#i never cut and never enough to make myself bleed. just welts.

[whump-me-baby-one-more-time]

They deserve better than this. Both of them. But this is all Caretaker can give Whumpee. (Cut because of length, TWs for forced pill taking, psychotic behaviour, mild violence, pinning down, implied waterboarding/drowning)

  Whumpee is back on their knees again. Their eyes are wide and unfocused and they're shivering with the kind of fear that makes them nauseous. A twisted kind of sickness churns in their empty stomach. Caretaker is crouched before them. In their hand is a little pill and they placed the glass of water on a nearby dresser when Whumpee started thrashing.

Their face is lined with exhaustion.

"Open your mouth, Whumpee," they say. They've given up on trying to soothe Whumpee when they get into this state. No assurances of safety or care ever seem to penetrate these panic induced fits. It's like talking to a frightened rabbit. It doesn't understand your language and the closer you try to get the more likely it is to die of a heartattack.

Caretaker never liked rabbits.

But they like Whumpee. Or they used to, anyway. They still care for them, and if anyone were to ask they'd vehemently deny any feelings of ill-will towards them.

But Caretaker is tired. And Whumpee... Whumpee isn't who they used to love. Not anymore. Occasionally the person they once were will peek through on good days, but it's a cheap reward for all the rest. All the breakdowns and the night terrors and the screaming and, somehow even worse, the silences that can last for days - after a while that old familiar smile just isn't enough to compensate Caretaker anymore.

They don't get paid to do this, either. Every time Whumpee throws up food or spits out their meds it comes out of Caretaker's own pocket.

"This is going to help you calm down," Caretaker says, offering the pill to Whumpee. "Come on, just take it. Open up."

And Whumpee flinches away, shoulders pressed into the walls of the corner they backed themselves into. Their jaw works as they press it together. Stubborn tears glisten in their eyes but they refuse to make a sound.

Caretaker grinds their teeth.

"We've been through this a dozen times, Whumpee. I don't want to hurt you, I'm trying to help you, so please, please don't make this so hard on us both. Be good, just for once."

Whumpee's breath stutters. They always try to be good, don't they? They always try. But Whumper is never satisfied, never satisfied, never, and the only thing Whumpee can expect is pain. Every time Whumper chirps at them to "be good" it's almost immediately followed by agony.

Whumpee curls up on themselves a little more.

"Okay," Caretaker says in a way that gives that word every meaning apart from "okay." They pick the pill from their palm and hunch their shoulders.

"Last chance, Whumpee. Just level with me, yeah?"

But they're not even sure the words filtered through to Whumpee.

"It's alright," they say as they approach the jittery creature. "You'll feel better in a moment. This'll help you come back down to reality."

They're in Whumpee's space now but they don't let themselves be deterred by Whumpee struggling when they touch them.

They hold the pill up to Whumpee's dry lips. Whumpee flinches violently but Caretaker expected it. Their hand is firm but not unkind as they grip Whumpee's jaw, shushing their hoarse whimpers of terror.

"It's alright, Whumpee. I won't hurt you. Just open your mouth."

Whumpee lashes out, once, hitting Caretaker in the chest, but it's weak and useless and they start shivering even worse from the anticipated punishment.

The tears are spilling freely now, but their lips are still pressed together tightly.

Caretaker closes their eyes for a moment.

They're so tired. Physically and mentally and emotionally, it all just seems to drain out of them a little more with each day. And Whumpee doesn't seem to be getting better. At first it was fine, but then they started having these fits and Caretaker doesn't know how to deal with that. The doctors say it'll pass with time. Maybe. Eventually.

Just give them the meds, that'll calm them down. Oh, and drive them to therapy, too. Can't get Whumpee into a car without alerting the whole neighbourhood to the shrieking and sobbing person you're apparently trying to kidnap? Don't worry, we have drugs for that, too! They'll make therapy impossible, but hey, maybe go for a picnic in the park instead, fresh air and good food can also aid in recovery. Whumpee keeps throwing up from the meds you gave them? We have a pill for that. Whumpee is barely capable of walking back to the car now? Who cares, as long as they're not screaming! You should be glad we've been able to help you out at all. Don't be so impatient. Just be happy you have them back, who cares that they can't feed themselves? Who cares that you haven't slept through a single night in two weeks? Who cares that you haven't had any time of your own lately? Who cares? Don't be so ungrateful. You love them, don't you?

Sometimes Caretaker wants to scream, but they don't. Sometimes they want to push a pillow down on Whumpee's face until they finally go to sleep for good and save themselves the pain of watching someone they used to know thrash and sob from a pain that Caretaker can't do anything to fix. But they don't. Because they do love them. And somehow that makes everything worse.

Because sometimes Caretaker will remember how it used to be. Sometimes Whumpee will wrap their arms around them in a hug or grin at them or look up from a puzzle with their head cocked the same way as it was before. Sometimes Caretaker watches Whumpee sleep, too worried to sleep themselves, and recognizes the face they used to love so much back when it was free of the strain of anxiety and pain.

They love Whumpee and that is so much worse than indifference because it hurts every time Whumpee lashes out at them or flinches away from them or looks at them like they're no better than Whumper at all.

And sometimes, some evenings, deflated on the couch with the Whiskey on the table and the bad thoughts in their head, they're not even sure if they're any better than Whumper themselves.

Maybe Whumpee is right.

But worst of all is how angry it makes them. Indifference would be a gift, because indifference has never bred hatred. Love on the other hand... Sometimes Caretaker isn't even sure who they're angry at. Whumper, they told themselves in the beginning. And that particular rage has never faded, that's true, but it's amassed companions over the months. Anger at Whumpee for being so uncooperative. For being so difficult. For being unreasonable. For being ungrateful. Annoyance at their antics. Their fits. Their night terrors. Their nervous habits. Their broken language. Disgust at the skin they scratch bloody. At the imbecilic way they can stare off into space for hours at a time. At the teeth starting to dissolve at the back of their mouth from all the acid they throw up. Disgust born out of frustration. Frustration, anger, sadness, despair, pain, rage, bargaining, annoyance; Caretaker goes through fifteen stages of grief every day and it's slowly wearing them thin.

Especially because all of these feelings are also directed towards themselves. Even when Whumpee has gone to sleep and the world should be okay, it isn't, because Caretaker and that bottle of Whiskey will stay up for hours trying to justify the thoughts and feelings they had that day and why it didn't make them a bad person, and fail miserably. Somehow the excuses will make them feel even worse and they'll go to bed drunk and wishing to be a better person. To be the one Whumpee deserves.

But in the morning they're still the same.

"Please," they whisper, looking at Whumpee's unsteady, fear-stricken eyes. "Please don't make me hate you."

Please, don't make me hate myself.

But Whumpee only whimpers. Caretaker exhales tiredly.

"Open your mouth, Whumpee. I won't ask again."

Whumpee scrunches up their nose as they try to wriggle out of Caretaker's grip, and Caretaker twitches in a spot deep inside. They're done asking.

With a decisive hand they grab Whumpee's head, thumb digging into the back of their jaw, forcing it open at the hinge. Whumpee yells and thrashes and tries to push Caretaker off.

Caretaker grabs their arm, their skinny, concerningly pale arm, and shoves their body roughly into the wall. Their fingers are leaving red welts on Whumpee's skin

"Stop fighting me, Whumpee," they say, voice coiled tight with suppressed anger and frustration and annoyance and-

Whumpee whimpers. Caretaker bares their teeth in a snarl.

"You need to take this and you will. Don't make me hurt you. You're out of your mind and you need. to. just. stop. fighting. me."

Their last words are punctuated by Caretaker smacking Whumpee into the wall by the shoulder repeatedly. Not violently, but harshly enough to make Whumpee dizzy enough to submit. Whumpee's chest is heaving with stifled sobs.

Caretaker forces their mouth open and drops the pill on their tongue. Whumpee's nails dig into their own arm.

"Good Whumpee," Caretaker says, relief blossoming in their stomach. They reach for the glass of water and hold it against Whumpee's lips. They're bleeding again, Caretaker notices with a worried sting.

"Drink. It'll help you swallow."

Whumpee struggles weakly, but eventually takes a sip. Caretaker watches them until they gulp it down, throat bobbing with effort.

They sit back on their heels with a sigh. Soon the drug will kick in and Whumpee will either space out or regain some coherence, depending on their state of mind. Either way is better than this. Last time they let this go on for too long Whumpee broke two ribs and a nightstand.

"You did good," they say, lying to themselves and Whumpee in a desperate attempt at making Whumpee feel better. Whumpee has always responded well to praise.

They look at Whumpee's face, streaked with tears, lips quivering, and their body sags. Whumpee never meant any harm.

"It's okay. You'll feel better in a minute. I promise." Their hand is soft when they caress Whumpee's cheek, pushing a damp strand of hair out of their eyes. Whumpee flinches but their head is already pressed against the wall on one side and they can't pull away any more, as hard as they may try. Caretaker tries their best to fight down the irrational bitterness of being rejected over and over.

"We're gonna figure this out, Whumpee," they say gently. "I just- I need you to stop fighting me, okay? We used to be a team, sweetheart. Remember that? I need you to work with me to beat this together."

I can't do this on my own.

Whumpee's head moves in what could be interpreted as a nod and Caretaker takes what they get. Whumpee always used to be the strong one, the one tempering Caretaker's storms and easing the weight of the world off their shoulders. It would make sense for them to at least try to be helpful now, no?

They smile weakly. "That's the spirit. We'll get you cleaned up in a minute, okay? Once you've calmed down."

Caretaker pulls away, leaving Whumpee to collect themselves. They don't even wince when Caretaker squeezes their arm reassuringly.

Maybe they're making progress.

They're about to stand up when Whumpee spits. The pill hits them in the face, sticky and partially dissolved and holding on to their cheek with sheer spite. Whumpee's mouth is set in a stubborn, suicidal, quivering line.

Caretaker blinks.

It takes a moment for them to react. When they do, it's with a deadly calmness.

"You don't like the pill," they say, words as dull as a razor blade. "You don't like the meds." They pull the pill from their skin. "I get that. I don't like it either. But you don't have a choice."

I don't have a choice.

"This isn't going to change anything, Whumpee. You are going to swallow this and if I have to push it down your throat for you to finally take a break I will."

Their eyes are glinting with sharp, bubbling anger badly kept at bay by unravelling patience.

When was the last time they slept for six hours straight? Or had been out with friends? Or done anything relaxing that didn't involve getting drunk?

The pill is gluey between their fingertips, its green outside coming off in smears. They just want a break.

"Open your mouth, Whumpee."

Whumpee spits again as Caretaker reaches for their face. It's a gesture born out of fear and the incapability to put their feelings into words, but it enrages Caretaker more than it ever did Whumper. Whumper liked Whumpee fighting back. It kept the game from becoming boring. And spitting was always such a childish thing to do that it heartened Whumper to see that they had reduced the once proud Whumpee to such base, helpless acts. You see, Whumper didn't love Whumpee.

But Caretaker does. And their anger burns all the brighter for it.

"Open your fucking mouth."

They're yelling now. Their voice is raised and cutting the air with inevitable self-contempt, but for now Caretaker is drowning in the rush of anger, hanging on to the couple of minutes before they consume themselves with regret.

Whumpee yells back when they grab their jaw, half of it slurred words telling Caretaker to back off, and the other half unintelligible gibberish whipping back and forth between begging and cursing. They flail, fists striking Caretaker's chest and arms, trying to push them off. The spittle that flies from their lips is red and leaves spots on Caretaker's shirt.

"Stop fighting me!" Caretaker roars, using their free hand to catch one of Whumpee's fists before it strikes their face.

They force Whumpee's jaw open again, but lose their grip as Whumpee bucks. They shove them back down into the ground and wrap their fingers around Whumpee's biceps so tightly that Whumpee yelps.

"I'm helping you," they grind out, trying to push the pill past Whumpee's lips. "Just take it!"

The tips of their fingers force themselves in through the cracked flesh, pill butting against Whumpee's teeth before Whumpee's jaw opens up a fraction and they bite down hard. Caretaker screams.

Whumpee lets go almost immediately, face white in shock, and Caretaker pulls their hands back. Both of them, one clutched against their chest and the other one flinging itself outwards for a moment.

It comes back down with a crack across Whumpee's cheek.

It's a hard, angry strike that sends Whumpee toppling onto the carpet, splitting their lips even further in the process. Bloody drops of saliva trickle down onto the fabric.

Whumpee sobs out loud. They're sorry, they're so sorry, they'll be better, they'll be good, please-

Caretaker flips them onto their back. Their fingers are bleeding as they pick up the pill from where they dropped it. They don't waste time asking Whumpee to open their mouth.

"Please don't," Whumpee hiccups, nails scraping at Caretaker's wrist. They squirm but Caretaker has them pinned down between their legs now, weight coming down heavy on their hips, and their mind floods with memories of Whumper.

"This is for your own good, Whumpee," Caretaker snarls, trying to fend off Whumpee's frantic scratching long enough to get a thumb into their jaw.

"Please don't," Whumpee whimpers, shaking their head in an attempt at fighting off Caretaker's grip. "Please, Caretaker, please don't."

Caretaker freezes. When was the last time Whumpee called them by their name? It happened so rarely that every instance burned itself into Caretaker's soul, like little lights of flickering hope. Little signs that maybe Whumpee could come back after all.

But this?

It was always "Master" or "Whumper" or "Sir/M'am" when Whumpee had fits like this or woke up from nightmares or was otherwise detached from reality and couldn't understand that they had no master now. Caretaker hated hearing that name on Whumpee's tongue like a prayer, those syllables whispered in pained pleas as if their tormentor was still with them.

Caretaker never once imagined how much worse it would be to hear their own name from Whumpee's cracking voice.

"You need to take this," they say, looking down at Whumpee in helpless despair. Their cheek is blossoming a violent red from where Caretaker struck them and somehow that makes Caretaker even angrier. If they're coherent enough to recognize Caretaker, then why are they fighting them so much?

"The doctor said- Stop scratching me, Whumpee." They push Whumpee's hand aside, then think better of it and push it down until they can pin it beneath their leg. Whumpee thrashes in response but Caretaker doesn't budge.

"The doctor said you need to take this when you get worse. It helps, okay?"

"No," Whumpee says, word barely audible between their sobs. "I don't want it, Whumper. I don't like it. Please, Caretaker, please don't. Please, I'll be good, Whumper, I'll be good, I don't want it, I don't need it, I'll do anything, please, please, Caretaker."

Caretaker watches as Whumpee dissolves into tears and their own heart breaks a little more.

"You're sick," they whisper, cradling Whumpee's throbbing cheek in their palm. "Whumper isn't even here, Whumpee. It's just me. Just me. And I don't want to hurt you, but you're out of your mind. Please, sweetheart, open your mouth."

Whumpee bucks their hips as Caretaker holds the pill against their lips. Their one free hand is scrambling to keep Caretaker away, fingers leaving angry streaks on their arm and tearing at their shirt.

"Get off of me," they say, nay, scream, and Caretaker cracks. If Whumpee thinks that they're the villain, then what's the point in playing nice?

Their hand is brutally rough as they force Whumpee's jaw open for good this time, pushing the sensitive spot until Whumpee's muscles give in to the pain; Caretaker is quick and the pill lands in Whumpee's mouth.

They don't get a chance to spit it out again. They try, tongue flicking in protest, but Caretaker snaps their jaw shut, hand over their mouth. They reach for the water glass, but Whumpee's fingers dig into their skin.

"Don't make this worse than it already is," Caretaker growls. They grab their wrist, trying to push it beneath their other leg, but Whumpee fights like an animal and it's all Caretaker can do to make sure their pinned arm doesn't slip free.

At last, out of options, they smack Whumpee's head against the floorboards. Once is enough. Whumpee stills, eyes glazed over with pain, and their arm drops down. Their fingers curl into the carpet as if trying to find support.

Caretaker's hand is slick with blood and tears.

The water glass is cool to the touch and they move quickly before Whumpee regains their bearings. They let go of their mouth, instead grabbing the back of their head and pushing it up, taking a hold of their hair when Whumpee tries to pull away. Their mouth opens, pill protruding slowly, but Caretaker quickly holds the glass against their lips.

Whumpee whines. The liquid pours down their chin as they clench their mouth shut.

"Drink," Caretaker says, tugging at Whumpee's hair in the last throes of patience.

Whumpee flares their nostrils. Their eyes are wide and panicked.

"Okay. You wanted it this way."

They release Whumpee's head and let it fall back down onto the floor, then wrap their hand around their jaw once more, keeping them in place.

Whumpee struggles sluggishly. Their thumb swiftly pushes inside Whumpee's teeth, bearing the risk of being bitten again, and they pour the water through the small gap created. Before Whumpee has a chance to react, Caretaker has already clamped their palm over their mouth.

Whumpee chokes. The water's running down their throat, burning in their nose as the pressure of their struggling pushes it out through any  available orifice, and all they can think of is how smug Whumper always looked when Whumpee begged for mercy when coming up for air.

They flail, body convulsing in anguish and panic, but Caretaker keeps them down, mouth set into a grim line.

"Swallow it, Whumpee. Swallow."

Whumpee does, eventually, their throat flushing it all down involuntarily, including the pill.

They fight to breathe through a runny nose, whistling in the process, and Caretaker finally lets go of their mouth.

Whumpee gasps and coughs and turns their face away.

"Show me your mouth. Whumpee, show me- Show me your goddamn mouth."

Caretaker's hand is harsh as they yank Whumpee's head up. Whumpee lets them pry their mouth open, defeated and aching, and Caretaker swipes a finger beneath their tongue and inside their cheeks before finally being satisfied.

They sit back up and release Whumpee's arm.

"Was that so fucking hard?"

Caretaker doesn't know who they're talking to. Whumpee's crying quietly and seems too incoherent and beaten to still be paying attention to anything said around them.

Caretaker wants to hit Whumpee. They want to pick them up and kiss them well. They want to crack their face into the wall. They want to apologize and comfort them. They want to kick them until they're screaming.

They love them. They hate them. They love them. They hate them. They- They ha-

And Caretaker's hand shakes as they try to decide who they want to be. Who they can be after all this.

At last, they get up. They leave Whumpee on the floor, bleeding from swollen lips as they curl up into a sobbing ball of misery.

Pathetic. Lovable. Disgusting. Innocent.

Caretaker's hand clenches into a fist and they walk away.

The door slams shut behind them. Whumpee's soft, pathetic noises can still be heard as they pour themselves a drink in the kitchen and try to calm their shaking hand.

They should go back in.

Maybe they'll pick Whumpee up. Maybe they'll be strong enough to overcome the festering rage in their chest. Maybe they'll clean them, caress them, rock them until Whumpee stops crying and falls asleep.

Maybe. Maybe not. They don't want to take the risk of finding out what kind of person they really are when the threads are severed.

Instead they take a sip. It burns and they let it sit in their mouth for a moment, relishing the pain. They deserve it. Whumpee deserved it. ...no, they didn't. They did. They didn't.

Caretaker closes their eyes and tries to breathe against the turmoil in their head. In their chest. Their hand.

They all want different things and Caretaker isn't sure which one will win, just that all of them will suffer if they make a decision.

So they won't. Not until the Whiskey has dulled the edge enough to make Caretaker less afraid of themselves.

Maybe by then the drugs will have kicked in and Whumpee will have stopped crying. Maybe by then Caretaker's compassion will have surfaced from the vat of ugliness they feel twisting inside them. Maybe it will even be strong enough to overshadow their self-contempt. Maybe.

[weathergirl8]

No Secrets

HI! Just me returning from MIA land and the land of adulthood.

I normally only post my work on FF.net and AO3 (you'll know me as shadowfox8 on there) but decided to post this fluff piece here for a change as well. I hope you enjoy!

Summary:  Alan decides to keep an injury a secret, shrugging it off as minor. Little does he know, his older brother knows him better than he thinks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alan shut the door to his bedroom behind him and gingerly made his way to his ensuite, intent on jumping into the hot shower. His tired body ached, and his ribs and shoulder weren't doing him any favors.

Quickly discarding his uniform, the twenty-one year old allowed the warm water to hit his body. The rescue itself hadn't been a hard one, just mentally taxing as his patience had been tested one too many times. Especially when the civilians thought they knew better than their would-be rescuers. That point had nearly cost him his life and the life of two distillery works.

Rubbing his right side cautiously, Alan grimaced at the memory. International Rescue had been called to assist with a massive explosion at a distillery factory. A fire that had been a casualty of an earthquake that had rocked the area. While his brothers were busy clearing the main structure, Alan had been tasked with emptying the adjacent buildings where the fire had just begun to spread. Unfortunately for the youngest Tracy, two of the workers deemed him too young to call the shots. Amid their argument, an explosion from the main building exploded into their area. Alan did his best to land gracefully, but as he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, he knew his body had absorbed quite a bit of that hit.

Drying himself off, Alan pulled on a new pair of shorts and walked into his bedroom. Reaching for a shirt from the bottom drawer of his dresser, he paused and tried to stifle his cry of pain as the action instantly aggravated his right side. Alan gripped his side and took in a steadying breath. So, maybe this wasn't just nothing. Turning toward his mirror, Alan took in the damage. Multiple darkening bruises riddled his right arm and torso. A sizeable purple bump spotted his upper right arm, but a wave of dark purplish-blue seemed to be growing along his right ribcage and chest. Sighing, Alan turned to attempt another grab at a shirt but jumped as he was met with the concerned form of his older brother.

"Jesu-Virgil!" Alan exclaimed in surprise, gripping his side in pain at the jolt. He quickly tried to stand straighter and dropped his hand. "How long have you been standing there?"

