#as if i’m not drowning in guilt and self pity my entire fucking life

[notmygrave]

she posted like parts of a photo from this summer on her instagram story doesn’t matter whatever i am in that photo and it’s the beach at the end of my street and i am going to be fucking sick i hope i really fucking hope it makes her a bit sick too

[daddyissuesyo]

Monsta X Yandere Headcanons

tw: implied sexual content, non-sexual consent violation, murder, suicide, emotional and physical abuse, harm/endangerment, severed ties with family, vulgarity

seriously guys this is intense

Shownu: The Protector

- you pique his attention and he asks you out, seemingly normal

- becomes obsessed after the first date and captures you on the second

- avoids physical harm unless absolutely "necessary" to keep you in line. manipulates you until feeling as though you failed him.

- reckless, unconditional love

- you can't help but reciprocate a little; he's just so caring & attentive

- vanilla sex, because he loves you

- funds EVERYTHING you could possibly want: fluffy comforters and a massive mattress, personal maids, deluxe coffee maker, stuffed animals that he doesn't let you name, etc.

- you thought your dynamic was normal until you caught him dragging the limp body of the postman that accidentally saw you changing into a shed

- from that day forth you feared him, yet didn't stop loving him

- "you are my entire world. my everything. we need each other. forever and then some."

- will not kill you unless he convinces himself others will and death by his hands is the better option

Minhyuk: The Deluded

- i n f a n t i l i z e r

- pities you, oh so much

- thinks you are a helpless baby in dire need of rescuing

- treats you like a porcelain doll & refuses to let you make even the smallest decision for yourself

- convinced you are just as infatuated and dependent on him as he is you

- on good days, he will draw bubble baths, play card games with you, and play G rated movies, pausing every minute to explain what happened

- on bad days, he will yell at you, bind your limbs, and carve his name into your flesh

- simply doesn't understand your disobedience and grief and takes it out on you, hoping to "knock sense into you"

- unlike many yandere archetypes, he enjoys parading you about like an accessory. has friends come over to admire you

- "i know it's too much for you to understand, but you need my care. where is this behavior coming from? don't you love me?"

- you'll kill yourself before he can, driven to the point of insanity

Kihyun: The Jealous

- no pets. no friends. no contact with the outside world aside from media he approves.

- shelters you like mother gothel

- insists you cut off all male contacts, even family (if you are lgbtq, it's best not to reveal this to him because then you won't even be able to speak to female family members)

- doesn't hesitate to murder any man you won't cut off. forces you to watch.

- comforts you afterward in a sick way

- you have to PLEAD to go anywhere

- if he allows it, you must wear a face covering and stay by his side

- tends to be rough in bed; he lets loose all his pent-up frustrations on you

- isn't COMPLETELY out of touch with his humanity; treats you well on birthdays and holidays and even permits a supervised phone call with your mother

- "you overwhelm me. you fill me with so much joy and so much rage. you'll never know the effect you have on me, sweetheart."

- inevitable murder-suicide in the end. i give it no more than 5 years.

Hyungwon: The Sadist

- it's all a game of cat and mouse to him; he kidnapped you while you slept after stalking for quite some time

- keeps you in chains in his basement

- decorates his home with your missing posters like a real sicko

- will torture the living shit out of you with no remorse. inflicting fractures, head trauma, slicing you open, digit dismemberment, drowning, strappado

- gets off on your fear more than your pain

- unlike the others, he recognizes when you're suffering; he just doesn't care

- destroys your self-worth and self-esteem by berating and insulting you. it's your fault you can't tell he means "I love you"

- sex entails bondage, degradation, and cruel laughter. incorporates pet names like: "bunny," "little lamb," "kitty," etc.

- may get bored of you and seek out a new victim, leaving you inexplicably desperate for his attention (which is all part of his game)

- always comes back to you after he's maimed and fucked who knows how many people. and you let him every time, holding out hope that he'll stay

- "you're never going to escape me. i hope you know that."

- would rather almost kill you and keep reviving you. you're in it for the long haul.

Jooheon: The Two-faced

- like shownu, things begin typically

- gradually shows his hand over time, but you're blinded by your feelings for him (he's a very good faux boyfriend)

- waits until your most vulnerable moment to attack

- strict and often overbearing; will beat you black and blue to the point of unconsciousness

- will actually apologize, but he doesn't stop

- tries to keep things around that you enjoy and allow domestic hobbies (congratulates your accomplishments but doesn't want to fuel your ego too much because then you'll leave him)

- struggles with internal conflict over how to treat you. wishes he could be more lenient but can't bring himself to

- allows you to have family and friends over while he's present

- very good at acting normal, it's scary. will flash you a psycho smile after they leave.

- "i'm sorry things have to be this way. if only you could see... i really do love you."

- kills himself in the end due to guilt

Changkyun: The Unhinged

- yes, yandere are psychotic, but changkyun is another level

- if you try to escape or resist him, he just stares at you with round eyes, slowly growing a grin that turns into a crazy laughing fit

- protects you from outside forces, unaware that he's the greatest danger in your life

- only upside is he takes you out on the town

- slaps across the face. sometimes at random, just to let you know he's in control

- you live on eggshells, unsure if he's in a loving or violent mood

- a strange dichotomy of worshipping you and craving your attention, yet feeling like you should be the one begging for him

- fucks hard and often, but can't look at you after

- owns an industrial freezer and locks you in there until you collapse from hypothermia III

- "w-were you trying to escape? FUCK no. what don't you understand, hon? you're my fucking property."

- will stab you repeatedly in the end, smiling with tears streaming down his face

Would anyone be interested in me developing these characters/storylines further?

[toomanyrobins2]

a little birdie told me pt. 14

Summary: Y/N “Birdie” Parker left New York and her family three years ago in the middle of the night. Now, a call for help to her best friend brings her back into the fold of the Three Families and their “business.”

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Parker!Reader

Content warning: physical abuse, miscarriage, mentions of forced marriage, sex, mentions of alcohol abuse

Notes: I accidentally deleted this about two minutes after posting it so here we go again!

series masterlist // next part

Peter found Steve in his office, drunk as a skunk. He crossed the room in two strides, standing in front of the desk with his arms crossed, “Birdie is killing herself over whatever happened between you.”

“Go away,” Steve took another swig from the bottle, “I don’t want to hear this.”

Peter slammed his hands onto the table, “I don’t give a damn! For once in your life sit your ass down and listen. I know she made a mistake, but she has apologized multiple times. You’re so caught up in your whirlwind of anger that you can’t see how you’re hurting her.

“This is really none of your business.”

“Maybe not, but maybe open your eyes and start seeing how this is affecting her. She’s not eating, she’s barely sleeping, and now, she collapsed today from the stress of it all. This guilt is eating her alive. What she hurt you, so now you get to hurt her?”

Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair making it stick up on end, “You don’t realize how much she hid from me. She would’ve married me just to save her own skin. This whole engagement is a fucking waste,” He paused and pursed his lips, “I know everything.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter pulled the drunk blond out of the chair and punched him, his fist connecting with Steve’s eye. Steve’s drunkenness made him unsteady and he collapsed to the ground. “You find out everything my sister went through and this is how you act. Drowning yourself in the bottom of a bottle.”

“You’re one to talk about the bottom of a bottle.” Peter took a threatening step forward and Steve winced, “I’m sorry that was unfair.”

“No, it’s fair. It’s true. But I am not the one who you need to apologize to. Stop with the self-pity. Birdie loves you and you’re blind if you don’t see it. Yes, she had a past. So do you and she would listen to the story, without any judgment.” Steve said nothing, so Peter just sighed and rubbed his eyes, “It’s your funeral, I guess. I just can’t believe after everything that’s happened between the two of you, this is how it all ends. Take a couple days and actually look at the damage you are causing. Now I’m done. You can go back to being a stubborn idiot.”

He was left in the office, staring at the nearly empty bottle of whiskey.

Steve tried to pretend that Peter’s talk hadn’t affected him but, for the next few days, he was confronted with Y/N in a new way. She sat silently at mealtimes, pushing food around, but barely taking any bites. Bruce has banned her from going out alone after she had collapsed, so she spent most of her time at the apartment. The entire place was cloaked in darkness.

The others had tried to reach out, but it was to no avail. Steve could even hear her crying in the guest room late at night, before giving up and going to sit out on the balcony.

Finally, Steve couldn't take it any longer and put a call out to meet at one of their safe houses. He knew what he needed to do to let them start anew.

Y/N woke up alone in bed, still slightly fuzzy-headed. She felt the warmth of the sun and realized it was late in the morning. She turned her head to look at the clock and saw it read 1:00. She managed to extricate herself from the blankets. She shut the door and thought maybe Steve was awake.

“Morning.”

Y/N shrieked when she saw her friends in her kitchen, “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Nat just handed her a coffee and Jamie. Y/N pressed a kiss to the baby’s head, as he snuggled into her hold, not fully awake from his afternoon nap. “What are you doing here?”

“We are having brunch today. You need to get out of the house and actually eat something.” They forced Y/N into the shower and out the door to the Ivory. Pepper and Edith were already at the table and smiled when they saw her, her mother hugging her tight to her chest. They quickly put in their orders and everyone was chatting as Jamie got passed around the table, loving the attention everyone was lavishing him with. Without realizing it, Y/N accidentally grabbed Pepper’s mimosa and took a sip.

Her mother tried to stop her, but it was too late. Y/N looked down at the glass after taking a sip, confused. She tilted it and swirled it around, “Do you know that this doesn’t have champagne?” Recognition lit in her eyes and she gasped, pointing her finger, “OH! There’s no alcohol in this.”

“Birdie...” Pepper was smiling at her.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh!” Her finger was shaking, “Oh my God, really?” the older woman nodded. “How far along are you?” That question sparked excitement from the rest of the women who had been watching the interaction after Y/N had gasped initially and soon all of them were freaking out.

“14 weeks.” Y/N knew how hard her adoptive parents had tried for years to have a baby with a disappointing lack of success.

“Oh my god, you’re going to be the scariest pregnant lady ever!” Indy grinned, “You’re going to kill Tony.”

Y/N watched on, a mix of happiness for her family and extreme sadness for herself. Not once had she had the chance to be as happy as her mother was. This was supposed to be a happy time, but instead, she got the opposite. She went up to the bar and ordered four glasses of champagne and two sparkling ciders. She lifted her glass, “I would like to propose a toast to Mom. You are an amazing woman and I’m so happy that our family is growing.” She felt her eyes welling up and hoped that everyone would assume it was from the joy at the moment.

The women toasted and spent lunch planning for the future. Pepper turned to Y/N, “I may be pregnant, but you and Peter will always be my first babies.”

“I never doubted that for a second, Mom. I’m going to love the crap out of my baby sister.”

“We don’t know that it’s a girl.” Y/N frowned at her and Pepper laughed, “Are you and Peter going to fight over the gender?”

“Absolutely. It’s my right as an older sibling.”

“Speaking of older siblings,” Edith turned to her, “Y/N, do you and Steve have any plans to make Jamie a big brother?”

“Oh--I--um,” before she could come up with an answer, the phone rang and she rushed to answer it. They all watched as her eyes widened and she quickly hung up the phone. “I need to go. Now.”

“Why? What’s going on?

“Dad just called me from the hospital. Steve’s been shot.”

****************************

@founding-fuck-bois

@animegirlgeeky

@inlovewiththefictionalcharacters

@directorsnarrative

@spntiel

@hollandstanevans

@samwinter09

@marvelofwitch

@mycosmicparadise

@l0ve-0f-my-life

@austynparksandpizza

@lharrietg

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: Ructare florem tristitiae

Summary: Allen Walker’s feelings bubble up his throat, flower petals spilled on his father’s grave, for the Akuma, who will never get proper burials. Ructare florem tristitiae, Cross Marian diagnoses, grief flowers.

Parasitic type Exorcists never live for long; carries of Hanahaki should die even quicker.

Allen is determined to make the best of it.

Rosa bracteata

His name was Allen, his father was dead, and he’s choking, drowning in his grief, spilling his guts in the graveyard. His shoulders shook and he heaved until he collapsed, fingernails clawing at his skin until they left red scratches. Metal in his mouth as he vomited roses that, under all the blood from thorns tearing up his throat, were white.

“You want me to retrieve Mana Walker?” the grinning clown asked, curiously staring down at him.

Another rose petal fell from Allen’s mouth as he screamed his father’s name.

Ornithogalum umbellatum

Cross was too late.

His mistake couldn’t be any clearer, standing in front of Mana’s grave, holding a casket that was bound to be empty, looking at a child that was meant to disappear. Allen’s face was covered by blood, and thus Cross did not pay any attention to the flowers surrounding him as he picked Nea’s host up and carried him to safety.

The little brat never should have been caught up in this war of theirs and Cross almost wanted to laugh at the irony of a Noah’s host being so deeply connected to Innocence, it took over his body. Laughing, drinking, and sex would certainly be better distractions than screaming in rage and lashing out at a kid that couldn’t be blamed for any of this, but right now, Cross couldn’t afford to do either.

All he had left were the curses he could hiss under his breath as the child screamed himself hoarse from the pain, choking until Allen threw up on him, the remains of lunch and flower petals ruining his shirt.

“Fuck no,” Cross exhaled, fingers twitching for a cigarette. “Since when does the brat have fucking Hanahaki?”

Mother only huffed. “Why are you asking me? Shouldn’t you know since you watched him?”

“Well, he certainly wasn’t spitting up little snowdrops when he was running around with Mana!”

No, when the two clowns had been traveling together, Mana had been the one choking on the same red poppies he’d always cried for his brother. Fucking Nea, this better be worth it. From a scientist to an Exorcist to a nanny for traumatized little Noah hosts, who pissed their bedding.

“Those aren’t snowdrops,” Mother said, picking at the few flowers Cross had cleaned off the blood. “Aren’t you a bad priest that you can’t even recognize these?”

“Why the fuck should I recognize any flowers—”

“Stars of Bethlehem!”

Cross turned to the door where Barba was standing with Allen’s clean sheets, pointing excitedly at the little flowers. “Those are stars of Bethlehem. I’ve always wanted to decorate with them for Christmas because of the name, but they’re pretty sad flowers.”

Sad flowers, huh? “What do they mean?”

“Atonement,” Barba replied. “And reconciliation, guilt, and fear.”

Sighing, Cross leaned back in his chair and grabbed the entire bottle of wine. “Of course, the brat has grief flowers.”

Parasitic Innocence and Hanahaki? Nea better woke up soon, or the boy might die before he had the chance to erase him.

Calendula officinalis

Allen’s new Master was a bastard, so unlike Mana that he wanted to scream and return to his grave, spill more father’s day gifts and stars. But if he returned to Mana without having saved a single soul, he could never forgive himself.

And thus Allen stayed, carried his bags, found a routine with his Master, wondering when he’d finally learn how to use his Innocence against those Akuma.

“Hurry up, stupid apprentice, we’re going to be late.”

“Late where—” Allen froze as his gaze stopped at a lone man in the crowd and his left eye suddenly exploded in pain as his vision changed, shifted, and the man turned into a shadow, a skeleton wrapped in chains and guts, screaming, tearing at their constraints, begging for salvation.

Allen fell to his knees, his father’s screams echoing in his mind as he began coughing, struggling for breath, orange blooms landing on the dirt road.

“Allen— what are you doing!?”

His Master’s voice thundered through the air, commanding and another note he couldn’t identify.

“The man,” he stuttered out, swallowing down the bitter taste, the copper. “The man, Master, he’s like— like Mana!”

Cross’s head whipped up just in time for the man to see them.

And then all hell broke loose.

Tagetes erecta

The marigolds continued to haunt Allen until he learned to swallow down the blooms even as he fought against the Akuma.

No matter the Akuma’s level or origin story, orange petals always begged to leave his mouth. It made their stay in India more taxing than any other, marigold garlands covering the streets at all times. How strange that a flower that had always represented pain and grief to him was celebrated here so. Allen had met quite a few people suffering from the same ailment as him, though the taste of their hurt was a different one; unrequited love, fear, hopelessness – the number of emotions that could evoke Hanahaki seemed to be as varied as the stars above.

Allen had never known which one Mana had suffered from, but his flowers had also never changed, blooming for the same purpose and person.

He stared down at the abandoned bowl, his arm still aching. He had been so careful that any of the marigolds he brought Narain were not stained by those expelled by his body. But now, covered by the Akuma’s blood, it hardly seemed to matter.

They looked just the same.

Mentha arvensis

Allen’s introduction to the Black Order was chaotic. From his meeting with the angry Japanese Exorcist he absolutely did not want to work with ever thank-you-very-much to the confusing words and touch of the guardian Hevelaska. Komui, his superior, seemed like a fun and kind man, one Allen wouldn’t mind working alongside.

This place truly felt like it could become home if one were to believe Lenalee. Allen even had his own room that was his to do with as he liked, given that he didn’t destroy it. That certainly was an entirely new experience.

Allen hadn’t really had a home in a long while, though, when he was just feverish enough, feeling more like a child than an Exorcist, he would consider his Master’s coat on his shoulders shelter his home.

Not that he’d ever admit that to the man out loud.

“Is there anything else we need to know?” Komui asked, looking over Allen’s file, hopefully not cringing too much over Allen’s handwriting. Just because he had gained dexterity didn’t mean that his handwriting was particularly great. “Your personal data isn’t exactly precise.”

Allen tried to keep his smile in place, but he was well aware that his life had gaps. The entire first half of his childhood was one giant black hole, and as much as Allen sometimes wanted to solve that particular mystery, he was sure he hadn’t forgotten for no reason.

Mana’s memories had been full of empty spaces, and that for a good reason too.

Allen still remembered his screams when his nightmares overwhelmed him, begging for his brother to save him, forgive him, stay by his side eternally.

“I’m sorry,” Allen apologized regardless. “I know my background is not that easy.”

Komui only smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Allen. We care more about your own welfare now than anything else.”

His throat tickled and he desperately wanted to believe Komui, perhaps a bit naively too as his childhood self would condemn, but he tasted mint and knew it was for naught. Komui might care, God, the man had given everything so he could be here with his sister, but that didn’t speak for the entire Order.

“There actually is one more thing,” Allen admitted. “I have grief flowers.”

Komui’s eyes widened, fear and pity flashing through them. “How long?”

“Since General Cross took me in,” Allen said, knowing that for most, that would mean he was as close to death as he could be. “But I have it handled. My Innocence keeps me steady and heals my lungs.”

It was probably not as good of a reassurance as the man was hoping for, but it was all Allen could give. As always, he was lacking.

Lathyrus odoratus

Dealing with Innocence always interfered with his sickness. His own shard kept him healthy enough to continue on even if the number of flowers he’d displaced over the years should have long since killed him.

“What the hell, moyashi?” Kanda shouted as Allen doubled over in front of Lala and Guzol, covering the sand with blood, baby’s breath and sweet peas. Baby’s breath was nothing new given the presence of Innocence. Allen had filled Maria’s casket with it multiple times already, but he knew the sweet peas were for Lala, the sentient doll, and her dearly beloved human, her accommodator.

“Let her sing,” Allen begged through the pain, wheezing, still pathetic and weak. “Let her sing, please.”

And they remained as they were.

Gypsophila paniculate

God’s true apostle was a little girl that made Allen freeze. No matter how much he wanted to fight, to protect the world he had learned to love with his father’s smiles and jokes, he couldn’t anymore, his eye destroyed, bleeding.

Time running out and out and out until—

Rewind.

Miranda’s Innocence, baby’s breaths on his tongue, was as cruel as it was kind, giving Allen more time to fight, to understand, to choke down the marigolds as Road ordered the self-destruction of the Akuma and he watched that screaming soul disintegrate.

He knew there would be a price to pay.

The Noah’s door, a checkered form that seemed so familiar, closed and Allen stumbled back to Miranda’s side. Sweet reassurances were all it took to get her settled, to allow time to return to them.

Allen blacked out with a cough so deep, he thought he was crying at Mana’s grave again.

Papaver nudicaule

Lavi was curious by nature. It was the reason Bookman had picked him in the first place. Their kind needed to be curious, interested in the world, but only ever as its silent observers. Bookman Junior could recite his entire lecture on the topic, the ever repeated ‘know your duties’. Junior knew that he wasn’t Bookman’s first apprentice, and given how much Bookman insisted that Lavi stayed impartial, he knew there was a story to discover, history to inherit someday.

But for now, he had to chat up the Destroyer of Time.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Lavi said with a mild smile. “Yu-chan already told me so much about you!”

Kanda had been unusually chatty, complaining about Allen Walker for minutes, which was as good as ranting for an hour for normal people. Lavi had learned a lot about Allen during that time, mainly his sickness being of interest to Junior. The number of people suffering from Hanahaki was low enough that they had yet to find a proper cure or cause.

There were enough speculations, the church was particularly fond of going on about Eve and Lilith, Eden’s curse, but it was as good an explanation as a shrug and a disinterested ‘I don’t know’.

Although, perhaps, remembering the glass of flowers in his coat pocket, a cure had been found, just not one readily available for the masses.

“Here! Miranda collected them for you. It’s tradition in Germany to save them.”

Lavi handed Allen the glass full of yellow poppies before the youth could protest, waiting to see what his reaction would be. He had already gathered that Allen was used to his sickness, had learned how to live with them.

These flowers should not surprise him.

And yet they did, the boy almost dropping the glass when he saw what was inside.

“Poppies,” Allen breathed, his face twisting into shock, the kind of which Lavi had never seen before. “But they’re Mana’s—”

Mana Walker, the father that had been turned into an Akuma.

Lavi had to hold back a grin.

This was bound to be interesting.

Roseanne giganteus carnivorus

Roots took ahold of Allen’s heart and lungs and he reminded himself repeatedly that Mana loved him, that he had friends now and a home, that he was cared for. His father may have cursed him, but only so Allen would have something to live for so that he’d continue and not plant his roots at his father’s grace and let his body decay to feed the soil.

“I never wondered if Akuma could love,” Allen confessed to Lavi while Krory was still knocked out, head resting against the window of the train. “I thought them incapable of forming positive relationships unless they were modified.”

“Modified?” Lavi echoed, keen eyes, fake smile.

Took a liar to find another.

Eliade had felt something for Krory, even if it might just have been possessiveness, staking her claim on her victim and prey, waiting for the Innocence to get strong enough that its destruction would be interesting.

I love you, Mana’s words rang in his ears.

The flowers settled.

Glaucium flavum

The Exorcist cheated them right out of their money, and if Tyki didn’t feel like there was something familiar about the boy, he would have ripped his Innocence and heart out right there. He’d learned restraint, how to curb Joyd’s hunger. It had been insufferable when he’d still been a child, giving in to pleasure much too quickly.

But the three Exorcists right in front of him were taunt and temptation.

And still, Tyki resisted, especially once he got close enough to that white-haired menace to catch his scent. He’d excused himself after one round, saying he needed to freshen up. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it also wasn’t the truth.

“You smell like flowers, menino,” Tyki commented, watching as the boy quickly wiped blood from his mouth, something yellow disappearing down the drain. “Hanahaki?”

Fraude A flinched, looking like he’d been caught in the act. The cheerful if devious demeanor from before had all but faded away, leaving behind an exhausted teenager. The bags under his eyes were heavy, and the Innocence in his hand must be sucking away at his lifespan as well.

What wouldn’t Tyki give to turn that crystal into dust, play savior for this damned child.

“It’s not contagious,” the boy said immediately, probably thinking that Tyki was one of those fools who avoided flower bearers like the plague.

“I know,” Tyki said. “Don’t worry about it, menino. You seem to be doing as well as you can. I want to ask about your sickness if you don’t mind.”

The boy eyed him suspiciously but nodded.

“The child we have with us, Eeez, he has Hanahaki as well. His family threw him out because they could not afford to care for his health.”

Not that Tyki and his friends could afford his treatment either. Whenever Eeez, Momo, and Clark slept, Noah’s third disciple reached far into the lungs of the boy and ripped out the flowers stealing his breath, drenched his fingers in blood to see the child take another pathetic breath.

“Oh.” Understanding flashed over Fraude’s face. “Which kind?”

“Fear,” Tyki replied and there was so much to fear for weak little human boys in a world as cruel as theirs. “And you?”

“Grief,” the boy said, almost apologetic as if he’d trade his variant for a chance to help Eeez. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t offer you any help. My method of coping won’t work for him.”

Flores de tristeza and an Exorcist, the boy was truly detested by fate.

“I understand.” Oh, he did. That parasite leeching on the boy’s lifespan kept him alive, healed him over and over again so he could keep fulfilling its cursed mission. Tyki wondered what his lungs looked like, whether they were entirely scarred over. “Thank you still, menino.”

Aquilegia atrata

Lenalee was excellent at reading people, even if she couldn’t keep up with Lavi. It was a skill she had learned out of necessity during all her attempts at escaping the Order, searching for weaknesses in her guards, moments where their attention slipped just enough for her to throw herself out of the high towers they kept her in.

No matter how much Allen lied and cheated and smiled, Lenalee could see that it wasn’t true.

And that he was putting too much pressure on himself.

Surrounded by all the Akuma, hunting down Allen’s Master, the fall was inevitable.

Lenalee just hoped she would be there to catch him when it was the time as Komui had been there for her.

Dianthus caryophyllus

Innocence was good and holy.

God’s dearly beloved crystal, sent to save humanity.

Allen had known this deep in his heart, had clung to it when the appearance of his arm had still made him insecure because it gave him purpose. He was not so foolish as to think himself special, one of God’s chosen, but he chose to believe that Innocence mattered.

That it was kind and protected.

“I’m sorry,” Suman Dark apologized under tears he could not cry as Allen kept on screaming, begging him to live and go on, no matter how much the Innocence was eating away at him.

This couldn’t be true; it shouldn’t happen. His own Innocence would never do this to him, had it loved and protected him even against his own father. Yet it was failing him when Allen tried to dig through the violet butterflies, the violent pain. His shoulders trembled terribly as he swallowed down the sharp taste of carnations burning him as much as the artificial insects left nothing of Suman behind.

Cercis siliquastrum

“Fraude A?” Tyki exclaimed, surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t be. He had known that the tristeza boy had been an Exorcist, these plagues liked to flaunt it after all, with their shiny expensive uniforms, and he’d known that they’d eventually clash on the battlefield.

He had just, foolishly perhaps, hoped that it would be a fair battle, one where the boy could give it his all despite his failing, scarred lungs.

Allen Walker.

How pitiful that his name was on Tyki’s list.

“Don’t worry,” Tyki told him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

His words weren’t even a lie, and Tyki knew he could very easily put the boy to rest without him feeling a thing, and yet, he couldn’t help explain his work, act it out, because he wanted to leave his mark on his victim, have Allen Walker grieve flowers for him.

