#even when he's feeling suicidal he finds it easier to cope with the idea of BRINGING THE PERSON HE LOVES WITH HIM

[finnbbl]

Hold onto me

Bang Chan Written

Prompt: With your stressful life, it wasn’t easy to find a healthy way to cope. When Chan finds you at your worst, he makes sure to let you know that you’ve always got him to hold onto.

Genre: Angst/Comfort

Gender Neutral Reader

- Warnings: Panic attacks, mention caffeine OD implied (if you squint) mentions of self harm, using excessive caffeine to cope, suicidal thoughts, i don’t think there’s any swearing?

- A/N: This was kind of a self comfort thing I wrote, but I know other people struggle with these types of things as well. I hope this can help someone out

- Requests: OPEN

Masterlist

Please read disclaimer in masterlist

*click*

The sound of yet another can being opened. Your fourth, fifth, sixth energy drink today. It was easy to lose count when your mind was in a constant haze of self-deprecation, insecurity, and loneliness. Why should you be feeling any of this? You had a loving and amazing boyfriend who would compliment and reassure you daily. There should be no reason or excuse for you to live this way.

However, you let your mind get the best of you.

You continued to down your next energy drink within 5 minutes, rubbing your forehead as you continued typing your essay for college. Life stressed you out. Once you graduated, you moved on. Moving on to adulthood, college, work, you name it. Along with all these struggles, something a little more positive wiggled into your life. Your boyfriend, Chan. He was the sweetest guy you could ask for. Nice, caring, handsome, selfless, you wouldn’t trade him for the world. Your first four years weren’t bad, a little bump here and there but nothing like high school had been. Chan had found out how hard it was for you as a teenager. He’d walked in on a close relapse but was able to stop and comfort you. Help you recover, and you did.

Well, sort of.

That’s what Chan thinks anyway. It wasn’t a total lie, it had been a clean recovery for the most part. But as college got harder, the workload got larger, your social life got worse, and all that work to get better quickly dissipated. Of course, you couldn’t let him know that. Remembering the look on his face when you had explained what you used to deal with, and what it caused you to do to yourself. It was something you couldn’t bear to see again. So, you kept it hidden.

You kept it hidden by coping with it differently. Once you realized your previous method of relapsing wouldn’t work anymore, you turned to caffeine. Your previous method involved physically scarring yourself, and you couldn’t hide it. Any caffeine you could find. Soda, coffee, tea, energy drinks. Anything that could take your mind away from the horrible thoughts that clouded your mind. So there you found yourself, sipping on your seventh one of the day. Then your eighth, your ninth, the numbers continue to increase. Proceeding to drink them like they were water, unaware of the severe health problems it could lead to. Or maybe you were aware, and just couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Bang Chan had no idea about it. It was something you could easily keep hidden by destroying the evidence. The empty cans and bottles weren’t hard to get rid of. And with your boyfriend having to stay later than usual to prepare for new comebacks, it was even easier.

You rubbed your eyes with your fingertips and yawned. The clock read 1:30 a.m. It was well after midnight, a time when most would be asleep, resting, and preparing to start their day tomorrow. However, it was a different story for you. Of course for Chan as well, although he had a different situation. Your fingers went away at the keys on your keyboard. You were determined to finish this essay, knowing you’d probably be assigned another one in a few days. Suddenly, your phone dinged. You groaned as annoyance began to flow through you. All you wanted to do was get this stupid schoolwork done and go to bed. As you were about to turn your phone on silent, something caught your eye. A notification from your friend group chat. All you could do was stare at the unopened message, watching as the amount of notifications suddenly began to get larger and larger. Some of your friends were interesting, definitely toxic but there were only a few you had left. In your eyes, it was better to have someone who treats you horribly, rather than having no one. You knew you shouldn’t, but your dying curiosity got the better of you. Next thing you knew, you were reading through several degrading comments.

All about you.

One of your friends had completely snapped at you. Half of your mutual friends had turned against you because of her twisted words. Suddenly, it was like you were frozen. Nothing felt real, and you weren’t a hundred percent sure of what was happening anymore. They were throwing insults at you left and right, and you were too exhausted to defend yourself. It wasn’t long before you zoned out, completely forgetting about the work in front of you. Letting all the negative and self-degrading insults cloud your mind. You began to bathe in self-doubt thanks to the toxicity. It had been like this for years, that one specific friend turning everyone in your life against you. It’d cause you to have an episode, she’d apologize and guilt trip you. And you somehow fell for it. Despite all this, you had a couple of friends who stuck by your side no matter what. Aware of how manipulative she could be, they understood and sympathized with you. This was how it always was. Constantly being drowned in school work and stress, your suffering continues to grow with the emotional abuse. Those thoughts were quickly interrupted as you saw headlights shine through the windows of the living room. Chan had arrived home.

The headlights soon flashed off. Only moments later did Chan slowly and cautiously open the front door. He attempted to keep the noise level down, expecting you to be asleep. Much to his surprise, you were at the dining table in front of your computer. “Baby, what are you still doing up?” He asked sweetly as he shut the front door, locking it back. “Oh, hey Chan. How was your day?” You asked him, completely ignoring his question. Taking another sip of your newly opened energy drink, your eyes didn't leave the screen. You wanted to get this over with and do your best to push out all the self-hatred that your friends dispersed into you.

His eyes briefly darted to the drink that sat on the table next to you, a tinge of worry shooting through him. It wasn’t unusual to find you up late, but it was currently almost 2 am. Doing his best to brush it off, he walked over and sat his things on the kitchen counter. “Not sure how well you’ll sleep with that caffeine in your system.” He said in a joking manner, but also in hopes of bringing you to your senses. Nothing else was said, silence painted the room with only the sound of your typing. He glanced over at the screen, seeing the endless pages of words, that’s when Chris began to wonder…

“How long have you been working on that? Maybe I can help you so you can get to bed soon.” Chan said as he walked over next to you. He put one hand on the back of your chair and his other on the table, leaning down to get a better view of the computer. It was clear he was concerned. “It’s fine, Channie. I’ll get it done within the next uhhh.. couple hours?” He was in disbelief at what he was hearing. Although you stayed up late, you never slept after 12:30. The fact that you said you’d be done when it was nearing sunrise? It shocked him. “Maybe you should just finish this tomorrow, it’s getting late y/n-“

“I know it’s late, but I need this done tonight.” Cutting him off with a sharp tone and briefly looking up at him. He took a small step back at your sudden change. “Just go to bed, i’ll be there soon.” You turned back to your laptop, running your fingers through your hair. Chan could only stand there as he tried to process what had just happened. Sure you weren’t harsh, but you’d never talked to him like that before. After a few minutes, he decided he would clean up around the house a bit. With him being at work all the time, and you busy with college and your job, the house had collected more than dust. Chris already couldn’t sleep well, and knowing you were acting like this would have made resting impossible. He thought that keeping himself occupied until you were done would help. One by one, he went through every dirty dish, every dirty piece of laundry, and every dog toy scattered around from Berry who he now kept with you two. Over an hour had passed, and you still weren’t done. He wasn’t even sure that you realized he was still in the room.

Mutually, he hadn’t even noticed you had opened up two more energy drinks since he’d been here until he saw the cans on the table. He furrowed his eyebrows. One this late was one thing, but the two large-sized energy drinks afterward were another. Something about that irked him, he was big on health. However, he figured you’d had a long day, so he kept his mouth shut as he finished cleaning the house.

Then, his eye caught something.

The trash can. His mouth practically fell open when he saw it, shocked by the amount of empty bottles and cans. Just how much caffeine have you consumed today? Chan had many discussions with you about your health, it was one of the most important factors in life to him. And it was unusual for you not to take care of yourself, he wasn’t sure what to think.

“Y/N..“ he started and caught your attention. You hummed lowly in response, with only silence to follow. He was still in shock, he’d never expect someone like you to care so little about your health. His tongue dragged along the inside of his cheek, doing his best to keep calm. “Just how much caffeine have you had today..?” Chris asked you in a lecturing tone. You rubbed your forehead and sighed before briefly turning your swivel chair around to meet his eyes. “What?” Asking him as if you hadn’t heard. Your words were laced with annoyance, unaware of the events that were about to follow.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer you, only countering with another question of his own. “How many talks have we had about how important your health is?” Your boyfriend crossed his arms as you sighed once again. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.” He figured your head must have been too jumbled to pick up what he was putting down. Chan exhaled deeply as he pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted his eyes. Frustration nipped at him as he bit his tongue so he didn’t say something he’d regret. You were slowly pushing him over the edge.

“You know what, how about we put this away for the night so you can sleep.” The male had realized he was going to have to do more than just talk to get through to you. He thought that resorting to calmer words and taking more action would work. But before he could walk over and shut your laptop, you protested. “What? No, I need to get this done. I’m not finished.”

Chris bit the inside of his cheek and sighed heavily. “Again, go to bed and I’ll be there in a bit.” You continued before muttering something inaudible under your breath. It wasn’t long before your body was facing the computer once again. Anger and frustration began to course through him. What the hell had happened to you? Usually, you were calm and thought carefully about what you put in your body, but now you refused to even acknowledge that your health was declining. Not to mention, you’d gotten snappy with him. “Y/N, it is after 3 in the morning. I’m tired, I know you’re tired. Let’s go to bed and talk about this in the morning-“

“God Chan I do not need you lecturing me right now. I have shit to get done!” Cutting him off and whipping back around in your chair, you left him standing there dumbfounded. “For once, worry about yourself. I don’t need you standing over my shoulder telling me what to do.” The two of you locked eyes briefly. You don’t know what it was and what made you speak to him like that. Was it the stress? The caffeine? The self-hatred? Maybe it was a mix of it all that finally sent you over the edge. Your boyfriend clenched his fist as tears started to gloss over his eyes. A glint of hurt flashed over them before he finally snapped back.

“You know what? I don’t care anymore Y/N. Obviously, you don’t care about your health so don’t expect me to be there when fall to the ground of a heart attack!” His words shot right through your heart. Reality hit you. Immediately, your body shot up out of the chair, “Chan-“ Before you could apologize, you heard the bedroom door slam. You jumped at the loud noise. You could feel yourself start to disassociate, and it wasn’t long before you found your head buried in your hands. Silent sobs escaped through your lips. You weren’t even sure when your body gave out as you collapsed to the ground. The weight of the past month’s struggles all came crashing down on your shoulders at once. How could you be so stupid? The one person you knew you could count on to take care of you and keep you safe, you had pushed away. Realization hit as you glanced over to see the amount of caffeine you’d ingested in only 24 hours. As if on cue, your body finally started to react to it. Your heart felt as if it was beating out of your chest, your body got jittery and you’d only just noticed how much your anxiety had spiked.

A curse seeped through your lips as your cries got unnoticeably louder. At this point, your body and mind refused to forgive you. You started breathing heavier and faster as you found yourself hyperventilating, going back and forth between wanting to get better and wanting it to end. Your mind only brought back horrible memories as intense anxiety ran through your veins. The only sounds that filled the room were your cries, and the refrigerator humming in the background. It added such an eerie and unsettling feeling.

Meanwhile in the bedroom was Chan who had now changed into his sleep clothes. The events of the past few hours raced through his mind on loop. Beginning to replay your actions of the past month in his head, he searched for an answer on why you would be acting like this. You had hurt him, but it wasn’t deniable that you were most likely hurting too.

Hurt people, hurt people. He wasn’t angry, he was just worried sick. It was obvious you had been acting off, but he never knew you turned to caffeine to cope. And as if the male needed any more confirmation, the sound of your suffering slipped right through the walls to his ears. His body moved before he could think, immediately jumping up and making his way to the door.

As he opened it, he realized just how miserable you must’ve been the past month. Usually, he was one to check up on you. Doing small household tasks together and letting you rant about your day, then listen to his. But recently, that had not been the case. Something must’ve been going on that you refused to tell him. You were unaware that you’d caught his attention until you felt two strong arms wrap you in a warm embrace from behind. Your body immediately acted as you threw yourself up and into his arms. “Shh shh, it’s okay sweetheart.” Chan rubbed soothing circles over your back as he noticed how worked up you were. “Baby you’re shaking,” He briefly pulled back to meet your eyes. His fingers found their way under your eyes as he wiped away the tears that poured down your face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

You dug your head into the crook of his neck, continuing to mutter out apologies to him. “Please don’t leave me, please..” You begged him in between sniffles, which caught him a bit off guard. His lips poured into a frown. “I’m not going to leave you, why would I do that?” Chan’s tone was soft and comforting. However, the question flew through one ear and right out the other.

“I don’t want to hurt anymore Chan, please..” Confusion glossed over his eyes, you don’t want to hurt anymore? What were you talking about? His hands lifted your chin as he pulled his body back slightly to face you. “Slow down, what do you mean?” Worry made its way through his body, it was only then that he noticed just how much you were shaking. “I don’t want to do it anymore Chan, I can’t take it..” Unintentionally, pleas slipped right past your teeth. His eyes looked into yours with sympathy. “Oh, honey..” This was always something you did your best to keep hidden from him, your poor mental health. Chan was a very sweet person. Whenever he noticed that someone he loved was hurting, he made them his priority. Oftentimes, letting his health decline in the process. You had refused to let that happen. Not to mention, you weren’t sure how long he’d want to stay after seeing how weak and vulnerable you could be. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe he loved you, but your mind told you otherwise.

“What’s going on, what’s making you think like this hm?” His hand stroked through your hair, doing every single action of reassurance that he could. God how he hoped it was working. “I.. Everyone hates me and.. and I didn’t even do anything!” You suddenly broke. However, he didn’t scream, insult, or push you away. Quietly and patiently, he waited for you to continue. Making sure to keep you in a warm embrace, he did his best to soothe you. “And I’m drowning in school work and I’m just..”

"Is this about…" Chris suddenly asked you. This wasn't the first time you had come to him with a problem like this, but it was the worst by far. Your glossy eyes glanced up at his, your lips quivering as you held back tears. As if on cue, a ding was heard from the table. Followed by a few more and you immediately knew what was happening. More tears spilled down your face as you avoided eye contact. Curious, Chan looked between you and your phone. Hesitantly, he grabbed it. Anger started to run through his veins as he scrolled through all the chats. He only read a few before he decided to put it down. If he didn’t stop now, he wasn’t sure that everyone would make it out alive. The male turned back towards you, as he gently motioned for you to sit down on the floor. You began to sway, which worried him. Gently, his hands found yours. “Baby, I love you so much you know that?”

“And I want to respect whatever decisions you make because after all, it’s your life but..” He glanced back and forth between your two eyes as you waited for him to continue. This was something to be gone about carefully, the phrasing couldn’t be too harsh. “You have got to cut them off, they’re not good for your mental health and it’s starting to worry me.” You glanced up at him and then at the floor. He was right, there was no denying that. Healthily dealing with things like this was hard for you. “But.. I’m scared.”

“I know, I understand but… I’m concerned with the amount of caffeine you’re putting in your body.” Chan rubbed his thumb over your knuckle as your hand began to shake. “I thought.. I thought it would help distract me. I just wanted everything to end.” Your bottled-up feeling poured out like an ocean. Although Chan was thankful you were finally talking to him, he didn’t know what to do besides getting you help. That was going to be a challenge. “I just want you to be happy again, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you eat a whole meal. Much less anything other than caffeine.”

He sighed, “Look I know it may not be what you want to hear, but you need help Y/N.” Unexpectedly, you didn’t protest. “You need to go to a professional, can you do that for me? I’ll even go with you.” You inhaled and exhaled deeply. Doctors terrified you, which is probably why you never went willingly before. The last time you needed help, you had to be dragged there by someone. And most of the time it was Chan. Your eyes met his before slowly nodding, causing a smile to tug on your boyfriend’s lips. His hand went up to the side of your head, fixing your hair a bit. “Can you smile for me, please?”

You didn’t budge and he let out a playful sigh. “Come onnnn, pleaseeeee.” He stuck his bottom lip out to form a pout, one glance is all it took for you to fold, your lips curving upwards into a soft smile. A small giggle from him sounded as he continued to stroke your hair. “There you go… come here.” You glanced at his arms which were now open and welcoming you into them as you crawled into his lap. He rocked you back and forth muttering small positive affirmations to you. Chan was someone you would be forever grateful for. He always knew how to help and cheer you up. The mutual love you guys had for each other was unmatched. So there you two were, in each other's arms as a comforting silence began to take over. With all the caffeine in your system, you both knew it was going to be nearly impossible for you to sleep tonight. There was a long road of recovery waiting for you ahead. However, with Chan, you knew everything was going to be okay.