Virgil raised an amused eyebrow, but instantly took ahold of his baby brother's frame. "Long enough," the brunette frowned, eyeing the bruises on Alan's body. "Were you planning on telling me?"

Alan groaned, allowing a sheepish grin to appear on his face. "Maybe…"

"Sit," Virgil demanded as he guided Alan onto his bed. Taking his brother's right arm in his hands, he moved the limb as he checked for any issues. Virgil's frown only deepened as he noticed what appeared to be a welt forming. "Does this hurt?”

"Not really," Alan replied. "It feels sore more than anything. Just bruises, Virg."

The medic nodded, kneeling so he could inspect the rapidly darkening large bruises around Alan's ribcage. "Jeez, kid. What the heck happened to you in there?"

"Secondary explosion caught us off guard as I was trying to evacuate two uncooperative workers. Slammed into a metal canister and two wood pallets," Alan explained honestly, knowing there was no use lying. Once Virgil was in doctor-mode, there was no way out.

"You should've said something, Alan," Virgil admonished, as he gently ran his thumb over Alan's swollen ribcage. "Does this hurt?"

Alan winced, giving his answer away immediately. "Sorry, I hadn't intended to keep it from you. I honestly didn't think anything of it. Just thought I was sore from the shock of the fall."

"I want to get an x-ray of your chest to be sure you didn't crack a rib or injured anything else in the fall," Virgil instructed. "You know any fall or cut is a must-tell in my book, Allie. No secrets, remember?"

Alan ducked his head once more. "I know…"

"It's okay," Virgil said, ruffling Alan's blonde hair. Picking up the shirt his brother had attempted to grab moments before, he threw it at him. "C'mon, let's get you checked out."

"Okay," Alan begrudgingly agreed and gingerly pulled himself up from the bed, carrying the shirt. He knew he couldn't put it on just yet, but he hoped to cover his side up if they crossed any of his other siblings in the hallway. The last thing he needed was the entire house smothering him over bruises. Thankfully, the walk to the infirmary wasn't far from his bedroom.

"Alright, Sprout," Virgil said. "Let's get this over with," the brunette smiled, standing next to the body scanner.

"You don't have to be so happy about it," Alan grumbled, grunting as the movement aggravated his side.

"Should've told me sooner, and maybe you wouldn't be in so much pain," Virgil smirked, taping the machine to life in satisfaction, choosing to ignore the mild curse that escaped his baby brother's mouth.

"As I said, I didn't know it was this bad. Adrenaline must've hidden most of it. I seriously thought I was just sore!" Alan argued, glaring at his older brother.

The machine beeped before Virgil could respond to his moody baby brother. "Scan is finished. Let's get you over to one of the beds where you'll be more comfortable."

Alan pushed himself up from the table and grimaced as he had moved too fast. "Easy, Alan," Virgil urged and came to stand on the other side of him to help him. Alan waved him off and hopped down from the table but nearly dropped as another wave of pain wrapped around his torso, Virgil caught his baby brother before he could fall.

"Damn it, Alan. You're going to hurt yourself while trying to preserve your pride. Just let me help you," Virgil reprimanded, gripping his baby brother around his uninjured side. Guiding his stubborn sibling onto a nearby infirmary bed, he helped Alan position himself upon it, elevating the head so he would be more comfortable. "Just take slow breathes, kiddo," he said, rubbing his baby brother's arm tenderly as Alan had trouble taking in deep breaths. Before the medic could contemplate placing him on an oxygen mask for good measure, Alan's breathing began to level out.

Virgil walked over and grabbed an ice pack. "Here, this will help until I take a look at your scans and can give you something."

Alan gladly took the appreciated object and placed it along his abused torso. Closing his eyes as the change in temperature took him off guard for a second. Feeling a hand run through his hair, he opened his eyes to meet the worried gaze of his brother.

"You okay?" Virgil asked, watching his sibling intently.

"Yea, just peachy," Alan groaned.

Virgil looked down at Alan with sympathy. "You could be right. Adrenaline could've masked most of your pain. We were pretty busy on site of the rescue after the explosions, and you slept most of the flight home."

"Yea, maybe," Alan sighed, wincing once more.

"I'll take a look at those scans, be right back."

Alan nodded. "Gotta make sure I'm not dying, right?"

"Not funny, Alan," Virgil moaned.

Alan rubbed his side as he removed the cold pack and relaxed more of his body into the infirmary bed. "Sorry for biting your head off," the blonde apologized as the chestnut-haired Tracy walked back toward him with his datapad.

"Don't sweat it, Sprout. I'll stop giving you such a hard time. I just worry about you is all," Virgil said, resting his hand upon Alan's, squeezing it. "Just do me a favor and report any injury that happens on a rescue. No matter how small. I don't care if you have to ask me for a bandaid for a little scrape. I'd rather give you an ice pack for a bump than have to perform an emergency procedure because you developed a pneumothorax from an injury you decided wasn't a big deal."

"It's not that serious, though, right?" Alan asked, eyes wide at the mention of the pneumothorax. His brother had taught him enough about medicine that he knew that was never a good thing.

Virgil pulled up a stool, sitting beside Alan's bed as he flipped through the images on his datapad. "It could've been, Allie. Thankfully there's no internal bleeding, but you've bruised your right ribcage and cracked two of them on the bottom. When you almost fell a few minutes ago, you could've dislodged them. I don't want to scare you, but that's why this stuff is so important, kiddo. I don't just say it because I like to hear myself talk."

"At least not all the time," Alan smirked.

"Brat," Virgil said, shoving his baby brother's leg.

"So, when do I get to be on the good stuff, and can I put my shirt on finally?" Alan asked, managing a slight pout that reminded Virgil him of when he was five.

"Yes, you can and give me a minute," Virgil said, standing up and grabbing what he needed from the drug cabinet.

Alan placed one arm through his shirt and slowly pulled his shirt over his head before pushing the other arm through. Previous injuries from years past serving him well in how to handle rib injuries.

"Alright, take these," Virgil said, handing two tablets and a bottle of water to his baby brother. Alan gladly took the pills. "How's the arm feel?"

"Fine, honestly doesn't bug me all that much in comparison to everything else," Alan admitted, glancing down at his right arm. "Can I go back to my room now?"

"Depends, and you better be honest with me," Virgil said, giving his brother a knowing look. "Have any more trouble breathing?"

"No, as long as I don't breathe in too deeply and move too fast. I'm good."

"Alright," Virgil gave in. "You can go back to your room or lounge around the house, but no trips to the beach, especially on your own. Those pain meds should make you pretty sleepy, so your bed is the best place for you right now. I'll give you a couple of ice packs to take with you to help keep the swelling down."

"Can I bring a few pillows from here?" Alan inquired as he looked around the room. "I don't think I have enough in my room to help keep me propped up. Laying down isn't exactly comfortable right now."

"I'm afraid that'll be an issue for a while, kid. I'm sure I can find some somewhere. I need you to promise me something before we leave."

"What?" Alan asked suspiciously.

"That you be extra careful around the house. You, my dear brother, are accident-prone," Virgil smirked, earning a disgruntled mumble from Alan. "Second, if you start having problems breathing or start feeling more pain than before, you are to contact me, understood?"

"I understand," Alan nodded, meeting his older brother's hazel eyes.

"No secrets," Virgil emphasized, holding out his pinkie like when they were kids.

"No secrets," Alan smiled, wrapping his pinkie around his brother's.

"Oh, and Al, you know I have to tell Dad and Scott about this, right?"

Alan groaned. "Do you have to?"

"I won't tell them how I found out. However, you're officially off duty for a while, so they were bound to find out," Virgil reasoned.

"As you said, no secrets," the younger blonde sighed, accepting his fate.

"Now, you're learning!" Virgil chuckled and helped him climb out of bed.

"Just do me a favor and wait until I've fallen asleep," Alan pleaded. "Less likely to be smothered by the two of them at once."

"Deal," Virgil smirked, giving his baby brother a side hug.

[keep-looking-here]

Shoreline

A short story piece by me, Emily. I haven’t written any poetry in ages, but I thought you guys might want to read this.

.._.._..

I took her to the beach on our three-month anniversary. 

Beaches were not a place we went together.

Beaches, Amina said to me, are for straight white girls in bikinis. Beaches have sand that gets stuck in your toenails and water that hurts your eyes and people who look at you weirdly when you don’t show enough skin. Why would I go to a beach?

Sometimes, I would protest this. Most of the time, I would laugh, and she would laugh, and if the way the ocean pushed and pulled felt like breathing, then Amina’s laughter was the blood that ran through my veins, and there was nothing I would have traded for it.

But this was no Cottesloe or Scarborough, no tanned and toned surfers braving the waves or bikini-clad women soaking up the summer sun. No, here the beach was frequented only by distant couples on afternoon walks with their dogs, the murky water empty save for stingers which left swollen welts up your arms that burned and smarted for hours, leaving behind a trail of red pinpricks where their tentacles pierced your skin. 

We picked our way down from the dunes to the shoreline, over the deep tyre-ruts left by the trucks that would bring new loads of sand after the ocean swept the coastline away. Amina left her shoes under a scraggly salt-beat bush; I hadn’t worn shoes in the first place.

I came here loads when I was younger, I said.

Yeah?

Yeah. After we moved from the country, it was nice to have a place that didn't feel as civilised, y’know? The city feels like it goes on forever, suburb after suburb all the way to the horizon. But there are still gaps, places that you can’t quite figure out, where time seems to go in a different direction. I reckon this is one of them.

We walked down to the shoreline, and I let the waves lap up to my ankles. Out past the ruins of the old jetty, where the rusting hull of some abandoned vessel jutted sharply out of the sand, a statue of a man on horseback stood lonely in the water. It was a rather macabre monument, dedicated to a man who planned a 500 kilometre pipeline that stretched out into the desert, but rode into the ocean and shot himself before the water made it through. 

One time, I told Amina, my little brother tried to climb the statue, but he scraped his arms open on the barnacles that coated its surface and had to swim, bleeding, back to shore. 

She laughed, but it was an empty sort of laugh.

I kicked at the water, absently. The murmur of the waves hung heavy in the silence between us, but nothing, I think, could have flowed in to fill that gap. How many times had my footsteps crossed this space, tracing the same paths backwards and forwards? I spent so many years trying to figure myself out, sifting through all the stuff that I’d ever been taught, until it felt like I would never see the bottom. But if there was ever a constant in the chaos, it was here, where the ocean breathed and the ocean changed, but only in the ways I knew it would.

It’s weird, I said to Amina, that we were kids once, y’know? Five years ago, I was still determined to marry a man, just to win my parent’s approval. I still sat in church, and tried to believe everything they said. I was still a scared kid, who spoke more in the things that I didn't say than in the things that I did. And now -

I paused. Turned towards Amina, but she had taken a step backwards, the swirling water rising up to her calves.

And now what? she snapped, her voice sharp and salt-water bitter. And now you’re bringing your girlfriend home like it’s some god-damned rite of passage? Do you really expect me to sit there just so I can be judged by your family?

God, Amina, you know it’s not like that! I want them in my life, ok? I can’t cut them off just to avoid one awkward dinner.

You’ve told me how all the things they taught you hurt you, how things still don’t feel the same around them after you told them. How can you want this after all that? 

They’re trying to make things better, I said. And then: they’re still my family.

Amina laughed, but it sounded more like she was choking.

Don’t try and pull that stuff on me. Family doesn’t guarantee anything. 

Maybe it doesn’t for you, I said.

Amina didn't respond, but she let go of her breath in one long, continuous exhalation, and the sound of her sigh echoed above the waves. 

.._.._..

I’d never met Amina’s parents.

When she came out, she told me, they threw each word they spoke to her like punches until they knocked her right out the door. 

She still called them, sometimes. But their conversations were cold and shallow, like the way the ocean in my hometown felt at six in the morning, numbing your fingers and biting your bones until it forced your retreat to the safety of the sand and a hot shower back at home.

We walked up and down the shoreline, Amina and I, tracing the same footsteps, backwards and forwards. The water pushed and pulled at our ankles, cool, but never cold enough to bite. I pressed my foot into the sand, watched the water pool and fill up the hole it left behind.

I came here with my mum, I said to Amina, the day after I came out. We didn't really talk much, just jogged down the beach with the dog. Dipped our heads into the water, then headed home, y’know? Like any other day. But she was the one who asked me to come, even after everything that happened the night before. I think that’s what matters the most to me. That despite everything, they’re still trying to be a family.

God, Amina said. I wish I had that.

But she took my hand anyway, and it was gentler than her words could ever be.

The ocean breathed. In, sucking sand and shells and bits of broken glass down into its frothing maw. Out, spitting up the seed-pods of seagrass that formed a luridly green and slimy mat at the edges of the waves’ reach, the bodies of fish and bluebottles and all the other lost, dead things that would gradually find their way to the shore. Even as we turned our backs and wandered up to the dunes, its presence still hung in the air in the soft whoosh of the waves, the swish of the water over the sand. This was an in-between place, the knife’s edge between two worlds, where the known and the unknown brushed each other in a gentle yet passionate caress. But I had spent too many years of my life living in the gaps and silences, in the spaces that the truths we don’t say leave behind. 

So if the push and pull of the ocean was the breath in my lungs, then Amina’s hand in mine was the strength in my bones, an assurance that I would remain standing even as we left the shoreline for the dreadful, beautiful certainty of the suburbs beyond. And there was nothing that I would have traded for it.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

He Imagines Going Home: Dex

Dex, your angst is killing my ability to write coat-smut and I hope you’re happy

CW: References to serious trauma and violence, broken bones, stitches, blood, etc. But no real violence here. Just some references/implications.

I made myself cry again with this one. Dex’s POV destroys me, every time. Read Dismantled, Insecurity by @spiffythespook, and Reconstruction for context. Oh my god I have to make a Wrex Master List and new moodboard don’t I.

When she wants him to brew the coffee, three days after she nearly killed him, he cannot stand. She comes into his room, into the warm darkness he's been sinking in and out of, and orders him to stand.

He tries.

He fails.

Instead he crumbles to the ground and lands in a graceless heap, barely managing to catch himself - wait wrong hand no no no too late - and he doesn't scream when his weight lands on the splints and broken fingers of his right hand.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, as agony blossoms up his arm and settles into his mind. There might be a whine - not quite a whimper - that laces the edges of the air as it leaves his lungs, but other than that… he doesn’t scream.

He tries to be silent.

He succeeds.

"Disgraceful. Three days of stubble, three days without a shower. You are an absolute fucking wretch." Her voice is low. “You should be dead. You don’t deserve the mercy I have given you.” She has done this to him, but it was his fault. He let her see that he is not her perfect masterpiece, after all. This is all his fault. 

"You have lazed in bed long enough. I told you to stand up."

He tries.

He fails, again.

At least this time he manages to slump onto his knees. She has always liked them kneeling. She likes it now, he can feel the tension in the air shift and dissipate, just a little. After twenty years, Dex knows Karen Renford inside and out. He has made only a few mistakes.

He should have known better than to fight her, defy her insistence he not see Wright again. From the moment he signed why, he had been walking into her trap. She knew, she knew that he loved someone when he was not meant to have that feeling. He couldn’t keep that knowledge from her any longer.

All he can keep a secret, now, is that he wants to believe he isn’t the only one who feels it. 

She stares down at him, and he can't bear to look up. Broken man, beaten and battered, my own fault. He keeps his eyes on the floor. She doesn’t command him to look, so he doesn’t. He is afraid if he looks, he won’t be able to hide how much he hates her any longer.

His face throbs, a pulse of pain along the stitches in time with his heartbeat. Disfigured. He had wondered if it would be enough to ruin him, in the eyes of the only person who called him beautiful when he was not bleeding.

Dex knows she sent him a photo of Dex's face to test the other man, to see how angry he would get.

Lovely work, darling.

Tears threaten again - hot and insistent, and he has cried so much in three days that his eyes feel worn and painful - and he fights them back. His message to Karen was a lie, Dex is sure of it. He is certain, and he breathes the message, in and out, like a heartbeat. Paradise Lost by the history section on a Tuesday.

Peter's voice but Wright's words - the words meant only for him. Dex clings to that message with what battered, cracked hope he has left. Sorry for what she did. He wants you to know that he called for you.

For you.

Not her.

Wright likes him as he is, has spent so long pushing apart the empty spaces to find what Dex had so carefully hidden inside, and he can’t keep going if it has been a lie all along.

Wright often compared him to Kintsukuroi, broken pottery where the cracks have been filled with gold. At first, Wright had suggested the gold came from Karen. Later, he had said - in Dex's ear, a breath and want against his skin - that Dex himself was the gold. Filling in her edges with the parts of his own true personality that Wright helped him to rediscover and bring to the light.

Outside, the sun has not yet risen - but Karen Renford has always been up before dawn, making use of the grayish half-light to take some time for herself.

My house is so full, She says with a smile to guests at parties, and her four Box Boys - three from the Facility and poor Henry, who never stood a chance once she got her claws in him - don’t speak a word of disagreement. Obedient, and any of them could walk right out the gate - except Henry - but they don’t.

They can’t.

In the present, Karen’s foot - bare, and it is so rare that he sees her without her red-soled heels, only in these soft gray hours of the morning - taps on the floor impatiently. He swallows, and manages, with a groan he bites back behind his teeth, to push back until he is sitting on his heels.

Everything hurts, and there is no part of him, inside or out, that isn’t begging for it to stop.

"If you can't stand," Karen says, her voice cold, "Then you will crawl. I trusted you, Dex, and you betrayed that trust. Go downstairs and make my coffee. I will be down when I am dressed. Don't dawdle. You will not appreciate my response if the coffee is not at least brewing when I am ready.”

He tries to be silent.

He succeeds.

He cradles his broken hand on his lap, and waits for her to leave. Watches her feet turn on a dime to walk lightly, nearly soundlessly, out of his room. Hears the sound of the hallway bathroom door opening and closing. The shower turns on.

He tries to stand.

He fails.

He crawls.

Bruised skin aches, cuts and welts are pulled back open - and Seb won’t like cleaning them again, Dex thinks dimly, as he crawls out into the hallway on the second floor. They will soak the loose, light-colored shirt and pants he was given with more drops of blood. The red will spread and spread and dry brown, and it’s been so long since Dex had to wash blood out of his own clothing, and he cannot even stand to scrub at the stains now.

His bones are screaming, as he navigates the stairs awkwardly, having to slide down like a child. Sit on the step, place your feet, balance with your good hand, pull yourself down.

Each thump to the next step, and the next, is an agony.

He grinds his teeth together as hard as he can, breathing harsh and fast through his nose, and keeps going.

He tries to stay silent.

He succeeds.

When he makes it to the bottom, to the landing, he can see the front door. There was never a time, in his life in this house, where Dex could have walked away. He is too broken, too bent to her will. He can’t walk out now.

But for the first time in more than fifteen years, Dex stares at the door and he dreams about it. He pictures himself, standing tall and unbeaten, with his hair sort of ruffled the way Wright likes it. 

He thinks of himself, in the green sweater Wright gave him and a simple pair of black pants, turning the doorknob with an unbroken hand. He thinks about stepping outside to look at the grayish-pink sky, about walking with even steps to the front gate.

He fights the instant, conditioned fear (you’re only safe with a collar, the collar is how you know someone wants you) and imagines himself without a the band of leather and the tag, with his neck bare to the rising sun.

He imagines a car, waiting for him at the end of the street.

Someone to take him somewhere other than hell.

Someone to bring him home.

The tears are back, and this time he lets them fall, because there will never be a car, there will never be a rescue, and he taught himself so long ago not to dream like this.

Back up the stairs, there is a shuffle, Karen moving from the main hall bathroom to her bedroom, and he swallows. He can’t be sitting here when she’s dressed. He can’t be hurt any worse than this, he can’t. He has to heal, so he can get to the library.

Dex looks at the wall, just beside him, and then at the kitchen. If he steps with one heel to the other foot’s toes, it’s maybe thirty-five steps from here to the coffeemaker. Maybe twenty-five - he can’t remember right now. 

If he can stand.

Upstairs, Karen is getting dressed and his time is running out. Sebastian is still asleep - Madam doesn’t need him to cook her breakfast on a workday, she gets moving too early for that. Peter will be asleep on Henry’s floor. Seb told Dex yesterday that Peter’s been sneaking in there after Karen goes to bed, bedding down on the floor, and then getting up before Henry does and sneaking back out again.

Henry had nightmares, the night after Karen hurt Dex. Since Peter has been sleeping on his floor, he hasn’t had any more.

Peter and Henry have secrets, too.

Dex puts his hand on the wall, bracing himself, and he tries to stand.

At first he fails.

He drops with a thump back to the floor, but he has to be able to stand because he will have to walk to the library on a Tuesday afternoon, to read Paradise Lost in the history section. It was the second half of the message Peter gave him, and if he can’t walk, he can’t go to the library without Karen’s knowledge.

Wright did not have to tell him to keep a secret.

No, Dex was a wealth of secrets when it came to Wright Farling. She had found out one of them - but she would not be given any more. He would die first.

He nearly had.

For Wright, he would speak - or stay silent - no matter the cost.

He slams the palm of his broken hand against the wall with a frustrated, strangled groan, tear tracks drying on his face as something other than grief and fear and despair settles underneath his skin. 

He is… he is suddenly so angry. 

He had exactly one thing, in the world, that belonged to him. And she has taken that, too, the way she took everything else. The way she took his life from him, when he had signed up for something else.

There were blows to his head, with the cane - the spark of white light, the agony without physical pain. Ever since, in the three days he has spent in bed, there are things breaking through. He signed up because he wanted to try and be better with his fears, his phobias. He wanted to be part of a program to mentor at-risk kids, he knew that much.

