#considering I got out of the hospital by ripping my IV out and then refusing to eat the pill they needed to give me for my final treatment

[ppersonna]

i’ll float away - myg | m

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

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

↳ rating- explicit/18+

↳ word count- 12.6k

↳ pairing- yoongi x reader

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

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

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

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

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt numb.

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

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

There was no sound. Everything existed in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps, they were dying.

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

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

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

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

He was heartbroken.

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

Alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He always felt better this way.

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

He just wanted to sleep.

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

You were getting married.

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

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

Alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep.

Warmth.

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

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

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

“Where are you?” You asked.

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

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

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

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

“Yoongi, you need to wake up!”

The warmth faded.

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted to sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words hit him like an oncoming train.

Overdose.  

It had never happened to him before.

He nearly died.

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

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

You. Marriage. OxyContin.

Inhale. Don’t breathe. Don’t feel.

“Oh, my god.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rapper’s heart seized up.

Better.

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

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

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

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

Therefore, drugs led to regret.

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

Instead, he turned away and left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until it didn’t.

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

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

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

That’s when the cocaine started again.

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

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

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

Did it even fucking matter?

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

It didn’t fucking matter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hoseok told me what happened.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt final, resolute.

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

And you turned. And you left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His only love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yoongi, where are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything he loved and lost in one package.

Bringing him to life and sentencing him to death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

Sorry. Always so sorry.

Yoongi mulled that phrase through his mind since you left.

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

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

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

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

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

He shined, he burned bright and fast.  

Now, he was ashes on the ground.

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

His life was fucking pathetic.

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

Losing everything eventually broke him.

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

He had lost all of it.

For something that was going to fucking kill him.

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

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

It was time to end it all.

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

Far, far away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Min Yoongi, social worker.

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

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

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

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

Pain. Sadness. Drugs. Addiction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would love that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was true, mostly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The arm he wrapped around your shoulder pulled you close.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Min Yoongi.”

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

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt anxious.

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

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

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

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

Jimin smiled, pink lips puffy and sweet as always.

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi fought back, pushed against the odds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You appeared.

You looked like an angel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi was living.

Yoongi was finally, truly,

alive.

© ppersonna - 2020 - do not repost on any site, or translate without express permission from author.

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Wonderland by GleefullyCaptainSwan

Read on AO3: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

Or on FF

Tagging:  @kmomof4 @lfh1226-linda @teamhook @itsfabianadocarmo

Chapter 7: Trust

“How do you think you’re doing so far? A few more days and you will have completed your first two weeks.”

“I guess it’s going well. I’m not really sure how else it could go.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Killian. It’s not easy facing truth’s we aren’t ready to see. And you’ve been handling that well.”

Killian wasn’t sure he agreed with the good Doc. The only thing he had faced was admitting out loud that the accident was his fault. Perhaps he was a bit surprised that he had told Emma. He didn’t expect to do that. Honestly, he had followed the girl out to apologize for being so harsh in group, only to end up telling her about the accident. He didn’t know what it was about Emma, but the woman had him a bit off his game.

“So, today let’s talk about what happened after the accident. More specifically the loss of your hand, how did you handle the news?”

He straightened in his chair, rubbing his palm on his knee. “Like anyone who is just told that their entire life had changed.” He sat back in his seat and shrugged his shoulders. “Really badly.”

“When did you find out?”

“I woke up in the hospital sometime after the accident, my brother Liam was there. I could tell something was wrong. He told me about my hand first. I guess I was in shock. I didn’t react at all honestly. It was like being numb. I don’t have any other way of explaining it. I’m a musician and suddenly that’s all gone.”

“You play guitar?”

“Played. I dunno what I’ll do now. Honestly, I haven’t even thought about it. It seems so trivial considering everything else I lost.”

“I wouldn’t say trivial, Killian. It’s your life. Your livelihood.”

“Rob always tells me I have my good looks and acting to fall back on, but honestly I did all that because I could. Music was my passion; it was something I did because I wanted to.”

“And that is something that the accident took away from you.”

Killian shuddered with guilt to even feel anger about the loss of a career. “None of that mattered after he told me about Milah and the baby.”

“And how did you handle that?”

“I lost my mind. Ripped my IV out, Liam had to bring in security to restrain me. When I finally calmed down, he asked if I had been drinking that night. The look on his face showed so much disappointment.  I got angry, kicked him out of my room. Refused to speak to him for days.”

“Why do you think you reacted that way?”

“My whole life I’ve been living in Liam’s shadow. He was always the golden boy. Dad used to tell me that if the Jones brothers were to make anything of their lives, I just needed to watch my brother. He was the best of us.”

“What does Liam do for a living?”

“He’s a hero.”

“In your mind, I’m sure.”

“No like an actual damn hero. While I was making music on a stupid guitar, he was off fighting in a war.”

“Do you feel like your success was not earned because it wasn’t won the same way as Liam’s?”

“It wasn’t honorable like his. I sing stupid lyrics about dumb shit that doesn’t matter to anyone but me.” He stood up and started pacing the back of the room. “The night we got our record deal, his convoy got ambushed. I got the call that night that that his platoon had gone missing, presumed dead or captured. Days went by before we heard anything. A week later he came home a goddamn hero. Walked his whole platoon out of danger, fought off an attack, and won a fucking Gold Star. I got a record contract. A fucking record contract and he saved ten people. There was no living up to that.”

“Your success shouldn’t be compared to your brother’s sacrifices. It is admirable what he did but that doesn’t mean that everything you have earned means anything less.”

He paused, considering his words but knowing that nothing he would ever do could possibly match the honor of his brother.

“Have you thought about inviting him for family day coming up?”

“I’m not certain he would come even if I did.”

Killian continued to pace behind the couch. He spent the rest of his session thinking about his brother and the disappointment he had caused in the past year. The last time he had spoken to him still haunted his dreams.

“Killian you need help.”

“Fuck off, I’m fine.”

“How much coke is up your nose right now?”

“Enough that you are killing my buzz!”

“This isn’t you. The girls, the drugs, I don’t even know you anymore. You and Milah were…”

“Don’t, don’t talk about her. You don’t know anything about her. You don’t get to say her name.”

“Killian.”

“Get out, Liam. I never want to see you again.”

When he emerged from the office, he was surprised to see Ruby waiting around outside the door.

“Hello lass, are you next?”

“No, I just wanted to check on you.”

Killian had been impressed at how nice the girl had been to him since the incident on the beach where he was unable to perform a simple act of intimacy. He smiled at the girl. “No need, love. I’m fine, barely a scratch.” He joked.

He stilled when he saw the blonde he had been avoiding approaching them from the other side of the courtyard.

“Hey.”

“Hey Emma, meeting with Hop?” Ruby asked her roommate.

“Um yeah, guess it’s my turn to get my head shrunk.”

She made eye contact with him and he quickly looked away. He hadn’t spoken to the girl since she banished him from her sight after their last group session. That didn’t mean he hadn’t thought about her since then. He cursed the fact that it had been more than once.

“If you don’t mind Ruby, I am going to take a run.” He excused himself and left the ladies staring as he walked away.

~*~

“You scared him off.” Ruby complained as soon as he ran off.

“What did I do?”

“You’re always so mean to him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Geez Rubes, I get it you’re fucking him but I’m not going to be lectured about being nice to someone that has made my life hell since I got here.”

She flinched and then narrowed her eyes. “You give as good as you get. Hell, I’m surprised the two of you haven’t fucked with the way you go at each other.”

“Not if he was the last man on this island.” She stated louder than she had intended.

“Trying to convince me or yourself?” She pursed her lips and walked away.

“Whatever.” She pushed through the door and into the office.

“Good afternoon, Emma.”

“I guess.” She said sourly.

“So, last group session we spoke a lot about Neal? You’ve implied that your parents liked him.”

“Of course, everyone likes Neal. My parents think he’s the best thing for me.”

“And what do you think?”

“No one cares what I want, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“You’re pregnant?”

“That’s what happens when two lines show up on the fucking test, Neal.”

“How the hell did this happen?”

“It’s called sex, you asshole.”

“And you’re sure it’s mine?”

“What the hell, Neal.”

“Ok, sorry, what are you going to do now?”

“What am I going to do? Like this is all on me?”

“Emma, I’m just saying, we can’t have a damn baby.”

Later that evening as Emma’s legs worked the exercise bike in the lonely gym, she tried not to think about the child she gave away. She had seen his dark head of hair, ten fingers and ten toes, and she knew that if she even held him for ten seconds, she would have never let him go. So instead, she refused to hold him, only telling them his name as they took him from the room.

Henry.

She wondered where he was, what family had accepted him as their own. If he was being loved and taken care of.

She pushed herself faster, sweat pouring off her brow as she cycled harder and faster than she could even maintain. She screamed as loud as she could, pressing her feet against the pedals.

“I think you bested the mechanical beast.”

She jumped at the sound of another voice in the darkened silence of the gym.

“Can you not sneak up on me, for the last time?”

“Sorry, love. It was not my intention to sneak up on anyone. Apparently, you and I had the same idea for blowing off steam tonight. I can leave if you would prefer.”

She blew out a loud puff of air. “No, it’s not my gym, if you want to be here, I’m not going to stop you.”

He climbed onto the bike next to her and she noticed they each seemed to be matching the pace of the other, when she sped up, so did he. It was like a competition that neither would admit to entering.

The sweat was starting to drip down her back, her hair caked to her forehead. She chanced a glance in his direction and saw beads of sweat glistening on his skin. She wished to hell that didn’t make him more attractive than he already was. She silently wondered what it would feel like to run her hands across his wet flesh, immediately squeezing her thighs together as she worked the bike, the heat between her legs intensifying the more she glanced in his direction.

Suddenly his pace slowed beside her, and she breathed a sigh of relief, an unspoken win she would claim.

“You win.” He chuckled, with his hands in the air as he slowed his legs on the bike.

“Wasn’t aware we were in a race.” She tried acting as disinterested as she could.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

She glared in his direction. “Really, what gave you that clue?”

“Are you always this difficult or is it just for my benefit?”

She slowed down her speed and turned to look at him. “What do you want from me? Because I’m just trying to get through this fucking bullshit without losing my mind.”

“May I offer a suggestion?”

“From you?”

“Try something new darling, it’s called trust.”

“I don’t trust anyone but myself.”

“Come with me.” He climbed off his bike and gestured for her to follow him.

“What are you playing at?”

“No games, love.” He stared at her, his blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight coming through the large glass windows.

“Fine.” She groaned and followed him throughout the complex, leaving the lights of the buildings behind as her eyes saw the water come into view.

They walked without speaking for ten minutes, before he stopped and bent down to remove his shoes. “Come on, love, the sand begs to be felt, not trampled on.”

She stood defiantly watching him set his shoes to the side, pulling his socks off and standing before her, barefoot in his sweatpants. She held her breath before bending down and removing her shoes and socks and setting them next to his.

“Now what?” she said dryly.

“Let’s walk.”

She followed him reluctantly, the sand cold and coarse between her toes. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, with each footstep she felt her burden of the last few days become lighter.

“When things get to be too much, I find that the water, she calms me.”

Emma looked over at him, his hair blowing in the breeze, she noticed that his expression was lighter and calmer than she had ever seen him.

“She?”

“Aye, the ocean is my mistress.”

She laughed lightly. “Do you live near the ocean?”

“Aye. Seattle. And you?”

“New York, but I spend more time in the city than I do at the beach.”

“See that wasn’t so hard now was it?” He joked.

“What are you talking about?”

“Getting you to talk is quite the challenge. It’s like you’re afraid. Afraid to talk, to reveal yourself. To trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone, don’t take it personally.”

“Not even Neal?”

She laughed loudly. “Nice try.”

“Sorry, love. Just trying to figure you out.”

“Why?”

“I like a challenge, I guess. Besides, no one should go through something like this alone.”

She stopped walking. “I am alone. None of us are here for each other. I don’t know you; you don’t know me. I’m not here to make friends.”

He turned to face her. “You’re not alone, Emma.”

Emma groaned. “Oh my God, why do you even care, you hate me anyway.”

“Actually, I quite fancy you from time to time when you’re not yelling at me.”

For a moment she just stared at him, his eyes latched onto hers. And then she started laughing. It began in her stomach and it overwhelmed her until she was practically giddy with choked giggles and tears that formed under her eyelids. She didn’t even know why she was laughing, nothing about what was happening to her was funny, yet here she was, full belly laughs almost taking her off her feet.

When she finally calmed, he was looking at her with a smile across his face. “Wow I haven’t laughed like that in years.” She said softly.

“Long overdue then, I should say.”

He didn’t push for anything else, he simply continued the walk, taking in the views of the ocean until his watch started to beep and they both realized the time.

“Guess we should head back.”

She looked up at him, wondering what else was going on behind those eyes of his. “Um yeah.” They turned back to where they left their shoes. “Thanks.” Her voice was so quiet she wondered if he even heard her. But he simply nodded and bent down to gather his shoes.

She expected him to say something as they went their separate ways to their rooms, but he surprised her with simply a smile and a nod before heading to his room. She didn’t know what to make of Killian Jones. But for a moment they seemed to be at a truce.

“Where have you been?” Ruby was waiting for her in their room, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Just walking. Therapy was a bit rough today.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ve had a couple of those days.”

“You didn’t happen to see Killian around tonight, did you?”

“I’m not his keeper.” She said quickly.

“I know, I was just looking for him, couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“Booty call?”

She laughed. “Nah, just worried about him.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “Oh, why?”

“I don’t know, he doesn’t really talk about himself much, but I could tell that his last few sessions were really getting to him.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe check the gym next time. I think he goes there once everyone has left.”

“Oh?”

She turned to change her clothes, ignoring the questioning looks from her roommate.

“Get some sleep Rubes.”

Emma pulled the covers under her chin, basking in the darkness of the night. She didn’t know what to think of her evening on the beach. There were times she absolutely hated the man with one hand. Loathed the way he stared at her, knowing he was trying to get under her armor. She didn’t understand Killian Jones. But what gnawed at her even more was the fact that she wanted to understand him.

~*~

Killian fell into bed that evening with thoughts of Emma Swan. It wasn’t until he woke the next morning that he realized he didn’t dream of Milah. There was no nightmare of her in his arms, her life drained from her body. No dream of her hair blowing in the wind on the deck of his ship. A part of him was angry that Emma invaded his thoughts and kept him from seeing Milah’s face in his dreams. The other part was curious to understand what this woman had that was invading so much of his life.

“There you are!” He looked up to see Ruby approaching his table, her tray of food in her hand. “I looked all over for you yesterday.

“Sorry love, I was a bit lost in my head yesterday. Was everything alright?”

“Of course, silly. I just wanted to see you.”

He smiled tentatively at the girl. He liked Ruby. She was very nice to him, had kept their relationship or lack thereof private, and seemed to truly care about his wellbeing.

“Well, here I am. So, tell me, lass. How are you doing?”

She smiled widely. “I’m doing great. Family day is coming, and my Gran is definitely coming.”

“That’s excellent news.”

“What about you? Are you inviting anyone?”

“I don’t have my phone privileges for another day. But I haven’t decided yet if I will be inviting anyone.”

“You really should consider it. It’s another big step in your recovery when you can work through things with those you love.”

“Thanks, I’ll consider it.”

