#I thought I could raw dog my mental health but I was wrong | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ppersonna · 5 years ago

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i’ll float away - myg | m

they show you how to swim, then they throw you in the deep end. what if I don’t float? - float, the neighborhood.

↳ summary- years after the breakup, yoongi, a successful award-winning rapper with an unhealthy addiction, finds your wedding invite on Facebook.

↳ rating- explicit/18+

↳ word count- 12.6k

↳ pairing- yoongi x reader

↳ genre- idol!au, postbreakup!au, very heavy angst, smut, fluff

↳ warnings- discussions of drugs and death, penetrative sex, oral sex (m/f receiving), creampie, dirty talk, min yoongi being a mental health king

↳ a.n- hi everyone! some of you may recognize this fic. this fic is my baby. i went through and edited it a little more and put all the chapters together to make it a one shot. i think it flows better that way! i hope you enjoy this. this fic means so so so much to me and while it’s heavy, i hope you enjoy the ride it will take you on. this fic got me back into writing and i will forever be thankful for that.

↳ this fic contains adult content, such as drug use, discussions of suicide, accidental overdose, discussions of drugs and addictions. while this is not romanticized, or idolized, it is discussed. please take care of yourself and proceed with caution. 18+ | discretion is advised.

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt numb.

Yoongi always felt numb, but this felt different, wrong. Like he was falling and had no ledge to grip.

It felt as if the world had stopped on its axis, and at any moment, gravity would turn off and he would just float, float away to nothingness.

There was no sound. Everything existed in silence.

His fingers couldn’t move. Eyes were glued to his phone screen where he stared at the wedding invite on fucking Facebook.

He wasn’t even sure why he was seeing it, considering you had blocked him on nearly every form of social media. Likely it was from your family, someone that still kept him around despite a million reasons not to.

It felt like centuries before Yoongi noticed his heartbeat again. And when it did, it hurt. It threatened to break his ribs, tear through muscle and sinew, erupt from the skin to go, get away, run run run from this.

The numbness was gone. Now all he felt was the pain.

Yoongi felt like his every cell, every fiber, was burning. Perhaps, they were mourning.

Perhaps, they were dying.

Water dripped onto his phone and it took him a few stunted breaths to realize the water was coming from him, pouring from his eyes like open wounds.

The numb silence surrounding him left him, and now he was too alert, too aware. The sounds hit him like a tidal wave.

His body was reacting years before his brain could catch up. He could hear himself crying, choking on his sobs, and at first, it didn’t register as his own voice wailing your name.

And then emotion erupted and smashed into his psyche, nothing standing in his way to protect him.

He was heartbroken.

He had felt nothing in years, refused to face the sorrowful demons lurking around him. It was easier to hide, to run. It terrified him to think of what would happen if he allowed himself a chance to feel again. He didn’t think he would make it out alive.

Alive.

Was he? Had he been living since that day? He wasn’t sure. He breathed, ate, drank, fucked, but he wasn’t positive he was alive at all.

Living? Sure. Existing? Yes. But alive, he couldn’t determine.

Now that he could feel every ounce of pain, his body accepted it tenfold. His throat felt angry and raw. He must be screaming—he thought. His fingers pricked with pins and needles as if they hadn’t moved an inch since the day he last touched you, refusing to believe you were gone. His arms wrapped around his own chest as his body wracked with sobs.

Yoongi hadn’t cried in years. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry, hadn’t given permission to his mind to even think about it. Surely, once he started, he was confident he would never stop.

His mind reeled. He was only half aware of where he was, what he was doing. It wasn’t until he felt his legs moving, feet shuffling to his nightstand, that he realized what was happening.

He didn’t want to feel. His mind, in an effort to protect, to avoid, was doing the only thing Yoongi knew to do.

He grabbed the bottle of Oxy’s, poured out a handful and contemplated swallowing them.

He didn’t think he wanted to die. To be frank, he felt he was already living in purgatory. He just wanted it to stop, to end, to retreat into nothingness and stop fucking crying.

Swallowing them wouldn’t do. He would fall asleep, and likely stop breathing. Too much. He couldn’t die. He knew in his mind he would feel too guilty to die. He didn’t want death; he merely wanted respite, sanctuary.

He could continue surviving as long as his nerves dulled and frayed, mind sticky and hazy. Exist. Don’t feel.

With skilled hands and tools, Yoongi crushed some pills into a fine powder and sat on his bed to arrange the drug into 4 lines.

He always felt better this way.

He would add a line of coke had his situation been different. It was his go-to, enough to keep himself present, to do what he needed to get through the day while still feeling dissolved. Sing, dance, record, smile for the cameras, sign for the screaming girls, plaster on that boyish smile, repeat.

He just wanted to sleep.

His body worked on auto-pilot. Yoongi was sure he was still heaving with sobs. He could feel his chest shaking, and his hands were unsteady.

You were getting married.

One bump. Inhale. Hold it. Don’t think. Breathe.

Someone else was holding you, smiling as bright as your future. Handsome. Kind. Family man.

Alive.

Second bump. Inhale. Don’t let it go. Breathe.

He imagined your hands on someone else’s body, your voice crying out in throes of passion in someone else’s ear. Whispering someone else’s name as you succumbed to your climax.

Third bump, then straight to the fourth without stopping. It burned as it passed through his nostrils, straight to his bloodstream.

Children, a home and a dog. Family dinner. Movies, laughter. All of them without him. An outsider staring in through the window, wondering what it could feel like to be within; wondered what it was like to get what he wanted.

Yoongi leaned back on his bed, feeling the slow, syrupy wave wash over him.

‘Please, take it away’ he pleaded silently as if the drug were his doctor, his therapist. It was, in many ways. ‘I’m not strong enough.’

His eyes drooped and felt like lead. He was tired. So tired. He could feel his sobs slow, before ending in quiet little whimpers and sighs. His breathing mellowed, and he felt his chest deflate for what felt like hours before his lungs pulled in harshly more air.

He ached but felt as if someone had pulled a blanket over him, over his tortured heart and crumbling brain. No more thinking, just sleep. Can’t feel, can’t cry, don’t want to face it.

Sleep.

Warmth.

Warmth surrounded him. It felt as if he were napping in the shady grass during summer. Warm and comforting.

You were there, in the meadow of his imagination. You were walking to him, a white dress and pretty flowers. Yoongi felt his heart tug at every artery in his body, as if begging him to stop, heel, resist, don’t go.

“Yoongi,” You called across the valley. Your dulcet voice rang through his head as if you spoke directly to his mind.

“Where are you?” You asked.

In a blink, you were in front of him. Your eyes were searching for him, even though he stood inches away.

He opened his mouth to beckon you, but no words came out. He was desperate to call out to you, embrace you. He strained to move his hand. He wanted to touch your cheek, feel real and alive again. His body would not respond.

“Yoongi, go!” You pleaded, eyes filling with tears, still seeking the male. “You can’t be here!”

His body stung, wincing at your words and aching at your distress.

“Yoongi, you need to wake up!”

The warmth faded.

It felt as if something had ripped his comfort blanket from him, exposing his body to the harsh chill of reality.

He could sense he was in a bed, and the lights were bright, so bright. He tried to open his eyes and groaned as the halogen pierced through his skull.

“Yoongi?! Oh my god, he’s waking up!” Distressed voices were too loud all around him, and he felt pokes and prods and beeping of machines.

“Ow-… loud.” His voice was rough as if he hadn’t used it in days.

Yoongi felt more acutely aware of his body as he struggled to wake up. He was so nauseated, stomach churning ferociously, even though he hadn’t eaten since… how long? He wasn’t sure. He wanted to vomit.

He wanted to sleep.

He lifted his eyes again and peered through the harsh lighting. His best friend Hoseok stood over him, along with Namjoon, his manager, and Jimin, his assistant.

Hoseok had tears in his eyes, and the sight made Yoongi wince with grief. Hobi hadn’t cried since high school when he got cut from the dance team. Something awful must have happened.

“Hobi…,” he murmured, coughing to clear his throat. “What happened? What’s going on?”

Adjusted to the light, Yoongi finally glanced at his surroundings and took stock of his environment.

He was in a hospital; he was the patient. An IV was stuck in the crook of his arm, his skin ghostly pale, enormous bags of saline attached overhead. He felt faint.

How had this happened? Did he hurt himself at practice? Was there a car accident? Yoongi could remember driving home from the dance studio but felt foggy about anything else. He didn’t even know what day it was.

His friends blanched at Yoongi’s questioning, side-eying each other. Who would have to be the one to tell him?

Hoseok’s eyes flooded with tears again as he looked at the rapper and spoke. “Yoongi… you-… you OD’d.”

The words hit him like an oncoming train.

Overdose.

It had never happened to him before.

He nearly died.

He had, unfortunately, been in the game long enough to watch it happen to others. Some were lucky to make it out okay, most weren’t.

It all flashed painfully in his mind as it all flooded back.

You. Marriage. OxyContin.

Inhale. Don’t breathe. Don’t feel.

“Oh, my god.”

Hoseok let out a soft sob. “Jimin found you in your bed. Thank god you keep Narcan.”

Yoongi turned to glance at the gentle, pink-haired boy who had already done so much for him. Yoongi felt wrecked, utterly guilty for putting him in such a situation. How many times had Yoongi had to force a needle into a friend’s thigh, watch as their pinpoint pupils widened and lungs gasped for air as their synapses released? Too many. Each time kept him awake all night and petrified for months. He regularly kept the overdose reversal drug on him, in the studio, in his home.

“Jimin,” he croaked, his own eyes filling with tears. “I’m s-so fucking sorry.”

Jimin couldn’t hold back the tears in his eyes anymore. “It’s okay, Yoongs.” Jimin’s voice was quiet, trembling.

Yoongi felt the tears slip down his cheeks at his best friends and team. He had put so much on them. So much.

“You saved my life, Jimin.” Yoongi’s quiet voice made the assistant cry more.

“You’d do it for me.” He whispered through tears as he pushed forward and fell into Yoongi’s chest, holding the rapper close. “Let’s just… get better, y-yeah?”

The rapper’s heart seized up.

Better.

What was better? Surely, Jimin meant rehab. Sobriety. Meetings and sponsors.

To Yoongi, it meant feeling. It screamed hurting. It oozed heartbreak.

When Yoongi had been introduced to drugs at the beginning of his rap career, it had been fun and sexy. They used coke at the hottest parties, weed at all the clubs, acid at the raves. Yoongi sampled each like a buffet, found out which made him feel lightheaded and loose, which made him dizzy, which made him ache.

The drugs led to the girls. So many women begging for him. The cloudy haze of his mind found it hard to resist, even knowing you were still his, still waiting for him as you and he promised with thin silver bands symbolizing your shared devotion and dedication.

Therefore, drugs led to regret.

He left you. Days before your wedding. He exposed all of his misdeeds, his infidelity, his vices. He had promised you after he was famous, rich, well known that he would come back to you, start a family with you.

Instead, he turned away and left.

It was easier to avoid it all and leave; he rationalized. Seeing your heartbreak had been his undoing.

After the breakup, Yoongi self-medicated daily. He stuck with opiates and cocaine, finding it just the right combination to get him pleasantly numb from the guilt and loss of you while giving him the euphoric high he needed as a rising star rapper.

He had tried to keep it to himself as long as he could. Hoseok knew about the recreational use but hadn’t realized the extent of the problem until he found Yoongi too high to function, slumped in a chair in the recording studio.

Hoseok told Namjoon, his manager, who interrogated Yoongi’s assistant, Jimin. None had known quite how far Yoongi had spiraled down. And none had an idea to pull him out.

Yoongi didn’t want to go to rehab. He didn’t want the forced positivity. Group therapy. Social workers discussing ‘goals’ and ‘treatment plans’. He would risk his reputation. He was now a top-earning Grammy-winning artist. He was fucking Agust D. He couldn’t be just another celebrity who ended up in rehab. It would ruin everything he built. He could do it himself, fix his problems alone as he always had.

“Yeah.” Yoongi croaked to his assistant. “I’ll get better.” His smile was weak, and probably unconvincing to the three men who knew him best.

As Namjoon opened his mouth to speak, a knock sounded at the door of his room. Yoongi’s brow furrowed in confusion. He did not know who it could be, the three people he interacted with most already present. His accountant? Wouldn’t seem likely. A fan? Definitely unlikely, Jimin and Namjoon had likely taken major strides to ensure his privacy and ask the hospital to provide security. Was it… you? Yoongi stopped breathing at the thought.

Namjoon strode to the door and opened it a crack, peering out. Yoongi couldn’t see who the manager was whispering too, but moments later watched as the door swung open.

It wasn’t you. He felt relief. He wouldn’t have been able to look at you. But the guest was only slightly better.

Your mother.

The matronly woman’s eyes were full of tears. Yoongi’s mother had been your mother’s best friend from childhood, to the very day Yoongi’s mother passed away from breast cancer. Yoongi had been 17, void of any motherly contact at such an impressionable age.

Your mother had stepped in, no doubt or worry in her mind about caring for the teen. He was already such good friends with you and she even encouraged and supported the underlying feelings the two had for each other. Yoongi became family and nearly a son-in-law.

Even after the breakup, after breaking your heart and leaving you at the altar, your mom still kept in contact with him. She still reached out, celebrated his achievements and ensured he was well. She was the picture of forgiveness and compassion.

Yoongi crumbled at the sight of her, suddenly feeling like a teenager again, and sobbed as she moved forward quickly to embrace him. Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin stepped outside to allow privacy and Yoongi clung to the only mother figure he had.

“I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry.” He bawled.

He didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for. For hurting you? For avoiding her and the entire realm of anything concerning you? For almost killing himself? Maybe a mix of it all.

His chest hurt, god it hurt so bad. It felt as if all ribs snapped from the crushing weight of his sorrow and guilt.

Her hand smoothed his hair, mint-colored now, and held his face to her neck and cried with him.

“Shh,” She soothed. “It’s okay, little lion.”

Yoongi cried harder at the childhood nickname from his deceased mother that followed him to adulthood with the woman holding him.

Yoongi couldn’t stop crying. It wouldn’t end. It felt like an endless river, a torrential storm that never passed. He felt raw, ripped from the inside out.

“You’re alive, Yoongi.” She whispered and kissed his forehead. “You’re still here. I love you.”

He wasn’t sure what he had done in a past life to deserve this kindness and unconditional love. Yoongi knew he didn’t deserve it, especially not from the mother of the girl he loved and broke completely. Not from the woman who he promised to make a grandmother, only to turn away and leave destruction in his wake.

“She’s getting married,” He choked out, the pain in his chest overwhelming him at his own words, so consuming he felt devoid of air. He gasped, struggling to breathe at all. “T-that should be me.”

She sensed this and squeezed her eyes tighter, hugging the boy closer to her as sobs wrecked his tired, thin body.

“I know, love.” She whispered. “I know.” She had no words to quell the heartbreak, just as she had many years ago when you laid across her lap, crying over the boy you loved completely. Words wouldn’t fix the wounds. She could only provide comfort; a band-aid on a bullet hole.

Yoongi allowed himself to sob, fully cry until he felt he might pass out. She held him, rocked him like a child, whispered words of comfort as his breathing eventually slowed and even out. His sobs turned to sniffles, and though he stopped crying, his eyes remained glassy and broken.

He had stopped crying; he noticed. The tears had stopped flowing, the thick pleas escaping his throat dried. But he hadn’t stopped the hurt. It felt as though the hurt was a gaping, infected, open sore that would never heal. He could hide it from the world, cover it up for none to see, but he couldn’t ignore the sting or the pain with every breath.

Yoongi steeled himself to look into the eyes of his comforter, preparing himself for the look of pity or disappointment in her look.

He bit back another cry as he only found compassion, comfort and unconditional love in her gaze. He didn’t deserve her.

“Please, don’t tell her,” he pleaded. “I can’t…,” he gulped. “I can’t let her know about this.”

She grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” She sighed, stroking her fingers through his mint colored hair. “She wanted to come to see you, too.” Yoongi groaned and felt his heart clench. “I told her it wasn’t the best idea.” She murmured. Yoongi was suddenly comforted and struck by how very much he did not deserve the grace of this woman.

“Fuck,” he sighed. “She thought I was clean. That was the last thing I told her.”

He recalled the last time you two had spoken when he promised to get clean. Instead, he had left and spent the next few years in a haze.

“I think you should talk to her,” she admitted. “Not now. Not until you feel better, but she was distraught at the news.”

The idea of seeing you again plowed through him like a freight train.

“Sure,” he whispered. He couldn’t understand why you’d be concerned. You had swung choice words at him as he left, insults he deserved. “Maybe.”

Yoongi spent more time with his mother figure, comforting him and whispering sweet revelations and promises to keep in touch before his doctor interrupted and encouraged Yoongi to get rest without distraction.

Soon enough, he was alone again. Stuck in the too bright, too white, sterile room he had landed himself in because of his grief.

His attention diverted between the discomfort of his withdrawal and the gaping wound of having to see you again.

Even if he made it out sober, withdrawal free, he wasn’t sure he would make it out for long.

He tried to stay away, stay clean. He managed for a few weeks, immersing himself in writing an album and using his creative expression to medicate his wounds. And it worked.

Until it didn’t.

It started with the marijuana. He couldn’t resist the way it helped soothe everything. Not just the pain, but the world around him. He could sink into his bed, write away his feelings and worries, and relish in the sensation of absolutely nothing.

That lasted for a few weeks. He’d try to smoke every day, but the darkness continued to creep up, wrapping around his throat like a vice.

He demanded his schedule to get busier, to get tighter, despite the warnings from Namjoon. He insisted on shows, award dinners, radio interviews, everything. If he was busy, he wouldn’t think about you. He could survive another day if you weren’t the first thing on his mind.

That’s when the cocaine started again.

It helped him muster the energy he needed to plaster on Agust D, rapper extraordinaire. He could sing, rap, dance, wink at the girls, sign the scantily clad flesh, throw back a shot of vodka and charm the press.

A few lines of coke every few hours pushed him forward, and towards his end.

But he was handling it. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he working, being successful, making money? He was rich. He was famous. He was beloved. He was shining.

Did it even fucking matter?

The shine made his shadow darker. It made his fall from grace longer, more painful.

It didn’t fucking matter.

Yoongi found himself at the corner of the park, the same one you two had grown up playing in. It was in the center of the neighborhood you two lived. It was where he first chased you around the swings, laughed with you over comics at the picnic table, and fucked you for the first time in the parking lot in the backseat of his car.

He couldn’t stop the memories rolling over him like a boulder, crushing his lungs and threatening to snap his bones into nothing more than dust.

It stunted his breath. He felt as if pulling in a full intake of air was impossible.

He finally sucked up his faux courage and scheduled a time to meet you here at this park. The park that held such significance to both of you.

If he thought it was hard to breathe at the memories of the park, it was even worse when you walked towards him, and planted your feet in front of him.

There was nothing. Stillness. Absolute silence as you both felt as if the barometric pressure dropped around your vicinity. A vacuum. Nothing but you two, and so much hurt it was palpable.

“Y-You’re getting married-..” Yoongi broke the silence, voice dry and quiet. He wanted to say more, but couldn’t. He couldn’t look anywhere but his feet. Didn’t want to see a ring around your finger that wasn’t from him.

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “Yeah, I am.”

Yoongi couldn’t look at you, couldn’t look you in your eyes. It was too much. Too painful. Those eyes used to look at him with so much love, so much pride. He couldn’t bear to see what you held in them now.

“Great, that is great,” his voice was flat. “Happy for you. I hope it goes well.”

You cringed and turned your face up to stare at the mint-haired boy. The man of your dreams. The one who took so much and left you with nothing.

“Hoseok told me what happened.”

Yoongi closed his eyes, as if blocking out the words. Fuck. Of course. You and Hoseok were still close; it was bound to happen.

His world now was so dark, so ugly. Yoongi couldn’t bear ruining you any more. You had been the iron rod and lamplight that led him through the darkness. You were his lifeline. Without you, all stability, all light, gone.

“Yeah,” was all he could muster, flickering up to look at you. You were staring back, eyes full of unshed tears.

Yoongi inhaled sharply, feeling each tear from your eyes as a knife to his chest. He hadn’t seen your eyes in so long. Staring at you was like leaving a hand on a burning stove.

“Are you still using?” You asked. Your words weren’t callous or cruel. You asked to gather information, to determine an opinion, not to pass judgement. Yoongi knew you meant no harm and found himself powerless to lie to you, anyway.

“Just…,” he let out a puff of air anxiously. “Yeah, sort of. Weed and some coke, I guess. Nothing else.” He rubbed his neck anxiously.

Your lips set in a line, and your eyes flicked back down, sadness washing over your features. He could feel it rolling off of you in waves, lumps building in his throat.

“I miss you,” He admitted, words tumbling out before he could catch himself. “So fucking much. I know this isn’t fair, and I know that I fucked up. I just miss you more than anything else in the world.”

At first, you laughed. Yoongi felt as if someone had punched him.

Then you cried. Yoongi felt as if he had been shot, point blank in the chest.

“You’re right, Yoongi. It isn’t fair,” You walked closer to him, a mix of grief and anger. “You ruined my fucking life.”

You pushed against his shoulder. “You left me at the fucking altar. You cheated on me.” The tears came faster down your cheeks. “Then, you almost fucking died. And my mom won’t stop crying. And I can’t stop crying, I fucking cry my eyes out because my wedding is in 2 months and I realize I will never get over you.”

Yoongi felt another shot, execution style, to the head. He couldn’t speak and watched your anger, accepting the jabs to his chest.

“I thought I was happy, Yoongi. I really thought I would get the wedding and life I wanted so badly, and you took it away from me. Twice!” You were sobbing, pushed even closer against him. “You almost fucking dying made me realize I don’t want that life with him. I want it with you, you fucking inconsiderate asshole!”

Yoongi couldn’t bring himself to speak. Any elation he might have had about hearing your revelation was quickly quelled by the fire of your anguish.

“And, now you’re still using and there’s no way I could even think about seeing you high. I love you so much and it fucking hurts me knowing you do that to yourself, accepting no sort of fucking help. You can’t do it all yourself, Min Yoongi, no matter how fucking great you think you are!”

