#its my own damn fault for losing the pill bottle too

[pechebeche]

you forget how Physical depression can get when you're on good meds. i have been drinking so much water all week and forcing myself to eat, but i still feel both bloated and nauseous like ive overeaten + dizzy like i haven't eaten in days. no wonder i had-have disordered eating

[bi-ressler]

Coming Home [RessGale]

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

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

[Read HERE on ao3!]

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

But maybe he's already past that point.

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

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

It was all a mistake.

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

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

Julian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, that's not right, he thinks.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

---

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

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

How the fuck could he fuck up something so good?

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

He closes his eyes, and now the tears come.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julian always used to kiss it away.

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donald just nods. At least he thinks he does.

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

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

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

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

He nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[scary-lasagna]

Trust || Part V

" Your hands were numb by now, and you were exhausted from the fight you put on. Hoodie seemed to be done crying as well, because he was carrying you into the depths of the cellar, with tear stains along his thin cheeks. "This is your room." He mumbled, setting you down on the soft mattress. Each time you blinked it felt like someone poured soap into your eyes. After a few involuntary sniffles, Hoodie leaned down and pressed gentle kisses to your swollen eyelids. "You'll feel better after you rest." "

Yandere!Hoodie/Brian x Reader 

* * * 

You did not feel better. In fact, you couldn't have felt worse. Your throat and eyes were both swollen and sore, and your voice felt raw from screaming.

The dampness didn't help your sinuses, so your nose was blocked too, not to mention you felt like you were hit by a truck with the weight of losing everyone in a single morning.

There were no windows or clocks, so you couldn't tell what time it was, but if you had it guess, it had to be around noon. 

You cautiously emerged from the bed and faced your empty room. All it contained was a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. But there was something that wasn't there before. Something familiar....what is that? You squinted your sore eyes.

It was your suitcase! That's where you kept your phones. You always kept an extra one in a pocket in case you needed to call 911.

You didn't even have to open it to realize that it was empty, but maybe he couldn't find your backup phone in the side pocket.

He did, of course. Why wouldn't he? You tossed it back down and turned your attention to the dresser, searching through the drawers. The drawers by your suitcase were all packed neatly with the clothes you were traveling with.

And then a picture of you and Brian caught your eye, lying neatly on the wooden dresser. You picked it up, running your hand other the smooth material. How did Hoodie get this? Tim had it. 

You couldn't stop looking at it, as if you stared long enough you could be transported back to that moment. 

Brian stood in the living room to your new house with his arm slung over your shoulders. He had that lovable smirk plastered on his face. You were standing close to him with your arms wrapped tightly around his torso with an eager grin. 

You smiled faintly before it faded.

Had that been Brian? Or someone else?

You placed the picture down gently and approached the old door. It creaked when you opened it, and Hoodie was already staring at you from the kitchen by the sitting area. 

It this place wasn't so damp and depressing, it would look pretty nice. There was a hall on the left of the entrance, where the two bedrooms were. and in the middle was a couch facing the television. It was an old TV, and two of the buttons were broken. Looking closer, there was also a crack webbing from the bottom corner.

The door across from yours was closed and under a padlock, it was probably where he sleeps and kept the phones, no doubt. Why else would it be locked? The kitchen was on the right on the entrance, and past that was the bathroom. The kitchen had a wide frame that saw into the living space. This way, Hoodie could keep a good eye on you no matter where you're at. 

But the kitchen was large, compared to the rest of the cellar. It was lined with counters, had a stove, a microwave, and even a little place to mix drinks. The tile was a little torn up, though. You had to watch your step.

The island was full of medicine bottles, both empty and full. From the look of how full some of the bottles were, it looked like he was mixing pills from other containers all into one.

"I made food. It's not your favorite." The pungent smell hit you as soon as you stepped foot into the kitchen.

"You're punishing me with tuna?" You paused at the door frame to the kitchen. 

"Maybe don't kick so much next time." Hoodie flashed a sarcastic smile as he tossed a paper towel in the trash by the island.  As he turned, you noticed crimson on the back of his hoodie. 

"You're bleeding."

"Was earlier, thanks to you." His tone didn’t even sound angry. It was as simple as saying the sky is blue.

"I didn't do that." You hissed, picking up the cup and inspected its contents. It seemed like water, but it was foolish to drink. He could have spiked it, but you were so damn thirsty from crying all night that you didn't care.

"When you kicked me and we both went down, I landed on the machete."

"Well, that's not my fault."

It was too late once the smell hit your nose from the mug, because the alcohol was already on it's way down. The liquid burned your already damaged throat, bringing tears to your eyes. "Y-You bastard!" You coughed aggressively, trying to swallow the rest of it down and out of your sore throat. "Straight fucking vodka?"  

"Maybe you'll get something better if I get an apology." Hoodie tossed a dirty spoon in the sink with a loud clatter and leaned on the counter. He wasn't wearing the mask you've usually seen him in. "And look me in the eyes when you say it."

You squinted your puffy eyes. How dare he uses your own skill against you. "I hate you."

"Good, that was the truth. Now apologize." 

"I'll starve." You flashed a returning sarcastic smile and left the kitchen.

"You will, sweetheart, don't you worry."

"Good, I hope I do. Death is better than being stuck here with you."

Two steps into your room and your throat was trapped between the mattress and your captor's hand.

"Things are going to fucking change with you." He seethed through his teeth, and you never saw such a murderous look on a loving face. "Stop with the sarcastic bullshit, and stop with the ignorance. You are here to love me, remember that." Your lungs were burning and jolting in frenzy for air. "And you'll be deprived of a lot more than food and water. Things like oxygen are deemed more important, I presume. Keep it up, and you just might get your wish of death."

Finally meeting the eyes of your soon-to-be murderer, you realized he was crying again. Fuck him, he deserves to cry, wail, scream, after what he's done to you.

You can't rip a flower out of the ground and expect it to grow in acid.

With a final reassuring squeeze, Hoodie let go.

[whumpiary]

Josiah knows something is wrong as soon as he opens the front door, but it takes him far too long to understand what he’s seeing. 

It looks like a break-in, a robbery. The couch cushions have been taken off and there’s books on the floor and the kitchen drawers have all been pulled out and cutlery and utensils are scattered across the bench.

He’s been gone barely ten minutes. He’d just gone to the corner store for some damn milk. Where was Cass? What the fuck happened?

Then he hears a crash from the bathroom. He starts running. Only when he sees the broken glass bottle on the ground, cough medicine sticky and bleeding around it, does it occur to him that this is dangerous, that maybe he should be cautious. But just as soon as the thought hits him, it dissolves again. Because he sees Cass, on his hands and knees, scrounging through the bathroom cabinet like a wild thing. 

“Cass, slow down, stop,” Josiah says, reaching to grab his hands. The other man shrugs him off with a manic strength and Josiah loses his balance for a minute, nearly hits his head on the towel rack “What the hell are you doing?”

“Where- where is it? Where are they?" 

"Where is what? Cass calm down”

“No I’m not- not calming down until you, you tell- tell me where they are”

“Where what is Cass? You’re not making any sense”

“The- the- pills or the the fucking the powder or the… I don’t know. Whatever, whatever you gave me. I know it’s not the syrup because its too sweet and I, I would’ve tasted it. I would’ve tasted it or smelled it, or- Fuck. Where is it?”

He’s emptied everything from the cupboard, shaken out q-tips and tissues onto the floor, and now he’s scrambling through it all, the broken glass in amongst it. Josiah grabs for his hands. 

“Cassius, stop, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” he says, pulling Cass’s wrists together “You’re not thinking right”

“Yeah I know I’m not thinking right, you- you gave me something, you, you, you put something in my fucking food, in my, in my tea, in- in, in something, in something”

Cass’ voice is venomous but it’s too fast, words mixing together and stuttering like they can’t keep up with his tongue. His eyes are wild, glassed over and manic like they can’t choose what to focus on, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He’s shaking and shaking and shaking. 

Oh. Of course. 

Cass had been strange all morning. Fidgety, and restless, and agitated. Josiah just assumed he was getting tired of feeling sick. Cass’d never exactly been the restful patient.  

Josiah sits back on his heels, trying not to be overwhelmed by that old ’should’ve known better’ disappointment that crashes over him like a wave. It’s been ages, sure, but he knows this feeling.

“Cass, what did you take?” he says, voice low, steady. 

“I didn’t take anything,” Cass says. Too viciously, too fast for it to be true. 

“Don’t play with me, Cass. I’m tired. I know what you look like when you’re fucking high" 

Cass hits him. Or, tries to. He jerks his hands in an upward swing, nearly meeting Josiah’s jaw. But he’s slow and sloppy and Josiah catches them and holds his arms together. Cass struggles in his grip, tries to twist away. Josiah let’s him move until he can grab him from behind, lifting him out of the mess on the tiles and pinning his arms to his sides. Cass kicks out. Josiah pushes him against the wall, pins his legs with a knee.

"Tell me what you took”

“Get off me, you goddamn-” Cass cuts himself off with a savage grunt as he hits his own head against the wall once, twice. Josiah pushes a hand to the back of his neck, holding him there as he thrashes, trying to minimize the damage. 

He’s lost his fucking mind.

“Cass, what the fu-”

“I’m not doing it, I won’t. Whatever, what-whatever you want I won’t do it, I’m not gonna do it, I’m not, I’m not-”

Another jerk of the head and Josiah has to push his entire weight down just to keep the other man any semblance of still, safe. 

“Cass! Tell me what you took. Now.”

“I didn’t take anything, you know I didn’t,” Cass screams. His body is shaking with the effort of staying upright, maybe of staying concious.

“That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s the whole fucking point I didn- I didn’t take- I don’t take anything, anything at all, for ages, for, for months but it doesn’t matter because, you, they, they keep-” Cass is heaving frantic breaths and their coming back at him in sobs and wails as he talks “In my food, in the water. I’ve been clean, I was clean and then none of it matters because they, they, they kept giving me things and I didn’t feel right but they wouldn’t tell me why they just kept giving me it they said it was my fault and they were putting it in my food and I don’t feel right, I don’t feel right and you, you, you gave me something. You put something in my food. You gave me something, just tell me what it was, just tell me”

Josiah’s mind goes blank. Like someone’s hit him with a mallet. They’d done nothing different today. This was ridiculous. He moves back a little to give Cass space, hand still planted firmly between his shoulder blades. He can feel Cass’ chest jolting as he cries. 

“Cass, I didn’t give you anything”

“Don’t pretend, don’t, don’t pretend, just tell me,” he sobs “Just tell me what you gave me, just tell me”

He turns Cass around, grabs his shoulders and bends down to meet the glassy gaze. 

“Cass, listen to me,” he says “I didn’t give you anything”

Cass’ body takes a few seconds to catch up with what’s happening, his lungs heaving sobs. His eyes are lost and searching, sliding across Josiah’s face and past it like maybe it was the wall that was speaking to him. Words are bubbling out of him so fast it’s almost nonsense. 

“Don’t pretend, J, please don’t pretend, I won’t be mad, I won’t name you, just tell me”

“Cass.”

“I don’t wanna name you, I don’t-”

“Cass listen-”

“-lease don’t make me, don’t wanna name you J, just tell me, don’t pretend, just tell me, tell me what you gave me”

There’s something burning to the words, something that spikes at Josiah’s heart like a rough sort of grief and he doesn’t want to cry so he hits at the wall near Cass’ head with the heel of his hand. He needs to listen. 

“For fucks sake, Cass I didn’t fucking drug you”

Something about the way he says it or the way he hits out makes something small behind Cass’ eyes snap. He goes far too calm, and far too still and then-

“Jᴏsɪᴀʜ, ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ”

Cass’ power rushes over him with the same frantic panic that he used to upturn the house. Josiah closes his eyes and lets it rush over him. It’s like standing in the middle of a stampede. 

And he tells him. Of course he does. The words fall out of his mouth without hesitation. 

“I gave you food. I gave you tea. I gave you soup and bread and some rice crackers”

Cass’ eyes are searching Josiah’s face frantically, like he’s looking for a foothold on a cliff, like he’s looking for a lifeline. He tries again, raw energy-

“Jᴏsɪᴀʜ, ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅʀᴜɢɢᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ”

And immediately-

“I didn’t drug you”

And then, again, without Cass’ will forcing him to, he repeats it. If he had to, he’d keep repeating it until the end of time. 

“Cass, I didn’t drug you”

Cass’ whole body – his legs, his shoulders, his face, his whole body – sags and crumples and folds to the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Fuck”

He’s shaking and shaking, still sobbing but empty from it.

“I’m sorry, J, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry”

Josiah crumples too, sliding down the opposite wall until their both sitting numbly in the hallway. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs back as Cass’ apologies keep fumbling out of him 

“My head’s not right, I’m sorry, J, I’m so sorry. I don’t feel right, I’m sorry”

“It’s okay,” he says again and he closes his eyes. He doesn’t feel angry, or scared, like he should be. He’s just tired. Exhausted. And sad. Cass’ breath slows down to an even, stuttering rhythm. 

Josiah rubs a hand over his face. This was exhausting. Three days ago his biggest responsibility was choosing whether to garden or bake for his day off. And now everything was Cass. Everything was making sure Cass was okay and Cass wasn’t dangerous and Cass was eating and Cass wasn’t naming him and Cass was alive and Cass wasn’t hurt and Cass wasn’t hurting him. He felt like someone had pushed him off a cliff when he wasn’t looking, and he didn’t know if he should expect water or rocks at the bottom. He was just falling and falling. 