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER SEVEN: Downward Spiral

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: After agreeing to go on a date with Matt, you start realizing the weight of your decision, and your thoughts begin spiraling. In a moment of need, you turn to the only close friend you have in Hell's Kitchen, hoping she can pull you away from the edge of the very steep cliff your trauma is trying to throw you into.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST (the caps feel appropriate here), mentions of domestic violence, suicidal thoughts, allusions to a suicide attempt, allusions to sexual assault, mentions of being taken advantage of by a superior, (I guess you could say) mentions of hypersexuality, self-loathing, PTSD, some foreshadowing, mental breakdown, alcohol, Season 1 related plot (spoilers)

Word Count: 6.4k

A/n: Surprise! I'm posting early because I'm going to see my family this weekend, and after I had an epiphany at two in the morning and spent 3 days writing this, I got it done, and I'm actually quite proud of this (or maybe it's the caffeine). Anyway, heed the warnings because the topics of conversation in this are pretty dark. That's why I highlighted the angst. And if you haven't watched past episode 1 of Season 1, this might spoil some things for you. (Also, I have no idea how this turned into a beast with a word count over 6k. Sorry in advance.)

Read Chapter 7: Downward Spiral here on AO3

You don’t know what came over you.

You typed in Matt’s number in a moment of weakness, and once you heard his voice through the line, you gave up on being careful. You gave up on denying yourself what you’re so desperately craving, and you abandoned all rational thought.

For him.

You promised not to get attached to someone ever again—let alone a man. You started a new life in Hell’s Kitchen to find your way back to normalcy. You took all the necessary precautions, and even though you look back at the shreds of your old life every day, you are never going back.

Two years. That is the longest you have managed to stay in one place ever since you left California. But you still haven’t found your way back into the real world.

You have been guarding yourself, afraid of having your heart broken, afraid of losing this chance at a new life, and afraid of the man who ruined you. 

Every time you close your eyes, you see his face. You hear his voice in the back of your mind. He’s everywhere, even when you don’t want him to be. 

It’s easier to put a wall between yourself and everyone else. A wall no one can break through, not even yourself. You trapped your soul for the sole purpose of keeping yourself alive after you made the hardest decision of your life. When you ran, you believed your life was over, but you have always been too much of a coward to end your misery. God knows you’ve tried, but even a trained doctor can’t fully understand death, and some things just don’t work out the way we want them to. 

Drunken one-night stands can’t possibly compare to a meaningful emotional connection, but they satisfy the need for physical intimacy. At least for a little while. It killed you; slowly, almost pathetically, but sleeping with strangers in dirty motel rooms did a better job than you ever could. 

For the longest time, you used sex as a coping mechanism. You let strange men use you because that is the only way you know how to be with someone else. You let them hurt you to feel something, anything because pain is better than feeling nothing at all. But when you finally got settled in Hell’s Kitchen, thanks to Claire, you stopped. 

You locked up your heart and threw away the key. You started to shield your body the same way you have shielded your soul. You retreated into a shell of restlessness and constant fear of every little sliver of hope you feel being taken away from you. 

You have nowhere else to run, which is why keeping a low profile is so important to you, but after two years, don’t you deserve to finally live? 

We don’t exist to just survive; we exist to live the life we were given. You are Olivia Clarke now, not the broken girl you left behind, but every time you think about it, his voice returns and backs you into a corner that you can’t escape from. 

Every time you see the scars on your body, all you want to do is rip the skin off your bones and feed it to the dogs. 

The men you slept with while you were running from your past saw you as a mere object, and you are used to being seen that way, but it was isolating nonetheless. They didn’t care about your scars, they only cared about what you could give them. They treated you like he did without lifting a finger. 

Even though you don’t do that anymore, it still weighs heavy on your wounded soul. 

Matt treats you like a person. He can’t physically see, but he still sees you. He sees you in a way no one has ever seen you before. And he is gentle, and patient, and—

You scream into your pillow. Your nose still hurts, but it is nothing compared to how fast your heart is beating. 

To you, Matt is perfect. You know that no one can be perfect, and you should be careful, but he makes you feel things you have long denied yourself. He makes you feel wanted. Desired. Like you can be yourself around him and still be worthy of his attention. Like you matter. And he has a certain way of being around you that makes you feel protected, almost. 

You don’t need protection. You have made it this far without a bodyguard by your side. You know how to fight your own battles better than most, but you can’t deny that you wouldn’t mind being saved by him. 

You wouldn’t mind those hands he always wraps around his cane to wrap around you instead. He can’t see your scars, but he can feel them, and as terrifying as that thought sounds, it also excites you. 

You’re treading dangerous territory, but God, he won’t leave you alone, not even when you’re trying to sleep. He could offer you a sense of normal that you have long missed. He could teach you how to be a person again. And maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself be cared for by him. 

You roll back onto your back when you need to breathe, one of your hairs getting stuck to your lip. You let out an annoyed huff. There won’t be much sleeping tonight, you’re sure. Not when you keep thinking about tomorrow.

“You’re not fifteen anymore,” you mutter to yourself. “What is wrong with you? God!”

It’s almost too surreal to believe that this magnetic force of a man managed to retrieve some of your long-lost hope, and he only had to call you beautiful once for you to be completely smitten. 

When he allowed you to take care of his injuries on the first day you met, you didn’t think a person could be this guarded yet so vulnerable at the same time. He’s breaking under an invisible weight that must have been on his shoulders for years, maybe even decades. You’re painfully aware of other people’s feelings, and it wasn’t hard to tell that Matt carries a lot of unresolved pain with him. Always. He reminds you so much of yourself, it’s like staring into a mirror. Two broken halves of a whole. 

Your thoughts won’t stand still, no matter how hard you try. You’re stuck inside an invisible hourglass. Not even heaven knows what will happen once time runs out. You don’t understand why you’re overthinking this while, at the same time, knowing exactly why. And you hate it. 

There is a part of you that you can never get back. A little girl who grew up too fast. A girl who didn’t know any better. A broken teenager who wanted nothing more than to escape and live a better life than her parents could ever give her, and when she did manage to escape one hell, she found herself in a new quarter of purgatory built just for you.

You used to think that maybe you just bring the worst out in people, but after seeing the worst of humanity outside of your broken relationships, too, you’re not so sure about that anymore.

The fact that you don’t understand why you can’t stop your usually so intelligent brain from spinning out of control makes you want to claw at the walls of your apartment that threaten to cave in on you.

Part of you wants nothing more than to run and never look back, but you can’t run forever. This time, you wouldn’t be running from the Devil; you would be running from a fear of your own feelings. Human feelings. Feelings that have a high likelihood of recurring, and then you will have to run again. 

You can’t run from reality forever. It’s a different reality now, but it’s a better reality. That is a rational thought, but being rational currently has no place in your mind, so you’re spiraling, and all because a nice guy asked you out for coffee. 

You find yourself in a cab a few minutes later, wearing a pair of sweatpants, and an oversized shirt, with an untouched bottle of wine in your bag. Your worn-down sneakers are not the appropriate footwear for today’s weather, but you couldn’t be bothered to pick another pair. 

You’re aware that it’s late and maybe you should have texted, but you’re already here, and Claire told you that you could always come to her, even if it happens to be the middle of the night. If the rule still stands after she suddenly decided to stay at your co-worker’s place without a proper explanation, you’re not quite sure though. 

You knock. At first, no response. You knock again. The floorboards creak on the other side of the door. 

“Claire, it’s Liv,” you call out.

You can hear the exact moment the person inside the apartment starts to panic. The floorboards creak again, more frequent this time, and it sounds almost as if Claire is turning the room upside down. You raise your eyebrows. 

Before you can knock again, the lock finally clicks, and she opens the door. She’s more of a mess than you are, and that is put lightly.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Claire greets you. “What are you doing here?”

You blink a few times. “Hello to you too?”

She sighs. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, it’s just been a long night.”

“I can see that,” you answer. “Are you alright?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She looks you up and down. “What happened to your nose?”

“It’s a long story.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah. Can I, uh, come in?”

She hesitates before stepping aside to let you in. “Sure.”

You take a quick look around the apartment. Nothing seems out of place. A bowl of cat food stands in the corner by the kitchen. The window in the living room is open, but it seems intentional. 

The scent of antiseptic lingers in the air. You’re not sure if your nose is betraying you as you breathe in, but the smell is familiar. Bandages, disinfectant, and salve. You don’t want to question it, but you can’t help it. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” you ask. 

Claire blows her nose behind you. If you didn’t know better, you would think she was actually sick. She shakes her head upon hearing your question, but there is a faint blush on her cheeks. 

“What makes you think that?” she retorts. 

“Oh, no particular reason. It just smells very… hospital-y. That’s why I asked.”

“I, uh, I had to put a bandage on my leg earlier ‘cause this stupid cat decided to scratch me after peeing everywhere.” She sniffs. “Had to clean the wound, that thing—“ she nods toward the cat sitting in the cat tree, “and then the apartment. Maybe that’s why.” 

You follow her gaze toward the little furball resting on his cat tree. You approach him, but Claire seems less pleased at the prospect. 

“Be careful. He’s pissed.”

“At you,” you correct her. “Also, you’re having an allergic reaction, and—if he really, honest-to-God scratched you—very probably an infection. Why are you even staying here?”

Your voice rises in pitch when you reach the sleeping cat. “Hello, you.” You stroke his fur. He only opens one eye to sniff you, but once he recognizes you, he starts purring. For a moment, you forget the reason why you even came here. 

Claire exhales loudly. She scratches her neck, her skin threatening to break out into hives. “It’s a long story,” she says. 

You glare at her over your shoulder, your hand still stroking up and down the cat’s back as he settles back into a deep sleep. “I’m worried about you."

“That’s sweet of you, but I’m fine.”

“You called out of work and told Shelly you were sick.” You straighten up and turn back to face her. “You’re not sick, Claire.”

She sniffs as if to prove her point.

“Your immune system is overreacting by producing Immunoglobulin E. The antibodies are traveling to the cells responsible for releasing chemicals into your body, causing you to get a stuffy nose and break out into hives. You’re not sick. You’re allergic to cats and sharing an apartment with one. There’s a big difference,” you state. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you have to admit that, from where I’m standing, your behavior looks a little suspicious.”

“I’m going through some shit, alright?” she says. “And it’s a lot easier to deal with them here than back at my place. That’s why I called in sick.”

You don’t know what to make of her answer. It’s vague. You don’t like vague answers because they often indicate a bigger problem. It is one thing for you to deal with your demons on your own and refuse to talk about it with your best friend; it’s another thing entirely to keep a dangerous truth from the person you’re closest with, one that could potentially lead to worse consequences. If Claire were a naturally secretive person, maybe you would understand, but she isn’t like that. She isn’t you. 

She’s the only person who knows your entire story. She saved your life. You can’t imagine her keeping secrets from you that might end up hurting her. 

You dare to ask, “Are you in danger?”

She shakes her head a little too fast. “I’m fine, Liv. Really.”

“I’m sorry, but I have a hard time believing that.”

“It’s…personal.”

“Personal? Oh, my. Are you sleeping with Luke again?”

Claire stammers. The look on her face suggests that she didn’t expect you to jump to that conclusion. “What? How did you even–”

“Are you?” you repeat your question. 

The last time she slept with Luke Cage, she lied to you about it. She knew you would worry. It’s only natural for you to come to that conclusion now. Except that Luke is in prison, serving his sentence, and it doesn’t make sense. 

“How would I sleep with an incarcerated man?” Claire deadpans. 

“I’m sure you have your ways,” you say. 

“You’re grasping at straws.”

“That’s… true, but it’s coming from a place of love.”

She responds with a sigh. “I don’t wanna fight.”

You join in. You exhale, slowly lowering yourself down on the couch. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “Just tell me you’re okay, please.”

She offers you a gentle smile. “I’m okay,” she says. 

“Thank you.” 

You choose to believe her. For the time being, at least. 

The silence tugs at your brain cells. You obsessed over Claire’s situation because you didn’t want to face your own, but now that your thoughts have regained the freedom to roam and cause irreversible destruction, you start spiraling again. 

You reach into your bag. 

“You brought wine,” Claire points out. 

“Yep,” you say. The bottle weighs heavily in your hand.

“You need a glass?”

You unscrew the top. “No.”

She doesn’t listen. Claire makes her way into the kitchen, reaching for the wine glasses in the cupboard. “Does this have anything to do with why your nose is all blue and swollen?” 

You shake your head at her question. “That was a patient I tried to sedate. No, I, uh… I have a date,” your voice falls flat. 

The wine glasses move back into the cupboard. Claire turns around, her eyebrows moving up to her hairline. “Come again?”

“I have a date.”

Saying it out loud makes it real. Something so surreal cannot be real, but it is. You have a date with Matt Murdock. Your heart begins racing again, and you feel the same desperate urge to scream into the nearest pillow again. 

You take a sip of wine straight from the bottle. You have a date with a nice man who, for the first time in two years, made you see some resemblance of light at the end of this endless tunnel of despair, and the thought alone is terrifying. Because how are you supposed to live after just existing for the longest time? After you dedicated your life to the act of survival?

Claire steps out of the kitchen and in front of you. “Liv, that’s… that’s amazing!” she says. She sounds like a proud mother. Maybe she is. 

You want to shake your head, but you can’t find it in yourself to do anything other than put the bottle back against your lips and take another sip. The alcohol burns down your esophagus into your stomach, spreading a warm feeling through your fragile body, and into your broken soul. 

“Or not,” she corrects herself upon seeing the expression you’re carrying. Your eyes are empty. “I’m confused,” She pauses, “Are we not happy about the fact that you’ve finally got a date after two years of being miserable?”

If she puts it like that, you feel even more miserable. Another sip of wine finds its way down your throat. 

“Okay, maybe you should put the bottle down. I’m sorry if I said something wrong–”

“It’s not you, it’s me.” You put the bottle down. 

Claire sits down next to you, but you get up before she can take your hand and look at you with that caring look she always gives you when she’s worried. You’re not even mad that she played your concerns down when you expressed them and now she is expressing concerns about you; you’re mad at yourself. 

She watches you. “You have a date. That’s a good thing. It means you allowed yourself to finally say yes to someone interested in you, right?”

“No,” you shake your head. 

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You’re pacing over the creaky floorboards. “The last time I went on a date with someone was after my intern year.”

Her gaze softens. “You told me that,” she murmurs. 

“He took me to a restaurant,” you tell her. Your lip quivers as you speak, and your nails dig into your palms until they draw blood. You can barely feel it. His face is right in front of you. “It was a nice restaurant. He paid for me, even offered me his jacket while we were walking home. It was the best date I ever had. And then he kissed me on the doorstep before wishing me a good night.”

“I know. You told me all of that before. But you couldn’t have known that he would turn out to be who he turned out to be. He was your boss. He had no right—”

“That is precisely the problem, Claire!” your voice breaks. “The guy I met, he’s… his name is Matthew. He’s… he is so nice to me. He cares. He treats me like a human being. He… he’s respectful. He called me beautiful. I don’t even know how he knows that. He just… he was so nice to me, and I feel so comfortable around him. I haven’t felt this comfortable around a man in so long. I… I wanted to go out with him. I flirted with him, for fuck’s sake! And when I’m with him, I finally feel wanted again.”

“But you know who else was nice to me when I first met him?” you say. “Who was respectful? Who said I was the only real thing in this world, the only important thing in his life, and that he loved me? You know who made me feel safe and wanted, and who said he cared about me? John said that I was the most beautiful woman on this planet, and I fell for it because he was nice to me. He–”

“But that guy isn’t John,” Claire cuts you off. She raises her voice only slightly—only enough to make you stop and stare at her, tears streaming down your cheeks. You’re miserable. You’re a mess. It is truly embarrassing. But she doesn’t look at you any differently.

“Don’t you think I know that?” you snap back. 

“Liv–”

“Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. I’m 32, and I can’t sleep without a nightlight most nights because I wake up in a cold sweat. I can’t drop a glass without going into shock. I can’t look in the mirror without feeling his hands on me. Without feeling disgusting and worthless, and…” You can feel the shiver traveling up your spine from the thought alone. “I can’t exist without feeling like he should have killed me when he got the chance.” 

“Liv, I know you’re upset, but please, don’t say that,” Claire says, her voice gentle yet assertive.

“Why? It’s true. I wish he would’ve killed me. He took four years of my life that I can never get back. At least if he’d killed me I wouldn’t have to suffer now.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want you saying things like that.”

“You don’t get it,” you say. “Every time I look in the mirror, I want to vomit because I see what he made of me. I can’t even meet a nice guy and allow myself to like him without seeing his face and hearing his stupid voice in my ear, telling me—telling me that no one will ever love me, that he tainted me, and that I will never be free of him because I can’t exist without him.” You break into a sob. 

“And he was right, you know,” you cry. “I ran from him. I made the hardest decision of my life after years of living in his shadow, and I almost died. Because of him, I can’t trust a kind and respectful man who treats me like a person to actually be kind, and I recoil at the thought of someone being gentle with me. Something is seriously broken inside of me, Claire. Very, very broken.”

Claire opens her mouth, but all she can do is bear your tirade. She knows that if she speaks now, you will find another reason to shut her down. This is your pain talking. It’s a powerful avalanche set out to cause destruction on a global scale.