He looked up and caught Emma staring in his direction and he found himself wondering if family day would bring Emma’s boyfriend to the island. He almost wanted to see the man that had destroyed her view of trust and helped push her down the path that led her here.

He already disliked Neal, he’d heard enough in their group session about his part in leading a 14-year-old to drugs and alcohol. What kind of a man could do that to someone they care about?

How could anyone love someone yet assist them in destroying themselves?

“Come on Killian, what’s the big deal. It’s like alcohol but faster.”

“Can’t you get addicted to this stuff?”

“Baby, it’s just for fun. We won’t let it go that far. Do this with me, just this once.”

“Alright love, just this once. Anything for my Milah.”

He pushed the thoughts away, shoving the last of his food into his mouth and excusing himself from the table. He would be forced to face enough truth’s in his sessions with Dr. Hopper, he’d be damned if he were going to drive himself mad at breakfast.

[arctic-hands]

Indiana is a medical wasteland in general, but once I was lucky enough to get out and move to Maryland I have been treated very nicely and despite repeated hospitalizations needing morphine or other opiates, I have never been accused of or have been treated as a drug seeker. I am thirty, I play up my assigned gender at the hospital, I act innocent and damn near nunly and virginal unless they realize I'm on PrEP, but most importantly in this scenario, I am white.

I have a friend I made while hospitalized for two weeks three years ago. She was was my roommate for about half that time. She's as chronically ill as I am, more mobility impaired than I am, she's eighty-one at this point, and Black.

While we were there together we instantly bonded and had a grand old time talking and joking and goofing off with the nurses and when I was discharged we exchanged phone numbers. We still keep in touch.

The day after I left, she called me upset saying that as soon as I left, the entire nursing staff changed in their attitude towards her. At one point, a nurse manhandled her–she who has a permanently fractured back where it's agonizing to move just the slightest–and in the process ripped out the IV in her neck. Even after another nurse intervened, nobody apologized or reprimanded the nurse. A day later she's turfed to a Medicaid nursing home that she's still stuck in for lack of money for home care, and she reports they're just as awful.

She's had three medical emergencies there that they've ignored until her son threatened them into calling ambulances (she hasn't told me what was being threatened, a lawsuit or violence, and I don't care as long as she got seen). They don't have AC or are too cheap to turn it on. They didn't close the windows during the apocalyptic smoke this summer. They passed out basic surgical masks and ignored the coughing. She's gotten covid there twice because there are no protections even during surges.

Last medical emergency last year, she was taken to a new hospital. I don't remember the specifics but she had to have a either a port or a PICC line installed in her body–either way, damn near a direct hole and then a tube that sends medication directly to her heart for circulation. I had a PICC line installed when I was sixteen and dying of shingles. I had it in me for six weeks, pumping acyclovir directly into my heart. Even partially anaesthetized, the process absolutely sucked ass.

She wasn't given anaesthetia at any level. She wasn't even numbed for it. And it was agonizingly painful and she cried the entire time. At the end she asked for a painkiller for the pain in her chest, and she was denied. As she was being rolled out in her own wheelchair (again, permanently broken back), she heard the doctor who did the procedure tell the nurse "She's drug seeking."

Eighty year Black woman, permanently and painfully disabled along with a multitude of chronic diseases like I have. Being ignored by those supposed to take care of her, abused by hospital nurses, demonized by doctors. She didn't get painkillers the entire time she was in the hospital, about a week. And then they sent her straight back to the awful nursing home where she's still consistently ignored at best and abused at worst. She refuses to tell me which home she's at because I told her I'd report them, but she's terrified of reprisals. So I can only listen to her.

Sure there's a factor of ageism as well as ableism in play, but I have been in the hospital all my life as a white person and while childhood doctors refused to consider my agency and wishes, I never had that problem as an adult, and I have no doubt in my mind that my entire life as a forever patient would have been made even worse if I happened to have been born Black.

Disabilty is one of those few-to-only groups of oppressed people that anyone can become a part of, at any time in their life. Suddenly or by a slow deteroration of health, or even from birth. But I as a white person, even one who is a lifelong chronic patient who will get progressively worse the older I get and as a recently official cripple and a welfare monarch completely dependant on government programs, will still have an easier time manuevering disabled life, medical bullshit, and ableism both every day and that by medical personnel, than a Black person in the exact same position (AFAB queer, thirty, the exact same lifelong illnesses, chronic pain, mobility impairment, and so on), even when/if I get to be eighty and people will return to considering me as someone not deserving of agency. To deny that is to enable the abuse my friend has suffered and continues to suffer.

pretty sure I’d be dead by now if not for the fact I’m white. I’ve seen so many men in my exact shoes just obliterated by the system. involuntary commitment is a death sentence for some ppl and it’s fucking impossible to convey how upsetting and disturbing it is to people on the outside looking through the glass

[taliel-strykidz]

Ending!

It’s finally here, I’m sorry for the long ass wait :( It’s not great but here you guys go!

Huannie couldn’t understand why it felt like there was something over her eyes making it difficult to open them, but she fought the urge to succumb back to the darkness and wrench them open, she felt like she hadn’t done that in a while.  Her whole body ached upon trying to move and everything from physically and mentally felt foggy. 

Feeling something wet on her cheek she brought her hand up to wipe it only to feel something tug in her arm, looking down she saw something plastic feeding into her veign, although everything was foggy she was well aware that the distinct shape of the the plastic thing on her arm was an IV. 

She glances upward, her mouth pursed but slightly open and loose. Her eyes are fixed as if she’s looking at something a yard away, but in reality she was staring at the ECG machiene mimicking her distressed state. Finally she launched herself up into a sitting position and observed where she was. She was in the hospital room the managers would usually request when an Idol was needing medical attention, but it looked different. There were piles of letters stacked on the armchair, boxes of plushies scattered on the desk and alot of overnight duffle bags shoved into the corner.

“Hello?” She called out weakly, a few minutes pass and no one had answered. Throwing the dozen blankets off the bed in agitated disorientation she rubbed her eyes furiously. “Mom? Taeyong?” She called again, her voice cracking like she hadn’t used it her whole life. 

There were scrambling footsteps outside of the door in the hall sprinting over to her door, speaking of the door it almost got ripped off its hinges as the nurse came inside to assess who was talking. This person Huannie had never seen before in her life. Although the brown haired nurse in front of her look unfamilliar there was a slight nagging in the back of her brain that she knew this woman. Her chocolate brown hair was in a beautiful messy bun; her doe brown eyes looked absolutely bewildered. 

“Annyeonghaseyo... Um could you please tell me where my family is?” Huannie asked matching the womans terrifyed eyes, the woman still stares at the Idol with wide eyes, her mouth opening and closing, not being able to find the words to properly explain to the woman sitting in the bed what situation she was actually in. 

“They- They should be due to arrive like usual- They’ll be here soon.” She managed to get out, the nurse stood at the door trying to remember what her senior told her about coma patients that just woke up. The nurse bows to take her leave but Huannie tried to get out of the bed to stop her/ 

“Who are you?” Huannie burst out with brimming eyes, the nurse turned to look at her with a tembling lip but only grabs her hand. 

“They’ll be here soon, okay.” 

Huannie couldn’t believe what was going on, she didn’t think she wanted to anyway. The last thing she remembered was telling Heechul to tie the belt around his leg, but it seemed alot longer had passed with such a reaction from the nurse.  She forced her knees up, hugging them to her chest. Her hand working back and forth over what seemed like healed scars on her legs, all while feeling the irregular box like shape in her chest area. If she didn’t get some answers soon she had a feeling she would vomit, already she could feel the bile in her throat. 

She saw the door opening slowly, revealing Park Jinyoung, standing at the door looking like he would vomit himself. Huannie assumed he was the one who was nearby considering he was alone, soon a worn out Na Jaemin entered behind him. 

“Jagi? What’s going on- Why are you crying?” She asked worriedly watching as his knee buckled ever so slightly hearing her voice after four months of only hearing his own breathing. “Oppa?” Her voice cracked under the immense confusion circling around in her head, a scared tear slipping out of her eye. 

“Jaeminnie? Tell me, what’s going on?” She asked the younger boy hoping that he would be of help, the teenager only stared at her with his beautiful eyes watering, but he at least had a relieved smile. 

“You’re scaring me,” She voiced, only she wasn’t sure who it was directed at whether it was at the two standing in the room or at herself who couldn’t come up to an answer to any of her own questions. 

It felt like a lifetime of sorrowful tears before one of them spoke. 

“You’re awake.” Jinyoung says, slowly walking over to the armchair next ti her with Jaemin following quietly. 

“Yeah.. I’m awake?”

“Angel, you’ve been- you were- you were in a coma.” He mumbled quietly, staring down at the hand he’d grabbed instinctively as he sat down. She stared back at him in pure loss for words as he stared back at her with an expressionless face. 

Her heart leaped as she took in the faces of the boys, first trying to figure out if this was some kind of joke, but judging by their shaking hands and non stop tears her own hands seemed to trembled as she tried to remember what happened after the crash. “For how long? Like a week?” She asked desperately trying to get at least one answer out of the million that were drowning in her mind. 

The two looked at eachother as if they didn’t know if they should tell her, for their own sake because they didn’t want have to talk about the events of what’s happened throughout the time she was lay in pain. But Jaemin spoke anyway. 

“It’s been four and a half months Noona.” The teen whispered painfully as he grabbed her hand to steady his racing heart. 

Huannie’s already dry mouth felt as if it had been sucked of any remaining water and threatened her tongue to smash into tiny little pieces. She shook her head in denial as she furiously wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks with her palm. 

“This is a joke.” She snipped and laughed without any ounce of amusement. “It not a funny one, but some twisted joke right?” Anguish could be seen on her face as she desperately pleaded with Jinyoung’s eyes to tell her it was all a joke or a dream, but Jinyoung only shook his head. 

“No, Angel it’s not a joke.” He replied placing his his head in his hand to rub away his tears. 

“No, it’s not possible. It can’t be. I was with Heechul yesterday, singing in the car and then-”

Huannie cried as if her brain was being shredded from the inside out, emotional and physical pain flowed out of her every pore. From her mouth came a cry so raw that even the eyes of the people walking past the hospital room were suddenly wet with tears. She grabbed onto the two boys hands so that her violent shaking wouldn’t make her fall off the bed and from her eyes came a thicker flow of tears than she had cried for her own mother two years ago. We don’t really think about death, but when you find out you were close to it it unerves you. 

Upon seeing her right in front of him, brick by brick, Jinyoung’s walls came tumbling down. As she clutched onto his hand the tears in his eyes turned into a hurricane. He just broke down as the nurse guided a soft smiling Jaemin out of the room. When they cried there was a rawness to it, like the pain of four months ago was still an open wound. They both clasped onto eachothers hands for support, anything that would tell eachother that the other was there, and then their bodies would shake. Jinyoungs sobs were stifled at first as he first panned to comfort the woman, but realising that she was there crying with him the wave of emotions hit and he broke down entirely. 

“Jinyoungie?” She finally spoke. “Who was playing the piano? The one that Jonghyun was singing to?” She asked desperately looking into his eyes. 

“Chenle played the piano last month, but no one was sing-” 

“Jonghyun sang it in the meadow, he sang it to me.” She corrected him. 

“Angel are you sure it wasn’t a dream?” Jinyoung replied. Huannie refused to believe it, she saw he late bestfriend playing the piano in the meadow she was sure of it. 

After a minute of Jinyoung realising eaxactly what she was meaning he sat softly on the bed next to her and brough the crying woman into his embrace. 

“Has it really been four months?” 

He gave her a weak smile and squeezed her closer to his chest. 

“Longest four months of our life Angel.” 

[derireo]

Wilting Lotus / CH.2

Flashback Two: Kind Fingers to a Threatening Hand

She wakes up to a man sitting by her hospital bed, and he's looking for the answer to a simple question.

「 Read it on AO3 」 「 1.9k words 」

.・゜-: ✧ :-　　-: ✧ :-゜・．

An irritating itch going up and down her arm woke Izumi up from her deep slumber, causing a soft grumble to leave her split lips and have her wincing in pain. Her weak fingers clenched as the itch persisted and moved to scratch it away, only to have herself groan when she nearly ripped off a needle that was sticking out of her skin.

She grimaced in annoyance at the hindrance and left it alone, her eyes staring up at the creamy white ceiling above her, eyes still heavy from just waking up.

The pale yellow walls created a comforting atmosphere that had Izumi gazing into space and her mouth fell slightly ajar while her eyelashes fluttered sleepily. She felt like she was going to go back to sleep soon.

But her small trance was broken when someone in the room cleared their throat, causing her to swiftly turn her head towards the sound in surprise; not expecting that there would be a visitor waiting for her to wake up.

She didn't know anyone else in Yunliong other than those two so it didn't make any sense for someone to be here.

An unfamiliar man sat by her bed.

His posture was casual and lazy while he sat back with his legs spread apart, arms crossed low on his chest with an alluring gaze filled along with mirth as he stared back at her.

The stranger's hair was unkempt and his clothes were a bit dishevelled when Izumi took a glance, but she looked back at the ceiling so that she wouldn't be more mistaken for staring.

The man chuckled at this, the corner of his mouth lifting up into a sly smile. "You can look more if you want, I won't stop you."

The guard (who Izumi just noticed) by the door cringed, while the second one kept watching the scene in front of him with a hint of laughter behind his gaze.

There was a certain lilt to this man's voice when he goaded Izumi with a teasing hum, but the girl refused to look at him out of childish spite, puffing her cheek out.

For some reason unknown, this strange man was talking to her as if they were acquaintances or even friendly strangers, and she knew that this man was not here to keep her company. She was sure he knew she picked up on it, too.

He hummed again, but more in thought rather than to poke a nerve of hers, and tapped his phone against his thigh a few times, slowly going in tandem with the iv drip that was connected to her arm.

"You're just as stubborn as you were last night." He mused softly and placed his phone back in his pocket. "You just didn't want to die, no matter the odds against you."

The playful tone in the man's voice left Izumi unsettled in her hospital bed, leaving her to seek help from the two guards that stood by the door, and to no avail. They silently ignored her pressing gaze on them until she gave up, and turned her head towards the strange man once more.

"Was I going to die?" She asked, voice quiet. As much as she wanted to show a little more attitude to this man who seemed to stare deep into her soul, she felt it was a bad idea, and finished her thought. "Because it certainly felt like it."

A brief smile made its way onto the stranger's face as he kept his eyes on the sitting girl in front of him, his cheek in his palm. He slouched in his seat while keeping quiet to let the girl wonder what the answer was for a few more seconds, and hid his amusement by covering half his face with his hand.

Her eyes flashed with worry and she put her hand on her chest to soothe the erratic beating of her heart that thumped against her rib cage, face adorably distressed when he chose not to say anything else.

His own eyes were half lidded with mirth, and he waited one more second before opening his mouth: "Probably. You were certainly supposed to die, but I guess the dumb asses who jumped you didn't hurt ya enough." He curiously mocked.

"You were drugged and got stabbed pretty bad in some places. They hid the pretty cuts well, considering I didn't see any when I checked before. I thought you were bleeding internally with how much blood you were coughing up."

Izumi shifted uneasily beneath the sheets that lay atop her and looked away from the blond with a frown etched on her face. She couldn't really feel where she got stabbed since she wasn't feeling sore, but it's possible they put her on some painkillers.

Probably.

