#can’t believe he’s been going through open heart surgery for a year now

[inkandtension]

Tie That Binds.

Minho adjusted his tie for the third time, frowning at his reflection in the mirror. Weddings were supposed to be joyous occasions, weren’t they? Celebrations of love, laughter, and promises of forever? Yet, here he was, standing in an impeccably tailored suit, about to marry a woman he barely knew, feeling anything but joyous. His reflection stared back at him, the crease between his brows deepening with every second. The tie felt like a noose.

“Stop sulking, hyung,” came Changbin’s teasing voice from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “You look good. A real scholarly heartthrob.”

Minho shot him a glare that would have silenced most people. Changbin, however, was immune. “I’m not sulking,” Minho muttered under his breath, though even he didn’t believe the words. His fingers tugged at the tie again.

“You’re brooding, then,” Changbin replied cheerfully. “Brooding scholar. It’s a vibe.”

Minho sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. His mind wasn’t in the room; it was too busy turning over the absurdity of his situation. Years spent lecturing on logic, dissecting literature, and championing the idea of individual agency had somehow led him to this moment—a meticulously arranged marriage, orchestrated by his mother and some aunt whose face he couldn’t even remember.

“Can’t back out now,” Changbin added, pushing off the doorframe with a grin. “Unless you want to send all the guests home and deal with your mother’s wrath. And trust me, hyung, I’ll be the first to sell popcorn and watch that drama unfold.”

Minho shot him a flat look but said nothing. Changbin wasn’t wrong. Backing out wasn’t an option, not when the woman he was about to marry came with glowing recommendations. A surgeon, his mother had informed him with a delighted clap of her hands. Accomplished, brilliant, kind, and apparently drop-dead gorgeous. The perfect daughter-in-law material, in other words. His family had done everything short of hanging her résumé on the wall like a trophy.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing his blazer. As he shrugged it on, he couldn’t help but feel like he was stepping into a role he hadn’t auditioned for—a leading man in a play where the script had been written long before he entered the stage.

Y/N’s palms were sweating, and no amount of discreetly dabbing them with the edge of her dress seemed to help. She stood at the altar, her heart pounding in her chest, as the murmur of guests filled the room. Her eyes flitted to the door, waiting for Minho to appear.

For the past week, her life had been a whirlwind of surgeries, late-night meetings with wedding planners, and answering endless texts from her mother. It felt surreal, like she’d been thrown into someone else’s dream wedding—one she hadn’t exactly volunteered for.

“Why am I doing this?” she whispered to her best friend, who stood beside her in a pastel bridesmaid dress, looking far too amused for Y/N’s liking.

“Because your parents threatened to disown you if you didn’t at least try,” her friend whispered back with a barely-contained laugh.

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. It was true. Despite all her achievements, she was still that shy little girl seeking her family’s approval. Being a world-class surgeon hadn’t changed that. The wedding might have been their idea, but here she was, going through with it because walking away felt too much like failure.

Her thoughts scattered like confetti the moment the doors opened. Minho stepped in, and everything else seemed to fade into the background. He was tall, lean, and devastatingly handsome. His black hair was styled to perfection, framing his sharp features. His suit hugged him like it had been crafted by someone who understood the definition of precision, and the air of quiet confidence he exuded was enough to make her breath hitch.

Her best friend let out a low whistle, leaning closer. “Okay, I take it back. If you don’t marry him, I might.”

“Shut up,” Y/N hissed.

Married life was... odd, to say the least.

Minho spent his days teaching university students, delving into the intricacies of Shakespeare and Kafka. Y/N spent hers in a hospital, saving lives and dealing with emergencies that left her too drained to care about trivial things like cooking or cleaning.

They had an unspoken routine:

Y/N would come home late, exhausted, and Minho would have dinner waiting for her.

Minho would stay up grading papers while she crashed on the couch, sometimes falling asleep mid-sentence while recounting her day.

They’d exchange polite “good mornings” and “have a nice days,” but deeper conversations were rare.

It wasn’t awkward, per se—just... unfamiliar.

Over the weeks that followed, something shifted.

Minho started texting her during the day, little things like, Don’t skip lunch, or Did you sleep last night?

Y/N found herself bringing home snacks for him, claiming she’d picked them up on a whim, though she’d actually spent way too much time in the store debating which ones he’d like.

They started watching movies together on weekends, bickering over genres. Minho preferred psychological dramas; Y/N loved rom-coms.

“You seriously think this is funny?” Minho groaned one night, watching the lead actor trip over a series of increasingly ridiculous obstacles.

“It’s hilarious,” Y/N shot back, laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.

Minho rolled his eyes but didn’t miss the way her laugh made his chest feel warm.

…

“You know,” Minho said, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, “I didn’t think married life would mean sharing my coffee stash with someone who performs literal surgeries before I even wake up.”

You glanced up from the stove, where you were stirring scrambled eggs for the both of you. "I didn’t think it’d mean coming home to someone who alphabetizes their bookshelf and gets irrationally angry when one book is out of place.”

“Touch my books again, and it’ll be war."

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Good morning to you too, husband.”

The word still felt foreign. You’d been married for three months now, after a whirlwind of family introductions and a mutual agreement that, while neither of you believed in love at first sight, you could give companionship a chance. He was a literature professor, calm and composed with a sharp wit, and you were a surgeon, thriving on adrenaline and precision. Two opposites in every sense of the word, now sharing the same roof and calling it home.

“Don’t burn the eggs,” Minho teased as he set the table, placing his usual cup of black coffee at your spot.

“They’re perfect, thank you very much,” you replied, sliding the pan off the burner. “Unlike someone’s last attempt at cooking pasta.”

Minho feigned offense. “Excuse me, my pasta was avant-garde.”

“It was burnt.”

The morning ritual of trading barbs had quickly become your favorite part of this arrangement. Despite the awkwardness of the early days, you’d found a rhythm. You respected each other’s space, cheered each other on, and occasionally stole moments like this—warm and light, like the eggs you plated and brought to the table.

Minho sipped his coffee, glancing at you. “Long shift today?”

“Not too bad. Just six hours,” you said. “You?”

“Grading papers,” he said with a grimace. “Seventy essays on whether The Great Gatsby is a love story or a cautionary tale.”

“Ah, the joys of shaping young minds,” you teased.

Minho shook his head, but his smirk softened. He looked at you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “You’re really good at this, you know.”

“At what? Mocking you?”

“That too,” he admitted, “but I meant… this. Us.”

You froze, caught off guard. He wasn’t usually this candid. “I guess we’re both trying,” you said, feeling your cheeks warm.

“I’d say we’re succeeding,” Minho said, reaching out to steal a bite of your eggs with his fork. “Even if you do insist on putting ketchup on your eggs, like a heathen.”

“Hey!” you laughed, swatting his hand away.

The truth was, Minho had a knack for sneaking past your defenses. Whether it was his quiet attentiveness when you came home exhausted or the way he made sure to send you texts during your long shifts (“Don’t forget to eat. And drink water. And sleep. I’m grading your habits, 2/10 so far”), he was making it harder not to fall for him.

As you cleaned up the dishes together, Minho cleared his throat. “By the way, my department’s hosting a dinner next week. Spouses are invited.”

“Oh,” you said, your heart skipping a beat. “Am I—?”

“You’re coming,” he interrupted, looking at you like it wasn’t even a question. “I need someone to laugh at my jokes when my colleagues inevitably talk about Chaucer.”

You snorted. “You’re assuming your jokes will be funny.”

He leaned closer, his voice low. “I don’t need them to be funny. I just need you there.”

Your breath caught, but Minho had already turned away, heading to his study. “Have a good day at work, Dr. Ketchup.”

“Have fun with Gatsby, Professor Burnt Pasta,” you called after him, hiding your grin.

You stood in the kitchen for a moment, fingers brushing the counter where his hand had been seconds ago. Maybe this marriage wasn’t just about making it work. Maybe, just maybe, it could be something more.

(You couldn’t make it to the party, an emergency surgery happened, you apologised though, his colleagues were a bit too sad when you didn’t make it)

It was supposed to be a peaceful Sunday morning for Minho—his one precious day to lounge in sweatpants, sip coffee, and enjoy the rare luxury of a slow, uneventful routine. He had even entertained the idea of making you breakfast before you left for work, something simple yet thoughtful. But fate, as always, had other plans.

A sharp knock on the door disrupted his rare moment of domestic bliss. With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself away from the stove, glancing warily at the pan on low heat. As he shuffled to the door, half-asleep, he wondered who could possibly be bothering him on his sacred day off.

The door creaked open, revealing Felix, one of his students, standing there in all his youthful glory. A textbook was tucked under his arm, his expression bright and hopeful.

“Professor Lee!” Felix greeted, his tone unnaturally chipper for a Sunday.

Minho blinked slowly, still processing the intrusion. “Felix? What are you doing here?”

“You said you’d help with my essay on Sunday,” Felix reminded him, his tone tentative but insistent.

Minho racked his brain, piecing together fragmented memories from office hours. “Right…” he muttered, groaning internally. He vaguely remembered agreeing to it but hadn’t expected Felix, the popular, gossip-loving, poster-child of charm, to actually follow through. “Yeah, come in.”

As Felix stepped inside, his eyes scanned the space with open curiosity. It was his first time seeing his professor’s home, and it wasn’t what he expected. The cozy, lived-in atmosphere seemed at odds with Minho’s perpetually serious demeanor in class. His attention was quickly snagged by a pair of stylish, feminine glasses sitting on the coffee table. Girlfriend? Felix wondered, tilting his head.

Before he could dwell on the thought, the distinct sound of heels clicking against the floor made him freeze. A moment later, you emerged from the hallway, dressed sharply for work. Felix’s eyebrows shot up, his thoughts immediately scrambling for an explanation. You blinked, just as surprised to see someone new in the living room. “Oh,” you said, your tone polite but slightly off-guard. “Hi.”

Felix, now officially overwhelmed, managed to blurt out, “Hello”, he said, before his gaze flickered back to the coffee table, then to you, as he didn’t know how to address you.

No way, he thought, it’s the doctor who came on news for saving a K-pop idol, from almost death.

“Minho!” you called, turning your head toward the kitchen. “Is this one of your students?”

Felix, his curiosity reaching critical levels, edged closer to the source of your voice. Peeking into the kitchen, he found Minho by the stove, a pan in hand. Smoke curled lazily upward, and the sharp scent of burning food filled the air.

“Minho,” you said, stepping into the kitchen with an incredulous laugh, “are you burning food again?”

Minho startled, nearly dropping the pan. “I’m not burning it! I’m… enhancing the flavor,” he argued, his tone defensive.

“Enhancing?” you repeated with a laugh. “Minho, cooking is about creating something edible, not staging a kitchen fire. It’s amazing how often you mix those two up.”

“I was trying to make you something before you left for the hospital,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed but reluctant to admit defeat.

Your playful smile softened at his admission. Gently, you reached over to turn off the stove. “That’s sweet, but maybe stick to teaching literature instead of culinary experiments.”

Felix, lurking just out of sight, stared wide-eyed as you roasted him. The banter, the easy familiarity—it all added up. They’re married?

“Go sit down,” you told Minho, nudging him out of the kitchen. “I’ll make something quick before I leave.”

Minho grumbled under his breath but obeyed, brushing past Felix on his way back to the living room. Felix hurried to take a seat, trying to appear nonchalant, though his mind was racing.

When you passed through the room moments later, coffee in hand, you offered Felix a warm smile. “Nice meeting you. Don’t give him too hard of a time with your questions.”

Felix nodded mutely, watching you leave. The moment the door shut behind you, he turned to Minho, who had returned with two glasses of juice.

“Professor…” Felix began slowly, his voice thick with disbelief. “Is she your wife?”

Minho raised an eyebrow as he sipped his juice. “Yes. Why?”

Felix blinked rapidly, struggling to reconcile this new information. “No reason,” he mumbled, though his expression betrayed his shock.

Moments later, you returned to the hallway, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. Minho met you by the door, leaning casually against the frame.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’ll try,” you replied, a familiar warmth in your voice. You both knew it was a promise you likely wouldn’t keep.

Felix, still reeling from the day’s revelations, hovered awkwardly nearby. As you stepped outside, he called out suddenly, “Have a good day, Mrs. Lee!”

You froze, the unexpected title catching you off guard. It wasn’t unpleasant—just unfamiliar. Slowly, you turned, offering Felix a polite but flustered smile. “Uh… you too,” you managed before hurrying to your car.

Minho chuckled, leaning casually against the doorframe as he watched you leave. “Mrs. Lee, huh?” he mused aloud, mostly to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I like the sound of that.”

Felix, now thoroughly overwhelmed, buried his face in his hands. Sundays, he realised, were never as peaceful as they seemed.

Minho shook his head, walking back inside. “Come on, let’s get to your essay before you start narrating this like a drama.”

The next day at school, Felix did exactly that.

Felix leaned forward dramatically, hands splayed wide as he began recounting his Sunday adventure to a growing crowd of curious students in the cafeteria. His voice, filled with excitement, caught the attention of several nearby tables, each eager to hear more.

"Guys, listen up," he said, flashing a grin. "You won’t believe what I saw at Professor Lee’s house yesterday."

A few students glanced at each other, intrigued, as Felix's words hung in the air. He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to keep everyone hanging on his every syllable. "So, I went to his place for some essay help, right? And the first thing I notice when I walk in is this super cozy vibe. You know, soft lighting, a hint of fresh coffee... real domestic bliss. But then—then, I spot these feminine glasses on the table."

Hyunjin, who had been lounging back in his chair, rolled his eyes. "What’s so weird about glasses?" he asked, unimpressed.

Felix raised a finger, signaling that this story was about to take a turn. "Wait for it. So, as I’m trying to figure out who’s glasses they are, out walks this stunning woman. She’s in full professional attire—like, the whole deal. She’s walking like, like a CEO walking into an important meeting. And guess what? She’s his wife. Dr. Y/N. The surgeon."

Hyunjin blinked, his expression shifting from indifference to shock. “His what?” he practically shouted, hands flying to cover his mouth as his eyes widened.

The murmurs of disbelief spread like wildfire among the crowd, each person leaning in a little closer, straining to catch every word.

"You’re making this up," Jisung said skeptically, shaking his head as he crossed his arms.

Felix smirked, leaning back in his seat with an air of triumph. "I’m not! They’re so romantic, it’s almost nauseating. I’m telling you, it’s like one of those cheesy rom-coms. He even tried to cook for her."

"Professor Lee? Cooking?" Hyunjin scoffed loudly, half-laughing in disbelief. "That man lives off convenience store meals. There's no way he was cooking anything decent."

Felix leaned in closer, lowering his voice for effect. The group went quiet, eager to hear the juicy detail. "He burned it," he said, his face full of mock sympathy.

The table erupted in laughter, the absurdity of the image painting a perfect picture in everyone's minds.

"But that’s not even the best part!" Felix exclaimed, practically bouncing in his seat. "No, no. The best part is how she roasted him. And I mean roasted him. And then, do you know what he said? He said he was trying to make something special for her before she left for work. I mean, come on—imagine that. Your husband burns breakfast out of love for you. Isn’t that just... romantic?"

Jisung couldn’t help himself and muttered, "That doesn’t sound romantic. That sounds tragic."

Felix ignored him, continuing with the fervor of someone who had just witnessed the most entertaining drama. "And the way they bantered? Oh my god, guys, it was like something out of a rom-com. She laughed at him, and he got all offended but secretly pleased—it was like watching this whole love story unfold before my eyes. You would think they had a love marriage, not some arranged one."

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now. "Wait, they’re in an arranged marriage?" he asked, trying to wrap his mind around it.

Felix nodded solemnly, as if he were revealing some deep, hidden truth. "Yeah. But you’d never know. The way they looked at each other, the way they interacted—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were madly in love."

By now, half the cafeteria was hanging on Felix’s every word, the whole campus’s girls were there(for felix’s charm) of course.

And, as expected, the rumors began to spread like wildfire. What started as Felix’s casual recounting of a Sunday visit quickly turned into a full-fledged mystery. Everyone was dying to know more about Professor Lee’s mysterious wife—and, more importantly, if they could have a glimpse into this romance that Felix had so dramatically described.

…

Minho was halfway through grading essays in the faculty lounge when his colleague, Chan, approached him with a mischievous grin.

“Hey, Minho,” Chan started, plopping down in the seat across from him.

“What?” Minho asked without looking up.

“So… I heard some interesting things about you and your wife,” Chan said casually, his tone laced with amusement.

Minho froze, his pen hovering over a student’s paper, Felix’s. “What things?”

“Oh, nothing major,” Chan said, feigning innocence. “Just that you’re apparently head over heels for her, cooking her breakfast and all that. Burnt, of course.”

Minho’s eyes traveled through the paper in his hands and it clicked. “Felix.”

Chan laughed. “So it’s true?”

“Partially,” Minho muttered. “He came over to the house for essay help and caught us in the middle of a normal morning.”

“Normal?” Chan raised an eyebrow. “Apparently, you’re living in a K-drama.”

“Don’t start,” Minho groaned.

Chan grinned, leaning forward. “Come on, though. Is it true you tried to cook for her?”

Minho hesitated before muttering, “I might have… attempted.”

Chan burst out laughing. “Wow, you really are whipped. I didn’t think you had it in you, Minho.”

Minho shot him a glare. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it’s not,” Chan said, smirking. “But, honestly, it’s nice to see you so… happy. You’re usually such a grump.”