So Tyki crushed his hand, his Innocence, destroyed it with Dark Matter, let the Tease bite into his heart, and left the boy in tears.

Taking his dying breaths, unable to spit any flowers for Tyki. With a grin, he reached deep into the boy’s lung, retrieving judas tree blooms and a silver button.

How sad.

Tyki had hoped for poppies.

Bellis perennis

Allen lay on the ground, his Innocence above him as mist as he struggled for breath. It had never been this bad before. He couldn’t remember a single time where his flowers had been coated in so much blood, he couldn’t tell which kind it was right from the bat.

“You can’t overdo it,” Fo told him, rolling back on her feet almost playfully if not for the severity of the situation. “Your Innocence isn’t healing you anymore.”

I know, Allen wanted to reply. I know, I know, and it is all my fault.

He only wanted to continue on, do as he always had, push through the pain, and fulfill his purpose. Why was it so difficult, why did he struggle so much? Did his Innocence think him a betrayer, nothing worth saving anymore?

Please, he begged into the quiet, his flowers for the first time since he’d started blooming posing a  threat to him. I just want to do my duty.

He grabbed his bloodied flowers with his one good hand and thought about springtime and Mana teaching him how to make daisy chains.

Tagetes lucida

Marigolds were comforting, almost. Allen could feel his throat put itself back together, healing as his body still decided to punish him. He wondered whether the other parasitic Exorcists had felt like this as well, torn between being weapon and host, beloved friend and tool.

He wondered what it might have been like for Maria to be the host of Innocence and spit flowers whenever she needed her throat to sing.

He wondered what her Innocence’s name had been once upon a time before it had become nothing more than Grave of Maria.

(Wondered whether his Master loved him enough to turn him into a doll to be used for battle as Allen would want.

Whether Cross Marian loved him too much to do so.)

“Tell me where my friends are,” Allen ordered and the Akuma complied, truth tasting like marigolds and poppies.

Rosa bracteata: Macartney rose – white rose, typically given to fathers

Flower list

Ornithogalum umbellatum: Star of Bethlehem – atonement for crime, reconciliation, guilt and fear

Calendula officinalis: marigold – pain and grief

Tagetes erecta: marigold

Mentha arvensis: mint – suspicion, lack of trust

Lathyrus odoratus: sweet pea – goodbye, departure

Gypsophila paniculate: baby’s breath – innocence, pure at heart

Papaver nudicaule: poppies

Roseanne giganteus carnivorus: Rosanne from canon

Glaucium flavum: poppies

Aquilegia atrata: purple columbine – driven to win

Dianthus caryophyllus: yellow carnation – disdain, disappointment, rejection

Cercis siliquastrum: judas tree – betrayal, unbelief

Bellis perennis: daisy – innocence, purity, new beginnings

Tagetes lucida: marigold

[floralseokjin]

;decalcomania 2. (m)

{gif credit}

no matter how hard you both try, the past will never return

pairing; jeon jungkook x reader  genre/warnings;  angst, mature content, cheating mentions  words; 2,920

listen to; all of my life 

“Hey.” 

Jungkook didn’t like the tone of your voice. It unsettled him immediately, a sick feeling swirling around in his gut. Your sad smile just made it worse. He didn’t miss the way your bottom lip trembled. 

You were stood in the kitchen, beside the table and he’d just got in from work. If he was being honest with himself, he had known something was wrong as soon as he’d walked through the door. On the days you weren’t working late at your own job, you were usually in the living room come the evenings, catching up on the local news. Despite everything – despite what you’d been through – you were always there to greet him. Not today though. 

He glanced around the room, his mouth dry, and caught sight of something beside you. A luggage case. His heart sunk – no – dropped out of his chest, only to crack in two, his legs starting to tremble not long after, as if the floor was collapsing underneath him. But when he tried to speak, it felt like he was drowning, trying his best to keep afloat. “Please... Don’t...” he managed to whisper, voice hoarse, painful, as if he’d swallowed thorns. 

You took a step towards him, eyes silently begging him. “Jungkook, we need to accept it’s over.” You sounded as if you were about to burst into tears at any given moment, voice barely there. “It was over a long time ago, we’ve just been too scared to admit it.” 

He was aware his breathing was getting louder, faster, close to hyperventilating and he sounded shrill when he fought back. “I don’t want it to be over!” This couldn’t be happening. He didn’t want to accept it. He couldn’t accept it. No matter how correct your words were, he just couldn’t do it. Not even now, reality here, sucker punching him square in the gut. 

Last night you had cried in his arms after he’d made love to you. He’d held you carefully and repeated the same two words over and over again. I’m sorry. It took him a while before he realised he was crying too. Thick, ugly sobs that tore at his throat, distorted his apologies. He didn’t sound like himself. He hadn’t cried in months. Not since the day you’d given him hope. Let him back into your life.  

He was a fool. How had he managed to kid himself yet again? Each night he fell asleep with the fear it was your last night together. Each night for weeks, months. Each day he woke up, went to work and then came home with the same uneasy feeling in his gut. It was only a matter of time. A matter of time before you realised you couldn’t do this any longer. 

Last night he had convinced himself today would be that day, but then your crying had eased, no noise yet your tears still streamed, and your lips found his, stilling each of his sobs, kissing away his pain and self-hatred. You hated to see him cry, he remembered you telling him that once. When you were young, unknowing of what the future held for you both. Your kiss had turned frantic then. It swallowed him whole, until he was no longer crying, but moaning softly as you lowered yourself down on him. It was your turn to make love to him. It had been so long since he’d felt this amount of love from you. The way you touched him, it made him feel alive again. It made him think that everything would be oaky again... 

He had still felt the same way this morning, when he’d woken up naked with you in his arms. He hadn’t wanted to wake you because you were sleeping so soundly. The way you’d squeezed him tighter as he slipped away, needing to shower, made things difficult, but he’d told himself that tonight you’d be back in arms. He’d kissed your forehead before he left, a fond smile on his face. You looked so beautiful, so carefree, as if he hadn’t put you through hell these past few months.

He’d gone through today thinking you both stood a chance. That things were changing for the better. Now he saw the cold, hard truth. Last night had been your goodbye. You’d been crying because you knew come tomorrow everything would change. It had been your last night together, and in that moment, everything had been as perfect as it could be. As it once had been… 

Yes, he was a fool. And now he would pay for it. He had been paying for it ever since he’d fallen into another woman’s bed. He would pay for it for the rest of his life. 

“It’s not about what we want, Jungkook,” you urged him to understand. Deep down he did, but he couldn’t stop fighting. It was etched in him too deep by now, and he’d always been stubborn. 

“I love you.” He strode forward, large hands wrapping around your shoulders, and he shook you slightly, desperate to make you understand. “I love you so much. I can’t imagine my life without you. Ple-ease.” Throat dry, his voice broke at the last word. He swallowed, trying not to choke. 

“Stop it!” You twisted in his grip, and he tried to hold onto you. He couldn’t lose you. He just couldn’t. Your hands fumbled together as you tried to get him to listen until he felt you clutch at his tightly. He stopped finally, your warmth soothing him almost. Easing him. 

“You can’t do this to me. It’s already hard enough.” 

You were begging him, not angry, but just worn out. Worn down to the bone. Your eyes brimmed with tears as you looked at him. You were fighting really hard not to cry. To keep your voice strong. For you. For him. For you both. The sickening feeling of guilt washed over him. He was no stranger to it, yet it knocked him for six each time. 

“Don’t you understand that I love you, too?” you carried on. There were still no tears, but you sounded beside yourself. “I love you with all my heart, but it’s not enough, Jungkook. It’s not enough…” 

Jungkook’s heart broke hearing those words. It had been a long time since he’d heard a simple I love you. He didn’t blame you, it was hard to say the words after what he’d done to you. It was an odd feeling, to hear the words he’d longed for, yet know they did not change a thing. Love didn’t change a thing. Love wasn’t enough. 

“Everything’s changed. Everything’s different,” you whispered. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

That’s all he could manage. What more could he possibly say? Nothing would ever make it right. Words were all he had left. 

You smiled at him sympathetically, eyes gentle as you slipped your fingers between his, squeezing him tight. “I know you are.” No matter how much you believed him, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. “But it can’t change anything, Jungkook. You know that.” He did. “We can’t keep living like this.” He knew that too. 

A chill ran through his body as you broke away from him, slipping your hands apart, making distance between your bodies. “You’re different to me now. I see you differently. I don’t want to, but I do.” 

Jungkook felt like he was no longer breathing. Frozen, broken, empty. Deep down he knew how you felt, he just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself. He had no choice now that he’d heard you say it out loud. He looked at you sincerely. “If I could take that night back, I would. In a heartbeat.” You needed to know how much he regretted it. Cheating on you was the worst mistake he’d ever made. The worst mistake of his life. 

You tilted your head to the side, your eyes filled with pity. For him. He hated it. You shouldn’t pity him. He deserved nothing. “I think maybe we were over long before that.” 

“Don’t,” he muttered. Anger flared through his entire body. “Don’t make excuses for me!” He was aware his voice was rising, but he couldn’t help it. You flinched at the volume, and Jungkook grew frustrated at himself. Even more angry at himself. “Don’t try to make me feel better!” He lifted his hands behind his head and turned his back to you, looking up, begging to someone. Anyone who would listen. 

“Jungkook,” you called out to him gently. Your voice was like a beacon, guiding him through the storm that raged in his mind.

He dropped his head into his hands, whimpering in frustration. “If I hadn’t slept with someone else, we would’ve been okay after that argument.” 

He should’ve stayed with Jimin, drowned his sorrows with his best friend and then passed out. He should’ve woken up with the hangover from hell, thrown up into the pan and then felt that buzz in his pocket. The buzz that signalled a text from you. Telling you how much you were sorry and how badly you wanted to sort things out. He would’ve sprinted all the way to you, into your arms, and told you how much he loved you and how he would never let you go. 

Everything would’ve been okay. Everything would’ve worked out. 

Jungkook felt your hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. Everything would’ve been okay. Everything would’ve worked out. Everything would’ve been okay. Everything would’ve worked out. He was repeating it out loud, losing his goddamn mind. 

“Jungkook, come on. Shhh, please be quiet,” you soothed. But it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t concentrate on you. He couldn’t make it work because he knew you wouldn’t be there for him after today. 

“Please, Jungkook...” 

You were begging him now, voice choking up. You were crying. The realisation hit him like a tonne of bricks. He couldn’t make you cry again. He spun around, heart shattering at the image of you. Your trembling bottom lip, pleading eyes. Your tear-stained cheeks. He was hurting you yet again. He never wanted that. He needed to make it better. If he spent his whole life making it up to you, he would. 

“Please,” he whispered, stepping closer. “Please just can’t we try one last time?” His voice was hoarse, thick and warbled. He was crying too. He’d only just realised. You were crying because he was. You let him cup your face, you whimpered as he did so, pushing into his touch. “Please. I’m begging you. I love you so fucking much.” 

He kissed you desperately amongst the pleas. You tried to fight it at first, his name falling from your mouth but then he felt your hands on his, clutching him to you tightly. You kissed him back. He could feel your tears against his palms, see them caught in your eyelashes as he pulled back to beg you even more. 

“We can get it all out right now. You can shout at me all you like. I’ll take it. I deserve it!” He implored. “You’ll feel better then. Please.” 

You’d never really gotten your anger out, that was the problem, he was sure. If you would just yell at him, shake him, hate him, just for one evening. If you just let yourself  feel all those negative emotions instead of bottling them up, he was sure you’d be okay. You’d both be okay. 

Your eyes roved over his features, unsure now. He panicked. He was losing you. He couldn’t lose you. “It’ll be a fresh slate,” he continued, hands moving to your hips, and he pulled you close. “Please–” He tried to kiss you again. 

“Jungkook, stop.” you demanded, breaking away. You stared at him as he stood there pathetically, the fight inside him deflating. “It won’t change anything.” 

That’s when you began to sob quietly, head in your hand, shoulders hunched. He had ruined you. This is what he’d done. This was what you had to put up with now. What you’d put up with for months. 

“I don’t trust you anymore. I can’t trust you.” you told him quietly. “And I can’t forgive you. I can’t forgive you for what you did. I really fucking want to, but I can’t!” 

You sniffed loudly and wiped your face, trying to pull yourself together. Jungkook let your words sink in. There really was no going back from this. You’d both been lying to yourselves and now this was the outcome. 

Your voice was even when you spoke again. You’d collected yourself, told yourself you needed to be strong. “I thought I could, but I can’t, and without forgiveness, I can’t forget.” 

His vision was blurred, tears trapped, unable to fall anymore. His worst nightmare was coming true. His worst nightmare was a living hell. 

“Jungkook, this isn’t healthy. You know that. We can’t be together anymore, no matter how much we want it.” 

Jungkook wiped his face and coughed to clear his throat. He needed to pull himself together. If not just for you. There was nothing else to do but agree. “I know.” You spoke sense. Your relationship wasn’t healthy. You were breaking one another down. 

Silence fell over you both. When all was said and done that was all you had left. Silence. It had been quiet for a few months. A lack of joy and laughter. A lack of comfort, a lack of love. Jungkook felt so empty he could blow away with one single breath. 

He watched you grab the handle of the case and wheel it forward. “I’m going to stay with my sister for a while. Until we work out what to do with this place.” 

“Wait, what?” Jungkook puzzled. He’d thought the case was his. He stepped forward, hand out. “No, I should be the one to leave. Not you!” 

“Jungkook, it’s fine,” you told him. “The truth is I can’t stay here anymore. Everywhere just reminds me of you. Of us...” You were gentle as you let him know. Firm, yet gentle. “I can’t live here anymore.” 

He tried to ignore the stab in his heart. “What will you tell her?” You had kept his betrayal to yourself this whole time. He didn’t know if it was for his sake or yours. He didn’t think he’d ever get to find out. 

You looked at your feet, sounding guilty. “She already knows the truth. I told her yesterday.” You looked up again, meeting his eyes. “I’ve been keeping it a secret for so long, I hope you understand.” 

Of course he did. He would never hold that against you. But yet, it all made sense. Why you’d finally had the courage to leave him. Why last night had been exactly that, the last night. Together. He wondered if your sister hated him now? He deserved it. He deserved your whole family hating him if you decided to tell them all. 

“She told me Minsung will love having his auntie around 24/7,” you carried on, making yourself laugh. It sounded forced and awkward, as if you were desperate to keep the mood light. As if you both hadn’t been crying just a few minutes ago. 

The ache in his chest was getting worse. Getting harder to ignore. Stab after stab began, just to join the heavy pain inside his rib cage. It was all getting too much again. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning again. Imagining you living your life somewhere else away from him. Imagining your little nephew who’d called him uncle since he was old enough to talk. He would never be a part of your family again. That connection was severed, and that reality seemed too much to handle. 

He imagined not seeing you every day, seeing your smile or hearing your voice, your laugh. That was the last nail in the coffin. His legs began to wobble again, the floor was falling beneath his feet. 

“I can’t do this,” he exclaimed suddenly, turning around, away from you again, “I’m sorry.” He wanted to slam his fists into the wall, so filled with rage he was shaking. So filled with despair he was trembling. Instead, he pressed his palms against it and took a deep breath, closing his eyes to stop himself from crying again. 

His whole life was changing in an instant. Tomorrow he had to wake up as normal, carry on as normal. He had no other choice. And so did you. 

He heard you walk forward, warmth engulfing him as you wrapped your arms around his middle, hugging yourself to the back of him. You pressed the side of your face into his shoulder and inhaled softly. “I love you,” you murmured. “I want you to be happy, Jungkook. I want us both to be happy.” 

I love you too, he thought to himself, but he couldn’t say it out loud. He’d only start begging again, and besides, like he already knew, love wasn’t enough. Not now. Instead, he straightened his back, letting his hands slide of the wall to grip yours clasped tightly around him. He squeezed softly, silently agreeing with you. All he wanted was for you to be happy. He understood that would only happen without him in your life now. 

You stood there for a while, connected one last time. The loneliest souls in the world. “I’ll miss you,” he whispered, feeling hollow inside. He’d miss you forever. 

You took a shaky breath. “I’ll always miss you.”

Written 2019-20. Reworked/Edited 2021 Please refrain from posting my work elsewhere. No translations allowed. © floralseokjin 2021

[bi-ressler]

Coming Home [RessGale]

@skiesfallithurts requested "Coming home + RessGale" for this ask meme (still taking prompts if you want to send something in! Could take me some time though due to real life)

Title: Coming Home Relationship: Julian Gale/Donald Ressler Characters: Julian Gale, Donald Ressler, Henry Prescott (mentioned), Raymond Reddington (mentioned), others (mentioned) Words: 10.891 Setting: Post-Prescott-Arc AU Warnings: Abuse of prescription meds (aka Donnie is back on oxy and I'm not even remotely sorry), sexual assault (non-explicit, but it's being discussed), homophobia very briefly mentioned A/N: I've had this idea in my head for literal ages and thanks to the prompt I'm finally doing it! So thanks for indulging me :D Also, this got away from me (again) and turned out way (WAAAAAY) longer than it should have. Oops! - - - As always, English isn't my first language, this isn't beta'd and all mistakes are mine. Feedback is greatly appreciated :) (Also, tumblr keeps fucking up the formatting, so if the sentence breaks up in the middle of the paragraph, blame hellsite dot com.)

[Read HERE on ao3!]

__________________________________________

Falling back into old habits and unhealthy coping-mechanisms is far too easy, Donald finds. But when everything crumbles around him, and all the poorly concealed cracks and insufficiently closed gaps and holes in his armour, in his life, finally give out and leave nothing but rubble and guilt and dread, it's the only way he can think of not to fall into complete despair and drown himself in self-pity.

But maybe he's already past that point.

Maybe this is what drowning actually feels like, and there's definitely no lack of self-pity on his behalf.

So he downs the pills with a swig of beer, ignoring the fact that this feels far too familiar, far too much like coming home after a storm, soaking wet and shaking to lay down on the warm carpet and breathe for the first time.

It was all a mistake.

The last six years, it was all one big mistake and right now, he'd give everything to go back in time, erase Reddington from his mind, never join that damned taskforce that had him spiralling to this point from day one. Hell, he'd go even further, never become an agent in the first place - maybe open up a coffee shop in Detroid or become a banker or lawyer or anything at all, as long as it's as far away from Reddington and this whole mess as possible.

That way, he'd never meet Henry Prescott. He'd never murder Laurel Hitchin. He'd never let down everyone in his life, most of all himself, and Audrey would still be alive, and Julian would still be with the bureau ---

Julian.

The guilt comes back full force, because if anyone didn't deserve the fate they got, it would be Julian. Hard working, fierce, loving Julian.

He dry-swallows another pill for good measure, shoulders his go-bag and disappears down an empty alley, unseen by cameras and cops and anyone who might recognize him.

He's not sure if he can go on like this.

He's been on the run for nearly a week now; a week of hiding, paranoia, always looking over his shoulder and ducking into the shadows. Where he once felt safe when he heard the siren of a police car, he now starts running. It's exhausting and he cowers lower into the corner of the abandoned building he's staying in tonight.

Another pill. The shivers lessen. The bottle is almost empty.

He leans his head back against the cold concrete and curses his need for justice, his stupid-ass decision of accepting this life as punishment for his actions.

No, that's not right, he thinks.

If he really was after justice, he wouldn't have run. He would have faced the consequences like a man, faced jail-time and public humiliation.

Instead, he'd been crushed by his own guilt after Prescott's death, written his confession with a shakey hand and left it on his desk, before grabbing the go-bag from the trunk of his car and running.

By morning Cooper must have found it, and in the afternoon he'd seen his face on the news. He has no idea where to go from here.

He pops another pill and curses when he reminds himself to cut back and save what little of the drugs he still has left.

---

The thing about guilt is, Ressler thinks, that despite what everyone says, it doesn't lessen over the years. He still feels guilty about ruining his brother's chance of a career as a cop, and he still feels guilty about Hitchin and Wright and Prescott and every crime Reddington committed right in front of his eyes.

He still feels guilty about what happened to Julian - the first time, after that operation in Kabul went so horribly wrong and Julian took the blame for it, both of them knowing full well that Ressler had been in charge and made the decision to fire, but being stubborn enough to convince IA that it had been his fault, handing over his badge and service weapon with an unreadable look towards Don. Maybe he did it out of some twisted sense of obligation. Maybe they were just in love and compromised. But in the end Ressler's decision had cost Julian his job and a civilian his life.

And the second time, after the whole mess with Mr. Kaplan, effectively ending Julian's career as nothing more but collateral damage. He can still feel his heart crack at that look of betrayal in Julian's eyes as they stood over the remains of Mako Tanida.

---

The other thing about guilt is that Donald doesn't know how to make amends. He knows how to follow his instincts and get himself deeper into trouble, deeper into the pit of guilt, deeper into unescapable situations. Making more and more excuses, trying to cover up all of his messes with lies that lead to more excuses, more lies, more damage.

He knows it's good that he does feel guilt in the first place. But there's only so much he can take.

He thinks about everyone he has left - Reddington, Keen, Aram, Cooper, Navabi.

He could go and find Reddington, ask him to get him out of this mess he created, but he still has some dignity left (he almost laughs at that, sitting in the dirt, close, so close again to withdrawal that his chest tightens, burdened with the undignity of all the actions that led him here). So Reddington is out. He'd only get him into some deeper shit, anyway, and he can't deal with that right now.

The taskforce is out, too. They're obligated to arrest him on sight. And after doing what he did (all the dirty work for Prescott that makes him shudder and swallow back bile), he wouldn't be able to look them in the eyes. They'd know. Another thing he can't deal with.

He can't go to his family, either; getting to Detroid would be a feat in itself, but no doubt the feds are just waiting for him to make contact with his mom or brother. He doesn't want to think about them; if he just so much as imagines his mom crying over the news of her little boy's fuck-up of a life he would only break the last remains of his heart.

Sighing, he realizes he's on his own and he closes his eyes against tears that don't come. His eyes are far too dry, and yet he feels like crying; maybe he's become too numb, but not numb enough to not care. He swallows against his dry throat, his fingers flexing around the pill bottle. He's out at sea alone, the storm raging and waves threatening to bring him down, and in the darkness, there's no lighthouse in sight, not even a candle in the window of someone who might take pity on him. He's bound to drown.

---

The next day, he runs out of pills as well as luck. He hears the shouting before seeing what's going on, and he doesn't need to round the corner to know that the cops are arresting his dealer; he hears his name. They're not after the poor sod for his arsenal of prescription-meds, they're after him. He turns around and doesn't stop running until his lungs burn and his feet ache.

---

He finally collapses behind an old factory that's been out of use seemingly forever. He vaguely remembers it from a case so many years ago, when everything was still fine and he still had dreams and hopes and Reddington hadn't crossed his way yet, Julian already by his side, Prescott a name he had no business knowing.

He remembers some nondescript arms dealers hunched over their merchandise, duffels with a ton of dollar bills and a short shoot-out that ended with the perps in cuffs and a brilliant smile from Julian. Although he couldn't see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, he knew the twinkle in them that told him everything he needed to know.

How the fuck could he fuck up something so good?

It doesn't matter now, though. He slides down the rough walls, and a shiver rips from his spine, rocking his entire body, until it gets stuck in his hands and they can't stop trembling. Every movement hurts deep in his bones, and the shaking only makes it worse until he feels sick to his stomach and feels the bile rise.

He closes his eyes, and now the tears come.

He lets all the shame and hurt and fucking guilt wash over him, drown him until he is gasping for air, remembering --- remembering all the roads he shouldn't have taken, remembering every time he allowed Prescott to shove his dick down Donald's throat, the blood of some stranger still on their hands and clothes, and Ressler can't keep it in anymore. His stomach convulses and forces its few contents out, spattering on the dirty ground, acid in his aching throat that still remembers Prescott's assaults.

He remembers Prescott's laugh and the grip of his hand leaving bruises on his arms. He remembers burying bodies of people he knew nothing about, for a man who could be his downfall with no more effort than twitching a finger.

Ironic, how that still happened and Ressler has just reached rock-bottom while still having done everything Prescott had demanded. A fucking lose-lose-situation. Ressler would like to laugh about the stupidity of it all (of himself), but it gets stuck somewhere between his chest and vocal chords. He can never go back.

He'd always thought it would be Reddington who'd ruin him. He was wrong.

---

With the onsetting darkness comes the cold; it's the end of summer and the days are warm enough, but the nights take all the warmth and replace it with cruel emptiness and too many thoughts.

He remembers all the times their hunt for Reddington had gone wrong; all the times they'd run into another dead end; all the times an informant ended up dead --- all the times he would crawl into Julian's bed or Julian in his and they'd hold each other, seek solace and comfort and hope and the strength to move on in each other's arms.

He remembers Julian's lips on his and how, for these few moments, he'd want nothing more and could forget the job. He remembers skin on heated skin, and whispered platitudes that in that moment felt like a lifeline, and falling asleep with limbs entangled, sheltering him from nightmares and fatalistic thoughts.

He misses it. Misses it more than anything else, and it's the first time he acknowledges this feeling. He'd missed Julian for years; and then he was back again, back in that ice rink, looking at him like nothing had happened, like he still didn't blame Donald for all the shit that had happened. Maybe he really didn't. Maybe the guilt for all of that had been for nothing.

And then Julian was gone again and this time it would be irreversible. Like a lost limb, he feels his absence.

Shivering, he stares at the darkness around him, and all he wants is those strong arms around him and the scent of leather and aftershave and the scratch of Julian's stubble against his own.

He can never have that again. He doesn't deserve it, and Julian sure as Hell won't forgive him. Not for ending his career and certainly not for working with Reddington and turning a blind eye to the crimes he committed under their watch. He wouldn't even want to touch him again with all the dirt and blood on his hands from working for Prescott; wouldn't want to kiss the same lips that suffered the abuse of a ruthless killer and had swallowed it like he deserved it.

Because the truth is, maybe that's what his life has become: an unescapable, unforgivable Hell, all the pictures of what he'd done burned into his brain, behind his eyelids, on his skin where the bruises have long since faded but the dirt still remains. And maybe that's exactly what he deserves.

He crumbles under his thoughts until he lies on the ground, a shivering, hurting mess that's overflowing with guilt and self-loathing.

Julian always used to kiss it away.

---

How, when and why Donald has decided to walk up that road into the woods is lost on him.

He used to know this road, been here a few times but not in several years; it seems unchanged exept for the sky that looks a bit duller. He never walked this path before, but he didn't want to steal a car. Wouldn't know where to dump it here anyway.

He knows it's probably a dumb idea, but he's out of options by this point.

