the first person to make the bad joke. “My next question, sir, is what made you think it was a good idea to come in here.”

He spread his hands. “I’m one of you now!” he said happily. “I’m a bad guy! So now I guess I shop where the bad guys shop!” He looked around, frowning a little. “Although I was expecting more weapons and explosives. A… more villainous atmosphere. I didn’t know Evil-Mart had fresh produce.”

“I don’t advise buying herbs here unless you’re a magical practitioner. Some of them have… unusual effects.” A lot of our produce is normal stuff, but some of it not only isn’t legal, it doesn’t exist anywhere else.

“Oh. Well, that makes sense. But the bright lights and the bakery?”

“We have excellent gluten-free breads. In many ways, Superdyne, this is just another store. We have sales, we mark down the breads in the afternoon, we even have a PA system.” I pulled out my handset, and thumbed the button that tied it to the PA. “Attention, shoppers,” I said in my most soothing Customer Service voice, which made him grin. “Evil-Mart wishes to inform you – “ The countdown on my handset reached zero, and I turned to look at the entrance as a huge blast door thudded down. That was the last part of the sequence – staff outside the area were already in lockdown and security were on their way. I smiled, and continued almost without a pause. “- That we are in lockdown at this time, due to the presence of Superdyne in the store. Please remain calm, and be advised that security are on their way to deal with the problem. If you have a personal grudge that you wish to address with Superdyne at this time, he is standing near Register Six with a stupid expression on his face.”

He was staring at me, stunned. “But… but…” he stammered, and damned if he didn’t look puzzled. “But I’m one of you now!”

“No,” I said flatly. “You were always evil, that’s true, but you’ll never be one of us. And for the record, I’m one of the people with a personal grudge. All those henchmen you’ve killed and maimed had families, asshole… and they all shop here.”

He swung at me, then, but I spent years in hench training. Even someone super-strong can be dodged, and once I slammed my cosh into his groin a few times his punches got a lot more aimless. Around then, Tiger Ty came over the register, claws out and snarling, and I figured I should stand out of the way.

About ten minutes later, I turned on the PA again. “Clean-up to Register Six,” I called, in the same special voice. “Category 7, class three. Shoppers, please be advised that lockdown is now lifted but Register Six will be closed until clean-up is completed.”

Hunter, who’d been working Register Six, came out from underneath it. He looked a little green. Well, he was still in his teens, this was probably his first fatal mobbing. “What’s Category 7?” he asked in a shaky voice. “I haven’t heard that before.”

“Biohazard.”

“Oh. Class three?”

“Send three people. He was a juicy one.” I stepped away from a spreading puddle of blood. “Run and get a couple of caution signs we can put around this mess.” I eyed it measuringly. “And one of those fifteen-gallon plastic tubs with a lid, I’ll damage it out.”

He eyed the mess. “Are you sure that’s big enough?”

“Yeah, the average human is only about seventeen gallons by volume, and I’m not going to put all the blood and mush in there, just the big pieces.”

He gulped. “Ah. Yes, ma’am.”

I called after him when he ran off. “One of the black tubs, not a clear one!” Which honestly should only be common sense, but you can’t count on a flustered teenager to have common sense.

We frown on killing customers at Evil-Mart, up to a point… but when a particularly murderous super-hero walks into our store, well, that’s something else. I’d have to fill out a ton of paperwork, though.

I had to chase off one of Doctor Malign’s minons and two members of the Genetic Reign before the clean-up crew arrived, both of whom urgently wanted samples. In the end I scraped a few pieces of liver and unidentified organ into two of the bags we use for possibly-contaminated money just to make them go away. (They’re good customers, and it was just going to go in the trash anyway.)

By the time the clean-up was done, all the big pieces were boxed up, and I’d finished the paperwork, my shift had been over for twenty minutes, and I’d been asked to come up to the boss’s office.

“Listen, I have no issues with how you handled the situation, I want you to know that.” Mr Trent leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together. “It was quick, it was efficient, and… given your personal history with Superdyne, not to mention mine and that of half of our customer base… richly deserved.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. It came out too meek, and I cleared my throat and straightened up. It’s hard not to be intimidated by Mr Trent, when you’re in the same room with him. It’s not his fault, and he does his best, but even under the strictest control his fear-inducing powers tend to unsettle anyone who gets too close. We all know he’s not doing it on purpose and we try not to show our reactions. “Do you have any orders regarding the remains?”

“Doctor Order wants them.” He rubbed his chin. “Get someone from the pharmacy to prepare samples for him, please, including brain tissue. He’s our primary supplier, and we can’t offend him. As for the rest… as you know, I’m retired, and I don’t usually participate in the Endless War.” One of his hands dropped to his left thigh. His prosthetic leg is some of Doctor Order’s best work, but the injury that led to his retirement had been brutal even by our standards. “But this is different. Superdyne came here. To our place of safety. We need to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

I nodded. “Do you want the remains dumped somewhere public? Some kind of dramatic display?”

“No. Something more direct.” He rubbed his chin again, then tapped the intercom on his desk. “Iris, please send up Miss Fedorova from Marketing and Mr Levy from the warehouse.”

“Yes, sir,” Iris responded, and he clicked off the intercom again.

“The three of you worked together very well, during the food poisoning incident,” he explained. “And I believe they can assist us in a satisfactory conclusion.” He hesitated, then smiled ruefully. “Perhaps you should wait outside until they get here. I can tell I’m unsettling you.”

“Sir, I know you’re not – “

“Not doing it on purpose.” He sighed. “I do appreciate how hard you all work to make me feel… accepted, I really do. But I’m very annoyed right now, which makes control more difficult for me, so I think we’d both be more relaxed if you waited outside while I do my meditation exercises.”

I waited outside. When the three of us went into his office again, the miasma of low-level fear was definitely a bit lighter, and he smiled. “All right. Now, this conversation is going to be very confidential, and I will remind you all of the agreements you signed when you were employed.” We all chorused agreement, and he nodded. “Good. Now, this is very much a secret, even among Evil-Mart staff, but we do have a few online clients who are… ah… on the other side of the fence.”

Ms Fedorova blinked. “What?”

Knuckles sighed. “We ship to a few heroes,” he explained. “The ones who are… less homo than sapiens, if you get my drift.”

I didn’t, and from her expression Ms Fedorova didn’t either. Mr Trent spread his hands, drawing our eyes to his fingers. Which as a rule nobody looks at, because there’s fourteen of them, with four joints in each finger, and we know he’s self-conscious about it. “The less… purely human ones,” he said quietly. “One of the reasons I created Evil-Mart was to give those who can’t pass for human, like me, a place to be… people. To have dignity. So that the obligate carnivores weren’t reduced to living on pet-food or scavenging for scraps, so that those with complex metabolisms could get the supplements they need so that people who are still people, for all their outward differences, could shop in safety. There are a great many more monsters, demigods, abominations of science and other non-standard persons among our set than among the heroes, and I wanted to meet their needs, as well as selling weapons and Lair-away-from-home sets and so on.”

“And there are a few heroes who order from us for that reason,” Knuckles added. “The ones who can’t get medications to suit their metabolism, or need to eat things that you can’t get easily anywhere else.”

I nodded, because that much I understood. We have some very esoteric ‘dietary supplies’ that start with fresh, healthy, well-treated and disease-free prey animals frozen whole (from mouse up to calf and goat kept in stock, larger sizes by pre-order, halal and kosher certified where possible) and end with human blood (rejected blood bank stock mostly, we have an arrangement), and human flesh and organs (sourced from hospitals, morgues and crematoriums, guaranteed no murder, at least not by us). “Well, I suppose that makes sense. I’m surprised we ship to them, though.”

“Oh, they don’t know we know. It’s all assumed names and secret bank accounts.” Knuckles grinned. “But Mr Trent has all our online customers identified before we ship. And for the ones who don’t have any other options, well… we let it slide.”

“I can see why you don’t want that to get out.” Ms Fedorova tapped her chin. “What does this have to do with disposing of the body? I was planning to set up a really ghoulish display in a public place somewhere, I already have some sketches.” Marketing for Evil-Mart is… well, it includes more than designing our sale flyers.

“No. We’re going to deliver them to a hero… one of the ones who owes us… and make it very clear that just because someone decides to admit he’s a villain, that doesn’t make him one of us and it doesn’t entitle him to union services,” Mr Trent said flatly. “I want to make it crystal clear to all of them that a heel turn does not mean their sins are forgiven, or that we will accept them as anything other than a very brief amusement.”

Late that night – we were all on overtime, but it couldn’t be done in daylight – we wheeled a cart down the run-down hallway of a shoddy apartment building. “This is a terrible address for a hero,” Ms Fedorova muttered. “Are we sure he lives here?”

“I deliver here a couple of times a month.” Knuckles was pushing the cart. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Ms Fedorova cleared her throat, coughed once or twice, and suddenly her voice was deeper and her very faint Russian accent was as thick as pea soup. “This is intimidation tactic,” she said, grinning toothily. “Do not act surprised.”

I knocked on the door, but let Knuckles do the talking. “Delivery, Mr West,” he called, using the fake name the guy had been giving.

It worked… the door was unlocked and opened almost immediately. “I scheduled the order for next – “ the mark said, and then we were pushing inside, slamming the door behind us.

“Do not be alarmed, Mr… Dinoid, is it?” Ms Fedorova said, folding her arms. “Evil-Mart is knowing all along your real identity. But you are needing to eat, and we are not turning down regular business, so we make no trouble.”

Knuckles rolled his eyes behind her back at how much she was hamming it up, but I waved a hand. Let her have her fun. So Knuckles started unloading the boxes onto the table while she talked. “First, your Budget Bunny Box. Your favourite, da?” The next box, smaller, plunked down. “Two fresh chickens, halal certified, healthy and having lived good life, gift for good customer.” Knuckles dumped the plastic tub on the floor. “And mortal remains of Superdyne, with note.”

Dinoid was staring at us, but that made him shift into a combat stance, his long claws spread. “The… Superdyne’s dead? And in there?”

“Well. Most of him. The big pieces.” Ms Fedorova shrugged an impressively Russian shrug. I hadn’t even known that was a thing, but when she did it, it was obvious. “You must understand, when a mob tears a man apart, it is hard to find every little piece.”

“I’m pretty sure Doctor Malign and the Genetic Reign took off with doggy bags,” I said, as if I hadn’t handed them over myself. “And Doctor Order probably has some of him too, by now. So looking out for clones would be a good idea, I don’t know if that’s in the note.”

Insofar as that reptilian face could show readable expressions, he looked shocked. “Why on earth would… why? He changed sides? And why did you bring him to me?”

“We know your address, we know you don’t want to turn us in because we’re the only ones who can supply your meals, and our boss wanted us to make this very clear.” I indicated the note. Since Ms Fedorova was hamming up her Sexy Russian Supervillain act, and Knuckles was very obvious Muscle, I figured it was on me to be the Reasonable One. “He might have stopped being a hero, but that didn’t make him one of us. That didn’t make him acceptable to us. Our boss wants it made very clear that your failures shouldn’t expect to be accepted by us… or even spared by us.”

He shifted slowly, the tip of his tail twitching. “I… see. I understand why you would reject Superdyne. He was notorious for killing and maiming people on… your side. But I know other defectors have been accepted. Philomel, for example.”

“Philomel was child of villains. She is young, she is rebellious, she sides with heroes for a while.” Ms Fedorova shrugged. “Is understandable, da? The young do foolish things. She comes home, all is forgiven.”

He nodded slowly. “Tenebrous?”

“That story I don’t know.” Ms Fedorova glanced at me.

I nodded. “Tenebrous was just a kid. He was twelve when Varide recruited him. Nineteen when he broke with the guy. Varide put a kid into combat, left him with massive PTSD, then ditched him when he had a breakdown and went too far. Mx Frantique at least made sure he had a safe place to stay and some therapy.”

“It’s happened a few times.” Knuckles rested his elbows on the cart’s handles, his inhumanly big, strong hands dangling. “But there’s a process. A system. If someone’s sponsored by a villain in good standing, like Frantique sponsoring Tenbrous, they can be accepted. Nobody gets to just choose to join. Especially not a smug, entitled prick like Superdyne.”

Ms Fedorova suddenly leaned forward, scowling. “And why are you called Dinoid? You are not dinosaur. You are clearly monitor lizard. Golden monitor, I think.” She reached out and prodded his arm. “And not healthy, either. Look at colouration! You do not keep environment humid enough. Are having trouble with shedding, da?”

Now we were all staring at her. “You’re a lizard expert now?” Knuckles asked.

She shrugged. “What? Is hobby. Mamma’s little Varanus Acanthurus are pride and joy. Sadly, cannot keep larger monitors in city. Is unkind.”

Dinoid ran a hand over his head slowly. “Not many people realize,” he said slowly. “That’s why I order from you guys. I used to get frozen… food… from a pet supplier, but then I got contacted by someone who told me there was another option.”

“Is good thing. Those pet suppliers, they are rogues. They do not keep animals healthy, can get diseases or mites from those things.” Ms Fedorova sniffed. “I would never buy from them. My babies would get sick.”

He actually chuckled, then, seeming to relax a bit. “You’re not wrong. After… this happened… I got really sick a couple of times before I figured out what to eat, and where to get it. And even the reputable suppliers don’t always have the healthiest stock.” He opened his mouth wide, making a gagging noise. “You have no idea how bad that ‘reptile food’ is. Eating whole animals may be a little disgusting, but it’s nothing to some of that stuff.”

“I believe it,” I said emphatically. “There’s a reason Evil-Mart has such an extensive pet-food line. The horror stories we hear from some of our customers… well, you’d believe it, I bet, but most humans just look confused.”

Knuckles nodded, and spread his hands. “People who can’t pass for regular humans… or even for people, the way most normies see it… are a lot more common on our side of the fence than yours. That’s why we delivered to you. We figured you really needed it.”

“Does he order from the pharmacy?” Ms Fedorova was around behind him now, examining his back. “He is having calcium deficiency, am betting. He needs nutritional supplement.”

“I take a nutritional supplement,” he said defensively.

“The one for normal-sized lizards is not enough for man-sized monitor/human hybrid,” she said firmly. “Check pharmacy section next time. We are having excellent selection of supplements for hybrids, and chart to tell you how much to take for body-mass.”

He looked back and forth between the three of us. “You people are… not what I would have expected from an evil supermarket.”

“We may be… morally challenged,” I said, shrugging, “but we’re not heartless.” I looked around his tiny, shabby apartment. “Unlike some of your lot. I thought you were on a team. Why are you living here?”

He ducked his head. “I couldn’t live at the base,” he said, his tail drooping. “My… I made people uncomfortable. And the stipend isn’t much.”

“Isn’t much? With the merchandising deals they have?” Ms Fedorova sounded shocked, and the accent had dropped back a lot. “I know for a fact that if the accountants ever got hold of their books they’d owe more in back taxes than… well, than Evil-Mart would if our illegal product arm ever got discovered. And we pay our taxes on the legitimate stuff scrupulously.”

Dinoid blinked rapidly, though I couldn’t tell whether he was more surprised by her suddenly dropping her act or the idea that Evil-Mart pays taxes. “You do?”

“Of course. Not under that name, of course, there’s a shell company.” She sniffed. “All villains do. Al Capone, you know. We’re not getting caught that way again.”

Knuckles and I both nodded when he looked at us, and he shook his head. “Huh. Makes sense, I guess.”

“It does.” I looked around again. The place really was crappy. “I know it’s a personal question, Mr… West, but under the circumstances I’d like to know… how much is that stipend?”

He looked down at the floor for a while, then cleared his throat. “Uh. $1100 a month.”

We all stared at him. Ms Fedorova’s mouth fell open. Knuckles looked shocked, and I was horrified. “$1100 a month?!” I asked, my voice coming out louder than I’d intended. “For risking your life on a superhero team?! I have teenaged cashiers working part-time who make more than that!”

He looked almost as startled as we did. “For working a cash register?!”

“Evil-Mart pays pretty good.” Knuckles shrugged. “But that stipend is disgusting.”

“You are being exploited,” Ms Fedorova said, sounding really aghast. “That is terrible. Why, baseline henchman pay is twice that, and there are danger bonuses and…” Her voice dropped suddenly. “You don’t have a union, do you?”

“A union? Of course we don’t have a…” He trailed off. “You mean you do?”

“Of course we do. An extremely well-armed one.” Ms Fedorova folded her arms. “Henchmen And Allied Industries has represented us for generations. The last time a supervillain executed a union henchman for failure, he was boiled in oil… literally. On camera. Oh, of course some of the less reputable villains just pick up small-time trash from the streets, untrained rabble from the gangs and so on, so they can treat them as disposable, but we union members are skilled workers, with rights and protections. I bet you don’t even get overtime.”

“Of course not. Crime happens when it happens, and we have to…” He trailed off. “You guys get overtime?”

“We’re getting double time and a half for this conversation. And an extra day off.”

His eyes widened again. “Really? Wow, that’s… even when I was working a regular job, before this, I didn’t get pay like that.” He looked down at his hands and bared his teeth in what looked like an unhappy expression. “And now I can’t work anything but this kind of job. People don’t like having a scary dinosaur in their restaurant.”

There was a long pause.

“You can cook?” Ms Fedorova asked carefully.

“Yeah. I worked in my parents’ restaurant before… this.” He gestured at himself. “They were killed when we were attacked, and I was… changed.”

We all looked at each other. “After you’ve returned Superdyne’s remains to whoever you consider appropriate,” I said, grabbing a notepad and scribbling down my number, “I’d like you to give me a call. Evil-Mart is always hiring in the bakery and deli, and I mean always. Most bad guys aren’t great cooks. We don’t know why, it just seems to be one of those things.”

“You want me to join the bad guys?”

“I want you to work in a bakery. Villains and henchmen need to eat, and so do their families. Nobody’s going to ask you to rip superheroes in half, just maybe make a sandwich that won’t give anyone food poisoning.”

“That’s a regular concern?”

“Six months ago the three of us ran Evil-Mart’s physical store completely unassisted for most of a day because the only people who weren’t down with food poisoning were the ones who’d had the vegetarian and kosher meals.” I shuddered at the recollection. “Trust me. Someone who can cater staff functions without a major disaster would never have to live in an apartment like this working for us.”

“And we get full benefits, including dental.” Knuckles was shaking his head. “I bet you don’t even get hospital.”

“What hospital would take me? I always figured I’d go to the zoo and talk to the vet if – “

Ms Fedorova actually put her arms around him. “You,” she told him firmly, “are going to resign your terrible exploitative job, and then I will personally sponsor you to the union immediately. I have a spare room. You will like it. Humidity and temperature can be set just how you like, and Mamma Yelena will take you to real doctor expert in health of hybrids.”

“Those exist?” he asked, sounding a bit overwhelmed.

“Yeah, the Genetic Reign has like three of them,” I said sympathetically. “Listen, you can take some time to think it over, but you don’t have to put up with this kind of exploitation just because you don’t look human. Nearly a third of Evil-Mart’s staff can’t pass, and they’re treated just like everyone else.”

Superdyne’s dramatic demise got a lot of news coverage. Apparently it came as a real shock to the ‘good guys’ that there were some monsters even the superest villains wouldn’t embrace.

Dinoid no longer exists. Ismail Jameel works at Evil-Mart, and has expanded our fresh food lines a lot already. He’s a nice guy, and after Ms Fedorova told everyone how disgustingly he’d been exploited by those so-called ‘heroes’, he was welcomed with open arms. Literally, in at least one case – he’s dating someone from the warehouse, I’ve heard, though I don’t know who. He says we should rename the store, because we suck at being evil.

But evil is a really relative term. It can mean the blackest depravity, or a moment of viciousness, or even just ‘people on the other side’. Evil-Mart is called that because everyone, at least everyone on our side, is welcome. Plus, we all think it’s funny that the least-evil megacorporation is called ‘Evil-Mart’. What can we say? Bad guys have a sense of humour too.

Have an evil day!