Minho rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up his pen and went back to grading(maybe unfairly) , pretending not to notice the smug look on Chan’s face.

As Chan got up to leave, he clapped Minho on the shoulder. “By the way, I think Felix might be your biggest fan now. Watch out, or he’ll start writing a romance novel about you two.”

Minho groaned, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Meanwhile, you were eating lunch with your colleagues, when a message from Minho popped up.

Minho: Felix told half the campus we’re madly in love. You: We’re not? Minho: That’s not the point. You: It’s not a bad rumor to have, Professor Lee. 😉

Minho stared at the screen, shaking his head. Felix might’ve been overly dramatic, but maybe the kid wasn’t entirely wrong.

[ohmi-ohmyj]

Happy 1-year-deathiversary to this guy 💣💥🎉

[writing-for-marvel]

Heartburn

[He’s Hazardous To My Health Series]

Paramedic!Bucky Barnes x Resident!Fem!Reader

< < PART 4 | Series Masterlist | PART 6 > >

Summary: You hadn’t expected to meet Bucky’s family so soon, let alone in your hospital.

Warnings: strictly 18+, TRIGGER WARNING mention of a child dying from an epileptic seizure, mention of child abuse, mention of someone dying from alcoholism/liver cancer, minor character has a heart attack, CPR including chest compressions is depicted, mention of surgery, angst, fluff, implied smut, please note this is a medical AU which is set in a emergency room

Word count: 5.1k

A/N: sorry if the pacing is a little off in this one, I had a vision but I’m not sure it’s actually come together all that well. We finally learn about Bucky’s past in this one! Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Main Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Taglist | Library

It’s the irritating beeping sound of a phone alarm that pulls you from your dreamland with a start.

For a minute you’re disoriented, even though you recognise the surroundings as your own bedroom. Only a second ago it seems you were cuddled up next to Bucky on your couch, head on his shoulder and fingers intertwined as reruns of The Office played in front of your tired eyelids.

Now, his large form reaches across to the bedside table to quickly shut off his alarm, the muscles in his bare back tensing with the stretch.

“Sorry darling, got an early shift and my uniform is back at my place.” The apology spoken in his hoarse morning voice is coupled with a soft kiss to your forehead which is sweet, but not quite enough recompense for the price of being woken up extra early.

Even though you’ve just woken up, probably looking puffy, bleary eyed and like a unshowered mess, Bucky’s gaze is still filled with wonder and tenderness, as if, even in this state, you’re still the most exquisite person he’s ever laid eyes on and he can’t quite believe he gets to wake up beside you.

He holds you into his warm, musky scented, hairy chest for a long minute, wherein you almost fall back to sleep listening to the steady beat of his heart, until he covertly attempts to remove his arms from around you, aiming to leave you to continue to rest alone in bed.

“No, don’t go.” You mumble in protest, reaching out to grab hold of his burly frame. Bucky’s strong enough to pull away from you if he really wanted, but it’s clear he doesn’t when even the drowsy grasp you have on him is adequate to prevent him from leaving your bed.

Bucky snuggles back into your embrace and a soft, loving smile spreads over your sleepy features which induces his heart to melt into warm honey in his chest. This is where he’s meant to be.

In a decades time, reflecting back he’s not going to remember everyday he turned up to work on time, but he will reminisce on these stolen moments with you.

For so long being a paramedic has been his purpose. That after everything he’s suffered through he poured his soul into helping other people to give him a reason to keep going.

But perhaps now he can instead be a little selfish. Open up his heart, which has been under lock and key, and indulge in the rapture and ardour that you seem to instinctively induce within him, even if there is a threat of eventual heartache.

After years of drifting lost at sea, he’s finally found a safe haven with you. And he doesn’t plan on doing anything to jeopardise that. He’d inflict life threatening pain on himself before allowing any hurt to come to you.

Bucky kisses you, pulling your pelvis flush with his as you swing your leg lazily over his thigh. It’s far from the perfect kiss, noses bumping, lips lethargic, unbrushed teeth and morning breath, but to Bucky it’s impeccable and unforgettable because it’s a kiss shared with you the first morning you’re waking up beside each other.

When your hands slip below the elastic of his sweatpants, Bucky knows he’s going to be late for his shift, but that hardly seems important when he gets to spend these extra moments with you.

Besides, he knows Steve will cover for him.

Right now, he’s just focused on satisfying his girl.

* * *

“Alright, I need to know everything about your date last night.” Typically this was a sentence Wanda spoke to you after a night spent with Bucky, but was now coming from your mouth directed at her.

It had been a relatively slow day in the ER. All patients were stable and you were caught up on paperwork, so you finally had the opportunity to interrogate Wanda about her first date with the anaesthesiologist she met last week - Vis, she had called him.

“A girl doesn’t kiss and tell.” She teases with a smirk, which tells you exactly how her night ended. You remember saying something of a similar vein after your first date with Bucky.

“Are you gonna see him again?” You prompt, wanting far more information about your friend’s love life than she was letting on.

“He’s already booked us in for Per Se this weekend.” You can see the excitement she’s failing to hide in her beaming smile which gets reciprocated on your own features.

“Oh, fancy! How did you manage to score that reservation after just one date?” You ask with raised brows and Wanda just smirks.

“I can do amazing things with my mouth.”

All of a sudden there’s a commotion over by the other side of the ER which pulls everyone’s attention. Bursting through the double doors from the ambulance bay is a gurney with a patient and a paramedic atop performing rhythmic chest compressions.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a strange sight to see in an ER, in fact, it’s a daily occurrence in your experience. However, what you do find peculiar is the sight of a familiar broad paramedic with long chestnut hair performing CPR even though you know for a fact his shift finished hours prior.

Something close to terror rises like steam from a burning hole in your stomach. You can see by the pure panic lining Bucky’s features as he screams instructions that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Time seems to stand still as you watch the scene play out in front of you - Bucky continues compressions as they wheel the gurney past you towards the surgical wing. From your position you get a glimpse of a middle aged woman with the same colour hair as Bucky unconscious on the stretcher.

One of the ER doctors you don’t know very well offers to take over CPR but Bucky glowers at him and proceeds anyway. It’s not until Dr Strange approaches with his surgical team that a helpless melancholy overcomes Bucky’s demeanour and you immediately want to wrap him in an endless hug.

They exchange some words before Bucky shouts despondently “she’s my mother!” Your already bruised heart crumbles into a million tiny pieces on the floor in front of you. Dr Carter takes over from Bucky’s role as he steps off the gurney, wanting to follow the team into the OR but Strange stops him with a hand to strapping chest.

“This is as far as you go Barnes.” You hear him command flatly, and when Bucky opens his mouth to argue like you knew he would, Strange cuts him off. “We’ll do the best we can.” Stephen remarks in his quintessential vague and unpromising statement before following his team into the surgical wing. Knowing how superior Stephen’s best is, this utterance generally makes you feel confident about a patient's outcome, but this time, when the patient is someone so close to a person you care deeply about, it provides no comfort.

The short paramedic who arrived with Bucky, perhaps driving the ambulance, observes him with sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. She reaches out to him, looking as if she’s trying to find the right comforting words, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. He instead searches you out in the crowd of people who had gathered at the incident, finding you almost instantly, and with a few large strides has his arms wrapped tightly around your middle and his head tucks into the crook of your neck.

“I’m so sorry baby.” You whisper in his ear while on the tips of your toes, the ends of his long hair tickling your jawline. As you rub slow circles over his back a wretched sob bubbles up in his throat and his whole body starts heaving as he cries. “I’m right here, Buck.”

You feel his clutch on the back of your scrubs tighten as he continues to weep, your chest tightening knowing that as much as you may want to, there is nothing you can do to take the weight of this catastrophic misery from him.

“I can’t lose her too.” He cries in a barely intelligible stammer. Your heart cracks at the implication of too, instinctively pulling him closer in your embrace, tears welling in your own eyes at seeing your strong and cheeky Bucky face such overwhelming anguish. “Please, I can’t lose her too.” He repeats in a blubber with a hefty sniff, pulling back to gaze at you with imploring eyes, as if begging you to promise that she will live.

At this moment all you want is to ease his suffering, but you know as a physician you can't make that promise. Statistics are not in her favour. Your hand intuitively comes up to cup his face, thumb wiping the stream of tears flowing from the corner of his eye.

“I know, Buck. C’mere, let’s go to an on-call room where you can lie down.” The sea of people who had been silently staring at the scene of Bucky breaking down part for you to move through, though not before you throw incensed glares at those who were observing Bucky’s moment of grief.

You keep your arm steadily around Bucky’s muscular back as you both lead him through the maze of the hospital, towards where you know the nearest on-call room is due to your carnal activities weeks before, and keep him upright.

You shut the door behind you and lead Bucky to the small bed, his movements stemming from you prompting him - you suspect he’s too caught up in distraught thoughts to even recognise where he is.

Sitting with your back against the pillows, you gently pull Bucky up to your chest. His large frame is heavy and pushes you further into the mattress, but it’s a welcome, comforting embrace.

That morning, cuddled up in bed in a similar manner to now feels like a lifetime ago. You stay like that for a while, Bucky’s tears dampening your scrubs. It’s raw, observing someone you care for in such a vulnerable, impuissant state. You’re not entirely sure what Bucky needs right now, you’re still yet to learn so much about one another, but just being present seems to be sufficient for the moment.

With a sniffle Bucky clears his throat and finally speaks.

“She just collapsed, I stopped by her place after my shift. One second she was fine, talking and laughing, then the next unconscious on the floor.” He explained, slightly muffled into your chest as you stroked his hair in soothing motions.

“Thankfully you were with her.” You comment, dreading to think what would have happened if he had arrived too late, but realising that it probably isn’t any consolation to the person whose mother is currently fighting for her life.

You return to comfortable silence, your hand combing through strands of his hair, already having learnt that he enjoys having his hair played with. He shuffles so that your legs interlace, which helps you pull him closer.

“You’re probably wondering what I meant by her too.” Bucky gauges, and though you were intrigued by the insinuation of his phrasing, you also understand that it’s none of your business.

“Bucky, you don’t have to go into that now. You can tell me when you’re ready, or not at all if it makes you uncomfortable.” You utter softly into his hairline before peppering a few kisses along his forehead to his temple.

“I want you to know.” He urges, and though you’re not sure it’s the right time for him to detail any previous suffering or trauma he’s had to endure, you’re also not in a position to pick an argument with him. You’re all ears for whatever he wishes to share in such a vulnerable moment. “I trust you.” There’s a weight to these words that you enjoy bearing, that for Bucky there’s not many people who have the privilege of earning his trust and this heavy responsibility is an honour rather than a burden.

Bucky takes a deep breath, his bottom lip quivering. You stroke his hair again and when he gazes up at you it feels like you’re holding your entire world in your hands.

“Sorry, I haven’t had to explain this to someone in a long time.” He apologises needlessly.

“Take your time.”

He gulps down the lump forming in his throat before he starts.

“I had a baby sister.” He simply states. I can’t lose her too, echoing in your mind in Bucky’s distraught, desperate voice and every nerve in your body fires with despair.

He lost his baby sister.

Overcoming saying those five words aloud takes him a moment, but you remain patient. Even if that’s all the explanation he is to give, that wouldn’t matter to you, you already believe him to be the strongest person you know.

“She was five years younger than me, and besides Steve, was my best friend. You think I’m cheeky, well Becca was ten times worse.” He says with a reminiscent chuckle. You continue to rub steady circles over his sturdy back as his head rests on your chest. “She was only nine when it happened. She had epilepsy and one day when we were home alone she started having a seizure. I did everything I was taught to do in that situation, but she still didn’t make it. It took the ambulance over 30 minutes to get there. You’re a doctor, I’m sure you can put the pieces together.”

Sometimes being a physician and having intimate medical knowledge about what exactly was happening to a person felt like a punishment rather than a blessing. Being able to visualise precisely was happening in her body during her last moments and the medical reasons why she passed away even though a fourteen year old Bucky did everything he could to prevent it was knowledge you didn’t wish to have in this moment.

“I blamed myself for the longest time, I still do occasionally.” He comments and your chest constricts at the vision of a teenage Bucky thinking he was the reason his little sister died. You pull him even closer to you, your cheek brushing the top of his head.

“You would have done everything you could, James. I’m sure Becca knows that.” Bucky looks up at you with a combination of bewilderment and admiration, overly appreciative of the blind faith you’ve placed in him.

“My dad blamed me for it. Becca was always his favourite. Daddy’s little girl.” His voice is demure, so different to the brash, confident man you met in the ER. But part of you feels appreciative he can be vulnerable with you, that he can be truthful to his pain when you’re together instead of putting on a facade. “He took that grief and anger out on me and my mom after that. Told me he wished I was the child of his that died. She left him after that, and I barely saw him from then on. Didn’t fight her for custody, didn’t even want shared custody, he was completely fine with never seeing me again. He drank himself to death - got liver cancer and died just before my twenty-first birthday.”

Though it felt malevolent to wish harm on someone who had been through the horrendous pain of losing their daughter, you couldn’t help the sense of warm contentment filling your chest that Bucky’s father cannot hurt him anymore. What a vile thing to say to your own son.

“What happened is not your fault. It was devastating and so very unfortunate, but the blame does not lie with you. Don’t you ever believe for a moment that your fathers words are true.” He chokes out a sob and for a few long minutes you simply stay cuddled up to each other in the small on-call bed.

“You remember on our first date when you asked why I became a paramedic?” He finally breaks the silence with a raspy voice. You hum in affirmation. “This is why. I wanted to make sure no one else had to go through what my family did. That no one would lose a loved one because the help they needed didn’t arrive in time.”

You recall the day you met Bucky, carrying seven year old Sasha into the ER, a tear trickling down his cheek as she was wheeled off for her scan. You had always believed the tear was born from thinking she was in pain - but now, you contemplate that instead it was a happy tear, that against all odds he had successfully pulled a young girl from the train wreckage and she was getting the help she needed. Aid that never got to his sister.

“Ma and Steve are the only family I have left. I’m not ready to lose her.” You want to tell him that he will always have you too, but considering he’s known you for such a short time compared to his actual family and childhood best friend, it feels like an empty gesture.

“You want me to go check on her? I have surgical wing privileges, I could-”

“No, please, I need you here.” His embrace becomes suffocatingly tight to prevent you from leaving, and you reassure him with a kiss.

“Okay. I’m not going anywhere.” Bucky pulls the covers around the two of you, perhaps as an added layer you would have to fight to leave this room, so you repeat your statement, followed by placing a stream of kisses over his damp cheeks.

It becomes a warm cocoon as the two of you snuggle, Bucky’s large hands snaking under your shirt to rest on the expanse of your back, saying he just wants to feel close to you, the feel of your bare skin in a chaste circumstance seems to lower his previously pounding heart rate.

It’s not long until there is a knock on the door of the on-call room. You and Bucky exchange worried glances knowing this is it. You can sense Bucky’s apprehension in opening the door, so with a look asking for permission, and a slight nod from him, you twist the door handle.

It’s Dr Strange on the other side. You suspect Wanda had clued him into your whereabouts.

“She’s alive.” He states, knowing that key piece of information is all you care about, and you feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off your shoulders. You can’t imagine how Bucky must feel.

He pulls you into his chest in a bone crunching hug, happy tears now leaking from the corners of his eyes, relief buoyant in your chest at seeing your man with a smile on his face once again.

You don’t retain much more information after hearing this news. You note Stephen mentioning Winnifred had suffered a heart attack, and that they placed a couple of stents but you don’t absorb anything further.

You follow Dr Strange to her recovery room hand in hand. Bucky’s hold on your much smaller hand remains tight, though you can feel the trembling of his fingers. In response, you rub your thumb over the smooth skin of the back of his hand.

When you arrive, you observe an unconscious Mrs Barnes through the open cubicle curtain. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief next to you. Though still under the effects of anaesthesia, she is alive, and you have to be thankful for that much.

Stephen leaves you to wait for her to wake up, and glancing around, you recognise a few of the nurses who have done shifts in the ER give you sympathetic smiles.

Bucky takes a moment to observe and come to terms with his mother looking fragile in a hospital bed, wires connecting to machines attached to all parts of her body. He seems afraid to enter the room at the same time as looking grateful that she is still with him.

He takes a tentative step closer to the room, however you stay firmly where you are, the tension from your joined hands giving away your reluctance to invade his mothers privacy.

“Buck, I don’t think she’ll want a stranger in there with her at a time like this.” You comment, concerned about intruding into a personal, confidential space of a stranger. It wouldn’t be a good first impression if she kicked you out before you could even introduce yourself.

“But I need you.”

And that’s all it takes.

Bucky needs you, so nothing else matters.

Still somewhat grudgingly you follow Bucky into the private hospital room, but his beaming smile directed at you as you sit beside him, legs slung over his thick thighs, hands intertwined, is reward enough for facing that anxiety.

Besides, that is nothing compared to what Bucky faced today.

By the time Winnifred finally regains consciousness it’s been a long day - having been woken up early with Bucky and the carnal activities performed in your bedroom before either of you started your shifts, to the emotional rollercoaster since he entered your ER, but you’re still smiling and joking with each other until she awakens.

“Ma!” Bucky jumps up, worry filling his eyes as she groans, adjusting her position in bed. “Try not to move. You’ve just come out of surgery.”

“Surgery?” Winnifred takes in her clinical surroundings, surprise and dread brimming her eyes as she recognises the type of bed she’s in, pulse oximeter connected to her finger, blood pressure cuff strapped to her arm.