He couldn’t reply. He had no words, nothing of value to add. You were right. He couldn’t find a single argument. Your body pressed so close to him and his body ached. It yearned to close the distance and feel your shape against his, slotting together so easily as you always had. It was magnetic. He could almost weep at how badly he needed to hold you, to feel you, to touch you again.

You watched him, unable to stop the flow of tears you promised you would never shed for him again. “Look at me.” You asked quietly.

Yoongi’s own red-rimmed eyes lifted to yours. He looked so broken. So raw. He was crying, years of built up sorrow pouring down his pale cheeks.

You closed the distance and pushed together your bodies, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your face against his neck. He smelled as he always did. Dove shampoo, Old Spice, laundry detergent. You knew Yoongi nearly down to his DNA.

You lifted your face level to his and pressed a kiss to his lips. He felt no heat in the kiss, no desire.

It felt final, resolute.

“Goodbye, Yoongi.” You whispered, pressing your forehead to his.

And you turned. And you left.

And another piece of Yoongi’s broken heart slipped away with you.

Yoongi avoided any semblance of routine. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t feel anything but ache. He saw you in everything he did.

He tried to stay away from the drugs. He sincerely did. He knew the risks. He knew he had nearly died.

But he could not bear to take the pain anymore. He could not continue fighting his very breath, forcing himself to breathe even though it hurt too much.

He was still standing on the outside of your world, so far away from you. It was so cold. He didn’t remember what warmth was. He didn’t think he deserved to remember, either.

It was easy to score a baggie of smack. Yoongi had plenty of money and connections. But Yoongi had never done heroin intravenously. He had smoked it with his old dealer, the first man he ever had to revive with Narcan. IV use scared him. But it was what he could get a hold of, and what he needed.

Tie off. Fill up. Inject. Hold it. Breathe. Don’t feel. Release.

It washed over him quickly, the same fuzzy warmth that started at his toes and slithered up to his head. It felt headier than snorting it, less of a slow rush, more of an instant dive into warmth. Comfort.

The knot in his stomach loosened. Yoongi relaxed against his pillows and inhaled deeply before exhaling. He could breathe again.

He was so sleepy. So tired. He could sleep again without the torment of his dreams. He could live again without feeling his shattered heart. No hurt. Only comfort.

His only love.

He wasn’t sure how long he slept for. He didn’t dream. He couldn’t recall if five minutes had passed or five days. His head pounded him back to reality as he woke, and he realized it was dark outside his bedroom.

His phone was still on his bedside table. He checked it and groaned. It was the next day, next evening really. He had slept over 24 hours. He felt like shit.

The nausea and the chills came soon after. He felt as if he was burning. He couldn’t stop puking, even with minimal content in his stomach to begin with. Sips of water would come back up. His fever got worse. He became so drenched in sweat he stripped his clothes and sat in a bath, hoping to sweat the fever out. It chilled him to the bone. He was so hot, and so fucking cold at the same time.

Yoongi cried as he held himself in the tub. He was alone. He was withdrawing. He wanted more, god he wanted to sleep and feel good again, didn’t want the sickness or the grief. It was so much. So fucking much.

His fingers danced along his phone, dialing your number out of habit, out of a need to hear you.

“Why are you calling me, Yoongi?” Your voice, flat, asked through the phone.

Yoongi croaked. His voice was hoarse due to disuse for over a day. “I fucked up, baby.”

Your heart clenched at the sound of the pet name. It had been so long. God, you had missed it so much. You missed him. You fucking hated him for it.

“Are you okay?” You asked, concern edging out the anger at his call.

“No,” he sighed, shivering and holding his knees to his chest. “I sh-shot up.”

He could not stop the whimper leaving his mouth. “I’m withdrawing. I w-want to keep using it, but I can’t!” Yoongi sobbed, openly weeping at the physical and emotional pain. “I’ll fucking die again. I don’t want to die. I love you.”

Tears poured down your face, heartbroken at his words and actions.

“Yoongi, where are you?”

Yoongi quickly replied. “I’m at home, in the bathtub. The front door is locked,” He whispered. “I don’t think I can stand.”

“I still uh… have my key.” You admitted. Yoongi felt his heart clench, unsure of what to make of that idea.

Yoongi remained in the bathtub, holding himself and shivering violently when you arrived on scene. Your heart, already so broken, shattered at the impact of seeing the love of your life and the cause of your heartbreak, suffering.

“Fuck,” you whispered, quickly grabbing towels and kneeling by the tub at his side. “Yoongs, let’s get you dry, okay? Can you stand with me?” You grasped his clammy arms and allowed him to use your weight to balance himself on shaky legs.

You were so gentle. So compassionate. Yoongi felt his resolve breaking, wanting nothing but to wrap you up and never let you go again, tell your future husband to fuck off and allow the rapper to take his rightful place.

With your help, Yoongi stood and allowed himself to be dried. He normally would have felt the stirrings of arousal at such an intimate gesture, but all he felt now was unbridled affection and overpowering guilt.

You led Yoongi to his bed, settling him on the soft surface while you moved to dig through his drawers for clothes.

“Don’t make me go to the hospital,” he pleaded softly. You stole a look back at him, at his words.

“Yoongi, you need to see someone. You’re not okay.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m… I’ll be okay. I’ve gone through the worst of it already.” He rubbed at his sweaty forehead. “Will you just stay with me? I’m so cold.” He shivered.

You glanced at the man on the bed. He was thin, so sickly thin. While he had always maintained a lean physique, it looked as if the rapper hadn’t eaten in weeks. His skin was sallow, paper white with bruises on his arms and legs that seemed onyx against his alabaster skin.

You weren’t sure you could argue with him, but he definitely appeared less ill for wear now that he was out of the bath and dry.

“Yoongs,…” you breathed, dropping the clothing in your hands. “Let me hold you.” All reservations were held back. The anger dissipated. You couldn’t fight the need to help him, to nurture and hold him.

You moved to tear your thick jacket off your frame and toe out of your shoes before making towards the bed. Together, you took hands and slid gently in between his sheets. Yoongi’s body was trembling. He didn’t know if it was from the withdrawal or his proximity to you.

You pulled the blanket up and over your bodies, pressing yours against his thin body. His skin was freezing, forcing out a shiver of your own.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, forehead leaning to press against yours. You didn’t reply, not sure you’d be able to form words.

You laid in a long, comfortable silence as your warm hands rubbed along Yoongi’s arms and back, willing the blood vessels in his body to expand and return his heat. His breathing was even now, but occasionally let out a groan. He couldn’t tell if it was a groan of pain, or of pleasure. Your hands on his skin felt like heaven and hell, wrapped in one.

Everything he loved and lost in one package.

Bringing him to life and sentencing him to death.

“I love you,” his voice was shaky, quiet.

You nodded, tears now easily slipping past your cheeks. “I love you too.” There was no use denying it. It was clear in the way you ran to him, in the way you held him tightly, as if he would disappear without you pressed up against him.

His lips found yours easily, as if magnetized. The kiss was slow, gentle. You felt your own tears slide down your cheeks and meet his own. Yoongi couldn’t help them, couldn’t help the simultaneous ache and burn of your touch again.

His hand slid to rest on your hip, underneath your shirt, pulling you even closer. The kiss deepened, tongues swirling in each other’s mouth, searching for each other in the only place you knew.

It didn’t take long for your shirt to come off, and Yoongi’s hands to slide down your hips to push at your jeans. This wasn’t passionate or steamy. It was broken, desperately seeking comfort in the solace of each other.

Once your clothing laid strewn across the floor, Yoongi wrapped his thin arms around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he could. He could feel your breasts press up against his chest and was positive you could feel his hardness pressing into your thighs.

He didn’t want to fuck you. He wanted to love you, to feel you again. He wanted to hide inside you. He wanted the security that being buried deep within you once gave him. He wanted to feel alive, feel you. It seemed he could no longer separate the difference.

His tears wouldn’t stop flowing, neither would yours.

There was no foreplay, no teasing or edging. Yoongi laid you back against the pillows and kissed at your tears, eyes boring into yours to seek consent. You nodded, opening up your legs as a response. You needed to feel him too, fill the ache inside of you that widened each day without him. Yoongi lined himself up and slid into the familiar, inviting heat.

You muffled a cry, thrilled at the feeling of him filling you completely. You missed him. You loved him. You hated him. You never felt more complete. The thought made you cry more, both in pleasure and in sorrow. The man bringing you so much pleasure had wrought so much sadness and pain.

Yoongi kept a slow pace, uncaring about orgasms or getting off. His desire to be within you was void of sensuality at this point. Yoongi only wanted to be within you, to feel safe, to feel anything again. He felt alive.

Alive.

His thrusting moved quicker as your lips met and danced together, pouring out emotion through unspoken gestures. He didn’t have the words, couldn’t tell you every single thought ran through his brain. He hoped he could convey them to you here, in each roll of his hips.

Yoongi felt his release quickly approaching, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t sure what the moral code for cumming inside your ex fiancé was. He groaned as he kissed you.

“I love you, I’m close. Where…?” He hoped you would understand his broken question.

You sighed with relief, feeling yours coming quickly too. While there had been no fire, no passion, the unadulterated emotion coursing between the two of you was enough to bring you close to completion.

“Inside me, please,” you sniffed, gasping at the tendrils of orgasm beginning to wrap around you.

Yoongi pressed his face against your neck, leaving salty kisses as he felt your channel pulse around him in completion, triggering his own end. He momentarily thrilled at his cum coating your cunt again, but the thought quickly left him. Not that kind of night, nor that kind of fucking. Your moans were quiet, and he merely breathed a soft sigh into your neck.

It only took a moment for the reality of it all to hit you.

You had just fucked your ex. Who was in the middle of a withdrawal. While you were engaged to another man. Who you had no desire to ever see again.

Fuck.

Yoongi pulled himself out of you, but pressed you close against him. Despite the agony in his head and his stomach from the pain of withdrawing, he felt secure again. He felt, for a minute, like he was finally on the inside of his dream, no longer looking in from the outside.

It was quickly wrenched away as you slithered out from under him, your tears quickening.

“I need to go,” you murmured. “I can’t believe I-we…,” you shook your head as you pulled your clothes on quickly. “I’m engaged.”

Yoongi winced and sat up as he watched you. “Yeah,” he felt his own tears slip down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re always sorry, Yoongi,” you snapped. It felt like a dagger to his heart.

He was. Always so sorry. He rarely felt anything other than sorry.

You felt guilty at the look that crossed his features. Fuck.

“I’ll-… I’ll call Hoseok to come check on you. Okay?”

Yoongi remained solid and didn’t move, only tracked you with his eyes as you shoved yourself into your coat and cried as you put on your shoes.

“Goodbye, Yoongi,” you whispered. He wondered if it was the last time he’d see you.

The door closed; all that was left of his weak heart left with you.

Fuck.

Sorry. Always so sorry.

Yoongi mulled that phrase through his mind since you left.

He was sure at this point sorrow and grief fueled his body alone.

He stopped caring, only subsisted on weed and whatever cans of food he found in his kitchen, or what Jimin would leave out for him. He stopped caring. The minuscule amount of care inside him evaporated.

He felt like he was wandering an empty, dark pathway with no light. No end in sight.

He hid from the world, stopped all the press conferences, the interviews, the shows. He dropped out of a three-month tour of Europe, one that would have brought him significant money and status. He wasn’t sure he could even perform anymore, drugs or not.

The tabloids started running about him then, too. Tales of drug addiction, of his deep and dark secrets he tried to keep away. They spun false tales of illicit sex, arrests, gang connections, violence. His career was on the precipice of crumbling around him.

He shined, he burned bright and fast.

Now, he was ashes on the ground.

He burned through his money, ate nothing but packaged ramen and beer, and cried himself to sleep at night.

His life was fucking pathetic.

Namjoon avoided him, only talking to him about business-related concerns and the press. Jimin remained steadfast and loyal, constantly checking in, but only looked at him with pity and sadness. Hoseok refused to spend time with him, citing his concerns about watching his best friend die in front of him.

Losing everything eventually broke him.

He stayed up all night, every night, so drugged out his mind, and cried. He looked at old pictures of you and him, of his best friends, memories of a time much easier and happier.

He had lost all of it.

For something that was going to fucking kill him.

He let you get away. He lost his friends. All for trying to be rich and famous. And that was quickly slipping through his fingers too.

It was time to stop. It was time to stop fucking around.

It was time to end it all.

With one last jab of the needle, Yoongi slid away.

Far, far away.

Rehab wasn’t as bad as Yoongi had painted it out to be.

There were group meetings, individual therapy, social workers and their treatment goals. There was crying. There was pain, so much it felt overwhelming. There were the withdrawals, likely the worst aspect of it all. The nausea, the fever, the stomach churning. He wanted so badly to end it, just use one more time to stop being sick.

But there he found healing. He found each time he cried, a piece of his heart built back up, sturdier this time. Each dry heave of sickness brought him one step closer to never feeling it again.

He found camaraderie. He found wellness. He found his muse and his passion again.

He met new friends, Taehyung and Jungkook, both fellow opioid addicts. Through them, they formed a bond of sobriety and perseverance. They held each other accountable and held each other close through their subsequent relapses and returns to rehab.

Yoongi started working out, started putting weight back on in places it was meant to be: his cheeks, his arms and thighs, around his ribs. Jungkook was a personal trainer and guided him through personalized workouts and a nutrition plan. Yoongi found peace in each 60 minute cardio or weight-lifting session with his new best friend. He realized he could pour out all his pent-up emotions through his sweat, his hard work.

Taehyung was an artist, a phenomenally gifted and talented man. Yoongi felt inspired by him. Yoongi wrote and wrote. He wrote songs, poems, stories, rap lines. He found that what he couldn’t release physically through his training, he could release through his gift of creative writing.

Yoongi released his album from rehab, with the help of Namjoon. He merely titled it ‘goodbye’. Taehyung’s creative muse helped him finish the lyrics to all his songs. Yoongi felt cathartic, releasing his last record, an ode to Agust D and a goodbye to the live fast, die young lifestyle he no longer wished to partake of.

Yoongi’s therapist, Kim Seokjin, likely made the biggest impact on him. Yoongi learned about love, actual love. Loving yourself, respecting yourself, allowing yourself to feel the entire scope and range of emotions.

It was amid a therapy session with Jin that Yoongi decided he wanted to be a therapist.

Yoongi stepped out of the spotlight, out of the lifestyle of the rich and famous, and Yoongi returned to school in the fall for his Master’s in Social Work, with Jungkook at his side working towards a degree in exercise science and Taehyung working towards a Master’s in Fine Arts.

Yoongi followed the Narcotics Anonymous guidelines to a T. He admitted to himself his faults, his addiction. He attended all meetings, called his sponsor regularly and in emergency situations where the need to use was so overpowering he felt he might give in. He apologized to Hoseok, Namjoon, and Jimin. It was important to him to mend those relationships. He felt it was important to right the wrongs he brought upon them over the last five years.

He apologized to your mother. He visited her weekly, checking in on her and surprising her with her favorite foods and flowers. She bought 6 copies of his newest album, and together they wept over the lyrics, the intricately weaved storyline, and the stunning change the boy made.

She attended his graduation, too. She cried when Yoongi slid the tassel on his cap to the right, to the left. Yoongi felt a rush that drugs never compared to as he shook the hand of the president of his university and held that thick roll of paper.

He had accomplished something. He had done something; he had worked through incredible odds stacked against him and achieved it. No longer was Yoongi content with watching his life slip by in a haze.

Yoongi became a therapist, a social worker. The same people he thought would drag him down and ruin his career and reputation were the same people who lifted him out of his darkest place.

Min Yoongi, social worker.

He liked that better than Agust D, dead rapper, anyway.

Yoongi was leaving work, a group home for adolescent men suffering from addiction, when he ran into you.

His horn-rimmed glasses framed his face and newly bleached blonde hair fell around his forehead.

His heart stuttered at the sight of you. It all came rushing back.

Pain. Sadness. Drugs. Addiction.

You smiled at him, surprised to see him looking so healthy. You had heard all about his progress from your mother, eagerness and pride in her voice. But seeing him was as if walking into another dimension. He looked fit, strong, healthy, intelligent. Frankly, he looked sexy.

“Hi,” you meekly croaked, a blush floating to your cheeks at the thought of finding your ex so dashing.

“Hi,” he replied, a soft smile filling his lips as he practiced his mindfulness to allow the self-sabotaging thoughts to work themselves out, replaced with hopeful and insightful ones. Min Yoongi wasn’t afraid to feel anymore.

He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to ask you out. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to fuck you.

He felt mildly guilty about wanting to fuck another man’s wife, but shook the thought away. He would settle for talking. You may have been his ex fiancé, but you were also his childhood best friend. He craved to just settle back into that role, alone.

“Do-…” he faltered for a moment, then swallowed harshly and summoned courage. “Do you wanna grab a coffee with me? I was just headed to get one.” He pulled his backpack tighter to his back, unable to part with the bag that guided him through school and into a real-life job.

You nodded, finding it hard to speak. “Yes.”

Yoongi couldn’t stop staring at you. You looked so beautiful, so different while still so similar. Your hair was longer, healthier. Your clothes fit well to your body, accentuating your curves and sliding down elegantly and conservatively. Your eyes glistened with something. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was desire.

“I heard you’re a therapist now,” you murmured as you clutched the hot matcha latte in your hands, sitting across the tiny wood table from the ex-rapper.

Yoongi blushed and nodded. “Yeah, I am.” You didn’t miss the way his voice sounded so confident, so proud. “I work at a group home for young men with substance abuse addictions.” He smiled, poised and content. The pride clear on his face had never been there when he was a musician.

You couldn’t help the hard beat of your heart. “Wow,” you sighed. “That’s incredible, Yoongs. Mom said she’s proud of you,” you gulped. “I’m proud of you, too.”

Yoongi took a moment to nod graciously, feeling a swell within him. You were proud. Of him.

“How’s errr…” he faltered, not remembering the name of your fiancé, or husband now, he supposed. “Your husband?”

You blanched at the words. “Oh, we, umm, didn’t get married. It didn’t work out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

You looked at the blonde boy, a smile reappearing on your features.

“It’s okay. It was for the best,” you surmised. “Everything happens for a reason.”

Yoongi caught the look you sent and smiled. “You’re right.”

You two fell into easy conversation. He told you all about his new best friends from rehab, Jungkook and Taehyung, and how seamlessly they fit into the friendships he already had. He discussed stories of their escapades in graduate school and how Namjoon, his manager, quickly fell in love with Seokjin, his therapist, and how Yoongi had played matchmaker for the couple. He discussed concepts he learned in therapy, in school, and now in his practice as a therapist.

You were enthralled and captivated. You were so unabashedly in love with Yoongi and realized you had never stopped.

“Care if I walk you home?” He asked, standing suddenly as he finished his chai, holding out his hand.

Your heart leaped, and you nodded, chugging down the rest of your drink and slipping your hand into his. He felt warm, strong. So much different from the pale, thin, clammy man you slept with years ago as he suffered through withdrawal.

This wasn’t the Yoongi of your childhood, who wanted to be famous. This wasn’t the Yoongi who broke your heart, who wanted to hide away in his substances. This was a culmination of all the Yoongi’s he had been and became. A strong, broken, healed, confident, loving man.

“I would love that.”

This was the Yoongi you were meant to be with. The man who you loved more than life itself.

Yoongi had courted you again since that initial coffee date. He sent flowers to your workplace, asked you out to lunch, kept things simple, proper and conservative. Yoongi was in this now, for the long haul, and wanted to prove his devotion to you.

While in rehab, they had forced Yoongi to face the fact that everything he did in relation to you was self-sabotaging, self-deprecating; a self-defeating prophecy. Facing that was his greatest struggle through his entire treatment process. He fought against it, even relapsed a few times because of it, and refused to accept that as a possibility.

Yoongi, with the help of Seokjin and his new friends, found that a world that didn’t revolve around you was finally a world he could live in, possibly thrive in. While you could exist in his world, making you his sole singular reason for breathing was dangerous. In that mindset, being without you meant dying.

Yoongi had finally lived for himself. Not for the money, the fame., the status, the reputation, or even you. Yoongi loved himself, as he was. Broken and healing. Addicted and sober. Yoongi lived for Min Yoongi, alone.

When he started seeing you again, he reached out to Seokjin. He was terrified that diving back in to you would be his undoing. Seokjin, in all his wisdom, spoke words of comfort.

“She is not your entire world, Yoongi. You are your entire world,” he spoke gently through the phone. “She can be part of your world, an enormous part of your world, but she cannot be the entirety. Life does not stop without her. Life is better with her, but does not end without her.”

Yoongi had been so obsessed with the idea of never having you, that he lost you. He stopped loving himself, stopped caring about anything but you and the pain he caused you.

“You hurt her, yes. But, it appears she is ready to forgive you now. Are you ready to forgive yourself and allow yourself to be vulnerable?” He asked the blonde boy.

Yoongi rolled the idea through his mind. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“You are allowed to love and be loved by who you want, Yoongi, but do not make your entire existence rely on that. Loving yourself will extend into all other relationships. And do not allow yourself to be consumed with the mistakes you made a long time ago. Focus on what you can do today. Living in the past causes us the most pain. Do not run from the pain, allow it to sit within you and give yourself permission to hurt, and then move through it.”

Yoongi allowed it all. Every emotion, every feeling. He cried. Jesus, he cried so much. He remembered that he used to think if he started crying he would never stop.

It was true, mostly.

But what Yoongi didn’t know was that within all the crying, all the pain, was a high unmatched by any substance that could be snorted or injected or smoked.

Yoongi no longer hid himself from feeling the darkness, but he allowed himself to remain in it until the light came back. And it came back ten thousand times stronger.

Yoongi felt encouraged to continue seeing you and progressed in his career and treatment. He took you on dinner dates, movie dates, picnics and theme parks. The only reservation was the lack of physical intimacy. He would hold your hand, kiss you, rub your back, but he always left your apartment without lingering. He wanted you to get to know him again, all of him, before he took that step. He wanted to do this right.

It was at the most recent date where things changed. It was a relaxing picnic in the park, the two of you laid in the soft sun-warmed grass, your head resting on his chest.