[mythiccheroacademia]

What You Fight About

part 2

A/N: just something I thought about

Headcanon: what you two would fight about the most

Warnings: toxic behaviors, yelling, cursing, angst

Midoriya Izuku:

his absence

being the number one hero is demanding

it’s also been his dream since he could remember

you understood that, but that didn’t mean it didn’t frustrate you when he’d disappear for days at a time

izuku tries to balance his job and home life

but it isn't enough

~~~

You and Izuku don’t fight much. In fact, you never really do. You’re both so compromising that disagreements rarely happen.

But when your kid is involved, that complacency slips away. Even when it comes to one another.

“I’m done talking about this.”

“Honey, why won’t you just listen to me?” he begged, but the irritation in his tone gave it more sharpness than he intended. “[S/N] doesn’t need the tutor. It’s just the teacher.”

You began to pick up the leftover toys from floor more so to expel pent up energy rather than to simply clean. You scoffed, shaking your head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Excuse me?” Midoriya snipped. His eyes followed you as you discarded the toys and crossed your arms beside the couch, finally giving him your attention. “I think I know my own son, Y/N.”

Izuku cared so much for your child and you knew that. But that underlying message your brain processed within his words pissed you off.

“And you think I don’t?”

“I just don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”

An incredulous laugh left your lips before they moved into a frown. “He’s failing 4th grade, Izuku. We can’t move him to a different classroom every time he gets a bad grade. At some point, we have to take responsibility! He needs the extra help!”

“You just don’t understand,” the hero muttered, running a hand through his hair.

What he said shouldn’t have set you off, but it did. Everything suddenly flooded your head. All the stress you had to deal with alone bubbled up your throat and exploded.

“No, you don’t understand!”

“Yes I do!”

“How!? You’re barely in his fucking life anyways!”

It went silent shortly after that.

The outburst felt good, but the aftermath made your squeeze with guilt. Izuku’s frown softened into shock before melting into something deeper than pain.

Once your words finally processed through your head, you immediately tried to take it back.

“Izuku, I didn’t mean that—”

“Yes you did.”

You thickly swallowed and averted your eyes to the floor. He was right. You did. You’d been wanting to say it for so long, but this wasn’t the way you planned to deliver those thoughts.

Your gaze moved back to your husband once he gathered his duffle bag and slid on his shoes.

“Baby,” you sighed, your voice much softer than before. It was almost insane how easily the anger left you. “Where are you going?”

You wilted with his next words. “I’ll stay over at the agency. To give you some space. We’ll talk more after we’ve both cooled down,” he sadly smiled.

Despite the hurt silver-lining his green eyes, Midoriya softly held your chin and kissed your forehead. Something he always did when your disagreements didn’t end on a good note. As if to reassure you that, even though he was upset, he still loved you all the same.

And that just made you feel worse.

“’Zuku—”

“Don’t worry about [S/N]. I’ll take him to school tomorrow.” He paused to look you in your eyes. “I love you, always.”

“I love you too,” you quietly resigned and watched him disappear behind the front door leaving you to let your head fall into your hands.

Bakugo Katsuki

his jealousy

bakugo is confident in many areas of his life

it’s one of his qualities that won you over

but he still had those tiny insecurities that showed up in large ways

aka losing you

and he had no idea how to handle it

~~~

The alcohol probably wasn’t a good idea considering Bakugo was already noticeably pissed on the way to the house party. But everyone assumed it was just another one of his moods he’d get over sooner or later. He wasn’t a drinker, but a beer or two usually loosened him up.

However, your friends looked at each other with worry behind the door to the room you two were in. Despite the party lights and booming stereo, they could hear the angry muffled yelling you two were doing.

You were 100% drunk, but you were 110% sure this man was telling you to stay away from your friend. Your best friend.

“If it’s one thing you have, it’s the audacity,” you sassily quipped.

“I’m not fucking playing around with you, Y/N,” Bakugo snapped with too much bite than you cared to hear. “I want you to stay away from that two-bagged eyed bastard!”

“You always do this! Shinsou’s my friend!”

The redness in his ears wasn’t only from the drinks as his nostrils flared with barely contained irritation. “Friend my ass. You didn’t see the way he was looking at you, and that fucker had the nerve to grab you in front of me!”

“He was moving me out of the way!”

“He fucking felt you up is what he did!”

You smacked your teeth, entirely done with the argument. You weren’t getting anywhere. “Now you’re just being delusional.”

Bakugo pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out in a desperate attempt to calm himself. A feat even he was surprised about considering the situation. He tried so hard to not be as explosive, to reign in his emotions, for you. But his jealousy burned hot within his veins.

“Y/N. I’m asking you, as your man, to put some distance between you and Shinsou,” he lowly warned.

Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, but the words flew out of your mouth before you could stop them. “Like hell I will. Hitoshi’s been here longer than you have by years. I’m not gonna drop him just because you feel insecure.”

That withered away any form of self-restraint Katsuki had left. He felt exposed and hurt. And dealt with that the best way he knew how.

His hazy brain clouded over with anger and he went on the defensive.

“I bet you want him.”

“What? No I don’t?”

“You’re probably sleeping with him behind my fucking back,” he dryly laughed. “Am I not good enough anymore? Is that it?”

You were quickly sobering up. “What the fuck is wrong with you!? Of course not! I’m not a cheater!”

“Then why won’t cut him off, damn it!?”

Your voices rose in volumes too high for comfort. The crackle in his palms didn’t scare you one bit, but it was enough for Kirishima and Mina to come in and try to separate you two.

You ignored their pleading and the two of your found each other in the other’s face.

“Why are you so jealous!?”

“BECAUSE HE’S TAKING YOU AWAY FROM ME!!”

“NO HE’S NOT!

“IT’S SO EASY FOR YOU TO DEFEND HIM AND PROBABLY JUST AS EASY FOR YOU TO SPREAD YOUR FUCKING LEGS—"

A resounding slap cut him short. That seemed to snap him out of whatever alcohol induced rage he was in. However, Bakugo only had a moment to register your expression of disgust before Kirishima pulled him away.

“Fuck you, asshole” was the last thing you said before Mina lead into the hallway.

Kirishima watched his friend’s breathing turn ragged with each puff.

“Come on, man. Let’s just—”

“FUCK!” Katsuki roared before throwing a nearby water bottle to the floor. He fisted his hair and clenched his teeth.

He messed up. Big time.

And as upset as he was with himself, he couldn’t help but be even angrier at the thought of who you’d run to first.

Todoroki Shouto:

how blunt he is

he was a bit socially inept and you loved him for that

but sometimes, you get frustrated

todoroki does too because 9 times out of 10 he doesn’t understand why

when you get angry, he completely shuts down bc he doesn’t know how to handle it any other way

