#FUCKING EMPTY STOMACH AND PRICES OF MEDS

[nanamis-bigtie]

Someone got so triggered that I'm considering making some extra money (or rather by that their unsolicited advice wasn't met with a ritual buttlicking on my side ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) that they ran to rant on me on their blog, to rant how bad making money on hobbies is because capitalism, #eaththerich, and endangering community...I guess?

Vile me, looking on semi-empty stomach at 5.54pln left on my account week before next payment, wondering how I can squeeze a few bucks extra because through next few months when I have even more medical treatment spendings.

Vile me, being a writer. Maybe it would be forgiven to me if I were a craft maker or artist. After all, no one says a word on merch or art commission, or fanzines... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anyway, if making money on fics is too much of a "black market" for you & you don't like seeing your favorite writers struggling, many of them have a ko-fi! So do I! Tips are legal, safe, and make everyone happy! ❤

[karlachismylife]

Totally self indulgent but how would they help take care of a chronically ill partner? (Poly if you don't mind)

((also yes I am having a bad day))

I'm so sorry to hear you're having a bad day, baby, I wish I could be there to help you through it :( These speedrun headcanons just for you are the least I could do, of course. I tried to keep it general enough without making it about any particular disease, because at the end of the day, whatever you're going through, they will be there for you no matter what.

CW: gn!reader with unspecified chronic illness, thus mentions of medical themes, medications, treatments, doctors and some things our bodies go through, symptoms and such. Also some controlling/soft dom/caretaker behaviour I guess, but without dabbling into CGL territory. Last paragraph is suggestive, but not explicit.

So, with any chronic disease, there are better days and worse days, ups and downs, and sometimes bad days happen unpredictably, sometimes you can kinda feel them coming, sometimes you just know that whatever you just did, be it going out all night for the concert of your favourite music band or just spoiling yourself with food you know will fuck you up but tastes too good to pass - and throughout all that your four partners stay attentive and vigilant.

Each and every one of them (even Soap, however unlikely) knows the importance of routine. They're military, they have no problem adhering to the same set of regular actions - as well as reacting to sudden changes and giving immediate appropriate response. Honestly, they're pretty damn good as caretakers, once they get clear in structions on what needs to be done.

Price goes with you to doctor appointments and all the treatment you need outside home. He's driving you there, waiting at the door (maybe eavesdropping while he pretends to fall asleep in the uncomfortable chair with his chin tucked and his hat laying in his lap. maybe actually falling asleep and waking up with horrifying neck cracking), asking a hundred questions after the doctor lets you out - to the point where it starts to look more like an interrogation. He does want to know everything, though, since only with full information on hands he can assess the situation and work out a plan of action. He wants to know what's the status, what meds you need to take and for what, how often, what side effects are possible, what else needs to be done - he makes your doctor give him a full on lecture, even if you already explaind half of that to them all previously. After he gets what he wanted from the poor medic, he still pulls on some strings to get you seen by specialists he's confident in. Sure, your doc might've been treating you for god knows how long, but a second (a third and maybe even fourth) opinion won't hurt, right?

Ghost gets your (and everyone else's, because Price fucked up his joints and spine more times than it's acceptable, Gaz has allergies and Soap needs his adderall. Ghost himself takes half of the pharmacy's supply, poor guy's messed up in all kinds of way) meds and also makes sure you and the boys take them regularly, especially if they're the type to be taken strictly on time. He brings your morning pills to you in bed with water and a little sandwich if you need to take them not on empty stomach, and if he has to be out at the time you need them, he always sends you a reminder - and expects you to report to him quickly, otherwise he's calling you and then one of the guys that can come and make sure you're being good. If you're having a bad head day and can't make yourself take these fucking pills that can't even "fix" you (or whatever bad thoughts you're having), Simon's going extremely soft - he just sits next to you and feeds you one pill after another, kissing you for every one you swallow, and then does same with his stash, "demanding" rewarding kisses from you with an adorably serious face. He knows better than anyone how much needing to do this every damn day can fuck with your mind, so he's patient, but he can't let you neglect yourself.

(Soap gets no such treatment, if that little shit tries to wiggle his way out of taking his meds, they get shoved into his mouth. He still gets his rewarding kiss, though, with Ghost's steel grip on his jaw, and this honestly looks like Simon tries to kill him via sucking his internal organs out of his mouth. Mind end up sucking something else-)

Gaz is just steadily making everything he can as accomodating as possible. If your headaches make you sensitive to smells, he makes sure nothing in the house can cause a bad reaction, he watches everyone's allergies, buys groceries to fit your diet and makes sure other products like soap or cleaning supplies won't be bad to you. He's the one who will find non-constraining clothes out of fabric that won't irritate your body - very stylish and just how you lik them, he's looking into furniture and appliances that can make it easier to deal with if you're in pain or can't hold shit properly because of joint pain (not only for you, Price and Ghost both get days when their knuckles hurt LIKE HELL). He might've had experience caring for a relative, or maybe he's just extremely good at research, but he just comes up with solutions you didn't even know could help.

Soap is the service dog. He's ready to run any errand, pick up every task you give him, provide immediate help as soon as you call for him. He's cuddling you through flares, fetching blankets or tea, literally catching you if you suddenly get a horrible cramp and fold in half. This man will go to the bathroom with you and keep you steady while you throw up, or literally kneel on the tile floor and wipe your tears if you get really bad bowel problems. He's seen people get shredded into pieces and watched their internal organs become external, he won't be put off by anything a human body can do. None of them will, to be honest, but Soap is just always the first to hold your hand through whatever hell you're going through.

But the other thing Soap does - is make you feel normal. He's not tiptoeing around you, treating you like a fragile doll that can't be played with, no; he'll fucking prank you, tease you, rile you up and haunt you as long as it makes you smile and helps you forget about that thing that impacts you every day while other people get to live without it. He's your personal hospital clown, and honestly, if you need to go to hospital, he might actually sneak inside in a clown costume (how the fuck did no one see and stop a huge ass man with a honking red nose and rainbow onesie walking through the corridors?) and entertain you. His family never let him feel like he was different despite the obvious struggles he faced with his ADHD (that wasn't diagnosed straight away too and went unmedicated for quite some time), and he'd rather die than let you feel like you're missing out on all the fun life has to offer because some days you can't even leave your bed as your body acts out.

They watch your diet and find ways to make it as diverse as possible, no matter how limited it is. Gaz is the one who makes groceries lists and often goes shopping, but all four of them take turns cooking (a man's place is in the kitchen, even if it gets cramped with all four of these dudes there) and experimenting with food. Gaz is the best cook by far, and the second to best is surprisingly Soap! Price actually isn't all that inventive in the kitchen (he just knows what he likes and doesn't venture out much, but what he does he does well), and Ghost... his main culinary innovations are in the stupid smiley faces and skulls he makes out of everything. How did he manage that with soup? I dunno, ask him.

They know your patterns and habits, sometimes they can tell the illness will flare before even you do, from the subtle changes in your appearance or behaviour. Maybe you're sweating just a little too much today and Gaz saw the stains on your shirt while doing the laundry, or your heartrate is off under Ghost's sharp ear as he nestles into his favourite place in the world - your arms. Perhaps Price noticed you ate not enough of your breakfast or Soap grabs your hand and feels it's colder than should be.

First thing they do is check in with you - Ghost is extremely straightforward and demanding about it, making you recite what you did recently that could cause a flare and asking you all about how you're feeling; Soap slips into worry immediately and starts with a question what he can do for you. Gaz goes a sly route, tugging you away from whatever you were doing, snuggling with you on the bed or the couch and peppering you with kisses, purring into your ear sweet nothings mixed with questions until he coaxes all the information from you. Price doesn't even ask at first: he immediately goes into action, the most basic care provided before he even says anything.

They do listen to you, though. If you're not feeling the worst and don't need immediate help, they just stay around to watch after you, but always communicate to others that extra care might come in handy today. Probably still try to convince you to go easy with your tasks, be it studying, work or chores, and help with whatever they can.

However, if it is bad, you kinda lose autonomy. Work? Forget about it. Chores are on them for the next week, no exceptions. You're lifted off your feet and brought to bed by Soap, everything arranged into a comfortable way by Gaz by the time they carefully lower you there. If you need to sit up to lessen the symptoms, they put pillows behind your back, but Soap prefers when he can cradle you against his chest and serve as a heat pillow himself - especially if his hot hands can make tummy or joint pain better. But if heat is the thing you don't need at all, he'll stay next to you, ready to jump at your first word.

Meds and water in Ghost's hand, waiting for you to take them patiently. While Price takes care of your unfinished business (and makes sure you won't go to work/school/uni next few days), Gaz ensures your body is taken care of - maybe you need a gentle massage or just sweat and teares wiped off, he's there, cooing at you and kissing your skin gently.

If you need bathroom, you're getting carried there, but if it's just to throw up, Soap's already got a bucket at the ready, and he and Gaz will support your body through the nausea, another glass of water appearing with silent Ghost by the end of it.

You're getting all the entertainment you want: Gaz and Soap will only be happy if you want to play computer games with them (or, if you can't, you can just watch them, and they'll goof around to keep your mind off your state). You want to continue that book you're reading, but it's hard to hold it and your eyes hurt? No audiobooks while you have Price there, he'll read you aloud. A movie? Hell yeah they'll all gather around with whatever snacks you can digest at the moment and watch whatever you want (and if Ghost or Price fall asleep, you can prank them via Sergeants' proxy).

Some other little things:

They all either quit smoking or make sure it doesn't affect you even with the smell.

Price keeps on top of all your vaccines and screenings. Don't even need to remember them, he can wake up in the middle of the night and recite all of the needed information. Can get quite strict and controlling if you try to get out of appointments - and also spends almost unhealthy amount of time reseatching what else can be done, including trying all kinds of experimental treatments and some not even fully scientific ones (like acupuncture. who fucking knows, eh?)

Ghost is the best out of all of your men to confide in when the illness takes toll on your mental health. He knows what drowning in your mind feels like, and he'll be there to reach out a hand and keep you afloat. He's actually good with words on these topics, and his voice grounds you - but if you need silent companionship or a firm chest to sob into, he can provide that too.

Soap actually often gets angry about your condition - not at you, of course, but the sheer unfairness of his beloved person suffering with no end, no matter how much all four boys do for you, weighs on him. The others might have caught him actually crying in the middle of letting steam off in the gym, he hates being powerless against a fucking disease.

Gaz loves when you let him take care of your body and appearance. Be it simply helping you take a bath/shower, shaving if you want but can't manage, brushing your hair for you, massaging oils, lotions or ointments into your skin... if you feel self-conscious about your appearance on flare days, he will obviously reassure you with other boys (as if they wouldn't love you in any condition, for fuck's sake, they're here because you make them feel the happiest they've ever been, not because you look like a model 24/7), but if it will make you feel better, he'll help you with a nice hairdo that won't burden your scalp, dress you up prettily, helping you put on every clothing piece with reverent kisses along the way, and do your makeup if you do it. Will he join you in all that and get all pretty too? Hell yeah! Might even catch Soap and get him dolled up too.

And finally, you won't find more accommodating people for intimacy. Whatever your limits are, they're never crossing them, choosing positions you won't feel uncomfortable in, being careful not to overwhelm you, discussing everything you want to try in sex with possible complications in mind. They're fine not doing anything at all; they're fine with doing no penetration; they're fine with extensive foreplay... definitely using all kinds of devices to make the experience better for you. Potentially asking your doctor questions on what's okay and what's not, even if you're screaming not to, lol.

They just love you, and they're ready to take everything off your shoulders as soon as you need it.

Hope you feel better soon, lovie <3

[cass-the-mess]

Take Me Home

What if Price was the one to fall by the hands of Makarov?

This one is for @stararch4ngelqueen, my angst partner and the person who inspires me to write these things the most 🫡 ❤️

TW: Major character death, blood, gore, injury description, ANGST!! No happy ending here folks.

Pairing: Reader "Zero" X Captain John Price

AN: I'm using Zero as the callsign but this is an ALTERNATE ending to MW3, and therefore not canon to my current fic Callsign: Zero, this is also a drabble so stuff is probably not accurate since Price doesn't die in the OG version and this is my own my version of it.

Heavy droplets of rain trickle down your neck and into your already soaked gear, the raging storm around you not seeming to let up as you look into the scope of your rifle, your heartbeat thundering in your ears as you try to stay calm.

A crack of lightning flashes before you, the heavy rumble of the thunder making the ground shake dangerously below you, your breath hitches as you fight to contain the panic clawing at the back of your throat, the heavy ball of it resting uneasily in your chest, growing heavier and heavier with each passing second.

“Task Force, this is Zero, how copy?” You speak into the radio at your shoulder, a last-ditch effort to try and regain communication with your team. The dull buzzing from the communication device indicating the lack of connection from the other members.

You curse under your breath as tears of frustration start welling up in your eyes, a short sob escaping you as you hiccup quietly from your perch on the roof of the decrepit building you’re currently hiding on. Tears blur your eyes as you try to blink them away, scanning the empty road and buildings across you, waiting, hoping, praying that your team is safe somewhere out there.

“Z? Zero this is Gaz, how copy?” A rough voice coughs out suddenly through the radio, startling you out of your panic, you fumble with the device attached to your vest, almost dropping it in the process.

“Gaz? Gaz, this is Zero, what’s your position?” You rush out, pushing your earpiece further into your ear, straining to hear what’s happening on the other end of the line.

“Got roughed up pretty bad, caught a bullet, don’t know where the others are, we got separated I think, Price is going after Makarov alone.” He wheezes painfully, his words choppy and slurred as he tries to relay the information, your heart seizing up in your thorax.

“Fuck. Okay, don’t move, I’m coming to you, can you describe your surroundings?” You tell him, getting up from where you were hiding previously, the earlier plan going out the door now that that your team had been compromised.

“Y-Yeah, hmm fuck, ‘bout 250 meters north out from your position, last building on the street, blue car in the driveway, can’t miss it.” He tells you, pain evident in his voice.

“Gaz? Where’d you get shot, can you stop the bleeding until I get there?” You ask him, your panic growing at the pain in his voice.

“Yeah- s’just a graze on my side, not even bleeding that much, think I might’ve broke my leg though.” He chuckles dryly, groaning as you hear him shuffling on the ground, a sigh of relief forcing its way out of you.

“Zero- I, listen, call med evac for me, you need to go after Price, he won’t make it if he goes after Makarov alone, I don’t know where the rest of the team is, but you can’t let him do this alone.” He tells you, his tone suddenly extremely somber, you feel your stomach drop at his statement, the panic that had been steadily growing in you, suddenly wrapping its claws around your lungs and squeezing, forcing you to a stop.

“Gaz, what are you talking about?” You rasp out, your legs burning from exertion as you fly down the flights of stairs to get to the ground floor, urgency pushing you to your limit.

“Just. GO.” He whispers harshly into your earpiece, clicking his communication device off simultaneously. You barely have time to react when the rumbling of an explosion throws you off balance, launching you to the ground, the ground shaking with the force of it.

You gasp as you look into the distance at the damage, a fire burning bright through the night, flames licking up the sides of the structures surrounding them, almost blinding you with its brightness, making you choke on the force of your own emotions.

At that moment your radio comes back to life, a crackle of electricity going through it before you hear the voice of your fellow lieutenant almost screaming through it, you scramble at your equipment to grab it, pushing on the button on the side to open your end of the line.

“ZERO! WE NEED BACKUP, NOW! PRICE IS COMPROMISED, I REPEAT- PRICE HAS BEEN COMPROMISED.” He screams through, panic bleeding through each of his words, you can almost hear the fire burning so close to him through the radio.

“Ghost? I’m on way, calling med evac ASAP, where’s Makarov?” You question him as you start running through the rubble towards the burning inferno, adrenaline pumping through your veins and pushing you forward, no longer caring for stealth. You send out a distress signal, letting the evac team know that they need to come and prepare for casualties.

“He’s in that fucking building with the captain, we lost eyes on them when it exploded, Soap is wounded but he can still fight.” He tells you, his voice rough with emotion, panic betraying his usually calm façade.

You run through the abandoned streets of the area you’re in, the rain hitting your skin with more and more force the closer you get to the burning fire, the sting of each droplet making you wince as you push through your exhaustion, the only thing keeping you going is the need to bring everyone back to safety, your own panic temporarily forgotten.

You round one last corner and come face to face with the giant inferno, the flames growing more and more violent as the wind picks up, the heat almost too much to bear. You look around for a way into the burning building, your mind trying to come up with ways to get through to get the captain and get out.

“Through the back! There’s an opening through the back where the fire hasn’t reached yet!” A voice shouts from a distance, you turn around to watch as Ghost walks up to you, supporting Soap with one shoulder and supporting his gun with the other. You nod quickly as you start running towards the burning structure, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

You find the opening quickly, your head on a swivel as you take a rag from your pocket, covering your nose and mouth from the smoke engulfing the space around you. You don’t have time to push in, a massive body tackling you to the ground as another explosion rings out, the wind knocking out of you as your head hits the pavement, stars swimming in your eyes for a second.

You open your eyes and push the body off of you, not realizing who it is yet as you watch the remaining structure crumble to pieces, rubble falling to the ground, causing it to vibrate under your feet.

You turn around then, your eyes zeroing on the man at your feet, your breath punching out of you when you make out his features, the familiar outline of his beard melting in with the dirt coating his face, speckles of blood splattered on his skin.

You gasp, your legs giving out from under you as you try to reach him, tears blurring your vision as a sob escapes you, the reality of the situation suddenly hitting you full force. You tug at the equipment strapped to the man’s chest, a newfound urgency possessing you.

Thick, warm blood coats your gloves as a strangled gasp escapes him, his hands coming up to grasp yours, wild eyes trying to focus on your features, smearing blood further on you as his mouth moves below you, trying to form words to no avail, he starts to cough then, choking on the liquid slowly filling his thoracic cavity, drowning.

“John! Please John! No, no, no. Come on, stay with me captain.” You scream, ripping off your gloves to try and pinpoint the source of the bleeding, his gasps becoming more and more strangled, bloody fingers reaching for your face as your cries grow louder in the night.

You hear hurried footsteps behind you as you rip open his shirt. Bloody, mangled skin meets your tear-stricken eyes, another sob chokes itself out of you as you find the source of the bleeding, multiple bullet wounds to the chest. You take a shaky breath before lifting up his top half from the ground, your eyes finding multiple exit wounds with blood slowly trickling out of them, staining the dirt below, the metallic smell of it choking you.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” You curse through your sobs, rolling him to his back once more, your hands coming to his chest, pressing down on the wounds to staunch the flow of blood as you watch the life drain from his eyes, pupils slowly losing focus as his own stained hands still reach for you, one of them grasping your cheek firmly, forcing you to look at him.

“Y/N…” He gasps out, the syllables of your name slurred as he tries to voice his last words, calloused hand still holding your cheek, cold slowly seeping into his weakening body as he searches your features for comfort. Blood staining your tear-stained cheeks as the rain continues its assault, dark red turning to a soft pink as it slides off your face and back onto the ground below you.

Ghost and Soap drop down next to you at that moment, breaths heaving with exhaustion as they take in the extent of the damage, Ghost taking out stims from his bag and immediately injecting Price with one of them, a strangled gasp escaping him at the sudden rush of adrenaline.

“Where’s evac?” You cry out as you press down harder on the man’s chest, Soap coming next to you to add more pressure, the sound of helicopters in the distance overshadowing the sounds of the raging storm around you. Ghost takes a flare out of his belt and lights it to alert them of your position.

“John? John come on, stay with it yeah? We’ll fix you right up old man.” You tell him, your voice breaking as you try to give him a reassuring smile.

“N-not gonna- make it, l-love.” He answers, his own lips twisting into a pained smiled, blood trickling out of his mouth, another coughing fit taking hold of him as his fingers slip from your face.

“Take me home…” He mumbles quietly, so low you think you might’ve hallucinated it.

“Fuck, we’re losing him LT, there’s too much blood.” Soap panics next to you, his own voice overtaken with emotion as he watches the life slip out of his captain’s body, warmth draining from his bloodied form, voices shouting orders in the distance as the evac team finally lands.

You watch in horror as the man you love slips through your helpless fingers, his normally bright blue eyes, becoming blurred and unfocused, the blue turning to a lifeless grey. His breathing becoming more and more shallow with each passing second before he finally lets out one last strangled wheeze as he goes limp on the cold hard ground beneath him.

The two men at your side letting out a strangled cry as you stare unblinking at him, your own hands slowly slipping from his chest. You sit back on your heels and look at your bloodied hands, tears coming freely from your eyes now, your mind bending and breaking as wave upon wave of grief crashes into you, the sliver of happiness you thought you had, snatched from your hands before you’d even had the chance to taste it properly.

You faintly hear someone talking to you, the words seeming so far away, like a dull echo, the words not registering in your mind as your eyes stay fixed on your lover’s body. Hands grab your shoulder as if to gain your attention, but you simply can’t bring yourself to care, eyes sliding up to rest on John’s beautifully broken face, his eyes still open and staring at you, even with no life in them, his eyes still hold so much love in them. A love you never thought you’d ever be deserving of.

You stay on your knees next to him for what feels like an eternity, your own eyes becoming unfocused at the rain washes away the traces of blood from your hands, the ground below soaking up the captain’s life force, leaving only a cold carcass in its wake, people around you still working relentlessly to bring everyone else home, safe and sound where they’ll see their family and enjoy a warm meal surrounded by those they love.

Not you though, you’re going back to an empty house filled with memories that will no doubt fade in time, you’re going back to a home holding the smell of the man who once held your broken heart in his careful hands and spent countless hours putting it back together, breaking down the walls you’d built around it to replace them with a home, filled with warmth, and love, and laughter.

A home you’d plan to live in together, maybe even have children in, retire in, and live happily ever after in.

No such luck in your life after all, people like you don’t get happy endings.

People like him only live to die.

[cyberrat]

81st Batch Of Fics: 4th Fill

Cassidy/OCs; (Cassidy/Hanzo) – Flashback Part 4/4 – rape; coercion; young Cole – Cole keeps up his struggle. He needs something more from his gang life.

---

One of the guys has just grabbed Cole’s hand and is stuffing it down his pants to get him to jerk him off when the door to the makeshift med-bay slams open and another guy walks out, followed by the Deadlock’s doctor barking a gruff: “Next!”

Cole quickly pulls his hand out of the grimacing guy’s pants and makes his way up the couple steps into the hut. It’s oppressively hot inside filled with a mixture of Alpha scents that gets his mouth watering.

It’s only been a month or something and already he’s getting hot for…

“Ah. Cassidy.” The doctor eyes him with a shrewd expression. “Got some special orders for you.” He jerks his head toward the cot. “Get naked and bend over.”

Cole’s fingers are fumbling with his clothes. He doesn’t know why he’s still getting nervous about this stuff. He awkwardly folds them a little and puts them over a chair before he does as he is told.

There’s quiet stretching through the room as the doctor quietly looks him over. A ton of bite marks that are in various stages of healing all over his arms and legs; a lot of bruises. A lot of dried blood between his cheeks.

As the man peels them apart to get a bit of a better look at the damage, he grunts in a mixture of annoyance and disgust.

“For God’s sake, Cassidy – wash your damn ass, will you? You don’t want this to get infected. Idiot.”

Cole lets his head hang low and doesn’t say anything. Part of him had hoped for it, if he’s honest; another part had thought that the guys might just stop fucking him if he’s disgusting enough.

The doc cleans him up which is one exquisitely humiliating experience that he does not particularly care to repeat any time soon.

“Hmn. I’ll let your boss know that they got to go easy on you for the next month or so. And invest in some damn lube.”

Cole presses his forehead against his stacked arms, exhaling a shuddering breath.

He spends the next half hour beneath the doctor’s desk jerking him off and getting his dick liberally wet with his tongue until he was finally allowed to go with a new load warming his stomach.

For a long while that’s just how things go for Cole: he’s getting fucked by whoever is in the mood to pump out a load, and if he’s not being speared on dicks, he’s so far down the ladder that nobody fucking respects him.

He only sees his chance when Bertie of all fucking people can’t go on a mission because of some food poisoning or some shit. It’s an easy enough deal; go to the nearest town, meet up with a guy and hash out a good price for some new guns and medication.

During his nightly meeting with the boss, head on the old Alpha’s thigh and fist pumping his cock, he peers up at him and just… asks. There’s nothing worse that could happen to him after all. Not at this point.

“Can I do that deal?”

The boss who had been looking like he’s been about to fall asleep, cracks one eye open and peers down at Cole. After a while he lifts the near empty bottle he’s been drinking from, swirling the last dredges of liquid around in the glass.

“You? The fuck are you gonna do?”

“I ain’t dumber than Bertie,” Cole mutters. He curls his palm around the slowly growing knot at the base of the boss’ dick and squeezes it gently. He’s learned quite a few things since starting this new job of his.

He also can’t say that he doesn’t… like he doesn’t… hate the smell of the guys anymore. He thinks. It’s just that he’s being drenched in the stench of Alpha cock morning to night now and he can barely smell anything other than unwashed balls and blood hot dicks at this point.