Every step is hard work and his knees are about ready to give out, shaking under the strain of carrying him for miles and miles, and even in the chilly shadows of the surrounding trees he's sweating like it's a hundred degrees out. Another shiver runs through his body that feels like it's crushing every bone on its way, and he moans as he gasps for breath.

He knows though if he stops he'll never get up again. He'll never reach the old cabin in the woods by that small lake, and he'd die by the side of the small, muddy road. He's not ready for that, though.

---

It's late afternoon when he gets off the main road and takes the small footpath that leads to the cabin in a few hundred yards. The sun is much hotter now and although he can feel her warmth on his skin, he feels cold and clammy and miserable, fighting shiver after shiver and losing hard.

All he wants to do is curl up into a tight ball and die, but he's not gonna give up, not now, even though he knows that he's making a massive mistake here, but he doesn't care. It's like he's too far gone to acknowledge that fact and all his common sense has left him along with the contents of his stomach last night; he can't shove it back and, frankly, what does it matter? He can't fall any deeper.

So he stumbles on, struggling over rocks and branches, his feet numb except for the occasional flare of pain that still reaches his brain and he can't quite manage to shut out.

Then it comes into sight and he breathes out, a pained, wheezing sound that makes his head spin, and suddenly he feels sick because he knows he has made the wrong decision; he should go. He should turn around and collapse by the road and wither away like a fallen leaf.

The cabin is still like he remembers it from years ago; it belonged to Julian's father before he'd died, a nice little place far out in the woods that's perfect for a weekend-trip. Julian used to tell him stories of coming here with his dad to fish and hunt, back in the day before everything had turned to shit between them, before he came out as gay and his father stopped talking to him altogether.

He knows Julian is here; he's seen the old Ford parked by the road close to the small footpath. He also knows he's not welcome, just as he knows that he won't have anything left if Julian rejects him and throws him back onto the street he came from.

Feeling his knees wobble, he pushes on before he can give in to the seducing urge to let himself fall to the ground and curl up to die. He can still do that afterwards.

Another few steps and he's around the cabin where he can see the small lake, a pond really, with the wooden terrace right by the water; on it stands a deserted deck chair, but the bottle of beer that sits right next to it is still half-full, so Julian must be back any minute.

He leans heavily on the wall of the cabin and feels his strength bleed away. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead and along his nose as he lets his head fall, the strain in his neck too much for his muscles to hold it up anymore. Catching his breath is difficult when his lungs don't want to take in any much needed air and his chest feels too tight, like the collar of his dirty white t-shirt is strangling him, and he raises a violently shaking hand to his chest, ignoring the creaking of his joints as he does so.

Shit, this is worse than he'd thought. The hand that isn't clutching his shirt automatically wanders towards his pants pocket. It's empty. Of course it's empty. He's out of pills. He panicks at that because how in the world is he supposed to survive ---

when he hears a gun cock and forces himself to look up into Julian's face.

He looks good - always does - and his stubble is almost a beard now; his hair has grown too and Donald just wants to breathe it in. He wears sunglasses (of course, it's still bright outside and his eyes are just so damn sensitive), and his brow is deeply furrowed, his mouth a thin line that tells Donald just how welcome he is here.

"Don?", he asks, voice raspy like he hasn't spoken in a long time. Maybe he hasn't, but Ressler isn't naïve enough to blame any emotion for the roughness.

"Hey", he says, and he feels the world sway from the effort of holding himself up, so he grabs for the wall again, temporarily borrowing stability from the wooden structure. He doesn't even want to know how awful he must look, all sweaty and dirty and miserable, shaking and fighting just to keep standing.

"What do you want?", Julian asks, words hard and the gun still pointed at Ressler.

He looks at Julian, helpless to say anything, devoid of all words, and he realizes he doesn't know how to answer that question. He opens his mouth in the hopes of being able to bring out anything at all when a shudder runs through his body, leaving him breathless and on the ground. For a second all he knows is the pain of too much and too little at the same time that grinds his bones to dust and cuts through his muscles effortlessly. He thinks he groans in pain, but can't tell over the static in his ears.

"Fuck", he hears at the edge of his consciousness, "Don!"

And when he looks up, Julian is gone from where he stood before, instead there are arms steadying him from face-planting into the muddy ground. He leans heavily into those arms that promise comfort and solace and strength.

"Julian", Don rasps out, and he looks up to see Julian close, so close, worry visible even behind the sunglasses, and he has to close his eyes as a rush of emotion threatens to overcome him. This is it. This is all he wanted.

"Don't talk now, okay? I'm callin' an ambulance." And that's wrong. He can't do that, Ressler can't go to the hospital, not when he's on every wanted-list in the city ---

"Don't", he whispers and swallows against the bile. Julian looks at him like he's lost his mind, but there's still so much worry. "Don't", Donald repeats. He doesn't know how else to communicate this.

"Okay", Julian says flatly, still sceptical. "You mind tellin' me though why the fuck you're here?"

Ressler looks away, tries to ignore the black dots that creep into his vision.

"I'm sorry", he says, and he means it. Hopes that Julian understands, because Ressler doesn't know if he has the strength or the words to really explain himself here. "I didn't know where else to go."

Julian just nods, waiting for him to continue while Donald shivers in his arms and doesn't know how to go on.

"I fucked up", he finally says, and Julian laughs at that; a humorless, dry laugh that settles itself deep into what's left of Don's bones, a laugh that sends waves of guilt through his chest. He looks to the ground and tries not to break down under the weight of it.

"Yeah, you did", Julian says and there's an edge to his voice that's dangerous and hurt and speaks of everything Ressler has put him through. "And I'm really fucking close to tell you to go to Hell."

His eyes burn holes into Donald's skin until he's sure that Julian must be able to see his insides now, the rotten flesh and the dirt and the blood and all the shame and guilt he's never gonna be able to wash away.

"Not gonna do that though. Seems like you're already there."

Don lets his head fall and at this point he can't tell sweat from tears or blood or vomit or dirt; it's all there on his skin, whether remembered or real he doesn't know. All he knows is that it's disgusting, he's disgusting, he's dirty and has done unforgivable things and yet Julian is still holding him up, still touching him --- His head drops and he closes his eyes against the spinning world.

"C'mon", Julian says quietly, "let's get you cleaned up. You look like you could need a drink too, something to eat. And then you're gonna tell me what's going on before I change my mind. You alright with that?"

Donald just nods. At least he thinks he does.

He feels Julian's grip tighten, and together they manage to get Donald on his feet; he sways unsteadily, but Julian's hands are still there, grounding him against the nausea, keeping him from falling over as he clenches his eyes shut against the wave of dizziness and pain that rips through him.

"Hey, wait", he blurts out when Julian nudges him to move. "You don't - you don't have to do this, Julian. I won't blame you if -", he takes a deep breath, trying to organize his blurry thoughts, "- if you... y'know. Wanna throw me out on the street. Let me rot."

Julian looks at him long and hard, his face unreadable, and Donald wonders when that changed. He used to be able to read him flawlessly, back in the day.

"I know", he says eventually, "and believe me, I have every reason to, but... let's just get inside 'n' sort this out, yeah?"

He nods.

The inside of the cabin looks exactly the way he remembers it from the few times Julian has taken him here. Cozy and warm, soft light through the small windows, wooden table in the middle of the room - with all kinds of stuff on it, bottles and tools and newspapers - surrounded by self-made wooden chairs; it's only one room, and in the corner is still the old bed with the worn through mattress that he remembers very vividly (it's softer than it looks, the pillows under his hips fluffy, the scent of whiskey from Julian's lips and resin from all around him filling his senses ---) Julian drags him to the bed; Don is glad that Julian keeps his hands on his shoulders for a few more moments. He doesn't trust his body to sit on its own and not fall over. He takes a few deep breaths - the smell of whiskey and resin still lingers in the cabin and if he closes his eyes, he might be able to pretend nothing has happened and he's back to when all was good. He doesn't close his eyes. Needs the punishment of seeing an older version of Julian and that glimmer in his eyes that betrays the cold anger he tries to project. In here, it's easier reading him. The sunglasses have landed on the table in the mixture of things, and breathing is just that much easier now. Funny how brown eyes can have that effect on him. Or maybe it's just Julian's eyes. "You okay? Or are ya gonna topple over as soon as I let go?", Julian asks. His hands burn where they touch Ressler's shoulders - even through the shirt - and he feels like their heat is spreading all the way through his arms, mending his broken bones with a painful grip that makes him gasp. "It's alright", he says. His voice sounds strange, somehow distorted and raw, and when Julian lifts his hands it's like ice fills all the places that were on fire just seconds before, crushing him, burning even worse. He bites his lip. "'Kay", Julian murmurs, and then he turns around to get a bottle of water and --- and he opens up one of the cabinets and pulls out a small, brownish-yellow pill bottle --- his heart is beating so fast now he thinks he might throw up, and every fibre in his body screams Want! Want! Want! --- his muscles pulling on him, willing him to move, to get to the pills, down them all, swallow them, no regrets, make the trembling stop and the sweating and the shivers, undo the damage to his body, unbreak his bones, untear his sinews --- His mouth falls open. He can already feel it: the texture and the form of the little white pill against his tongue, the short moment when he swallows, the high he's chasing - no, no, it's not that anymore, it's never been that; it's always been about numbing the pain until it wasn't, until it was just about avoiding the come down. But right now he can feel the high, the anticipation, being so close to victory --- "Don?" And he wants to tell Julian to shut up, to just give him the pills, but he's the one who holds the bottle, he has the power in this moment and fuck, Ressler would do everything, anything, get on his knees or on all fours and just take it (flashes of Prescott assault his mind at that, and he gasps audibly because Julian is not Prescott, far from it, and he just wants his brain to shut the fuck up, to stop, knowing the pills will do that, they'll fucking save him from his own thoughts) --- "Hey, man - what's going on?" It's Julian's voice again, so much nearer now, burning hot hands holding him together as Donald crumbles. He collapses like a frail burning building, the last beams that were holding it together now nothing more than a pyre of grief and lost hope. He trembles against Julian's chest, his hands clinging to Julian's shirt, hurting from the exhaustion of cramping around the scratchy material but unable to let go, his head tucked under Julian's chin where he crouches in front of Donald on the floor. He wants to cry or to scream or to lash out, but all the energy he has left is unfocused, is mainly the never ending chant of Want! Want! Want! beneath his skin. "Fuck", he grinds out, and it's the hardest thing for him right

now, but he has Julian's arms around him and can feel his lips in his hair and smell leather and aftershave and --- Julian hasn't let him go yet. He hasn't pushed him away yet; is still touching him, unafraid, not yet disgusted. Then again, he doesn't know what Donald has done. "Hey, hey", Julian breathes against Ressler's temple, "it's okay, Don, it's - it's alright. It's gonna be alright..." Don shakes his head, takes a stuttering breath. "It's not, it's -", he starts, and his hands shake so hard now he's afraid of hurting Julian, "it's all gone to shit, okay? Nothing's alright, and - it's all my fault. It's all my fault, Julian, just ---" He doesn't know what he's saying, only that he needs to get it out. He needs to let Julian know how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could go back and do it all differently, how much he wants Gale to be happy. "Easy", Julian whispers, and now his hands are stroking up and down Don's spine and he feels like a child, but also safer than he has in a long time. This, right here, is his shelter in the storm, a place to wait out the worst of it before he can go home. Only that he doesn't know where home is anymore. Not that it matters. He has his self-imposed punishment to serve. They sit there for a while, until Ressler's breathing is less ragged and his body is limp with exhaustion and his hands uncramp around Julian's shirt. "You need to drink something", Julian says, his voice far too soft, and somewhere deep inside of him Ressler just wants Julian to yell at him, to beat him, to show him exactly how he's felt the last couple of years. Let out all the anger and frustration and disgust he must be feeling. Add his loathing to the pyre burning away at Donald's insides. Julian shuffles away, keeping one steadying hand on Ressler's shoulder, the other reaching for the glass of water he must have put on the ground besides him when Donald collapsed. "Here", he murmurs and holds the glass up to Don's lips. Donald doesn't even try to take it from him, his trembling hands trapped between his thighs. The water is refreshing and he's sure he could drink an entire river - his mouth and throat aren't longer as dry, his heaving stomach slowly settles, his over-heated skin seems to cool a little. When the glass is empty, Julian sets it aside and takes a hard look at Don. "Better?", he asks. Behind the hard, cold glare his gaze is so open, so vulnerable now that Don has to look away. "Yeah", he nods. "Thanks." He doesn't know where Julian has put the pill bottle, but it's probably back in the cabinet. There's no way Julian could have misinterpreted Donald's behaviour. "So." Donald looks up again. He can still feel the sweat on his forehead, on his neck, chest, everywhere, but now it's cooler, and if the temperature keeps dropping as quickly he will surely freeze to death. He doesn't know though if it's the change of seasons or his own body. "Guess I owe you an explanation", Donald murmurs. He's tired suddenly, so tired he can feel it in his bones. Like he's two hundred years old, an ancient tree about to die. "You bet your ass you do." With that Julian gets up off the ground, refills the glass, sets it on the table and sits down next to Donald on the bed. He sits further away than he used to, the gap between them like a fucking canyon that Don could throw himself in to to break every bone in his body yet again, for the last time. He won't though. He owes Julian that much. "So?", Julian asks when the silence stretches too long. But Donald doesn't know where to start, doesn't even know what to say except for I'm sorry and forgive me and I love you. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry again, his heartbeat picking up its pace, beating uncomfortably against his too tight ribcage. "I'm sorry", he begins, and when he looks at Julian, his face is impassive and schooled. He expects more. Of course he does, Donald thinks, and he deserves it, deserves more, deserves everything. He's just not sure he can give that. "I ruined your life", he says. Looks down at his hands and how

they shake where they're trapped between his knees. "Again", he adds and the corner of his mouth twitches in a humorless attempt at a smile. "You should never have paid for what we - what I did. The whole Reddington-thing. I justified it with all the good we did, all the cases we solved, the criminals we put behind bars, but... you were right. The price was too high. It was doomed from the start... All the people who died, Julian, all those good people --- I don't know if it was worth it." He looks up into Julian's face. It's not as passive and unreadable as before; now there's a glint of pity, a tiny spark of anger, the smallest sign of resignation. "And - and to think I betrayed all my principles for that taskforce. All I ever stood for - wanted to stand for. Fuck, I'm... I just... I just wanna go back, Julian. I just wanna start over. Forget about - about Reddington and Prescott and Hitchin and - Audrey. Fuck, Audrey... I should have known then. I should have quit back then." He buries his face in his hands. There are no tears, but the shame that's crawling up his spine and spreading through every inch of his body is threatening to overwhelm him. "What happened to her?", Julian asks quietly, his voice impossibly soft. He knows about them. About their far too early engagement, about the stubbornness with which Donald had tried to love her just to get over the fact that Julian was gone from his life. About his need to prove that he was okay. "She's dead. She was killed. She'd still be alive if it wasn't for Reddington." "I'm sorry", Julian says after a moment of silence. He sounds genuine, even though Ressler knows how Julian feels about Audrey. Or used to feel, anyway. And now, Donald doesn't know what else to say. Knows there's so much, too much to talk about, but he doesn't know where to start. He wants to tell Julian about Hitchin and Prescott and those brief moments with Reddington - in the box and in a hotel room in Washington and the whole long flight from Munich back to the states. Donald takes a deep breath; it's not like that makes any difference because his lungs still seem incapable of taking in enough oxygen for him to survive. How he's still conscious, he doesn't know, but it's probably just his mind playing tricks with him. And all the while, Julian looks at him with patience that's bordering on resignation, and sadness he might be mistaking for grief about the people they could have been. The love they could have shared, the lives they could have lived. All those things Ressler never gave himself time to grieve for, but are returning with a vengeance now, cutting him up, sucking him dry, suffocating him in their thick reality. "I deserved it", he finally croaks, his voice strangled by everything he's lost, and he clears his throat. "Everything I got in the end, I deserved it." He stares at his hands that are trapped between his knees, feels them tremble, and when he looks back up at Julian, the other man is suddenly closer than he was before. The canyon between them is nothing more than a crack in the pavement now, their legs not yet touching, Julian's heat a welcome comfort against Don's clammy pale skin, and it still feels like it's not enough, like nothing he could do could ever be enough, and as much as he detests the thought that this might be the closest Julian will let himself get to Don, he also revels in the almost-touches and the dark gazes and the fact that this, too, is something he painfully deserves: the one person he never stopped loving to be entirely unreachable. He thinks back to the good times and how easy it was to just reach out and take any comfort he needed. The sleepless nights in those dingy motel rooms they spent staring out the window at the starry sky or at each other, the moments of warmth and solitude, bodies wrapped around each other like they're one, soft breath in his ear, dry lips on skin, rough fingers entangled, squeezing, comforting. Thinks back to that night in Manila, when Julian stood before Donald's door at three in the morning, dark bags under

his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around his chest to prevent him from falling apart; later it would be Don's arms holding him together. Thinks back to that morning in New York that should have been entirely unpleasant with the stink and the broken heater in the middle of January and the noise even so early, but with Julian's sleeping form next to him - so peaceful and full of beauty -, he wished it could always be like this. He doesn't think back to the time they said goodbye, or the time Julian almost died from a bullet in his stomach, or the countless times they sat at each other's hospital beds. He doesn't think about the last time they kissed, the last time they made love, the last time they hugged, the last time there wasn't this edge to Julian's voice that tells Donald that things will never be the same. He certainly doesn't think about the future. "And what is it you got? What is it you think you deserve? 'Cause I see you sitting here like, like death warmed over and I can't imagine what the Hell you could've done to deserve... well, this." Julian's voice is rougher than usual; Donald doesn't know if it's because of the emotion he swallows so successfully or because he's smoking more than he used to or because this is the first time in a long time that he's speaking to somebody. Donald draws in another sharp breath. His lungs aren't exactly cooperating, but it doesn't matter as long as he can still explain. "I think I need some air", he says, voice barely more than a whisper. He sees Julian nod out of the corner of his eye, and together they manage to walk outside. It's weird, a little, how much better he feels and how much easier it is to talk, to move, to breathe, ever since arriving in the cabin. Just a few hours ago he was almost certain he'd be dying in a ditch right about now. It's gotten dark outside; the sun hasn't disappeared fully yet, but through the trees that surround the cabin and the pond it's impossible to make out. Julian sits him down in the deck chair Donald had noticed earlier, the opened bottle of beer that's still sitting beside it now forgotten. Don takes a deep breath. It's easier now, out here. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Julian setting up a second chair next to the one Donald is sitting on. They both lean forward, elbows on their knees, Ressler's head hanging, Gale watching him with sharp eyes. Donald shakes his head; to think how easily all this could have been avoided! If he hadn't taken the job with the taskforce, none of this would have happened. Or if he'd been honest sooner, if he'd talked to Julian when the whole Mr. Kaplan-mess started instead of betraying him --- "That, right there, what you just said, is why I love you." He can still hear those words loud and clear in his head, recalling that moment with absolute clarity even if most of his other thoughts and memories are blurry from exhaustion and pain. The way they just came over Julian's lips, so simple, so easy, like they were picking up from where they'd left, still sends goosebumps over his arms and back; he remembers the painful tightening of his chest back then, and his mind going completely blank, and deciding to overplay his nerves with a lame joke and getting back to work as quickly as possible. He remembers hope bubbling up in the back of his ribcage, and laying awake that night overthinking those words. Overthinking the whole situation while pushing away his guilt. He hated lying to Julian then, and he hates where it has gotten him. He remembers cursing Julian's mind, always so quick and clever, and he remembers cursing Reddington time and time again. He purposely doesn't remember all the times he thought about the Concierge instead of Julian when he was alone in his bed. It feels like another betrayal all over again. And he remembers being on the verge of asking how much truth lay behind Julian's words more than once but always pulling back at the last second. Maybe he'll never know, now. "Don?" He remembers that he needs to talk. His mind feels almost bruised by the

onslaught of memories ever since he's seen Julian for the first time in so long. "Yeah. Sorry." He takes another deep breath, now easier out here, and leans back in his chair, tired eyes focusing on the patches of darkening skies through the crowns of the trees. A sense of tranquility fills his whole body and the shivers cease to shake him. "You were right about Mako Tanida. His head. Reddington - Reddington gave it to me as a gift." He closes his eyes for a second and sees the severed head in the box as if it happened yesterday instead of almost six years ago. He shudders and opens his eyes again, back to watching the gentle breeze shifting through the leaves and branches. He doesn't look over at Julian. "Some sort of... sick compensation for Audrey's death." He pauses at that, thinking back at Audrey and how he barely remembers her face now even though he knows he should. It gives Julian time to piece it together. He doesn't say a word though, intent on letting Donald speak. "It makes me sick now. But that's Reddington, you know? He lulls you in and there's nothing you can do about it. -- Objectively, I knew what we were doing, and I was justifying it with all the high-profile arrests we did. But... I don't know, man, he was under my skin and I only realized it when it was too late. He's like this... spider. Sucks you dry as soon as you're caught in his net. And it doesn't stop until someone worse comes along and ---" He stops speaking then, dropping his head, unable to find the words to convey Prescott's cruelty, his depravity that became Donald's own. A hand on his shoulder makes him look up; Julian is watching him, his gaze a strange mix between a cold distance and warm empathy. "What happened?", he asks. As if his hand doesn't burn Don's flesh where it touches him over his shirt, as if he doesn't know the repercussions of this gesture, as if he can't even imagine what it means to Don that he's touching him out of his own accord, not yet fleeing, not yet disgusted, but full of love and comfort and everything Donald doesn't deserve. They stay quiet for a short while, Don watching how the cold distance transforms to something new, something like pity, but not exactly. Maybe curiosity with a touch of sadness. Like he wants to hear the answer and doesn't. Like he wants to know what made Don come here but doesn't want to hear it. Like he knows it could change everything between them, all the anger he's been carrying with him since the ice rink-case melting away, leaving only the torn pieces of his old love. "Laurel Hitchin", Donald says quietly. Another shiver runs through his body as he feels Julian's hand falling away. They're silent again; Don trying to figure out how to confess a murder and all the shit that followed it, and Julian thinking about how Hitchin might as well have fired him. She may have been an awful person, but she didn't deserve to die. In Don's experience, there's no one who deserves to die; at least that used to be his opinion. He's not so sure about it now. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but that's where they stay. He can't push them over the edge, can't make his vocal chords work and his lips form the vowels and consonants. He tries in vain, again and again, until Julian is looking at him again like he knows Donald's struggle. "She's dead", Julian says, tone neutral, and Don can't read from it how much Julian knows or at least suspects. He nods. Remembers her laying on her kitchen floor, pool of blood growing larger second by sickening second. "I didn't mean to ---", he stammers, and Julian's eyes grow wide like he didn't expect this confession. "Shit", he breathes and rubs a hand over his face. It stops over his mouth and chin and he looks straight ahead into the darkness that has settled around them like their own private bubble where there's room for confessions and guilt and maybe even forgiveness; room that the bright sun of the day doesn't allow. "That's why you're such a mess? Jesus, Don,

I ---" But he doesn't continue. Donald doesn't want to hear another I'm sorry from Julian, and he doesn't want to hear that he's fucked up either. He just wants to forget. "It gets worse", he says and Julian looks up, surprise and pain and dread lining his features, and he suddenly looks much older than he is. Still beautiful, and Don has to swallow against the sudden feeling of belonging that rises in his chest; like he's home, like this has been his home all along, and it will be until they're old and grey and dying of old age in each others' arms --- only that it's a fantasy, a feverish dream he's having. Before Don can continue though, Julian stands up and disappears inside the cabin without another word. He can't blame him. With a sigh he stays where he is, watching the sky again that's now completely dark, and he doesn't know if he isn't actually watching the invisible dance of the trees. His mind is completely blank now and it's a more than welcome change. Before he knows it, Julian is back with two bottles of beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Wordlessly, he gives one of the already opened bottles to Don who takes it with only slightly shaking hands, then sits back down, takes a gulp of beer, puts it down on the ground beside his chair, and takes a cigarette out of the pack. He offers one to Don but he declines with a shake of his head. The small flame of the lighter makes Julian's face flicker orange and yellow, the shadows making the lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth dance and seem deeper than in the light of day. For the few seconds it lasts, he looks almost angelic in a rough, strange way. "I called the cleaner who used to work for her", he says before he can think about it. "His name's Henry Prescott." The smell of burnt tobacco lulls him in, like they're back in Julian's old apartment, in his bed after an evening of slow sex, bliss and heavy limbs and soft words forever interlinked with it. It almost makes the bile that's threatening to rise after the mention of Prescott's name stay down. Julian's eyes are on him again, calmer now, but also more distanced than before. Don can barely make them out through the dark of night, but from experience he knows Gale won't say any more. He needs all the facts, and Don's the only one who can provide those. He looks back to where the lake must be, now an invisible black hole between the equally black woods. He thinks it must be easy now that he's started, but the words won't come, his mind preoccupied with keeping the images at bay, the memories of dead bodies and blood and the smell of bleach and ammonia. He closes his eyes for a minute, the shivers returning, rocking his body against his will, and he's going to be sick if the stink of chemicals doesn't leave his nose soon --- He wishes Julian would touch him again, ground him somehow like he used to, but he doesn't. Don doesn't look up either. He needs to carry on. "He found out who I was", he says eventually, strangled, struggling to keep talking. "Blackmailed me into working for him." He rubs his free hand over his face, pressing down over his eyes to get rid of the images and the smell, and for a moment it's like Julian isn't even there, like he's not listening, like Don can say anything he wants to the dark emptiness he's surrounded by. He takes a few gulps of the beer but doesn't set it down. "Fuck, I --- the things I did. The shit I was forced to do and I, I didn't even fight it. I was too afraid to - I don't know, lose my job, my reputation, my friends", it breaks out of him now, and a laugh forces its way through his constricted throat at the irony of the words. He feels Julian shift next to him, reminding Don of his presence, but he doesn't turn to look at him. "I did every fucking thing he told me to. Drove around dead bodies in car trunks. Buried and unburied them. Scrubbed blood off walls and carpets and beds. --- How the fuck can anyone forgive me for that? How can you?" He takes another large sip of the beer, now risking a glance at