“The doctor will explain everything, but right now you just need your rest.” Bucky instructs, taking her hand in his and gently stroking her arm comfortingly. She gazes up at Bucky like he’s her entire world, and given everything she’s had to endure in her life, you can imagine that’s probably not far from the truth.

Her eyes land on you for the first time, and she tries to push herself up in bed but that only results in her grimacing, clearly in pain.

“Are you the doctor?”

“I am a doctor, but I’m not your doctor. I can get them for you though.” You offer but she immediately shakes her head, as if you haven’t properly interpreted her question.

“No, I mean James’ girlfriend, the doctor?”

You pause for a brief moment - the most you and Bucky had discussed your relationship was that you weren’t sleeping with other people, but had never confirmed that you are officially dating. You didn’t want to scare him off by putting a label on what you are. Hearing ‘Bucky’s girlfriend’ spoken out loud makes it very real all of a sudden, but it’s a title you want to possess.

“Yes, I’m James’ girlfriend.” You confirm, meeting Bucky’s tender gaze from beside you. He slings his arm around you, cheeks rosy from blushing, pulling you closer into his side, kissing the top of your head as Winnifred observes you both with a besotted smile.

You introduce yourself and Winnie, which she requests you call her, already has a million questions about where you grew up, your family, how you met her James, and why you got into medicine. You gladly answer them all, immediately seeing the joy it brings her that Bucky has a partner that cares about him as much as you do. You suspect it’s also a good diversion for her while nurses come in, poke and prod her and take vitals.

The sun sets outside the hospital but Winnie’s spirits are high when visiting hours come to an end. Bucky is adamant that he sleeps on the makeshift window bed in his moms room so that he can be there for her during the first days of her recovery. You offer to take care of Alpine, his mischievous snowy white cat, while he focuses on being with his mom.

Bucky insists he walks you out, even though you’re adamant he should stay with his mom. When you leave her room, Bucky all of a sudden looks nervous, and worry churns in your stomach.

“I know we said we weren’t putting labels on this-” He motions between you with an anxious look in his eye, as if he’s overstepped and is frantically trying to explain his rationale, “but ‘girlfriend’ was just the easiest way to explain it to her. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Bucky.” You say to stop his nervous ranting. You take both of his hands, intertwining fingers, and a shaky breath leaves his lips as he swallows the myriad of words on his tongue. “I want to be your girlfriend - I didn’t say it just to appease your mom. I kinda thought we were already there to be honest, but I don’t want to push you to take this quicker than you’re ready for.”

“I’m ready.” He whispers with a subliminal nod. “I’ve never been someone’s boyfriend before.” He admits sheepishly, but it’s honestly adorable. This tall, burly man, whose size would intimidate most, is nervous to admit he’s never had a girlfriend. Something of pride blooms in your chest that you get the honour of being Bucky’s first ever girlfriend.

Hopefully his only ever girlfriend.

“Aww, I’m your first?” You stand on the tips of your toes and place a delicate kiss to his chapped lips as you tease him. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Affection twinkles in his eyes. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to his deep, steel blues observing you like you hang the stars and the moon in the night sky. Bucky leans down, encircling your waist with his strong arms as he kisses you with ardour.

“You are far from my first…” He mumbles against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip and pulling it lightly, “but you’re the only one that matters.”

You kiss him again, arms around his neck pulling him down to you. You’re dangerously addicted to the taste of him, the way his lips move against yours and how his tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it.

Ensuring that you get safely to your car this late at night, Bucky walks you all the way there, giving you another kiss before making sure you lock your car door and promise to text him when you get to his place to pick up Alpine and when you finally get home.

He watches as you pull your car out of the lot, until you’re completely out of sight.

Warmth spreads through the pit of your stomach even though you’re driving away from him, remembering Wanda’s warning before going on your first date with him. No one gets a second date with Bucky Barnes.

No one except you. And now you’re officially his girlfriend.

* * *

Walking back into his mom’s hospital room, Bucky’s surprised to find her still sitting up in bed with a bright smile plastered on her face. If he didn’t know any better, he wouldn’t have known she was ill at all.

“James.” Winnie pats the edge of her bed, motioning for Bucky to sit beside her. “She makes you happy?”

Bucky perches himself where his mother suggested and takes her hand in both of his, overly grateful to have her still with him. He kisses the back of her hand as he thinks of his response - not because he’s uncertain of his answer, you make him astonishingly happy, more than he has been in living memory, but because the extent of that delight is difficult to put into words.

“Incredibly so.” Is what he comes up with, though it feels incomplete and deficient of the precise devotion his heart already feels for you.

His mother, however, seems content with the answer for she clasps her hands together and hums with excitement.

“My boy, I never thought I’d see the day where you would finally let yourself be happy.” She takes a delicate hand and cups his face. Her eyes are filled with overwhelming joy, and Bucky suspects as happy as she is for him, she is also using it as a distraction from her current circumstance.

He didn’t think he’d ever open his heart and allow someone to own it as he has done with you. His greatest fear is being hurt like that again - being crushed by grief like a car in a compactor until he’s a shell of the person he was.

You have this uncanny ability to bring out the true jocular and jovial personality his mother would recognise from before bereavement overtook his life.

He’s already decided that he cannot for the life of him lose you. That if this doesn’t work out with you, he will shut his heart off from the rest of the world for good this time. You’re the only person he’s interested in giving his heart to, if his life can’t be shared with you, then he’ll have to find a way to be content on his own.

“So, can I be expecting grandbabies anytime soon?” Winnie asks in a teasing voice which makes Bucky’s cheeks flush. There isn’t any doubt where Bucky and Becca got their cheeky nature from.

“Ma, we’re definitely not there yet.” He shakes his head urgently but his mom just chuckles.

“Do you love her?”

Bucky pauses. It’s a yes or no question, and yet the answer certainly isn’t that simple.

Can you love someone who you’ve barely known for a month?

Probably not. At least, not in the way his mom is most likely probing about. He’s not even sure if his heart will allow himself to feel that way about someone. But there’s a flutter in his chest and a warmth in the pit of his stomach every time he so much as thinks about you that suggests he’s already begun falling.

“I think I could - I think I will.” He amends which promotes a smile to blossom on his moms face.

“She’s good for you.” It fills Bucky’s stomach with butterflies that his mom has only observed the two of you together for such a short time, and yet still holds this view. “Makes you genuinely laugh like when you were a little boy. I haven’t heard that beautiful sound in such a long time.”

They both have tears in their eyes now, and after the emotional upheaval of the day, Bucky is barely holding on from breaking down again.

“I don’t plan on letting her go, Ma.”

Part 6 > >

Be added to the series taglist here

He’s Hazardous To My Health [Paramedic!Bucky Barnes] Taglist: @lavenderpenumbra @crazyunsexycool @eralen @buckbuckyoongs @blackwidownat2814 @roschele @crayongirl-linz @ozwriterchick @desert-fern @misshale21 @chalesleclerc164 @rookthorne @janineb86 @emmabarnes @scarletbich @fallenlilangel99 @princezzjasmine @mdrovert @thebuckybarnesvault @doasyoudesireandlive @solitarioslilium @iamfandomwasted @tanyaspartak @netflixxgoddess @pop-rocks-818 @dumdidditydumdoo @missvelvetsstuff @marvelhoeland @thesadcatto-queen @kayden666 @amiimar @razor-blayde @katheryn1 @safew0rd @kentokaze @thewackywriter @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @badasswlthafatass @Vickie5446 @loveoldmenlikelana @00cmh @pointless-girl @honeyglee @nerdxacid @moonymagician @ashhsage @prettylittlepluviophile @otomefromtheheart @sjsmith56 @mandijo17 @lokidokieokie @oceansandblackhearts @rebeccapineapple @soorwellystan @excusememrbarnes @lofaewrites @snapcapquartet @wishingwell-2 @unaxv

[hairmetal666]

Steddie Notes BONUS PART

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7)

Eddie wakes up to an empty bed. He’s a little surprised, honestly, since he had his heart set on first anniversary morning sex. Though, based on the smells wafting through their apartment, Steve’s making breakfast, which is an acceptable alternative (plus, if he has it his way, they aren’t leaving the bed again today).

The digital alarm clock on his bedside table is obscured by a Composition Book he doesn’t remember bringing to bed. He reaches for it before his brain registers the red ink dragon sketched on the cover. His hands tremble as he flips it open, but the first few pages are written in his own scrawl. Steve’s handwriting doesn’t appear until 10 pages in and Eddie’s heart stutters at the sight.

March 28, 1986

God, Eddie, I’m so sorry. So, so fucking sorry. I can’t— I’m sorry. I should have been there, I should’ve protected you, I should’ve kept you safe. 

You wouldn’t be part of this if it weren’t for me. Robin and Dustin keep telling me that's not true, that Chrissy was already cursed but. Robin is here because of me. Erica-fucking Sinclair is here because of me. And now you. And you’re dying. And it’s my fault. 

I don’t even know what I’m doing right now, but I can’t just sit and wait, I’d lose my mind. Anyway. You left this notebook in my trunk, and I hope you don’t mind that I’m using it. 

I don’t think I’ve ever been this terrified in my life, Eds.

Please don’t die on me. I can’t live in this world without you. 

March 29, 1986

Hey Eds

You made it through the night. I can’t fucking believe it. I ripped Robin’s shirt when the doctor came in to tell us that you were out of surgery and stable, and then he dropped the bomb that your chance of surviving the night was 40%. Forty-fucking-percent. I guess you beat the odds, babylove.

I’m with Uncle Wayne at your bedside. He threw a fit to make sure I could be here whenever I wanted, and that everyone could visit.

You’ve missed some wild shit, Munson, you’re going to be so mad when you wake up. 

Come back to me, sweet boy. I can’t take this.

March 30, 1986

Made it through a second night, babe. 

I hope you wake up soon. 

Miss you like crazy. 

I keep looking at you in this hospital bed, and you look so fucking small. I hate it. You’re the loudest voice in the room. You don’t just take up space, you demand it. It’s killing me that I haven’t heard your voice in days. And my brain, it keeps filling in things you would say, and I wait for you to speak up, but of course you don’t. It’s a kick to the balls every single time. 

The thing is. 

The thing is that I need you to wake up, Eddie. You can’t leave me. I made up my mind a long time ago, we’re spending our lives together. And it can’t fucking end now. It can’t end because of this. 

And I need you to open your goddamn beautiful eyes so I can tell you how much I love you. You don’t get to go before you hear me say it, do you understand?

I love you. You’re it for me. I’ve never wanted a forever as much as I want one with you. So, you have to wake up, yeah? You have to wake up so we can grow up, have a family, have a life together. 

Promise you won’t leave me, Eds.

March 31, 1986

You woke up, you motherfucker. The doctors kicked me out to look you over and I cried so hard in the bathroom that Robin made El break down the door with her powers. 

Thank you for coming back. I won’t ever let you go again.

April 7, 1987

I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m giving this to you, babylove. It’s been a year. Look how far we’ve come. 

✏️✏️✏️✏️

September 18, 2015

It’s way too fucking early for Eddie to even be awake and he has the day off. Steve asked him to take vacation months ago, didn’t say why, and now that fucker has the audacity to not even be in the house. And like, sure, they’ve been together for close to thirty years, and Eddie knows that Steve goes for a run at the ass crack of dawn.

Still pisses him off, though. 

Eddie huffs down to the kitchen to get coffee started, doing a double take when he sees a familiar black Composition Book with red dragon on the cover. 

He walks towards it slowly because this has been framed on the wall since their first anniversary, way back in ’87, and Steve isn’t home.

Eddie opens it, re-reads the panicked, lovesick notes Steve wrote in the hospital, doesn't bother to fight back the tears. He gets to the last letter and the paper is stiff and wrinkled, like it took water damage. Eddie flips the page, grief already pumping through his veins.

What he sees instead is college-ruled notebook paper, glued in place. It reads:

“I fucking hate this class.”

“Tell me about it.”

“trig. You?”

“Algebra 2 :(” 

A sound escapes his mouth, something between a laugh and a sob.

“Hey man, I'm pretty sure I fucked things up with us, and I owe you an apology. I've always known who you were, but you had no idea I was me...”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of beautiful, Munson?”

“Watch. The. Movie. This is the last time we get high first if this is how you behave.”

 “What are you gonna win me at the fair, Harrington?” 

 “If you’re nice to me, probably something cute.” 

“Eddie…I think I really like you

You’re my favorite person in the entire world

Some days you’re the only thing I can think about

I want to wake up in bed with you everyday

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss you

Do you like me? Yes or No”

“What are you doing about Hellfire?”

“Huh?”

“If the game is Friday. Lucas can’t do both.”

“He made his choice.”

“You ever been in love?”

No, but I think I’m falling”

“I love you, Eddie”

All the sketches of the sailor boy and the rockstar are there, even the one Eddie stuck to the poster in his room, though how Steve managed to get that is anyone’s guess.

There are pictures too, Eddie and Max still recuperating in the hospital; Corroded Coffin performing at the Hideout; them holding the keys to the bar, Steve shirtless and hammering something while Eddie looks on, with the increasingly popular bands Eddie booked to play their must-see Friday night slots; Steve on his first day of college and one of him jumping into Eddie’s arms in his graduation gown, mortar board slipping off his head; In the hospital cradling their twin girls with Max giving a weary thumbs-up between them. Shot after shot of their family, their life, their dreams coming true. A scrapbook of their lives together, big moments and small; good and bad. 

Eddie’s crying freely as he flips through the rest of the book, still fucking astounded that Steve is the love of his life, that they’re making a forever together.

Eddie flips to the last page. Stops dead. 

In Steve’s looped handwriting, unchanged since high school, it says:

“Eddie, 

         Will you marry me?”

“What the fuck?” He yelps, standing up fast enough that his chair crashes to the floor. 

He turns and Steve— his reason for being, the man that brought him back from the dead—Steve Harrington, is down on one knee, something silver glinting in his outstretched hand.

“Eddie,” he says, his voice a wreck. “Marry me?” 

Eddie crashes to his knees, shoving at Steve’s shoulder. “You’re such an idiot.”

Steve laughs. “Is that a yes?”

Eddie laughs too, but it quickly morphs into a sob, “Of course it’s a yes, Steve. Of course.”

Hands trembling, Steve slips the ring onto Eddie’s hand. It’s a thin silver band with skeletal hands contorted into an infinity symbol. 

They fall into a kiss that rips the breath from Eddie’s lungs, but then that’s nothing new. When they finally pull apart Eddie asks, “why today?”

Steve blushes and grabs at the back of his neck. “Thirty-one years ago, I walked into Mundy’s class and found a note on the window ledge.” 

“What the fuck.” Eddie’s mouth drops, his heart stuttering. This man.

“Once I figured out you leaving that note was going to be one of the most important moments of my life? I made sure to never forget.”

“Baby.” Eddie pulls Steve in for another kiss. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

Steve tugs at Eddie’s hand. “C’mon.”

“Where we going?” 

“The girls will be here in a couple hours, and I have some things I want to do to you before they’re home.”

“The GIRLS?” Eddie shrieks. “How the hell long have you been planning this? Did they KNOW?”

“Since the end of June,” Steve answers without missing a beat. “And of course they know. Everyone knows. I asked Wayne for his blessing.” 

Eddie can’t speak, his heart crashing in his chest as he, once again, thanks whatever entity made it possible for him to have this.

“I’ve been in love with you for over half my life, Eds. I wanted to do this right. You deserve it. We deserve it.” 

He pulls Steve into his arms, kissing him hard enough that their teeth clack, but neither of them care.

✏️✏️✏️✏️

When they come home from dinner, as Steve reaches in his pocket for his keys to let the entire family in the house to celebrate their engagement, he finds a gum wrapper tucked in with the metal. He unfolds it, the words within unfurling in his heart, his soul.

"Thank you for giving me forever, sweetheart."

Edited: check out the full version on ao3!

This is officially the end! I hope you enjoyed this little (long) bonus part. Thanks for reading! 💜💜💜

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[sadnesslaughs]

The worst thing about dying is talking to HR the next morning.

(A response to a writing prompt)

“With all due respect. I didn’t intentionally miss the meeting. I died yesterday. It was on the news and everything. I even texted our boss after it happened, so he knew I wouldn’t be able to make it into the office.” Garth pleaded, not wanting to lose his comfy office job. It was hard for immortals to find work, mainly because most companies either closed or got suspicious of their employee that had been working there for over a hundred years.

That’s why Amiza was perfect. A large distributor of candy and snacks, the sort of company where the bosses only see you as a statistic on an excel sheet. No one cared if he stayed here for six hundred years, as long as he showed up on time. He also had great job security, knowing that both candy and snacks were goods that would never go out of fashion. It was practically an unsinkable business, and yet he hit a roadblock in his employment. Dying yesterday on his way to work.

“Ah, yes. The ‘death certificate’.” The HR manager, Tom, resisted the urge to use air quotes, instead doing the verbal equivalent of it, giving a snarky rise in his voice as he went over the word. “You would have us believe you died and came back to life? It’s not even Easter and Christ has risen. Splendid.”

“Ah, I’m not a god or anything.” Garth said, a little embarrassed by the comparison. He had gone through a cult stage in the early 1000s, something that most immortals did while they were young. After that weirdness, he never wanted to be referred to as a deity again.

“I was being sarcastic, Mr. Backlor. How do you expect us to believe any of this? People don’t come back to life.”

“What about during open heart surgery?”