Cole pushes a bit closer, pressing his nose into the wiry hair at the base of the boss’ cock. Maybe to prove it to himself or something. Maybe to drive it home that he really truly loves Alphas now that he’s had a bit of time to…

The boss’ Alpha scent is so thick that it makes his eyes water. He can only stand it for a few seconds before he needs to pull back, eyes and mouth watering like he’s got a severe allergic reaction. He’s drooling like a damn dog but something about that must amuse the boss because he chuckles and pets his head with heavy handed swipes.

“Maybe ya need some time off,” he muses aloud. “Stretch your legs. do somethin’ other than suckin’ dick for once. Can’t be all that good for a growin’ Alpha to just get suffocated on cock day in ‘n day out…”

Though as he says it, he curls his fingers into Cole’s hair and guides his mouth toward the tip of his dick. Cole feels his stomach acid briefly shoot up, but he swallows thickly and opens his mouth nice and wide, tongue out like a wet, red carpet for the boss to slide into.

The time off of his ass is soon coming to an end. He has spied a few stashes of lube now all around the camp, placed where the boys can easily access it… and him.

He does an especially enthusiastic job sucking the boss off, just trying to secure this job for himself.

That night he wakes up to the feeling of hands rearranging him. He’s rolled onto his belly, someone tugging his pants down until they sit beneath the swell of his ass.

Cole’s breath hitches, his heart pumping faster. He tries to figure out how many guys there are but he also doesn’t want to lift his head. He doesn’t want them to be aware that he is awake. Someone generously smears slick into his ass crack.

The ache of an Alpha squeezing his way into his unprepared body is a very special kind of pain. The slick… helps, though. It makes the entry much more bearable as he is getting molested in the middle of the night. There are a ton of other guys around them sleeping soundly, their rattling snores a weirdly comforting backdrop to Cole slowly getting speared on cock.

Maybe it’s because his assailants don’t want to wake the others that they go slower than usual… but the whole ordeal is much more palatable than the other times he got accosted.

He can feel his cock starting to stir as the Alpha slides into him proper. He’s getting hard, his body growing warm and prickly. They rock into him softly, just a few inches at a time; a slick back-and-forth that gets his muscles to relax despite having been stretched so far to accommodate the meaty cock.

Cole keeps his eyes clenched shut tightly and tries to just go back to sleep, ignoring how he now has a full fledged erection that is rubbing against the inside of his pants, leaving everything soon sticky and slimy with his own pre-cum.

It’s a special kind of humiliation yet again. Those seem to just not end up these days.

Tomorrow he’ll get to do his little errand and he’ll show the boss just how much more useful he can be and everything will change. Surely.

Everything will change.

[kat2107]

The things they rarely tell you about being chronically ill:

The shit that the shit keeping you alive does to your body in the progress.

Felt fine yesterday.

Woke up this morning with the gastritis from hell.

Now, granted, I always have gastritis. That's an inevitable side effect of overdosing NSAIDs for a whole year of your life, but occasionally my stomach lining decides that "it's time" and I have gone "too far" again with the 5+ pills I chug for breakfast.

Maybe too much sugar lately? Maybe too much coffee? Maybe it was the meal I had last night? Maybe the one glass of beer? Maybe it was nothing and the apple I ate. Or maybe my shirt is too tight and the pressure set my stomach off. Who the fuck knows.

I used to be able to eat whatever I wanted.

Now, I'm gonna make a big batch of oatmeal without the fun. Ok, maybe apple sauce. Apple sauce is ok.

Here's one of the things they rarely tell you when you are chronicall ill and disabled:

The shit that's keeping you alive may keep you alive, but it comes at a price.

So take your PPI, limit your sugar, limit your acids limit your caffeine and alk, do not take meds on an empty stomach, brush your teeth.

[fiction-is-passion]

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅──╮

Hello again

I figured I'd do some alcohol safety guide for those that are turning 21 this year and I'd like to help you out and have the time of your life!

To prepare is to have pockets for your cards such as IDs to get in. Debit cards or cash on you. Make sure your phone is fully charged. Bring a tazer or pepper spray or any form of protecting.

The first thing is have a safe ride to a bar or club. Do not go if you have sensory issues or you are on any prescriptions that will mix with the alcohol. Be sure to find proper parking. Park in a safe spot away from alleyways where people can steal your car. If your in a big city. Make sure your friends also walk to your car too. Also, be sure to search for reviews on the bar. Avoid bars that house hate.

Next is to eat a big meal before drinking. Don't drink on an empty stomach. Trust me. Shit sucks. Drink a shit ton of water to before going out. That way your more sober and alert.

Thirdly is to dress to YOUR comfort level. Don't dress if you feel uncomfortable or even dysphoric. Dress in something casual and comfortable. Do not go to a bar or club if your friends are pushing you to dress a certain way that makes you uneasy, don't go.

Fourthly is to limit the round of shots if your driving, be sure to have water with you at your table with your friends. Do NOT I repeat! DO NOT LEAVE YOUR DRINK UNATTENDED! Please take it with you at all times including the bathroom. Have friends to watch your drink if needed.

If your asking for shots, these are the list of shots that you can get from the bartender if you don't know you can ask for:

Jack Daniel's

Hennessey

Jameson

Patrón

1800s

Moonshine

Captain Morgan Rum

Smirnoff vodka

Make sure you don't mix clear liquor with dark liquor, it'll be a wild time so just a fair warning.

Look up the prices of cocktails, find ones that are within your budget. If you need to put it on a tab, please do so. Put it on a friend's tab if they've asked. Don't put it on another person's tab without their concent.

For those are uncomfortable with the environment. Please blacklist it so other people don't go. If your friends agree with you and you communicate, you can go home or continue to party.

For after your done drinking. Go ahead and order a meal and drink water. You'd have less chances of getting a hangover. There should be places that are open after midnight so snag something good to eat.

If you still feel unsafe. Don't hesitate to carpool with someone instead. If you rather still ride with someone and they're sober. Then you can go. If they're not, sober them up or call an uber. Don't go with a stranger.

Be sure once you get home you've locked your doors or windows. Text your friends and tell them you've made it home safely. If you're still drunk, drink more water before bed. Because after crashing, you'd feel like a zombie in the morning.

If you've waken up with a headache. Take some medication, pain meds. Drink pickle juice if you have any. Look up other home remedies for hangovers and see what works for you.

✧❁❁✧✿✿✧❁❁✧

Tips and a refresher:

Don't drink on weekdays, drink on weekends

Water is your friend

Eat protein. Keep your protein intake high

Greesy foods are your friends. They will help you stay full throughout the night.

Take shots then drink water after

Have one or two cocktails depending of you're staying till closing

If your afab/person with ovaries. You have the right to say no to a drink from a cisguy.

If you wanna wear pants instead of a dress, do so. Your wardrobe is your aesthetic.

Makeup is minimune. Because you won't have time to wash it off if your not sober enough.

Do not consume sugary alcoholic drinks! They will fuck you up more!

Don't take shots from people you don't know.

Keep pain meds and water on your nightstand just in case.

Keep track of what you brought. Don't bring so much stuff with you.

I guess that's it. Thanks for reading and good luck! 🍹🍸🍷🍾🍺🥃

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅──╯

[winchester-fantasies]

Day 182 - Part 4

Day 182 Masterlist

Series Summary: You and Dean are on a routine hunt when strange things begin to happen around you. When you start searching for answers, you soon find yourselves stuck, under quarantine, and no way to communicate with the outside world.

Word Count: 4692

Warnings: smut, fingering, little bit of dry humping (kinda...you’ll see what I mean), unprotected sex, cheating, angst, fluff, violence, danger to reader, hurt reader, concerned Dean, swearing

Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader

Winchester Fantasies’ Masterlist

Day 106

You sat at the kitchen table, a map of Austin spread out in front of you. You studied the main roads that led out of Austin and jotted down a few side streets that led out of the city. You had to find a way out.

You glanced to the door as the sounds of Logan and Ella laughing like they did every morning filtered past the walls of your apartment before glancing back to the map and highlighting a few promising routes. You had to get out, you repeated to yourself. Whether Dean came with you or not.

Your head was pounding by the time you were done writing down everything you observed. You got up from the table and went to get dressed, choosing jeans, boots, and an old flannel of Dean’s that had long since lost his scent. Pulling your hair back and away from your face, you grabbed your Bowie knife from the table and slipped it into the waistband of your jeans before folding up the map and stuffing it into your back pocket.

You headed for the door, unlocking it and stepping out into the hallway. You paused for a moment as you closed it behind you, your gaze fixed on the door across from yours. Your heart was pounding as you thought about asking Dean to join you, but then you heard him and Jackie talking, their words muffled and indistinguishable, but their tones happy.

Without another thought, you turned and quickly made your way towards the apartment building entrance. You wouldn’t bother him. He had different responsibilities than he had three and a half months ago - responsibilities that didn’t involve you. You wouldn’t burden him anymore, not when he was so obviously enjoying the new family he had gained.

You exited the building, pausing for a moment to gain your bearings. You hadn’t been out much since you’d arrived in Austin and everything that had gone down in the medical tent. But with Dean now taking care of Jackie and her kids, you needed to get over your fears. You were virtually alone now. No one was here to take care of you. And it was high time you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps and took responsibility for yourself. You didn’t need anyone, you told yourself as you turned and made your way down the sidewalk that you knew led to the supply tent.

Soldiers lined the sidewalk and streets, one posted every few yards. Some of them were kind and would tip their heads at you as you passed or even shoot you a smile, but most of them were stone-faced and rigid. You turned the corner, the supply and medical tents visible at the end of the street, barricades behind them, preventing anyone or anything from getting in or going out.

You stepped into the supply tent, surprised to see it almost nearly empty except for a few mothers and their children and one or two older people. You picked up one of the cardboard boxes that had been left by the tent entrance for carrying what supplies everyone needed before making your way down the makeshift aisles. You were shocked at the amount of supplies and food that were available, and you couldn’t help but grab an extra bar of chocolate and a bottle of red wine for those nights when you felt particularly vulnerable and alone.

“How’re you doing, Miss?” the young soldier asked as you approached for him to take stock of and write down everything you had taken in a roster of last names. You glanced up and smiled at the young man who looked no older than eighteen with a bright smile, wide and curious blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his boyish cheeks.

“I’m doing good, thank you,” you said before you took up the box, the young man tipping his head to you in a quick goodbye before he turned to help the next person.

You stopped once you stepped out of the tent, looking over at the medical tent. You had overheard Dean telling Jackie that the medic who had harassed both you and her wasn’t in the medical tent when he’d gone on his last supply run, but that still didn’t stop the wave of uneasiness that washed over you as you stared at it. But maybe the odds would be in your favor and the medic would still be gone. You didn’t really want to take that chance, but you were in desperate need of pain meds, what with these headaches being an almost daily occurrence now, not to mention you were due to start your period soon and you’d need some tampons.

Your shoulders slumped as you finally made up your mind and headed towards the tent. You reached behind you, feeling for you Bowie knife, the feeling of its handle offering a modicum of relief and a sense of safety.

You paused outside the entrance and took a deep breath, then you stepped inside. It took you a moment for your eyes to adjust to the considerably darker lighting in this one. Finally you could make out the rows of items that lined the many shelves, stacked haphazardly with medicines, pills, toiletries, and general supplies outside of food.

You didn’t see the medic. In fact the tent appeared to be completely empty, and you breathed a sigh of relief before you made your way over to one of the shelves, finding what you needed almost immediately.

“Knew you’d be back,” a voice spoke from behind you and you whirled around, your blood running cold when you found the medic standing behind you. A cocky smirk sat on his face as his dark eyes looked you over with a look that made you shiver.

“I...I just needed to get a couple of things,” you said, your attempt at sounding indifferent failing as your voice trembled.

“As much as I’d like to give you those, I’m afraid these come with a price tag,” he said, stepping closer to you, the smell of cigarettes and body odor meeting your nose and making you nearly gag.

“Not interested,” you said, trying to brush past him. He stepped in front of you, effectively blocking your escape. “You haven’t even heard what I’m offering,” he leered.

“And I really don’t want to know,” you clipped, once more trying to get past him.

“C’mon, sugar,” he crooned. “Surely we can come to some kind of arrangement.” His eyes swept over you from head to toe, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as they landed on your breasts.

“Let me ask you this,” you said evenly, anger and disgust mixing together to form a perfect cocktail of courage. “What in that tiny brain of yours would think I’d ever be interested in fucking you? You’re a disgusting asshole, with incredible disrespect for women. You like to flaunt your position and abuse your power. You're an egotistical prick who….”

Your words were suddenly cut off by a stinging pain across your cheek. Your head spun and it took you a moment to realize he’d backhanded you. Before you could react, the box was thrust from your hands and you were shoved against one of the shelves, several bottles of medication falling to the floor.

His hand was around your throat, tight and threatening. You clawed at his hands and tried to kick out at him as you struggled against his much larger and stronger body. “You’re a real bitch,” he spat, rage darkening his eyes and causing a shiver to run down your spine. You could tell you’d pushed him, hit a nerve, done something he didn’t like and wouldn’t accept. “You think you can just come in and take whatever you want,” he growled, turning you and ramming you against the other shelf before throwing you down, a low groan leaving you as your body made contact with the hard ground with a sickening thud.

“Well, that’s not how it works,” he ground out, the front of his boot making contact with your torso. You grunted and doubled over in pain. “There’s always...always a price!” he shouted, his boot finding your torso again, but this time he didn’t stop, kicking you over and over again until your vision blurred and all you felt was pain.

You saw darkness around the edges of your vision and you knew you were going to lose consciousness when a voice broke through the void. “What are you doing?” the voice of an older man asked. The medic stopped, turning his attention to the unexpected and unwanted visitor, but the distraction gave you just enough time to push yourself up and run from the tent before either he or the older man could stop you.

You felt for the map in your back pocket as you ran but came up empty. But you didn’t have time to think about it as you pressed onward, desperate to put as much distance between you and the medic as possible. You ran down alleyways and took side streets, thankful you’d memorized most of the map before going out. It took you longer to get back to the apartment and your body was screaming, feet heavy, and legs like jello, but at least you’d left the medic behind.

You stumbled up the steps leading to the apartment building, tripping a few times and scraping your hands and knees on the concrete as you tried to make your way up the stairs. Finally, you reached the stoop, your hands trembling as you pulled the door open. You staggered down the hallway, hugging the walls and using them for support as you tried to keep your eyes open even as your vision swam.

“(Y/N)?”

You stopped, looking behind you at the familiar voice. Dean stood behind you, his eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and worry. You hadn’t even realized he’d been in the hall.

Shit, you hurt, you thought as you gripped your stomach, pain shooting through your torso. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Dean asked, rushing to your side.

You brushed him off and hurried to your apartment, quickly opening it and stepping inside before slamming the door on his face. You leaned against it for a moment before propelling yourself forward, pulling off the flannel and your shirt and bra underneath before discarding your boots, socks, jeans, and panties.

You felt dirty and used as you stumbled towards the bathroom. You flipped on the light and raised the lid of the toilet just before you retched, throwing up everything that had been in your stomach. You flushed the toilet before splashing your face with water and hurriedly brushing your teeth.

You crossed to the shower, turning on the water and letting it warm up a little before you stepped in, the water scalding and almost too warm. But you didn’t care. You needed to get the feeling of what you had endured off of you.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, just staring at the wall before the dam broke, sobs wracking your body as tears slid down your face, mingling with droplets of water. You were so lost in your grief that you didn’t hear the shower curtain being pulled back or feel the presence of another person until you felt rough and calloused hands on your waist.

You tensed and tried to pull away, but the hands gripped you tighter, halting your movements. You jerked your gaze behind you, finding Dean, still fully clothed, his eyes filled with concern.

“Shit, (Y/N),” he breathed as his eyes landed on your bleeding lip and swollen cheek. You didn’t say anything as you turned back to face the water.

After a few moments you saw Dean’s hand shoot out in front of you, a washcloth in hand. He held it under the water before pulling it back to him, the warm cloth touching the skin of your shoulders and back a few seconds later. You closed your eyes as you relished in his soft ministrations.

Dean stopped once he had washed your entire back, tossing the cloth into the bottom of the shower, his hands finding precedence on your bare waist again. Your eyes were still closed when you felt his lips make contact with the flesh of your shoulder, the one you’d been pushed to the ground on - the one you knew sported a bruise larger and deeper than any you’d had in a long time, if ever.

Dean’s action was meant to be chaste, sweet, kind - you knew that. But there was something incredibly sensual and electric about it and you shuddered.

“Tell me what you need,” Dean murmured against your skin, eliciting goosebumps across your flesh despite the still hot water cascading down your body.

You turned to face him, his hands never leaving your body. “Help me forget,” you whispered, a tear sliding down your cheek. “Please...just help me forget.”

“Anything,” Dean said breathily before he lunged forward, his lips capturing yours in a bruising kiss. Your arms flew around his shoulders as he swung you around, one hand sliding below your ass to bring your leg up around his waist as he pressed you against the cool tile of the shower.

His tongue swept over your lower lip and you willingly opened your mouth to him, his tongue finding yours. It was all hands and teeth as you groped and clung to one another, desperate to be as close as you could possibly be.

Dean left your mouth and latched onto your pulse point, sucking a mark that had you fisting his damp hair, tugging at the short strands and eliciting a deep and throaty groan from him. His fingers dug into the skin of your thigh as he pressed himself further between your legs, a shuddering moan leaving you as his erection pressed into your clit through his jeans. He rolled his hips almost as soon the sound left your mouth, his eyes trained on your face as he watched your eyes fall shut and your mouth go slack as the same breathy sound left your lips.

A grunt fell from his mouth as you met his next thrust with one of your own, your desire for him becoming almost too much for you to ignore. Your hands gripped his back, fisting his now soaked through flannel, the feel of his muscles contracting under your hands as he worked both of you up.

You didn’t notice the steam in the room slowly dissipating nor how the water had already turned cold. All you were aware of was how Dean felt against you, his hands searing your skin and mouth blazing trails across your flesh, leaving deep purple marks that would stand out and make someone question just who you belonged to.

You gasped as Dean slid over your clit just right, pleasure shooting from your core through your entire body. “Dean…” you moaned, your voice so breathy and needy you barely recognized it as your own. “Please.”

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he breathed against the skin of your throat, his mouth trailing back up to meet your lips in a quick but passionate kiss before quickly stepping away from you and leaning behind him to turn off the ice cold water. He smirked as he shoved back the curtains and stepped out, holding out his hand to you. You took it, your stomach flipping as your skin was once more reunited with his.

He immediately pulled you into him, his hands sliding down to your ass as he kissed you as if he hadn’t been doing so just seconds ago. He turned you both around, leaning you against the bathroom sink before leaving your mouth and trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses down your throat, chest, and torso before dropping to his knees in front of your core. He looked up at you with hooded eyes, and your breath hitched as his hands fell to your calves before sliding up to your thighs. You knew what he wanted, so you spread your legs for him, his eyes leaving yours to gaze at your wet folds that glistened in the light.

His eyes were wide with lust as he lifted his hand to your pussy, fingers running through your slick. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed. He dipped his middle finger into your wet heat a few times, gathering your wetness, before he found your swollen clit. You let out a small moan as he began to rub small, controlled circles over the sensitive bud. Your hands gripped the side of the sink, and you glanced down to find Dean watching you carefully, his teeth sunk into his lower lip and his eyes clouded with lust.

He suddenly righted himself and stepped closer to you, leaning down to suck a nipple into his mouth. You groaned as he left your clit and slid a finger into your sopping hole and began to push it in and out of you as his thumb kept a firm pressure over your clit.

“Dean,” you breathed, your hands leaving the sink to weave into his hair, nails scraping against his skull as he continued to lave at your breasts.

It wasn’t long before your legs began to tremble and your lower abdomen filled with warmth. Dean felt your walls contracting softly around his finger and he left your breasts, his lips falling to your shoulder and working their way up your neck to your ear, each press of his mouth against your skin sending wave after wave of fresh arousal to your core.

“Cum for me, beautiful,” Dean whispered against your ear, his warm breath ruffling your still damp hair. He crooked his fingers and then you were falling, tumbling off that sweet precipice of release.

Your whole body was trembling as Dean removed his finger from your core and leaned in to kiss you, tongues languidly moving together, the slight sting of his almost full beard tantalizing against your skin. “Do...do you want…?” you asked past your euphoria.

“No, not today, baby,” Dean said, his hands running up and down your sides and littering every inch of skin he could find with kisses. “Right now it’s all about you.”

“What do you want, sweetheart?” he continued softly, his voice deep and almost slurred with lust. He pressed himself into you further, his bulge more than noticeable against your bare hip.

“I want to see you,” you whispered, your hands sliding up under the henley that was hidden by his flannel, fingers ghosting along the skin of his abdomen. He shuddered against your touch and he pressed one more kiss onto your neck before stepping back, taking your hand, and leading you to the bedroom. He led you over to the mattress before he stepped back.

Your eyes were glued to his body, your chest heaving as you carefully watched every move he made. He all but ripped his flannel from his shoulders before reaching behind him, fisting the back of his shirt before tugging, stripping himself of the soaked flannel and henley underneath. He smirked as your eyes met his blown ones, and your stomach flipped. But the next second your eyes were drawn away from his face as he reached for his belt, unbuckling it before unbuttoning his jeans next. He slowly unzipped them before shoving them down his legs, stepping out of them once they were pooled around his ankles and tossed them by the bedroom door.

His boxers were tented, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip in anticipation. You didn’t realize how much you had wanted this moment. But now that it was here, it was almost overwhelming. Your emotions were muddled together - desire, nervousness, love - and you weren’t sure which one wanted to take over. All you knew was that Dean was here, his longing for you undeniable.

Dean finally moved again, going to remove his boxers. He kicked them off before turning to face you once more, giving you an unobstructed view of him in all his naked glory. He was beautiful, with his broad shoulders, toned abdomen, bow legs, and cock standing at full attention, pre-cum already seeping from the swollen and red tip.

“Please…” you mewled, reaching out for him, your need to feel him around you and inside of you almost more than you could take.

“I’m here, baby,” he said, wasting no time in coming to you. He took your face into his hands and kissed you gently before he released you, helping you slide up the bed, him following close behind. He pushed you back against the pillows, coming to lie between your thighs as you spread your legs for him. He hovered over you, kissing you slow and deep.

He didn’t say anything as he slowly pushed into you, a soft groan emanating from his chest as your walls opened to him without resistance. You slid your hands along his shoulders and down his back, finding precedence on his firm ass.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean breathed, his voice cracking as he tried to hold himself back. “You feel so good...so tight.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, words escaping you at the feel of him stretching you. You’d never felt so full, so safe, so cared for. You could have stayed like this forever.

He continued until he couldn’t go anymore, holding himself still until you gently rolled your hips, silently telling him to move. He hummed and nodded, pulling back his hips before sinking back into your heat. It wasn’t fast or brutal; he was taking his time, enjoying the feel of you around him and making sure you felt everything he had to give as he offered up everything he had. It was slow and sensual, deep and passionate. It was everything you’d never had, and all you’d ever wanted.

Your orgasm came on slowly, a pressure building and building. And when you finally came, it wasn’t mind-blowing and intense. Instead it was like a wave washing over you, caressing you and pulling you underneath its weight, drowning you until all that was left was Dean - the chant of your heart and the praise on your lips.

And afterwards, as you both lay in the dark, sweaty limbs tangled together and hearts slowly evening out, you basked in the rapture of it all. And as your eyes slowly drifted shut, you finally let sleep overtake you. And you slept. Better than you had in weeks.

**********

Day 107

You sighed as sleep began to fade away and your eyes fluttered open. You glanced over beside you, almost shocked when you found Dean beside you, his face almost nestled into the side of your neck. You shifted slightly, realizing his arm was slung around your middle as you glanced down the bed to find the quilt covering only his ass, leaving you a perfect view of his muscular legs and bare back.

Your cheeks flamed red as you thought back over everything that had happened the day before and you couldn’t help but feel a warmth fill your stomach. But just as suddenly all of it was replaced by guilt as you thought of Jackie. She must be frantic this morning, worrying and wondering just what had happened and why Dean hadn’t come home last night. You had stripped that away from her. And Logan and Ella…. Your stomach roiled at the thought of the small children that had come to view Dean as their second dad.

He could have been home with them, waking up to Jackie’s smile, cooking breakfast and sitting down to eat with his family. Instead he was here, in bed with you. You'd been selfish, needy, wanting something you knew you couldn’t have and claiming something that wasn’t even yours. You’d used Dean, coerced him. You were a homewrecker….

Tears stung the backs of your eyes and you slowly slid out from under Dean’s grasp, no longer wanting to be near him. You felt nauseous as you picked up a discarded article of clothing and threw it on and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind you before going to relieve yourself. Your hair was a mess and your neck, chest, and shoulders were littered with purple hickeys, all testaments of what had transpired the night before.

You couldn’t stand to look at yourself, shame filling your mind, so you quickly exited the bathroom and went to the kitchen. Maybe if you made yourself something to eat, it would stop the roiling of your stomach.