“With Matt, I—” you exhale. “I was myself around him for the first time since I ran away, and he didn’t shy away. I had hope, Claire. I felt like I could finally step into normal life again after settling down here, and I thought I’d have a chance,” you say. “But I just have to close my eyes, and John is right there to ruin everything for me. He is always right there, and I can’t fucking escape him. That’s the problem. That’s why I can’t be happy about this date because I’m fucking terrified. I can’t go through this again. I—I can’t give myself to someone again because there is hardly anything left of me. He took everything, including my ability to love another man ever again, and that thought is fucking with my head.”

You fall silent. The tears continue running down your cheeks, and you bury your face in your hands. Your knees are so weak. You don’t have it in you to hold yourself up any longer. You drop to the carpet, crying into your hands, but you don’t sob. You stay silent because your pain is so great, you don’t know whether to scream or shut down, so you scream internally and shut down from the world around you because you can’t face it. You can’t face Claire. 

The couch creaks. Her feet brush against the carpet. “He abused you,” her voice borders above a whisper. 

She kneels beside you, her hand reaching out—but not touching you. She knows what lines to cross and which to better leave untouched.

“What he did to you wasn’t your fault. He’s a cruel man with cruel intentions.” When you don’t shy away from her proximity, she finally places her hand on your shoulder. “You did the impossible. You survived. You’re here now because you chose to save yourself, and that is so admirable,” she says. “It’s been two years. You’re safe here, you’re not alone anymore, and I know it hurts and it is terrifying, but it’s a good sign that you want to feel more of what this guy made you feel.”

“But I can’t,” you choke out. 

“I know, and I wish I could help you, but I’m not a professional. The truth is, John may have made you feel like there is nothing left of you, but you’re not Olivia Clarke. You’re still you. You’re still…” Claire takes a deep breath before she utters your name. Your real name. The one you were given when you were born. 

The mention of your name makes you shiver. “She’s gone,” you say. “He killed her, but he left her body alive.”

“She’s not gone, she’s just buried very fucking deep. I mean, you said it yourself. You could be yourself around this other guy, and he took you for who you are. That isn’t Olivia, that’s you. And it’s such a good sign that you want to go out with him. That you like him. John hurt you, but he didn’t break you beyond repair. Please, you have to remember that.”

Your tears slowly subside. Her words finally manage to reach your rebelling mind through your ears. Even though everything feels like it has been wrapped in cotton, she manages to get through to you like no one else. It was a subconscious decision to come to her, but perhaps your soul knew something that you didn’t, and you can’t say that opening up didn’t help. 

The mess slowly subsides. Left behind is nothing but hot air, and the words Claire decided to share with you. 

You look up to meet her eyes. She smiles down at you. “I just… I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” you whisper.

“That’s why I think you should go on that date,” she tells you.

“Yeah, but who wants to sign up for a mess like me?”

“Seems like he does. And if he’s a good guy, he’ll like you regardless of your mess.”

“You know it’s not that easy.”

She shrugs. “I hate to break it to you, but you can’t pretend it never happened. And you can’t give John the satisfaction of putting your life on hold because of him. That’s just giving him what he wants.”

“I don’t want to give him what he wants,” you’re quick to answer.

Claire hands you a tissue, and you take it gratefully, wiping your runny nose and the salty tears stuck to your dry skin.

Her words stir something within you; even though you don’t want her to be right, she is. Matt may not deserve a mess like you, but if he’s truly a good guy, it can’t hurt to see if it would work between you. And when your past comes out eventually, there is a chance that he won’t abandon you. A slight chance, but a chance nonetheless. That’s a positive outlook you still have to learn how to adapt.

“C’mon.” Claire helps you off the floor and onto the couch. 

You reach for the bottle of wine instantly, but she takes it away from you. She screws the top back on and places it aside, far out of your desperate reach.

“This is not the answer,” she says, “talking is.”

“Can’t we talk and have wine?” you counter.

“Not when you’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

You sniff, wiping the remaining tears on your cheeks with the tissue. 

“We need to take care of you, and alcohol won’t fix your problems.”

Once again, she isn’t wrong. You let out a defeated sigh before dropping your head in her lap. 

A long time ago, you used to be an affectionate person. The fear of being hurt again, of someone raising their hand against you, took that away from you. With Claire though, it’s different. You know she won’t hurt you. She’s not that kind of person, and you can say that with complete certainty. 

Claire Temple is not a violent human being, except for when the people she loves are in danger, but only then. 

She gently brushes the hair out of your face and crumbles it into a messy bun at the back of your head. She wipes at your nose and the last of your tears before they can dry out your skin more than it already is. The past couple of days have taken an emotional and physical toll on you. 

You wince slightly when you notice how sore your nose is. It isn’t broken, but you still got hit. You’re not quite healed yet. A shiver rolls down your spine. 

Shaking her head, Claire gently removes her hand. “You always get yourself in trouble when I’m not around,” she mutters. 

You scoff softly. “Maybe that’s a sign.”

“A sign for you to be more careful, yeah,” she says. 

“Now, where would be the fun in that?” You try to joke, but your voice falls flat with the weight of your exhaustion. 

Claire offers you a chuckle, but it’s more of a pity laugh than anything else.

You sigh. You know that you’re not an example when it comes to the significance of making the right decisions. Not at all. 

“Did I ever thank you for saving my life?” you ask her then, breaking the silence between you in two.

She leans back against the cushions. “Once or twice.”

“Not nearly enough then.”

“I don’t know about that. I mean, if you hadn’t come into Metro General with your hand in a man’s chest cavity, I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to help you. You chose to stay.”

“Well, I had my hand on his vena cava, so, letting go would have been unfortunate for the poor guy.”

“That’s true.”

“But if you hadn’t disobeyed protocol, risking your job by putting your trust in me, I wouldn’t have had a reason to stay.”

Claire looks down at you, and you meet her eyes. “That sounded a lot like a love confession,” she nudges you.

You roll your eyes playfully. “You wish.”

“Hey, I’d understand it if you were in love with me. I’m hot.”

She never fails to make you laugh, even when you feel like a truck has rolled you over and broken every bone in your body. That is one of the many qualities you value about her. She’s a good person with a good heart, and she is the kind of person you could trust with your life and she would always make sure that you come out on the other side unharmed, mentally and physically. 

If she hadn’t taken you under her wing, you’re not sure where you would be, but it surely wouldn’t be where you are now.

When your laughter quiets down, you nod. “I can’t argue with that. You are hot. If you weren’t my friend,” you say, “I’d ask you out.”

“And if I were into women, I’d say yes,” she says. 

“I appreciate that.”

“Speaking of dates though–” She stops when you sigh a little too loudly. Claire shoots you a stern glare before she continues, “Promise me you won’t cancel.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. She wants you to mean it. You won’t lie; canceling your plans with Matt did cross your mind, but after Claire worked her magic on you, you can see a little clearer. The fog that kept your mind clouded has started to lift slowly but steadily. You’re no longer spiraling as fast as you have before. 

If you could wash your hands and wash him off of you, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem as it is, but you’ve tried. You have tried washing all memory of him off of your body, out of your mind, but he’s a resilient son of a bitch. John will always try to drive a wedge between you and a normal, happy life, the question is just if you will allow him to do so without even being near you, or if you will finally allow yourself to crawl out of the dark hole he tossed you into. 

You can’t do it alone, and asking for help is terrifying. You have spent the past two years trying to push through. Unfortunately, your healthy coping mechanisms won’t work forever. 

You sigh again, a little quieter. “I won’t cancel,” you tell her, your voice barely above a whisper, yet still so very certain. As certain as you can be, anyway. 

“Thank you.” Claire reaches for the wine bottle next to the couch. “You deserve to be happy.”

“Hm,” you can only murmur. 

“What?”

“What are you doing with the bottle?” you ask. 

“Drinking,” she says. 

“Now I feel betrayed.”

“You should celebrate the fact that you found a Matt, or whatever his name is, and not another Mike.”

You promptly sit up. “Hold up. Pause. Rewind. Mike, like your ex?”

Claire takes a sip of the bottle. A storm rages behind her hazel eyes. You have never seen her that conflicted before. 

“Is he the personal reason why you’re subjecting yourself to a constant allergic reaction by staying here?” you ask. 

The pieces slowly start falling into place. She nods. “Not Mike Mike, but yeah. It’s always the Mike’s.”

Your jaw drops. “I feel like you skipped some chapters there. You met a guy and you didn’t tell me? What–”

“He met me,” she corrects you. “I didn’t tell you because we’re not a thing. Let’s just say there’s a reason his name is Mike. That’s why I’m here.”

Claire takes another sip. You watch her closely, trying to catch her in a lie, but it seems like she’s telling the truth—or a version of the actual truth, but that still makes it true. She’s giving you as much as she can after you cried your eyes out to her. 

You clear your throat, lowering your voice. “But you’re not in danger?” you ask to clarify. 

She shakes her head. “I just have shitty taste in men, even if it's platonic, apparently. It’s like… I’m trying to exist, and then I find a stray cat in a dumpster, but the stray cat has been stabbed and needs medical attention.”

“But you’re allergic to cats and you’re not a vet?” you try to make sense of her analogy. 

When she lets out a sigh and nods, you figure you came as close as possible. It still doesn’t make sense to you, but when does anything? At least when it comes to romance and people’s love lives.

You decide to push a little more, “Did you actually find an injured guy in a dumpster?” 

She shakes her head. The reaction comes a little fast, but you don’t question it. “No, that–that was just an analogy,” Claire says. 

“And Mike is the stray cat in that analogy? But not your Mike, another Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“Dude, you’re frying my brain cells.”

“The single one you still have, or did you buy new ones?”

You try not to laugh, trying to look like you are genuinely offended, but your lips still curl up into a smile. “Shut up,” you mutter. You reach for the bottle, against better judgment, and take a sip.

Claire shakes her head. “What I’m trying to tell you is that, if he’s a good guy, you can’t let him slip away. You can’t let a good thing slip away and possibly end up with a–a Mike kinda guy for the rest of your life.”

“I know.” You look down at your hands, your broken fingernails, and sore knuckles from the constant scrubbing. “I just wish I could understand what he’s doing to me without questioning my entire existence.”

“Some people are just that enigmatic,” and she sounds as if she knows exactly what she’s talking about. 

You wonder about Mike. Not her ex-boyfriend but the one she mentioned. He sounds like he has no sense of self-preservation, and he may not even be a good influence. He reminds you of yourself, and that’s creepy—you don’t even know him. 

And then there is Matt, who is also so eerily similar to you, but in different ways. It’s more of an emotional connection. His heart is in the right place. And unlike the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, he doesn’t have a savior complex.

Why did he even come to your mind? His existence should not be playing into the equation. You brush the picture of his chiseled chest in that tight shirt away, or the way he looked even more dangerous with that smirk below the the mask. 

You hand the wine bottle back to Claire. If you don’t cut yourself off now, you will melt into a puddle of embarrassment. 

Your focus should be on Matt and Matt alone. You have to try. Claire was right. You can’t sacrifice your happiness because you’re scared—you can’t give the man who dedicated his life to breaking you and your confidence down the satisfaction of cowering in fear every time a man shows an interest in you. A good man. A man who could make you happier than he ever had. 

You won’t run this time. You will face the situation head-on. You owe that much to the little girl who dreamed of a life beyond the hell she grew up in, the same girl who was obsessed with finding her soulmate and still believed in true love. Above everyone, you owe it to yourself. No one else matters quite as much as you do. 

And for the sake of seeing what could be instead of wondering what could have been, you have to try.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia

[panickingpansexuality]

Together? Until the End

Elliott x Autistic Reader

Autistic people have the average life span of thirty-six years at least in the United States and when I'm reminded that I don't get a lot of time on Earth I get really upset. So this is an intense story of what people may need to hear. So this story talks a lot about death and self harm, you have been warned.

Also it is almost one in the morning so I am not sure if this will be any good.

It was another bad night, something that you often dealt with alone, but now that you were dating an incredibly considerate guy you didn't have to.

Elliott had come over around five to spend the night, he expected to find you outside with your cows or maybe even resting in the grass under a tree, not in bed clutching a stuffed animal to your chest like a life line.

"Love?" Elliott said, coming towards you.

You pressed your face into the stuffed animal as he came closer, Elliott sat near your knees in the bed. His presence making it a little easier for you to be cope.

He knew about your Autism and your history of self harm (he kissed most of your scars whenever he could reach them, a habit he also made when going in between your thighs), but what he didn't know about was this small piece of Autism that you didn't like to share with anyone and you were certain he didn't know.

You only found out when you were a teenager and now that you're older you felt like you didn't have hardly anytime left and you wanted it. You wanted to spend as much time as you could with him, you wanted him engraved into your soul so that in every life you'd remember how you loved each other, how safe he made you feel.

"(y/n)?" Elliott said, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.

"I have to tell you something." You say, "And I'm giving you another out, if you want to leave after I tell you then I won't judge you because no one deserves this."

Silently, Elliott grabbed your hand and squeezed it. The last time you told him this was when you two had first started to become interested in each other and it was when you told him you had autism.

You say up your one arm still clutching the stuffed animal around your chest.

"So autistic people have a shorter life expectancy.." you say unable to look up at him "We're given thirty-six years, sometimes maybe to our fifties, mainly our deaths are from suicide or heart problems...most of the time from stress of having to be "normal" in front of others."

Elliott gripped your hand as tight as he could, he took a deep breath studying the lines of your face. He felt his heart shatter in his chest, he wanted nothing more than to tuck you inside his pocket and keep you safe until you were both one-hundred.

"Can I hold you?" He asked

You nodded and you two met in the middle, your legs going around his waist, his head going to the spot in between your neck and shoulder.

"I'm don't want to leave you so early." You say crying. "I just got you. I don't want to leave you."

"You won't." Elliott said his voice broken, "You're gonna live so much longer."

"I get reminded about it every now and again," you say, "and I just get upset I'm sorry."

"No, no." Elliott said, "You're fine, you don't have to apologize, I'm glad you told me."

"Really?" You ask tears coming out of your eyes.

"Absolutely," Elliott responded, "It gives me an opportunity to insure that you will have a long and happy life. You are my entire world (y/n) and I'm going to do everything in my power to keep you here until we're both one-hundred."

You chuckle into his shoulder and kiss any part of his body you can reach without moving too much. You both move to lay on the bed, facing each other, Elliott's head above yours. His cheeks red from the tears that slipped out.

"I didn't mean to make you cry." You say, "I just..felt like it was something you deserved to know."

"It's not your fault." He said brushing the hair on your head.

"The idea of losing you is worse than any Hell that I could be put through."

"If I do die." You say, "I'd most likely leave the farm to you, you could sell it if you want or live here."

"Why on earth would you leave me anything?" He asks, "You've given me so much already."

"I plan on marrying you." You tell him, face going red, "So legally it would go to you."

Elliott tenses for a small moment and pulls away from you for a moment to look down at you and give you a soft smile.

"I'm glad we have the same plan for our futures together."

You laugh and lean up to kiss him sweetly, kisses with Elliott are always an occasion, they leave you breathless and needing more.

Quickly it becomes your hands roaming against each other wanting nothing more than to just kiss each other and keep each other grounded.

His hands go up your shirt and trace the scars from a time not yet forgotten, he leaves your lips only to go down and inspect your body to make sure you haven't relapsed.

"It's been a bad day." You say, "I'm glad you got here when you did."

"I am too." Elliott says coming back up to your lips, "Another moment away from you and I would've sold my soul to have some magic to transport me to you whenever one of us needed each other."

You roll your eyes at him, smile up at him and press another kiss on his lips.

When your make out session has ended the two of you lay in the bed, too lazy to get up and leave each other's warmth. Looking at Elliott you can't help but appreciate the time you are allowed to have with him and until he can find the fountain of youth to keep you both going for as long as he wishes, you'll just have to cherish every moment with him.