and it didn’t help that he was petty asf

~~~

“Okay.”

You looked up and folded your lips in a tight line. It was the same monotone answer he’d been giving you all day and it was getting on your nerves.

“Sho, baby, can you at least try and act like you somewhat care about this vacation we’re planning,” you said as sweetly as possible.

Although you were annoyed, you understood that things flew over your boyfriend’s head sometimes and, hopefully, a little nudge would point him in the right direction.

“I’m listening, prince(ss),” he dimly responded.

He didn’t bother to look up from the papers he was reading at the table and it made you huff. Folding up the magazine, you just stalked your way out of the kitchen.

“You know what? Don’t even bother. I’ll do it myself.”

That made Shouto look up. His brows furrowed in confusion and he caught your hand before you could completely pass by him. Why were you suddenly upset? He told you he was listening.  

“Hey, wait. What’s wrong? Did I do something?” he asked.

You let him pull you in between his legs. He looked genuinely lost and it was enough to soften your exterior.

“I just feel like you don’t care sometimes,” you said, deciding to just be blunt.

“Huh?” he hummed. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know…it just seems like you don’t have an interest in anything I have to say if it doesn’t involve hero work, your family, or something like that.”

Todoroki took offense to that. Of course he cared about what you had to say. He loved you. Just because he wasn’t gripping on to every word you spoke in mundane life didn’t mean he didn’t care.

There were ways to express his thoughts, but Shouto wasn’t always the best at gently doing it.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t agree,” he said.

You looked off to the side for a second before looking down at him. “Well that’s how I feel,” you retorted.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but you’re wrong.”

You watched him for a moment, waiting for him to explain himself. However, he just stared back at you as if there was nothing else left to say. The silence was sickening.

You snatched your hand out his grip. “Okay, Shouto,” you bit and left.

He hadn’t heard his first name in a while.

Your boyfriend dumbly blinked already feeling more lost. He didn’t understand why you were so angry.

He called Midoriya about it and was told he was being intolerant. The entire conversation honestly made him feel like an asshole and Todoroki didn’t like that at all. So he gave you some space before finding you in the kitchen again, this time equipped to right his wrongs—even though he still wasn’t entirely sure what he did.

He called your name once and instead of responding, you just kept going about your task. That sort of miffed him, but he tried again. This time, you hummed back but the tension behind it made him feel defensive for some odd reason.

“Can we talk about this morning?”

“What? Are my feelings suddenly valid to you now?” you sarcastically replied.

Todoroki raised a sharp brow at your attitude and decided he was over it already. Here he was trying to apologize, and you were being difficult. He wouldn’t fight with you over something so insignificant.

“Fine. When you’re done with your little tantrum, we can talk about this like adults.”

You’d never spun around so quickly. “Really, Todoroki?”

Last name basis. Petty.

But he was even pettier.

“Yes, really, [L/N].”

His half-lidded bored stare made your scalp prickle.

“Fine. Me and my little tantrum are gonna go somewhere and you can plan the vacation all by yourself like the adult you are.”

“Fine. I’d probably get it done faster anyways.”

You let out an offended gasp. “Fine!”

“Fine!” he tsked, crossing his arms.

You two looked away from one another and stomped out of the room in childish anger.

[get-shiggy-with-it]

Ch. 3

18+ MINORS DNI

Pairing: Shigaraki x Dabi (just this part), Tomura Shigaraki x fem!reader (very brief and vague reference to Dabi x Hawks)

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: smut and feels, it's literally just smut, blow jobs, friends(?) with benefits, blow jobs, anal fingering, light degradation (both for shigs and reader), could maybe be interpreted as slight dubcon, dirty talk, slutty dabi, dabi is an asshole, so is tomura, reader has gender neutral pronouns, I'm keeping it fem cause Shigs hates women and calls them that

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6

Summary: In which the boys share in some good ole roommate bonding activities and Tomura has a blow job induced epiphany.

AO3 Mirror

Taglist: @dillybuggg (shoot me an ask if you want to be tagged and make sure to check my rules!)

Dabi’s mouth was wet and so fucking warm as he swallowed around Tomura’s dick.

“Oh fuck…” he groaned as Dabi hummed around his length and did that thing where he flicked the ball of his tongue ring over Tomura’s slit.

Bright blue eyes stared up through deceptively long lashes, smirking at the way Tomura drooled as he got his soul sucked out the tip of dick. The mattress underneath him creaked despite the negligible weight of both their bodies. Dabi settled on his stomach between Tomura’s pale thighs leaving fingerprint bruises in soft flesh.

They did this sometimes, though he wasn’t quite sure when exactly it started. Dabi had been his randomly assigned roommate freshman year and he grew so used to living with him that the two of them had just silently, yet mutually agreed not to fuck something up that wasn’t broken. They both berated each other for their strange and somewhat disgusting habits—Dabi would say that Tomura was a gross shut-in creep who needed a fucking shower and Tomura called Dabi out on his slutty pastimes and obsession with piercing the hell out of every available inch of skin.

And sometimes they sucked each other off.

It was overall not a terrible arrangement—Dabi got his fill of dick and Tomura could no longer be made fun of for being completely inexperienced. Plus, as much as he was loathe to admit, Dabi was really fucking good at oral. Like, demonically good. He’d been going down on Tomura for so long now too that he’d learned all the things that had him spilling onto that pierced tongue in minutes.

Tomura jerked from his thoughts when two, lube slicked fingers prodding at his ass.

“Dabi, what the fuck are you—” he protested, wiggling his scrawny hips up the bed and inadvertently letting his cock slip out of the inviting heat between his roommate’s lips.

He couldn’t see much other than the shaking mop of black hair and pale hands with chipped black nail polish digging into his legs, yanking him back.

“Shut up freak,” Dabi slurred, words slick with spit and Tomura’s precum. Dabi said it tasted like battery acid, but it never stopped him from guzzling it like he did with cheap whiskey and cigarettes on the weekends. “I know you like it.”

He did like it, but Tomura wasn’t about to contribute to the fucking evil grin Dabi was giving him as he circled the tight ring of muscle, slipping in a finger to the first knuckle.

Tomura’s head flopped back on the pillows as he bit back a low moan, “Fuck off.”

“If you say so,” Dabi shoved his finger in roughly, squeezing a second in behind it and letting Tomura bask in the burn of being stretched too quickly before ripping his hands away.

“No!” Tomura wailed pretty fucking shamelessly and grabbed the retreating wrist, placing Dabi’s tatted hand back on his dick that throbbed and leaked painfully.

“Dude, what’s gotten the fuck into you?” his roommate asked, smirking still, but pumping Tomura's cock loosely nonetheless. “Our walls are thin as hell, you know I can hear you jerkin' it in here every night, and now you’re practically begging for me to suck you off. Usually I gotta come to you.”

He was infuriatingly right again.

Tomura had indeed asked for him to do this, which was definitely out of character for him. Most of the time when they ended up in this position, it was because Dabi spent hours hounding him about it or just fucking dropped to his knees and whipped Tomura’s cock out in the middle of a movie night or snuck into his room while Tomura was gaming and swallowed him whole just to laugh at the way his online friends reacted to the noises.

He’s just been so pent up lately, and you insisting on fucking touching his arm or sitting on the floor between his feet at League meetings was really not helping it.

“I don’t know,” Tomura lied, both to Dabi and himself in the hopes that the head of black hair would just go back to bobbing on his dick like he so desperately needed it to.

“Bro, I have fucked with enough people to know when they’re wishing I was someone else,” Dabi scoffed and ran a blessedly hot tongue from base to tip and suckled softly at the blush pink head before pulling back with a wet pop. “So who is it?”

“I’m not fucking thinking about anyone,” Tomura hissed, fisting Dabi’s spiky, black locks and thrusting into his mouth till he felt the contractions of Dabi gagging around his length. “Usually you're jumping at the chance to get dick in your mouth, so why does it matter?”

Dabi pulled back, wiping the silvery string of spit leaking past his lips away and scowling as his fingers ghosted over Tomura’s balls and sank back into his pliant ass.

“Seriously creep, I’m five seconds away from ghosting and you can fuck your hand like the sad little bitch you are. So tell me their name or I’m walking right now.”

Tomura huffed as he felt Dabi’s long, rough fingers pulled from him again and the heat of his mouth growing farther away.

“Ugh fine, it’s that bitch I’ve been working on the English thing with.”

Dabi made a face like his brain was buffering.

“Seriously?” he asked, mouth gaping in a way that had Tomura even more furious his dick wasn’t buried in it.

“Yes!” he shouted and grabbed Dabi’s cheeks in both hands, sinking past his waiting lips and practically purring when he felt them close around the base as his long tongue massaged the shaft. “Oh god yes…”

Dabi rolled his eyes, managing to look smug even with a cock stretching his lips taught against the piercings. He used to try and tease Tomura about how small his dick was, but it was hard to believe him. Especially with how he choked sometimes when Tomura got rough with him despite his boasts of lacking a gag reflex. Not to mention how he looked now, jaw probably aching with the stretch and loving every second of it.

Tomura lazily bucked his hips up and whined high when the fingers in his ass curled and thrust against that fucking spot he hadn’t known was there until Dabi found it for him.

The pleased sound he made tapered off into a growl though, when his roommate with questionable benefits pulled off again to run his slutty fucking mouth.

“Tell me about it,” he mumbled, kitten licking at Tomura’s cock and running the ball of his piercing through the slit again. Tomura gulped when he pulled it back into his mouth to swallow the bead of precum he’d collected. “I’ve seen your fucking paramour around before, pretty serious about school though. And kinda out of your league too, not gonna lie. So, what would you do if your cute little partner was here instead?”

Tomura bristled at the insult but couldn’t keep his pissed off look when Dabi went back to sucking his cock like a pro and curling those fucking fingers against his prostate. When he did speak, he blushed hard at the way his voice cracked and sounded like he was crying.

“I don’t fucking—holy shit—know,” he gasped and Dabi hummed both to egg him on and to get a whole new wave of precum gushing out of Tomura’s dick.

“C’mon man,” Dabi groaned, and Tomura distinctly heard the sound of a pants zipper and felt Dabi’s hips canting against the sheets.

That fucking masochistic whore. He would get off to Tomura dirty talking about someone else while he sucked his dick.

He considered stopping the whole thing right there, but then Dabi was sinking a third finger into his ass and thrusting hard while he hallowed his cheeks around Tomura’s cock and sucked—

“Tits!” Tomura cried and covered his burning, red cheeks with his hands. “I want to put my fucking face in them and taste them in my mouth. Sometimes I can see the outline of their nipples when we’re working and the air conditioning comes on and I want to suck on them so fucking bad I can’t think about anything else the whole night.”

Once he got started, Tomura found the words just spilled from him like a dam had burst. Dabi, the depraved bastard, groaned loud and ground his pierced dick harder against the mattress as he continued to deepthroat Tomura’s cock and fuck his ass at that perfect angle.

“Sometimes when they drag me to their stupid club I lose the rounds cause I—oh god, oh fuck—just imagine them in my lap, sitting on my cock and fucking writhing and squeezing me while we face off. Such a fucking—Dabi more!—stereotypical try-hard, bitch but I want to be inside them so fucking bad,” he felt actual tears stinging the raw corners of his eyes when Dabi sped up on his dick.

Tomura scrapped his nails against Dabi’s scalp, holding on for dear life as his breathing became even more ragged than usual. His friend’s cruelty streak reared its ugly head as Dabi sensed the tensing of Tomura’s balls and the clench of his tight ass and slowed down a fraction, keeping him teetering on the edge of an explosively pleasurable release.

“Fucking asshole,” he growled, but didn’t dare try to fuck Dabi’s face lest he make good on his threat to leave Tomura high and dry. “I just—shit, ah, don’t stop—they talk to me sometimes and I just wanna suck their tongue into my mouth so they shut up and I need to hear them fucking falling apart or using that stupid, stuck up teacher voice on me and fucking my ass—Dabi Fuck—is that what you wanted to hear?”

Dabi, because he got off on being a little shit, gave him one last delicious swallow before pulling back and fisting Tomura’s sopping wet cock. The fingers had stopped thrusting and were now pressed hard against his prostate, sending shocks through his body and making him twitch violently as his blood rushed with endorphins. He never stopped grinding his own dick against Tomura’s cotton sheets the whole time.

“You got it bad huh, don’t ya creep,” he mused, letting a fat glob of spit fall from his lips and keep his palm slick. “That’s the most I’ve ever heard you talk about fucking anything, much less another actual person.”

“No I fucking don’t, “ Tomura writhed against the pillows, giving in to the undeniable urge to simultaneously fuck up into Dabi’s hand and ride his fingers.

“Who knew you were such a desperate whore, falling for the first person to show you a modicum of attention,” Dabi jeered and squeezed the tip of his dick hard, listening to Tomura let out a choked sob. “I’m actually kinda proud of you, bro. My little incel baby’s growing up.”

Dabi cooed at Tomura, sinking sharp teeth deep into the meat of his thigh and sucking a bruise into the flesh.

“You’re the one—nghh—getting off on it,” Tomura clapped back but didn’t bother denying it again.

There was a sense of dread growing in his gut alongside the mounting pleasure of his orgasm that Dabi was currently holding hostage. Dabi may have had a dickish personality just as massive as the actual dick that was currently painting his comforter in stains, but he knew Tomura.

And he did, admittedly have much more experience with these types of things.

“Fuck yeah I am,” Dabi grunted. “Last time I let you return the favor you bit my fucking cock. I gotta get off somehow.”

“Don’t say rude shit to me and I won’t bite you.”

“Watch it, Tomura,” Dabi huffed and nipped at his thigh again. “You should be thanking me for my services.”

“Not if you’re gonna keep running your mouth instead of sucking me off,” he tried to sound intimidating but he was well and truly wrecked and couldn’t find the energy to give his words an edge.

“You should ask them out,” Dabi continued, ignoring the failed attempts at banter. “Bring ‘em over or some shit. Maybe then if I lock down that blonde piece of ass I’ve been talking to, we’ll both have much more interesting things to go down on.”

“Your whore ass is the one always jumping me, don’t act like it’s a fucking chore,” Tomura groaned as Dabi started licking at his cock again, pressing sloppy, half kisses on the tip as he jerked it in his fist.

“Not my fault I get bored sometimes,” he replied and closed his eyes as Tomura clenched particularly hard around Dabi’s relentless fingers. “But seriously, you should go for it. I’d kill to find out if you’re just as bad at eating pussy as you are sucking dick.”

“Fuck y—” Tomura started to say when Dabi reared up till they were chest to chest and their foreheads knocked together.

“I fucking will if you don’t shut up, creep, and I think it’d be so much better if you handed your fucking virginity to that pretty little partner bitch instead,” he said and stunned Tomura into silence when he licked into his mouth.

Dabi had kissed him before, but Tomura could count the number of occasions on one hand and almost all had been when his punk ass roommate was drunk as hell and in his feels about some tortured past. But Dabi’s eyes were bright and lucid now, blinking down at Tomura as he dragged their tongues together, flooding his mouth with the faint taste of cigarettes and jizz.

Their cocks brushed together too, the stimulation making Tomura whine into Dabi’s lips, who dropped a merciful hand down, taking them both in his fist and began pumping.

He didn’t stop as he pulled back, grinning down at Tomura like a fucking maniac—all shitty tattoos and silver piercings. The little barbels that stuck through Dabi’s nipples brushed against his own and made him moan at the cool metal and hot skin on his sensitive chest. Tomura was fucking sensitive everywhere, as Dabi had helped him discover, probably from a lifetime of being touched more by cheap sweatshirts than human hands.

“Now,” Dabi grunted as he thrust loosely against Tomura’s cock and his own fist before pulling away to settle back between his legs. “Shut up and cum down my throat—gotta give your virgin ass a refresher on mind shattering orgasms, so you know if that bitch is any good or not.”

Tomura’s tongue was halfway around a witty comeback when Dabi swallowed him to the hilt once again and started working his ass even harder. He really fucked hoped the neighbors were not home to hear him get his shit rocked at 2pm on a fucking Tuesday, cause Dabi might have been flunking out of his classes but he’d get a goddamn A plus for sucking dick.

The hand on his thigh, spreading him open, migrated to his hip so that Tomura could snap his legs shut hard around Dabi’s ring littered ears as he guided Tomura to grind down on his hand. The pressure in his gut built up exponentially higher now that Dabi wasn’t trying to hold him on the edge of climax. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for him to acquiesce to Dabi’s request, as he tightened up in a full body clench before gripping Dabi’s hair and spilling rope after rope of hot, sticky release straight onto his roommate’s tongue.

Dabi, the fucking slut, made a show of swallowing every drop that spilled from Tomura’s abused cock, milking his prostate the whole time and only letting Tomura slip from his mouth when he was soft and finally spent.

The fingers in his ass remained though, still for the most part and slowly dipping in and out every so often. Tomura whimpered and clenched but was somewhat thankful for the remaining feeling of fullness.

“So, did you really mean all that?” Dabi asked with his signature smirk. “You really want your group project partner to cockwarm you and fuck your tight little ass?”

“Fuck off,” Tomura scowled and smacked Dabi hard across the face with an errant pillow.

Dabi yanked it from his grasp and tossed his ammunition onto the floor. “Hey, it’s not actually too bad in here,” he wiggled his fingers for emphasis which elicited an embarrassingly high gasp from Tomura, “give ‘em my number if you need a reference for asshole tightness.”

“Get the fuck out of my ass and my room,” Tomura kicked at Dabi’s back as it shook with laughter that lacked it’s usual jeering bite.

“What? Saving the cuddles for your new S/O?” he shot back, nuzzling his cum and spit covered face into Tomura’s neck.

With their chests pressed together, Tomura could feel the cooling, sticky remnants of Dabi’s own release coating his stomach. He squirmed against the sensation and pushed at the offending chest until his friend flopped down onto the scant space left between the mattress and the wall.

“Ew,” Tomura ran a finger through the mess Dabi had left smeared on him. “I’m taking a fucking shower.”

“God, finally!” Dabi exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and producing a cigarette from god knows where. He let the paper rest between his lips unlit. “I should have thought about getting you fucked out on the reg earlier, creep, if it’ll stop you smelling like ass.”

Tomura launched the discarded pillow which hit it’s mark with a dull thump.

“You better be fucking gone when I get back,” he hissed and stumbled naked, on shaking legs into the hall and to their shared bathroom.

Dabi’s cackling followed him until the door shut and the lock clicked behind him.

Tomura turned the water on quickly, letting steam cloud the mirror before he jumped under the spray. The only products on the shelves were Dabi’s for the most part with the exception of a store brand bar of soap and some 3 in one shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

Tomura knew he should clean himself more often, but his skin was so fucking raw all the time it hurt to do, so he mostly avoided it unless the smell got really unbearable—or Dabi was painting him in jizz whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He tried to get in and out as quickly as possible so he didn’t have the opportunity to think too hard about the admission his fuck buddy roommate had pulled from him mid blow job. Because if he did—in his post nut, clingy state—he’d most certainly imagine you were with him, tits pressed against his back and your soft, insistent tongue dipping past his lips, tasting like fruit gum and expensive cafe drinks instead of nicotine and cum.

And he really couldn’t handle that. Cause Dabi was right, he had something fucking bad for you and the thought of another rejection loomed large.

When he did towel himself off and shuffle, still naked back into his bedroom Dabi was nowhere to be seen. Tomura’s phone however, was left sitting right next to the jizz stain on his sheets. He frowned at the open balcony door where Dabi was no doubt smoking and snatched the device before tumbling onto the pillows.

He powered it on and scrolled through his notifs before one caught his eyes. You and Dabi were really the only people that ever texted him, but the contact name above this one had changed.

bitch (endearing)

— hey, starting an impromptu round of Smash soon if you’re interested <3

The stupid text heart made his chest throb and he stared at Dabi’s new nickname for you, not even noticing the fucking grin that tugged at his cheeks.

He bit his lip to stop the twitching when it pulled too hard at the chapped skin and scrambled for his clothes before shooting a quick confirmation text back. Tomura opted for his only pair of black jeans this time instead of sweats and the least stained sweatshirt he owned.

Dabi peaked around the corner when he heard the clink of Tomura’s keys. The bastard was smoking in just a pair of underwear that left half his ass on display for all the whole fucking street. He smirked, quirking his eyebrows and bringing his hands up to slip his index finger through the circle he made on the other hand in a silent, vulgar gesture.

“Screw off,” Tomura shouted over his shoulder and made for the door.

“Wrap it before you tap it, bro!” Dabi called after him, cut off by the subsequent slamming.

Tomura took the stairs two at a time, pulling out his phone and tucking the hood over his damp hair, this time to hide the growing smile playing at his lips.

[fific7]

Velvet

Billy Russo x Reader

@omgrachwrites 500 Follower Celebration

Summary: This follows on from That Swept-Back Hair, approx 8 months later. Things have changed.

Warnings: TBI, memory loss, mentions of sex, angst/fluff mix.

A/N: Loosely based on S2 Billy Russo, but this is non-canon and exists solely within my imaginary Punisher AU. In fact, who is The Punisher? It’s really just The Frankie & Billy Show!

(The little double blink he does as he’s drinking gets me right in the 🖤)

(My GIF)

Your hand glided across the top and then back over Billy’s shorn velvety head, feeling the soft prickliness of the short hairs against your palm. They’d shaved his head when he’d arrived at the hospital prior to surgery.

You still weren’t totally comfortable with the new look, however you knew it’d been unavoidable, and that was that.

It had started growing back a little, and you didn’t want to think about why they were still keeping it short.

His eyelashes fluttered but his eyes remained closed; you sighed and settled yourself back against the uncomfortable seat, ready for another hour’s silent visit.

The sunlight stealing through the venetian blinds threw highlights and shadows onto Billy’s face, and you felt a sudden need to touch his skin. Your fingers ran over his face, feeling each ridge of his scars.

How was Billy going to react when he saw them, you wondered. Let’s be honest, he was a vain man and his good looks had made up a large part of his persona. You didn’t think he was going to take it very well.

It takes a lot of courage for people with disabilities, burns and scars to brave the stares and whispers of others, when all they really want to do is to hide away. The world can be a cruel place, and they have to dig down deep within themselves to find the strength to deal with it.

As you sat there with Billy’s unresponsive hand clasped in yours, your mind drifted back to an awful day, two months ago.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Two short months. How quickly everything can change in a heartbeat.

You and Billy had made a go of things after the Firefighter Affair, as Karen called it. During the six months following it, you’d found yourself in an actual, real-life relationship with Billy, much to your surprise - and intense pleasure.

He’d still spend long hours at Anvil, he had to keep building up the business and you understood that. What you weren’t so happy about was that he was still very much ’hands on’ with the assignments, as if he didn’t want to let go of the reins to a large extent. Inside, there would always be a piece of Lt. Russo, right alongside CEO Russo.

On the other hand, he had to get used to you jetting round the globe on short trips for your new job, which you were loving.

To begin with, there were sulks and jealous outbursts mainly about ’all those foreign guys’ but he chilled a little after you reassured him you had no interest in hooking up with any of them. “Better not, sweetheart,” he’d growled, dark eyes staring you down.

Both of you had made sure you spent time together in between your busy schedules; breakfasts, lunches, dinners, movies, walks and picnics in the park. Taking turns at staying over at each other’s places.

Yes, you’d breached the panther’s den, a huge victory in your mind as none of his other women had ever set foot in it. Hell, some of your clothes and toiletries had made their way into his wardrobe and bathroom, and vice versa.

And, of course, the incredible sex.

Billy was as energetic, sensual and inventive between the sheets as ever. And sometimes he was just pure caveman. You’d be showering in the morning, Billy would strut naked into the bathroom, and you’d hear, “Showering without me, sweetheart?” Hands grabbing you, arms going round you, and you’d be laying on the bath towels on the floor in an instant.

Billy, hovering above you, his body pressing down on yours, eyes gazing at you, “I think you need a little disciplining, angel,” his mouth and hands all over you. You’d thread your fingers through his hair, giving a not-so-gentle tug, there’d be an answering grunt, Billy revving up, ready to give you the best time you’d have that day.