She picked at the fabric that rested beneath her fingers, getting a little tired of the topic to this one-sided conversation.

The lights in the room were dim, making Izumi feel dreary as she returned her gaze to the man that still sat comfortably in his seat; looking like he was about to fall asleep with how little she could see of his irises.

"So what's your name?" She asked. The lighting softened the glow of her eyes, and the gentle look on her face made an unfamiliar feeling creep into the man's chest, causing him to sit up in his seat with a very visible frown tugging at his lips.

The soft features of his face hardened along with the cut of his jaw, and the change of expression left the girl worrying over what was so wrong with such an innocent question.

"Not important." He said curtly and dragged a rough hand through his already messy hair, a sigh escaping his teeth bitten lips as his eyes squinted at the small figure that continued to sit in front of him. "I still have a very important question to ask you, Darling."

His figure closing in on her had Izumi cowering into her bed with how dark his eyes had glazed over, and the gentle brush of his fingertips trailing down her jawline made her breath stutter.

His lazy smile came back, and the unhinged sanity behind this glassy gaze caused a nauseous feeling of butterflies to erupt in her stomach.

"Do you have any names of those who could have done this to you?" He questioned her with a kind, low voice and delicately brushed his thumb along the swell of her cheek to ease the tension in her body, his gaze nothing short of deceitful as he tipped her chin to make the girl look at him properly.

(Only a little) Annoyed at this point, Izumi slightly bared her teeth at the man who was now grinning down at her, and pulled herself away from his warm touch.

He let her put a few centimetres between them before he swiftly reached out again, catching her face in his firm grip with a chuckle. His fingers dug into her cheek while his thumb pressed into the other, forcing her mouth to fall open as her chin rested in the spot that connected his index to his thumb.

Izumi's nose twitched then, as it stung from fear and she could barely let out a noise as that gaze pierced into her skin. Her clear doe eyes were slightly inward as she was forced to look at him, and that caused a satisfied, hedonistic emotion to bloom throughout his chest down to his fingertips.

"You don't have to be so shy, Little Bunny, it's not like I'm going to hurt you." He cooed, a sweet sound, but the tongue that poked out from his mouth was dangerously salacious as he wet his lips, and Izumi trembled underneath his gaze that left her frozen.

"Though, I'm tempted to have a little fun," he drawled, "I need you to cooperate with me. Can you do that?"

The dulcet, coaxing tone he used was as indolent as it was attractive, and the way this unknown man whispered to her left Izumi feeling dizzy. She couldn't help but nod in obedience.

He smiled once more, gentler than before as he uncharacteristically brushed his nose against hers, eyes, again half lidded, looking at her as if she were to be his next meal.

"Good girl. Now give me names." His fingers trailed under her chin next once he released her face from his tight grip, and brushed his thumb along her bottom lip, patiently waiting for an answer.

The soothing motion of his thumb caused Izumi to stumble over her words, the digit occasionally preventing her from speaking as her teeth would bite down on it by accident. Her cheeks were lit aflame at this point, much to the man's amusement, but she still tried to bravely look him in the eyes as she answered, the tip of her tongue just barely brushing over his skin.

He tasted like ash.

"Guo Dian and Li Xiahouji." She whispered under her breath, gently biting her tongue as his thumb stopped moving.

The man blinked down at her, his face still inches away from hers as he registered the names into his head. Suddenly, something akin to recognition flashed in his eyes before it went away and he hummed to divert Izumi's attention.

"Itaru Chigasaki." He whispered right back, teasing her. Her confused expression made him grin, and slowly, he tipped his chin up to press a feather light kiss to the tip of the girl's nose; startling her even more. "That's my name, Little Bunny."

And with that, he released Izumi once more to lean back in his chair, smiling all the while. His smug expression slightly irked her, but she was suddenly caught off guard by the relaxed, unbothered action of Itaru dragging the tip of his tongue over the small spot that she had licked earlier by accident; the corner of his mouth lifting higher into a smirk.

Before she could react, the door to the room swung open, and in walked another blond man with a much neater presentation than Itaru. The two guards by the door who were minding their own business earlier bowed respectively to him, and he waved his hand lazily, continuing to stride towards where Itaru sat in his chair, still smiling with his thumb pressed to his lips.

"Meeting." The sophisticated blond rumbled lowly and tucked a few fingers into the neck of Itaru's t-shirt, threatening to pull at his modern kimono. The latter bit the tip of his tongue while the smile still stuck to his face, and Izumi looked between him and the new face with a frown, again, her stomach feeling unsettled.

"At least greet her before we go, Big Bro." He suggested.

The man's purple eyes slowly trailed from Itaru to Izumi who was still frozen in her bed, and as he pulled Itaru to his feet opened his mouth: "Hello."

Her shoulders raised in brief surprise, but she quickly nodded in greeting, having already forgotten about the thing that happened between her and Itaru earlier. "Hello." She greeted.

With a rough pat to his shoulder and a dark murmur from the man in glasses, Itaru could only send her a slight smile, his body still being jolted forward by the hand of the man in the cashmere coat. "Just wait for us. We'll explain everything else after this meeting." He called out behind his back to which Izumi nodded despite knowing they weren't looking at her anymore.

As the two blonds neared the exit, the new face pushed Itaru into the hallway with a strong shove, causing him to stumble while the stranger turned halfway to look back at Izumi.

His eyes were half-lidded just like Itaru's, but held no trace of emotion.

"Get some rest, Izumi." He murmured, disappearing after Itaru and leaving the woman to wonder about how he knew her name.

[thebiasrekkers]

Make It Right [BTS Mafia!AU]

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC Genre: BTS Mafia!AU Warnings: Graphic Violence, Heavy Language, Angst, Smut, Slow Burn WC: 3,117 Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

AO3 | WP

Chapter 16: Anpanman

"I’m not a superhero. Don’t expect too much from me."

Raelyn avoided Taehyung’s room for most of her shift.

It was no secret among her co-workers that she knew him. After all, he was always coming by the hospital when she was about to clock out for the day. It aggravated her that things were already starting to circulate around work; unwanted rumors because everyone wanted to gossip like a bunch of clucking hens in the chicken coop. This was the sort of mess she didn’t want to happen. This was the very reason why she didn’t make her relationship with Hoseok known to the people she worked with day in and day out.

When Taehyung was brought in by Jungkook and Jimin, the news traveled quickly to her. However, she refused to see him. She didn’t want to inquire about his condition and she certainly wasn’t about to go poking around his chart to see why he was even there. However, try as she might, Raelyn was unable to stuff rubber into her ears. She heard things she didn’t want to hear, resulting in her heart thudding heavily against her chest.

She was worried for a multitude of reasons. It wasn’t like she hated the Golden Jackals. They were her friends once upon a time; some still even were. But there were boundaries that needed to be set and every time she felt like she was about to escape from it, something came and turned her world completely upside down.

After he was fully checked in did Raelyn bother seeking out Jungkook and Jimin. They filled her in on the basics, not wanting to go into it. They respected her need for peace and privacy and she appreciated that. There was a part of her that would always worry for them, but she knew she had to keep her distance to a degree. Raelyn couldn’t involve herself too deeply. Not anymore. It would only cause her more problems and while things had been good with Hoseok, there were too many things she’d seen that left a lasting impression on her.

She couldn’t watch another person she cared about being ripped from her grasp – making her feel inept. Not again.

She was pulling another double. It couldn’t be helped. Another of her co-workers had a family emergency, swearing she would make it up to her for covering for her. Most people would complain, but it wasn’t like she had a family to go home to or any kind of pet to take care of. She could afford to be away from home for a day or two.

Raelyn sighed, grabbing a warm coffee from one of the vending machines in the break room. Her mind couldn’t help but go back to the night she was out with Eden. Yoo Kihyun’s face appeared in her mind and she frowned slightly, unsure of what to make of the entire situation. She couldn’t recall ever meeting him or any of the others of the Jade Fangs. She wasn’t good with names, but Raelyn was stellar when it came to faces.

So, how did he even know who I was? she thought, cracking the can open and taking a sip. We were only together for a little over a year.

Taking a sip, she slipped into one of the chairs at a long table. Had they kept tabs on her even after she ended things with Hoseok? It wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility, but it also seemed a little outlandish.

Hoseok made no bones about taking Raelyn around places. Back then, the Golden Jackals were just getting their names out on the streets. Gang wars were much more prevalent then and she got to see firsthand just how bloody their world was. Truly, it wasn’t like in the movies. She had no thoughts outside of the dangers of that world. Raelyn willingly went into that situation knowing what would happen. Promises were thrown and she believed them because she believed in Hoseok and the world he eventually wanted to be a part of forever. A world that didn’t involve having a target on his back.

It was something they were all striving for.

But it was too much. She tried to keep an open mind and she tried to maintain some level of positivity. Her work environment, however, wouldn’t allow for that sort of thing. As a registered nurse, her life was hard and while she loved her job, it was stressful. Hospital occupations weren’t for everyone. It took a toll on the mind and it took from the body. She could have left it all behind when things started to pick up for Hoseok and the Golden Jackals. The glitz and glam in those last months were experiences that most women didn’t get to have; not even in their entire lifetimes.

Raelyn, however, valued her freedom. She didn’t want to give up her job and her passion was always to help people. She couldn’t imagine herself walking away from that life, the life she worked so hard to call her own.

“Raelyn?”

Her eyes lifted towards the door and she saw her co-worker, Saeyeong, poking her head inside. Raelyn attempted a smirk as she set her can of coffee down.

“What’s up, Sae?”

“I’m glad I found you.” She paused, her brows furrowing slightly. “You’re not on break, are you?”

“Nah,” she replied easily, waving her hand back and forth, “just taking a breather. I was gonna hit the floor again in a few minutes.”

Relief covered her face and Saeyeong clapped her hands together. “Oh, good! Can you do me a favor and check on the patient in room 117?”

The smirk fell instantly from Raelyn’s face. “No.”

Saeyeong let out a pathetic mewling sound. “Please, Raelyn? I really have to go to the bathroom and I’m about to go on break in ten minutes.” She held her hands together like she was saying a prayer. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise! I’m not even going to be gone for the full hour. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to take over.”

Raelyn sighed, draining the can of coffee and throwing it into the trash. “Fine,” she said, making her way toward the door.

The girl hugged her, thanking her again, before running off to make a beeline for the restroom. Eyeing her watch, she sighed again and started heading toward the room she was currently designated over for the next thirty minutes. Raelyn pulled the chart off the wall just beside the door, knocked twice and announced herself before entering.

Taehyung, bandaged and braced, was propped up in the hospital bed. A table tray was in his lap where a laptop computer was propped. The television was off even though the remote was right beside the computer. He probably didn’t want to watch anything on TV after channel surfing. He clicked away on the keys, looking up as she walked inside – pressing his chart against her hip as the door shut behind her.

He flashed his trademark boxy smile and Raelyn rolled her eyes.

“Hey there, Rae Noona,” he greeted, lifting his one good arm up to wave to her. The other was in a sling.

“Don’t talk to me,” she said, a deadpan expression over her face, “you still owe me for my unannounced house call.”

He pouted. “Oh, come on, you know I’m good for it.” He closed the laptop. “Besides, I even made an appointment this time. See?” Taehyung gave a wide gesture with his good arm.

“Coming in all busted up is hardly what I’d call an appointment,” she said, looking over his chart, “in fact, I’m pretty sure that it’s still considered showing up unannounced.”

Taehyung huffed like a child, brushing some of his hair off his forehead. Raelyn ignored his sad attempt at a tantrum and scanned over the paperwork. According to the chart, he had one broken rib, a fractured arm, several contusions and slight internal bleeding. The patchwork done on him had been swift and the other nurses said that he’d clearly been in some sort of fight; a fight where he got his ass kicked from one side of the room to the other. Taehyung was certainly no pushover. He took a knife to the gut and practically shrugged it off when she fixed him up a few days ago.

He let someone do this to him, she deduced while turning another page.

She recalled Jimin’s hands were slightly swollen and Jungkook had no injuries of his own. It meant that Jimin had clearly been the one to administer the beating. There was a good chance that Taehyung deserved it, but the look on their faces was proof that it was something they weren’t too thrilled about.

Raelyn looked at Taehyung, his child-like pout still plastered over his face. Just what the hell did you do that you got punished?

It had to have been something serious if Hoseok issued for punishment to be placed on one of his top-tier men.

“What?”

She let the pages flutter against his chart as she set it down on a nearby table. “You look like shit.”

His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open. Blinking at her like a goldfish, he closed his mouth and opened it again until a sound of outright disbelief spilled from him.

“Wow, your bedside manner really is terrible!”

Raelyn went to the ECG to double check his vitals. She then began checking his IV and various other tubes so that the medicine being administered was the right dosage. Pulling out a blood pressure cuff from one of the pouches hanging from the ECG monitor, she motioned for him to hold his good arm out so she could check his blood pressure. After a few minutes, she looked and scribbled down his new vitals before slipping the cuff off his arm. Then she moved to undo his hospital gown so she could check on the brace he wore around his waist.

“I’m just honest.”

“No, you’re just mean. Aren’t nurses trained in being comforting and supportive? Give me some reassurance here.”

“I’m not in the business of telling lies.” Rolling her eyes, she scoffed. “Besides, you don’t need comforting. You needed this ass beating, one hundred percent.”

Taehyung gave a half scoff, half laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“And you owe me money.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. She could see the playful deviousness leaving Taehyung’s face and she saw it change to a serious expression. It surprised her, causing her spine to lock up for a moment. While she’d seen that look before, it was a look she didn’t see very often. Not from him, at least.

“I heard you were in Myeongdong, Noona.”

Her brows lifted slightly. Then they furrowed as her eyes narrowed. “Yeah? What of it?”

“Why would you go there?”

“A girl can’t go shopping?”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, “but you’re not just any girl , Noona.”

Tossing the clipboard angrily onto the nearby table, she rounded on him. “Oh yeah?” Her tone was borderline seething.

“Yeah, you’re Hoseok Hyung’s ex-girlfriend.” He said it like he’d just swallowed a spoonful of bitter medicine.

“Ex -girlfriend,” Raelyn said through clenched teeth, “as in we’re not together anymore.”

Taehyung’s brows knit together. “That doesn’t matter, you should know that. Our world doesn’t care about that shit.”

“Well, it needs to! I have nothing to do with that circuit anymore, Taehyung!”

His eyes narrowed. “Then you should have done a better job of running from it. You should have cut us out of your life completely.” Taehyung shifted so he could sit up better. “You could have ignored us after you broke up with Hoseok Hyung. Why did you stay friends with us if you wanted to get out?”

“That’s—”

“If you’d done a better job of wiping us out from your existence, then maybe you’d be just like any girl instead of the girl.”

“So what? I’m supposed to just pretend that I don’t give a damn?” she snapped, feeling her heartbeat thundering across her chest.

“You value your freedom so damn much, then yeah, you should have.”

Anger flashed across his eyes, making Raelyn clench her jaw.

“Don’t.”

“You chose to stay connected to us. You broke up with Hoseok Hyung, but you didn’t push the rest of us away.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Kim Taehyung…”

“You should have done a better job of telling us to fuck right the hell off!”

Raelyn’s hand went up and she had to stop herself. Her body vibrated from the willpower she mustered to keep her hand from swinging down across his face. A few breaths pushed from her lungs and she slowly brought her arm down, taking another breath to collect herself completely.