You had just poured a bit of pancake batter into the pan when a pair of hands settled on your hips, causing you to jump. “Mornin’,” Dean said gruffly, his voice still coated with sleep. He pressed himself into you from behind, his hands never leaving your hips as he leaned down to brush a kiss to your neck.

You shuddered at his touch and you couldn’t help but to close your eyes, even when your mind was screaming to not get pulled under. “Dean…” you said, your voice coming out in a longing murmur.

“Mmm?” Dean hummed, his mouth never leaving the skin of your neck.

“What’s going on?” you asked quietly.

“What does it look like?” Dean asked, a chuckle in his voice. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him impossibly closer. “I like seeing you in my clothes.” You glanced down, finding the flannel Dean had thrown off the day before, and your stomach lurched.

Dean buried his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. “And you smell like me,” he growled, his possessive words sending a shiver of desire down your spine.

But you willed your mind to focus. “No, Dean,” you said firmly. “What are we doing?”

He stopped, pulling his head back, but his arms never leaving your middle. You could feel the shift in the air and the tension falling between you as he went rigid. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice void of any emotion.

“Dean, you know what I’m talking about,” you said, your voice unwittingly trembling. “Last night….”

“I thought that was what you wanted,” Dean said, his voice laced with confusion.

“I did...but it was wrong, Dean,” you said. “It was a mistake.”

Dean stepped away abruptly as if he’d been burned. You turned to face him, his expression one of confusion and hurt at your rejection. “(Y/N), I...I….”

“Go home to Jackie,” you said evenly, cutting him off, your lip quivering even as you said the words.

He moved towards you again but you stepped back. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes heavy and his lips set in a thin line as his jaw ticked. “Dean...please go. Just...please, please just leave.” You turned your gaze to the floor when you found yourself unable to hide your tears.

Dean stood there for a few moments longer before his feet disappeared from your line of vision. You heard him moving around in the bedroom, most likely redressing and gathering up the evidence that he was ever here. You didn’t look up as he came back out, pausing at the kitchen entrance, almost as if he was waiting, giving you a chance to stop him. But you didn’t, and he finally moved on, the front door opening and closing a few seconds later.

As soon as you knew he was gone you slumped to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest, and laying your face over your crossed arms. You tried to stifle the sob brewing in your chest, but finally it bubbled up, the sound bouncing off the walls of the empty apartment. You hated yourself. You hated that you had taken advantage of a man who was already taken. You had betrayed Jackie and let down Logan and Ella. You hated yourself for giving in to the desire of the one thing you wanted most in life. And most of all you hated yourself for still wanting him.

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

Thank you for reading! If you liked what you read, let me know!! ❤️❤️

***Please do not share my content on any other platform without my consent.

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

***If your name is striked out, it’s because Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you.

Tags:

@divadinag @mogaruke @calaofnoldor @defenderrosetyler @coffeebooksandfandom @emoryhemsworth @satans-0-spawn @fandom-princess-forevermore @titty-teetee @gallifreyansass @swiftrogerswinchesterthot @hollymac79 @codename-nyx @kalesrebellion @peaceinourtime82 @babypink224221

Dean Girls:

@weepingwillowphoenix @akshi8278 @thesuicidalflower @adoptdontshoppets @unmistakablyunknown @karikatz12481

Day 182:

@wingedcatninja @hazel-eyed-hunter @doctorlilo @vicmc624 @itsoddgirlout @heyyy-hey-babyyy @busy-bee-angel-misska @dahliaforestoak @karikatz12481

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone- Chapter 16

Title: Bruised, Not Broken

Warnings:  mental illness, memory and talk of near death experience, profanity

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @tragiclyhip, @miss-smutty​

“He’s struggling,” Esme says the following morning, as she leans stomach first against the kitchen island, cell phone pressed to her ear and an oversized mug of steaming tea staring invitingly up at her. “Badly.”

It’s eight thirty in the morning and she’s exhausted; a night full of broken sleep and attempting to fend off the monsters that accompany the reality of mental illness. It hadn’t been that bad in a long time; inconsolable, body wracking sobs that quickly transition into feelings of frustration and embarrassment, followed by a period of self loathing and disgust, finished off by intense rage directed at the mental illness itself and the people and experiences that directly caused it. It’s a hell of a thing to go through. Holding your six foot three, two hundred pound husband while he desperately clings to you and weeps like a terrified and wounded child. Able to do little more than offer verbal reassurance and attempt to comfort by running your fingers through his hair or rubbing his back. THAT isn’t the difficult part; the soothing comes easily and naturally and he normally responds quickly. Even the shame he feels afterwards is relatively easy to cope with. She can fend that off by staying calm and explaining why he doesn’t need to feel that way; somewhat convincing him that there’s no need for embarrassment just because he had a moment of vulnerability and weakness. Reminding him that he IS human; he’s allowed to feel hurt and pain and be frustrated and confused. But it’s the anger that takes over; all consuming and powerful and making it impossible to get through to him. She’d long ago learned that it’s best to just sit back and not say anything; let him rant and rave and vigorously pace the floor. Redirecting doesn’t work; he becomes defensive and accusatory and every little suggestion is taken as a personal attack or judgement. Silence IS golden when he goes off the deep end. Relegating herself to just listening and acknowledging what's happening to him and conveying understanding through body language and actions as opposed to words.

It always ends the same way. With pure physical and emotional exhaustion taking over. All the rage and tears expended and leaving him feeling empty and worn out; crawling back into bed and turning his back towards her in a silent request to just leave him alone. And she gives him that; a hand resting on the top of his head or upon his shoulder, yet no words ever exchanged. Staring up at the ceiling with tears of her own streaming down her face; a mixture of her own frustration and anger and pure and profound heartache. Not only hating to see the person she loves more than anything in the world hurting so badly, but detesting the fact she can’t do anything to take it all away.

“He always struggles at Christmas,” Ovi reminds her, and over the line she can hear the babbling of the littlest and the various voices belonging to characters on Sesame Street. It’s surreal at times; acknowledging just who he is now and how far he’s come. Easily remembering him as that scared and traumatized teenager and then having to remind herself that he’s a grown man; a wife and children of his own and well on his way to becoming a pediatrician.

“It’s different this year. It’s not just sadness. It’s frustration and it’s rage and it’s so much self loathing. I know we were told that this would happen; he’d go through these kinds of ups and downs. But he’s been doing so well and he’s been coping and hasn’t had a downward spiral like this in so long.”

“What is it he’s actually getting worked up over? What’s setting him off?”

“He’s been thinking a lot about Austin. He mentioned how it was bothering him how much Millie and TJ look like him. I mean, he’s always sad at Christmas. It’s always difficult for him. But it’s not like THIS.”

“Maybe he’s wondering what Austin would be like now. Or what he would have been like when he was Millie and TJ’s ages. And if he’s already down and out because of the holiday, adding that into the mix COULD make it worse.”

“It’s been years since he was THIS bad. You know how well he’s been doing. Everything’s been under control. He’s been managing it. Extremely well.”

“And he’s still going to therapy?”

“Religiously. By himself AND with me. And you know what a miracle THAT is. Him even agreeing to getting help in the first place.”

“Is he taking his meds? If he’s been off them or been skipping them…”

“I’ve checked. I went and counted them myself. There’s no extra. He’s been taking them. And I fucking hate that I even have to do that. Check up on him like that. He’s a grown man. He’s forty-seven years old and I’m treating him like he’s a child. I hate that I have to do that. I hate this whole fucking thing. This whole illness.”

“Unfortunately, he’s shown that he can’t be trusted. When it comes to meds. It’s a horrible thing to say, but…”

“This is just so unfair,” she laments, and lifts the mug of tea to her lips. “ That he’s suffering like this. He’s paid his dues, Ovi. And then some. Why does he have to KEEP paying? Wasn’t Dhaka enough? Wasn’t what happened twelve and half years ago a big enough price to pay? He doesn’t deserve this. This kind of pain. I’d rather see him physically struggling than this. Because at least I know that pain will subside. But this? I fucking hate this. And I can’t see Christmas being the only thing causing this. He’s never this bad.”

“How’d he seem when he got back? From Cambodia?”

“Tired. A little sore. But he seemed fine. He was glad to be home and in great spirits. He’s been...I don’t know...he’s been Tyler. Nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, it seemed like there was some underlying sadness, but I just chalked it up to it being Christmas and him always have a hard time.”

“Could something have happened while he was away? Could something have triggered it?”

“He didn’t tell me much. Just that the guys he took out were pretty much the biggest pieces of garbage he’s ever encountered. And that’s saying a lot; considering how many years he’s been doing the job and how many assholes he’s taken out. I guess they didn’t stop at just drug running and weapons trafficking. Apparently they abused women. And children. In the worst ways possible.”

“That could do it. Probably hit close to home. Hearing about someone taking advantage of kids like that.”

“He did seem rather vengeful about it. Satisfied, even. That he got the chance to take out people like that. And I don’t blame him; those people are scum and they deserve to put down in the most painful way possible. And he did say that it made him think about his kids. He kind of started dwelling on it; what would happen and how he’d react if anyone touched his kids like that.”

“That’s probably what did it,” Ovi concludes. “It’s probably been just eating away at him. It’s probably all he’s been thinking about; his own kids getting victimized like that. And you know Tyler. Once something is in his head, it lives there rent free. For a long time.”

“I try to get him to focus on other things; cut him off at the pass before he even gets down that rabbit hole. Usually it works; I can distract him and get him thinking about other things. And I thought it DID work. Guess I’m not as good at all of this as I think.”

“I think you need to cut yourself some slack. If anything, you do TOO much. You take too much on. You’ve got seven kids you’re taking care of. You’re dealing with Tyler’s issues. Are you taking care of yourself? Has anyone asked you how YOU’RE doing? Because that’s just as important.”

“I’m doing okay,” she lies, and swallows a mouthful of tea. “I’m fine.”

She feels anything but; weary to her bones and longing to be home. Six years ago, Australia had become her happy place; a beautiful home backing out onto the beach and the ocean in such short walking distance. There’s a bliss that comes with being there. The feel of the sand beneath your feet and between your toes, the sound of the waves as they roll up onto the shore, the smell of salt that hangs heavily in the air. It represents everything that is beautiful and good in her life; incredible little human beings she’d had a hand in making and a man that loves her more than anything in the world and practically worships the ground she walks on. Everyone seems happier there; content with the sunshine and the warm temperatures and the close relationship with nature. The pace of life seems slower; more laid back and relaxing and not possessing the amount of stress and tension that being in the States in the middle of winter seems to bring. And while she loves it in New York -the convenience that comes with a big city and the amount of activities to keep yourself busy that are available- she’d willingly give it all up if meant it would alleviate some of the suffering that Tyler’s mental illness brings upon him.

“You realize I know you’re lying, right?" Ovi says. "That I lived with you for years and I know exactly how you get; taking on the world’s problems and not paying attention to your own. You can’t keep doing that. You can’t keep ignoring yourself because you’re so busy trying to solve everyone else’s issues. You can’t pour from an empty cup. You burn yourself out and you’ll be no good to anyone. Especially the kids.”

“I don’t have time to worry about myself. Or the energy. There are far more important things going on than what I’m going through.”

“So you’re NOT fine.”

“It’s stressful. It’s Christmas. I always get like this at Christmas. It’s all those ridiculous standards my mother put on us when we were young. Everything had to look and be perfect on the surface so no one really knew just how messy it all was underneath. I can’t get out of that; that line of thinking. And yes, I DO know that’s unhealthy, Doctor Mahajan.”

Ovi chuckles. “Let’s not go tossing that title around just yet. I’ve got a few more years to go. Especially when I’m going into a speciality.”

“Listen, if I want to call my kid a doctor, I will. I’m proud of you. I know how far you’ve come. Everything you’ve gone up against and battled through. I still remember fourteen year old you. Keeping you occupied in that factory; talking about movies and girls and school.”

“I still remember when you showed up. Wondering who the hell you were and thinking ‘how the hell is someone THAT small going to help us?’. Talk about not being able to judge a book by it’s cover. Tyler was right; it is the tiny ones you have to watch out for.”

Smiling, she takes a sip of tea and then perches herself on the edge of the counter. “Do you remember when we used to go into town and get ice cream? In Telluride? When you had your last period off in high school and you’d come home early and it would just be the two of us?”

“I LOVED that place. That was like a childhood dream come true! Walls of candy and thirty flavours of ice cream and these enormous banana splits and massive sundaes. Remember that time we shared that really huge hot fudge one? With the whipped cream and the peanuts on it? I think it was called the Beast or something like that.”

“The Behemoth,” she laughs. “I DO remember that. We sat outside and shared it. We even flipped a coin to see who got to eat the cherry that was on the top.”

“I am still mad at you for winning that. I really wanted that cherry. Those are some of my best memories, you know. The things we’d do together. When Tyler was away and Millie and the twins were at school. We used to have some fun. I used to love when we went bowling. And we’d eat french fries soaked in vinegar.”

“And those really horrible hamburgers. With the flat patties. And no taste. That seems so long ago. You were what? Eighteen? If that?”

“Just turned seventeen. And that IS a long time ago. I AM twenty seven now.”

“And you have your own wife and your own kids. And you’re a doctor.”

“Not yet,” he laughs. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Let’s not pretend it won’t happen. We both know it will. And I am; proud of you. So proud. You have come so far, Ovi. To do as well as you have after everything you went through. You would have had every right to have issues.”

“I had two people that loved me and believed in me. That made me realize I could do whatever I wanted. BE who I wanted. If I hadn’t had you guys? I wouldn’t be where I am now. I probably would have followed in his footsteps. I would have felt obligated to. Scared and pressured into it. And it would have just kept that whole vicious and toxic cycle going.”

“I know we weren’t perfect. I know Tyler and I went through some shit that you had to listen to and witness. But all we’ve ever wanted is the best for you. For you to realize how amazing you are. How much potential you have. And all we wanted to do was give you a good life. Even if at the time we didn’t have the money you once had and sometimes it seemed we didn’t have much to offer you. All we wanted was to give you a family.”

“You did. And it never mattered what you could and couldn’t give me. Materialistically speaking. All that mattered was that you loved me. And I felt that. I ALWAYS felt that.”

“It’s strange, huh? How something so crazy and scary brought us together? How complete strangers can become family? It’s surreal.”

“It wasn’t the most conventional of meetings, but it certainly turned out pretty amazing. You know what I remember the most? About back then? When we did meet? I remember being on that bridge with you. And how you refused to separate from me. You said you wouldn’t leave me. And you didn’t. Even I was slowing you down, you never abandoned me. And you didn't treat me like you were doing a job or I was some kind of package. There was no money, but you still stuck by me.”

“We were in it together. I wasn’t going to sacrifice you to save myself. That’s just not who I am. I wasn’t going to leave you. In the same way I wasn’t going to leave Tyler there. There was no way I was doing that; taking off and leaving him there to die. I couldn’t live with myself if I did. My conscience couldn’t handle it. And selfishly, I wanted him alive. I wanted to get to know him and be with him.”

“Hell of a way to profess your love for someone. Willingly sacrifice your life to try and save them. Stick your fingers in their neck to keep them alive. Nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like that.”

“It was quite the ordeal,” Esme agrees, and finishes off the remains of her tea. “You know, sometimes it feels like just yesterday. Other times it feels like forty years. But if I close my eyes and I try hard enough, I can actually remember what it felt like to be there. How scared I actually was. I can hear the gunshots and the explosions and my own heart pounding in my chest. I can even still smell things; blood and gasoline and gunpowder.”

“I believe that’s something referred to as PTSD.”

“Listen buddy, you’re trying to become a pediatrician, NOT a shrink. Don’t go psychoanalyzing me.”

“I’m just saying maybe it’s time you worked on what’s going on in YOUR head. Instead of worrying so much about what’s going on in Tyler’s. I know you love him. I know you’d do anything for him. You go hard core Mother Hen when he gets like this. And I know you can’t help it and I know he appreciates everything you do for him. But you know what else I know? I know he doesn’t expect you to forget about yourself while constantly taking care of him. He’s a grown man. And he’s more than capable of taking care of himself.”

“It’s easier said than done. I can’t just let him fend for himself. I can’t just let him spiral out of control and do nothing more than hope for the best. He’s my husband. The father of my kids. And it kills me to see him like this. To know he’s in so much pain. To hear him talk about himself like he does.”

“When he gets like this, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Or saying. He just lashes out. He doesn’t mean it when he says he wishes he had died five years ago. Or twelve and a half years ago. That’s just his brain telling him this shit. Do you think he’s in crisis? Do you think he’d hurt himself? Try something stupid?”

“No. I don’t think he WANTS to die. I think he just wants this over. The pain he’s in. He just wants it to stop.”

“He’s going through a depressive stage. It’s to be expected. I mean, it sucks it’s happening right now. At Christmas. What’s he doing right now?”

“Sleeping.” She looks out towards the living room; Tyler fast asleep on the couch, on his stomach with the comforter from TJ’s bed tossed over him and an arm and a leg dangling over the side. The night hadn’t gotten any better after he’d fallen asleep. Tossing and turning and having nightmares; finally coming downstairs to take up residence on the sofa and give her the chance to get a peaceful, undisturbed rest. But she hadn’t been able to. Too worried about him and wanting nothing more than to go downstairs and join him on the couch, yet knowing his current mood, her actions wouldn’t be well received. “He’s on the couch right now. It was a rough night. Nightmares.”

“About?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. Which means they were about Dhaka. Most likely about the bridge. He’ll talk to me about Nathan, but not about the bridge. He avoids that like the plague. More for me than for him.”

“Have you called his therapist? Told him what’s going on? Maybe he has some suggestions; things that can alleviate some of the anxiety and the panic. Help him sleep better.”

“If it gets worse, I’ll call. This could have been a one off. It might have just been a delayed reaction to being away.”

“If it wasn’t and he DOES get any worse? Call. Don’t hesitate. Or take him to the emergency. Or call me and I’ll take him.”

“I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that. He’s resting now. Which is a good sign. Last time he went into a depressive state, he didn’t sleep for a week. I’ll give it a couple days. At least get past Christmas. Once it’s over, he might perk up.”

“Don’t hesitate to call me. If he gets worse or you sense he’s spiralling out of control. I’ll be there. As soon as I can.”

“You have your own life. Riya and the kids. I can’t…”

“That’s my dad. I want to help. LET me help. It’s the least I can do. I’ve to go for now though; promised Mykayla we’d go see Santa in Central Park. She has some last minute gift ideas to drop in his lap.”

“Give her and Tabbi a kiss from Grandma Me. Tell them I love them. Riya too. I love you, Ovi. I’m so proud of you.”

“I’ll give them tons and hugs and kisses from you,” he promises. “And I love you too, mom.”

****

She’s sitting in the sunroom when he wakes an hour later; listening to him shuffle through the living room and into the guest bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. Minutes later he’s heading towards her; yawning noisily and his eyes heavy lidded. And she glances up from the laptop resting upon her thighs when he pads into the room; clad in a pair of tattered and faded plaid pyjama bottoms and no shirt. And she can’t help but think about how adorable he looks; a giant of man boasting his fair share of tattoos and scars, his hair mussed from sleep and a sporting pout of both sleepiness and annoyance.

“Hey sleeping beauty,” she cheerfully greets, and tilts her head back to smile at him. “How you feeling?”

“Alright I guess.” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and then rakes his fingers through his hair. “Can you stand up for a second?”

She cocks her head to the side, a quizzical look on her face.

He manages a small smile, then runs a gentle palm over her hair and adds, “Please?”

Obliging, she places the laptop on the seat cushion next to her and then joins him at the side of the couch; immediately gathered into his embrace and pulled tightly into his chest. And she climbs onto the top of his feet and perches on her tiptoes in order for her arms to reach their final destination; wrapped tightly around his neck. For several minutes neither of them speak; eyes closed and their warm bodies pressed together, a forearm holding her in place and a palm cradling the back of her head. He feels so good; his body hard and strong and never failing to make her feel safe. It’s never been a worry of hers; whether or not he’d be able to defend her if someone hell bent on revenge was determined to hurt his family. And she rests easy at night knowing what he’s capable of and that he’d do whatever it takes -even giving up his own life if need be- to protect her.

Tangling his fingers in her hair, he gently tugs on the short, soft tresses, forcing her to pull back and look at him. She hates what she sees in his eyes; that darkness that betrays just how lost and confused and scared he actually is. A man that always has always been so strong and so fearless; fighting other peoples battles while refusing to address his own. And it breaks her heart. Knowing that the things he’s capable of -the fierceness and the tenacity and the sheer brutality he’s reined down on people- are some of the many reasons he’s now feeling so weak and vulnerable. So good at the job, yet suffering so badly because of it.

“I’m sorry,” his voice quivers with emotion. “I am so fucking sorry.”

She reaches up to push limp bangs away from his forehead. Trying desperately to keep her own fears and worries from betraying her. He doesn’t need that right now; her coming undone and weeping in HIS arms. It’s time for her to be the strong one; holding him up and supporting him and never making him feel like a burden. “For what? What do you have to be sorry for?”

“The way I acted. Going off the deep end like I did. I hate that you have to see that. Hear the shit I say. You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

“Tyler, you’re sick. It's a legitimate illness. And you know what? You’ve had an amazing five years. Barely any depressive or manic episodes. Things have been pretty stable and pretty smooth sailing. But we were told this could happen. That you could crash like you did. It’s just part of it. And you can’t help it. You don’t know what you’re doing or what you’re saying and…”

“I DO know what I’m doing. And what I’m saying. I’m not blacking out when it happens. I know exactly what’s going on when it’s happening.”

“It doesn’t mean you have control over it. Because you DON’T. It’s your brain. And when things go haywire, you can’t stop the things you do and the things you say. And you’re not to blame for that. You can’t control what is going on. And I know that’s what scares you the most; the loss of control.”

“I just hate that you have to be there. When it happens. That you have to see that shit and hear the things that come out of my mouth. I hate that it hurts you. That I hurt you.”

“You don’t hurt me. I hurt for you. That’s two entirely different things. You have nothing to be sorry for. And I know things were great and it seemed like it was completely under control. But baby, this is going to happen. Whether we want it to or not. We can’t stop it. It’s just the nature of the beast, unfortunately.”

“If I’d died five years ago...twelve and a half years ago…”

“Listen to me,” she pleads and takes his face in her hands. “DON’T go there. That is a very dark place and if you go there, you may never get back out. You are here for a reason. You’re here because you deserve to be. Because there’s people that love you. That NEED you. You helped me make seven beautiful little humans. None of them would exist if you weren’t here. Isn’t that enough? Knowing they’re alive because you are?”

“Of course it’s enough. But they shouldn’t have to live with this. YOU shouldn’t have to.”

“You are not the burden you think you are. It’s an illness. You can’t help what’s going on and you didn't do anything to cause it. It’s not your fault. Your brain didn’t do this to you because of something you did. It’s so many things. And you know what? It sucks. Huge. And I hate that this is happening to you. I hate that you are at war with your own mind every second of every goddamn day. But I won’t let you talk like that. I won’t let you say that you should have died. I won’t let you completely discount the life that you have now. Because I didn’t stick around on that fucking bridge and put my ass on the line so you could turn around and totally disregard that you were given a second chance for a reason.”

“I never asked you to stay. On that bridge. I never…”

“I stayed because you deserved to live. Because you’d paid your dues and you got your absolution. And you know what? Maybe part of it was selfish. Because I knew we could have something amazing if you stopped hating yourself long enough to let me love you. Can you honestly look me in the eye and say you really wanted to die that day? That you would go back and change that if you could? Even knowing you wouldn’t have what you have now. Someone that loves you more than they love themselves. Seven kids that think the sun rises and sets on you. Would you really go back and change everything? Would you really choose to die?”

“No,” he blinks back the tears that threaten to escape. “I wouldn’t. I would choose you. And my kids. Every day.”

“I’m sorry this is happening to you. I’m sorry you’re hurting as much as you are. And I would give anything to take that all away and make you healthy. But you are not broken and I won’t let you destroy what you have. I won’t let your brain destroy YOU.”

“You shouldn’t have to do this. Take care of me like this. Do you know what this is like? How fucking embarrassing it is? That you have to take care of ME?”

“There is nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m your wife. I’m the mother of your kids. I have you seen at your absolute worst. I’ve seen you inches from death. This? This is nothing compared to some of the things I’ve seen and heard. You should never be embarrassed around me. I’m not going to judge you. And it's okay to be weak. To have vulnerable moments. You’re a goddamn human being.”

“I hate it. Being like that. Being weak.”

“Because you were told that it makes you less of a man. You had that drilled into your head from the time you were a little boy. And you know what? Nothing could be further from the truth. It takes a strong man to break down and admit they need help. You are the strongest person I have ever known. You do battle every second of every day with your own mind. And you always keep going. THAT’S brave.”

“I don’t feel it. I feel weak and pathetic and…”

“You are not any of those things. Look at everything you’ve been through. From the time you were a little boy until now. A weaker man would have given up a long time ago. But you? You fight back and you never give up and get back on your feet time and time again. That is strength, Tyler. The fact you suffer like you do but you get up every day and you smile when all you want to do is cry and you love your family with everything you have and bust your ass to make them happy even though you feel like you’re drowning. THAT? That is so far from being weak and pathetic.”