He signed up to try and save his relationship with Ben, too.

He doesn’t know who Ben is.

It’s not important.

Ben doesn’t exist, in his life, any longer. But Wright does. And he has to stand, because he has to walk, because if he can’t walk he can’t get to the library and if he goes there, maybe…

He tries, one more time, to stand.

This time, he succeeds.

It’s a slog and it hurts and his legs are begging him to go back to his hands and knees, but he won’t do it. Not this time. He uses his brace against the wall to steady himself, pushes up onto his feet.

It hurts, it hurts so much, but the simmering anger underneath takes away a little of the pain.

Dex, breathing in pants, stares across the short entryway to the open doorway to the kitchen. Thirty-five - or twenty-five, please God if you’re real let there be less than thirty-five steps - to the coffeemaker. The bag of coffee is right next to it, sitting on the countertop, a special blend she has custom-made by a local roaster.

He can do this.

He has to do this.

He has to walk.

Dex looks down at his bare feet - even his feet are bruised, and he doesn’t remember her hitting them when he was curled up on her office floor but she must have - and then he looks back to the coffeemaker.

He moves his right foot first, testing its ability to hold his weight. His knee trembles, his thighs scream in pain, but it holds. So he takes one step, dragging his left foot behind him, trying not to force it to do any work it doesn’t have to do.

Once he has moved a single step, he picks up his left foot, and tests how well that one will hold. He manages, hissing through his teeth. He hurts so badly. There are so many pains that they run together into a constant refrain, water that will drag him under to drown. He fixes his eyes on the coffeemaker, lets them go distant, the awareness of his own body and the world around him sliding away.

In training, in the Facility, nearly everyone learns to do it sooner or later. When they won’t stop hurting you - when you can’t take another second - when there is nothing in your world but pain and cold and exhaustion and fear… you learn this.

His body hurts, but it is not his body. His heart is breaking, but it is not his heart. His fingers are broken, but they are not his fingers. He wants to collapse but he will not, not this time. All Dex is, and was, and will ever be, condenses to a singular goal of get through this.

All he is, now, is a determination not to fail again.

He tries to walk.

He succeeds.

His steps shuffle, and are impossibly slow. He keeps one hand on the wall for balance. Behind his distance and the careful soft fog he has wrapped himself in, he can feel the agony trying to break down the walls. It wants his attention, demands it.

You did this to yourself. This is your fault for asking why. This is your fault for what you’ve let yourself become. This is your fault for having a voice. This is your fault for letting her see the cracks he helped you remember how to fill in with gold. This is your fault for ever wanting them filled at all.

Each step punctuated with blame, responsibility, a twist of his heart. Another crack, breaking down the dam. He never takes his eyes off the coffeemaker, off his one single goal to survive the pain and the fear and keep moving, one foot in front of the other, until he is on the other side of this.

This is your fault for falling in love.

Dex chokes back a sob, forces it into the silent constriction of his voicebox, where all the words live until he is alone with the only person who ever truly listens to him. He keeps walking, step by slow step, until he is in the kitchen doorway, and the coffeemaker is so close, so close.

He has to stop.

He takes a break to breathe, panting through his mouth now, sweat broken out across his forehead and face. He can feel the blood sticking his clothing to his skin from reopened wounds. Opening his mouth even a little pulls slightly at the stitches Sebastian so carefully sewed into his face.

Disfigured. Disgraced. Imperfect. Broken. Brainless. Unwanted. Your own fault.

No.

He takes a deep breath through his teeth, feels the oxygen fill his lungs, and then he starts walking again. Step by slow step, feet dragging on the floor, feeling a trickle of sweat or blood down his back and he doesn’t know which and he doesn’t care, any longer.

He keeps his eyes on his goal, and lets his mind spiral outwards.

When Dex makes it to the countertop he has to hold himself up by his good hand with white-knuckled fingers, his broken hand hanging uselessly down at his side. Fingers splinted together with Peter’s imperfect, well-meaning movements, twisting constantly to check the tutorial video. He and Sebastian gave Dex the only medical care he would receive for this.

He loves them both, Dex realizes with a deep twist inside of him that is nearly a whole new pain. He has always held himself distant from the others, too afraid that if he got close he would give away his secret. He has always set himself apart, hidden in the office to work on Karen’s household management, played Chopin too long and too loud to give them the privacy to hide from him, too. He has been the informant, the one who would tell Karen anything and everything.

He had thought himself feared, distrusted, disliked.

He thought of Sebastian sitting by his bed, dabbing at the wounds as he laid there staring with dull eyes at the wall, saying softly, I’m so sorry, Dex. I’m so sorry she found out about this. I’m so sorry, we’ll figure something out, okay? I’m so sorry-

He thought of Peter holding him while he cried, whispering you’re a good boy, he called for you, not for her. It’s going to be okay, Dex, it has to be okay. Listen, he says go to the library when you can walk again. Go on a Tuesday and read Paradise Lost by the history section. Okay? He said that, he said, I’ll walk you myself if you can’t go alone yet, but we’ll get you there. I don’t care if she notices I’m gone, I’ll take the blame, it’s worth it. We’ll get you there. I’m so sorry-

He thought of Henry sneaking into his room when he thought Dex was asleep, setting up his mp3 player and speaker on the side table next to Dex’s bed, and the way a recording of Henry’s own first composition - he’d been sixteen years old and Dex had been so proud of him he had nearly broken his own rules to tell Henry so out loud - began to play. The way Henry had paused next to his bed, and whispered, I wish I knew how to help. I’m so sorry.

He loves his brothers, each and every one, and he wishes he could have been someone they could trust.

Tears drop onto Karen’s butcher-block countertops and Dex lets them fall, breathing in low soft moans of pain so he won’t open his mouth too much, leaning himself on the counter with his chest for balance so he can measure out the coffee with his good hand. The aches are back, but they are inside as well as out.

He’s wasted so much time, lost so much - more than half of his life under her thumb, and he doesn’t remember the first half at all.

He has so little left - but he has so much more than he thought he did.

Once he has shuffled along the counter to the sink, filled the carafe with water, and set the coffee to brewing, he waits. When Karen comes downstairs in a loose, figure-skimming sweater and tight black Ponte pants, she looks him over thoughtfully. He looks back.

He has more than she thinks he has.

He is more than she thinks he is.

He is not brainless. He is not disgraced. He is not disfigured he is not imperfect he is not broken - or if he is, he can fill the cracks in with gold. He can take what she made and remake himself, make something new. 

He can be something new.

He is forty years old, but it’s not too late.

“Acceptable.” Karen gives him a slight smile - cold and unfeeling as every other expression. “Kneel.”

He tries to be silent.

He succeeds.

He doesn’t go to his knees gracefully. He simply drops with a crack to the floor, automatically, all at once. Puppet with strings cut, barely a man at all. He stays there while the coffee brews, while she pours herself a cup and adds a bit of cream. He stays there, right where he is on the floor by the counter, until she has gone to sit outside and watch the sun rise.

Only when she is gone does he raise his eyes, and stare out the sliding glass doors towards the garden. The sky is a brilliant blend of oranges, yellows, and pinks reflecting off a thin covering of clouds. The sun will burn the clouds away and the sky will be a brilliant blue soon enough.

Dex crawls on his knees to the glass door, to lean against it with one shoulder, to sit and watch the dawn.

He is not unwanted.

This is not his fault.

Paradise Lost, he mouths to himself, his eyes on the sky. By the history section on a Tuesday.

Dex imagines a car waiting, down the road. A door opening, a smile tipped up at him as he climbs inside the passenger seat and buckles himself in. Lips to press against the back of his hand, fingers wrapped around his, unbroken. A hand on his bared neck. Eyes that look into his, eyes that see him.

Eyes that always see him.

Are you ready to go? The man asks him, with a hint of a winsome smile.

I was ready five years ago, the Dex in his mind answers back, with the little teasing smile. You made me wait.

You have a point, Dex, darling. Aren’t I the lucky one that you are such a patient man? The tone is teasing, but the words are sincere. Dex feels a warmth, inside of himself, that begins to seep in and around and over the pain.

Gold, to shine through the cracks.

He imagines the car pulling away from the sidewalk, driving down the street, out of the neighborhood, the city, the state.

He imagines being driven away from hell.

He imagines that the man will one day take him home.

[thefamily]

“Who did this to you.” Interlude

This was inspired by this this! Thank you @whumpster-dumpster for letting me use it.

https://whumpster-dumpster.tumblr.com/post/180738459087/character-a-tilting-character-bs-chin-up-to-get-a

Jack’s P.O.V.

        I was stumbling through the forest, my vision slightly blurry, my cheek still ringing and my body hurting, whether it was from the emptiness or the fall down the stairs. I don’t know probably both to be honest. I wander aimlessly through the forest not focusing on anything, wanting nothing more than to be with Liru right now. I can feel myself getting dizzier the more I walked, until I come across a clearing with a bunch of trees that had all fallen over outward from the center of them. But I don’t have to think about that. I fall to my knee’s coughing like mad and almost instantly I can see splotches of blood on the grass.

        ‘Oh. That's not good.’

        Once I stop coughing, there is a small stain of blood in the grass. I don’t even acknowledge it as I pull myself up onto a fallen tree and sit on it. I hug myself, leaning over letting blood drip from my mouth, trying not to breathe it in. I choke back a sob, not wanting to make the pain worse as I think about what Mrs. Blanchfield did. I can’t stop the feeling of the hand hitting across my face, the force from it was enough to knock me down the stairs. Without even thinking, I ran out the door as fast I could ignoring the pain shooting through my entire body.

        I feel her presence before I see her and my heart begins to pound, ‘Nonononono please don’t let her see me like this.’

        “Jack?”

        ‘Shit.’ I slowly look up at her and I feel my heart flutter ever so slightly when I see her face, which has a look of confusion written all over it before it quickly changes to one of surprise then fury before falling emotionless. I quickly look back down at the ground as I hear the dead grass crunching beneath her bare feet as she stops right in front of me.

        “Jack,” I flinch slightly curling in on myself a bit. “look at me.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. I take a deep shaking breath, wincing in pain as I do, wiping the blood from my mouth away, before I look up at her. She immediately puts a knuckle under my chin tilting my head up more as she examines it and I can feel blood begin to drip down my chin again as she does. Her eyes flick down to the blood and she gently wipes away the blood before bringing it up to her face, saying nothing as she examines it.

        After a second or two, I feel my heart skip a nervous beat as she looks me dead in the eyes. Her voice is quiet and tense, her anger barely restrained as clouds begin to circle overhead.

        “W͟h̕o̢ did̢ th̡is̶ tò ͞you̡?”

        I swallow nervously, not sure if I should tell her, eyeing the blade of her scythe that strapped to her back, despite the very being of my soul screaming at me to tell her, but the thing in my head was screeching at me not to.

        “Jąck.̛”

        “Mrs. Blanchfield.” The words tumble out of before I can even process the tone in her voice, a promise of pain and hellfire.

        “And who exactly is this… w̛oman?” My heart speeds up a bit as she spits out the word like it was poison. I swallow nervously wincing a bit, trying not to gag as the coppery blood runs down my throat.

        “S-She’s the o-orphanage caret-taker.” I flinch slightly at a low growl that seems to shake the world around us. Before I could begin to look around it she grabbed my hand, pulled me up and began pulling me away from the field. At her touch I can feel just how chaotic her mind is, the fury that's causing it reminding much of the time Henrik became enraged.

        “W-Where are we going?” I quietly curse myself for stuttering as she continues to pull me along, although I’m more following her than anything.

        “Home, I’m not letting you go back to those monsters.” Her words almost immediately calm me down.

        “Oh, okay.” The thought of being around her everyday, never having to go back to that hellhole, it brought a comfort I haven’t felt since before Henrik left. Before his promise rang through my head causing panic to grip my very being.

        “WAIT!”

Liru’s P.O.V.

        I stopped in my tracks at his shout, his mind cold from whose ever voice that rang through it. I feel myself grow cold at the thought of him wanting to go back.

        ‘No. Please no, it’s not safe, please.’

        “I-I have to go back.” His voice is small and quiet as he speaks, and I can feel my shoulders drop as my stomach falls. ‘No…’

        “Jack…” My voice cracks as I whisper, not wanting to turn to him.

        “Please Liru, I need to go back.” His voice desperate as I forced myself to look at him. He was swaying in his spot slightly, his free arm wrapped tightly around his stomach, hand gripping his now blood stained shirt, bruises beginning to form already, especially the still welted hand print of the side of his face. I can feel a primal anger rise in me at the sight of it wanting nothing more than to tear apart the women responsible for it.

        “After what that monster did to you?” My voice is shaking with barely contained rage as I look him in the eyes, one of them bloodshot. He flinches at the sound of anger and it quickly melts away into sadness and ignored rejection.

        “You’re covered in bruises and blood, Jack. You’re not safe there.” I can’t keep the begging from my voice, it cracking like a glass jar thrown against a rock.

        “You look like you were thrown down the stairs!” I’m fighting back tears now, the desperation growing with every breath.

        “I-I’m fine, I just fell when I was leaving.” He looks me dead in the eye, pleading look never disappearing.

        “Please… I need to go back.” His are filled with unshed tears and I can feel my resolve break. I grab his hand gently pulling him to me as I step closer to him. He stumbles a little as he does and he has a confused and almost hopeful look that I can’t look at. Looking at the ground, I use my other hand to reach up and cup the back of his head, my entire body slouched in defeat and melancholy.

        “Liru?” He asks, confusion and worry clear in his voice. I don’t reply whispering,

        “Sopor.” Under my breath. And just like that, he falls limp against me as he sleeps. I quickly wrap my arms under his as I gently as I can, sliding down to my knees as I lay him against the grass. As I lay him against the grass the trees around us open their eyes, revealing glowing white sap as the faint smell of discarded flesh lingers in the air. They don’t say anything but I know they’re watching us.

        I run a hand of Jack, muttering a diagnostic spell under my breath as I do. It takes every ounce of control I have not to lose my temper right then and there. I look at his face and even asleep he looks like he’s in pain. I put a hand on his cheek rubbing my mark gently before beginning to sing.

“Flower gleam and glow.”

        I can’t heal him too much. I don’t want him to get suspicious. I can’t lose him too.

“Let your power shine.”

        I feel relief floods me as I watch as pieces of the cosmos flow through him, the collage of colors making him look like a young god as the forest floor beneath him begins to grow at a rapid pace, grass and flowers growing up and lightly wrapping around him.

“Make the clock reverse.”

        The collectors around us are creaking, speaking to each other curiosity radiating from them as they stare at the two of us, and I understand why. With Jack laid on the grass with me hunched over him with a hand on his cheek healing him.

“Bring back what was mine.”

        I force myself to not continue but thankfully he’s healed enough where he’s only kinda bruised and no longer bleeding internally. How he managed to get all the way out here without dying is beyond me. It’s at least a six hour walk but… I didn’t sense him until he was in the field… I quickly shake any of those thoughts away. 

        ‘I can deal with it later. Right now I need to take him back.’ I go to pick him up before I freeze, realizing it’s not a good idea for me not to take him. If I went to that village right now I’d burn it to the ground. I look back at Jack knowing I only have one choice for help right now. I take deep breath before shouting,

        “Σπ��θί!!!” Within seconds the shadow creature is next to me on all fours.

        “Saluton, saluton, saluton. Ho! Kio estas tio?” The creature, roughly the size of a human man crawling on all fours with both arms and legs bent more like a horse’s than a humans, is staring down at both Jack and I.

        “Ĉu ĉi tio estas la malgranda homo, kiu ŝtelis la koron de la malgranda reĝino?” It leans over to sniff him but I quickly smack him on his side.

        “Cut that out I need help.” 

        “Ho?” Now I definitely have it’s attention.

        “Yes. I need help I know, weird right?” Sarcasm is dripping from my voice before I take a deep breath.

        “Look, I just need help getting him back to the village. And if I go there now, I’m going to l͟ęv̕el ̧it.” I wince a little at the way my voice changes, loathing it when it does that. It’s too much like a void demon’s. 

        “Tiam faru ĝin.” The malicious joy radiating from it nearly makes me cave to satisfy my own blood lust.

        “I can’t. Not yet. Not until he finally gives that place up.” It gives off the same energy of someone rolling its eyes before it looks down at Jack.

        “Can you take him back?” It’s head snaps to me, shock over taking it for a second before it throws its head back, letting out a blood curdling laugh, sounding more like a dying hell-hound than anything. When it finally stops I can hear what I assume is it’s mouth form into a toothy grin before stretching one arm out straight and it’s arm lets out a sick cracking sound as it’s ‘bones’ flipping around. I cringe at the sound and it scoops up Jack in it’s arm cradling him to it’s chest.

        “Kaj tiel la eta reĝo iras hejmen.”

        “It’s not his home. He’s made that very clear.” My voice is nothing more than a whisper as I push myself up, the grass curling around my fingers before I pull them away, standing up.

        “For mi iras.” And just like that they were gone. Once they were gone the Collectors began to talk amongst themselves again. I hadn’t even realized they stopped. I look around one last time before closing my eyes and focusing on my home?

        ‘Is it home without him?’

        When I open my eyes again, I’m thankfully in my room but also completely drained of any energy I might have had left after today. I flop on my bed, too exhausted to keep everything hidden, my wings sprawling out around me on the round bed, my tail joining them as it curls around me, making a small rattling sound as it moves. I’m laying face down as my horns come out weighing down my head a little, and finally my scales and eyes change the gold and red scales uncomfortable under the clothes I’m too tired to remove.

        I’m so close to dozing off when the door is lightly pushed open. Moving my head so I can look to see what entered my room, I’m almost immediately greeted by Izzy hopping onto the bed, a squeaky meow leaving her as she tries to move past my wings without stepping on them. I drag them out of the way in which she goes over to my throat and paws at the part around my neck until it comes undone and she slides underneath it on my back, knocking the scythe to the floor.

        I laugh lightly, closing my eyes again and yawning, muttering under my breath,

        “Please be okay Jack.” Not noticing Riptide’s head poking through the door as Izzy purrs me to sleep.

Yes Riptide ate her hand. Also no judging for the song I had no better idea's.

Tag List:

@immabethehero

@antis-gauge

@therealtiger77

@nerdylampeclipseuniversity

@a-mad-tea-time

@i-maybe-exist

@flowers-zombie-rob

@myspeedymilkshake

@animallover4000

@nightanjel

@smolbean-pma

@trixie8264

@the-chemist

@thegamerbook Thank you for beta reading the first few pages!

Translations:

Saluton, saluton, saluton. Ho! Kio estas tio?? = Hello, hello hello. Oh! What's this?

Ĉu ĉi tio estas la malgranda homo, kiu ŝtelis la koron de la malgranda reĝino. = Is this the little human that's stolen the little queen's heart?

Tiam faru ĝin. = Then do it.

Kaj tiel la eta reĝo iras hejmen. = And so the little king goes home.

For mi iras. = Off I go.

Spade is Σπαθί

[alfhildr-the-word-weaver]

So I decided to give myself a sharpie tattoo tonight :) I’ve been vaguely imagining having a “God is Love” (1 John 4:8) tattoo for quite a long time, but I’m afraid of both needles and decisions and thus have not done so as yet. 

But I’ve been seeing these pictures of Gerard Way with sharpie tattoos and I was just like “there is no reason I should not give myself a sharpie tattoo right now” and so... I did. 

See beneath the cut for step by step pictures and general rambling :)

I put it in the spot where I would get a real tattoo if I ever get around to getting one; I have a big weird scar about halfway up the outside of my left calf and I figure if I were to get a proper tattoo, that’s kind of an ideal spot for a tattoo anyways and I might as well cover my scar with one. 

As with any good scar, there’s a long story to it, but (gross-out warning, mild medical violence warning) basically I had a spider bite that got infected and it swelled up into this big nasty boil-ish, welt-ish thing that lasted for an uncomfortably long time. When I went to the doctor with it, they pretty much just stabbed it twice to get it to drain and it left me with this. It’s hard to get it to show up very well but it’s basically two deep divots in a patch of pale, off-texture skin, a bit bigger around than a quarter. 

So I knelt on my bed with my leg at an awkward angle, whipped out my treasured 30 pack of rainbow sharpies (minus like 3, because sharpies like to run away), and went to work. It was kind of a weird angle to draw at not only because of how I had to bend my knee but also because everything I was drawing was sideways, but the heart turned out fairly nicely, if a bit lopsided. 

I didn’t make the heart quite big enough to fit “God is Love” inside of it so I wound up with the love bit underneath. I’m fairly pleased with how it looks, although you can definitely tell from the “e” that I was working sideways. 

I liked it well enough, but I wanted more color, and so I decided to add a butterfly wing to the left--or perhaps a flower. I have a tendency to draw those rather similarly so it’s basically both. One flower lead to another, then another, plus a couple of vines; I have progress pictures with each individual piece I added, but to prevent this post from going on for too long, I’ll just jump back to the final design. 

Also, side note, my knee was stiff as all heck after sitting like that for all the time I was drawing, and I had to limp around the house a bit to get my leg to straighten back out. In hindsight I would advise taking more breaks during the drawing process when sitting with one’s leg at such a weird angle.

The main picture at the top is from that stage as well, but then I went and googled “sharpie tattoo” because I remembered something about there being a way to make them last longer. I found this, which said to cover it in baby powder and spray it with hairspray. I don’t really use hair spray regularly, but I was pretty sure I had some around somewhere; the first stuff I found actually turned out to be a spray can of hair mousse, though, so I just patted it around on top of the baby powder. I didn’t quite get the whole thing covered because I was worried about smudging it if I rubbed it around. 