“Uh, am I interrupting something?”

Her heart immediately jumped to her throat and they both turned to look at the door. A tall, slim man wearing a pin-striped suit was now inside the room with them. He had bubblegum pink hair and was holding a vase full of flowers in one arm and a “Get Well Soon” balloon in his other hand. He wore hazel contact lenses and his full lips were slightly pursed together in a semi-confused pout.

“Hyungwon Hyung,” Taehyung said, shifting uncomfortably in the bed and Raelyn instinctively took a step back away from the person, “what are you doing here?” He paused, tilting his head as he looked through the window and saw that there was no one else there. “Better question: how are you even here?”

The man smirked, setting the vase down on the table. “Would you believe me if I told you I snuck in?”

Taehyung frowned. “Hell no.”

Hyungwon shrugged, holding the balloon out to Raelyn. She reached for it unconsciously, holding the plastic ribbon in her hand.

“It was worth a shot.”

“Excuse me,” she finally cut in, eyeballing Hyungwon. He turned to face her, surmising her just as much as she was him. “Who are you?”

He bowed his head politely toward her. “Chae Hyungwon,” he introduced, rising to his full height, “I’m a friend of Taehyung-ah’s.”

“Friend, my ass,” he said, causing both Raelyn and Hyungwon to look at him, “we stopped being friends when you became the Jade Fang’s Snapping Turtle.”

Raelyn whipped her head around to look at Hyungwon, taking another step back. Taehyung asked the right question. Just how had he gotten there? Last time she checked, Gangnam was still Golden Jackal territory. He didn’t have any business being there.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Raelyn said evenly, “you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Relax,” came Hyungwon’s soothing voice as he held a hand up, “I promise that I have permission to be here.” He turned to look at Taehyung. “From both of our bosses.”

Blinking rapidly, Raelyn couldn’t hide her surprise. Hoseok allowed a rival gang member to come into his territory without an escort?

She looked at Taehyung and saw that he must have been thinking the same thing she was. Now her curiosity was screaming at her. Just what in the world was happening? When she last was deeply involved with their world, the Jade Fangs weren’t exactly on good terms.

Had something changed?

“Anyway, I just wanted to come by and check on an old friend.” Hyungwon’s voice cut through Raelyn’s thoughts, bringing her back to the current situation.

Taehyung scoffed. “You came alone?”

He brushed his fingers through his pink hair, his smirk remaining on his face as he did so. “I told my boys to wait outside. I didn’t want them causing a disturbance.” Hyungwon’s eyes shifted to Raelyn and she swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “This is a place of healing, after all.”

One of Raelyn’s hands curled into a fist.

“Besides,” he continued, looking back at Taehyung, “I wanted to come by and tell you to keep your nose clean. You were always a troublemaker, Taehyung-ah, but running around in someone else’s backyard without permission is a big no-no.” He waggled his finger, issuing several tsk’s in the process. “You know better.”

“Shut-up,” Taehyung snapped, his lip curling into a half snarl, “pretty soon none of that shit is gonna matter anyway and you know it. So just mind your own damn business.”

Hyungwon laughed, as if he’d just heard a very funny joke. Raelyn could only blink in mild shock. Just who the hell was this guy for him to laugh that way to a warning being issued against him?

“So close to your goals and you decide to get reckless? That’s just not like you. Not at all.” Hyungwon’s laughter eased off as he looked back at Raelyn, bowing his head politely again. “I’ll see myself out. Have a goodnight.” When he straightened his posture, his eyes moved to fall on Taehyung. “Behave yourself until your dreams come true, Taehyung-ah.”

Before Raelyn could demand for anymore answers, Hyungwon was already turning around and heading out the door. When the door finally closed, she craned her neck to look at Taehyung. His ECG monitor was beeping faster than normal and while the medical professional in her wanted to soothe him, to calm him down, she found that she was unable to find her voice at that specific moment.

Silence filled the room. She was processing what just happened and she could only assume that Taehyung was doing the same. When she was able to formulate the question in her mind, she reached for his chart and held it against her chest.

“…what did he mean by that?” He didn’t answer and Raelyn tried to rein her patience in. “Are you guys finally close? Is it going to happen soon?”

Taehyung looked at her and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. All he did was look at her with a slightly pained expression painted over his face. After a moment, he sighed while shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Noona, but could I be alone?”

She wanted to protest; to demand answers. But she also knew it wasn’t her place and she didn’t have that kind of authority over him. Not anymore.

“Get some rest, Taehyung. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

Raelyn slipped out of the room and was finally able to breathe easier. Her back pressed against the door and she slowly let the back of her head rest along the surface. Every single thought that raced through her brain was zipping around a mile a minute. Was it happening at last? Had Hoseok managed to achieve the promise that he continuously made to her when they were still together?

Is it…finally going to be over?

[ajoy3fanfics]

Missing Pt. III

Hey guys! Thank you everyone that has been following along with this story and reviewing! The response was way more than I expected. I have a clear storyline for this in my head, and if anyone is interested I’m more than happy to write it! As always, thanks so much for reading!

Note: I’ve been posting the past two chapters in my one shots ( FF- One Shots) but I decided to make it its own story! I’ll post chapter 3 in the one shots, moving on will post it in FF- Missing 

~.~

He could hear her footsteps rushing towards him, his name falling off her lips in a rush. Even as she began to approach, Inuyasha refused to turn her way, choosing instead to hold Kagome prisoner with his stare. He could see it in her face, the uncertainty, the guilt, like she had done something terribly wrong and had just been caught; as Kikyo got closer to his bed, Kagome waivered, turning her gaze down. He felt rage building up, threatening to boil over as he continued to stare at her, looking fucking ashamed. Ashamed! Like she had done something wrong! She fidgeted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Kikyo called out to his name once more, her voice a mix of relieved and sad, trying her best to break him from his daze. “You’re finally-”

A sharp growl cut her off mid-sentence, an animalistic warning, making Kikyo jump back. Inuyasha sharply turned his head, eyes narrowed in anger with a scowl on his face, looking almost feral.  “Leave.” He snarled, fanged bared. The dog demons attempts to scare off the intruder might have worked on someone with a weaker will, but Kikyo was no stranger to the primal side of the hanyou. Instead of running for the hills, she simply frowned, not moving forward, but neither heeding his request. “Fucking go!” He practically barked out, tone severe, harsh.

“What lies have you been filling his head with?” Kikyo demanded, arms crossed over her chest to cut a more imposing figure, a true feat for a woman who measure no more than 5’4. Her accusation seemed to rattle Kagome, who had chosen to keep unusually quiet, her face contorting with anger. “I didn’t do anything like that!” She snapped. Even though Inuyasha was on her side, becauseof coursehe was going to back her up, when she felt wronged her voice could be somewhat shrill; his ears flattened as she continued her assault. “He’s got amnesia. He doesn’t remember us breaking up.”

“Were notbroken up!” He interjected, teeth clenched, trying to make her understand.. Kagome raised her brows, giving Kikyo a rather smug look. ��See?” She asked, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Maybe if you were here, you’d know what was going on with him.”

“He’s been unconscious for a month.” She justified. Inuyasha flicked his gaze towards her, keeping watch between the women standing on either side of him. “I had to work! As soon as I got the call that he woke up I got on the next flight to the city. Not that I have to explain myself to you.” Kikyo added in for good measure. “Why are you even here? I thought you were banned.” Inuyasha couldn’t help but notice that she looked self-satisfied with her last remark.

“Banned?” He echoed, totally confused because how the hell would Kagomeget banned from anywhere?FinallyKagome looked his way, like she just remembered he was in the fucking room; she blushed. Any other time he would’ve found it cute, this embarrassment and possibly funny story, but now he was feeling nothing short of rage. “Banned?”He spoke slower, angrier, making the machines to beep furiously. Great. Another damn spike in his blood pressure.

Another 24 hours in this God forsaken hell. A nurse promptly ran in, her hand readied on a walkie; clearly she had heard tales of his previous outbursts and was ready to call for backup immediately. “What’s happening here?” She asked. Inuyasha was quick to answer that nothing was wrong, but Kikyo felt it was her place to interject. “She’s not supposed to be here.” She said, like it explained the entire situation. “She was banned from this hospital room last month. She’s upsetting him.”

Inuyasha had never felt pure rage before. He’d been mad, furious- sure. Dangerously angry? Yeah, he’d been accused of that. But rage? The kind so potent and powerful that he could take his supernatural strength and snap a neck in half? No, he hadn’t felt that before, but fuckhe was feeling it now. He had never thought it would be directed at his high school ex-girlfriend, but stranger things had happened.

Like everyone fucking telling him he dumped Kagome.    

“She’snot upsetting me.” He ground out, trying to keep his cool. The nurse looked unimpressed, tilting her head to get a better look at Kagome. “Ma’am, is it true you were banned?” Kagome looked down at the floor and nodded. “I was given permission to come today. But I don’t want to cause a problem.”

“Special permission?” The nurse questioned, eyeing  Kagome suspiciously. She nodded again, eyes still downcast.  She considered Inuyasha, looking ready to rip the wires and IVs out of his arms as she questioned the woman on the side of him.  She walked to the monitors, checking his vitals before she took her leave. The room felt stiff and awkward, the task seeming to take an eternity. When she was finished, she recorded the information on his chart. “Whatever your problems are, I suggest you work them out outside of the room. He needs peace and quiet, not a catfight.” Thinking it was best for the patient to give a warning and space, she decided to momentarily back off. “If there’s anymore trouble you’re both out.” She added as she walked out the door.

“I-I should go.” Kagome stammered. Inuyasha whipped around to look up at her, pressing her lips together nervously. When did she start fidgeting so damn much? “No.” He said sternly, but she only smiled at him in response. “I’m really glad you’re okay, Inuyasha.” She leaned down and wrapped her arms around him, giving him a gentle hug. He brought his hands up to her back, feeling more like a zombie than a person as she embraced her. She was leaving? Leaving?

Inuyasha breathed in, closing his eyes as he indulged in the spice of her natural scent and the cherry blossom body was she used. She inhaled and he felt her chest tremble.

This was a goodbye hug.

Panic struck him, that was the only was to describe what he did next. Locking his arms around her back, he pulled Kagome towards his chest. She yelped as her cheek was smushed, causing her lips to pucker. “Inuyasha!” She bucked, trying to get free of his hold. “Let me go!” The hanyou shook his head. “No.” He answered, sounding more like a child throwing a tantrum than a full grown man. “Not until you promise you won’t leave.” He heard her sigh in frustration. “Inuyasha!” She protested, wiggling hopelessly against him.

“Inuyasha, let her go.” Kikyo’s tone left no room for guessing. She wasn’t at all impressed by this show of affection. Nostrils flaring, his fiancé pressed against him in a body lock, he finally felt assured enough to address Kikyo the way his demon was demanding him to. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing here, but I want you to go.” He argued. “She,” he started, moving his right arm to motion to the woman held hostage, “isn’t going anywhere. She’s my fucking fiancé. I don’t know what bullshit your trying to sell, but you need to fucking go.” Kagome struggled beneath his grasp.

To her credit, Kikyo did her best to hide her pain. She processed his words, trying to swallow her feelings. “You- You’re with me now.” She tried, confidence breaking at the sight of her boyfriend gripping onto another woman for dear life. He shook his head, somehow making it look threatening, dangerous. When he spoke, it was low, wild. “Go.” Kikyo looked up to the ceiling, trying to blink back her tears. “I’ll go, for today. I- I wont hold this against you… you’re sick.” Her voice dropped. Finally, she took a deep breath and turned away. Stopping in the doorframe, she spoke, refusing to look back lest she lose her nerve. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

It wasn’t until Inuyasha was sure that she had left that he focused his attention on Kagome; she had stopped trying to fight against him, his demon strength no match for her. “Inuyasha?” She tried. “This- this is really uncomfortable. Let me go?” It came out as a question, pleading.

“I meant what I said.” Inuyasha swept his thumb over her back, trying to soothe her, trying to soothe himself. “I’ll let you go if you promise you won’t go. We need-” Inuyasha stuttered. “We need to talk.”

Kagome sighed beneath him, clearly defeated. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

[thelostluxemprincess]

➥ 𝑺𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒍𝒐 # 𝟏

✘ Circa ─ October 2019.

✘ Trigger Warnings ─ slavery, death, fights.

___

The smell of iron was permanently imbedded into the stone walls that towered around her. Too much blood has been shed for it to ever go away, and too frequently. Sloane had long since become numb to the cheers, jeers, and brutality that sounded in the arena. Listening was a distraction and the lost princess had long since learned that distractions got you killed. She was a survivor, a fighter, and she hadn’t made it this long just to be killed because of a silly distraction.

Her fight had ended ten minutes previous and she was still covered in blood from head to toe. It had been a no weapons fight, just their hands and bodies as their weapons. It was the slavers favorite type of fight to put her in, the type that showcased her brutality. She had been cold and efficient, eyes and soul dead, when she ripped her opponents throat out with her teeth. They had been weak, untrained, and she killed them in under ten minutes. She didn’t particularly know, nor care, how long the fight actually was. Just that it was over.

Sloane was crouched on the balls of her feet, playing with the cap of the water bottle she had been permitted as a reward when the alarm sounded and people came rushing into the arena. Cops, she immediately noticed. She tensed as the slavers and their willing viewers were surrounded and cuffed, she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to defend her masters or surrender to the law officers. Ultimately it was decided for her it was made clear that they saw her as a victim and not a member of the guilty party. And so Sloane found herself being taken to the hospital to be checked over.

“Miss?” Sloane turned her head a fraction of an inch to look at the paramedic. “Can you tell me your name? We want to look into missing persons and find your family. Do you know it?” Sloane blinked and looked away so she could consider her options. “If you don’t, that’s fine. The hospital will run a DNA test for you.”

Sloane was well aware of who she had been ten years ago. The curious and playful daughter of the Luxem Queen of Germany. But in her mind that child died when she was kidnapped. A slow death it had been, her identity stripped from her over the course of her training to be an assassin. But her rage and vicious desire to fight them, ultimately got her sold. Her cold and emotionless eyes remained upward studying every detail of the ambulance ceiling as she clenched her jaw and refused to speak.

The rest of the ride was filled with the paramedic trying to get her to speak, asking her various questions that she ignored. They were pointless, having a favorite color or food was redundant when she was constantly fighting to survive. By the time that they rolled into the emergency room entrance she was ready to strangle him and her fingers were literally twitching to do so. She was quick to stand from the gurney and fix the chatterbox male with a glare that made him flinch before he could even attempt to make her lie down. Sloane walked inside with a confidence that showed that she was well aware that she was one of the, If the the, most dangerous people in the room if not building.

She was settled in a private room with a dressing gown to change into and a few towels with a bowl of water. Sloane cleaned herself the best she could quickly before choosing to instead look for a pair of scrubs in the cabinets. The gown would be a last resort in her mind, the vulnerability it left her with was something she’d prefer to avoid. She just barely finished getting changed into her stolen scrubs when a nurse came in with barely a knock to alert her presence.

Sloane climbed into the bed, keeping her eyes on the new person. The distrust was clear and unhidden. The nurse smiled nervously, obviously trying to seem calm and soothing. “I’m Nurse Emma. I just need to ask you a few questions, okay?” She spoke soft and slow as if she were talking to a skittish animal. Again like with the paramedic Sloane remained silent, simply watching the other woman.