Things were going really well, much better than you’d expected. At first, doubts had still clouded your mind about Billy’s ability to stay faithful, but... there was no evidence to the contrary, he was behaving himself and nothing but very attentive to you. You were now on his arm at every event he attended.

Then, an unexpected phone call one morning as you were getting ready for work. A hospital administrator, who said that you were receiving the call because your name and number were on Billy Russo’s emergency contact list.

Everything stopped, frozen in the moment, as you automatically assumed the worst.

Your brain finally kicked in and began to filter some of what she was saying back to you. Eventually you gathered that Billy had been caught up in an explosion and had been badly injured. Like, really badly injured. She wouldn’t give you any other details over the phone, but agreed when you asked if you could visit him. She did warn you, however, that he wasn’t conscious.

You were scrambling round your apartment, looking for jacket, shoes, bag, when your phone rang again. Karen. You picked up, and heard her trembling voice saying your name and spilling that Frank had been injured in an explosion. Again, you stopped in your tracks.

It dawned on you now why you got the phone call from the hospital, as you were sure Frank would be at the top of Billy’s contact list.

You hadn’t even thought about Frank, that he could’ve been injured too. You felt a stab of guilt.

Agreeing to meet at the hospital, you hung up, dropped a quick explanatory text to your boss, and rushed out to begin your trek over there.

You met up outside the main entrance and stepped into the chaos of the ER. Eventually you were led to a small side room and informed that the attending doctor would come and find you as soon as they could.

Both of you sat and speculated on the severity of their injuries, and what the ‘incident’ could have been. The guys didn’t discuss the nitty-gritty of their work with you, due mainly to the sensitive nature of the assignments.

Karen called into work, firstly to explain her absence and secondly, to ask if there was anything being reported as a major incident, but there was nothing.

A couple of days later, she’d managed to discover that Anvil had got a contract to bodyguard a government official from a Middle Eastern country, and dissidents from there had ambushed him on his way from the airport into the city, slamming their SUV into an escort car and causing its gas tank to explode a few minutes later. That’s what Frank and Billy managed to get caught up in.

The doctor came and collected Karen, saying that Frank was conscious but dazed, and she’d give her more details about his injuries as they walked to his room.

Once you were left alone, the wait began to feel endless. Your mind was circling like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle; Frank was conscious, Billy wasn’t, Frank was conscious, Billy... why wasn’t Billy conscious?

Eventually, the doctor returned for you, but sat down on one of the plastic hospital chairs rather than leading you to his room. She had that sympathetic but business-like look on her face, the one medical people seemed to adopt when they had bad news to impart.

You found yourself thinking that they had to maintain a bit of distance, otherwise they probably wouldn’t be able to do their job.

She started speaking, telling you that Billy had received his injuries in an explosion, and had sustained lacerations from shrapnel, a dislocated shoulder and a broken foot. But the most serious one had been a substantial concussion which had caused a small bleed on the brain, and this had required immediate surgery.

Swelling of the brain had also caused complications, and Billy had been placed into a medically-induced coma.

She’d stood up then and you’d followed her along several corridors, repeating ‘shrapnel’ over and over in your mind. The doctor had stopped outside a door with a small rectangular window inset above the handle, turning to face you.

“He’s suffered quite a lot of facial scarring, and is quite heavily bandaged... I just wanted to warn you.”

You felt tears stinging your eyes.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Karen had texted you about 30 minutes later, asking if you wanted to stay or go.

To be quite honest, you’d be glad to leave the oppressive little room; the beeping of the machines and rhythmic clicking of the ventilator had been making you feel tense, and a headache was forming behind your eyes.

And Billy’s bandaged head and face - you felt guilty for thinking this - looked like something out of a horror movie.

The two of you met outside the main entrance and headed to a coffee shop you could see on the opposite corner. You had no idea if it had decent coffee but it surely couldn’t be any worse than the dishwater the hospital passed off as a drinkable beverage. Karen caught you up on Frank’s condition as you walked over there.

He had a couple of dislocated joints, two broken fingers, cuts and bruises. Where he’d lucked out - so to speak - was that he’d avoided getting concussed.

Once you’d got your distinctly average coffee, you relayed the details of Billy’s injuries to Karen, and she’d been shocked that he was in such a serious condition.

There was going to be a long old journey ahead to get Billy back on his feet.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

They brought Billy out of the induced coma just short of three weeks later. The brain swelling had definitely been a worry, but they weren’t keen on keeping him under much longer. However, more concerning was the fact that he didn’t wake up of his own accord once the medically induced coma was reversed.

The mummy-like bandages had been removed at the same time, revealing angry-looking red scars. The nurses had been applying oils and balm to them several times a day, and this had helped to calm them quite a lot. But you knew they were still going to be a big shock to Billy.

Frank, out of hospital by then and keeping things ticking over at Anvil, didn’t say much - as was his way - but you knew that both he and Karen were as worried as you were about this unsettling turn of events.

You tried to maintain a positive front, but on occasion found yourself literally sobbing on Karen’s shoulder when it got too much to handle.

You fell into a strange kind of half-life; working as usual then heading out to the hospital each evening to sit and talk to Billy, holding his hand. You ate at odd hours, slept erratically, disturbed by bad dreams, usually about Billy never regaining consciousness.

And so it went; work, hospital, eat, sleep, repeat. Day after soul-destroying day.

Today, at lunch-time you were on your way out to grab something to eat when your phone rang, an unknown number. Praying it wasn’t some annoying cold-caller, you picked up to find yourself speaking to a doctor from the hospital. You stopped walking; you usually didn’t hear from them, they usually had nothing new to tell you.

Three minutes later, you were running back up to your office, to let your boss know that Billy was awake and you had to get to the hospital. “Go, go, Y/N,” he said, “and keep me posted!”

In the back of an Uber, you texted Frank and Karen to give them the good news, saying you’d be in touch later once you’d been able to see him.

You really hoped the traffic wouldn’t be too bad, you were majorly anxious to get to Billy. In case he lost consciousness again before you saw him.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Your feet took you through the entrance hall, into the lifts and up to Billy’s floor without any conscious input from you, as you’d taken the same route so many times. You waited impatiently at the nurses’ station, your head whipping round as you heard your name.

The doctor took you into the small side room again; so, a chat before you got to see Billy. The doctor had that same look on her face.

“Billy’s awake, but he’s a little disorientated. Y/N... he’s experiencing some amnesia. From what we can gather, he thinks he’s still a serving Marine in Afghanistan.”

Your heart sank; you supposed it had been naive to think he’d wake up and things would magically be back to how they used to be.

“But that’s normal, right? After a head trauma.”

She nodded, “Yes. And all or some memory can be recovered. But as you probably know, there are no hard and fast rules about if or when that will happen. There are no guarantees when it comes to amnesia.”

You gulped, nodding to show you understood.

The doctor reached into her top pocket, bringing out a card and handing it to you. “We have a psychotherapist affiliated to the hospital, a Dr Dumont. In fact, I think she was planning to assess Billy in the next day or so. She’s got several vets on her books, I’m sure she’d be happy to take him on.”

You handed the card back to her. “Thanks, but we’ve already got counselling set up for Billy. An ex-Marine buddy of his, who supports and counsels vets. He’ll be a lot more comfortable with Curtis. Please thank her but let her know we don’t require her help.” The doctor looked a little sceptical but nodded and tucked the card away.

She stood up, waiting for you to do so and then walked with you along the familiar corridors to Billy’s room. “Has he mentioned anyone’s names when you’ve talked to him? Me, Frank, Karen?” A shake of her head, “No, sorry. As I said, he’s quite disorientated.”

You nodded, asking, “Has he seen his scars yet?” Again, she shook her head, “We thought that might be a bit too much for him on his first day awake. If he’s run his hand over his face, he’ll have felt them of course, but there are no mirrors in the room or bathroom.” You nodded, “Thanks, Doctor. I think that’s for the best. I won’t mention it unless he asks me directly.”

She left you outside the door, and taking a deep breath, you opened it and went in.

The figure in the bed had wrapped his sheets round him, right up to his neck. He was curled up on his side, facing away from the door, a defensive position it seemed. You approached the bed, feeling that he knew you were there, but there was no movement.

“Billy?” you said quietly, “it’s me, Y/N.” No response.

Then his head turned towards you, and you had your first sight of his dark eyes in a long time, gazing at you over his shoulder. But you saw instantly there was no recognition in them, and you had to look down to hide your disappointment.

He began to sit up, struggling against the sheet cocoon he’d created, and you leant forward, reshuffling his pillows. He sank back into them, still staring at you. You drank in the sight of him, awake; you’d really begun to think that he’d never regain consciousness.

“We know each other, then,” he suddenly said, a statement, not a question. Voice low and raspy, no doubt due to the recently-removed ventilator.

“We do, Billy,” you replied, “we’ve been seeing each other. An item, as they say.”

He nodded slowly, “For how long?” You pulled up a chair alongside the bed, “Six months.”

He gave a low chuckle, and now his eyes flickered up and down your body as you sat down next to him, before returning to meet your eyes. His had a slight glint in them.

“So we’ve slept together. We have good times?”

You smiled, nodding, “Very good times, Billy.”

He gave you the Billy smirk, and you knew that your Billy was definitely still in there somewhere.

His demeanour suddenly changed, he looked worried. His eyes dropped down onto his hands.

“I don’t know who you are.”

The flat statement took your breath away. You knew he didn’t recognise you, but hearing it said straight out like that hit you like a slap in the face.

He stared at you again, while you tried to arrange your face into a neutral expression. “Sorry,” he mumbled, one hand gesturing in the air at nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you lifted his hand and entwined your fingers with his, “It’s OK, it’s OK,” you said, although truthfully it wasn’t.

It hurt your heart that he didn’t recognise you, but the amnesia was to blame, and you couldn’t lay a guilt trip on him about it.

He was still gazing at you, and you continued, “I’m here, Billy and I... we.... are all here for you.” Squeezing his hand, “Me, Frank, Curtis, Karen, we’ll get you through this, I promise.”

Tears welled in his eyes, and his fingers gripped yours.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Once back in the privacy of your apartment, you filled in the others on a group call. Frank rumbled down the phone, “So he thinks he’s still serving?” “Apparently so. That’s what he told the doctor. I didn’t want to push it on my first visit. I’m heading back later and I’ll try to talk to him a bit more.” Karen asked if he knew about the scarring yet, and you said no, he’d admitted he was in quite a bit of pain, but all over, not just his face.

Curtis butted in at that point, saying that some of his guys had mentioned this Dr Dumont you’d told them about. “Yeah, she’s got some... weird ideas, they said. Masks and shit.” What? You asked him to elaborate and he’d told you the little he knew. “Well, I’m glad I kicked that idea into touch,” you replied, “none of that stuff is gonna help Billy get better, I’m sure of that.”

When you got back to the hospital, Billy was sitting up in bed, and spent the first five minutes you were in the room just staring intently at you. You’d gently questioned him as to how he was feeling, was he eating, drinking, sleeping, but got no response.

Then he’d shaken his head, as if trying to clear it, and asked, “Am I still in Afghanistan?”

You and he then spent a little time talking about what he remembered, probing to see how far back his memories went. He did think he was still in the Marines, thought he was on a tour, but couldn’t remember who he was serving with, could see some faces but didn’t recall names. You were keen to get Frank and Curtis in to see him, maybe it would help if he was face to face with them.

You could see he was getting tired, so you pushed your chair back, about to stand up, when his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. It was such a Billy thing to do, you heard yourself gasp.

He looked at you, then down at his hand on your wrist, “Shouldn’t I have done that?” You smiled, “It’s just such a normal thing for you to do it took me by surprise, Billy.”

“I’m always grabbin’ your wrist?” You laughed out loud, “Amongst other things!”

He laughed too, and you were so happy to hear that sound.

“We need to be talking about all-a that.” He tugged on your wrist, “And I reckon I need a kiss.”

You shook your head, smiling, “Maybe soon, Billy, right now you need to concentrate on getting better.”

“But I think it’d help!” giving you a sly side-eye, “jog my memory.”

You leant in, “How can you think about kissing when you’ve been through a major trauma?!” but you were craving the closeness with him, after weeks without it.

His hand suddenly went from your wrist to the nape of your neck, pulling you half on top of him, and you were thinking that some things didn’t change when his lips met yours.

You’d been imagining a fairly quick, chaste ‘getting to know you again’ kiss, so you were surprised when you felt his tongue sneaking past your lips, his other hand moving smoothly onto the swell of your breast, massaging firmly, and you could feel his arousal under you.

You pushed back, looking at him with a smile.

“Marine! Stand down.”

It was a stupid cheesy thing you’d always said to him, even before you were properly dating.

He stared at you, his thumb stroking your bottom lip, “That.. what you just said. It feels familiar.”

You nodded, “That’s good, Billy... I’m happy about that, I say it to you all the time. It’s our little joke.”

He lay back on his pillows, mood changing suddenly, staring at you. “Why d’you shove me away? I was kissin’ you, had my hands on you, wasn’t that familiar to you, Y/N?”

You stroked his arm. “Billy, I didn’t shove you away. I just need you to remember that you’ve suffered a major trauma, you need to be calm, concentrate on getting better...” He was looking tired, head nestling back into his pillows.

You stood up, picking up your bag, “I’m gonna head home now, let you get your rest. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?” You leant forward and kissed his temple, “Sleep well.”

His eyes were already closed as you pulled back from the kiss.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

The four of you met up at the hospital mid-morning the next day. Karen and Curtis sat down on chairs in the corridor, while you and Frank headed into Billy’s room.

You stopped in your tracks in the doorway, Frank bumping into you. There was a small, dark-haired woman sitting on a chair, side on to the door, with a clipboard on her knees.

But what had you both frozen to the spot was the sight of Billy, dressed in a tracksuit, sitting on a chair opposite her. He had a pure white mask on; two eye holes, a fully-formed nose, small slit for the mouth. It was damn scary-looking.

You took a few steps into the room, “Who are you?” you challenged the woman, although you had a good idea already. “And why is my boyfriend wearing that weird mask?”

She stared at you, “Boyfriend? Oh.. I didn’t realise...”

You decided to drop the innocent act. “Are you Dr Dumont? Because if you are, you can take your clipboard and your mask and get out of here. I asked the doctor yesterday to tell you that we already have counselling in place for Billy.”

“Well, yes she did, but about that... to be honest that’s why I decided to..” she looked over at Billy, “assess him in any case. I don’t feel that the counselling you mention would be right for...”

“Doctor!” you hissed, and she stopped talking. “You are treading a very thin line here. I haven’t asked or authorised you to see Billy, so I will ask you again, please take your theatre props and go.”

You’d walked over to Billy as you’d been talking, and stripped the mask off him, holding it out to her. Billy’s wide dark eyes were gazing up at you.

She stood up and snatched the mask from you, placing it on top of her clipboard. With a very condescending smile, she said, “I’m telling you, you’re making a big mistake.”

“Get out! Now,” you said, glaring at her.

The door banged shut behind her, and you said as Frank walked over to you, “Unbelievable! Billy’s had a lucky escape from that quack, I reckon.”

Frank nodded, placing his beefy paw on Billy’s shoulder. Billy’s eyes were searching his face.

“Bill,” Frank growled, “‘s me, Frankie. I’m here for ya.” He tightened his grip on the shoulder under his hand. “I got your back, bud.”

You could both tell that he didn’t yet recognise Frank. But he did recognise the comfort the words gave him.

“Frankie,” he murmured.

Then he looked to you. “Y/N?...right?” You nodded, fighting to keep your expression blank. Still not sure of you, even your name. You caught Frank sending you a sympathetic glance.

You took his hand, rubbing your thumb over his skin. Billy had a puzzled look on his face as he looked up at you.

“Why’d she put that mask on me, Y/N? My face hurts. Don’t I look good?”

Your mouth drew into a line, and you quickly glanced at Frank.

“Billy, you look as good as you always did.”

“Did I look good?”

“Yes, you looked so handsome,” you replied, “a beautiful man.”

That small smile, dark eyes sparkling at you.

“And do I still look good?”

You ran your hand down the back of his velvety head, feeling him shiver as your fingers trailed onto his neck, pleased with his response to your touch.

“Yes, you do, Billy,” you answered honestly, because as far as you were concerned, he did.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Additional A/N: DUMONT 🥊 POW! 🥊 how it would’ve gone down if I’d written S2 😉 And thank you Tumblr for totally eating the draft of this last night, really enjoyed re-typing it.

[getitinbusan]

Jeongguk and Taehyung

Smut

After hours bar A/U. Threesome, Smut, Angst, Fluff. Taehyung and Jungkook help the boss with her problem 😉

Taehyung wiped the bar down around your sprawling paperwork while Jeongguk restocked the glasses.

"I can't fucking believe how much you guys make in tip money." 

You counted out two piles of cash pushing them, hesitantly towards each of them. 

It was the end of the night and the three of you were the last of the staff shutting down. Lost in thought the heavy bottle hitting the table brought you back to reality. 

"After party?" Jeongguk asked while preemptively scooping ice into his glass. 

Putting your hand over one of the tumblers you stopped him.

"She never stays to drink with the staff Jeongguk," Tae threw you a wink.

You moved your hand away. 

"Number one, you'd better not be here after hours drinking. Number two, I take it neat." 

You tapped the rim encouraging him to pour. 

Taehyung had been a Bartender for at least a year but Jeongguk was still fairly new. Having worked in your share of restaurants, you knew the dynamics. 

Line cooks wanted Waitresses, Waitresses wanted Bartenders, Bartenders wanted Customers and Chefs were too strung out to care about any of it.

Most nights after the closed sign had flipped the real party would begin. An industry work perk, the missing alcohol, used condoms in the office and smell of pot were often overlooked in exchange for long shitty shifts of kissing pretentious people's asses. 

It was obvious why these two were always eager to work. They were young, good looking, and boy could they flirt. Mixing drinks wasn't their strongest skill, schmoozing people for money was. 

Since Jeongguk was hired sales had tripled. Paired with Teahyung, the two were show stopping lady killers. The stories you'd heard of their prowess would surely be passed down as legendary tales to all new recruits. 

"More," you directed Jeongguk to top you up. 

He leaned in close to you over the bar top while Taehyung slouched back on the drink wall. 

"Why are you sticking around tonight sweetheart, trouble in paradise?" 

Sweetheart? That's why he was so good at his job. 

"No Taehyung, the troubles between my thighs."

Jeongguk choked on his scotch not used to you being so candid. 

Taehyung laughed, "Isn't that paradise? You know being horny has an easy fix." 

You shot back your drink and Jeongguk was quick to refill it. Maybe it was wishful thinking but it felt like he was leaning closer. 

"What's wrong Y/N?" he whispered like it was just meant for you to hear.

Taehyung came closer, "Do we need to kick someone's ass?" 

You couldn't help but laugh at the thought of Taehyung fighting anyone. Security had saved his hide from jealous husbands on more than one occasion. 

"No, I mean...it's just dumb."

"It's not dumb if it's making you upset," Jeongguk's large hand covered yours around the glass you were holding. 

You pulled away and buried your face in your hands embarrassed. 

"Ughhh…. he can't, or should I say…. won't make me cum, okay?" 

They both burst out laughing. 

"Awesome, thanks guys I appreciate the sympathy." 

Trying to gather some composure, Taehyung asked, "So he's just bad in bed?"

"I wouldn't say bad, he's just not very…. giving." 

"So, bad." Jeongguk laughed.

"Yuck it up guys but I haven't had an orgasm that wasn't self induced for the last 7 months."

Taehyung moved in for the kill.

"You should have told us sooner, we'd be more than happy to help alleviate some of your tension."

Your cup still in his hand, Jeongguk poured more. Walking it around to your side of the bar, he tipped it to his lips and shot back a huge gulp before handing it back to you. 

Raising it to your lips, his eyes grew darker while watching the amber liquid disappear. 

When you'd finished he swiftly moved to connect your mouths. Soft, slow and so good, his wet lips enveloped yours. 

Rendered dizzy and speechless, you were left with nothing but the taste of his whisky tipped tongue after he pulled away. 

"Better or worse?" he smiled.

"Worse, so much fucking worse. You can't just do that and…" 

"And what?" Taehyung questioned with a smirk.

"And stop…" your voice sounded desperate. 

"Want us to make it better?" 

Taehyung was close behind you, his deep sensual voice sent shivers up your spine. 

"Tell us what you want baby,"  Jeongguk was in front, teasing you with his lips hovering just over yours. 

"I want you to make me cum," you panted in desperation, "Both of you." 

Hoisting you off your chair Jeongguk set you on the bar top. His lips moved back to yours as Taehyung's hands found their way to your shirt. His large fingers fumbled with the delicate fasteners.

"Just fucking rip it." 

Grabbing the edges he quickly  pulled it apart, the sound of  buttons bouncing off the floor was barely heard over all the heavy breathing.

Sliding it down your arms his mouth moved to the back of your neck. You could feel his lips sucking hard on your skin, sure he was marking you. It felt divine and you couldn't bring yourself to care. If a man could make you feel this good already you were dumping your boyfriend the minute this was over.

Expertly unclasping your bra  Jeongguk moaned at the sight of your tits. 

"So pretty."

His mouth started back on your lips and patiently made their way down. Your chin, your neck, your chest, your nipples, no part of your skin was untouched by the two men. 

"Layback sweetheart." 

Taehyung moved to take his turn with your mouth as Jeongguk took off your shoes and tights. Your skirt was still fastened around your waist but was hitched high to allow easy access to your panties. 

"Do you always wear sexy panties or were you expecting something tonight?" 

Unable to speak, your head was in the clouds. Every touch, every hot breath on your skin sent you reeling.

Leveling his face to your mound Jeongguk dragged his nose across your clit. "Can I take care of you?" 

"Fuck please."

You clenched as his fingers hooked around the lace and worked them over your thighs. Depositing your panties into his pocket he found his way back to you. 

He explored with his finger first, tracing your folds then dipping it inside you slowly, repeatedly. 

"Jeongguk," his name slid out of you in pleasure.

Not one to stand idly, Taehyung used one hand to cup your breast and the other to unzip his pants.

Pulling himself out, he watched for your reaction and wasn't disappointed when your jaw dropped. His cock was huge, long and gerthy, the tip was reddened with arousal.

You gripped his balls in the hand that hung over the backside of the bar. The curls of his shockingly full black bush felt soft against your fingers as you stroked him. 

Jeongguk's mouth was heaven on earth. Seven months of pent up sexual frustration was about to be released under the careful guidance of his tongue. 

Taehyung rolled your nipple between his fingers, "How do you feel now?"

"So good. Guk you're gonna make me cum, please make me cum.." 

Like white light washed over your brain there was nothing but the feeling of pure pleasure. Pulsing around his fingers as his tongue did a final lap you came loud and hard.

You couldn't move it was glorious, the smile on your face felt dumb but you couldn't make it go away. 

"Better now?" He asked while kissing you. He knew damn well what the answer was. 

You could taste yourself all over him.

"I want you in my mouth, I want to return the favor."

He helped you down and you both awkwardly stood looking at Taehyung.

"Rookies."

Taehyung impatiently directed the scene.

"Jeongguk you're going to sit on the bar, Y/N you'll be standing here sucking him off, ass out over here where I'll be." 

You both looked at him in surprise.

"Ok so maybe I've done this before. Can you just fucking trust me." 

Quick to take his clothes off, you came face to face with Jeongguk's body for the first time. 

Muscles, abs and a trimmed happy trail that led to his gorgeously thick cock. How many words can describe perfection? You just wanted him in your mouth. 

He hopped on the bar and pulled you in for a kiss. Your hand falling from his hair to his thighs traveling over the hard muscle until your grip found what you wanted. He moaned as your lips worked their way around him up and down his shaft.

Taehyung stood behind you and lined himself up with your sopping entrance. It was tight and a little uncomfortable but you pushed back wanting him desperately inside you. 

Gripping your hips he found his rhythm, his cock filling you as you let Jeongguk occupy your throat. 