Yoongi felt content at the feeling of holding you against him. He thought of the dream he had when he was overdosing, nearly dying. Being so warm in the valley and meadows of his imagination, brain synapses firing off as his body shut down. You had been there, pretty white dress, telling him to go back, to wake up.

He admitted this to you, spoke out what he had told no one before. While he knows Jimin, with the help of Narcan, saved you, his subconscious attributed his revival to you.

“I’m in love with you, Yoongi,” you admitted, gently and easily with tears clouding your eyes, as you both watched the clouds roll by.

Neither of you had uttered those words since you held him in your arms and within you as he came down from his high so long ago.

Yoongi let the words soak over him. If he thought drugs had been like a warm blanket wrapping him up, this was like an absolute inferno of satisfaction and comfort.

The arm he wrapped around your shoulder pulled you close.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Yoongi pressed you up against his wall, lips crashing into yours as his hands desperately sought the skin of your waist.

After the picnic, Yoongi suggested taking you back to his place for a movie. The charged energy in his car on the way there spoke volumes, knowing you wouldn’t be watching a movie by a long shot. A giddy grin lit up your features.

“God, I missed this,” he mumbled against your lips as his hands lifted your white sundress you bought specifically for the date with your ex-fiancé, now-boyfriend.

You moaned an affirmative reply, gasping as his hands rolled over your breasts, encased in creamy satin.

“I missed you,” he mumbled over your lips, hands tugging down the cups of your bra to rub against hardened nipples. “You’re so pretty, so warm.”

You couldn’t hold back any sound, gasping and keening at his touch. You were soaked, absolutely dripping, from his ministrations against your neck and breasts. You missed him too. Your short-lived engagement had ended without a wedding, for the second time in your life, and you pined after the boy who stole and broke your heart completely.

Yoongi pulled away from you, using the separation to tug the dress up and over your head and to gaze at you. Your breasts were haphazardly pulled out of the bra, your panties becoming slick against your core. Yoongi was sure he had never felt a pleasure this strong in any high.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured. Your cheeks heated, you couldn’t help it. Hearing him speak so gently, so lovingly, after so long and after so much pain flooded your senses pleasantly. His words wrapped around you like cashmere, warming and smoothing every inch of you.

“I need you, Yoongi,” you whispered, hand reaching towards his erection tenting his jeans. “Want to please you.”

Yoongi hissed at the feeling of your hand against his length. He nearly came right then. He hadn’t slept with anyone since your last time, the most heartbreaking sex he had ever had.

The feeling of you both crying as he entered you kept him turned off of it for over a year. And now you were back, pliant in his arms, and most of all, happy. He never wanted to see your anguished grief during sex again, or ever, if he could help it.

Your eyes looked so determined to please him, how could Yoongi say no? He nodded and leaned forward to kiss you, before switching positions and resting his back against the wall.

You thrilled at the switch and quickly dropped to your knees. Being on your knees in front of Yoongi was so familiar, so comforting and so incredibly hot. He looked so good. You could tell he had been working out. Muscles shone through his skin, and detailed lines appeared at his obliques and hip flexors. He was mouth watering. You missed him.

You loved him.

You made quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning the black denim and pushing down the zip and sliding the tight pants down and off his legs. He stood in his tight underwear and shirt, eyes so full of love and grace, staring down at you. He couldn’t believe it was happening again, and on such better terms.

Yoongi knew he had so much to make up to you, so much trust to build and apologies to promise you daily. Yoongi was grateful you were giving him that chance again.

Within moments, Yoongi’s boxers laid on the floor next to his jeans and his thick, heavy cock laid hot in your delicate hand.

Yoongi nearly cried at the sensation. Not only had it been long since any stimulation, it had been so long since he had been with you. The fact it was you again after all this time held the most significance to him.

Your eyes flicked between Yoongi’s thick and delicious cock, and his own face. No longer was the selfish, uncaring man present from so long ago. No longer was the drugged out, sorrowful, too thin addict in front of you.

As you pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock and swirled your tongue around the tip, you felt amazed that you now had the confident, lovely, compassionate Yoongi you were in love with.

Yoongi groaned out loud, uncaring if Jungkook or Taehyung heard from their respective rooms in his shared apartment.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he whined, sucking air in through his teeth harshly. “So good.”

A smile danced upon your features as you stroked each vein and ridge of his cock with your tongue, flicking at the space he liked most. The resulting gasp encouraged you more. With a quick, deep breath, you lowered your mouth and fully encompassed his length in the hollow of your throat.

Yoongi nearly screamed, pleasure coursing through his veins as you allowed him to fuck your throat, a mix of gentle and rough. Your moans spurred him on and the visage of you with your lips wrapped around his cock and saliva streaming down the sides of your mouth nearly forced his undoing.

“Shit, C-Christ, baby,” he gasped. “I’m gonna cum if you keep that up… fuck.” He grabbed at your hair to gently pull your mouth away from him.

You pouted for a split second, already missing the luscious heat and weight of his hard cock gagging you. The pout was quickly wiped away as he wrapped his arms around your waist and carried you to the bed, unable to stop the giggles escaping.

“My turn then,” he grinned as he pushed you down to lie on the pillows. He quickly disrobed you of your bra, tits now fully on display. He sucked one into his mouth, tongue swirling over the bud, while his other hand pinched and tugged at the opposite. He remembered how much you enjoyed the pain of nipple stimulation. The thought made you wetter.

“Yoongi, holy shit,” you cried, dazzled at the pain in your nipples as he bit down gently at the one in his mouth. “Yes!”

Yoongi couldn’t help the smirk on his face as he switched hands and nipples, sucking the other harshly now and twisting at the wet and red nub he released.

“So good, princess,” he cooed. “So good for me.”

His mouth moved south, kisses burning up your skin as he trailed. He suckled at skin here and there, leaving delicious marks on your abdomen and thighs. You loved being marked by him, even more so now.

Yoongi groaned as he pulled your satin panties down your legs. Your cunt was slick and sticking to the fabric. His mouth watered at the sight.

“My sweet, you’re so wet for me. All from sucking my cock?” He murmured, teasing you by kissing at your thighs. “My dirty little princess.”

You mewled in response, aching to feel him where you needed it most. Words escaped you, unable to speak except in moans and sighs.

Yoongi looked up at you, watched your cheeks turn pink, your nipples hard and moistened from his mouth, marks of him all down your body. His cock throbbed, and he rubbed himself against the bed once to relieve some tension. He could hold himself back for now, but he knew as time passed he would be absolutely aching to plunge into your depths.

“I missed this cunt,” he pressed a kiss to the mound. “I’m sure you taste just as perfect as you always have. I’m drooling for you, baby.”

“P-please, Yoongi, I need you,” you begged, squeezing your eyes closed in desperation. “So wet.”

“I love hearing you say please, little princess. So sweet.” He kissed the outside of your lips, between your thighs. He loved teasing you, getting you absolutely fucked out before he even touched you.

“Please, oh god Yoongi! I need you so badly!” You were desperate now, nearly tearing up at the ache in your pussy.

“I can’t resist you when you put it like that,” he teased, before finally descending on your cunt. His mouth swirled around, sucking on your clit. You gasped your satisfaction at his touch, finally satisfying that burning desire.

Yoongi took his time, ensured pleasure at each twist and flick of his tongue. He fucked into your cunt with his tongue, groaning at the sweet taste of your channel. His mouth suckled at your clit, transitioning between harsh sucks, and tongue flicks. As he flicked up against your bundle of nerves, he slid two fingers into your pussy, hissing at the tightness.

“So tight, my sweet,” he whispered. “Can’t wait to feel you on my cock.”

You groaned in reply, nodding quickly. Your fingers tugged at your nipples, relishing in the painful stimulation there and hot mouth coaxing an orgasm out of you.

“Close, Yoongi!” You gasped, unable to complete a sentence. “Right there! So close!”

His fingers thrusted faster, slipping a third to stretch you out. His tongue fired rapidly against your clit, suckling and swirling as he went.

“Yes, baby, cum for me. Cum on my fingers, my love.” He encouraged, panting with excitement, to watch your undoing.

It only took Yoongi’s salacious words and skilled mouth and fingers toying a few more moments for the orgasm to completely take over. It rolled over you like an avalanche. You screamed in delight, gasping as you felt your channel grip his fingers and milk them as if it were his cock.

Yoongi believed he was watching heaven, itself. You looked divine, radiant. The feeling of your convulsions around his fingers made him whine, cock head oozing pre-cum and begging to be stuffed inside your heat.

“Fuck, my love. You came so good, you did so well for me,” he praised. “I love this cunt. I love watching you scream for me.”

Your breath was heavy, chest heaving with exertion. Every nerve, every synapse felt alive, alight with ecstasy.

“I’m going to fuck you, my sweet. I will fuck you and love you, all fucking night.” He sucked at the wetness on his fingers as he pulled out of you, before he kissed back up your body to your lips. The kiss was hot and messy, all teeth and no grace or finesse.

“Please, Yoongi, I need to feel your cock,” you gasped.

Yoongi could not delay any longer. His cock felt as if it might implode if it wasn’t buried into you. He pulled your legs up to his shoulders and gazed at your open slit.

“Mine,” he whispered as he lined himself up and allowed your pussy to swallow his length.

There were no words, no accurate description or way to describe how being inside you again felt. He couldn’t put into words the feeling of your slick heat hugging his cock close, your body heaving with ecstasy, your mouth crying his name in joy and pleasure. Yoongi would go through hell a million times over again to feel this again, to feel the physical and emotional love and pleasure he felt here.

You were his, again. He could work to make it right.

Yoongi started a slow pace, transfixed at the vision of you taking his cock so well. Your gasps and whines encouraged him.

“You were made for me,” he whispered as he quickened. “This tight little pussy was made for me, to love and to fuck and to ruin.” His words left his mouth without thought, acting on instinct alone. “You’re all mine. Only mine.”

You clutched at his arms, lifting your hips to meet his harsh thrusts. “Yes, baby, yours!” Your voice was five octaves higher. “All yours!”

Yoongi turned feral, his dominating internal narrative spewing from his lips. His cock thrusted into you quick and fast.

“That’s right, my love. All fucking mine. Gonna fuck you so good every fucking day,” he promised through gritted teeth. His thumb ran down to the apex of your thighs and rubbed at your clit. “Gonna fuck all my cum into you, baby. You’re mine.”

He continued his ministrations and your pussy felt like the definition of pleasure, itself. Sparks felt as if they erupted from your coupling. You cried his name, gasping at his possessive promises.

“Gonna marry you, baby,” he intoned. “Gonna make you my wife.” He felt his end coming close, your shattered cries and impossibly tight cunt bringing him soaring to the edge.

“Gonna fill you with my cum, gonna make you nice and fucking pregnant with our children,” the idea thrilled both of you. “My fucking perfect wife all swollen with our children.”

You agreed loudly. “Yes! Fuck me! Fuck, I want your baby!”

“That’s right, my little love. Your greedy cunt takes me so well. I know you want all my cum, wanna be nice and full for me.”

The end was nigh, you could feel the burning in your stomach blaze higher and higher. You begged him for more, harder, deeper, which he was more than happy to oblige.

“Fuck, babe, I’m gonna cum, gonna coat your tight little pussy.”

It only took a few more rough poundings before Yoongi crushed your lips together. Your orgasm washed over you with the power of the sun. Your eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets, gasping for air against his lips as your body convulsed. You moaned loudly as your walls pulsed around him, as if begging him to give you more and more.

Yoongi closed his eyes and soaked in the feeling, biting your bottom lip as he spilled into you, moaning your name with each pulse. The feeling of emptying himself into you rivaled the highest emotion he had ever felt. It felt like the ultimate expression of his love, his devotion.

He held you close as you both breathed heavily, allowing the afterglow of intense orgasm to bathe you in serenity. He carefully slid his cock from within you, groaning at the sight of a slow drip of seed following out your lips.

“I love you,” he murmured, leaning to kiss your lips tenderly this time. “I meant what I said. I want you to be mine again, forever.”

Tears sparked at your eyes, feeling more full, more loved, more warm than you had ever felt before.

“I love you, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi held you in his arms as he showered you, kissed your body in the warm water, dried you gently with soft towels, and pulled you close in his bed. You melted against his body perfectly, two puzzle pieces who had been trying to force themselves into the wrong spot, finally coming together.

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt anxious.

His stomach flipped. His palms were sweaty. His breathing was faster.

A warm hand landed on his back as the ex-rapper stared at himself in the mirror.

“You did it,” a gentle voice spoke. Yoongi looked at the male through the mirror.

“Jimin,” he breathed, feeling a bit of his anxiousness float away with his friend’s words.

Jimin smiled, pink lips puffy and sweet as always.

Yoongi felt his heart clench slightly. Jimin was the one who saved his life, who stuck a needle in his thigh and revived him when Yoongi was on the verge of death. He choked up at the idea that being here wouldn’t have been possible without the pink-haired boy.

He gazed at his trusted friend, no longer an assistant but a constant companion in the tight group of 7. He wanted to tell Jimin so much, thank him for saving his life, for pressuring him to check into rehab, for feeding him when he was too drugged out to care.

Yoongi didn’t need to say anything. Jimin understood at the tears pricking Yoongi’s eyes. Jimin’s cheeks turned pink, and he nodded slowly.

“You deserve this and more, Min Yoongi,” his voice was full of such care and sincerity. “I may have revived you, but you saved your own life. I just gave you the spark to continue it.”

Yoongi had started his adult life as an addict, as an award-winning musical artist with platinum albums and money, status, reputation. Grief had consumed Yoongi, along with regret, sorrow, loneliness.

Yoongi fought back, pushed against the odds.

Yoongi was beginning a fresh life—as a recovering addict, a therapist, a best friend, a husband.

He smiled at himself in the mirror as his groomsmen surrounded him and joined in the moment of happiness. It was peaceful. It was joyful. Yoongi smiled at each of the 6 men who affected him.

Hoseok, from childhood who allowed him to face the ugly fact that he was killing himself. Namjoon, his nurturing manager, who protected him at all costs and stood by his side through each dirt-dredging tabloid. Taehyung, his creative muse, his inspiration. Jungkook, his reason for health and wellness, his comedic relief. Seokjin, the therapist that changed his life and course of his future. Jimin, the man who saved his life, who accepted and expected nothing in return except Yoongi’s sobriety and happiness.

Together, the men walked out of the dressing room and orderly into the reception hall.

Yoongi took his place at the altar, the very one he left you at, and inhaled a breath.

The piano played gently, a soft and light version of the traditional song. It sounded ethereal. Yoongi felt as if he was flying.

The large, oak double doors swung open and the parade of flower girls and bridesmaids walked down the aisle to stand opposite the groomsmen.

Yoongi stopped breathing as the music played louder, more intently, more beautiful.

You appeared.

You looked like an angel.

Your mother flanked you to give you away. You both looked more beautiful than he could have ever recalled.

Yoongi couldn’t stifle the tears that poured out of his eyes. He couldn’t pull his gaze from anywhere but you.

There you were. Walking towards him, as if a dream. The loveliest of dreams. Wrapped in silk and chiffon and lace, delicate pearls around your neck.

Yoongi would endure it all again, feel every ounce, to have this moment.

It was complete as you stood next to him, hands clasped in each other, tears sliding down each other’s face.

At the word of the pastor, Yoongi leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours, sealing you as husband and wife, finally.

Yoongi was on the inside of your orbit now, basking in the warmth he had desired before on the outside. Yoongi simmered in the sweet, gentle glow of you and your encompassing love.

Now, Yoongi knew what it felt like to be the one on the inside of your world, instead of looking in from the darkness. Yoongi knew it now, and knew, with all his heart, that he deserved to remember it for the rest of his long, healthy life.

Yoongi was living.

Yoongi was finally, truly,

alive.

#bangtanarmynet #ficswithluv #ksmutclub #hyungsmutsociety #btswriterscollective #minthlynet #heartsforbts #bts fic #bts smut #bts angst #bts yoongi #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #agust d #bts agust d #bts suga #suga

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bullyhunter--69 · 4 years ago

Text

"She's so sweet, really."

Pairing: Izuku x fem!reader

Summary: When you and Izuku started dating, you were as happy as could be. He was beyond sweet and caring, and helped you forget about the bad in your life. But after he introduces you to his mother, Inko, and you start to be a more frequent visitor at the Midoriya household, you realize it's starting to take a bigger affect on you than you thought it would. Why can't your mother be like that?

Tw: mentions of family issues/absent family/family death, bottling up emotions and eventually breaking, a stressed Izuku, ends with soft fluff

A/N: This turned out so much longer and more angsty than planned but I'm really proud of it, tell me what you guys think! 🖤 (This is also my first ever angst written so--)

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Today was a beautiful fall day. Colorful leaves fell around you, the sky was tinged with a deep orange, and the soft grass beneath you made your time all the more comfy. You were snuggled next to Izuku beneath a huge tree on campus, who was currently going on and on about his latest quirk findings. The goal you guys originally had set was to review for the upcoming test, but the topic quickly shifted to Izukus day once your fingers intertwined with his and you inquired about it.

"-and so then once I asked Mr. Aizawa about it I found that- Hey.. are you okay (Y/N)?" You really were listening, but had found that you zoned out. Izukus concerned, soft voice brought you back to reality, and a small smile crawled it's way onto your features. "Yeah 'zuku, I'm all good.. I just was thinking about some stuff and was focusing on your voice. It always helps." You ended your reply with a squeeze of his hand, which all together resulted in his face blooming into a shade of deep red.

"Well, uh.. T-thank you, I'm happy to help!" He stuttered out as he felt butterflies all throughout his body. "Oh, also!" Izuku started, turning his body to face you more, holding your hands in his lap with a nervous look in his eyes. "(Y/N), I was wondering.. we've been together for a bit now and I.. I want my mom to meet you."

As soon as the word 'mom' reached your ears, you tensed up. It was always a sensitive topic, even if it wasn't your parental relationships in question. You knew Izuku had noticed, as the hold on your hands got tighter. "I understand if you're scared or nervous but I know She's gonna love you! She already says you're really pretty and smart just basing off what I've shown her.. she really is looking forward to it, and we don't have to stay long if you don't want to." The gentle rub of his thumb on the back of your hand and the puppy dog eyes was enough to soothe your nerves. If Izuku talked so highly of you to her, and if she was anything like him at all, you figured it wouldn't be that bad to meet her. She would be your mother-in-law someday, so you might as well get it out of the way now and not later.

When the day finally came, you were beyond nervous. The thought of meeting Izuku's mother and her not liking you made a wave of sickness and dread fill every inch of your body. Whether it was a friend, or a boyfriend, meeting mothers always gave you a bad taste in your mouth. It brought back all the feelings that you tried desperately to hide away and fight daily.

See, you were almost fully open with Izuku, but there was one thing he didn't know. Your family, to put it bluntly, was shit. Your mother always belittled you for every single little action you ever made and everything about you. Nothing was ever good enough. As a small child, it was always under-the-table, backhanded compliments with passive aggressive undertones, but after the passing of your father, it turned into raw, brutal words. She was never proud, and never actually loved you, she just used your desire to be a good daughter against you. It was cold, hard, manipulative behavior which resulted in you finally refusing to talk to her after you got accepted into U.A. The mental gymnastics you had to go through to hide all of this, especially from Izuku, was taking a toll on you. You never talked of family and never left the dorms, and had an.. unusual amount of luggage stored away in your room. It seemed like you packed your entire life up in a suitcase and ran.

Which is essentially what you did.

As bad as it sounds, you never planned on telling your love any of this. You just needed to forget all of the childhood trauma you were put through and focus on showing your mother she was wrong. Everything she said about your quirk being useless, to you being intolerable and a bad daughter, would be proved wrong. But, the biggest thing you planned to show her? Is that your father would be proud. She always used him against you, and you'd be damned if you wouldn't prove that point the most ridiculous of them all.

A soft knocking on your dorm brought you out of your deep thoughts, and your gaze slid to the door. Your hands shot to your face and you quickly dried your tears. "O-one second, I'm still changing!" You knew in the pit of your gut that it was Izuku coming to pick you up, and your thoughts were confirmed when you heard him on the other side of your locked door. "Alrighty baby, take your time!" God, he sounded so sweet.. this was hell keeping from him, but it kept him from worrying.

The night went on so much better than expected, and it genuinely surprised you. You had never met a woman as sweet as Inko was. She cooked your favorite food and had your favorite drinks, and even baked you your favorite dessert. She asked about how you were doing in school and once the topic of your quirk was brought up, she was beyond ecstatic to hear you talk about it. She even added on how she felt it would be useful in battle. The night was amazing. Nothing felt real, it all was like the fantasies you made up while lying in bed at 4am sobbing, so sleep deprived you almost can't move to get ready for your class that starts in just a few hours. It's what you've always wanted in a mom-- a beautiful, sweet woman who cares.

Why can't your mother be like that?

As the weeks went on and Izuku kept inviting you over for weekly dinner and game nights with him and Inko, you found it harder and harder to conceal exactly how much your mental health was struggling. Yes, you absolutely adored both your loving boyfriend and his equally loving mother, but it was just so fucking.. hard. Every smile she gave you, the loving, motherly twinkle in her eyes when she talked to Izuku, the amazing dinners, the endless support for both of you, the pictures she insisted on taking of you and Izuku-- it was all too much. You started to dwell on this every single night, and resent yourself for how much anger and jealousy you felt. This wasn't right, but you couldn't help it. It wasn't your fault that your mother hated you for every fiber of your being and Izuku had the best mother imaginable. He was your boyfriend, you should be happy.. right?

You didn't realize how hard you had been sobbing until there was a hushed yet firm knock on your dorm door. The tears that blurred your vision made it even harder to read the clock on your nightstand through the pitch black room you sat in, huddle up in a pile of blankets, All Might plushies and Izuku's hoodies.

9:54 p.m.

The pain that was radiating through your torso from the wreck you had become from however long you had actually been crying was torture. It felt like needles were being shoved into your lungs and your heart was being squeezed in a vice grip. Breathing felt impossible. Your throat was raw. But the thing that hurt the absolute worst, out of everything?