“Okay.” The nurse uttered softly before looking at the clipboard in her hands. “Does anything hurt? Do you have any injuries that you know of?” Sloane studied her for a second before shaking her head in denial once. “You were covered in blood when you came in, was any of it yours?” Again she shook her head. “Are your vocal cords damaged in any way?” Another shake of her head. Sloane was beginning to notice the nurse’s shoulders tensing and her grip on the pen tightening. She grinned inwardly at the visible signs of annoyance she was causing.

“Very well. Another nurse will be in soon to draw blood in order to run a DNA test unless you’d like to tell us your name.” Sloane’s gaze sharpened at the waspish and bold way the nurse began to speak. People knew to fear and respect her, even her masters feared her enough to never be alone with her. None of them were stupid enough to disrespect her, they all saw what she was capable of when she unleashed her temper. When her eyes met the nurse’s the nurse was quick to leave sensing that her presence was no longer wanted.

It wasn’t long until another nurse came in and hooked her up to an IV with fluids and began to draw a few vials of blood to test for any anomalies and a DNA scan. She listened to the woman chatter on about current news and music and other unimportant things. She wasn’t used to the quiet, noise having constantly surrounded her for the last six years at the arena.

It was hours later while she was drifting in and out of sleep that a doctor came in with a cop. Both of them were tense, lines of worry and fear making it easy for her to read them. Her eyes darted to the files in their hands and she knew they knew.

“Princess, we’ve contacted your mother. You are to be transferred to Germany and her private physician’s care immediately. Local police will pick up your case there.”

_____

The next day Sloane was in her childhood room. Very little had changed besides her. A new bed, but all her toys remained as did the horrifying pink on the walls. She felt suffocated and she’d barely been there an hour. Trapped, she knew that’s what she was. A lion in a cage. A thought that made her laugh, always in a cage she realized. She felt sick, angry, out of place. This life wasn’t hers anymore and she didn’t want it back.

A gentle knock rapped on the door and five seconds later it opened to reveal the queen in all her regality. Sloane swallowed and looked away. It was hard to look at the woman she had once wanted to be just like. “Sloane, my darling daughter.” The emotion was thick in her voice causing Sloane to flinch. Broken bones might’ve hurt less. “You’re so beautiful.”

The lost princess shook her head, eyes downcast as she clenched her teeth together. She refused to look at the woman who gave birth to her, she couldn’t look at her. “You should have let me stay dead. The daughter you knew died years ago. I’m not your daughter anymore.” Her words were carefully void of emotion, cold and precise. In her mind it was better to hurt the woman now than to string her along only to disappoint and hurt her later. “I am a killer. The night the cops came I had just ripped a man’s throat out with my own teeth. I can still taste the blood on my lips. Your daughter is dead and has been for years. I am merely a monster sharing her face.”

[sure-am-existing]

tl;dr Don't shoot IV drugs into your taint.

aka; the Swamps of Dagobah patient horror story, submitted to reddit by banzaipanda in 2013.

OR Nurse here. This is kind of a long one...

I was taking call one night, and woke up at two in the morning for a "general surgery" call. Pretty vague, but at the time, I lived in a town that had large populations of young military guys and avid meth users, so late-night emergencies were common.

Got to the hospital, where a few more details awaited me -- "Perirectal abscess." For the uninitiated, this means that somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the asshole, there was a pocket of pus that needed draining. Needless to say our entire crew was less than thrilled.

I went down to the Emergency Room to transport the patient, and the only thing the ER nurse said as she handed me the chart was "Have fun with this one." Amongst healthcare professionals, vague statements like that are a bad sign.

My patient was a 314lb Native American woman who barely fit on the stretcher I was transporting her on. She was rolling frantically side to side and moaning in pain, pulling at her clothes and muttering Hail Mary's. I could barely get her name out of her after a few minutes of questioning, so after I confirmed her identity and what we were working on, I figured it was best just to get her to the anesthesiologist so we could knock her out and get this circus started.

She continued her theatrics the entire ten-minute ride to the O.R., nearly falling off the surgical table as we were trying to put her under anesthetic. We see patients like this a lot, though, chronic drug abusers who don't handle pain well and who have used so many drugs that even increased levels of pain medication don't touch simply because of high tolerance levels.

It should be noted, tonight's surgical team was not exactly wet behind the ears. I'd been working in healthcare for several years already, mostly psych and medical settings. I've watched an 88-year-old man tear a 1"-diameter catheter balloon out of his penis while screaming "You'll never make me talk!". I've been attacked by an HIV-positive neo-Nazi. I've seen some shit. The other nurse had been in the OR as a trauma specialist for over ten years; the anesthesiologist had done residency at a Level 1 trauma center, or as we call them, "Knife and Gun Clubs". The surgeon was ex-Army, and averaged about eight words and two facial expressions a week. None of us expected what was about to happen next.

We got the lady off to sleep, put her into the stirrups, and I began washing off the rectal area. It was red and inflamed, a little bit of pus was seeping through, but it was all pretty standard. Her chart had noted that she'd been injecting IV drugs through her perineum, so this was obviously an infection from dirty needles or bad drugs, but overall, it didn't seem to warrant her repeated cries of "Oh Jesus, kill me now."

The surgeon steps up with a scalpel, sinks just the tip in, and at the exact same moment, the patient had a muscle twitch in her diaphragm, and just like that, all hell broke loose.

Unbeknownst to us, the infection had actually tunneled nearly a foot into her abdomen, creating a vast cavern full of pus, rotten tissue, and fecal matter that had seeped outside of her colon. This godforsaken mixture came rocketing out of that little incision like we were recreating the funeral scene from Jane Austen's "Mafia!".

We all wear waterproof gowns, face masks, gloves, hats, the works -- all of which were as helpful was rainboots against a firehose. The bed was in the middle of the room, an easy seven feet from the nearest wall, but by the time we were done, I was still finding bits of rotten flesh pasted against the back wall. As the surgeon continued to advance his blade, the torrent just continued. The patient kept seizing against the ventilator (not uncommon in surgery), and with every muscle contraction, she shot more of this brackish gray-brown fluid out onto the floor until, within minutes, it was seeping into the other nurse's shoes.

I was nearly twelve feet away, jaw dropped open within my surgical mask, watching the second nurse dry-heaving and the surgeon standing on tip-toes to keep this stuff from soaking his socks any further. The smell hit them first. "Oh god, I just threw up in my mask!" The other nurse was out, she tore off her mask and sprinted out of the room, shoulders still heaving. Then it hit me, mouth still wide open, not able to believe the volume of fluid this woman's body contained. It was like getting a great big bite of the despair and apathy that permeated this woman's life. I couldn't fucking breath, my lungs simply refused to pull anymore of that stuff in. The anesthesiologist went down next, an ex-NCAA D1 tailback, his six-foot-two frame shaking as he threw open the door to the OR suite in an attempt to get more air in, letting me glimpse the second nurse still throwing up in the sinks outside the door. Another geyser of pus splashed across the front of the surgeon. The YouTube clip of "David at the dentist" keeps playing in my head -- "Is this real life?"

In all operating rooms, everywhere in the world, regardless of socialized or privatized, secular or religious, big or small, there is one thing the same: Somewhere, there is a bottle of peppermint concentrate. Everyone in the department knows where it is, everyone knows what it is for, and everyone prays to their gods they never have to use it. In times like this, we rub it on the inside of our masks to keep the outside smells at bay long enough to finish the procedure and shower off.

I sprinted to the our central supply, ripping open the drawer where this vial of ambrosia was kept, and was greeted by -- an empty fucking box. The bottle had been emptied and not replaced. Somewhere out there was a godless bastard who had used the last of the peppermint oil, and not replaced a single fucking drop of it. To this day, if I figure out who it was, I'll kill them with my bare hands, but not before cramming their head up the colon of every last meth user I can find, just so we're even.

I darted back into the room with the next best thing I can find -- a vial of Mastisol, which is an adhesive rub we use sometimes for bandaging. It's not as good as peppermint, but considering that over one-third of the floor was now thoroughly coated in what could easily be mistaken for a combination of bovine after-birth and maple syrup, we were out of options.

I started rubbing as much of the Mastisol as I could get on the inside of my mask, just glad to be smelling anything except whatever slimy demon spawn we'd just cut out of this woman. The anesthesiologist grabbed the vial next, dowsing the front of his mask in it so he could stand next to his machines long enough to make sure this woman didn't die on the table. It wasn't until later that we realized that Mastisol can give you a mild high from huffing it like this, but in retrospect, that's probably what got us through.

By this time, the smell had permeated out of our OR suite, and down the forty-foot hallway to the front desk, where the other nurse still sat, eyes bloodshot and watery, clenching her stomach desperately. Our suite looked like the underground river of ooze from Ghostbusters II, except dirty. Oh so dirty.

I stepped back into the OR suite, not wanting to leave the surgeon by himself in case he genuinely needed help. It was like one of those overly-artistic representations of a zombie apocalypse you see on fan-forums. Here's this one guy, in blue surgical garb, standing nearly ankle deep in lumps of dead tissue, fecal matter, and several liters of syrupy infection. He was performing surgery in the swamps of Dagobah, except the swamps had just come out of this woman's ass and there was no Yoda. He and I didn't say a word for the next ten minutes as he scraped the inside of the abscess until all the dead tissue was out, the front of his gown a gruesome mixture of brown and red, his eyes squinted against the stinging vapors originating directly in front of him. I finished my required paperwork as quickly as I could, helped him stuff the recently-vacated opening full of gauze, taped this woman's buttocks closed to hold the dressing for as long as possible, woke her up, and immediately shipped off to the recovery ward.

Until then, I'd only heard of "alcohol showers." Turns out 70% isopropyl alcohol is about the only thing that can even touch a scent like that once its soaked into your skin. It takes four or five bottles to get really clean, but it's worth it. It's probably the only scenario I can honestly endorse drinking a little of it, too.

As we left the locker room, the surgeon and I looked at each other, and he said the only negative sentence I heard him utter in two and a half years of working together:

"That was bad."

The next morning the entire department (a fairly large floor within the hospital) still smelled. The housekeepers told me later that it took them nearly an hour to suction up all of the fluid and debris left behind. The OR suite itself was closed off and quarantined for two more days just to let the smell finally clear out.

I laugh now when I hear new recruits to healthcare talk about the worst thing they've seen. You ain't seen shit, kid.

[chuuyazai]

That One Smug Doctor

I found inspiration and decided to write this as a thank you to @kakuseis for being amazing!! It’s not much but I hope you enjoy it!!!

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs

Pairing: Soukoku (Chuuya/Dazai)

Word Count: 1379

Read on AO3: here

A steady beeping woke Chuuya from his slumber. Well, he couldn’t really call it a “slumber” since he absolutely did not feel refreshed. Even before he opened his eyes, he could tell that he was in the hospital. The beeping combined with the extreme soreness of his body and the light graze of small tubing against his skin told him exactly where he was. He slowly blinked his eyes open, groaning as the bright lights and white walls overtook his senses.

It took a few minutes before his head stopped pounding and he was able to focus. His head turned slowly, taking in not only the room but also the numerous machines he was connected to. Bandages covered his arms and chest, restricting him as he tried to rip out the IV line, cursing under his breath as his fingers fumbled with the needle unsuccessfully.

“Hey there! You don’t want to be doing that!” Chuuya processed the words at the same time when two large, and admittedly, soft hands covered his own and moved them away from the IV. He scowled and whipped his arm away and turned his head around to look at the stranger, body protesting slightly at the movements.

“Oi! Don’t touch me asshole!” He froze when his blue eyes met dark brown ones that portrayed an amusing glint.

The stranger simply smirked as he leaned in closer. “Hm? Feisty, aren’t we?”

This only managed to anger Chuuya more. First, he was stuck in the hospital and there was a random guy in his room, not caring about his personal space. His scowled deepened, trying to convey murderous intent through his gaze.

“Get. The fuck. Out.” His voice was harsh but he didn’t care, just hoping that the other would actually listen to him this time.

“No can do!” The other leaned back and took a few steps away, relief flowing through Chuuya as he got back his personal space. He cocked an eyebrow in confusion at the other’s words. “I’m your doctor, Dazai Osamu.” Chuuya felt like an idiot, only then realizing that the other did in fact have on a lab coat and was carrying around a stethoscope.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he mumbled under his breath, head dropping in both exhaustion and annoyance.

“Most people would find it a great honor to be under my care, you know.”

Dazai’s teasing tone did not amuse Chuuya at all, only increasing his annoyance. He looked back up and saw that he was looking at his chart, seemingly concentrating a great deal as his eyes scanned the page. “Well, I’m not most people.”

The other chuckled, “Oh, I could tell from the moment I met you.” Chuuya tensed as Dazai’s voice dropped to a more serious note. “Most normal people don’t come in with cuts, stab wounds, and bruises.” He put the chart back and walked to the side of Chuuya’s bed, looking over him and causing the redhead to tense up. The other quickly looked him over head to toe, before locking eyes with him. “So what exactly happened to you, Chuuya?”

Chuuya kept his gaze locked on the other, refusing to look away even if he was feeling slightly unnerved at the way he said his name. “Car accident.”

“Hmm? See you’re going to have to do better than that if you’re going to lie to me.” He walked over to the door, calling for something or someone, but Chuuya couldn’t hear. He then went over to the sink to wash his hands before putting on a clean pair of gloves.

Chuuya’s eyes never left the other’s figure. His gaze was intense, though the doctor couldn’t see it. The redhead took this brief moment of silence to examine just who was treating him. Unruly brown hair, tall and thin frame, fair skin, and an aura of confidence is what made up this doctor and Chuuya felt something akin to respect for the other. After all, not many people dare question him, much less tease him. Not to mention, the other was pretty attractive.

Wait, what?

“So what do you say? Want to tell me the truth now?” Chuuya was broken out of his trance as the other turned around and audibly snapped his glove.

“Why do you want to know anyway?” He sunk farther into the bed and stared ahead at the wall, light blush dusting his cheeks.

“So I can treat you properly, of course.” Dazai made his way to Chuuya’s bedside again and didn’t hesitate before moving Chuuya’s gown off from around his shoulders, causing the redhead to jump back and swat his hand out of the way.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He pushed himself as far away from Dazai as he could get without falling off of the bed, bending his knee up to act as a barrier between the two.

Dazai simply let out a deep laugh. “I was just going to check your bandages. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything until the third date. I am a gentleman after all.” He finished his statement with a wink and Chuuya was torn between feeling flattered and pissed. He slowly let the tension out of his body as he shuffled back so that Dazai could do his job, grumbling curses under his breath as he did so.

The doctor was quick with his examination, simply examining the bandage and tape to make sure it was securely placed and there wasn’t too much blood. “So, since you won’t tell me, I’ll have to make up some wild story and see if it’s close.” He straightened out Chuuya’s gown before checking the bandages wrapped around his arms.

“Knock yourself out.” Chuuya was feeling bored and tired again, letting Dazai do whatever he wanted to do to his limbs as he just sat there, staring at the mop of brown hair that looked very soft.

“Hmm,” the other hummed to himself, grabbing Chuuya’s other arm to examine. “Bar fight. Three guys versus you, all of them twice your size, which actually isn’t hard considering how short you are,” Chuuya barked out a fuck you but Dazai didn’t pay him any attention. “You took them all out with ease, but being drunk, you still managed to get knocked around quite a bit. Then you ran out and passed out in a nearby ally.”