Tom sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “In that case, they may sometimes come back. Though, I doubt any medical profession is deeming them dead during the surgery. I also assume they wouldn’t turn up to work a day after being declared dead. I want to believe you, Garth, I really do.” Tom lied, already having the termination email template on his screen. “But, you have to give me more to work with. Why shouldn’t we fire you?”

“Because I’m a great employee.” Garth thought that would be obvious. What other answer was he going to give in this situation?

“You’re a good employee. Not great. Great is reserved for people like myself.” Tom smirked, always happy to fluff his own feathers. The man’s arms crossing against his chest as he leaned into his chair, demonstrating the proper authority that comes with a position like his own.

Garth thought about that. “Didn’t you come to work late last Tuesday?”

That smirk shattered as Tom shifted forward, scowling. “I wasn’t aware I was being monitored by you. For your information, I had a terrible emergency that morning.” Tom wouldn’t say what that emergency was, not wanting to admit he got stuck waiting for fresh hash browns in a drive through.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just thinking that we’re kind of similar. Everyone makes mistakes.”

Similar? Tom fumed at the comparison, tapping away at his keyboard, writing Garth’s name into the empty boxes on his template. “Now that I think about it. Dying would void your employment contract. You wouldn’t even be able to sue us.”

“You can’t do that! I’m telling you, I died. I was even in the work parking lot when it happened. You can check the footage. Some idiot was speeding through the parking lot and they ran me over.”

Tom stopped typing, pausing. “Our car park?” Now he was nervous. A death at their workplace? One that had gotten news coverage? He sweated, wiping his forehead. “We… have signs around the parking lot telling people to slow down. We also have numerous safe crossing areas. You only have yourself to blame.”

Garth thought about the accident. He didn’t remember seeing any signs or crossings. He didn’t remember seeing much of anything except the hood of a car. “I don’t think there were any. I was in the old bit. The one that leads to the underground elevator.”

“Ah, one moment.” Tom hurriedly emailed Jenny, who organized their safety and upkeep, asking her to let him know if they had placed any signage or crossings on the underground parking level. When Jenny said they were doing that next week, Tom panicked. “Ah, why are we even having this discussion? Of course you’re not fired. We couldn’t fire a person for dying.”

Garth didn’t expect the sudden attitude shift, but was happy to hear he wasn’t on the chopping block. “You mean it? That’s great news. I thought I was a goner.” Garth offered his hand to Tom, who quickly shook it. “Yes. Actually, I think a promotion might be in order. To compensate you for your troubles. A great employee should be rewarded.”

“I thought you said I was only a good employee?”

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise promotion.”

“That makes sense. I think?” Garth wasn’t born yesterday, so he knew what was going on. Even if he hadn’t intended to sue them, the thought of being sued was enough to deter them from firing him. After all, he didn’t want anyone looking too deeply into this either. It was hard enough trying to convince doctors you magically came back from the dead. You didn’t want lawyers also looking into your strange medical records.

“A ton of sense. Now, why don’t you get back to work? I’ll send the paperwork through for your promotion.”

“That sounds great.” Before Garth left, Tom reached over the desk, tapping his shoulder. “Yes?”

“I also might need you to make an address to whatever news company reported on the accident. Let them know it wasn’t as bad as initially reported. Just so we can sweep this whole mess under the rug,” Tom said, begging him to agree. The sooner they covered this up, the better it would be for them all.

“Sure. Bye Tom.”

“Bye Mr. Backlor.” Tom said, slouching in his chair as the man left. Glad he got that ticking lawsuit bomb out of his office. He just hoped he had diffused it, not wanting his own job to get caught in the blast if it went off.

[bullet-prooflove]

LittleMouse!Series Part Six: The Hours In Between - Alden Parker x Reader

Tagging: @mandy426  @neapolitantoebeans @yezzyyae

LittleMouse!Series

Don't... - Alden hates what your doing.

Waiting - You leave your ex waiting.

In Sickness & In Health - Alden and your ex sit down to discuss you.

Bordeaux - You come home to an unexpected surprise.

Acts of Violence - Alden walks into a nightmare.

The next few hours flash by in a haze of chaos, noise and florescent lights. There’s too much commotion around you, too much activity. You can’t make sense of what’s happening because all you can focus on is the pain that emanates from the place where Kristof had stabbed you with the stem of a broken wineglass. You slip in and out of consciousness during this time, snatching at pieces of reality.

“You’re in the hospital.” Alden tells you during a brief moment of lucidity. “They’re prepping you for surgery.”

The darkness is already rushing back in again before you can open your mouth to respond.

You keep going back to that moment in the apartment, the one where everything changed. You can’t believe how quickly it escalated. There’s never been a threat of violence from Kristof before, not until tonight.

“You can’t just break into my apartment and make yourself at home.” You’d snapped at him when he tried to hand you the glass of Bordeaux.

“What else am I supposed to do?” He’d asked you, setting it down on the coffee table. “You won’t meet with me, take my calls, answer my texts...”

“You aren’t picking up the hint?” You return, running your hands through your hair in frustration. “I do not want to speak to you.”

“Not even after what Parker told you?” Kristof asks incredulously, his hands coming to rest on his hips. “Because he did tell you, didn’t he?”

You’d sank into the armchair then because you’d begun to see where this pathological desire for contact comes from. The thing about Kristof? He’s a powerful man, he’s used to other people doing his bidding and when they don’t, he acquires leverage, he forces them to bend to his will. This diagnosis isn’t something you can combat and that makes him feel helpless. You can see that he’s spiralling, he’s used to being in control and now that’s been snatched from him.

“I’m sorry that you’re sick.” You tell him, gesturing for him to take a seat on the couch across from you. “It must have been a shock.”

“It was.” Kristoff tells you as he sits down. He picks up the Bordeaux, his thumb chasing along the curvature of the wine glass. “In that moment it’s like the world just stopped and everything I had done up until that point it didn’t matter.  It feels like I’m staring down the barrel of a gun and I…”

He’d shaken his head then before his gaze flickered up to meet yours.

“This is the first real conversion I have had about it. You are then only one I can let see this part of me, the only one I trust to be vulnerable around. That’s why I need you…”

You see your mistake almost immediately. You’d forgotten what it was like to be around Kristof, how he manipulates the situation to suit him. He’s intentionally pulling on your heart strings, strumming them the same way he did back then. The difference is you’ve grown now, moved on, you know how to set boundaries.

“That’s not going to happen Kris.” You say firmly. “We’ve been divorced three years now and it took me a long time to recover from what you did to me. You’ve never held yourself accountable for any of it, not the games, not the women…”

“You want me to say I’m sorry?” He interrupts you, his voice filled with ire. “Fine I’m sorry, but you were sad all the fucking time. What was I supposed to do when you decided you didn’t want to put out?”

You lose your shit then because the audacity of this man astounds you.

“My friend had just died. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to go down on you to help ‘relieve’ a little stress before the Congressional Dinner.”

“That’s not…” He trails off, the muscle in his cheek twitching because the reason the two of you had gotten divorced was because you’d walked in on him fucking a Whitehouse Aide in your bed after picking up his tuxedo.  “That’s not what I came here to talk about. I need you to come back…”

“And I need you to get the fuck out.” You were on your feet at that point already heading back to grab your phone. “Fuck, I’ll call Metro myself.”

It’s the threat of a scandal that tips him over the edge. The idea of him being dragged out of his ex-wife’s apartment in handcuffs for breaking and entering. You suspect in that moment he saw his future, declining health, his reputation in tatters and he blamed you, the woman who refused to be controlled by him anymore.

It had become a fight for your life after that because you had no doubt that he wanted to kill you. You could see it in his eyes.

When you wake up, it’s with an intense agony in your left side and a dry mouth. You try to move your hand to pull off the oxygen mask on your face but Alden’s already intervening. His fingers gently curl around yours, guiding your hand back down as he raises to his feet so that you can see his face. You can’t describe how comforting you find his presence so instead you squeeze his hand lightly.

“Welcome back, sweetheart.” He says fondly, his lips brushing over your hairline. “Trust me, you’ve been missed.”

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[modelartist-demri]

NEW ENTRY ON MY BLOG!

On October 29, 1996, Demri passed away of acute intoxication caused by the combined effects of opiate, meprobamate, and butalbital when she was only 27. 

Demri and Layne in the Spring of 1990 by Krista Kay.

Her last few years, since around Thanksgiving 1993, her health began taking a turn for the worse. She told her mother she had been having fevers in excess of a hundred degrees. Austin told Demri the next time it happened, she should go to the hospital. The first of many hospitalizations happened shortly after. “She came in to the hospital for the first time at the end of November of ‘93. She was in until January of ‘94. She got out and was back in in March of ‘94 and at that time put on life support,” Austin recalled. “When she would be in, she would come in to the emergency room. They would admit her up into a medicine floor; then she’d go from the medicine floor to the Intensive Care Unit and life support, and then she wouldn’t die. So she’d go back to the medicine floor – she’d be on IV and antibiotics for a month. This went on and on and on. She had her lungs operated on twice. She had her heart operated on twice [she had a heart valve repaired and another replaced and the pacemaker implanted age 26]. She suffered miserably.” [1]

Jacque: “She was very sick in the end. She’d had open heart surgery and had nerve damage to her feet which were mostly numb. She had no body fat at all, and was cold all the time. Often the car’s heater would be on full blast, even on a nice day, everyone would be sweating and she’d be shivering and wearing a sweater.” [2]

According to Amber Ferrano, Dave Navarro was the one who brought up the endocarditis . They had the doctors check and found it on the back of Demri’s heart valve.

Demri with Dave Navarro ca. 1994 in a medical facility.

Amber Ferrano: “Dave was my go-to person as someone who had kicked to help Layne and Demri when various things came up with them regarding drugs because they had used with him in the past when Jane’s Addiction came through town and now clean. Dave was their inspiration. He was in AA, and though they didn’t believe in AA they loved him, he was non-jugemental and kind. They really wanted to show him they could get clean. Bob Timmins helped too. They thought if lifers could get clean because of him there was hope. 

Dave was the one who brought up the endocarditis, asking if that is what she had. It was the first time we heard of it. All those times in the hospital. They ended up finding it on the back of her heart valve.”

While in the ICU, Austin said Demri was conscious but intubated – she had a tube inserted down her throat to help her breathe, which she despised. She would tell her mother, “I hate being fucking intubated. I can’t talk, and these people come and they ask me these fucking questions, and I can’t fucking talk, and I feel like a fucking fish in a fucking fishbowl.” She communicated by writing on a small blackboard with a piece of chalk. [1]

Despite the multiple hospitalizations and brushes with death, Demri continued using drugs. She had seemingly accepted that her addiction was going to kill her. 

Amber Ferrano: “I brought mortuary books in to Demri at the hospital when Layne got back from New York in April of 1996. I, of course, shocked Demri and said I thought we could go coffin shopping. Of course when Layne got there she told on me. When she first saw them she was balling saying she didn’t want to die. Layne talked about all the issues. I said you have to be clean to fix those issues and they get less and less. The thing with them was people waiting outside their home with drugs as a way to befriend them or mailing it to them. It killed Layne when he got letters about people using. He didn’t write to glorify it, it was cathartic to work his way through it."

Barbara Dearaujo: “She was in and out of the hospital for months at a time before she actually passed away. I would go visit her and she had all the nurses going crazy. She put up all her drawings and flowers all over the walls and did things she wasn’t supposed to do like take off with her IV and go out and smoke. She was a wild child... My heart goes out to her mom. She was a good mother and she tried so hard to help Demri, but Demri was her own woman and she lived in the extreme always. She was a broken child. Grasping for something to relieve some deep pain that no one but her knew.”

One of the last photos of Demri alive, as far as her mum knew. Demri and her mum Kathleen on September 1996. Kathleen sent this photo to Memories of Demri instagram (no longer exists).

Donald John: “I was very close with Demri Parrott, knew her during her last year of life. I met her at the hospital through a friend and became very close to her. I used to visit her a lot while in the hospital, and we had some very deep spiritual conversations about everything, including her relationship with Layne from the start to the end. She even gave me a pair of sunglasses that was his. I used to read books to her and let her borrow a lot of my books, especially art books, to keep her busy. I used to hold her while she cried and watched her while she slept. I used to go outside with her when she wanted to smoke and when she was feeling better to walk, and met her mother. I even got to check out her mother’s home which had a lot of pictures of Demri of her modeling days and stuff. Sometimes on her breaks she would come to my apartment that was like 5 min walk away from the hospital. She would come over and we would do heroin together and paint pictures with my art supplies, sitting Indian style on the floor listening to music. Then when she was released from the hospital she stayed with me for a while in my place and even slept in the same bed with me, we never had sexual relations but were deep friends and something more. She and Layne at the time were pretty much over even though he visited her while in the hospital. Sometimes we would cuddle in bed and she was so skinny. When she would leave to do her errands around town she would sometimes come back with gifts, like one time I got a cool wallet from her and a necklace with an angel on it – at the time I had my first tattoo of an angel on my forearm. When me and Demri first met I was just smoking heroin, then I started shooting and when she found out she was very upset. Time had passed and I saw her frequently. Then I found out about her death.” [2]

The other of the last photos of Demri alive, as far as her mum knew. Demri and her mum Kathleen on September 1996. Kathleen sent this photo to Memories of Demri instagram (no longer exists).

Ryan Kalsbeck:“Demri was staying for a bit with me at my old apartment off 45th and Lake City Way, we had been friends for years by this point but her addiction was sad for me to see. We had long serious conversations about a lot of things. Personal, to say the least. But she always carried her Leather Modeling Portfolio with her everywhere she would go or where she was staying, but she made me promise to please hold on to this portfolio for her and don’t let anyone around it or in it and she would eventually have a solid place to bring it to and for safe keeping. I never let one picture wander off into anyone ever. I promised Demri I would guard it and I knew how important this was to her fading life. She was so afraid of loosing this or someone stealing it, probably swiping rare as f*ck photos of her and Layne, stacks of the two in different vintage clothing. But I had her portfolio in my possession for at least 1 year, and one day like normal she left my apartment and I was still sleeping. Said, ‘I’ll see you at the Off Ramp later tonight.’ I wasn’t surprised to not run into her that night, and this was one of the last times of her disappearing, no one hearing from her for months at a time. But she always popped up at someone’s place eventually. The story is deep, and thick, and personal for me to speak of.”

Terri Brannon: “Last time I saw her, I went over to Carolina Court to say goodbye because I was moving back to Arkansas. I had a very sad feeling when I hugged her. I knew in my heart I’d never see her again. She was so full of life back then. A wild gypsy child. Reminded me of myself many years before. It’s been years and years, but you never forget Demri. She is unforgettable.” [2]

Demri's graveyard at Miller-Woodlawn Memorial Park, Bremerton, Washington, USA 

During her final days, Demri was staying with an older man named Tom, the father of a friend of hers, at his place in Bothell. According to Amber Ferrano, he was a drug dealer, Demri was staying with him because he had klonopin so she wouldn’t have seizures. Demri had lived something of a nomadic existence, staying with different people for periods of a few days to a few weeks at a time. Toward the end of her life, it became very difficult for her to find a place to stay. 

On the afternoon of October 28, 1996, Tom drove Demri into Seattle. She told him she wanted a few things from a Fred Meyer grocery store. When he arrived at the store, Demri was unconscious, and he couldn’t wake her. He went into the store to pick up her things, leaving the car engine running so she wouldn’t get cold. He came out of the store, drove home, and still couldn’t wake her. He left her in the car unconscious so he could do his laundry. He eventually realized something was seriously wrong. 

Demri was eventually brought in to the emergency room at Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland at 7:30 P.M. – two and a half hours after she first lost consciousness. Her mother got a phone call from the hospital, telling her Demri was there. 

Kathleen asked the doctors if Demri could hear her. The doctors told her they thought she could. She clutched Demri’s hand and said, “Dem, if you have a choice to stay or to go, you don’t have to stay for me anymore.” During previous hospitalizations, she had always told her to fight, to to survive. This time was different. [1]

Jack Plasky: “The first time I met Layne was when he came by my studio after Demri passed. We hung out for about six or seven hours. We went through Demri’s pictures. We did not talk much, it was more like sharing with me his pain. He was not a rock god that day, just a regular person who wanted to share the loss with each other. We had a very strong bond based on our love and caring for Demri, and her feelings for us. I got a strong true feeling from him when he looked at Demri’s pictures, that life held nothing for him anymore.”

Ariel Layton: “Demri used to spend a lot of time with my girlfriend, Jana. She actually passed away in my friend Tom’s truck. I also ended up couch-surfing at Buddah’s around the same time as Layne shortly after she passed. He had photos of her everywhere, it was very sad.” 

Kathleen Austin: “Derek loved Dem so much and nothing she did would ever change that. He spoke at her funeral, ‘If my sister got on the ferry in Seattle, she knew everyone on the boat by the time it reached Bremerton’.”

Clay: “Demri, it’s been 13 years [March, 2009] since you went to be with Jesus and I still miss you so much sweetie. I’m so glad we got to share all the time with each other before you left us. When we prayed and talked about Heaven and The Lord, it still makes me think about how I look forward to seeing you again and being with you forever. I hope all the world knows you are with Christ now and your faith in Him, so they can have the same hope we shared. I’ll always treasure your Bible your grandma gave me, until we are together again. Love you always, Clay.”