I was fairly certain I had some actual hairspray somewhere; eventually it occured to me to look in my old dance bag, because the last time I used hair spray was probably my 9th grade dance recital. I was correct, and upon locating said dance bag, I found both hairspray and an abundance of nostalgia. I reapplied baby powder and sprayed it on. Having not been used in nearly a decade, the hairspray came out in a confused trickle rather than a spray, and the whole area became very wet as I tried to pour out enough spray to cover the design in its entirety. The ink started to bleed and, while pretty, I was worried that rather than preserving my sharpie tattoo I was going to rinse it off prematurely in a flood of aged hairspray. 

I quickly dabbed at the flow with a bit of toilet paper, and in doing so accidentally made a rather lovely watercolor on the paper. 

So, this is where things are at now. The baby powder did leave quite a bit of texture on my leg. I imagine it will rinse off, but I think for tonight I’ll let things ‘set’ before I try and rinse it. Perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d left the initial design without putting any of this on it, but hopefully this will help it last longer. It’s just fun to have something bright, colorful, and meaningful on my leg. 

I’ve been really digging Killjoy aesthetics lately and I love the whole culture of being bright and colorful and unique that they have, and as I’ve been conceptualizing my Killjoy OC (cosplay to come, if I ever get around to it), I’ve found myself thinking about how I’d want to ideally design... well, myself, and so I guess this sharpie tattoo was really born from that. 

Along those same lines, I’ve also been revisiting the idea of dyeing my hair. It’s something I’ve contemplated since middle school but never done, but now I really think I would like to. Again I’m at least partly inspired by Gerard Way, both in the sense of the bold hair colors of the Killjoy universe and from seeing how many great hair styles and colors Gerard’s had over the years. I’m not fond of the idea of cutting my hair, but I like the thought of mixing it up by dyeing it. 

The wrench in my plans right now, though, is the way that everything is just on hold at the moment. Specifically, I’ve been in rehearsals for a play, but with this whole pandemic business, our rehearsals are suspended and our play is postponed for an unknown period of time. The play is the Crucible, and unfortunately, neon red violet hair would not fly in puritan Salem. My plan initially was to dye my hair as soon as the play was over in early April, but now, well... who knows how long it’ll be until the show happens and I’m in the clear to mess with my hair. So, stay tuned for that I guess. I don’t know if I’ll wait to do my Killjoy cosplay until I’m able to dye my hair; I would like to have both this sharpie tattoo and dyed hair at the time of said cosplay, but I’m not certain whether those time frames we’ll overlap. We’ll see. 

Anyways, if anyone’s still reading this, thanks for sticking with me through my rambling! I hope you have enjoyed this episode of Violet’s adventures in sharpie tattoos.

[thebiasrekkers]

Make It Right [BTS Mafia!AU]

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC Genre: BTS Mafia!AU Warnings: Graphic Violence, Heavy Language, Angst, Smut, Slow Burn WC: 2923 “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

AO3 | WP

Chapter 09: I’m Fine

"I’ll keep telling myself, Even if I fall down again...I'm fine."

Raelyn rarely slept.

Then again, it came with the territory. Just because a person had a certain shift that they were given didn’t mean anything. There were few professions in the world that “never sleep” and working in a hospital was one of them. The other, from what she understood, was television news broadcasts. Just like news staff, hospital personnel were always on call.

She didn’t mind it. This was the occupation she chose, and she wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Not even for a few more hours or sleep. Or hell, even one more hour of sleep.

But there were times, very few times, where she would have made a deal with a demon if it meant getting just fifteen more minutes. Even five.

This was one of those mornings.

Raelyn didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, but she could recite exactly how many hours she’d been awake.

Thirty-six, to be exact.

The very minute that the car accident victim was wheeled in through the ER entrance, she knew she was in for the long haul. On a normal day, she would have had just one more hour until her shift was over. Throw in one of her co-workers calling in sick and well, that pretty much summed up the next day and a half for her. If she wasn’t running around gathering all the medical information on the patient, she was administering sedatives and making sure everyone else was taking the right number of breaks so that they didn’t pass out when they were needed in a pinch.

It got a little scary around the twenty-ninth hour. Some of her fellow nurses didn’t think the victim was going to make it through the morning, let alone through the night. A few morbid cynics were actually taking wagers. In this line of work, sometimes you needed to make light of even the worst situations to get through it all.

Otherwise a person would go certifiably insane.

Once everyone was dismissed and assured that the patient was, in fact, going to make it, Raelyn felt like her bones were going to turn into jelly. She’d collapsed into a chair, the physical and mental exhaustion finally taking its toll. A few of the orderlies made sure she was alright, asking her if she needed to take a quick nap in one of the employee rest areas. But Raelyn knew her body. She needed a cup of coffee; just enough caffeine to get her back home so she could pass out for the next twelve hours.

Crossing the threshold of her modest apartment, she barely remembered hanging up her coat or even stepping into her house slippers. She didn’t even really remember stripping out of her scrubs, throwing them into the hamper, or even taking a quick five-minute shower. The only thing that really registered through her body was climbing into her extra-large sweatshirt and falling into her bed face-first. If her phone died in the middle of her nap, so be it. She was off for the next two days as per the orders of her supervisor.

Like she was even going to argue.

Beep. Beep.

Raelyn groaned, rolling over onto her back while scratching her stomach. The soft beeping noise barely registered at the forefront of her mind. Exhaustion held strong, keeping her tethered to the bed and she pulled the mink blanket up across her body. Sometime in her sleep she’d pushed it off of her and instantly regretted it.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

That noise again.

That goddamn noise again.

Her eyes slowly opened and she moaned, her vision attempting to focus. The stream of moonlight that slid in through the bedroom windows helped her to see better in the dark. Was she dreaming? This had to be a dream. There was no way she fell asleep that hard only to be woken up by some damn noise she could barely even hear. That was just crazy.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

It was the buzzer from the front door.

“…you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” she muttered, sitting up on her elbows to look around the room. Her eyes lingered to her nightstand, the digital clock’s red numbers mocking her of the time.

4:27 AM

She angrily threw the covers off her, almost tripping into her house slippers, before shuffling her way out of her bedroom and into the living room. Hands brushed up against the wall, attempting to feel for the light switch and the living room was flooded with a soft amber lighting. Raelyn had never been a fan of bright light and she had lamps everywhere – keeping the atmosphere ethereal and comfortable. It was easy on her eyes that way, especially when she didn’t have her glasses on.

Crossing the small distance to the front door, she reached up to the panel where the door camera was. Pressing the button, the screen lit up but all she could see was the top of someone’s head as they seemed to be leaning against the door. She watched as their hand lifted to press the door buzzer again and it was then that she noticed it was stained with blood.

Gasping, she unbolted the door and threw it open. A man practically fell into her arms and his sheer weight caused her knees to buckle slightly. Bracing most of her weight onto her back leg, she wrapped her arms tightly around the person before ushering them inside – her leg extending out to kick the door closed. When she heard the security lock latch and beep, Raelyn took a moment to see just who was in her house.

The silvery blue and black hair was unmistakable, and she nearly dropped him on accident.

“Taehyung-ah!”

He groaned, attempting to look up at her as he gave her a pained smirk. “Hey…Rae Noona…”

It was here that she was able to get a good look at him now that he was brought into the light. His right cheek was slightly swollen and showing tell-tale signs of bruising. There was a cut over his left brow, leaking a fresh red trail of blood down his cheek that began dripping onto the floor. Hand prints were left on his throat – angry red welts and small scratches from where nails had gotten hold of him.

The worst, though, was the injury around his stomach. The one he was clutching on to so desperately. Raelyn surmised that he’d gotten hit badly in his stomach. Maybe a group assault? She couldn’t be sure. She knew for certain that it wasn’t a gun. In South Korea, unless you were a police officer or military, civilians were prohibited from owning firearms.

That or if you were a hired assassin, but this wasn’t some damn action movie.

Hefting him up as best she could, she ushered him into the living room where she laid him down on the floor. His clothes looked a mess, like he’d been rolling around in the dirt. But his hand was still clutching at his stomach and she could now see the red stain blossoming across his shirt. Raelyn’s lips formed into a thin line and she stood up, making her way toward her bathroom where her emergency first aid kit was located. She then picked up her glasses from her nightstand and put them on. She was going to need her sight completely for this, she could already tell.

When she returned to the living room, she saw Taehyung attempting to sit up and she quickly knelt beside him – her hands on his shoulders and urging him to lay back down. However, as gentle as she was, her face spoke her anger in volumes.

“Lay back down unless you want to make my job harder,” she snapped once she was able to force him back down. “Let me see.”

Taehyung’s brows furrowed but instead of moving his hand, his fingers curled into a fist to grip even tighter into his shirt. Raelyn had to resist the urge to growl at him, instead focusing her attention on opening the first aid kid. She could feel the onset of a migraine right near her left temple.

“Boy, if you don’t move your goddamn hand, I’m going to make you.” She glared at him. “Now let me see.”

He seemed to be considering her words before he finally loosened his grip, his hand sliding off his stomach. She saw the injury and a wave of relief hit her. It was just a stab wound. Lifting his shirt up, Raelyn’s eyes inspected the wound before pressing two of her fingers around the cut. He hissed slightly, but that was to be expected. Thankfully, it wasn’t deep. But he was still going to need stitches.

Her stony expression remained. “I have to disinfect this and it’s going to hurt like hell. You want something to bite on?” She watched him shake his head as she soaked some gauze in rubbing alcohol. “Are you sure? This is your last chance.”

“Woman,” he grunted, half laughing as beads of sweat broke out across the bridge of his nose, “just hurry up and get it over with. I’m dying.”

Raelyn rolled her eyes. “You’re far from heading to your grave, I can assure you.”

Just as he opened his mouth to throw some other kind of smartass comment at him, she pressed the gauze to his cut and watched the bright white cloth immediately change to red. Taehyung yelled, clearly unprepared for her assault. But it served him right. She slept for maybe two hours before he showed up on her doorstep, bleeding all over her entryway. She wiped three more gauze strips over his stomach, moving his hand to cover the last one.

“Put pressure on this.” Raelyn began threading a needle. “Don’t move.”

“W-Wait a minute,” he protested, trying to sit up but she put her hand on his forehead and all but shoved him back down onto the floor. Taehyung coughed, clearly surprised by her strength. “Wow, your bedside manner is terrible, Noona.”

“Shut-up,” she said, her tone icy as she finished threading the needle. “You don’t get to bitch after waking me up in the middle of the night.” Dipping the needle in the rubbing alcohol, her dark eyes lingered on him for a moment. “Move your hand.”

“What?” He blinked up at her in disbelief. “You’re just going to go at it? Just like that?”

Her neutral expression didn’t waver. “You wanna bleed to death?” Needle still in hand, she pointed to her front door. “The door’s right there. Do it out in the hall.”

Taehyung coughed while trying to catch his breath. “You are so mean.”

Now she pointed the needle at his face, right between the eyes, causing his eyes to cross slightly. “Keep it up and I’ll sew your mouth shut.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, he turned his head so he wouldn’t see her work. Satisfied that he was going to keep his mouth shut, Raelyn began stitching up his wound with absolute precision. It only took about fifteen minutes, but it was fifteen minutes of silence she appreciated. Sweat dripped from her brow and she quickly lifted her arm up to swipe at it with the back of her wrist. The stitches needed to be tight so that the scarring would be minimal. The last thing she wanted to hear was Taehyung bitching about how his oh-so-perfect abs had been marred.

Once she was finished, she placed some gauze to the injury and secured it with medical tape. He sat up, taking note of her handiwork, and she set aside the bloody rags and dirty needle to be tossed out. Closing the first aid kit, Raelyn turned to look him square in the eye.

“You’re fixed. Now get out.”

Without waiting to hear him out, she got to her feet and made her way to the kitchen. She needed to wash her hands and probably splash some cold water on her face. Then she was going back to bed and she dared anyone to try and stop her.

Taehyung followed her. “Wait. That’s it?” She didn’t look at him as she threw the bloodied gauze and needle into the trash. “You just sew me up and throw me out?”

She didn’t look at him. “I’ll bill you later.”

Raelyn’s hand went to the faucet to turn it on, but Taehyung’s larger hand encircled her wrist before forcing her to turn around and look up at him. She could see her irritated expression reflected in his eyes as he, too, gave her an equally irate face.

“You’re not even gonna ask what happened?”

“I don’t need to ask. I’m not blind. I know exactly what happened.”

“And you’re just gonna brush it off like it’s nothing?”

“Like I said, I’ll bill you later.”

He frowned and while she appeared unaffected on the outside, Raelyn was infuriated from within. This was what she was talking about the last time she spoke with Taehyung. This was the kind of shit she was trying to keep away from her life. It was one thing to be a nurse and help someone who was bleeding out on an operating table when it was a stranger. It was a completely different issue when it was someone she knew. The life that Hoseok led, the life that the rest of them led, that violent path to claim dominion was something she quickly realized she didn’t want to be part of. It was undue stress. Especially since they were still trying to make a name for themselves.

It was why she broke up with Hoseok two years ago. He told her that it wouldn’t always be like this, but that was a risk she wasn’t willing to take. Her past held enough scars. She didn’t want to add more to it by worrying about whether or not the person she cared for would get cut down at any given moment. And she sure as hell wasn’t about to become a liability for them either. Raelyn wasn’t going to keep Hoseok from the path he wanted to walk, but walking that path beside him was something she didn’t want to do. She wasn’t ready to. Hell, she didn’t think she’d ever be ready.

And now Taehyung showed up, beaten up and bleeding in her personal sanctuary. Was he fucking crazy?!

“Look, Noona –”

“No, you look!” She yanked her hand free from his grasp, using it to smack his chest hard. He took a step back, blinking at her in surprise. “This is the kind of shit that I was trying to avoid the first time around, Kim Taehyung! Do you have any fucking idea what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night and have someone bleeding out on your doorstep?!”

She smacked him again.

“Wondering when the hell someone you care about is going to kick the damn bucket? Huh? Do you?!”

This time she punched his shoulder, her lower lip quivering slightly.

“I lost count how many times Hoseok would come here, beaten up and bleeding all over the goddamn place. And like you, he’d just laugh it off and promise me that things would get better.” Raelyn angrily wiped at her cheeks. “Well you know what? I got tired of waiting for things to get better. I fuckin’ told you this already and you just won’t listen!” Not wanting to look at his worried expression anymore, she buried her face in her hands. “You’re such a fuckin’ asshole.”

Raelyn took several deep breaths, refusing to lose it or cry. She had to stand her ground on this. Because if she didn’t, she was going to have to admit to herself that she cared. She told herself a long time ago after ending things with Hoseok that she valued her freedom more than anything else. Raelyn couldn’t afford to waver. Not now.

Silence seemingly stretched on forever between them and then she felt Taehyung’s arms encircle her in a warm hug. Biting her lower lip, Raelyn had to remind herself not to cry. Instead, she took three deep breaths and lowered her hands, inhaling softly. Taehyung smelled like Curve for Men and rubbing alcohol. She sniffed, collecting herself. Taking a step back, she noticed that Taehyung’s hands were resting at her lower back. Warmth touched her cheeks and she could feel an ache inside of her chest - an ache Raelyn was desperately trying to ignore.

She took another step back, clearing her throat loudly before reaching for a rag on the counter and shoving it into his hand. He looked at it curiously and she pointed to the door. “Clean up that mess you left in the hallway before the cops show up wondering what the hell happened.”

Taehyung grinned, the color coming back to his cheeks. “Can I make you breakfast to make up for everything?”

“I don’t care. Do what you want.” She watched him turn to leave the kitchen and head to the front door. “I’m still billing you later.”

A ghost of a smile touching her lips as Raelyn heard him chuckle just as he closed the door behind him. Once it clicked closed, she sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead. This was going to be problematic. She could tell from a mile away.

Yet there was a part of her that just didn’t have the heart to turn him away. Not this time.

[deviant-hunter-rk800]

Break

—Someone’s broken in. Connor is the first person you think to call. But what will he choose?—

A/N: IM BACK!! So this has been on my mind forever now, and I’m so excited it’s finally done!! Please let me know what you think of it!

Warnings: kinda fluffy Connor, swearing, blood, fighting, angsty

“Goddamnit, Kyle!” You rake a hand through your hair, sighing through gritted teeth. “You’re kidding, right? There’s no damn way-”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he says tiredly, “there’s nothing I can do.”

Clenching your jaw, you hang up, nearly throwing your phone across the room. You shake your head, wanting very badly to hit something. A headache quickly forms as you mutter curses.

“Thought you were an officer, not a sailor,” Gavin taunts, laughing as he props his feet up on his desk.

“Fuck off, Reed,” you snarl, “or so help me I will shut you up myself.”

He rocks back, laughing even harder at your sour mood. Without warning, you grab the nearest object which happens to be a pencil. He jumps as you bring it down towards his shin, barely missing your mark as he crashes to the floor.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his head. He slowly stands up, backing away from you. He’s a good ten yards away before he turns towards the door.

“Don’t get me wrong,” someone says. Turning, you recognize Hank and Connor walking towards you, the older man smiling. “Seeing Gavin nearly get shanked brings me great joy,” he sits on your desk, taking the pencil from your clenched fist, “but you could’ve at least used a pen.”

You sigh, picking at your desk. “Don’t judge,” you mutter, “could’ve gotten lead in his blood. Made ‘im real sick.”

“She does have a point,” Connor agrees. Your lips twitch at his pun. Looking up at him, a timid smile pulls at his lips. “I thought it would help your mood.”

“But you’re just gonna ignore she tried to stab Reed?” Hank shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Oh. Okay.”

Connor blinks, head tilting to the side. “I assumed her actions were a side effect of her fever.”

“Fever?” You and Hank say simultaneously. You don’t break eye contact with Connor as you lean towards the older man. “Jinx. You owe me a coffee.”

Hank’s head turns fast, scowling at the side of your face accusingly. You smile innocently at Connor despite the two holes being bore into your head. His brows furrow at your actions.

“You never get sick,” Hank says, the frown tipping into concern, “and now you’ve got a fever?”

“It’s not severe, Lieutenant,” Connor interrupts, “her body temperature is only at ninety nine point-”

“But you don’t get sick,” he repeats.

“Long story short,” you sigh, leaning back in your chair, “I’ll be staying at a motel for a month or so cause the pipes in my apartment building froze.”

Both Hank and Connor’s brows raise. “Holy shit, kid.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, resting your head in your hand. “Kyle — the shitty landlord? — says he can’t get anybody to come look at it for a couple weeks.”

“Why not ditch the motel?” Hank places a hand on your shoulder. “Stay with us till the shit gets fixed.”

“Hank-“

He rolls his eyes, cutting you off with a wave of his hand. “Oh c’mon, Y/L/N. I’ll even make pancakes.”

You chew your lip, considering his offer. Bunk with an old cop, his dog, and a cute android? It wasn’t the worst idea. It definitely beat getting some disease from mysterious stains in a broke down motel.

“Alright,” you say finally.

Hank smiles, a dimple pressing into his cheek. He ruffles your hair. “Alright.”

The squeal of brakes from a train echoes distantly accompanied by three solid knocks on the door. Sumo pick his head up off your lap, giving a soft woof. Setting your book down on the nightstand, you scratch his ears, earning a couple whumps of his tail against the bed.

“It’s okay, buddy,” you coo sweetly. You manage to free your legs of the blankets as the saint bernard settles again. Using your foot to swing the door open, you tie up your hair, quietly padding down the hallway.

You’ve just rounded the corner when the handle jostles. You hesitate, holding your breath as muffled curses make their way through the door. Goosebumps rise on your skin. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, the scariest one being, That’s not Hank.

The lock clicks. “Fuck,” you snap, your voice a whisper.

The door swings open, it’s handle denting the drywall as two men push through. You lock eyes with the first man, the two of you standing shell shocked for half a breath. The second, the younger looking with a heavy bruise on his cheekbone, slaps the first.

“Fuckin grab her!” He shouts, slamming the door shut. And just like that, the standoff comes to a jagged end, the first guy lunging at you, his cigarette stained teeth bared.

Grabbing his wrist, you twist his arm to the side, driving the heel of your palm into his nose. Losing his balance, he topples backwards. The second man reaches out, but with a rush of fur blurring by, Sumo latches his teeth into his arm.

“Sumo!” Cigarette Teeth seizes your moment of distraction and get you in a headlock, his forearm held tightly against your throat. Bruise punches the dog in his ribs before throwing him off. “No!”

He adrenaline coursing through you hinders rather than help, turning your motions frantic as you scratch and scream; your fingernails leave angry, red welts across his skin. Bruise moves forward. You bring your knees to your chest, a savage growl pushing through gritted teeth as you kick him in his stomach. The loss of his footing sends him to the floor, his face meeting the wood with a loud thump!

“Jesus, fuck,” the man holding you grunts, an undertone of fear taking over his words.

The slamming of your heel on the arch of his foot paired with the whip of your head against his already bleeding nose earns a well deserved howl of pain.

Finally able to slip from his grasp, you kick Cigarette Teeth in his knee, watching him drop to the floor with a loud cry. You grab the nearest object — a book off one of the many shelves — and bring its spine down across his temple. With a groan, he crumples to the ground.

“Sumo,” you murmur hoarsely, chest heaving. You quickly fall to your knees, gingerly running your hands across his fur, turning his head towards you. “Are you okay? Fuck.”

His tail wags lightly, letting out a small whine. You whip your head to see Bruise pushing himself up with a groan. Quickly looking at your options, you stand up.

“C’mon, boy,” you urge, helping the large dog limp towards the bedroom. “Good boy! Just a little more! C’mon!”