"(Y/N)? Baby, please let me in.." Little Izuku's voice sounded like the biggest bomb going off, the jiggle of your door knob making emergency alarms go off in your head. There wasn't any possible way to get out of this, and this might just be your biggest fear. Facing those soft emerald eyes and that sweet smile that has been open and honest with you over the entirety of your entire relationship, and even before. Telling the love of your life all the trauma you've endured, and then willingly decided to hide from him. No.. it's the disappointment that you're positive will shine through his features that's truly your biggest fear.

You don't know how long he had been listening, but one second was more than enough for you to know Izuku wasn't going to leave. He loved you endlessly and never left without making sure you had a smile on your face. So, with limbs that felt like cement, eyes that felt as if you were crying spikes, and an aching heart, you got up and made your way to unlock the door. It took a minute-- your hold on the cold knob firm and extremely hesitant.

3... 2.. 1.

Finally, Izuku had enough room to gently push your door open, and his breath was taken away when he saw you as the golden light from the dormitory hallway illuminated your entirely wrecked appearance.

Bloodshot eyes, make up filled tears streaming down both checks, snot dripping down to you mouth. The cuffs of his hoodie that covered your shaking body were soaked in black, wet mascara. Your hair was messy and tangled. You were.. broken.

After taking in every little detail of your appearance, a struggled gasp last your body when his arms were suddenly around you. The touch of his warmth around you was electrifying, and instantly brought you to your knees. As Izuku shut and locked the door behind him, still holding you in his strong arms, he sighed softly. "What's wrong?"

These are some of the only words that you really didn't want to come out of his mouth. They stung and tore through your heart like the sharpest of blades. They made you regret not opening up sooner, his tone overflowing with worry, fear, and dread. You knew not to make eye contact, but you couldn't even if you wanted to. Once those words entered your ears, soft and delicate as if you would shatter into a million pieces if he spoke too hard, another strangled sob was unleashed out of what felt to be your core.

"S-she's just so sweet.." Your voice, although strained and crackling, came out with an emotion Izuku had never heard from you before. A mixture of jealousy, rage, disappointment, and disgust is all he could pick out, but it sounded like something was hidden beneath it all. Something that you didn't know how to express, so emotions just came seeping out of you in the easiest way.

Picking you up was an easy task, as your body had long ago given up the fight to stay standing. The sweet boy made his way to your bed and sat with you cradled to his chest, your nose tucking away in the crook of his neck instantly to breath in his scent. It calmed you-- he calmed you, but you couldn't help but to shamefully pull your head away and look across the room.

"(Y/N), you have to tell me more. Who is 'she'? I want to help you.." His voice still held a delicate tone, his fingers combing through your hair with one hand and the other still holding you tightly. After what seemed like forever of Izuku just holding you and letting you cry every single ounce of emotion you held in your body out, your sobs slowly came to a stop and you took a soft, shaking sigh.

It was time to come clean.

"'Z-zuku, I'm sorry.." You started, slowly and steadily while trying to steady your breath further. The gentle back rubs from his warm hands helped sooth you, and gave you the strength to continue.

"I haven't been exactly.. truthful with you." As you took a second to find your words and sniffle, you could sense Izuku tilt his head to the side curiously. "You always ask if I'm okay-- if I'm happy-- and I always say that I am. I love you so incredibly much and you do make me feel happy and safe and welcomed and-" Your ramble was cut off with a kiss to your temple, which was a silent signal of Izukus trust and time.

"Because of how incredibly happy you make me, I dont want you thinking that this is your fault at all. Its mine.. I shut you out and bottled myself up when I should have just told you in the first place. I just.. don't know how to say it other than to say it outright."

Your shakey tone made Izukus heart race even more. He was staying calm and supportive on the outside but on the inside, he was a wreck. He was currently going over every single one of his actions, words, and notes that made what you and him were-- absolutely scraping the bottom of the barrel for anything and everything he could have done wrong. That stuff, though, was shoved deep so he could help you, because that was what was important right now.

"I don't.. Izuku, I love you and I love your mother so incredibly much. I feel at home with you guys but it's just so hard. Seeing how sweet and caring she is, how She's invested in both of our lives, how she.. s-she said she loved me.." You body was quickly starting to shake again, so Izuku pulled you in closer. "Why can't my mother be like that?"

There it was. It finally clicked in Izuku's mind. Everytime you avoided the topic of family, how you never had pictures with them, how you never had a place to go to during break, how every day after spending time with him and Inko you seemed drained the next morning as if you had stayed up all night.. it clicked as to what might be wrong, and his suspicions were confirmed when you continued.

"M-my mother hates me and she has my entire life. I have never received an ounce of love or respect from that filthy woman and it's always on my mind. Her degradation and her mocking laugh and her hideous presence. She used my dead fucking dad against me to make me feel like I'd never make it in this world and I just-- I-I want to escape the horrible memories but I can't. I just want a mother like yours.. it's what I've always wanted and I don't understand why I had to be the one stuck with a dead dad and a mockery of a mother. Seeing how absolutely amazing your mom is fills me with love and happiness and a sense of home I've never gotten before but at the end of the day, it just reminds me of how shitty my life was up until I got to U.A. I don't have a mom. I don't have a home. And its not fair that I'm upset over the fact that you having those things happens to remind me of that. I'm sorry."

Izuku was speechless. His comforting ministrations had stopped and he just looked at you. Even with the pitch black void that was your room, his emerald eyes shined bright.. and brimmed with tears.

"I.. I had no idea, baby, I'm so sorry.." Izuku was choosing his words incredibly carefully. He held nothing against you, nor was he upset or disappointed at you. He was a person that could put himself in someone else's shoes very easily and see through their eyes, and your emotional monologue was enough to paint your story for him. He just wanted to comfort you and show you everything was okay.

"I don't want you to be sorry, there isn't any need for you to be. You can't help what your mother put you through, and how horribly unfair to you that it was. Nobody can control how others actions affect them-- it's just how humans are.." Strong arms turned your body to face him, your limbs wrapped around his torso and your cheeks gently held in his hands. As tears streamed down his cheeks, he stared deep into your eyes. "You're so strong and beautiful, and I understand as much as I can. I love you so much.. Baby, to hell with her. I know it's hard, but she doesn't have to mean anything to you anymore. Me and you, and mom, can be our own family. We're your home now.."

A sob managed to choke it's way out of your throat, but this one was different. Your head fell into Izukus neck and you held him as tight as you possibly could, soaking his chest with more snot and tears. His arms held you back just as tightly as he peppered soft butterfly kisses along your hairline. This is how you stayed for the rest of the night until you calmed down and passed out on his firm build. Laying back softly, Izuku tucked you both in and kept his tight hold on you.

"Goodnight, love.. You're home."

#bnha scenarios #bnha smut #bnha x reader #bnha fluff #bnha angst #izuku midoriya #izuku x reader #bnha izuku #izuku #izuku smut #my hero headcanons #my hero academia #my hero imagines

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georgiapeach30513 · 3 years ago

Note

I mean in what if verse...

And I freaking love your all works😍

Thank you for the love nonnie 🥺🥺 Please take this all as a she is a fictional character. If you're really struggling with anxiety/depression seek professional help, because Iris doesn't always have the best coping mechanisms. So this is going to be directly after James went back to London.

🖤🖤🖤🖤

The Help She Needs

Summary: Iris is feeling extra anxious

Pairings: Iris Drysdale X Reader

Rating: angsty

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, mentions of bad coping mechanisms, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 900

Desperate Lives AU Masterlist

What If...? Masterlist

In only a week since James had left, Iris hadn’t slept much. What little she did sleep was filled with vivid nightmares. Axel had struggled to follow her around. With as old as he was, it wasn’t as easy for him to get around. She threw herself into her gymnastics. Constantly trying to do her routines better than the time before. You were constantly going into the basement, forcing her to eat, drink, and take a break. “Mom, I can’t eat while I’m practicing,” her voice huffed at you.

“Then you’re done practicing. You will sit down and eat,” you sit with her, while she nibbles a bit at her food. Noticing how three times she handed some of it to Axel, “Iris what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. I know you’ve always struggled, but...”

“I’m not struggling. I just can’t get my routine right,” Placing her food on the table, she leans back crossing her arms. Stopping when Axel lays his head on her knee. “He’s the only one that ever stays with me.”

“Is this about Steve’s son?”

“No! God, I’m not some lovesick puppy. Not all of us just want a man,” you scoff turning to look at her. “I just...senior year is more serious. I got to do well if I want to make it to college.”

“You’re the top student in your class.”

“I know! Could you get off my case?”

You intake a slow breath, knowing that using the same tone with Iris never works. Iris needs a constant steady voice. “Iris, this isn’t like you. I apologize if I’m adding to your stress. But for your own mental health I need you to take a pause.”

“You and dad want me to perfect though. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

You give her a soft smile, looking into her blue green eyes, “Angel, we don’t want you to be perfect. To me you already are, and always have been. I want you to be happy. What makes you happy?” she gives you a shrug looking at Axel, “Your dog does.”

“My family.”

“What else?”

“I like those sweet moments I have with Story, just me and her. She looks up at me like I’m the most important person in the world,” you listen as she lists a few random things, and then she takes a slow intake of breath. “James, but I hardly know him.”

“Why should that matter?”

“I can’t quit thinking about him. He’s adding to my stress because I can’t see him. I can’t control him being gone. I can control my routine, what I eat, my school work. My brain just has all these thoughts constantly running through it, but when I throw myself into one thing, and I only think about that, it’s like static. Peace and quiet. He did that for me. Like he would sit there and watch me, but tell me to take a break, and when I did he made me laugh.”

“Iris Jade laughed?” your hand rubs absentmindedly on her thigh while you listen to her talk about him being here with her. Her face lights up, and even Axel settles down. It’s just then you realized how while James was here, Axel spent more time sitting beside Ransom.

While James was here, Iris didn’t pace around as much. Her arm wasn’t raw and clawed up from her scratching it. Her smile was back. Even the dark bags under her eyes were gone. She was eating regular meals. Everything had changed. Iris didn’t like unpredictability, and it stressed herself out when she had no control over something. Everything about Iris is calculated, and perfected, but not this summer. She actually had fun. Quit trying to be perfect for the first time.

“You should visit him.”

“What?” she looks at you with excitement. Her features soften, and her body completely slumps over, feeling the rush of her anxiety hit it’s peak.

“Do you not want to?”

“No, I really really want to. Dad won’t let me though,” your hand goes to cup her cheek, you see how much she misses him and needs it.

“Dad won’t say anything to you and me going to London for a mommy daughter vacation. I haven’t done that with you in awhile. You never ask. Aster always wants to go,” you’ve tried to surprise her, and she always makes an excuse to not go on a trip just you and her, but now she wants to. Really really wants to.

“You’re serious?” you give her a nod. Her arms wrap tightly around your neck, thanking you for everything.

“Iris, I know you’ve seen Dr. Banner, but I want to listen to you. I won’t judge you. My life has been a bigger mess than yours. I want you to trust me. Use me as someone to vent to, if you don’t want to with anyone else. Ask me all your questions. I want to do that for you!”

“Okay,” she nods her head, agreeing to do what you hope all your kids will do, just be honest with you. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, and if you can’t, you’ll use every resource you can to get her the help she needs.

Masterlist

#desperate lives #desperate lives au #desperate verse #DA AU #DA AU request #iris drysdale #james rogers #james rogers x iris drysdale #tw anxiety

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parvuls · 4 years ago

Photo

* adapted from @librajiminn on twitter

a fun game to celebrate 2020 ending! the rules are simple: recommend your favorite omgcp fics so everyone can enjoy them, while trying to fill in enough slots to get a bingo! i ordered my recs starting from top left; my filled bingo card is at the end ✨

most recent fic you bookmarked don't tell your mother by seeingrightly [rating: unrated, probably t | words: 1k] essentially: jack is in madison, and things aren’t easy but at least they’re together. i have an unhealthy obsession with madison/4th of july fics, and every new one i discover brings me joy. i liked this one in particular because of the lovely, clean flow of the writing, and for its attention to the problematic environment: the (assumed) homophobic nature of georgia, and bitty's tension when he’s home as a result.

a fic that made you cry Your heart hurts, mine does too by the_p_in_raspberry (@thepinraspberry) [rating: t | words: 19k] essentially: this fic fills the prompt ‘what if bitty hadn’t come out to shitty?’ the fic deals with exactly the subject material implied, and is inherently painful. this what if version of bitty’s journey with his sexuality was so, so raw, but it was the good kind of pain. i’ll say that while this fic is jack/bitty at its core, i really think its real strength is the team dynamics. they are so there for each other, and it was a beautiful read.

a fic you’ve re-read multiple times Prove To Me You Got Some Coordination by amalnahurriyeh [rating: explicit | words: 17k; the series is 24.5k] “In which Jack Zimmermann has a favorite stripper, some very strong feelings about labour relations, and a good heart.“ when i prepared myself for reading a stripper au, this is not what i expected. this fic is one of my all-time favorites. i adored the politics angle, jack's awkward Helpless Good Guy gestures, and bitty being a complete badass. their soft flirting, the realistic (but positive!) take on sex work, and the careful handling of a potential unequal power dynamic. i don’t think i can count on one hand the amount of times i read this fic.

a fic from your to-read list Never Will You Ever by thefiveboxingwizards (@thefiveboxingwizards) [rating: explicit | words: ~25k (WIP)] essentially: during fall semester of Y2 the team plays never have i ever, which results in jack coming out to bitty. bitty decides to move on, just as jack starts to realize his own feelings. this is the first time i’m reccing a fic i haven’t actually read. i have a strict rule against reading wips for my own mental health (although i have great appreciation for all writers who decide to post them; kudos to you). the premise of this fic sounds so alluring, however, that i couldn’t help but marking it for later and then checking if it’s updated every few days. can’t wait to read it when it’s finished!

FREE SLOT and now what words do I have? by MyCupOfTea (@marchingatmidnight) [rating: m | words: 10k] essentially: jack and bitty love each other. bitty moves to france. jack and bitty continue to love each other, even when it’s hard. this fic could’ve fit several of my slots, but eventually i decided to just rec it on its own. it’s one of my absolute favorites in this fandom. i love it for the writing, the pacing, the decision to tackle a real obstacle in a relationship without unnecessary dramatization. i love the softness the pining trope is painted with; how the distance is awful but they deal with it so well, so healthily. i love when angst is used to build and show the strengths of a relationship, not just to hurt.

a pwp With New Eyes by luckie_dee (@luckiedee) [rating: m | words: 3.5k] essentially: mirror sex with a flavor of intercrural. this fic is set during bitty’s first visit to providence, which shifts the entire tone of the fic accordingly. everything is so tentative and new, and i just really liked how gentle jack and bitty are with each other, how they savor new things. the setting and bitty's thoughts and the whole thing was perfect, and so in character.

a fic that is pure fluff Over Heels by anonymous [rating: gen | words: 2.5k] essentially: jack and bitty and marriage. this is such a soft portrayal that it made my chest ache. it isn’t Y4-compliant, but it is so goddamn cute it doesn’t matter. i especially loved the communication between them, the choice of rings (plus the subtle mentions of jack stimming), and this sort of low key, understated proposal. the last scene with jack kissing the ring clinched it for me: i could picture it so clearly my heart flipped.

a fic with your favorite trope How to Blow a Fuck Ton of Meal Points in 1.5 Semesters. by YourPalYourBuddy (@ivecarvedawoodenheart) [rating: t | words: 5k] essentially: jack finds himself with more meal points than he could ever need, and proceeds to spend them on his team (read: bitty) - which leads to some realizations. the trope this fits is ‘year 2 canon-divergence getting together’, and it’s one trope i will never tire of. i absolutely loved the set up of this because it's so college. i loved jack's characterization, and also their conversations, how well bitty's feelings are translated through jack's eyes even when jack's not completely aware of them, and the ending.

a fic with a trope you don’t usually read Tipping the Scales by akaparalian (@floralegia) [rating: t | words : 7.5k] “Prince Eric, training for a tournament to prove his worth as a knight, goes for a ride in the woods. He accidentally finds a dragon, who accidentally became a dragon because he pissed off the wrong witch.” i’m not normally a fan of fantasy or royalty AUs, but something drew me to this fic anyway. i was not disappointed. i laughed out loud several times during this fic. i adored the translations of their personalities into a knight and a dragon (for example, jack's reaction to training - dying, dead, oh my god).

a drabble that made you want more Picture Us Together by RabbitRunnah (@doggernaut) [rating: t | words: 800] essentially: bitty sets a picture of his boyfriend as his lock screen during the madison visit, and jack finds out. it seems only fitting that i put more than one rec taking place during 4th of july on this list. the prompt was so simple, but the execution was so lovely i wished it would go on and on. things between them at this time were so new and fragile and sweet that i just never want it to end.

a fic with domestic fluff I'll settle in and dream by Stultiloquentia [rating: t | words: 9k] essentially: a future fic with emphasis on jack’s and bitty’s adult life. the realistic domesticity in this killed me dead. it is so, so lovely and soft. i enjoyed every detail, from the dog to the scenery descriptions to jack's hockey arc. every setting was so easy to imagine, and i really enjoyed the journey this fic takes the reader on.

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #omgcp fic #zimbits #fic recs #*#tag me if you do this! i'm always looking for new fics to read :)

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twdmusicboxmystery · 4 years ago

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99% Sure Leah is a Hallucination

Okay, I REALLY wasn’t going to post anything else. I know the two template posts I gave you yesterday were a lot to chew through. But something happened last night that made this come together for me and my buddies, and I just couldn’t sit on it. I promise I’ll keep this brief, though.

After watching the episode yet again last night, @frangipanilove found an article in which Norman says something interesting about this episode. Well, maybe interesting isn’t the right word. More like BOMBSHELL.

Remember how we at first thought she might be a hallucination? Well, we moved away from it because we learned that Carol knew about her. That, and I thought it was safer for us all to make our peace with the idea of Daryl having a relationship with this woman. Just accept it and move forward, you know?

But after watching the episode, yes, Carol knew about her, but only what Daryl seemingly told her. She never met Leah. Not a single soul in the world other than Daryl ever saw her. Hmm.

So, here’s the article @frangipanilove found:

I honestly wouldn’t have gone back to the hallucination theory, if not for reading this. But now Norman is saying that nothing in this episode is what it seems. And he’s specifically referencing Daryl’s relationship with Leah.

(P.S. I have to laugh that fans are asking him what’s wrong with him. Um...he’s not Daryl? He’s Norman. And he doesn’t write the show. The writers do. Lol. But also notice that he talks about staying true to Daryl, and we all know that this Leah thing is the opposite of that. Unless....)

So, let’s look at some weirdnesses in the episode. And @wdway deserves most of the credit for this. Once we started discussing the article and brainstorming, she came up with most of this.

1. When he meets Leah. My fellow theorists and I were actually talking about this before the episode aired yesterday. Why does he just run into her cabin? He follows Dog, but the funny thing is, Dog doesn’t run into the cabin. Only Daryl does. How does he know there’s not 47 walkers in there? How does he know there aren’t a dozen armed people? You’d think he would stop and observe and evaluate. But he doesn’t. He just charges in. And that’s very unlike Daryl.

And of course we could come up with some sort of explanation. Like maybe he heard Leah yelling while fighting the walker in the back bedroom and thought she needed help. Maybe, but the show doesn’t actually suggest this. There aren’t any subtitles or anything that give us any clue as to what his thought process was for just charging in.

2. When he brings Dog back to her, when his eye scar has appeared, if you listen to the dialogue between him and Leah, it’s a little bit odd. Maybe not quite as odd as him charging into her house at first, but still it leaves some questions. About the eye scar, she says, “looks like you got the raw end of the deal.” He just says, “yeah.” Well, that scar isn’t jagged or shaky at all. It’s very straight. Clearly made by a knife, not a walker. So, it’s a little strange that she doesn’t ask what happened. If she wants to be left alone, wouldn’t she be concerned that there might be someone else out there. Why doesn’t she just ask about it? Why doesn’t he just tell her about it? In a way, it almost sounds as if Leah knows more than she’s saying in this scene.

3. When she opens up to him about her family and her past, all the stories she tells are almost like amalgamations of Daryl and the characters on TWD. Obviously everyone noticed the similarities to Carol. That’s a big one. But the story of the blood and the running could be them running from the prison, or the deaths of a lot of different people Daryl has had to say goodbye to. When she talks about meeting and fighting with her squad and how they gave her hope? TF in a nutshell. And even that she hints at having an abusive family. Daryl. Carol, too. But mostly Daryl.

4. It’s still odd that no one else ever met Leah. Yeah, she said she wanted to live out there alone. And we talked about how this makes it an unhealthy relationship, because if she really loved him, she would want to go meet his friends and family and know about every part of his life. Into this, I’m going to lump the fact that she never seems to have gone with him to search for Rick. Once again, if you love someone, you participate in their lives. And she’s just alone at the cabin anyway. Why not go with him?

5. Outside the show Weirdness: Look at that top pic I used for when he met Leah. Remember when we discussed that there is someone kneeling behind her? I assumed it was her son, because spoilers didn’t reveal when or how he would die. But that’s not the case. This person looks to be a teenager or an adult (much older than Matthew was) and we never learn who it is.

People have said it might be a set person or a mic guy who accidentally made it into the shot, but I don’t buy that. They scrutinize these pictures and could easily have fixed that with the computer if they’d wanted to. I don’t know if we’ll ever find who it is. It might just be a hint that there’s more going on here than meets the eye.

But then I found this pic:

There’s someone lying dead on the ground behind them, and we didn’t see this in the episode. @wdway thinks it’s just Leah. That she was dead when he arrived, but he made up this story about how she was this strong, survivor woman and could have become his companion. I think that’s a super-viable theory, but of course we won’t know the details until they actually show us.

There are more weirdnesses than this, but I’m sure you get the idea. The more we think about it, the more sure we are that she’s a hallucination. And obviously that would make more sense anyway from the “why would the writers handle Daryl’s love life this way and piss off the entire fandom” perspective.

One thing we also noticed was that on TTD, the writer emphasized that this story is told from Daryl’s perspective. We’re seeing his PERCEPTION of it, and that’s important. I heard her say that, and wasn’t quite sure of what to make of it. Before realizing the hallucination thing, I thought she might be hinting that there was more we hadn’t see, or Leah might not be who he thought she was. Something like that. But if she’s not real, that makes way more sense, doesn’t it.