Chuuya’s eyes were wide as the other was able to perfectly recite what happened. “How the fuck?”

Dazai simply laughed again, Chuuya already pleasantly accustomed to the sound. “I was at the bar too and I followed you out to make sure you were okay. Then took you here when you obviously weren’t alright.”

“Then why did you have to ask me what happened if you already knew?” Chuuya spoke coldly to him, annoyed by his smug attitude.

“I wanted to see if you would be honest with me.”

Chuuya scoffed. “In your dreams asshole.”

“Is that a promise,” he said with a smirk, causing Chuuya to feign disgust. Dazai grabbed a pen and a sticky-note from out of his pocket before scribbling something down. Chuuya watched him in mild curiosity, curiosity only growing when Dazai ripped off the note and handed it to him. “You’re free to go whenever you want. Your pain seems to be okay since you haven’t complained once and your dressings are okay. I’ll have a nurse bring your things. I also didn’t call the cops on you since you weren’t the one to start the fight.” Chuuya just stared at the note as he talked, only looking up when he heard Dazai shuffling around. The other was grabbing all of his papers and supplies before heading towards the door.

“Oi, dickhead!” Chuuya called after him, thankfully earning Dazai’s attention. The brunette turned around, head cocked in attentiveness. “What’s this for?” He waved the piece of paper out in front of him.

“My phone number, since I couldn’t give it to you last night.” With a wink, Dazai left Chuuya there alone with his mix of emotions. After a few minutes of thought he let out a huff, lips twitching upwards as he gently placed the number on the bedside table where he could see it.

“That smug bastard.”

[imjustthemechanic]

The Stone Knight

Part 1/? - Two Statues Part 2/? - A Curious Interview Part 3/? - John Doe Part 4/? - Escape Attempt

The mysterious John Doe wakes up and tries to run.  Then things get weird.

Nat noticed the man's eyelids flutter, but considering the condition he was in, she assumed it must have been some kind of reflex action. Even with his accelerated healing he must be in terrible pain, and the hospital had probably pumped him so full of drugs he might well think he was Sir Stephen of Rogsey.  She figured he would drift back into unconsciousness a moment later.

Instead, however, his right hand twitched, and then he raised it to feel at the oxygen mask on his face.  That got Carter's and Wilson's attention, as well.

“Oh, my god, is he awake?” Carter asked.

The nurse in attendance put a hand on the man's shoulder.  “Sir,” he said, “if you can hear me, you need to lie down and rest.  We'll get you something for the pain.”

The man wasn't listening to him – maybe he couldn't even hear him.  He got a grip on the tube running off the mask, and started trying to get it off.

“Oh, Sir, don't do that.”  The nurse tried again to settle him down, then yelped as the man grabbed his wrist and bent it back, then threw him to the floor.  With the nurse no longer interfering, the mystery man pulled the oxygen mask off and left it hanging around his neck, then yanked the IV line out of the arm.  The nurse started to get up again, but stopped as Dr. Wilson stepped in front of him.

“Stay down.  We'll get him sedated,” he said, and pressed the button to summon help.  Then he tried, himself, to push the mystery man back down onto the bed.  “Sir, if you can hear me,” he said, “I need you to lie down and relax.  You're badly injured and if you try to get up you're going to make it worse.”

Dr. Wilson was a much larger man than the nurse, but the mystery man threw him off, ripped the sensors from his chest and finger, and staggered to his feet.  The world seemed to go silent around Natasha as she watched it all unfold.  This... couldn't be happening, could it?  This man had been shot, had his face sliced open and his skull cracked, and then been thrown in a river.  It was a miracle he was even alive.  Hw could he be standing?  As when she'd asked the woman in the pub if she'd also seen Zola, Nat now looked at Carter to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.

Carter was standing with her stance wide and a hand inside her jacket as if to pull out a weapon, but she was looking right back at Natasha, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing, either.  And while the two women stood there staring, the man stumbled past Dr. Wilson and out the door.

At that moment, instinct took over.  This man was running, so Nat chased him.  She bursed through the door behind him, and saw him come to a halt in the hallway, narrowly missing an orderly with an empty guerney.  He turned to run in the other direction, saw Natasha, and looked around desperately for another option.  There was only one: the set of swinging doors that led into a stairwell.

Nat ran after him.  Footsteps behind her told her that DI Carter and Dr. Wilson were following, but she didn't look back.  One of the first rules she'd been taught was never take your eyes off your prey.

In the stairwell, a man was sitting a few steps down, with another nurse attempting to comfort him as he wept.  Both people looked up in surprise at the wounded man.  He stared back for a moment, and then since he could not go down without jumping over them, he went up, climbing on all fours like a child.  Nat ran after him, taking the steps two or three at a time to catch up.

The mystery man kicked out at her, forcing her to dodge.  She finally managed to throw herself on top of him and grab him around the waist.  This must have been painful for him, but he didn't cry out.  Instead, he rolled over on top of her, crushing her against the stairs and forcing the air out of her lungs.  She had to let go, and he continued on up.

“Stop where you are!  Police!” shouted DI Carter.  Nat sat up to find her at the bottom of the flight, aiming her firearm at the man. She wouldn't shoot him, Natasha thought, not when she needed him as a witness.

Maybe he knew that, or maybe he simply wasn't interested in the threat, because he didn't even look back.  He vanished around the corner to the next flight, and Carter swore and followed him up.

Dr. Wilson was behind her, but stopped to check on Natasha.  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I'll survive,” said Nat.  She picked herself up, ignoring her bruised ribs – they'd be fine in a few hours.

Dr. Wilson nodded and then ran on up after Carter and the mystery man.  Nat took a couple more deep breaths and then followed them. Somewhere above, an alarm started to blare.

They arrived at the top to find that the man had broken open the emergency exit and run out onto the roof.  The bandages from his neck were lying abadoned on the steps.

Nat, Carter, and Wilso followed him out.  The roof was covered with gravel that crunched under their feet, peppered with elevator boxes and ventilation fans.  It must have been cold and painful on the mystery man's bare feet, but he ran a few more yards before stopping, as he seemed to realize where he was.  He turned in a circle, taking in the landscape below: the colleges, the shopping center, and the suburbs that ran down towards the old city and the river.

Then there was a loud roar from behind them.  Everybody turned around.  On another part of the roof, beyond the emergency exit they'd just come out by, was the air ambulance helipad.  The helicopter itself had just started its engines, and after a few seconds of warmup it rose from the pad to fly very low overhead, low enough that Natasha could see how surprised the pilot was to find people looking back at him.  The mystery man dropped to his knees and raised his arms as if holding a shield over his head, as if he thought the helicopter were a dragon about to swoop down on him.

It didn't, of course – instead it flew away to the east on whatever mission it was on, the roar of the blades slowly fading away to nothing.  The mystery man got to his feet, turning to watch it go.

Dr. Wilson went up and took the man's arm.  “Sir,” he said, “you are at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness.  You've been badly injured, and we are trying to care for you.  Do you understand?”

The man stared at him for a moment, then said, “yes.”

Still, Natasha went and took the man's other arm, holding it gently but firmly.

“Come on back inside,” said Dr. Wilson.

They helped him to limp back indoors.  One flight down, the male nurse was waiting for them, with a wheeled stretcher to take the mystery man back to his room, but he refused to climb onto it.

“Take it away,” Dr. Wilson said to the nurse.  “Have somebody find a bed for him on the High Dependency Ward.”  He glanced at his charge.  “I think we can discharge this guy from the ICU.  Call it a hunch.”

The hospital found the man a semi-private room and Dr. Wilson managed to convince him to get back into bed.  Once he was settled, the doctor began undoing the bandages around his middle, already loosened during the escape attempt, to check on his bullet wounds. Natasha remained standing at the foot of the bed, while DI Carter sat down to wait.  Nat wasn't sure why she was still here, but her gut told her that she couldn't leave yet.  This man was important, and she had to be here to help figure out why.

“What's your name?” Dr. Wilson asked.  He examined the injuries, then asked another nurse for a pair of small scissors, and began removing the stitches.  The mystery man had been shot only yesterday, and had already healed enough to have his stitches out.

“Sir Stephen,” the mystery man replied.  “From Rogsey in Anglesey.”

Nat rolled her eyes.  “Oh, you are not!” she said.

Everybody looked at her.

“I don't know you, Lady,” said the self-described Sir Stephen. His implication was that she didn't know him either, and was therefore in no position to tell him who he was or wasn't.

“I'm Dr. Natalie Rushman.  I'm an archaeologist,” said Nat firmly.  “I know something about the middle ages.  Even if Sir Stephen of Rogsey had existed, the stories say he died in 1066.  And if he could somehow come to the present, he wouldn't speak modern English, even Pseudo-Shakespearean Fancy-Talk English.  He'd be speaking some dialect of old Anglo-Saxon.  Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.”  The first three lines of Beowulf, which she'd memorized a bit of just so she could recite it to her classes.

Sir Stephen frowned at her in confusion.

“I rest my case,” said Nat.

Dr. Wilson handed the scissors back to the nurse.  “Should I put his name on his chart?” the woman asked.  She probably knew this was a dumb question, but was trying to stick to stuff she understood. Nat sympathized.

“Um.  Put him down as Stephen,” said Dr. Wilson.  “Stephen Rog... is Rogsey a real place?”  He looked at Nat.

“Of course it's a real place,” said Sir Stephen.  “I was born at Saint Marcella's, not a mile away!”

“I have no idea,” said Nat.  “Google it.”

Dr. Wilson sighed.  “Put him down as Stephen Rogers,” he told the nurse.  “That's a name.”

“I am here in the room,” said Sir Stephen, annoyed.  “You think me a madman, don't you?”

“We think you're a man who's been hit pretty hard on the head,” said Dr. Wilson.  “You're not crazy, but you've suffered a very serious head injury.  We're going to help you with that.  It's our job.”

“If you wish to help me, could I have some meat to eat, or at least a loaf of bread?” asked Sir Stephen.  “I fear I must eat a great deal.”

“If the rest of your metabolism is as fast as your healing, I'm not surprised,” said Dr. Wilson.  “I'll see what we can do.”

He ordered a meal for the patient from the hospital cafeteria – spaghetti and meatballs.  It took Sir Stephen a few minutes to get the hang of his fork, but once he had, he devoured three helpings and ate six pieces of soggy garlic bread, which astonished everybody even further.

While the man ate, DI Carter pulled a chair up next to him and showed him her badge.  “I know you're not feeling very well,” she said, “but I was hoping I could talk to you for a moment.  I'm Detective Inspector Carter of the Inverness Police, and I'm looking for a missing person.”  She turned on her phone and found a picture of Mr. Pierce – the same one that had appeared in the Courier's article, and probably taken from their website.  “Do you recognize this man?”

Sir Stephen was still chewing on garlic bread as he looked at it. “No,” he said.  “I do not.”

“He didn't hire you?” asked Nat.  She was hanging on to her theory that Mr. Pierce must have had this man pose for the statue of Sir Stephen – because to believe anything else was madness.  Pierce must have promised the statues to somebody.  They would have been a remarkable find if they'd been real, forcing historians to re-assess whether Sir Stephen and Totenkopf might have been actual people. Maybe he and Zola had planned to pull off the archaeological hoax of the century, a modern-day version of Piltdown Man.  Calling in Natasha was a test, to see if they could fool an expert.  The statues had failed the test because Pierce was an idiot who'd gone to great trouble to get the armor and weaponry right but hadn't bothered to look up what kind of commemorative art was being made in the eleventh century.

“I've never laid eyes on him,” Sir Stephen said, and pointed to the image with his fork.  “Unless it's a poor likeness.”

“The likeness is fine,” said Carter, and put her phone away.

“Why were you at the warehouse, if Mr. Pierce didn't invite you?” Natasha asked.

“I know not,” said Sir Stephen.  “The last thing I remember was fighting the Red Death for the Grail.  Then there was...”

“The grail,” Natasha interrupted.  “The Holy Grail from the King Arthur stories?  Sir Galahad and everything?”  Maybe it wasn't Pierce who'd hired this guy.

“The very same,” Sir Stephen said.  “I'd not have believed it, had I not seen it with my own eyes.”

Nat grabbed the nearest sheet of blank paper and a ballpoint pen, and sat down to scribble a drawing.  DI Carter had asked her to work with a sketch artist, but Natasha was quite able to draw faces, herself, and this one had been so distinctive she could hardly forget it.  Nor was it a difficult one to represent.  She got a rough outline of Zola's unusual features down on the paper, and showed it to Sir Stephen.  “How about this guy?” she asked.

Even before he spoke, she could see in the man's face that he recognized the image.  “That is Zola,” he said.  “The Red Death's kobold.”

“Kobold?” asked Dr. Wilson with a frown.  “Isn't that supposed to be something like a pixie?”

“Yes,” said Natasha.  It was, in fact, almost exactly the same thing: a helpful spirit that could be malicious if crossed.  “Did he hire you?”

“I serve King Harold,” said Sir Stephen, offended.  “I do not draw my blade for foreigners or goblins.”

Nat gave up, and offered the drawing to Carter, instead.  “This is the man from the pub.”

“He looks like a goblin,” said Carter.  “I'll see if we can find him – and see if I can find who made those statues you mentioned for Pierce.”

“You believe me now,” Nat observed.  Carter hadn't been sure earlier.  Now she seemed happy to accept Natasha's version of events, if only because they made more sense than Sir Stephen's.

“I told you – I don't believe things,” Carter corrected, and sighed.  “The ten o'clock news tonight is going to be weird.”

[goffilolo]

Demise of Midoriya Izuku (part 1)

Hi. I have managed to write a bit of demise!au. I’m not sure whethe ri will write anymore beyond this extract, but i will try my best to conitune with this au. Its my first time writing a fanfic, but i hope you like it. TW for suicide attempt.

The first thing Izuku notices upon regaining consciousness is the pounding in his head. The second is the dull, stinging sensation in his right arm. Opening his eyes comes with a great difficulty, feeling rather sluggish, yet having a feeling; a strong itch in his head that refuses to go away, that there’s something he should remember.

Slowly, but surely, all his senses come back to him. The sterile smell that always makes you anxious and want to crawl out of your own skin, ‘Oh, I’m in a hospital’ Izuku thinks, but doesn’t say, not feeling quite in control of his body just yet. Next came the dryness and metallic taste in his mouth, while uncomfortable, it wasn’t overwhelming. When opening his eyes, Izuku was met with the strong fluorescent lights being the only thing to focus on, the rest of his surroundings a blur, almost like his his eyes were a camera lens that stubbornly remains out of focus. The overall feeling was that of his senses being turned down in a way that it felt both not enough and too much at the same time, from not receiving enough input and being hyper-focused on whatever little the boy could get his hands on. It’s the frustrating feeling of being aware of the itch, but not being to scratch it and make it go away.

While trying to focus on anything other than the obnoxious light, Izuku listens intensively to the sound of dripping liquid, the sound itself quiet enough, but within the eerie silence of the hospital room it might as well be played from the speakers at full volume. He looks in the direction of the sound; an IV drip, and upon closer inspection Izuku notices that it’s attached to his arm. As the dripping continues, he becomes more irritated, feeling like every single droplet mocks him for getting into this predicament. Trying to voice his discomfort was another matter however, “Uugh..” was all he could say, because less is more and the dryness in his throat did not allow Izuku to form full sentences.