Sighing heavily, he glances away; swallowing noisily around the lump of emotion that sits squarely in his throat.

Pressing her fingers into his cheek, she turns his face back towards her. “I love you. More than you could ever possibly know. And I fell in love with you knowing how messed up things were and what kind of torment and pain you were carrying. None of that matters to me. Because I know who you are outside of all of that. I know that you’re loving and you’re caring and you have a heart that’s even bigger than your body. I know how deep and powerfully you love DESPITE everything you’ve been through. I didn’t back away then, and I’m sure as hell not backing away now. So you can try as hard as you want to push me away, but you’re stuck with me, buddy.”

“That’s not so bad,” he chides through threatening tears. “I mean, I can think of way worse fates.”

“I will love you and take care of you until your last breath. And you know what? I’ll love you even after that.”

“I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve YOU.”

“That’s your brain trying to convince you of that. And I know its voice is deafening and it seems impossible to ignore it, but you’ve got to try and shut it out. Concentrate on what I’m saying to you. Because what I’m telling you? It’s the truth. I’d never lie to you. So you need to pay attention to me, okay? And the things I say. I am way stronger and more tenacious than that voice inside of your head. Can you do that? Listen to me? Because I would never….ever...steer you wrong. You know that, right?”

“I do. I do know that. And I trust you. ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t trust my own brain anymore.”

“Then just rely on mine. Rely on ME. To give you the truth. Can you do that?”

“I can do that. Or try, at least.”

“That’s all I’m asking for. Now…” she lays her hands on his chest and presses a kiss to the underside of his chin. “...you hungry? What do you want for breakfast? I know I’m not actually the top chef YOU are, but I do make a mean veggie omelette. And you do like my french toast.”

“I thought maybe we could go out. To that little diner a few blocks over. The one that makes those Belgian waffles you like so much.”

“With the strawberries and the homemade whipped cream? I definitely could go for that. Are you sure though? That you’re up to it? It was a pretty rough night and…”

“I’m fine. Or I will be. It’s sunny out. The fresh air would do me some good I think. And we only have so much time without the kids left and I really do like our alone time. Outside of the bedroom.”

“So you don’t like the alone time in the bedroom?” she teases.

“I never said that. I LOVE that time.”

“A breakfast date with my favourite human sounds perfect.” Reaching up, she combs her fingers through his hair, pushing the longer strands off his forehead. “I’m proud of you, you know that? How hard you fight. A lesser man would have given up a long time ago.”

“I’ve got way too much to live for. Besides, I can’t go offing myself and then have to bear witness to you dating another guy. Or worse, marrying one.”

“Never going to happen. You’re it for me. There won’t be anyone after you. You’re stuck with me until the bitter end, Mister.”

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he takes her face in his hands and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Hell of a way to go if you ask me.”

*****

“I talked to Ovi earlier,” Esme says, as they sit in the back corner of the diner. Sipping steaming mugs of tea; joined hands resting on the table top; fingers laced together and his thumb repeatedly brushing against hers.

The booth is a safe distance away from the main hub of activity; crowds of people and excessive noise caused by the rattle of dishes and numerous conversations and boisterous laughter taking place at the same time. It’s important to avoid any and all triggers, or to at least find ways to lessen the effects of something that could bring on ‘an episode’. On the short walk she’d noticed the tell tale signs that depression isn’t the only concern; the hyper-vigilance associated with his PTSD quickly creeping in. Exhibiting anxiety if he felt pedestrians were crowding around him on sidewalks or when waiting to cross the street. Glaring at anyone he felt was staring at him or in somehow posing even the slightest bit of a threat towards her; jaw clenching as he tightly brought her into his side or put a hand on the back of her neck while drawing him in front of her. And the glances cast over his shoulder; eyes constantly scanning for anything and everything that could be considered suspicious or threatening, visibly tensing at every slam of a car door.

It’s both disheartening and worrisome; to see him regressing back to old behaviours after years of coping so well. Being off the street has helped; his shoulders not as tense, jaw no longer clenched, eyes not surveying the crowd with so much apprehension and simmering anger. But he still insists on being the one to sit facing the door; able to physically handle a threat if one came in their direction. And while she knows those chances are rare and his brain is far from thinking rationally, she doesn’t argue or try to change his mind; squeezing his arm and giving him a reassuring smile before switching seats.

Tyler doesn’t look up from the menu open in front of him. “About me?”

“Yes,” she admits, and refuses to allow him to pull his hand away from hers. “I told him what happened last night. About how you’re struggling.”

“Why? Why would you tell him? He’s got his own shit to deal with. He doesn’t need to hear about what’s going on with me.”

“I told him because he loves you. Because you’re his dad. And he worries about you. We both do.”

“He’s got his own life. His own wife, his own kids. Don’t bother him with that bullshit.”

“You and your issues are NOT bullshit. And you’re part of his life. You have been since he was fourteen years old. We took him in and we raised him and we gave him a family. And he loves you. He has every right to know what’s going on with you. And you know what? I have the right to have someone I can turn to. When I’m struggling.”

“I don’t mean to be such a burden on you. Make you struggle so much.”

“That is not what I meant and you know it. I need someone I trust to help me, help you. And honestly, I need someone I can talk to. About all of this. Because it kills me inside that you’re struggling and you’re in so much pain. And I don’t want to put that on you, Tyler. Can you just accept that you’re surrounded by people who love you? That we’re trying to help? Let us love you, okay?”

Sighing, he nods in agreement. “Okay.”

“We’re just worried about you. We just want to help you.”

“I’ll be fine in a couple days. Once Christmas is over. I’ll act like everything is okay around the kids. So it doesn’t ruin things for them. I just need the holiday over with. I’ll be okay once it is.”

“I’m sure you will.” She hopes she sounds more confident than she feels. “It’s always a hard time. The holidays. And you know, seeing the kids so happy Christmas morning will help too. You know how cute that is; how excited they are, their faces all lit up when they see all the presents. It’s kind of hard NOT to smile when you see all of that. So that gives you something to look forward to, right?”

“You know what I’m NOT looking forward to? How many times they wake us up between midnight and five am.”

“It felt like every half hour last year.”

“It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t been up until two in the morning putting together that stupid dollhouse we got for Addie and Brooklyn. Having to decorate every damn room and put out all those little forks and knives and plates and shit.”

“You were a pro. I was quite impressed how those huge hands of yours dealt with teeny tiny cutlery. And I have to say, you have quite the eye when it comes to interior design. Maybe you should be in charge of picking out decor for the house from here on out.”

“That’s not the deal. You pick shit out and I live with it. Or you tell me what needs to be painted and what colour you want and I do it. Or I carry heavy shit. I’m happy with that; our arrangement. What else did he say? Ovi?”

“He said that Tabbi is up on her feet and starting to cruise the furniture. Finally sleeping through the night. Remember those days? The relief that comes with THAT?”

“We didn’t really get to experience that until Takota and Brookie started sleeping through the night. They’re last so we didn’t have any babies after them to worry about. The rest of them?”

“One started sleeping through the night, another baby was born. We were pretty busy those first seven years.”

“You know, you could have always said ‘no’ a few times. You didn’t always have to put out every time I asked you to.”

“Are you kidding? And miss out on the fun? You can’t say it wasn’t enjoyable.”

He grins. “You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

“And Mykayla starts preschool next week. Can you believe that? Our first grand baby is going to be in preschool! It seems like she was just born. Kind of hard to believe, don’t you think?”

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact I have two grandkids.”

“For what it’s worth, I think we’re pretty sexy grandparents. You’re a damn fine grandpa.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

“I don’t care. You ARE a grandpa. You ARE grandpa Tyler.”

“Makes me feel so fucking old. Way older than I actually am.”

“Well for what it’s worth, you’re the hottest grandpa around. I’d still do ya.”

“Yeah? Well I definitely wouldn’t say no to you. You’re kinda hot yourself. For a grandma.”

“What about when I’m the grandma who can barely see or hear and my hair is snow white and my body a total dumpster fire?”

“You’ll still be the most beautiful girl in the world to me.”

Smiling, she squeezes his hand and then smiles at the waitress who returns to refill his coffee and take their orders. For several minutes they sit in silence; his thumb sliding down to the base of her wrist and continuing its slow and methodical caress, eyes flicking back and forth as they constantly survey the surroundings and their fellow diners. She’s seen that look before; cautious and wary, as if expecting a threat to announce its presence any second. And it’s a side that she hasn’t seen in years; since extensive therapy began to help control the hyper-vigilance and paranoia.

“Hey…” she taps the toe of a boot against his shin in order to grab his attention. “...you okay?”

“Yeah,” he manages a smile; that half assed turning up of one corner of his mouth. “I’m good.”

“Really? Because you’re acting like an armed robber is going to come barging and start shooting up the place. Do you want to get our order to go? Eat at home? Where you’re more comfortable?”

“I’m comfortable here. I’m fine, Me. Honest.”

“You are NOT fine. You are far from fine. I haven’t seen you like this in a long time. I’m safe, Tyler. Nothing is going to happen. I’m with you. Which means nothing or no one can hurt me. I trust you. I know you can protect me if you have to. I am one hundred percent safe because I am with YOU.”

“What if I can’t? Protect you?”

“You can. You’ve always been able to. Nothing’s changed. I’m fine. I’m safe. I’m here with you and everything is right in the world. Just try and relax, okay?”

“I’m not who I was back then. When we met.”

“I don’t expect you to be. And you know what? You’re better than you were. You’re stronger and you’re healthier and I trust you one hundred percent. There’s nothing you can’t handle. Nothing you can’t beat. Everything is fine. I’M fine. You need to just try and relax, alright? Nothing is going to happen to me. Not when I’m with you.”

The tension slightly lifts; the stiffness in his shoulders easing and the frantic bouncing of his leg finally stopping. But she notices the way his hand shakes when he lifts when he lifts the coffee mug to his lips.

“Do you want to go? Do you feel like you’re going to have a panic attack?”

“No. I’m okay. I’ll be fine.”

“Here…” reaching into her purse, she briefly rummages through it and pulls out a small vial of pills she’s grabbed from the stash in the lock box in the pantry; snapping off the lid and dropping two in her palm. “...just a couple. It’ll take the edge of. Calm you down. Take them. Please.”

He obliges, plucking the tablets from her palm and placing them under his tongue and allowing them to resolve. The silence that follows is nerve wracking. Feeling her own heart pounding wildly in her chest as she watches him from across the booth; an elbow resting on the table , eyes closed and his palm pressed against his forehead. And she’s unsure how much time has actually passed when he takes a sharp intake of breath; eyes opening and his forearm coming to rest on the formica.

“Good?” she asks, and softly runs her fingers over his. “You alright?”

“Better.”

“You’ll be okay. In a few minutes, you’ll be right as rain. You’re doing good, baby. I’m proud of you.”

The corners of his mouth twitch as he attempts a smile. “I was thinking that maybe we should go home. Earlier than we were going to. Maybe a couple days into New Years instead of a couple weeks.”

“Is that what you want to do? Go home?”

“Yeah…” he struggles to hold back a flood of tears; uttering a string of profanities and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Don’t do that. Don’t be embarrassed. Just pretend that no one else exists but me. That no one else is here. Just listen to my voice. You’re fine. It’s just your brain, Tyler. Ignore what it is telling you and pay attention to what I’m saying. I’m okay. I’m safe. Because I’m with you. Nothing is going to happen. There’s no one following us, there’s no out to get you, there’s no one that’s going to hurt me. There’s no threat. Everything is okay. Alright?”

Nodding, he takes a deep intake of breath and then releases it slow. “I want to go home.”

“Home as in our place here or…?”

“Home, home. Australia. I want to go home. As soon as we can. I NEED to go home.”

“I’ll change our flight plans. When we get back to the townhouse. I’ll call and set everything up. We’ll leave on the second, okay?”

“But the kids might be pissed. They might…”

“I’ll think of something to tell them. They don’t need to know what’s going on. Don’t worry about that, alright? I’ll take care of everything. I mean, if you really wanted to, we could leave earlier. Ovi knows you’re struggling and…”

“I can’t miss his wedding. I’m the best man. That’s my kid.”

“And he’d understand. If you needed to get out, he would totally have your back. Believe me, he wouldn’t hold it against you if you couldn’t handle it here.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll suck it up and I’ll get through it. We’ll go to the wedding and we’ll have a good time and we’ll have our mommy and daddy only night. Then we can leave. On the second.”

“Okay,” Esme says, and reaches across the table to wipe away an errant tear that slips down his face. “You’re going to be okay.” she promises. “You always are. You’ve fought back against way worse.”

“You have a lot of faith in me.”

Smiling, she pushes her fingers through his. “Enough for both of us.”

[artistrashofmine]

If you’re interested in some Bakugou and Aizawa bonding, and some pain, I got this for you! Though be warned- manga spoilers, specifically of chapter 298. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29136795 Rated: Teen and Up W/C: 4200

Katsuki Bakugou was strong. He had a strong quirk, he had a strong body, strong enough to handle his quirk, strong enough for the strict training he put himself through. Stronger than explosions, that’s what he liked to say; a body to withstand an atomic bomb. He had yet to test his body on any other explosion but his own, still, his own were legit explosions and he was the center of them, where nearly anyone else would be burned to a crisp. His body could withstand boiling water, it could withstand Todoroki’s fire. It was strong.

He was often told of how strong he was, strong and handsome. The last one made him uncomfortable - not that he’d admit to it. Since his parents were both involved in the fashion injury, of course, their ‘cute’ kid was going to gain attention. He was a spitting image of his mother in a male body. A well taken care of body. So he liked to cover up loose clothing so they couldn’t see. So they couldn’t compliment it. It was fucking a weird reason but it made him feel more normal. It wasn’t his body people were supposed to be praising. It was his potential as a hero, his quirk, his strength. His body was proof of how hard he worked, but it never felt like people saw it as such.

They saw a pretty body. He knew it wasn’t the work he went through that people thought of when they looked at a person’s body. He knew they looked at how clear his skin was, how slim his waist was, what he was wearing that day, how it could complement his body, how cute he was as a kid, how straight his teeth were. That wasn’t what Katsuki wanted, that was far from what he wanted. Luckily he had his quirk, a flashy quirk. People liked flashy quirks, it could gain just as much attention as his body. And from there came his strength. He drew their attention to his quirk, to his loud self, personality and all.

They couldn’t think of him as cute, or soft or attractive with a personality like his. It wasn’t enjoyable, and the only two things that could outshine a body was a quirk and personality. Katsuki’s quirk was flashy and his personality was shit. And that’s what drew their attention. From the shitty extras in middle-school to the shitty sidekicks during the sludge villain to the shitty press during the Sports Festival, to the shitty villains who saw exactly what the shitty press saw; a monster chained down by the pillars of society, a dog that had to be muzzled in order to fit into their shitty world.

His personality was shit, but his determination was everlasting. And his goal? It was to win, for total victory. That’s why he ended up in such shit situations, chained up like a villain on display for all of Japan to see, inspiring the villains to do the same. Inspiring villains who saw that and thought, yeah, he’s one of us. It made Katsuki fucking sick, but really. It was his own doing, wasn’t it?

He was the one who carefully moulded himself into such a character. He made sure to do so, to make himself approachable, to uphold that rough exterior. It helped that most people were annoying, assholes, or simply intrusive as fuck. Therefore, he had no issue with pushing them away. So really, it was all just coming back to bite him in the ass. All the shit he put others through, the shitty fighting his parents had to put up with. The shitty bullying Deku had to. It was karma.

If it was anyone else, they wouldn’t have been put through all this shit. They wouldn’t have gone after IcyHot again because they could stop themselves during the Sport’s Festival. They could think rationally, Katsuki couldn’t. He moved without thinking about the consequences, without thinking properly. Without coming to the idea that hey, maybe going after an unconscious classmate was going a bit too far. Then again, when has Katsuki never gone too far? He always did, and so he was finally paying the price. And it began with the award ceremony, it began with his kidnapping, with failure during the licensing exam.  

His first year was full of failures, wasn’t it?

Another one looked at him in the mirror. In the form of a fucking hole.

Well, all it was now is a scar. A fresh scar that took out a part of his stomach apparently. It took a fucking ton of fancy-ass quirks to put it back together, quirks and doctors. He could've been - should've been, dead by now. He should of been dead when it happened yet he charged right back in ready to fucking fight, despite Glasses trying to hold him back. Practically worsening his injuries because he was a fucking idiot who got hurt in the first place. Who couldn’t think his actions through. Instead, he jumped in and “saved” Deku? Then jumped in again thinking he could be the one to save the fucking day. And for what?

To be the first of the two to awaken? For Deku to be beaten to all hell and still unresponsive. He did fuck all. He made himself a liability. Katsuki wondered, if he just stopped, if he didn’t move, if he let Deku take the hit, wouldn’t that mean that Deku would possibly be in a better condition than he already was? That he wouldn’t be able to fight any longer after he took the hit?

Then again, he wasn’t exactly in the best condition to fight anyway, that hit would have only made it worse, and yet Deku wouldn’t have fucking taken a clue and stood down. Not that Katsuki did either. The only difference- Katsuki was fucking useless . He didn’t have All Might’s power, he wasn’t the villain’s target, he wasn’t even the side-wanna-be shitty Todoroki spawn’s target. He was nothing compared to his peers. Fucking nothing. A fucking extra. He did shit all. And it earned him this.

Waking up to an empty room, a large as hell room, two days after the incident. On a machine to help him breathe or something of that matter. All fucked up on pain meds too, that did fuck all to help with the piercing pain in his upper abdomen. Though it did dull the rest quite well. He could hardly feel his fucking arms, they were like pins and needles. Why were they bandaged in the first place? He didn’t know. Even when he overused his quirk, he never had to bandage them up. It was his shoulder that got hit, not his arm, not both his arms. Whatever, they felt fine enough, he could move them and that’s what matters. He could move. He could sit up, he could walk.

He was greeted by the grape asshole, Sero, the guy who can bake and Invisabitch. Which was weird as hell, cause he never interacts with any of them but Soy-Sauce-Face. Didn’t matter, they must have simply been the ones closest to the room at the time he awakened, when the heart monitor started to pick up.

Apparently, according to them, he was about as worse as it got. The doc seemed to think so too as he stressed the importance of staying in the stupid bed. Fucking bullshit. He only had a hole in his stomach…

IcyHot was going through plenty of shit, physical and mentally. Aizawa, he lost his foot, part of his fucking leg. And Deku, Deku hadn’t even woken up. Acting as if Katsuki was the one about to die. He’ll be fixed up fine once he gets some energy back, right? Didn’t matter anyway, he fucking failed. Deserved this shit. Couldn’t even save one damn person. Only fucked himself up and got in the way.

Did all that shit for nothing, to watch Deku die anyway? To see everyone so depressed? To realize how fucking worthless he is at this hero shit? When he’s supposed to be the best. Top of the class, aiming to be the top hero, better than All Might. It was his life goal, so what the hell was he doing here? In this embarrassing condition? It was so stupid.

He hated it.

He hated to look at it.

Even once it had healed over, once quirk magic got to it. Once he was recovered and it was no more than a scar, a deformed piece on his body. Deformed to all hell, still swollen and red.

He looked in the mirror and he hated it.

People used to love Katsuki because he was a cute kid, because he looked like a spitting image of his mother, because he grew to have blemish-free skin, sharp eyes, soft cheeks, a thin waist, strong arms. He knew how people used to look at his body, how they saw it.

He hated that. He hated how people looked at him.

Katsuki had never thought much of his body. He was proud of it for the hard work it took to form his body. From the first time he dislocated his shoulder when using his quirk, to the calluses that formed and the careful way he’d take care of his hands because they were the most important part of him.

To the practice in balance and fighting and flying through the air, everything revolving around how he moved his body, his weight distribution, how fucking tall he was, how he had weaker knees and strong shoulders. How his hearing wasn’t the fucking best but it wasn’t the worst either, not yet.

He never saw his body like everyone else around him did. And he never saw his body like this. It was supposed to be the pride of his accomplishments and hard work, not this. Not a board to pin his failures onto. To showcase them to the world. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It didn’t matter that his stomach wasn’t fully there, that he’d always have problems with it from now on. It didn’t matter that even Recovery Girl wasn’t enough to fully heal him to 100 percent. He’d deal with it. It wouldn’t get the best of him.

Looking in the mirror, at the monstrosity carved into him, a literal pit in his stomach that is raised, inflamed, scarred skin. It was as if his body, his failure, were laughing at him. Mocking him because he wasn’t able to do a damn thing. Telling him that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t cut out for this kind of future. That this accident was a sign to find something more suited to an asshole like him.

Katsuki never wanted to spit in his own face as much as he did now. Looking at himself with a sneer so cold that it could rival the ones he sends to Deku. Enough anger in there, enough hatred, that it almost looked like he were his middle school self again, on top of the world, pushing everyone away. Doing as much he could to hurt them, hurt him .

The scar left on his shoulder was nothing compared to it. It was a pain, it was annoying but at least it had a purpose. It messed with his shoulder, and therefore it messed with his arm. Only a little, thank fuck. But still, he’d need to retrain his left, he’d need to take in consideration the uncomfortable sensation of the skin pulling tight, the stiff movements, the twitch he’d sometimes get in his index finger, and the fact that he’d be experiencing the goddamn pins and needles feeling in his left arm more often than his right, even when he didn’t overuse his quirk. The muscle would be strained more often. It was weak. He needed to rebuild it.

It was something he could work towards. He could make up for that failure, he could do something about it. Overcome it. But the pit in his stomach was different. It didn’t hinder his quirk, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. It was a true representation of the failures he couldn’t overcome, the shit he couldn’t redo or take back. It was a reminder of how shitty he truly was. That there was a part of him that would always be messed up. The part of him that was hung out like a feral animal in front of a crowd of millions. Who destroys a whole fucking block because he let some shitty sewer rat get the best of him. Of someone who the villains aimed to recruit. Who they forgot all about afterward. Just as how the school conveniently forgot about the Sports Festival, ignoring the hundreds of articles questioning UA’s decision on allowing such a troublesome human to attend their school much less be in the hero course.

How IcyHot conveniently forgot about Katsuki’s pleads to take him seriously and not to lump him in as someone lower than Deku, even after they failed the licensing exam together. After they spent a shit ton of time together. He used his fire more often now, so why did it matter? It wasn’t any of Katsuki’s business, so why did he still feel unsatisfied, why did he feel upset? Halfie was saving lives, it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter that Katsuki was embarrassed. He wasn’t good enough in IcyHot’s eyes to go all-in on. He needed to get better, that’s all.

How was he supposed to get better like this?

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He wonders if it’s the taste of defeat. If this is it, if Katsuki had already hit his peak and it was all downhill from here. Was that what the hole in his stomach was trying to tell him? Either way, it meant failure.

A symbol of failure, that’s all it was.

Katsuki hated that he had no one to confirm or deny his speculations, not unless he wanted to show how fucking insecure he actually was. How unsure of himself he was. God knows any idiot could infer what the blond was thinking if he started asking about what people thought this stupid injury meant.

They probably wouldn’t understand his question. They probably wouldn’t answer him. He could see Kirishima’s large, concerned eyes- thinking that Katsuki was feeling insecure about himself, but the redhead didn’t know the truth. He didn’t know the monster that Katsuki truly was. Sometimes Katsuki felt guilty, someone like Kirishima considered him a friend while Katsuki was about the shittiest person to exist. Someone like Kirishima who stood by him no matter how hard Katsuki pushes; an immovable force. Someone like Kirishima, who stood by his side and called him manly even while Katsuki laid in a hospital bed with a hole in his stomach and bandages taking over his body.

He remembers Kirishima saying, “scars are manly, bro! Just look at Todoroki! Even I have one, see, I got it ’cause of my quirk...”

Katsuki wasn’t calling the pair of them weak because they had scars, that’s not how it worked. It wasn’t Todoroki’s fault he grew up in a shitty home. There’s nothing Kirishima could’ve done, he was a kid with a new quirk. But Katsuki, he never got scars.

He got scrapes, he got bruises, he got in fights. Nothing has resulted in scars. Not his falls, not when he cut himself cooking, nothing. Everything healed to become the perfect skin he got from his mother. Nothing stayed.

Nothing but this.

This was a first, because Katsuki never got scars.

This was something special.

Not all special things were good.

This was bitter.

This was like the time his preschool teacher explained that Deku was just special because he didn’t have a quirk. That wasn’t a good special, not when it singled him out. Children were cruel, Katsuki was no exception.

It was a special scar, but it wasn’t a good kind of special.

This made him sick. Made the bitter taste in his throat into the taste of bile. Acidic and gross. As gross as the mark that stood out on his stomach. How fucked up was his stomach now? They gave him some dietary restriction for the next few weeks, would he be able to eat anything normally afterwards? Could his fucked up stomach handle spices anymore? After all, that was one of the things on the list- limits on spice. It was only for three weeks, just to be sure he healed properly. After all, he was still messed up. He’d be forever messed up now.