Julian. His cigarette has almost burnt down completely, leaving a tail of ash threatening to fall onto Julian's lap; he hasn't taken a drag since Don has started speaking. Instead he's looking at Donald, almost staring through him, and Don doesn't know what to make of that. He doesn't think he's ever seen that expression on Julian. "I should never have come", he says curtly because he can't face the silence now. "I'm sorry. I should never have -- I guess I know now that I deserved it." The calm that settles in his bones surprises him. He looks back up to the sky, clear and beautiful where it shines through the trees, and now he can make out tiny bright dots, stars spattered across it like the splashes of watercolor over paper when he was a kid. He can feel tears behind his eyes and he knows this is the last time he will be home. Knows it's the last time he gets to feel something other than guilt and dread. Maybe he should get up and leave now, having done enough damage as it is, but something inside him urges him to stay, to tell Julian the whole truth, make him understand. He needs Julian to tell him to fuck off; needs his rejection to be at peace and go home. Somewhere, anyway. "He didn't stop there", he says, and he knows it's his only chance to ever articulate it; if he doesn't say it now he'll be silent forever. Besides him, Julian tenses. He's been tense for the last couple of minutes, but now his back is straight in a way that it almost never is, but Donald needs to get those next few words out. He feels strangely detached from his body and mind and memories. "Sometimes he would force me on my knees, make me suck him off", he starts, and it's easier to say it out loud than it should be, "and sometimes he would bend me over the hood of the car or tie me to the bed post in whatever hotel he'd stay in. I took it every time. I thought I didn't have a choice." And he's smiling now, the weight on his shoulders, his lungs, his mind so much lighter, and he doesn't even mind the trembling of his hands, of his whole body. He just lets it happen. "Until my conscience finally made me put a stop to it. I arrested him. Wrote my confession. And left. But I'm still too much of a coward to face the consequences, instead I'm running from everything." He lets his head fall. This shouldn't be this easy, he tells himself, but then again, with Julian nothing is as it should be. "Swallowing one pill after the other, sleeping in the mud, always looking over my shoulder. That's no life. That's - that's Hell, Julian." Finally, he looks back at his old love, a flood of emotions racing through him like a tsunami, and he chokes out: "I deserve it. All of it. What Prescott did to me. I gotta live with it. I'm ---" But the words die on his lips as he feels Julian's arms around his neck, and hot breath against his ear, and fingers tangling in his hair. He stops breathing for a few seconds, brain catching up with the sensations, and Julian is embracing him like he knows it's the last time, or like he's sorry, or like his life depends on it. "Just so you know", Julian rasps against Don's cheek, "I really fucking want to punch you right now. I wanna - wanna throw you against the wall and just - punch you until I can't move my arm anymore. Okay? Got that?" Donald nods silently, still stunned by the sudden embrace. He didn't think Julian would ever want to touch him again, wouldn't even want to be near him again. "No one", Julian says, "No one - deserves shit like that." And then he stammers like he wants to say every word he knows at the same time while simultaneously not knowing what to say altogether, before giving up with a hissed "Fuck". Don knows this, knows that sometimes, Julian's brain is faster than his mouth, and then he stumbles over words like an excited child. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you, huh?", he asks quietly, still not letting go, and now Don puts the bottle down and returns the embrace. Carefully, very carefully, like he might freak Julian out, like he might realize then what he's doing and

drop Donald like a hot potato. Donald shakes his head no; doesn't want to be dropped, not now, not when he's this close to Julian; shakes his head because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now either. The idea that's been in the back of his head, whose existence he completely ignored until now, that's probably the reason he came here in the first place, creeps into his consciousness now, and his grip around Julian's ribs tightens. "I just--- wanted to apologize for everything I did to you. I ruined your career, your life. I lied to you, I betrayed you. And I'm so sorry, Julian, I'm - I'm so fucking sorry." He loosens his grip again so he can look at Julian who looks up. His eyes are wet and dark and so damn beautiful, and now they're only inches apart. He could kiss him now, ruin everything all over again for a short moment of bliss, but he doesn't. "Me too", Julian says quietly, and his voice is soft like torn velvet. "I wish you wouldn't have come here. Let me keep my anger. But I guess you have this way of making me forgive everything you do. You're impossible, Don, you know that and I, just, hate you so, so much right now, I fucking - I hate you so much ---" "I know", Don whispers against Julian's cheek as their faces are pressed together, stubble against stubble, words escaping them that neither of them hears, lips against skin, not exactly kissing, but mouthing apologies and curses that get lost in the night. "I was so angry for so long, thinking about you, and the shit you did, the - the way it had to end", Julian rasps, tension falling off his body, too tired to keep on shivering. "I kept asking myself why the fuck you'd work with him --- how you could stand looking Reddington in the eye day after day and not - not see all that he cost us. Except I realised you did see, and you just didn't care." "Julian, I ---", he interrupts, but Julian keeps talking. "And I took that as justification to curse you and to hate you, and I did, you know, I really did, but... then I realised it was Reddington and I -- I chalked you up as just another casualty, another person he ruined, because you - you might just as well have been dead, you know? I fucking buried you." Julian chokes a little at that, but his grip at the back of Don's head doesn't weaken. "I know him, Don, I, uh, I know how he is. How he will put you under his spell and pull you in and never let go. Just... Just tell me this." And he looks up again, eyes red rimmed even in the darkness, and Don wants nothing more than to kiss those tears away, but he can't. He owes Julian, and even though he doesn't know what he wants to ask, he knows he needs to give an honest answer. No more lies. No more. Julian's searching his face and seems to have found what he's been looking for when he finally speaks up again after long moments of silence. "Did you love him?" The question should surprise Donald. It doesn't. He looks down, unable to meet Julian's unrelenting gaze. Thinks back to the box and the hotel room in Washington and the flight from Munich back to the states. Slowly, without looking up, he nods. No more lies. Here it comes. "Yeah", he says quietly even though he knows Julian has seen his nod. "I did. But never like I loved you." The words just come, mindlessly spilling over his lips, and he means them; he still doesn't look up. Doesn't want to see the disgust and rejection in Julian's eyes. The moment stretches like someone stopped time, stopped the entire universe, and Donald doesn't mind one bit. If it means having this last moment with Julian, even if it's filled with uncertainty, he'll gladly spend eternity frozen in time like this. Julian's fingers are still in his hair, his gaze still focussed on Donald. He's still though, not moving, and if it wasn't for his heavy breath, Don would have thought Julian might really be frozen. Then the moment ends. "Okay", Julian says, simple but heavy, like this truth lifted some weight off of him that Donald didn't know Julian was carrying. He looks up now, unable to keep his

gaze away any longer, and he doesn't know what to make of Julian's expression. There's no disgust. There's no rejection. There's understanding and sadness locked away in the tears that are sticking to his eyelashes, shimmering in the pale light of the moon that's slowly beginning to shine through the trees. Donald doesn't understand it; Julian is supposed to be upset, angry, pushing him away, throwing him out on the street to rot --- not drawing soothing circles over the back of his head, not looking at him like that, like they can fix this, like Donald is finally home --- "I'm, uh... I'm going to the police. Tonight. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. My sad attempt to make things right." He has to look away again, Julian's focussed, open gaze too much for him. "Guess I couldn't... leave without having told you. And I'm - I'm not asking for forgiveness here. I know I can never have that. I just needed to see you. Make sure you're alright, so..." He clears his throat, realizing that they've only been talking about him and never once about Julian. Fuck, how egoistic can he be! "How're you doing?", he asks, and Julian is still clinging to him, just as he's clinging to Julian. "Oh, I'm fine", Julian laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Julian -", Donald starts. He doesn't need his bullshit now. "Really, Don, things couldn't be better. I've read that in my horoscope." He still smiles, a little crooked like he's holding something back, something big, and now Ressler's hand comes up to cup Julian's face. Again, the thought of just kissing him comes to mind, but they're so fragile, both of them, it would only leave them shattered for good. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke the thick stubble and he doesn't say a word. Julian closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and for a few precious moments, Donald can pretend they're happy. "Stay", Julian says and Donald freezes. Thinks he must have misheard Julian, who looks up now from where he kneels in front of Don's chair, his own hand leaving the blonde hair to rest at Don's jaw. "What?", he asks. It's more of a breath though, no sound escaping his lips. "I'm - yeah, I'm fucking pissed at you right now, but all of this... it - it doesn't change anything. Y'know, I still mean it." And they're so close still, and Donald has lost track of what's happening, and confused, he shakes his head. "What do you mean?", he asks. "Trondheim. Remember that?" He does. It was the beginning of March and so cold even the hotel room in New York with the broken heater seemed like a tropical vacation in comparison. It wasn't the first time they said I love you, but it was the first time they talked about the future. Before, they would stay in the moment, too afraid of letting go, of losing the other over naïve fantasies of a life together. That night though, they didn't need to be scared. "Whatever happens", Julian said, "I'll never walk away. How could I, huh? Guess I'm too far gone." He smiled, and so did Donald, pressing a kiss to Julian's collarbone. "Fifty years from now", Julian continued, "I'll still think of you. Every fucking day." That earned him a kiss on the lips, chaste and innocent and full of love like they've never experienced before. "Don't matter if you're still with me or not. You don't forget the love of your life, Donnie. I won't forget. Not us. Not this. Never. I could never let you go. Ever." But back then, Julian couldn't have imagined where they would end up one day. "It was different back then", Don says. Not because he doesn't want Julian's words to be true, but because he doesn't think himself worth them. "Yeah, it was", Julian answers, "but tell me you don't feel it still. Tell me, Donnie, and I'll let you go." Donald's answer is silence because, yes, of course he still feels it, that love that's deeper than any feeling he's ever known, deeper even than the shame and guilt and pain of the recent months, years, but doesn't Julian know that it's pointless? That Don's life is over? The silence stretches on and he can't hold

Julian's gaze. "I know", Julian says, "I know." And those words are enough to set him free, to liberate him from his cage of anger and self-pity and guilt and self-imposed punishment - he knows those won't go away anytime soon, but he still feels like breaking down, mercy too much to handle when he knows he's undeserving of forgiveness. He lets his head fall, knowing Julians hands are there to steady him. They do, cradling him like a newborn child, and in a way that might be true: maybe, somehow, this can be a new life, a new start for him; a clean slate. Maybe now, he can forget all of it, all the shit that happened, the person he was - the person he was forced to become --- maybe this is the one chance in life for rebirth. "I'm a mess", he says. "I know", Julian answers. "We can figure it out. Together." "You deserve better." "Shut it now, Donnie. I think I know best what I deserve, huh? I've given up everything for you, y'know, twice. You know what I think it is I deserve? Hm? What we deserve?" Donald looks up, feeling Julian's breath against his lips as much as the intensity of his gaze, those brown eyes so familiar in their depth it makes his heart ache. He wants to answer, say something, anything at all, but no words will leave his lips. He feels trapped there between Julian's closeness and the chair, but there's no place he'd rather be. He holds Julian's gaze for a few moments before shaking his head. "Peace, Donnie. I think we deserve peace after all this. Just a little, don't you think?" And that sounds good, far too good to be true, and he can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him. "Yeah", he says finally, voice constricting, "I want that. I want that, Julian." A smile is still tugging at the corners of his mouth when Julian kisses him, slow and unsure and not at all like the many kisses they used to share; it's like a first kiss, a promise for an uncertain future, a vow to try. To give it time and let wounds heal - they're all they have, after all. "You're not going to the police", Julian says as they part. "We will figure this out. Get you clean. And in fifty years we'll still be here, okay, I won't lose you again, I couldn't, couldn't bury you again, I'll ---" And as Donald kisses the doubts and fears away, for the first time in years he has the feeling that everything might turn out okay; that he might be deserving of happiness after all. That finally, finally he's home. _______________________________________

[h0unds-of-h3ll]

Listen to the cry

No one questioned Castiel’s trench coat, so why should they question yours?

Sam and Dean Winchester x reader but it’s heavy on Sammy.

Viewers beware you’re in for a scare: with the amount of fluff, heart wrenching angst, dark themes, explicit language, sexual remarks.

Trigger warning mentions of past abuse, and self mutilation. 

This is loosely based around the episode; Season 15 episode 11 “The Gamblers��

Sorry for the let down I’m not dead. I want to dedicate this to my wonderful and fabulous friends who are my family, you know who you are ;).

Let's start this story off in the way that makes any possible sense, the day your mother birthed you. Your mom and father's relationship seemed normal to the naked eye but once you started to peer deep into the picture. It was the exact opposite, speaking of your mother's labor it wasn't exactly your fault what happened to her. Although your father thought otherwise, it had been exactly three to four minutes after she gave birth that she had gone. That day your father never forgave you. No one dared to question why you wore long shirts where the sleeves run past your small torn arms. They were your father's he didn't dare to give you clothes that he had to buy with his hard-earned government filled check. 

That wouldn't do nor buy any food that was for two almost every night well every night for the past eleven years you had to eat after him. We also couldn't forget how a minor "b" on a report card resulted in you getting lashings from that horrendous leather belt with the buckle being the size of an ashtray. You were that too. Days had gone into months when you realized there is no hope for you, always dreading the walk home. Until one evening when your ratty untied boots kept kicking pebbles came across a scene. One of which involved a scrawny shaggy-haired boy being beaten to almost death by three what looked like cows. You never did like bullies so you shrugged on the one strap bag (the other had been eaten off many years ago from rats.) You kept your head hung low in a desperate measure to disappear from their sights. Yet your wishes were cast away when his ungodly eyes met your form from across the street. You knew you should've picked up the pace. The guilt insufferable when you heard the kids squelched cry for help, you couldn't help but glance over to peer at the kids' face. One that had blood smeared from eye to ear. That didn't help your soundless escape. 

It was like watching a train crash into a car, it was as much excitement and fear you would ever get, and for some reason, you were paralyzed. You couldn't move. You stood there like a small tree, watching every slur, every kick to the gut, every punch to the face for what seemed like hours. Although the cows' brains seemed to turn when the kid's head no longer was against the ground but in turn lifted to where you were watching. "The fuck are you looking at freak?!" you heard one of them say when they kicked his gut making him curl into a fetal position. It seems they were done with the torture when the kid's shoulders stopped moving to signal that he was dead or at least playing it. That also appeared to strike fear in their layers of flesh as they took off, one of them just had to look back and saw you. A witness. His pig face porked into a smirk that drew attention to his intentions, and his small thin lips drawing into syllables that made your blood run cold. "Oh, you are so dead." and with that, you took out in a sprint. 

You hadn't gone far just a few mere inches when you tripped over your laces, you will forever think of the day when you learn to tie them as the day you become a god. It was such a lost cause to get up, one boot had flown off your foot entirely, the bottom of your bag busted making every single thing fall out, and you just managed to bust your chin on the pavement. With everything else, the cherry on top was the pig still coming for you. You had a few feet of a headstart on him which was yards in his situation, you could have made it to your house if you would have gotten up right then and just made a run from it. But you were too clouded thinking about what your Dad was going to do about your bag, the last thing you remember that orange soft winded evening was the boy's fist coming in contact with your head and knocking you out cold. 

Your dad stormed into the living room where you were sitting on the couch (your bed) and started ranting about how on some test you had got an A- on. You hated him you did, you wished that whatever happened to your mom had happened to him instead. But the world never did take kind into the matter. You could no longer hear his shouting and rampage. Your mind focused on the small T.V. in front of you displaying a rerun of some old cartoon. A blonde buff dude in a black shirt trying to pick up some girl but then getting slapped across the face, then you just had to go and ruin it by laughing. That was the end of the line for you, you remember that night so vividly because that was the night when Grandma came. This happened often, arguments laced with venom every time she came, which would leave him to slam the door in her face and scream at the top of his lungs ``IT'S MY KID NOT YOURS!" She was on your Father's side. You weren't even sure if your mom had any relatives you never heard him speak of them, nor even seen them. It was if they were a forbidden monster that the world would stop turning if you knew about them. The knock on the door was your prayer but the look on your dads' face told an entire another story, it was a brief yelling match of a so-called discussion before he came back in with something flowing from his hands. It was a coat.

You woke up with a gasp. Air flowing through your lungs as the world whirred back and forth, your head having sharp pain as well as your chin. You were confused as to why you were laying on the sidewalk, asleep. But then you remembered. The farm animals, once you understood there were entirely too many emotions but the main ones were anger and sadness. Anger that this happened and sadness out of the outcome. You decided that can't wallow in your pity, (although you did consider it for a long duration of time.) Once you sat up you didn't realize you had an audience, the meat they were practicing on sat before you criss crossed and head tilted shaggy hair hiding his eyes. You mimicked his presence, your black coat falling behind your form drowning you in its wake. After a few minutes of soaking in each other's battle scars, he jutted a handout an introduced himself in a lopsided smile; "I'm Sam Winchester." That was the last time you had ever seen Sam.

~Time jump~

Working at a diner was stressful, sure, but never as stressful as trying to find a job that allowed you to wear a trench coat that went to mid-leg. It was a simple job taking orders and giving them to the back and serving the food to the customer. No, but it was your boss. Every single time he could slip a comment or a remark in, he would. Even in the worst of times like right now, you were waiting for the food order. It had been a slow off day not many on a Monday night came through on a roadside restaurant. Your boss was a middle-aged man who happened to look like your father and just had gotten all of his wonderful traits. Right now he was bickering at you because you weren't doing anything, there was nothing to do! you cleaned every possible thing there is to clean. Twice over might, I add and even polished the seats, you do not know how hard it was until you encountered the unforsaken bridge. 

You were fixing to give him a jab by saying that when has he ever done anything around here but collect his money and go. But instead, you bit your tongue and closed your eyes and counted to ten because that would cost you the job and your life. You peeled your eyes open at the sound of the doors' literal bell ringing signaling someone had come in. A pair of tall stocky men made their way through, one of them had to bend down a little to get through the door because of how obnoxiously tall he was. "Great, now do your fucking job." He sneered in your ear as he went to the back. The other one struck you hard in your stomach for some apparent unknown reason, his bright green eyes falling onto yours which didn't help the circumstance as he rummaged through his pocket. While he was doing so you took in the other, long shaggy hair and bright but dark eyes like the other. He gave off a certain aroma which you didn't understand but he seemed familiar but you couldn't put your finger on. His eyes felt like they were burning away your coat making you defenseless, showing who you truly are. His eyes to say the least were the most intimidating out of the two. You pulled down on the sleeves, getting uncomfortable. You put on the most genuine grin you could and asked the routine question "What can I get you for today?" A hint of sincerity lurking within your question.

 The green-eyed man grinned a bashful smile, his head twitching to the side every now and then "Uh, yeah what can we get for $4.60?" you oh so desperately wanted to laugh but stopped yourself by making yourself smile a true one. He seemed despondent by the look on his face and the nervous tics he was having. Your hand ran to the back of your neck scratching "Maybe a slice of pie and at the most a small drink?" Your response was more of a question than anything of what it was supposed to be. The taller one smiled knowing that it was dumb trying in the first place, yet you wanted to get to know him better so you decided fuck it and it was a better way to hit into your boss then your first idea. "You know what it's on the house." You shrugged while pushing the change back to the smaller one, he was happy with your response as he looked like a referee saying someone was out by enthusiastically saying "Score, maybe our luck is finally turning around!" and patted the taller one on the back while finding somewhere to sit. He rolled his eyes to the remark and grinned. Maybe their luck was turning around because he mistakenly found you again.

You were back shortly with drinks in hand. It looked like they were discussing travel routes. That explains why the look so rough, makes sense. You placed the drinks down and began to go to grab napkins before you had gotten caught by his gravely 'thank you' You were so done for. Although you were a few feet away the green-eyed one decided to get some intel, you chose that it was just his way of small talk. The conversation was going along smoothly until he asked where you were from. You thought he had figured it out, your true identity, and was going to tell your dad where you managed to escape to, so you tugged on your sleeves once again. Trying to hide the few burn marks that cascaded along your wrists, the dark-eyed one seemed to take notice. Shit. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed; he stopped his colleague from his tangent and took notice of you. "Are you okay?" he asked, of course, you weren't okay with the millions of problems you had but you didn't want to freak the guy out so you found an escape. You smiled and nodded your head "Yeah just poison ivy." 

He mouthed the word "Oh" he was still suspicious but he thought it was rude to pester. He took another sip of his drink as his friend continued. Toward the end, he gestured to the map "Do you by any chance know what's around here?" As he asked you sucked in a breath. This day has been the worst in a while, you hoped he wouldn't know that you played your chances and it resulted in this. Scraping the bottom of the barrel to living in a shitty apartment that you could barely afford. You rolled your eyes going to get the slice of pie "It's just some old wise tale, about pool." You answered shrugging your shoulders. They looked at each other if they won a million dollars "What about pool?" the green-eyed one spoke faster then you could reply You thought this was such a dumb conversation like talking about Santa Claus. "If you win you gain luck, you lose luck." You stuck two forks into the pie and slid it in between them. "Just by playing pool?" He said as he lowered his drink from his lips for the first time since he had it. "Yup," you said, popping the "p" as you turned to get napkins once again, only for him to stop you in your tracks "Do you want to come with us, I mean since you know the place better than us?" As soon as the last word left his mouth you felt like you could faint. You kept weighing all the possibilities and it only came out in one, you go with them.

It wasn't a long drive but it was because his thigh pressed up against yours as you sat between the two giants. The radio played softly in the background as another Metallica song played, the trees and forest going past as you kept going further into the brush of pavement. The only Metallica song you knew played you smiled hopefully to make some conversation out of this entire carr ride of silence. (The man you now know as Dean shushing Sam, his younger brother, when he was trying to do introductions.) "Master of the Puppets is probably one of the most iconic Metallica songs, hands down," Dean snorted in disgust and made you laugh as he turned the radio down. "Really? It's so overplayed! Ride the lightning is way better. Did you not hear the badass guitar solo in it?!" He looked like he saw something that had three heads as he rolled his eyes and scoffed. For a man who looked so tough, he was childish as ever. You tell that Sam was more of the quiet and laid back while Dean was more rambunctious and loud. "Shouldn't we have a plan?" 

Sam spoke as he saw the small building appear Dean scoffed again "When do we ever?" As he parked the car and turned the engine off. He noticed as he tried to take the tape out it was destroyed. The tape that was once secured in the small plastic rectangle was now wrapped and strangled around itself. There was a pained expression when he came to realize and then came the anger. Once he got out he had thrown the tape down so hard that it spread into thousands of tiny pieces. "Son of a bitch!" he grumbled hands shoved deep into his pockets as he sulked into the bar, "He's not always like this, it's just an off day." 

Sam's voice startled you as you came out of one of the memories that reminded you of your dad. His face still in thought as he tried to wrap his head around why you were so what seemed to be; fragile. Could it be? No, it couldn't that's dumb of him to think of something so tragic. He opened his door and held out his hand in offering to help you out, his hand was rough and scratchy against yours. It was hard to make out since your skin wasn't in the best of condition either, you stopped halfway and told him to go on ahead and go in. You figured that you could try and fix Dean's tape even though it was beyond repair. But you'd probably be here without anything to do so you grabbed it, along with an old coin.

~Sam's point of view~

She just kept sitting there with the tiniest screwdriver known to man. I don't even know where she got it, but I would be lying if she wasn't trying her hardest to fix it. Her hair kept touching her face; which would agitate and distract her from her work. Her hands were occupied so she would blow a gust of wind to make it fall someplace else, she was way too concentrated on the music box. Her eyes were beautiful with the way the curtain blocked sun fell onto them, her lips were pursed as she concentrated and her small hands twisted and turned the bolts as she screwed them in. She was beautiful, no that's too vague to describe such beauty. I suppose a goddess should do it. Her name kept twisting and turning with her hands, the name was so simple yet elegant and familiar. One that I wouldn't forget fitted perfectly on my tongue. The number of times my tongue formed around the syllables sounded as if I was chanting it, and if she would ask me too. She'd never have to say it twice. I smirked at that. Not too big or toothy being cautious of Dean beside me chatting up some woman waiting for the bar. Knowing that if he saw me stalking her.

(I would say admiring, his words not mine.) I would never hear the end of it. Speaking of the devil he sadly interrupted my appreciation towards her. He grabbed the joint between my shoulder and neck and told me he found a game. He did that ever since I was a kid, I guess it was just showing his way of knowing he could grab me if something went sideways. Which did happen a lot, "Sammy!" he shouted out. That was all too familiar as well and I groaned not knowing when I'd be back to take her in again and sulked my way to where they were setting up for the game. 

~Back to normsies~

If only the damn thing would go back into the socket, you managed to makeshift a few pieces together. Although the pie was still broken with many pieces left to bake, this was an absolute nightmare. But on the other side, you kept thinking if I could get away from H.I.M. you could do anything. It had to be about fifteen to twenty minutes later when they had started to gamble their lives. You knew they were getting a good high from every cocky remark Dean would give to his less unfortunate opponent. Dean was a complicated man. 

That is the best way you could explain it, anger issues, and maybe family issues as well. Yes, they were old enough to travel without supervision but usually, you couldn't get out of town without someone calling for help just for you to come back. Hell, you couldn't speak. And Sam, you thought long and hard why his name was so off-putting but in a good way like an old friend. But you never did have any friends so that just made it even harder to understand why. Every time you thought about it, it made your heart flutter. Maybe because he was attractive with his tall structure or chiseled face, or his gorgeous dark eyes that seemed to have taken a liking to stop at you. The way he crossed his arms made him appear bigger, the muscles in his arms popping out like a sore thumb. You wondered yourself into a daydream of what he would look like under that black dress shirt, those few unbuttons gave you a small peek of what's behind. You shouldn't think of such things because why would someone attractive ever want to mingle with you. Under the cape, you looked like Freddy Kruger with the scars, burns, and your added self-mutilation. 

God, how can you be so dim-witted to fall for a guy who doesn't even like you. It was so stupid, no one liked or will so why would he? Being so distraught and in your head, you forgot where you angled the screwdriver which in your situation was now a weapon as you shoved it straight into your finger. "Bitch!" You let out as you cupped your hand with the other, a few turned heads just to see what was going on. She took notice and you thought your dad had a bitch face, holy shit you were wrong. You thought the trench helped you fade into the dark, apparently not. As she pursued your way as if she was the hunter and you were the prey and you were so proud of the amount of restraint from not plunging the screwdriver into her nonexistent brain. She flipped her hair behind her shoulder as she grabbed a napkin and threw it your way. You thought it was a cool magic trick when you watched it float down and her face was shoved into yours. You thought you went cross-eyed from how close she was, her breath being fanned across your face "You're not allowed in here." She snarled. Your face scrunched into an exasperated one, you were already done with her, you cleared your throat as you began to at least try to get her delusional ass to see through her load of bullshit. 

"I was never informed that I couldn't visit and root for my fellow gamblers." You spat and you swore her ears billowed out steam, "Yeah, but you won so you have no business here." you could feel the spit flying through her clenched teeth. You breathed out a puff of air as you gathered your things and hopped down from the bar stool and out the door, you never one to argue with cows. Yet a towering dashing bull, just couldn't keep away. You had a pout on your face, sure, and your thick dr martens (You considered it an upgrade from your father's work boots.) kicked at the rotting patio. In your head, you've smitten her dead but as you took a seat on the porch swing and glanced into the window you saw the man of your wonders chatting her up. Her hand rubbing up and down on the bicep you wanted to touch and suddenly you felt your luck was gone. You gripped your hard work tight in your hand, the edges you fixed were slightly cracking, you wanted to cry. Mommy didn't raise no bitch, she didn't even raise you. But you blinked away tears and then it spawned on you. You had a coin. Maybe your luck is turning around.