Slamming the door, you rip the chair from the desk, lodging it beneath the door’s handle. You grab your phone from the nightstand, your book long forgotten. Sumo growls.

“I know, buddy,” you say weakly, scrolling hurriedly through your contacts. 1-800-CYBERLIFE comes into view and you hit dial. “C’mon, Connor. Pick up! Pick up!”

A rumble from the other side of the door. Sumo, crouching low, bares his teeth. You back away.

Click.

“Connor?!”

“Why is it,” Hank says dully, “that every time we gotta go chase some fuckin dead end, it’s always at some creepy, abandoned, probably haunted building?”

“If it’s any consolation, the likelihood that this building is haunted is very low.” Hank turns slow at Connor’s remark, glaring at the android with a dangerous look in his eye. Connor tilts his head. “Would you prefer rat infested?”

Hank narrows his eyes, grimacing nonetheless. “I fuckin hate you.”

Connor can’t help the faintest shadow of a smile that tugs at his lips. With a shake of his head, Hank’s attention returns to the warehouse, the rusted sign worn beyond recognition. At least to the human eye; there was still enough residue from the paint for the RK800 to confirm the location, despite the many years.

“I know you do, lieutenant.”

A middle finger is thrown over the older mans shoulder. His free hand taking hold of the door handle, he draws his weapon. Dust kicks up at their feet, the squeal of the hinges echoing off the graffitied walls.

Quiet steps are placed carefully amongst broken glass. Hank pulls one hand from the grip of his gun, his pointer finger aimed at the ceiling, drawing a circle into the air. Connor follows the order, scanning the small room with a flick of his eyes. The disturbance of dirt trailing through the door on the opposite wall is highlighted.

“There,” he says quietly, jutting his chin. Anderson takes the lead.

With the ceiling half collapsed on itself, rusted cross beams hang dangerously low, the sunken roof giving way to a darkened sky. The moonlight — one drag from an old cigar away from hazy — makes the room glow. Hank’s hand lays flat, making a sweeping motion towards the right side of the warehouse. Silently, Connor tips his head.

Parting from one another, each officer carefully makes their way through the building, scanning and searching for leads. Connor ducks beneath a shelving unit, one hand resting on the wall as he maneuvers quietly. He’s sure to miss the rebar haphazardly sticking out from the floor. He stands, but not before the remnants of a bloodstain is highlighted by his sensors.

Walsh, Chris

3 days old

Suspect is injured.

His record is littered with aggravated assault, theft, multiple drug charges, and battery. Violence is nothing new to Walsh, and from previous statements, he finds a certain appeal to the chaos. Got caught more than once, but was often let out on good behavior. There’s a soft curse from the other side of the building, Hank’s flashlight piercing the veiled darkness.

Scanners highlighting an otherwise dark corner, Connor finds himself standing in something akin to a home; a rat’s nest composed of unwanted trash, the bed nothing more than stained cardboard with a tattered and worn sweatshirt acting as a blanket. The android — clean and tidy in every sense of the word, with only a few strands of hair out of place — is so very juxtaposed to his surroundings. Crouching, Connor tilts his head left, eyes darting about for a trace of the suspect. There, on a soda can tipped on its side, it’s contents half spilt onto the floor, are smudges of fingerprints.

Walsh, Chris

7 hours old

“He’s been here, lieutenant,” he calls out. But the answer doesn’t come.

Looking over his shoulder, he stands slowly, carefully awaiting a smart comment or a grumble of disapproval, but there’s only the wind, a distant siren from somewhere in the city, and the tremble of a loaded gun.

“Lieutenant?”

Connor listens, sensors heightened to a degree, he isolates Hank’s heartbeat. It’s slow, steady, and it’s not the only one. The second pulse is wild, barely tamed by ragged breathing. Straightening, the android begins to move.

“Chris Walsh.” His voice is loud in the hollow building, smooth and demanding; dangerous on a calculated level. “Detroit Police, show yourself.”

Keeping the wall to his right, Connor silently makes his way towards Anderson, finding him on his side. The android drops, assessing the remnants of ketamine in an abandoned syringe, a needle mark in the man’s arm. A bruise begins to blossom on his neck, the ugly shade of purple dark against the silvery beard.

Connor grits his teeth, a half contained, “Shit,” escaping him. He radios in to the precinct.

Code 243, 11-41. Officer down.

A frustrated howl rips through the air, the ring of a gunshot piercing. “Where the fuck are you?!”

11-99. 1083 Wilson Avenue. Repeat: 11-99.

Ducking away from the unconscious officer, Connor finds the suspect standing in the spotlight of the broken roof, his eyes darting frantically. Given the levels of chemicals in the man’s system, Connor estimates Hank will wake up in two minutes and forty seven seconds. The android is several paces away before speaking.

“Chris-“ the suspect’s eyes find a spot in the darkness, gun pointed at the yellow — now red — ring of light “-put the gun down.”

“I could- I could kill you! Right now!”

The light touches Connor’s skin, and Walsh jumps. The shadows peel back with every slow step. “No,” the android says flatly, “you can’t.”

“I’m the one with a gun!” Connor nods, not furthering his agreement.  The suspect’s hand shakes, a tremor wracking his entire being. “There’s laws! Androids they-“ a shake of his head “-they can’t have weapons!”

“You’re right.” Hesitation. A smooth step closer. “There are laws. Plenty of which you’ve broken.”

Walsh bares his teeth. Knuckles pale against the black steel, he adjusts his grip, uncomfortable with its weight. Connor begins to circle him. Walsh turns in his place, frantic eyes never leaving the android.

Connor, as calm as he is efficient, watches the suspect, easily filing away every flaw. He’s dissecting him from five yards away. The bandage haphazardly wrapped around his bicep, the bloodstain dark, is most noticeable. Chris is ramabling by now — a desperate attempt at  justifying his actions.

“I’m- I’m sorry, okay? I never wanted- he owed me!” His pleas go unheard. “I didn’t have- have a choice!”

Estimated time of awakening for Lt. Anderson: fifty three seconds.

Reinforcements estimated time of arrival: three minutes and fourteen seconds.

Attack: 86% chance of success

Without further thought, Connor lunges forward. The gun goes off, missing it’s mark by inches and with a dramatic clatter, it skids across the floor. Programming takes over his movements; a dog, trained to be unforgivingly vicious. And Chris – poor, poor Chris – was the cat.

A whir of mechanisms within the android urge his movements, ducking beneath a wid swing. In turn, a knee is brought to the fugitive’s stomach, folding him over with a grunt of pain. Locking his jaw, a determined look settles on his face. He wraps his arms around Connor, lifting him off the ground and tackling him into a nearby shelving unit.

The pressure on his biocomponents is unwelcome and earns a groan. Walsh takes hold of the android’s shoulders, spinning him, and driving his head into the corner of the shelf. Blue blood easily spills. Before another blow can befall him, Connor braces himself, pushing back against Walsh’s hold. But he still has his momentum and slams his own nose into the android’s elbow.

He cradles his now broken nose, blood quickly flowing between his fingers. Connor turns. LED still a blaring red, thirium drips from his left brow, the liquid following the shape of his eye socket before rolling over his cheekbone and dripping off his jaw. If he needed to breathe, his chest would be heaving. He makes no effort to fix his crumpled (and now stained) shirt nor straighten his tie. Disheveled but nowhere near distraught, he suddenly fits his surroundings.

Incoming call: Detective Y/L/N.

He answers, hesitating when he hears a hushed yet frantic, “Connor?!”

“Detective?” His mouth doesn’t move, but his voice rings through all the same. You let out a choked breath. “I thought you-“

“I need your help,” you cut him off.

He can’t see you flinch at the pounding of the door, but he can hear the fear in your voice. Hank, from the other side of the room, groans.

“Now may not be the best time, Detective.”

His answer is cold, but Walsh is eyes the door behind him, feet shifting.

“Please! Please!” A fleeting thought occurs to him that’s he’s never seen, let alone heard, you cry. “Two guys broke in, Con. They’re twice-“ your voice cracks “-twice my size and I don’t think I can hold them off.”

Sirens close in around the building. Had the call not been directly wired into his head, he would’ve missed the way your voice died at the end. Walsh’s finger wrap deftly around an iron rod. Raising it above his head, he takes a swing which Connor narrowly misses.

“What is it they want?”

“I don’t know!” Venom taints your tone. “Lemme ask em real quick!”

Chris recovers, bringing the rod over Connor’s throat, forcing him to bend backwards if only slightly.

“Think, Y/N.” The android brings his elbow to the man’s rib cage, but his grip is firm. “How do you get out of this?”

There’s true terror in your voice now. “I don’t know! Connor, please! I need-“

You’re cut off by your own yelp, the door finally giving way, splinters flying. Sumo barks wildly. There’s a thud, the scuffle of feet, and the sounds of a fight.

“Detective?”

Now he’s worried. Hell, he’s scared. Flashlights flood the room and Walsh’s head snaps to the source. Panicking, he drops the rod all together, taking off towards the back corner.

“Y/N?!”

He says it out loud this time, but there’s no response. There’s a loud crack within his own head, followed by a sickening thump of something heavy hitting the carpet.

Time slows – no, it feels like it slows. Damn near coming to a halt as the sight of Walsh’s back, his feet carrying him towards freedom. But there’s also the silence that he so desperately wishes would leave him; an ache to hear your laugh, saying it was all a joke. It doesn’t come, and with one of Sumo’s cries cut short, he knows something is terribly wrong.

And yet, he hesitates.

[X] SAVE HER

[O] CHASE SUSPECT

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[slurpingsoba]

My Object of Affection

Okay, listen up. This was my failed attempt at writing shigadabi fluff, but I feel like it’s a waste to just delete it, so I’m posting it here. There’s virtually no plot but there’s a little bit of action at the end. Oh, and I didn’t feel like writing out a fight scene so it kind of just ends abruptly. Have fun reading?

-

I loved little moments like this. Just laying next to Shigaraki, playing with tufts of his cotton candy-colored hair, swirling pieces of it in between my fingers. It was obvious that he enjoyed it by the way he curled into me on the bed, nuzzling his cheek into the crook of my neck. He mumbled something to himself, content with our closeness, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Moments like these were rare because villains like us were always on the run, but that’s what made them more meaningful. Love could turn a cold, hardened person like me into a sentimentalist, savoring intimacy like how an artist savored the feeling of a paintbrush in their hands. This relationship I had with Shigaraki, so deep and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before, was my biggest accomplishment, my greatest masterpiece.

I had no idea how I ended up falling for the man laying on top of me right now, but I think it had something to do with his eyes. Those ruby red eyes of his were dangerous. They were so brilliant and saturated that I found myself falling into them, enraptured by their perpetuity. From there, I found myself captivated by the rest of him. His scarred yet soft lips, rough and textured skin that felt supple under my fingertips, sharp collarbone and jaw that I found myself kissing more often than not, littering those coveted areas with bruises. Even his calloused hands were beautiful to me. I knew he would never hurt me with them; I trusted him wholeheartedly. Because he was my object of affection. My light in the darkness.

I yawned and wrapped my arm tighter around Shigaraki. A dim glow from the nearest window illuminated the room; from the looks of it, it was early morning. I had business to attend to in the afternoon, and I’m sure Shigaraki did too, but for now, I wanted to spend some quality time with my boyfriend.

I shook Shigaraki lightly, as to not startled him and make him disintegrate me accidentally. With no success, I wasted no time in gently pinching his cheek. His eyes shot open.

“Dabi…” he whined. He was extra cute when he was sleepy.

“Morning babe.” I kissed his cheek.

“...5 more minuuuutes.” Shigaraki grumbled, squirming on top of me as to make himself more comfortable, “I need my beauty sleep.”

“You’re beautiful enough.”

“You always say that even though it’s not true.” A pout appeared on his lips. I chuckled at his sudden bout of childishness.

“Fuck yeah it’s true. Have you ever looked in the mirror?”

“I tend to avoid them, actually,” Shigaraki said, trailing off at the end of his sentence.

His self-esteem was a mess, but I tried to boost his confidence by showering him with compliments often. Although his role as leader of the league had improved his confidence levels a bit, he still doubted himself from time to time. It made my heart ache, how he sometimes failed to recognize how incredible he was.

I sat up on the bed, leaning against the bed frame. Shigaraki moved off of me, his movements resembling a cat’s as he positioned himself in front of me on the bed. I stared at him, taking in his features and storing them into my memory. I never wanted to forget about the wrinkles under his eyes, the curve of his nose, or the little birthmark under his chin. I sighed to myself, completely and unabashedly infatuated with Shigaraki.

“Dabi, you awake?” He waved a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Dabi…”

“Huh?”

“You checked out on me, silly.”

“I was just admiring you.”

“Again? Damn, you must really like me.” He placed a chaste kiss to my lips.

“I do if you couldn’t already tell.”

—

Shigaraki’s phone started ringing from the nearby nightstand. He picked it up with two fingers, his knuckles brushing the surface of his beloved hand, father, as he looked at the screen to see who was calling. It was Mr. Compress.

“Hello?” Shigaraki said, taking the call, “isn’t it a bit early for you to be calling, Compress?”

I began to massage Shigaraki’s shoulders when he turned away from me. He made a motion with his hands for me to stop as if I was distracting him. I wrapped my arms loosely around his neck instead.

Shigaraki tensed up.

“They’ve found out our central base’s location? But that’s where I am right now.”

My eyes widened. Most of the league members had rooms in the central base, including Shigaraki. If what Mr. Compress was saying was true, it was only a matter of time before…

Bullets rained through the window, barely missing the both of us. I instinctively put myself between Shigaraki and the window, ready to use myself as a shield in case any more bullets flew in. I wouldn’t let Shigaraki get hurt, no matter what.

“Dabi, we have to get out of here!”

Shigaraki got off the bed and ran towards his nearest pair of shoes, putting them on rapidly. I did the same, grabbing Shigaraki’s trench coat from his coat rack and handing it to him. I put on mine and took inventory of the contents in my pockets. I had a gum wrapper, loose change, and a pack of cigarettes. None of those items would help us in our current predicament, sadly.

I walked towards the door and opened it, pushing Shigaraki through. He seemed a bit hesitant to leave, however. It was as if he were forgetting something.

“Father!” He exclaimed, sprinting towards the hand on the nightstand. Another round of bullets tore through the room before Shigaraki even reached the table. I rushed towards him, grabbing him and pulling him out of the room. I noticed a red welt on Shigaraki’s face. A bullet must’ve grazed him.

“Shit, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” He said, wiping his bloodstained cheek with his hand, “it’s not like I haven’t been shot before.”

“Come on,” I said, holding onto Shigaraki’s forearm. “We gotta go somewhere safe.”

The sound of gunshots grew louder as we moved further down the halls of the base. We ran together, my grip on Shigaraki growing stronger as we dodged more attacks.

Then, Shigaraki pulled me into a corner. I was confused, to say the least.

“Listen to me, there’s only one nearby exit, and it’s probably where the shooters are entering from.” Shigaraki was panting slightly, and his cheek was still bleeding. I took his face into my hands and cradled it, rubbing my thumb over his cut.

“I know, and I understand what you’re saying.”

“This could be it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You know I’m just trying to be realistic.” Shigaraki sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He was anxious. So was I.

“God, I can’t believe I had to leave father behind,” Shigaraki continued. “But I’d rather have you than him.”

He took a couple steps towards me, forcing my back against the nearest wall. My breath hitched, finding myself falling into the intensity of his eyes again when he looked at me.

“I love you,” Shigaraki said, inching closer to me and closing the gap between us. The kiss felt so pure and unbridled that I almost forgot that this kiss could be our last. That thought alone, a life without Shigaraki, was too much to bear. It brought a single tear to my eye.

“I love you too, and don’t you forget that.”

“I know you do.” He replied, grinning up at me. His smile never ceased to fill me with delight.

As the world came crashing down around us, I knew that even death couldn’t tear us apart. Because my love for Shigaraki was potent and untouchable. And we were intangible, lovers too wrapped up in ourselves to face the end. But if I were to die today, being able to die by Shigaraki’s side would be a bittersweet joy, not a tragedy.

[diabolicallyinlove]

Eternally Human (Chapter 2)

     You can find all my other works here!

        My arms burned from being pulled back at the uncomfortable angle that Reiji had set. The air felt cooler against my skin that normal. That tea he’d made had heightened my senses. Great. I’d never had this before. Reiji threatened time after time but had never followed through. It had to have been the lack of sleep and irritation of Yui being here that pushed him over the edge.

��             Reiji opened the top drawer of his dressed and pulled out his favorite whip, the bullwhip. I’d only had the displeasure of being at the receiving end of it a handful of times. He saved it for special occasions. Apparently, this qualified. He kept it curled in his hand as he strode back over to me.

              “Tell me why I’m taking time out of my busy schedule to do this,” He said, setting the whip on the top of the chair. He unbuttoned the blazar and laid it carefully over the arm of the chair. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he watched me, expectant of an answer.

              I am so fucked. “I didn’t uphold my responsibilities to prepare the prospective brides bedroom as it was expected of me,” I answered.

              Finally, he uncoiled the whip, holding it by the handle. The tip sliding across the floor with each step he took closer to me. The smirk on his face told me that I’d done one thing right. With a nod, Reiji replied, “I’ll accept that answer. How many lashes do you think you deserve?”

              Was that a trick question? “However many you deem appropriate?” It came out more as a question than a statement. He’d caught me off guard with it.

              The whip cracked, striking my thigh unexpectedly. I bit my tongue hard. “That was an avoidance of my question. I’ll decide for you then.”

              In the back of my mind, I knew whatever I’d chosen would have never been sufficient for him, but now I wished that I’d said something. Having no idea how many times he’d whip me, I tried to brace myself for the second strike. My thighs stung again as the whip cut into my skin this time. It was harder, making me cry out.

              “Quiet,” Reiji demanded, raising the whip again and flicking it around the back of my thighs, just under my butt.

              I raised up onto my tiptoes, the rope reminding me that I had nowhere to go. The books shifted behind me. With no time to recover, four quick, precise lashes hit my stomach. I clenched my teeth, water filling my eyes as I rocked back onto my heels.

              Reiji was toying with me now. His face remained unfazed by my pain but I knew he was enjoying it. Each time, he placed the whip in a new spot, causing more red marks and welts to appear. His harsh strength causing some to bleed.

              I twisted my arms, staying conscious of the books that threatened to fall off the shelf behind me. No escape to this pain in sight. I’d give up trying to keep quiet. Each lash hurt worse than the last. I cracked my eyes open when he stopped.

              “Three more. Not a sound or we’ll be here till you can’t stand. Where do you want them?” Reiji asked.

              I panted as I tried to process what he’d just said. My mind was foggy. Nowhere. I’d had enough. My legs were shaking so bad, I worried that soon my arms would be the only thing holding me up. But I had to answer. “Stomach,” I half whispered, my mouth dry.

              “Look at me and count.” Reiji lifted the whip, making sure that I was watching. The whip came down at an unreal speed.

              But I bit my tongue. “One.”

              Again, he took his time. He looked me over, either giving me time to rest or wanting the anticipation to raise my fear. The latter being what I felt.

              “Two.”

              The last came in quick recession. “Three.” I’d bit my tongue so hard that I had brought blood. I didn’t even have time to take a breath before Reiji had dropped the whip and had me up against the bookcase, his lips on mine.

              The slack on my arms gave little comfort to soothe the pain on my body. Each groan or twitch of pain only proved the Reiji enjoyed this. He continued to press his hips against mine while running his hands over the welts, making me groan into his lips.

              Over my time here, I’d learned that Reiji didn’t care for sex like Laito or any of the brothers, really. He rarely even spoke to me unless he had a job for me or wanted blood. But he wanted it now.

              “Your skin bruises so lovely,” Reiji commented, biting my shoulder. He ran his hand over the fabric between my legs. “For punishment, you seem to be enjoying this. I shouldn’t allow you to have it.”

              Reiji untucked his white shirt before letting his pants drop and ripping my underwear off. He didn’t warn me before he pushed into me, not taking his time. This was so unlike him… like he wanted to forget reason.

              My eyes rolled back none the less when he lifted my legs to get a better angle. His fangs sunk into my neck again, causing me to moan. “Oh, god.”

              “This once I’ll allow you to enjoy this too.” Reiji said, biting me for a third time. He drank my blood and kept his fast pace. He still felt the welts on my thighs, soaking up my pain. Shu had told me that Reiji could be considered a masochist but I’d never believed it until the first time he whipped me.

              As usual, he didn’t speak to me again or slow until he was finished. When he set my legs down to untie me, I had to lean against the bookcase to stay standing. Reiji was gone, leaving me to change. At least one thing remained the same: Sex with a vampire was never dull, but it did leave me feeling used. Especially since I know that’s all it is.

              Sorting myself out, I slowly got dressed. Every movement shot pain through my body. School would be dreadful. I’d like to skip but Reiji would never allow it. My skirt tightly pressed against the welts on my hips and stomach. With shaking hands, I tried to button my top again and again but failed every time.

              Reiji appeared in front of me, pushing my hands aside to do it himself. “You have made us unacceptably late for our departure for school this evening,” he said, straightening my bow.

              Like this was my fault. He was the one who decided to screw me for half an hour. Instead, I said, “I’m ready.”

              Reiji opened the door for me after I struggled to get my backpack on. The two of was walked soundlessly through the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door to where the limo waited. I ducked inside, opting to sit between Shu and Kanato… far away from Reiji.

              There was no comfortable way to sit down. Any adjustment made it worse. Yui stared at my legs where my skirt had come up. Horror crossed her features. I jerked the material down, embarrassed but angry. “Mind your own business.”

              “Should we ask her, Teddy?” Kanato said from beside me.  He reached down to touch one of the welts. “Does it hurt really bad? Teddy wants to know.”