[taughtdefense]

ethan with his long, never-ending list of impulsive decisions that have no forethought to keep his own mental, physical or emotional health/safety/well-being safe - are by definition thinly veiled suicide attempts & suicidal tendencies.

an example of this is miyagi!ethan recklessly going after silver, alone, in between 4x08 & 4x09. his major depressive disorder was at its height during that time, & ethan just lost his shit after he realized terry beat stingray into a coma (via his powers). he basically repeated history with silver, knowingly. he rarely knows how to regulate his emotions, even with wade & vanessa by his side. he's still trying to learn how to be human. there's an obvious dissonance/misunderstanding between what he thinks is "safe" & what he thinks is "bad". when a human gets hurt that viciously, all bets are off. especially since stingray didn't deserve to get beat like that. even if terry was drunk, even if stingray is annoying, ethan's not going to stand by & watch as no one does anything about it. in his mind, nobody ethan deems innocent deserves a beating that severe.

it's why he doesn't fight back against silver at all. side note, but if silver was a random one-off side character/npc i write, ethan would have killed him, whether it be accidental or intentional; something i knew i didn't want to happen for Very Obvious Plot Reasons. but the idea that he "deserves" dying for "failing" his crush robby is why he barely really bothers to drag himself out of the back room of the old cobra kai dojo before giving up & curling up into a ball. it's why he doesn't allow himself heal or call anyone for help. because he didn't think he deserved to save himself, that it was his fault for not doing "more" to help robby. (he doesn't know that robby will always choose cobra kai in every lifetime.)

his reckless tendencies being borderline suicide is something i (as his mun) recognize, but ethan will not view it in the same way. it's something he won't Ever admit, either to himself in his own head, or out loud to anyone. not to his parents in either verse, not to tory after cobra!him finds himself into the hospital in season 4 (more on that later), not to robby after miyagi!him's near death experience in season 4. even if they call him out on his recklessness, he won't/will rarely - ever admit it. he'll even brush it under the rug.

every time ethan goes off script like that, it's in an attempt to "right wrongs". mostly, to singlehandedly protect the teens of the valley from the crazed, obsessed karate senseis, an impossible task that ethan cannot successfully shoulder singlehandedly, but boy does he do it anyway, because he isn't human, but they are. he's essentially like atlas or sisyphus from greek mythology. almost every reckless, stupid, impulsive thing ethan does is a knee-jerk reaction to what he views as an injustice against his friends, & since he feels his emotions so strongly, it just kind of makes him snap & lose his shit.

all of his actions can be viewed as martyrdom both in character & out of character. it's what he views it as, standing up for what he believes in, & being hurt because of it, which is only slightly easier for him to digest. that is a coping mechanism in & of itself.

[lavender-romancer]

Tired of Me 

Part Three

Tommy Shelby x reader

CW: angst, suicidal thoughts, self deprecation

Neither of you are strong enough to talk about your problems, you coexist in a state of sleepless nights and last chances but can any of that change when you start visiting a therapist? 

”*°•.˜”*°• ˜”*°•. °*”˜.•°*”˜*”˜.•°*

Previous Part

Tommy was in a dark place, his need for chaos, for noise was consuming him. He couldn't stay in one place for too long or he'd be restless and needed excitement to get through the day, whether it was shooting a gun or draining the life from someone's eyes. He knew you deserved certainty and someone dependable but he just couldn't be it for you. Tommy knew you were growing tired of him and how he acted but that your love for him would make you stay and he selfishly relied on that fact. The fact that he wanted to die more and more everyday made it even more thrilling to have guns around him constantly, the way his adrenaline rose when he held one was unexplainable. 

Aside from being wholeheartedly self destructive Tommy just couldn't bring himself to make good decisions, he thought so little of himself that throwing himself into his work was so much easier. Disappearing on y/n was easier than facing the issues he'd created, he already felt lost without you but he thought you'd cope better with distance from the chaos he created with his presence. At the start of your relationship he'd sleep with an eye open, so terrified that someone would burst through the door and try to harm you. Nowadays he just left earlier in the morning after checking all the entrances and exits in the house and if he wasn't around the servants knew one of their most important duties was checking them. 

Tommy preferred to let you have your distance, it was better that way so that you never knew what was really going on with him and to what extent. He used to talk to you about things in his head but then everything with the business just got fucked, too many people were dying, too many people were getting hurt and he just couldn't bare to risk loosing you. But, he knew it was wrong, especially because you were married. It was like he stole your heart and ran away with it as soon as you got married even though Tommy knew it was more complicated he hadn't told you that and he knew you felt abandoned. Seeing how badly you'd hurt yourself that evening…. he realised the tide was changing on your relationship and he had to fix something. 

"I… I never feel myself, it's like I have a disorder of self hatred that's just constantly swishing around in my head. I don't feel okay at home, I don't feel fully comfortable around my own husband and most of the time his actions make me feel like shit and I've never ever been able to deal with it since we got married. He's like a… a-"

"A trigger?" Dr Molina suggested glancing up from her notebook. 

"Yeah, a trigger. It's so hard for me to not forgive him because I love him so much but he's not someone who thinks about consequences and- and I don't know how to… how to…" you trailed off completely exasperated with how stupid it all sounded "I'm not weak, I know I sound it but I'm not I just love him so much I don't want to loose my marriage but I'm at the end of my tether and I'm so, so tired of everything related to myself."

"Do you think your personal dysfunction only started with your marriage? I sometimes find signs in earlier years related to opinions of the self. Did you ever feel inadequate or… have a negative opinion of yourself?" She continued. 

"I," you paused pondering on your past and then you swore under your breath "yeah I know when it fucking started, it was when I started falling for my husband before he felt something for me. My whole fucking self worth is built around this man and I have no idea how to cope on my own, I fucking hate this." You rubbed your temple with your index finger.

"I think you're being too self critical, especially when it comes to your own thoughts, most of which you can't control. Learning coping mechanisms for your involuntary thoughts aren't obvious, it's something you have to practice. But I do believe I can help you if we delve a bit further." She smiled at you with her glasses perched on her nose. 

You weren't sure what to think, your proximity to Tommy usually made you the last person to trust a stranger but she was just so separate from everything. You had needed someone to talk to for so long it was almost overwhelming how close you felt to being able to just reveal all your pent up emotions over the last few years. 

"Can you tell me the first time you remember having low self worth?" The Dr carried on noting your silence and look of terror at the thought of opening up. 

"I- I can try to talk about it, I find it hard to trust people but I need help so fucking badly I can't deal with it anymore," you paused before recounting the first time you realised you were in love with Tommy. 

It was a cold, cold evening in Small Heath as you left the Shelby betting shop you worked at as a scheduler for each bet in correspondence for each race. You were locking up as you'd stayed late to have a meeting with Arthur about a promotion, he followed you outside and waited for you to be done before heading toward the Garrison with you. 

"I doubt there will be any issues with giving you a better job if I'm honest, you've been one of the most loyal employees we've had in years and proven you're a smart girl-"

"Who can definitely outsell you anyday." You laughed and Arthur rolled his eyes as he shoved his hands in his pockets. 

"First round on me, what are you having?" He asked as you lit a cig through trembling fingers. 

"Hmm, working here has meant me consuming more beer than ever before and I thought my tastes had improved. Got any vodka?" You turned your face toward Arthur as you took a drag. 

"Fat chance but I can have a look, it's mostly whiskey or beer in there usually the shit stuff unless it's in the back room that Tommy just loves to keep the expensive stuff in." Arthur and you approached the Garrison doors and he opened it for you. 

It was so invitingly warm in the Garrison you weren't surprised your colleagues turned into alcoholics after cold journeys like that, staying in the warm was so much more favourable. The pub was already packed but walking in (and being friends) with Arthur gave you an unbelievable amount of standing within the men that no one really messed you around and you liked it like that. You both approached the bar and Arthur had made some kind of joke that made you howl with laughter together before cheers-ing and downing both your drinks. Tomorrow was Saturday, it was time to have a good time together. 

But no sooner had you taken a drink you both heard Arthur's name get called out-

"Arthur, come in, we have things to discuss." Tommy Shelby…. your brain melted at the sound of his voice. You smiled in his direction and he nodded in acknowledgement of your existence. It made you feel small and unimportant but you understood he wouldn't be looking at you in the same way you were him and you thought you were okay with that. Instead you got another two drinks and sat at the bar, drinking away your own patheticness rather than addressing your issues. 

A few hours later the pub was emptying out and you were gearing up to leave too when the door to the back room opened and Tommy walked out, your eyes widened. 

"Not leaving so soon are we y/n?" Tommy asked with a smirk, "let's have a drink first eh?" 

"What are you having?" You asked as you walked around to the other side of the bar that now had no barmaid. 

"Whisky neat, the good stuff is under the cashbox," He noted and you nodded pulling it out and also some cheaper vodka for yourself "Oh we can't be haci g that, whiskey on me for us both." 

You smiled to yourself and poured two drinks sliding one over to Tommy. 

"So?" You asked. 

"So…. What?" Tommy asked and you giggled. 

"What did you keep me up for, hmm?" You leant on the bar with your hand, drink in the other. 

"You're good company," your heart skipped a beat. "Plus you know how to drink on a Friday night or as I call it, everyday." His attempt at a joke fell flat with his inability to smile whilst making one and you shook your head with a smile instead. 

"Why are you here then? On a Friday night, have you not got anyone to meet?" You slightly teased and he shot you a look that you couldn't decipher. 

"I could ask you the same question, young unmarried woman like yourself. Can't think of why you'd want to be in this place on a Friday night." He raised his eyebrow at you and you weren't sure what that meant either. 

"And how does my unmarried-ness relate to anything? Might I add you're in that group too Mr Shelby." You raised your eyebrow this time and he seemed amused. 

"Whilst that is true, I'm hardly destined for marriage whilst I can definitely see you moving to the country with some businessman with a stately home or something. Life of luxury." Tommy seemed to be looking into the distance, pondering your future. 

"You think too much of me Mr Shelby, I'll do well for myself I'm sure but I've never known if I'd suit marriage. Never really found the right person, always hopping around dating trying to find something that sticks, you'll definitely find the most beautiful wife though. I can imagine some kind of actor or princess for you, a grand wedding of some sort." You were so enamored with the details of his face, watching his eyes meet yours, you held his gaze in a comfortable silence where you both drank and occasionally looked at eachother. 

"You're probably right, some kind of successful woman would be right for me. I was always attracted to someone who could hold themselves well and knew what they wanted." He finished his drink before pouring another and topping yours up. His expectations of a future wife didn't sound like you, didn't feel like anything you could be and it made your hopeful little heart sink just that bit more. You were somewhat confident with him one on one but otherwise you didn't have the kind of agency needed to be what he wanted and you were ashamed to admit how you'd change yourself in a heartbeat to fit it. But alas, you couldn't in reality only in a dream where he would think about you the same. 

"Well if I come across any actresses I'll be sure to give them my employers contact details." You smiled sadly and sighed. 

"You seem…. preoccupied?" Tommy asked. 

"It wouldn't surprise me, my brain's usually off in some world other than the present, especially when I've had this much whisky."  You gestured to the glass. 

"Really does take the edge off though doesn't it, especially with all the stress. Makes you wonder, makes you hopeful until the sobriety hits a few hours after and you're brought back to reality where you and I really are." He was looking at your face and it made you self conscious, it felt like he was studying your face but you couldn't tell for what reason. 

"I should probably be heading home, Mr Shelby. It's getting closer to the morning and I usually consider that a night's drinking done." You smiled a wide smile and he returned it with a lift on one side of his mouth. 

"I shall see you bright and early on Monday," you stood up and walked around the bar to where you passed him and he caught your wrist "You will find someone, to make you very happy. You deserve it y/n." You weren't sure how to react to the warmth of Tommy's hand, the way his touch made a heat rise to your cheeks all you knew was that he couldn't know what you felt. You quickly turned and almost ran out of the Garrison. 

"It was from that day that I was completely and utterly lusted with him that turned into love but it planted in my mind how I wasn't good enough for him." You finally concluded. 

"May I ask why you didn't take your employer speaking to you this way as him being interested in you?" She asked and you paused, you'd never thought of it that way "I haven't met your husband but from what you've told me he doesn't express himself very often or obviously, so that conversation would almost be a reveal of feelings or admittance of the fact that something existed between the two of you." 

"I suppose that could be true but I'm so terrified of discussing things like this with him in case he's dismissive of me or doesn't understand. And I know I know, you shouldn't feel that way about your husband but our relationship is…. recently based on broken promises. There was a situation recently that opened my eyes to all this." You proceeded to tell Dr Molina about the last incident where you harmed yourself and the self hatred really became too much to control. 

"Is that what caused that injury?" She gestured to the small scars on your knuckles and you nodded "And do you feel that this situation highlighted your dependency on your husband's treatment for your own mental state?"

"Yes, it's happened before, having a small breakdown over broken promises but this was bad, it was a lot worse than ever before. Something snapped within me those few hours and I don't know if it was the alcohol or something but I was just so distraught. I couldn't help but feel fucking stupid because of how dependant I was, everything became too much and I just couldn't deal with it." Your eyes were wet, you couldn't see bit you couldn't believe how it felt to speak about this to someone other than your own brain. "I have this… this voice in my head sometimes that just tells me everything I think my husband thinks about me no matter how fictitious. I call it my 'nagging voice' because I can only shut it up with unintentional reassurance from my husband, otherwise it nags me with thoughts of my inadequacy."

"How long have you been experiencing this so-called 'nagging voice'?" Dr Molina took a drag of her cigarette and placed it back in the ashtray. 

"About four years, the length of my marriage and it just won't go away, I don't know how to sleep or eat or live without it being a presence in my life. It almost feels like I depend on my brain telling me how worthless I am to keep me at a certain place in my life where I never have any reason to carry on. Like it's an excuse for me to… to…" you stopped, your eyes even more wet than before 

"We can take a break whenever you feel you need one Mrs y/sn." You'd used your maiden name to avoid any connection to Tommy but it still felt odd. 

"No it's not that, I just- I just wasn't expecting it to be like this with me as the subject. In not honest with anyone, I don't know how to be after being so secretive for so long it's hard to be comfortable enough to be open." With shaking fingers you took out a cig and lit it with a great deal of difficulty, cursing at your incompetence everytime. 

"I'd like to organise a weekly appointment slot for you, it's very positive that you trust me and I do believe I can help you develop some ways to cope." She closed up her notebook and you breathed a long breath. 

You wanted your husband so badly, you needed him every time you did anything, you wanted a quiet life with him and your art and your children you were going to have together. But everything felt so out of reach, so far away from him and you. The nagging voice urged you to realise that his absence showed his true feelings and slowly you were losing grip on the positive thoughts you'd get every so often, the ones that gave your marriage hope and meaning. Your marriage was like betting on a losing dog, it was pointless but you just had so much misguided faith that you couldn't let go of the possibility that this time, maybe this time it would win. 

Next Part

”*°•.˜”*°• ˜”*°•.˜”*°• °*”˜.•°*”˜ °*”˜.•°*”˜

Taglist: 

@kathrinemelissa @wolfieellsworld @archivallyfound09 @hopefulinlove @globetrotter28 @buttercup32sstuff @teamfreeavocados @just-a-blackhole @sabbbyn @sillyfreakfanparty @lovelyreader22 @leaked-adrenaline @ghxst-heart @just-a-blackhole

Peaky Blinders Taglist:

@queenofkings1212 @severewobblerlightdragon @cl5369 @fairypitou @stressedandbandobessed7771 @shadow-of-wonder @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns @curled-hair-red-lips @lucystivinsky1315

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos​ (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills. 

You’re his only solace. 

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often. 

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns. 

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks. 

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves. 

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings. 

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing. 

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent. 

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight. 

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex.  It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows. 

It’s grim in its predictability. 

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone. 

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.” 

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.) 

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen. 

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them— 

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand. 

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was. 

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future. 

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.) 

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted. 

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze. 

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings. 

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming. 

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.” 

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest. 

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face. 

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?” 

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. 

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa. 

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least. 

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind. 

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively. 

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap. 

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?” 

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do. 

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you. 

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible. 

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words. 

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy— 

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none. 

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments. 

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could. 

“Do you see now?” 

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch. 

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky. 

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning— 

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.” 

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side. 

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness. 

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.” 

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do. 

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan. 

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see. 

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection. 

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep.  The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue. 

It bothers him— 

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror. 

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while. 

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can. 

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant. 

All the same, the trim feels good. 

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back— 

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!” 

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!” 

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him. 

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.) 

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity. 

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning. 

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much.  The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering. 

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with. 

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach. 

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it. 

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree. 

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was. 

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh. 

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.” 

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet. 

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress. 

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely. 

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone. 

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

 Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes. 

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile. 

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up— 

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart. 

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later. 

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard. 

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead. 

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too— 

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement. 

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try. 

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered. 

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks. 

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.) 

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business. 

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat. 

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders. 

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—” 

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough. 

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands. 

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night. 

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?) 

But you’re not in the common room. 

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath. 

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten. 

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard. 

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him. 

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more. 

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone— 

...

Keigo leaves the next morning. 

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn. 

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse. 

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died. 

All disgusting reminders. 

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had. 

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he. 

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time. 

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave. 

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes. 

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.  

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter. 

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it. 

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears— 

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some. 

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought. 

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?” 

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe. 

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self. 

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

[guqin-and-flute]

[I am once again giving you an unrelated fanfic. Have some Modern married Xiyao.

Potential CW: poor anger coping skills?, very brief mention of suicidal ideation in internal dialogue. It's an errant thought and he doesn't actually mean it]

Jin Guangyao is upset. What's more upsetting is that he doesn't know why he's upset--this lack of information rankles him more than the feeling. He's used to feeling badly. That's how life is. But without a name, there is nowhere to file it away neatly. It is easier to ignore the sharp sting of a newly noticed cut than this fucking awful malaise that has apparently decided to settle over him with no rhyme or reason like he's some stupid idiot in an artsy French film, slowly choking down filtered cigarettes on some rusty balcony against a sunset or something.