His hand moved on top of your head but instead of pushing you further onto him he stroked your hair. 

"Look at you, so beautiful."

You wanted to please him, to make him feel good, you wanted him to say your name as he came. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry...I'm close. I'm gonna cum, you feel too good."

You went harder and stroked faster until you felt the warm explosion in your throat. 

"Fuck, that was amazing." He kissed you while Tae continued on with his mission to make you cum. 

There was an urgent knocking on the back kitchen door and Taehyung's notifications started going off incessantly. 

"Shit, Fuck, I'm sorry baby, I totally forgot I asked some people to come. 

Quickly zipping, he left to open the door.

You sat up looking embarrassed trying to quickly gather your clothes. 

The ripped blouse hung open barely covering you. Noticing your predicament Jeongguk  handed you his button down with a small smile, "You can borrow this, I'll be fine in my t-shirt." 

"Thanks, I'm going to go pull myself together in the office and I'll slip out the back."

Leaning in he kissed your cheek, "Goodnight Y/N, I'm sorry we got interrupted." 

He was so cute, "It's okay Guk, you gave me exactly what I needed tonight." 

You got to the office door unnoticed. The three young women entered in a perfumed stampede.

"There's our other sexy bartender." You watched as they flirted and fawned over him. You felt ridiculous, what a stupid thing you'd just done.

With a knitted brow Jeongguk looked over as you closed the door behind you.

______________

Successfully dodging them both until Friday nights service it was time to face the inevitable. Running down the features and vip guest list with the staff you made it short and to the point 

"Let's have a good shift everybody!" 

Jeongguk came over and ran his hand up your arm, "You okay? It feels like you might be avoiding me?" 

"It's just been a crazy week, that's all. I mean what we did was totally not something I do, I mean, I'm not like you and Tae. Then I went home and ended my relationship.." 

"You broke up with him? Wait, what do you mean like me and Tae? Can we talk in your office for a minute?"

Taehyung came exuberantly bounding over to interrupt, "Are we making plans for a repeat tonight?"

You fumed at him and pointed up the hall, "Get in my office Taehyung." Switching directions you turned, "And Jeongguk, bar, NOW!"

Slamming the door behind you Taehyung laughed, "I see you're still frustrated?" 

"You're crossing the line Tae. I don't want you inviting random women here after hours anymore. You should be setting a better example for the newer employees." 

He looked at you quizzically, 

"New employees? Oh my god you like him don't you?" 

Redness creeped over your cheeks, "That's not what we're talking about here." 

"Isn't it? Were you jealous those girls showed up last week?" 

"What? No, it's just...I can't have you breaking the rules all the time." 

"You and I both know I've been breaking the rules since day one and only one things changed, you've got a crush on Guk." 

You stared at him in anger and he just smiled at you, god he was infuriating. 

"Get your ass out there and do your job okay?"

He opened the door to leave but turned back around. "He didn't stay. He never stays." 

"What are you talking about?"

"Last week, Jeongguk. He left about fifteen minutes after you. Said he was tired and needed to get some sleep before his early shift." He grinned with a wink and went to work. 

____________

You watched the clock anxiously, you'd have to leave the office sooner or later. 

Just before last call there was a knock at your door. Opening it without approval Jungkook stepped in. 

"Do you have a minute?" 

"Yeah, come sit down."

"I wanted to return these." He handed you your panties.

"Oh...thanks."

Instead of the chair he sat on the edge of your desk. 

"I was just wondering if there was a possibility I could get moved off the bar? I could be a server or do something in the kitchen, maybe if you need help in the office?"

"But why? You're really good at what you do and you make great tip money. I mean, I don't want to lose you so whatever keeps you happy I guess we'll fit you in somewhere." 

"It's just...you said something earlier, you said you weren't like me and Tae."

He was looking down, focused on the hole in his jeans. "I met someone and I'd really hate for her to think of me that way." 

You put your hand on his thigh covering the hole so he'd finally look up at you.

"I didn't mean it to sound judgy, shit I'm sorry. I don't think it's wrong, it's just I've never had casual sex or been with someone who I don't care about." 

Finally looking up at you, barely audible he confessed, "I've never had sex with anyone I didn't care for either." 

You weren't sure if you were interpreting his words correctly. Did Jeongguk like you? 

Your mouth hung agape as he pulled you up from your chair.

"I dont want after parties with drinks and casual sex. I want to go home after a long shift and make love to my girlfriend." 

God that sounded good. 

____________

You came out of the office to find Tae was the only one left. He was surrounded by papers and receipts. 

"I thought I'd start doing the end of night,  Are you guys sticking around?" 

Jeongguk smiled, "I think we're gonna try something new tonight."

Taehyung grinned from ear to ear, "No problem, I can be responsible, I got this." 

You rolled your eyes.

"Uh huh, I'd better not find any condoms laying around in the morning." 

You'd gotten about 10 steps away before he couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Hey Guk," he wiggled his eyebrows.

"Make sure she cums!" 

If you find any enjoyment in this fic I implore you, please fucking comment like or reblog. I'm a needy bitch.

[meta-squash]

So, last night I had a thought about self-harm (and addiction) and the reaction or framing from the press re: Richey Edwards vs Peter Doherty.

(This went off on a tangent, I’m sorry if it’s a little nonsensical and also I know my opinions are maybe kind of controversial.)

[Blanket TW for discussion of self-harm, eating disorders, and addiction in this post]

My best friend and I were having a conversation last night about self-harm as a coping mechanism and how people who have never self-harmed before don’t understand it and don’t know how to react to it, among other aspects of the subject. Later that got my brain on a different train going in a similar direction but a different destination.

I was thinking about the difference between the media interest surrounding Richey Edwards and Peter Doherty, and how the media framed their struggles and problems etc. (There is a slight difference between the two given that the Manics never got huge in the media and Richey wasn’t around for the explosion of internet tabloid culture.)

But my thought starts out with this: Peter and Richey seem to have done similar types of self-harm in similar amounts, and yet it is Richey’s self-harm that got all the media attention. Richey’s alcoholism and anorexia were not as chaotic or as....public?...as Peter’s drug problems, but it was all but ignored by the media even when he was fairly open about it.

Aside from the original 4REAL incident, which was a complex combination of situationist spectacle, self-expression/release of frustration, and intense message to the industry, Richey’s other moments of self-harm seem to be a more (for lack of a better word) normal level; they seem to have mostly been smaller, shallower cuts or cigarette burns. Aside from the one other recorded incident in Amsterdam ‘94 where Richey cut his chest enough to need stitches, there are no other instances on record of moments at the level of the 4REAL incident. Richey’s moments of self-harm seemed to typically be a more moderate coping mechanism rather than a tendency towards grievous injury. And yet the media’s main focus when it came to Richey was his self-harm and the spectacle of it rather than his lyrics or his other obvious struggles with alcohol and eating disorders.

And it’s interesting to compare that to Peter’s self-harm. I don’t think he’s ever had a moment like 4REAL, but he has used moderate cutting and cigarette burns presumably as a coping mechanism. His “strop” at Brixton ‘04 being the most outwardly dramatic and maybe the closest to 4REAL. But there are plenty of photos or footage of him with visible cuts and/or cigarette burns. And yet it doesn’t seem to be something the press really cared about.

On the flip side, there’s Peter’s addiction and all the media craze surrounding that. (As an aside, I cannot imagine how awful it must have been to have the media obsessing over your drug use while telling you to get better while essentially being its cause.) The press practically documented Peter’s every move re: his drug use and addiction. It was sensationalized and plastered everywhere and this obsessive attention was placed on it.

Which is the opposite of what happened to Richey’s problems. He talked fairly openly about his alcoholism in a number of interviews but rarely was he directly asked about it. Off the top of my head I can’t think of any interview that directly asked him about his eating disorders either, but he did mention some aspects of that in a few interviews (most notably his last ever TV interview for some Swedish channel).

Part of this difference in media focus kind of makes sense. The media picks the thing that’s more dramatic and crazy-sounding and a bigger spectacle. For Richey, it was self-harm, because he started with a proverbial bang by coming out the gate with the 4REAL incident that catapulted the Manics into the eye of the industry proper (despite the fact that he never reached that intense level again). For Peter, it was his drug abuse partly because of its more widespread chaos (drinking alone in your room is not as interesting or glamourous as smoking crack at wild parties, plus a dramatic band breakup draws readers) and partly because of his proximity to Really Famous People (ie Kate).

I guess it just interests me how the media decides which thing is more “concerning” and how that false concern in fact fuels the very thing it pretends to be so worried about.

The 4REAL incident was a shocking thing; it seems as though over the years the remaining Manics have come to acknowledge that that was pretty much the point. Nicky called it an “amazing, fantastic statement” in the 98 Up Close documentary. It’s something that was outside of Richey’s other self-harm because it was very much for a spectacle (JDB does say in the same docu that he was pretty sure Richey had sort of planned it). But none of Richey’s other moments of self harm were as public or as performative. I’d even say his Bangkok chest-cutting was only partially performative, considering how horrific the band considers that trip to have been. But really, his self-harm seemed to be mostly a private, personal thing, a coping mechanism. And yet it was pretty much all the press focused on, ignoring the alcoholism and anorexia that a) were likely actually affecting his ability to function and b) were likely bigger problems that the self-harm was used to balance out. The remaining band have talked about Richey’s drinking and how it affected him and made it difficult for him to function, and none of them ever really talk about Richey’s anorexia but looking at photos of him in 1994 you can really see the toll it takes on him. But the press weren’t interested in that.

And again, similarly, Peter’s drug use was fascinating to the press because it was dramatic and chaotic and an interesting spectacle. But after reading the Books Of Albion etc it sure seems like the press were major instigators of a lot of Peter’s problems and his need to use drugs to cope and/or escape. They ignore his self-harm because it’s not as interesting as his addiction; the opposite of the “mundanity” of Richey’s introverted alcoholism.

The press chooses which problem it’s “concerned” about depending on which one is a more interesting, easily-maintained spectacle. If it can flaunt “concern” in order to goad or stress their victim into doing that thing more, it can perpetuate that cycle: “we’re so concerned about you, look we’ve written an article on your drug-induced antics/your dramatic self-harming tendencies with pictures and misquotes and misunderstanding, oh we’re so concerned we’ve parked ourselves outside your venue and/or house to ask intrusive questions about your problems rather than your art, wait why are you still struggling with this drug/self-harm problem we said we were concerned about you, look we’ve written another article about how you’re struggling and we’re concerned but we haven’t actually asked you what’s wrong or how to help or done the most obvious thing which is leave you alone” ad nauseum.

Plus, these things are always appropriated by the press rather than a request made for clarification from the person. The victim’s candid thoughts about their hurt or their reasons for needing this coping mechanisms are not actually heeded but are twisted round and into part of the “story” rather than taken seriously as an explanation or a plea for the media to fuck off because they’re exacerbating the problem.

And now I go into more theoretical ramblings.

(Side note and/or clarification or...something: I can speak from long-term experience when it comes to self-harm as a coping mechanism etc, but I have not personally dealt with drug addiction so when I’m talking about that, it’s definitely as an outsider. I have friends who are recovering addicts and who I’ve known during their more intense struggles but I have not experienced it myself, like, in my own brain/body.)

Something my best friend and I were discussing in the conversation that triggered this entire thought-train is self-harm as seen by outsiders/people who have never self-harmed or thought about it in any seriousness. (And here comes some more serious discussion, as a warning.)

We talked about how there really isn’t a good argument against self-harm as a coping mechanism. (And I know my opinions here are probably controversial.) Most seem to center around “healthy” coping mechanisms vs “unhealthy” but if it’s your own body and you aren’t hurting anyone else, who’s to say what’s what? The other problem re: “healthy” coping mechanisms (like taking a bath, treating yourself, etc) is that the concern against self-harm seems to be that it isn’t addressing the underlying issue that requires the coping mechanism. But neither does doing some skin care or eating an apple (that is, if the problem is a stressor outside of needing sustenance or being able to do something “relaxing” enough to actually relax). That isn’t to say that self-harm is a good reaction to every stressful moment, but it truly is a very singular type of stimulation and release that is sometimes the only effective method of reacting to and coping with an internal or external stressor.

As a clarification, most acts of self-harm are not to the severity level of 4REAL. Cigarette burns and collections of minor-to-moderate cuts are much more common, neither of which are particularly threatening to the overall wellbeing of the person.

The other thought about self-harm and the reason for the media’s focus on it is the discomfort of and fascination a “badge” of struggle. When you’re depressed and you can’t get out of bed, it’s not like you get up a few days later and there’s a big sign that says “Was Depressed, Couldn’t Move,” or if you feel stressed and overwhelmed so you go drink wine in the bath, you don’t spend the rest of the day with some sort of sign telling other people that you felt bad so you bathed. But self-harm is a personal coping mechanism with evidence attached. And that evidence makes people who can’t understand it uncomfortable. Self-harm leaves a mark which other people are confronted by and they don’t know how to react because they cannot imagine how that can be something that helps. Self-harm is a “badge” of struggle and/or coping--not that it’s a proud mark or anything, just that it’s visible to others in a way that stands out and is singled out. I’ve gone out in public in my pajamas after not getting out of bed for 5 days and nobody looked at me funny or asked me why I looked all rumpled. But I’ve had random strangers at the grocery store ask me about the self-harm scars on my upper arms. Scars are a sign of hurt or stress etc that are visible to others which means they feel compelled to confront their feelings about it and often come up uncomfortable and not understanding and confused.

Similarly, I think drug use/addiction can sometimes be a similar “badge” of struggle, especially if it’s apparent onstage or during various public appearances. It’s something that people outside of it don’t understand. Likely they don’t understand the use of drugs as something other than “for fun.” People don’t understand the depths of using drugs as escape from or coping with (or both) stressors. Raw dogging reality is kind of a tall order if reality is overwhelming and stressful to a degree that’s difficult or impossible to control and/or manage. Not to mention using drugs for coping or escape then can lead to dependency and addiction and that’s a whole new game. Because, you know, that’s the thing: it’s not just about kicking an addiction. If you try to kick an addiction without replacing it with something else, you can pretty easily fall back into it because it’s not just a physical dependency, it’s a way to deal with reality. If you’re trying to go from a using a crutch to deal with reality to straight up raw dogging it without a fallback crutch, it’s gonna be real hard. In terms of a “badge” of struggle I think that use of drugs where intoxication is more obvious or more intense than, say, weed, people are uncomfortable. With a drug’s effects on behavior, I’m sure, but also with the outward signs that the person is obviously using a coping mechanism to deal with stresses or hurts.

In both situations it’s an exposure of this internality that outsiders can’t fully understand or touch. Everyone’s reasons for self harm or drug use are going to be different. The “benefit” that the coping mechanism brings is going to be different for everyone. And it especially means that strangers who don’t have experience with these things cannot fathom them and cannot comprehend them. There’s that desire to understand, that curiosity, (and sometimes an actual desire to help), but no one can read another person’s mind or understand their internality completely, and the visuals of self harm or of drug use are a very intense and forward reminder of that.

And I think those “badges” of struggle are something the media loves to capitalize on, because they can be turned into a spectacle and can be monetized due to outsiders’ discomfort. People watch horror movies or read tabloids because it makes them uncomfortable from a safe distance; these things aren’t happening to them, but another person’s obvious pain/fear/sadness/struggle/etc is just discomforting and strange enough to evoke a dark fascination rather than a total rejection. And the cycle continues as the media capitalizes on their victim’s stress and their coping with that stress, and which then causes more stress which then causes a need for a more intense coping or escaping mechanism, etc.

To bring it back to my original point, the reason the press focused on Richey’s self-harm (despite it being not too terribly excessive or intense) and not his addiction or ED problems, and the reason the press focused on Peter’s addiction and not his self-harm is because of the degree and type of fascination/discomfort those things brought. Richey’s self-harm was interesting enough and obvious enough that they could show lurid photos of his scabs and scars and talk to him about it, but he did his drinking in private and didn’t really cause any sort of scene onstage. And Peter’s drug use was interesting enough and public enough that they could show lurid photos of it as well as collect all sorts of gossip and rumour and twisted-around tales while his self-harm clearly wasn’t as dramatic or fascinating to them. People can read the tabloids and be darkly fascinated by a person cutting themselves up but maybe not by someone drinking at night in their bed (because that’s boring to read about). People can read the tabloids and be gleefully horrified by abuse of class A drugs and the actions/behavior surrounding that but that’s going to be more interesting than a person stubbing a cigarette out on their arm in frustration and despair. It’s all about what can be painted in a more dramatic light. It��s all about what internal things can be made public.

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Ninety-Three [PT. 1]

Words: 3k

Warning(s): explicit language, drug abuse

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NIKKI

1987

I throw another drink back not long after yelling obscurities at Viv as she stomped out of VIP to leave and go home, between more lines of blow, a trip to the bathroom to get a fix and some drinks, we decide to take the party to Steven's new place. 

"You guys just can't be too loud, though, got it?" He says as sternly as he can as we get inside and he fumbles for his key. 

"Alright, alright, alright," I mumble, stepping inside, grabbing his bottle of Jack off the counter before getting comfortable on the floor by the window. 

We all talk--as best we can--for a little while, Steven and the boys making some calls to get some dealers here, and the only thing on my mind is getting a potent fix, until I hear something...very faint, very familiar...very, very, familiar...I furrow my brows to focus more, ignoring the guys' laughter and voices, my eyes training on the wall opposite of me. 

My subconscious puts it together before my conscious does, like smelling a blanket from a childhood home and immediately being taken back before your brain can quite grasp the feeling. 

Multiple memories shrouding that sound of Vivian that only she can really pull off. 

It doesn't take rocket science equation solving skills to put together why I'm currently hearing her soft, pretty moans carry on next door. 

I'm pretty sure more members of Guns, aside from Steven, are staying here right now. 

Apparently Stevie hears it not long after and slips into the next suite, where the sound is coming from, that's connected to his suite. 

I don't hear it anymore after he gets back in here. 

"Dealer's coming or what?" I ask Steven, my high starting to get blowed from the fact that my wife is next door on her back for someone who isn't me. 

I'd be jealous if I weren't numb to it by now.

"They're all tied up, man." Steven tells me and I groan, thinking for a second. 

An idea comes to mind that makes me want to bang my head against the wall, but I'm desperate and left with no option at this point. 

"I know a guy," I mumble, dragging myself up to the phone in the little kitchen area, reluctantly dialing a number I never wanted to dial again. 

It rings once...twice...three times… 

"Hello?" He answers and I roll my eyes. 

"'Sup man, it's Nikki." I reply, trying to put on my best "friendly" voice, even though it's making my blood boil that the bastard I could see myself killing is ultimately the one that's gonna be able to save the day. 

"Hey, dude." He replies. 

"Me and a few buddies of mine are out here at the Franklin Plaza Suites and need a few things." I rub the back of my neck. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

It's quiet, and he reluctantly breathes out. 

"I'll see what I can do." I can hear the satisfaction in his voice that I'm having to call him. 

Within the next forty minutes there's more people here than I'm comfortable with, groupies, and hangerson, and other drug adoring morons, and then my saving grace comes through the door once Steven lets him in. 

Slash is already slipping into a Jack induced stupor. Sally came in a few minutes ago screaming at all of us guys for leaving her at the Cat House. 

We didn't even realize we'd forgotten her. 

She's in the bathroom, probably keeping herself in there to keep from starting an argument with Slash in front of everyone. 

Robbin's on the phone with Laurie.

Apparently it's just in men's nature to get fucked up, call our wives, and profess our undying love for them despite the fact we cheat on them nearly every time we hangout with our friends. 

I wonder what would happen if I went in there on her and Duff right now. 

What would she say? 

Probably nothing. 

She'd just look at the floor and try not to cry, probably. 

What would I do? 

I know that I know what's going on between them, but if I actually walked in and saw them together, caught in the act…

I'd either be a pussy and cry over it, or kill them both--him first and make her watch, and then just slowly torture her or something. God, I'm fucked up. Even though I'm pretty sure being married to me is torture enough to her. 

I know it's torture to me, too. 

"Here dude," Sparkie hands me a syringe and a spoon, and I look at him, too out of focus to concentrate on getting it right. 

"Fix me." I say to him and he scoffs. 

"Okay, dude." He starts getting it ready and I look at that wall again. Staring at it, taking a sip of my drink. 

Fucking Vivian. 

Of course. Her. Of all the women I've hooked up with and dated in my life, she--the most harmless, at least in my dumbfuck mind when I first met her--is the one to screw me over like this. 

And I've let her. 

If I did what Vince does to Sharise and have that whole, "no hanging out with your boy friends without me" rule, this wouldn't even be an issue. 

That's the problem. Somewhere along the way I loosened her leash a little too much and now she's chewed her way through it entirely. 

"You look like you're in hell, you know," Sparkie tells me, fixing the tourniquet around my arm… "But that's okay, you're about to be in heaven in just a few seconds." He assures me. 

I know he's right. I just need to hang on to that. 

In just a few seconds, I'll be--

I hear Vivian, again, and I reach around my neck and grab onto her cross I've been wearing for weeks, now, squeezing it at the sting of the needle going into my skin. 

I feel him shoot me up, my mind waiting to chase and catch the high that I just know is about to come. 

My fingers slip from the crucifix, and I feel myself fall back before a weightless feeling washes over me.

Present

I keep rereading the damn paper, repeatedly, trying my hardest not to throw a fit...

Nikki Sixx and his wife, Vivian, recently confirmed that she is indeed pregnant issuing a simple and straightforward,"Yes, it's true," statement earlier this week through Nikki's manager, and--as speculated--her pregnancy is not with Nikki. Many fans and some friends of the couple are blown out of the water by this sudden turn of events, others who are familiar with the rockstar and his band but never really paid much attention to his personal relationships, are now curious as to who exactly Vivian Sixx is. Well, in an open letter, rumored to be intended for print in Rolling Stone, a few anonymous former roadies of Mötley Crüe--who partook on their Girls, Girls, Girls, tour in 1987--are here to introduce who they saw behind the scenes of flashing cameras and public sweet moments with husband Nikki. 