“You can’t keep doing this Cass,” he says after a minute “You can’t keep naming me anytime you freak out. You can’t just keep freaking out and expecting me to know what’s going on”

“I know. I know that, I’m sorry” Cass says. There’s something broken to his voice, cracked and splintering through the forced deep breaths “Something’s wrong J. I don’t feel, I don’t feel right”

Josiah looks at his hands, trying to ignore how hard his heart is still slamming. Everything was Cass. 

“Okay,” he says “Okay, I’ll call someone. Just… stay here. I’ll call Mal”

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

"I just want you to love me!" with Josuke :)

((Oh god this turned out longer than I thought it would help.  HELP))

It really had been the perfect day for a confession.

The sun was out, blazing against a pristine blue sky, but the spring breeze that picked up every now and then made sure that it didn’t get too hot.  Flowers were abundant, growing along the sidewalks and streets you crossed and peeking out of window boxes you passed, bright splashes of color perfuming the air wherever you looked.  Everything had a vital energy of promise and life, an optimism that was positively infectious.  You had felt a smile grow on your face on your way here as you soaked the day in, despite everything.  It was the kind of day that made anything seem possible!

That was why, you decided as you watched Josuke Higashikata’s face fall from hopeful anticipation to absolute heartbreak, today had been absolutely doomed.

Josuke hadn’t exactly been subtle about his attraction to you.  He was a strong and capable guy, one who had dealt with more horrors in a couple years than most men did in their whole lifetimes, but he was still a kid, and did what kids do when they got a crush.  The sudden changes in the way he treated you—no doubt he thought he was being subtle—were laughably easy to spot.  You’d caught onto him when he made all sorts of excuses to be around (He wasn’t having that much trouble with English a few months ago) and humored him when he started opening doors for you and delivering lunch, making sure to pay him back and return the favor every time.  He was the pure love kind of guy, easily thrilled by infatuation and the chance to be the gentleman, but it would eventually die down, as all crushes did.  When that happened, he’d get interested in other girls and it would all begin again, you knew.

Except, of course, it didn’t.  If anything, his interest in you grew, despite your best attempts to let him down gently or keep things friendly, and when he suddenly sent you a text message asking you to meet him in the park by his house, you knew exactly what was going to happen and what you were going to have to do.  The idea of it made you want to crawl back into bed and abandon the day entirely, but Josuke was your friend and deserved the courtesy of your honest feelings.

“Is it—is it because I was too overbearing?” he blurted out, trying to hide the slight wobble of his bottom lip and failing miserably.  “Because if it is, I’m sorry, I can—“

“It’s not that.”  You were careful to try to keep your tone gentle, and not hurt him more than you already had, but this conversation wasn’t going to get anything but worse.

“Then is it because you don’t see me as a man?  Tell me what I’m not doing, I can fix it!  I’ll give up my games if I have to, I’ll do—whatever you want!” The words tumbled out in a passionate rush.  “I just care about you so much, and—“  You watched him turn away a little as he hastily rubbed at his face.

“Damn pollen.  This was such a stupid idea…”

“Josuke.  Josuke.  Look at me.”  You reached out and grabbed his shoulders, steadying him and forcing him to look you in the eye.  In that moment you knew that he was being completely serious, that he was desperate to correct whatever failing it was that prevented you from loving him.  It was a horrible truth, but the fact was that there really wasn’t anything he could do.

“It’s not your fault.  Okay?  It’s not because you aren’t a sweet guy, or that your heart isn’t good enough, or that you’re not manly.  Any girl would be happy to have you.”  Even me, if things were different, you thought but didn’t say.  Josuke didn’t seem convinced, just continued to stare at you in dejected silence.

You pressed on.  “Whenever we’re hanging out, even if it’s something boring or tedious, you’ve always found a way to make it fun.  I’m really happy I’m able to call you a friend, Josuke.  It’s just that sometimes people…aren’t meant for each other, you know?”  He could tell you were building up to something, probably read it in your face, but he just listened to you talk.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I already found someone…I already have a boyfriend.  Please understand my feelings.”

Something flickered in his eyes when the words came out of your mouth, something unsettling, but you were expecting that.  No man took ‘sorry I can’t date you!  There’s already another guy I like more’ well, even if they had to pretend to.  Even so, you’d hesitated; you and Kaito had only really begun your relationship about a week ago, and you’d avoided telling any of your friends for this exact reason.  It wasn’t because you really thought Josuke would do something crazy—he wasn’t that kind of guy, you thought—but because you’d stupidly hoped that even now he’d lose interest on his own and you wouldn’t have to deal with the matter at all.

Josuke took a deep, shaky breath.  He’d been handling this whole conversation like a champ, all things considered; if you were in his shoes, you had no doubt that you’d already been in tears, but it had to be done.

“Got it.  Alright.  I understand,” he said, after a very long pause.  He gave you a sad smile and gently took your hands off his shoulders, clasping them in his own.  “Don’t worry!” he said, his voice full of a fake cheer he couldn’t force himself to express with his face.

“I won’t get in your way, I promise.  But, uh…you’ll still be friends with me, right?  We can still hang out and everything?”  His grip tightened, not with an unspoken threat but with the worry of a teenager scared of losing the object of his affection entirely.

“If you promise to be nice when he’s around,” you warned.  

“Yeah!  I-I mean, obviously.  There’s no point in ruining our friendship just because we can’t date.” The words came easily, quickly, which you were expecting.  Josuke was the kind of guy who stuck to his promises, though, so you weren’t too worried about it.

Granted, given his face when he watched you walk away, you probably should have been.

—

Josuke didn’t have a problem.  He didn’t have a problem.  So what if Okuyasu was getting worried, and sure, he hadn’t even told Koichi, but it wasn’t a big deal or anything!  He could stop any time he wanted to.

He was just worried.

Kaito Nakayama was bad news, and he could tell that the moment he saw that slimy little smirk, the way Kaito wrapped his arm around your shoulders when he was introduced.  True to his word, though, Josuke sucked it up and played nice, even if there were times he had to laugh through gritted teeth.

It didn’t matter so long as you were happy, he told himself.  And hey, once you saw the creep you were dating for who he was and dumped his lame ass, maybe he’d have another shot.  In the meantime, though, he stuck to his mission with renewed determination, ready to be there at a moment’s notice the second Kaito went over the line or did something shady behind your back.  

He did have the presence of mind to know you wouldn’t be thrilled if you found out the…extent of his vigilance, so it became his little secret.  Checking out your boyfriend’s friends and making sure he wasn’t doing anything shady began to dominate his free time, but he always made sure to be near enough to you that he could step in when trouble happened.  Neither of you were Stand users, which gave him a pretty good advantage, even if it did feel a little like cheating at times…Josuke swallowed his guilt and focused back on the task at hand.

You’d been dating Kaito for eight months, now.  Eight months.  That was insane!  How did you go that long without wanting to throw him out on his ear?  Couldn’t you hear the way he talked to you?  Looked at you as you walked next to him?  Why did you smile when he pretended to be all gentlemanly, or choke down his shitty cooking whenever he made dinner for you?

Speaking of…Josuke leaned a little closer to get a better view through the window.  Kaito was in your place again, making dinner (like he owned the place, Josuke thought with a grit in his teeth).  You were getting off work by now, probably on your way home, but he had time.  He just had to make sure your boyfriend wasn’t doing anything funny in your house while you weren’t there to see anything.  

Usually Kaito knew better than to try anything, but something was weird about tonight—he had a small paper bag with him that he’d look into between cutting vegetables or stirring the pan.  He’d been fidgeting with it since he’d let himself into your house, in fact.  He’d check it while he was setting the table, checked it again when he got the groceries out, checked it another time when he went back to adjust the plates a couple centimeters…

Was it drugs?  Was this bastard going to put something in your food?  Josuke itched to get closer and check for himself, but Kaito was frustratingly attentive and never took his eyes off the bag for more than a few seconds, and he couldn’t get in the house without revealing himself anyway.  He took a deep, frustrated breath, inhaling the scent of cooking food that made his stomach grumble traitorously.  Shit, he should have packed a snack before coming here, it was going to be a long night.  He had to make sure that Kaito wasn’t planning on trying anything weird with whatever it was he had in the bag.

As if reading his thoughts, Kaito finally reached in the bag and pulled the item out, turning it over in his hands.  It wasn’t a pill bottle, but a small box, the kind you’d put jewelry in.  Alright, so he was trying to buy more of your affection with gifts, that wasn’t so bad.  It was still bad, but nothing he couldn’t handle—you were never one for lavish gestures, and imagining the annoyed look on your face as you pushed the box back at Kaito was enough to put a smirk back on his face.  

And then the bastard opened the box, and Josuke happened to be in just the right position to see what was inside—a small band of white gold, the single diamond in its center twinkling at him mockingly in the kitchen’s fluorescents.  

It couldn’t be.  He wouldn’t.  

Josuke watched with increasing horror as Kaito dithered, hoping against hope that it was just another present but already aware of the only thing it could be.

“No,” Josuke whispered, unable to help himself as your boyfriend walked over to the dining table and started pantomiming getting on one knee by the side, proposing to the empty chair, “no no no no no no no—“

There was no way you were going to say yes. Not because Josuke was going to stop you, but because you were too smart to see anything permanent in this guy, too smart to actually fall for it and become his fiancé, too smart to actually marry someone like that (too smart to marry someone who wasn’t him, the traitorous voice at the back of his head hissed).  Josuke felt his heart pound in his ears and body move on his own, too caught up in his rage, and only distantly heard the commotion as Crazy Diamond’s fists slammed through the door, breaking it down and letting him step through.  He strode towards the other man, hands already curling into fists.

Kaito shot up, banging his hip on the table in his haste to get to his feet.  “Oh my god!  Higashikata?  What the hell—“

But Josuke was already on him, dragging him forward by the collar of his shirt, only a few inches between their faces.  

“You’d better not,” Josuke said in a low, dark growl, “You’d better fucking not.  I saw what you were doing with that shitty little box—“

“Jesus, you can’t just barge in here like that—did you break that door?  That’s—“

“Thinking you can just take her away just because she tolerated your shady ass for a few months—“

“Why are you even—what?”  Kaito said blankly as Josuke’s last words finally registered.  He searched Josuke’s face for a second in dawning comprehension, and then laughed, a quiet derisive sound.  “Oh.  That’s what this is?”

Bold of you to laugh when I’m this close to breaking your neck, shitheel.  Josuke didn’t bother responding, just shoved him away, watching with savage satisfaction as Kaito collided with the table and knocked everything over in a shower of silverware and breaking china, the shards skittering across the floor like shooting stars.  He quashed his growing guilt at making such a mess in your home, too focused on the fact that this bastard had the nerve to still be laughing.

“I get it, okay?  You’re mad because she picked me over you, I could tell whenever we were all together.  Felt your eyes on me wherever we went, but I didn’t say anything because she kept you around for some reason.  But I’m only going to say this once.  There’s nothing you can do about it, alright?”  Kaito started to get to his feet, slowly, cautiously.  Josuke didn’t move, which the other man took as an encouraging sign.  He spread his hands, gesturing to the destruction that just happened.

“This?  This isn’t going to make her change her mind, buddy.  If anything, it’s just going to make her realize just how insane you are.”  He seemed to notice that Josuke’s knuckles were white from how tightly he clenched his fists, because he kept going.

“Go ahead, beat me up!  She’ll be here any second, maybe she’ll even catch you in the act.  You think she won’t call the police?  She loves me, Higashikata, not your lovestruck schoolboy act or your stupid little hair routine and certainly not this stalking bullshit.  Me?  I could propose to her from my hospital bed and she’d—“

Kaito’s next words were swallowed as Crazy Diamond’s fist smashed into his mouth, the force snapping his head back with an ugly crack that sent a chill down Josuke’s spine, but he was too far gone to care.  Kaito’s taunts had done their job too well.  It only took a few seconds for him to be rendered utterly unrecognizable, Josuke straddling his limp body and raining down blow after blow, forgetting even Crazy Diamond in the throes of his fury.  One spray of dark red splattered across the floor and walls as a blow landed, then two, then ten, until he paused and realized that the liquid dripping down his face wasn’t sweat or tears but blood.  Someone had been screaming, a sound of pure heartbreak and rage, and it wasn’t until he took a breath that Josuke realized it was himself.

Someone whimpered.  It wasn’t Kaito, now gruesomely trapped in the stillness that only the dead possessed…Josuke turned around slowly and registered you standing there, staring at him in dull shock, everything you were carrying forgotten on the ground as you took a slow step back.

“Hey—wait, I can—“

You turned around and made to bolt out the way you came, past the broken door and down the driveway, but shards of wood rose past you and reformed into the door, now locked in place.  You rattled the handle in useless desperation, a scream for help—for someone, anyone—rising into your throat.  You felt a hand force itself over your mouth as Josuke shoved you back against the door, mumbling placating words and promises that you were too panicked to hear or care about.

“Listen, listen, he was going to hurt you, okay?  The things he said about you—he was going to take you away forever, he was gonna trap you, I had to do something or he would—“ his words ran together as he tried desperately to calm you down, holding your head with his free hand and keeping you from getting free of his grasp.  You could only watch helplessly as the blood from the place your boyfriend’s head used to be pooled out further and further, watching your face in the macabre reflection.