That's not what he does. He is efficient. He is useful. And when he is like this, he is not.

And he still doesn't know why. And the fact that he cannot categorize and escape this has the ennui sliding slowly into a slow boil of tooth grinding fury.

Had it been the morning traffic? The fact that the library had emailed to inform him of a delay on his inter-library loan? The fact that his overpriced coffee was just a tiny bit burnt? The fact that Zixuan had taken a sick day today and so had not brought the soup his wife had promised Jin Guangyao for lunch? It shouldn't be, because these are all so horrifyingly trivial.

He has a tension headache beginning to string itself along his temples. He hates that the receptionist has a perky goodbye ready. He hates that the sun is shining so brightly. Then, he hates that the shadows of the clouds when they pass make things look grungy and dull. He hates that there is a flap of leather from his steering wheel that has peeled up in the back from his picking and he can feel it rubbing against his index finger as he stares, white knuckled and unblinking into the brake lights ahead of him as this bubbling pique crescendos as slowly as one of Xichen's beloved classical music pieces.

In fact, one is playing on the radio, softly, just within hearing range. The quiet, shrill edge of violins makes him want to kill something. Maybe himself. There's a bridge coming up in half a mile. He, very sanely, presses the button on the dash that turns it off instead of doing any of those things. The thought of Xichen has a voice of reason suggesting that he might meditate, while trapped here, 10 minutes from home.

Instead, he jabs a button on his fancy, stupid steering wheel with this thumb. An attentive computer noise beeps. The sudden noise in the relative silence of the car makes him dig his nails into the leather. "Text A-Huan," he snaps.

"Okay! What would you like the message to be?"

Jin Guangyao is going to find whoever programmed this faux-friendly robot voice and make them watch him drown their entire family in a toilet. "I. Hate. Everything."

Beep. "Okay! Your message reads; 'I hate everything'. Send?"

"Yes, send," he seethes before it can fully finish.

There is no plan to this. None at all. He just needs something real to sink his metaphorical teeth into. A reasonable anchor to reality to tell him whether or not he's being stupid and terrible for no reason at all.

Even though he already knows that he is.

The response returns in 43 seconds. Jin Guangyao had been counting. The cheery beep sounds just as the very stale green light turns yellow ahead. He presses the gas. "One message from A-Huan."

The light blinks red while he is only 1/4th of the way through the intersection. The lead car of the adjacent left turners beeps and he bares his teeth at her because he isn't fucking invisible, he's in a high profile gold Lexus and she had definitely seen him fucking coming. He stabs the button that makes the car read him the message.

"'Oh no. Bad day? Want to call? Blue heart emoji'," the female robot voice chirps in a butchery of his husbands words and no, no, he does not, because, at this point, it would simply be a minute long sustained scream of rage over literally nothing at all. He should have kept it to himself and found a quiet place to throw rocks at a wall or something until he wasn't such a repellant time bomb.

He does not reply because if he hears that robot voice again, he's going to commit vehicular homicide. And being arrested would not calm him down.

Finally, traffic parts and he pulls into his driveway--he notices how the bush on the side of the house's branches are creeping up to scrape the window of the kitchen and makes a mental note to send a curt text to the landscaper about his pruning habits. Why are they paying him several hundred dollars a month to let a stupid bush get unruly enough to damage the paint on his window trim?

When he slams his door shut, he hears a loud CLACK that announces that he has just closed his seatbelt in the door and lost the last tenuous thread of his temper. Heaving the door back, he plants his other hand up on the black plastic next to the window and smashes it shut again with all of his strength. Repeatedly. CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK--Chunk.

Breath hissing between his teeth, he jerks his suit jacket straight, loosens his tie and stalks to the house. The garage door groans to life behind him. Xichen had been watching.

Perfect.

He's nowhere to be seen when Jin Guangyao slams through the backdoor like a vicious thundercloud, which is good and probably intentional, because it allows him to wrestle off his shoes, jacket, and tie in privacy. This does nothing to release any pressure, because it must be intentional wrestling--controlled and confined so he doesn't pop off a button or rip a seam or scuff the shining black leather. Now he's seething in their immaculate, state of the art kitchen, hating how the cold tile feels against his black dress socks and the fact that it smells like tea. Which is stupid. Because he likes tea. But not right now.

Stop being a piece of shit, he snarls at himself. You've already probably fucked up the car and Xichen doesn't deserve this. He balls up his fists so tightly that the bright pain from his nails sinking into his palms leaks up his arms. Be better.

He has no idea how to do that because he has no idea what is wrong.

Reason says to steer clear of Xichen until he can get a hold of himself and behave like a fucking adult. And in the early days of their relationship, he would have. He had. Whenever he got like this, he would shut down or not have inflicted himself on Xichen at all with a smooth lie, and no amount of prying would get anything useful out of him because he would not be a bother. There had been Talks. Long, extensive Talks about trust and love and wanting to take care of him. He had even believed some of them. That's how they can be married, now, years later--Xichen knowing just how close he is to this at all times. How thin his veneer of manners and pleasantries actually is. (He can't truly know, though, can he. If he knew how much none of it makes sense, there is no possible way someone as kind and intelligent as him would choose to stay.)

Xichen would purse his lips if he said this out loud; somewhere between exasperation and sad fondness. Jin Guangyao doesn't tell him, anymore. Most of the time because he doesn't actually think this.

This is not most of the time.

Yes, reason says that he should suck it up and become a human being before burdening Xichen.

But his husband has long, cool hands and soft eyes and a brilliant mind that can solve any problem just by holding it and maybe he just wants to be small and angry and ugly and pathetic and selfish in the comfort of his own home while someone reminds him that there have been, in fact, good things that have happened in his life and he had been, at one time, happy--believe it or not.

And if nothing else, it compounds his streak of bad decisions.

The smell of tea intensifies when he reaches their room. The curtains are drawn. It renders the deep, dusty blues of the bed spread and the armchair black and the aged gold accent pieces muted, except for where the warm light pouring from their open bathroom door paints them bright again. Xichen sits on the edge of their bed in the soft, expensive loungewear Jin Guangyao got him for his birthday last year, one ankle on his knee, watching him with eyes just as soft as he had been expecting. A mug of tea is tucked into his hand and a plate with round, lumpy shapes sits by his hip. Beside that lays spread out the absurdly oversized and absurdly soft heather gray shirt that Nie Huaisang had gifted to him as a joke but was, in fact, one of Jin Guangyao's guilty pleasure sleep shirts.

With his perfect voice and his perfect logic and his perfect way of being the only good thing on this entire, worthless planet, his husband says, "I think you need to scream into this pillow."

'This pillow' is, in fact, one of theirs, dark blue with a thread count that was higher than any savings he ever had in college, perched on a bundle of blankets that is the perfect size to throw himself upon like a sulking romance heroine. He hates it. Hates that this is known, that this might help.

So he fucking does it. He deliberately stalks around the bed, climbs up, smashes his face into the pillow and screams as loudly as he can. With every single ounce of rage in his body, curling him up like the shriveling of a raisin in fast forward, like the curling of a scorpion tail, like throwing up, wringing every last scant molecule of oxygen out of his lungs.

When the sound peters out and he has to drag in another breath, he curls tighter, the claws of his hands reaching over the top of the pillow to fist in his hair. It presses the plush of it firmer over his face and bites it until his teeth ring with dull pain, and his jaw aches and his head throbs and his eyes sting. His scalp burns from the pull on his hair and his throat is raw and tight.

Tearing himself away, finally, he gasps in a gulp of cooler air. Xichen has turned so he is now cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watching him with a mix of calm and understanding sympathy. "Lay down?"

There is a ragged, hollow hole in him that still has scraps of rage clinging to it like disgusting lichen--but the visceral, all consuming hate seems to have been absorbed by his pillow. So he lets himself roll sideways, eyes closing. Xichen gets off the bed--Jin Guangyao assumes, wearily, that he's putting down the tea mug and hopes that he uses a coaster--and then returns by knee walking up the bed to his side. Then, those cool hands he had been hoping for pick open the tiny hard buttons of his shirt. Each pop releases a a tension across his skin and he feels that he can breathe easier with every one.

Jin Guangyao can hear him breathing, slow and measured, through his nose and thinks that it's probably the most comforting sound that he's ever heard in his entire life--now that he's willing to be comforted. Able to be. The reminder of Xichen's continued existence is the only sound he will ever need to be calm again.

The button up is abandoned in favor of undoing his belt--breath, more of it, infiltrating him deeper and deeper--popping the button on his slacks, tugging them down his legs in a warm slide. The quiet clink of it being tossed somewhere. A closing quiet as Xichen leans in and presses his smooth lips to his forehead. Then the corner of his eyebrow. Then the bridge of his nose. Different points and planes of his face like he is unlocking a combination that will open him up and allow him to purge the rest of the awfulness that lingers.

What it mostly is is exhaustion, now. "A-Huan," he groans--whines. Ugh.

Before disgust at himself can settle in, his husband takes this as the invitation for what it is and kisses his mouth, gentle and slow. Jin Guangyao moves his mouth back, halfheartedly, mostly parting his lips to allow him access to do whatever. But all he does is kiss him chastely. Lovingly. He tastes like green tea. Then, Xichen murmurs against his lips, "Would you like a bath?"

He vents a negating grunt, lolling his head back and forth. Baths are so much work. Even when Xichen offered to wash his hair or read to him or even join him, you still had to keep it hot, you had to endure cold when you left, get yourself dry. Too much change, too much sensation and movement.

He should be shaking himself awake. He should be apologizing for his terrible, pointless mood. He should be trying to kiss him back, love him back, pay him back. Thank him.

Xichen merely lifts his hands and presses the heels of his palms into the hinges at Jin Guangyao's jaw, inexorably grinding the tension out of them. Jin Guangyao allows himself to melt. When those cool fingertips slide into his hair, he lets them tug him upright, so Xichen can slide off his button up and slip him out of his undershirt. He shivers against the chill of the bedroom air, but he doesn't feel a surge of utter hatred for the sensations so, well, that's something. In no time, Xichen has coaxed him into the oversized shirt, removed his socks and bundled him up against the padded headboard, tucked into Xichen's side.

Jin Guangyao allows this. He allows himself to allow the blanket to be tugged up over his bare legs, Xichen to tuck the warm mug of steaming mint tea into his hands, and wind his fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep, shuddering breath before sighing it all out. Xichen's fingers rub soothing circles across his sore scalp.

"Open?"

He cracks one eye to see a cookie hovering at mouth level. It's too dim in the room to properly tell what kind it is, but because Xichen has been perfect in literally every other way, he simply obeys and bites down. Browned butter and sea salt and semi-sweet chocolate ooze across his tongue and the instant spike of sugar satisfaction warms his chest. Jin Guangyao chews with utter contentment, swallows, and opens his mouth again.

"Good?" Xichen's amused voice vibrates warmly through his chest as he indulgently feeds him another bite.

"Mm. Very. Did you make them?"

"I did, earlier today. I just got lucky with the timing." His nails scrape oh so gently across his scalp. "How are you doing?"

Instead of answering, Jin Guangyao blinks up at him and his sweet, kind, ridiculously gorgeous face that is graced by a light smile and a gold edge light from the bathroom.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Being terrible."

"You're never terrible."

"I was today. I think I fucked up the car."

Xichen chuckles, smile crimping to a knowing press. "I saw. It won't be a big deal. We'll deal with it later."

"...Thank you."

"Of course, A-Yao. Do you still hate everything?"

"Mm-nn." He snuggles down deeper against his ribs, looping an arm around Xichen's warm waist. He has the best husband in his arms, his dark-sweet scent is in his nose, chocolate on his tongue, and 1000 count sheets against his skin.

What is there to hate?

[ask-dgs-221bbakerstreet]

“Good I’m glad to hear that Asougi is doing better. He causes me great worry as well. Truthfully at first, I believed he was trying to commit suicide. He’s very harsh on himself and filled with self-hatred. A sentiment that at times I relate to. I also fail to understand why Asougi did not inform Mr. Naruhodo of Mr. Manders and his plan, instead of consuming the chicken. Surely that would have made things much easier, and all this trouble could have been avoided.” He pauses. “I have a hunch there is much more to this story than meets the eye. I think Asougi is hiding something. And my previous comment about why he didn’t tell Mr. Naruhodo about the attempt on his life is one of the reasons I believe so. I do admit I could be wrong though. I think everyone will need to keep an eye on him.” He says.

“Yes, it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing I could have believed. Though it was still farfetched for me to think you were the Grim Reaper. I believe you said, ‘You are going to be so utterly embarrassed with yourself later.’ It’s a very accurate statement. I am mortified that I said that, even if at the time it was a logical explanation given the situation. Don’t tell Iris or Laura that. I must keep some dignity.” If Balmung was here he’d joke around saying Klimt never had any dignity. Good thing he is not here though. “And I should thank Miss Cykes if she’s here for trying to help me and you in our time of need. Do we even know how or why Miss Wright and Miss Cykes are in the past? I do hope they’ll find a way home.”

“Yes, Balmung can be very cold-blooded just like I can- used to be. I had no doubt that he would be angered with what you did. He’s very protective of me. Though I know Balmung well he’ll forgive you for what you did, in time.” Klimt states. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t struggling with your decision to burn me with iron.” The burn that was inflicted upon Klimt’s body has since healed. “I know you meant well. I know you didn’t think it would cause that kind of harm. I don’t hate you for what you did, nor do I harbor any unforgiveness in my heart though.” He sighs. “It’s just a hard thing to process you know.” He isn’t holding it against his brother as he happily returns Barok’s hug.

“I missed you too.” Klimt says as he returns the hug. “You don’t have to worry about it being awkward. I know hugging hasn’t been your thing since you were a teenager.” He says. “It’s good to be back in this room again, and back in my own home. Though now that all of my memories have fully returned to me, it feels bittersweet. I can remember our parents now, and I’m processing the grief of losing them. When they died, I never truly mourned them, I shut everything out, I became numb, and I forgot them. It was a horrid coping mechanism and one that I did without realizing.” He pulls out a picture of himself, Barok, and their parents. “I wish they were still here. Though I know we’ll both see them again when we move onto Heaven. I might go and visit their graves later. Lay some flowers and pay my respects to them. I think it would help me ‘move on’ from my grief.” Klimt says.

---

I agree. There is certainly something Asogi isn't telling us... or perhaps can't...?

As for Miss Cykes and Miss Wright, even they haven't any idea how they ended up travelling through time.

If you wish to thank Miss Cykes, I believe she's at Baker Street. I... think the both of us should go there, when you feel ready to do so. I have a feeling Asogi will go there first before he returns here.

I'm glad that you don't resent me for burning you. I am... truly sorry. It was a rash decision.

...If you'd like, we could visit our parents' graves together. I haven't visited in some time.

[deascheck]

Sam Winchester's Love

Summary: You are in a relationship with Sam Winchester. You don’t feel deserving of his love as your depression causes you to sink into a deep rut. Sam does some research about depression and responds to your lapse in happiness with a gentle approach that ends with him showing you just how much he loves you.

Word Count: 2906

Warnings: talk of depression and suicide/death, angst, and all the fluff with some smut added in there.

A/N: First- I’ve never written smut before. So be nice! Second, I struggle with depression and anxiety, and wanted to write a fic that expresses what would help me (or hopefully anyone struggling as well) feel appreciated when I’m low. I bolded symptoms of depression to help people see what it feels like to have depression. These are not the only symptoms. If you identify with one or more of the symptoms, I encourage you to reach out to someone and start a conversation. It could be a complete stranger or a loved one. (I'm always a listening ear, too!) Whatever you’re most comfortable with. All “Google results” are from my own google search. The crisis text line is a real resource for you to use, if you find yourself in a mental health crisis.

Also tagging a couple people who might like to read. Sorry if that's overstepping! @winchester09 @that-one-gay-girl @supernatural-harrypotter7 @winchest09

The one good thing about living in a bunker was that there were no windows. Your room that you shared with Sam Winchester was no different. It meant no morning sun could wake you up, and you could keep the room as dark and cool as you wanted to. And on this particular morning, your depression had you keeping the room as dark as you possibly could.

You knew the boys would be wondering where you were, since it was 10:30, and you were always up by 8:00. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t get dressed, brush your teeth or hair, or even get your legs swung over the edge of the bed. You were so emotionless that you couldn’t even cry. You simply didn’t care. Nothing felt important to you. You had no motivation to do anything except lie there in the gloom, curled around yourself, stuck in this dark rut.

You had no idea how much time had passed while you stayed there, motionless, until Sam came in, knocking softly as he opened the door. Your eyes glanced over to him and you could see the surprise and concern on his face at discovering your lack of activity.

“Y/N? Love, what are you still doing in bed? It’s 2:00 in the afternoon.”

You sighed. “I don’t care,” you said softly. “Nothing matters to me right now. I wish I would die. Then I wouldn’t be a burden to anyone anymore. No one would miss me.”