              “Kanato, leave her be,” Reiji said without looking up from his book.

              Kanato’s eyes met mine and he gave me a disappointed look. I forced myself to smile and said, “Later, okay?” Thankfully, he dropped the subject. I went back to trying to uncover a way to sit comfortably. It wasn’t until Shu put his hand on my knee that I realized my fidgeting was bother him.

              Not wanting to make him mad, I stilled, biting my tongue to keep my mind off it. Ayato spoke up. “A penny for your thoughts, Pancake. What’s on your mind? Do you dare defy yours truly or will you finally learn to submit, like Kaori? Huh, Pancake?”

              Yui looked utterly annoyed at Ayato’s nickname. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop calling me pancake. I have a name and it’s Yui Komori. So, don’t call me pancake.”

              “Shut your mouth. Your opinion is irrelevant to me so I’ll call you whatever I like. So, deal, Pancake.” Ayato started to lean down to bite Yui but Reiji closed his book in protest.

              “Ayato, how many times must I tell you, you will restrict such activities to your private room,” Reiji chastised.

              Yui’s eyes fell on me. “Kaori… I…”

              I rolled my eyes and cut her off with a scoff. “Don’t pretend like we’re friends,” I muttered and attempted to cross my legs. God that drink Reiji gave me still had my nerves racing.

              The look of hurt crossed her face. Not that I cared. Like Reiji went on to say, she was their prey. Getting involved with her would be stupid. I would end up hurt. Besides, she’s HIS daughter. I couldn’t forgive that, even if they weren’t blood.

              At the school, I had to wait around for Reiji to explain to Yui that she shouldn’t do anything stupid. My legs hurt from standing, but I really wasn’t looking forward to sitting in class either. Reiji instructed me to watcher after her. I wanted to roll my eyes but I didn’t.

              “Could we stop by a restroom on the way?” Yui asked, carrying her satchel with both hands.

              “Sure, I guess,” I answered and led her down to the nearest bathroom. The thought to leave her here crossed my mind but when I’d locked myself in a stall, the welts on my body shoved it away. No way did I want another whipping from Reiji and he’d have no problem giving me another one.

              “Um, Kaori? Are you alright?” Yui knocked on the stall door. I’d lost track of time.

              I straightened myself out before jerking the stall door open. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Fixing my hair in the mirror, I could see her staring at the floor as she contemplated how to speak.

              “It’s just… the marks…on your thighs…”

              “They’re from a bull whip. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up and do what you’re told,” I said. That might seem like advice but really I didn’t want to get in any more trouble tonight. If I seemed helpful, maybe I’d be off Reiji’s radar for a while.

              With that, I walked out of the bathroom. Yui followed still asking questions. Annoyed, I gave short, vague answers. I wasn’t her walking vampire encyclopedia. No one helped me learn to survive with them. Why should I help her?

              I left her standing at the entrance of her classroom to go to my own. Barely making it on time, I slid into my seat at the back of the class. This was my free period. All I had to do was show up for attendance and announcements before I could go to the music room to see Shu.

              The teacher came in late and I continued to get more fidgety in my seat. So much so, that I began to draw unwanted attention. It wasn’t a secret that Shu and I were practically dating at this school. I couldn’t imagine what this behavior looked like. In the moment, it didn’t outweigh the pain that I felt.

              Finally, the teacher dismissed us and I almost ran to the music room. The lights were off so I closed the door, clicking the lock. I’d navigated this room in the dark so many times that I knew the layout by heart. The lamp above the cozy section flickered on. There were two chairs across from each other and a large couch that Shu was currently stretched out on with his eyes closed.

              “I’d appreciate it if you’d feel a little sorry for me,” I said, straddling his hips so that I could fall into the space between him and the couch cushions.

              Shu caught my wrists. “Why should I?” His blue eyes met my mint green ones.

              “Because I’m hurt.”

              Shu let go. “Let me see.”

              I shrugged my jacket off and unbuttoned my top, tossing it to the floor. The cold air felt good on the heated parts of my skin. The flash of anger that crossed his face when he looked over the damage Reiji had done was worse than I thought it would be. Bruises had started to come up in shades of blue, yellow, and purple.

              “Dammit, Reiji,” Shu muttered and flipped us over. He pulled my skirt off and growled. This side of Shu rarely showed… his possessive side. When it came to the sacrificial brides, he couldn’t be bothered. But me?

              “Shu, it’s alright—” I ran my hand through his hair.

              “No. I allow them to have you but this? You belong to me and this is unacceptable.”

              The thought crossed my mind that Reiji did this to get at Shu. It was usually hard for people to tell what emotions Shu had but I knew he was livid. He bit down into the skin right below my ear. Moving on, he bit my neck and then my shoulder… marking me. Shu growled as he thought about where to bite me next. “You are mine.”

[bevendre]

I had a stray thought regarding gnolls last night that kind of spiraled out of control, as such things do.  Look below for a thing if you’re so inclined and not opposed to some TF and TG themes.

20 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

 My companions and I set out for Ahredel early in the day, our wagons full with curious mechanical trinkets, finely carved stonework and masterworks of wood and metal.  As always, it pains me to see the wagons so lightly stocked, but such is the way of trade along the Pathways.  We’ll unload without issue in Ahredel and be full to bursting with fresh goods again within a fortnight, though whether we turn back to Dehrvhat or around the Spine to Zephyrdel is up in the air still.

               With the word of danger on the roads and the trouble that rode into Dehrvhat not a week past I’m a little wary for the trip north. A couple swords and a bowman do not a proper guard make anymore.  I still say that we should have waited another day or two for the group who helped the captain from Ahredel.  I understand the need to move, but still, I’d rather miss our window and arrive safely than end up little more than a bleached skull among the sands.  Luckily there have been no sightings of any danger so far, and we’ve been riding for most of the day already.  With luck, we’ll see Ahredel’s walls within the week.

 21 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 The night came and went without issue, though one of the sellswords says he saw something or other nearby.  He didn’t get a clear look at whatever it was, and his companions are adamant that he has a history of seeing mirages and spirits. Still, I’m concerned.  With luck it was just some stray creature, or better yet nothing at all.  I offered a prayer to Vuriin early today, and may make an offering of part of my midday meal to Qatatan just in case.

               I take back any complaints I may have had about the wagons not being full of goods.  It’s much more comfortable stealing a short rest in the bed of a wagon than trying to sleep in the saddle, and it’s allowed most of the horses to remain at least partially rested through the day.  Even those drawing the wagons seem happy to not have as much weight behind them.  Midday approaches, and already we’re further than I had anticipated.  Should the weather hold we may reach Ahredel well ahead of schedule.  That in itself is a weight off my shoulders.

 23 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 I knew we should have waited.  I knew three men wouldn’t be enough.  One of them bolted at the first sign of trouble, and another turned coward as soon as he took an arrow.  They’re not worth the gold we spent on them.  I’m going to miss the horses more though, they were the first to be targeted.  For savages the creatures that have taken us are deceptively clever.  That they seem near as strong as the horses they slaughtered is concerning though.

               The goods from Dehrvhat are likely smashed and scattered to the winds by now, the savage beasts seemed unconcerned with even the finest of pieces after they’d slaughtered our escort.  They ran down the bowman and cut the coward’s throat, but they ate the other alive.  I don’t know if I should pity or envy the men we hired.  My companions and I have been piled into our wagons, most of us bound. The savage beast-men seem to have taken some interest in me though, and have left my hands free.  They seem particularly fascinated with my journal, and are watching me intently even now.  I don’t know if they can read, or even speak for that matter, I’ve not caught a one of them using a word.

               We’ve been moving almost nonstop since they took us yesterday.  It’s a wonder that these creatures are as tenacious as they seem to be.  I know one of them was injured rather badly during the battle, but seems to be managing without complaint.  I’ve seen it licking the wound, but otherwise it doesn’t seem phased by it.  They all seem content with eating while they walk, though I must say that their diet is appalling.  Those men did not deserve this.

25 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 We reached what I can only assume is their camp or home.  Whatever it is, there are many more of these creatures, and I think I’m starting to find some differences between the members.  The leader of the group that took us captive is certainly larger, and its fur is significantly thicker and more matted than most of the others.  One thing I’m certain about though, nearly all of them are male.  They’re filthy as well.  I’ve not seen any of the creatures bathing with water or sand, and the ones who have been with us are still caked with viscera.

               We’ve been left in some form of hide structure, I can’t in good faith call it leather.  We’ve all been tied to a central pole, and there are never fewer than two of the creatures watching us.  I can hear them yipping and yapping inanely while I’m writing now.  The entire camp is a cacophony of yips and barks, it’s almost maddening.  The grumbling in my stomach isn’t helping either, they’ve not fed us since they took us captive.

 26 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 I saw what I’m fairly certain is a female of the species last night shortly after drying my quill.  The seems to be the only one in the group, at least that I know of, and is surprisingly larger than even the leader of the group that took us. None of these creatures wear much, but she was clothed shockingly conservatively, though it did little to hide anything.  She looked over each of us one by one, and paid special attention to me.  She was pointed to my journal and skimmed through it with the closest thing to understanding that I’ve seen from these creatures, and was very animated in her yipping and growling.  She wouldn’t leave until I started writing again, just a few notes and some rough drawings were enough.

               She took Devin with her when she left.  I’ve not seen him since, but they’ve provided some food.  I fear what it most likely is, but I’m too hungry to care at this point.  Devin, if it is you, I’m so sorry.

 30 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 It’s festival day, I’m almost positive of it. I might be off by a day or two. It’s hard to tell.  The creatures have been starving us again, though Cedric and Iden have both been taken. I can only assume they’ve been killed or eaten, and I desperately hope it was quick.  They were good men.

               I’ve busied myself with taking notes on the creatures.  They are crude, but clever and seem to worship something, though I’m not sure what. I’ve seen the shadows of them dancing outside the tent at night.  The smallest among them is easily taller than I am, and wiry, but strong.  I don’t doubt that he could break me with ease if he was given the order.  The female looks to be the head of the tribe, all the others defer to her, even the large male.

               At last, it looks like it’s time for another meal. I pray that my friends had peaceful ends, and I pray that the meat these creatures are offering us isn’t them, but I’m almost dizzy with hunger.  Cedric, Iden, forgive me.

 7 Shemhein, 809 P.S.

                 Meals are coming more often, thankfully, though our numbers are beginning to dwindle more quickly now. It’s just me and a couple others.  They’ve been looking at me strangely the past couple days, though I don’t know if it’s from concern or jealousy.  I’m the first one fed, and my portions are larger.  This diet is the last thing that I would have asked for in any other circumstance, but strangely I don’t mind it anymore.  It keeps hunger from gnawing at my belly, that’s the important part.

               I fear it’s having some side effects, however. I’ve had trouble sleeping the last couple of nights, bad dreams, though I can’t recall them once I’ve woken. I’ve noticed some swelling in my hands as well which has made writing marginally more difficult.  I wish I could have some form of looking glass as well, it’s been some time since I last shaved, and my face is beginning to itch.

 10 Shemhein, 809 P.S.

                 There’s definitely something happening to me.  I fear I’m beginning to lose my mind.  The dreams are starting to bleed into day, and there’s always this low snarl in the back of my mind.  I feel like I’m starving too, though it can’t have been more than a couple hours since I last ate.  I find myself craving food, meat, more and more.  The last meal I had I could hardly get through without demanding more, and they’d hardly cooked it!  This seemed to please the guards who were there, and the female.  She’s taken to watching me eat as avidly as she’s watched me write.

               There’s definite swelling in my hands and feet, and I’ve noticed some strange bruising on my fingertips and palms.  I’m stiff too, and there’s a constant ache low in my back.  Strangely, there’s been a disturbing swelling in my crotch, but there’s little sensation. I’m ill, without question, though the creatures seem almost excited about it.

               I’d almost forgotten, I’m the last one left. Tiernay looked half dead when they took him away.  Poor bastard. Hopefully it means the next meal will be soon.

 18 Shemhein, 809 P.S.

                 Good news, I’m not ill it seems. Unfortunately the bad news is far far worse than any sickness I could have.  I’m changing.  These creatures know, they have known, they must have known.  My clothes have been taken away and I’ve had a little time to be reacquainted with my body.  There’s a lot more hair on my chest and arms than I remember and it’s mostly lighter than my usual hair, though I can’t help but notice spots.  Spots like them.  There are a couple of welts on my chest that almost look like bug bites, but I can feel them, and they’re sensitive.  There’s been a growing tightness in my crotch, and I’m a little concerned by how often I’m erect.  The pain in my back makes sense now, I’ve got a tail.  It’s only about an inch long and mostly bare still, but it’s a tail!

               The female seems very excited by the changes I’m experiencing, and is very forward with inspecting them.  I think her fascination is the only reason why I’m still allowed to write like this.  It hurts to move.  Not significantly, but it does.  I ache all over now.

 30 Shemhein, 809

                 My face is in agony.  It’s been pressing out for days.  It hurts to open my mouth, but I’m so hungry!  The female has been feeding me herself, and she’s always smiling. She unbound me and let me stand for the first time in weeks?  Balance is weird, my feet are different.  The tail helps some.  Writing’s difficult since my fingers are thicker now.  More like paws.  The claws make gripping a meal easier though.  Something disturbing happened this morning.  I lost one of my balls.  My scrotum’s been painfully tight against my crotch for days, but there’s only one ball in there now.  There’s been swelling in my chest too.  I’m scared, but the female doesn’t seem concerned.

               I’m starting to figure out their language, or at least meaning.  The snarls in the dreams have been teaching me.  It sounds weird, I know, but they have.

   16 Nurlheig, 809

                 Ulra says I’m ready to leave the tent.  My coat is filling out, and my nose is tingly. Jaw still aches sometimes, but feeding helps.  Ulra helped my other ball migrate inside.  There are so many smells outside the tent, and It’s strange feeling wet there now.  I hadn’t realized how big I’d gotten.  Ulra’s still taller, but now I’m bigger than most of the males.

               The dream voice speaks to me all the time now. He has made things easier.  I feel like I’m forgetting things more easily, but I’m strangely calm about it.

 1 Eirnir, 810

               Ulra says I’m home.  I feel home.  I shouldn’t feel home.  Ulra and males make it easier.  Males bring food whenever I ask.  I’m big. Big as Ulra.  Strong.

               Master’s voice fills my dreams.  Ulra asks if I can hear him.  She was happy when I said yes

 23, 810

                 Words fading.  Hard to think straight.  Males keep calling in night.  They smell me.  I smell them. So warm.  Cock is hard all times, no hole.  Only wet hole now.  Breasts tender.  Hungry. Both holes hungry.

               Master’s voice proud.  Ulra proud.  Says soon be bride for Master. Makes warm worse.

[kuromantic]

Whumptober: Self-Sacrifice

This centres around Goshiki and Ushijima! 

“I won’t do it again! I- I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Scream after scream echoed in the empty classroom, followed by a crack of solid hitting solid. The Shiratorizawa dorm students anxiously waited for the smacks and cries of pain to stop, but the punishment was going on for an unnervingly long amount of time. They bit their lips, chewed on their nails and tapped their foot to distract themselves from the anger and sympathy that twisted their guts.

“The kid won’t be able to write for a week, at this stage.” Tendou murmured worriedly. It was a rite of passage that every child in the school had to go through at some stage, but even then, it had been a while since he’d seen something so merciless. The last time someone had received so many lashings, it was because they had shattered the glass panes in the dormitories.

Semi rubbed his temples, longing for the child to come out of the room already. “How many canings has it been? I’ve lost count after the first fifty. He’s been in there for so long.” He kept pacing around the room, sitting down on the bed briefly to stretch his legs, only to get back up and repeat the steps all over again.

“No point counting. Doubt the kiddo knows, either.” Tendou had stolen ice packs from the nurse’s office for the boy when his punishment was over, but he could still hear him whimpering weakly while receiving another round of merciless flaying. Tendou had often faced punishment when he was the same age as the boy, and the only thing he remembered was pain and resentment. “What matters is that he’s hurting, and he probably doesn’t deserve it.”

“He is only eight years old, or so I recall.” Ushijima spoke up, joining the worried students’ hushed conversation. “What did he do to receive such a punishment?”

Shirabu hopped onto the bed, laying his head on Semi’s lap. “He’s a rich kid,” he explained, and a hum came from the third years. “Well, was a rich kid. His parents died, some say they were killed. But obviously, the kid doesn’t understand life outside his own little secluded world just yet.”

“So that’s why he asked about breakfast in bed.” Yamagata nodded, connecting the dots together. “He probably said something implying that, then. The teachers hate rich kids.” They all knew the boy wasn’t trying to spite the teacher, or annoy them on purpose. He was just confused. His parents being taken from him in a matter of minutes, and getting thrown into an environment that was less than welcoming.

“Is he okay?” Kawanishi peered through the crack of the door, that was supposed to be shut all the way. “I can’t really see anything from here, except for the cane moving. How long is this even gonna last?” He moved away and shut the door, realising that there was no point in trying to spy on the unfortunate child.

“Kawanishi and Shirabu, get into bed. If either of you are seen up right now, they can punish you.” Reon ushered the two younger students into their beds, pulling their covers up to their necks. Bedtimes depended on age; half nine for eight years and under, half ten for nine to thirteen. The older ones could have a lamp on until midnight, but they were rarely punished for staying up past that. Their reactions weren’t entertaining for them. The children were hit the most often, because they would scream and cry.

The clock’s hands moved towards ten minutes to eleven, and the noises finally stopped. Uneven footsteps made their way to Shiratorizawa dorm, and all of the students swallowed thickly, waiting for the sight that would greet their eyes. The door opened with a click, and the oldest students lifted themselves off the bed to make their way towards the boy.

An audible “Shit,” escaped Tendou’s lips as he lay his eyes on the terrified boy. His face was a mess of tears and snot, and blood had seeped into his sleeves from where he had been struck repeatedly. “He’s so hurt, what do we do?” The boy was shivering violently, still muttering apologies unstoppably.

“Hey, you’re Goshiki Tsutomu, right?” Reon crouched down to Goshiki’s level, slowly extending a hand towards him. Goshiki let out a short gasp, curling away from Reon. “We won’t hurt you, I promise. Can you show me your arms?” Goshiki was apprehensive, but unsure. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. He winced as he pulled back his sleeves, skin sticking to the fabric with blood. His arms were covered in welts, in every grotesque colour imaginable. The skin was struck so hard that it broke and started to bleed.

Tendou pressed an ice pack to his arms and Goshiki winced, letting out a pained hiss. “Those bastards. He didn’t deserve any of this.” Tendou was fuming, stroking Goshiki’s hair as he struggled to hold back his tears. His bowl cut was disheveled, and his eyes were puffy from bawling uncontrollably. “Hey, Tsutomu. You’re gonna be okay. It wasn’t your fault, they’re just horrible people.”

“Why,” Goshiki sobbed, nestling in Tendou’s lap, “Then why did they hurt me so much?” The eight-year-old’s life had been thrusted into hell from the moment his parents died. The transition between being treated like a little treasure and a horrible vermin was too much for him, and it had severely impacted his mental wellbeing. “I just wanted a goodnight kiss.”

Goshiki slept in Tendou’s bed, whimpering and squirming as he tried to find a position that didn’t leave him crying out in agony. No matter how many times Tendou shushed him gently and whispered to him, that he was safe with them, Goshiki didn’t stop panicking and crying that they would get him again and hit him until his arms had no skin left on them.

The next morning, Ushijima woke up to Goshiki attempting to lift himself up with his injured arms, his lips pressed into a tight frown. After a few futile attempts, he seemingly gave up and swung his body up after gathering momentum and using his legs to push himself up. The boy wasn’t sobbing anymore, but his eyes were filled with unexpressed pain as he undid the buttons of his clothes and put on his uniform.

“Come on, let’s get breakfast. I’m starving!”

Yamagata led the way for the students to get their morning meal, ushering the young ones to line up in an orderly manner as they received their food in the hall. It wasn’t anything delicious, and mainly consisted of thin rice gruel and picked radish. He sat down beside Semi, playing with his watered-down gruel before reluctantly starting to eat the tasteless food.

Goshiki’s wrist trembled continuously as he attempted to spoon the gruel into his mouth. With each attempt to move his arm up, he winced and lowered it again. With a defeated sigh, he turned to Semi’s and tapped his side. “Um, can you help me eat?” He muttered, looking around for anyone that could punish him. “I can’t lift my arm.”

Semi’s gaze shifted to Goshiki’s arms, bruised and painful beneath the sleeves. “Sure. You can’t help that you’re hurt.” He moved beside the boy, scooping up some rice and bringing it to his mouth. Goshiki eagerly devoured the thin gruel, gratified to get something to eat. He was hungry and desperate, and was willing to eat anything.

“Thank you very much.” Goshiki bowed his head. The shine had returned to his eyes, and he would have some of the energy an eight-year-old needed to function throughout the day. The breakfast wasn’t filling, but it was much better than being starved.

When Goshiki stumbled back into the dormitory after the school hours, everyone could instantly tell that something was wrong. He was sniffling in a way that gave away the fact that he had just been crying. He backed up against the bed, slumping down and resting his forehead on his knees.

“Tsutomu~?” Tendou tapped Goshiki’s shoulder gently, approaching him with an air of friendliness. “Hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”

Goshiki twitched, lifting his head up to see Tendou. “They slammed my head into the blackboard,” he whispered, anxious that somebody would hear him and punish him again. “I couldn’t write properly, and my handwriting was too messy.” He didn’t talk above a hiss, as if the walls had ears and the ceilings had eyes.