“…I’m going to take my hand off your mouth, okay?  Promise you won’t scream.  Don’t scream, okay?”  you realized he was saying, his voice now so soft that it was nearly a whisper.  You started at his eyes, uncomprehending, unable to recognize the boy you turned down almost a year ago.  Blood was still dripping from his face, but he didn’t seem to care, his gaze fixed completely on you.  

You didn’t dare try to resist.  You nodded slowly, timidly, and took a shaky breath as he lowered his hand from your mouth, now cupping your cheek.

“Why?  I loved him,” you whimpered.  He frowned as you said the words, making a face similar to the one he made that day you turned him down, but different somehow.  Harder.  More resolute.

“I know.  I know,” he said quietly.  “I just wanted you to love me.”  

[starlight-drive-in]

For The Salvation of Us - A Mystic Messenger Fanfic (Ray/SaeranxMC)

The voice in his head nags to be heard. A small, repeating “let me out” chanted over and over again. Ray claps his hands over his ears, shaking his head. But voices from within can not be blocked out so easily. What is he supposed to do when the very thing threatening her, is a part of himself?

Ray fights with his darker side - the other him - for power over the body they both occupy.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804640  

His fingers clack at the keyboard relentlessly. Fighting off yet another counter attack of the red-head. How long can the other hacker really keep this up? Stupid question, he knows exactly how long. He slams the enter key, running his most recent code and waits impatiently staring at the screens in front of him. At least it gives him a moment to breath. When was the last time he slept anyway? Or ate? None of that matters anyway. The only thing that matters is doing his job correctly and maybe, just maybe, if he does a really good job he can allow himself to see her.

Her - just the thought of her brings heat to his face. His otherwise pale, peaked face. She kissed him. She. Kissed. Him. Last night in garden, he had been rambling stupid meaningless thoughts and she just stepped in and pressed her perfect lips to his very imperfect ones. That… was good? Right? It should have been, but he ran… stupid. Something that felt that good couldn't be bad, right? Ah but he's been wrong before. No. No she told him herself “Ray I like you, a lot” that doesn't make any sense though, how could someone like her be interested in him? Could she be lying? “She’s lying, and you know it, you’re pathetic.” a faded, yet intense voice speaks to him from his own mind.

“Shut up!” he shouts at the voice in his head, while recalling again that precious moment.

No, no he can't think about that now he has far too much work to do and not enough time to do it. He stifles a yawn and ignores his heavy eyelids, pulling the drawer under his keyboard open and searching for the caffeine pills that are more convenient than sleep these days. Stretching his hands to the back of the drawer, his slender fingers finally close around a small cylinder shape. He pops open the top and dumps a few pills into his palm, throwing his head back, taking the pills and swallowing - no water. No, he doesn't deserve water, not now. Not until he can say he’s done his job to the best of his meager abilities. He reels back from his intake of pills, attention snapping to the error code displayed blatantly on the screen. He groans in frustration and jolts his hands over the keyboard once more, knocking over the bottle of caffeine pills in the process and scattering them all over that hard tile floor. Frustration builds further, but he elects to ignore it for now, the pills can be cleaned up later. He has work to do, he has to figure out where the error is. He has to do better, he is better, right?

--

bang, bang, bang

The next thing he knows a sharp knocking at the door to his room is jarring him out of his nap. Nap? He’s not supposed to nap!

Stupid, stupid Ray. There’s no time for napping, there’s no time for anything, you’re so useless you cant even stay awake long enough to do your damn job. You’ll never get to see her now. You don't deserve to see her anyway. Why would she want to see someone as pathetic as you? He chides himself, making his way over to the door to open it to whichever believer the Savior has sent to check up on him this time.

He opens the door and standing before him is His savior and two other believers. She’s so beautiful, so delicate looking yet so powerful. She saved him, it’s all thanks to her that he’s even alive, and that he holds such a high position in this place. He’s come so far since…

“Ray?” Uh-oh, her tone is low, scolding. He knows just from this that she isn't happy, of course she isn't happy. That traitor got through security. Security he wasn't watching because he was being reckless. Stupid, stupid Ray the mantra repeats in his head once again.

She continues, scowl already creating her otherwise perfect features. “You weren't sleeping were you?” “Savior!” He says a little too panicked “Uh-I”

“Save it, I can see the indents of your sleeves all over you face, how long have you been slacking exactly?” His heart falls to the pit of his stomach, did he really think he was going to be able lie to her? Stupid,Useless

“I’ve tried to go easy on you Ray, you know that. You know I don’t want to hurt you.” His savior says in her honey dipped voice.

“Of course my savior, I‘m sorry. I’ll do better! I can do better!” Ray pleads nervously.   “Oh, I’m going to personally see to it that you do. I know you haven't been taking the elixir I’ve been sending to you. Do you think you know better than I do?” She holds a hand out to one of the believers standing next to her as they produce a bottle of liquid all too familiar to him. “No Savior! I know nothing of what's best for me, please give me another chance I-” “Hold him down” She commands the believers on either side of her. They comply immediately, each taking one of his too thin arms in their hands and bringing him too his knees.

“Open your mouth” She commands of him lifting the larger-than average-bottle of the offensive elixir.   “Savoir please not now, I need to work I need too-” She laughs bitterly “Oh is that what you were doing then?! I don’t think so.”

She forces his mouth open and pours the bitter, blue-green liquid down his throat. “I’m sorry Ray, you just aren't strong enough” He hears her say as he gags and chokes on the volatile liquid. “ He won’t get so easily distracted, I’m sure” Ray hears her say as he slowly begins to fade, something darker lurking just below the surface.

--

Somewhere else in that same building a young woman paces nervously in her borrowed, but poshley decorated room. Holding her phone tightly between her hands she worries herself with thoughts of what could have happened to the sweet boy whose more than caught her attention in the few days she’s been at this strange place.

She touches her own lips again, stomach leaping at the mixed feelings surrounding the moment she impulsively pressed her lips against his in a desperate attempt to get him to stop degrading himself, to even give him a glimpse of the way she sees him.

That was last night, they haven't talked as much today as she would like, he's been extremely busy today, even more so than usual. In fact all signs of him seem to have disappeared. She wonders idly how this place would even manage to exist if it wasn't for all him. Maybe it wouldn't and maybe that would be better.

-

A short while later, someone knocks on her door. Positive it must be Ray she opens the door right away, eager to see him and calm her worries. Her fears are irrational, right? But it is not Ray at the door instead it is a believer from the lost and found inquiring about a bookmark they found. Asking after its owner, and revealing it to her. It looks familiar. After closer inspection she’s sure it belongs to Ray, or belonged to Ray? The handwriting is that of a child’s but his personality is all over the thing. She claims it to be hers and them timidly asks after Ray.

“You haven't heard? Mr. Ray is undergoing his cleansing at the moment.”

Her eyes grow wide at the news, but the believer doesn’t seem to think of this as anything but ordinary. Not wanting to cause alarm she dismisses him and shuts the door. “Oh Ray, what’s happening to you?

--

Back in his room, The Savior has seen to it that Ray has consumed his elixir and leaves him wait out the effects on his own. Closing the door behind her she motions to the two believers at her side. “Make sure he gets back to work as fast as possible, and pay no mind to the screaming.”

They nod their heads in compliance and take guard at either side of his heavy metal clad door.

Inside Ray shakes violently, clinging to himself, rocking himself back and forth. He’s too hot, he tears his jacket off, then his cravat and vest, finally his shirt comes off revealing every nasty scar and protruding rib. He paces across the small room. Once, twice, after awhile he loses track completely how many times he's paced the few meters that make up his small room. Finally he stops, catching sight of himself in the small mirror on his dresser.

The voice in his head nags to be heard. A small, repeating “ let me out ” chanted over and over again. Ray claps his hands over his ears turns away from the mirror, shaking his head. But voices from within can not be blocked out so easily.

“ Let. Me. Out .” The voice in his head screams. An almost crazed tone accenting each word, different from Ray’s own voice.

“NO, you- you'll hurt her, you'll- I don't know what you'll do!” Ray says aloud to the other one, a battle he cannot win just beginning.

“ If you don't let me out, we're going to die on this floor, we’ll never get our job done, and it'll be your fault! You're pathetic. I can't wait to get rid of you. ”

“I-I can do this, I'll do it for her! I won't let you win, I won’t let you hurt her “

“ Who? That stupid airhead you have locked up in that disgusting room? ”

“She’s not an airhead! She’s brilliant! And she's not locked up! She's not! She wants to be there, she - she likes me!”

“ HA! You? Who the fuck would like you?! There's only one woman in this world who cares for us and it's the Savior, you'd do well to remember that, Marshmallow Boy. ”

“No, no, no, she’s different”

In a desperate attempt to ground himself he grabs his phone off his bedside table and shakily dials her number.

--

Suddenly, her phone comes to life, displaying the very name she’s been waiting to see. She picks up before the first ring can even complete. “Ray?!” she says frantically. “Is is really you? Please.. Please don't hang up… please!” “Ray, what's going on?!”

“My head… it hurts, I feel like I’m going to explode… I …” His breathing is labored and heavy. She can feel her chest tighten at the sound of it.

“You should leave me alone, I'm too weak. Just let me stay in the corner” he continues. “I wish it would all go away, I think I have to go now. I'm too weak. I’m too scared. I should have never breathed in the first place. I must be gone for our salvation.”

Ours? As in mine and his? Or? She wonders in her head but can't speak.

“NO, no I want to stay. I want to see you… I want to stay with you” He says, as if arguing with himself out loud.

“Paradise… I’ll  do anything for our paradise, so please just let me stay in the corner. I’ll miss you, but I need to be gone, so that you will stay. You must be happy”

She’s never heard him sound so resigned before, so defeated. The phone goes silent. Something wet falls from her face, and then another. She wants to help him but everyone in this place frightens her except him. She curls on the bed weeping, feeling just as defeated as him, and so helpless. This place is poison, she’s sure of it.

--

He can feel the other one taking over. Two opposites fighting over control of a metaphorical car neither of them fully understand how to drive. Somewhere in the backseat a small boy calls for his brother, While a young man next to him starts to awaken.

---

Thank you for reading! This is my first fanfic I've ever published so its a big step for me, leave a comment if you liked it!

I took a little creative liberty at the end there with the 4 different personalities. It's an idea I play with from time to time that Saeran has more than just two personalities.

[bibliophileiz]

Supernatural 14x14 coda

A/N: I don’t have a title for this or anything. It’s my first Supernatural coda and it’s so angsty you guys. Not really romantic, but there’s definitely Sam/Rowena and Dean/Cas vibes. Sam feels guilt, Dean compares Cas to not one, but two hot brunette ladies from pop culture, and Cas dislikes Gone With The Wind. Hurt/Comfort.

When the dust settled – when the shadow of wings against the war room wall faded and the gold light in Jack’s eyes dimmed to their normal brown – then there was nothing to show there had been any victory at all.

Michael was gone and all that was left were the aches in Sam’s body and the twin smells of metallic blood and charred flesh.

All those people he’d tried to save.

The silence was broken when Rowena let out a sob. Jack turned, stepped toward her, and helped her to her feet. She trembled as she clung for a moment to his arm.

There was a shuffling sound behind Sam, and he turned to see Dean lean his back against the wall, burying his face in his shaking hands. Cas made a sharp move, as if to go to Dean’s side, then seemed to change his mind. His eyes darted between Dean and Jack, as though torn.

Sam glanced back at Jack, who was surveying the carnage, the bodies of the hunters he fought beside time and again. His faced seemed to lose some of its etherealness, made him look more like the uncertain boy Sam once found sitting on a milk crate outside a motel, afraid and upset at being called the devil.

“I – I can fix it,” Jack said, his voice wavering a little. “I can bring them back -- ”

“No.” Cas’ voice was sharp. “You won’t use any more of your power.”

Cas’ ire seemed to be wasted energy. Jack looked lost. Sam remembered the only person Jack had ever been able to resurrect was Cas, and that was out of reflex. He probably couldn’t do it intentionally.

Silence settled on them again.

Sam felt like puking. He felt like throwing chairs at the wall and screaming until his throat tore. He felt like going to sleep and never waking up.

“We’ll have to wrap the bodies,” Dean said finally, and though his hands were still covering his face, his voice was steadier.

Mechanically, they all moved forward and began tending to the bodies. Dean found some rags, sheets and cleaning supplies from a closet down the hall. Cas and Jack began arranging limbs, moving the bodies out of their horrible contorted positions. They wrapped the bodies in silence, other than Rowena’s soft Gaelic murmuring as she recited spells, or maybe prayers, over all the people she took care of.

Sam took care of Maggie himself. She deserved nothing less.

There were 14 more hunters from the Apocalypse World out on cases he assigned for them. He didn’t think he would ever be able to look any of them in the eye again.

When the bodies were wrapped – and after Cas had to physically take the Lysol bottle out of Dean’s hand to keep him from scrubbing at the bloodstains on the floor until his fingers bled – they all stood around in silence again.

“Well have a hunter’s funeral for all of them tomorrow,” Sam heard himself say.

Everyone but Dean looked at him, and Sam couldn’t bear the odd mixture of pity and hurt in their eyes. Why couldn’t you lead them somewhere other than to death? they seemed to say.

One by one, they shuffled off to bed.