“Izuku!” called a tired, but full of concern voice from his left, which upon thinking for a second, Izuku recognised to be his mother’s. Turning his head in her direction only made him more aware of the pounding in his head, making Izuku hiss at the sensation.

“Oh honey try not to move, the doctor said you got quite a concussion and a broken leg but it’s actually not that bad considering what happened” - That’s Midoriya Inko for you, always there when you need her, always fretting over her only son; understandably so, whenever there’s space for her to do so and sometimes even when there isn’t. The circles under her eyes, making her look like she hasn’t slept in the past three days  and the messy bun on her head being enough of a proof.

The silence on Izuku’s part only made Inko’s worry even greater. She looked her son in the eyes, their green dullness contrasting the brightness of the room they were in “Izuku, do you remembered what happened?” She fidgeted in the plastic chair she was currently sitting at, not knowing how to breach the subject of why her son was currently in  a hospital.

Izuku’s mind was whirling. Of course he remembered, how could he not?! It was at this point in his life, stuck in a hospital bed with a concussion and a broken leg when Izuku truly appreciated the wisdom of the words ‘Ignorance is a bliss’. Unfortunately life did not have any bliss in plans for him,  as Izuku was now forced to face the consequences of his actions; he was supposed to feel remorse for making his mother worry needlessly, feel anxious about being unconscious for god knows how long and missing school, feel grief about going as far as jumping off the roof of his school partly out of desperation, and partly to spite his childhood friend-turned bully.

Except, Izuku didn’t feel any of those things. Truth be told he felt...nothing.

While he was aware on some level of the adrenaline pulsing through his veins while falling, of a hundred and one thoughts running through his head, of the burned notebook that is probably still in that pond; soaked beyond a point of saving, he just couldn’t force himself to care about any of those things.

Izuku wanted nothing more that drift back into the warm and welcoming arms of the unconsciousness, where he didn’t have to worry about any of those things. His contemplation regarding the catatonic state  of his emotions had to be stopped as Izuku remembered that his mother asked him a question and was patiently awaiting some sort on an answer, so he figured he must’ve started mumbling. When faced with his mother’s face; tired, but full of concern, just like her voice, Izuku found himself with words stuck in his throat and settled for simply nodding to get the message across.

She wanted to ask more, he could tell from the way she hunched closer to his bed, her eyes now more alert, attentive, looking ready to take in as much as possible, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not now, not ever. Not when he’s been told by every single person in his life that his dream to become a hero is just unrealistic, not when blindly holding onto that dream lead to nothing but bruises, burns, ripped notebooks and his ever so anxious mother gaining even more reasons to worry. Not when the only way to wake up from that dream and accept the truth was by trying to take his own life. It only confirmed how weak and foolish he is, and no amount of analysis on heros will ever make up for that.

However, Izuku felt that his mother deserved a much better answer, maybe not a full answer, since Izuku himself was unable to fully articulate his thoughts and feelings, but some sort of an answer was due.

“I...I’m sorry” - Not exactly what he was going for, but it was a start.

“Honey, don’t apologise-” Inko couldn’t hold it in anymore as she burst into tears “I just want to know why! Is it...is it some trouble at school? So-some bullies?..or is it my fault?!”

“Not, it’s not your fault! Don’t ever think like that. I-I was just tired, so so tired and hopeless. But it’s alright-”

“Oh Izuku”

“-it’s alright, because you were all right. I can’t become a hero! Never could and never will, it’s cancelled!”

“But it’s always been your dream-”

“Well it was stupid! I was stupid!”

“Don’t. Don’t say that about yourself.”

“YOU CAN’T BECOME A HERO WITHOUT A QUIRK AND LOOK AT ME!!! NOT ONLY DO I NOT HAVE A QUIRK, I’M ALSO WEAK, SO FRICKIN’ WEAK, NO WONDER ALL THE KIDS MADE FUN OF ME! BUT YOU KNOW WHAT’S THE WORST PART?! THAT IT COST ME A SUICIDE ATTEMPT TO FINALLY REALISE WHAT EVERYONE HAS BEEN SAYING FOR YEARS!-” Izuku was now panting, not used to shouting so much, his emotions getting better of him. “- THAT’S HOW STUPID I AM! BUT IT’S ALRIGHT NOW, BECAUSE I’M ALIVE! I’M FUCKIN ALIVE BUT THIS DREAM IS NOT, THIS DREAM IS DEAD!!!”

Finally when his rant was over, did Izuku become more aware of his surroundings. First he noticed his mother crying, now feeling even worse for lashing out on her, when she hasn’t wronged him in any way. There was  a nurse standing by the door, who quickly said something about getting the doctor, before scattering away, probably to give Izuku and his mom some privacy and resolve their family drama.

He was also very much out of breath and felt even more exhausted than before. However he felt somewhat light, by admitting all of this out loud he made it real. It wasn’t delivered the way Izuku hoped for, but he got the point across, especially the last part, and while he felt the familiar tightness of disappointment and self-loathing, almost suffocating him, he also felt content. Sort of. Admitting to himself the unlikeliness of his dream coming true and his own limitations was something that had to be done a long time ago. Izuku by no means felt better, but rather came to accept the truth. Now it was time to try and make things better, though he wasn’t sure he had the energy or will to fix everything that’s been broken, including himself.

“I’m sorry mom”

His point still stands.

Midoriya Izuku’s dream is dead.

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Wonderland by GleefullyCaptainSwan - Sneak Peek

Read on AO3: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Or on FF

Tagging:  @kmomof4 @lfh1226-linda @teamhook @itsfabianadocarmo

Chapter 7: Trust - Coming Saturday 2/27

“So, today let’s talk about what happened after the accident. More specifically the loss of your hand, how did you handle the news?”

He straightened in his chair, rubbing his palm on his knee. “Like anyone who is just told that their entire life had changed.” He sat back in his seat and shrugged his shoulders. “Really badly.”

“When did you find out?”

“I woke up in the hospital sometime after the accident, my brother Liam was there. I could tell something was wrong. He told me about my hand first. I guess I was in shock. I didn’t react at all honestly. It was like being numb. I don’t have any other way of explaining it. I’m a musician and suddenly that’s all gone.”

“You play guitar?”

“Played. I dunno what I’ll do now. Honestly, I haven’t even thought about it. It seems so trivial considering everything else I lost.”

“I wouldn’t say trivial, Killian. It’s your life. Your livelihood.”

“Rob always tells me I have my good looks and acting to fall back on, but honestly I did all that because I could. Music was my passion; it was something I did because I wanted to.”

“And that is something that the accident took away from you.”

Killian shuddered with guilt to even feel anger about the loss of a career. “None of that mattered after he told me about Milah and the baby.”

“And how did you handle that?”

“I lost my mind. Ripped my IV out, Liam had to bring in security to restrain me. When I finally calmed down, he asked if I had been drinking that night. The look on his face showed so much disappointment.  I got angry, kicked him out of my room. Refused to speak to him for days.”

“Why do you think you reacted that way?”

“My whole life I’ve been living in Liam’s shadow. He was always the golden boy. Dad used to tell me that if I wanted to make anything of my life, I needed to keep an eye on my brother. He was the best of us.”

“What does Liam do for a living?”

“He’s a hero.”

“In your mind, I’m sure.”

“No like an actual damn hero. While I was making music on a stupid guitar, he was off fighting in a war.”

[dontshootmespence]

You’re Not Alone

A/N: An anon request for a Spencer x Reader where he is her boyfriend and he finds her in the bathroom after a suicide attempt (overdose). He takes her to the hospital and is by her side the entire time. @coveofmemories

Warnings: Attempted suicide. Depression.

                                                             -----

“Y/N?” Spencer called out when he entered her apartment. “Are you home?”

It was eerily quiet inside the small apartment. She said she’d be home. Something was definitely wrong. “Y/N?” he asked again, hoping he just hadn’t said it loud enough the first time. Still nothing.

As he glided through the apartment like a ghost, he hoped she was just asleep. She’d been through too much lately; she needed rest. When he opened the bedroom door, he saw nothing. Just the sheets on the bed in disarray, like she’d thrown them off her in a hurry for some unknown reason. She wasn’t in the kitchen. She wasn’t sleeping on the couch. And her bed was empty. Finally, he approached the bathroom. Maybe she was taking a bath. She deserved it.

Like a bad dream, Spencer opened the door by degrees to find Y/N sprawled out on the floor, a wine glass loosely dangling in her hand with just the slightest bit of alcohol left. Her lips were faintly blue. “Y/N,” he breathed, kneeling on the floor at her side as he bent over to see if she was breathing. It was shallow. As he placed his fingers to her neck, her pulse was barely there. “Y/N, wake up,” he said desperately, shaking her slightly to see if she would wake. 

With tears in his eyes, he looked up in a panic, searching his pockets for his phone so he could call 911. Out of the corner of his eye was a piece of paper that simply read:

I’m so sorry, Spencer. This isn’t your fault, I just can’t take this feeling anymore. I love you so much. Y/N

“No,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to her lips as the 911 operator answered his call. “Yes, this is Dr. Spencer Reid, I have an overdose on what looks like sleeping pills at 857 Roland Drive Apartment C. It’s my girlfriend. She’s still breathing, but it’s shallow. Please send help. Don’t let her die,” he cracked. The phone dropped to his side as the operator assured him that help was on the way.

“Please, Y/N,” he said, hoping that somewhere deep down she might be able to hear him. “I love you so much. We can get through this. You’re not alone.” 

By the time the ambulance arrived, her pulse was thready and her skin was taking on a pallor that was exacerbated by the ever deepening blue color of her lips. “Please, help her,” he begged, reaching out in vain for her as they took her down the stairs on a stretcher. There wasn’t enough room in the ambulance. He had to follow behind.

“I’m coming.”

                                                            -----

The doctors told Spencer that if he had arrived five minutes later, Y/N would’ve absolutely died. He’d found her just in time for her to have her stomach pumped. Now, he was sitting at her bedside, his hand on top of hers, wondering if she’d ever wake up. Having her stomach pumped wasn’t a guarantee that everything would be okay. She’d been minutes from death.

As the cool lengths of her fingers twitched to life, he looked up. She was awake. “Where am I?” she croaked. 

“You’re at the hospital. It’s me,” he replied. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“I’m so sorry, Spence.” Her lip started to quiver as she realized what had actually happened. He boyfriend, basically the one reason she hadn’t attempted suicide before, had found her half dead on the floor of her apartment. “The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you. Everyone’s better off without me, I just wanted to...”

“You’re not alone,” he whispered, pulling the hand with the IV attached toward him. “Just focus on getting better. I’ll be here every step of the way.”

As he kissed her hand, she started to cry. “You’re so much more than I deserve, Spence.”

“I’m not. I love you,” he said, getting up from the chair and kissing her on the forehead. “Get some sleep. I’m going to be right outside talking to your doctor.”

                                                           -----

Spencer knew that between 15 and 25 percent of those who attempted suicide would reattempt. More than anything, he wanted her to not be a part of that statistic. As he walked outside, he made sure to keep an eye on her. If she wasn’t asleep, an immediate reattempt was more than possible - it was probable. “Where do we go from here?” he asked her doctor.

“Well as you probably know, suicide attempts are likely to be repeated if nothing changes in their day-to-day lifestyle. Do you know what drove the attempt?” she wondered.

Spencer told her of the last few months in Y/N’s life. She had suffered from anxiety and depression for a large portion of her teenage years, but through therapy and medication, she was doing well until a few months ago. Within three months, her mother died of breast cancer and her childhood best friend died in a car accident that she was also in - she came out with no more than a couple of scratches and a sprained wrist. “Then I think you as well as I do that she needs to return to therapy and be put on medication again. What worked well for her when she was a teenager?”

“Fluoxetine,” he replied. “She felt great with that. 20 mg. Would she need an increase considering the circumstances now?”

She probably would. After speaking with her to find out her current state of mind, they would undoubtedly double the dose. “Is there someone that will be able to be there for her every day? Because if not, it might be best to keep her here for treatment for the time being. A week at most,” she clarified, when Spencer looked apprehensive.

He would do whatever was necessary to make sure she got better. It didn’t matter what he had to do, it was worth it. “When it comes to keeping her here, her father has proxy in the event she can’t make her own decision. However, if she can, and she insists on going home, I will take a leave of absence to take care of her.”

The young doctor smiled, placing her hand on his arm in a soft gesture of assurance and comfort. “With a supportive father and boyfriend behind her, she is better off than most. I’m going to go talk to her now.”

                                                          -----

“Y/N,” the doctor whispered, nudging her slightly. 

When she opened her eyes, she saw Spencer standing outside the door with a reassuring smile. “It’s going to be okay,” he mouthed. 

“I’m Doctor Garner,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Physically or mentally?”

“Let’s start with physical, then mental.”

She felt like she had been hit by a truck, which was normal. Y/N was unbelievably tired. “Mentally though. I don’t even know. I shouldn’t be alive,” she cried. “My boyfriend shouldn’t have to deal with this. Neither should my father. They’d be better off without me.”

“You only think that way because there is an imbalance in your brain chemistry. Your boyfriend said you’ve been on medication before, and it’s helped?” It had helped before, but things were so much worse now. Her mother and childhood friend were gone within three months of each other. How was she supposed to deal with that?

“One of the most important questions I need to ask is,” she said, “do you agree that you need treatment?”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “I don’t really want to die. I just don’t know what to do.” As the sob ripped through her, Spencer ran inside the room to sit by her side and hold her hand. 

“This should be a doctor/patient conversation, Dr. Reid,” she said, as Y/N started to calm down.

“No, please,” Y/N pleaded, refusing to let go of his hand when Spencer got up to leave them again. “Whatever you need to say can be said in front of him.”

“Okay,” she said, flashing a brief smile in Spencer’s direction. “In my professional opinion, you would be best helped here for a short period of time. However, if you insist on going home and doing outpatient treatment, your boyfriend here has said that he would take a leave of absence to be with you every step of the way.”

Once she looked in his direction, Y/N started to cry again. “I’ll stay here,” she said, turning toward Spencer. “I want to go home, but you shouldn’t have to take care of my every need for months on end.”

“I’m going to be here anyway,” he said. “I called Hotch and told him that whether or not you stayed here, I would be limiting my work to the office for the next few months. I will be here whenever you need me.”

After signing a few papers to have herself committed, Y/N was transferred to inpatient treatment. “I’m sorry, Spence,” she said for the fiftieth time that day. 

“It’s okay,” he replied, kissing her hands. “I’ll see you soon.”

                                                         -----

After a week of intensive therapy inside the hospital, during which time Spencer never left her side, Y/N was free to return home - her suicidal ideations had lessened over the week and unless she was an immediate risk to herself, they could keep her no longer. As promised, Spencer took off for the next month and a half to be by her side as she attended daily therapy.

Within those six weeks, Y/N started to feel better. Her guilt over living through the car accident when her friend didn’t lessened, as did her overwhelming sadness at the loss of her mother. Today, was the first day that Spencer would be returning to work in a limited capacity. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with me going in today?” he asked, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips before he left. It felt simultaneously like yesterday and five years ago that those lips were blue with death, instead of warm and pink like they were now. “I can stay home for a little while longer if you want me too.”