It was turning dark when you made up your mind, the coins' rugged edges dug into your thumb and index as you glared at it. You held your head in your hands when he walked out, curiously you lifted your head to find the suspect at hand you had won against him before. The first time you betted, he was good but not as great. He was a kind older fellow, but the world struck him down as it did you and you supposed that's how you became companions. The swing shifted as he sat down beside you, (you quickly grabbed the side of your tench to make sure he didn't sit on it.) "Rough night?" he asked, trying to make small conversation, you guessed it was to try and ease the devastation of the lost. "Erm, I guess." you were taken off guard as your brain was swimming through the sea of thoughts it suddenly turned into a dessert when he spoke again. "You want one?" he offered a cigarette but you politely declined as you shook your head. He grinned and raised an eyebrow "That's new," he laughed softly as he dug in his pockets searching for something but to come up empty. "You gotta light, sweetheart?" 

The cigarette dangled from his lip but never dared to fall from how many years of practice he's had. You jolted up and dug in your pockets your fingers getting poked and scratched at from all the things you had in them. Shortly, you found it you flipped it open and cupped it from the chilly wind that blew softly against the flame. He laughed again but it became a coughing fit. You were confused as to why he was laughing since you hadn't said anything amusing. Yet, you quickly shut the lighter and put it back into one of your pockets. And placed a hand on his back to comfort him. You never knew why he didn't stop smoking, he knew it would come to this. After a minute or two of his heaving, he sat back up with a red hand coming to his lip to wipe away the substance but carried on the conversation. He stared at the stars as they glistened against the black drop of night, you were staring at him 

(yes it's rude but not in the context of the way you were doing it.) You took in all his scars and indentations of his face from the years that showed through them. His eyes crinkled but they were beautiful from the stars glaring against them. You didn't like this ending. Not one bit. "This isn't all bad, sweetheart." His voice croaked out as his head rested against the back of the swing looking at you his neck craned his life running from him. How is this not bad, he was dying before your eyes. The only friend you ever had. You sniffled, your eyes glossy from before but now they looked like rain. "I wished I could've met my Granddaughter. I hope she was as beautiful as you, darlin','' 

Bewildered as to why he was telling you this, maybe it was because he didn't want to think about leaving this world and going onto the next, but you didn't dare try to change the subject. "I wish I could've seen her being born, I wish my son wasn't as big of a bastard as he was to not let me." His became almost as glossy as yours as his story continued, his hat that was on his lap was now on yours as he looked up at the stars again. "I wished she knew how much I fought for her." His voice became softer as his face started to slim and the scars began to protrude from his face more. "I hope she knows I lov-" He stopped halfway and let out a sigh his body slumped back into the wooded seat. His eyes were no longer lively but dull and bland as they held no life into them, you started to freak out, you grabbed onto his shoulders and started to shake him. This couldn't be happening, he was just asleep, right? this was all too much too process. 

Your cheeks began to dampen as the waterfall began to burst from too much compression, once your brain took everything in you sat back and pushed your hair away from your face. Your face between your knees as your breath began to fasten, you closed your eyes hoping it would all go away when you opened them. You should've stayed at the diner, you should have never left home. It then spawned on you once you started to connect the dots slowly, one by one, that he was the grandfather you never got to meet. You opened your eyes to only find that the hat was where he previously once was, and from that, you decided that this was the last straw. And no one else was going to have to suffer this curse.

It was an understatement when you stormed back in with a cowboy hat on your head and walked into the swarm of an audience watching the current match. Sam was on the outskirts since he towered everyone and it would be unfair if he was in the front, he turned his head hearing the wooden doors clatter open. He was confused but happy to know about your entrance; because now he can watch something enjoyable rather than worry about his brother. When he locked eyes with you, your stomach did a flip and knees became weak, but you didn't dare let him see it. You not so gracefully walked over to him and tugged on down on his sleeve as a kid would asking their mom for money. He laughed and crinkled his nose at how ridiculous your action was, he relented and leaned down to your level to hear what you wear trying to say. (You nearly forgot what you were saying when you smelled how good his cologne was, a mixture between pine and coffee.) "WHO'S IS AGAINST WHO?!" you blared into his ear which made him reach and stand into his normal posture. 

He laughed when he saw your face it looked as if you saw a ghost. He shook his head with a smile etched across his face "It's Dean against the mean lady," his sonorous voice rumbled through your tiny form. You tugged on his shirt once more which he then rolled his eyes and bent down. When he got close enough you grabbed the hat and placed it on his head, which he wrinkled his nose at again at how odd it was. You placed the sternest face you could and poked him in the chest with a finger "You better not have lice in that mane of yours!" You boomed at home which made his mouth hang open "Excuse me?!" is the last thing you heard before you made your way into the action. Although you whirled your head behind your shoulder and yelled "Wish me luck!"

All you could hear was the back and forth comebacks between the two, it reminded you of the fights. The constant battle in your life, "Lady I'm Tolstoy." He gave a slight nod thinking that was the end and he won, he was too cocky for his own good but that was just adding to the texture of Dean being Dean. She snickered at that "Oh, that's funny. hilarious even!" she gestured and flicked his nose then went to grab the wooden stick of your inevitable doom. You pushed through the last of the sheep before you stepped up for your presence to be known, "No." your voice even scared you from how it growled out the two letters. she looked at you like your dad did in the past from the night when you arrived with a black eye and scabbed chin. "No?" she gave you a look a mother would give her child when they would say a bad word. "No, little girl?" 

Her hips swayed as she taunted you, but you didn't dare coward down to her. She was taller than you in her pristine heels, she looked down from the bridge of her nose, your dad did the same and you knew what happened next. You got a face full of fists. Except she didn't do that. She stared into our eyes and you did the same, you knew what she was searching for. You tried not to think about the similarities but you couldn't stop them, she smiled a toothy red-lipped smile and sauntered back to the table, she angled and knocked the glaring white ball into the triangle. Breaking the game into the start. She looked over to you with half-lidded eyes and her words were sultry and she purred them "Let's begin."

It was a rough start with a breathing Dean on your neck, you didn't need the constant reminder of his and everyone else's lives were on the line. Including Sam's. You forgot about his prying eyes as well, now and then you'd catch him and he'd smirk as if he was a soccer mom saying you're doing great, sweetie. But knowing her child was the worst player there. You also saw his eyes dart down in the window to your ass, whenever you bent down in front of the crowd to get a better angle. You had a measly three, while she was picking up on four. You were fucked. You tried. Every time you would miss she would smirk, a cat, and a mouse. "I know about your father, Y/n." she teased, you stopped and blinked a couple of times, flabbergasted. She knew.

Your hands came clammy as you accidentally hit the white ball. It had been the last few remaining and if you fucked up anymore, you endangered everything. You groaned in annoyance because she had to come over on your side for her exhausting turn. She missed. She actually missed it. Maybe the couple coins in your pocket weren't completely drained! You thought it was suspicious when she stood by you when you leaned down to take your shot and then you knew why. "I know why you wear this disgusting cloak," she spat in your ear, you knew she was playing mind games with your head to mess with you. But you couldn't help the fear if someone could hear. 

To know that you were just a little girl trying to run from her dad. You didn't notice how your sleeve began to come up from your hip dragging against the wood, nor how close her hand was to said sleeve. She tore it up to your shoulder and you froze. You jolted and hit the ball when you jumped out of fright. "Is to hide his filthy secrets." You are a deer in headlights. You couldn't move, she's trapped you. You can't breathe. Blink. Hearing was out of the question as well, everything was a dull buzz in the background. When someone's heart monitor falls flat that is how it felt. Your scars, long fat skinny, and deep running everywhere across your arm. You had no skin that wasn't covered. "You are always going to be nothing." You watched his lips move in slow motion as she spoke. The word nothing made the world come into motion and allowed you to have power over your body. The first thing you had done was look to find Sam's eyes on the exposed skin with pursed lips. FUCK! Panicking you ran through the hoard pushing and shoving your way through to the exit. You needed air, you needed to be alone, you needed to run.

You don't get far you got to the gravel in the middle of the road and curled into a ball and tried to slow down your breathing because right now you were full-blown hyperventilating. Every breath felt like a struggle for your lungs, your lungs felt they were being kicked in like the night you met Sam. Oh. Was all you could think when you finally knew why this was all too deja vu fever dream. Great, that's just fucking great. That's your first impression on the boy you liked for ages? Fan-fucking-tastic. You pulled your head the slightest bit from the leather and looked at the skin that caused all of this. God, you hated all the veins that were stitched over and the ones that dug so deep that even the doctor said that couldn't get too. Rage took over and you dug your nails into your wrist and started to scratch, maybe that will make them go away. Your eyes blurred and you pushed your head back and looked at the stars. It made a soft thud as it hit the ground, your self-hatred becoming stronger. You'd be better off dead, then have to be a more mutilated Frankenstein.

~Sam's point of view~

I couldn't find her. And that. That was what scared me the most. I was giving up hope until I saw a small form sprawled out onto the ground near the Impala watching the stars, as I grew closer I found out that it was what I was looking for; Her. She was gorgeous as ever as her hair fell behind her shaping around her head. I crouched to where she was. I wanted to touch her, caress her reddened cheek; just something for her to know that I was here for her but I went against it deciding that it was the best option. Instead, Her eyes took me in captivity as they glowed and shimmered with the stars above. "Mind if I join?" I asked with a tilt of my head in question. She didn't respond but I sat down beside her anyway, the rocks dug into my thighs but I didn't mind it, not one bit. This is going to be harder than I originally had planned. Not that I minded that either. My brain turned and my eyes darted to and fro as I tried to think of how I could get to see her smile again. Maybe I should leave her alone, was that a good idea? No, try to make her feel better, let her know that I care; "Don't be like that partner," Fuck. I hit the heel of my palm into my head how can I possibly be so dumb?! Oh, wait! it made her turn her head. Success! although it wasn't the typical success you would think of. No. What she did was she stuck out her scarred hand and introduced herself with a lopsided grin, 

"I'm Y/N L/N."

[krreader]

the jeon twins | jk ending version.

pairing: jeon jeongguk (jk) x reader fandom: bts warnings: language ; twins!au ; non idol!au genre: angst ; hints of fluff previous: x word count: 2.9k+

summary: everything was his fault, everyone knew that.. everything that had happend was because of JK and to his surprise, the only one that wanted to help was the one he hurt so much.. the one that had deserved the world that he was willing to give, even if it messed up his entire life.

a/n: long overdue, but here it finally is, the jk version. the kookie version will be posted tomorrow - hopefully lol ♥ (don’t get me wrong, it’s already done, but idk if I’m happy with it so we’ll see)

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This was all his fault.

Kookie never would have made this decision if it weren't for his twins’ stupid actions.

“But you have so many good job offers here,” his mother tried arguing, “Why.. why does it have to be the US?”

Kookie hated to see his mother so sad and no doubt, he would miss her and his father terribly, but this was the right thing to do.. he needed to leave.

“I need a fresh start, mom,” he said with a sad smile, gently holding her hand.

JK didn't look up once, his shoulders were slumped and he was both embarrassed of himself as well as ashamed. He would have assumed his mother would cry, but instead she was consumed with anger. Anger towards JK. Because she knew he was the reason her baby was leaving.

And then suddenly she was all over him, hitting him over and over again, his father trying to stop her while Kookie just watched with a heavy sigh.

JK didn't try to stop her. If anything, he wanted her to continue.. as if it would make things better.. his actions from before less horrible.

“This is all your fault!” she cried out, “It's all your fucking fault! Get out of this house! I don’t want to see you ever again!”

JK gulped down hard, getting up without arguing about it and quickly brushing away a tear that escaped his eye while doing so. He had no right to argue.. he had lost that when he broke his brother’s heart.

How did this even happen?

He used to be so happy.. popular. He had everything and everyone.

And now he was wandering the streets of Seoul, knowing that there was no one left.. and all because he wanted what his brother could have had.

Love.

He had never known love before you. Flings, flirts, sex, but never love.. that he only ever experienced with you.

The first.

The only.

This love carried him to your apartment complex. Not knowingly, though, he didn’t have a place in mind when he started walking..

It's been more than three years, so he doubted you'd still remember him. If you did, then definitely not in a good light.

You were probably telling your friends about the “guy that lied to you all along” or the “bastard that broke your heart”.

That's what he was.. a liar, a backstabber, an asshole, a horrible son and brother.

The longer he stood there, staring at your window and seeing you and him from years ago when you were standing exactly there, happily smiling at each other, the more he drowned in self-pity.

He would have gone to the nearest convenience store, would have bought himself a shit ton of Soju bottles, would have sat down somewhere at the Han river and would have drunk himself until he couldn't stand anymore, hoping the alcohol would make it all go away..

But the moment he wanted to turn away was the moment you arrived.

JK couldn't help but let out a breath he had apparently been holding.

You were looking more or less the same, but.. god, somehow you managed to get more beautiful?

No wonder his twin brother had been so infatuated with you. No wonder he had ended up falling for you.. and no wonder he could never forget you.

You were looking for your keys, rummaging through your bag for about a minute before you let out an annoyed sigh and started looking around..

It was probably just a reaction of you realizing you had left your keys inside your apartment earlier this morning when you had left for work, but you looking around made you spot him.

You didn't think it was creepy given the fact that this was the first time you had seen him in three years. He also didn't seem like he had been waiting for you here for a long time.

Even from this distance you could tell that he was having a bad day, though, his shoulders were slumped, he looked.. tired.

You had often thought about contacting him again.. and about contacting Kookie.

But no matter what JK had tried telling you, you didn't fall in love with Kookie, you fell in love with JK. Because deep down it was always him when he was with you. You realized that months after your break-up, after you had finally accepted what had happened.. and you didn't hate him for it. At first you had, naturally, but then you started to forget, or at least tried to.. and eventually, you were okay again.

And now you saw it from a different perspective, not saying that what he did was right, but you weren’t as affected by it anymore..

JK was surprised when you crossed the street and stood in front of him a moment later.

“I.. I wasn't..-”

“I know,” you said with a small smile, “I'd like to say you look good, but I'd be lying.”

JK managed to let out a genuine laugh, then nodded, his eyes now on the ground, “Yeah, it's not been a good day.”

“I can see that,” you waited a few seconds, then you said, “I left my keys inside the apartment, so I need to wait till my neighbor comes back from work so he can give me his spare key. In the meantime.. do you want to get a drink? Tell me what's wrong?”

JK shook his head, “No, I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Because of your brother?” you sighed, “JK, it's been three years.. and besides, it's only a drink. I feel like you'll drink tonight anyways. I'd feel better if I could keep an eye on you. Whatever happened to you, it makes me worry now that I’ve seen you, I wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing I’d just let you go.”

“After everything that happened?”

“As I said, it's been three years.. that's a lot of time to get over someone.”

Well.. he was glad to hear that you got over him when he never got over you.

But he still felt guilty when he accepted your offer. He knew that Kookie had long lost interest in you and he knew that that was his fault. So maybe he owed it to his brother to say no.. say no because he took his brother's shot at happiness and swooped it up for himself.

But he was selfish once again tonight when he said yes.

He wanted to talk to you, wanted to spend time with you again.. because right now, you were the only person that mattered that was willing to be by his side..

You ended up going to a Korean barbecue place, with JK drinking almost an entire bottle of Soju himself in the first twenty minutes.

You didn't talk much in that time, mostly small-talk. But you watched him like a hawk, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

And the only thing that came to mind was the reason he ended things between you two.

“Is.. Kookie okay?” maybe he had died..

“Yeah,” JK nodded, “He got a job,” he smiled proudly.

“But that's great news,” you smiled as well, “I'm happy for him.”

“Yeah, me too,” but then the smile faded, “But it's in the US. He's moving in two weeks.”

Ah, so that was it.. his brother was leaving him and..-

“You think it's your fault, don't you?”

Again, despite what he had told you, you felt like you had gotten to know JK, not Kookie, despite him apparently acting like Kookie. But you knew him.. you knew the guilt in him.. because it was the same guilt that he had the day of the break-up.

It was that same look on his face.

Suddenly it was as if no time had passed.

“It is my fault,” he gulped down another shot of Soju, “My mother, my father.. they all know it.. they all know the reason he's leaving is because I betrayed him.”

“JK,” you tried reaching forward, but he immediately pulled back his hand like yours was fire.

“He really loved you, you know..-”

“No, JK, he didn't,” you shook your head, “Listen, I was angry with you for so long and I thought.. I thought about calling Kookie so many times, but at one point I realized that there was no way he could love me like you loved me in the end. Kookie never even talked to me, he didn't know me. You did.. you were there when I had my bad days, you were the one holding me and telling me it would be okay. That was you, JK.”

“But it shouldn't have been me!” he cried out, trying his hardest to keep calm so that nobody around you would realize he was crying, “I shouldn't have pretended to be him, I should have gone up to you and told you that he liked you, I should have given you his number, I should have..-” but then he fully started sobbing.

You could tell that it was both the alcohol, as well as the guilt.

You quickly switched seats so that you were sitting next to him, one hand now rubbing over his back and he let you. He needed the comfort now, he couldn't deny it.

“You can't change the past, JK. And.. maybe.. I don't know, maybe Kookie will meet the love of his life in the US and he will live a lot more happier than he ever could have done here,” you grabbed his chin and made him look at you, “Things happen for a reason, I truly believe that.”

“But this wasn't a coincidence.. this was me knowingly taking something that I shouldn't have. His opportunity.”

The thing is.. you knew he was right.

What he did was horrible, especially because it wasn't just a friend he betrayed, but his twin brother.

But nothing could be changed now..

All you could do that night was comfort him as best as you could and the fact that you weren't angry with him anymore helped JK massively.

“Thank you,” Kookie smiled at the woman in the café and sat down at one of the empty tables, opening up his laptop and answering emails when you joined him.

And boy, did he look shook.

“I know.. this is kind of overdue, isn't it?”

“Three years ago I would have been the happiest man alive,” Kookie said sadly, a small smile on his face.

“Yeah, I heard the whole story. I also heard that you're moving to the US soon. Congrats on that, I heard about the job.”

“Yep,” Kookie nodded, “I felt like I had to get away from here..”

“You mean him,” you said bluntly, taking a sip from your coffee and then staring at the cup for a few moments before continuing, “What your brother did was a backstabbing move and I won't pretend to know what it must have felt like for you, but I was on the other end, Kookie. I've been involved in this situation as well and if I know one thing, it's that your brother never meant to hurt either of us.”

“And you know that how? From what he told me, he pretended to be me all throughout your relationship..”

“Yeah, see, that's the thing.. he tried really hard, but.. he's not that good of an actor. Younger me was naive enough not to see it because she was in love and she just fell in love with the man that cared for her, but me now.. I know.”

Even though he said he wasn't interested in you anymore, you saying you loved JK made him flinch a little.

“Why are you here, (Y/N)?”

“To tell you that your brother regrets what he did.. more than anything in this world. If he could turn back time to change it, he would.”

“But he can't.”

“I know that and nobody knows that better than him,” you leaned forward, your hand on his, “I'm asking you to talk to him one last time. I'm not asking you to forgive him because that is your decision, but I'm asking you to give him a chance to explain himself again. Because if you leave without doing that, it's going to destroy him.”

“How do you know? Did he..- did you two meet up?”

“I found him in front of my apartment building one night. He was ready to drink himself to death.. I later found out why. He's been staying at my place ever since your mother kicked him out, but I rarely see him. I hear him come back in the morning and I can smell the alcohol on him.”

“Why are you letting him stay at your place when he's like this? And especially after everything he put you through?” Kookie’s eyebrows were furrowed, “You should hate him as much as me, if not more.”

“Because I know JK is not a bad guy.. he's just someone who made a stupid decision in his youth. And I feel like I owe you and him one. After all, I'm the reason you're like this..”

Kookie immediately shook his head, “You don't owe us anything..”

“Please.. just.. sit down and talk to him. One last time. If you really cared about me at one point, then do me that favor..”

Kookie tried to tell himself that he hated his twin brother more than anything in this world, but deep down he knew that it was not true. He knew that if he left without saying goodbye or trying to reconcile, he would regret it for the rest of his life. But the hurt.. the hurt was still so bad.. even after all this time.

You wrote down something on the napkin he got with his coffee, then handed it to him.

“This is my address. Please think about it.”

And with that you left him to his own thoughts.

“Here,” you put a soup in front of JK, “Eat it.”

“I'm not hungry.”

He looked horrible, even worse than a few weeks ago.

He didn't eat anymore, only drank alcohol and only took a shower because you forced him to.

He was falling apart, more and more, every day, and the only one who could stop it from happening any further was his brother.. the brother that would leave for the US tomorrow morning.

You had hoped that your little talk at the café would help, that Kookie would stop by, but.. apparently not.

“Just try it, please..” you said in despair.

“I'm not hungry,” he repeated.

He knew this wasn't fair to you. The only reason he was here was out of the kindness of your heart, but the self-pity in him was destroying him..

You let out a sigh, wanted to eat your own soup and let him and his thoughts be on his own for a moment when your doorbell rang.

“This is probably the delivery guy.”

But it wasn't.

When you opened the door you were greeted with a man you didn't think you'd ever see again.

He looked uncomfortable, unsure of why he was here, but you let him in.

“JK.. there's.. someone here to see you.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, turned around and then immediately stood up when he saw his twin brother.

The two of them stared at each other for a moment and the longer you stood there, the more awkward you felt.

Ultimately, you decided to continue eating in the living room and give the two some space.. they needed to be alone for this.

“The only reason I'm here is because of (Y/N),” Kookie said, “She asked me to come and talk to you again.. because she's worried about you.”

JK's shoulder slumped only more at that, “I'm sorry..-”

“You really don't deserve her, you know?”

“I never did.. that was always you.”

“No,” Kookie shook his head, “Neither of us could deserve someone like her. Not you and not me. But I only realized that when she talked to me.”

“Kookie, I..-”

“No, let me,” Kookie sat down with JK, but there was a lot of space between them.. quite fitting, “You apologized  countless of times and I'm tired of hearing it over and over again. What you did is in the past.. neither of us can change it now, I know that. All we can do is move forward. And (Y/N) was right.. I don't want to leave like this, I don’t want us to be like this forever..”

JK was hopeful, the first time in weeks, “Okay.”

“I talked to mom and dad and told them not to be angry with you anymore.. because I'm trying not to be as well. I'm trying to be the mature one..”

“You've always been the mature one,” that made both brothers chuckle, because they knew it was true.

And for a moment it was like it was all okay again..

..but it would take a lot of effort for things to go back to normal again between them.

“Tell me what I need to do for you to forgive me. I'll do anything,” JK promised.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. The only one you should feel sorry for is (Y/N), after all, she's the one housing you and playing your mom right now when she really shouldn't.”

He nodded, “I'm trying to find my own place right now.. a job.. something, you know?”

“Good. That’s good.”

The two of them talked for about two hours, you ended up falling asleep on the couch at one point when the exhaustion took over.

It was only when Kookie left that the two of them saw you sleeping there.

“You know.. I'm really excited to start my new life in the US,” Kookie said with a genuine smile, “I can't wait to meet someone I'll really fall in love with..”

“You loved her..”

“I thought I did,” Kookie shrugged and buried his hands in his pockets, “But maybe it was never me that was meant to be with her,” and with that and a clap to his shoulder, he left.

But he left with no hate for his brother anymore.. he left with a promise to call as soon as he landed. And that was more than JK ever thought he’d get from him after everything.

And as JK watched him leave and closed the door behind him, he walked back into the living room and sat down on the couch with you, smiling when you shifted so that your head was lying in his lap as if it was the natural thing to do for you.

He pulled the blanket around your body higher and grabbed the piece of bread that was lying on the table, eating for the first time in what felt like forever.

“I'm proud of you,” you whispered, half-asleep.

And JK couldn't help but start crying again, his fingers brushing through your hair.

And only when he was sure you were back asleep did he say, “I never stopped loving you.. and I never will.”

Maybe you were right..

..maybe all things did happen for a reason.

Maybe this was were he was supposed to be all along.. 

..with you.

[stipethom]

I wrote some Cablepool fics some months ago but proofreading is such a bitch, so they were incomplete for now. I’m just gonna post some parts of it and hopefully there are more Cablepool people who loves mpreg as I do.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In summary, Mpreg theme uses pregnancy to describe how women and gender/sex minorities are impregnated with the unspeakable powers of patriarchy. Pregnancy is not just a biological phenomenon; it symbolizes embodied experiences, where women’s body is changed and exploited as it bear the burden of child labor. And by forcing such changes upon male body, it declares that any sex and gender that is seen less than a “man” can thus be a “woman”, and that whoever they are their struggles and pains are similar to that of women’s in this world.

In mpreg fics, there’ll be tears, fight, divorce, and broken hearts. It’s fan-favorite melodrama. It’s barnyard humor. It’s self-service to the writer’s own kink.

It is all of these. Or, it’s none of these.

-

They put all kinds of wires to link Wade with medical equipments. X-rays him, scans him, takes some blood from him. They declares that what’s inside Wade is not a parasite. Not another tumor nor a clog. It is, as the tag suggests, a fetus.

Some other X-students gathers as soon as the word is out: the Deadly mouthy ‘pool’s pregnant. The next session, Wade is unhappy with the amount of audience in the supposed waiting room, looking expectedly at him. From hindsight, it’s better they were there at the time, to spare Wade the horrors of explanation.

Unplanned male pregnancy should have been a comic relief since it’s Deadpool. But when the results indicate that it belongs to a certain Nathan Summers, who recently died, it is no longer a joke.

Cyclops, as his role in any other Cablepool fics, has to be the last one to know it. He learns of the identity of his future grandchild and immediately decides to rushe back to the mansion to confront whatever nightmare awaits him. He briefly talks to Hank, in order to prepare himself before talking to Wade. Eventually, a consultation team that comprises of Cyclops and Beast visits Wade’s at his apartment, who just comes back with discounted pregnancy tests from CVS.

“We must talk about your condition, Wade.” Scott says solemnly.

“Sorry, Grandpaclops, will remember to use protection next time. Guess I should never underestimate dicks from the future.”