"This is a letter to Mötley Crüe fans, we're a mere handful of people out of the many who witnessed monstrosities behind the scenes while on tour with the Crüe since Summer of 1987, none of which were caused by the band or any members, themselves, but one woman in particular. We had no reason to really bring any of this up, but in light of recent news, we are disheartened and angered of the betrayal against one of the four men who gave us an opportunity to live several months in our lives that will forever impact us in the best way known, and provide heartwarming memories by the dozen. This is not an attack on Nikki Sixx, especially given his past struggles with opioid addiction, alcoholism, as well as his abusive wife. The first time we met Vivian, she was polite and friendly, but very assertive. It was obvious it would be her way or no way,  and often times she and Nikki would go back and forth with who was running things. It was obvious Nikki was unwell at times, whether it'd be hungover, sick from withdrawal or simply tired from a show the night before. Vivian would choose these times when he was at his most exhausted to pick fights with him. He'd tell her to go away or 'f**k off,' and she'd continue to verbally and mentally beat him down more than he clearly already was. When Rolling Stone came to interview the band shortly after the wild rumor Vanity started publicly, we were told Vivian had tried to physically attack the reporter working on the story, simply because he made the comment that Pepsi wasn't good for her. Small things like that would often set her off, leaving security, managers, and band members to try to dodge fists while pulling her off of her unsuspecting victim, who was typically Nikki. Many times we'd hear them arguing in the hotel rooms, dressing rooms, bathrooms, tour bus, etc., usually followed by sounds of what we can only describe as 'pitchy, hungry, pornstar moans' on her part--clearly using her body to get back in his good graces after wearing him down. After their fights, Nikki would always have a bottle of alcohol on hand, some kind of drug, and would keep to himself. Our comradery with him soon began to dwindle with each month because it was obvious she was beginning to suck the life out of him. He was more introverted overtime, and higher more often than he was at the beginning of the tour. It really got bad when Guns N' Roses came on tour for a month, because Vivian's attacks on him and the other members of Mötley Crüe, began to pop off as randomly and explosively as fireworks. We'd witness some foul exchange (brought on by Vivian)  between her and Nikki backstage, either verbal or physical, nearly every night. People can talk down on the Crüe for being bad boys, but they've shown everybody that's helped them on tour, gratitude. All the wives and girlfriends that would come on that we'd offer food and drinks to would always express gratitude with a smile and a warm heart, but Vivian would always stay silent and cold towards us. She's a trashy, bitchy, whiney, hateful, spiteful, conniving, plotting python that now has her cold-blooded grasp around not only Nikki's neck, but also Duff's. Her game is to find the most well rounded guys while maintaining under her guise that she's a kind, Christianly woman, and see how far she can push them until they work themselves to death, literally, with trying to please her. We aren't surprised that she's pregnant, she probably video taped herself conceiving the damn thing and sent it to Nikki. We hope she did so it can be practice  for her inevitable low-budget porn career when she runs out of rockstars to f**k and kill, as we've mentioned, she already sounds like one in the throws of passion. Anyway, Nikki, we're hoping you decide to kick her aside and start fresh. Duff, get a paternity test, dude. Crüe fans, don't let that red-headed bitch fool you."

"Who the hell is Page Six to give these bastards a platform in the first place, Doc?!" I snap.

"Nikki, I am handling it, I'm on it--"

"--You tell the L.A. Times and Rolling fucking Stone if they take this shit and run with it, too, I'm personally coming to their offices and fucking them up. Not the publications themselves, but the people trying to put this out there in print, individually." I hiss.

"Nikki, just--" 

"--And who the hell--what roadies did this?!" 

"I don't know, Nikki, but I'm trying my hardest to get it cleaned up." He assures me. 

"'She's a trashy, bitchy, whiney, hateful, spiteful, conniving, plotting python that now has her cold-blooded grasp around not only Nikki's neck, but also Duff's. Her game is to find the most well rounded guys while maintaining under her guise that she's a kind, Christianly woman, and see how far she can push them until they work themselves to death, literally, with trying to please her'?!" I read that snippet, just so he can be reminded how fucked this is, trying my hardest not to start pitching a fucking fit. 

"Fucking AJaxx isn't even cleaning this up! Press mongrels are gonna be humping these bastards legs for giving them sales for the next nine months!" I outburst. 

"Sixx, don't worry about it, alright? It won't go past this shitty Page Six story, okay?" 

"It's fucking horse shit." I ignore him, trying to keep my cool. "Fuck." I kick at the leg of the table, running a hand through my hair.

"I guess one decently positive thing is that Viv doesn't know about this," he says next and I shake my head a little, feeling a migraine starting to come on, strong. 

I was tempted then to check myself out of rehab and 'handle' it myself, but decided it wouldn't be worth it. I hoped it would go away and it would all blow over eventually.

"Vivian, don't listen to any of it, alright? Me and you and everyone on that tour know damn well it wasn't just you being a bitch and us being the innocent victims." I say through the phone as Viv tries to calm down, her breathing shaky and ragged from crying so much. 

"I know that but the fans and other people don't know that." She says to me, her voice quiet and tired. "I'm so embarrassed, Nikki." She adds. "I'm already embarrassed that everybody knows I cheated on you but now this whole thing…" she trails off and I feel guilt tug at my heart. 

I don't know what the fuck to say. 

I'm used to criticism from the press, but none of them have tore into me or any of the guys--except Vince after the Razzle accident--so personally and extensively as they're tearing at her. 

Calling me a devil worshipper and saying my music is shitty gets annoying and frustrating and even infuriating at times, but attacking my wife and calling her a low budget porn star and telling me to kick her aside? 

Fuck that. 

"I'm sorry, Viv. I really am." I assure her, honestly, closing my eyes when I hear her stifle a little sob out. "Where are you at right now?" I ask. 

"Duff wanted me to meet his family." She tells me. "I'll be back Saturday." 

I'm relieved she actually has a reason for not being here, but I'm also hurt that she didn't give me a heads up. But I don't want to talk about it right now. I think she's been punished enough today. 

"Okay...you didn't show yesterday and I was just worried." I admit. 

"I know, it was just a spur of the moment thing. He asked me last week and I didn't think it'd be an issue." 

"Oh." 

I glance around and let out a breath. 

"I, um, I'm gonna go. I got a group thing with the guys at 3:00." I tell her. 

"Okay." 

"Are you gonna be okay or do I need to break out and kick someone's ass?" I ask her, half-joking, and she laughs, making me smile. 

"I'll be okay." She tells me. 

"I'll see you next week, Sixx." 

I can practically hear the smile in her voice when she says, "see you next week." 

We hang up and I rub my lips together, taking a few deep breaths before heading to where me and the guys meet with Amber three times a week now. 

Tommy and Vince are waiting for me, and I plop down beside them, leaning forward, elbows on my knees, hands running over my face…

"Psst," Tommy nudges me and I look at him as Vince gets up to grab a cup of coffee. 

"What?" I ask him, and he puts his finger over his mouth. 

"You seen the shit they're on Vivian for?" He whispers and I furrow my brows, looking around. 

"The room is empty except us, dude, why are you--"

"--Shh," he says. 

"Why are you whispering?" I finish my sentence. 

"Because they probably have this motherfucker bugged out the ass." He replies, glancing around again. "I'm thinking of breaking outta here, man." He whispers very, very quietly. 

"You do know we're not being held here by legal obligation, right? They won't chase us down and have the cops on us if we just check ourselves out." I point out and he furrows his brows a little. 

"Oh." 

"Why do you wanna 'break out'?" I ask. 

"I miss Heather and my dogs and I wanna be able to be there Viv, dude. She fucking needs us right now and we're, like, over an hour away--disconnected from shit. I mean we wouldn't even know what the fuck was going on in the world if Doc wasn't keeping us in the loop, ya know?" 

I think about it for a second. 

"We're over a month into our three month stay, dude." I state. "We can't just throw in the towel, now." 

"I don't mean ditch it and stay gone. I just mean check out for a few days, go back home, see what all is going on and come back." He shrugs. 

It seems oddly appealing. 

Way too appealing, actually. 

"I don't know, Tommy…" I rub the back of my neck.

"I already talked to Vince about it and he's down."

"Of course he is." 

"And we wouldn't be doing it tomorrow or anything. I'm thinking next week." 

"Does Doc know?" I ask. 

"Fuck Doc." He scoffs. 

"Agreed." I nod, chuckling. 

"So, you in or not, man?" 

"Just for a few days?" 

"Just for a few days." 

"Then we're all coming back in?" 

"Like we never left to begin with." 

"No drugs, no parties, not even alcohol." 

"Just spending time with our families and then back to the grindstone." He states. 

"...I'm in."

 ...You know when you're on a shitty diet, eating boring, tasteless, "healthy" food, and then decide you've been stuck to your diet long enough that you can have one slice of cake because you're disciplined enough to control yourself? And now, two years later, you're still telling yourself you'll get back on your diet because after that slice of cake you just said, "fuck it," and never thought about forcing yourself to eat lettuce again? Let's just say leaving rehab prematurely works the same damn way.

[ofmythsandmadness]

i need a favour - seven.

PART SEVEN - bullet wounds and wounded hearts. (or, in which, they’re just too eager for some relief from the pain that no one gives a shit about labels anymore). WORD COUNT - 3318. A/N - forgot i wrote this, forgot about it for months & here we are. sorry. i’ve not really had much interest in writing this or anything in this style on here lately, but i didn’t want to leave this totally abandoned. figured, there’s no point in letting it rot away, might as well post (and for some reason, there’s been a spur in people reading this, so.) START FROM THE BEGINNING - one | two | three | four | five | six

PEOPLE THEORIZE A LOT ABOUT COMAS. And more specifically, what they do to a person.

More specifically than that, where a person goes, once in one. What the mind and psyche creates for them, where and when they escape off to while their body falls apart. If they relive their life’s best and worst moments until they can return to reality, if they dream on continuously - like the world was just one bad trip, and waking up they would not even realise their sleep had lasted more than a day. Or, if the person’s aware of everything around them, just unable to open their eyes and rejoin life - but maybe that was something totally different entirely.

But it was nothing like that, for her.

There was no way to tell just how much time transpired, when out; it could have been an hour, a couple days, three years tossed down the drain, for all she knew. Time moved so much differently, lost in the hellish dreamscape of the inbetweens of life and death. 

For the most part, she felt absolutely nothing at all. Not even a sense of drowning, or darkness, or anything around her; like she was dead, her brain was turned off, and really...nothing at all. The only way she knew she was still alive and things were happening was when her brain woke up just a little, enough to send her into panics she could not express. She still could not move or speak or fucking breathe on her own, but she felt the world crashing in, sluggish and deafening around her. People moving around her, voices, loud noises echoing like crashes and explosions that she could not place. It felt like she had been laid down in a warzone, paralysed from head to foot and forced into silence. Just waiting for her eventual death.

And the voices...she really could not distinguish most. Or if they were even real. She got flashes of familiarity, phrases and sentences that added up to only nonsense in her mind - threats of violence, promises, old memories so faded they might as well be someone else's. None of it made sense. It just made her feel more and more scared, and trapped, every time she ‘woke up’ again. Left her craving the still of death once more, waiting for its skeletal hands to cradle her trembling figure again.

Finally, however, she heard the first real sound in a long time. She left the stillness to a strange noise, not a voice but a repetitive beep that would not turn off. At first, she thought it was also in her mind and that if she just ‘shut’ her eyes, sleep would once more overtake her - but despite her mental protests, the sound wouldn’t stop. If anything, it got louder, forcing her forward until she could just about think of opening her eyes.

And then, the beeps were joined by another sound; soft, almost non-existent mumbles, or snuffling of something? Something alive, not a machine, but...Y/N wasn’t sure what it was at first. 

That was, until she began to move. With all the strength possessed in her frail figure, she pushed her lids open, blinking away copious tears welling at the bright light and forcing her eyes to work again.

She found herself in a small, white room - and though her mind seemed a million miles away, she could sort of guess it was a hospital room. There really was not much around her, the bed being the main furniture. The beeping came from her right, and she was able to crane her neck just enough to see some sort of monitor, the sort she would have seen on a crappy doctor’s show. With flashing lights and graphics she really couldn’t make out and honestly just hurt her head. She turned away from that pretty fast.

To her left, however, was a different story. She found the other source of the noise; Diego was slumped over in a chair too bony to be comfortable, softly snoring away. Which was never a good sign. The man was a quiet, still sleeper, like he was always waiting for something to happen - but after too long without sleep, his body would collapse into emergency catch-up mode. She had seen it many times after he’d come to her. And he always snored then.

She sighed, letting her head fall back against the pillow. There was no pain, which she guessed was either good or bad (who knew what the doctors were pumping through her veins, eh?) but her mouth was bone dry and she felt helpless, like even calling out for Diego was a deathly trial.

Y/N craned her neck again, taking his slumped figure in. He was almost right next to her bed, close enough that if she could reach out -

-her hands shook like tsunami waves, crashing against his black jacket like jagged knives of limestone on a cliff. She just could not find strength enough to angle them right, finding herself only able to brush the man and hope he felt her touch from wherever he had drifted to. Forget calling out; she could only mimic motion in the barest of touches, waiting for something to happen.

Luckily, it only took maybe a minute for him to stir. Slowly at first, then when realising what woke him up, he was up in seconds. His hands met her own, squeezing tight.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he croaked out, voice hoarse and worn out - she could only imagine how much stress-induced yelling he had been doing. Begging for something to be done, snapping at anyone who tried to get him to move; the guy was all too predictable. “I just fell asleep, I-”

“-s….okay…” Her vocal cords felt rusted over; how long had it been since she spoke? Her hand left his, gesturing weakly towards her throat. “Wa...wa...ter?”

“Shit, right.” He left her side and grabbed at a glass by her right. Within a moment he was by her left again, bringing it up to her lips. His hands shook ever so slightly. “Careful.”

But she ignored his word and slurped at it eagerly, too parched to be ashamed at how childlike her actions were. Too long had her throat been forced dry - how long had it been since the relief of a glass of water? 

Once she had drunk enough, she waved it away, doing her best to smile. “Thanks.”

“Course.” His eyes remained on hers, steady and dark. “How...how are you feeling?”

She glanced away for a moment to look down at herself in the bed, before looking back. Slowly, Y/N shrugged. “M’not sure...weird. I don’t know how I should feel.”

“Right. Well, you’re on a shit load a’drugs, so I guess that’s stopping the pain. Uh...you remember what happened?”

She frowned. “Sort of. More...I don’t know. Remember the pain...like burning, on my side. Talking...was there a Polish chick?”

Diego didn’t crack even the tiniest of smiles. “Ukranian. But yeah. She was with you when it h-hi-she called the ambulance.”

“Right.”

“Look, Y/N, I am so-”

Before he could continue, a new voice joined the duo, one Y/N was certain she did not know. She tore her eyes away from the man by her side to take him in; tall, gray-haired and smiling from ear to ear. It made her a little uneasy, the look; was this how all gunshot victims were treated? With doctors who thought big grins and happy tones were a good answer? If she didn’t already have a headache, she would by just one look his way.

“Good to see you up! Was wondering when that’d be happening.” He seemed to grin even larger, if that was even possible, and made his way around her bed. She watched him fiddle with something behind her, before moving into her view once more. “How are you feeling?”

“Um...weird,” she mumbled, struggling to find any words to describe the feeling. “Tingly.”

“No pain?”

“Not really.”

He nodded. “Good. You’re going to be hopped up on pain meds for a while, but just let someone know when you start feeling anything.”

“Okay.”

Once more, he nodded. He looked like a bobblehead, almost, in the ways his head swivelled and shook on his too-small neck. “You got quite lucky, I must say. Good support system. This guy, right here? Barely moved at all while you were out.”

Her hand squeezed a little, in Diego’s. “How long was I out?”

“About three days, after surgery.”

“S-surgery?”

His grin got a little strained, there, but somehow still remained. Impressive. “Yes. Yeah, we had to get you straight into intensive care after you were brought in. The bullet hit your right hip, just about here-” he grazed the blanketed leg lightly, “-but then travelled downwards into your leg. Which was somewhat good, you avoided serious damage to your hip, but it did nick your femoral artery.”

Y/N frowned, glancing down to where his hand hovered. She could not even remember feeling pain in her leg; it had radiated from her hip alone. “How...how did it go down?”

“Well,” the man sighed, “from what we could gather, you were at just the right angle for the bullet to go straight through the hip. Since it didn’t hit that bone - again, a lucky point on your part, it tore right through and down to your upper thigh. The bullet actually remained lodged, which made reason for surgery. If it had come straight through, well, I don’t know what situation we’d be in but you were very fortunate. Held you from bleeding out on us.”

Something about the emphasis on ‘lucky’ made her feel somehow worse. Like she was a kid all over again, and before getting the bad news, her parents had to amp up the few ‘good’ things about the situation. She really wished he would stop smiling.

“How much...I…” she weakly lifted her hands, gesturing downwards. “How much damage has been done? In simple terms...please.”

His grin shrank a little more. “Well, that’s a bit complicated. The surgery was a success, although there were several blood transplants needed to cover that hit your artery sustained. However, because of said bleeding, and the way the bullet hit, it will be a long recovery time. The leg muscles are built to be used, but when damaged as yours was, well - I can bring in the charts and explain this to you simply, if you want?”

Y/N bit her lip, hard enough to rip through. Absent-mindedly, she noticed the taste of blood, licking a bead of red off. “Long?”

“The timeframe is hard to estimate,” he said - and at least that time, he had the courtesy to look semi-apologetic. “After a couple days, we’ll check in and see how well the limb is functioning, if the muscles are healing properly. You should be able to head home by that time, if it's healing right. But I’m afraid you're not going to be able to use the actual limb for a while.”

Vaguely, from what felt like far away, she heard Diego curse. The doctor kept talking, throwing around words she could not understand, verbal warfare against her already panicking mind, creating a chasm of stress and fear inside her brain. She wanted to do something, reassure him, ask the doctor what she could do and when - but it was impossible when she herself was drowning in panic.

Where had Diego gone? Why did he feel so far away? He sat beside her, but his hands were fidgeting and his face tight, and she just wanted him to tease her, hug her, promise her that she wasn’t lo-

“-judging by your faces, this isn’t sounding great but I promise, you’re in the best possible case scenario. I mean, you got here at the best time, you’ve had the best working to put you back together. And physical therapy will be a big help, you’ll be recommended some top-tier-”

“-whenwillIbebetter?” 

Her words were hardly a breath, leaving right along with the little air in her system, but Diego still heard it. He clutched tight to her tsunami waves for hands and looked pleadingly the doctor’s way. “Can we h-have a moment?”

“I-” his eyes darted between the two, before resigning to an answer. “Sure. A nurse will be in at five, with me. Let me know if anything happens.”

Diego just nodded and watched him leave. The second he was out the door, he turned her way, hands moving from hers to hold her face, brush away the tears quickly slipping down her cheeks. Blearily, she made out his own eyes, swimming with emotions she had not seen from him in a long, long while. “Hey. Hey, it’s - it’s g-g-gonna-”

“-I got shot,” she huffed, struggling to get the words out between sobs. “I got shot, I got - I can’t walk?”

“That’s not -”

“-holy shit, Diego,” she cried, and in an instant his arms were around her, holding her as close as he could to his own trembling figure. She tried to talk, but failed and simply gave into the sobs. Words struggled to make their way through, really indiscernible and lost. Whatever it was, Diego could probably guess the point they were making - and it did not ease the guilt bubbling in his stomach for a second.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” she whispered, sobs turning into quick huffs of breaths caught like she was running out of air. “You - the guy - the way he talked - I’m so fucking-g screwed.”

“Don’t say that.”

“That’s how they do it, don’t they? Make you feel...lucky, like you dodged a -” she stopped to snort, like any of this was funny - “-a bullet, but you’re really screwed.”

“Stop.”

“What if I never walk again?”

His arms stiffened around her - only for a second, but enough for her to notice. It was not a thought only she had had. What more did he know? “I...l-look, you’ve always said it best. Look at the bright side.”

She slipped out of his grasp then, pulling back so he could see her face. Stained with tears and puffy, with red and dark circles alike taking a toll on the previously bright expression. She was scared, and rightfully so. 

“I don’t know how to do that,” she mumbled, staring him down as though somehow, she could give him all the fear through her eyes, make him feel all the things she did. And maybe she could, because the longer he looked, the harder it felt to keep his own composure. 

“I don’t know how to do that...not with this.”

Diego didn’t say anything to that. All he did was hold her a bit tighter and sigh heavily as he traced circles into her back with shaking hands. In return she used his shoulder as a tissue and openly sobbed, uncaring as to who saw or what repercussions came. As far as she could see, it didn’t matter anyways. Did it?

“What do I do now?”

Her words were soft, kitten mews into the heavy silence. Accented only with another heavy sob.

“I don’t know, Y/N.”

She cried a little harder. His arms couldn’t hold her close enough.

“But I’ll be right there with you. M’not letting you go, not now.”

She sniffled. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? I mean it.”

“I’m a fuck-”

“-shut up,” he murmured, hand finding hers and closing over it. He held it to his own pounding heart. “I’ll be there. That’s that. Okay? W-whatever happens, I will be there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Y/N shut her eyes and leant her head against his dampened shoulder. She let herself focus on the sound of his heartbeat and the steadily beeping machines, somehow a semi-relaxing melody despite the stress behind each. She squeezed his fingers gently.

“O...kay. Okay.”

She felt his lips meet the crown of her hair, then his own head fall against hers. And then it was just nothing more than the two of them. A small duo, amidst the chaos of it all, finding just a moment of peace before things got even worse.

That was not the end of her tears shed that day, far from it. She cried more than she had in years, maybe more than her entire life. She cried when her sister came, when her dad showed up and told her her mother couldn’t get away from work, she bit through her lip trying to hold back the tears when her class’ warm messages of ‘get better’ finally got delivered. The dam was broken; the water dripped freely down her cheeks, waterfalls of emotions held back for too long.

Six weeks was a minimum of her being able to properly walk again, and it felt like it was a lifetime. The doctor broke down physical therapy rules, recovery times, prescriptions and all the ways she could be fucked otherwise by this wound, and the nurse pumped her to the brim with all sorts of medicines she couldn’t begin to pronounce. Her sister pretended to cry before leaving and her dad drank through six straight coffees, dumping packet upon packet of Splenda until the garbage can was filled with paper and cardboard cups. The doctor droned on and on, and the nurse kept ‘checking up on her’, and everyone kept wishing her fake sentiments and fake smiles that might as well be placebos, sent to placate her weakening psyche.

It was only hours later, when there was any relief. When they were all gone, and yet for some reason, Diego stayed.

“Don’t’cha have to…” she cleared her throat, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. “Y’know. Fight crime? Play neighbourhood superman tonight?”

Diego shook his head. His grasp on her hand tightened and it was only then when she realised how long he had held on. She had gotten used to the feeling, with her own fingers limp and weak throughout the day, and yet he had traced steady circles into her skin for the entire day and into the night.

“Not tonight.”

“Diego...I’ll be okay.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Just go, I’ll-”

“-m’not leaving,” he grunted, firm and hoarse. He ducked his head so she could not see his expression, but Y/N did not have to see his face to know what he was thinking. “S’all.”

She was exhausted and still weak, and the limbs that did work didn’t seem to want to, but still she tried. Y/N adjusted herself on the hospital bed and laced her fingers properly through his, gripping tighter than she could all day. His head moved at that, but did not lift.

Carefully, she lifted their joined hands to her chapped lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. The lump in her throat grew larger, and she found herself unable to speak more than a ‘thank you’, but maybe it was more than suffice, for the two of them.

Only then did their eyes meet, and his other hand moved to grip tight to theirs. Diego’s lips quivered, but he stayed silent, simply letting go of the breath held back in his own throat. Their faces remained close, separated only by their own hands, but holding onto the matched caring gaze reflected on both of their faces.

There was a feeling of mutual fear, and grief, and shame and loss that ascended the wound - years of pain between the two of them that sped up to meet this moment joyfully. But they did not speak on any of it. Just held tight to one another, even as her hands grew weary and trembling and his gaze grew dark.