“They make me sick. That’s so horrible.” Tendou stroked Goshiki’s cheek, cursing whoever hurt the sensitive child. He may have been called a monster by his teachers and classmates, but the real monsters were the ones who beat children in their single digits and blamed them for expressing pain and emotion.

“My mama told me that I was a good kid,” Goshiki said in a hushed voice, as if he was telling a forbidden secret to Tendou. “But they told me I was hit because I was a bad kid. Am I really a bad kid, after all? Do they think I did something terrible? Am I not allowed to have hugs and kisses anymore?”

Tendou wrapped his arms around Goshiki’s body, lifting him up and sitting him down on his thighs. “If you want a hug or a kiss, just ask anyone in this room. But never anyone else, especially the adults, got that?” Goshiki nodded, and Tendou ruffled his bowl cut. “Try not to show pain or sadness in front of them. They’re horrible people, and they might try to do bad things, even if you did nothing wrong.”

“But… But my parents told me I should always express myself. Is that wrong too?” Goshiki murmured fearfully, and Tendou let out a defeated sigh. “What am I meant to do? I don’t understand. I don’t understand why.”

Nobody could say anything against him. Besides being slightly sheltered, Goshiki had been given almost perfect parenting and discipline. Having to undo that just to make him fit into an unpleasant mould was something none of them wanted to do. But they knew Goshiki wouldn’t survive with the same mentality he had in his former home.

Just as Tendou and the others thought Goshiki had adjusted well enough to stop being caned, disaster struck. Goshiki hadn’t been feeling well that day, swaying on his feet as he walked and almost choking while trying to muffle his chesty coughs. Semi and Reon had urged him to rest, but couldn’t force him to stay in bed. There was always the possibility of teachers feeling like punishing ill students.

“Now, come on. Classes are over. Let’s get you to bed.”

Tendou and Kawanishi held Goshiki’s warm hands as they ushered him back to the Shiratorizawa dorm, making sure that he didn’t topple over to one side. “Bed..?” Goshiki mumbled deliriously. “I won’t- I won’t be punished?”

“No, you won’t.”

Kawanishi let go of Goshiki’s hand for a split second to touch his forehead, but the child started to walk towards the window, his eyes fixated on a point in the wall. “Mama? You- you’re here?” His arms waved around frantically, attempting to grasp the figure of his mother that was no more. “Mama?”

“He’s completely delirious,” Tendou rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, gesturing for Kawanishi to help him pick Goshiki up. But they were too late. When Goshiki’s hand knocked against a lone, flowerless vase, Tendou and Kawanishi realised that there was no saving it.

A sharp crash echoed, and Goshiki pulled back from the shattered remains of the glass in pure mortification. “I broke it,” his voice barely above a whisper, he started shaking violently as he realised exactly what he had done. “Oh no. No, no, no.” The students from his dorm started gathering in the hallway to see what had caused the noise, and other pupils joined them shortly after.

“Please don’t tell me my assumptions are right.” Semi’s question was met with a grim nod from Tendou. “What do we do? He’s going to really have it this time, if they find out it was him.” Although it was unclear whether Semi’s words reached Goshiki’s ears, the boy started to panic even worse, working himself up to the point of hyperventilation.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, don’t hit me anymore! Please!” Goshiki’s eyes started to lose its spark, tears glistening on his fever-flushed cheeks. His breathing came in panicked gasps, slowly constricting his throat. “I don’t want to be hurt again! I’ll be good!”

“Hey, Tsutomu, it’s me. Look at me, okay?” Tendou approached Goshiki carefully, his hand brushing against his arm. The innocent touch caused Goshiki to scream and scuttle away, although not much distance was between them as the fever slowed him down. Before Tendou could come any closer, Goshiki let out a terrified hiccup, bringing up a mess of sick down his front and onto the floor.

He retched over and over again until there was nothing left, and his breathing started to slow down after he finished throwing up. Tears, snot and drool trailed down his face miserably, dripping onto the wooden floor beneath him. Semi extended a hand towards him, making sure that he was calm enough to register him as non-violent. “It’s okay. We won’t let anything happen to you.” He lay a cautious hand on his shoulder, whispering to him in a steady tone.

“Why is that vermin crying?”

Goshiki tensed up at the all-too-familiar abrasive voice, gripping Semi’s shoulders until his knuckles turned white. Semi wrapped his arms around his middle protectively, noticing the abnormal amount of heat radiating off it. “He heard the vase breaking, and it set off a flashback. He’ll be okay soon.” Semi knew he wasn’t lying, and held Goshiki tighter to ensure that he wouldn’t be handed over to be punished.

“Well, who broke the glass?”

Both Semi and Goshiki froze, but before they could plan something to avoid Goshiki getting in trouble, a voice swiftly cut off their thoughts.

“I broke it. I am responsible for the whole incident.”

Ushijima’s face remained unchanging as he stated his explanation flatly, making it seem like he was unaware of what planting the blame on himself meant. Shirabu, Tendou and the other students fought to keep a neutral face, not knowing what else to do besides keep their mouths shut.

“Are you, now? What a surprise. Well, in that case, I hope you’re prepared for an appropriate punishment.”

“I am.”

Semi could feel the intense aura between the two, without even looking. Intense fear pounded in his veins as Ushijima upheld his unyielding attitude, and he had an urge to laugh and cry at the spectacle. “Get over here, then.” The teacher grabbed Ushijima’s arm, failing to drag his large frame off as he did with the little children.

Ushijima didn’t speak or move a muscle in his face as he was taken to an empty office, standing in the middle of the room without a sound. “That vase was expensive, Ushijima. Property damage results in severe punishment, I’m sure you know that.” Ushijima made a noise of agreement, which only infuriated the teacher further.

“Fucking bastard!”

Without prior warning, a stick of bamboo struck Ushijima on the shoulder, causing him to sway to one side. Hot pain shot down his arm, and he instinctively gripped his injured shoulder with his other hand protectively. Attacks rained down on him again and again, leaving painful marks on every inch of his body.

He curled into himself, forced to take the beatings with nothing to defend himself with. His arms and legs throbbed the most, having taken the majority of the damage. Books were thrown into his face, one hitting his eyelid that wasn’t quite protected by his bruised arms. A part of his heart wanted to cry, but he refused to let that happen.

When the torrent of violence finally ceased, Ushijima realised just how much he was bleeding. His nose was caked with dried blood, and the fabric of his shirt stuck to his stomach with blood. He exited the room almost mechanically, limping to the right side and dragging his palm against the wall to prop himself up.

“Ushijima-san?”

A voice laced with fear greeted him as he stepped into the dormitory, followed by hushed whispers from the older students. “Are you very hurt?” Shirabu asked immediately, looking around for something that could help Ushijima. “Semi-san, get him something to wipe the blood!”

Tendou, Yamagata and Reon assessed Ushijima’s injuries, cleaning them and applying cold packs where the bruises were. Ushijima remained stoic, thanking them politely and letting Tendou dote all over him and letting him kiss his bruised cheeks. “I’m so glad you’re here right now,” Tendou hugged Ushijima tightly, and Ushijima returned the embrace despite his bruises aching all over.

“Um, Ushijima-san?” A small voice piped up below Ushijima, attracting his attention. “Thank you, for saving me. I’m sorry you got hurt because of me.” Goshiki used his two hands to cup Ushijima’s palm, rubbing it gently and comfortingly. “I want to make it up to you.”

“There is no need,” Ushijima said plainly, patting Goshiki’s head. “Hearing your gratitude is enough.” A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. Nothing relieved him more than seeing Goshiki well and safe, especially after he had witnessed his broken, panicked state.

Goshiki pointed to the beds, waving his hand at Ushijima to signal him to come. “I want to sleep beside you tonight,” he said, rolling himself onto Ushijima’s bed.

“Hey, Goshiki! No fair! I wanna sleep with Wakatoshi-kun too!” Tendou piped up, puffing his cheeks out.

“Then we can all share the one bed,” Ushijima suggested, laying beside Goshiki with a fond smile. “I’m sure we can fit. Goshiki is of smaller stature than the two of us.”

Tendou cackled, tickling Goshiki’s ribs. “You’re small, he said!” He translated Ushijima’s words jokingly, poking fun at Goshiki lovingly. “Now, come on. Let’s go to sleep, does that sound good?”

“Uh-huh!” Goshiki nodded, holding Ushijima’s arm as he pulled up the covers and nestled into him. “You’re my hero! When I get older and my voice goes deeper, I wanna be like you!” Ushijima wrapped an arm around the sweet child, his heart warming as he became surrounded by the family he loved.

“Ah! Wakatoshi-kun, are you crying?” Tendou pointed out, wiping the tears with his thumbs. “It’s okay, it’s okay! We’re here for you!”

“Mhm,” Ushijima rubbed his cheeks against Tendou’s, enjoying the warmth that it brought him. He was crying, but he wasn’t upset at all. It was a strange feeling, but he liked the company around him, easing his pain. Comfort sank into him, and he was with a family he would sacrifice everything to care for.

[volatilevampyr]

(:

[mew-mew-mothertrucker]

Cold Storms Chapter 2

Chapter 2 (1)

Word Count - 2178

TW - mentions of/ actual child abuse (it gets intense like if you want to know what happens but don't want to read it message me or ask me and I will gladly tell you!)

Summary - The rest of the day at school and Virgil’s dad who i will make people hate :)

Fun Facts of this chapter - People and places of this fanfiction are based on people and place i know. Also, i cried while writing this

Tag - @minamishipsit @theprotectedpuff @preyed-llama

When recess had ended, Virgil watched as the other students walked back into the classroom, the last three being the ones at his table. He felt Patton’s pitiful gaze, Logan’s analyzing one and finally, Roman’s look of disgust. Virgil already knew that eventually, they would all be like Roman. Virgil’s own look at himself was of pure disgust, and soon everyone else’s would match.

“Okay Kiddos, so since we have been with the same people all day, I’m going to have you move around. I will give all of you at your table a number and then you have to go to that corner of the room and talk to the other students! Let’s start over here with Andy and Chris’ table, Andy you are number 1, Chris you are number 2, Kellen you are number 3 and  Eric you are number 4” Mr. Sanders continued around the room, eventually reaching the table where Virgil sat. Roman had been ignoring him, talking to Logan and Patton had tried to talk to him but Virgil just ignored him.

“Virgil you are number 1, Patton number 2, Roman number three and Logan number four”

The teacher moved on to the next two tables to be sorted and Roman looked at Patton. “Pat, just stop, he said no, now let’s get back to normal.”

As soon as the teacher pointed where to go, Virgil got up and walked over to the area, feeling like he was now the single one out in the group he sat with. There stood a boy with short brown hair wearing a shirt 3 sizes too large, one of the twins who was wearing a pink dress, and a girl who was wearing a pink polo and looking at Logan bu turned her attention to the group when Mr. Sanders started talking.

“This is going to be your second group, so introduce yourselves, hey maybe if you need friends you can find them here.” Mr Sanders said. He seemed to pay close attention to the group Virgil was in as he began to hand back the papers from earlier.

“Are any of you guys also new kids?” the twin asked.

All of them raised their hands in response. The twin perked up. “I’m Rosanna. My sister over there is Amber. The only way to tell us apart is that Amber has scars on her shoulders and face.”

“What from?” The boy with a shirt 3 sizes too big asked.

“She hurts herself for me a lot. She’s only older by like 4 minutes but that doesn't stop her from protecting me.”

Virgil saw the look in the girl’s eyes. She experienced the same as him. The boy seemed to have seen and understand it too.

“Well, I mean, at least one of you doesn't get hurt. Maybe one day neither one of you will!” He said. “Oh I forgot to say my name. It’s Andy!” He then looked at Virgil in the eyes. Virgil could see how broken they were, despite the smile that could almost compete with the smile that Patton had across the room as he spoke to their kids who had been attending the same classes as him since Kindergarten,. The eyes that Andy had related his own, broken. Too broken for a child of only eight, too exposed to adult-themed activities that let one scared and hurt, with bruises and pain.

Virgil forgot about Patton and his smile that could blind people, about Logan filled with facts, and Roman filled with an unexplained hatred. For now, Virgil was with Andy, a boy with shirts 3 sizes too big and a hint of a bruise under one of the sleeves, Rosanna, a girl who looked at her twin sister who had bruises and marks that were crappily covered with make up, probably done by Rosanna, and Alex, a girl who seemed to understand what they were talking about but showed no sign of the same past the other 3 faced, just a kind smile and an understanding glance in Amber’s direction, almost as if she was being reminded of someone.

All too soon, they had to go back to their original seats. But at the afternoon recess that day, Amber, Rosanna, Andy and Alex stayed inside with Virgil and read books that Mr. Sanders had in his room instead of playing with kids who only wanted to play with the twin to talk to them, or sitting alone on a field.

When classes started again, Virgil was back next to Patton and across from Logan. He put the book he borrowed from Mr. Sanders in his desk and took out a notebook for English.

“Now class, I want you all to write as if you are an animal. I’ll read the best interpretations after the assignment is complete, but if yours is nt read then please don’t get upset. Now, I will give us all fifteen minutes. You may begin!”

Virgil stared at the paper but slowly began to write. Soon the writing became long and by the time that Mr. Sanders had stopped the students, Virgil had written an entire page whereas other students had only a few sentence max.

“Oh well Virgil, let’s see what we got here!”

Mr. Sanders read over the work and nodded. He placed the paper different than the others and slowly he gained a few to read aloud.

“Okay class, let's start with Virgil’s wonderfully written story about a mouse and a cat. ‘I was the mouse. Small and weak, running up and down away from the cat, hiding in walls and place the cat couldn't reach. He was the cat, chasing me down and hunting me, all intent focused on killing me. It was a game of cat and mouse, a game of Tom and Jerry. I tricked him into running into frying pans and any time he comes close to ending me I escape, leaving i'm choking on dry bread. I am the mouse and he is the cat, I run while he attacks.’ Now virgil, that was beautiful, so well written for someone your age now class, this is not how i expect you to write, but all i’m saying is that when you are all adults, I would not be surprised if kids like Logan Gisie over there were reading books by our talented student.”

Virgil felt himself blush with the compliments given by the teacher. No one had ever said that he had a talent before. He gave a weak smile to Mr. Sanders, and the man seemed content. He began to read other student's papers and Soon enough, the school day was over.

At the end of the day, Virgil ended up walking home. He knew what he would most likely come home to and was fearful. He saw Rosanna and her sister walking in the opposite direction, holding hands, both of them looked back at him, the same expression on their faces. The expression of a child who has a home worse than school and wishes they could stay forever and never go back to the dreaded house that they had to call home.l. He waved goodbye and they did the same.

He turned and started to walk along the side of the road.

“Verge!” He turned to see Andy running up behind him and soon they were walking together.

“What street do you live on?” andy asked as he got in step with Virgil.

“Selman” Virgil responded, continuing alongside Andy.

“Hey me too!” Andy looked at Virgil and smiled.

“Why do you always smile?”

“Well, someone has to”

“And who decided that it would be you?”

“Myself. I told myself that I would smile so i could help people. I mean, look at that kid you sit next to. He makes people so happy with his smile, I want to try that too.” Andy looked determined. Virgil looked at him. Faded bruises around his neck, the bruise he noticed under his sleeves was new. Virgil pulled his hoodie closer to him, hiding all the bruises and cuts his father had given im in a drunken rage.

“You really are different Andy” Virgil said as they turned down a street.

“Why do you said that?”

“Well, you’re like me and the twins but you smile so brightly and you’re so happy.”

“It’s all a lie”

“I know, but you make is seem like it’s not”

Andy turned to Virgil and let out a sigh. Virgil gave a half smile and Andy gave one as well. Soon, the two faced the same street. Virgil’s house was first, so Andy waved goodbye and walked further down the street. Virgil walked up to the front door, already hearing loud music and smelling cigarettes.

He opened the door and saw his father. Awake. Virgil tried to sneak into his room across the hose but the big man had already noticed him.

“WHere were you, you little piece of shit?” THe large man said, not looking up as he lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke before slowly letting the gray cloud out of his nostrils and mouth.

“S-School”

“Prove it”

“I-I have my classwork we did in class.” Virgil pulled out the paper that he had written his answers onto.

“What was it?”

“Q-questions about us.” Virgil said, slowly coming in sight of his father to show him the paper.

“Did you tell anyone about you being the reason your mother is dead, you fucking faggot?” his father asked, taking the paper and giving virgil the look that a predator gives pretty that it plays with before it makes the final killing strike.

“N-No”

“Did ya tell them where we are from?”

Virgil thought back to telling those he sat with that he had lived in New Mexico. “Y-yeah”

The man took a long drag off of his cigarette. “You shouldn’t have done that, you faggot.”

His father stood up and Virgil ran to his room. He locked himself in and pushed his dresser and desk against the door before collapsing on the bed, thanking that his father had bought a furnished house and had yet to throw the items in Virgil’s room into the trash.

Virgil sat on his bed, as far away from the door as possible. He heard his father bang on the door and the wood of the door crack. His father’s hand punched a hole through the door and his angry face showed. Virgil watched as the door was ripped into shreds and the furniture was pushed. The large man had already taken off his belt and began to spend out all his rage onto the small child. The 8 year old cried out with each new lash.

After 30 minutes, virgil was left alone, bleeding on some spots, other spots welted and bruised. He walked over to the closet and hid in the corner, holding his knees close to him. He slowly fell asleep, crying as the nightmares came.

“Oh Virgil I love you so much.” A woman with long dark hair looked down at him. He smiled as he ate ice cream and held the woman’s hand.

“I wanna go give Daddy some ice cream too!” The child said, jumping up and down, almost dropping his ice cream. The woman laughed and spotted her husband across the parking lot.

Virgil let go of the woman’s hand and ran over to his father. “Daddy!” he shouted.

The man turned to him and turned from the calm man into a rage. The ice cream turned into a stuffed toy cat, the woman screamed. Virgil turned, trying to find her. “Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY WHERE ARE YOU?” he called out, running around, holding the cat close to him, slowly breaking out into sobs.

“You killed her Virgil. You killed your own mother” The man was larger now, his face obscuring the sun. He looked down at virgil and spat. The saliva from his father’s mouth took it’s hold on Virgil, burning him like pure acid. Virgil cried as he burned and watched as blood surrounded him. His mother’s body flashed, the gunshot in her head, the knife across her neck. Virgil screamed

Virgil woke up screaming. He hated nightmares. He looked outside to the dark and calming moon and stars in the night sky. He got up slowly, being sure not turn hurt himself. He walked to the bathroom and turned on the light, looking at himself. He began to wash were the lashes from the belt had split opened and bled and bandaged himself up. He carefully sneaked to the kitchen which was next to the front door and grabbed some food before walking back to his room. On the couch was his father, an empty bottle of what looked to be vodka in his hands, comedy central television on the tv. Virgil turned away and walked back to his room, eating the small bag of chips he managed to get. He sat under his window and closed his eyes as he slowly fell into a dreamless sleep.

[whispelanix]

Suicide “Masterpost” By A Suicidal Person

Hi everyone. I’ve decided to do something different with my time today instead of posting dumb memes and mediocre art. I think I’ve made it clear based upon the title of this post.

Now you may be thinking – “Why are you doing this? What events occurred to make you suddenly want to talk about such a topic!?” Allow me to explain:

I personally, am currently experiencing severe depression and suicidal thoughts and it’s been going on for years, the suicidal part being more recent. Today Australia held an interview this morning on the topic of teen suicide and how we stay silent on the agenda. As someone who is struggling, I thought that instead of contemplating my own life, I could help spread awareness to save another.

Continue on further if you shall since I will dive into sensitive topics. The choice is up to you entirely, but if you want a better grasp of understanding, I will do my best to explain different areas of this situation.

So read on if you may, as I give you a “Suicide Masterpost Presented by a Suicidal Person”.

Let’s start with the basics. First of all: What is depression?

Depression is a common medical condition which can be often described as being in a really dark place that’s difficult to escape from and can create the feeling of numbness. Naturally, everyone can feel sad or low from time to time. It can last for months to even years and a lot of the time, occurs without reason. Depression is more than just that – it’s a serious condition that affects your mental and physical health.

How does this relate to suicide?

The links between depression and suicide are generally quiet strong. In fact, about 2/3 of people who commit suicide are depressed at the time of their death. Here are some more statistics…

·         One of every 16 people diagnosed with depression eventually go to end their lives through suicide

·         The risk of suicide in people suffering major depression is 20 times that of the general population

·         People who have experienced multiple episodes of depression are at greater risk of suicide than those who have only experienced one episode

·         Those with dependence on alcohol or drugs in addition to being depressed are at even greater stakes for suicide

Does self-harm have anything to do with this?

Absolutely. A lot of people cope with depression this way as it usually gives the person a sense of feeling against the emotional numbness. Self-harm is generally a coping mechanism, but can become a habit as they search for a relief from the stress. There are many different names given to self-harming. Some of them being:

·         Cutting

·         Self-mutilation

·         Self-inflicted violence

·         Parasuicide

·         Self-abuse

Cutting isn’t the only form of self harm, however. Many other behaviours are:

·         Overdosing of medication or drinking poison

·         Burning your skin

·         Scratching your skin which results in bleeding or welts

·         Picking your skin

·         Pulling your hair

·         Hurting yourself with fists or other objects

·         Punching walls or objects to hurt yourself

Keep in mind though, not everyone who is depressed hurts themselves, just like not every suicidal person is depressed. But self-harm can eventually trigger suicidal thoughts, as simply hurting yourself might eventually not be enough to cope with the emotional pain.

What are the common signs of depression and suicidal thoughts?

No two people experience depression or suicide in the same way. Multiple events can cause a person to feel like they’re not worth anything and that the world is a better place without them.