Sam knew you struggled with depression, but in the short time you’d been together, he had yet to see a truly deep depressive episode. It scared him, and he replied, “What? Y/N, I would miss you! You’re scaring me.”

You moved your head marginally to be able to look at him for real, and asked, “Would you let me be? I just need to be alone.” Your tone was expressionless, and it freaked Sam out.

He nodded and slowly and quietly closed the door. Once the door was latched firmly, Sam beelined for his laptop. He’d be damned if he was going to let you suffer alone and in silence.

Opening his computer, he typed in “symptoms of depression”. Among the results were, “fatigue, sleeping too much or too little, feelings of worthlessness or hopelessness, loss of interest in activities that once brought pleasure, appetite loss, feelings of sadness, loneliness, or ‘empty’ feelings, thoughts of suicide or death”. His eyes widened. You met every single one of those criteria for identifying depression.

Determined to help, he next googled “how to help someone with depression”. The answers ranged from helping the loved one cope, to opening a conversation with the loved one and getting them to talk about their feelings. Asking questions such as “What caused you to start feeling like this? How can I help you right now?” Stating things like, “You’re important to me. Your life is important to me,” or “You’re not alone, I’m here for you.”

One resource he found as he researched fervently was the crisis text line. It was a number (741-741) someone could text and speak to a certified individual about whatever their crisis was. Sam noted that in the back of his mind as something to bring up to you.

Sam nodded as he read. He knew he could do all these things. His biggest goal for you was for you to feel supported and loved. Seeing you in the state you were in concerned him and it had almost sent him in a tailspin of worry. But he would remain strong for you. You needed Sam to lean on if you were going to get up to see the light.

Sam noticed Dean wander in and motioned him over.

“Hey, I gotta talk to you about Y/N. She’s in a really bad depressive episode. She said she wanted to die.” Sam’s heart rate sped up with fear just saying those words. He swallowed and continued. “I’ve been looking up depression online and I think I know how to help her. But I could use your help.”

Dean quickly responded, “So that’s why she’s still in your room. Of course. What do you need?”

Sam answered, “I’m going to have a conversation with her and see if I can’t convince her to get out of bed. Actually, once we finish talking, I’m going to carry her out if she won’t walk. But I want to give her some ideas of simple things we could do as a group that would help her snap back to us.”

Dean nodded in agreement. “I think you’re on the right track. I dated a girl for like, a week, years ago who had depression, and getting outside really helped her she said. Maybe we could go on a walk with her down to the lake. Or hell, even loop around the bunker’s perimeter a few times.”

“That’s a good idea. I was also thinking something easier, like a movie night squished between us - something to show her she’s loved and not alone. Or maybe making dinner with us, so that she’s up and about but doesn’t really have to do much.” Sam ran his hand through his hair as he thought out loud.

Dean grinned. “Oh we’d show her she’s loved. She’s like my sister. She’s not going anywhere.”

His grin faded. “Hey, what if we took her on an easy hunt? Tried to get her back in the swing of things? Maybe it would distract her from the depression.”

Sam shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. She said she wanted to die, which makes me think that she might do something stupid on the hunt, like try to get killed. Or even just make a stupid mistake because her head isn’t in the game. No, I don’t think a hunt is the right option for her right now.”

“Of course. Duh. I should have known that,” Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation at his cluelessness. ‘I wouldn’t want to put Y/N in danger.”

Sam sighed. “Well, we’ve got some ideas. Let me go talk to her and see what I can get her to do. We’ll be out in a bit one way or another.”

Dean nodded and headed to the kitchen to grab a bite and some coffee before doing his own research on your debilitating ailment.

----

You still hadn’t moved since Sam had come into the room. Your mind felt empty, like everything had been drained from it. You just lay there quietly, waiting for nothing.

The door opened slowly, and Sam silently came in, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t say a word, just got in the bed with you and wrapped you up in his arms to hold you close. Your back against his chest, he tried to shelter you with his body, as if he could protect you from the dark thoughts. Sam wanted you to feel his love first before he tried to say anything. The two of you stayed like that for several minutes, the only sound in the room was the sound of two humans breathing softly. You hadn’t even known, but his touch was what you’d been needing. You soaked in the moment, grateful Sam was giving you space before speaking.

“Y/N?” Sam kissed the nook between your shoulder and your neck. “I want you to know you’re not alone. I’m here for you every step of the way.”

You didn’t respond, but it created the first semblance of emotion you’d felt all day. You could feel your eyes start to well up, not understanding how he knew exactly what to say to you.

“I don’t know what triggered your episode, but I think it would help if you talked it through with someone. It doesn’t even have to be me. You could text the crisis help line, and speak to someone through that. What do you think about that?” You could hear the hesitation in Sam’s voice, as though if he spoke too loudly or firmly he’d break you.

Sighing once again, you summoned the motivation to speak. “If I talk to anyone, I’d like it to be you.”

You could feel the smile on his lips as he again kissed you.

You drew in a shaky breath and decided to describe to him how you were feeling. You told him in a whisper about how you had no motivation, no gumption to do anything. How you felt worthless and unlovable. You told him how you felt he’d be better off if you just died so you weren’t a burden anymore and how you couldn’t bring yourself to care about anything today. As you spoke of your symptoms and feelings, you could feel a couple warm tears dripping into the crook of your neck and shoulder.

Once you finished, you felt Sam take a couple steadying breaths, clearly attempting to get himself together. “My love, I’m so sorry you’re going through this. If I could take this all away I would. But I’m here. I can share the weight of your burden. You mean the world to me. You are the farthest thing from a burden on me. You are the shining light in my life, guiding me and loving me. You have given me a reason to fight on. You are what I hold on to in my dark moments.” Here Sam paused, unsure whether he was overwhelming you or even getting through to you.

You turned in his arms so that your chest was facing his, your arms pressed against his chest as you brought your head to tuck under his. “Sam, I can’t tell you how much that helped me,” you said softly.

Sam took that as a cue and gently unwrapped one of his arms from your back and brought your head up to his. Tenderly, he pressed his lips to yours, sending you the message “I love you”. You allowed yourself to respond, capturing his lips with yours. Your kiss was sending the message, “Thank you.”

The two of you kissed delicately for a minute before your body began to respond. You pressed your mouth more firmly against his and adjusted your body to press closer against Sam’s. You brought one hand up and began to run it through Sam’s hair, something you knew he was crazy for. As the kiss began to become more passionate, you grabbed Sam’s hair at the roots and gently pulled, letting him know it was ok to take this a step further. He moaned a little against your mouth at the feeling of his hair being tugged on and involuntarily ground his hips into yours.

You automatically responded by thrusting your hips back against his. Sam broke the kiss long enough to look at you with an unspoken question in his eyes. You nodded, understanding his desire to show you just how much he loved you. Sam rolled you onto your back before resuming the kiss, running his tongue along your bottom lip, lazily requesting access to your mouth. You granted it, and began to explore his mouth with your own as if it were your first kiss. You could feel Sam slowly grinding against you, not rushing, but clearly feeling the need for some friction. His erection was bumping against your abdomen, and both of your breathing began to get shorter and heavier.

Not breaking the kiss, Sam lifted himself up on one arm and began pulling your nightshirt over your head. You allowed your lips to leave his only long enough to get the shirt out of the way and immediately brought your mouth to Sam’s again. His free hand roamed across your stomach, tracing lines in circles and random shapes as he made his way up to your breasts. Your breathing hitching, you moaned into the kiss as he began to massage your breast, pinching your hardened nipple. Your hips began to grind back against Sam’s, now also needing friction. Your arousal was beginning to pool between your legs, and you weren’t wearing panties.

Sam began to move his kisses down your jawline and to your neck, where he sucked through his teeth, determined to leave his mark on you. You cocked your neck to the side to allow him full access but he was already moving lower, taking your nipple in his mouth and swirling his tongue around it, sucking on it. He pulled off it with a pop, and moved to the next one. Sam then continued to work his way down your body, kissing every inch of your stomach, navel, and down to your inner thighs. You shuddered, his lips so close to your slick folds. Sam smiled against your leg. “You like that, sweetheart?” All you could do was whimper in response as you ground your hips desperately. “Ok,” he murmured. “Ok, love. Let me show you how much I love you.”

Sam ran his tongue between your folds and immediately you felt the tightness in your core begin. He knew every sensitive spot, every place to make you writhe in ecstasy. He sucked on your clit and slowly stuck a finger in your hole. You threw your head back, eager for him to insert another, which he obliged. He bent them and ran them against your walls, curling and pumping. Your juices squelched a bit, letting Sam know just how ready for him you were. He continued to run his tongue in swirls around your clit and through your folds as he finger fucked you. The tightness in your core becoming unbearable, you could feel your release coming. You moaned loudly and stuttered, “S-Sam, I’m gon-gonna…”

“Cum for me baby. Come on, that’s it. Good girl,” he praised as your orgasm exploded, pleasure coursing through your body, your pussy clenching around his fingers over and over again as he rode you through it.

You lay limp against the sheets, unable to form words. Sam looked up at you and chuckled. He slowly brought himself up along your body to recapture your lips with his, putting all his love and passion into the kiss. “Now do you know how much I love you?” he asked. You smirked. You could feel his erection pressed between your bodies. You wanted to feel him deep inside you, filling you, satisfying you. “Mmm I’m beginning to,” you murmured. “I might need you to show me more.” Sam smirked back at you and said, “As you wish, my love.”

He lined himself up at your entrance, rubbing his cock in your juices. Slowly, he pushed in, letting you adjust as he went. That was one thing you loved about him. Sam never rushed your body. He worshipped it. Once he was fully sheathed, he pulled halfway out, and slowly thrust back in, creating a slow, lazy pace that made you two feel like you had all the time in the world. As he thrust, he grabbed one of your legs, and put it over his shoulder, giving him a new angle, to get him deeper.

You moaned and your pussy clenched around his cock as he hit places that gave you waves of pleasure. He groaned as you clenched around him and sped up his pace, his balls slapping against your skin. Sam took his free hand and started rubbing your clit again, trying to help you get to your climax. His other hand held your hip in place as his pace picked up even more, almost becoming erratic as he got close to his release. You threw your head back again as you felt the familiar tightness building in your core. “Oh don’t stop. Oh Sam. Oh my god. Don’t .. don’t… ahhh!!” You came loudly and harder than last time, your back arching and your pussy milking Sam’s cock for all it was worth. Sam grunted - he couldn’t handle it, the tightness, the pulsing - and released inside you, jerking his hips, spurts of cum coating your walls.

Sam gently pulled out of you, his cum dripping from between your legs. He got up and grabbed a towel from the closet and quietly cleaned you up, careful to not be too rough. You lay there in heaven, a stupid smile on your face, unsure if you’d even be able to walk the next day. Sam crawled back into bed with you and gathered you in his arms. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple and said, “Do you believe me now? How much I love you?”

You smiled adoringly at him and whispered, “Yes, I do.”

Sam grinned. “Good. Because we have an activity outside the room that we’re going to do. And you need to be clothed for it.” He winked at you cheekily. “Dean and I were talking, and we brainstormed something the three of us could do that would help you feel less alone. So, let’s get UP,” he rolled you on top of him and then over him to get you to the side of the bed. “And dressed, and then we’ll go meet Dean.”

You smiled again at him, and good-naturedly shook your head as you got dressed. The darkness was gone for now. You knew it would be back, but you had ammunition to combat it the next time it came a-knocking. Sam Winchester’s love.

[yoursecretmuse]

My Perception On No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai

🥀 This year has brought me many joys, that have left me with melancholy victories. I have been venturing out of my usual book genres and I've found a selection of well to do books that I simply cannot live without. How I've existed this far without them, I will never know. There are many different types of literature out there and of course I only focus on English and European Literature. Not because I'm bias  in some way. But I've always found American and European culture very interesting. Despite ignoring my very own culture. It had never occurred to me, that until now, I have never heard of Asian Literature. It's like an unknown phenomenon that no one speaks of. When I think back of my studies in school, I've never even heard of my teachers mentioning Asian writers at all. It was like they didn't exist or people found Asian culture not important enough to read about. Which is odd because in Asian countries they have liberties filled with European novel and American novels. Is it safe to say that Asian people find European and American culture interesting, though we do not share the same feelings toward them. Nevertheless, I stumbled upon Osamu Dazai after reading a mutual friends post about Vincent Van Gogh. It was a silly meme that consisted of Van Gogh and Osamu talking over their depression. Which is not something to joke about but I must confess I found it humorous. Through that humor, I decided to research Osamu and the rest is history. So, here is my thoughts on the exceptional book, No Longer Human. I want to give an in-depth review without giving the book away too much (if at all). But I must warn you that spoilers may become a possibility. No Longer Human is broken into three parts, including an introduction in the beginning by Donald Keene, as well as a Prologue & Epilogue by Osamu Dazai himself. So, to make things easier to understand, I'm going to review each part individually.

The Introduction Normally, I would skip this part of the book because at times it can be very boring and bland. But after reading The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johaan Wolfgang Von Goethe, I found it important to read book introductions because they can have valuable information about the writer. In this section, Donald Keene noted how under appreciated Asian writer are in literature. For some odd reason, American & Europeans cultures specifically seem to feel like we cannot learn anything from Asian culture. Perhaps it has something to do with our history with going to battle with certain Asian countries. Yet, that did not stop countries like Japan and China from filling their liberties with American & European literature. Which upsets me. Had it not been for Van Gogh, I would have missed out on an extremely talented writer. I'm not sure who is to blame for this but I find the idea of not representing Asian writers outside of manga is shameful and sad. There is more to their culture than just that. However, as a whole our world only views Asian people in a small and certain light, that barely gives them any kind of positive recognition outside of the obvious stereotypes. In short, I really urge everyone to take time and read the introduction and share your thoughts on Keene's and my views. What do you think and why is Asian literature so lost and underrepresented? Why do Asian writers rather be on the bottom of American top writing lists, than the top of Asian writer lists? It is very interesting.

🥀

The Prologue In this section, you learn of how Ōba Yōzō (aka Dazai himself) feels alienated and very much of a misfit. He tells you how all of his life he has worn a mask to hid his true sensitive and self destructive self. He harshly criticizes himself and informs you of how he feels about the nature of "humans" and how he never felt like one, thus making him believe that he is not. I like this part of the novel because I can relate to it in so many ways. Many things he explained and said is how I felt (and still very much feel) about myself. Not only of my appearance and state of being but also without people. We both share the same reflection on our confidence or lack there of as a child. I shared his thoughts on normality being ugly and being bland and not standing out is worse than being ugly or beautiful. He even goes on to explain that death has more of a soul or an expression than him. The ugly/void he felt as a child (as well as his whole life) has manifested into a visible void, that crept from his inner darkness and it carries a bland look. Which to me speaks volumes. 🥀

The First Notebook Unable to cope with the world around him, Ōba begins to become a jokester and class clown, in order to mask away the alienation that he feels. He engages in planned fails and acts as if he has no clue as to what he does. He tells us of his environment at home. His father always being gone on business and his mother he did not mention much. He speaks of his maids/servants mistreating him, but he never reported them because he sees it as pointless. We also learn he views a "human" as someone who is happy and hopeful. Perhaps, attractive in some way and could possibly have a great deal or comfortable amount of money. Which is strange because his family were quite wealthy and well known. He speaks of how he feels his life is a shame and the life of a "human" was not cut out for him. There is much more to be said here but I do not wish to spoil everything. I still want readers to get a wow factor from this book, without knowing every details and topic. 🥀

The Second Notebook A very key factor in this part is that Ōba is caught by another student named Takeichi who suspects and confronts him on faking his fall during "gym" class. This sends Ōba into a manic behavior and he somewhat becomes obsessed with Takeichi and fears that he will expose him for being a fraud. I found this interesting given Takeichi had no intention on exposing Ōba or telling anyone about his opinions on his stunts. Certain things happens and the two become somewhat of friends and Takeichi began to mention things to Ōba that were predicting and in a way life changing for Ōba. Ōba also finds an strong interest in art, which leads him to start painting. Ōba also becomes apart of a communist group and becomes a respectable member. Though, he does not share their same views and is only there because he views them as misfits. In this section, a young man now, Ōba meets someone by the name of Horiki. Horiki is also a college student but exposes Ōba into an unfortunate and dreadful life cycles, that pleasures and destroys him further. He also tries to commit suicide with a woman named Tsuneko, who dies but he does not. This even tears him apart and causes his family to the verge of disowning him. 🥀

The Third Notebook: Part One Ōba begans to have multiple affairs with different women, from different walks of life. He becomes a heavy drinker and is expelled from college. He becomes too focus on self destruction, he was not able to create or focus on his artwork. He tries to quite smoking and drinking. But struggles terribly. He marries a young girl, who tries to encourage him to stop drinking and for awhile it works. And for a moment Ōba is happy. The two both marry and move in together. 🥀