Brochure from Demri’s memorial service, which was held on November 2, 1996. Shared by Marisi Sojit and posted by “Comunidad Alice in Chains Chile” Facebook group. Found via Instagram: memoriesofdemri (no longer exists)

Carolyn Hart Gutierrez: “She was one of the most amazingly trusting, compassionate, openhearted persons I’ve ever known, albeit briefly. We went to the same high school, and she was a friend of my younger sister. I have often thought about her over the years. It broke my heart to hear that she was gone from this Earth. I always imagined that she grew up and became a happy little momma who would teach her children to believe in magic and that if you wish on a star your wish will come true, and to dance in the rain. That’s what I believe. Demri may be gone, but she is never forgotten.” [2]

Krisha Augerot: "She was like the sweetest, cutest, tiny hippie chick – just adorable and gorgeous. Never would I have ever imagined what happened to her happening". 

Mara Whelan: “My dear soul sister, she extracted the truly beautiful parts of my soul and made me unafraid. She brought light into the depths of darkness from within. She loved all my ugliness and glorified my uniqueness.

Demri and I lived together, slept together as sister spoons, hitchhiked all up and down the coast and back and forth to Seattle from Everett a million times. We lived in Seattle together in multiple places. When we didn’t live together, even when the drugs came into play, we never lost each other.

She was the most beautiful soul that ever existed. What I would do to feel her hand in mine again.”

Barbara Dearaujo: “Demri was an artist herself, a model and someone who could always make you laugh. She was the type of person who when she entered a room full of people all eyes would be on her. She sucked the energy from the room and then blasted it back out at you and made you laugh and smile. She was so different than everyone else and everyone knew it who met her. Geeky, funny, caring, talented and unique girl who could of owned the world if she had not got caught up in what was going on around her. She was a star in her own right.”

*All the information has been collected from the "Memories of Demri" document shared on google drive*

Sources cited:

[1] Alice in Chains: The Untold Story by David de Sola

[2] Instagram: memoriesofdemri (no longer exists)

*VERY SPECIAL THANKS TO LITTLE QUEENIES AND MEMORIES OF DEMRI*

Some great Demri sites you MUST check: 

Little Queenies tumblr blog - Demri info

Little Queenies' collection of Demri's photos hosted at Google Photos

Memories of Demri document hosted on Google Drive

Videos of Demri hosted on Google Drive

World of Demri on Instagram

World of Demri substack blog

Demri L. Parrott on facebook

Demri L. Parrott on Instagram

Demri Lara Parrott on Instagram

Demri Parrott Legacy on Instagram

Beautiful Demri Blogspot

[sanscat0414]

Love Hurts 1

Hawks x Reader

Scenario: You have a crush on Hawks but he loves another or so it seems. One day you learned that you have the Hanakai disease. Will you be saved?

Warning: Mild Blood

Note:

H/n=Hero name

————————————————————————

You and Hawks were pretty much insuperable since childhood. You both grew up together and both was taken in by the commission. Hawks trust you and you trust him. Over the years you started to develop a crush on your bird friend. You didn’t want to ruin what you have so you never told him as such. You’ve convinced yourself that your love is unrequited and that’s okay. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

Recently you started to notice Hawks spending less time with you and more with another hero, Mirko. Now you were hurt by this but you get it Mirko is such a strong and beautiful woman. Any man would fall for her. When you do see Hawks he talked about the fun stuff him and Mirko was up to like pranking other heros. You where perfectly okay playing the supporting friend in there love story.

One day, after the rare times you get to see Hawks you started feeling sick. You went home and when directly to the bathroom. You started coughing and ended up throwing up. When you opened your eyes again you saw blood and yellow petals in the toilet bowl infront of you. You didn’t think much of it at first thinking it was possible an effect form a villain you fought that day.

You decided to the doctor next morning and took a day off. Once you where at the doctor they did a few test and ask a few questions.

“Ms.(H/n) form what you are saying and experiencing. I believe you have Hanakai disease.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a disease born from one-sided love. It’s still a bit of mystery why it happens. It can be fatal if you don’t treat as flowers take over your body form the inside.”

“Is there a cure?”

“Thankfully yes, a treatment through surgery or having the other person confess their love for you too. Going through the surgery means that your feelings and memories of the person.”

“I see…..” you said quietly as you thought about Hawks.

You hated the thought about losing all those precious memories of hawks. You love him and he was always there no matter what. You loved him will all your heart and he was the only person that matter to you. Loosing those memories would be like removing a part of yourself. You also know… having him love you is impossible, you’re just a friend after all.

“Any chances the person you like, would like you back?”

“Mostly likely not.”

“So shall we sche-“

“No. Thanks for everything.”

“BUT Ms.(H/n) if you don’t you’ll die. I know it’s not my place but you done a lot of good for Japan it be a shame to loose you over a person.”

“Call me selfish, I know. But this person had been in my life for a long long time now. Loosing those memories would be like losing my entirety. Beside… I love them to much to let that go.” You said with a sad smile before leaving.

It was sunset by the time you left the hospital. As you walked you heard ten familiar sounds of wings flapping behind you.

“Hey~ up for some hang out time? I just got off work.”

You turn around, low and behold, hawks in all his glory. You smile and nodded. He took hold of you and flew to a near by roof top together. Once your alone in the roof Hawks let go of you.

“Yoru agency said you’re out sick today. You okay?” He said worriedly.

“Mhm, thankfully it was just a bad stomach bug.” You lied.

You can’t tell him the truth. He can’t know. He doesn’t need to know. All it matter is spending the rest of the time you have with him.

“If you’re not feeling well, I can take you home.”

“No it’s fine. I want to hang out with you. How was your day?”

“Oh it was great. Mirko and I pulled a prank on Easerhead and ———-“

You sorted of zoned out a bit as he talked with so much enthusiasm about the fun time he had while patrolling with Mirko. Mirko, you know she a nice lady, you met her a few times but every time you hear her name it seem like another knife to your chest. You started to feel physically pain again and tried to hide it. You started coughing again and hawks immediately stopped talking and tried to help you. You pushed him a way while coughing into your hanker-chief. You hid the hanker- chief from him and thankfully he didn’t notice it.

“____! I guess that stomach bug was worst eh? Come on let me take you home. You should get more rest.”

You nodded and let him take you home. Once you were home and Hawks was gone, you took out the hankercheif. You look at it and as expected blood and Yelloow petals a few more than before. You know it well only get worse. You can’t help but wonder when your gone what would hawks think….

Part 2

[trashbag-baby666]

The Birthday Party-Rosie/Benny

Summary: It’s Cordelias birthday party and Rosie promised he’d bring his new boyfriend…who happens to be friends with everyone already and a certain firefighter.

WC: 3,080

C/W: None

MOTA Masterlist!

Rosie felt a nauseating wave of anxiety run cold over his body standing outside of the Cleven house. It certainly felt like he was about to perform open heart surgery instead of going to his niece's birthday party.

“Everything alright?” Benny came around the other side of the car, Meatballs leather leash wrapped around his hand.

“Yeah,” Rosie cleared his throat pushing down the dreading pit in his stomach. He couldn’t map why he was so nervous about it, this is quite literally his family. He felt the newly familiar feeling of Benny's hand wrapping around his delivering a small squeeze. He tapped his thumb against his hand, repeating the cranial bones to himself. Fluffy puppies on every third street. Frontal, parietal, occipital, ethmoid, temporal, sphenoid. The little acronym, his own way of fighting off the rushing anxiety.

“Let's do this thing?”

“Great mantra, let's do this thing.”

Rosie opened the backgate repeating the cranial bones to himself over and over again.

“Happy birthday, sweety.” Rosie hugged Cordelia, handing her the wrapped box.

“Thanks, so you…and?” Cordelia glanced over at Benny.

“Yeah,” Rosie bowed his head, a smile falling onto his face. He wasn’t sure if this was a blow to his ego or not. Talking to his 13 year old niece about the new guy he’s been seeing that he really likes.

“Don’t worry your secret's safe with me.” Cordelia snickered, she knew just as well as everyone else. That her papa was the biggest gossiper around.

“We’re uh, what do you kids call it? Soft launching? Our relationship today?”

“Okay, okay. But for my own entertainment we should keep playing along at least just for pa. It’s funny when he starts playing spy and tries to recruit Flynn and I.”

“Well we’ve got ourselves a deal then.” Rosie stuck out his hand for the blonde. May his favorite pastimes always be causing some sort of trouble with his nieces.

“So you did bring your new date with you.” Gale chuckled dryly pulling the chair out next to him for Rosie.

“And how do you know?”

“I saw you and Benny come through the gate holding hands.”

“You sneaky little witch,”

“Can’t believe I found out before John, he’s gonna lose it.”

“Delia made me take an oath to keep playing along so she could watch Bucky play Inspector gadget with Flynn. Where is he anyways?” Rosie looked around now noticing the absence of the loudest one at the party.

“Oh he forgot to pick up hamburger buns, so he’s doing that now. But can I ask? How did you and Benny get together?”

Rosie sat back in the metal chair crossing one leg over the other thinking back to the day.

Rarely did Rosie ever go for a beer, but today was different. He sat at the bar, a glass of lukewarm beer half-empty in his right hand. His eyes gazed at a sign on the tavern wall, the mounted elk next to the sign staring back as if judging him.

“Hey, Rosie? Do you mind if I sit here?” Benny’s voice broke through his thoughts.

There Benny stood, still in his work uniform, a brown leather jacket over his dark blue shirt, the sleeves highlighting his arms. Meatballs leather leash wrapped around his hand, the husky sitting at his feet panting happily at the sight of him.

“Oh, yeah, go ahead!” Rosie motioned to the seat next to him, suddenly feeling a mix of surprise and curiosity. Benny was more than just a familiar face—he was a reminder of a harrowing day at the hospital.

“Rough shift?” Benny asked, noticing the weariness in Rosie’s eyes.

“Something like that.” Rosie took another drink, tapping the cranial bones on the bar, repeating them silently in his head to fight the rising tide of anxiety. Memories of the CPR rounds on that dreadful call filled his mind—the young boy's wailing as Rosie tried everything to resuscitate the boy's mother.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Benny offered, breaking Rosie’s spiral of thoughts. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Robert.” Benny clapped him on the shoulder playfully, a gesture that felt strangely comforting.

Before Rosie knew it, he was tipsy for the first time in a long time. They stumbled into Benny’s apartment, laughing as he fumbled with the keys. The night was a blur of conversation and connection, laying the foundation for something unexpected and wonderful.

“Well, I was out at Lasso Love and so was he, so we had a drink together.” Rosie shrugged, he could get into the details later if he really wanted them.

“Nice, Bennys a good guy, I’ll give him the stamp of approval.”

“What’re you, my Ma?”

“Maybe. But I am a dad so I know a thing or two.”

Rosie rolled his eyes, this isn’t the first time Gales pulled his mom card on him.

“But you know what that makes us now, Rosenthal?”

“What, Cleven?”

“Firehouse wives.”

“We haven’t even dtf’d yet.” Rosie ran his fingers over his mustache, he only knew what that meant because of Cordelia.

“Define your relationship?…I’m hoping and assuming.”

“Yes, define the relationship! What else would I mean? Oh.” It clicked for him, Gale side eyeing him taking a long drink of his diet coke.

“Want a drink?”

“Sure,” Rosie pushed himself up from the deck chair following Gale inside.

Benny sat on the deck steps keeping a close eye on Meatball as him and Scooby chased after each other. Sometimes Meatball got a little too rough or he’d go sticking his nose in Chilis business.

Usually, he’d go and bother John at the grill but he couldn’t seem to find him. He wasn’t exactly great at social situations, even if he was surrounded by his firehouse family and all the kids running around.

“You pussy out of bringing your date, Demarco?” He looked back as Curt bounced down the stairs with a beer in his hand. He plopped down next to him and popped the tab open.

“No, I most certainly didn’t. But he’s talking to Buck,” Benny flicked his eyes over to where Rosie sat with that big wide smile. Oh, he loved that smile and positive energy that basically radiated off of him.

“Where?”

“What do you mean?” Benny looked back at the shorter man letting that little smirk settle on his face.

“Well, I only see…you lucky bastard!” Curt whacked his shoulder shaking his head, “Youse fuckin’ son of a gun! You bagged the hunk of the Cheyanne OR?”

“Hush, Biddick, we’re just having fun.” Benny snatched the can of Bud Light out of Curt’s hand and took a few drinks.

“So it’s only hookups?”

“No!”

“Well, isn’t that what having fun means?”

“This is not the same as you banging the new EMT until he agreed to move in with you.” Benny handed the beer back, what did he want out of this? Would marriage be something Rosie wanted? Was it something he himself even wanted? Would he have to convert to Judaism if they did get married? Maybe he would have to ask Rosie if he could speak to a rabbi?

“See, Benny, us moving in together has made carpooling after sex to work and home easier. Then there's no ‘well I gotta go back to my apartment,’ bullshit. It’s like drug dealing: you cut out the middle man.” Benny rolled his eyes listening to Curts tangent about how public transport here sucks compared to New York and the comparing and contrasting of drug dealing and his and Ken's relationship.

“Back to what I'm getting at, I’m glad you’re having a good time. Even if it doesn’t involve sex.”

“Who said I’m not having sex?” He pointed to himself and smirked, feeling like some 14 year old boy who just scored his first blow job.

“C’mere, just between me and you?” Curt scooted closer their thighs touching, “Does he fuck?”

“What the hell, Curt?” he shoved the other man's shoulder, “I don’t think I wanna disclose that at our nieces birthday party.”

“Fair enough, but you better fuckin’ tell me next shift.”

“Uncle Curt!” Flynn called from somewhere.

“Duty calls,” Curt sighed, putting his hands on his knees and standing up, “But you promise you’re gonna tell me at work?”

“Shut up, Biddick.” Benny whacked his leg with Meatballs leash. Sending the other jogging towards Flynn.

Back inside, Gale had handed Rosie a can of LaCroix from the fridge when John came bursting through the door. “Is it really that fuckin’ impossible to get hamburger buns.” he grumbled to whom Rosie and Gale presumed was himself.

“What’s up, babe?” Gale noticed that John returned with just a box of Twinkies and no hamburger buns and Rosie instantly knew he maybe should dismiss himself outside before the two started bickering.

“There’s no hamburger buns, Buck! Stupid work picnic literally bought them out everywhere. But I’m gonna go stress eat a twinkie in the bathroom before facing Delia.” John pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the bathroom.

“Wait, wait, John, what if I run over to the Jewish bakery and see if they have anything?” Rosie butted in, maybe just as a supplement to his own anxiety.

“Are you sure? Isn’t that almost on the other side of the city?” He watched John’s shoulders relax and his hand begin to reach for his wallet in his back pocket.

“Yeah, yeah, for sure.” Rosie nodded as he reached his hand into his pocket for his keys but then remembered Benny had them clipped to Meatball's leash.

“Oh, uhm, Benny has my keys, give me just one second.”

“It’s alright, I’ll drive. It’s John's turn to play party supervisor.” Gale swooped in noticing the raised eyebrows on John's face wanting to say something about Benny having his keys. “Better get out there, Flynn and Curt are poking at the pinata.” Gale lightly propelled John towards the door. Grabbing Rosie by his wrist and practically yanking him out of the house.

“Slow down, Doctor.” He jogged to keep up with Gales' fast strides to the driveway.

“Well did you wanna play 40 questions with John about you and Benny?” Gale swung his keys around his finger unlocking the tan, chevy equinox.

“Why do you have Rosies keys?” John came up right behind Benny on the deck nearly scaring the ever living shit out of him.

“Bucky, jesus.” Benny jumped a bit, turning to look at him. His stupid smile wide across his face made it apparent he thought he was so funny, “But I’m just holding his keys, he gave me a ride it's the least I could do.”

“He gave you a ride here?” John furrowed his eyebrows.

“Yeah, we live by each other.” Benny shrugged nonchalantly hoping that John would just shut his mouth about it.

“No you don’t.”

“Where are the hamburger buns?” Benny motioned to his hand with the twinkie box in it.

“Dammit I gotta go put this inside before Curt and Flynn see. You’re in charge.” All the firehouse guys knew how to get John's thoughts off something. Usually they only did that when they would have a rather traumatic call and John would get his brain stuck on what he could’ve done differently. But this time it would just have to be for Rosies sake.

As Rosie tapped his fingers against the car door Frontal, parietal, occipital, ethmoid, temporal, sphenoid. Following each repetition with a deep breath. Gale's voice cut through the tension like a gentle breeze. "Rosie, take a deep breath."

His mind still whirling with worries, Rosie paused, his fingers momentarily stilling. He looked over at Gale, finding comfort in the steadiness of his friend's gaze. "Are you upset about something else that isn’t hamburger buns?" Gale's question was perceptive, hitting the mark with surprising accuracy.

Rosie sighed, feeling the weight of his anxiety pressing down on him. "Are you gonna lecture me?" he asked, half-expecting a scolding for letting his nerves spiral out of control.

Gale's expression softened, understanding glinting in his eyes. "Well, I am going to tell you that you and Benny holding hands or just mentioning you’re dating won’t ruin the party," Gale reassured him, his voice calm and reassuring. "You already told Delia, and she's the biggest critic there."

Rosie couldn't help but crack a small smile at Gale's words, a wave of relief washing over him. Despite his initial worries, he knew deep down that Gale was right.

"Yeah," Rosie admitted, a sense of gratitude flooding through him. Unfortunately, Gale was right. He was just letting his anxiety get the best of him.

Gale nodded, his expression understanding. "It's okay, Rosie. We all have those moments," he said reassuringly, reaching out to squeeze Rosie's shoulder in a gesture of support.

Feeling a weight lift off his shoulders, Rosie took another deep breath, letting Gale's words sink in. He reached into his pocket grabbing out his phone to send Benny a text.