So, some things to consider. The strong parallels to Carol. The exact ones, actually, like spear fishing and all the identical dialogue. That’s because he’s taking those things from his time with Carol and incorporating them directly into Leah’s story.

Everything I said yesterday still applies. Mostly because that’s the symbolic template and here, we’re talking about the reality of what’s happening, so the two don’t affect each other directly. But while Leah’s personality is based on Carol’s (probably because that’s who he spends the most time with these days) the romance element is definitely molded out of his time with Beth.

Real:

Hallucination:

The cross that represents the grave? The one Chris Hardwick said would make some people think Leah is dead? Yeah, we think that really is her grave. We do think she probably really existed, and he met her, but she died relatively quickly, and the rest of the relationship didn’t happen. It’s all in his head. I’ll give you some more possibilities on that in a minute.

We think she’s the one who gave him the eye scar. If we’re right about that, I’m sure they’ll show it to us eventually. I mean, if she’s a hallucination, they’ll have to tell us that eventually, but probably not until S11. Think about the dialogue. “Looks like you got the raw end of the deal.” Daryl: “Yeah.”

This is also why the ending makes little sense. His argument with her about where he belongs is really him arguing with himself. That’s why he cries when she asks where he belongs, and he says he doesn’t know. But then later, we see him charging off to look for Rick, and not seeming at all sad or conflicted about anything. It’s because there is Leah. There never was. He’s just looking for Rick.

@frangipanilove also said something insightful about Carol. I think I took most of my mentions of the Carol flashback scenes out of my meta yesterday. Only because it was already so long and I wanted to focus on laying out the symbolic template for you. But while watching the episode, I actually felt kinda bad for Carol. Every time she came to see him, she seemed so upset. Like she felt as abandoned by him as he does by her. And I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve a taste of her own medicine, but I guess that sadness from her kind of surprised me.

But what @frangipanilove said is that maybe her worry for him really was warranted. Because he’d been out there on his own so long, it started to mess with his head and he really was losing his sanity. Carol might have been starting to see that, and she really was terrified for his mental health, which is why she kept trying to get him to come back.

And you know, it creates an interesting sort of irony for Daryl and Carol’s fight at the end in present day. He says that when things get tough, she runs, and he’s sick of dragging her back. And that’s true. We’ve seen that he’s right and Carol does do this, so I was 100% behind what he said to her. Was it harsh? Sure. But it still needed to be said.

But the irony is that during these 6 years after Rick, Daryl was doing exactly the same thing. Him staying out there to look for Rick, when after years, it would have become clear that he wouldn’t find the body, was him running away from the pain of what happened. Carol kept trying to drag him back, but he wouldn’t go with her.

Also, the two of them on opposite sides of the river here could represent the divide between reality and Daryl’s hallucinations.

The note. It’s a little hard to know exactly how to interpret the note from a PTSD perspective. Symbolically, I’d say the note he left was for Beth. Maybe he doesn’t even realize that in the episode, but with all the Beth parallels, it’s just about him wanting to belong somewhere. He wants to belong with someone who loves and needs him.

But I talked yesterday about how the cabin was trashed, and the picture was gone, right? By the time he wrote that note, Leah was long gone. Dead, I mean. The fact that the picture wasn’t there is especially significant. Why would the picture have disappeared, unless it wasn’t real to begin with.

Another thing I noted was Carol’s somewhat bizarre reaction when Daryl suggested they go down toward the river to hunt. She looked worried about that, but agreed. At the time, I was thinking she was worried because he’d spent so much time down there before looking for Rick, and she didn’t want the obsession to resurface. And that’s probably still true, but it’s even more interesting now, isn’t it? And maybe that’s why she’s always wanting to go out with him when he goes hunting or looking for supplies or whatever. She just doesn’t want him falling back into that mindset and disappearing again.

And it will make what I said yesterday about what will happen in the spinoff—her wanting him to stop looking for Rick and come with her—make more sense, too, won’t it?

Okay, I’ll stop now. I really haven’t covered everything we could possibly talk about with this. I’m sure you’ll all think of tons more. But you get the idea. And remember, this isn’t just my theory or our theory. I wouldn’t have come back to this at all if I hadn’t read that article where Norman hinted at it. And he would know, right?

And hey, if this turns out to be incorrect, I’ll be okay with that. I’ll eat my words (not literally 😉). But Norman is referring to SOMETHING here, and given how few characters were in this episode, and that he was directly talking about Leah in that quote, there really aren’t many things he could actually mean.

Special thanks to both @frangipanilove and @wdway. Honestly, they did way more work on this one than I did.

Thoughts?

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

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6knotty6thotty6 · 4 years ago

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So a couple of months ago, I saw a YouTube video that was an audio recording of season 5, episode 6 of Bojack Horseman, “Free Churro.” In the episode, the main character, Bojack Horseman, spends 20 minutes giving a eulogy at his mother’s funeral. There’s one big problem though, his mother was an abusive bitch. His eulogy is him trying to contemplate what she meant by her drying words, “I see you,” and whether or not she loved him. As someone who has a dead parent who was abusive, this is probably my favorite episode of any show ever for how much it helped me understand my feelings. The comments section is filled with people sharing their pain with their abusive families, but one comment stood out to me above all the others by how raw and relatable it was. This comment was by a YouTuber named Moonstruck. At the bottom of this post is a link to her channel. Please support her. After reading this, she deserves a million subscribers. Also please watch Bojack Horseman. (I corrected some of the grammatical errors to make it easier to read)

Disclaimer: Child abuse, bullying, trauma, and mental health:

Moonstruck:

This is a great monologue, but one part of it, in particular, really caught my attention was the 'grand gesture' bit.

When I was a kid, I read this book called "Chicken Soup for the Soul." There's a shitload of them. I don't remember which particular one it was. I hated the whole series because it's just someone profiting off a bunch of other people's stories rather than trying to write their own, in my opinion.

Anyway.

This one story that I remember, the ONLY one I remembered, was sent in by a little girl. She wrote about how her father never told her that he loved her. He never once, in her whole life, said the words "I love you." I don't remember her mom being mentioned, maybe she was dead; it doesn't matter. The point is her dad was basically an emotionless asshole. Well, one day, this girl gets sick. Really sick. Possibly on her deathbed sick. She wrote that one day she woke up to find a necklace sitting on her nightstand that had a pendant that looked like her dog. She said she held it to her heart and cried because that necklace said all the things her father never had.

I thought, "What a load of bullshit."

A cheap trinket doesn't make up for years and years of emotional neglect. Anyone can buy a thing and toss it your way. Hell, he didn't even hand it to her himself, just left it there for her to find if/when she woke up, then left her alone again to possibly die.

A lot of people say that actions speak louder than words, in cases like political protests and shit. While that's true, scenarios that this that girl are different. Gifts can never replace the words, "I love you."

When I was a kid, my father never told me he loved me. My mother didn't either, but she's a whole other kettle of fish. I would say 'my biological mother or father,' but I never got adopted ones, so who gives a shit. Anyway. My father was rarely around, and when he was, he just spent the entire time fighting with my mother and leaving again. He would do and say anything that could get him to spend less time in the house with her. With us. I can't blame him. If I could've left during those times, I would have. I tried more than once. I even earned the nickname 'runaway' from a family friend because of it.

I was told that I was worthless as early as I could understand words. I don't know what it is about me that set my mother off, but she HATED me. I was always told how expensive I was to keep alive and how I wasn't worth it. If I dared ask for anything, she would remind me how much she spent just to keep me from starving to death and that it was too much already. On the rare occasion I was given something, it was so she could use it as a threat. She was like, "Sure, you can have that toy horse since we got your sister a real one, but you better behave or we'll give it to her and let her break it." Or "Oh, fine, we can keep this dog as a FAMILY pet (NOT YOURS), but if you do something we don't like, we'll take it away and kill it."

Oh, yeah. I have a sister. She’s cut from the same cloth as our mother. I don't consider any of them family anymore. She was two years older than me. She was the "we should have stopped while we were ahead" kid. Anything she wanted, she got.

"Mom, can I have an award-winning horse and expensive dressage lessons?"

"Sure!"

"Mom, can I have a car?"

"No problem!"

"Mom, can you pay for my ballet lessons?"

"Absolutely!"

She was the golden child. The one that could do no wrong and wasn't a mistake. Even after she totaled her car, got arrested for an underage DUI, and got pregnant three times in high school, she was still the good one. I never even asked to go to school dances, parties, or go out with the one friend I had. My sister liked to see me in pain. She'd tell our mom that I did things just to get me in trouble. Whether it involved blaming me for things she did or fabricating stuff, she'd say whatever it took to get my mother to beat me while she watched and laughed. Oh, yeah, our mom was BIG on physical punishment. I've been whipped with everything from a riding crop, a wooden paddle, spoons, and especially belts. Anything that was close at hand when my mother got irritated, I've been hit with it.

At one point, my sister had three tall, beautiful show-worthy horses. I was allowed to keep a sickly old pony for all of a week before she was taken away, then I'd get called ungrateful for asking why we had to get rid of HER instead of one of the horses. Even though my mother said it cost too much to keep them all. With horses being obviously too rich for my blood, I asked for something cheaper, and for once, I got it. I was given a baby goat that one of our neighbors' goats had abandoned for being too weak, and they didn't have time to raise. I loved that goat. I bottle raised him, and named him Ben. He was my best friend for a while. When he grew up, he got so big that I was able to stand on his back to grab tree branches and pull them down so he could eat the leaves. I walked him on a leash like a dog every day. I loved him so much. My mother had me enter him in a show, and we won ninth place! I was thrilled to have something to show against my sister's collection of dressage show ribbons. I finally had proof that I could do something right! Sure, the prize money was taken away from me, but I still had Ben.

But Ben didn't come home with me after the show. It turns out he was sold to a slaughterhouse because that show was for meat goats. I didn't know until he was already gone. Of course, my mother punished me for being upset and even forced me to write a thank-you card to the people who bought his meat.

My mother was always like that. Anything I loved was used as a threat. I eventually accepted that loving anything was a waste of time. I learned to detach myself from my feelings, and I got really good at it. I can completely turn off my emotional reaction to anything. One time I had to put down one of the egg-laying hens at work that got too sick to save, and I felt nothing while bringing down the ax. When I lost out on a job that could have changed my life, I told myself how stupid it was to hope for anything good. Any positive emotion I felt got me punished, so I learned to feel nothing at all. To this day, I still have trouble feeling things, even when I want to. I'm taking pills now, and they help, sometimes.

I've had several suicide attempts. I keep a box of razor blades in my desk just to have them close. I got a tattoo of a heart with rainbows on my wrist. Partially for LGBT solidarity, but mostly to remind myself that there is still beauty in the world. I still struggle with wonder if I actually believe it or not.

I've tried so hard to be a good kid. I never partied, never drank, never smoked even when the chances were there, and I would have greatly loved anything to make the pain stop or even just dull it a little bit. I was in the gifted and talented program at school and was able to graduate at fifteen. For a while, I was sent to a children's home where I was passed around to many people I didn't know, including a clown who I may or may not have actually been related to, until I eventually wound up out here where I am now. It's all pretty hazy, and the details get scrambled.

It's been 10 years since I've had contact with my mother and sister. I can't even keep in touch with the one friend I had, even after I lived with her. She's tried to reach out to me, but I just… can't. I try, but I can't. Sometimes, I can almost pretend that my past wasn't real. It's just a hazy fog that isn't really there. I want to believe that if I don't allow something, or someone, who was part of that past, someone tangible and real, into my life again, then the fog will go away. This is why I can't do it. I know I'm a terrible friend. Ariel, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. You're better off without me in your life anyway.

I typed all of this out because sometimes, about fifty dollars or so shows up in my PayPal from my father's email address. I don't know if it's from him or from her using his email, but it doesn't matter either way. The point is I know my mother is the one sending the money.

I know my mother likes to think she's a good person. She went to church every Sunday, and probably still does. She organized a lot of church events and participated in every church function. I had to be an altar server for several years until I aged out of it and was in the choir. She kept going to that church even after the priest got drunk, called me many horrible names in front of everyone, and was revealed to be a pedophile that raped a little boy at gunpoint. She probably still goes to that same church and organizes things. She likes being in charge. She likes having people look at her and say, "That there is a good person."

But are you, though, Mom? Are you really a good person? Were you a good person when you hit me? When you lied to me? When you laughed with my sister about how much I got hurt for things I didn't do? Were you a good person every time you told me you'd kill my cat or leave my dog at the pound? Were you a good person when you sold Ben to be eaten, knowing that I loved him? Were you a good person when you made me read "A child called It" and told me that you'd start doing the things in that book to me if I didn't behave? Were you a good person every time you told my father I was a liar whenever I tried to tell him what you were doing to me? Were you a good person when you told me I wasn't worth the cost of being alive? Were you?

Fuck you, Mom! Keep your fucking money! A necklace on the nightstand isn't enough. A trinket can't heal years and years and years of abuse and hurt. You can't hide these scars under dollar bills. I hope you die alone. I know I probably will, but I don't even care anymore. I lost the ability to care thanks to you. You can't make up for the things you did and the things you didn't say now. Too little, too late!

#child abuse #abuse #domestic abuse #family #survivor #YouTube #bojack horseman #forgive #mom #mother #friend #friends #story #personal #chicken soup for the soul #free churro #monolouge #father #dad

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crystalkleure · 4 years ago

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I’ve been rewatching some MFB: Explosion [in raw Japanese again lol thank god I remember most of the EngDub lines by heart] and DAMN, I finally remembered why I used to hate Kyouya so much [I got over it]

I first Discovered MFB [and thus Beyblade as a whole] way, way back like 11 years ago, when Explosion was still airing in Japan. That was my Introduction To Bey; I came in during the Starbreaker arc. Kyouya was about to pick a fight with Damian in the imminent future. So that was about to be pretty much my Introduction To Kyouya.

And Kyouya has one thing he is really horrible about, and unfortunately that One Thing was about to be my very first impression of him.

Kyouya is an ASSHOLE about, like, mental health issues and any sort of tech dependency. He's Mr. Wildman, It’s A Dog-Eat-Dog World sort of guy. He was pointlessly cruel to Damian for having germaphobia and deliberately threw mud on him. Even Gingka realized that the Bad Shit Currently Happening was not Damian's fault though, "You're actually just a victim in all of this, huh?" etc., so that was just. Uncalled for, man. Disarm Damian Because He Is A Threat But Leave It At That And Don't Actually Be Mean To Him, Please.

And I was like 11 years old, so Little Me didn’t have the words to articulate this, but that gave me the distinct impression that Bastard Lion Man would have been just a wretched asshole to me. The word I was looking for turned out to be “ableist” lol, this guy was being extremely ableist.

Context: I am very sick, and I have been very sick for a very long time. I have a chronic illness, it’s genetic, it’s an immune disorder, and right around age 10-11 was right around the time it first reared its ugly head. I was suddenly extremely sick for no discernible reason, I was in and out of doctors’ offices and the hospital continuously and no one could figure out what was wrong with me, I was terrified and ended up with a fair few “weird” phobias, and I was now housebound. I was stuck inside all day every day, having to take a bunch of medicine or else I’d feel like pure death warmed over, sometimes had to get hooked up to big sciencey medical machines and stuck with needles, and I was debilitatingly afraid of weird things. [And I was also already being pretty viciously shamed by my mother for being so “broken” and “inconvenient” and “dramatic” due to this. Love you too, mom.] So that was the condition I was in when I was watching this.

Kyouya @ Damian: "Oh? Oh, you're a little bitch boy who can't SURVIVE out in the WILD? Can't live out in the savannah with a bunch of apex predators and no civilization or tech? Oh, you have weird phobias because you were raised in this horrible unhealthy unnatural environment? You never go Outside™? Haha lol you would die So Fast in ThE WiLd, eat mud"

Little Me: :( "...Is for me?"

I got secondhand bullied by Kyouya Tategami at age 11 lmfao 😭 I was getting the distinct impression that this guy would tell me I ought to give up and just die in a ditch somewhere because I had an anxiety disorder and also wasn’t able to Go Outside, Get Dirty and Be Super Tough And Always Self-Sufficient. I looked at Mr. Damian Hart [and all of Starbreaker actually] hooked up to Big Sciencey Machines all the time and stuck in a weird sterile Science Building a lot and thought “Oh! That’s a People Like Me!”, and “...This angry green man has incredible contempt for People Like Me” except I didn’t know what the word for “contempt” was at age 11.

Like, I eventually got over it, I definitely don't hate Kyouya anymore, but damn that sure was a Bad First Impression for someone like me. Hurt my little 11-year-old feelings real good.

#I immediately hated any other character who was mean to Starbreaker actually [*side-eyes Ryuga*]#Drug Addict Team my beloveds #.It speaks #About me yo #My true Introduction To Bey was a Tsubasa vs. Chi-Yun AMV btw. Just for Historical Accuracy here.#It's just that when I started ACTUALLY watching the show the first Actual Episode I clicked on was a recent one and That Was Starbreaker Arc #Apparently I've always had a bad habit of getting into super long-term Special Interests completely out of chronological order #Starting at episode 1 is for squares

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stonecoldjerseyfox · 4 years ago

Text

Jersey on my mind (part 32)

From the front door of the building to the elevator there were fifteen steps. Fifteen steps that passed a counter and an orienteering board over the more than ten floor Brooklyn building.

Just as every morning, Mila counted the steps. It had become a habit, just as she, before entering the elevator, began to unbutton her jacket. Inside the elevator she let out a lioness-que yawn as she parked herself against the back wall. Thankfully it had been a calm morning. Jim was already gone when her alarm yelled at her to ‘get her ass out of the bed’. Juri was already awake and parked in front of the tv, watching Clifford the Big Red Dog in his pajamas, which meant that Mila could take a shower before preparing his breakfast. While Juri ate his oatmeal with honey under a blanket on the couch, eyes glued to the tv screen and the happy, big red monster dog, Mila got dressed. Forty-five minutes later she dropped Juri at daycare, kissed him on the cheek and hurried off to work.

The elevator stops with a soft thud and she steps out on the ninth floor and heads for the glass doors to the clinic. She’s let in by the receptionists and is welcomed by the constant scent of fresh cut flowers on the reception desk.

”Good morning, Saif. Morning Vanessa.” Mila greets the always happy receptionist couple, lovebirds in real life, behind the counter as she passes through the empty reception.

The dressing room is empty when she enters. Mila removes her workwear, the slightly fancier than nurses-scrubs in a sophisticated shade of grey, from her locker. She leaves the white coat on its hook (it’s way too formal) and drops the bright pink Adidas trainers on the floor with a thud before starting to undress. They switch between the grey scrubs and plain white every other week; head dentist and dental practice owner Said Kadeem thought it would be a ‘edgy, yet fun way to brand themselves as a fun clinic’. In reality he just couldn’t decide which color he thought looked best. It’s the same with his morning-, lunch- and afternoon coffee; with or without milk? He can stand in front of the machine for hours it seems, with his forehead wrinkled together in concentration to make his mind up.

I’d die for a cup of plain, as black as fucking possible-coffee right now, Mila thinks as she pulls the grey pants over her hot pink thongs, reminding herself to do the laundry when she gets home. Putting milk into a cup of coffee is a crime if anything. She steps into the trainers and pulls the top over her head. She gives herself a last look in the mirror and adjusts her ponytail, before leaving the changing room, entering the break room. It’s not a luxurious clinic; no celebrity clients wearing bigger than their face-sunglasses or heavy politicians with a tail of bodyguards, but it’s one of the best private dental clinics in the area, which makes the staff spaces and benefits really generous.

Gotta get some luxury treatment for making it through university with a toddler at home, Mila thinks to herself and steers toward the coffee machine. She greets her colleagues, who are already parked at the table with coffee mugs in front of them, everybody except Lauryn, who’s entire face is hidden behind a huge Starbucks blonde vanilla latte with extra vanilla and coffee plus caramel.

”Rough night?” Mila asks.

”Never turn thirty.” Lauryn Cassidy groans and puts down the ginormous drink on the table. The bags under her eyes scream ’we need to rest you fucker’. ”Why am I even here today?”

”You’re thirty and responsible.” Kristian Shaffer responds. ”I’m impressed.”

Lauryn groans again.

”I liked myself better two days ago, when I was twenty-nine and carefree.”

”Remind me to take the day off after my thirtieth birthday then.” Sarah Preston says and pours a pack of raw brown sugar into her coffee mug.

”Gosh, I’m glad I’ve been there, done that.” Riley Palmer sighs and leans back into his chair. He puts his hands behind his head and flexes his biceps. ”Trust me, thirty is the new twenty.”

”My god such bullcrap!” sterile nurse Ava Cooper rolls her eyes at Riley’s remark. ”It’s almost as bad as that ugly ’carpe diem’ tattoo.”

”What?” Riley looks at Ava, then at his biceps, where ’carpe diem’ is imprinted on his skin with black ink, in a barely readable font. ”What’s wrong with that? It’s inspiring. Like, a mental note that-”

”Ey, we know what it means.” Mila interrupts him. ”And it’s ugly.”

Riley doesn’t get a chance to reply. Kadeem enters the room and a glued-on, convivial atmosphere settles across the table in the blink of an eye. It’s for the best not to quarrel in front of the boss.

”Preston-” Kadeem announces and points with his whole arm at Sarah. “Hallie Reynolds called and cancelled Phillips’ appointment this afternoon.”

”Is Phillip the one with the ears?” Lauryn looks at Aaisha to get answers, but the angelic Aaisha only bursts into a muffled giggle.

”No, that’s Lennox. You know, Dumbo.”

”Christ sake, Riley, stop giving my patients names.” Sarah gives Riley the evil eye and slaps him on his upper arm.

”Sergeyevna, you’re on your own this morning, I need to borrow Aaisha for some drilling.”

Mila and Aaisha look at each other. Kadeem loves his job, but most of all he loves a good drilling. Well, there goes that calm morning; making eye contact over the patients, joking around, singing along to the radio and Aaisha’s regular 11 am stretch, combined with: ”I’m gonna go down to the juice bar, you want anything?”

”Fine.” Mila replies to her superior in white.

”And please, tone down that bluntness today, will you?” Kadeem pleats. ”We can’t have more body builders leaving the clinic crying. Everyone is bad at dental health and everybody knows it, you don’t have to tell them.”