Was it bad enough that he wouldn’t be able to tolerate some of his favourite foods? And what else was there to it? Would it now be a weak spot, that villain could use against him. It would be easy to see, that is if he wore a shirtless hero outfit like Kirishima. But he didn’t. He’d make sure no one would be able to see it. It was only for Katsuki’s eyes.

Would it itch once it was healed? He wanted to scratch it now, the itch was fucking insane, but he didn’t touch it. He didn’t want to, even if it wasn’t so sensitive, he won’t touch it more than he’d have to. That begged the question- would it always be so sensitive? Surely it’d get better once the swell came down. But the doctors had talked about how they created new skin growth, to help seal the hole. To make him appear semi-normal. It’d be like a baby's skin, wouldn’t it? Sensitive as hell.

He’d have to deal with it. He’d have to make sure it was covered up well during training, in case someone tried to hit him there.

Though Katsuki doubted that anyone would. They all knew where he was hit. The whole class, they pitied him, they were going to go easy on him.

If Katsuki’s stomach wasn’t so empty, he’d puke. Would it be leftover blood that he’d vomit up? The doctor mentioned something about that too. Probably why his mouth tasted so heavily or iron. Would he ever get rid of the taste?

Would all the food he eats taste of blood and bitterness?

He hoped not, it’d certainly make keeping his lunch down much harder than it was. And that wasn’t an easy feat when all your classmates talked about was Deku and the fact that he’d be out of school recovering for the next two weeks. Reminding him of how fucking useless his injury was, how useless he was.

Rice never tasted so bad.

Though, their first day back in class was worse. He saw Aizawa. He saw his leg. His eye is covered in bandages. His leg, his foot, or lack of foot. It had him turning back out of the classroom, the bitter taste of iron returning to his tongue as he puked what was left of his stomach up in the toilet. A tinge of red. They were right about the blood. The flavour wouldn’t leave his mouth, even as he washed it out with soap.

Despite the slip-up, Katsuki was in his seat as early as he usually would be, his careful facade in place, daring anyone to talk to him. Usually, that would go ignored by Kirishima and his friends. Still, Katsuki could hope for one day that it wouldn’t. That they be too bummed out to make conversation.

He was right. The whole classroom acted as if someone had died. Well, someone had. Midnight, his mind unhelpfully provided. Bakugou didn’t want to think about that. Sometimes he forgot his teachers were pro-heroes. And no, he didn’t like Midnight all that much, actually, he avoided her at any chance he could. She made him uncomfortable. Her and Cementos. It was no surprise, they took the lead in taking care of his uncooperative ass during the Sport’s Festival. Still, despite his dislike  for the pro, it did feel like something was missing. And Katsuki did feel guilty when his initial reaction was relieved when President Mic took her place for art.

Once again, as he sat with his classmates in the quieter-than-usual cafeteria, he wondered if he could keep his lunch down. He didn’t like the eyes on the back of his head- on the back of their heads. It wasn’t just him. It was the whole class. After all, they were in the middle of things. Them and 1-B. But mostly 1-A. It was always 1-A. Did the rest of the first years look at them with awe? No, they never looked at Katsuki like that. With fear then? Hatred? Jealously? With pity ?

Katsuki didn’t eat much. Even if he could, even if his stomach would hold the amount of food he could previously consume, Katsuki was too busy gettin stuck in his own head to pay attention to the lunch in front of him.

When training rolled around, he changed in the stall. It went unnoticed, he was usually quick at changing anyway. He realized his bandages were showing with the tanktop of his hero costume. Would the scar on his shoulder show once he got to unwrap then? At least it wasn’t the hole in his stomach.

They were doing light training, Aizawa’s orders. So Katsuki kept off his gauntlets, he wouldn’t need them. All Might looked out of it. Because Deku wasn’t here . Everyone else was out of it too. But Deku would be fine. He was going to pull through, they all said so. He woke up already so it’d be fine. Why the hell were they mourning over that idiot then?

Katsuki set off an explosion that was bigger than he was supposed to, his shoulder screaming in pain as a result. But it worked, it snapped the rest of the class out of it. It seemed to light some kind of fire within them. To see Katsuki’s normal care-free, destructive attitude. At least his violent nature was good for something.

Though, Aizawa pulled him aside. Brought him out of the training room, into the hallway, leaning against the wall with his crutches, “kid.”

Katsuki swallowed, “what?”

“You left this morning when you saw my leg, right? What’s going through your mind Bakugou?”

“Nothing,” He avoided eye contact, morphing his expression into a familiar scowl.

“Is it because I'm hurt-” Bakugou opened his mouth to deny, snapping his red eyes up to meet a grey one, “or is it because you are?”

“No, I'm not.” He denied anyway, despite the fact that his denial was so obviously a lie, it didn’t take a genius to see the bandages and figure out what kind of condition he was in. Especially not if you happened to be there when it was happening.

Aiawa sighed, he looked tired. A lot of his classmates said he always looked tired, that’s why he slept during class. Katsuki had always thought he just looked bored. Now- now he looked tired. He slid down the wall, sitting on the tile. With an awkward pause, Katsuki conceded and did the same, joining him on the floor.

“Look,” The pro took his time, carefully rolling up the pant leg that was now much too long for him, rolling it up until bandages poked through.

Katsuki swallowed the lump in his throat. He could already taste the blond on his mouth. Blood from the incident. From when it first happened. Blood from his nightmares that retold the incident, over and over and over again. Blood for this morning. The taste of blood in his mouth won’t go away.

“Bakugou,” The taste was as permanent as the stump on his teacher's leg, “this didn’t happen because I was weak. It wasn’t my fault and it certainly wasn’t yours.”

Katsuki stared down at the bandages, wrapped so carefully around the fresh amputation. The blond wondered if it hurt as much as the hole in his stomach. More, he figured. Aizawa was strong though. He could handle the pain.

“Everyone has scars, this one is mine.”

Aizawa was strong. Katsuki respected him.

He admits to having a scar. He says everyone does. He admits that this is a scar, his scar. He wasn’t afraid to admit it. He wasn’t ashamed. It wasn’t a symbol of his failure. He had quite the opposite.

The blond carefully pulled his gloves off, setting them aside. He wiped the sweat off his hands, feeling the fabric of his shirt between his calloused fingers. Pulling the shirt up just enough. Resting a hand on his bandaged center, the unfamiliar feeling causing him to tense. Yet he kept his hand there. On the bandages. On the hole in his stomach. On the scar that rested upon his skin.

He inhaled, clearing his throat- his mouth- of the iron-rich, of the bitter, taste.

“This is mine.”

The weight on his shoulders felt a little bit lighter. His breathing came out freely, the pain in his chest had lessened, a pain that he didn’t even know he had. He could relax now.

Aizawa’s gaze didn’t bother him. Katsuki’s body felt strong.

[quinzelade]

Making One’s Bones (chpt 9)

Chapter List

–

Porter Gage is in a pickle. Nuka-World needed a new boss and some woman just killed her way to the top. But a pre-war Mafia boss on the theme park’s throne? Well…at least she’ll have experience.

–

Acquired Tastes

–

The teetering sign outside Jack’s place was almost bigger than her lopsided brothel. Gage chuckled to himself as they drew near, remembering her poor attempt at advertising, that somehow still brought in the business. Probably because there was nothing in the Commonwealth quite like it. Still holding Bossanova up, Gage stopped a few feet from the ginormous sign, craning his neck up to read it.

“Jacqueline “Jack” “Call Me By My Surname and I’ll Kill You” Paddywack is a raider with a bad name and an even badder attitude!

“Want chems? Jack’s got you covered!

“Murder? Only the finest, cleanest cut throats this side of the Commonwealth!*

“Prostitution? Pick your piece of ass and Jack’ll name her price!**

“Slaves?

“No. Come on now, what the fuck, man?

“…Nah, just kiddin’ ya. Seriously, we’ve got shitloads of slaves.

“So come on down to Jack Paddywack’s Fun Shack, the baddest place in town!”

Gage bent over double laughing, managing to set Bossanova down before he dropped her on her ass. Time and time again, he’d told Jack to change her stupid sign. She’d read a stack of pre-war magazines with some of the worst advertisements known to man, and yet believed she’d hit an untapped goldmine.

His eye trailed to the small print beneath the huge, white letters of Jack’s erratic slogans, and burst out into fresh peals of laughter.

“*Unless specified otherwise—see terms and conditions for full details and special orders

**Deathclaw orders for premium members only. Jack Paddywack’s “Wack That Jack” Prostitution Services claims no responsibility for any injury, including blood loss, amputation of limbs, beheading, severed genitals, internal bleeding, organ failure, broken bones, punctured lungs, hemorrhaging of the brain, heart failure, radiation poisoning, and minor bruising. All deathclaw packages are non-refundable upon survival.”

Tears were now streaming down his face as he choked and spluttered, Bossanova squinting up at the sign in utter bewilderment from her place on the ground. Only Jack would do something like th—

Bang.

Gage scrambled for his sidearm as he dragged Bossanova upright again, before remembering it had been fried in the underground facility. Then he stopped, a tight feeling in his chest.

Jack Paddywack leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms, plump lips twisted into a familiar coy smile. Her sienna skin glowed in the rising light of the wasteland sun, and Gage dimly noticed she’d changed her hair, shaving the sides and twisting the rest into a fierce, black knot at the top of her head. Her strong nose was now slightly crooked, and he wondered how long it had been since he’d last seen her.

“Going to shoot me, Gage?” she purred, gesturing to his empty holster.

“I asked him the same thing,” Bossanova muttered as Gage grinned, though his chest still felt constricted.

He let his eye travel over her a little, enough for her to notice, and then met her gaze again. She raised an eyebrow. Gage ignored this and nodded to the sign. “‘Wack That Jack’? Since when did you arrange deathclaw fucking?”

“Since there was a market for it,” Jack replied sweetly. “With the right precautions, my clients live long enough to be repeat customers. And believe me, they pay big for the survival.”

They stared at each other, and then broke out into snickers. Gage’s stomach tightened at her smile.

Bossanova coughed lightly, reminding him that she was here. Jack turned to her, and glanced questioningly back at him. “Who’s the ghoul? I didn’t realise you’d need my special services.”

Gage shot Jack a withering look. “She’s—”

“Overboss,” Bossanova replied crisply, straightening up a little and fixing Jack with a lofty stare. “And you?”

“Madame of Nuka World,” Jack said with equal abruptness.

“Oh good. Men are easier to keep in line when they’re getting laid, and the women less likely to blow their heads off.”

Jack blinked and then snorted with laughter. Bossanova grinned back.

“I’m Jack,” Jack said, looking a little more relaxed.

“Mrs. Bossanova.”

“Mind if we crash in one of your rooms for a while?” Gage interjected, conscious of the rising sun. “Figured it’d be quiet at this time of the morning, and I don’t want to parade her in front of the others like this.”

Jack tilted her head to the side. “But you think it’s safe to bring her here?”

“Yeah, well, I…”

I trust you.

Gage pushed the dangerous idea away quickly. No. Not even Jack. “Look, will you fucking help me or not?”

Jack snorted and unfolded her arms. “You always had such a way with words.” She frowned and then sighed. “Fine. Get her in.”

Gage grunted in thanks and helped Bossanova over the threshold.

“Of course, you still have to pay.” Jack slammed the door behind them.

--

Jack’s brothel had the strange feeling of home. To others it was just a whorehouse, and a good one at that, but to Gage, the place spoke of comfort. The furniture was all in working condition, the lights were dim, the rooms pleasantly warm, and the surfaces clean of blood. There was a small shelf full of books and magazines, which were also the only things in the place not nailed down. He knew as well as Jack raiders would never bother to steal them, even if they ever learned to read.

Jack led the way up the narrow stairs to the topmost floor, and waved her hand at an open doorway down the hall from her private quarters. Gage dumped Bossanova unceremoniously onto the sagging bed, and she squawked in surprised as she landed with a heavy flump. Bossanova kicked out irritably, catching him hard on the ass, and he leapt away, swearing.

“I’d have done the same,” Jack said between giggles. She flapped her hand at him, shooing him from the room. “Ladies only. Gotta patch her up.”

Gage slunk out, trying to ignore his own aches and pains, and limped down the hall to a room Jack pointed out to him a few moments before. Slowly, he took his armour off and set it down on the floor, every inch of him protesting. He made his way to the bed, sitting down and staring around, unsure what to do with himself. None of his visits here had been for anything but the obvious.

After a while, Jack came in. Gage felt his stomach tense.

“She’s out like a light,” Jack said. “Had to up the med-x dosage, but we got there in the end.” She paused thoughtfully. “Gotta say, she don’t look like much.”

“Underestimating her is a bad idea,” Gage replied, thinking of the Safari Adventure. “Though I’ll admit you ain’t seein’ her at her best.”

“What happened?”

“Imagine deathclaws, but bigger, stronger, and more pissed off.”

“I’m imagining it.”

“Now imagine Nuka Town full of ‘em; a machine producin’ more and more.”

“Ah. Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I could work them into my special services somehow…”

Gage snorted with laughter, then grunted as pain shot through his midriff. Jack walked over, stopping in front of him. She tucked her fingers under his chin and forced him to gaze up at her. “You look like crap,” she said gently.

“I feel it too.” Gage resisted yawning. It had been a rough day, and an even rougher night. He absentmindedly put his hand against her leg, but she suddenly let go, stepping back.

“Oh no no no. You know the rules.” She grinned her wicked grin, pulling out a handful of stimpaks and passing them to him, along with a single syringe of med-x. “If you don’t have an infection by now, then the stimpaks already cleared it up. You can do the rest.” Jack’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, and then she sauntered from the room.

Gage watched her go, before lying back on the bed and covering his face with the crook of his elbow.

Damn it.

--

Three days later, Bossanova was up and walking again. Gage noticed her attitude had become frosty since they’d first arrived, barely speaking to him. Finally, Gage decided he’d had enough. He found her downstairs in the brothel’s waiting area on the third morning reading a book titled ‘The Iceman.’ He paid it little notice. Reading wasn’t really his thing. “Boss,” he said as he settled himself in a chair opposite her.

“Gage,” she replied, her tone cold and clipped.

He folded his arms and stared at her. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bossanova didn’t answer immediately, her eyes flicking to the end of the page. Then she glanced up at him, her face impassive. “Care to elaborate?”

“Oh don’t try to bullshit me. You’ve been funny ever since we got here.”

“And why,” she said delicately, returning to her book, “would you care? As you reminded me the other day, we’re not friends. So if we’re not friends, then we’re just business associates, and that means I won’t waste small talk on you.” She raised her hand and waved him away lazily.

Gage didn’t move. He blinked, rattling his brain to figure out what she was on about. Suddenly it struck him. When they’d left Safari Adventure they’d argued—although if he was honest with himself, he’d bitten her head off and she’d refused to rise fully to the bait. “But…”

“The last few days I’ve been bedridden, either out of my mind on painkillers, or in absolute agony. But the peace and quiet has been nice, and exhaustion has left me with little tolerance right now. I’m tired of you trusting me, only to panic and compensate by treating me like dirt straight after. It’s boring.” Bossanova turned a page in her book idly. “So go away until you’ve decided where I stand with you.”

She said it with such finality Gage knew the conversation was over.

Well, it was what he’d wanted, Gage thought as he climbed the stairs to the top floor of the brothel. Or was it? He’d gotten so used to her warm and friendly demeanour, the opposite was like being dropped into a frigid lake.

Gage snapped from his thoughts as Jack stepped out from the shadows, poking him hard in the stomach. He grunted in surprise and raised an eyebrow.

“No pain?” she asked sweetly.

“No pain,” Gage confirmed, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Good thing I’m around to save your ass.” She poked him in the stomach again, catching him off-guard. Laughing, she said, “Not much of a raider to fall for the same shit twice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, biting back a grin.

“Your boss is doing fine too,” Jack went on. “Did you know ghouls are immune to disease? I can’t tell if she’s bullshitting me, but apparently nothing can survive long enough to cause an infection. She doesn’t have a fever, so I’m taking her word for it.”

Gage didn’t want to admit he had no idea what caused infection other than dirt, so said nothing. Apparently not getting sick was one of the perks of being a ghoul.

“Anyway,” Jack continued, her voice low as she leaned towards him. “We haven’t had a chance to catch up yet.”

“Lead the way.”

Her eyes lit up mischievously and she motioned for him to follow.

He watched her ass as he walked behind her, and felt himself stir at the knowing grins she shot over her shoulder. How she could look so good in loose fitting combat pants and a stained flannel shirt, he didn’t know.

“You still off the booze?” she said to him from across the kitchen as Gage dropped into a nearby chair.

“Yeah,” he said, surprised she’d remembered. She tossed him a Nuka Cola, and he caught it with one hand and quickly prised the cap off on the coffee table. His attempt to show off was rewarded with the bottle slipping, spilling cola everywhere, and Gage swore as Jack laughed. She threw a dirty scrap of fabric which hit him in the face, but he mopped it up quickly without complaint before dropping the rag at his feet.

“So,” she said, settling down in the chair opposite him, a glass of vodka to hand, “last time I saw you, you were telling me about your grand plans to get rid of Colter.”

“Last time I saw you, your nose was straight,” Gage quipped.

“One of the customers got a little too rowdy,” Jack said, rubbing her crooked nose absentmindedly. “Nothing a shotgun couldn’t cure.”

“Customer?” Gage sat up rigidly, the tight feeling returning to his stomach. “I thought you didn’t take customers anymore?”

“I don’t. He was bothering one of my girls.”

“Right.” Gage tried to settle again.

Jack leaned forward, smirking. “So...your plan worked?”

He was grateful for the change of topic. “Sorta. The new boss is shaping up. Not what I was expecting, but she knows how to keep Nisha in line and she’s actually trying to get this place running, so fuck it. It’ll work itself out.”

“I’ll admit, I thought something went wrong,” Jack said, looking oddly serious. “When you stopped turning up, I thought you might have cut your losses and left, or...or worse.”

Silence filled the room.

Gage drained his cola for something to do, and Jack got to her feet, clutching her vodka like a grenade. “I’ll get you another drink.”

He watched her as she bustled away, feeling warm. It had been Gage who’d convinced Jack to move to the park in the first place. He’d known her for a long time—as long as he could have known anyone. She wasn’t associated with any gang, but she had the balls and smarts to carve out a neat piece for herself in the raider world. The others knew not to fuck with her—she was the queen of the whore market, and could cater to every and any taste. Gage thought she’d be perfect for keeping things from boiling over in Nuka Town.

What he hadn’t expected was his reliance on her after shit really began to hit the fan. When Colter’s attitude and Nisha’s threats drove him to the edge of his patience, Gage had come here and lost himself for a night or two every week.

Gage stood up. He suddenly felt hot—far too hot. Had to be the fucking armour. He undid the straps and with a grunt pulled it off, setting it on the floor. By the time he was done, Jack was by his side, holding out a fresh bottle of cola. Their fingers brushed as he took it from her, and he sat himself back down, staring at her feet.

“Well, I’m glad you ain’t dead anyway,” Jack said, flopping into her chair and crossing her legs. “The girls would have missed you.”

Gage snorted, meeting her eye again. “I haven’t been with one of your girls in years.”

“I know.” She grinned. “Yet you kept coming back.”

“And you kept lettin’ me.” He stretched out, relaxing again. The weird atmosphere in the room was seeping away, the familiar, comfortable buzz of lust taking over instead. He could see it in her hungry expression, feel it in himself.

Gage swigged on his cola, anticipation coursing through him. They both knew what happened whenever he visited. Jack didn’t even charge him for it anymore, and he told himself that was the reason he returned so often.

Jack stared at him from across the room, her dark eyes twinkling over the rim of her glass. She sipped the vodka deliberately, carefully. Gage could see the liquid clinging to those fine lips. She ran a finger over the glass and then sucked the alcohol off it, never breaking eye contact. Gage’s imagination immediately went into overdrive. He took another gulp of cola and choked as it went straight up his nose.

“Smooth as ever,” Jack said, grinning. She drained her glass and set it down carelessly. “Are we playing games today, or should we just skip to the fucking?”

“Skip to the fucking.”

“Good.”

She was on her feet and halfway across the room before Gage was even out of his seat. Jack shoved him back against the wall with a bang and pressed her mouth against his, her hand massaging his crotch. Gage’s heart pounded as he dragged her shirt over her head and threw it aside, before bending down and running his tongue over her breast. She seized him by the jaw and forced him back against the wall, tilting her head to the side.

“Have you forgotten the rules?” she murmured into his ear as she pulled at his belt, loosening it. “How things are done under my roof?”

“No,” Gage replied, the feel of her hand at his throat intensifying the urge to have her. “I just wanted to try my luck.”

“Did you?” Jack’s fingers tugged down his zipper and her hand slipped inside his pants, running along him the way she knew he liked it. She kept the pace for a few seconds and then stopped, biting gently on his ear. “I think you need to earn my good graces. What will you do for them, hmm?”

“Anything,” Gage mumbled, wanting to pick her up and fuck her where they stood. But he wasn’t allowed to touch. Not yet.

“Anything?”

Gage swallowed and nodded. Jack’s eyes lit up with mischief. She kissed him hard, nipping at his lip and gripping his hair as she ground against him. Her breasts pushed on his chest, and it took all his resolve not to reach up and run his hands over them. Jack’s teasing was merciless, and by the end of the night he would be a desperate mess.

God, he loved it.

“Undress me,” she whispered as she played with him.

Gage obeyed, knowing he’d have to move himself away from her tantalising strokes to free her from her clothes. He worked quickly, resisting returning the favour. He’d get his chance later. Within seconds, Jack was standing naked before him, and she pushed him back, her eyes telling him he still wasn’t allowed to touch. She rewarded his obedience by taking hold of him again and picking up the rhythm, smirking when he groaned and leaned his head against the wall.

Jack hooked a finger inside his mouth and pulled his head down to face her. Her kisses were fierce now, and slowly she ran her palm across his face. Gage felt almost drunk, her touch hot on his skin. Her fingers stopped over the strap of his makeshift eyepatch. There was a pause as their eyes met, and she tugged at it, trying to pull it away.

Gage clamped his hand over hers.

Shit.

They stared at each other, Jack looking surprised. Panic shot through him. He hadn’t meant to do it, hadn’t even thought about it. He’d never stopped her before, but then she’d never tried to do that either. Would she think he was weak, or pathetic, or…?

Jack smiled a soft smile, softer than Gage could ever have imagined on her sweet lips. She eased her hand away, letting it fall onto his shoulder with a small squeeze. She kissed him gently, tenderly, and for a moment, Gage didn’t know what to do. Then her next utterance sent a thrill through him.

“Kneel.”

It was the command he’d been hoping for, and his awkwardness evaporated. Gage grabbed Jack by the shoulders and slammed her bodily into the wall, dropping to his knees without hesitation. He didn’t wait for further instruction, but pressed his mouth between her legs, staring up at her. Her thighs trembled beneath his grip as Gage began to worship her with his tongue.

--

The walk back to Nuka Town was uncomfortably silent. It was as if he wasn’t there, Bossanova strolling ahead and humming, admiring the scenery as she went. Gage skulked some distance behind, battling with himself. Jack had been a nice distraction—the distraction he always needed when things were difficult. But now he was with his thoughts, and there was no more dangerous place to be.

Did he trust the boss?

Against all his better judgement, he wanted to. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Like Connor, Bossanova made a very good show of caring. Gage had believed every lie, every false act, every gesture designed to put him right in the firing line. But he was older now, wiser. He wouldn’t fall for it again.

And yet…

“Boss?” Gage said, before he lost his nerve. To his great surprise, she stopped and turned to him expectantly. His question solidified in his throat. He couldn’t talk to her about this again. He just couldn’t. She’d already said she was done with him. It was better this way.

Bossanova stared at him for a few moments, and then continued walking. Gage followed her, kicking himself, until she spoke. “Good time with Jack last night?”

Gage nearly tripped over his own feet. She was looking over her shoulder at him, her eyes stern but her mouth twisted as if trying not to laugh. He grunted in response.

“I could hear Jack from downstairs,” Bossanova went on as if they were discussing which Nuka Cola was their favourite.

“Yeah, she’s not exactly quiet,” Gage muttered.

“I’m sure you did fine.”

“God, please shut up.”

Bossanova laughed as his cheeks grew steadily hot, and Gage gritted his teeth. He made a point to march ahead, which took some effort, as he had to catch up to her before overtaking her in an aggressively dignified sort of way.

“So is Jack your girlfriend?”

Gage glanced over his shoulder and did stumble this time. “Girlfriend?”

“You know. Your partner. Love of your life. Etcetera.”

“No. We just fuck.”

Bossanova frowned a little at this and picked up her pace so she was walking alongside him again. It was as if they were trying to race without running. “Ever had a girlfriend?”

“No,” Gage said, wondering where the hell this was going. “Never wanted one.”

“So she’s your friend?”

“No.” He was starting to get exasperated with her prying. “Never needed them either.”

“Why n—?”

“Why all the questions?” Gage snarled. “You wouldn’t speak to me yesterday.”

“Didn’t like that, huh?”

“I couldn’t have given less of a fuck,” he lied, staring out to Nuka World in the distance and wondering how long it would take to finally get there.