In the privacy of his bedroom, Sam pulled out his phone. It occurred to him the best person to call to get the word out about the massacre was Jody – he couldn’t stand the thought of telling his mom what had happened, and anyway, knowing Dean, he’d call her first and she’d be too busy comforting him to answer a call from Sam. That was fine, that was right – Dean may have known the Apocalypse hunters, may have laughed with them and fought beside them and compared chili recipes with them, but he wasn’t their leader the way Sam was. He wasn’t the one who trained them and assigned them cases. He wasn’t the one responsible for their safety. And he sure as hell wasn’t the one who’d ignored how volatile the Michael situation was becoming.

Sam thought of the ma’lak box and wanted to puke again.

Instead, he called Jody, told her what happened in a clipped, monotone voice he barely recognized as his own, and asked her to call the other hunters.

“Sam,” she said, and there was that pity again, “I’m so -- ”

“Jody,” he said. He took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m f--” He wasn’t fine. It was an insult to the people who were dead to pretend otherwise. “I just – I just want to go to bed. Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Of course,” said Jody. “And I’ll take care of calling everyone else.”

“Thank you,” Sam whispered and then ended the call because he couldn’t handle another second of that conversation.

He changed out of his plaid and jeans – he’d been wearing them since before Jack killed the gorgon a million hours ago – and into a Henley and sweatpants. Then he left his bedroom for the infirmary. He tried to avoid self-medicating if at all possible, but no way would he sleep tonight without sleeping pills.

He was surprised to find Rowena already there, cleaning blood off her neck over the sink in the corner. She paused when she saw him.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No,” he said. He spotted a bandage on her arm. “You are, though.”

She tugged at her sleeve to cover the bandage. “One of the hunters fought back. He slashed me with a silver knife before I -- ” She choked out a low sob and threw the rag she was using to clean herself in the trash. She turned on the faucet and began scrubbing her hands under the water.

“No.” Sam found his voice. After everything Rowena had done to try and be good the last two years, she didn’t deserve this guilt. “You didn’t do anything.”

She placed her hands on either side of the sink and bent over it, her tiny frame shaking as she inhaled and exhaled harsh, jarring sobs.

In a way it was almost worse than seeing Maggie die. He’d seen Rowena incapacitate Lucifer, break chains God and the archangels themselves had locked, challenge Death unflinchingly. To see her now, broken and weeping helplessly, made him want to leave, get in the Impala and drive away from all of this and never look back.

Instead he walked behind her and placed a hand on her back.

She got enough control over herself to speak. “He told me he would kill you all – you, the boy -- ”

“I know,” said Sam. “It’s not your fault.”

For just a moment, when Dean had said Sam, get the cuffs, it had come to him as clearly as a childhood nightmare that this was how their story would end, that this was how he would kill her – by locking her in the box instead of his brother. He hated himself for being willing to make that sacrifice. He hated himself even more for being glad he didn’t have to.

He thought of Maggie again and closed his eyes. “It’s not your fault,” he said again. “It’s mine.”

She didn’t answer, but she reached behind her and grabbed his hand.

They stayed there for a long time.

  Dean’s head hurt.

It wasn’t the relentless pounding that had threatened to break his skull in two when Michael was fighting to get out of his head. Instead, it was just a tired soreness, like it had a thorough beating earlier but had since been left alone.

Which he guessed was what happened. 

His eyes and throat hurt too. That was from trying not to cry.

He leaned against the door to his bedroom, his fingers itching for a bottle of Scotch – some of the good stuff that Crowley had hidden around the bunker, if that rat bastard Ketch hadn’t found it all first.

He should have gotten in that box, Sam and Cas be damned. He was so, so relieved he didn’t have to now.

God, he needed a drink.

He was glad he didn’t have to get in the box, and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to Maggie or Sam or Rowena or any of them. This was on him. He let Michael in, he couldn’t keep him and he couldn’t make himself get in the goddamned box, he was just so scared, he’d tried so hard to keep Michael locked away but he wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t the man he was supposed to be -- he couldn’t resist Michael any more than he could resist Alastair in Hell or the Mark of Cain or stopping Sammy finish the trials or – or ….

He didn’t realize he was hyperventilating until he was on the ground gasping for breath. Then Cas was there, grabbing Dean’s hand, putting it to his own chest and saying something Dean couldn’t hear over the rushing in his ears, and oh God, he couldn’t breathe, his head hurt ….

A warm, liquid-like feeling filled his chest, like sinking into a hot bath, and it took Dean a moment to realize it was grace. Cas was trying to heal him.

It didn’t immediately end his panic but it did slow his racing heart and clear the noise from his ears enough so that he could hear Cas telling him to count his breaths. Dean closed his eyes and focused on the cadence of Cas’ voice. He hadn’t even realized when Cas came in the room.

It was over in a few minutes, and Dean was left a humiliated and shaking mess, wiping a couple of tears from his face with sweaty palms. Cas’ hand rested on his shoulder.

“I let him out,” Dean said finally. He put a hand to his aching chest. His head hurt so bad.

Cas paused a moment.“We should have listened to you when you said the door was giving,” he said.

“Would you have put me in the damn box?”

“Maybe,” Cas said. Dean closed his eyes and clenched his jaw in an effort to hold back any more tears. He was just so tired and he didn’t know how it would ever be over.

“Jack,” he said. “You’re mad that Jack had to fix it – had to burn off his – his soul.” He wiped his face again. “I never … Cas, I didn’t want that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Cas was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, it was in that low growl that never failed to calm Dean down. “You should know,” he said, “that there is nothing – nothing – that happened tonight or that could ever happen that would make you belong in that box. And if I did have to put you in it, I would never drop it in the ocean.”

Dean let out a half-laugh, half-sob. He was pretty sure the last time he cried like this in front of Cas was after torturing Alastair during the Apocalypse. Cas leaned over him and pressed a kiss to his hair.

Dean froze, feeling his face warm. Cas had never kissed him before, even a platonic, comforting kiss like this one, however many times Dean had secretly wanted him to over the years. But Cas just murmured something quietly in Enochian and got to his feet. He pulled back the covers on Dean’s bed. “You need to sleep,” he said.

Dean huffed. “Yeah, ok, Mom.” He immediately wondered whether he should call Mary. But his head hurt and his hands were still a little shaky – God, but he was exhausted – and the walk to his bed may as well have been 1,000 miles, so he decided the phone call could wait until tomorrow morning.

He dragged himself to the bed where Cas helped him out of his jacket and plaid, leaving him only in a t-shirt. Dean briefly considered taking off his jeans but decided he’d sleep like the dead no matter how comfortable his pants were. He sat on the edge of his bed to remove his boots, waving Cas away when he bent to help. Cas straightened and ran his hands through Dean’s hair instead. It felt a million times better than Dean would ever deserve.

“Hey, what happened to the gorgon?” he asked as he started on the laces of the second boot. It was a little bit of a relief to think about a different case.

Cas’ fingers stilled. “Jack killed him.” He paused. “He kept the snake as well. I was so worried about your head injury I didn’t notice him taking it. He must have put it in his pocket.”

It was a mark of Dean’s exhaustion that he didn’t feel the need to object to the kid bringing an animal into the bunker. “Huh,” he said. “I guess he’s at that age when he’s sneaking pets in the house.” The second boot slipped from his numb fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud.

“Come on,” Cas said and Dean sank into the memory foam. “Does your chest still hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Your head?”

“Yes.” If Cas pulled the Indiana Jones shit on him, Dean was going to die.

Instead, Cas eased some more beams of grace into his forehead and Dean felt the aches ease somewhat. He closed his eyes and let his exhaustion start to drag over him.

“You know,” he mumbled, half into the pillow, “the kid’ll be ok. Even without ….” He trailed off, too sleepy to finish the sentence. “He’s a good kid,” he slurred. “Takes after his dad.” A second later he realized what he’d said. “Meant you, not ….”

Cas was quiet and then his fingers were in Dean’s hair again. “We’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

“Mkay, Scarlett.”

“I dislike that movie. It glorifies the Confederacy, and -- ”

Dean was asleep before Cas could finish the sentence.

  Castiel sat by Dean’s bedside for a long time.

Dean’s forehead was creased and there were a couple of tear tracks on his face from his panic attack earlier, and Castiel wanted nothing more than to wrap his vessel around Dean’s body and hold him – to keep all the demons, external and internal, at bay.

There was only one thing Castiel had succeeded at more often than he’d failed, and that was protect Dean Winchester.

Not that he was particularly adept at that, but then he had saved Dean from Hell.

The same couldn’t be said for Jack Kline.

Jack had a good heart and the intellectual capability to tell right from wrong. But he was young and, to Castiel’s mind, overly confident about things that were far from certain. He obviously thought his soul was a small price to pay to kill Michael once and for all. He thought of himself as the chicken, not the snake. It’s worth the cost, he’d told Michael, right before he’d said, I’m the son of Lucifer.

Perhaps Dean was right.

But Dean hadn’t been there when Jack asked Castiel how Sam and Mary and Bobby planned to kill Michael if he didn’t leave Dean. He hadn’t seen the look on Jack’s face when Michael told him he was a job to them all, not a son.

Castiel knew Jack had loved him and the Winchesters. He wasn’t sure now, without a soul, Jack still did.

He wasn’t sure what to make of a man who’d trade his own soul for the power to kill his enemy.

Because when Jack took Michael’s grace – when he spread his wings through the room and resonated with divine energy – he hadn’t had the light Castiel remembered from Michael, back when he’d been another soldier in Heaven’s garrison, in awe of his glorious commander.

No, Jack had burned brighter than Michael – as bright as the morning star. 

[29-pieces]

In From the Cold

Thank you for your prompt request, @koshisekisen!! I did not manage to stay under 1000 words with this, LOL.

Koshisekisen wanted sick!Cas with worried!Sam and mother-hen!Dean. Hope this fits the bill :)

In From the Cold

"I'm sorry, I know you don't want me around. But I- I don't know what to do. I think I'm sick."

Dean wanted to pour an entire bottle of whiskey down his throat until the words were burned out of his ears. Except he doubted even that would do it, and he needed to stay sober enough to take care of Cas. Because god knew if he didn't stay wary, Zeke might take it upon himself to get the ex-angel out of the picture.

"Flu?" Sam asked, voice hushed as though to keep from waking Cas. From the way their friend was sweating through the covers, tossing his head in feverish sleep, it wouldn't have mattered.

"Yeah, looks like." Dean dabbed Cas's forehead with the damp towel, heart clenching at the soft moan it elicited. 

Sam paused, then asked, "Did you see the sleeping bag?"

Dean nodded numbly. They hadn't been picking Cas up from work at the Gas-n-Sip. They'd been picking him up from his living quarters. Because Cas had no home. Because Cas had nothing.

Because Dean had kicked him out. And when Cas had called, wheezing and hacking, he'd apologized to Dean for calling for help.

"You got the flu once when we were kids," he said gruffly, instead of addressing the living situation that was his fault to begin with. "Just gotta let it run its course."

Sam's eyes crinkled with obvious worry, gaze shifting back to their fitfully turning friend. "We don't know if he can fight it off on his own. His immune system is probably starting from scratch since losing his grace. I mean, it's not like Jimmy's is intact."

"He's strong," Dean snapped. "Cas is the toughest sonofabitch I know. He'll pull through. He'd be too exposed at a hospital." Carefully, he dabbed more sweat away and dipped the towel back in the bowl to avoid Sam's uncertain look.

Then, Sam froze, only for a second before straightening to the tall, grim countenance that Dean was really starting to resent.

"Don't even start," he warned, glaring up at his brother who wasn't his brother at the moment.

Ezekiel's cool eyes glared back. "We had an arrangement."

Letting the towel splash back into the bowl, Dean stood so that they were nose to nose. "Yeah? Well, new arrangement. Cas stays. He's sick! God only knows what kinda crap he picked up, living on the floor of a friggin' gas station! This isn't up for debate, Zeke. I should never have made him leave in the first place, so get used to him being around."

"I must remind you," Ezekiel growled, "if I leave Sam now-"

"Then we'll figure that out, too, like we always do, whatever it takes."

Ezekiel was silent, jaw tightening, as he looked between Dean and Cas. "Do not expect me to heal him. It would be too suspicious."

Dean snorted, shaking his head in disgust. "Whatever. I'll do it myself. Oh, and Zeke?"

The angel had started to turn away, but looked back at him.

Eyes narrowing, Dean growled, "If you ever use Sammy as leverage again, I will rip you out of there myself and give you to the angels. And if you know anything about Winchesters, you know I ain't playing around." He waited a moment, watching Zeke's eyes flash in anger, but he thought he saw uncertainty in the cold gaze.

Then he was Sam again. Dean barely rearranged his own features in time, sitting back down to avoid his brother's momentary confusion.

"Um… what was I about to do?" Sam asked, looking around.

"Advil, crackers, water," Dean listed off without looking at him. "See if we have any Gatorade in the fridge. I'll make some chicken broth when he wakes up."

"Do you think that will help?"

"Worked for you. Sam, don't worry… I got you through this once, I can get him through it now."

He waited until Sam had hurried out of the room to grab the things they needed before reaching to take Cas's clammy hand. "Come on, man, I need you to fight this off," he murmured. "I need you to get better so you can kick my ass for being such a dick."

Cas's eyes blinked open, the deep blue hazy with sickness, but Dean couldn't help sighing in relief.