”I thought that was my job?”

”Our job is to dig around their mouths, smile and tell them to floss properly. And charge for doing so.” Kadeem turns to the coffee machine, which is the start of his first, dreadful choice of the day; milk, or no milk. ”Frankly, I don’t know how you seem to get them to come back every 6 months.”

”Witchcraft.”

”Really?” Kristian puts his head to his side and grins at her. ”Thought it was your radiant, bubbly personality?”

“Nope, that’s Cooper and Cassidy.” Kadeem says, without taking his eyes off the coffee machine. “Sergeyevna is like me. It’s in our culture.”

Yeah, the much well known, yet tremendously rare Moscow-Russian and Shiraz-Iranian-culture. Mila smiles a little. As soon as it became clear to Kadeem during her first interview that she was a relatively fresh immigrant, he became overjoyed and felt an almost unreasonable bond with her. Sure, they are both honest and forthright, but that’s more likely a personal trait. Otherwise they are like night and day. But she likes him, he’s a good boss. And his wife makes a hell of a baklava, not to speak of the kletcha.

As the clock strikes nine they simultaneously leave the break room and heads for their offices and treatment rooms. Mila turns on the lights, cranks up the radio and looks out of the window with her cup of coffee steadily in her hand. Another workday. She puts the mug down at the counter as she hears steps approaching. In the next moment, Vanessa appears in the door, followed by her first patient of the morning, Mr. Hardin.

“Mr. Hardin, nice to see you again.” Mila gives her patient a bright smile and takes his hand, gives it a firm shake. “How are you doing?”

She makes a gesture to offer him to sit down in the actually quite comfy dentist chair. She has taken quite a few naps in them after her lunch break since she started working at the clinic.

“Same old, same old.” The man with thinning hair sits down and shrugs at her. “At least I got the health.”

“I’m glad to hear.” Mila replies. “How’s Irene? Must be busy times now?”

“Yeah she’s got her ass full- sorry.”

“No worries. I bet.” Mila takes a seat in her rolling, saddle chair and rolls up to the computer, where she starts to fill in the patient file. ’Hardin, Mark. Regular checkup. Tartar removal’. Same old, same old. “So, just a checkup today.”

“Correct.” mr. Hardin says. ”How’s the kid? Juri, wasn’t it?”

“Yup, indeed.” Mila replies as she takes two pale blue rubber gloves from its box. “He’s doing well.”

“Is he walking yet?”

”More like running.” Mila focuses on the framed photography on the wall, picturing a tropical beach with clear blue turquoise water. Holy crap, he’s growing up so fast, she thinks as she pulls the gloves over her hands. “He’s been on the run for awhile now. Just as I was apparently.”

“They grow fast.” Mr. Hardin shakes his head, as if he can’t believe the basic biology of humans, and leans back in the chair. “But you’re young and healthy. That’s good. This virus, huh?”

“Yeah it’s really strange- Scoot, please.” Mila instructs her patient before continuing to check the tray on her cart, making sure all of her tools are in place. “Great.”

“Both New York Presbyterian and Mount Sinai West are soon overrun. I mean, if that doesn’t sound serious I don’t know what does. Irene’s working double shifts at Langone here in Brooklyn and they still seem to get more and more deaths each day. I think the death toll was, about 70 yesterday, and that’s just Langone. Must be like, 300 in New York alone.”

“Mhm, it’s horrible.” Mila replies monotonously, while scrolling through the x-ray of Mr. Hardin’s lower row of teeth from his appointment the year prior. She’s been trying her best to live life as normal as possible despite the deadly virus. Life has to continue, somehow. “Do you have any issues with sensitivity? Pain?”

“No, just tartar. Like, a lot. Irene found these small pieces in the sink-“

“We’ll fix that today.” Mila says quickly and gives her patient a radiant smile. She doesn’t need, or want, to hear what poor Irene Hardin found in the sink. She’s got a pretty good clue. “You’ve quit smoking yet?”

She turns and looks at Mr. Hardin, who’s shoulder goes up to his ears. He transforms from his regular, very accountant-self (because that’s what he is) to an ashamed puppy in the clinical chair. Mila shakes her head at him, smacking with her tongue. Mila turns to the radio and increases the volume of Angus Young’s voice wailin “You’ve been thunderstruck” to the more than famous guitar tapping.

”Ah. This is why I like going here.” Mr. Hardin says with a smile and points at the radio. ”I listen to NYC Rock in the car, every day.”

“Okay mr. Hardin, let’s rock and roll.” Mila pulls the sterile face mask over her nose. It smells clinical and plastic. She grabs the probe and the mirror and smiles with her eyes at mr. Hardin from underneath the mask.

She starts to work. It’s a regular day. Not too hot, not too cold. The sun is shining into the office and Angus Young continues to blast out that they’ve been struck by thunder, about a billion times. The only thing that looks like its’ been struck by something is her patient's teeth. What on god’s earth is he doing during the nights? Chewing bricks?

”Mr. Hardin, are you tense?” Mila asks.

”Howch do choo do chiiit?!” Mr. Hardin manages to utter, with both wide eyes and wide open mouth. ”Schee, chish isch wchy I gcho cher! Ycho are likche a cheraphchist-”

Mila sighs and removes the tools from his mouth.

”No, Mr. Hardin. You grind your teeth, bad. They look awful. Stop it or you won’t have teeth left.”

”Oh.” He replies and swallows, then bursts into a smile again. ”But you see, this is why I go to you and not that crappy Family smile clinic down in Brownsville, that Irene goes to. Honesty, blunt honesty. I like that.”

”Good to know.” Mila says and signs at him to open his mouth again, to let her continue working on that tartar. ”Not everybody does. I once made one of those body builder’s cry because I scolded him for not brushing his teeth right.”

Yeah she was pretty hard on that poor guy, but honestly, his gums looked like minced meat. Mr. Hardin smiles as best as he can with his mouth wide open.

The next song is by The Hellacopters, which makes her smile once again underneath the mask. She saw them perform, one of their last appearances, with Darya a couple of years ago. But suddenly, in the middle of ”-hey boy, you understand. Say your prayers, or you'll be damned-” the song’s interrupted by the breaking news-jingle.

”We’re interrupting with some disturbing news from downtown Manhattan, where chaos has erupted outside Mount Sinai’s hospital.”

Mila pauses in a movement and glances at the radio.

”Police have been called to the morgue where the-”newscaster seems to be groping for words, as if he himself does not believe what to say. “The dead seem to have woken up.”

It is only thanks to the slightly sticky gloves, which hug around the tools, that Mila doesn’t drop them in Mr. Hardin's mouth, at that proclamation.

”Police began firing shots as the bodies- patients, began to attack civilians and medical staff.”

Mila returns to the tartar, but she can’t focus entirely on Mr. Hardin’s hardcore tartar infestation, even though it’s an astonishing collection; if Aaisha hadn’t been asked to help Kadeem out, she’d been sitting on the opposite side of Mila, and her big brown eyes would have been bigger than usual by excitement. It’s surely a dentist thing only, being excited by tartar. Mila tries her best to stay focused, but her mind drifts off to the radio and the rise of the living dead, where the ’on the spot’-broadcaster now interviews a doctor from Mount Sinai.

“-at least ten former patients, declared dead during the week, escaped the morgue and attacked people on the street. Dr. Berkowitz, head of ICU, can you explain what just happened?”

”I don’t know.”

“Were the patients in a coma?”

“No.”

”Dr. Berkowitz, did you or any of your staff, by any chance, make a mistake?”

”No, as I said, they were deceased. Dead.”

”You’re sure?”

”Yes, ofcourse.”

Mr. Hardin makes a gesture with his hand and Mila removes the tools from his mouth.

”Turn up the volume.” He says and rises on his elbows.

Mila obeys, reaches for the radio and turns the volume wheel up a notch.

“How do you explain the situation, then?” the interviewer asks, now louder than before. He sounds more and more irritated, or afraid, Mila can’t really know the difference. “Dead patients suddenly... awakes?”

“I can’t.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Berkowitz, we have to- We get disturbing breaking news from Weill Cornell Medical Center that- what!?” The interviewer exclaims, as if he can’t comprehend what he’s hearing from the third party in his ear. ”Okay, ehrm- we get news that a similar incident occurs right now at Weill Cornell. I repeat, Weill Cornell. Police have been dispatched to the spot and civilians on the street have taken shelter in nearby shops and restaurants. It’s been confirmed that eight- no, nine, people have been injured and a woman has deceased, by severe blood loss. I repeat, one woman is dead and lying in the street. According to eyewitnesses- Neil, you sure about that?” The interviewer asks. “Sorry. Eye witnesses claim that the woman, and I’m sorry about this, is being eaten by the deceased. If you’re in the neighborhood, do not go outside, I repeat; do not-”

Both Mila and Mr. Hardin stare at the radio under complete dead silence. The tools are frozen in her hands and her heart beats hard inside the grey scrubs.

“I gotta-” Mr. Hardin swallows. “I- I need to call Irene.”

“Yeah..” Mila replies. A rush of sickness runs over her. Is the room suddenly swaying, or is she just, overwhelmed? Is this real? She casts a glance at Mr. Hardin, who climbs out of the leaned back chair, still with the pale blue plastic sheet around his neck. “Yeah, go ahead.”

He leaves the room. Mila hears him talk on his phone outside the door. Should she call someone? Her mind wanders to Juri and mama first. With trembling hands Mila picks up the phone from her pocket, unlocks it and goes into the messages. She changes the alphabet to cyrillic starts dictating a text message to mama. In order not to worry her beloved mama more than necessary, she simply writes: ‘Good morning mamochka. How are you today? Love you.’

She presses ‘send’ and then finds her way to the contacts, where she quickly finds ‘Jim’. Signals are heard. She spins in her chair, faces the window. He picks up the phone at the fourth dial.

“Cricket.” Jim greets her. His warm, amazing smile is felt through the phone and instantly calms her soul.

“Thank goodness.” Mila sighs and massages her forehead. “Hi.”

Jim chuckles on the other end. She can see him clearly in front of her. Black suit and white shirt. He’s just had a haircut and said bye bye to the ponytail. Tall, handsome beyond comparison. Probably with his tenth cup of coffee of the day in his hand. It’s a miracle he can keep his cool with that much caffeine in his system.

“Hi.” He replies softly. “What a pleasant surprise. Does milady want to hire a personal security guard?”

She can’t help but smile like an idiot.

“I can offer a very favorable package price.” Jim continues. “Annually. How about ... ten years? Initially.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

Through the phone, she can really picture how one of Jim’s eyebrows starts to go up, towards his forehead. Usually she plays along with his shenanigans and jokes, but she can’t. Not now.

“You’re on speaker or something?” He asks.

“No. No, sorry. I’m not.” Mila replies and sighs. “Have you heard?”

“Nope. Or, depends on what I’ve missed. What's the talk of the town?”

“You’re nearby a tv or a computer?”

“I’m in the office. Hold on.” Jim starts tapping on the computer. Mila hears the rustle of the buttons in the background. “Oh. That’s-” Jim pauses and reads. “All of them died of the virus?”

“Apparently.”

“I’d say it was a mistake by the hospital, if not- but...” he pauses. “‘New York Times reports that it’s more than twenty patients. Could be more.’ What the-”

“What’s happening?” Mila asks, can’t conceal her feel of discomfort.

“Dunno.” Jim says. “Hey, I can get off work by-” he pauses, as to looking at his watch. “I’ll pick Juri up earlier, in about two hours. I’m sure he’s fine but, just in case. We’ll fix dinner.”

What have I done to deserve this guy, Mila thinks inside her head.

“I love you.”

“You love me for my incredible mashed potatoes.” Jim grins through the phone. “Love you Cricket. It’s gonna be fine.”

Taglist: @lonewolf471 @twdeadfanfic

#daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd #daryl fanfiction #daryl x oc #daryl dixon x oc #jersey on my mind #twd fanfiction #twd daryl #twd fanfic #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fandom #the walking dead fanficition

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 6 years ago

Text

When a God Finds a Girl (Part 9)

Inside the diner, the air is crisp. It’s comfortable, old fashioned booths and mismatched tables at chairs. It could be any small town diner in America. You wave at a waitress in a hello you give someone you’re only a little familiar with, and she smiles, “Take a seat anywhere hon, I’ll be around with water and Coffee in a minute.” You beam, “Thanks, Gracie.” You lead them to table big enough for everyone and don’t bother with a menu. You and Natasha compare notes on coffee creamers, and Bucky tries to distract Sam, Steve tries to explain to Thor why biscuits and Gravy is a menu item.

It’s a beautiful morning sipping coffee and eating breakfast. At least until your phone rings. You look down at the screen and sigh, “What, Flenner?” you say just barely containing an eye roll. You listen intently and sigh, “No, I’m on Vacation until Monday.” The change in the voice on the phone is noticeable, and your face gets stormy, “You better change your tone, quickly,” you say calmly, “You got me 50 shades of fucked up if you think that it’s my job to come in and clean up YOUR mess.” The person on the phone is shouting. Actually shouting at you. “You can’t fire me if I quit, Consider this my notice.” The voice on the phone is suddenly contrite, “This is not a power play. This is my notice. I’ll be in on Monday to clean out my office. I won’t be your fall guy. Enjoy sitting on a Death Committee.”

Natasha pats your arm, and you smile. It’s a smile that looks brittle. “Well,” you say to Sam, “I guess I only have 83 jobs now.” Sam frowns, “What happened, baby girl?” You shake your head, “Our interim Facility director managed to actually kill someone. They snowed him out so bad he just... never woke up. He was trying to say that it was my fault since it was MY caseload and I should have been at work to prevent it.” Thor lays an arm over your shoulders and kisses your head. You shrug, “I have 6 job offers right now. I’m not exactly hurting. And I won’t starve or anything. I don’t really have many expenses.” It’s evident that the circumstances of leaving this job are breaking your heart, but no one can be too upset at you having one less responsibility to do. You smile, you talk, but your heart just isn’t in it. Sam won’t let you pay for your meal, and when you pout, he kisses your cheek, “Consider it a reward for doing something for your mental health. That job was starting to treat you like an abusive relationship that you were staying in for the kids.” You give him a look, and he smiles, “It’s true, baby girl,” he said, “You were overworked, underpaid, and they acted like you were disposable... I’m sorry that the client is gone, but I’m not sorry that you left.” You sigh, and he pulls you into a hug, “I know,” he says hugging you tightly.

Thor can only watch, he’s thankful that Sam knows what to say. Because he does not. Natasha and Stever drag you off to go look at the storefronts. Or at least Natasha does, and Steve takes your arm on your other side happily along for the ride. You all ramble the main street, looking in shops for the heck of it and all you really want to do is go home and hide in the lake. Still, it’s nice just being around comfortable people. It reminds you of Clay bringing buddies to the lake. The same banter. The same casual disregard for feelings. The same kid gloves when it came to your feelings for fear that an older brother figure would pound them to dirt.

Returning to the Lakehouse is soothing. It helps. There are no demands on your time. Everything outside this property doesn’t matter. You toe off your sandals and untie the halter of your dress, letting the fabric pool around your feet and expose your swimsuit. There are whistles of approval from Bucky and a groan of irritation from Sam. You whistle to Traeger, and before any of them can follow suit, you and Traeger both hit the water with a splash. It isn’t long before they all follow suit. Thor discovers the unique joy of swinging off a rope into the water and in the sunset, fireflies starting to glow, you and Natasha are calling out scores as the boys try to outdo each other.

Around the fire, there is music and food and more beer. Everyone is slightly foxed. Everyone is sunburned slightly. Everything is right. That night, as everyone sleeps, you sit on the dock watching the stars. The quiet moments are the worst. When all you can do is think. That’s why you had never done pot or heroine. Or any other drug that slowed you down. Taking life at a sprint, moving from one thing to the next kept these moments away. You wanted to call someone. See if you could get a hold of anything, but you knew it would break Sam’s heart.

You stare at the sky, trying to count the stars. It’s a useless task. A worthless endeavor. But maybe it’ll keep your mind occupied. Perhaps it’ll keep you from grabbing your Adderall out of it’s hiding place. The need to be stimulated, to do something. To feel like you’re flying is like a physical burn. You take a deep breath, and you’re about to go get your pills and just go alphabetize your kitchen when muscular legs appear at either side of yours, and then strong arms pull you against his chest as he drops a kiss on your neck. “Nightmares?” he asked softly. You sigh, “I haven’t even closed my eyes yet,” you say. Thor frowned and cuddled you softly. “What’s wrong, pet?” he asked, kissing your shoulder, “Sad about your client?” You sigh, “Yes, but I’m mostly just trying not to let the existential dread set in.” Thor frowns and chafes your chilly arms with his hands. He’s never had to think about his place in the world. Never had to wonder. Never had to worry about what his path would be. He knows your life will be short compared to his. He knows the need to prove yourself. But he can sense this isn’t that. This is a different need. Something so raw and all-consuming you don’t notice the chill.

It hits him finally when he sees the involuntary movements of your hands and turns your words over in his mind. You want drugs. You’d rather be high than feel all the emotions pressing on your chest. You were fine when it was bright, and there were people around you could look after but now, in this quiet. Everyone in the world asleep but you. There is no escape from the pain. There is no way to block it from your mind. Thor tightens his arms around you reflexively and looks up at the sky with you. He can’t stop the pain, and he can’t bring himself to use sex to distract you, no matter how much he wants you. So he holds you to him, silent and watchful, praying to the gods that it was enough.

Neither of you sleeps. You because you cannot and Thor because you can’t. In the morning as you make coffee, Thor stays near you, hovering. You fix his cup and then fix yours, and the god pulls you into his lap. “Are you feeling better, love?” he asked softly, keeping his voice out of anyone else's hearing. You nod mutely. You’re exhausted, but the need burnt it’s self out with the daybreak. Sam watches this with narrowed eyes. When you get up to make more coffee, he tilts your chin up to look into your face, and you rip your jaw out of his hand irritated as you slap it away. Hard. Sam watches as you whistle to Traeger and trot up the drive, working into a run, concern all over his face. Thor clears his throat, “So far as I know,” he said, “Nothing happened... I was with her on the dock. All night.” Sam nods, feeling like an ass. He’s seen you come down off lots of things. Mostly after being awake for days. After not eating. He should know better. He doesn’t mean to treat you like a child, but, in his heart, you are a child. You’re always and forever 8 years old.

When you come in from your run, sweating and panting to get water for the dog, Sam does what Sam always does when he’s hurt your feelings. He slips you a Cookies and Cream Hershey bar and walks away. It’s enough. A peace offering. If not an outright apology. You go to the shower, and Thor sits on the couch. The others are outside, lounging in the sun, enjoying the last full day at the lake house. You’re in the shower forever, and Thor gets bored, staring at photos and trying to stay awake. He noticed the CD cases and opens them. He’s overwhelmed when he sees the painstaking labeling. He’s heard stories, but he needs to know. He watches the first one he finds. It merely says “Birthday Message Afghanistan 2006″. He puts it in, and Clay is on the screen. He’s singing to you, a guitar in his lap,

...My wish for you is that this life becomes all that you want it to, Your dreams stay big, your worries Stay small That you never need to carry more than you can hold, And while you’re out there gettin’ where you’re getting to, I hope you know Somebody loves you and wants the same things too, Yeah, this is my wish...

It’s sung with so much love that Thor can feel tears sting the backs of his eyes. Clay wanted the world for you. He sacrificed his own happiness to give you the life he thought you needed. It was no wonder to the Asgardian why you cherished his memory and why his loss had affected you so profoundly. As the song ended, Clay beamed into the camera, “I love you, baby girl,” he said, “Happy Birthday! I’m sorry I’m not there, but I’ll be home soon. I hope this year if everything you want it to be.” He waves at you, and the video ends. Thor takes a deep breath, he feels like he’s intruding on something private. Some intimate part of your past that hardly anyone has seen before. He feels terrible, but he can’t stop watching the videos. He watches you sing with your mom, with Clay, with Sam. He watches you perform alone. It’s intoxicating, seeing the moments in your life where you were truly happy.

Before your foundations crumbled to ash. He’s so engrossed in a video of you accompanying your Mother as she sang that he doesn’t immediately notice that you’ve sat next to him. Not until you say, so softly, “Please. Turn it off,” you ask. Thor starts but complies. You aren’t crying or angry, you just look, tired. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I just, I didn’t know and then...” You hold up your hand to stop him, putting the case away. “Just... Can we take a nap?” you ask, “I’m so tired.” Thor nods, pulling you into his arms and onto his broad chest. You’re asleep so quickly he barely has time to get you settled. Thor smiled, holding you secure against him, one hand on your lower back and the other tangled in your long hair. It’s sweet, and you’re beautiful warm. It makes it so easy for him to drift off.

Tags: @thekairos @lancsnerd @amalthea9

#thor x reader #sam wilson #Thor #fluff #angst #slow burn

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ursoself-satisfying · 6 years ago

Text

All Things Must Pass

this was a request!!! hes so young here wow

Joe Mazzello x F!Reader, sad/comfort fluff

A/N: i have so little time to write this was a struggle,,, i projected a lot onto this fic, using the language i use when im in a negative headspace n such so i hope it doesnt thro anyone off,,, i went thru a lot of what i felt then wrote that cus i deal w mental health issues n tried to portray what i go thru in a semi-accurate way but not one so specific its not readable u kno??? y'all that peep my references here tho get bonus points

Warnings: none rly,,, its kinda vague n sad like dealing w not discussing whats wrong n such,,,,, nothing bad tho,, not even any language wow!!! jk one language wh00ps

The warm mug in your hand didn’t improve your mood. The steam of the drink drifted up from the contents and swirled in intricate patterns near your face. You pursed your chapped lips and blinked your drying eyes. A feeling had been swelling in you for days, but you couldn’t quite identify it yet. With soft blankets curled around you and your body folded up on the couch, you pondered it again. This wasn’t an unfamiliar experience. It had been happening for years. The bite of the sharp night air bled through a crack in your draping covers and you shivered, conserving your heat by pulling further into yourself. Though familiar, this state you were in was anything but comfortable. Even if you really were comfortable like this, you wouldn’t have wanted to admit it.