Rosie: I think we should just mention it when I get back.

Benny: I agree, if I have to listen to John interview me like I'm under FBI investigation, I’m gonna make Meatball bite him.

Rosie: Gale manhandled me out of the house when John started his questions…

They returned back to the party with hamburger buns indeed. John clapped for them as he snatched them away to toast them up on the grill.

Rosie sat down next to Benny at the table, “Am I your knight in shining armor, now?”

“More like my knight in khaki shorts and a polo.” Benny snickered, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. Ken’s eyes going wide across the table, he immediately grabbed onto Curt’s arm.

“Oh, yeah. They made me promise not to tell anyone.” Curt snickered, putting the arm around Ken.

“Kept your big mouth shut.” Benny flicked his gum wrapper at him.

“I’m not the one with the big mouth around here!” Curt pointed behind them at John, “Captain big mouth over there…”

“Oh, Captain big mouth now?” Gale laughed sitting down on the other side of Rosie. He felt a wave of comfort wash over him, feeling Bennys hand massaging his shoulder.

“Flynn,” John called to their youngest as she came running past the deck. The brown haired girl stopped to look at him and he nodded her over.

Flynn came bouncing up the deck, Chili in her arms, he only allowed her to carry him up the steps.

“Yes, papa?” She smiled sweetly at him, John crouching down to her height.

“Did Uncle Rosie introduce you to his new boyfriend?” John was going to do whatever he could to crack the code. Because he now had the growing suspicion that Rosie and Benny have been seeing each other. That and Gale knew something and wasn’t telling him.

“I was told not to tell, uncle Ro gave me five bucks to not tell.” Flynn pointed back to where the two sat at the table. John let out a sigh reaching for his wallet hoping he had at least a ten on him so he didn’t have to hand over a 20.

“For ten will you tell me?” John plucked out the bill between his fingers. He watched her eyes get a little wide thinking about all the ice cream she could get. She hesitated a moment looking down at Chili, maybe for his opinion. She then ran off across the backyard over to Rosie. John sighed, shaking his head, giving up on it for the moment.

“Happy birthday, dear Cordelia! Happy birthday to you!” they all sang as the blonde held her long hair back and blew out her candles.

“You have two boyfriends!” Flynn pointed at the two lit candles.

“Who taught you that?” John furrowed his eyebrows looking down at her in his lap, “You better not, though Delia.”

“Don’t worry, papa.” She laughed, pulling the birthday candles from the cake and letting Flynn lick the frosting off of them.

“Speaking of boyfriends,” Rosie cleared his throat. Pretty much everyone except for John, then Ham and Dougie because of a call, knew already, “Me and Benny just wanted to say that we’ve been seeing each other.”

Everyone smiled and congratulated them, John's eyebrows furrowed, staring at them a little dumbfounded on how he didn’t figure it out.

“Don’t think too hard about it, John.” Gale kissed his cheek fist bumping Flynn.

“Oh were you in on this too?”

“Cordelia asked us to,” Gale glanced over to her where she was cutting the cake, “Said she thinks it's funny when we leave you guessing.”

“My whole family is plotting against me,” John shook his head jokingly and tickled Flynns sides, “You’re gonna have to buy me ice cream with your bribe money.”

“I told you everything would go just fine,” Benny held open the door to his apartment for Rosie.

“I know, I know. But I was just worried that it would clash weirdly for everyone.” Rosie set the container of leftover cake on the counter and let out an exhausted sigh.

“What would we do if Buck didn’t approve?” Benny snickered, feeling up Rosies biceps to his shoulders, leaning his head on the tallers shoulder. Somehow everyone simultaneously decided that Gale and John were the unofficial mom and dad of the group.

“Gale actually told me he gives you the stamp of approval.”

“Oh does he now? I’d almost expect it.” Benny wrapped his hands around Rosie’s waist and began to fidget with his belt.

“Yeah, looks like you’ll have to try really hard to get rid of me now.” Rosie’s lips pulled into a smile and he ran his fingers over his mustache, “What’cha doin’ Benny?” Rosie leaned his head back into Bennys shoulder letting him take off his belt.

“Trying really hard to get into your pants.” Benny kissed up the side of his neck then biting at his earlobe, “Gotta feed Meatball then I’ll meet you in the bedroom?” Benny slapped his ass and took a handful of it.

“Alright, baby.” He turned his head pressing his lips into Bennys for a long kiss. Then Meatball let out a bark standing by his empty dog food bowl. Benny sighed and pulled away leaving a lingering hand on his waist.

“Okay, okay, boy.” Benny picked up Meatballs dish, Rosie watched with a smile. He really had struck gold that day at the bar.

-

-

Taglist: @coastiewife465 @austeenbootler @storysimp @executethyself35 @slowsweetlove

[yellowmagicalgirl]

Not in the Ways that Matter

What Krel wants is to watch over his injured husband, not deal with his husband and sister's friends. He's used to not getting what he wants, though.

TFW you're cleaning out your files because you're getting a new computer and you find a long-forgotten (aka written two years ago) fic in your sticky notes, so you decide to polish it up a little. This is technically a sequel to my fic Cookie Cravings, but you can read it as a standalone if you want.

In addition to all the other ways that this fic is AU (which will be explained in-fic), this AU changes up the timeline a little such that 3Below s1 happened in the Reckless Club's senior year of high school instead of their sophomore year, and then this fic takes place about two and a half years after that, so Steve and Toby are about 20-21 in this.

To read more about this AU, and also to see Krel's true form, please see this post.

CW: There are references to severe injuries as well as to past suicide attempts.

AO3

FFN

It could have been worse.

Krel sits in one of the chairs at Arcadia Oaks General Hospital. Next to him, Douxie sleeps deeply. He is so still, and he isn't breathing on his own. Not fully. Not so soon after surgery.

It could have been worse. Had Skrael's icicle been an inch to the right, it would have pierced through Douxie's heart instead of just collapsing one of his lungs and causing him to start to choke on blood as air escaped through the exit wounds as the ice melted. As Skrael had deliberately let the ice melt.

Krel shudders, still remembering how Skrael had frozen Krel's wings still when he had tried to fly after them.

Krel gazes at Douxie's sleeping form. Krel can't tell if Douxie is still pale from blood loss, or if it's just the white sheets and the white hospital gown that make him look so washed out. This isn't the first time that Krel has watched Douxie sleep, but this is the first time that Krel has time to do so. Every other time, Krel had only been able to steal a few sektons of watching and longing before he had to convince Douxie that yes, he did need to wake up this early to go to work. But right now, all Douxie needs to do is recover from surgery, and all Krel needs to do is watch over him.

The door to Douxie's room opens, and in walk Toby and Steve. Ah, Aja's friends whom she had left behind. Had they not been as useful to her as the jack of peppers? Or had she merely forgotten to bring them along when she went back to Akiridion-V? Just like how she had abandoned Krel during the coup?

Krel pinches the inside of his arm, watching the brown skin discolor as cyan blood shifts under the surface. No. Aja had not chosen to abandon Krel during the coup, and it was far more likely that Toby and Steve had chosen to stay on Earth. Krel can't allow himself to fall into Morando's poisonous trap again.

But still. Out of all of Douxie's friends, Krel likes these two the least. Likewise, they're the two that dislike Krel the most.

"What do you want?" Krel asks, careful to keep his voice even and non-confrontational. He doesn't want to fight, not when Douxie is so vulnerable. Plus, if Krel fights Douxie's friends, then Douxie will be sad or worse. Nevermind that Steve and Toby seem like they want to fight Krel.

"You said Douxie was your husband," Steve says. "What won't you lie about? First you faked your own death, now this? What's you're angle, buttsnack?"

"I wasn't lying," Krel says. He hadn't intended to let Douxie's friends know that they were married - he'd let Douxie reveal that particular facet of their relationship - but Douxie was being taken by the doctors and Krel had to say something to stay close. After all, that had been a reason for their marriage.

"Right," Toby says. "Because we're supposed to believe that somehow, Douxie fell in love with you."

"It's not like that," Krel says, even though he pulls Douxie's hoodie more tightly around himself. "He would have told me if he loved me the way that I love him." Krel looks away from the two of them and to his husband. Their marriage is one of conveinience, of forged paperwork and layers of security for them, Archie, and Nari. Douxie is Krel's friend and roommate and nothing else, and most of Krel is content with that even though a part of him wants more. Wants to be Douxie's husband in other senses of the word. Krel doesn't dare call this part of himself traitorous. Even though if he had been able to stay an acceptable son for his parents, they would have pushed him into a marriage of convenience. It would have been entirely different. Another royal would be joining House Tarron instead of another misfit joining the Casperan household. And yet, to call this part of himself traitorous is to say that Morando had any benefit to Krel's marriage. The one heroic thing Krel's family could remember him for was keeping Gaylen's core away from Morando, and that had led to Krel traversing the continent until he had met the man lying next to him.

"If you haven't told Aja yet of my survival, I advise you continue holding your tongues," Krel continues, wrenching his gaze off of his beloved.

"Despite how much of a jerk you are, she mourned you," Steve says. "Give us one good reason for why finding out you're alive won't make her happy."

"You saw my wings earlier, correct?"

"Kind of hard to miss that you doubled your limbs," Toby says.

"By Seklos, you're bad at math," Krel sneers, and then he he ducks his head down in shame. They might be idiots, but they're still Douxie's friends. They still were kind to his sister when she was all alone on this mudball with only Varvatos and Zadra to even try to understand the plight of exile. "I'm sorry. But, I didn't try to fake my death. Toby, when my and Gaylen's cores started glowing, I really thought I was going to die."

"And afterwards? Why didn't you try and make contact?" Toby's voice is uncharacteristically soft. Could Krel's apology be that powerful?

"Well, ignoring how the penalty for treason back on Akiridion-V is death." And ignoring how many ways Krel has realized that he can't kill himself, or even just permanently be maimed. "I'm double-cored. An abomination. Better for her to remember me as a normal traitor than what I am now."

Douxie would hate the way that Krel was talking about himself right now. Douxie wasn't awake right now, though.

"Besides," Krel said as he wrenched away his gaze from his husband. "It'll be tough for her, knowing I'm abomination and yet, if I know her? She won't be able to kill me in a way that matters."

[fantasywritten]

vent under the cut. tw for the death of a family member & mentions of medical procedures

i’ve been going through something for the past few days now. my great uncle was in the hospital for a long time. he had open heart surgery on monday which the doctors said went well, but his aorta was torn when they opened him up. due to this, his brain was without oxygen for a period of time during the surgery. he suffered right frontal lobe brain damage and was in a medically induced coma. his birthday was thursday, and he seemed to be a little responsive, opening his eyes when we would talk to him. but today, his children asked if he remembered them and he shook his head. he didn’t remember anyone today (he seemed to remember them all thursday). they asked him if he wanted to go to heaven to be with his mom, his other siblings who had passed, and jesus. he nodded. they made the decision to take him off the machines and just have him on morphine to keep him from being in pain. he passed away today. i visited him on tuesday and was a wreck because it’s really hard seeing someone you love in a coma. but when i found out today, i felt… numb. we all kind of knew the end was near, but i haven’t really cried… i was pretty close to him and i don’t know why i haven’t cried yet because i cry over EVERYTHING. i don’t get it. i think i’m in intense denial and it’ll probably hit me harder in a few days or so. i’ve been writing to distract myself and it’s been working… but the hardest part for me right now is seeing my mom so upset because she was really really close to him. he was her favorite uncle and they had so many memories together… she’s so grateful for the time she had with him but it breaks my heart to see her cry. not to mention my grandmother, my great aunt, my great uncle’s children… my whole family is devastated. and obviously i am too, i can’t imagine christmas without him but that’s what it’s going to be like this year. but i feel like there’s something wrong with me because i haven’t cried yet. i don’t understand. i know i’m in denial but why haven’t i cried? i care so fucking much and i’m honestly devastated but i just feel… numb. actually i’m tearing up a bit while writing this so maybe that’s a sign? i don’t know. i haven’t lost anyone close to me in like five years. this hasn’t fully hit me yet but when it does i know i’ll be an emotional wreck and i just don’t know what to do. i don’t want to see my mom cry. i don’t want to see my family suffering. that’s what’s going to break me more than anything else. i just… can’t believe he’s really gone. even though we all knew the end was near, i still can’t really believe it.

[phawareglobal]

Dawn Clarke - phaware® interview 455

Pulmonary hypertension patient, Dawn Clarke, a resident of the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation in Southern Ontario. Despite her rare disease diagnosis, Dawn decided to focus on her mental health and explore her creative passions. She emphasizes the importance of looking after all aspects of one's well-being, including physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health. She encourages others to find their purpose and make positive changes in their lives, even in the face of challenges. 

My name is Dawn Clarke. I am currently residing on the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation, Hagersville, Southern Ontario. This is my mother's homestead, where she's come from. She's indigenous. My father is from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. He is non-indigenous or what we used to call him, Caucasian. I grew up in the military life, my father was in the military. My mom was quite young when she had me and got with my dad and started moving around to different places. Life at the beginning was a little complicated for me. Both parents were strict and that's how my upbringing was with all the things that go along with that. So I became a really quiet person. I should start off too by saying that I did a have congenital heart defects and heart surgery at four months of age. Incidentally, my parents were not at the surgery, so they were about two hours away when I did my surgery. They were back home.

They didn't have a vehicle, so I had no parent there at hospital during my open heart surgery. I did find out about that years later. I believe that there's a lot of childhood traumas that help lead up to the health of where people are now into adulthood. That was something that I had to deal with. So I did get surgery at infancy. I had intended on joining the military. I had actually passed all my testing. I did really well. The only thing I was waiting for was a phone call to say, "Okay, it's basic training time, let's go." For some reason, that call never came. 

I ended up going to school from nursing. When my children were one and a half and three and a half, I ended up going into nursing school. It was quite difficult to say the least as a single mom, single parent, and going through nursing school. Somehow we made it through though. With the help of family and relatives, we did get through that. But after a number of years, I had been really kind of wondering about doing mental health work. I did dabble in some training here and there with the mental health field, but it was kind of something that my brain was always wanting to lean towards. 

A few years ago, I started developing shortness of breath. I was down in weight compared to where I had been for a lot of my adult life, probably about 180 pounds, which is still overweight for a short person. I started getting symptoms when I was working as a nurse. Weight started coming on again. I thought, "Oh, must not be as active as I was before." I was getting a high blood pressure readings, and that had never been an issue before. So even with my cardiac history, I had still been fairly healthy. 

I had been trained to do palliative care nursing, so I was seeing a lot of palliative care patients. I got to the point where my troubles with my breathing became more of an issue, especially to the clients than they were… me coming in, trying to get up the stairs to see them, sitting down and taking a couple of minutes to catch my breath, at a point where I was starting to bring my oxygen in with me to do the stairs or to get from point A to point B to their rooms or anywhere to see them.

By this point, I had gotten quite bad. I finally decided I just can't do this anymore. I'm going into houses that are difficult to maneuver around, also into smoky houses that I always despise smoke, cigarette smoke, and having to take care of myself in front of patients before I could care for them. It was just getting to be way too much. The physical maneuvering of patients became very difficult and I just couldn't keep up anymore.

On top of these things. I also have scoliosis, and it's something that I was diagnosed with when I was 12. So between my back and the pain, between the weight gain and the shortness of breath, it just became very difficult to move people, to turn people to do any things that they needed to get down on the floor to do leg and feet dressings, if they happen to be sitting on a couch, for example.

Yeah, it just became too much. I tried to push further, but I just couldn't. Mentally, I was starting to deteriorate as well. I knew there was something wrong by this point, and I hadn't quite got the diagnosis yet of PH, but it did soon come after pushing and trying to get in to see a doctor.

I think I was diagnosed in June of 2019. I went off work July of 2019. Probably for the next year I was wearing oxygen pretty much 24/7. Sitting in a chair, so where I am now, just maneuvering myself around became quite difficult and caused me a lot of shortness of breath. It was to the point where, "All right, I don't think I can do this anymore." So I had to give that up, give that role up. I did not give up my nursing license, I still have it, but I am now on... What's the term? Non-practicing. So I'm a non-practicing registered nurse. 

I decided to hold onto that because it was a big part of me. It's a big part of my life. It was a great accomplishment for me to get through schooling and having two little ones at home as a single mom. It was something that was really hard to register in my brain that you can't do what you've been doing, but I'm hanging on to this because I knew still at that point, even though everything kind of took a dive down, including my mood and everything else, my look on life, my outlook and the uncertainty, it took a huge chunk out of my wellbeing.

I decided at some point, probably within that first year, "Well, okay, what can I do? I know that I have been thinking about changing careers. I've been thinking about giving up at least the physical part of nursing." There was something still calling me to the mental health world. Well, I started acrylic painting and I sang. I had sang for many years and I liked writing, and that's most of my life, as well. Not that I did a lot of it, but I did like it. And one of my goals since I was a teenager was to write a book, which I still haven't done, but I've started a couple of things.

I've written a few little things, poems. I have a long poem. Those kinds of things all mean a lot to me as who I am as a person. I decided at some point along the way, I'm going to somehow combine the creative things with the mental health and the background of nursing and help other people on their journeys and their wellbeing, as well. 

That became my focus. Not to say that every day is easy or that I can focus on these things every single day. There are still difficulties. I managed to change my viewpoint and my outlook on life and my perception of life, and I managed to change those things to a positive light and decided you can still live. You don't have to lay back and wait to die because what is the purpose of everything that I've done and everything I've wanted to be?