"Hey, buddy," he murmured. "Are you awake enough to eat something?"

Cas stared at him uncomprehending for a second, then twisted his face away. "'m not hungry."

"Well, you're gonna eat something anyway. Feel like you're gonna hurl?"

"No…"

He didn't sound certain, though, so Dean grabbed the nearby garbage can and plunked it down next to Cas just in time for him to lean over and vomit into it. Dean grabbed his shoulder, supporting his heaving friend until the bout passed, then wordlessly handed him the damp towel. Cas took it without meeting his eyes, wiping his mouth and leaning back.

"Where- where am I?"

Dean's throat closed up. "You're at the Bunker, Cas. You're home. Remember? We came and got you."

He felt Cas tense under his hand, felt his breath quicken slightly. "I thought… Perhaps if you could just make me some… 'papers'. You need papers to go to a hospital, right? You and Sam always make them- I don't have papers."

Taking a bracing breath, Dean nodded. "I know you don't." Because he'd sent Cas out into the world completely unprepared for an eventuality like this. The ex-angel had nothing to go on but what he might have picked up along the way from watching Sam and Dean. He probably didn't even know what having "papers" meant.

"Sorry," Cas slurred, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry… shouldn't have called… I didn't mean to be a burden. I just need some papers. I can go to a hospital, you don't have to keep me here-"

"Stop." Damn it all. "Cas, listen to me, okay? You're not a burden. If you get worse, we might have to take you to a hospital, but I'd rather keep you close as long as possible. It's safer that way."

And what if an angel or a demon, or maybe even a monster—hell, even a human with evil ideas—had found Cas while he was completely vulnerable, sick and unconscious in a gas station with no protection at all? No one there looking out for him, because the person who was supposed to had told him to leave.

Pushing that nightmarish thought away, Dean finished, "You're gonna be okay. But don't apologize. You got nothing to be sorry for, I do." He glanced over his shoulder, hearing footsteps from down the hall. "We'll talk when you're feeling better, okay?"

"'kay."

"Hey, you're awake!" Sam exclaimed, setting down a pack of crackers, some water, and a medicine bottle. "Think you can take this?"

"Take some," Dean ordered. "Then eat a couple of crackers."

"Better just do it," Sam suggested with an anxious smile. "Dean's a bully when he's playing nurse."

Cas just looked between the two, feverish and bewildered, but nodding. Dean took the medicine bottle and dumped two Advil into his palm, holding them out with the glass of water. He waited until Cas had swallowed the pills to help him lay back down.

"Sleep it off," Dean murmured. He raised his voice slightly for Zeke's benefit and finished, "I'll keep an eye on you."

And he would never leave Cas out in the cold again.

[tonystarktogo]

Tiny Tony Overlord Part 3

Part I | Part II | Read on AO3

Betaed by the amazing @folklejend. All remaining mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

Chapter 3 Recover

.Minor S.H.I.E.L.D. Unit.

Bix, whose birth certificate states the name Bianca Arlinda White, has had a terrible day so far. Admittedly, the good days have been few and far in between ever since Captain fucking America was rediscovered in the middle of fucking nowhere and successfully defrosted before the right people could get their hands on him. Like Iron Man’s creation hadn’t been bad enough—and really, who could have seen that one coming?

It’s not that Bix has an opinion on their existence one way or another, it’s just that superheroes tend to be, well. Messy. Not to mention that there are only so many high horses and moral bullshit speeches you can listen to before you want to take a nearby machine gun and shut them the heck up yourself.

[continue below the cut]

And then there are those days where they open their damn mouth and take control of your most precious weapon because they apparently eat shameless amounts of luck for breakfast every day. Which is just not fair. Just because Bix doesn’t play with the good guys doesn’t mean fate is allowed to mess up every single mission Bix is in charge of. That just isn’t right!

“Enter,” a voice calls out, and Bix pushes the internal rant aside to be finished at another time in favour of entering the small, clean office.

Walter Brickley is the supervising officer of SHIELD’s local strike teams. He is also meticulously dressed, single, in his early thirties, and filled to the brim with confidence and self-importance. In other words he is perfect.

Bix observes Brickley’s expression closely. The way he takes in the expensive high heels, the form-fitting blouse with the top button undone, the manicured fingers and the skirt an inch shorter than SHIELD’s dress policies allow. Brickley isn’t a pig, thankfully. He doesn’t leer, doesn’t even stare excessively. It might have made the job easier, but there is always a fifty-fifty chance Bix will snap and break someone’s knee, and that never helps. He is interested though, if his dilated pupils are anything to go by.

“How can I help you, Miss?” Brickley asks, the picture of friendly competence.

Years of practice allow Bix to repress the instinctive grimace and paint a honeyed smile on instead.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Brickley.” Bix shakes the man’s hand. “My name is Andrina Flynn. I work directly under Senator Stern. I was hoping the two of us could come to an agreement.”

* * * * *

Bix leaves Agent Brickley’s office twenty-five minutes later, the picture of the calm and collected secretary. The closest bathroom is right around the corner, and it takes Bix all of four minutes to replace the skirt with rugged pants, exchange the heels with black combat boots, and pull the long, wavy locks into a high ponytail. By the time Bix’s cell phone rings, the last traces of deep red lipstick have been wiped away and the face inside the mirror starts to look familiar again.

“Yes?” Bix answers, careful to use a deeper voice.

“Agent White, this is Agent Brickley. There is a minor internal security issue that needs to be taken care of immediately. STRIKE team 2 has been authorised to liquidate a threat towards National security. The details will be sent to your phone momentarily. Get a hold of your people and be ready to go in five.”

Bix smirks. “Copy that, sir.”

It is high time to get rid of a certain bothersome—if currently child-sized—genius and reclaim the organisation’s favourite toy.

“But how did you get Brickley to agree to this?” Archie Denver whispers quietly in the back of the trunk half an hour later. “The guy is squeaky clean like no other!”

“Oh, Archie.” Bix patronisingly pats the man on the head. “You’re thinking too simple again. You’re still operating under the assumption that you need an army of corrupt soldiers to take on the world. But you don’t.”

The unconcealed glee on Bix’s face makes their colleagues, Hydra and otherwise, shift nervously.

Good. They may survive this retrieval mission after all.

“All you need is one corrupt mole amongst a sea of honest fools.”

“Ma’am?” an eager trainee speaks up from the other side of the truck, oblivious to Bix’s reflexive twitch. “The target has been located.”

* * * * *

.Zach’s B&B.

Tony is abruptly reminded why he’s chosen to spend the last couple of hours on the uncomfortable seat when he tries to stand and his knees almost give out under him. The dull ache in the back of his head intensifies as well, causing the world to tilt sideways, and for a long moment, it’s all he can do to remain upright and remember how to breathe.

Through it all, Dead-Eyes stays motionless in the shadiest corner of the room and watches him with a blank face. When Tony is aware enough to notice, he appreciates the man’s silence. Mostly though, he just prays for the piercing pain to disappear.

It doesn’t.

“Pepper,” he whispers, the word so soft he almost chokes on it.

She doesn’t smile at him like she used to, hasn’t smiled at all since they’ve lost Rhodey, but he reads the understanding in her eyes. Traces the affection in her scarred features. She is still here after all, still stands tall and proud, brimming with the same fiery determination that has first brought her to his attention so many years ago.

“Tony.” She takes his hands into hers, the touch warm and familiar. “There is no cure.” Her voice doesn’t break, doesn’t waver and god, she is beautiful like this. “You know that. You’ve done the best you can, you’ve done everything you can.”

“Not everything.” His eyes burn.

“This isn’t your fault, Tony,” she says with unshakeable conviction. “I love you.”

Their kiss tastes of the tears they’ve forgotten how to cry and he can’t let go of her, can’t lose her, not after everything, not ever, but when she asks, he can’t deny her anything.

She walks into one of their facilities the next day with her head held high, one of Tony’s most devastating, amplified Jerichos strapped to her chest. She takes over 300 Others with her.

The last of Tony Stark dies with her.

Tony is kneeling on the ground, palms pressed against the solid floor, desperately trying to anchor himself to the present.

He is in a motel. The images in his head, no matter how vivid, aren’t real. Or, a darker voice in the back of his head whispers mockingly, are they?  

Tony swallows. Pepper’s face when she found out about the baby—too late, always too late—flashes before his eyes, a look of hopeless devastation so shattered, it tears him apart even now. He can’t recall the moments that have led up to this, nor what happened after. But does it really matter? At some point in time, it might have happened, and Tony can’t take that chance. Can’t allow his friend to ever feel pain like that again, not when he can still do something about it.

Stumbling towards the kitchen corner, Tony struggles to open a bottle of water with shaking hands.

His headache is worse than ever. A reflection perhaps of the utter chaos inside his mind, the strings woven too tightly together to be untangled without ripping them, the gaping holes in between that leave too many questions unanswered.

Tony sways back to the table. Takes another pill on autopilot. Swallows two gulps of water. He tries to set the glass down but his fingers are numb and the glass slips from his grasp. He doesn’t try to catch it. The glass shatters on the concrete with a clash.

“Feel better now?”

“No.”

“Throw another plate then. Maybe the world will magically become a better place. Maybe destroying what little we have left is the cure we’ve all been looking for.”

Tony glares at his oldest friend, who is entirely too blasé in the face of his fury. “What do you want, honey bear?”

“I just want to make sure you’re alright.” Rhodey steps a bit closer then, not close enough to touch yet, but close enough to remind Tony that he’s there. Rhodey is always there.

Almost against his will, Tony can feel some of the tension in his muscles dissipating. “Who cares?” he mutters, just to be a stubborn asshole. “I’m just the mass-murdering megalomaniac, aren’t I?”

“I take it the talk with Rogers didn’t go well.” Rhodey doesn’t look surprised. Truth be told, neither is Tony.

“Yeah,” Tony snorts derisively. “Turns out Captain America doesn’t abide to the, and I quote, ‘needless slaughter of tens of thousands of innocent civilians.’ Who would’ve thought, eh?”

For a moment, Tony simply stares at the remains of his destroyed kitchen. “He thinks there’s another way,” he whispers eventually, aware of how tired he sounds.

Rhodey’s hand squeezes his shoulder comfortingly. “What do you think?” he asks, face free of any judgement.

It allows Tony to say the words that have been drowned out by Steve’s single-minded determination far too often. “I think he’s right,” he admits. “There is another way. But we’ll lose people every day searching for it. And who’s to say that there’ll be anyone left to save by the time we’ve found it?”

Tony searches Rhodey’s eyes, wills his friend to understand.

“There’ll be collateral damage no matter which choice we make, and by—by not containing the damage, we aren’t saving the world, we aren’t even saving the people in the ghettos. We’re absolving ourselves of their deaths, nothing more.”

“Tones-“ Rhodey’s eyes are achingly gentle.

He is interrupted by an icy “‘Containing the damage’?” from behind them.

Tony feels sick. The memory is frightening in its clarity. He can picture the entire scene in his head, down to the colour of Rhodey’s shirt—red and yellow, because of course Rhodey would wear Iron Man merchandise for this kind of conversation—like it has happened only minutes ago, and the emotions it evokes are overwhelming.

There is only one question. Who the hell is Rhodey?

Out of the corner of his eyes, Tony catches a blurry shadow moving towards him but he can’t even muster up the will to shield his face. His headache is steadily getting worse. It’s impossible to focus on anything but the piercing pain deep within his skull, burning with an intensity that makes him want to crack his head open just to get it out. Pressing his flushed skin against the cool floor helps a little but the relief is short-lasting.

It feels like an eternity before Tony finds the will to turn onto his back. The only thing he wants to do right now is lie here and hope the world will stop turning around him at some point. He can’t though. Not when he doesn’t know what is happening to him and whether these symptoms will pass on their own. Who knows what the purpose of the weird energy that hit him was. It might work like a slow-acting poison. Hell, Tony’s physical self is decades younger than his mind; who knows what kind of effects such an imbalance has? What if his body can’t cope with the strain?

No, Tony can’t afford to waste more time. And once he has managed to formulate that thought in his head, he clings to it. Holds on with an iron determination that has been formed and shaped by terror and loss, left him unwilling to consider anything but success a possibility.

Somehow, Tony makes it back onto his feet and after he has blinked away the first bout of dizziness, things get a bit more manageable.

“Alright, Dead-Eyes,” Tony’s voice sounds about as terrible as he feels but he doubts his shadow will care. Actually, he’s starting to question whether Dead-Eyes is even capable of caring. “Clean this room out, don’t leave anything behind.”

The command sounds odd on his tongue, familiar almost, the way a song from your early childhood might be. Like he’s said it a thousand times before, often enough that the details of every occurrence blur and bleed together. Tony shakes the uncomfortable sensation off.

He will have to deal with Dead-Eyes eventually, but he is in no state to do a background check, never mind conduct an interrogation. Besides, so far the man hasn’t tried to kill him. That has to count for something.

“Ready?” he mumbles.

Dead-Eyes gives a sharp nod. He’s wearing his goggles and face mask again. The look isn’t as disturbing as it probably should be, but that seems to be a theme where Dead-Eyes is concerned.

“Cool.” Tony staggers towards the door. “Time to visit some old friends. Older friends. Urgh, whatever.”

They don’t even make it off the parking lot.

I’m enjoying this story a lot, hope you do too! Feel very welcome to share your thoughts and impressions!