The kitchen light was the only thing shining through the apartment. It wasn’t your apartment, no. This wave had to come crashing down on you when you were far from the safety of your home. This apartment was safe It belonged to your boyfriend and he made you feel safe, but he wasn’t there right now. It was just you and the sound of minuscule little droplets of rain pattering against the window. The street lights made the storm seem like a glitter against the glass, reflecting back the business of the night.

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt like this, but you had to remember it was ok not to be ok sometimes. “We naturally go through emotional highs and lows, everyone does,” she told you, “it doesn’t mean you’re broken if you feel bad- it means you're human.” ‘Remeber that,’ you'd thought, ‘remember it’s ok. You’re ok.’

Your drink smelled sweet and a little burnt. You breathed in the warmth wafting from it before slowly and cautiously tipping the cup to your lips. A hiss escaped your lips at the still scalding temperature colliding with your raw skin and you sighed. Your love of the cold weather had betrayed you and left you weak. The entire situation was stressful and tiring, and you’d cry if you could but for some horrible reason you just couldn’t.

Your mind struggled to focus on one thing at a time that had led to your current emotions but it mostly focused on the bad. Your mind was foggy and muddled and insisted on making a mental list of all the reasons your life was the absolute worst in this very moment. ‘Perhaps,’ you reasoned, ‘if I identify what's wrong, I can fix it.’

You were far from home. New York City was scary and big and loud and dirty and new to you. This was exciting and terrifying at the same time. You wanted to see everything, and Joe wanted to show it all to you, but of course, he still had work things and you were left alone. You only had so much time there and even less time with him. There was never any way you could have fit in every important place you wanted to see into the few precious hours you could share.

That led into your second reason, which was that you just desperately missed Joe. He hadn’t wanted to leave you alone, but duty does call and he had to answer. “I love you, ok? I’m so sorry, I- I wish I could have planned for this but-”

“You couldn’t have known! It’s ok,” You’d smiled at him and he kissed you before he left. Every morning and every night and every time he had the chance, he kissed you. God, it gave you life. His face just seemed to fit into your so perfectly, like your hands were molded against his cheeks. You closed your eyes and could almost feel him there with you, his warmth keeping you sane, but when you opened your eyes, he was gone.

Maybe the third reason was that your relationship was fairly new and you were insecure in the commitment for a number of reasons- or maybe it’s just that the holiday season was upon you and that ‘seasonal depression’ was hitting you hard. There was so much to do, so much to not miss out on, and so little time to relax and actually enjoy this time of year. Joe hadn’t managed to decorate for anything yet and had actually planned to do so with you, but it didn’t look like you’d have the chance to now. There were no lights up anywhere, no festive knick-knacks up on the shelves, nothing.

‘Or maybe,’ you thought, ‘it’s not seasonal, it’s just me.’ This was a turning point and you were scared. Joe had never seen you in such a deep, naturally dark headspace before, and you had little explanation for it. There was no one thing you could blame for the way you felt. It was just- Everything. A vague yet overwhelming anxiety rolled through you that made your guts feel like they’d turned to sawdust and were swirling around inside you like you were the floor of some horrible workshop.

The lighter side of your mind spoke up, ‘Maybe that’s not such a bad comparison, I mean, you are a workshop, always tinkering, changing, evolving. You are a human bent on self-improvement. Recovery,’ the voice reminded, ‘is not linear.’

“But any step forward is a good step,” you said out loud.

“What’s that from?”

“Holy fuckin’ sh-!” Your entire body jolted violently at the surprise of the response and your drink sloshed over the sides of your mug, spilling all over your blanket. Thankfully, it was no longer hot. “God, what a- what a waste of a good cup of-” Your curses trailed off into angry murmurs and you stood before looking over at Joe standing in the entryway looking equally as startled.

He’d just come back from a meeting with a potential director for an upcoming film to be met with his girlfriend completely spaced out on the couch. She’d been sitting there for several minutes without knowing he’d come in. When he spoke and surprised her, he jumped nearly as much as she did. He went over to help her clean up the spilled drink with a soft, sorry expression. She’d already gotten up, though, and shuffled to the kitchen without really acknowledging him. Something about the situation made Joe feel sick and guilty. “I’m so sorry. I, uh,” he paused and breathed a laugh as he picked up a pillow slipping off the couch and looked at the form that had moved into the kitchen, placing the empty cup on the counter with a soft click of ceramic against marble.

His breath hitched and he forgot whatever it was he’d intended to say to her. She was cast in odd shadows from the lights of the streetlamps inside combatting with the yellow glow of from above the stove. The scene carried none of the normally blissfull air his lover had. It was sharp and contrasting, like the set of an old expressionist film. He thought she would look fit beside the likes of Nosferatu, her in her cloak of covers and tussled hair barely emerging from the makeshift hood that supported her neck. The way she’d cocooned herself reminded him of a lost child standing alone in the cold, one no passing stranger would stop to notice.

It was silent for a moment as the actor continued absorbing her aura. The cars driving about in the rain echoed through the building. The sounds of splashing through puddles and revving engines drifted by his ears. [Y/N] stared at the sink before slowly meeting her boyfriend’s gaze. They just looked at each other. Joe felt like he wasn’t even there though like she didn’t see him there. She stared through him with the same disassociated look she had when he’d walked in. His shoes suddenly became of great interest to him and dragged his attention from her to the grain of the floor. “I’m,” he gulped and raised his eyebrows in a mixture of guilt and concern, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here with you today.” He looked at her again and she finally seemed to notice him standing there.

His sad puppy dog eyes bore you down. You’d fallen so hard for them. Before you’d even learned his name, you knew him by his eyes. You forced yourself to process what he’d said and were quickly overcome with guilt of your own. “Oh- Oh, no! Joe,” you pleaded and sighed as you rushed to him with a sympathetic smile, “I’m sorry, I just, like, spaced out- I’m fine, it’s all fine.” You nodded lightly at him with a stretched smile and looked up at him with hands gently placed on his chest, holding tightly to the coat he’d yet to remove.

“I know you have to work and I could never-” You bit your lip as your mental search for words was shown through the frantic lines your eyes traced, “I never want to be an obstacle.” With a softened gaze, pleading for ease in the oddly uncomfortable situation, you continued, “I’m pretty sure I’m always gonna love you, and I’ll be here,” his mouth parted as you paused, “just for you. No matter how many dates you miss, as long as you’re doing your best.” A pitiful chuckle fell from your lips.

So early in your relationship, you weren’t sure when an appropriate time to address your current emotional state would present itself. Then again, is any time a good time to discuss something like this? You felt he deserved an explanation, at the very least, to ease him a bit from the stiff form he kept since he’d returned that night. ‘Where to begin’, you wondered. Before you could let another sad syllable drip from your clenched teeth, jaw tight in distracted thought, arms wrapped around you and a bristly cheek pressed against your own.

“This is weird.” He whispered, “Why are we weird right now?” The blankets around were nuzzled out of the way so he could bury his face in the crook of your neck. His nose pressed hard against your hot skin. You were unprepared for the contact. All you could focus on was his heavy breathing beside your ear, every exhale slipping down your back and making you shiver. Cautious hands danced up the back of his neck, barely touching the airs that stood on end from the undefinable energy surging between the two of you. Molding yourself to fit perfectly in the empty cavities of space left, you were flush against him, clinging to the back of his head and letting his arms shift under yours to support you.

“I’m bad right now.” Your voice was almost a whimper, choking you on it’s way out. It wasn’t even your voice, the words were breaths you let out at all once. Joe- You weren’t sure he understood, and you didn’t expect him to immediately. He has no context yet, no reference besides what you’d carefully revealed to him. It was never your intention to hide any of your traits or symptoms or past from him, or most anyone, really, but it wasn’t exactly a hot topic of conversation.

He’d remembered briefly her using the phrase ‘when I was bad’ once or twice when referring to her mental and emotional state, but she didn’t often talk about it. Either it was sensitive or simply private, but it was fine. He didn’t push. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable or drive her away. While respecting her privacy and her past, he still swelled with concern at the thought of not knowing. It was a loving kind of fear that filled his stomach when he’d imagined moments like this; moments where something was wrong, something was off and he was in the dark. He didn’t need a reason to love and support her, but he was unsure of how to help in the best way.

“Bad emotionally,” she started in barely a whisper, though it was louder than before, “not ‘bad’ like-” There was a hot huff of air with a small laugh behind it and [Y/N] sniffled, “not ‘bad’ like- like ‘I’ve been bad, officer’- not in a sexual way-” It was punctuated with a cottony laugh.

Joe shook his head softly and gave the girl in his arms a squeeze. His smile was wide, though she couldn’t see it. Her squeak made him laugh a little and he could feel the air around them suddenly lose about five pounds. It was easier to lift his shoulders in this new situation.

After a moment of breathing in sync, cars passing by, and rain beating rhythmically against the windows, the man broke the silence. “You don’t have to say anything-”

“You know I can’t do that, Joe.” He held onto her for a moment longer then pulled only his head back slightly to kiss her turned cheek while she was still in his embrace. In the warm kitchen light, the patterns of the blanket and the shadows of the passing headlight combined like brushstrokes on the scene and turned them into the likeness of a Klimt painting. Yellow cascading down their backs and an iconic arching connection made this art.

“If you’re bad, then let's make it better.” The words were pressed into her skin by his plush lips. Before pulling away, their hands found one another’s and gripped them tightly, like he was a rope and she was dangling over the ever looming pit of her past.

For the first time, she could feel a wetness pricking at her eyes. Without effort or dismay, she could cry. There were no sobs to accompany it, just silent streaming tears. She didn’t stop them for they were a gift. The damp streaks beneath each eye bent around her growing grin as she looked up at her lover through the filter of emotional release. Everything but the earthy brown around his pupils was a watery mess in her eyes. ‘God,’ she thought, ‘This- He is a good one. He is so- He is so beautiful.’

Joe could feel the pain in his chest as his heart shook, threatening to crack at the image of his love in such a fragile form. “Let’s just-” He could have claimed the rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat but the truth is there was nothing there to get stuck, nothing to follow what he’d started saying. “Is it ok if we just,” he took a deep breath, “be together? Would that- Would that help?”

“You already help. Being here helps.” Her voice was back now, though, physically, she didn’t look in any way improved.

Joe handled his girlfriend gently and urged her to the couch with him, pulling down onto his lap so they both laid on the piece of furniture long ways. Her bundled body blanketed his and he leaned back, letting her warm him. Struggling to slip off his coat as he kicked off his shoes, Joe also snaked his arm into a pocket to retrieve his phone. He pulled it out with a small noise of pride and held it out in front of him. “A little George Harrison makes everything better, right?” There was a sleepy hum of agreement and ‘My Sweet Lord’ played softly from the speaker of his device. He nestled into [Y/N]’s and closed his eyes. He held the phone in his hands, clasped together as his arms wrapped around the woman.

The ‘hallelujahs’ seemed in time with the weather outside as the couple drifted further from the present and into their own billowing comfort. The lights still were yellow outside, as they were inside, and the cars didn’t stop speeding through the puddles. Though you doubted the return of these feelings would stop, for now, you were content. Joe was there with you and it somehow, just his presence, made some of the sadness wash away. He was like a rain on your pity parade, saving you from any continued celebration of your own inabilities. Tomorrow, there might be explanations needed, but tonight you felt blessed. He was safe. He was warm. Your mind wasn’t racing and your eyes weren’t dry. This was better than anything you’d been feeling, anything swelling inside you the past few days. This wasn’t an unfamiliar experience, and you’d hoped it would never become one.

Glancing up at the man beneath you one last time, you smiled genuinely, bliss settling in your center, and you closed your eyes. George Harrison lulled you to sleep that night, and safely asleep you fell, holding tightly to Joe through it all, just as tightly as he held you.

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dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt · 6 years ago

Note

Interesting story, you say? Let's hear it!

oof okay friendo buckle up bc it’s a bumpyass ride!!

So, the first thing y’all need to know is that poltergeists aren’t actually ghosts/spirits, per say. They’re energy, created by people, and they most often linger in houses. You know how some places feel really good when you step inside?? That’s good energy. It means not a lot of bad stuff has happened in that place, and the owners/the house are happy. Poltergeists are what happen when a lot of negative shit is going on. It might be because of hard times/a dysfunctional family/an abusive or unhealthy relationship/etc. If something unpleasant is going on, especially for an extended amount of time, a poltergeist will start to form. It’s inevitable. And it is important to note, if there is a person who is sensitive to energy/emotions/spirits, they will A) be able to add more to the poltergeist than anyone else (with or without knowing it), and B) will be more sensitive to the affects.

Now that all that’s out of the way:

our old house has one fuck of a poltergeist, mates.

My granddad (my Dad’s dad) is very sick, so we had to stop our happy caravan travels around Australia and buy a (very cheap and old) house in the middle of a literal desert to be closer to him (and did so immediately, of course.) It was a whiplash from having the time of our lives to being stuck in the little worse situation (for us.)

Everybody was worried about my granddad, we got little to no rain ever, there were a lot of thunder storms (which our dogs hate) and high winds, it got to 50 degrees Celsius in summer, we had animals to take care of (3 dogs, 3 chickens and 2 ducks) and in winter we didn’t even have to light the fire often, we were isolated from all our family and friends, and so poor from the sudden unexpected stop of our trip that sometimes we couldn’t afford food.

To put it simply: hard times.

Signs of a poltergeist:

A general uncomfortable/nervous/depressed feeling whenever you walk into the house, even if nothing is technically ‘wrong’

Things mysteriously vanishing/cupboard doors opening/strange noises/unsettled animals

Nightmares (especially ones that seem specifically targeted at things that you fear most or that upset you the most)

Odd red marks on your body (insect bites/scratches/dots)

The sensation of being watched

Drafts where there weren’t any drafts before

General feeling of not being alone/safe even when you are

Sudden mood swings (especially to extreme anger or extreme sadness)

More of a tendency to argue than usual

Catastrophic thoughts

Intrusive/bad thoughts

Depression/lethargy

Bad luck (everything that should go right always seems to go wrong)

Never seeming to be able to be truly happy in the house

you get the gist, bad shit

[note: if any of these things are happening, I strongly advise you go to your doctor and psychologist before anything else]

It started off small at first. About a year in to our stay in the house. I started feeling drafts on the back of my neck when I tried to sleep. As I said, we’d lived here for a year, so I kind of knew what to expect from the house by now. I knew which boards creaked/etc. But it was not one of the many windy days, and the draft wasn’t sporadic. It was like a rhythum. Almost like somebody was literally leaning over the bed and breathing on the back of my neck. It got so bad and so regular I could feel it moving my hairs (back when I had long hair) and tickling my face. But when I turned over to look, I couldn’t see anything. It didn’t happen all the time, even on the windy days. It was just some nights, which made it even weirder. (Note: I checked my window was shut and even slept with my door closed a few nights to see. It still happened.)

More small things started happening. Pens would go missing. The dogs were unsettled a lot. Any plants we tried to keep in the house died. We all started to feel edgy for no reason, started to have more arguments than we’ve ever had before. Everybody started to feel uneasy. It got to the point where I was scared to shut my eyes. Once, I had a run of almost a week of horrific nightmares, one after the other, every single night I had the same type of dream, where my dog was in agony and the only thing I could do to help her was to kill her with my bare hands. Again, I was terrified to go to sleep. I dreaded it. My Mum and Dad started to feel the exact same way.

My Mum started getting weird insect bite marks every single night. Two red dots, like a spider bite. She washed all the sheets, even tried sleeping in different rooms. Still woke up with them every morning, all over her body. My Dad and I took turns sharing the bed with her, but we never had the same bites. Though one morning I did wake up to my leg stinging, and it turned out there were two long, raw scratches down the inside of my thigh (there was nobody/nothing in the bed with me that could have done it, it was fresh, and I bite my fingernails to stubs out of anxiety so I couldn’t have made such a defined, clear scratch myself.) In our last few weeks in the house, my Dad actually got bitten by something while in bed, his finger bled and everything, but nothing was there, he stayed up for an hour on a work night just to find evidence of a mouse or something to please his skeptic mind, couldn’t find anything.

Worth noting is that my Mum and I both believe in the paranormal (and are sensitive to it), but my Dad doesn’t. And even he started mentioning the fact that he “felt like he was being watched” and that he was having a lot of bad dreams. And, here’s the kicker: he was having intrusive thoughts. Not ‘I’m gonna kill my family’ or anything like that, but things like “Dad’s not going to get better. I’m a failure. What’s the point? I’m worthless. Everybody hates me.” And you should all know, my Dad is THE most chipper, happiest, most positive peanut on the planet. He’s the only mentally healthy one in our little family and he NEVER thinks things like that. Not even when he is under intense stress. One night he even said he heard something in the room with him, clear as day, he was absolutely 100% sure one of the dogs had somehow gotten into the room, but when he looked, there was nothing there.

At that point, my Mum and I started to rethink the steep decline of our mental health. Because we’d always had problems, but not to this extent. We were having the exact same bad thoughts, but hadn’t really thought twice about it, since we’re The Mentally Unhealthy y’know. We started to rethink things: how instantly we’d feel better when we stepped out of the house, all the weird marks, all the weird dreams and drafts and noises and disappearing objects and everything else. I was also having a lot of headaches/stomach aches/nose bleeds at this point. It was honestly like you’d fall into a trance whenever you stepped into the house; it honest to god felt like you had the life slowly drained out of you. Even our goddamn neighbours noted it when they came over to visit.

The only way to get rid of a poltergeist is a crap-ton of sage and white light, and by starving it - getting rid of all the negative energy in your own lives and forcing yourself to be more positive. At this point though, we were already planning on moving out, so we didn’t really have time… and our situation wasn’t improving, either, so hard to be positive. Long story short, we toughed it out, and moved.

I should tell you, even though technically these last few months in this new house have probably been the most stressful and depressing few months we’ve ever had - we’ve all been sleeping like babies, we’ve had no more of the weird thoughts or depression, no more nightmares, no more weird drafts, all our animals have been perfectly content, and we’ve had no more red marks. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I think my Dad may not be quite so skeptical anymore, tbh.

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wroughtbetwixtfanfic · 5 years ago

Text

Stamped Into Memory, Ch 1.

Fandom: The Society.

Summary: One night is all it takes to throw Campbell's carefully maintained control into chaos. Caught in a downward spiral and once again public enemy #1, he struggles to keep those around him safe-- from a killer on the loose, and from himself.

Rating: Mature.

Tags: Major Character Death, Canon Divergence, Mental Health Issues, Family Issues, Substance Abuse, Slow Burn, Dubcon Kissing, Romantic Friendship, Mild Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Unhealthy Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Fix-It, implied animal death, the dog lives, Antisocial Personality Disorder, ASPD, Campbell has mild ASPD and is actively trying to not be awful

Word Count: 5436

Part Two, Ch 1 || Ch 2 || AO3

Disclaimer: This is part three of a series. Reading the first two parts is more-or-less essential.

This is a canon divergent storyline for Campbell, using (in my experience) a realistic take on conduct disorder and ASPD instead of Hollywood "psychopath" stereotypes. While people with conduct disorder can be violent and abusive, the diagnosis exists on a spectrum, and neither ASPD nor "psychopathy" should be diagnosed before the age of 18; this is one thing that rubbed me the wrong way on The Society. Campbell's power will be more in his ability to manipulate-- not "being crazy". Hopefully I can succeed in presenting a more understandable and less sensationalized vision of his behavior. Please note that while I present his relationships as unhealthy and his behavior as questionable, I don't intend to make him a violent abuser, to bring his character more in line with my experiences of how an emotionally neglected teen with moderately reduced empathy would behave, provided they were trying to be better (and seeking outside help).

AO3 updates will be on Sunday, unless otherwise noted! The entire part-- all five chapters--have already been posted to my Patreon. Thank you for reading, and leaving kudos/comments. They matter so much to me. <3

///

When a gun goes off, there are only two moments-- before, and after. Shootings were something Campbell, and others his age, had grown up with. It was an ever-present specter, where you held your breath every day you went to school and didn't let it out until you were home again. Slammed doors, dropped books, even the pop of a can of soda, caused people to flinch. But they all knew what a gunshot sounded like. They had seen the videos. They had been through the drills. They knew, if something like that ever happened in West Ham, nothing would be the same again. He knew, at 12:35, that something had changed. He knew that before he even turned the corner. Someone had a gun, and they had used it. The barking had stopped. The street was silent, empty, as Campbell turned the corner. Empty, except for Cassandra laying on the ground.