Scott clenches his teeth. His expression is hidden under his ruby optics, but Wade can see the tiny creases around his mouth, and he gets the feeling that Scott is anxious. Ans so, so very tired. Hank clears his throat and starts talking about his discoveries. Half of his talk is explaining his daring theory of why life form can be conceived inside a male’s body, which Wade doesn’t listen to. The other half is some warmings on what a pregnant man should not do. Given Wade’s profession and personality, Hank makes 100% sure that Wade listens to him. Scott seems to be holding breath as the other mutant talks with a professional calmness.

The talk ends with “We still don’t know exactly how it happened, but It’s going to be a big responsibility—your responsibility.”

Scott tries again. He keeps his voice strategically even, a little raspy than usual, as if he practiced this conversation in front of a mirror too many times.

“It’s yours, as much as it’s Nathan’s. It’s up to you to ... keep it.”

“Or you can move into the X-mansion—”Hank stops promptly when Wade starts laughing.

“So your guys are what, showing parental support for the guy your son never actually married, and you never even doubt it’s a parasite?”

“We ruled out that possibility.” Hank says, “you know, you don’t have to do this.” He pauses briefly, making sure every sentence is carefully worded. “After what happened, you—in fact, nobody should do this alone. It’s unfair that you have to deal with it on your own.”

Great, now they think of Wade as some mourning ex-lover of Nate’s. He has to find something witty to say, or he’ll just embarrasses himself in front of these two good-intentioned, somewhat guilty-looking X-men. There’s a sorry somewhere that he can reads directly from the thin air, sorry we are so sorry for pushing you away, we are sorry we didn’t accept you—and ignored your feelings— now we are here to make it up for you. No, this ain’t right. They don’t know about him and Nate. All they see is this, which makes them assume all kinds of things about them, about Wade, that Wade doesn’t even want to think about.

He decides to take advantage of their out-of-no-where-guilt because it is better than pity, “OK, wait, is this the part where we hug and cry on each other’s shoulders? I have a feeling there’s always a but. Besides, Hank, you just violated the confidentiality agreement without my consent!”

“I’m truly sorry, it’s an unprecedented situation.” Hank tries not to look shameful. “And, no, no buts. All we’re offering is a place to rest before the, that is, if you want to keep it, It’s very important when it comes to—“

“Nathan’s spawn.” Wade helps him finish the sentence. “That’s why you X-men fucking care. “

Cyclops doesn’t say a word, but he thinks so loud, he is practically radiating sadness and anger, and worst of all, the anger is not even directed at Wade.

Wade snaps.

“Tell you what, I’m gonna fucking keep this little shit till it’s got eyes and fingers and then I’ll fucking abort it! I’ll put it in a filthy jar and sell it to Mister Sinister, and it will be none of your fucking business!”

—

Of course Wade didn’t abort it. And he did move into the X-mansion.

Everyone seems worried. After all, X-men are worried all the time—but they also look slightly relieved. If Wade ignores the eyes they are giving him, the whispers they exchange when they think he is not looking, he almost feels nothing has changed at all.

The big question, after the several years after Nate died, still hangs in the air. Every time someone looks at Wade, there’s a why in their eyes. A mutant like Nate, who is supposed to be a man of proper taste and good integrity, the reasons that he chose to be with Wade is unthinkable.

Any sane human would tell Nate what he did is ridiculous. Like the voice in the back of Wade’s mind. It tells Wade all the time that he cannot possibly believe that him and Nate could last any longer—or long enough to have any consequences.

Being pregnant is not the consequences. It’s the last one of the bad decisions he’s made after all the other ones. He knows the voice is right, and his life sucks mostly because he doesn’t listen to it. This time, he feels a certain remorse satisfaction in disobeying the remaining sense of reason in his head.

Keeping the baby to prove a point is as desperate as it’s poorly intended.

He knows how fucked-up this is.

—

In hindsight, it’s fucking creepy that Wade, Copycat, and Domino all slept with Nate.

Here she is, gonna pop open that can of worms.

Domino has to come to him at his most inconvenience. She knocks three times on the door, each time more curt and determined. She will probably shoot a hole in the wall to make a new door if he doesn’t let her in.

Wade opens the door, grimaces at the way she look at him and meet his eyes. He is a good few inches taller than Dom, but he never feels big in front of her.

She brings in an air of feline elegance and the fresh scent of hair shampoo. It’s endearing for her to allow people to see her like this, yet not entirely unguarded. He catches the innuendo of a more secret, private conversation.

Her eyes touch him lightly, hair flares with the effortless chic style many would be jealous of. There are a hundred things Wade lacks that she owns.

The night is getting dark and the wind is getting wild, he probably should close the window before the storm.

Dom is less of a coward than him, who could barely come up to people and tell them the truth. That he got himself into this long before he understood the true meaning of having someone and then losing them.

She is pretty and deadly as always, not jadded by battles and gunfire. She looks at him with a sadness of someone who think they have the pieces of a puzzle that Wade misses. Or at least they think they know.

“Why do you keep him, the baby—.” She leans against the wall, arms crossed. “He’s not going to be Nate. Nate is not here anymore.“

“Wow, wow, lady, now you’re just projecting too hard.”

“Wade, look. It took me a hell lot of drinking to accept that he’s really gone this time.” She keeps her voice steady and manages to be soft at the same time. “I hear you talk to him like, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m not projecting.”

“Just so you know, I talk to my tummy all the time. Totally healthy habit. Been like this since I’m in my mom’s womb.”

“You’ve been talking to him and you sounded like—never mind.” Now she is just being weird. Wade feels offended that someone dare to outweird him without his royal permission. “The baby—you are drowning him with things he’s not part of.”

“Drowning would be a damn boring way to die.” He comments. “In fact, I’m whispering murder thoughts to him so he can grow up into a killing machine. A cyborg one. Just like his dad.”

“Wade, I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

“Oh sure, you’re here to remind me to invite you for the baby shower, which I am seriously going to reconsider with the guest list.”

A strip of dark hair falls on her cheek as she hesitates.

“You know why I’m here.”

Honestly, Wade’s fed up with this. He didn’t respond, instead, he peels off his mask, challenges her to look directly into his eyes.

She looks flustered, but her thin shoulders are as still as granite. This close, Wade can see how her breast heaves under her loosely-fit shirt. It fucking hurts when he rips through her facade and finds something a lot like the reflection of his own pains. They both had Nate in the past, and now that Nate is the past, they are weirdly equal. They had different Nates, but Wade wants all the Nates.

The voice in his head is so loud that he can barely think his own thoughts. Is that why he came to her after Wade left Providence, for her is smart enough to ask for only what she deserves?

Does she come here to pity Wade, or is she seeking compassion from Wade? He feels an old, dull bitterness creeping up his spine.

Domino backs off a little, “I never liked you.” She says. They both know it, so it’s not really a confess. Something is blown in to the window, making a cracking sound. Both of them shiver. “I couldn’t believe it was you, of all people. “Oh, so she did care. She was not as nonchalant as she pretends to be. “But now you are-you are not just yourself-I don’t want to fight you anymore.”

It stings.

“Does that mean I can finally make your face my new bathroom tiles? Because I love baby poo on black and white.” He quirks a smile. “Oh, And by the way, I reject your nanny application. Bring your broom next time.”

“You hate me for a dead man.” She says dryly, “what does that make you...”

Her voice hitches.

“What does that make us. If we are still loyal to him.”

The wind is loud, and others must be awakened by the noises by now. If wind could talk, it must be full of broken sentences, murmuring and fleeing from the untrimmed trees, circulating in the flying dirt and the waving foliage. Some sleepless mutant girls on the second floor mutters in an annoyed voice.

Dom reaches out to him. Her arms are pale but firm. They are suddenly within the distance of a kiss. He feels his cracked lips nearly brushes hers like a breath.

She jumps back, hitting the nearest surface to her face. The window panes creak from the shockwave, sending the whole room whirls. For a moment they were close enough to dig out each other’s heart. The framed painting falls to the ground in broken pieces behind them. It is relatively intact until Neena steps on it.

“A hard loser, aren’t you.” Wade breathes.

Neena just smiles.

“It’s just you who can’t let go.”

She stubbles on the cracked frame before storming into the bathroom. Wade hears the hot water pours out of the faucet and makes maps of mist on the hanging mirror. Her reflection from the mirror shifts, and from Wade’s angle, he can see her tears.

A small sob sound leaks out of her beautiful mouth. Wade feels envious yet again. He doesn’t understand why it changes how Dom sees him, as if sharing pain with him would be some comfort for both of them. But it doesn’t, he wants to scream, and it shouldn’t. He hears other mutant kids are giggling through the wind, and he is so, so envious of them.

Before he closes his eyes, he feels a light patting on his shoulders, and then all the light runs out with the slapping of the door.

He knows this is fucked-up.

“Nate,“ he murmurs, “If you don’t plan yo come back, I don’t think I can survive this—your too-young-too-be-dad dad, your ex-girlfriend, and your very possessive and angry daughter who refuses to meet me yet—I now understand why you want to elope with me into the future. I’ll forgive you for never asking me to actually run with you, but I know you always wanted to.“

“It’s fucking worse when people try to care. They don’t know you. They don’t know how fucked up you are. All they want is to keep a memoir, and I’m their freaking memoir. What did we have, sweetheart, did we ever agree on anything, huh? Did you even think about what it would be like for us to be together long enough to have consequences?”

“You see, Nate, I’m the one living with the consequences now. Except that you’re not here.”

[totally-incorrect-theatre-quotes]

I Feel Like I’m Drowning (Fanfic)

After much ado I have finally finished this story and it is...sad as heck. No lie I cried writing a few scenes of this and I’m a typically sad writer. This is a fanfic about the time between the events of the musical and the events of fannon where Lydia and BJ are chaotic siblings. How did he come back? How did they become friends again? How did Lydia cope with the trauma she endured during the events of the musical? 

Is it angsty? Yes

Did I give it a happy-ish ending? I mean probably...

TW: Mentions of Suicide, Blood, Death, Panic Attack, Suicidal ideations, trauma. 

__________________________________________________________

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since they had moved into the house, and while it had been a more than interesting experience, to say the least, it seemed like everyone was settling into the new environment. Adam and Barbara had been getting along well with Charles and Delia, though it had still only been a short amount of time Lydia was tempted to say that the four of them were friends, especially Barbara and her father who had a lot more in common than she had ever expected. The house started to feel more like a home as the days went by, but there was still something hanging over Lydia. Something keeping her awake at night and plaguing her dreams when she did manage to sleep.

She killed someone. She killed Beetlejuice. It was self-defense, of course. He was going to kill her father and probably her too but she had killed him. She stabbed him right through the chest and nobody has talked about it since. He was a demon she tried to remind herself, he wasn’t really alive in the first place but he was...she had brought him back to life and she had essentially killed a newborn. She can still hear the sound of the bone-crunching, it made her hands shake and her stomach tie up into knots. Lydia never knew she was capable of such a thing, even when she and BJ were scaring the people coming to their house it was just pranks, nobody died.  She felt awful for that too, she still can’t make eye contact with the mailman or her neighbor. She wouldn’t even know how to begin how to apologize. “I’m so sorry I traumatized you because I was struggling to cope with my own mental health issues so I simply passed them onto another person.” That sounded ridiculous, everyone tells her that she’s just a kid and that she didn’t mean for what happened to have happened but it doesn’t change the fact that she did it. She was responsible for all of what happened, and nobody wanted to talk about it. 

Her included. She had tried a couple of times to talk to her father or to Barbara about some of what went one, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually open up and tell them what it’s been doing to her. She would stay in her room, for the most part, it didn’t arouse suspicion, she often spent time in her room even before her mother died. She was an introverted person, she got more pleasure from being alone that she did in crowds. It overwhelmed her, but now the solitude was becoming suffocating, and she felt so so alone. She woke up one night from another one of her nightmares, her entire body trembling as she ran into the bathroom to scrub her hands clean of the non-existent blood, no matter how hard she scrubbed she just couldn’t feel clean. Her hands were red and raw from the soap and she slumped down on the tile floor, pulling her knees tight into herself just trying to make all the memories stop. They haunted her days and ruined her nights. She wanted to just be okay, she just wanted to be normal but she had screwed that all up. 

“I’m a murderer,” she whispered to herself, saying the words out loud made it ten times worse and she felt panic rising into her chest. She wanted to shrink into herself and disappear but she couldn’t. She couldn’t run away from the consequences of her actions. She couldn’t even say she was fucking sorry because he was in the Netherworld now on a vision quest to go find his father. Summoning him would be selfish, he was probably happy now, finally glad to have some freedom...glad to be rid of her the pathetic sad kid that he was so easily able to trick and manipulate just because she missed her mommy. God her mother, she wondered what her mother would think about all that she has done now. She must be so ashamed of the monster that her daughter has become. She did all of this because she missed her but her mother would hate everything she had done, her mother would hate her. 

Lydia shifted, tucking her knees tighter into her chest and fell onto the floor, hot tears running down her cheeks and landing on the floor as she cried. She covered her mouth with her hands, stifling the sobs and screams. She didn’t want to wake anybody because she knew they would just try to tell her it wasn’t her fault, they would tell her it was fine when it wasn’t. She didn’t deserve their pity, she didn’t deserve their comfort. She deserved exactly what she was getting, but she didn’t know it would hurt this bad. She wanted it to stop, she wanted so badly for the pain to stop. She slowly got up from the floor and pulled herself up on the counter, opening the medicine cabinet and holding a bottle of pills in her hands. It had been two weeks since she had been on the roof when Beetlejuice stopped her. There was nobody to stop her now, she could just open the bottle and swallow them all. She didn’t even know what the pills were but she imagined that a bottle full of anything would probably do the job. It would all be over, all the hurt would be over. Just like Juno said she could just fade into the soothing nothingness of the Netherworld. 

She clutched the bottle so tight in her hands that her knuckles were starting to turn white, her face red and tear-streaked in the mirror. Taking in a shaky breath she tossed the bottle in the garbage, she couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to leave everyone, especially not her dad who had already lost so much and was coming so far trying to be a better father to her. She didn’t want to leave them, not just for them but because she loved them. She sat back down on the floor, the weight of her break down taking a toll on her as she became exhausted. She was so tired all the time. A mixture of the lack of sleep, the energy it took pretending to be okay, and the weight of all the guilt, all the sadness, all the grief. 

“Beetlejuice.”

She didn’t even know if it would work. She didn’t know if her doing this would even summon him anymore. 

“Beetlejuice.”

Even if it did work he probably wanted nothing to do with her. She wouldn’t blame him, she wasn’t want to deal with herself either. She was a fucking mess, nobody should have to deal with this. She didn’t know what she was even bothering, she shouldn’t be bothering him he deserved his shot at happiness. Just because she ruined her own doesn’t mean she should do it to him. That just proved to herself more that she was a selfish monster. 

“Beetlejuice.”

There he was. She couldn’t believe her eyes at first when he appeared but there he was standing in her bathroom. He didn’t even look confused he simply fixed his hair in the mirror while he casually said, “I was wondering what was taking you so long, kid.”

“W-what?” she hiccuped

“You sure took your time summoning me back,” he glanced down at her and his tone changed instantly, “What’s the matter with you? You okay scarecrow?”

She couldn’t help but give a small smile at the silly nickname he had given her. She lept up from the floor and threw herself into a hug with the demon, “You’re not mad I called you here?”

“Mad?” he questioned, still not sure why Lydia was hugging him. Even when they were friends she didn’t hug him except when she was tricking him in the marriage. He had to admit he admired how clever she was, but something about the way she was holding onto him now made him think this was different than before. She was desperate. She was alone. And she called him. Not Chuck. Not Babs or Sexy. She didn’t even go to Delia. Whatever was wrong this was something either very bad or something she wanted to keep a secret, “Why would I be mad that you called?”

She sniffled in his coat, he ignored the fact that she was getting snot and tears all over his coat, though granted with all the other stains he wouldn’t really be able to tell. She croaked out a weak explanation, “Because you were looking for your dad, and I brought you away from that/”

“Oh my god that was for dramatic effect kid, my dad left when I was a baby I don’t give two shits where he is. What I do give two shits about is why the hell are you sitting alone in the bathroom looking all sad and pitiful after I cleaned up everything so nicely for you? I got rid of my mom, I fixed your whole fucked up family situation. So why am I here.” he looked around the room for any kind of clue. He saw something orange in the garbage can and released himself from Lydia’s grip, grabbing the bottle and shaking it. Sleeping pills. Looking at the script it wasn’t expired so there should be no reason it was thrown away other than... “What did you do?” 

“Nothing. Nothing, I didn’t. I didn’t actually do it. I thought about it, but I couldn’t do it.” she turned her face away like she was ashamed of herself, but she stuck her chin up and cleared away the tears in her eyes, “I didn’t want to do it.”

He didn’t know what to say. He had no clue how to handle someone in a fragile emotional state as hers. He was never good at the whole emotional thing, he had stopped her once before but that was because he was being a dick and only wanted to use her to get what he wanted Now they...he saw her as a friend, like the little sister he never had. He asked the only question that he knew, “Why?”

“I can’t take it anymore.” She sunk back down on the floor and burrowed her head into her knees, unable to even make eye contact with him anymore, “I’m a monster and I didn’t think I deserved to keep going on after everything I’ve done. I hurt people! I traumatized people, that poor little girl scout, god I probably ruined her life. I almost exorcised Barbara, I caused so much damage and-and-and I FUCKING KILLED YOU.” 

Beetlejuice stopped. He had been listening attentively until she mentioned him, “Kid-”

“I fucking killed you! How can you just be standing here and not screaming at me or hurting me. Don’t you want revenge?’

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asked, hurt by her words, “Kid why the hell do you think I saved you and your family? My mom was going to drag you back to the Netherworld and that would have been the end of it, you would have been dead. Now here we are, you were about to just do it for her and you only wanted to because you thought I was going to hurt you? Really Lydia..you really think I don’t give a fuck about you? Look I did some fucked up shit but I have never wanted to do anything that would hurt you.”

“Why! Why do you care about me? I killed you!”

“Not gonna lie, that did kinda suck but I’m not meant to be alive Lyds, I’m meant to be dead. Think of it as you doing me a favor life is a goddamn roller coaster and I was not at all prepared for any of it. It is a good thing you stopped me, I was so out of control I could have killed you all. Lydia, you did what you had to do. It’s better this way.”

She was silent, not moving or even looking up at him. He sighed and sat down on the floor with her, she eventually roused a little and rested her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence for a while, her breathing slowing down and a little color returning to her unnaturally pale face, a little life returning to her eyes and she glanced in disgust at the pill bottle now thrown in a corner of the floor. Beetlejuice didn’t move, he didn’t make any crappy jokes or poke fun at how emotional she was being, he just let her sit there on the floor as she attempted to regain her composure. While his words had been a slight comfort she still couldn’t shake the feelings brewing in her stomach. She thought she was going to be sick, but she hadn’t been able to properly eat anything almost all day her stomach had been so upset. She huffed out a shaky breath and looked up at the demon in her house. He looked just like he always had, his hair an unusual white color but tinted purple at the ends. 

“I still hear it..and see it. I feel like I’m drowning and I’m constantly fighting back the waves. It’s so exhausting fighting all the time. I killed you” She whispered, “You were alive and I took a-aa... and I killed you. How are you sitting here with me right now? I murdered you!”

“It was you or me Lydia.” he reminded her, “And it is honestly better for everyone that it was me. I have a way back, you didn’t. You would have been gone, stuck in the Netherworld forever and you would have no way back. Lydia, you’re just a kid, I couldn’t handle it if I had killed you hell if I had killed any of the assholes in this house. I have no clue why I wanted to be a human so bad, I wouldn’t have any of my cool powers like I do as a demon. Like this-” He waved his hand and two more of him showed up, leaning casually on the door, one making a very silly face earning a weak laugh from Lydia, “I really only wanted to be alive again so that I wasn’t invisible anymore. I wanted so badly for someone to see me, for someone to actually be there and want me there. When you wanted to find your mom I felt like you were abandoning me.”

Lydia bowed her head again, remembering the broken-hearted look on his face when she ran up the stairs so determined that what she was doing was the right thing even though everything she had been doing was so very wrong, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, really kiddo. I’m used to it by now. People only deal with me when they want something and when I stop being that, they’re onto the next thing. Don’t give yourself any credit for originality, you weren’t the first and you definitely won’t be the last. People don’t want me.”

She felt tears running down her face again as memories of how they bonded over their shared invisibility surfaced to her memory. She acted out because she wanted to be seen, she wanted to feel like she belonged in her own family again, and she was so caught it up looking out for herself that she didn’t consider anyone else, but she wasn’t alone in that either. She knew Beetlejuice was the same way. Neither of their actions were justified, they both made mistakes. They both hurt people, including each other, but maybe...maybe they would help each other now. Maybe they could help each other be better. She took his hand in hers, it was so much larger than hers was that his almost swallowed hers when he closed his grasp. She looked up at him with her tear-filled eyes, “I want you here.”

“Kid no offense but you don’t want me here. You wanted me to make you feel better and I hope I did, one of us should be happy.”

“I missed you.” 

He stared at her, like a deer in headlights, unsure of his next move. He looked down at this kid...god she really was just a kid. She was so small and young, and vulnerable just like he had been and he fucked her up. He did some real damage to her and she said that she missed him? He couldn’t deny that he missed her too, they had some fun during those two days her dad was gone. She was a funny kid, and it did his cold-dead heart some good when he actually saw her laugh and smile. He thought he was helping, but looking at her now he couldn’t help but to feel responsible for how broken she had become. She was driving herself insane blaming herself for his death, she had bags under her eyes and he believed her about the nightmares it looked like she hadn’t slept since he left. He hadn’t wanted to leave but he thought it would be for the best if when he did come back it was on their terms. When she summoned him he didn’t even care why he was just excited to see his friend again but now he wanted to run away, leave before he made things any worse for her than they already were. Chuck would get her a good therapist and she could have a happy life, and all of this..all of him would just be a distant memory.

He must not have said anything for a while because now Lydia was looking at him with her big sad brown eyes, just waiting for a response, “Beetlejuice..can I ask you something?”

“Sure bud.”

“You can be honest with me, I completely understand all things considered but.” She twisted her fingers in her hands, “Did you miss me?”

“Yeah,” he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and hugged her gently, “Yeah I did.”

“I want you to stay. I want you here, I think we could be good.”

“Good?”

She nodded, “I think we could be good for each other. I want to be good again, I want my mom to be proud of me again.”

He bit back a comment about how her mother was dead and had no clue about what Lydia was doing never the less Lydia’s morality, he figured that wasn’t what she needed to hear right now instead he rolled his eyes playfully trying to ease some of the tension, “You’ve always been good Lydia. I tricked you into doing some shitty stuff. You would have never had to do any of that shit if I hadn’t forced you to. Lydia, it was my fault, trust me I never take responsibility for my actions, that’s how I roll but this? This was all me, you need to stop beating yourself up over it. I was being a real asshole and I fucked up a perfectly good goth kid because I was lonely.”

“I’m lonely.” she admitted to him, “Maybe we can be alone together. Friends?”

He chuckled, ruffling her short black hair, “BFFFFs forever. Now you just have to convince everyone else to let you have a demon roaming around.”

She punched his arm jokingly with a genuine smile on her face, “I’m sure they’ll all come around.”

It was that awkward time of the night where it was both late and early. Too early to be awake for the day, but too late for her to go to bed without sleeping until an ungodly hour. She and BJ went down to the living room and watched movies together until she eventually fell asleep on the couch, her light snoring distracting him from the cinematic masterpiece that was Ratatouille. When the movie ended and he was sure she was asleep he floated out of the living room and went back to the bathroom, he picked the pill bottle up off of the floor and put it back in the medicine cabinet. He picked up the scattered bathroom items that she must have been throwing before she summoned him, making it look like nothing at all had happened. He thought about running away, she was asleep. She wouldn’t notice until the morning but something kept him from leaving, it wasn’t that his abilities were weakened but something inside him was keeping him here. He just kept hearing her repeating in his head that she wanted him to stay.

He was wanted. 

[pensurfing]

I Surrender.

By the time I actually post this, it’ll be near the end of the year and I’ll be near my burnout. Each year, usually I take an unannounced, but quiet, break. 

2020 feels different this year. Usually, I return in January; but this time I don’t think I can return. Too much happened in so little time and as a small creator, business, entrepreneur, small EVERYTHING I can’t ignore what lurks over my head. An ultimatum. 

I was in denial about it.

I thought maybe if I pushed making the decision back as far as I could, something would change. That as long as I worked hard, promo’d my sales and merch, did as many virtual cons as I could, something would change. Networking in newer groups, looking around for clients, and wanting to make new merchandise; name it. I did it. Work hard and reap the benefits later; while that is true there is also no shame in knowing when to quit as well. I was in denial about how long the pandemic in the States would last. I was in denial about needing help with my mental health. I was in denial about so many things in my surroundings. The biggest thing I was in denial about was my importance, impact, and ability to move forward with where I was with my art journey. The biggest reason why I was able to keep it up was due to the constant questions of “How’s it going? What are you up to? How are you?” No one (at least the way I see the world) actually answers this truthfully. So I just kept saying fine and for a while, I genuinely believed it. I lied to them. But to be fair, I lied to myself too.

I was angry about it.

I stayed here for so long.

SO. 

Long.

I was angry that I felt ignored; angry that I reached out and others had their hands tied as well; angry that I still managed to make sure others didn’t drown like I was drowning & didn’t think to help myself because I’m stupid; angry that the pandemic did last this long in the States; angry at me for not pulling some magic trick out a hat that I’m not sure existed; just angry. (tw: self-harm, vivid imagery) I was so angry I took it out on my debit card and self-sabotaged my good spending habits. I took it out on my legs and arms and broke a seven-year long streak of not hurting myself; I carved myself up entirely and punched the bricks of my house. I took it out on people. I don’t quite know how yet, but I feel like I did. Maybe I had a shorter temper than normal; I stopped reaching out and making sure I fully listened to their problems. I kept caring more about them than myself during this phase. And they just kept taking. And I became an empty cup, they moved on; I see that I’m just disposable. Which, isn’t wrong. All I could handle and still can handle is heavy convos with my therapist. (I don’t have her anymore, that’s right. I can’t afford her anymore.) All I could handle was trying to write it out, map it out, talk it out.

I was angry I didn’t see a point anymore. I felt like I didn’t deserve the tiny wins I did see because I didn’t go through some kind of threshold of pain and suffering to earn it. I was angry and the crumbs tossed my way in the name of “diversity” and “trying to hire black” because of guilt and white performance. I was angry being lead on with a tiny thread of hope because that thread was bigger than the nothing I’ve gotten this entire time. I was so angry and blaming myself for things that were completely out of my reach and capability. I was just really angry.

I tried begging my way out of it.