[lubdubsworld]

Tumblr prompt ( Yoongi x Oc )

Part 1

         Part 2

         Part 3

part 4/4. 

“She should be awake by now, right?” Yoongi said nervously, pacing across the hospital room, fingers dipped into his pockets.

“ she will... just give it time, hyung..” Namjoon was going through the reports. again. just to be sure . just to make sure they didn’t miss something. 

these things happened. 

one misplaced dot and the patient crashes.

a split second of indecision and somewhere, someone’s life is forever changed. 

in this case it was yoongi. 

Namjoon couldn’t risk it. 

None of them could.

 the staff were all on edge : Dr. Min had saved so many young lives, it seemed unfair that he had to watch his unborn child being removed out of his wife . His wife who was battling for her life, right now. They tried to work hard for it but it was out of their hands now. 

They’d done everything they could, as doctors. and there were always moments in the OT when the most cynical of humans , the most agnostic of men would just shut his or her eye and pray,  oh God,  please, please help us out here.   

 Yoongi hesitated, glancing at the figure on the bed. She looked like she was sleeping, her face almost ethereal in the dim lighting : pale and surreal. she was still on ventilator support and Yoongi noted the way her lungs struggled to breathe and he wanted to punch someone.

He wanted to reach into her ribs and help her, help her lungs expand and take in life giving air , he wanted to reach out and stitch together all the broken capillaries that had resulted in her bleeding out so quickly and so badly, before any of them could do anything but watch in horror. 

 Her forearms were bruised : they’d tried hard to get the IV in but she had lost so much blood and then she had lost more when they’d injected the syringe in. 

he’d almost passed out from the exhaustion of holding her close, through the night, through the surgery , through the post op care. 

But it wasn’t enough... he thought feverishly. 

“i just... what if i lose her, joon ah..?” He said softly and Namjoon hesitated, sitting up slowly.

“Hyung, stop. You’re not. We’re not losing her...”

“but... I don’t deserve her.” Yoongi was tired, running on zero hours of sleep and four cups of caffeine, and his brain was shutting down because his heart was taking up all the blood. and his heart was just continually hammering against his chest in stilted, aborted beats that went,  it;s your fault. beat, you did this to her. beat. she’s better off without you . beat.

“Hyung..” Namjoon’s voice drew him out of his own personal hell and then suddenly the words were spilling out of him without his permission. 

“i just... i took it all for granted , joon. I didn’t realize that all the affection she gave me.. i didn’t realize it was a gift and a blessing . i should have appreciated it and repaid it in kind but ...fuck i just ... I took it all for granted..”

“Hyung.. we’ll pray for it..” Namjoon said softly and Yoongi shook his head.

 He believed that you couldn’t really implore to a higher power when you know you don’t deserve to. how could he even dare to ask whatever God there was , to give her back to him, when he’d proven time and again that he didn’t deserve to have her? 

you don’t give someone something precious thing, when that person has a record for breaking it. 

So, how could he? how could he possibly pray that she come back to him when he fucking  knew  he didn’t deserve her. 

“Yoongi.” His mother’s voice jolted him out of his reverie. Namjoon looked as surprised as him as they stared at the older woman, dressed in her expensive suit and with her hair styled to perfection. 

“Mom?” He said surprised. 

 Your mother wants me to get hit by a car 

 he shook his head. She was wrong. The woman who borthed him, wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

“How is she?” His mother says gently and Yoongi flinches, watching Namjoon as he bows in greeting before quietly excusing himself. 

“I.. we’re not sure. She’s lost a lot of blood and her heart’s not doing it’s job the way it ought to...” he laughed without mirth.

“Well, there is such a thing called karma.” 

Yoongi startled, looking up in surprise and confusion.

“what?”

“To think that she would want to kill an innocent child...” his mother shook her head. Yoongi felt his heart beat slow and drag, mind filling with cotton wool and he struggled to just think and comprehend. 

“ what?”

“ i just saw her blood reports Yoongi . She’s been taking misoprostol . What she had just now is a self induced abortion and there is no doubt that she fully intended to get rid of the baby.  ” She sighed and patted his shoulder awkwardly. 

yoongi felt like he’d been dragged underwater by a hand around his ankle, the loss of control and bubbling panic so swift and unsettling that he stumbled. 

“That.. that doesn’t make sense... she would never do something like that...”

“wouldn’t she? I’m a woman. and a doctor. i can recognize these things far better than you ever could. she never belonged in our family. i always regretted it, marrying you off to that fickle woman. If only your father wasn’t so hell bent on keeping you in Korea, I never would have agreed to the whole thing.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“why would i lie? you can see the reports yourself if you want. Go look through her stuff at home and i bet you’ll find some of the pills. “ 

Yoongi blinked, the exhaustion of the past few days , suddenly too much to bear. 

“Get out.” He said tiredly. 

His mother blinked,surprised. 

“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FACE!!!” 

And Yoongi has always been weak when he ought to be strong, hesitant when he should be firm and malleable when he should stay steady. 

So he goes home, finds the bottle of pills and breaks down into tears. 

so he forgets, everything else that he knows about his beloved his wife, the girl who had trusted him with her everything and instead believes his mother who didn’t deserve his trust at all. 

He thinks that he deserves this, for being a shitty husband, for being an awful friend. He thinks that this would be his penance. He would give her what she wanted. He would give her a divorce and he would get out of her life. hell he would get out of the damn country. So she could build a life for herself. 

And despite Namjoon’s protests and Jung kook’s looks of utter horror. he signs the divorce papers , packs his bags and leaves Korea for good. 

He never belonged here anyway. 

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

 Twelve days later:

I blinked blearily, every inch of me screaming in protest when i tried to move my limbs. What was wrong with me? where was I ? what had happened. 

 Yoongi.

that was the only thing in my head right away. It went on and on, in loop. i needed yoongi. Yoongi would make it all better. 

“she’s waking up.” 

My mother. 

I blinked, confused but happy. when did Mom come over? Was she here to visit? 

As the light slowly began to fade in, parts of the room came into focus. a super junior poster. A few caps. A hand made schedule chart. a chart for chores. A few slips of used tickets to a big bang concert. a calender with colorful post its all over it. A small frame which had the letters MYG engraved in it and painted in a bright pink. 

My room. 

Not the room i shared with my husband but the room where i’d grown up in. the room i’d been in when i  saw him for the very first time , through the window, as he played ball with his dog in the huge park across from our home. 

For a second , i thought i’d stepped into a time warp, that somehow i’d woken up as a fifteen year old with an unrequited crush on Min yoongi, instead of as the twenty four years old girl who was married to him. 

“Baby... you’re okay...” my mother’s fingers soothed, skimming over my cheeks and stroking may hair off my face. 

“where’s yoongi?” I choked out, some of the syllables not forming because of how my voice cracked. But my mother seemed to understand and she took a deep shuddering breath. 

“we’ll talk about him later. Here, try getting up.” She came closer and helped me up gently. i didn’t push. Yoongi would be here soon enough. Maybe in a few hours. He was a doctor. A busy one at that. He must have been worried about me getting lonely all by myself in the apartment. He must have had me sent to my mother’s place so she would take care of me. he was always considerate that way. He would always try to make me feel good. 

“Thank you mama. i missed you. you should come visit me and Yoongi more often. “ i said softly. my mother stared at me before swallowing. 

“Drink this baby. it’ll help you get better...” she pressed the glass to my lips and i took a gulp of the broth. it tasted sweet and savory. Not bad. 

“When is he coming bak?” i said curiously. My sister finally spoke up from the shadows. 

“He isn’t coming back!” she said sharply. 

My mother stumbled, fingers shaking and slopping the broth all over me. 

“oh.. carefull... unnie? what.. what are you saying , i said confused. “

“Stop it! shut up and leave, right now.” My mother shouted at my sister who looked like she had been crying for a long time. 

“He isn’t fucking coming back Y?N. Because he’s a filthy liar and a fucking coward who can never stand up for himself. He’s a filthy spineless cowrad...”

“stop talking about my husband like that!” i shouted, not sure why she was so angry or what yoongi had done to earn such anger.

“He’s not your fucking husband anymore.”

i froze.

so did my mother. 

“what?” i said stupidly. 

“Y/n.. you need to lie down... you’re still sick and...”

but my sister was grabbing something from the table, a set of papers and moving closer to me. 

“Here! See them for yourself. “

i swallowed, barely able to hold the sheafs of paper and to read. 

  Petition for Divorce .... general pleadings to a court for dissolution of marriage...

  We , Min Yoon Gi and Y/N would like to make the following statement. :

We both want to request for the dissolution of our marriage. 

 I stared at the words stupidly, certain for a moment that i’d misread them./ i looked back up at my mom who was crying now, silently, great big drops of tears just rolling down her face. 

and because nothing else seemed to make sense, i went back to reading the letter and it only twisted my gut more. 

 Together we have no minor or dependent children and Wife is not pregnant. ...  

and there it was signed at the very bottom in an neat and perfect script. 

: Min Yoong Gi. 

He had signed the divorce papers. 

i looked up then , confused and disoriented. 

“But i am..” i said stupidly. “I’m pregnant... I took an ultrasound and Yoongi saw ... i...”

“Oh baby...” My mother drew me into her arms and i stared, confused at my sister who looked like she was physically wilting. 

“you’re not anymore, sweetheart...” she whispered. 

Oh. 

Oh... right. So that was it? 

Yoongi wanted a divorce because i wasn’t pregnant anymore? 

That made sense. 

i nodded absently, rubbing my stomach thoughtfully. it certainly made sense now. He hated me because i’d lost our child. I could sympathize. i’d hate me too. 

everything made sense. 

“Mom.. i just... can i sign these later? i really want to lie down. “ i said softly holding the papers out. 

“Y/N...”

“Just a little while mom. Just for a litle while.” 

i shut my eyes, swallowing a huge burning wave of soul numbing pain and despair and choked on air, my limbs trembling as i curled into a ball and gripped my childhood sheets and stared at the wall and it seemed that not a lot had changed since the last time , i’d laid here. 

Not a lot had changed in the last decade, because here i was, once again hurting and crying  and dying because of Min Yoon Gi. 

And i wondered if it had been stupid, staring out of that window on that November night and looking at that boy in the park , playing ball with his dog. For spending ten years, wishing on starts and eye lashes and feathers and flowers, wishing on the moon and the sun and the stars in between and just believing, that somehow, somewhere along the line, he would love me the way i loved him because what goes around should come around, right? So much love spent on one person should have some sort of return right? 

But apparently, it wouldn’t . 

Apparently, loving yoongi hadn’t been my destiny but my biggest mistake. 

And marrying him hadn’t been a stroke of luck from fate, but a vicious and vile curse. 

and instead of breaking the curse, i’d fed it. 

And destroyed myself in the process. 

Because i’d been a fool and I had made Yoongi the center piece of my life’s puzzle. 

And now ,  I would forever be that  puzzle from childhood that we all have, the incomplete one with a single missing piece .

 I know it's cold when we're apart And I hate to feel this die But you can't give me what I want Just give it time And if you and I Can make it through the night And if you and I Can keep our love alive, we'll find We can meet in the middle Bodies and souls collide Dance in the moonlight When all the stars align For you and I, for you and I,

But for now we stay so far 'Til our lonely limbs collide I can't keep you in these arms So I keep you in my mind

~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR’S NOTE :  Heavy angst with a sad ending as requested!! 

Hope you enjoyed it anon!! 

(  P.S : i bawled like a baby and felt very bad about this.. lowkey want to get them back together but ... i usually try to stay true to the requests. ) 

[tamiddyinyourcity]

Its really mind blowing!

Literally a few nights before, I was deadass glowing from how good things were.

And I always liked things.

Waking up and going, "Oh hey, there he is. He's still got his arm around me and everything. He looks great sleeping", or looking at his eyes.

Soft kisses awake, listening to music while drinking tea.

Sitting ontop of his Prius, (yes, that's how he got those dents,) and looking at the stars and the skyline with eachother.

Ice skating, and helping me not bust my ass several times like that.

All these cute moments are kinda dead now.

On the bright side, it was a good run. It helped me move past the last few months easier than I would've, if going solo. :)

Sucks that my Christmas plans turned from "I wanna give him something special! It's so sweet he wants me around his family for the season", to "I'll just go face down in my bed, and maybe buy a few bottles of aspirin if I *really* wanna ascend into a Holy Night."

....I'm kidding, I wouldn't use pills to kill myself, lmfao. Nah. Foaming at the mouth or falling asleep are the most pussy or depressing ways to end a life.

Or at least, not the most ideal way to end my own.

THIS IS GETTING DEPRESSING, LETS CHANGE TOPICS BRO!

I'll just not think about the future, or the past.

Both will happen at their own pace, and I cant change that.

But what I *can* do, is make sure that I eat something today.

Otherwise, I will faint, and not wake up again until its maybe two days later. Or worse, in a hospital bed.

Objective for the day:

What should I eat that will make me appreciate life some more? IHOP sounds pretty good.....

Nice.

......I wonder does he still read my blog? I think its the only think I havent blocked him on. I never blocked his phone number, but I shouldnt be out here nervous, if we know hes never gonna respond to my voicemail either.

I had a dream the other night. I went to his house to get my fireworks and my candles back, and then just to not walk away and regretting anything, I said he could say whatever he wanted to me, since he has nothing to lose.