She fell asleep looking at him, and feeling finally, the littlest bit of hope.

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[takeflight-hermitcraftau]

Chapter 2-Two Brain cells with a Death Wish

Grian looked back at Mumbo, the words resonating in his head for a second. “Well… You see.” He started out softly, sitting up straighter and wrapping his wings loosely around himself. “In my other world, Evolution, We started finding these pillars. These symbols made of bedrock and obsidian. If we did good deeds, if we followed what they told us to do, we were rewarded. Any sign of selfishness or cruelty was punished.” Grian scratched at the back of his neck, looking at Mumbo for any signs of annoyance.

“So they were… essentially the gods of your world?” He asked, Grian nodded.

“Essentially yea. They watched over us and made sure we got through updates at the pace they wanted us too. Everyone on the server told me my wings were because of them, that I should be happy, and that I might be like them. But I don’t wanna be. It seems so boring. You build the same pillars, the same towers, without any change. You don’t seem to have any worldly ties. It seems… lonely. Besides, with my nature I’m pretty sure they hate me.” Grian curled up into himself a bit, his voice trailing off into a mumble.

“You’re nature? You mean your playful and silly attitude? You mean your work ethic and your willingness to try new things and learn?” Mumbo asked, a small and comforting smile pulling onto his face. Grian looked up at him, almost confused by what he said. “Do you not believe me?”

“No, yes- i mean-! I don’t know. I’m not used to all this. Everyone back home kinda just ignored me until I decided to blow up their base or steal diamonds. When they needed me to rebuild or replace stuff. People usually didn’t call me over to just have a chat.” Grian said, sighing as he shifted to face Mumbo. “But what about you? What about everyone else here? Why do you all have wings?”

“Well… I shouldn’t tell everyone’s stories. Some are a bit personal. But I believe most of them come from a glitch. Something happened and we were spawned in with them. We don’t really question it.” Mumbo shrugged, “But people like Doc and Cleo have a bit more of a troubled history with their glitched parts. Not to mention they were already player hybrids to start. But hey, those sorts of things are in the past, and they make us look bloody cool don’t it?” Mumbo grinned, listening to Grian’s high pitched laugh as his head was thrown back.

“Right. Now… just cause i’m curious. How fast can you go?” Grian asked, trying to change the topic. Mumbo perked up proudly.

“I’d say a solid 50 blocks per hour.” He said, the feathers of his wings ruffling a bit. Grian just laughed.

“Only 50? I can get to a solid 100 without breaking a sweat!” Grian challenged. Mumbo stood up.

“You wanna test that mate?” he asked. Grian stood up as well.

“First one to the fantasy district and back wins?”

“Deal.” The two shook hands, readying themselves at the top of Mumbo’s base, hands firm against the white concrete, legs bent and ready to snap at a moments notice. Their wings were open, Mumbo’s only slightly so he didn’t slam Grian into the ground on take off.

“Three…” Grian started, a grin pulling at his face.

“Two…” Mumbo glanced over to the dirty blond, not liking the look on his face. Chaos was aflame in his eyes, and it was almost unnerving.

“ONEGO!” Grian yelled, his feet pushing against the concrete as he launched himself into the air. He sped off, leaving Mumbo screaming in the distance. “EAT MY TAIL FEATHERS MUMBO JUMBOLIO!” Grian yelled behind himself, before looking straight ahead. He expertly dodged mountains and tall trees, hands out in front of him and helmet secured tightly to his head.

Wind whipped passed him, and he had to yell an apology to Scar for nearly crashing into him, but the two narrowly avoided each other. Grian smiled widely as the smell of the ocean faded into grass and trees, then back into that salt like scent. He saw the starting of False’s base, the start of the fantasy district. “HEY FALSE!” Grian called out to the building blond. He landed on top of her little mountain, grinning widely. He couldn’t even see Mumbo.

“Oh! Hey Grian what’s up?” False flew over to him.

“Oh I’m just beating Mumbo in a race. I’m waiting to see him before i bolt back.”

“You cheeky sod.” False laughed, and Grian joined in. “Oh I see him now!” False pointed out, and Grian just waved to Mumbo happily.

“See ya!” Grian laughed, taking off once more and blasting past Mumbo.

“You little bas-!” Grian didn’t hear the rest of Mumbo’s sentence, laughing hysterically has he flew onto Biffa’s mountain. He landed carefully.

Or tried too.

He screamed as he was flying far too fast, collide face first with the ground.

Grian experienced kinetic energy

Docm77: gg

MumboJumbo: hA

MumboJumbo: OHNO

MumboJumbo experienced kinetic energy

Grian respawned inside of his shipwreck, laughing wildly. He held his stomach and laughed until he fell out of bed.

Docm77: GG

Falsesymmetry: Omg i caught that on camera.

Grian clutched his stomach, his head thrown back in wild laughter. “Oh my god. That’s too perfect!” He stood up slowly, rushing over to Mumbo’s base. He swam up onto his platform and took off. He was still laughing by the time he got there, Mumbo standing frazzled by his bed. “Oh my god that was too funny.” Grian wheezed, landing on the little treehouse Mumbo had made. Mumbo just burst out laughing as he realized what exactly just happened.

“Oh my- Oh my god. That was perfect. I should’ve been recording!” Mumbo laughed, the two just sitting on the platform and taking deep breaths to calm themselves down. “Soo i totally won that.” Mumbo grinned, yelping as he was hit on the shoulder.

“No you did not! If we hadn’t died I totally would’ve won!” Grian protested. He stood up. “Come on lets go get our stuff back.” He took off quickly once more, never seeming too loose his energy. Mumbo smiled at the new hermit as he flew off, sighing softly. Just another day in the Hermitcraft world.

Grian landed on top of the mountain, quickly collecting his things as the sun went down. He pulled on his armor, held his sword in his hands and went back to his base after he messaged Mumbo that he’d be going to bed. He dived down into the ocean, using his wings to propel him underwater. His wings were sleek and rather small, nothing compared to people like TFC and Doc. His wings were built for speed and agility. He swam in through the neck of the bottle, popping out into his cramped base. He pulled a nametag out of one of his chests, and quickly took out a marker, writing ‘TAG’ in large and bold letters over it.

He pulled out his camera again, starting it up and going to record. He explained the rules of his new game, writing them down in a book as he did so. He was grinning like mad, a fire in his eyes he didn’t even know his soon to be chaos was fueling. Grian was giggling to himself as he wrote everything down, quickly flying out of his base and onto the little platform. He shook out his clothes and wings once more, taking flight and rushing over to Mumbo’s base. He looked onto his communicator, finding Mumbo’s gamertag and noticing he had went afk for a while. He groaned loudly, just for now hiding in a corner and watching the chickens that had suspiciously filled Mumbo’s base.

Grian ended up perching himself onto Mumbo’s enchantment station, one knee to his chest while his other leg dangled off the bookshelves. He kept throwing eggs everywhere, the occasional chicken spawning in. He hummed softly to himself, and was rather surprised that he had the patience to wait for Mumbo instead of just flying off to get someone else.

Docm77: Does anyone have a few books to spare? I only need l 3.

MumboJumbo: Oh yea! Just come into my base and snag them.

Grian pressed himself against the wall, hiding out of Mumbo’s sight just in case. He went to peak around the wall, only to find he was still afk!

Being afk was a sleeplike state that was induced after a few minutes of standing completely still. For some people it allowed them to retreat into a mind space, for others it was just like meditation. But it allowed mobs to spawn near a player, or for machines to continue working. It was bad edicate to do anything to people while they were afk.

Grian sighed, deciding to go for Doc instead, hiding next to Mumbo’s ladder and sitting there, waiting for the player hybrid to climb down the ladder into the place. He groaned loudly, walking over to Mumbo and poking at him.

“Mumbo jumbo you are afk.” He sang boredly, “I’m gonna take your mustache away-” He puffed out his cheeks as he got no response. God. He felt like a needy girlfriend. But he was so bored! You can’t blame him!

A loud squeak rang past his lips as he heard a accented voice complaining faintly, the sound hovering above him. He quickly rushed back to his spot, practically bouncing up and down as chickens walked around the whole place. He heard a loud explosion, before a death message popped up. Shit. Grian quickly climbed up the ladder of Mumbo’s base, quickly getting Doc’s scattered things and rushing to put them in a chest before everything despawned.

It was normal practice for him, as it had been mostly ingrained into his head that because of his speed he needed to help others with when they inevitably died. He sighed softly, making a sign and putting it on the chest, giving Doc directions to Mumbo’s base. He quickly slipped back into Mumbos base, and waited another ten or so minutes before he heard Doc’s grumbling as he climbed down the ladder. He pressed his wings into the wall behind him, seeing the creeper hybrid walking towards Mumbo. He rushed him quickly.

Grian reached out a fist, punching Doc in the shoulder, threw him both the tag and the book, before bolting back up the ladder. “I GOT YOU!” Grian yelled in victory, laughing hysterically as he quickly climbed. Doc didn’t even manage to get a word in before Grian left, but he started laughing as well, rubbing his shoulder.

“What the hell?” He asked, looking at the book that had been thrown at him. “A tag game hm? Interesting.” His voice drawled menacingly, and he looked over at Mumbo. He took the items he originally came for, and left. Hey, he might be an evil genius but he’ll play by the rules.

Grian landed on his platform, laughing hysterically. He let out a small sigh to calm himself down, fluttering his wings a bit to let out some pent up energy. He plopped down onto the cobblestone ground, looking up at the sky with a wide grin. So far he wasn't getting any typing in the chat from Doc. So he knew the other wasn’t angry at him for being hit.

He stretched out his wings, looking to them. His wings were small compared to Doc and TFC. But he was pretty damn confident he could out fly either of them. He hasn’t been able to talk to Stress much, but he’s pretty sure her wings are smaller than his. It really didn’t matter though. What did matter, was that they were a group of people, all who had been deemed out-casts by others, or felt as such. And they found a home with one another. He found a home with them. And frankly, he kind of didn’t want to go back.

[unstoppableforcce]

a mistake ( 6 )

pairing: Poe Dameron x reader

previous part | next part | masterlist

a/n: if I promise things get better, would that make this hurt any less? this was originally attached to part 5, but grew into its own part!

“How bad is it?”

Your grip grew tighter around the wound and he swore he saw stars again, sadly, not in the way you normally induced them in his mind. Tighter and tighter and the pain only got worse, never numbing or adjusting to it, every quiver of your less than steady hands like a stab over and over and over—

“I’m not a doctor.” Voice tight, he knew you well enough to hear the stress even if it was so dark he couldn’t see anything.

It was the same tightness your voice had when you were stuck, when there was a problem you couldn’t solve. It didn’t happen often, but some days when he’s wandered out and found you out and working a problem somewhere in the hanger, sometimes he’d hear it slip in.

It was your panic reaction, as minor as it was, he could tell the difference in tone.

It must have been bad.

“Are you okay?” His head lulled back against whatever partially solid structure he was propped up against, his eyes strained to make out your face twisted in concentration. But it was too dark. He had to find comfort in your pain-inflicting grip.

“I’m fine.” You chopped out quickly but shook your head almost as fast to pull back the heat you laced the words with. “I’m sorry, I’m okay, I’m just not great with blood.”

He lifted the arm that still worked, intertwining his fingers loosely into the back of your hair. His arm was weak, he could barely hold it there, but he had to keep you close, to feel you there.

Except all he felt was blood.

“Babe—"

You flinched from his touch, “I’m okay, it’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing…”

“You’re the one who’s going to bleed out, we can worry about me later.” You fought, keeping the pressure, eliciting another grunt from his throat.

He inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the pain but there was no success, it only grew with your adjusting pressure, forcing his eyes to clench shut. Another shift, he had to clench them even tighter, tight enough to see stars again.

He just wished it had all gone differently. He didn’t imagine you were going to melt away all of your inhibitions, all your concerns or reasonings, but the worst he thought you could do was turn him down again. And now things were so much worse than even the disastrous reaction he also planned for.

“I’m always worried about you…” He exhaled loosely, not even realizing the words which were falling from his lips.

“You shouldn’t, I’m okay.”

It must have been blood loss. He felt sick to his stomach and light-headed all at once. But he tried to ignore it, stifling every grunt and groan. “I can’t help it.”

“Poe—”

“Did you mean it?” He sighed, hand falling deft from your head, his grip all but gone. “That you love me…”

You pulled a hand from his arm and reached it, even as blood-stained as it was, back to his face, slapping him gently. Then slapping him gently again. Then not so gently.

“You can’t pass out, I need you to stay awake.” You pleaded, waiting for him to blink his eyes back open before returning your grip to the lengthy and deep cut along his arm. “Please stay awake.”

He groaned at the grip adjustment and nodded futilely. “It’s just… I’m trying babe.”

“We’re deep down here, Poe, it’s going to take them a while to find us, you need to stay awake.”

He nodded again. He had done that math already.

Whatever had happened, some kind of explosion or attack on the base, he figured they couldn’t be the only people stuck in dorms or injured. If it rattled this far down, it must have shaken the main hanger and base much more.

He got out easy, it was some falling metal from the ceiling which sliced through him. You were thrown to the ground, the back of your head bled slightly but you were having a much easier time…

He could only imagine how bad things were up top.

The pain was back as you shifted onto your knees, any move of your hand shifting the entire pain system coursing through him. Maybe he didn’t get out easy, maybe it was bad...

“Poe, you have to talk, keep talking.” 

Your voice sliced back through. He swore his ears were tuned for the sound. Since you came up next to him in the bar that night, and any time since then, he could pick your voice out from a parsec away. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if it would be the last sound he would hear now. 

He had to shake himself out of it. Think about something else, he tried to override his own brain, think about something else...

“Do you think it’s the First Order?” He muttered out, reopening his eyes in search of you again. Eventually, his eyes would adjust to the dull lighting, right? Eventually, he’d be able to see you?

He needed to see you.

“I don’t know.”

“We haven’t had an attack in so long and…” He was drifting off again. 

“Poe—”

“I’m trying, kriff, babe I promise.” He huffed, “I’m trying.”

But he could feel his breaths growing more and more jagged in his lungs, the only thing grounding him, keeping him from slipping all the way gone, was your constant grip, no matter the pain that came with it. Though, he was feeling the pain less and less.

He didn’t imagine that was a good thing.

“Did you mean it?” He fluttered his eyes, banging his head back, trying to snap himself back awake.

“Did I mean what?” You hummed out, clearly trying to focus.

“That you love me…”

You remained silent. For a brief second, he thought he drifted off and missed your answer, but he could feel each of his breaths, he could still make out the shape of you in the light. He was still awake; you were just quiet.

“Babe?”

Your voice was tight again. “Yes.”

“That’s good.” He laughed out with almost all the strength he had left, enough to get a small stifled laugh out of you.

But it barely lasted a second. You recoiled from it, sniffling and wiping your nose onto the sleeve over your shoulder.

“Are you crying? I can’t see you…”

“I’m not crying.” That was a lie. He could hear your voice growing tighter and tighter.

“I’m going to be okay…”

You scoffed, “Yeah, I know. I just don’t like blood.” You tried to cover it up, but he knew better. There was too much there.

“Don’t worry…” He dragged his good hand over your bare thigh where you knelt next to him, soft only because he didn’t have the strength for anything else, otherwise he was sure he’d be gripping onto you like his life depended on it.

He wasn’t all too sure it didn’t at the moment.

He rubbed just enough to let you know he was still breathing; it was the most comfort he could provide. But he could also feel you shivering under his touch.

“We’re trapped ten floors underground, I can’t see anything, you’re bleeding out and the ventilation isn’t running…” You shook your head again. “And it’s all my fault.”

“Babe, it’s not—”

“I knew something was coming, that something was wrong—” He lifted his hand up to your face, trying to numbly wipe away the tears he could feel you trying to keep back.

“You didn’t—”

“Your ship was sabotaged, Snap’s too, then the shields… I knew something was up…”

He let his head fall back again. The memories were coming back. Each day or night you came over, he remembered the casual mentions. The wiring mystery. The shields…

They had been attacked, and if what you suspected was true, some part of it had to come from the inside. And that was a thought worse than the pain as your grabbed again, readjusting your grip as your hands were doused in his blood.

“It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not—”

“Poe, if I knew something was wrong—”

“You didn’t know this was coming—”

“I-“

“You didn’t do this.” He urged, tightening his grip as much as he could on your leg. “Babe, this isn’t on you.”

“Poe, you’re going to bleed out and I did this—”

“And I thought you weren’t a doctor” He tried to lighten the mood, but even he couldn’t get behind it, he just didn’t have the heart for it. “I’ll be okay.”

“So, you’re allowed to be worried about me, but I’m not allowed to worry about you?” You scoffed back, sniffling once more.

He swore his heart broke to hear it. You spent so much of your time around him hiding all of your emotions, but this was you coming as close to bearing your soul to him as you seemed to be capable of, and it broke him. He just wanted to hold you, he wanted to reach out and hold you—

Your hand readjusted, slipping against his skin wet with blood and the pain was back again. “I’m sorry…”

“No, no…” The light-headedness was back, his sarcasm all that could leak through. “No, it feels good, please keep moving, that’s great.”

You could feel him slipping, but you couldn’t slap him again, you couldn’t pull away.

“Poe, please, stay awake, stay with me…”

“I’m here, babe, I’m not going… I’m not going anywhere…” He was drifting again, head leaning back—

You sat up further on your knees, trying to keep your grip steady as you leaned closer to him, nudging your forehead up tight against his, as close as you could press.

“Stay with me, please, just hold out until help…”

His lips were moving but nothing was coming out, he was drifting further and further.

“Poe please—”

“I’m here babe…” He tried to push back, to lean into you but he was running on fumes.

“Stay with me.”

His eyes fell shut. Everything was just as black as the room. All he could hear was the faint sound of your voice. But it was growing fainter and fainter…

“Stay with me…”

[aristephes]

Part Eight

Living in a small town on an island sounds idyllic, but the reality is, when you have mental health issues, it’s hell. There is little support and the doctors are either jaded or come from outside cultures that do not understand a lot of things that people from Western cultures experience. This was my personal hell. I had to deal with these quacks who, in my opinion, after seeing many of them, left me feeling depleted and discarded. They couldn’t have cared for a sick kitten. These people put me through the wringer, one doctor in particular, put me on all kinds of medication as he misdiagnosed me and figured I would just come good. That was not the case at all.

The last medication he put me on, Lithium, was by far the worst thing he could have done. After being on all kinds of nasty stuff, he figured why not? At that stage I had put on weight, I was up to around 120kgs. This lithium experiment would add another five and see me slip into the darkest, deepest depression I had ever had the misfortune of suffering.

I spent the next five years in a drug-induced haze; filled with brain fog, massive bipolar mania explosions and a complete personality change. I took up smoking, which I have despised all my life - albeit for a couple of weeks - and drinking; something I am not prone to doing unless on a special occasion. No. This was not right and it was not helping my poor wife, who by this point in time was struggling to make sense of it all.

Five years.

Have you ever spent a few days in bed feeling ill?

Ever felt like a worthless sack of shit, and just curl up and wait for the inevitable moment you fall asleep?

Just think about how bad I was... I couldn’t shower, I didn’t want to eat, I slept most of my days away or spent them on eBay buying shit that I didn’t need because my bipolar was out of control.

The doctor’s response? Nothing. He shortly thereafter left for the big city on the mainland and left me high and dry. Five long, dreary, depressing, draining years of brain fog, mania and pent up rage. Problem was, I had no way of releasing that rage because I simply did not have the energy, so it became crippling anxiety instead.

My wife had to try two more times to get me admission to hospital, but both times she was sent away, with me in tow and a little bag of meds to help me through the night. Pathetic. They didn’t have room at the hospital because too many of the beds were taken up by drug users having psychotic breaks and smashing the place up. So people with real issues had to be shunted back to wherever and their carers and loved ones had to pray to God that they didn’t wake up to a suicide.

It was frustrating. I felt like a burden and a failure.

Just when my wife needed me the most, I wasn’t there for her. I was a mess. I was beyond useless and I started to have issues with staying upright. My blood pressure was playing up, my heart was racing all the time, the weight gain had put pressure on my back and knees, resulting in constant pain beyond what I already suffered. I would be standing up and the next minute I’d be on the floor, with the room spinning around me.

It was time to take action... oh, yeah and let’s not forget that I looked like Homer Simpson because my liver was being affected by the lithium and my skin was turning yellow.

So yes, my life was fucked over royally by the very professionals that were meant to help me.

I had a carer come in and take me out once a week... just out to town, out on drives, just out... to get me some sunshine and fresh air. It was the little boost I needed... I figured that life could get better... but first, I had to make one big change.

At this point I asked for a new doctor and hoped beyond all hope that he or she would be able to assist me in some kind of recovery. It’s a miracle that I found one. He was brilliant. He was the first family centred psychiatrist that I had met. He involved my wife in my consults, spoke to her with respect and listened intently to her reports. Something my previous psychiatrist refused to do.

We asked for a medication review. He looked at the very long list of medications I had been taking and quickly ascertained that they were wrong for me. He put me onto just two meds. An anti-psychotic and an anti-depressant. Then, he made sure to follow up with me by making me regular appointments to see him. It was a miracle! Not only did my wife and soulmate stand by me, no matter how dark the times got, she made sure that I got the help I needed by persevering. We found a couple of places over those five years that could help us out, even with little things like respite care for the children and my wife... and myself.

It was a slow process as I had to change my meds over slowly.

Recovery was something I had heard about, but hadn’t really researched. I had been to ill... but, there was a light at the end of this tunnel. A light that would lead to a fresh, new lease on life and a different path for me - one that I had never contemplated before...

[ghostprincess]

Sweet Things, Ch. 1 (Mysterio x Reader)

I finally got around to posting something. Yay! This has been stirring around my brain for a while, since before the movie came out, and I’m glad I can characterize Quentin as mostly canon. This series’ title will be based off of “Sweet Things” by The Pretty Reckless because I love that song and couldn’t think of a better title. 

Summary: Mysterio kidnaps Y/N Parker as leverage against Peter, as well as because he has taken a liking to her. But the longer she stays with him, the more twisted her reality becomes, until it’s nothing but him. Will Peter be able to save her before it’s too late? Dark!fic, Stockholm Syndrome, dub-con, etc.

Warnings: ffh spoilers, violence, drug/tranquilizer use (but that happens in the movie), uhhh Mysterio is his own warning so??

The notion of chaperoning my brother’s field trip did not strike me as exciting. I dreaded the long flight and the presence of hormonal teenagers. Add in all the shared trauma from the “blip” and it all seemed to create a hearty concoction of disaster.  

However, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the trip was not as bad as I thought it would be. One of the new superheroes, Mysterio, had been helping Peter and what was left of SHIELD to destroy a new threat against the planet. He was a man named Quentin, a warrior from another dimension, who had lost his family and his entire planet to these creatures. I guess shared trauma wouldn’t be the word to use here, but given my history of losing my entire family for five years, we had some things in common that made him almost magnetic.

Besides the disastrous attacks of the impossibly terrifying Elementals and the looming threat of the earth’s destruction, I was having a pretty okay time. It wasn’t that Mysterio was pure eye candy… though he was… but he had a very unique personality that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Ever since the night I met him, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. His presence was electric, and although he was righteous and tortured and brave, something seemed… off. I suppose that happens when you have to put on a facade to save a planet that isn’t even yours, though. I couldn’t imagine what he’d been through, or how he somehow hid the pain behind his piercing azure blue eyes.

The sudden sounds of laughter and joyous screams pierced the air around me, pulling me from my daydream and putting me on edge. I was stationed on the grounds of the carnival in order to help the innocent civilians escape the attack that was about to break out. The night seemed normal and fun, as it should be; but I knew that would all end soon. 