I looked for online classes of any sort to traject myself into a sort of hope. Buying hundreds of dollars in books, classes, anything in information I just didn’t have prior to the pandemic; and now because of the pandemic, the information will be obsolete as the world adjusts and readjusts to its changes and collapse in remaking itself. Making flash sales on my website if it meant seeing eight dollars by the end of the month. 

I didn’t stay here long because of my own twisted viewpoint of begging.

I was depressed about it. 

I stayed here the longest. It was already enough having the above marinate within me; add to the mixture of new relative drama, relatives passing away, and just not being in a healthy household... I grew tired. I stopped taking care of myself. Anyone with depression can tell you that dealing with that darkness is an uphill battle; usually, the first to go is my hygiene. But I just slowly stopped drawing altogether. I don’t draw when I’m not together. I’ve mentioned this many times over the years verbally and in written form on here. So I just kept taking breaks. I had a small string of commissions here and there, but that was the only illustrations I could create and that was its own battle. 

I tried mentioning it to people I was close to, but after a while hearing “it be like that sometimes” just isn’t helpful and isn’t worth explaining the story. So I just stopped talking. And not having my therapist made it harder. Especially because I have a lot of emotional dumpers who don’t understand boundaries. I don’t blame them, but after a while of nonconsensual emotional dumping I had to stop listening to another group of people because I just couldn’t handle any more weight; either they didn’t see I was drowning or didn’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore. 

I couldn’t enjoy the walks recommended by many; not even my favorite restaurants; or shows; or books/mangas; food in general; people in general.

Listening to music at least helped the “I’m sinking” feeling. But it was quickly ruined with “well intent” friends with; “Maybe if you drew something you’d feel better”, “Sketch, paint, it’s therapeutic”, “dRaW”. You get the picture. It had a double sting because it acknowledged two things: These ‘friends’ don’t know much about me and what brings me happiness; This isn’t about my happiness, but more about their own selfish requests to see more work from me because they don’t know anything else besides “I’m an artist, I draw, therefore that is all I am and all that can ever make me happy”.

See it this way: You have a friend. Friend is a musician. Your friend is slowly going deaf and loses their hearing. You can at least do small, everyday sign language. But not enough to handle a full conversation. Until your deaf friend can afford that hearing aide, talking to them will be a bit harder. But instead of learning more sign, you complain about how the person can’t hear as well anymore, so they become “quieter” and you stop reaching out to them. Projecting the “why can’t you just listen”. “You know what will make you feel better? If you play your music again, make mixes. We miss that.” “You sing, why not sing to make yourself feel better.” If the person cannot hear, how can they continue to make sure their craft is correct? In tune? On tempo? If a person is not in the mood or mental capacity to draw, then how can they draw? If all you can see is that you only know about friend is that they are a musician, can they really be a friend? Or just acquaintance?

Projecting the thing you get joy from said ‘not ok’ person and just demanding they do more of the thing you enjoy isn’t helpful; but selfish. Because in that case it isn’t about the person, but you and your expectations and things that you get from said person. Once they stop giving you the thing, then it’s about ‘how-dare-you-not-give-me-my-thing’. And I stopped caring to go through this consistent loop and being talked over when trying to explain myself.

I sat in my bathtub more than I had in years; the irony is this is comforting. So for weeks, this is where my mind and mental capacity have been. Sitting in my tub, with a blanket, my phone, and my switch. I’ll stay there all day and go to bed; sometimes I’ll sleep in the tub and stay there all day. I listened to music. Just daydream. I write a bit more now for my own purposes. It’s been nice. But not enough to get me out of a funk.

I finally accept it.

I’m just a person to be there and happy for others and their things. I think I finally get that now. I’ve slowly removed myself from social media and with the expectation of performance. I’m not a performer; I’m supposed to just be the audience. While this isn’t an “I quit” because this is all my job experience the past few years now, this is just an “I surrender”. I’m used to the fact in my waking life I’m no person’s ‘favorite’ or ‘go to’; so I guess now I’m coming to terms with that with work and with drawing in general. I have company clients I’m wrapping up work for but after that, I’ll be taking down my commission information and artist alley gallery. etc. I’ll shut down the store; I’ll do one last sale and either give away/throw away my extra items.

I just have to start entirely from square one. Maybe negative one? I went on what feels like the world’s longest pity party to say I’m taking a break, and seeing how the world broke in 2020 there is a chance I won’t be able to come back. And I don’t want people jumping me say “how dare” “you don’t try hard enough” or “shut up and just wait until next year/try again next year”

I’m covering my bases. If things look up then I’ll just happily delete this later.

But I can’t just ignore the reality of it all. I’m not ok and I haven’t been. And I just want to stare at my ceiling guilt-free for a bit. (I did this last night and it is fucking gross looking, gotta clean it.) 

Stay safe, stay indoors, and stay clever.

[[TL;DR: After continuing to get beat down by the world the past two years, this year pushed me past a tipping point. I can’t keep being a lukewarm illustrator at best and I am slowly wondering if I even want to; I want the space to figure that out. And don’t want the same friends who tell me “draw this, color this” to hound me on that decision either: it has the same energy when a kid with asthma can’t breathe and you talk over them and say “just inhale and exhale”.]]

I hereby release me from the pressure to post consistently because honestly, it is the only time I hear from anyone anyway So this is me choosing silence for a bit.

[beeblackburn]

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Three

Guilt really is a luxury for the living, isn’t it. Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Guilt Is a Luxury Point-of-View: Rikke

The snow had all melted and left the world cold and comfortless. The icy slop that stood for ground seeped into Rikke’s boots and spattered up her sodden trousers. Cold dew dripped endlessly from the black branches, through her sopping hair, onto her soggy cloak and down her chafed back. The wet from above met the wet from below around her belt, which she’d been obliged to tighten on account of having hardly eaten anything in the three days since she killed a boy and watched her home burn.

At least it couldn’t get any worse. Or so she told herself. 

In short, it’s really goddamn cold. As an opening, it serves as a microcosm of the lack of small comforts that Rikke’s endured since watching Uffrith burn, a relentless litany of the miserable chill upon her person, but as a contrast to the Original Trilogy, it’s a difference in prose craft and characterization between our two Northern voices, from Logen’s more stripped-down viewpoint to Rikke’s longer ruminations on the comfortless environment. Just compare here:

The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun was blazing overhead. He turned his face towards it, closed his stinging eyes and let the light wash over him. The air was painful cold in his throat. Cutting cold. His mouth was dry as dust, his tongue a piece of wood, badly carved. He scooped up snow and shoved it into his mouth. It melted, he swallowed. Cold, it made his head hurt.

Whereas Abercrombie went for a more bare-bones description of how cold it is, note the repetition of cold and how the descriptions don’t quite connect as neatly here, Rikke’s descriptions have a greater sense of continuity, going more directional as she notes the dew above dripping down her hair, soaking through her cloak, then her back, then from above to down below. There’s a sense of seamless rhythm here that Abercrombie’s earlier word craft doesn’t quite have, in terms of being refined by the later books. I definitely think Logen’s more bare-bones voice in reaction to his condition is intentional, but I also think the comparison shows concretely how much he’s improved since then. 

And, character-wise, you can see the difference between the two: Logen acknowledges that things can always get worse. He’s a survivor, a hardened man who’s been through tougher and been through far blacker conditions than the cold. Rikke, though? She’s not there yet. An inexperienced naif who thinks it can’t get worse, even though past books in the Circle of the World make a point that things can always get worse, and the difference between the winners and the losers being how clear-eyed you are about taking reality as it is.

One can argue that makes Rikke less compelling compared to the savage experience Logen had, but she’s still learning, and everyone in this world learns about how this world works in full.

“Aye, and his uncle Scale Ironhand’s, and his father Black Calder’s. The thorns may scratch your downy-soft skin, but a lot shallower than their swords would.”

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! CALLED IT!!! 

CAN’T WAIT TO MEET STOUR!

On a more serious note, yeah, this makes sense on how Stour’s taking back Angland plan would have the traction it got. If Black Calder wasn’t involved, he’d plot to assassinate Stour Nightfall in a heartbeat. That being said, I wonder what made him decide to cut Bayaz’s strings now? Did he meet with King Casamir Shenkt already? If not, then Calder’s playing a hugely dangerous game, given Bayaz’s history with the North and their talk in The Heroes. 

I hope you can slither your way out of Bayaz’s wrath, Calder.

“It’s almost like an unfriendly army swarming over your land is an inconvenience in all kinds o’ ways. You’re used to reckoning the world your playground. Beset by dangers now, girl. Time to act like it.” Isern slipped on through the thicket as quick and silent as a snake, leaving Rikke to struggle after, pointlessly cursing.

She liked to think of herself as quite the rugged outdoorswoman, but in this company she was a towny oaf. Isern-i-Phail knew all the ways, that was the rumour. Even better’n her daddy had. Rikke had learned more from watching her the last couple of weeks than she had from that fool Union tutor in Ostenhorm in a year. How to build a shelter from ferns. How to set rabbit traps, even if they hadn’t worked. How to reckon your course from the way the moss grew on the tree trunks. How to tell a man from an animal in the forest just by their footfalls.

Aw, Rikke calling the Dogman daddy instead of da’ or father’s a cute detail.

This chapter really digs into how lacking Rikke’s been in real experience, giving this picture of a coddled Northern girl. And, on the one hand, that’s honestly kind of sweet: Dogman getting out of a life of relentless violence to try and give his girl the peaceful sort of upbringing he didn’t get to have, drenched in blood and the violence that comes with being the following dog to the Bloody-Nine. 

But, at the same time, life in the Circle of the World is pretty pitiless to those with illusions. As someone who’s lived through the old trilogy, but isn’t in a familial capacity like the Dogman, Isern is an old hand at how this world works, and she’s giving Rikke a crash course on how to survive it.

Union tutor, eh? I wonder if that better life for the Dogman’s daughter also included giving her an education. Though, Rikke certainly isn’t appreciating it now.

Some folk said Isern was a witch, and no doubt she’d a witchy look and a witch’s temper, but even she couldn’t magic food out of rocks and bogwater at the arse-end of winter. Sadly.

Snrrrk. I’m noticing a patterns with how much Abercrombie shades magic and magicians from other series in Rikke’s chapters. Which, you know, makes sense, given how much the Long Eye pervaded her first chapter, and I imagine that not stopping in later ones. Magic isn’t a cheat code in this world, no substitute for lived experience and knowing how to survive.

Rikke knew what folk said about her, and maybe her head didn’t have the right parts in the right places, but she’d always had a sharp eye for things. So in spite of the gloom and Isern’s nimble fingers, Rikke saw the hillwoman only ate half as much as she handed over. She saw it, and was thankful for it, and wished she had the bones to insist on fair shares, but she was just so damn hungry. She stuffed her shred of dry meat down so quickly she swallowed her chagga pellet too without even noticing.

1. That first bit makes me think of a growing thought about how Rikke could be read as neurodivergent, given the whispers and the consideration that her brain isn’t wired “right.” In some ways, I’m not entirely sure how to feel about this, considering the magic = disability trope is a thing, but I think Abercrombie’s earned enough credit in the bank, and the writing with her mundane difficulties with the Long Eye makes me feel that Rikke isn’t really written as a figure of pity as some poorly-written disability-coded characters can be, so much as someone who has to deal with the inconveniences of a mental condition, but is still their own person beyond that. 2. Awww, Isern! That’s really nice of you. Though, I will admit, what’s Isern’s skin in this game? She says it’s the Long Eye, but why not just knock Rikke out and give her to Stour’s men? Would be the selfish thing. Would be the easy thing. 3. Rikke really isn’t a bad person at heart, but, when the practicalities of hunger push us, we find it easier to lean on our self-interest to make our choices. Selfless choices are rare in this world and a good way to determine the choices of characters in this world is “how does this benefit me?” Not always, but you’ll rarely be disappointed.

While she licked the wondrous taste of stale bread from her teeth, she found she was thinking of that lad she shot. That bit of dyed cloth around his scrawny neck, like mothers give sons to keep the cold off. That hurt, confused look he’d had. The same look she used to have, maybe, when the other children laughed at her twitching.

Man, Rikke really is a soft person and it’s such a tonal contrast from Logen’s “welp, I didn’t really have a choice, best not think on those I killed” attitude towards killing. The difference between lived experience is a chasm between them. An evil older man in a harsh world, and a decent younger woman in it.

Also, I know a friend similar to Rikke, who’s got a mental condition. It inconveniences her more often than not, and she’s not particularly happy about it, but, at the same time, she was born with it and she appreciates all the people in her life that don’t define her by her disability.

And when I read that last part, my heart hurts for Rikke. And my mouth tells those children to fuck off.

“I killed that lad.” And she sniffed up a noseful of cold snot and spat it away.

“Aye.” Isern trimmed off a chagga pellet and stuck it behind her lip. “You killed him all to bits, and robbed everyone who knew him, and cut all the good he might ever do out of the world.”

Rikke blinked. “Well, you’re the one split his skull!”

“That was a mercy. He’d have drowned on your arrow for sure.”

Oh, Rikke. I get the defensiveness, I do, but Isern’s right in that you effectively killed him first, so don’t deflect the blame there. Sure, it might’ve been an accident, but sometimes, intentions don’t mean anything to the reality of actions. Just ask Khalul.

“Deserving won’t make much difference to an arrow. The best defence against arrows is not a life nobly lived but to be the one who shoots them, d’you see?” Isern sat back against her, smelling of sweat and earth and chewed chagga. “They were your father’s enemies. Our enemies. Wasn’t as if there was any other choice.”

The difference between the killer and the killed, the hunter and the hunted, the living and the dead in this world.

Rikke hunched into her cold cloak and her bleak mood. “No justice, is there? For him or for me. Just a world that looks the other way and doesn’t care a shit about either one of us.”

This chapter is basically The First Law 101, one of the fundamental truths of the Circle of the World: the world is full of shit, and the people living in it just have to make the best of it through the eyes of a naif who wishes she didn’t have to kill to preserve herself. Someone like Logen would’ve given up on the idea of existential justice or wishing things were better, he’s long past that point. 

Rikke still wishes for that, and it’s a heavy feeling borne from her youth.

She felt Isern’s hand firm on her shoulder, and was grateful for it. “If killing folk ever starts to feel right, you’ve a worse kind of problem. Guilt can sting, but you should be thankful for it.”

“Thankful?”

“Guilt is a luxury reserved for those still breathing and with no unbearable pain, cold or hunger demanding all their fickle attention. Long as guilt’s your big problem, girl …” Rikke saw the faint gleam of Isern’s teeth in the gathering darkness. “Things can’t be that bad.”

In short, “I am still alive.” When you’re alive, you can feel all these emotions, you have the luxury of guilt. Because once you go through the Last Door, meet the Great Leveller, guilt’s your last worry. So, at the very least, be grateful to be alive. Because there are some who don’t get to be grateful, especially the corpses you made to keep yourself breathing.

She slapped Rikke’s thigh and gave a witchy cackle, and maybe there was some magic in it after all because Rikke cracked her first smile in a day or two, and that made her feel just a bit better. Your best shield is a smile, her father always said.

Awww! This is so much more emotionally warm than Logen’s first few chapters, trying to survive in the bitter cold. And I love how, after a dig against fantasy’s penchant for easy magic, Abercrombie flips it, giving a sort of magic to just these mundane gestures. Abercrombie’s gotten more optimistic as the series went on, and I just smile at how much it’s carried over to the official start of the new trilogy. There’s a sweetness to this I adore after the first trilogy’s more cynical touch.

“Why haven’t you just left me behind?” she asked.

“I gave my word to your da.”

“Aye, but everyone says you’re the most untrustworthy bitch in the whole North.”

“No one should know better than you what the things everyone says are worth. Truth is, I only care about keeping my word to folk I like. I seem untrustworthy because there are only seven of those outside the hills.” She made a fist of her tattooed hand, trembling tight. “To those seven, I am a rock.”

Rikke swallowed. “You like me, then?”

“Meh.” Isern opened her blue fist and shook out the fingers with a clicking of knuckles. “About you, I remain to be convinced, but I like your father and I gave him my word. That I’d try to put an end to your fits and coax your Long Eye open and bring you back to him still breathing. The small matter of an invasion may have nudged him out of Uffrith, but the commitment still stands, far as I’m concerned, wherever Stour Nightfall’s bastards might’ve driven him off to.” Her eyes flickered to Rikke, cunning as a fox that sees the coop unguarded. “But I’ll admit I’ve a selfish reason, too, which is a good thing for you, since selfish reasons are the only reasons you should trust.”

“What reason?”

Isern opened her eyes very wide so they bulged from her filthy face. “Because I know there’s a better North waiting. A North free of the grip of Scale Ironhand, and the one who pulls his strings, Black Calder, and the one who pulls his strings even. A North free for everyone to choose their own way.” Isern leaned close in the darkness. “And your Long Eye will pick out our path to it.”

Hah! Setting up the joke, only to deliver that “Meh” punchline. Perfect.

Well! That explains why Isern hasn’t abandoned Rikke yet. Though, frankly, that’s pretty non-selfish as far as motives go, Isern. You’re a nicer person than you give yourself credit for. Few of the characters in the first trilogy gave a shit about their countries in terms of better. I think only Jezal did, by the end, and... well. We all know that sad story in the end.

Though, whoa, does Isern know about Bayaz? Or is she just smart enough to realize Calder’s got strings around him, just like everyone else? Intriguing...

And I have to laugh a little about this ending. Isern’s sentiment’s in earnest, don’t get me wrong, but at the same, this feels like the typical “protagonist with magical gifts is set-up for a huge destiny” and... well, we all know Abercrombie doesn’t entirely roll that way. His character and genre deconstruction work is way too notable for him to play that sort of trope entirely straight and I relish that expectation coming true.

In short, this chapter is definitely a bit more light-weight than the others I’ve read, but it definitely serves a crucial purpose: The First Law 101, the Lesson. Imparting to a new reader, unfamiliar with this world, that this is how the Circle of the World works, but also, for old readers, pointing out that we’re getting different blood fore-running our stories, a huge difference from Logen’s world-weary mindset. 

And, I got to say, it’s a lovely contrast so far! It only makes me like Rikke all the more, as she wrestles with her guilt and the reality that the world doesn’t care for her guilt. Her first steps in being a survivor. And Isern really helps bring out the naivete in her, but there’s also a splash of character, both wild and warm, in her that makes it a more winning combination than the first trilogy’s Logen-Quai roadtrip duo.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five:  A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

[janiedean]

Hey, lately I've seen a lot of people hate on book!Tyrion and talk about what a terrible person he is and wanted to hear your take on that, because I don't really get it. I think that he is a really interesting character in the books, more so than in the second half of the show, if you ask me.

(sorry for replying this late I needed time to get to it and stuff happened haha)

soooo... tldr: I think *tumblr* has a shitload of issues with tyrion that are 90% rooted in the fact that this website thinks hating men is cool/that men are the worst always *and* also only cries ableism when it’s convenient or to call ableist things that are not in fact such (ie ‘omg if you use stupid is ableist’ which... automatically implies that anyone with a disability is *stupid* and the likes), and in tyrion’s case there’s.... an overlap of those specific issues added to the fact that since he’s a general fan favorite regardless of any fault of his then it’s fine to trash on him. going in depth on it:

now, there’s admittedly a difference in between book and show tyrion in the sense that the show version is a lot less gray and has cut on a lot of material in that sense, but like...... it’s d&d who after they decided to chunk the book storyline couldn’t write him properly so I’m not touching that topic because it’s not *his* issue, it’s theirs, and as you said... well obv. he’s more interesting in the books, because he has a lot more layers and he actually does something post-asos instead of rehashing the same three jokes that aren’t even on par with *his* book humor because he’s too smart for d&d to pull off correctly (I mean from S6 to S8 they managed to give him good lines in... the finale? PROBABLY? but they can’t write him, it’s their problem);

when it comes to book!tyrion, he obviously has faults same as 99,9% of the characters in these books, but all of those faults are... absolutely understandable given his background? I mean, so he hates his father and his sister, has fairly unhealthy coping methods and that got worse after asos, but... he comes from a lifetime of parental/familial abuse that crowned with tywin forcing him to rape his then-wife who actually did love him and convincing him he was unlovable, cersei was molesting him in the cradle and the only person who cared about him outside the uncles brigade which wasn’t around all the time was jaime who went off to get traumatized for himself at thirteen, and that just because of how he looks and for his disability, do we ask him to be a perfectly adjusted person? not really, and actually the fact that he tries to be better than 99% of his family all the time and that he actually has a lot of empathy for disadvantaged people and empathy in general says a lot about how he’s a pretty damn decent person, not a terrible one;

now, I think that this fandom on tumblr has ten problems with him because in order, the fact that he’s a man already puts him on a disadvantaged level but that’s common to most guys in this fandom like on tumblr in this fandom if a female character fucks up and a male character fucks up, the latter will be called out upon it way more than than the female character. also, abused male characters don’t get recognition for that 99% of the time. but that also means that his disability gets brushed off/ignored because since **according to tumblr standards** it’s not stopping him from doing most of what he’d like and no one takes it into account, his abuse gets brushed off/ignored because WELL HE’S NOT THE ONLY ONE, the fact that he’s a man means he has male privilege and whatever the fuck else and since he’s technically (in the book at least) Not Standard Attractive then he doesn’t even get the shitload of excuses hot people get in virtue of being hot;

also, there’s a certain attitude I really don’t like at all whatsoever to describe the fact that in his POVs he always goes about how much he hates his father/cersei or WHERE DO THE WHORES GO in adwd as whining/being unable to get over it/dying of self-pity but like.......... that’s..... how he copes with knowing he’s been treated like shit? like, thing is: in a literary genius foil with his brother who has no idea of the crap he was unjustly subjected to if not very subconsciously and whose coping method is *going away* and/or forgetting about things and/or not thinking about them, tyrion’s coping method is never letting himself forget it and honestly.... so he thinks shit about his father and sister all the time? tough luck, they’re his abusers, ofc he does. he can’t get over thinking no one will love him because of his looks? tough luck, he was told that all his life and when he found someone he thought did tywin organized that rouse so he’d think she was with him for money and he forced him to rape her which is also called rape by proxy so he’s also a rape victim and he was thirteen? wow, if I were him ie someone whose first advice to a main character in these books was ‘never forget about your weaknesses and make them your armor so people can’t hurt you with them’ then I also would be thinking about that all the time. he’s an abuse victim and he’s not away from his abusers until the end of asos, what are we expecting, that he’d get over it? actually it’s a way healthier method than jaime’s because at least he knows he’s been wronged all along and he can see both c. and his father for the assholes they are but at least he knows that and he harbors no illusions about them even if he still kind of wants them to love him same as most people would, but like... that’s not whining? that’s stuff that it’s absolutely normal he should be thinking? also, the where do the whores go thing in adwd is....... basically he just learned that his biggest trauma was not what he believed it was and he has to reconcile himself with the fact that a) tysha never not loved him, b) jaime was in on it even if he subconsciously knows that he also was a victim in that ploy (when he dreams about killing him in adwd he’s crying, sooooo) and he has to know because jaime told him out of *guilt* and he damn well knows it, like he’s re-elaborating the entire thing, obviously he’s fixated on it??? I mean the moment I figured out a specific thing that I hadn’t realized about an unhealthy relationship I had with someone I spent a month thinking about it every other moment for a month and it was nowhere near that same level of terrible, and I’m surprised that he thinks about that for all of adwd? like, I find those justifications very iffy and incredibly dismissive of a) his trauma b) his abuse victim status;

also there’s the whole HE KILLED TYWIN thing but..... I honestly am baffled it’s even a thing fandom thinks he should pay for or anything. like, the problem is that he killed *shae* in that context, and that was also out of feeling betrayed after just learning of how it really went with tysha, and that’s why he’s on the downward spiral/his lowest point in adwd, but.... tywin? really? like tywin is an asshole period, he abused him all his life, he traumatized the shit out of him for his entire life and made him grow up thinking he was unlovable and outright told him he wanted to drown him, and not even counting what tywin did to *him*, we’re talking about someone who went and calmly planned the red wedding the moment he realized there was no way he could take out robb without treachery and didn’t feel particularly bothered by it on a moral level, and we’re sad that he died or think that tyrion has to pay for it because he killed his abuser who also never really was a father to him in any sense of the word? like what the fuck does tyrion owe tywin? literally nothing and tbqh it’s tywin narratively reaping the seeds of what he’s sown if tyrion goes and offs him. like, a lot of people re fixed on this thing about OH HE KILLED HIS FATHER HE DOESN’T DESERVE REDEMPTION but the narrative doesn’t ask it of him. he has to make peace and find his own redemption for killing shae at that point, not tywin. tywin had it coming since the moment he showed up. like, saying he’s a horrible person for offing someone who only ever abused the shit out of him doesn’t really fly as far as I’m concerned;

at this point we get to ‘okay but in adwd he does a lot of questionable things’, but..... a) he’s supposed to be at his lowest narrative point and a lot of people have done a lot of questionable things at their lowest narrative point in these books, I mean if I think theon can have a nice life and get better after his WF stint I can think that tyrion can have a nice life and get better after his adwd stint, b) it’s nothing he’ll be proud of when he pulls his shit together (and he already had started by the end of adwd) but I mean... it’s nothing worse than most people who have to pull their shit together in these books have done lately, like honestly writing him off as a horrible person because of his adwd stint reaaaaally reeks to me of double standard which is based on the fact that no one around here wants to recognize that he’s an abuse victim and his reactions are valid and that yes his disability singles him out and is the reason people target him and not his merits or demerits. I mean he even spells it out, he’s been on trial for being a dwarf all his life/everyone already judged him for that regardless of his actual faults, and that’s not him being delusional, it’s the truth. he’s a person who certainly has faults same as anyone else but guess what a lot of people around fandom do what tywin does and exacerbate them if you ask my opinion;

(that also can be seen when it comes to what people think of the guy being shipped around because believe me I wish I hadn’t seen people saying he couldn’t be a good option for sansa because he’s not the beautiful gallant stainless dude she deserves, and I’m saying it as a sansan shipper first but come the fuck on) (other than that tyrion/bronn is ofc the superior ship but nvm me)

also there’s the whole thing where people decided that since tyrion is a general fandom fave in between the w.org/reddit crowd/general audience then obviously if the dudebros (ugh i can’t with that generalization anymore sure af freefolk is less puritan than tumblr from what I see) like him then he has to also incarnate the Worst Type Of Male Fan Of Asoiaf In Existence and like........ now, I don’t doubt that when it comes to the *general audience* there’s a lot of misconceptions going around plus a lot of his character faults get ignored (I mean when I went on w.org the first time the first thread I ran into was like ‘wow sansa is a bitch for not kneeling at once when they married and making him feel like shit’ I mean that’s a situation where you should feel bad for both but calling her a bitch for not wanting to kneel while marrying a guy she was forced to who also belonged to the family that killed her brother and mother and her father too is like......... come on seriously?) but that’s the same with most fandom faves in any fandom, it doesn’t mean that if some of his fans see him with rose-tinted glasses then on this side of the pond we have to decide he sucks when he doesn’t, and as I said time and time again..... do we remember the last time that in any fandom the general audience favorite character who sells the merchandise more than anyone else is a disabled abuse victim who doesn’t shut up about it and tries to be better than anyone else thinks them able to? because I don’t and while tyrion is not top five asoiaf for me I’m very glad that *he* is the general audience favorite. so they don’t get the point or see him with rose-tinted glasses? happens to fandom faves in general, but it doesn’t mean that he’s a terrible person in the text just because the dudebro crowd (if we wanna call it like that but meh) likes him. so what, he is the audience fave? good, I’m beyond fine with him being the audience fave. I honestly don’t think it’s an argument that should even be brought up because ‘that character’s fans are shit so the character is automatically shit because we judged the fans on their supposed gender’ is not an argument. *shrug*

tldr: I think people on here exaggerate his flaws (that everyone has) and are bitchy about the fact that he is the general audience favorite because how dare a guy who’s as far as we know cishet (which is already bad for tumblr standards), not standard hot (crime!!), has a disability (which gets ignored 90% of the time when discussing his privilege or lack thereof), is an abuse victim who won’t let you forget it and you can’t deny/headcanon differently (which is a thing tumblr can’t accept - I mean, men being abuse victims, and with hc differently I mean that people outright deny that idk jaime was one because he doesn’t realize he was so you have to actually read into the text to realize it, but they can decide he’s not because it requires effort to put it together - or deny sandor was one because we don’t have his pov and we only see his destructive coping methods and so on - with tyrion they can’t because he never lets you forget he was and admitting it is apparently hard, also one of his abusers is a woman and We Do Not Admit That Women Can Be Abusers On Tumblr Dot Com) and who has fucked up but not worse than most people in these books be the audience favorite? WE JUST DON’T KNOW. personally I think he’s pretty damn great and an amazingly conceived/written character (I mean in a series where all the characters weren’t so well-rounded and I didn’t have other people I latched on before that he’d have totally been top three material for me he just got unlucky to be in the one series where everyone is well-rounded and there’s people that I resonate personally more with but really he’s an amazing character all around) and I can’t wait for him to pull his shit together in the next book and possibly get the nice ending he deserves along with better dialogue than d&d gave him, but from there to say he’s a horrible person.... geez. my list of horrible persons in these books runs very long and he’s nowhere near it. ofc he has faults but no character in these books is faultless except maybe gilly, and not even people under the age of twelve are faultless in these books come on. 