(I figured either telling me I was a dick, that he was upset at the breakup, or whatnot would be fair game anyway.)

All I remember is him doing that awkward (yet endearing) snort-chuckle he does when he gets flustered or nervous, and saying "Well, I did check your *blog*, and....-"

Then the dream kinda cuts off.

.........kinda sad how I wish that could happen.

Whatever.

Its too soon to think he'd want anything to do with me, and too late to change the past.

All I can do is say "Fuck you, Patrick, this wasnt my fault," and "Sorry for cursing out your stupid ass friend for intruding in my business, I should have at least waited a few hours, or until the next day to see if you'd be open to talking to me about the situation again".

Which usually loops back to "But I know you wouldnt change your mind or offer any resolution, and still want it all to go your way or the highway, so Fuck you, Patrick, you absolute asshat of a person."

And then I feel alright.

.....stop procrastinating, me! I'll just end up sweating in bed all day and not doing anything. Do SOMETHING, you've got so much potential honey....

Write some more song lyrics, record a video, eat a meal; dying isn't gonna make that boy text you any sooner, or make the memories fade away any quicker.

I shouldn't feel this bad about leaving a relationship headed towards toxic territory, when he knows damn fucking well that he wouldn't feel even half as terrible as I do...

When hes the one who had chose what he chose.

2:27pm, stomach is kinda caving in. Sweating but not feeling okay enough to immediately shower, or else ill end up lying on the floor and letting the steam scald me or something. Then itll be hours, and itll get too dark to leave out.

I'll be alright. Just... forget he exists. Life has always been good. Think about your upcoming date with the other Patrick, and how good itll be to see him again. And your music and artwork. The things you want to create.

That's all. Peace out yalls, see yall later peeps. Imma go to IHOP, text laters.

[scarlet-argent-fire-fanfics]

Requiem

prompt: reader “dies” and gets to find out if the people that love her are better off without her or not.

Tw: Death, alcoholism, suicide cursing

modern era

word count:2373

A/n: So, I have had a lot of issues with my depression and I was recently in the position the reader is in now. I wanted my world to end and the people I loved to move on without me. However even though I’m still working myself back from that edge I’m so happy I didn’t go through with it. Please remember there is always going to be someone who misses you...Even if you don’t think there will be.

masterlist

                 You gasped softly as you glanced down to see your body laying dead. The pill bottle rolling away from you. You gasped your hand flying to your mouth. You had done it, you were free. You couldn’t help smiling however that quickly faded when you felt the pain in your body. It was excruciating.  You screamed holding your hand to your chest before the pain suddenly stopped and another being stood in front of you. Except they looked like you. The only difference was the white robe they wore and when they opened their eyes there was nothing but white milkiness.               “Congratulations, welcome to limbo.” there voice echoed and you couldn’t help but sigh. “What is the problem?” they asked cocking their head to the side.                “So I’m stuck between plains. Why should I be happy with that?” you growled and they just remained expressionless.             “Your case is unique. The fates feel your life is too important to not give you a chance to fix your mistake.” they said The blackness vanished and you once again saw your body laying on the ground. The figure waved their hand as the door opened to show Lafayette. Lafayette stood up from the couch and walked to the bathroom knowing Y/n had been in their for a long time. “Mon amour are you alright.” he turned the doorknob to show you lying there lifeless the empty pill bottle next to your hand. He gasped and went to you pulling your body against his chest. “Y/N!!! No, please wake up. No, you can’t do this.” He cried seeing your cellphone which he used making a quick call to 911. He slammed your phone down and sobbed against you. He rocked your lifeless body against him.               You sighed softly as the bathroom faded and you were in a living room. Only John was on the couch. Sam Adams cans littered the floor and a bottle of vodka was in his grip.               “John became an alcoholic three months after you died and eventually left the boys. He’s crashing in his parents basement.” they said and you felt your heart ache more knowing John was alone now.                John took a huge swig of the now half empty Smirnoff bottle. He wiped his mouth before flopping onto his side. He sniffled as his eyes landed on a group picture of him ,the boys and Y/n. His face twisted into an angry sneer before he stood up and stumbled. “This is your fault, Y/n! It’s your fault we’re falling apart. You left us. Why!” he yelled throwing the bottle at the picture frame. It shattered and the frame fell to the floor now soaked in vodka. John’s breathing became more short before his face twisted and his shoulders began to shake. He fell to his knees sobbing into his hands. “Why Y/n? Why didn’t you stay ?” his shouts echoed through the basement.               You felt your body ache and you glared at the figure. “Stop this! I don’t wanna see anymore. I’m tired, I-I just wanna be gone.”  You felt tears gather in your eyes before you could say anything, everything blurred and suddenly you were in the another living room but it was  your apartment. You felt your heart clench when you saw Alexander. He had huge bags under his eyes. He looked a mess.

                “I figured I would bring you bout six months into your future to see if the people you love had moved on. Since you felt no one would miss you after all.” This was just cruel.                 Alexander looked up as Hercules walked in sighing softly. “Alex, we need to go. Lafayette is waiting.” Alex shook his head and Hercules  sat next to him pulling him into his side. “Herc, I can’t just leave. This was our home. The last place we saw Y/n smiling.” he sobbed and Herc sighed holding back his own tears.                 “She would want us to move on eventually. It’s been  six months Alex we can’t just pause our lives. She wouldn’t want that.” Alex hiccupped before pulling away from Herc and left. Herc stood up slowly and walked toward the door. He glanced up at the ceiling. “I wish you were still here baby. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to keep you safe.” his voice broke a single tear trailed down his dark cheek.                You felt the tears gather in your eyes as you watched Hercules leave your first apartment you had all shared. You wanted to run to him and hug him but you couldn’t “This is just cruelty.” you whimpered softly and the figure just stood their. The figure once again didn’t say anything before the vision shifted to yet another home except you recognized it as your childhood home. You glanced around your old childhood room seeing a figure sleeping on your bed. At least you thought they were before they moved to sit up. It was your little brother.  You noticed how skinny he was.               Jamie sat up feeling his stomach ache again. He hadn’t eaten a regular meal in months. He looked up as his mother walked in with some poptarts. “Jamie please eat something. Y/n, wouldn’t want to-” he stood up fast anger clear on his face.              “How would you fucking know mom!? How would you know what she would have wanted?! Huh! If you know so much mom, then why didn’t you know she was gonna kill herself, huh?”           You felt your chest ache at how much your little brother was hurting and how awful he was being to your mother.

            “Jamie Evan Y/L, don’t  ever talk to me like that. You weren’t the only one who lost her!” she sobbed setting the poptarts down. “We all lost her the same as you. Don’t you ever dare try to pin her death on me. She shut everyone out. Don’t you think I blame myself everyday for not seeing it. Don’t you think I hate that I wasn’t there for my baby when she needed me! Now, I’m watching my other child slowly killing himself and I can’t do a damn thing. I can’t make you eat. I’m gonna lose both of my babies and I can’t blame anyone but myself. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry she’s gone.” She sobbed collapsing onto her knees Jamie frozen before going to her and hugging her tears running down his face as well. “I’m s-sorry mom.” he cried and they both sobbed together.              “Enough!” you cried causing the figure to actually jump. “ I don’t wanna see anymore please. I’m begging you.” It shook its head.             “I have a couple more things to show you before I will stop.” it said and your mother and brother were gone. The room change to an office. The walls a bland yellow with a big leather chair. You noticed Lafayette walking in. He looked so horrible. No joy left in his eyes. Just emptiness. He sat down and a woman smiled at him    “Good morning Lafayette. How are you feeling today.” Dr. Oly asked softly. Lafayette just sat there with his hands in his lap. The doctor sighed softly. “Please Lafayette, you’ve be coming in for three months now. I’d really like to help you but you have to talk to me.” she sighed and he just sat there. She turned on the normal playlist they listened to during their sessions and sat back. Lafayette swayed side to side listening trying to feel anything but everything was bland and nothing was going to change that. His thirst for life was gone.    After an hour the timer went off and Lafayette stood up. Oly sighed. “ Same time next week. Maybe then we can finally talk.” she said and he nodded just leaving her office..    “Lafayette stopped talking really after you died. The boys made him go to a shrink to try to help since he was the one that found you.” you hiccupped softly before the scene changed yet again.  “Now we’re about two years into the future.” It waved it’s hand showing the boys gathered around a grave stone. Alexander’s shoulder were hunched and Lafayette held the umbrella over them as Hercules place flowers on the stone.             “We miss you baby.” Hercules finally broke his shoulder shaking as Lafayette pulled him into a big hug. After another few moments they left leaving the grave behind.               “Why are we at a graveyard.” you questioned before you were finally able to make out the name on the tombstone. Your heart shattered not seeing your name but John’s. You shook your head violently. “Nonononono, this has to be a joke. He can’t be dead!” you cried and the figure stood there. You growled and walked over gripping their robe. “Tell me, tell me I can change this. Please, tell me I can change this damn future and I’m not too late.” you sobbed. The figure hugged you before it softly whispered.                “You can change this Y/n. Say the word and it can be changed.” you nodded quickly.                “Please take me back. I don’t want them to go through this. I never wanted  to see them in this much pain.” you sobbed and everything once again whirled.    You opened your eyes seeing your red irritated eyes staring back at you in the mirror. The pill bottle open on the counter. You gasped and took the pills and dumped them into the toilet quickly flushing them. You almost didn’t hear the soft whisper, that seemed to float by your ear.    “Don’t waste your second chance.” you smiled brightly grabbing your phone. You quickly dialed your mothers number.

Mom: Y/n, what’s going on. Is something wrong baby. You couldn’t help but smile at your mother’s concern. Why hadn’t you realized that she did care and just how much she loved you. You cleared your throat sniffling lightly. Y/N: No, mom. I promise everything is fine. I just wanted to call and  tell you how much I love you and how much I love Jamie. Is he awake? Mom seemed to shuffle around before answering    Mom: Yeah, hold on. (more shuffling) What up sis? You held back a sniffle. He sounded so much better.    Y/N: Hey Jamie, your soccer game is coming up in a week right? Well I’m gonna come home for it alright. I promise I’ll be there.    Jamie: Really and yeah it’s next week. I thought you hated sports Y/n? You laughed softly at that. He was right you hated sports and thought they were really dumb.    Y/N: Yeah well, you’re my little brother I’m gonna embarrass the shit out of you. Hey you know I love you right. I love you so much. You heard him scoff lightly on the other end.    Jamie: Yeah, sis I know. Geez, you sound like you’re about to die or something….You aren’t gonna be dyeing are you. If only he knew the day you had just had. You laughed to ease his nerves.    Y/N: No, I just feel like I don’t tell you and mom that enough. You heard your front door open knowing Hercules would be back from work.    Y/N: Hey I gotta go but I’ll see you next week. Love you guys so much.    Jamie: Yeah we love you too Y/n                The line went dead and you walked out of the bathroom to see Hercules pulling off his shoes. You felt your chest well up. You ran over to Herc wrapping your arms around his waist causing him to grunt.                “Hey princess glad to- hey what’s wrong why are your eyes so red.” he cooed softly holding your cheek in his hand. You just shook your head more tears falling before throwing your arms around his neck and cried against his chest. “Hey-hey baby, breath. It’s okay. Laf, babe you home.” you felt your body tense when you heard another pair of footsteps.                 “Yes, what’s going on.” You turned to see him wearing the same thing you had seen him in in your vision. You ran over to him and sobbed into his chest as well.                The boy looked at each other confused not knowing why you were crying. “I-I love you guys so much.” you sobbed softly against Lafayette’s t-shirt and soon felt Hercules hugging you both sandwiching you between their chest.  You breathed in Lafayette’s scent reveling in it. They were here, your boys. You pulled back after a moment and cleared your throat. “I-I’ll tell you once Alex and John get home.” kissing both of their cheeks. They nodded still looking confused.                 The door opened once again to show Alex and John smiling. When John saw your face the smile dropped and he immediately came over putting his hands on your cheeks. “Babe, what’s going on?” concern clear in his eyes. You gave him a sad smile and kissed his palm before leading the boys to the bedroom.                  “Get comfy boys.” you said softly and waited for them to be in their lounge clothes before you began. “I have depression. It has been bad for a while now and for the longest time I felt that no one would miss me if I was gone. Hell I still think that a little but I know that’s not true. I have you boys and my family. Of course I’d be missed.” you said new tears springing from your eyes. “I wanted to die.” you sobbed into your hand the boy tensed up. “ I thought everyone would be better without me but….something inside my heart convinced me not to.” you looking up from your hands. “It convinced me I have too much to live for.” you whimpered and John couldn’t stay sitting and he brought you into his arms holding  you close as you fully broke down. Your body shook in his strong arms before you felt the others join your hug.            ��    “We love you so much Y/n. Don’t ever think you can’t come to us.” John whispered tears trailing down his cheeks now.                                       You were so happy to be alive.

[kittynightterrors]

Medicine

Pairing: N/A Rating: T Content: Untreated ADHD, recreational drug use, depression, anxiety, shit ass hero society, unbeta’d vent fic ao3: right here Notes: Hey, so I’ve never written for My Hero before, and this is a vent fic centered around Presnt Mic. Uh, go easy on me? 

Knowing from a young age that something was wrong with you was a strange feeling, especially when the people who were supposed to take care of you didn’t do their job. In the age of the internet it was easy for Hizashi to look up how he was feeling and go “hey, mom, dad, I think I have ADHD.” They agreed he did, but they never took him to the doctor for it. “If we make this official, you’ll never be a hero.”