Campbell rushed over, kneeling beside her. Was she breathing? He couldn't tell, but there was blood pooling around her, and her eyes weren't opening. "Cassandra, come on," he pleaded, searching for her pulse. "Don't you fucking dare, Cassie, don't you dare." Nothing. She was dead. His throat squeezed shut. Campbell fumbled with his phone, but the blood on his hands made it impossible to grip properly. Gordie, or Allie. He had to call someone, anyone. But then he stopped, chaotic impulse shifting into cold logic. Campbell was the only one in town who had openly used a gun. His friendship with Cassandra was, aside from a few people, not widely known. Worse, Campbell had held Cassandra at gunpoint before. If anyone saw him there, he was fucked. He had to get the hell out of there before someone else came to investigate the noise. It felt wrong to walk away, but he forced his feet to keep going. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he did would bring her back. It was a finality, and she would be just as gone no matter what. Campbell wasn't sure how he got home. It was a blur, and for a moment he'd hoped it had all been some sort of weird hallucination, but then he got inside the house and turned on the lights. His hands were still covered in blood. He stared at the sticky, copper-scented mess. She was gone. Cassandra was really gone. "Campbell?" He looked up, staring at Elle as she came down the stairs in a bathrobe. She stopped halfway, her gaze locking onto his hands. Campbell tried to speak, but nothing came out. He couldn't move. He couldn't breath. All he could smell was blood, and see Cassandra's eyes staring lifelessly, and he felt like he was going to throw up. Oh, god, Cassandra. Witty, ruthless Cassandra, who had been at his side when no one else had been and had promised to always be there, and-- "She's dead," Campbell said. His voice was flat, distant, strange in his own ears. He waited for some sort of sorrow. Tears. Something. But there was nothing except the truth of it, clinical and straightforward. "The damn dog was out there barking and I went to look for them, and there was a gunshot and Cassandra's dead." Elle came down the stairs and moved towards him. "Dead? You're sure?" "I..." He gestured with his gory hands. "She didn't have a pulse." "Okay. Okay, breathe. Come on, come with me." He hadn't realized he'd been hyperventilating. Campbell forced himself to take a long, slow breath and follow Elle to the bathroom. She helped him out of his clothes, and got him into the shower. He scrubbed until his skin was red and raw; it still didn't feel like enough, but the blood was gone. When he got out, Elle was waiting with clean clothes. His phone and old clothes were gone. Campbell didn't ask questions, and got dressed. Elle was in the living room by the time he was finished, wrapping his clothes in plastic bags. "We can burn these later," she said quietly as he sat down on the sofa next to her. His phone was on the coffee table, completely wiped down. "In a few days, when it's less suspicious." "I didn't do it, Elle. You have to believe me." "I believe you, but we both know how it'll go if the rest of the town thinks you did it." Well, he could appreciate the matter-of-fact logic there. Campbell sat down and stared at his hands. He couldn't feel anything. It almost felt like his mind was racing, but not with thoughts or emotions. Just static. White noise. Like a broken down robot. Still, his heart was beating so fast, and Campbell felt like it was hard to swallow. He was shaking. It was summer, warm, but it felt like someone had drenched him in ice water. What was this? What was happening? It didn't make sense. None of it. How was this happening? How could Cassandra be dead? When she was done, Elle hid the clothes somewhere in the house, bringing a blanket back with her; they curled up on the sofa together, with Campbell tucked into Elle's lap. She stroked his hair until he fell asleep, the weird twisted and rushing feeling in his body guttering into a deep, terrible ache in his muscles. Rest was impossible. He kept startling awake, and even when he managed to drift off, his dreams were filled with Cassandra staring at him, soaked in blood and flipping a coin. The phone rang at 5am. Bean was on the other end, crying so hard Campbell could barely make out what she was saying. "Allie wants family to come to the hospital," she choked. "There's been an accident." It only took ten minutes to drive to the hospital. Campbell parked by the entrance, but when he went to get out, he just... couldn't. Elle sat in the passenger seat, silent. She didn't ask what was wrong. Thank fuck for that, because Campbell wouldn't have known what to tell her. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want to see their faces or deal with their crying. He didn't want to hear their questions. Was her body there? Would they make him see it? They would expect him to cry, too, but Campbell couldn't. He couldn't, and he didn't want to, because behind that padlocked door there was something dark and he didn't want to set it free. Not like this. Not yet. Not until they found Cassandra's killer. Elle's hand rested on his, and he realized he was breathing too fast again. Anxiety wouldn't help anyone. What would Cassandra do, in all this? She'd be strong, and try to help others. Campbell didn't give a shit about most of them, but he cared about Sam, and he knew Sam would be in there somewhere. He couldn't let Sam go through that alone. Maybe Campbell couldn't cry with them, but he could try to help them. The lobby of the hospital was eerily silent, save for the sound of people weeping. Allie was standing by the front desk and crying into Will's shoulder, while Kelly and Bean held each other. Sam was off to the side, his face in his hands. He bit back the bubble of loathing that rose in his chest when Kelly and Allie's eyes turned to glower at him. Campbell stood there for a moment, trying to decide which move to make first. He wanted to go to Sam, but if he breezed past Allie then she'd be even more of a problem than she was already. What did he really care about that, though? She should have fucking been there with Cassandra. She should have been there, but because she was a fucking whiny baby, Cassandra had died alone. Fuck her opinions. Campbell sat next to Sam, nudging Sam's shoulder with his own. "Hey," he signed when Sam looked up. "Is there anything I can do?" Sam searched Campbell's face. His eyes welled up, and at first he shook his head, but then he signed fast and messily, like he didn't want to say it at all. "I need you to be here. I need my brother." Something lanced through Campbell's stomach, fleeting but painful. This wasn't how they were supposed to fix things. This wasn't how they were supposed to come back together. Campbell put his arm around Sam's shoulders, and after a brief hesitation, Sam leaned against him; Campbell could be whatever Sam needed him to be, put on whatever mask Sam expected Campbell to wear, but Campbell wished he could cry with Sam. Show Sam that he felt it, too. That he understood. But the best he could do was hold Sam as he wept, rocking him until Sam was too exhausted to cry anymore. One by one, the people around them fell quiet, too. Now and then there'd be a sniffle, a raspy cough, or someone blowing their nose. Everyone looked listless. Worn. At some point, Becca arrived. She ground to a halt when she saw Campbell, and he noticed her expression turn icy. Whatever. Campbell didn't care. Whatever her problem with him was, it paled compared to what was happening. Luckily, Sam noticed her arrival, and pulled away to go to her; at least that would keep that conflict at bay, for now. "Does anyone need something to eat or drink?" Elle asked softly. A few people muttered an affirmative. "I don't think anyone checked the cafeteria here. There might be something." Bean dried her eyes and stood up. "That's a good idea. I'll come with you." Campbell stood and gave Elle a kiss on the cheek before she left. Bean glanced at him, but said nothing. Suspicion was already stirring, and why wouldn't it? Even knowing that, though, he wasn't quite ready for Allie's reaction once Elle was out of earshot. "You." Allie spat the word out like his mere presence was revolting. She grit her teeth, her voice accusing as her face contorted in rage. "Where were you last night? Where were you when Cassandra was killed?" Sam, who had been watching the exchange, stepped in between them ever so slightly. "Don't do this. He didn't kill Cassandra." "How do you know? Answer the fucking question, Campbell." Campbell blinked at Sam's reaction, but he shook his head. "It's fine, Sam. Look, Elle and I left prom a little early. I drove Dillon, Harry, and a couple other people home, and then we went home and stayed there all night." Allie opened her mouth, then closed it again. Anger gave way to loss as her lip quivered. "Do you know anyone who would have? Did... did anyone tell you anything? Maybe she told you about someone threatening her?" "No. I swear to you, Allie, I have no idea what did this. If I did, I'd have dragged them in here by their balls. I'm sorry." "Fine. Okay." Pressing a hand to her mouth, Allie took a step towards Campbell, but then backed away again and shook her head when her phone buzzed. "I gotta go. Gordie's doing the..." She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't need to. Allie turned and walked off, with Will following silently behind her. Fuck. Campbell kicked a chair and sent it skittering across the floor; everyone but Sam jumped. "What happened?" Campbell asked, raising his voice to address the entire room. "How long have you all been here?" At first, there was silence, but then Kelly spoke. "Gordie was waiting for her, but she never came home. He found her laying outside the inn a little before one." Becca went over and curled her arms around Kelly as she began to cry again. "Why was she alone? Gwen was supposed to be there. Gwen should have been there with her." So, Gwen had been AWOL at the time it happened. Campbell made a mental note. Gwen had always been a heinous twat to Cassandra, and she was friends with Lexie, who wasn't much better. Elle and Bean came back with little bags of chips and boxes of juice. Everyone took something, but no one actually ate. They all just sat and stood around like ill-tempered children on the worst camping trip of their lives. And wasn't that the truth? They were still so young. They should have been worrying about graduation and dating and jobs, not murder. Helena walked through the doors, her face perfectly neutral. "Grizz and a couple other guys are working on a grave. The rest of the guard are at the scene until Gordie gets done. They'll make sure no one tampers with it." Campbell growled. "Yeah, unless one of them did it." "Are you accusing one of them of murder?" Helena demanded, crossing her arms. "Keep in mind, my boyfriend is one of them, and I know him." "Oh, I'm sure you do." Sam knocked on a chair to get their attention. "Let's not argue right now. We don't know who did this. We won't know without evidence. But the guard doesn't seem like the type." "Yeah, you're right." Campbell fixed his gaze on Helena. "Grizz is too much of a kitten, and the rest of them can't tie their fucking shoes without a how-to video, so my mistake." Helena started towards him, but Bean grabbed her arm and whispered something to her. The edge of Helena's nose twitched up in a barely suppressed sneer. Helena started to say something, but Gordie, Allie, and Will came back just then and everyone else turned their attention to Gordie. He looked ill, clutching a folder tight in his hands. "I know you all want answers. But I... I think I should take some time to look for more evidence, and talk to Allie, before I share my findings. I think you all should go home. If you hear anything, please call me or Allie right away. The funeral will be around noon." Everyone filtered out of the hospital, some starting to cry again. Elle hadn't shed a single tear, though her face was solemn as they got back to the car. When they got in, she touched his knee, her eyebrows furrowed. "I know this is such a pointless question, but are you okay? I mean, how can anyone be, but..." "I don't know." He threw the car into drive and peeled out of the parking lot, focusing on the road. "I mean, I'm not going to do anything to myself if that's what you mean, but I don't know. I have to just focus on one step at a time. I can't afford to lose it." "It's okay to lose it a little. Pretty sure you almost did on Helena." "She thinks Luke shits glitter. I just can't fucking stand that mentality. Just because you love someone doesn't mean they can't do fucked up things." "Tell me about it." "What do you mean?" Elle laughed, but it was devoid of humor. "You're not the only one with secrets, Campbell. Let's just say I know all too well that people can surprise you in the worst ways." But then they were home, and the conversation felt over. They stepped inside the home, and it just felt... different. Strange. So, this was the after in the before and after. Campbell looked at the pictures he'd left hanging on the walls. One was of him, Cassandra, Allie, and Sam when they were younger. Before. And now, now they were in the after, and he had to find some way to pretend like the word wasn't falling down around their heads. Like shit wasn't going to fall apart without her. "I need to go see Harry," Campbell said suddenly. "Now." Frowning, Elle sat down on a stool in the kitchen. "You haven't had breakfast. Why do you need to go see him?" "Because I'm ninety percent sure he knows who did it. Stay here." It was no secret that Harry disliked Cassandra. Hate was probably a strong word; they got along, sometimes, but their rivalry was the stuff of legends. Campbell knew that Harry would be the number one suspect. The fact was, though, that Harry didn't have the guts to do something like that. Harry had a big mouth and the usual rich boy complex, but he was also fragile. Not in the sense of his masculinity, but mentally. Emotionally. He was needy, hated to confront anything that was serious, and was a follower more than a leader. No. He didn't kill Cassandra, either. But he was friends with the guard, and was familiar with some other sniveling brats who had hated-- actually hated-- Cassandra. Clingy little cockroaches that hung around Harry for the drugs and booze, who thought Harry was something special and wanted to snap up little scraps of whatever shine he had left. Parasites. And because Harry craved attention, he let them hang on. One of them? One of them definitely did it. Campbell felt it in his gut. Harry's home looked like a garbage pit. Campbell walked right in, since apparently no one locked the door anymore, and stared at the sheer amount of crap laying around. Dirty dishes stacked up, clothes everywhere, clutter on every visible surface. The place smelled vaguely like garbage. No wonder Harry was freaking out. There was faint weeping coming from various corners of the house. News must have spread. Interesting, Campbell thought as he climbed the stairs, coming from people who had looked down on Cassandra and had made her a social pariah while she was alive. It would only be a matter of time before they started claiming that they had been her friends, or had admired her, or whatever drivel people said when someone they'd ignored for eighteen years suddenly died. Curled up in bed, Harry was wrapped in blankets like some sort of sentient burrito. There were a few other people there, whispering among themselves, but they scrambled out when Campbell walked in. Good. They didn't need an audience for this. "Hey. Rise and shine." Harry's voice was muffled. He didn't move. "Is it true?" "My sex tape is just a rumor. Oh, wait. Do you mean someone murdering Cassandra?" "Fuck you, Campbell." Peeling his blanket off, Harry sat up and burrowed his hand into his hands. "How the fuck can you joke at a time like this?" "Oh, Harry, it's cute that you think I'm being funny." "What--" But Harry didn't get a chance to finish whatever he was going to say. Campbell grabbed Harry by the shirt and hauled him out of bed, slamming him up against the support post in the middle of the room. Campbell pinned him, hard. "Who did it? Huh? Which one of your little groupies killed my cousin?" "I don't know! I don't know who did it, I swear!" "Bullshit, Harry! Use your goddamn brain. People don't just go shooting someone. Did anyone say something? Was someone pissed off at her?" Harry squirmed in his grip. "A lot of people were pissed off at her, Cam, including me. But no one said anything about..." Suddenly, Harry stopped struggling. His eyes widened as his body went slack. "Oh. Oh fuck." "What? What is it?" "I... Oh god, I didn't mean to." "Mean to what? Spit it the fuck out." "It was at the party I had before prom. We were all drunk already, and I just. I was mad, okay? I was mad and the guys were talking shit about Cassandra, and I just. I didn't mean it, but I said that if she were dead we'd have some peace and quiet." Fury moved through him faster than he could think, and oh he wanted to hurt Harry. His hands tightened on Harry's shoulders, and he felt that urge start to crest, but he could see the fear in Harry's eyes; it gave him just a split second of clarity. Campbell let go of Harry and turned his back to him, taking deep breaths. Back away, back away. Get out of the situation before that anger returned. "This conversation is over," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Get dressed. You're going to make a list of everyone who was there when you said that, and we're going to give that list to Gordie when we go to the funeral." Sinking onto his bed, Harry flinched as Campbell tossed him a pad of paper and a pen; he obeyed and began to scribble down names. In the meantime, Campbell began to clean up the garbage around Harry's bedroom. As pissed off as Campbell was, he knew Harry hadn't meant any harm to come to Cassandra, and Let's Clean Up Harry's Home! was a familiar way to blow off steam. If he crushed a few soda cans with his foot or threw the garbage into a bag a little harder than necessary when no one was looking, well, that was better than the alternative. He shouldn't have done what he did. Campbell knew that. Hurting Harry, scaring him, wouldn't solve anything. If something Harry said got Cassandra killed, it still hadn't been Harry's fault. Murder was a choice, just like shoving someone around was a choice. Fuck. He sighed as he took the trash outside, then came in and stood in the kitchen. His hand moved towards his phone on instinct; whenever he felt like this, like a tornado about to touch down, he would call Cassandra. For a tiny, tiny fraction of a second, he had forgotten. Cassandra had helped him learn to control his rage, and it usually worked, but now she was about to be put under a few feet of dirt. She'd never answer his calls again. Instead, he began washing the dishes. They needed to be scrubbed at that point, and it helped get rid of the remaining urge to break things. Soft footsteps came up behind him. Campbell could smell Harry's cologne, light and floral. Guilty, by Gucci. Fitting. He braced for some sort of fight, but Harry just rested his forehead against the back of Campbell's shoulder. Campbell sighed, but didn't shrug him off. What good would it do? Harry took a towel and began to dry the plates. They worked in silence, until Harry stared down at the towel in his hands and let out a heaving, rattling sigh. His eyes were red and puffy; maybe he hadn't hated Cassandra as much as he'd always pretended, after all, but it was too late for that now and they both knew it. "What do we do?" "Go to the funeral, say our goodbyes, and then wait." "Wait for what?" "To see how bad things get." "We're fucked, aren't we?" He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about anything. But maybe there was still a chance, if someone who knew what they were doing took control. Who? Campbell had no idea. His thoughts were running too fast to puzzle it out. He didn't want to talk anymore; he just wanted to get through the fucking day before whatever was keeping him held together fell apart. Setting the last dish down, Harry sunk down onto a kitchen chair and brought out a slip of paper from his pocket; he set it on the counter, and Campbell picked it up. Jason, Greg, Scott, Travis, Mark. A bunch of jerks, mostly. Travis was alright, and Jason seemed too much like a big doof to kill anyone, even if he was a creep. Campbell put the list in a pocket and gestured towards the door. "Come on. You're going with me." "What? No." "Yes, you are. You're gonna come over and hang with me and Elle for a while, and then we're all going to go. Being here moping isn't going to help either of us." Harry gave up in the end, like always, and followed Campbell home. Elle seemed surprised to see him, but they made a light lunch and sat around the living room doing their own things. Campbell played a video game, Elle read, Harry laid down and pretended to be a rock. Whatever. At least Campbell could keep an eye on him that way. Once it was close to noon, the three of them arrived at the church. They were almost at the door when Harry stopped, staring up at the door like a man about to be hanged. Campbell looked to Elle. "Hey, babe? Can you go inside and save us a seat?" Elle glanced between them, then nodded. He waited until she was inside before turning back to Harry. "What are you doing?" "I can't go in. Allie will be there. She'll think I did it." "She'll think that if you don't go in, too. Okay? Don't bail on me." Harry bit his bottom lip, but he didn't argue; he followed Campbell into the church without protest, keeping his head down and sticking close to Campbell. They made it a few paces in when Campbell spotted Will walking towards them, eyes narrowed and anger coming off him in waves. "You guys have a lot of balls," Will seethed. "Showing up here. We all know how you felt about Cassandra, Harry. You were super fucking clear." Campbell stepped between him and Harry, holding firm. "Will, don't do this." "You think you have any room to speak? You, you pointed a fucking gun at her. Both of you, get out. Now." "Go to hell. I'm family. I loved Cassandra, and I'm not leaving." Will's voice raised to a growling shout. "Get the fuck out!" Before Campbell could speak, Gordie zipped up and grabbed Will by the shoulder. "What the hell is going on? What are you doing, Will?" "Taking out the trash." "Isn't this bad enough already?" "Allie doesn't need to see them here." Campbell pulled the list of names from his jacket, holding it up to Gordie. "Harry and I came up with a list of guys that were shittalking Cassandra at his party the night she was killed. Brought it as a peace offering." Will opened his mouth, then stopped. He looked back and forth between them, then over to Gordie, who took the paper and read it over. Gordie gave Will a look, and Will let out a short, quick breath. "Fine. But you don't talk to Allie." That wasn't going to be a problem. Campbell put a hand on Harry's back and guided him to where Elle was sitting; she took Campbell's hand as he sat between her and Harry, and he squeezed it. Luckily, no one else spoke to any of them. Campbell didn't need the confrontation. He didn't want it. Allie walked to the front of the church and cleared her throat. Whatever small amount of talking there had been quieted down. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, but to her credit, she managed to keep it held to together. "My sister, Cassandra, was good," she started. "She was a good person. She was captain of the debate team. You didn't want to argue with her." There were a few scattered laughs. Even Allie managed a tiny smile. But then she continued, and that smile turned into a darker expression, and her composed mask crumbled. "Who did this? Huh?" She looked around the room. Her gaze briefly stopped on Harry. "Who shot my sister? Why did you do that? We needed her!" she shouted. Allie began to cry, and Will came up to lead her off the stage. "I needed her!" Campbell bowed his head at that last wrenching, despondent wail. No one else spoke, and after a few minutes, the guard gathered at the front of the church. Cassandra's body lay there. "We thought we'd give people a few minutes to come say goodbye," Grizz said softly. "In case it'd help anyone." A few wandered up and formed a small line. Sam was one of the last; Campbell stood and walked down the aisle, ignoring the glares and whispers around him. Sam gave Campbell a grateful look as he approached and stood at his side. They went up together. Someone had pulled back the sheet Cassandra's body was wrapped in, just enough to catch a glimpse of her face. She was pale, eyes closed, clean of blood. "She looks peaceful," Sam signed. "Like she's sleeping." Campbell lifted his hands to sign back, but they just fluttered there uselessly. "She's free from pain now," he finally managed to sign. He leaned down and kissed Cassandra's forehead, his touch lingering for just one more moment before he turned and headed back to his seat without a word. If he opened his mouth again, he had no idea what would happen. The guard waited a moment, then wrapped the body back up and carried her out to the yard. She was buried next to Emily, with nothing but a crude wooden cross marking her final resting place. Cassandra would have laughed at the irony. Campbell wasn't laughing. "Eternal rest, grant her O Lord," Helena spoke, "and let perpetual light shine upon her. May her soul, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen." Some of the others echoed the amen. Biting his tongue, Campbell resisted the urge to just scream. Elle took his hand as they headed home, her eyebrows knitted together in worry as they walked in silence. When they returned home, Campbell took off his jacket and threw it onto the sofa. "Fuck, what a joke. She would have hated that shit," he said as he ran his hands through his hair. "She hated Christianity." "I think it was more for everyone else." "Must have been, because goddamn Helena didn't even ask what Cassandra believed or would have wanted." Campbell couldn't sit still. He needed to move. He needed to get the feeling in his body out of it. "You know, when she was younger and thought about dying, she talked about how she wanted her funeral to be. She wanted to be cremated and scattered at the ocean. She wanted Beatles music, and for people to dance. She..." Tears made his vision swim, and suddenly that wall that he'd been keeping up all day crumbled. He'd barely cried his entire fucking life, and now it was the second, third time since they'd arrived in their new hellscape. Weak. He was going weak, and if he did, how could he protect anyone? The one good thing about his fucked up brain had been that he could disconnect at will. And this, he couldn't make it stop. All he could do was stand there and sob, like the night he thought his disorder would push people away. Now reality set in even harder-- the people closest to him could die, and he truly would be alone, no matter how good or bad he was. It wasn't fair. It wasn't the least bit fair. Sudden pressure on his arm made Campbell yank back. "Don't fucking touch me!" he snapped, his head immediately going to when his father would grab him whenever Campbell would cry as a child. But then he stopped, remembering where he was and with who, and he felt a new wave of grief at the stunned look on Elle's face. "Elle, I'm sorry." "I didn't mean to upset you." "No, no. It's not your fault. I'm just... I need a moment." Campbell went upstairs and shut the door. He picked up his pillow and just stopped fighting it; he hit it against the wall, punched it, cursing his head off at it. He kept going until his arms and throat were sore, and he was curled up in the bed, hugging the pillow and shaking. She was dead, gone, buried, and the one person who understood and accepted him completely had been stolen from him. From her entire family. Something that happened every day, he knew, but it had never happened to him. Not in any way that had mattered. It wasn't even two o'clock, but he was already more tired than he could ever remember being in his life. He heard the door click open, and a moment later, the mattress dipped behind him. Elle nestled against his back; she didn't touch him exactly, but she was there, and her presence soothed some little part of him. "We'll find the person who did this, Campbell," she said as he dozed off. "Sooner or later, someone will slip up." "Yeah, and when we do, I'm going to make the fucker suffer." He was asleep before he could feel Elle stiffen, just a little.

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