[amethystunarmed]

Who Could Blame Him?

Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou, implied Todoroki Shouto/Midoryia Izuku

Word Count: 1649

AO3 Link

Todoroki and Kirishima have an important talk about what happened.

Set after the summer camp attack. 

Part 1 Part 2 (You’re here) Part 3 

Kirishima was pretty sure the villain attack on their summer training camp was the worst night of his life. It felt unfair to say. Jirou and Hagakure were still unconscious in the emergency room. Tetsutetsu had been shot. Tokoyami had been taken over by his literal inner demon. Shoji had his goddamn arm ripped off. And Bakugou was…

Well.

All in all, Kirishima had it easy. He’d started the night with Aizawa and Kan. He’d nearly been blown up, sure, but he’d always been with others, always been protected. He’d been absolutely fine. But still, there’d been a moment.

The other students who’d been in the thick of fight returned and Kirishima had spotted Midoriya and Todoroki. They standing so closed their hands were nearly intertwined, Todoroki staring at Midoriya liked he’d pass out any minute. Midoriya had looked like he’d gone through a garbage disposal but Kirishima only saw the tear tracks down his cheeks. Todoroki was battered black and blue, residual ice still crusted in his hair, but Kirishima only saw the dead expression, the  wide, haunted eyes. And he remembered what that villain had said to Kan.

You’re so weak, you couldn’t even stop a criminal organization from abducting your students.

He’d run forward, despite Kaminari and Aizawa, in remarkably different tones, telling him to stay back. He’d run forward, deliriously tired from his god awful classes, pumped up to his eyeballs with adrenaline. He’d run forward, and he’d asked, whispered, shouted, he wasn’t sure, where’s Bakugou? And Midoriya’s face flooded with tears and Todoroki diligently studied the dirt and Kirishima had known. He’d known and his legs gave out and maybe he screamed, and that was it.

That was the moment he was sure he was dying.

And then Sero and Kaminari ran over and Sero hugged him until he stopped shaking and Kaminari counted breaths for him, until he couldn’t remember that only hours before he had still been a little mad at them, until the paramedics ran over and wrapped a blanket, until his body was no longer certain he was about to drop dead.

No, he wasn’t dying.

But Bakugou could be.

And so now, he was lying awake in his bed that was too big and too cold, with only that thought in his head.

It’s three am. His eyes hurt and he is starting to see colorful patterns float by when he stared at the ceiling too long. But when he closes his eyes, he sees Midoriya sobbing, smells the faint smoke and whiffs of sickly sweet gas. It’s unbearable. Kirishima is contemplating ripping his pillow apart with his bare hands, just for something to do, when his phone buzzes. What the fuck? Kirishima thinks with a frown. Who is texting me at three in the morning? He goes to pick it up, and pauses. Possibilities flood his head. Did they find Bakugou? Did he get free? Was his body dumped in an alley? Is it Bakugou himself, replying to the legion of unanswered texts he’d sent every time he felt like he was going to implode? Is he shouting at him, asking how dare he worry? Is he... grateful? Kirishima shakes his head. No, probably not that one. He grits his teeth. The pressure, the possibility of what could be on his phone was so monumental, Kirishima honestly considers just rolling over and pretending it didn’t happen.

Then it buzzes again.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, and grabs it. When he turns it over and reads who the messages were from, he nearly drops it in shock. 2 messages from Todoroki Shouto.

I hope you’re doing well after the attack. I’m sorry for what occurred.

Well, that’s vague. He texts like a goddamn dictionary, Kirishima thinks. He isn’t sure why he expected anything less. The next text had come in a minute later.

I just now realized the late hour. My apologies if I disturbed you.

Kirishima unlocks his phone. The second one is easy enough to reply to.

no worries i was already up

Sent.

and wtf you sorry for?

Todoroki responds immediately.

I was unable to protect Bakugou. I’m sorry.

Kirishima isn’t entirely sure what the fuck he was thinking, his hands reacted without his consent. He clicks through to Todoroki’s contact information, hits the call button, and the phone is at his ear. It rings four times before Todoroki answers. The connection clicks and before Todoroki could even say anything, Kirishima speaks.

“Dude, none of that shit was your fault, don’t even think about going down that path, okay?” There was silence on the other line.

“You called?” He sounds so surprised. Kirishima really hadn’t expect that to be his reaction.

“Uh, yeah?” He replies, for lack of a better thought.

“I… I haven’t…” Kirishima remembers the icy boy from the first few weeks of classes, before the sports festival. The decree that he wasn’t here to make friends. Kirishima had honest to God thought his personality was affected by his quirk, and he was just gonna be an ice cold bastard as a result. Then the festival happened. Yes, the Todoroki they knew now had thawed, but only after Midoriya’s strange and desperate pleas during their match. Even now, he remained on the fringes, and Kirishima had thought that had been by choice but now...

Has Todoroki ever had a friend call him?

Oh, we’re gonna be such good friends after this, Kirishima decides.

“No pressure,” he assures him, “If it stresses you out we can go back to texting.”

“No, this is… fine.” Well, at least Kirishima hadn’t scared him off.

“Okay, cool. But I still mean what I said. What happened to Bakugou isn’t your fault.”

“If I had convinced him to leave–”

Kirishima snorts. “Like anyone can make Bakugou do anything he doesn’t want to.” There’s silence again, but it’s different this time. Kirishima could nearly feel the words clink together as Todoroki strung them along like necklace beads.

“I should have grabbed him. I was a centimeter away. I’m the reason he’s not here.” He says it like an admission, a confession of his guilt. There’s jostling, like his hands are shaking. Though his voice was steady, he’s waiting to be yelled at, Kirishima is certain of it.

“I’m sorry,” Kirishima answers softly, “That really sucks.” Todoroki takes a shocked breath, but Kirishima keeps going. He ‘s firmer now. This feels important in a way he doesn’t quite understand, but nevertheless respects. “It’s fucking awful, everything that happened to you guys. It sucks that you had to watch him get taken. But it wasn’t. Your. Fault.” Kirishima stops and takes a shaky breath. Thank god Todoroki can’t see his face. “It feels like it though, huh. Which is probably why you’re still awake, yeah?”

“Part of it. I… I still see it, sometimes. I had a ni–” He cuts himself off. “Dream. And now…”

“I get it.” He would have to fall asleep for nightmares, but the point is similar enough. Kirishima figures it wouldn’t be good to mention that Todoroki’s stricken face is one of the things that haunts him. Then again, Kirishima did have a full blown meltdown at his feet so they were probably even.

“It must not be easy for you either,” Todoroki says in a tone neither self-deprecating nor pitying, and Kirishima appreciates it. His parents have been driving him crazy, looking at him with mournful eyes, like they expect him to crumble to pieces. Todoroki, on the other hand, just says it as an acknowledgment, which Kirishima had apparently greatly needed. “It was hard enough remembering how Midoriya looked when he met up with us, and I know where he is. I can’t imagine…” It’s a damn shame they’re having a serious conversation, because Kirishima absolutely would tease him about that little admission in another context. Instead, he is just reminded of the empty space in his bed.

“Yeah,” Kirishima says, and if his voice cracks, Todoroki doesn’t say anything about it. “Yeah.”

“Is that why you’re having trouble sleeping? Bakugou's absence?” It's a plain ask, without implications. Harmless, and Kirishima chuckles at it. It’s a wet sound, strangled. His throat tightens.

“You know about that?”

“The pictures are in the class groupchat.” Kirishima is well aware. He saved a copy to his phone.

“Yeah, obviously, but…” Kirishima trails off, because he honestly didn’t know what to call it. “The other part, I mean.” Todoroki thinks for a moment.

“It was obvious it was something the two of you did often,” he muses, “And Bakugou wouldn’t do something like that publicly unless he felt he had reason to, so, I figured…”

“You got it,” Kirishima sniffles. He furiously rubs his face on his sleeve, even though no one is here to see his tears. “Fuck.” The word has too much emotion in it, but still not enough. He feel like he’s drowning.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

Kirishima did get to laugh at that. He can’t believe he ever thought Todoroki was mean. It feels impossible. “Stop apologizing, man,” he chuckled, even as more tears fell. “I probably needed to get this out anyways. I just– Fuck, it’s so stupid, but I miss him. Like, it’s been two days, but I’m so used to him being here and I don’t know if I’m ever gonna get to stop missing him? If that makes any sense? Fuck…” He runs a hand through his hair. “Like I said, it’s stupid.”

“I think,” Todoroki says, with the care of studying a snowflake fractal, “that doesn’t sound stupid at all.”

And if Kirishima breaks down at that, can anyone really blame him?

Eventually he stops crying, and he and Todoroki share good nights. And though he acts it, he isn’t surprised to see him at the hospital the next day.

He’s even less surprised when they leave with a plan.

[thegentledescent]

It’s been a long time since I’ve written on here, or anywhere. My thoughts have existed purely in my mind, fluttering about and colliding with one another for months on end. I have some time to myself for the first time in awhile and of course immediately so many old feelings come flooding back to me immediately. I feel so desperately lost and unsure of myself. I’m married now, I am on anti-depressants now, I have a salaried job, I finished college... Why am I still so unhappy, why am I still so unsure of myself? Why do I still miss H? Why the FUCK do I still miss you so much. Your tender smile, the cute little drawings you’d leave me, our deep conversations about random shit all the time, the sex, our similar music tastes. I should’ve said yes to you when we were casually seeing each other. I should have realized then and there that I never wanted you to leave my life, that I needed you. I should have seen that J was not the issue, it was my own fucking problems in my own fucked up head that kept me feeling so fucking awful every fucking day. You were the only bright spot in my life and I just fucking squandered it. I took you for granted, I took your compassion and you companionship for granted and I hate myself every day for it. You’re such a good and genuine person and I wish I could make up for all the stupid bullshit I put you through. You were and are too good for me. 

I miss you so much. I think about you most days. I wish I had the strength to do what I needed. Not even that, I wish I had the clarity to KNOW what I needed. I feel so lost and confused, I’m so unsure as to what path I should walk. As to where I should be. I feel as though I’m missing out on so many adventures but at the same time, I’ve had numerous adventures. I just don’t know what to do. I get these bursts of adventure and inspiration to go do fantastical things but it simply fades away within mere hours. I fall asleep and I’m taken once again by sloth. I pine over you, H, so much, yet.. I don’t know if even that is genuine. Can I honestly say I ever know what I want? Or am I latching onto feelings from yesteryears that simply supply some sort of... Familiar comfort? I get the sensation that I’m just.. Floating through life, attempting to latch onto familiar feelings that provide some modicum of comfort yet they are not enough to supplicate the fact that I’m a desolate person.

Therapy helped, a little bit, but even that wasn’t enough to overcome these feelings. I never reached a point of honesty with my therapist which is a bit of a recurring theme for me. I can’t ever be honest with myself, how do I expect to be honest with a therapist? I lie to the ones I love, I lie to those who wish to help me, I lie to myself. I don’t know how to come to terms with what I feel because... I don’t know... I don’t even understand these feelings fully. I don’t know what it is that drives this perpetual misery that I have so aptly been able to conceal from all who know me. I creeps up, though, in the nights, in the days, without warning and without consent. It simply appears, this cloy, sickening, fog that covers all thoughts, all memories, all feeling, and supplicates this sensation of drowning. Each thought lowering me further and further into this void of self doubt, loathing, regret, guilt, and despair. I don’t know how to make amends with myself, with my own psyche. I don’t know how to rid myself of this crushing weight of regret. That I made the wrong decisions, that I never stood up for what I wanted, that I never made decisions for my sake or my happiness and instead made decisions that either pleased others or decisions that only elongated my suffering. 

I fear death so wholly and with such a primal vigor that I doubt I’d ever be able to take my own life. I don’t know if that is even what I hope for. I just want some sort of reprieve. My mind, most days, is desolate of any critical thought. I allow one day to fade into the next until they are unrecognizable. I am nearly fully unaware of when it is a weekend of weekday. I simply exist, fill space, consume oxygen and nutrition, and perform menial tasks until I can sleep. I don’t know how to exist in a way that is fulfilling. Perhaps I place that missing knowledge on those I have loved and have cared for. Perhaps I use their absence in my life, and the choices made regarding that absence, as a way to explain away my unfulfillment. “If only I had said yes to H.” “If only I had done xyz with J.” “If only I had left T sooner.” It goes on and on. I feel so deeply this sense of longing. None is so intense as I feel for H. It is so powerful that even when exploring how genuine these sensations are I find myself attempting to delude myself that she was somehow the love of my life that I allowed to slip away. 

I don’t know.

We fought a lot, we had our own issues but honestly, when we were friends with benefits I caused at least 90% of the issues. She tried so hard to be there for me. She wanted us to start over, to be a couple, she loved me for all of my faults and shortcomings. She saw how pathetic I was, how self pitying I was, and loved me anyways and I rejected her. Why the FUCK did I do that? Why???? I still don’t know. I guess I was scared. I still remember that night she asked me. Driving home, she pulled over, looked me in the eyes and kissed me deeply. She told me she wanted more, she wanted to be with me officially.. And I said I wasn’t ready, that I didn’t want that with her.

Was I truly not ready? Or was I just being selfish? So caught up with being single and wanting to sleep with numerous women that I scorned the woman who really, wholly, loved me? 

Aye, that’s the rub.

The guilt I feel is so all consuming, I would rather it simply swallow me whole and allow me to implode until I am nothing but molecules. I am so, so sorry H. I was so toxic and vile and I know I hurt you so much, I wish I could tell you this in person, you deserve a proper apology and hugs and fresh baked scones. You’re such a sweet, kind, and caring person. You’ve been through so much and I let you down and I can never forgive myself for that. You’re not perfect and fuck knows I’m so far from perfect, but you gave me all of yourself and all I did was take. 

I wish I could go back.

Back to that night.

I’d say yes, every single time.

I’d kiss you so deeply and hold you and tell you just how much you meant to me. You were my entire world during that time but I was too much of an ass to admit it or give into it. I loved you, but I could never bring myself to admit that. 

I miss you so much.

I hope you’re well, I hope you’re happy, I hope you’ve found someone who loves you unconditionally. Someone who stays up with you, holding you. Someone who bakes scones with you and make tea and writes you silly notes with cute drawings of puppies on them. I hope you’ve found peace in your life, that you’ve overcome your family and have found fulfilling and happy existence. You deserve nothing but that. You were truly the kindest person I’ve ever met. 

I love you, H. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you. I don’t believe in true love, but... Fuck me, I think I might be convinced of it yet.

I can’t go back now. I can’t fix this. 

My life has become one of monotony and ritual.

I don’t know what  I want. I feel so fucked up all of the time.

I haven’t written like this in so long. I need to find a new therapist. I need to learn to be honest with myself and with others. I need to be unafraid to pursue my happiness and fulfillment.

[beepbeeprichiellc]

46 plzzzz

46.Post Break up Kiss- The kiss that catches you both offguard, but says I miss you, I’m sorry and please love me all again all at oncewithout any words being said

Trigger Warning: This has some very deep, very personal descriptions of depression. It was very hard to write and only scratches the surface of a deeper issue but please be cautious before reading, please

It had been raining all week, the sky wept as it seeminglysang the sad song of Eddie’s life. It was like a ballad that would never end,the pain acting like a cycle, bringing the storm back every night, when the sunwas nestled in west and the monsters crawled from their hiding spots.

He had thought that eventually, it would have all gotten better.That their love would become nothing more than a faint memory that could nevertouch him again but as time passed, and life continued, he knew that aching inhis heart was there to stay. And stay it did.

So he went on with his life, dragging his feet against theconcrete, forcing himself to push forward and hoping for something that hefeared would never come. Salvation was a bit of a reach, so he would settlewith normality and would build on top of that. However, he was never able tobuild too high for each storm that hit the hustle and bustle outside hit himtenfold, tearing down what he had spent hours building and leaving him with nothing.

It was at night that he allowed himself to crumble with hisshattered normality, gripping on to what his lover had left behind, and prayingfor some kind of light to return to his life. The name would fall from his lipslike a prayer, the tears like a river, washing away the sins of the past. Yes,night was his lowest point and as the sun rose he would gather himself, showerand begin the cycle over again.

His friends helped, their words of encouragement like badgesthat they pinned to his chest. He carried these with him throughout the day,before shedding them with his clothes each night. During his weakest times ithad been his friends that had kept him sane, the days passing by agonizinglyslow as he stood aside and let the time pass.

Yes, someday things would be just as good as they had been, maybeeven better he hoped, but for now he settled with what he had, waiting out thestorm of his life and praying for the calm after. Because what else was thereto do? The damage was done, the wounds were healing and the only thing thatcould save him was his own grace. Time, it seemed, was what he needed.

“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?” Beverlyasked, walking beside him, a hop in her step that seemed to radiate happiness.

Eddie offered a small smile, shrugging. “I don’t want to bethat guy but I know Richie will probably be-“

“Oh come on, its Ben’s birthday. I know he would want youthere.” She sang, slinging her arm through his as they crossed the street. “Besides,it’s been like six months, can’t you two just be civil?”

He could feel his depression brimming, the storm rising inthe horizon, taking a deep breath he swallowed it back down. “I can be civilbut it still hurts Bev, and I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

“Eddie, come on.” She pleaded, rubbing his arm for support. “Youdon’t even have to speak to him just be there for Ben, just stop by at least.”

“Yeah okay.” He sighed in defeat, “I’ll stop by, for Ben,and for you.”

Beverly beamed.

The mirror was playing tricks on him. That had to be itbecause the man staring back at him looked nothing like the one who had stood theresix months ago. His short torso was thinned, his hipbones pultruding throughhis skin. The once full face that he had carried with him since his childhood wasgone, replaced with sunken eyes and defined cheek bones. His hair was longernow, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had taken himself out to go getit cut, now wishing that he had noticed before. Although he wasn’t able to seeit, the glimmer that he had in his eyes was gone as well, the dullness nowgazing back at himself.

It was days like this that he wasn’t sure who he wasanymore.

His phone’s ring tone pulled him from his pity party,throwing him back in to the harsh world with an auditable thud. With a sigh he answered,reading the name three times before doing so. “Hey Bill.” He muttered to the receiver,grabbing his shirt from the bed and pulling it over his head. “What’s up?”

“Beverly told me you were coming to Ben’s birthday dinner,is that right?”

“Yeah, I said I’d stop by.”

“Eddie.” Bill whispered, his tone low and worrisome. “Youknow Richie’s here right?”

“I know.” Eddie admitted, sighing in defeat. Maybe he wasn’tas strong as he thought, maybe the storm was arriving early tonight. “I thoughtI could handle it, that I could just get by without confrontation.”

“You don’t need this, you are still recovering from your, um”Depression. Bill was never able to say it, never able to admit that Eddie haddipped so low in his live that the monster that had once haunted him was nowclawing its way in to his best friend. “I don’t want you to take a step back, Idon’t want you to come unless you’re ready.”

“But Beverly-“

“Has no idea what it’s like. I do. She wants you to be happybut doesn’t understand that sometimes pushing only makes things worse.” Therewas a ragged breath, the shards of his confession digging deep into Eddie’stender flesh. “Just think about it, I’m telling you it’s okay to stay home, ifthat’s what you really want.”

What he really wants? What Eddie really wanted, what hewished above all else was to recover, for the monster that had nestled in hisheart to die a painful death but sometimes hang ups and set backs were all thatit needed to dig deeper into his soul. He wanted to feel okay, just for amoment he wanted to break free of the water and take that initial breath offreedom. He was drowning, and the storm was pushing him further down.

“I understand.” Eddie finally whispered, tears burning hiseyes. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Eddie.”

“I’ll talk to you later Bill, tell Ben that I’m sorry.” Hedidn’t wait for a response, instead hanging up the phone and dropping it to thefloor. So the storm was going to come early tonight, he thought, so fucking beit.

Each breath burned his lungs, the pain radiating not only inhis chest, but throughout his entire body. His fingers bit in to the fabric ofhis comforter, silent tears soaking through to the fibers. Rain crashed againstthe window like bullets, loudly filling the air with its sad song. Every sooften lightening would flash, illuminating the small room before plunging itback in to darkness.

The storm. The crimpling depression. It was all too familiar,and still he welcomed it because at least now he could actually feel somethingrather than being numb to it all. Pain was pain, but nothing was even worse.

There was a knock at his door, the demanding noise makingEddie jump in surprise. He waited with baited breath, hoping that he it hadbeen the storm. When the noise came again he cursed, forcing himself out ofbed. It took a moment but eventually he found his robe, tightly wrapping itaround his waist like a protective barrier.

When he made it to the door the knocking hand becomefrantic, the obnoxious bangs becoming louder than the thunder. “Holy fuckingshit.” Eddie growled, opening the door and allowing the chain to catch itsweight. “It’s two in the fucking morning what do you-“

He was cut off by the burning in his throat, the man beforehim leaned against the door frame, his broken smile growing at the sight ofEddie. “Richie? What in the hell are you doing here.”

“I needed to see you.” He choked, pushing his soaking hairfrom his face and readjusting his wet glasses along his nose. “You weren’t atdinner and I need to see you.”

“Go home.” Eddie nipped, ignoring the pull in his chest. “You’redrunk.”

“I don’t drink anymore, I’ve been sober ever since-“Hestopped and Eddie prayed he wouldn’t finish his sentence, the memory of thatnight still burning behind his eyes. “I know it’s late and I’m sorry for thatbut please let me in.”

“No.” Eddie whispered, “No, go away.”

“I went to that stupid dinner just to see you again, to talkto you and you weren’t there, why weren’t you there?” Richie whined, his ownpain interlacing itself in his question.

“I couldn’t make it.” Eddie replied coldly, fighting backhis tears. “I got caught up with stuff.”

“I begged Beverly to get you there I-I got on my knees andbegged and you still weren’t there. Fuck, I said some stupid stuff, admittedsome painful things and still-“He laughed, his voice hallow distant, void of humorentirely. “I should have stopped you, should have ran after you and I didn’t becauseI’m a fucking coward. I’m a cowered Eddie and I should have done everything inmy power to keep you with me because I’m a mess, a fucking train wreck withoutyou.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He whimpered, not believingthe fantasy that was unfolding before him. This was a cruel trick, a dream.Richie wouldn’t come here, he wouldn’t say these things. Eddie felt his chestache, his want for salvation scorching his skin. “Why are you here?”

“Let me in.” Richie pleaded, the storm pelting him withrain. “Please.”

Eddie debated shutting him down, just telling him no andclosing the door, forever cutting him off. Everything would remain the same,only now he would have to carry the guilt of what could have been. With a squeezeof his eyes and a few escaped tears he shut the door and removed the chain, reopeningit fully.

And then he waited.

Richie stated at him, his brilliant auburn eyes inspectinghis now skeleton like figure making Eddie self-conscious. Not that he lookedany better, his eyes were now encased in dark circles, the soaked clothes hewore hung from his lanky frame like they were on a wire. It was like lookinginto a mirror, only this time it showed you your medicine rather than you disease.

Then Richie closed the gap between them, pulling Eddie tohis chest effortlessly. There was a moment before their lips touched, a splitsecond when Richie lingered a few centimeters away, his breath washing overEddie like a heartwarming shower. Then they kissed, and the world melted away.

It said so many things, and nothing at once. Like the riseand fall of the past six months, Eddie rode out the waves, holding on to Richiefor dear life and praying that he wouldn’t drown. Calloused hands found Eddie’sface, tracing his cheek gently as if creating a master piece just for him. Eddiecould feel the spark between them, its shock awakening something inside of him.The connection was powerful and strong but also weak and vulnerable.

When they finally pulled apart Richie buried his face in tothe crevice of Eddies shoulder and sobbed. He sobbed painfully loud, his handsclutching on to Eddie’s robe, begging for validation. Eddie took a breath, thefreeing feeling granting him admittance to the world above his storm, above hissorrow and pain.

The depression wasn’t gone, and perhaps it never would be,but in that moment and the moments that fallowed Eddie was granted salvation,granted freedom from his own cycle and started anew.

He was going to be okay, and that was all that mattered.