He wanted to be a hero so, so bad. So, he stopped trying to fix his brain. It was hard, his grades went from being great to being not so good. The classes he cared about, he would excel in. He could lose himself in an English paper, to the point of forgetting to eat. And when it came to the subjects he just didn’t care about, it wasn’t that he was bad at them, he just didn’t care. He was smart, but he just didn’t apply himself. “Hizashi, if you would stop listening to that damn music, you could get into any Imperial University you wanted!” But, he didn’t want to get into some big Imperial University, he hadn’t even been sure he wanted to go to college. Shouta and Nemuri pushed him to apply to something small, but respectable, and together the three of them worked on Hizashi being a semi functioning person. Alarms and check ins helped him eat and sleep properly. It was nice. College saw a huge shift in his grades, given that he could actually pick what he wanted to take. His attention was constantly captivated, and he went from borderline failing to honors. It was nice, like maybe his stupid brain wouldn’t get the best of him. This improvement landed him a semester abroad in America. College was so different over there than in Japan. Parties were everywhere, and Hizashi was sitting on the fence of joining that life style. The loud music, the flashing lights, it was more his style than anything back home. Out in America he picked up a side job DJing for small little house parties. People paid him to play music and run his mouth, it was the dream! The party scene had its downfalls though: namely drugs. Weed, fantastic, amazing, everyone who wanted to should be able to smoke it! Alcohol, eh, take it or leave it. Ecstasy, after doing his research, he had become so picky about the stuff he never did it. Adderall though, that had been something else. The only thing he knew about the stuff was it was very, very illegal back home. Americans were often detained for having a legitimate prescription of the stuff. His friends had told him it was a lot like coke, just legal coke. “You’ll feel great. And studying will go by so quick.” Except, he didn’t feel great and studying didn’t go by very quickly. He had watched everyone bump the pill and decided to follow suit. Everyone at the party was having fun, geeked out of their mind. And he just sat there with a mild headache from snorting a pill. This amazing, finals enhancing drug did nothing for him. “How ya feelin’ Zash?” “Like I have a headache?” “....Dumbass, do you have ADD?” Oh… There went his brain ruining everything again. Before leaving America, he had gone to his college’s psychiatric facilities to try to get a concrete answer about his ADHD. What he got was… enough. A yes without it being explicit. “Technically, I can’t diagnose you, but I can screen you. At this school, you need a diagnosis to get meds. Outside of the school, this screening is all you need to get a prescription.” The person he had seen had been kind enough to not make anything official without Hizashi’s say so. Not with how mental illness was still seen in the world. For such an advanced society, the hero world still held many old stigmas that should have died away a long time ago. Mental illness was still such a messy topic that most agencies would rather ignore a great hero with a problem than actually try to help said hero. There were some quirks that could help, but ethics and morals came into play a lot. It caused many people to just lie about having any problems, and lying often times got people hurt. While he had been in America, there was an incident with a female hero. She had untreated PTSD and snapped during a mission, taking her life along with the life of another hero and a villain. It wasn’t her fault, if her agency, hell if anyone, had been willing to help her, she would probably still be here. Instead, there was a larger wedge driven in the hero community. When Hizashi moved back to Japan, he had two semesters of college left, but it felt like an eternity. Having a professional reaffirm his suspicions about his own mental health might have been worse than just going against the grain. He was hyper aware of all of his mood changes, any time something was overwhelming he would just freak out. His usual happy go lucky personality had died away under the weight of trying to beat this illness with no help. If he got anything official, he would be screwed. He would never be a hero, though, if he was honest with himself, that was why he was in college. He couldn’t be a hero. He needed a degree so he could teach. At least being a teacher, he could help the next batch of heroes, right? At some point in his hectic life, Nemuri and Shouta had basically become his roommates. He hadn’t been sure when or how, but it was nice. Nemuri was very motherly and Shouta was super logical. It was the perfect combination for when he would absolutely lose his shit during finals. Higher level classes meant more projects, and Hizashi took on too many classes. So, he lost sleep. He’d get anxious and try and finish a month long project in a weekend. He would get it done, but it cost him a lot. How his friends stayed with him was a miracle because by the end of college he could barely function. His straight A’s dropped to C’s because he just stopped caring. Still, he had managed to get that piece of paper that said he could teach. That’s what he had resigned himself to doing: teaching and maybe he’d pick up another DJing gig. It was fun. He needed fun. Shouta and Nemuri, though, were not too thrilled with how easily Hizashi had just given up on being a hero. “You know your provisional license is still good. You can finish up the National License.”

“I don’t think I can, Sho. The stress, the stigma. I.. I think I’m good. I’ll just teach the newbies. It’ll be fun.” That was a lie, but it was one he was willing to live with. He liked teaching his friends English, so maybe teaching kids would be like that. It had to be, because if he didn’t have teaching, he really didn’t have anything. He didn’t want to think about not having anything, but each day he went without a job looked more and more grim. If he had a normal brain then maybe he could be a proper adult and he could go and be this hero. He could save people and function, and not lose his shit over the dumbest thing. A part of him wanted to finally get diagnosed and get on medication, but he knew the minute he did that he signed away any chance he would ever get of being a hero. So, he stayed unmedicated. Just living day to day. Sometimes he would be perfectly fine, just existing in his apartment with his friends. Other days he was freaking out for no real reason. He had looked it up, and apparently because he wasn’t treating his illness he was slowly developing new ones. Namely anxiety and depression. He could tell it was straining his relationship with his friends, but he couldn’t get diagnosed. He just couldn’t, and with medication being so hard to get, he just decided to take matters into his own hands. Energy supplements and weed eventually became Hizashi’s go to once he got himself a job at a radio station. The stuff he was drinking was great, it had vitamins and all this other crap, had little sugar. It helped him focus unlike caffeine pills. At least, that’s how he reasoned with himself. He’d drink the powdery drink before a show, go on for the six hours he needed to be hyped up, then go home and share a joint with his friends before sleeping. Rinse and repeat. Thankfully, his boss at the radio station let him have full reign of the show. So when the drink would make him hyperfocus on his anxiety rather than his music, he’d just queue a non stop playlist and freak out at his desk. It sucked so bad, but it paid his rent. And usually Nemuri or Shouta was out on patrol during his sets so they would bring him something to calm him down. This new regiment went on for a couple months before Nemuri came home one night and threw a bottle of pills at him. Confused, Hizashi read the label over and over, squinting at the prescription and the name attached. “Concerta… Tatsuya… Nem, whose are these?” “Yours.” “Nem, seriously.” “Zashi, seriously.” That night they had a long talk about everything, how Nemuri had suffered from depression. How Shouta found the pharmacist willing to illegally help heroes. How very, very illegal the whole process was. They didn’t bring it up because the process wasn’t guaranteed and it involved some unsavory people. He wasn’t exactly happy that they had gone behind his back with this, but they all knew if he knew he wouldn’t have gone. So he was a little less mad. He didn’t take the medicine immediately. It stayed untouched for about a month, just sitting on his nightstand as he decided what he was going to do. On one hand, he could be a hero. He could just lie about his mental illness and keep it pushing. On the other, he had read up on the medicine, and it was very scary. Just missing one dose could fuck him up. Missing several would put him in a bad spot. Hero work or self medication. That’s what his choice boiled down to. He couldn’t pinpoint why, but one day he just decided to take the medication. It felt great. He was focusing within the hour and he wasn’t drifting off to do other things. His radio show was just the right amount of hyper without going off the rails. He felt productive. It was great. He forgot to take it the next day, and while it wigged him out, he had red he hadn’t been on it long enough for it to do anything. So, he started setting alarms for himself again, a habit that died off at some point. He couldn’t remember why he stopped. Sleep, eat, medicine, clock in, sleep. Rinse and repeat. That’s what his alarms were for. After a couple of weeks he was able to silence all of them except the one that woke him up. It was nice. Having a schedule that he could stick to. After months of being on the medicine, he finally got the courage to go and get his National Hero License. It was scary, but his friends helped him through it. The medicine didn’t help too much with his anxiety, but he wasn’t really willing to fuck with more than one medicine. So he chose to deal with the anxiety by itself. Breathing helped, knowing that getting his NHL would be the best thing ever helped. When he walked out of the building with that piece of plastic, with his two friends waiting for him, he broke down in tears. He couldn’t help it He had come so far because of them... because of him, too. The months turned to two years, and Hizashi was starting to forget who that scared little boy was that he used to be. When he wasn’t a hero, he was still a radio DJ. He found that working multiple jobs was the best thing for him. The more occupied he was, the better off he was. Eventually, he even decided to apply for a teaching position too. Just to add one more thing for him to do. The talk with Principal Nezu was a little intimidating if he was honest. The furry little creature might be small in stature, but he could command the attention of a room. Still, Hizashi laid out his concerns and his own demands. He wanted to be open about his condition if a student had those concerns as well. He never wanted someone to suffer like he had. He wanted to change the stigma. Somehow. Nezu, surprisingly, was okay with this, so long as the student was the one who approached Hizashi with the question. As Hizashi started to teach, and students actually approached him on how to deal with their ADHD, the Pro wanted to push the stigma more. He went to his agency with a hypothetical, a student wanted to know what to do. They laughed and he threatened to leave. Sure, he wasn’t All Might or Endeavor, but he was Present Mic the DJ who brought in a decent chunk of change for his celebrity status, and money talked. They agreed on doing PSAs about ADHD, but they weren’t looking to bring on a hero with the condition. It wasn’t good enough, so he left. And it was a PR nightmare for the agency. “Dear Listeners, Present Mic just became a free agent…” Was it dumb to blast the agency on air? Oh yeah. Did Shouta chew him out? Fuck yeah he did. Did Hizashi feel great? Amazing. It felt so good to do things for himself, to make his own terms. Without an agency, Hizashi started to get more bold on his radio show, creating a monthly Monday show dedicated to mental health. It had its ups and downs, some people loved it, some people hated it. The radio station’s ratings were up so his boss didn’t care one way or another, especially when people would call in to threaten or belittle Mic. Still, he kept it pushing because if he was going to be the only advocate the he was going to be the loudest advocate.

While he never out right admitted he had an illness, everyone could figure it out. The NHL had tried to strip him of his license, but with not real concrete diagnosis they had no reason to. They gave him a firm talking to, reminded him that they were not a fan of his “shenanigans.” So, Hizashi just got louder. He started selling merchandise with “Remember their names” on the front and the list of heroes that, globally, had lost their lives to untreated mental illness. The money went to advocacy groups. He was going to make sure that if the NHL did anything stupid, it would back fire on them.

His hero work was getting choked off by the NHL, he knew it was, but he was just going to keep fighting. Principal Nezu supported his fight, so did his students. He knew how Nemuri and Shouta felt. That was all that mattered. The people that mattered about him cared, and that was enough for him to keep fighting. After the merchandise came a forum, an anonymous place for people with and without quirks to discuss mental illness. At this point, his words had spread out past the hero community in Japan. He saw users from across the globe on his site and he knew he was slowly gaining traction. Slow and steady.

His twenty sixth birthday marked his two year fight for equality, and unfortunately no heroes had really spoken on it. He understood, they didn’t want to jeopardize everything, but it was still frustrating. It was a pretty standard day, outside of a little extra time spent with his best friends. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, until he got an email from All Might. He reread it at least ten times before shrieking, triggering his quirk on accident. Poor Nem and Sho, but seriously, All Might wanted to be on his radio show to talk about mental health and destigmatizing mental illness! They had to tell him to breathe in between his excited outbursts. He was feeling such a strange mix of emotions that he could feel the tears in his eyes. He wanted to be happy, but everything could go so wrong so quickly.

“I admire your tenacity, Present Mic. Everything you’ve done for Mental Health Awareness, it’s very admirable.”

Mic was speechless, but he played it cool, he had to, he was on air.

“I appreciate that, All Might! You’re the first Pro to say anything. So, seriously, I appreciate that.”

“I want to give money to the cause. I might not understand what people are going through, but I can empathize. Let me help.”

Who knew all it took was All Might opening his checkbook for the hero world to change their minds about mental health. Suddenly it was the in thing to be pro mental health. It was a blessing and a curse, but it was better than nothing. All Might helped Hizashi with getting in with some politicians to work on legislation. They worked with getting heroes, civilians, and even villains (in custody) access to whatever it was they needed. It was slow, but needed because Hizashi was not going to let another kid suffer like he did.

A year after the All Might interview, agencies were begging for him to join them. Hizashi had gone from being a smudge on the hero community to being this shining beacon. He declined them all, uninterested in dealing with people who would drop him when mental health was no longer the cool thing. He had heard that had happened when homosexuality was still something people fought for. Heroes would be used as a token, only to be dropped when being gay or queer wasn’t the in thing. No thanks, Hizashi was better off doing the independent thing. He wouldn’t go full underground like Shouta, but he certainly wasn’t going to an agency any time soon. No, he liked his odd hero jobs. Between teaching and the radio, he had just enough time to kick a couple of villain asses. He still had moments where worry crept up, that he would lose control and his illness would win, but that was all part of the fight. It was a long fight, and it was time people knew about it.

“Dear listeners, as you know, I’m closing in on my fifth year at the radio station, so I thought I’d do something a little different. How about I tell you my mental health journey.”