I always, always felt like I had a deeper purpose in life. Some people are good getting their purpose fulfilled through looking after their family or through working in a community, and that's enough. But there's something more that I'm meant to give. I'm still not 100% sure what it is, but I think I'm finally going down the path now. I decided to paint. There was a year, I think between 2019 and 2020 that I really didn't do much of anything, but I think that was my angry year. That was my diagnosis year. It was my spot that made me take a look at my life and decided to change my path. I could lay back and die. Life's over for me, boohoo. I know that's a lot of us. That's where we are. That's where we have been or we're getting to that point. But there is a point where you can take control of what you can. 

I had to look at my blessings. So I had to look at, I have my sons. At that time they were both home with me. I have one still home now. I have my mom, my dad, my sister. Even though I still had a lot of traumas to deal with, which I was currently working through and still am, those people were still close to me and important to me. I was now around my mom's family, side of the family. They were a huge support.

I felt like I couldn't quite leave this area and move away, because I thought about moving down east many times, but I had to use what I could. Also because of being from First Nation's community, I thought there's so much I can do. So I'm going to combine all the things I know and put them into a wellness journey for other people. I'm still not 100% sure what that's going to look like, but I have done many paint parties, you might call them. A lot of them are workshops. I get hired by organizations mostly for say, a personal paint party. Probably 95% of what I have done has been organizational workshops. I'll get people thinking about positive things, so what do they want for themselves that day or that week or month, or what would they like to wish for somebody else?

It could be someone they don't necessarily like so much. What do you wish for that person or yourself? Think of one word or a symbol. It could be a heart. It could be anything and you put that down on the backside of your canvas. You write happiness or love, unconditional love. Anything that you can think of or a heart or a star or anything and that's going to be your focus during that painting. The painting session, you go forward with that thought in your mind. We really try to keep negative thinking out of it because it's very, very easy for all of us to think negatively and go, "Oh, I'm terrible at this," and oh my goodness, there's always negative that we can throw to ourselves. We really try to take that out of the equation and just keep everything to a positive as much as we can. 

I would say that normally it does work and it helps most people to stay in a more positive mindset. Thinking positively, looking after my mental health that's been a huge, huge component of my wellbeing. Continuing to be in therapy because therapy can be for everyone, not just seriously ill people. It keeps us on track. That has helped me by looking after the mental health piece, my emotional piece, my spiritual piece, and my physical. We know that physical and mental health and emotional, spiritual all go together. We can't look after one and not the rest. We can't expect to do well in one and expect everything else to catch up. We've got to purposely look after all of those domains. I find by doing that and keeping myself in check with my mental health as well, even my spiritual health. By spiritual health, I mean even things like connecting to nature. Learning how to connect with nature. Learning how to breathe. Learning how to be calm and maybe put yourself in a better place. 

That becomes really easy to do once you've done it a bunch of times. You may need to focus and push yourself to do it at first, but eventually it's just an amazing place to be. So with meditating, learning how to focus, we can do so much for ourselves. People need to start looking at that, giving themselves that gift because it's there. It is in all of us to do. So by looking at all those domains and looking after each one, we do better for our physical health, as well. My physical being has improved. My breathing has improved. My energy level has improved. My focus is starting to improve a little more, because that's been very difficult to do.

But all in all, if you look after all of those things in your life, you become a better version of yourself. You start to see the world in a positive light again, and not think so much about how much life I have left. I still do think of that sometimes or, "When am I going to die," or, "What's the purpose? If I'm going to be gone in a year or 10 years or five years?" The purpose is because you need to be here now. You need to be here. You're on this earth. You have purpose. You can take from everything that happens to you in your life and pull it in and switch it around, bam, put it out as something that you can do for yourself and for other people. That was my choice. It's not to say that I don't ever struggle with my mood or with triggers or anything that comes up in my life, but I need to know how to come out of that.

With everything I've learned through somatic therapy, through there's a thing called FIT. It's focused intention technique. I learned how to do that, as well. There is training for that. It's something you can use on yourself, and it's something you can use to help other people. Give yourself the gift, I'll use that word again, the gift of life. You get to go forward in the way you want to, in the way that you can. Just do it in whatever way you're able to. If you look after all the pieces of yourself, it gets easier. I guess that would be the biggest thing is transforming my life to meet the needs of not just myself, but others as well. But there came a time where I had to look after just myself, and that was fine. I decided that's okay. This is what I need to do. 

My last job was helping to kill me. It was helping to dive me down lower in depth, because I wasn't able to focus on myself and my needs. That really woke me up. It made me go, "Yep, I guess I have to listen to myself now and listen to my body. It's telling me things and do something about it. Don't just keep pushing it back. Do something about it." I ended up having to move from where I was. My rent was going up a little higher every year. I could no longer afford to live there, because I wasn't working, at least not getting a nursing income. So my sons and I had to move. Thank goodness for our First Nation. They had been building a new set of townhouses and one had just been completed. We were lucky enough to get to move into that right at the time I was running out of money from whatever resources I could get it from.

We moved in here. The rent is significantly lower. I know not everybody has that opportunity, but it enabled me to start looking at what I wanted in life instead of worrying about the financial piece. So even if it's a matter of you have to move in with someone or a relative or something where you might not have as much, you might have to give up some things, which I did, but at least it got me thinking about my life again and having a purpose. So that's where I am now. 

My name is Dawn Clarke, and I'm aware that I'm rare.

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[mental-health-advice]

Submission about long distance relationship

Hello...I decided to write here because I feel like there is no escape from my depression.

I am curently under medication since May but still having very bad episodes.

In 2017 I meet a man online and since then we talked,shared pictures or intimate moments on the phone or other apps.the chemistry was amazing and I never felt so happy.We wanted to meet but then he decided not to because he said would hurt me more when I will leave back to my country (I am from EU he is from US) so is better to keep distance...for 4 years he was all I had,I lost alot to weight and did surgeries to look good and felt amazing,but now since he his gone I don't want to live much...I don't care so much about myself to get pretty,go out or such I truly feel like he is the one for me and never felt so happy as I did even online with him.I want to mention that I am 29 and never had a boyfriend before and also I am a lonely person even if so many people consider me pretty.

I don't have with who to talk I cry so much and feel like there is no much for me ahead even if I have everything I need,I am still drained and very depressed.I see people around me having kids or getting married and I am alone with my dreams crushed without the man I felt so lucky to have.

If someone will read this I would appreciate because I don't know what to do anymore or how to laugh or feel happy in life.

Thank you.

Hey there,

Depression is a horrible thing to have to deal with and especially when we can’t seem to find a balance between happy and sad and depression seems to just be taking over everything.

Have you tried therapy before, I know you mentioned that you were on medication but if you haven’t or not yet tried therapy then this may be worthwhile to try and could be of huge benefit. If you do choose to try therapy here is a great page on how you can get the ball rolling on getting help.

It can be so difficult when we see others around us move on and get married and/ or have children, but if you want this to happen for you it will, sometimes it just takes time to find that special person. Long distance relationships can be so hard and especially when it gets to the point where one of you have to leave to go home, it must have been heart breaking for you but is there a chance that you two can be/ stay being good friends? It sounds as though he really cared about you in that he didn’t want to meet you in case it made things harder for  you when you moved back home, this is what makes me think that he may be open to the opportunity to be friends and keep in contact. Maybe worth the conversation to have with him?

Losing weight and having surgeries to look better can only do so much. If I am honest I am a true believer in that if someone really likes you they will like you, the person, and it won’t be purely based on how you look! A good example would be that I have never worn make up and now I am in my 30’s (weird I know) but I have still had people who really liked me due to my personality and the type of person I am.

I know that it can be so easy to focus on the outside though in the hope of making friends and people to have a relationship with but it sounds as though you may have low self-esteem, hence possibly feeling insecure on the inside and trying to make up for it through your looks. Just a passing thought!

I also want to add that medication can take up to 6-8 weeks to take full effect, sometimes longer and you may need a dosage change here and there or change of medication until you find one that works best for you. There are so many psychiatric medications out there and unfortunately its not a one medication fits all thing if that makes sense! It’s a trial and error thing so please don’t feel discouraged if your medication needs adjusting or changing!

I really hope that this has helped a bit and please do let me know if we can help to support you in any other way!

I’m thinking of you and hope that you are going OK!

Take care,

Lauren

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

[anime-rambles]

“Welcome Home Omega”

Pairing: Alpha Bakugou x Alpha Kirishima x Omega Reader

Type: ABO Dynamic, SFW  

Word Count: 2700+

A/N: I’m new to all this, but I dreamt about this the other night and really wanted to share this with everyone. I have a tone more to write, so please follow along and any feedback would be hugely appreciated. Thank you so much.

Summary: Omega y/n returns home to her pack after so many years aboard being a successful hero, now they fear begin rejecting by her pack and more importantly her alpha’s.

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

“Everyone please welcome to the stage, the one you’ve all be waiting for, Pro-Hero Shadow…” a loud voice spoke into the microphone as I waited backstage. Once my name was called, I left the spoke I was hiding in and joined them. The crowd was screaming and shouting, holding banners of my name and posters with my face. This was something I didn’t expect to happen when I returned home to Japan from my many years abroad. I smiled towards the women on stage, already determining her as a beta.

“Welcome Shadow, to your first ever hero-con” She spoke to me looking in my direction. I brought my mic to my face,

“It’s so good to be here, look at all these people wow.” I smiled towards the crowd. The cheering began again.

“So shadow, how are you feeling being back in Japan and being high on the hero board, especially as an omega…” she continued on looking at me, this was something I was used to.

“It feels so good being back, I left Japan 6 years ago after I graduated with my friends/pack members from UA, which many of you know...” I waited for the screaming to stop before I continued. “I was faced with two choice really, be a omega hero that would only get 2 years in hero work before being forced to stop by the hero commission or I could leave my pack and go to America and have a really good hero career helping other omegas reach their potential and then come back home, I think you can guess what I chose” I said, and turned to the interviewer waiting for her reply.

Being an omega in Japan and America is very different from each other, especially in hero work. In Japan, you get an unspoken max of 2-year work and then often omegas go to desk jobs in hero agencies. In America, you can be a hero no matter your 2nd gender but the chance of being taken seriously as an omega is very slim and was something I worked hard at. During my time in America, I created an omega hero agency and left it all to the very capable hands of my sidekick, frostbite. It was my time to come home, I need my family back.

“So, tell me, does you pack know your back?” She asked with smile in her eyes.

“I mean, yes and no. Our pack is a big one and it was created when we were back in school. The time that I left, I had an agreement with the unmarked alphas that I would not contact them at all, but to know I was safe, I was only allowed contact with the omegas. So, they know” I replied, laughing slightly back.

“So, a lot of alphas in your pack, how does that work?” she pushed for an answer.

“I can’t really say, our pack dynamic is private, so I won’t tell you who or what position everyone is but, we have a main alpha who us our leader, they have a second and then we have one alpha that doesn’t really care and then one alpha who gave up their position years ago.” I replied smiling hoping she would not ask any more questions about the pack.

“That’s fine, tell me about your work as a hero omega and how difficult is” She asked again. This is something I could talk about openly. I took a deep breath and began to speak about the importance of separating your 2nd gender, from your workplace, and they it does not define you. Yes, you can still have a timid nature but do not let it halt your growth as a strong independent person. That if you want to be head of heart surgery you do it and tell those Alphas/ beats to shove it, its your time to shine. I continued until I felt the interviewer wanting to ask another question.

“Although I’m strong, I would not have gotten to where I am today without my pack, in public they treat me like a hero, not an omega. I mean it didn’t take long to do bu…” I went to say but was cut off.

“What do you mean, didn’t take long?” she interrupted. I hesitated for a bit, and then looked out into the crowd.

“Okay, I really should not be saying this, but he won’t mind. Okay so when our pack was created, I was never allowed to do anything, and it really annoyed me. So, when our first Alpha was being chosen, I kind of challenged Pro-Hero Dynamite…. And won.” I replied looking out into the crowd and everyone started cheering.

“Since then, I was treated like a person, not an omega. Well not in public, in private we still use the proper greetings.” I smiled and turned to the interviewer again.

“Wow, you are amazing. We all know your now number 5 on the hero board, can you remind everyone your quirk again.” She asked gesturing to my hands. I look down and noticed the black sut coating my fingers. I nodded and began to explain. I can create my own smoke from my body and ignite it. From this smoke I can create solid weapon and if I have enough smoke in the area, I can tell a person’s movements. I do have a drawback; the smoke uses up the oxygen from my blood and can make me pass out or it stains my skin with black smoke.

The interview continues and eventually is opened to fan questions, near the end of the questions. I notice the back wall starting to fill up with tall dark figures, already guessing that my pack got word I am here. Excitement rises through me, and I find it hard to sit still.

“Well, I think the cats out of the bag your home, Shadow” the interviewers says to me gesturing to the back wall. Light shines to the back wall, standing there when their arms crossed is Pro-heroes Dynamite, Red Riot, Deku and Chargebolt who is waving crazy towards me. I laugh to myself, locking eyes with Bakugou lowering my head slightly.

“I guess so” I reply, and the cheering slowly dies down.

 ************************************

While sitting at my signing booth, listening to some amazing stories from fans. I hear my name being called the curtain behind me. I have a break from the fans for a second and approach the curtain.

“Hello, little omega.” The voice says, as I instantly know its Bakugou. I smile to myself, wanting to rip the curtain away and wrap my arms around his neck.

“Hello Bakugou, don’t move the curtain, I can’t look at your right now” I say honestly.

“Okay, at least put your hand through the curtain, Kiri’s here to.” He replies nudging the curtain. I sigh, it’s been 6 years and I can barely hold myself together with he thought of being back with my family but being a hero right now is what I need to do.

“Okay, but only quickly I have to get back” I whisper, and slowly put my right-hand backwords them. Instantly I can feel like touching my hand and kissing it.

“Can’t smell you omega, how come?” Kirishima asks.

“Stupid American pheromone blockers, I’ll take them off later at home, promise.” I say and pull my hand back to finish quickly and get back to my family and quickly as I can. I can hear both alphas walk away, and I pull my hand to my chest.

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

Hero-con is over, and I can finally come home. After we all graduated, everyone pulled their money together and we bought a huge house together which allowed all of us to live together as a pack. Before I left, I entered a relationship with Bakugou and Kirishima but now I do not know if they still want me in a dynamic with because they’ve been an Alpha/Alpha relationship for 6 years. I don’t’ even have a room anymore, Denki took it when I moved to America. There might be room, I think, Midoriya (A) and Todoroki (A/O) have a room, Sero (B) and Mina (B) have a room, Shinso (A), Jirou (B) and Denki (O) all have separate rooms even though they are together which leaves Bakugou (A) and Kirishima (A) who have the biggest room. I could always share with Denki until I find a new place, I say to myself as I knock on the front door.

I wait patiently, until the door is opened revealing a very excited Denki. Practically jumping on the spot.

“Y/N YOU’RE HOME.” He shouts while throwing himself into my arms. I hug back, I breath him in and tears start to fill my eyes.

“Oi sparky, you know the rules. She needs to follow the greetings as she’s been away for so long.” Says Bakugou with his arms crossed. I enter the house and look around seeing everyone in their groups. I cannot believe I am home.

I quickly great Mina and Sero first, presenting our pack mark and then onto hugs. Next, I go straight over to Shinso, presenting my neck to show I am not a threat to his omega or beta. Which he simply nods and as these dynamics, Shinso does not really care for. I great Jirou and then great Denki properly by touching our noses together. I approach Midoriya next as he used to be the main Alpha who brought us all together, I greeted him the same way as Shinso but instead Midoriya threw his arms around me puling me into a hug.

“Please never leave again, Bakugou’s been impossible” He whispers into my ear. I laugh looking over his shoulder to a very anger Bakugou. I turn to Todoroki who is half Omega/Alpha, I greet him the same way as Denki, I know he prefers that greeting than the alpha one. Its finally time to see if they still want me. Kirishima is practically beaming at Bakugou side. I approach with my head down; I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I approach him. As he is lead Alpha, I must wait to see what he will do.

“Still can’t smell you omega.”  Bakugou announces loudly.

“There’s a pheromone implant in my neck, Alpha, see you can feel it.” I reply, taking his hand to my neck. In American you are not allowed to use pheromones in public, so for hero work you must use an implant to block it. Bakugou feels my neck and I can tell he is not happy. He grabs me by my neck, slamming me on the wall behind him. Everyone runs forward but Kirishima stands forward stopping them. Telling them it must happen and that Bakugou won’t hurt me, much.

With his claw Bakugou cuts into my neck to pull the impact out, I do not make a sound and only look at him in the eye. It must be done, and I know he will not hurt me. Once the implant is out. Bakugou lends forward and breathes me in. He hesitates, and calls Kirishima over. Kirishima looks between the two of use and breaths me in.

“Oh, y/n, you should’ve come home sooner.” Kirishima says, pulling me towards him for a hug.

“Please, Bakugou, get rid of the rest they can’t see me like this.” I whisper.

“Oi, extra’s don’t you have a party tonight. Your hotels have your clothes, now get lost.” Bakugou calls out, looking at them all. No one moves.

“NOW!” Bakugou yells, using his alpha voice and everyone leaves.

As soon as the door closes, I start to cry. Six years of being all alone hit me at once, yes it was my plan to be a strong hero, its hard to do it without your pack or alphas.

“The first sign of your omega depression, you should’ve come home little one.” Kirishima says whispering into my hair.