Peter’s voice suddenly murmured electronically into my earpiece, confirming his position to Fury and Mysterio.

“Peter, please be careful,” I whispered into the comm, stomach doing backflips. I couldn’t lose him again.

“I know, I will, Y/N,” he responded before being interrupted by Fury’s irritated voice. I took the earpiece out and turned it off, knowing that if I listened to them fight I would either get extremely anxious or accidentally distract them with my big mouth. 

I dropped the earpiece into my shoulder bag and looked around; no sign of trouble yet, just a seemingly normal night of partying at the carnival. People in masks and colorful clothes ran around excitedly and the smells of popcorn and cotton candy wafted through the air.

No sign of fire or smoke anywhere. Was Beck really sure of the creature’s arrival? 

I looked around again, scanning the crowd for any signs of distress, but found nothing. Except.... one of Peter’s friends, the girl he liked, walked past me obliviously. 

Shit, they’re supposed to be at the opera!

I reached into my bag to report the unexpected arrival into the earpiece, but was interrupted when the ground shook and I nearly lost my balance. The sounds of cracking and sizzling interrupted the carnival music followed by the horrified screams of the civilians. The wind suddenly transformed into a gust of hot air and a large orange mass began to emerge from the ground. 

As the crowd began to scream and run away, chaos broke loose and I was being shoved in the crowd. I pushed back against the swarm of people, desperately trying to push them behind me to safety, making sure I could save as many people as possible.

“Go! Get out of here! Run!” I screamed. A circus tent was mostly blocking my view of the main battle, flashes of molten orange and electric green lighting up the night. The monster’s horrible screams became louder and the ground shook harder as it seemingly gained strength.

The crowd finally parted enough to where I could stand behind a tent and have a good sense of what was going on while staying hidden. I got the last of the crowd out of the way after a few minutes of pushing and shoving them out of the way of falling debris, then stopped to listen to the fight.   

The urge to eavesdrop on the comms between Peter and Beck was overwhelming, especially considering that Beck’s laser-energy blasts sounded almost useless against the creature. I desperately hoped Peter was okay, and my knees trembled as a fear-induced nausea began to wash over me. I looked around the side of the tent just as a large green explosion shook the night sky, the energy of the blast pushing me to the ground. 

Mysterio had done something huge; possibly lethal by the looks of it. The man was no longer hovering in the air and shooting lasers, and the green lights blinded most of my vision. I shielded my eyes and stayed on the ground until the electric zapping noises died down, and the monster’s wails disappeared. 

I looked around the edge of the tent again and saw Peter’s silhouette standing over Beck’s kneeling form, and I immediately ran towards them. He’s okay. He survived.

“Peter!” I yelled in panic, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“I-I’m okay, a-are you hurt?” he responded, looking crestfallen despite the victory. 

“I’m fine. Beck, are you okay?” I asked, reaching a shaky hand out to him.

“Well, now that you’re here, I’m alright.” He half-smirked at me and accepted my hand, pulling himself to his feet, his body slightly twisted in pain. I could almost feel Peter’s eye roll, and I didn’t blame him, though I found myself blushing nonetheless.

“Thank you for having his back,” I smiled, pulling the man into a tight embrace. I pulled away as I remembered seeing MJ and my stomach dropped, knowing I hadn’t seen her while I was evacuating the crowd.

“Oh! Peter, I have to tell you, I saw—“

“Y/N, go back to your base. We’re having a mission debrief and it’s need-to-know,” Fury interrupted from behind me. I startled, not even knowing he was there, then sighed.

“Alright. Peter, call me when you get back,” I said. I nodded at Beck with a sad smile and then turned and began the walk from the destroyed carnival back to the hotel. 

Having a younger brother as a superhero had definitely put me in some weird situations, but this has got to be among the top ranked. Especially when said younger brother used to be the same age as me until he was dusted for half a decade. My predicament was unique and exciting but no less terrifying and traumatizing. 

When Peter and May had returned, I had been in denial for days, thinking I’d finally gone crazy, until Captain America himself was brought in to explain to me what had happened. Ever since then, I’d been very protective of Peter, knowing that if I lost him again I would truly not survive. Silent tears escaped my eyes and I quickly wiped them away. 

He’ll be okay. They did it.

The distressed look in his eyes despite his victory begged to differ, and the thought ate at me relentlessly. What could have been wrong? Was he hurt? My heart rate was through the roof and I could feel the panic setting in as I imagined losing him again.

I entered the hotel and walked straight to my room, slipping past the students and two teachers frolicking around the lobby. MJ passed me in the hallway, looking shaken but unharmed, and I breathed a sigh of relief. 

I entered my room, 131, and I shut and locked the door behind me, finally sinking to my knees and allowing myself to hyperventilate. I couldn’t help but wonder whether the monster was really dead; what if it regenerated? What if another one showed up? Peter could’ve been in danger right now for all I knew, he could’ve…

Throughout the night, my thoughts slowly quieted down. I stood in the shower until the hot water ran out, the too-hot temperature being somewhat grounding and cathartic in my state. After I threw on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, I got into bed, the exhaustion finally hitting my body.

Knock knock knock.

I startled, sitting up in the bed and flicking on the lamp beside the bed. The clock read 1:42 AM. The knock had come from the window, and I looked up, seeing the figure floating outside my window. Mysterio. 

I quickly stood up and walked to the window to slide it open. He floated inside and then landed in front of me, the silvery helmet disappearing. His face showed pity and I looked away, embarrassed that he could read me so easily.

“Peter’s alright, I promise. Just got some verbal backlash from Fury, that’s all.” 

“Oh… okay. He never called me when he got back; he got back, right?”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Of course. He said something about talking to a girl he likes, so he’s probably just busy.”

“Oh, okay, that’s… that’s good.” I breathed a sigh of relief, falling back to sit on the edge of my bed.

“But how are you? Are you alright? I know it has to be scary, to have all this happening,” Beck said, putting a soothing hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him. His gaze was soft but calculated, as if he felt pity but knew what I was going to say before I said it.

“I’m fine. I just… can’t lose my brother again. Everything that happened with the snap, it just… it took its toll, I guess.” 

Beck sat down next to me and wrapped a comforting arm around me. 

“I’m really sorry to have to do this, Y/N.” I looked up at him in confusion.

“What do you m—“ A sharp pain blossomed in the side of my neck and I gasped. Beck pulled the empty syringe out and tucked it into a compartment in his armor, then watched as I tried to stand up. The room was spinning and my body was getting heavier, and I tried to run to the door to escape. What is going on?

Beck grabbed my arm and that was all it took for me to collapse to my knees, my vision slowly fading out. He walked to kneel in front of me and smiled sadly.

“I really am sorry. I’ll explain when you wake up.”

Just then, I heard a frantic banging at the door, and Peter’s voice yelling my name. It sounded distant and echoey, and what direction was it coming from?

“Shhh, don’t want to alert our company,” Beck whispered, and then everything went black.

[bigskydreaming]

Batkids’ Viewing Habits Headcanons:

Dick: Foreign films and shows. One thing Dick really dislikes about being rooted in one place and culture after coming to live with Bruce is the sameness of Hollywood entertainment. From a young age, he was exposed to the entertainment of dozens of diverse cultures and cinematic landscapes, and he’d much rather sit down to marathon films from China, Eastern Europe and Brazil back to back than just a string of Disney movies. He does tend to prefer things like romantic comedies and low-stakes dramas that let him unwind from the pressures of actual high-stakes, end-of-the-world type missions, and he has a particular fondness for Bollywood. 

The best gifts for him are old DVDs of C-list movies that never even got uploaded to American territories and that his friends and family pick up from wherever around the world they travel, because he insists the best stuff are the movies and shows that never get picked up by the American markets. When they were teenagers, Garth once gifted him with recordings of famous Atlantean plays and became the gift to beat. 

To which Bruce gritted his teeth, intoned “Challenge accepted,” and sucked it up and paid Hal Jordan to pick up the equivalent of box-sets from various alien cultures he came into contact with. 

Jason: High octane thrillers and action blockbusters....but not for the reasons people tend to assume. He watches them because he gets a kick out of critiquing them the way lawyers and doctors complain about the inaccuracies of legal and medical procedurals. 

Watching Jason’s choice of movies or shows is basically sitting down to a running commentary about how that explosion is all wrong for that particular payload, how the actors aren’t compensating for the recoil of their guns, and scoffing at the choice of counter-strike in a choreographed fight scene when a jujitsu move would clearly have been the better option. He once paused a movie to spend two minutes making the sounds that should have accompanied the gunfire from a particular assault weapon, as opposed to what sounds it made in scene. 

Jason’s a big believer in the axiom “If you’re going to do something, do it right, dammit.” 

His siblings are big believers in the axiom: “Oh my god, shut up and turn the movie back on.”

Cass: Anything animated. She hates live action. Its all equally boring and pointless to her, because barely any actors are capable of marrying their acting choices to the minutiae of their body language, making it all but impossible for her to suspend her disbelief when watching them. They tend to telegraph their real emotions to her eyes more often than they do their actual acting choices.

So she’d much rather plop down in front of Saturday morning cartoons, animated films, Bob’s Burgers or various other animated shows, where she can just immerse herself in the shenanigans of cartoon figures that are as two-dimensional to her as anyone else. 

She hates most CGI though, just on principle. What was wrong with basic animation, she wants to know.

Tim: Soap operas. The more ridiculous the better. He used to watch them with his various nannies when he was younger, and as he grew up - and became increasingly entrenched in the bizarre and weird world of superheroics - his fondness for them only grew, because its basically the only form of entertainment that’s consistently more out there than his actual life. 

Stephanie tried to hook him on reality TV like “The Real Housewives of Gotham” but that was a non-starter. Its not the same, he insists, like the day-time television purist that he is. 

When Jason eventually reconciled with the family and was trying to figure out how to awkwardly apologize and/or make it up to Tim for the whole “so about the time I almost killed you, that was my bad” thing, Dick advised him that the quickest way into Tim’s good graces would be if he gave Tim free reign to come up with a way to resurrect him in the public eye. Tim’s eyes literally glazed over when Jason told him this, followed by: “Brb, I have to go...research.” 

What followed was a week-long binge of every soap opera resurrection while he took detailed notes complete with spreadsheets and flowcharts before he somewhat manically presented the rest of the family with no less than a dozen proposals for explaining away the presumed death, mysterious disappearance, and ultimate return of one Jason Todd-Wayne. 

Damian: Documentaries. Initially nature documentaries, with an emphasis on wildlife, he likes to zone out in front of them, occasionally drawing or sketching based on his viewing choices, but always with a ready claim of “Some of us choose to use the television to expand our minds instead of rotting them,” whenever someone walks in on him and muses that perhaps he really just likes watching cute little seal pups flopping around on the ice. 

Eventually he branched out into documentaries of all kinds, and lately he’s been on a “How Things Work” viewing kick. Which has in turn expanded into....him trying to apply his newly acquired knowledge in various ways. 

Just last week, Tim wandered down to the kitchen to get something to drink and found Damian hard at work on the plumbing under the sink, wearing a spare utility belt that had been haphazardly modified into a kind of handyman’s tool belt. 

“Wha-,” Tim had said. 

Damian’s eyes had squinted dangerously and done all his talking for him. 

Being the brainiac that he is, Tim had then decided discretion was the better part of valor and slowly backed out of the kitchen without another word, hands raised in surrender. He was mildly vindicated later when Bruce arrived home to find the kitchen half-flooded and Damian still at work under the sink cursing about shoddy instructions. 

“Did you break the sink just so you’d have something to fix?” Bruce demanded, pinching the bridge of his nose to fight back a progeny-induced migraine. 

Damian threw his arms up in exasperation, still sopping wet. “Well I wasn’t going to just wait for something to break on its own! How inefficient would that be?”

Stephanie: Nobody actually knows. She takes eclectic to an entirely new level, and claims she’s not about to allow her entertainment choices to be used against her by adding to the psychological profiles she’s convinced all of the rest of them have of her. Whether she seriously believes this or is just in it for the drama....again, who can say. 

“Nobody’s getting any free real estate in my brain, no sirree!” 

Tim, Dick, and assorted others have tried over and over to express “None of us care that much, you can stop treating ‘What do you want to watch’ like a CIA interrogation,’” but she just snorts oh so elegantly and sneers down her nose at them. 

“A likely story, Bat-brats!” 

“Steph, you’re a Bat-brat too,” Tim tries explaining patiently.

“Only by association.”

“You’re literally Batgirl.”

Anyway, the long and short of it is when its Steph’s turn to pick what movie or TV show is watched in the den, her choices range from reality TV from obscure black and white films from the 50s to Japanese re-tellings of Shakespearean plays. They’re all at least a little convinced that half of the things she picks she hates as much as the rest of them do, and she’s just silently suffering through them to make some point that’s incomprehensible to anyone but her. 

Duke: Anything that can be spoiled. See, Duke has a vindictive side, and an epic ability to hold a grudge. After his first few weeks living at the Manor had revealed unto him that everyone else in this weirdo family had a bad habit of deducing the ending to anything as soon as possible and spoiling it for everyone else because apparently everything in this household has to be a competition, Duke’s further exploration of his powers eventually revealed that here at least, he has the ultimate edge. In time, he figured out how his ghost-vision can be used to literally watch what’s on the TV a minute or so ahead of everyone else.....and he is merciless in exploiting this.

To the extent that many of the others just flat out refuse to watch any kind of game or contest or mystery with him, period.....but Duke is a Bat, after all, and not so easily thwarted. 

This eventually snowballed into him 'practicing his stealth techniques’ in the den, family room and other assorted places where the family tended to congregate around a TV.....whereupon he’d leap out of hiding at a crucial moment in the show, yell “Spoil Bomb!” and hastily shout out the spoiler while they were all still cursing and swearing about being caught off guard.

“You were supposed to be the normal one,” Bruce said to him, somewhat mournfully. Duke just shrugged.

“That sounds like a you problem, old man.”

Then he ran off cackling while Stephanie chased after him shouting about trademark infringement.

“You just had to give him a suit that can make him invisible,” Jason commented in a superficially neutral tone that was actually anything but.

Bruce sighed. “Jason -”

“I’m just saying, you never gave me a suit that can turn invisible.”

“You’re never just saying.”

“Oh, so now you’re calling me a liar, too? Nice, B. Thanks a lot.”

[secret-engima]

Snippet of There is No “Us” in Number One Chap 4

(A wild AU drama has appeared! Also, tagging @wolfsrainrules @north-peach @suolainensilakka cause this might interest ya’ll)

     “So what you’re saying is-” Toshinori stopped mid-sentence, head tilting to listen to something else.

     Naomasa stiffened subtly at Toshinori’s freeze, eyes drinking in their surroundings for a threat, “What’s wrong, Toshi?”

     A shriek and an explosion echoed several blocks down, followed by loud, angry yelling. Toshinori felt his shoulders relax in an exasperated sigh even as Naomasa’s hand went for the gun hidden under his shirt, “Villains-!”

     Toshinori shook his head and placed a bony hand on his friend’s to keep him calm, “No. It’s fine. I know who that is. Come on, I should probably break it up before the neighbors start complaining again.” He took off for the sounds at a light jog, Naomasa following behind and radiating incredulous disbelief.

     More explosions sounded along with more cursing and a feral shriek that Toshinori knew from experience was a challenge. Naomasa felt like a tight wire at Toshinori’s back, no doubt imagining the worst, but any comment he might have made over Toshinori’s lack of alarm faded when he saw that everyone else in the area was the same way. The pedestrians were all calm, having relaxed as soon as they heard the animal shriek, and several were even rolling their eyes. An older man complained as Toshinori passed, “You still haven’t taught those boys of yours to be quieter? I swear it’s like living next to a warzone whenever those two get going.”

     Naomasa gave a high pitched, strangled noise at the man’s remark of “your boys”, but Toshinori just laughed apologetically and murmured, “I know, Abe-san, I’m working on it.” Abe-san sniffed officiously but if he intended to make another comment, Toshinori was already too far away to hear it.

     The sound of explosions, yelling, and draconic roars led Toshinori in the direction of the neighborhood park and he allowed himself another sigh. He had a feeling he knew exactly what was going on. He’d had two years to learn the routine around here after all. Naomasa still seemed to be having trouble processing the events though, as he broke his tight silence to demand, “You have children, Toshi? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

     Toshinori managed to suppress the bloody cough that tried to rise at his friend’s accusing tone, “Um, I have? I mean, they aren’t actually my boys it’s just everyone calls them that because they’ve taken a liking to me, and Izuku doesn’t actually have a father figure in his life but really-!”

     Something like understanding and disbelief crossed Naomasa’s face, “Wait, those two boys you’re always bragging about? The ones who want to make the other kid the Number One hero? The ones you’d keep pictures of in your wallet if you weren’t terrified it would somehow put them in danger? They’re at the source of those explosions?”

     Toshinori felt heat bloom all over his face. It wasn’t his fault he bragged —a little— over the boys. They just had so much potential and heart, it was enough to make him cry sometimes. Izuku’s depthless kindness and truly genius mind for strategy. His courage and warmth despite having a quirk that came with a plethora of complications and disabilities. His passion for helping people that seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing. 

     Then there was Katsuki, with raw talent practically coming out of his ears, a protective streak as wide as China and a level of humility that bordered on an inferiority complex when it came to just how much good he did for the community. A boy with the natural disposition of a rabid porcupine who was trying so hard to better himself, even when it went against every instinct he had. Who had come so far but still held himself to some kind of invisible standard that made him fight and push and struggle to reach even higher.

     They were unquestionably the most heroic kids of their generation Toshinori had ever met. To the point where he had even begun to consider- Well. Passing the torch. He was just having a terrible time picking which one to pass it to…

     Okay yes, maybe he did brag about them too much to the few people he trusted, but he could hardly be blamed for it.

     Naomasa was still waiting for a response, so Toshinori swallowed his embarrassment and answered, “Yes. That would be them.”

     Another explosion echoed over the neighborhood and Naomasa gave him a look like Toshinori was insane, “And we aren’t running to help them … why? They could be in serious trouble!”

     Toshinori followed the sound off the paved park trails and into the deeper parts where the trees almost looked wild, “Because unfortunately, they are the trouble.” They had probably either gotten too intense in their sparring or had gotten into another fight with a pack of hoodlums who thought they could move in and bully the other kids in the area. Or, considering the explosion size, a single adult who thought he could sell them illegal drugs. Both boys got very angry when drugs were involved —even Izuku, who was usually the voice of calm reason— and while their fights were technically vigilantism, they’d never been arrested because they always had an excuse for why the fight was not their fault. 

     The usual excuse was for Katsuki to downplay his short fused temper while Izuku spun a sob story about how the other side had started it and it was just overenthusiastic self-defense. Since youth suicide and drug rates had been at a record low in the area ever since the two started having “self-defense encounters”, the local police had quietly turned a blind eye as thanks.

     The part of him that was All Might very much disapproved of it —they were just boys, the police shouldn’t rely on them to keep the peace like that—. The part of him that was Toshinori was just … so proud that they stood up for their neighborhood and so terrified they’d hurt themselves without proper training. He’d ended up making a compromise between his two halves by laying down ground rules for engagements —they couldn’t start the fights, they had to stay as non-violent as possible, they couldn’t hospitalize their opponents, and if they saw an actual villain they had to call it in instead of fight on their own— and then training them in self-defense by giving them “tips” he’d “picked up from being a Pro Hero’s secretary for so many years”.

     Naomasa opened his mouth to ask another question when an explosion ripped the air with enough force to bend trees. A fireball was visible in the near distance —he could feel the heat of it— and Toshinori caught a glimpse of a black figure winging out of the sky with a high scream that sent all his neck hairs on end.

     That was not normal. That wasn’t even Katsuki’s version of overkill when he lost his temper. That explosion had been made to do as much damage as possible and Izuku’s scream had been a call for help.

     Something was very, very wrong.

     Toshinori rounded the bend at a dead run. The Pro Hero part of his brain slammed to the forefront, cataloguing the situation —armed confrontation, five high-school age teens with bats and pipes down and out from minor explosions and controlled dragon-induced blunt trauma— and searching for Katsuki and Izuku.

     Katsuki was up against a half-broken tree, red eyes intense as he struggled upright. One of his wrists was at a bad angle and the smoke curling from the palm told Toshinori that he’d injured it making that last explosion. His forehead was bleeding —possible concussion, he’d have to check later—, his shirt was gone, and there was a nasty collection of bruises forming on his left arm and side.

     Izuku was crouched in front of Katsuki, wings flared protectively and blood dripping from a collection of shallow gashes on his side. His pupils were nothing but paper-thin slits, back arched like a cornered cat and his lips were peeled back to reveal sharp, bloodied teeth. The blue light of a fireball danced in the back of Izuku’s throat and his eyes had a maniac, wild gleam Toshinori had never seen in them before, like he was less a thirteen year old boy and more a rabid animal.

     Across from the boys was a teen with spiked metal plating covering every inch of his body save for a part of his arm where the metal appeared to have been bitten through. Blood dripped from some of the spikes on his hands and he was laughing at them with a mouth so wide Toshinori had no trouble seeing the black tongue within. Sh*t! Naomasa leveled his pistol at the metal spiked aggressor, “You! Down on the ground! Now!” At the sound of Naomasa’s voice both boys glanced frantically over at the two of them and Toshinori cursed as he realized that he couldn’t transform now —should’ve transformed earlier stupid, stupid—.

     But the drugged up teen didn’t seem to even be aware of their presence, just screamed something at Katsuki and Izuku —something about respecting betters and killing them for this— and lunged. Izuku reared up to meet the assault, blue plasma slamming against the oncoming metal chest of his attacker without effect. Toshinori saw the sharp hand spikes —already dripping blood, already proven capable of piercing Izuku’s hard scales— plunge for Izuku’s exposed chest and Katsuki lunge to try to pull his friend away and take the blow for himself somehow and-.

     A controlled —just enough not to kill, if only barely— Texas Smash sent the drug-using teen flying through several trees before he hit the ground and slid with enough force to form a trough in the dirt before stopping. All Might stood before the boys —Toshinori’s boys, his boys, that he had spent two years coming to love with all his heart for their determination and courage despite their secretly broken parts— and couldn’t find it in himself to smile. “Take a piece of advice. Stay down and give yourself up to the law.” His voice boomed over the suddenly quiet area, deep and dangerous.

     The black-tongued teen struggled to sit up, slurring angry nonsense the entire way and All Might brought his fist down on the teen’s head —lightly, couldn’t break the teen’s skull no matter how angry he was—, knocking him out cold. Naomasa was across the clearing in a heartbeat, one hand holding his phone to call in backup while the other pulled out the handcuffs he carried even off duty —both of them knew that All Might’s presence attracted trouble in either form—.

     Silence reigned heavy and angry in the area before it was broken by a shaky, slightly electronic, “Toshinori … san?” All Might startled and looked over his shoulder at the question, having forgotten for a moment that the boys were still there, still watching. Gleaming blue eyes locked first with wide, catlike green, then with worryingly blank blood red and All Might knew that nothing would ever be the same.