“Ah. And there was me hoping Jack would fix your nasty temper.”

“Keep hoping. I’m a miserable bastard whatever happens.”

“Except when Jack is asking you to—”

“You finish that sentence and I’ll shoot you and then myself,” Gage snapped. Bossanova burst into peals of laughter, stopping where she stood and clutching her sides. He glared valiantly at her for a few seconds, and then felt his lips crack into an unwilling smile.

“Next time we’re at Jack’s just pick a piece of ass for yourself. Then you can spare me all the fucking questions. I’m sure Jack will give you a discount.”

“No thanks,” she said, starting up again in a slow stroll. “Not really my thing.”

“What, Jack?” Gage said, matching her pace without thinking.

“No.”

“...fucking?”

“Uh-huh.”

He stared at her. For a moment he considered asking her about Nicky again directly, but decided against it. The topic was dangerous water and she wasn’t in the best of moods. Tact was required here, which he obviously had in bucketloads. “I don’t...but...everyone fucks. Even ghouls. I knew some raiders with...tastes.”

“Not me.” When Gage continued to gawk, she said, in a horrible rendition of his accent, “Why do you care?” Bossanova grinned. “Relationships and everything in-between aren’t my bag. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful? No offence, boss, but you’re not my type.”

“Oh my God.” She rolled her eyes. “The feeling is extremely mutual, idiot.”

“Then why would I be—?”

“I think with my brain and not my…” She made a vague gesture in the direction of Gage’s crotch.

Gage flushed. “I don’t think with my dick.”

“I know. But some do. So be glad we have the same priorities.”

He shook his head. “This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”

Bossanova gave him a mocking look of sympathy. “I know. And think how sick of it I must be after two-hundred and ninety years of the same stupid questions.”

“You started it!”

She laughed. “True, true. Call it quits then?”

“Yeah, I think that’s for the fuckin’ best.”

They walked on, the silence returning and enveloping them like a blanket. Gone was the tension, but despite this, Gage could feel the conversation they’d almost had as they’d escaped Safari Adventure scratching the inside of his skull. It demanded attention, and strangely enough, this time he didn’t feel as afraid to talk about it.

“Boss,” he tried again, his mouth drying.

She looked at him, smiling faintly. “Gage?”

“Yesterday, when we was walkin’ to Jack’s, you...you asked me why I couldn’t understand…” Gage licked his lips, his chest tight with nerves. “You wanted me to ‘explain myself,’ whatever that means.” He slowed to a stop, rubbing the back of his head, before letting out a long sigh and meeting her eye. “What do you want to know?”

“Why do you hate the idea of trusting people?” she said at once.

Well, that was an easy enough question to answer. “Because every fucker is out for himself,” Gage said bluntly, folding his arms. “I learned that when I was sixteen.” He paused, gripping his own arms, the bitterness of the long gone encounter rising up through his throat like bile. “I worked hard to be an asset, and my payment was for some mediocre, two-bit punk to stab me in the back.”

“Tell me about it,” Bossanova said gently.

He considered saying no—all these years later and Connor’s betrayal still smarted. But then suddenly it vomited from his lips, decades of pent-up resentment spewing out into the open air. And once he started, he found he couldn’t stop.

“I became a raider young,” Gage said to the ground, scowling at a small rock as he went. “Didn’t matter ‘bout my age, though I also lacked the sense to know when to keep my mouth shut. Had more brains than the gang put together, and they all fuckin’ knew it—could tell by the look on their faces every time I offered suggestions to help make us all stronger. None of them liked it, but my ideas worked. So much so, I was eventually approached by Connor.”

“Connor?”

“The leader. Called himself some stupid-ass title back then—‘The Harvester’ or whatever.” Despite himself, Gage let out a snort of laughter. He glanced up without thinking, and saw Bossanova smirking too. All at once, he felt his body relax, though he quickly avoided her eye again. He went on. “I thought Connor might be pissed, think I was undermining his authority. But he took my advice instead.”

Gage still remembered the evening Connor came to him. The overwhelming sense of pride, inflating his ego to dangerous proportions. Blinding him to the risks, just out of sight. Gage smiled bitterly. “So here I am, this teenage punk who's got the ear of what seems like the most powerful guy around. I'm on top of the damn world. Connor's always coming to me, asking what I think of his plans, telling me how much he trusts me.” He hesitated. “Can't lie—it all went to my head.”

Bossanova’s expression was too knowing for his liking. She nodded. “Would go to any kid’s head, I imagine.”

“Yeah, well…” Gage coughed, stalling for time. “After about a year, we come up with this plan to make peace with a rival gang—work the whole thing out in secret. Meet on neutral ground, a backup plan in case shit went south, and me negotiating with them.”

He paused, remembering his exhilaration at being included, at being needed. Connor trusted him to play the most vital role.

“Did it all go to hell?” Bossanova asked, apparently reading his mind.

“Pretty much.” Gage sighed. “Just as talks were gettin’ somewhere, I hear the gunfire and the explosions. And at first I’m thinkin’, ‘Oh shit, something went wrong. Connor’s gonna have to bail us out.’”

“But…?”

“But...I eventually picked up on the real plan. The fucker set me up, and I fell for it. Probably thought he’d got everythin’ he could from me. Probably saw me as a threat.” Gage clenched his jaw shut. “Used me as a diversion, then pissed off the other gang. He gets their stuff and I die in the crossfire. Perfect day for him. Perfect reward for my fuckin’ stupidity.”

Bossanova studied him for a while. Her face was set in a peculiar expression—soft, but searching, as if trying to see right into him.

“Don’t know how the fuck I survived, but I did,” said Gage, feeling like he might as well finish the story properly. “Thought about finding Connor and putting a bullet in his head, but that was just the anger talking. Knew where it would end up. So I learned from it and moved on. Everybody looks after themselves.” He glared at her, and she stared back, her face unreadable. He didn’t give a damn. “I’m no different. And neither are you.”

“No,” Bossanova said softly. “I suppose not.”

“So stop with the bullshit. Stop pretending. We’re both using each other to get to the top of the shit heap, and that’s as far as it goes. But at least I’m fucking honest about it.”

“Just because I’m using you to get to the top,” Bossanova replied, the same strange expression on her face, “doesn’t mean I won’t help you up when I get there.”

Gage stared at her, his anger over Connor ebbing away. It felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders—a weight that he’d become so used to, he’d forgotten it was even there. Only with its removal had Gage finally recognised its presence and the damage it had done. And with the sudden lightness of his soul, he saw something else in its place. Something he couldn’t deny, as much as it worried him.

Gage sighed, rubbing his eye. “Look...I get what you’re trying to do. I really do.” He let his hand drop. “I don’t trust easily. At all, in fact. Connor fucked me over too hard for that.” Gage paused, but Bossanova didn’t speak, letting him say his piece. “I’ve been ‘round raiders for years, seen some shit—done most of it myself. I know what people are capable of an’ it ain’t pretty. But…”

He finally looked her full in the face. Bossanova wore a blank expression, her gaze sharp and focused on him. “Shit, can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but...I’m beginning to suspect you ain’t like that, boss. If you are, then I knew all along and it’s no big deal. An’ if you’re not...well, we’ll see.”

He shrugged awkwardly, his heart hammering at exposing such vulnerability. But Bossanova beamed at him. “That’s all I needed to hear. Knew I’d get it out of you eventually.”

“Yeah yeah,” Gage grumbled, biting back a grin, feeling weak at the knees all of a sudden. “Enough talking. Let’s go kill some shit.”

“We need guns for that. I say when we get back, we stock up and move onto the next section of the park—come back for the gatorclaws when we’re good and ready. Unless you want to rest up first?”

“No,” he replied, hardly daring to believe his ears. She was making plans, pushing for more land without him fighting with her over it. Without her acting like Colter. “Any ideas where you wanna hit next?”

“I say we go for a stroll, see where the mood takes us.”

Gage chuckled. “I can get behind that, boss. I can get behind it.”

--

A/N: Hi everyone. Sorry this is a little late. Going through a rough patch in my personal life right now, and I decided to drink alcohol instead of doing anything productive yesterday. Then I remembered I hadn't posted the chapter, but was too drunk to do anything about it at that point.

If you're enjoying my story, please consider leaving a comment! It really does mean the world to me.

Jack is one of my favourite characters I've ever made. She was created on a whim, when I received an ask telling me to make up a Fallout character on the spot. The sign outside the brothel was what I came up with, and down the line when I started writing MOB, I realised I HAD to include Jack.

[builder051]

If it rains I’ll wear my coat

Bad scribble sketch, but this fic demanded a doodle.  Whoa Bessie (AU featuring Trans Steve and Veteran/Amputee Bucky).  

Contains PTSD and panic attacks.

Steve’s in the middle of talking to a client when somebody knocks on his office door.  He’s set to ignore it and hope whoever it is reads and heeds the in session sign, but after two raps, the knob rattles.  Fury stands in the doorway, his phone to his ear.

The client whips around in her seat.

“It’s ok,” Steve reassures her.  “He’s my boss.”  He gives Fury a pointed look.

“Uh-huh.  Yeah.  One sec.”  Fury holds the phone against his chest as he addresses Steve.  “I’m sorry.  I know you’re busy, but I need to speak to you.  It’s urgent.”

“I apologize,” Steve tells the client as he gets to his feet.  “We’ll reschedule, and I’ll make sure you’re not billed for today.”

“Rogers.”  Fury beckons for him to follow, then resumes his call.  “Yeah, I’ll put you on speaker here in a second.”  He heads for an empty conference room across the hall and kicks away the door stop.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, his heart thrumming as his head works out a thousand different possible situations, most involving James, and none of them good.

“Ok, you’re strong in a crisis, but try not to freak out on me,” Fury starts.  He’s a good manager, and a good man, but it’s times like these when Steve’s forcibly reminded that his supervisor’s experience lies firmly in the realm of physical health.  He respects psychiatry and counseling, but well-intended slip-ups are unfortunately common.

Steve takes a breath, acutely aware of his heart rate continuing to rise.  “Ok.”

“Local PD gives me a courtesy call when they think they’re picking up one of ours,” Fury says, sitting on the edge of the conference table.  “And, uh, today they picked up yours.”

“What?”

“Barnes was wandering around, having a breakdown, and someone called the cops.  They have protocols, but any additional insight helps.  And usually they try to follow our guidance.”

“Oh god.”  Steve’s hand instinctively comes over his mouth.  “Oh shit.”

James is on some street corner falling apart, and it’s entirely Steve’s fault.  He’s gotten lazy and lax, and now there’s a price to be paid.  Guilt hits him like a wallop to the stomach.

They stayed up too late last night.  Steve should’ve put his foot down at midnight, but something about The Rocky Horror Picture Show jogged James’s memory and he started reminiscing about college.  After a year of watching him try and fail to access the details of anything before Afghanistan, Steve couldn’t bring himself to stop him.

Then chatting turned to love-making, which turned to drowsing, which turned to nightmarish thrashing, and the spell had broken at 4:30.  They’d gone to watch TV again, this time in silence.

When Steve had set coffee and a paper cup of pills on the side table and given him a kiss on the forehead, James had looked at him and smiled before glazing over again and returning his attention to Nova.  Steve could claim sleep deprivation or excessive hope and trust, but they’re just excuses.  He should’ve stayed five extra minutes and made sure James took his meds and started the morning right.  But he hadn’t.  He’d left.

“Rogers?”  Fury raises his brows at Steve while he presses buttons on his phone.  “I got Officer Coulson on the line.  He’s a good dude.  We used to work together.”

“Hello?” A voice says from the other end of the line.

They’re on speaker.  Steve needs to pull himself together.  “Yes, hello.  This is Steve Rogers.”

“Ok, Mr. Rogers,” Coulson says.  “We’re responding to call about an individual in distress.  He’s conscious and responsive, but not able to communicate.  Behaving violently toward officers, but scared, and maybe in pain.”

“Yeah, that’s,” Steve starts.  “He does that.  He has PTSD.  He dissociates.”

“We called for an ambulance,” Coulson continues.  “It’s obvious he’s having a medical episode, but I don’t think he’ll respond any better to that—”

“Yeah, he definitely won’t.”  Steve jams his hands into his pockets, closing his fist around his keys.  “I can come get him.”

“Ok, sure.”  Coulson gives him the cross streets.

It’s around the corner from the VA, near the block of apartments where James had lived for a few months when he first returned to civilian life.  “Give me ten minutes,” Steve says.

“Sure,” Coulson replies.  “Just, do you have any form of ID for him?  Nick’s pretty sure it’s James Barnes from the description, but, like I said, he’s not talking to us.”

“Yeah, um…”  If James is that far gone, who knows if he has his phone or his wallet.  Steve wonders if James’s entry at the top of his list of contacts will count.

Fury sets his phone down on the table and quickly wakes the laptop on the podium in the corner.  He holds up one finger as he taps a few keys.  “Copy of his VA ID card is on the printer now.”

“Yeah, I do,” Steve says.  He mouths thank you to Fury.

“And you’re a family member?”  Coulson presses.  “I’m sorry, I have to ask.  Just for everybody’s safety.”

They’re close to two decades into the 21st century.  Steve shouldn’t be embarrassed to call their relationship what it is.  But even then, finding the right word is difficult.  He’s thought about it before, how challenging it is to sum up what James is to him, and he still hasn’t come to a good conclusion.  There’s no time to think now, though, so he says the simplest thing.  “He’s my partner.”  Then he adds, “I’m his emergency contact,” so there’s no space for argument.

Steve sees Fury pulling up James’s patient profile on the screen, too, the one that shows his relatives.  Steve tops the list, even though nothing binds them together but emotion.  One of the cases where water collects enough sediment and dissolved minerals to be thicker than blood.

“On the printer too.”  Fury points to the screen.  Steve nods.

“Good deal,” Coulson says.  “See you soon.”

“Ok.  Yes.  Thank you.”  Steve’s already halfway to the door before Fury returns to the table to end the call.  He can hear Coulson murmuring through the static as he fumbles with his own phone.  Steve’s coming, ok, Jimmy?  Steve Rogers.  It’s the wrong nickname.  But the right sentiment.

“Take the rest of the day,” Fury says, keeping pace as Steve jogs down the corridor to grab the documents from the office hub.  “I’ll clear your schedule.”

“Thank you.”  Steve realizes he’s not breathing, and sucks in a quick lungful.  “I’m sorry about this.”  The words tumble out, his body desperate to shed some of the stress so he can deal with the more pressing issues at hand.  “I probably could’ve prevented it.”

“Nobody sees emergencies coming.”  Fury claps him on the shoulder and holds the side door open for Steve.  “And this is well within the definition of what your sick time will cover.”

Steve’s timecard is the last thing on his mind.  “Thanks,” he says again.

“Hey.”  Fury gives him a meaningful look with his real eye while the glass one seems to stare through Steve.  “Call me if you’re gonna be out tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees as he walks backward toward his car.  “I will.”

Fury nods and gives him a smile.

***

The lights of the police cars are visible halfway down the block, but at least there aren’t any sirens to add to what has to already be an overwhelming amount of sensory input.  Steve pulls up to the curb and jumps out, papers shaking in his hands.

James is on his knees with his head resting on the bench at the bus stop.  His hand is fisted in his hair, and what’s visible of his face is ghostly pale.

“Are you Steve?”  An officer rushes up to meet him, interrupting his beeline.

“Yeah.”  Steve pushes the documents at him, trying to swallow his guilt and borderline panic and drudge up a calm frame of mind.

“Phil Coulson,” the officer says.  “We spoke on the phone.”

“Yeah.”  Steve can’t concentrate on him, though.  James makes an uncomfortable sound, and Steve’s stomach twists in response.  He notices the ambulance parked behind the cop cars, EMTs standing nearby.  “I think if I can just get him home…”  Plans are good, for everyone involved.  “He has a TBI.  Post-traumatic stress, a seizure disorder,” Steve explains.  “I’m pretty sure he forgot his meds this morning.”

It’s not James’s fault that he forgot.  It’s Steve’s fault. 

James groans again and mumbles something.  He blinks hard, but doesn’t look up from the bench’s chipped paint.

“Sure, we’ll stand by,” Coulson says.

Steve runs the last few steps to James’s side, but slows as he lowers himself into a squat.  “Hey, Buck.  Hey.  It’s me, ok?  It’s Steve.”

“Hm.”  James moves his jaw around, but no other sounds come out.

“Can you look at me?”  Steve hovers his hand over James’s arm.  He wants to jump straight to hugging him, but it’s better to go slow.  “I’m gonna touch your shoulder, just letting you know I’m here.”

James is too far gone to process the warning, and he lashes out as soon as Steve’s palm makes contact with his sleeve.  He catches a snag in his hair, and Steve can see strands of it clinging in the webbing between his fingers.  There’s no power behind the blow.  It glances off Steve’s chest, and he uses the opportunity to sandwich James’s hand between his own.

Coulson moves in Steve’s peripheral vision.  “We’re good.  It’s ok,” he tells the officer.  Then he gently squeezes James’s hand.  “You’re home.  Let’s bring you back, ok?”

James blinks again.  He turns his head a fraction of an inch so he can squint sideways at Steve.  There’s a second of recognition, then glassy dizziness again.  He swallows.  “I…  I don’t…” he mumbles.

“It’s ok, Buck.  You’re in DC.  It’s 2018.  It’s getting cold out.”  Steve thinks frantically of other sensory absolutes to point out, ones that won’t be further triggering.

“What’re you…?”  James shakes his head.  It starts slow, then the movement becomes a tremor, shaking his cheeks and his lips.  “You gotta…stop the fucking car…you’re gonna…hit another one…”  His voice dies with a wet sound.

“Ok, ok, Buck?  Look at me.”  But it’s no use.  He’s either going to throw up or start seizing.  James lunges away from the bench, but Steve still has his hand, and he snaps back like a stretched rubber band.  He face-plants into Steve’s chest just as he starts to gag.

Steve couldn’t care less about the mess or the dull ache from the impact of James’s forehead against his sternum.  All that matters is the twitch of tension in James’s hand as his fingers slowly interlace with Steve’s.

“Alright.  There you go.  It’s ok,” Steve murmurs.  He rubs James’s back until he’s done coughing.  “You’re safe.  I got you.”

James leans into him, pressing his face and the front of his neck and his shoulders against Steve’s body.  Steve returns the embrace, dipping his head till his nose brushes James’s back.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but eventually adrenaline wears off, and Steve’s knees ache from being jammed against the cold pavement.  He strokes James’s hair and whispers, “How about we go home?”

James takes a breath.  He’s not up to talking.  Steve still gets the meaning.  He’s heavy and limp like an overcooked noodle, but at least now he’s pliant.

“Ok.  Good.”  Steve plants his feet and slowly straightens his legs, heaving James up with him.  Coulson appears at his elbow, ready to help, but Steve warns him off.  “Don’t.  I got him.”  He pulls James’s arm over his shoulders.  “Sorry.  He just—”

“Isn’t good with strangers,” the officer finishes.  “I get it.”  He looks down at the splatter of sick on Steve’s jeans.  “You need medical, or anything?”

“No, it’s ok, really.”  Steve struggles to free his keys from his pocket.  “But can you help me unlock the car?”

Coulson holds the passenger side open while Steve settles James in the seat.  “Thank you,” he sighs.  “I’m really sorry about all this.”  Steve gently shuts the door and rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand.  “We’ve usually got things better under control.”

“Hey, no worries.  Everybody’s safe, and that’s what really matters.”  The officer gives Steve the keys back, then raises his hand in farewell and heads for his cruiser.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes.  “I guess so.”

***

He drives below the speed limit, then shuffles James across the parking lot and into the apartment.  The coffee and pills from this morning are still on the table beside the couch, but they don’t get that far before James is done with being vertical.

“Whoa.  Ok.”  Steve catches him around the waist before he hits the floor and slowly lowers him the rest of the way.  James gets a fistful of Steve’s collar, yanking his neckline down a few inches and begging Steve to hold him with everything but actual words.

Steve whispers to him and rubs his shoulders and matches his breathing to James’s, imagining the puffs of warmth on his chest feeding him with a little strength that he can foster and pass back to James on the next exhale.

It works for a while, but James starts to shake again.  He makes a humming noise, and Steve feels dampness on his shirt.  At first he thinks James is sick again, but when he pulls his head back to look down, he realizes James is crying.

Tears aren’t bad.  Steve tells that to his clients all the time.  Sometimes they’re necessary.  Emotional purging works very much in the same way as its physical counterpart: sometimes things just need to come up.

“It’s ok,” Steve soothes.  “It’s ok.  You’re ok.”

James pauses sniveling to listen to Steve’s voice, but then he sobs again, air gusting from his lips and making the wetness cold against Steve’s skin.  The vomit on his leg is cold too.  But the tears that run from the corners of his own eyes are hot.  He’d hug James all day and into the night, but he also can’t take this anymore.  The physical weight of him is too much on top of the weight of the responsibility Steve feels for him.

“Let’s get you to bed, alright?”  Steve manhandles James into the bedroom as gently as he can, then unlaces his shoes and tucks him in.  He catches a teardrop with his thumb and kisses James’s stubbly cheek, promising he’ll only be gone a minute.

It takes him longer, though.  Steve stops in the hallway and fights to keep his face from crumpling.  One deviation from routine, one skipped dose, and this is already where they’re at.

It might just be a bad day.  James had had a rough night.  Maybe if he’d slept, he’d be fine.  Or if it was warmer outside.  If Steve had just stayed and watched him swallow his pills, this wouldn’t have happened.

Or maybe if Steve wasn’t always coming up behind him, he’d pick up some more self-sufficiency.  No matter how he slices it, it’s his fault.  The pressure of tears yet unshed makes Steve’s head ache, but he’ll take the pain if it saves him from falling apart.

He strips out of his jeans in the guest bathroom and leaves them in the tub, then pads down the hall in his underwear.  He grabs James’s meds and fills a glass with water.  He digs crackers out of the cupboard, then looks over the spread.  Steve’s about to take it all back to the bedroom when he changes his mind and opens the drawer of pill bottles.

The benzos don’t do much for James’s sleep patterns, so he doesn’t take them.  Occasional insomnia is a joke of a diagnosis anyway; the sleeplessness is hardly a problem compared to the nightmares that cause it.  

He doesn’t like pills that make a fuzz his head, he’d told Steve.  But James is already in a fuzz.  What he needs now is rest.  Steve does too, and he knows he won’t get any if he spends the next couple hours with his heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces as he listens to James cry.  

There are already four medications in the paper cup, a motley collection of capsules and tablets.  Steve can add one more.  James probably won’t even notice.

***

“Here, let’s take your meds,” Steve says, helping him sit up.  It’s not a lie.  They’re all James’s meds.

James complies without question, even shoving against the mattress with his shaking arm so Steve doesn’t have to do all the work.  He knocks back the pills and swallows a few times, squinting as if it hurts.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve whispers.

James slumps back toward the pillow, reaching for Steve’s hand.  “Steve,” he whispers, drawing out the name until it’s just a breath.

“Yeah.  I’m here.”  Steve forces a smile.  He perches on the edge of the mattress and watches James’s eyes drift shut.

Once he’s breathing evenly, Steve changes clothes and retreats to the kitchen.  He downs a dose of ibuprofen and shovels cold leftovers into his mouth until his throat’s too tight to swallow.  He drops his fork and folds his arms on the table.  He pushes his chair out, then buries his face in his sleeves, wondering if he’s any more put-together than James was when he was breaking down at the bus stop.  Tears aren’t bad, Steve thinks to himself.  He repeats it over a few times, just to be sure he doesn’t forget.

It’s a miracle that logic kicks back in once the weeping tapers off.  Or maybe it’s just his protective instinct playing up again.  Steve peeks in on James, and once he’s sure he’s alright for the time being, he starts a load of wash and does the dishes.

He wanted a few hours of quiet, needed it, in fact, but now it’s too quiet.  Steve opens his laptop and fires up Pandora, but after five minutes he’s out of skips. and still restless.  He calls Sam and puts him on speaker.

“Hey,” Sam greets him.  “I heard what happened.  How’s he doing?”

“He’s ok,” Steve says.  “He just dissociated.  Panicked.  Got sick.”  The need to act, to keep cleaning up, gnaws at him.  He opens a new browser and clicks through the process to order James a medic alert necklace.  “He’s asleep now.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sam says.  “I mean, that he’s getting through it.  And no seizure this time.”

“Yeah, no seizure.”  Steve stares at the computer screen, wondering how on earth this is going to help.  He’s treating James like a stray dog he’s deciding to keep for his own.  Or throwing him back to the Army, with his name on a tag around his neck.  Just with Steve’s phone number instead of a serial.

“But…it’s all my fault, Sam,” Steve whispers.  Not just today.  Everything.  James had joined the Army for Steve.  To support him.  Then, after they’d fought about it, to get away from him.  

And now Steve’s doing the same thing.  Escaping. Slipping drugs to his medically fragile significant other when he needs a break to cry.  At least James had only risked his own life when he’d signed on.  It was gallant.  Steve feels disgusting by comparison.