“How could I, I would’ve let you all down and all other omega’s out there without a voice, so what I had to go through omega depression….. more than once.” I say back looking up into Kirishima’s eyes. Bakugou stands beside us, looking slightly smaller.

“Bakugou, go run a bath,” Kirishima calls out and Bakugou follows his orders.

“Wait, what’s going on. Bakugou what are you doing” I ask, looking confused. Bakugou leans over the stairs to look at me.

“Kirishima’s the Alpha now, we’ll the others haven’t picked up on it yet because we haven’t publicly fought, but he’s been the main Alpha for a while now, I can’t be number one all the time now can I.” Bakugou replies with a smile. I look to Kirishima who still holds me but is beaming with love as he watches Bakugou. I try to pull away from his arms. It is stupid why did I think this would work. They do not want me anymore, I just know. Kirishima noticed how I suddenly changed but decided not to say anything.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and smelling natural.” He says, picking me up with no issues. He climbs the stairs and I place my head into his scent gland in his neck. I notice that neither him nor Bakugou do not have a claiming mark yet. Once we reach the top of the stairs, I see my old bedroom door and ask Kirishima to put my down, he walks ahead to the double doors at the end of the hallway. Which is their room.

“I’ll only stay for tonight, and then I’ll find somewhere else to live, I don’t even have a room here anymore.” I say to Kirishima which makes him freeze.

“Silly omega, come here.” He replies, gesturing me to follow. I start to hear the water running in their private bathroom. Kirishima opens the door and lets me enter the room first.

The first thing I can smell is the strong smell of Alpha but slowly a familiar smell enters, I look around the room and see my stuff. Things that I had left behind, my paintings, photos of the three of use. The queen size bed with three sets of pillows, big enough for all of us. I look around and notice a curtained canopy hiding something. I look to Kirishima who leans on the door frame by the Bathroom and nods. I breath in again and noticed the familiar smell but I am not able to pinpoint it yet.

I pull back to curtain and freeze. “Is that m..” I say unable to finish as I look down, tears filling my eyes. Bakugou comes out of the bathroom and leans on the opposite side to Kirishima. I look at the two of them and then look down at my old nest, they kept it, they really kept it. I can’t speak, only cry. Bakugou comes over to me and hold me bringing me towards the bathroom. Kirishima entered first. He began to undress and tied back his long hair, He entered the bath first, as Bakugou began to undress me as my emotions were betraying me at his moment. There was nothing sexual about this moment, it was about Alpha’s taking care of their Omega. Bakugou lifted me and lowered me into the water to sit in Kirishima’s lap, he quickly undressed and joined us.

I started to calm down, feeling I could now speak. “So, you mean, you have forgotten me, and you still want to be with me.” I ask looking down at my hands. Kirishima wraps his arms around me more and places his head into my scent gland breathing me in, tickling me slightly.

“Of course, silly omega, we’ve wanted you since the day you knocked me on my ass.” Bakugou replied leaning in to kiss me.

[bitacrytic]

... but red is mine [11]

Read Previous Chapter Here

___

"There’s nothing left.”

***

Pete ran beside the stretcher that carried Vegas. There’d been a misunderstanding with the hospital crew when he’d called for help. They’d arrived with the stretcher to pick someone up. The fact that that person was Vegas had given them pause. But Pete didn’t care. Fuck their orders. Pete’s gun was loaded and ready, if they weren’t. If they hadn’t taken him to the hospital, Pete was going to start killing medical practitioners till someone did something.

As he got to the bigger doors, they blocked him from going further. The gun he’d been pointing at the doctor moved to the nurse in his way. His eyes shifted, watching the stretcher that carried Vegas away.

“Move,” Pete said to them.

“You can’t go in there. You sure as hell can’t take a gun into the operating room.”

“Get out of my fucking way.” He pressed the gun into the nurse' head.

Pamela, a middle-aged nurse that Pete had known for years. She stood her ground, staring back at him, daring him to pull the trigger. Breathing hard, Pete’s hand shook. He could shoot her. She was standing between him and Vegas and Pete just… He yelled, pulling the gun back as he stepped away from her.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s from the minor family and everyone’s-”

“No one will hurt him, Pete,” Pamela said. “I’ll make sure you get hourly updates. Do you hear me?”

Pete nodded, wanting to believe her. Because if no one said anything in an hour, Pete was taking this gun and heading in there.

“Look at me,” Pamela said, drawing Pete’s attention from where he’d been looking in the direction Vegas was taken. “Take a seat, Pete.” She pulled Pete to the nearest bench seats in the waiting room. “Breathe with me.”

“What?”

“In,” she said, inhaling and waiting for Pete. 

Unable to concentrate, Pete breathed in.

“Deep,” she said.

Pete took another breath.

“And out.”

Pete let it out.

“In again.”

He obeyed.

“And out.”

He let it out.

“That’s good,” she said, rubbing her hand up and down his arms. “That’s good. You’re no good to him if you collapse. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not my blood.”

“Pete-”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll check you out, anyway.”

Pete had to sit there, tapping his foot against the floor as she bandaged his head and made him take off his shirt. Turns out, his shirt was bloodied up all over the back. But he wasn’t hurt. His main injury was a cut to the shoulder. Considering the damage Pete had caused, this nick in the shoulder was nothing.

He sat through the first hour, when another nurse came out to tell him that they’d taken out the bullets and the doctor was closing up. Taking a deep breath like Pamela had shown him, Pete leaned against the back of his bench. That was good news. Good news was good. The bullets were gone. If there was a complication, they would have said so. 

This was totally fine.

“Find someone else to take you to eat.”

***

***

Pete opened his eyes.

It took him a minute, but everything came rushing back as he remembered that Vegas had been shot. And was in surgery. What was the time? He had to have been out by now. Why had no one woken him up?

When he sat up, he noticed the two men standing, with their backs to him.

Recognizing their awful, flowery shirts, Pete’s heart hammered in his chest. Because it couldn’t be. The main family had won. Why were minor family guards hanging around randomly? Were they here to collect Pete? If that was the case, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. 

Reaching over to the stand where there was a vase, he stretched to get it. The bench he was sitting on dragged against the tile as one of the men turned around. By the time the second one turned, Pete gave up on stealth and jumped to grab the vase, chucking the flowers out of it.

When he faced the men, both of them had bowed low before him.

“Khun-Pete,” one of them said as they stood.

“Eh, what now?” Pete asked. He couldn’t have heard that clearly.

“We were asked not to wake you,” he said. “Khun-Vegas is out of surgery. Khun-Macau is with him. If you’d like us to take you to him.”

Gripping the vase, he stepped behind the bench to give himself more space between the men. Even though he could probably take them, Pete was tired and hungry and honestly, he’d take a chance to run over fighting two or more minor family guards, at the moment.

“Why are you here?”

“Khun-Porsche asked us to wait for you.”

Khun-Porsche? What the fuck had happened while he was asleep? Oh no. 

“Where’s Khun-Kinn?” Pete asked, fearing the worst.

“He’s coordinating the clean-up, Khun-Pete.”

Pete flinched again when they called him like that, again.

“Can we take you to see Khun-Macau?” the man asked.

Pete nodded, refusing to walk in front of them, and holding onto the vase. They didn't have to walk long. Pete had barely begun to lower the vase when he noticed two more guards stationed by a bedroom door.

As soon as they saw him, they opened the door and Pete didn’t even hesitate. They said Vegas was in there. Rushing in, he noticed the body in the bed. He was really still alive.

“Pete!” Macau screamed from the chair in the corner.

The next thing Pete knew, Macau was throwing his arms around Pete’s neck, hugging him and sobbing. Not knowing what to do, Pete let go of the vase as it clattered to the floor at his feet.

“Are you alright?” Pete asked.

“They said you brought Vegas. And a gun,” Macau said, sniffing. “They locked me in here and won’t let me leave.”

Pete pulled him away, wondering if he’d also just walked into a prison. He’d chosen Vegas. And right now, all of Vegas’ people were in the room. If the main family had a problem with them, it would be sensible to keep them all locked away like this.

However, the guards at the door weren’t main family guards. They were minor family guards. So, if the main family had won, and the minor family guards were still walking around, freely, what the fuck was going on?

“Khun-Pete?” the guard from before said, stepping into the room with a small box in his hand.

Pete took it from him and the man quickly withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

“Who locked you in here?” he asked, opening the box to find a phone, a black card and a note.

“Porsche, that asshole,” Macau grouched, walking away with a pout.

“Porsche? He ordered minor family guards to keep you in here? And they obeyed?”

“Apparently he has my dad’s ring now.”

That didn’t make sense. Pete opened the note and it just said, “call me.” Pete recognized the ugly penmanship.

He took out the phone and dropped the box, heading to the door to test out a theory. As the door opened, all four guards turned to him. Was Pete also a prisoner? He stepped out between them and they watched him. He pointed at the phone.

“I want to make a call.”

The men did nothing to stop him. Still testy, he walked down the corridor and truly, they didn’t stop him. So, he called the number.

“Pete,” a weary voice sounded through the phone.

“Khun-Pete?” Pete asked. “What the fuck?”

“Look, if they’re calling me Khun-Porsche, you have to suffer it too.”

“Macau said you locked him in Vegas’ room and that you have the minor family ring. What did I miss?”

Porsche groaned.

“Keep him there, Pete. Keep him safe. At least till his brother wakes up. Vegas, I can handle. Macau?” Porsche paused. “Do you know that little asshole punched me in the face?”

Pete scoffed, looking back at the guards. Macau and Porsche really didn’t like each other.

“Did you deserve it?” Pete asked.

Porsche sighed, sounding a hundred years older.

“I truly have no idea. I don’t even know what I’m doing. One moment I’m nobody, now they’re calling me fucking Sir.”

“Khun-Kinn?”

“He’s around here somewhere.”

“Khun-Tankhun?”

“Oh, he’s here, too.” Porsche laughed. “He dropped off some food for everyone, but the minor family guards aren’t eating it. I think they’re waiting for me to start eating so that they know if it’s poisoned or not.”

“Can’t blame them. Khun-Tankhun has been very vocal about his hatred for anything minor-family-related.”

“How are you doing?” Porsche asked. “I heard you pointed a gun at Pamela.”

“Oh fuck,” Pete sat on the floor, in the hallway. “I didn’t even see that she was the one until she started speaking.”

“She’s holding a grudge.”

“I’ll buy her some flowers.” As he thought of buying things, he remembered the card. “And the black card, Porsche?”

“Oh, it’s for you,” he said quickly.

“I didn't quite catch that.”

“It’s for you. You know. Just nothing. You know.”

“Porsche.”

“You’re minor family now, right?” Porsche said, firmly. “You’re with Vegas. And you have to take care of them, so you need money.”

“Like a handout?”

“Like an allowance. For that expensive, overgrown demon that’s in Vegas’ room.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with a black card?”

“I don’t know. Rich people shit?”

“I don’t know what rich people do.”

“And you think I do?”

“You’re the head of the minor family.”

“And you’re Vegas Theerapanyakul’s fucking soulmate.”

Whatever words were in Pete's head died out. Quickly.

“I’m sorry if that sounded harsh,” Porsche said. “But you chose him. You can’t just be Pete anymore than I can just be Porsche. We chose this shit.”

“What am I…” Pete hesitated. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Stay with him? I guess?” Porsche replied. “I don’t know. Oh god, Pete.” Porsche sighed again for the millionth time. “We fucked around and found money. Yippee,” he said, sounding anything but celebratory.

“He’s my soulmate,” Pete said out loud.

“He is,” Porsche agreed, sadly.

“I can do this. I guarded Tankhun. I can look after two brash, angry boys.”

“Hell yeah, you can.”

Pete stood up, using the wall.

“I’ll call you later,” Pete said, heading for the room. “Let’s see if our overgrown demon needs anything.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Pete cut the call as he entered the room.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, as Macau nodded.

Pete gave him the phone to call for food as he picked up the black card and went to sit beside the sleeping Vegas. 

Soulmate.

Vegas Theerapanyakul’s soulmate.

Pete breathed in, held it, and then breathed out. He’d faced worse odds in his life and he always came out on top. Pete wasn’t a shrinker. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to run from this. It didn't make any difference if he’d run after Vegas when Vegas was awake, to know that he was in such a vulnerable state. 

The plan had always been to be with and protect. That didn’t change. If anything, Vegas needed him more now, more than ever before. And like always, Pete was not about to disappoint his people. His person. His Vegas.

“And where have you been?”

***

***

Vegas was in and out of his coma for three days, but on the fourth, he opened his eyes, staring up at Pete, quietly.

“I should call a doctor,” Pete said.

But Pete made no move to leave. If he got up, Vegas might slip away again.

“Hi,” Vegas said.

“Hey,” Pete replied.

Vegas smiled.

“I’m awake.”

“I can see that,” Pete said, feeling a bright burbling in his chest. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone shot me four times.”

“Did you count?”

“Force of habit.”

“People shoot you a lot?”

“Not recently, no,” he said, his voice scratchy and dry. “You should probably call the doctor.”

“Right,” Pete said, getting up from the bed to push the button hanging above Vegas.

When he sat back down, there was so much he wanted to say. He couldn’t. He had no idea why. And Vegas, well Vegas laid, tongue-tied as well, because he wasn’t trying to make any conversation. He just stared. But, at least, Vegas was recovering from multiple gunshot wounds. What was Pete’s excuse?

Just as he opened his mouth to say anything at all, no matter how stupid, the door opened and the doctor came in with two nurses. Quickly, quietly, Pete got out of the way. They were here to save Vegas. The last thing Pete wanted to do was hinder them.

As they tinkered around, Pete couldn’t take just standing there. So he went to get some fresh air. He wandered around the hospital and didn’t even know when he’d gotten in the car and driven to Macau’s favorite food take-out joint.

By the time he got back, Vegas was laid up in bed. His eyes were closed, but at least, this time, his position was different. Which meant that he wasn’t going to slip back into a coma. He was out of the woods, now. And if Pete waited, Vegas’ eyes would be open.

Which, weirdly enough, when Pete turned from opening the blinds, Vegas was awake.

“Are you up?”

“For a while now,” Vegas answered. “Where have you been?”

“I bought Macau some food. In case he wakes up hungry.”

Pete got closer, sitting on the bed beside Vegas.

“Why are you still here?”

“I can’t run off anywhere.”

Not that he hadn’t thought of it. Because he could go home. His grandmother was more worried now that Pete didn’t have a job, than when she’d been when he had a very dangerous job. But then again, she had no idea that said job included getting shot at, regularly. 

And, like Porsche said, Pete chose this. Pete wanted this. Where was he supposed to run off to? He didn’t want to be anywhere else. He wanted to be here.

“If you run now,” he said, looking like he was on the verge of tears. “I’m alright with that.”

Vegas frowned, reaching out, unable to get close enough. Pete met him halfway. Vegas grasped Pete’s hands, his actions betraying the words that he spoke next.

Right, Pete thought. Like that was ever going to happen.

“I don’t want to be your burden.”

Pete felt like rolling his eyes. Because he’d seen this before. From Vegas. Leaving a key he didn’t want Pete to use. Walking away from Pete, seconds after begging for Pete to want him. Asking Pete to find someone else to take him to eat. Vegas did protest too much.

And he couldn’t even have the sense to, at least, look like he believed the bullshit he was saying. How could you tell someone to leave you, then look like you’d break if they did? Shit didn’t work like that.

“I want to follow my heart.”

“But-”

“I want to be here, Vegas,” he said, shifting closer, holding Vegas’ hand with both of his. “Stop pushing me away.”

“I’m not saying I want you to go.”

“Then what the fuck are you saying?” Pete asked him, softly.

Vegas’ face scrunched up even, as he struggled not to cry.

“From now on,” he said. “You’re no longer my pet.”

“That’s not what you-”

“You’re my soulmate, Pete,” Vegas said, tears in his eyes. “You’re the most important person in my life.”

Oh, Pete thought with a smile. Because this constipated man named Vegas, was trying to communicate like a human being. If that wasn’t the cutest thing. 

When Vegas kissed him, Pete responded. Vegas held on, kissing Pete like it was a seal to a promise between. Because he wanted Pete to see him, hear him. Feel him. And Pete did. With all of his heart.

“There, there,” Macau said, giggling behind Pete.

As they broke apart, Pete realized that Porsche was right. Macau really was an overgrown demon.

He got up from his seat, coming to finagle his way between them. Because it was Macau. He may have been the tallest person in the room, but he was still just a child. A child who cried in his sleep until Pete bundled him up. A child who worried that his brother would die. A child who had just lost his father.

“That’s pretty fast.”

What a traumatized family Pete had just inherited.

“Come, don’t be shy,” Vegas said, as if he knew Pete was about to stand up, to give the brothers a moment together. He dragged Pete into his lap.

“I’ll join you,” Macau said, hopping into place as he lay on both Pete and Vegas.

And okay, maybe it didn’t have to be so sad and twisty all the time. Pete could get used to this. It wasn’t something beyond his abilities. And he wasn't alone. He wasn't even in new waters. He’d just… extended his circle to include more people. His people. Pete was built for this. And he wanted it.

Maybe he’d gotten it through pain and blood. Maybe he’d found Vegas in the worst possible way. But lying there, with Vegas, as Macau snuggled into Pete’s back, Pete couldn’t imagine what his life would be like without these people. He didn’t want to imagine it.

There was nowhere else to go, because Pete didn’t want to go anywhere else. 

Here.

With Vegas and Macau.

Pete’s new home.