The Third Notebook: Part Two Working as a cartoon and sober, Ōba feels somber toward marriage life. He thinks of his wife as native and innocent. But he falls into bad habits once he is visited by an old friend named Horiki, who (with Ōba) witnesses Ōba's wife being sexually assaulted by an associate friend. Ōba begins to blame himself, as well as his wife and becomes manic and fills himself with alcohol and is committed into a mental hospital. After leaving his wife for another woman. This parts ends with him being brought to a home that his brother purchased for him and given the money he needed for living and personal interest. Ōba is left feeling empty and recounts his choices and views of hisself. 🥀

Epilogue We are then given the prospective of an outsider, who wanted to meet Ōba but fails. He then meets a friend of Ōba and she gives him the three notebooks. The man is intrigued by the notebooks and decides to publish them. We are left with a reflects of Ōba's friend telling us that he was a kind and gentle soul, who made everyone laugh and smile. 🥀

My Final Thoughts I believe this is one of the greatest books that I have read. I love the rawness of this book and I adore how the events were true. I feel that Osamu Dazai was a great writer and his death is very unfortunate. I find the way he told his life very interesting and beautiful and poetic. I wish I was able to meet him and praise him for being an amazing artist and writer. But the result would probably remain the same. There is so much that we can learn from Osamu and his life. His perception on life and people is very interesting and a very rare viewpoint on life. I highly suggest that everyone checkout this novel and spread the works of Asian Literature. Thanks For Listening. -𝓒

[headcans-oneshots-and-stuff]

Dying in their arms...(Angst Preferences)

Requested by an Anon who wants to see me cry: Could you do a hc of how the batboys react to their s/o dying in their arms and maybe the aftermath? You don't have to do it right away I just needed to put this in case I don't remember it

Warning: This is Angst, like harcore Angst. Death and substance-abuse and suicidal thoughts (or rather implications), the whole nine yards. Read with caution. And for the most part I’ll make the reader die without resurrection (excpet for in one case)

Dick remembers. You laying there in his arms, your body almost cold already, limb and your last breath long gone - it just flashes the pictures of his parents again. He has lost so many people since, again and again, inclusing himself. But a tiny voice whispers in his head that no, no you won’t be back. That this might actually be final. That that last breath of yours was your final one. That he’d never hear your heartbeat again or could listen to your voice or feel the warmth of your skin under his touch.  It’s another person on the long list of people who died, people he had loved or cared for. And he will be shattered for days, will lock himself up in his room and just cry until he’s numb. Dick likes being numb, it takes away the reality of life. The reality that is way too hard for him to grasp.  It seems unlike Dick, but he might decide to take care of being numb with drugs. As soon as he starts feeling again he longs for the numbness, longs for the feeling of not feeling anything. He wants to forget that you’re gone and forget how much he misses you. So, as a cop, he has the necessery contacts to find someone who can give him what he needs to feel numb again.  Dick knows that this isn’t what you want for him, what you would have wanted if you haven’t... So he’ll stop soon enough. He’ll stop once he breaks even when he should be numb. Then he might get help, get someone who helps him work through that, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll be okay again. He won’t get over you, but he can live on, he can use the time he has left until he’ll meet you again to help others not feel the way he did.  Until one day he will see you again, be in your arms again...

Jason hates. He hates everything. He hates the universe for always taking everything from him, for kicking him when he was already laying on the floor, for ending your life so prematurely. He hates whoever did this to you and he’ll make damn sure that the person or thing will suffer, will wish he was never even an idea, will make him feel the way he felt and the way you must have felt. Bruce’s no-killing rule we be long forgotten by then and to be quite honest, I don’t think he’ll come back from that. His own death was hard enough on him, he started despising the world and he turned to the dark side, but he turned back with the help of Bruce and the others. And with the help of you. Even if he was already on the good side again by the time he meets you, you pull his soul out of that dark place it was in ever since he died. You become his anchor, his reason. And then there he is, on his knees in some dirty warehouse, a place not even close to worth you taking your last breath in, and he holds you in his arms. Your fragile, broken body. And he looks at you and he no longer sees a reason to life, he sees a reason to kill. Deep, deep inside he knows it’s not what you wanted, that if you could talk to him you would tell him that this shouldn’t define him, but he can’t find it in himself to care.  What’s the idea if you’re not there anymore. If there is something like a heaven (and with that something like hell) he never believed that he would end up in the good place, but he knew damn well that you would. So, when he wakes up from his raged-out rampage, killing every- and anyone who was in some way responsible for what happened to you, his last hope that he may could have been forgiven and could have ended up with you wherever you might now be is gone.  And not only that, Jason is the living example that death isn’t always the end, but he can’t bring himself to try to get the live back into you, because if you would be back, you’d see what he became and he couldn’t stand that.  So, if there’s no hope of ever seeing you again, when he knows that last moment in the warehouse was actually the very last for you two, he changes. For the worse, and not like when he was killed and revived. He will get back into the mindset that being good didn’t help anyone and that the only way to effectively stop criminals was to either kill them or kill enough of them that others wouldn’t dare.  And, even though Bruce isn’t the one he blames this time, his family stopped to matter the moment he turned and he will not hesitate with them either, because in his eyes, there’s always more criminals if there are heroes too...

Tim dies. Not on the outside. No, but on the inside. The moment your eyes become dazed and the life has left you, his life leaves him too. He will be heavily in deny at first, won’t accept the fact that you’re not there anymore. He will beg and try to make deals, goes to everyone he can think off who might have the power to bring you back, but to no avail. You’re gone too long, or died in a way too unreversable, but it’s not possible to bring you back. It will take days, maybe weeks or moths, until he accepts it. Until he finally understands that you’re gone and that that’s final.  That he won’t hear your voice or feel your touch. In general he is the one who has the “healthiest” coping off them all. He goes to the phases rather quickly after he came out of the long phase of denial. But just because he accepts it, doesn’t mean it’s any easier. He’ll spend nights upon nights looking at pictures, videos and text messages from you. He might even go as far as to hack into any sort of recording that has you, anything to hear your voice another time.  But that’s in privat. In public he’ll put on a facade, especially in front of his family, he’ll act like everything is okay and he’ll drown himself in as much work as he can, anything to distract himself from reality. His family will be worried, obviously, but if people ask him if he’s okay, he’ll say it is, he’ll put on a face. It’s almost uncanny how normal he is able to act in front of them.  When he does it long enough, Tim believes, he might be able to believe it himself. Might be able to get through that and maybe, one day in the future, he’ll actually be okay. He knows he won’t forget you, knows that there won’t be anything or anyone that could replace you, but he can live on. In your name.  He can live the life you never would be able to for the both of you...

Damian doubts. Just for a second. He has doubts about the life he left and the person he became. He was told that it was the right thing to do the right things, that he should be good, and he believed it. But how can it be that even when he was a good person, you were taken from him. And not only that, in Damian’s mind it was debetable about how good he actually was, but you, in Damian’s eyes your the personification of everything that ever was light in this world, so how could it be that you were gone so early. It wasn’t fair. So what was the idea? How could being good be right when it took you away from him?  But he’s torn. On one side he knows you would have never been hurt if he had never become good, you’d never been part of this life, but on the other side he wouldn’t have met you and that couldn’t be right either. He loved you. Loved you more than he ever thought was possible. So maybe him becoming good wasn’t the only problem, maybe it was the fact that you were good in a world that wasn’t. A world that didn’t appriciate you or was worth your existence.  A world that couldn’t protect you.  Damian will sit there for a while, you in his arms, unmoving, stiff and already cold. He won’t contact his father or his siblings, he’ll just think.  Until he’s sure, he will not live without you and if being good doesn’t guarantee that, than maybe being good isn’t the right thing for him.  He’ll pick you up and he’ll carry you out, he’ll possibly hotwire a car and lay you down on the backseat, as if you were just sleeping, and then he’ll contact his mother or his grandfather.  If having you back means joining the league again and becoming their pawn then that was what Damian had to do. He’ll be there with you when you wake up again, he’ll take some time off and just be with you. He knows you’ll be changed, maybe even a completely different person, but he doesn’t mind. Not as long as he had you with him. That was all that mattered to him...He just needed you by his side, the rest was unimportant

[morimakesfanart]

Sindria's Prophet #08

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [AO3]

** TW/suicide of family member implied (it is marked ahead with ((text)) so you know what to skip) ~POV shift Mori~ In my old life I had spent 4 or so years as a historical reenactor for the mid 1700's through early 1800's on my weekends. My group mainly acted as pirates/privateers and sang sea shanties. We had done performances on different ships, but every time we were invited onto a period ship I couldn't make it, so I was geeking out when I saw the ship we'd be taking to Sindria. I prayed it didn't show on my face. Sure it was exciting for an other world's nerd like me to get to see a ship like this in use, but to everyone else it was a normal ship. The ship had two masts -both square rigged with a fore and aft sail at the back for better steering. Considering the reputation for the waters around Sindria I expected a bigger three mast ship for strength, but who was I to judge?

With only two masts, this ship probably only needed a crew of about nine people to allow for different shifts. It didn't look like it had room for many passengers. No doubt, Sinbad didn't expect to be bringing four extra people back with him. I was in full on research mode by the time I got on the ship, and I tired my best to not stand out or get in the way. Getting to look up at the rigging from on the deck was an experience. After everyone was settled I'd definitely make a point to look around more. I might even take one of the scrolls out and try drawing the deck of the ship since I never got around to drawing that gorgeous room in the hotel. I considered myself lucky that no one tried to talk to me until the rooms were being divided out -I had been hyperfixating so I might not have even noticed if they did.

Studying the ship could only boost me for so long. About 15 minutes before we left the port I could no longer ignore that my head was throbbing from exhaustion. This headache was undeniably becoming a migraine if it wasn't one already. I decided that sleep was the next thing on my agenda. Luckily, I made that decision around the same time the rooms were being divided out. I had figured I'd end up in the same room as Alibaba, Aladdin and Morgiana, but Alibaba was put in the same room as Ja'far and Masrur. Everyone put their bags down, and headed back on deck except me. I sat on my bed with my head in my hands as I started to let myself fully calm down. In the quiet it hit me just how much I had been using working on the scrolls as a way to avoid thinking about my guilt and lost home. I'd have to find time when no one else was in the room to work through these feelings. There was no way I could keep it bottled up until we reached Sindria. "Excuse me, Miss Mori?" Aladdin had re-entered the room and closed the door. We might not have been formally introduced but he was told who I was. "What is it?" I lifted my head to look at him, and tried to keep my expression positive. I felt the waves rising. A Magi was talking to a Prophet in private; something was bound to happen. The walls of the ship creaked, and I heard steps and the floor boards creak in the hallway. The wave got a little bigger. Silence hung in the air as the boy just stood there. Instead of trying to guess what he wanted I waited. His hands tightened around his staff. Aladdin looked nervous as he confronted me. "I know you say you've read Fate, but I don't think Fate is something written in stone. It's something that everyone makes together. It can always change." The hallway floor creaked behind the Magi again. The wave was getting bigger. Someone was definitely listening in, and there was only one King that was a chronic eavesdropper.

"I agree," I said bluntly. I wanted Sinbad to hear my answer. Ten years ago, he came to the conclusion that Fate was something already written as a way to cope with his guilt and trauma, and he thought he was 'the chosen one' for being able to read ahead through the waves, but he was wrong on both accounts. "You do?” Aladdin was surprised. It must sound weird coming from someone who read Fate. "I've read more than one Fate for this world, so I know there is no one true path." The manga, anime and OVAs were a little different after all. "And if Fate couldn't be changed then I couldn't be here." I turned so I was sitting facing him. "You see, I wasn't in any of the Fate I read. I wasn't even in this world until five days ago." The magi took a few steps towards me with wide eyes. Aladdin had felt very alone for not being from this world -now he would know he wasn't the only one. It wasn't a reveal that caused problems on its own when Aladdin explained in the original so I didn't see an issue in letting Sinbad overhear about me either- I had already implied as much the previous day. I felt the need to elaborated. "Everything I do changes the Fate I read because I wasn't here. For example, only one of the Fates I read showed the conversation where you all found out about the Kou Fleet. Remember how I yelled at Alibaba? If I didn't convince him to leave then King Sinbad would have knocked him out, and Alibaba would be kept asleep with medicine for this whole trip. Since I was there this time, I was able to change that." "Oh!" He brightened up a bit. "I much prefer things this way." "I agree. Like this it will be much easier for him to heal." I looked down at my intertwined hands. "I have no idea how this will change the Fate I read though." Aladdin hummed a question mark, but he didn't say or ask anything directly. I answered the obvious question to my words, "I can't read a Fate that I'm a part of, so now that I'm here I can't read how my actions are changing Fate. Eventually, the Fate I did read will become useless, and I have no idea if I'm changing it for the better." It was only as I said it that I remembered that Sinbad was listening. I had basically just told him that my usefulness as his Prophet would have a definite expiration date. All I had wanted was to let Aladdin know that he might not be able to rely on me for everything. I definitely wasn't thinking clearly. Aladdin cut into my thoughts. "Is that why the Rukh are so active around you? Because you weren't originally a part of the Flow of Fate?" "Probably." I didn't know what else to say. I knew I had to be making distinctive waves in the Rukh just by being here, let alone with all of my changes. "Miss Mori, where are you from?" I hummed in amusement at that. "I'm from much farther away than you or your parents-if you can believe it." I was from the same world as the person who wrote the original Fate of this world. There was no way I could tell anyone that. He was shocked again. It was written all over his face that he was questioning if I was really from a dimension farther away than Alma Torran. Aladdin gripped the flute that he always wore. "Then... Are you the person he didn't recognize?" "He?" Which 'he' -oh. I lowered my voice. "Ugo?" I put one finger over my lips and looked at the door. Sinbad has to remain ignorant about the Sacred Palace; he's too self-absorbed. Aladdin looked confused at my change in volume. He followed my gaze to the door and back then nodded. He didn't look all that surprised that I knew about Ugo. I kept my voice low. "Aladdin, let's talk more about this some other time. The walls have ears on such a small ship. And I'm exhausted." "Okay. Rest well, Miss Mori." Aladdin spoke at normal volume. I heard a scramble in the hallway, the magi left, and I put my glasses in the top of my bag for safe keeping. I could hear Aladdin through the wall. "Oh! Mr. Sinbad, Mr. Ja'far, did you want to check on Miss Mori too?” "Uh, yes. How is she doing?” Was King Sinbad's response. I could hear the nerves he was trying to

cover up. "Real smooth there, Sin." I mumbled as I finally drifted into unconsciousness. --- I was a young man of 20 some years. I had started a family. We didn't have enough money for food. I ended up taking a risky job because I knew it would pay better. ... No. I'm a six year old girl? I don't remember if I had parents, but I remember going to visit this old dog every day. ... If life was hard, and I had nothing to loose then there was no reason not to bet everything I had on one last round. How could I return to my family without money? The last time I saw my son he was three. Would he even remember me? ... Ya know, when you grow up with someone and everyone else can see your chemistry you'd think it would be obvious that we'd marry when we grew up, but she met someone else. ... I knew things were bad, but I never even considered that my neighbor was stealing from me when I was at work. Bastard stabbed me with my own kitchen knife when I caught him. --- I wasn't myself in my dreams. Every time I woke I had to ground myself and remember where and when I was. Rereading the scrolls I had made helped. Just how many Rukh had merged with me, and why? I had no connections to any of those spirits while they were alive. Was it just because ghosts like me? I wrote down every dream I had; their lives might have been over, but they were a part of me now. I was too exhausted to go on deck, and I could feel that there were still more lives inside of me that I had to get aquatinted with. When I wasn't sleeping, I was working on scrolls again since I at least had enough energy to write and draw. My breathing was getting difficult, and I was struggling with temperature regulation. I wasn't okay enough to tell if it was my body struggling with the changes in my magoi, like when Sinbad took in all the Rukh after the Fall of First Sindria, or if I was just sick. After making sure I could still use magoi manipulation I decided that it was probably the later. I mainly left that room for food, and I waited until almost everyone was done before going. I avoided talking to others too. If I was sick I needed to minimize my contact with others. Alibaba seemed to be in a similar state to me. We both found that staying near each other when around the others made them less likely to approach us with the depressing cloud that hung over us.