“Steve.  Hey.  I’m not your kind of therapist, but I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.”  Sam pauses.  “Mistaken beliefs?  Is that what they’re called?  You know I don’t always pay attention in seminars.”

Steve chuckles.  “That’s right, actually.  You’d probably make a better counselor than I would right now.”

“I’ll drop off my resumé,” Sam laughs.  “But I’m serious.  We spend so much time on our patients, our clients.  It’s hard when it’s a loved one.  And it makes it even harder when you realize your limits.”

“I just ordered him a dog tag,” Steve blurts out.  It’s suddenly hilarious instead of sad, and it makes him question his sanity a little.

“That’s a good thing.  What does it say?  ‘If lost, return to Steve Rogers’?”

“Just about.”  Steve sighs and wipes his eyes.  “I just…  I really love him, Sam.  I don’t want to hurt him.  I don’t want him to hurt.  At all.  Ever.”

“You’re doing good,” Sam says firmly.  “Not everything turns out perfect, but overall, you’re doing good.”

“Hm.”  Steve’s still not entirely convinced, but Sam’s words are reassuring.

“Do you want to order a pizza?”

“What?”  Steve wonders if he heard right.

“Since I’m applying for everybody’s job, I thought I’d add pizza delivery boy to the list.  And I didn’t want to straight-up ask if you wanted company.  Since I’m not that kind of therapist.”  Steve can practically see his friend’s grin.

“Yeah,” Steve says.  “I could use some pizza.  And company.  We could use company.”

“Alright.  See you in 20?”

“Sure.”  Steve closes his laptop.  “Sounds good.”

[punk-mentality-blog]

Never Happy Enough

Chapter One, I guess:

Some people can never truly be happy. I have a friend who has recently started taking medication. I support her because I understand that some people need to have meds in their life. I personally do not believe taking medicine will fix my issues. But just as people need God to get through life, some need medication. However, when my fiance to-be suggested I could go on Anti-Depressants and/or Bipolar medication, I had to explain that I just couldn’t. He’s concerned for my deteriorating mental health and I know he means well. I just don’t believe that pills will solve all my issues. All medication is is a placebo that people profit from. You are told that if you’re filled with these missing chemicals that you’ll be happy..but it’s just a pitch, a means to an end. 

You are told time and time again what to do to achieve happiness. People say that with the right amount of exercise, a healthy diet, keeping around your loving family and friends, and if you keep on top of your goals in school or work, you’ll be happy. Then it leaves people like me wondering why it’s too exhausting to try even one of those. You just don’t have the motivation and energy to work out today, tomorrow, or the hundreds of days that may follow. You can’t afford the over priced fruits and veggies your body aches for but make you sick to your stomach; because you’re too full of enough food as it is. Your family has their own issues at home and you can’t pull away their attention for something that you know they can’t fix; So why bother them with it? Your friends have lives outside of you, and because there’s only two of them, you run out of places to turn. You run out of loved ones because you’re too scared to surround yourself, knowing that no matter how many spots are filled, it’s never enough. So, it’s better to isolate yourself and say there are plenty of places to be taken, plenty of other peoples to fill them and tell you that you matter. But it’s still not enough. Isolating yourself is so much easier than letting yourself be vulnerable, than sitting around everyday, wondering everyday when they’re going to leave and why. You can’t keep up with your grades because when you’re at home, all you can think about is how badly you’re doing and have been doing since the beginning. You tell yourself you’ll get better, but let’s face it, you’re nearing on 19 years old and you’re already out of that childhood hope that you can be anything you want to be. You can’t just be that person, you can’t just be happy, and healthy, and successful. You have to work for it, but how are you supposed to stay motivated long enough to get your life together when it’s exhausting to brush your teeth in the morning or take a shower at night? 

I know what to do to be happy, at least what people tell you is that will make you happy, but is it? Can I ever be happy? When I was 16, I thought my life was the worst it could possibly be with the people in my life and who came into it, destroyed everything I had, and then left without a goodbye. Then I graduated high school, and I was so lost. I didn’t plan on living passed 17, let alone making it long enough to say that my 19th birthday is this month. Then when I realized I didn’t know what I wanted to do because I never planned on doing anything, I was scared all over again. And how the hell is that fair? Why did I only ever give myself the one option? I’m all about planning for every terrible situation that could ever come to mind. So, why didn’t I think of the worst outcome? That I couldn’t go through with it. That I was too scared of the endless list of possibilities after I take that final breath. When you’re born, you’re given a script of different events that must happen by the end of it all, but that everything in-between was filler content. You are expected to improvise with the characters, props, costumes and personalities that will come into the shot. Some characters are pre-cast, such as yourself and family. Then the other characters will be cast as the show is produced. Some will be fired, others will quit, and for some.. it’s decided that they would be leaving the show for another, whether by whoever is behind that camera making decisions as Director. Or if they just got tired of the same old episode structure with less pay off the more it happened. The ending just isn’t close enough, and they hate the wait. They’re too impatient for what it takes to make the happily ever after. You are the main character, living between the pages of a book that’s empty. You don’t get to read ahead, or skip to the ending so you know how it ends up. You live through every imaginary page from the end of one chapter to another. Because that’s how life is. You’re the writer of a book that has no set ending, so you try and figure it out, but life isn’t like writing a book. Not at all, because as an author, you can manipulate the story in any which way you so please. While everyone tells you that you can, it’s not really true. You have co-authors you never agreed to take over, but they want to write this chapter, so they steal the pen from you and who are you supposed to tattle to now. You have reached a point in your life where you would rather let the co-author control your book while you waste away your life in the slowest way possible. You convince yourself they’re the better writer, and it’s just easier this way. Then the day will come where you either gather up the courage to fire them because you remember that you’re the Boss around here. Or, they leave like everyone else because even someone who is obsessed with every detail of your life can get tired of looking too hard at this worthless book that should just be scrapped for ideas and throw out the unimportant details like their identity because it was a shitty character anyways. Nobody wants to read that it doesn’t always get better.

So, why do you live through life even though you’ve convinced yourself that it’s pointless? Who knows, it’s different for everyone and you think you’re the only one with this special case. Special case? That’s laughable, what do you even have to be depressed about? Sure your dad was hardly there, but your mom was a goddamn rockstar who loves you more than you thought anyone ever could. Then you tell yourself she had to. But hey, what about your wonderful friends? They choose to have you in their life, right? Sure, but that doesn’t always mean they love you. You’ve had a toxic best friend who show you how much better they are wearing your skin. Which sounds more fucked up if you actually see her as the Devil incarnate who tore your identity from you and wore it like a trophy. But she didn’t, she just wore the same clothes that she didn’t even personally like so that you would shame yourself for the body you’ve let yourself be happy with even though you’re just a blob. Then again, you were strong enough to tell her to get fucked and risk living life without her. Finally you realize, hey, I didn’t need this girl to guide me around and pretend that you’re the one staying at her heel like a sad little dog who’s been shown affection for the first time since it gave up hope. No, you don’t have to let her wrap that leash around you. She doesn’t have the power to hold you back unless you let her. 

When you realize that you are worth so much more than you let yourself believe, you know that you couldn’t have done so without help. You finally let someone into your heart to stay, and holy shit that’s scary. This asshole that you thought came into your life to teach you the same lesson you’ve learned for the last 3 years on a loop: That you deserve to be used. He hurts you like every other guy has since you moved to this shitty town. He teaches you that it’s not the town, or even the people in it who have come in and ruined everything you thought you knew. It’s you. That’s the hardest lesson to learn. You, and you alone, decide how this is all going to happen. You know that you can strive for greatness, and great things will happen. But he wasn’t thrown into your life to teach you the same cheesy message they slap on motivational posters so they can say they tried to reach out and help you.

No, he comes into your life to teach you that none of that shit matters, and it’s okay to not be okay. It’s more normal than people let you believe, and even if the details are different, the feeling is the same. He opens up your mind to the peace that comes with knowing that you can change yourself. He teaches you how to love yourself, that some people really do stay for the long hall. He teaches you that sometimes your soulmate isn’t always supposed to play a romantic role. There are people in the world who so perfectly understand you that you can not speak a single word and they’ll know that you’re in pain. He teaches you that soulmates are real, and the connection is something you can totally ignore if you’re too scared to feel it.

Unfortunately for you, he was also a lesson in not wasting time on trivial details.. Because the day you found out that he died was the worse day of your life so far. You don’t hear much on the grief felt when losing a best friend. You hear about losing family members, and significant others, but you’ve hardly been made to understand the grief that plagues your heart when your best friend is gone. It’s a pain so raw that you can feel every tear in your Soul like the expose roots of teeth. You can feel it getting worse the longer it goes untreated. It hurts in the cold. It hurts when you pay too much attention to it, not being able to leave it be so it can try and heal a bit on it’s own. Soon enough it hurts to breathe. You have to admit you need help, and it’s a vulnerable position to put yourself in. There are no root canals for the Soul. There’s no easy fix. You find yourself even more lost when the one person you had to go to, isn’t there anymore. Not just because you made the mistake of dating again. Not because you’re in some petty fight that you will move passed in a day or two, depending on how pushy he is at the time. No, you can’t turn to him ever again, and your left filling in his half of the conversation hoping for guidance. You have to restart from the beginning, only now you won’t have him to hold your hand.

It’s like some sick joke that just keeps getting worse. Suddenly there’s an actual reason to be sad, and all you feel is… Empty. You thought the worst was behind you and then a part of your Soul was ripped away and you were expected to move on without it. Time doesn’t stand still because suddenly one of the most important people in your life is gone. You must again realize that co-authors exist, not just for you but for other people as well. He didn’t have life figured out either, he just showed you a better perspective to live by. He was just as lost as you. Just as lonely, depressed, and empty as you. You knew that, of course you knew that, you were what he was for you. At least you hoped you were.. 

Hell, were you? How could you ever know if you helped him as much as he helped you. His co-author butted in with the idea of spicing up the story with a great tragedy on a secondary character they’ve shown sudden interest in. So they mixed a little binge drinking and depression with a loaded shotgun and told you that you were invisible. You find yourself glad that he died like a drunk idiot rather than think about how he messaged you two days before he died asking to hang out with you but you turned him down because you were isolating yourself like a moron. You find yourself glad that you weren’t the one who let him down. You have nightmares about his last moments and wished that you’d taken more pictures with him. Grief is a funny thing when you’ve gone through life, blissfully unaware of how those funerals you had gone to in the past had affected the people who cared. Until now, you’d never lost someone who you loved. You don’t have close family, and going to your grandmother’s funeral was just another day for you. Just like when you found out this extraordinary person was taken away forever, life went on for everyone else around you because they didn’t know him like you did.

So what if you finally learned you deserved love? What kind of lesson ends with killing off the person who taught you it? No matter the number of words you scribble down and type out, you know it won’t bring him back. How are you supposed to move on when you’ve never known such a unique love as your Soulmate being your best friend and nothing more. Fuck, but wasn’t he though? He wasn’t your True Love, but he was your Soulmate. You believe that, he was more than a friend, and more than a lover. You connected with him in a way that was scary to feel, but he showed you that it could be so beautiful to be vulnerable.

After you’ve finally found love, he has to watch you break over a relationship he doesn’t understand. He understands that this boy in your life is important to you, and that you have no romantic feelings for, he’s gone now, and it hurts. He doesn’t know how to fix it, and neither do you. Your best friend understood you more than anyone ever could; Especially you. You love him for holding you when you found out, because news like this can be dropped like an Atomic Bomb, it shows no mercy and stops everything around you. You have to move on, and for a while you live in denial. You convince yourself that your best friend’s sense of humor has gotten a hell of a lot darker than usual. Then the day comes when you have to sit in a church and listen to story, after story about how he was an amazing person, and he was really gone. For the first time in your life, you see him without the goofy fucking smile that is engraved in your heart. But you move passed it and eat your feelings.

There’s something about this idiot that makes you want to be better though. Not your best friend, but your boyfriend. He’s the sweetest guy you’ve ever met, and you think it’s too good to be true. He loves you, he’s been with you for a little over two years now, and that’s the craziest thing. Of course, you wouldn’t have been able to remove the filter that insecurity and anxiety put over him because of people from the past. No, you did that because of your best friend showing you that you’re just a paranoid idiot who is just falling back into self destructive tendencies. So, you finally just let it happen, you let someone love you and treat you right without panicking that he has some ulterior motive.

No, for once you’ve actually met a guy that both makes you happy, and treats you right. You never thought you’d find him. Hell, you didn’t even mean to. You had every intention on killing yourself before this asshole said ‘I love you’ first. You didn’t think anyone but your mother was capable of such a thing. He proves you wrong when he tells you he loves you, and you find yourself blurting out ‘I love you, too’. Such a simple phrase you’d only ever been on the receiving end of up until now. The hell are you supposed to say after something like that? I usually panic and insult him afterwards. As if he’ll react differently than giving me that big stupid grin of satisfaction knowing that I’m being a bitch because I’m still adjusting to the whole ‘being happy’ thing.

He’s pretty phenomenal himself and you think that this could finally be your happily ever after. However, you are once again reminded that there are no time skips in real life. Love stories don’t end after the two main idiots finally decide to let another person love them. They work at that ever after or it won’t ever come. Just because you’re in love and you finally have happiness, doesn’t mean your happy. Okay, now how the hell does that make sense? Why is it that no matter how much your heart swells when he tells you how beautiful you are, or when he plans your future while you sit there and listen to him preparing to live with you for the rest of his life; Willingly, like some idiot. Why doesn’t that fix it? You didn’t realize that you were filling your life with meaningless relationships.You don’t go around sleeping with everyone, but you serial date because you’re afraid to be alone.. God, you’re a love-whore.

You have depended on this idea that being in love will help you heal. You convince yourself that this person is the reason you’re better. Just like when you let people control you before, only this time instead of depression, it’s supposed to be hope. Hope is just a spiritual drug you develop an addiction to because it’s easier that way. You need a healthy dose of hope in your life, so why not take it? All this hope can lead you to becoming better. Never even realizing that it’s not because of this person that loves you, through no fault of your own. It was you. You are the reason you are happy. You are the reason you are depressed. You are responsible for everything you feel, it all started with you. It all ends with you. You’re not happy because you’re in love. You’re happy because you believed you couldn’t be without these pre-set goals crammed down your throat from the very beginning. When you realize that this thing you thought you needed your whole life isn’t what changed you? You change again. Like an idiot, you’ve questioned why you are allowed to be happy again. 

You realize that you aren’t fixed. 

You’re just as broken as you were a year ago, if not more so, only you had love to depend on, to distract you. No, you haven’t changed. You’re the same sad loser you were before him. Once again, you feel empty. Hope, love, and happiness are the same as taking medication. Yes, I actually remembered where I was going with this.. Medication doesn’t change you anymore than being in love changed me. His love isn’t what changed me. Medication isn’t the reason people change. You just have a new sense of hope that you can change. So, you swallow a pill because you think you need to, or you steal a kiss because you know you can. It doesn’t change the way you are, just the perspective you live by. Whatever it is that you let yourself get tricked into fixing yourself with, it helps you be you. Not because you needed something else for help, but because you needed to remind yourself that you’re capable of doing it. It just takes a really long fucking time, and you’re an impatient person. 

Signed, A Depressed Goth Loser.

[will--reece]

Aftermath: The Routine

Two years, two years and a few months and cancer still walks with me. Everyday, every morning that I wake, cancer sits on me like a two ton sumo wrestler. I rise from my bed and begin the "routine."

I have two senior dogs, both need medication, and so I let them run outside while I feed the birds and the crows and prep their meds. Once they're "pilled," I take my meds. There's not many I take, I refuse to take pain pills or any medication that has adverse aftereffects. It's not worth it. But some things I do have to take. So, a few pills, maybe a shot, lots of vitamins, other herbs and roots because I believe in them, and then coffee. Coffee and I make my bed and the dogs bed, and then what happens depends on the day. If it's a non-backwash day, I enjoy my coffee, look out at the world or talk with Sarah. I make breakfast and get ready for the gym. If I have to backwash, I spend the next 2 hours in the bathroom flushing water into my large intestine and emptying it. It's one of the prices that I pay for life, to live, to function. And that's it, routine, day after day, day one or day two, doing things the exact same way because after cancer, after body mutilation, I had to stop thinking.

No thought to what I was doing or why. It's how I survived, it's how I got past the reality of losing a vital part of my body and adapting to a new way. A way that some find disgusting and filthy, some who make that face that all children do when they act like something is gross. Day after day after day after day until I die, that is my cost. To be foul, gross, disgusting, to live with something so vile on my stomach that some people would rather die. I don't blame them, for a time I was blind too.

No thought, just move, just get it done and over with. Get past the hell. Get up, dogs, birds and crows, pills and coffee, a needle, a shot, make the beds, bathroom, no thought over and over and over again. And then, fuck that. Literally, fuck that. I was already dead.

Seriously! Do you see how rediculous that is? I'm not the action of defication, nor from where it accures on my body. I'm Will, William, I'm a writer, an artist, I'm the boy who wanted to do nothing more than paint. I'm a man with a million voices in my head that all sing for me to tell their story. I love people, I love to laugh, I want the world to feel, to honestly feel something more than the false acceptance from a "Like." I want to love and be loved, and when the sun dies and the stars fall into my eyes, I wait for a shooting star; I am that man. I want to flip cars and lift stones and laugh with you all the while because we're alive! Can't you feel it? We're alive! I'm more than blue eyes, tattoos and muscles, I'm a soul that will never die. I am that man and I deserve more than just routine.

And so I am. I am William when I make my bed or drink coffee or empty my body of waste. I am when I work and write and laugh with my friends. I am when I lay with the Moon and she envelops me in her beauty. And yes, I am William with the two ton sumo on my chest who still robs me of my breath. I am William when anxiety comes and panic follows. But, I am.

I will die, I will fade into the twilight never to walk with you again, but hold my hand now for I will give you breath, I will give you wine to drink for you and I are more than forgotton things who never had the courage to live. We were life.

[mizmahlia]

Angst Prompt: You Broke Me

Taken from this list here. 

This was inspired by yet another play-through of Batman Arkham Knight. During the scene where Batman’s being hauled off to Arkham to confront Scarecrow, Alfred tells Bruce he’s being tracked through the city. Bruce insinuates that Jason is the one tracking him, and my brain went “WHAT IF JASON TRIED TO STOP THAT TRUCK TO TRY AND FOIL SCARECROW’S PLAN BECAUSE HE HAD A CHANGE OF HEART?”

And, well, now we have 4.4k words of angsty Jason Todd fic.

Spoilers for Batman Arkham Knight

I borrowed a few lines of dialog from the game, as I wanted to fix the ending. Because of reasons.

Warnings: Mentions of torture, some swearing, Jason does shoot some people, and there are some mental health issues depicted.

Jason ripped his helmet open and leaned against the fire escape, trying to catch his breath. The sensor on the building where Scarecrow demanded Batman turn himself over was tripped five minutes ago and he'd sprinted over the rooftops from halfway across Bristol. He knew he didn't have much time until the truck left, taking Batman to Arkham for his unmasking, but he knew he had to try to stop it.

He hoped Bruce noticed the red Bat symbol hastily painted on the building when he'd gone in. He climbed down the fire escape and crept across the street to a deserted SUV that somehow hadn't been vandalized yet, breaking the driver's side window. He got in, hot-wired the engine and brought up his gauntlet screen to check the GPS tracker. At the same time, he tapped into the audio feed from the back of the truck. He was already listening to the audio feed from Bruce's cowl and had been most of the night.

The red dot on the screen began to move and Jason put the SUV in gear and pulled out into the street after it. He heard Alfred tell Bruce the truck's movements were being tracked. Well, that was quick. What no one knew was that Jason installed the tracking device and microphone to make sure Scarecrow didn't double-cross him. He'd wanted his chance to end Bruce, after Scarecrow had his fun. But after their confrontation at the mall, Jason's mission objectives changed drastically and it went from being an assassination mission to a rescue op. Oh, the irony. So between the hacked comm feed and the microphones in the truck, he could hear both sides of the conversation. He rolled his eyes when Bruce replied. "I knew he would." He stomped his foot to the floor and took off after the truck, chasing it out of Kingston and over Mercy Bridge. He knew the fear toxin levels in the back of the truck were rising rapidly. He listened as Scarecrow taunted Batman, telling him the nightmare was almost over and his failure was almost complete. Jason's gut rolled at the thought he'd helped orchestrate this. He knew he had a lot of shit to work out now, but he couldn't allow Scarecrow to finish their plan. Not after what happened earlier. Not after he'd seen the look on Bruce's face. You can't fake that kind of shock, not even if you're Batman. He raced over the bridge and through the side streets of Bleake Island, the truck only a few blocks ahead of him. He just needed to stop the truck before it crossed onto the bridge to Arkham Island; if it reached the bridge, there was no cover and no way to get Batman hidden long enough for the fear toxin to work its way out of his system. As he rounded a corner, he spotted the truck at the next block. He needed to nudge the bumper with the SUV to force it off the road. He grit his teeth and gunned it through the intersection, ignoring the blaring horn from a car that had the right of way. The car clipped the rear passenger side of the SUV, sending him careening off course. "Fuck!" The SUV fishtailed as he tried to keep it from sideswiping a burned-out garbage truck. He cranked the wheel and caught up to the truck. "Brace yourself, Bruce," he muttered. Jason mashed his palm against the horn before colliding with the rear bumper, watching as the truck swerved and hit the curb, rolling into a vacant lot before coming to rest on its roof. He parked the SUV behind an empty school bus and climbed out, staying low and in the shadows as he crept toward the truck. In his ear piece, he heard Bruce groan, apparently still in the back of the truck in range of the microphone. "Mother, don't go. Please.." Jason froze and flattened himself against the side of a building, guilt and panic and fear churning in his stomach. He sank to his knees and clawed at his helmet, gulping in the cold night air when it opened. Bruce was reliving the night his parents died. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, trying to pull himself together. It had only been a few hours since their confrontation, since he'd learned Bruce actually believed the Joker had murdered him almost three years ago. Hours since he realized every single reason he had for planning this entire op was bullshit; that the Joker and Harley had beaten him and scrambled his brain until he honestly believed Batman would give up on Robin. That Bruce would give up on him. He scrubbed his hands over his face and choked back a sob when he realized how thoroughly fucked up this all was. He was furious with Batman for seemingly abandoning him, for letting this happen and replacing him. He'd been through absolute hell- the beatings from the Joker, the meds Harley forced down his throat, the days and weeks of isolation. While most of it blurred together, he remembered the day he broke with absolute clarity. The exact moment he knew he was never going to go home, when he wished they would just kill him. It was the day the Joker showed him the photo of Batman and Robin. A Robin that wasn't him. He felt sick all over again at the memory and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. When he was sure he wasn't going to vomit he sat back against the building. He was shaking. The Joker did terrible and sadistic things to him just to spite Batman, because he wanted Batman's attention. And after everything Joker did, no matter how horrific, Batman never did what was necessary to stop him. It was a vicious circle of murder, terror and nightmare-inducing behaviour that Jason got caught in the middle of and had paid the price for. But then Bruce had seen his face and he'd been genuinely surprised. That's when the small glimmer of hope, hope that Bruce hadn't really forgotten about him after all, took hold and royally screwed everything up. Anger replaced the fear and the panic and Jason laughed, and it sounded so, so wrong. Suffice to say his mental and physical well-being were treading on some pretty thin fucking ice at the moment. A groan from the overturned truck drew his attention and he turned, leaning around the corner. The driver pulled himself from the cab and crawled toward the back of the truck. One of his legs was clearly broken. Jason took several deep breaths to ground himself and he stood up, drawing his sidearm and securing the helmet in place once again. He stalked around the corner and stopped in front of the driver, cocking his head to the side. The driver looked up at him, relieved at the sight of the Arkham Knight standing in front of him. "Sir. We got run off the road, I didn't see who it was." He pulled himself into a sitting position and looked up at Jason, the grimace when he jostled his leg replaced by a confused frown. "We heard you split after your fight with the Bat- you okay?" Jason flicked the safety off his gun. No, I'm definitely not fucking okay. "I'm fine. Change of plans. I'm personally escorting Batman to the Asylum." The driver nodded and leaned against the side of the truck. "You sound so different without the voice modulator. So young." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting the last one and tossing the empty pack back toward the cab. "The guy in the cab is out cold and my leg's broke. Wish I could help you get the bastard to Arkham." The memory of Batman standing over him earlier, offering to help him, saying they could fix this, flashed through his mind and Jason flinched. "Your help won't be necessary." He fired a round into the driver's chest and he went still, the cigarette dropping to the asphalt next to him. Jason knelt behind the truck and pried the door open, revealing a semi-conscious Batman. He holstered the gun and reached in, dragging Batman out and clear of the truck. Jason knelt next to him and studied him. The suit was in tatters; in addition to the bullet he'd fired into Batman's abdomen hours ago that appeared to still be lodged there, there was now a new hole in the right side of the Bat symbol on his chest. The armor plating was scratched and filthy. The cowl was scuffed and dented, and Bruce’s nose was definitely broken underneath it. He had some nasty bruising forming along his jaw. The cape had holes in it and his gloves were coated in grime and blood. All to try and save a city that tried to kill him on a nightly basis. "You look like hell, B," Jason said quietly. "You just don't know when to quit." At the sound of his voice, Bruce's eyes opened and he looked up at Jason. His pupils were dilated, the blue of his irises almost non-existent; he was still deeply under the influence of the fear toxin. Before he realized what he was doing, Jason released the catch on his helmet and opened it again, allowing Bruce to see his face. His eyes widened and he reached a hand toward Jason. "It can't be..." "Yeah, it can be." Jason sighed and his chin dropped to his chest. "We've gotta get out of here; Scarecrow's going to realize the truck isn't on schedule. C'mon." He tugged on Bruce's arm to get him to stand, but he remained on his hands and knees. "You can't be him. I watched Joker shoot him." Bruce's voice went eerily quiet. "I watched Jason die." "I wish I had," Jason muttered. "But we don't have time for this." Bruce backed away from Jason and shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. "No. I failed him. I need to find him. He was right here the whole time and I..." His eyes darted frantically around the empty lot, no doubt searching for the car. "I need to tell him that I didn't know." His eyes met Jason's and the despair in them made Jason shiver. "I searched that asylum for weeks. How could I not have known he was there?" Jason bit his lip and closed the front of the helmet again before he lost control of his emotions. He's afraid he failed me? He heard the rumble of a large truck down the street. "We need to leave. Now." He pulled Bruce to his feet and led him toward the back of the lot, away from the street. There was a mechanic's garage the next block over that probably had a vehicle they could use to get Bruce back to the cave. As they walked, he looked back over his shoulder at Bruce. He was completely lost in his own head and unaware he was being led through Gotham by the man who'd helped orchestrate everything he'd been through. But considering he was allowing himself to be led around meant he didn't believe himself to be in any danger. Something no one (apart from Superman) could do was force Bruce to follow someone he didn't trust. Jason wanted to cry at the irony. He picked the lock on the door of the garage and pushed Bruce through before closing and locking it behind them. He steered Bruce toward a chair and he sat the moment the backs of his knees hit the seat. "Hang tight while I find us a ride." Jason started rifling through the rack of keys hanging above the counter, momentarily forgetting about Bruce until he started talking again. He froze and dropped the set of keys he was holding. "I'm still in control, Joker. You won't get the upper hand." Jason turned and leaned against the counter, his hands gripping the edge tightly. "What did you just say?" Bruce looked up at him and Jason swore his eyes were a neon shade of green. He backed away from Bruce, knocking over a canister of rusted bolts. The sound echoed loudly throughout the shop and Jason flinched at the noise. Bruce was looking right through him and spoke to whoever it was he saw. "You won't break me, Joker. You can't." Bruce looked down at the floor for a moment before glancing up at Jason. His gaze was still vacant, his mind was long gone at the moment, but at least his eyes were back to blue. "I'm already broken." Jason picked the keys up off the floor and glanced out the window, using the key fob to find the Chevy they would use to get Bruce back to Alfred. It was parked just across the lot from the door and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Come on, Batman. We need to get you back to your butler." He turned back to find Bruce watching him. And he was lucid. "He'd love to see you, you know." Jason crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. Despite Bruce not being able to see his face, his focused his gaze on the floor anyway, too embarrassed and ashamed to look him in the eye. "I highly doubt that, after everything that's happened tonight." Bruce stood, carefully making his way toward Jason. He stopped several feet away. "We all thought you were..." he trailed off for a moment, clearing his throat. "I meant what I said, earlier." It's not too late. We can fix this... Together. Jason felt the anger rising again. "Not that simple. You have no idea what he did to me." The look on Bruce's face said otherwise. Jason narrowed his eyes, forgetting Bruce couldn't see it. "Based on what I saw in the video he sent me, I have an idea." Jason shook his head and turned toward a sedan with its tires missing. He punched the trunk, leaving a considerable dent. To hell with being quiet any longer. "That was five minutes, Bruce. He had me down there for OVER A YEAR!" Bruce, to his credit, said nothing. "You have no idea what they did to me," Jason continued, trying to keep from getting hysterical. "I held out for six months before I gave anything up. Six months! And do you know why I finally gave up, after everything they put me through?" He retrieved a photograph from his back pocket and flipped it at Bruce. He reached for it and turned it over, his face growing even paler. "Yeah. I found out I was replaced. So it turns out you deserve all the credit for this one, Batman," Jason said, his tone pure venom. "You broke me. Not the Joker, not Harley. Not the guards who took turns beating me. It was you." "I'm sorry about all of this, Jason. But you need to know there's more to it than that. Consider the source. Please." Bruce put the photograph on the chair behind him. "You know what the Joker was capable of." "I certainly do now." Bruce sighed deeply and his hand went to the wound on his abdomen when the muscles tensed painfully. He looked much older and wearier after the events of the night. He sat down again and reached for the medical pouch on his belt, before remembering he'd removed it. Jason reached into his own belt and fished out a small bottle of pills, tossing it to him. "Here. It's hydrocodone. Should take the edge off." Bruce nodded and took three of them. Before he could speak, half a dozen members of the militia stormed through the door. "Sir? You found him! We're here to bring Batman to the asylum. Scarecrow is waiting." Bruce looked at Jason and gave a subtle nod, a look of determination back on his face. I'll do it for you, if that's what it takes. Jason turned toward his men. "Get him there in one piece, or you'll all wind up like the driver. Are we clear?" "Sir, yes sir." "And don't tell Scarecrow I had to round him up. He's got enough to worry about." Bruce stepped in behind several of the militia and headed toward the door. He glanced behind him before he stepped outside in time to see Jason nod once. You won't have to. I'll get there.