Common signs of depression are constant tiredness, being annoyed by small things, too little or too much sleep, eating too little or too much, chances of physical pain, lack of self-care, isolation, lack of interest, numbness, beating yourself up, forgetfulness, lack of concentration and suicidal thoughts.

Signs of suicide are threatening to hurt oneself, searching ways to end their life, or just having someone generally talking or writing about suicide, especially if the behaviour is very out of character for that person.

Many of these signs are experiences that should not be ignored, even if it’s just one of them.

How many people commit suicide annually?

Approximately one million people commit suicide each year worldwide. This equals to about one death every 40 seconds or 3,000 suicides per day. For every individual who takes their life, at least 20 of them attempt. The global morality rate of suicide is if 16% for every 100,000 people.

Who can I talk to if I’m experiencing depression or suicidal tendencies?

Here is a compiled list of suicide hotlines from around the world. I’ve included names of the country/continent/city in their main languages as well for non-English speakers (despite the fact that everything has probably been translated depending on where you currently live):

Argentina: +5402234930430

Australia: 131114

Austria (Österreich/Avstrija/Ausztria/): 017133374

Belgium (Belgique/België/Belgien): 106

Bosnia & Herzegovina (Bosna i Hercegovina/Босна и Херцеговина): 080 05 03 05

Botswana: 3911270

Brazil (Brasil): 212339191

Canada – Inside Montreal (Dans Montréal): 5147234000

Canada – Outside Montreal (Hors de Montréal): 18662773553

Croatia (Hrvatska): 014833888

Denmark (Danmark): +4570201201

Egypt (مصر): 7621602

Finland (Suomi): 010 195 202

France: 0145394000

Germany (Deutschland): 08001810771

Holland: 09000767

Hong Kong (香港): +852 2382 0000

Hungary (Magyarország): 116123

India (इंडिया): 8888817666

Ireland (Éireann): +4408457909090

Italy (Italia): 800860022

Japan (日本):  +810352869090

Mexico (Méjico):  5255102550

New Zealand: 045861048

Norway (Norge): +4781533300

Philippines (Pilipinas): 028969191

Poland (Polska): 5270000

Russia (Россия/Росія/Rusiya): 0078202577577

Spain (España): 914590050

South Africa (Suid-Afrika/Iningizimu Afrika/Mzantsi Afrika): 0514445691

Sweden (Sverige/שוועדן/Ruotsi): 46317112400

Switzerland (Schweiz/Suisse/Svizzera): 143

United Kingdom: 08457909090

USA: 18002738255

Who else could I talk to for further assistance?

If you need to talk to someone you can get to know, one of the best options would be a psychologist or a counsellor. That way, you can get to know one another and hopefully not have to repeat the same story over and over again. Talking to a parent or a friend can help in situations as well for when you have no one to talk to. Remember that getting problems off your chest is more effective than bottling them up.

I’m too afraid to talk to anyone. I’m scared no one will want to listen. What should I do?

Take a few deep breaths and try to calm yourself before talking to someone about your problems. Depression can stand in the way of seeking any assistance and that alone is very risky. A good website to check out is Students against Depression. I’ll provide a link to all of my sources in the end.

What can I do about medication?

NEVER put yourself on antidepressants without guide from a professional. Different medication can put you on a high at first, but slowly bring down your mood even more then you wanted, further fuelling your depression and/or suicidal thoughts. Visit a psychiatrist who can help with the diagnosis and give recommendations of the best medication suited for your needs. Always do research on side effects of your prescribed medication as well so you know what you’re in for.

No one will miss me. Why bother?

NEVER say that. That is the biggest lie you could ever get yourself to believe. Suicide isn’t just squashing another ant on the face of the earth. It’s the removal of an entire existence of a being. The most tragic thing a person can do is end it all. When you go ahead and kill yourself, that’s it. It’s over… forever.

Let’s say someone you know decides to “leave this world” so to speak. You don’t get to see them again. A whole personality has been wiped off by a preventable situation. Everything that person has went through – from taking their first steps, the birthdays that were celebrated, the moments they laughed, the moments they cried, the people they met and the sights they saw. It’s vanished all with that one person. Each experience of life is unique – no two people are the same but everyone should be treated equally. Whether you know a person or not, the knowledge that someone you’ve made contact with has killed themselves is horrific. Having to wake up one day knowing you have to move on whether you like it or not is heartbreaking. Depression and suicidal thoughts make you blind to how much people actually care, which is devastating. The effect is has on the world around you is permanent. Don’t ever let yourself think that way.

How can I distract myself?

Find things you enjoy doing, whether it’s watching a movie, listening to music or reading a good book. Anything as long as it makes you happy.

Sources:

https://www.beyondblue.org.au/the-facts/depression

https://www.blackdoginstitute.org.au/clinical-resources/depression/what-is-depression

http://www.211palmbeach.org/links-between-suicide-and-depression

https://www.youthbeyondblue.com/understand-what's-going-on/self-harm-and-self-injury

http://www.health.gov.au/mentalhealth

https://www.healthyway.com/content/common-symptoms-of-depression-that-shouldnt-be-ignored/?param4=hwy-google-ppc-aunz-de&utm_source=adwords&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=signs%20and%20symptoms%20of%20depression&utm_campaign=998820936&adgroupid=48935477723&network=g&creative=235821275988&device=c&devicemodel=&matchtype=b&adposition=1t2&gclid=EAIaIQobChMIj8iz-6fC2QIVmQgqCh26wwGXEAAYAiAAEgKxVvD_BwE

https://save.org/about-suicide/warning-signs-risk-factors-protective-factors/

https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/234219.php

http://ibpf.org/resource/list-international-suicide-hotlines

http://studentsagainstdepression.org/get-support/building-support-networks/whats-stopping-you-getting-help/

[terriblesportsimagines]

Yamato Takeru anon here! Thanks so much for your writing, you're wonderful ❤ I don't want to be too greedy but I want to self-indulge... how about you pick three of the GoM boys which you feel like writing the most, and maybe how they react to Reader's (a friend or a crush or a s/o, you decide) anxiety and depressing slowly turning into an addiction for self-harm? Like Reader is scratching their wrist a lot? It's alright if you don't want to write this, if so, please just delete! Thank you ❤

You are most welcome!

Now, I need to say, answering this ask was deeply personal for me.  I’ve been this reader, so these scenarios draw heavily on personal experience.  They are also very long (the first two anyway), since it’s complex.  I hope I did this ask justice.

I chose Midorima, Kuroko and Murasakibara (cut for length and possible triggers)

Midorima Shintaro

When it started, it had started small, small enough that hehadn’t even noticed.  You were a little quieter than you’d always been,but that was about it.  And since he wasn’t one to complain about arelative lack of noise, it flew past him.

But then you started refusing to play your violin withhim.  At first, he thought you were just busy and even though he alwaysmade time for your duets, because they were some of the only moments he feltlike he could express himself properly, you probably felt differently.  Butthe most he watched, the more he realized that you weren’t busy. In fact, you seemed to be doing less and less.

That was when he started noticing the habit you’d pickedup.  He was distant enough that he could notice things you tried to keephidden, because usually, you didn’t even notice he was there.  Thus, hesaw when your nails raked over your wrist over and over, hard enough to leavewelts.  Then hard enough to actually scratch.

He was left floundering with what to do.  On one hand,it was your life, and your body, and you could do whatever you wanted.  Hewasn’t even your boyfriend.  He couldn’t really define your relationship,because he hated that sort of thing anyway, but he knew you weren’t likethat.  On the other hand you were hurting, hurting enough to damageyourself and he couldn’t take it.  The fear and anxiety he faced as herealized something was wrong with you was suffocating.  It was like ainvisible hand reached out to grab him by the throat and he felt helpless.

It wasn’t his place to comment, not really, but he alsowasn’t the type of person to let things slide when they were wrong.  Hewas abrupt to the point of offense a lot and if there was ever a time for that,it was now.

Maybe.

Still, his chest hurt when he thought about your pain. He wished Oha Asa had an answer for him, but for once in his life, hishoroscopes failed him.  He hated not feeling in control, hated that hedidn’t know how to help you.

He approached you when you alone, thinking it would bebetter for both of you.  Midorima wanted to be soft, wanted to saysomething comforting, or bring up the subject in some subtle way that wouldn’tmake everything worse.  However, when he opened his mouth, his naturebetrayed him, because instead of being gentle at all, he said, “I-Idiot,ask for help!”

His hand reached out before he could stop it and grabbedyour wrist, pulling it and you towards him.  Your skin was red andirritated here, covered in half-healing scratches, but thankfully notbleeding.  His fingers itched to wrap your arm in bandages, both toprotect your current wounds and guard against new ones.

You looked up at him with wide eyes and almost immediatelythey turned glassy.  You looked away, brow furrowing.  “M-Midorima…what…”

His bandaged fingertips were gentle as they ran over thescratches.  “Why don’t you tell anyone?” He demanded, unaware that hisvoice was ragged and soft.  “Someone can help you.”

Your bottom lip wobbled and you took a shaky breathin.  Before either of you realized what was happening, you threw yourselfagainst him and buried your face into the starchy material of his uniformshirt.

Midorima turned scarlet and panicked inwardly.  He hadno idea what to do, but thought maybe he should wrap his arms around you,because that’s what he would have done with his little sister.  So he didthat, large hands flattening against your back and stroking awkwardly. His tongue felt like it had swelled in his mouth, so he remained silent. Anything he said now would probably just make everything worse.

“I-I’m scared Shintaro, I feel like I can’t breathe,”you whispered, clinging.  “I feel like there’s a weight on my chest and nomatter how much I tell myself that I’m fine…”

You were shaking, he could feel it because his hold on youwas so tight.  It completely overwrote that you’d just used his firstname.  Midorima felt like the only thing he could do was hold youtight.  He’d never felt like you were describing, at least not in the wayyou were describing.  Whenever he was faced with anxiety, he just workedthrough it, throwing himself into whatever task or thing was causing theanxiety until it was solved.  But something told him that wasn’t going towork in this case. 

Swallowing, he did his best to keep his voice free ofjudgement and at least somewhat warm, so unlike his normal tone.  “H-Haveyou thought about talking to someone?” He said.  “Hurting yourself… is notthe answer.”

“I’m talking to you,” was your answer, muffled by hisshirt.  “I… I don’t even realize I’m doing it most of the time.”

“You can… talk to me… if you want,” Midorima had no ideawhat he was saying and he was all too aware of the hue of hisface.  He was awkward, felt awkward, but this was you and hecouldn’t just leave you no matter how ill at ease he was.  “But you shouldalso see someone.  A professional.”

You took a deep ragged breath in.  “But I can do itmyself… I can get through it.  I just need to get better, bebetter, then it will-”

“___.” Midorima’s voice was firm, not unkind, but definitelyfirm.  “There is no shame in seeking help when you need it.  No onecan get by alone,” and then, even though it burned his tongue to admit it,“…not even me.”

Your eyes were wet when you lifted your head to stare athim, and looked a lot like saucers.  He forced himself to hold your gaze,hoping that he was at least sort of helping, instead of making you worse. 

Steeling himself, Midorima put aside everything in him thatscreamed in discomfort, and leaned down to press a gentle kiss against yourforehead.  “If you want to hear everything is okay, I will tell you.” Hesaid on a sigh.  “But… listen… please.”

You stared at him for a long time, long enough to have himsquirming.  But then you did something he didn’t expect, you smiled. While you did so, you pulled your wrist out of his grasp and wrapped your armsaround his waist.  “Thank you, Shintaro,”

Midorima choked, embrace tightening so your face was oncemore pushed into his chest and you couldn’t see how badly his face clashed withhis hair.  “A-Ah.”

Kuroko Tetsuya

You could feel yourself getting worse.  It startedfairly small: a feeling of panic before a test, the active will to avoid aconversation because a nervous clenching in your gut.  But then it gotbigger, you found yourself missing school as it became hard to getting out ofbed.  You felt sick all the time, nauseas and shaking and overwhelmed.

That’s when it started – the scratching.  This toostarted small.  You clawed at your wrist sometimes, because the dull paindrew you out of the haze and gave you something to focus on that wasn’t theshit that was going on inside.  But then scratching got bigger.  Youstarted taking small pieces of metal and digging it into your arm – staples,paper clips, that sort of thing.  You did it until you bled, until therewere track marks in your arm.

You knew it wasn’t right.  You knew there were otherways to deal with the darkness that clouded your mind so often, but you justcouldn’t stop.  You weren’t even sure you wanted to.  The pain was adistraction, something you could control when everything else feltuncontrollable.  It was also a physical manifestation of the heartbreakyou felt, something you could point to and say “See!  Look!  I’mhurt!”

But nobody noticed.  Not your parents, not yourfriends… no one.  You wanted someone to notice, someone to help, but atthe same time you didn’t, because it was humiliating, and damn it, whycouldn’t you just stop?

You wore long sleeves whenever you could, bandages when youcouldn’t, and it worked.  You were left alone, your smile plastered onyour face like it wasn’t cracked around the edges.

You were staying late one day, working on homework, maybe,honestly, by the time five o’clock rolled around, youcouldn’t even remember why you were there.  You’d found a push pin, morepainful, but ultimately, more effective.  You weren’t even really payingattention as you dragged furrows over your arm and stared out the window at theslowly setting sun.

Too focused not focusing, you didn’t hear theclassroom door slide open and closed, nor the near-silent footsteps of someonecrossing the room.  It wasn’t until a quiet voice sounded right above youthat you realized you were no longer alone.  “____-san.”

You jumped, yelping loudly.  The yelp turned into ahiss a second later, however, when the pin between your fingers jabbed straightinto your arm.  “Ow, ow…” You cringed, glancing down at the mess that wasyour arm.  Then, as if realizing that if you could see it, so could theother person suddenly in your space, you yanked the pin out and tried desperatelyto yank your sleeve down.  “K-Kuroko-kun…”

Of all the people to show up and discover you secret, it hadto be him.  The boy you secretly adored.  Other people didn’t noticehim, but that had never been your problem.  You always saw him, and whatyou saw made your heart melt.  Watching him was one of the few high pointsin your life.

And now he knew your secret, your painful, humiliatingsecret.  You wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

A gentle hand shot out and caught your attempts to coveryour arm, stopping your sleeve before it could get covered in blood.  Youwere bleeding in earnest now, the wound from the pin bigger than any of theothers.  It also hurt worse, bad enough that tears rushed to your eyesbefore you could stop them. 

The boy beside you sighed quietly, and out of nowhereproduced a soft, clean piece of cloth to press to the wound on your arm. “_____-san,” he said, voice soft and kind, “Please don’t hurt yourself.”

You had no idea what to say to that.  Your throatburned as words stuck there and you could do little but stare at the hand hehad pressed to your arm.  How long had he known?  How had you notnoticed him paying attention?

“It’s gotten worse lately,” Kuroko went on.  His voicewas as blank as ever, but you thought you could hear a thread of concern init.  Even if you couldn’t, the fact that he was stroking his thumb acrossthe cloth on your arm certainly spoke of concern, and maybe evenaffection?  “I want to help you.”

Your eyes widened and you forgot how to breathe for a verylong moment.  He lifted his eyes to meet yours, the pale blue of themreflecting the worry and fear he felt.  It was the first time you’d seenany strong emotions in his eyes.  “Kuroko-kun…” You whispered, biting yourlip.

“Talk to me, ____-san,” Kuroko said, voice firmer thanbefore.  He reached blindly behind him and grabbed a chair from aneighboring desk, sitting in it so he no longer had to bend over.  When hewas seated, he pulled the cloth, which appeared to be a bandana of some kind,away to check the bleeding.  It had stopped for the most part, so he leftthe cloth off and instead ran his fingertips over the other marks on yourarm.  Taking a deep breath, he looked up once more, chin setstubbornly.  “I am listening.”

You stared at him for a solid minute, mind completely a messas you tried to sort out your feelings.  On one hand, you wereembarrassed, and worse, because here was the boy you’d been crushing on fornearly a year sitting next to you, caressing your self-harm marks.  On theother hand, happiness the like you hadn’t felt in a long time flooded youbecause someone cared.  Even more than that, he cared. 

It came spilling out of you before you could do anythingabout it.  All the things that had festered inside you for so long pouredout of your mouth and even though you screamed at yourself to stop, that hedidn’t need to know how broken and useless you were, you just couldn’t stop.

He listened, he was good at that.  You’d always known,it was how his lived his life in general.  The whole time he listened hekept stroking your arm gently until gradually you relaxed and the words goteasier.

When you were done and silence spread, you were surprised todiscover that you felt a little better.  The dark feelings were stillthere, of course, but they didn’t feel quite so insidious or allconsuming.  Kuroko continued to watch you, continued to maintain contactand you felt your cheeks redden.

Many in his situation might have tried to fix your problems,might have suggested solutions, but not Kuroko.  He, in fact, said nothingat first.  Instead, he lifted his free arm and very cautiously slid itaround your shoulders.  When you didn’t fight or push him away, he tuggedyou into a half-embrace.  Only then did he talk, and then it was only tosay, “It will be okay, ____-san.”

The tears that you’d held back for months came burstingforth and you cried.  You took his comfort, tucking your face against hisneck as your shoulders shook.  “T-Thank you,” you rasped, hiccupping andtrying to catch your breath.  “T-Thank you, Kuroko-kun.”

Murasakibara Atsushi

Your arm itched, where scabbed over scratches sathalf-healed.  You wondered faintly when they’d gotten so bad, or even ifthey were so bad.  It seemed to you that there had been less as of late,and maybe even that the horrible tension that caused them had lightened. Maybe.

You reached over and started to bury you fingers beneath thelayers of your uniform, in effort relieve or create more, you didn’tknow.  It was second nature by that point, something you were practicallydriven to do it.

But before you could do much more than slide your fingersbeneath your cuff, long fingers that didn’t belong to you wrapped around yourinjured wrist.  They were gentle and the hold loose, but it was stilljarring.  Blinking, you looked up, and up, but before your eyes couldreally focus on the massive form standing over you, something sweet touchedyour lips and forced its way past them into your mouth.

“Atsushi,” you complained, voice completely muffled by thecookie he’d just shoved into your mouth.

He’d been doing that a lot lately, you thought,chewing.  Shoving snacks into your mouth, most of the time snacks he wascurrently eating.  At first it made you blush and scowl, because it was alittle weird and then there was the whole indirect kissing thing.  But yougave up fighting, because he kept doing it and was completely unapologeticabout it.

Himuro, kind of amazed, told you that it was kind ofincredible, Murasakibara sharing his snacks, because he never did and infact threatened to crush people who even looked at them.  But it hadbecome so normal so quickly that like the scars on your arm, you didn’t evenreally think about it anymore.

It made you realize that this was probably the reason girlsin your class kept giggling and asking you about your boyfriend. You tried totell them you didn’t have a boyfriend, but maybe you did.  He was alwaysaround, like obnoxiously so, except you didn’t really find it obnoxious atall.  He held your hand or your arm, and pretty much just took up yourwhole attention all the time.  That was the definition of a boyfriend,wasn’t it?

Murasakibara stared down at you with drooping eyelids,looking bored, but somehow sharp at the same time.  He pulled thehalf-eaten cookie away from your mouth and popped the rest in his, blinkingslowly.  “The cookies are good today,” he muttered around his mouthful.

You sighed.  “You have to stop feeding me things, Iswear I’ve gained like ten pounds in the last month,” you grumbled.  Youhad, in fact, though it was more like five.  But still, it was causingsome self-image problems and that was exactly what you didn’t need moreof. 

As usual, he was unfazed, he merely lifted a shoulder, foundanother cookie and pushed it against your lips.  “____chin can’t scratchwhen she’s eating,” he said like it held all the answers in the world.

Your jaw dropped open in surprise, which allowed him to pushthe cookie further into your mouth and forcing you to eat most of it.  Youchewed, because it was that or choke, but you didn’t really taste it and itsuddenly had the consistency of chalk.

He’d noticed.  Murasakibara Atsushi had actuallynoticed your little habit.  Was that why he was suddenly around allthe time?  Why he was always holding your wrist or hand?  It made alot of sense.  It was just like him to do whatever he wanted withoutexplaining himself. 

You should have been mad, at least you thought you shouldbe, but you couldn’t quite grasp at that negative emotion.  Instead, youfelt happy.  Happy that this giant, actually kind of insensitive,boy cared enough about you to try to help you in your own way. 

Screwing up your courage, you looked up at him, swallowingthe cookie as you went.  He was nearly done his half too, which made yournext move less awkward.  “Atsushi,” you murmured, crooking your fingertowards him and motioning him down. 

He tilted his head, but did as he was asked, leaning downfurther until his face was within a foot of yours.  Smiling at him, yourocked up on your tip toes and touched your lips to his.  The brief kisswas sweet and a little sticky and definitely more than little crumby, but waskind of like balm for your soul.  “Thanks,” you whispered, sending him asmall smile.  “But we should find a way that isn’t going to make me fat.”

A normal boy probably would have blushed clean to his rootsand looked at least a little embarrassed.  Murasakibara looked the exactopposite of embarrassed, he looked warm and appreciative and unaccountablypleased.  There was a bit of pink in his cheeks, but it was so faint thatit was barely visible.  “You’re not fat,” he rumbled, stealing a secondkiss, ostensibly because he now figured he could.  “You’re soft.  Ilike soft.”

Now you did blush, because his voice did strange things toyou and he’d released your wrist to take you by the hips and squeeze. “Er…thanks?”

“Your welcome,” he stated blankly, but then pulled youtowards him and dropped his cheek on your shoulder.  “____chin. Don’t hurt yourself anymore.”

You sighed.  “I’ll try.”