“Spence, I’m okay,” she said. it was the first time in nearly six months that she actually did feel okay. “If I feel anything bad at all, I’ll call you. I promise.”

“Okay,” he said, taking her lips in his one final time before leaving. “I love you so  much. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I love you too, Spence. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough. You saved my life in every way.”

As he turned to leave the apartment, he looked back one more time to make sure she was okay with him leaving. Instead of the sadness he’d seen in her eyes for so many months, he was greeted with a content and hopeful smile. He was still worried - he probably would be for months and years to come, but for the first time since her failed suicide, he had hope - hope that he would see her beautiful face still full of life when he came home.

[hellacioushedonist]

The first time that I knew something wasn’t right, I started collapsing into horrific fits of desperate sadness. My lungs would spasm and shake and I would rip at anything I could find to try and get whatever it was out of my body. My palms were always covered in halfmoons, my nails trying to dig in deeply enough to remind me that I was alive. These times were such a sharp contrast to what I considered normal. Happy, happy, shiny and plastic and never quite real. Life was a party and I was the hostess. 

They tried to diagnose me at 16. I had a psychiatric evaluation and they said ��Bipolar Disorder” like it was a death sentence. I told the psychiatrist that I wasn’t sick and I never went back. There were so many nights that I was broken and crying on the floor, my mother hysterically asking me what she should do, if she should take me to the hospital, if I wanted to die. I did want to die. The first time I let her take me to a hospital, I was so scared. My brain and body decided that it was time and I couldn’t stop myself from scratching and biting and dreaming of all of the ways I could make it stop. I got to the emergency room and the nurse watching me asked me what was wrong and told me I was too pretty to be sad. I was 17 and almost didn’t graduate high school because of all the time I spent crying in bed. I didn’t yet know how to enunciate that I wasn’t sad, my chemical imbalances just can’t keep up with themselves. 

 College made me feel normal. Mania never felt scary when everyone around you was just as irresponsible, just as sleep deprived, just as carefree. I had bad times, but I always excused them. Its just the change of living on my own, I would tell myself. Its just stress, it’s just missing your old friends, it’s just the sadness that comes with getting older. I started getting sicker my sophomore year. I started therapy and went regularly, the first therapist that lasted more than three sessions. I kept getting sicker, and she kept trying to help me. We ran out of things to talk about and it became uncomfortably clear that the problem was chemical. I stopped being able to go to class. Some weeks all I could do was pull myself out of bed for my weekly meeting with her. Some weeks, not even that. Our sessions became us making calls to my health insurance, to psychiatrists, to hospitals. When I came home for Thanksgiving, I went to my nurse practitioner because I wanted to die and my parents wanted me medicated. She refused to release me, said I could either call an ambulance to take me to the hospital or call someone to pick me up and take me. 

This time when they gave me my diagnosis, I was too sad to refuse. I took the pills without asking questions. I sat in group therapy sessions and told the therapists what they wanted to hear before they were finished asking. I knew how to cope. I had been coping with these imbalances since I was 15, since the first time I thought to myself “something is broken”. I didn’t talk for two days and I did the same puzzle so many times I knew the pieces by touch. I went home with a diagnosis and a prescription but no follow up doctor appointments. I went home with burned images of the man who admitted himself because he was coming down off of heroin and left after a few hours because they wouldn’t let him sleep, the woman who admitted herself to try and get away from her abusive husband and admitted before she left that she would stay, the man who spent all of lunch hour running the perimeter of the courtyard to try and burn off some of the mania. Any time I think about the hospital, I think about the young veteran who came in with a slit throat and slit wrists. His bandages had to be changed every few hours when they became too soaked through with blood and I never heard him speak. 

I went back to college and stopped sleeping. I changed my major three times before classes started, I started feeling bugs crawling on my skin, when my body shut down and made me sleep I was trapped in the hell of sleep paralysis, I started seeing figures that weren’t there and I was so paranoid that I couldn’t be alone or something horrible was going to get me. It wasn’t the medicine’s fault that my brain was sick, but I didn’t know that. I stopped taking the pills. I drank a bottle of vodka and had a panic attack, I took a handful of sleeping pills without thinking. I laid for a long time and everything burned, I tried to make myself throw up and nothing came out, I took myself to the hospital and fell asleep alone and freezing with IVs trying to flush my system out. I asked them not to hospitalize me and they said someone had to come get me. I couldn’t think of anyone in town to call so I dialed my parents and told them I was quitting a school and I needed a ride home from the emergency room. 

I moved home and got a job. I eventually snapped out of depression. I moved to California on a whim, spent my days rebuilding a house and going out on the lake. I had so many plans, go back to school and become a resident and move to the city. Nothing was working out so I moved back home. I didn’t stay long before I moved in with someone I barely knew, a friend of a friend. I was stuck somewhere between mania and depression, I was filled with self loathing. I let people put their hands on me and I drank more than I didn’t. I ruined friendships and ended up alone. I fell into a depression. I didn’t get out of bed for days at a time. I snapped back into myself and was so far up in the clouds. I decided to go back to school the week before classes started and got everything pushed through, I dropped out a ten days later when I realized I couldn’t make myself sit through a fifty minute class. I moved again, I got a cat, I got piercings, I went to bars in short dresses. I worked a lot and didn’t sleep much. I started feeling like I wasn’t real, my mind was disconnected from my body. I started having sleep paralysis again, it got worse. I started doubting reality, I started seeing things that weren’t there, I started losing my mind.

Everything was hazy for a while. Through it all, I didn’t know I was sick. I fell into a horrible depression. I tried so hard to stay safe, I got scared and tried to admit myself. They said I seemed okay and sent me home. I went to a therapist who didn’t wear shoes and told me mental illness wasn’t real, I just needed to try harder. She prescribed me yoga. I woke up again, spent all of my inheritance on booze and food and friends who found me in bars and on beaches. I followed the same pattern, but this time I was no longer myself. There was nothing but illness, shrouded in escapism and gold. I stayed up for days at a time, I ripped my skin off convinced there were things trying to eat me alive, my head screamed at me until I was nothing but impulse. I was completely psychotic and nothing was real enough to ground me for more than a few minutes. This was the first time I realized I didn’t know how sick I was.

I started journaling. I kept cycling, but I was better able to recognize symptoms. I moved into my own place, I got a stable job. It was easier to make myself be some sort of okay. I flew to heaven and talked to God, I saw the things that attach myself to my body and my body to my brain. I started seeing a therapist and she started helping me be comfortable with medication. A few months later, I started trying some things with my nurse practitioner. A few months later when that wasn’t working fast enough I found a psychiatrist. We found medication that stabled me out enough to keep the spikes short and mild. We’re still working on finding the right things to make the bad days more tolerable. I have a job that I’m good at, I am able to look toward the future without feeling like I don’t have one, I create things that are beautiful. I have become something beautiful.

I will always be sick. It’s important for me to remember the severity of the sickness I have, because there are days that I can’t make myself take the medicine. There are days I miss the idea of the flight I used to feel, there are days that I still can’t get out of bed and it scares me so badly that I want to run away. There are many times that I want to go back to being so sick that I don’t know I’m sick. I will always be sick, but I must keep trying to be better. I must remember what I have put myself through, what I have put the people I love through. I’m petrified at the thought of anyone loving me, of anyone staying around long enough to see the ugly parts, of anyone staying around long enough to leave. I love them anyway, and I let them love me anyway. I let them see the ugly parts, and I make sure they know how bad it can get. They tell me when things are real, and when they aren’t. 

I’m still learning what normal is. I’m still figuring out how to let my skeletons go and I’m still trying to calm my nightmares. 

I will never be perfect, but I will always be good.

     -may 8, 2017

[quoratopstories]

What is the weirdest/grossest/most disturbing thing seen by emergency room staff? Do you ever find it difficult not to faint?

Not a personal experience. I came across this on a similar thread on Reddit. It is quite long but the OP elicits quite the imagery, if you will.

OR Nurse here. This is kind of a long one... I was taking call one night, and woke up at two in the morning for a "general surgery" call. Pretty vague, but at the time, I lived in a town that had large populations of young military guys and avid meth users, so late-night emergencies were common. Got to the hospital, where a few more details awaited me -- "Perirectal abscess." For the uninitiated, this means that somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the asshole, there was a pocket of pus that needed draining. Needless to say our entire crew was less than thrilled. I went down to the Emergency Room to transport the patient, and the only thing the ER nurse said as she handed me the chart was "Have fun with this one." Amongst healthcare professionals, vague statements like that are a bad sign. My patient was a 314lb Native American woman who barely fit on the stretcher I was transporting her on. She was rolling frantically side to side and moaning in pain, pulling at her clothes and muttering Hail Mary's. I could barely get her name out of her after a few minutes of questioning, so after I confirmed her identity and what we were working on, I figured it was best just to get her to the anesthesiologist so we could knock her out and get this circus started. She continued her theatrics the entire ten-minute ride to the O.R., nearly falling off the surgical table as we were trying to put her under anesthetic. We see patients like this a lot, though, chronic drug abusers who don't handle pain well and who have used so many drugs that even increased levels of pain medication don't touch simply because of high tolerance levels. It should be noted, tonight's surgical team was not exactly wet behind the ears. I'd been working in healthcare for several years already, mostly psych and medical settings. I've watched an 88-year-old man tear a 1"-diameter catheter balloon out of his penis while screaming "You'll never make me talk!". I've been attacked by an HIV-positive neo-Nazi. I've seen some shit. The other nurse had been in the OR as a trauma specialist for over ten years; the anesthesiologist had done residency at a Level 1 trauma center, or as we call them, "Knife and Gun Clubs". The surgeon was ex-Army, and averaged about eight words and two facial expressions a week. None of us expected what was about to happen next. We got the lady off to sleep, put her into the stirrups, and I began washing off the rectal area. It was red and inflamed, a little bit of pus was seeping through, but it was all pretty standard. Her chart had noted that she'd been injecting IV drugs through her perineum, so this was obviously an infection from dirty needles or bad drugs, but overall, it didn't seem to warrant her repeated cries of "Oh Jesus, kill me now." The surgeon steps up with a scalpel, sinks just the tip in, and at the exact same moment, the patient had a muscle twitch in her diaphragm, and just like that, all hell broke loose. Unbeknownst to us, the infection had actually tunneled nearly a foot into her abdomen, creating a vast cavern full of pus, rotten tissue, and fecal matter that had seeped outside of her colon. This godforsaken mixture came rocketing out of that little incision like we were recreating the funeral scene from Jane Austen's "Mafia!". We all wear waterproof gowns, face masks, gloves, hats, the works -- all of which were as helpful was rainboots against a firehose. The bed was in the middle of the room, an easy seven feet from the nearest wall, but by the time we were done, I was still finding bits of rotten flesh pasted against the back wall. As the surgeon continued to advance his blade, the torrent just continued. The patient kept seizing against the ventilator (not uncommon in surgery), and with every muscle contraction, she shot more of this brackish gray-brown fluid out onto the floor until, within minutes, it was seeping into the other nurse's shoes. I was nearly twelve feet away, jaw dropped open within my surgical mask, watching the second nurse dry-heaving and the surgeon standing on tip-toes to keep this stuff from soaking his socks any further. The smell hit them first. "Oh god, I just threw up in my mask!" The other nurse was out, she tore off her mask and sprinted out of the room, shoulders still heaving. Then it hit me, mouth still wide open, not able to believe the volume of fluid this woman's body contained. It was like getting a great big bite of the despair and apathy that permeated this woman's life. I couldn't fucking breath, my lungs simply refused to pull anymore of that stuff in. The anesthesiologist went down next, an ex-NCAA D1 tailback, his six-foot-two frame shaking as he threw open the door to the OR suite in an attempt to get more air in, letting me glimpse the second nurse still throwing up in the sinks outside the door. Another geyser of pus splashed across the front of the surgeon. The YouTube clip of "David at the dentist" keeps playing in my head -- "Is this real life?" In all operating rooms, everywhere in the world, regardless of socialized or privatized, secular or religious, big or small, there is one thing the same: Somewhere, there is a bottle of peppermint concentrate. Everyone in the department knows where it is, everyone knows what it is for, and everyone prays to their gods they never have to use it. In times like this, we rub it on the inside of our masks to keep the outside smells at bay long enough to finish the procedure and shower off. I sprinted to the our central supply, ripping open the drawer where this vial of ambrosia was kept, and was greeted by -- an empty fucking box. The bottle had been emptied and not replaced. Somewhere out there was a godless bastard who had used the last of the peppermint oil, and not replaced a single fucking drop of it. To this day, if I figure out who it was, I'll kill them with my bare hands, but not before cramming their head up the colon of every last meth user I can find, just so we're even. I darted back into the room with the next best thing I can find -- a vial of Mastisol, which is an adhesive rub we use sometimes for bandaging. It's not as good as peppermint, but considering that over one-third of the floor was now thoroughly coated in what could easily be mistaken for a combination of bovine after-birth and maple syrup, we were out of options. I started rubbing as much of the Mastisol as I could get on the inside of my mask, just glad to be smelling anything except whatever slimy demon spawn we'd just cut out of this woman. The anesthesiologist grabbed the vial next, dowsing the front of his mask in it so he could stand next to his machines long enough to make sure this woman didn't die on the table. It wasn't until later that we realized that Mastisol can give you a mild high from huffing it like this, but in retrospect, that's probably what got us through. By this time, the smell had permeated out of our OR suite, and down the forty-foot hallway to the front desk, where the other nurse still sat, eyes bloodshot and watery, clenching her stomach desperately. Our suite looked like the underground river of ooze from Ghostbusters II, except dirty. Oh so dirty. I stepped back into the OR suite, not wanting to leave the surgeon by himself in case he genuinely needed help. It was like one of those overly-artistic representations of a zombie apocalypse you see on fan-forums. Here's this one guy, in blue surgical garb, standing nearly ankle deep in lumps of dead tissue, fecal matter, and several liters of syrupy infection. He was performing surgery in the swamps of Dagobah, except the swamps had just come out of this woman's ass and there was no Yoda. He and I didn't say a word for the next ten minutes as he scraped the inside of the abscess until all the dead tissue was out, the front of his gown a gruesome mixture of brown and red, his eyes squinted against the stinging vapors originating directly in front of him. I finished my required paperwork as quickly as I could, helped him stuff the recently-vacated opening full of gauze, taped this woman's buttocks closed to hold the dressing for as long as possible, woke her up, and immediately shipped off to the recovery ward. Until then, I'd only heard of "alcohol showers." Turns out 70% isopropyl alcohol is about the only thing that can even touch a scent like that once its soaked into your skin. It takes four or five bottles to get really clean, but it's worth it. It's probably the only scenario I can honestly endorse drinking a little of it, too. As we left the locker room, the surgeon and I looked at each other, and he said the only negative sentence I heard him utter in two and a half years of working together: "That was bad." The next morning the entire department (a fairly large floor within the hospital) still smelled. The housekeepers told me later that it took them nearly an hour to suction up all of the fluid and debris left behind. The OR suite itself was closed off and quarantined for two more days just to let the smell finally clear out. I laugh now when I hear new recruits to healthcare talk about the worst thing they've seen. You ain't seen shit, kid. tl;dr Don't shoot IV drugs into your taint.

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Lesslie John on Quora:

What are some hilarious Marijuana stories/incident?

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