Based on the radio chatter he was listening to, Scarecrow had indeed changed the plan. The militia were now under strict orders not to let the Arkham Knight anywhere near the Asylum. Their orders were to shoot him on sight and shoot to kill. It didn't bother Jason in the slightest. Considering the one man who'd been kicking their asses all over Gotham that night was the one who originally trained him in the art of covert ops? 

He'd take those odds any day of the week. But one thing he wasn't ready for was how he'd feel being back on that godforsaken island and staring at the Intensive Treatment building. It wasn't even where he was headed; Scarecrow was set up in the mansion to the east, but in making his way past armed guards and sentry guns, he had to go the long way around Intensive Treatment to get there.

He barely made it to cover behind an overgrown hedge of ivy before he was throwing up, once again feeling the sting of the cold water they poured over his face and the phantom pains of a crowbar, and hearing the sizzle of a branding iron as it was held to his cheek. Strangely enough, it was Robin's voice in his ear piece when he spoke to Batman that brought him back to the present. He forced himself to focus as Scarecrow and Batman started talking. He shook his head and climbed to his feet when Scarecrow bragged about robbing Gotham of hope. He'd been robbed of that, too, once. There was no way he could let Gotham be robbed of whatever hope it had left after tonight. He was only a few hundred yards from the mansion and there were five men between him and the front door. Jason changed the display in his helmet to night-vision and quietly assembled his sniper rifle, taking position on his belly. On his next exhale, the man closest to him went down, followed by his partner ten yards to the right. And when the other three came to investigate he hit them with a smoke grenade before coming up behind them, choking them out. As he was dragging them into the bushes, he heard Commissioner Gordon and Scarecrow arguing, followed by a gunshot he heard both through the ear piece and through a broken window of the main entrance hall of the mansion. Jason froze. Gordon and Bruce were talking now and neither of them sounded like they were in pain, which means Scarecrow likely just shot Robin. Something in Jason broke loose, something he hadn't felt in a long time. An urge to protect someone. He knew full well Tim Drake could hold his own in a fight and he'd tested that himself on several occasions. But the fact a Robin was just shot so someone could prove a point? He didn't care who it was- the son of a bitch would pay for that. Jason sprinted toward the mansion, taking the steps two a time and running a thermal scan of the entrance hall. There were only four people on the screen: Gordon, Bruce, Tim and Scarecrow. He was about the kick the door in when he heard Scarecrow's voice, full of surprise and amusement. "Wayne? Bruce Wayne?" He was too late; he hadn't made it in time to stop Scarecrow from broadcasting Batman's identity to the world. Had he not panicked when he'd seen the Intensive Treatment building, maybe... With an anguished groan, he slid down the door and buried his head in his hands. But he heard Bruce's voice in his head, from when he was much younger and worrying too much about things outside of his control. What-if's don't help people, Jay-lad. Focus on what you can control. He opened his eyes and stared at the Intensive Treatment building, resolve replacing the panic. He could still stop this- he could still stop Scarecrow from killing Bruce, Tim or Commissioner Gordon. Jason stood and brought up an old floor plan of the building in his HUD as Scarecrow continued talking. "Now the world can see you for what you truly are. A legend laid bare. Powerless. Human. Afraid." He heard Bruce moan in pain after the telltale hiss of Scarecrow's injection delivery system pumped him full of the liquid fear toxin. He had to get in there as soon as possible if he was going to get them out alive. But he couldn't barge in the front door and risk Scarecrow shooting any of them just because he could. There was an old service entrance to the kitchen around back that he could use to gain entrance. He made his way around back through a maze of tangled shrubs, broken shutters and fallen bricks, listening to Scarecrow drone on to his live audience about fear and how necessary it is, and how useless Batman was now that he'd been unmasked. No wonder he'd been so insistent on killing Batman before their plan really got off the ground- the man talked constantly. Jason broke the lock on the door and carefully made his way in, listening as Scarecrow continued taunting Bruce, this time about his friends being hunted down and killed for his actions as Batman. It wasn't Bruce's reply that made his blood run cold, but the laughter that followed it. That cackle, the way it made his skin crawl and the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It sounded just like the Joker. Jason rushed to the sink and retched, the sound of that laughter too much to bear. His heart pounding in his ears muffled the sound of Bruce being injected with another dose of toxin. He struggled to breathe normally, growing lightheaded as he began to hyperventilate. He could hear Scarecrow getting angry that Bruce wasn't playing along anymore and Jason knew he didn't have much time left to intervene. He turned and studied the floor plan, following the maze-like hallways until they opened up into the rear of the main entrance hall. He stuck to the shadows and made his way toward the light thrown off by the bank of television monitors mounted against the eastern wall. Bruce was strapped to a gurney that was tilted upright, Gordon knelt on the floor next to an unconscious Robin, and Scarecrow was grandstanding in front of a lone camera. Jason watched in horror as Scarecrow turned from the camera and injected Bruce a third time. He chambered a round in his rifle and lined up his shot, but hesitated when he heard Bruce speak. "I'm not afraid, Crane." Scarecrow stepped back as if he'd been slapped, drawing a gun from his waistband and holding the barrel against Bruce's forehead. Now or never, Jason. Show him you're still here. Jason shouldered the rifle and looked down the scope, the laser sight landing on the gun in Scarecrow's left hand. One shot sent the gun flying. The second shot broke the restraint holding Bruce's arm. Bruce grabbed Scarecrow's wrist as he was going to inject him again, wrenching it around and forcing the maximum dose into Scarecrow's chest. "What's wrong? Scared?" Bruce towered over Scarecrow as the toxin took effect and as he let him go, Jason could see the panic on Scarecrow's face even from his vantage point. Scarecrow stumbled backwards, right into Gordon's fist, and wound up unconscious on the floor. Bruce looked up from where the shots were fired, immediately finding Jason's position. Jason froze, not knowing what to do or say. All he could manage was a nod. I'm late, but I'm here. For everything he'd been through tonight, Bruce managed a small smile and a nod in return. I knew you would be. With that, Bruce crouched next to Gordon and Tim. As Jason turned to leave, he heard Gordon tell Bruce that Tim would be okay. He made his way back out the way he entered and stood at the fence, looking out into the bay and back at the lights of the city. The skies were clearing and he could see the first signs of dawn off in the distance. "Are you going to be alright?" He startled when Bruce's voice came through his ear piece. That meant he was wearing the cowl again. Jason chewed his lip for a moment. "I really don't know." There was a pause and Jason could hear the jet approaching the other side of the island. He turned and watched Batman grapple up into the cockpit. "When all of this settles, whenever that may be, I'd like to talk. If that's okay with you." Jason's eyes watered and he swallowed hard before he answered. The jet hovered over the north end of the island and Jason would be money Bruce was scanning to see where he was. "I.. I'll be around. You'll know where to reach me." The jet banked and headed off toward the Manor, not back into the city. "I left something for you in our usual spot." Jason turned and began the trek back across the island, giving the Intensive Treatment building a wide berth. "The keys to the Bentley?" He could feel Bruce's eye roll through the comm link. "Information. Resources. Something to help you settle into life again." Jason stopped next to his motorcycle and shook his head. "When the hell did you have time to do that?" Bruce answered without missing a beat. "I have a butler, remember?" The link clicked off and Jason got on his bike, heading back into the city. He had some things to take care of before he went back to his safe house, mainly rounding up straggling members of the militia for the GCPD. Then he'd make a stop by the Gotham Knights baseball stadium, where they used to watch ballgames every Saturday, and see what Bruce left for him. He had no idea what his future looked like or what it had in store for him, but the very fact he was planning for one meant he was headed in the right direction. For the second time that night, he allowed himself to hope. And that felt pretty good.

[harley-sunday]

I and Love and You

Request by anon: Hi hun, could you do a Mouse x reader where they have been dating for a while,m. The reader works at Med and is a really good doctor and the reader and Mouse are just constantly being impressed by each other’s abilities and loads of fluff?? Thanks ❤️

Pairing: Greg ‘Mouse’ Gerwitz x reader

Warnings: slight language

AN: I somehow ended up with a couple of angst drabbles, but decided to add in some fluff to balance it out, so it’s kind of like 4 stories for the price of 1. Enjoy!

One.

Curled up on the couch you are enjoying a glass of red while flipping through a magazine you picked up at the gas station earlier. You have just finished reading your horoscope - ‘Good fortune is on your path’- when you hear the front door open. You tilt your head up, and before you know it he’s standing behind you, giving you a quick kiss, “Hey,”

He sounds off and your heart drops a little, knowing how his job sometimes gets the better of him. You toss the magazine aside and rest your feet on the coffee table, grabbing one of the pillows beside you, putting it in your lap. You pad the fabric gently, “Come on,”

Mouse nods and takes off his jacket before he lies down beside you, his head hitting the pillow softly. He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes.

You gently stroke his hair away from his face, “You want to talk about it?”

He lets out another sigh, eyebrows knitting together and your thumb traces them, trying to smooth out the tension. His left hand finds yours and he drapes your arms across his stomach, intertwining his fingers with yours, “We caught a dirty cop today.”

You gently squeeze his hand, waiting for him to continue.

“He worked over at the 15th district, so we didn’t really know him, and he did some really bad things, babe,” he hesitates for a moment, “but it still feels like I ratted him out.” He takes a deep breath before he continues, eyes still closed, “They had me search his laptop and I found some emails hidden on a backup server that tied him to the case, but I don’t know-”

“Hey,” your hand rests on his forehead, thumb gently stroking the bridge of his nose, “You don’t get to feel bad about this, Greg, this was all on him. You should be proud of yourself, you helped put away some fucker who doesn’t deserve to be a cop, because you, my love, are awesome at what you do.”

He opens his eyes and looks up at you, a smile forming on his lips, “God, I love you.”

==

Two.

The tears have dried somewhat when you walk up to the front door but you still take a few deep breaths while you go through your purse, trying to find your keys. Your hand shakes a little when you open the front door and you silently curse yourself. You kick off your shoes and hang your jacket before you walk into the kitchen where you find Mouse making dinner.

“Hey babe,” he says without looking up from the vegetables he’s cutting, head bobbing up and down in tune with the song he’s listening to.

You try to say something but only a sob comes out and you quickly cover your mouth with your hands, hoping he hasn’t heard it. But of course he has and you see him put down the knife, wiping his hands on the towel as he turns around, worry spreading across his face when he sees you. His shoulders drop a little and he holds out his arms without saying anything.

You walk into his embrace and let him envelope you in a hug, your arms thrown around his waist.

He gently kisses your forehead and quietly whispers, “I love you,”

You try but fail to hold back the tears and you bunch up the fabric of his sweater in your hands, holding onto him as if your life depends on it, letting the sobs roll out of you.

You don’t know how long you’ve stood there, crying, Mouse holding you, but eventually you calm down and it’s in between sobs you tell him what happened, “I lost,” you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, “I lost a patient today, and I,”

“Oh babe,” he breathes, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

You try to continue, but a fresh set of tears is brought on by having said those words out loud and you bury your head in his chest again, his tear-stained sweater wet against your cheeks.

Mouse tightens his hold on you and softly speaks, “You are an amazing doctor, darling, please don’t ever doubt that. Every day you go to work and what do you do? You save lives.” He kisses your temple and holds you even tighter, “You are fucking amazing, don’t ever forget that. And I couldn’t love you more.”

==

Three.

“Hi Trudy,” you say as you walk up the desk sergeant.

“(Y/N),” she says and smiles, “Good to see you again. You here to pick up Mouse?”

You nod, “Yeah,”

“I haven’t seen him down here yet, you want me to buzz you up?”

“Can you?” you ask, unsure whether this is a good idea because in the two years you have been dating you’ve never been upstairs before.

“Of course!” she beams, but it’s then she leans over her desk and whispers, “Voight and the rest of the team are out, so this is just between you and me, ok?”

You nod, too stunned to say anything. When you reach the gate halfway up the stairs you hear a buzzing sound and you open it, but not before you turn back, “Thank you!

“Sure thing, kid.”

Your heart’s beating a little faster than usual and you feel giddy, like you are trespassing. Coming to the top of the stairs you are met with a seemingly empty room filled with desks, filing cabinets and whiteboards. Across from you is what looks to be Voight’s office, but it’s empty too.

“Babe?”

You jump a little and clutch your hand to your chest, “Oh Jesus,” Your head turns to your right and its then you see your boyfriend, sitting behind a desk that is hidden away behind a large filing cabinet.

Mouse lets out a chuckle, “What are you doing here?” He gets up from behind his desk and walks over to you, giving you a kiss.

“I came to pick you up,” you say, smiling into the kiss, “we’re going on a date, remember?”

“Oh shit,” Mouse silently curses as he pulls back, hand running through his hair.

You cock an eyebrow at him, ���You forgot, didn’t you?” You smile to let him know you’re not mad, after all you know how busy he’s been, coming home late and leaving early for the last week or so.

He nods slowly, “I’m sorry, babe.”

You shrug, “It’s ok, we can reschedule.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” you say, hoping to convince him, not wanting him to feel guilty about it. You look around the room, “How long are they gone for?

He looks at you, confused, “The rest of the night, probably. Why?”

“Well,” you say, smiling, “why don’t I get us something to eat and then we’ll just have dinner here? That way I know you’ll at least get some food in you and I get to watch you do your sexy hacker thing.”

“Sexy hacker thing, huh?” he counters with a grin.

You bat your eyelashes at him, “Hmhm,”

He laughs and pulls you in for a hug, kissing your forehead, “You are the best girlfriend ever.”

You nod, “It’s why you love me.”

==

Four.

“And the Elizabeth Blackwell Medal, awarded to those who have made the most outstanding contributions to the cause of women in the field of medicine, goes to,” the presenter opens the envelope and smiles, “Doctor (Y/L/N) of Gaffney Chicago Medical Center.”

You gasp and stand up as the room erupts in applause. You turn to your right where Mouse presses a kiss to your lips and slaps your butt to get you going, nodding towards the stage, “Go get ‘em, babe,”

In any other situation you would have bitten his head off for this type of PDA but you are too dazed to say anything. As you make your way to the stage you hear him yell out his support from where you were seated.

“Yes! That’s my girl!”

You turn around and throw him a look, but you can’t help but smile when you see him standing there, clapping, a giant smile on his face.

“Yeah babe, you won! I’m so proud of you!”

You shake your head, but can’t help but chuckle. You are congratulated by several colleagues as you cross the room and you are met by the presenter’s outstretched hand, helping you get on stage without tripping on the stairs.

He hands you the box that holds the medal and speaks into the microphone again, “Doctor (Y/L/N), everybody!”

The applause returns and you smile at the few photographers who are gathered in front of the stage before you carefully place the box on the microphone podium stand and clear your throat, silently thanking Mouse for making your write a speech because he was so certain you would win tonight.

“Thank you,” you say, and the room grows silent. You let your eyes wander across the room for a moment, before they settle on your boyfriend, who’s still standing up, beaming with pride. You smile and start your speech, your eyes never leaving Mouse’s while you thank those who need to be thanked and remind everyone that women can do everything men can, if not better.

“And finally,” you say, watching as Mouse looks confused because the speech you rehearsed does not end with ‘and finally’. You feel your smile grow wider as you continue, “I would like to thank my boyfriend, Greg, who has been my rock through all of this. I couldn’t have done it without you, babe,” you say as you throw him a wink and pick up your medal, your eyes still not leaving his, “I love you.”

[fioxis]

Price for everything

Take this poopy, 895 worded fic about my take on what happened to the Author.

As the Author bled out on the floor, he grit his teeth, hand shaking as he struggled to write something on the floorboards with his own blood. The pain from his stomach was intense, he almost wanted to scream but he bit them down and concentrated on his primary objective. The letters he wrote were crooked but he persevered and grinned triumphantly as his message was completed.

“The Author cannot die” was written on the floorboards.

Everything stood still for a moment before it all went black.

“There is a price for everything.”

When he awoke, the pain from his stomach was gone but what replaced it was a whole other pain, an intense migraine that made him bite his lip until it bled. ‘It hurts It hurts It hurts It hurts—’ He couldn’t stop the blood curling scream that ripped through his throat as the pain intensified. He rolled over onto his back and pressed his shaky hands against his face, as if he could stop the overwhelming pain. As his hands touched his face, he noticed something wet flowing against his cheeks. He slowly inched his fingers upward, when suddenly his fingers sunk into empty space.

…

Right where his eyes should be.

This time the Author screamed not because of pain but because of horror.

“WH-WHERE ARE MY EYES—WH-WHERE—!” He screamed once again and his breath came in short pants. He was hyperventilating. He needed to calm down, to assess what the fuck happened to him but he couldn’t, the overwhelming combination of fear and pain stopped him from having any coherent thoughts. He pressed his palms against his empty eye sockets, covering them, but it didn’t stop the blood from flowing. The Author could feel it dampen his shirt and stick to his hands. Coppery blood was all he could taste and he could faintly hear screaming in the background.

Oh.

That was him.

His throat ached as he continued screaming, blood profusely flowing from his cheeks. He forced himself to stop and slowly his screams died out until he was just left whimpering on the floor.

The Author was shaking in pain, its intensity was double that of a bullet to the stomach and he just wanted it to stop. “Stopstopstopstop—mAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY PLEASE. D-DOC, DOC HELP ME—FFFUCK!” He shouted in desperation, pressing his palms harder against his eye sockets as if the action would make the pain go away. “D-DOC HELP ME—PLEASE S-SOMEONE—” He shouted once again and he felt something inside of him flicker, like the feeling he felt when he wrote his stories.

The power.

Dr. Iplier was having a wonderfully boring day, barely anyone visited him today and it was glorious. He stretched in his office chair, yawning loudly. He contemplated closing the clinic early but the decision was already given to him when he heard a loud thud that made him jump in surprise. “What?” The doctor peered from over his desk to where the sound came from to see the Author crumpled on the floor with his back turned to him. “A-Author?!” He exclaimed in surprise, walking around his desk to go to the other ego. The doctor choked when he saw the blood. He immediately kneeled and put a hand on the Author’s shaking shoulder. “W-What happened to you?” Dr. Iplier asked worriedly. The Author only grit his teeth in response, hands still covering his blood soaked face. The doctor was horrified to see that the blood was still flowing, it was now dripping onto the wooden floors of his office. He quickly stood to get a med kit from his desk and knelt back down beside the Author.

“Please remove your hands, Author.”

“I-I—F-FUCK IT HURTS DOC!” The Author burst out. “I-IT HURTS SO MUCH!”

The doctor was shaken by the pain in his voice, he put a hand on the Author’s shoulders. “Its gonna be okay, Author. I’ll make the pain go away.” He said gently. The Author sat there shaking for a moment before he finally removed his hands from his face.

A gasp caught in Dr. Iplier’s throat as he saw the black empty sockets of what was once there. His hands began trembling in horror as he shakily touched the Author’s bloodied cheek. He wanted to ask what happened but there was a much more important thing that he needed to do.

He opened his med kit and set to work.

His lab coat was stained in blood by the time he was done.

The Author sat trembling on the floor, back leaning against the doctor’s desk. He was quiet, which unnerved the doctor since loudness was something he attributed to the Author. But the silence was understandable. No doubt about it that the Author was traumatized by whatever had caused his eyes to be… removed. The doctor certainly was.

The Author’s face was clean of blood and his… injury covered by a thick layer of bandages. He sat there, limp, as Dr. Iplier watched him.

“What… What happened Author?”

The Author tensed before he slowly relaxed again.

“…there is a price for everything.” He whispered and if the doctor wasn’t listening so intently he might’ve missed it.

“..what?” He asked, bemused.

But the Author was silent.

He was silent for a long time.