Those that did see me could obviously tell I was unwell. From their words it seemed like they were assuming I was just mourning -they were only half wrong. It gave me an easy excuse to leave, so I never corrected them. I did feel bad for worrying everyone. The whole situation sucked. I wanted to cry. I had been in lock down back home because of Covid-19 for 8 months as an at risk person (it's still Oct 2020 in this story). I was literally in a fantasy anime world now. I wasn't given a better immune system, but my boobs didn't need a bra anymore??? WTF?? If the current arbiter of Fate was me writing fanfiction, then they had a lot of explaining to do. ... Who was I kidding? I knew why I would write something like this. I wanted to see more stories about people like me -someone with my disabilities and life experiences- get to be someone "valued" even if they couldn't be on the front lines. My migraine wouldn't go away, and it wasn't the only part of me in pain. I think I got palpitations a few times -breathing was even worse during those episodes. If I hadn't had health problems growing up I probably would have been panicking. I knew it was stupid to not tell anyone what was going on with me. But would anyone even be able help me on a ship? Telling them would just make them worry more than they already were. Aladdin and Morgiana could tell something more was wrong with me; I couldn't fully hide from them while sleeping in the same room. They must have let the others know since they gave me some pain killers at some point. It tasted awful. I'm honestly not sure how affective it was, but it did knock me out. ((Skip to the next paragraph to avoid the trigger)) At least I was left alone most of the time. I had no choice but to sit with my thoughts about Balbadd. I grew up mourning. The blood on my hands might not be the same as losing most of my loved ones back home, but it was damn similar to when I was in high school thinking "if only one of us had answered the phone that day." The Balbadd revolt would have been much worse if I wasn't there. And even if I had said something sooner there was little that could be done to actually stop Al Thamen when they had their hands so deep in that country. Even with Sinbad there to sway Fate, Al Thamen would still find a way to spill blood. Even if I told Alibaba days in advance and he tried to talk to Cassim about it, Cassim wanted nothing to do with Sinbad, so any help that came from him would be refused. Cassim was twisted around Issnan's fingers and out for blood. I did the best I could. My actions did save some people. I'd have to take solace in that. --- I woke up to something wrapped around me, almost like I was tied down. I couldn't move my legs. I gave up trying to untangle my skirt and covers from me, and just pulled the skirt out from under the cloth belt -kicking the whole mass off like a cocoon. I had put my underwear on underneath and I still had the tunic on so I wasn't left totally uncovered. Star light shown in from the window. I had slept through another day. I couldn't remember my dream. Maybe I had finally returned to having my own dreams. The other beds in the room were occupied. My head was still swimming. I felt trapped. I needed something. I heard the waves outside, and felt the waves of Fate washing over me. Their sounds called to me. Back home I had used the sounds of waves to meditate and stim regularly. I had been hearing them all this time, but I wanted to see them. I didn't bother to slip on my flip-flops as I made my way to the door, didn't even think about grabbing my glasses until I was already on deck. It had been so dark below that I couldn't see anyway, and didn't realize I wasn't wearing them. The wave of Fate I had been following lead me farther into the space. When I hit it's end, the adrenaline that had got me that far died out. The night air hit my legs and I shivered. It was colder than it was at night in Balbadd. I thought we were heading south. Did I still have a fever? The cold reminded me that I really should have put on

my shorts or something before coming out here. The tunic just barely covered me. My vision was going grey scale. This was bad. Really bad. I recognized this feeling. I was about to pass out from not being able to breathe right. I used to have fainting spells as a kid because of my weak raspatory system and needed to carry smelling salts for a few years. The last time it happened was about five years ago -I had been really sick. My head was throbbing; my heart was pounding. Guess I was sicker than I thought. I needed to focus on breathing and getting to the ground. I stumbled to the bowsprit (the pole that sticks out the front of the ship) as support. I needed to get to the ground safely before I collapsed. I'd gotten a concussion once because I didn't get down before the black out hit. A wave crashed into me from behind. If I hadn't been putting all my weight on that wooden shaft I would have been pushed over even though it wasn't a physical wave. What in the world was behind me that would cause such a wave? I removed one arm to look back as my knees started to give out. There was definitely someone there. Their color balance didn't match anything I could remember, but they were really familiar. Without my glasses I couldn't really tell anything -especially since everything was becoming different shades of black. And I already had bad night vision. The light was fading. Shapes were getting harder to discern. Even though I was breathing deeper I hadn't managed to counter the fainting spell. I was going down. I definitely fell, but it didn't feel like I fell for long enough to hit the ground. The feeling across my back was really familiar. Someone had caught me.

Sometimes I was able to stay conscious when I fainted. It was kinda like ending up in sleep paralysis but with a -20 to all sensory inputs. Seemed like this was one of those times. I couldn't hear what they were saying or see them. It was like my head was deep under water. There was a pressure on my forehead. Were they checking my temperature? When someone faints you're supposed to lay them on the ground and position them so they can breath easier. This person didn't take first aid classes or forgot or something because I was being lifted upwards instead of laid down. It was really warm and comfy though. I liked this feeling. What was it? Safe? Was that it? I hadn't felt actually safe in a long time. I certainly didn't feel safe in that house back home even after everything was over. Maybe it was the feeling of warmth and safety. Maybe it was the way the waves were moving. Maybe it was the numbness that comes with blacking out. But whatever it was had stopped the pain. With the pain gone I calmed the rest of the way. I felt my spine straighten out onto a soft surface. The warmth faded even though something was now covering my legs. I was in a bed. The cold was back without a source of warmth to leech from. I definitely had a fever if I was this cold. Damnit. I grew up with all sorts of chronic health conditions and have always gotten sick easily. Even though I was now in an anime world, I was still me. Was I going to die in this world from some common illness that was already cured back home? We might not have had a lot of money back home but I was lucky enough to get a job with usable health insurance that let me work from home during a pandemic. I could at least get medicine every time I got a normal illness. I was finally able to afford to get and keep an inhaler. Not that any of that was of use to me now. My motor functions were returning. I rolled to the side and curled into the fetal position. I had lost everything. No home. No friends or family. Who would want to look after a stranger with nothing to give back? I was doing what I could to seem worthy of the main cast, but how long would that last? The story would reach its end in five years. What would I do after that? What was the point of all of the savings I had managed to make back home if I was going to be Isekaied? I had been the main bread winner and now my family couldn't even use my savings because I hadn't left a body behind as proof that I had died. All of the thoughts and feelings I was still running from were flooding through me. I couldn't even distract myself with writing scrolls or anything. This was probably for the best. Pushing things away for much longer would be unhealthy. And if I couldn't let myself feel miserable when I was sick and alone, then when could I? I let the tears fall. I hadn't been a loud crier since I was a kid, so I was caught off guard when I could hear my own sobs. I didn't have it in me to hide any more. The bed I was on creaked but I hadn't moved. There was a new weight on the mattress.

I wasn't alone.

The concept that someone was checking on me hurt harder. I didn't grow up in a healthy environment, so now feel immense guilt when someone shows me genuine kindness. But I am also aware and recovered enough to know I deserve kindness, so the guilt always paired with an equal amount or more of relief. I felt a hand stroke my hair. They wanted to comfort me. And I wanted comfort. The waves washing over me encouraged me seek out more. I used what little strength I had to pull myself against them. Having undeniable proof that I wasn't alone and that someone cares was overwhelming. The relief made me cry harder. I'd have to thank them later. But for the time being I'd pour out as much emotion as they'd let me.

[straymackerel]

ahh for the event, can i have #14 with dazai pwease? hehe thank you🥺💕✨

dazai + firgun || פירגון (hebrew, v.) to truly rejoice at the success of another.

➽─{yesyesyes more soft zai moments !!! that is,, after a bit of a trial,, here’s to celebrating small successes.}─❥

warning(s): reader angst, suggestive of depression

Near the point of passing out, doing your absolute best to push through a sleepy stupor on a moonless night, your feet dragged along the pavement on your way home. The chill in the air seemed to bypass your clothes, managing to strike you at your very core, but you hardly noticed. Lethargy lived in your bones, took shelter in your muscles, after all. 

Today hadn’t been a particularly eventful day at all: no, the workload was moderate at best. But as the hours wore on, the unbearable weight of menial, everyday tasks seemed to drive a wedge between you and your sanity. It wasn’t just about staying awake, either; your mind was in a fog, one you couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact inception of. Just when did you start feeling this way─start feeling like a walking, talking zombie? It could’ve been yesterday, or the day before that, or a week ago, or several. You tried not to think about it as you unlocked the front door of your boyfriend’s apartment, nearly falling to the ground when you took a single step inside.

He called your name cheerily on cue, all saccharine sweetness at your return home, and excessively so. In fact, his upbeat voice grated on your ears in all its sugary glory. You had little to respond with, half too tired to call back, half afraid of what might tumble out if you did. Yet your mind, in all its sluggishness, managed to wage war upon itself. It berated itself for its bitterness, its downright discourtesy towards such a benevolent boyfriend. It called you a million names and then some, cursing your ungratefulness. You should be running into his arms, thanking him for staying with someone as pathetic as you. Because that’s the way things ought to be when it comes to a hopeless mess like yourself. Isn’t that right?

And so as he rounded the corner, Dazai found you paralyzed in the hallway having barely made it indoors. One look at your face and he saw that you were deep in the pits of self-hatred, somewhere he’d spent much too long in himself. He rushed to your aid at once, brows furrowing as you collapsed straight into him. To you, it was like the very weight of the world went crashing into his shoulders.

“[Y/N],” he repeated, newfound concern in his voice, and that sharp twinge of guilt rose to your lips. “Are you okay?” He tested the waters only to find them all dried up.

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly, a hair above a whisper. “I’m fine, I just need to sleep it off.” Dazai’s hands dug into your sides when you tried to sidestep him, only to accomplish an ungraceful stumble over your own feet. 

“Oh, love. Come, now.” Dazai rose a deft hand to cup your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his. “What exactly are you hiding from me?” He asked as though he didn’t already know, and you blinked out the tears that leapt to your eyes in surprise. You wanted to run, you wanted to hide. Heat rushed to your nose as one, two, three teardrops dripped down your face, and with them the prickling in your eyes subsided, though the pain in your heart did not. 

“It’s just that─” Unable to control your voice, your words came out wobbly and hurried. A bandaged hand stroked your cheek as you drew a shaky breath, trying your best to piece a simple sentence together. “Things have been so, so…” He waited patiently as you tried to settle on a word that could encapsulate all of your struggles, but there was no such word. 

“...Difficult.” 

What you were unable to articulate with semantics, you expressed through your strain in tone. Not once did Dazai’s attention waver even when you paused to stabilize your breathing; you obviously had lots to say, and he was all ears. You leaned against him as the two of you began to walk down the hall, your mouth running on about how hard life had been as of late. You talked at length about the heaviness of it all, the pressures that bound you having converged upon you all at once. Every once in a while Dazai returned a nod or a small affirmation, but he mostly focused his efforts on just listening to you. With the exhaustion of grievances to spout off about came your arrival at the bedroom the two of you shared, its sudden appearance of much relief to you. You were set on the mattress with the utmost of delicacy, hardly bouncing back when laid down. He held you with care, as if you might break if lowered too fast.

“I’m sorry that I’m complaining so much,” you said sleepily, slumping back into your pillows. The aches that lingered within you were mostly physical, but shame is too insidious a seed. 

Your boyfriend shook his head with immediacy. “No, don’t apologize. Things have been rough. I understand, and I’m here for you now.” A smile crossed his face as he tucked you in, blanket to your chin. “You’re so, so strong, and I’m so, so proud of you.” 

You sniffled in response, using up the last of your strength to protest. “Proud?” you questioned, lips pursed. “Why?” You hadn’t the faintest idea of what he could be proud of.

“You woke up today,” he said matter-of-factly. “You got yourself up and out of bed, you put on clothes and walked out the front door. You do all of these things all the time, but that doesn’t make them any easier.” Dazai fixed a firm kiss to your forehead, eyes awash with light. If he could’ve seen himself, he would’ve sworn that that very light was you.

“You can pull through. I’ve seen you do it time and time again. No matter what happens, no matter how hard you fall, I believe in that,” he said, stopping only to pay you another kiss, this time to your lips. They loosened under his touch, having little choice but to accept him, but that was one thing you hadn’t the mind to complain about. You would remember that sorrowful night mostly by the warmth that spread across your lips and the words that followed soon after:

“I believe in you.”

--

source(s):

link i

link ii

--

If you’re in crisis, there are free and confidential options available to help you cope.

24/7 USA National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255.

Lifeline Web Chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/

USA/Canada Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741. It is silent, it is private, you can use it anywhere discretely on your phone.

UK: Text 85258 || Ireland: Text 50808

List of international crisis lines:

http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines

[thecleverdame]

The Oath - 6

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Master List

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

Support my Patreon and get access to exclusive stories.  CLICK HERE

-

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into a month. Time passes and you fall into a rhythm that’s at the very least predictable. Your situation is not as terrifying when you know what’s coming next. Days are spent on the trail, the entire regiment moving south toward the border of Gilead and Argos. It’s slow-moving. You’re not sure how far you travel each day but it can’t be more than a dozen miles, give or take. The snow slows everything, the men freeze and the carts and carriages are continually stuck, having to be dug out again and again. 

The nights are just as routine. Sam’s expectations are clear and you find it’s easier and easier to give yourself to him. Opening your legs and closing your eyes as he takes pleasure for himself, forcing that same pleasure onto you even when you beg him to stop. 

You’ve grown emotionally numb to all of it. Compartmentalizing feelings is a coping skill you learned as a child, and you put this skillset to use as your time with the Winchesters goes on.  

Being with Sam brings an innate sense of safety. You’re his, everyone knows it, there’s not a man in the regiment that would entertain the thought of laying a hand on you. While he’s certainly not gentle, he does seem to take pride in making sure you always get what you need, before and after he’s had his way with you. His main concern is keeping you in pristine condition.

You’ve become accustomed to a certain level of care as this mighty caravan moves through the countryside. 

It’s the same routine each night. As soon as the tents are erected, the servants pour you a bath, wash your skin and hair. You’re served sweet fruits before dinner and there’s always plenty of wine and other libations at the ready. By the time the Winchester brothers arrive for the evening meal, you’re typically well into this choreographed nightly ritual. 

Tonight they’re nowhere to be found. You’re alone as the night wears on. Dinner is served and you eat alone, then sit by the fire looking around at the vast array of belongings. They carry a whole life with them on the road. 

There’s a map spread out over the table that is reset daily by the cartographer, whose sole job is to ensure the troop’s movements are accurately represented. You study the markers, sorting out who’s who. John Winchester's men are everywhere, spread far and wide across the entire continent. You didn’t realize they had conquered so extensively. News from distant lands had stopped coming in nearly a year ago. You knew it was bad but you had no clue the scope of their domination. 

Half the map is swathed in red, indicating they’ve successfully overtaken each area. You search from top to bottom until you find your family’s colors, the blue and red of the all too familiar crest. Your father is still fighting, and it looks as if he’s joined up with several different kingdoms. They’re amassing to the south, it must be where Sam and Dean are headed. 

Your heart skips a beat. Up until this point you’ve done a good job keeping thoughts of your family at bay. You do everything within your power to avoid letting the memories of your former home whirl to life, it’s too painful. But this sparks something, an inkling stirring in the back of your brain. A meager seed of hope. 

Sam, Dean and the soldiers are heading right for your father’s army. Your hands shake, trembling with a surging anxiety. What this means, you have no idea. You know the chance of ever seeing your father, uncle or sisters again is nearly nonexistent. And even if by some miracle you were able to get to him, it’s unlikely you’d be welcomed back into the fold. You’ve been defiled by a Winchester. How could anyone overlook the shame you would bring on every member of the royal family? 

Turning attention back to the map, you trail a finger up the winding blue line of the Longtree River, moving further and further north until you find your current location. 

A solid blue marker is labeled as Sam and Dean and to the west is a massive legion of men under their father’s crest. John Winchester. It looks like you may get the chance to meet the man who started all this death and destruction. There are smaller pockets of resistance outlying around the edges and you lean in closer to get a better look. 

“What are you doing?” Sam booms, standing just inside the tent. 

“I was just,” you back away from the table as the Alpha makes a beeline for you. “I’m sorry I was just looking. I-” Your voice is cut off as his hand wraps around your neck, squeezing tight. 

“What were you looking for?” he hisses, pushing you backward, his gripping tightening. You sputter, gasping for air and pulling at his hand with your one working arm. 

“P-please,” you rasp, mouth gaping open like a fish on dry land. “I-I-”

“What?” His jaw is tight, anger brimming in his eyes. You’ve yet to see this side of him, but now you understand the rumors. Another minute of this and he’ll squeeze the very life right out of you. 

“Huhh,” you make a strangled sound, eyes rolling back in your skull as he lets go, gripping your jaw instead, forcing you to look at him. “I-I was just l-looking at the figures. I watched the man set them up,” you whisper. “I wondered what they were.” Tears fall down your cheeks as you shake in terror. 

You’ve become complacent. Perhaps this is the reminder you needed. Sam Winchester is a murderer and a tyrant. And he’ll kill you just as easily as fuck you. 

“What are they?” he asks, face inches away, his nose scrunching in anger. “Tell me, what did you find Omega?”

“I don’t know!” You cry out the first of many lies in hopes of abating his wrath. You search your brain, a simple village girl wouldn’t know how to read the labels on the map, much less battle markers. “I was just looking at the figurines and the drawings on the paper. I’m sorry if I saw something I shouldn’t have!” 

“This is not for you!” He turns your head toward the table, pointing with his other hand. “You need to know your place. You don’t see. You don’t hear. You just are. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” you nod frantically. 

His anger is logical. This information is invaluable. If a person wanted to subvert the Winchester cause this map would do the most damage. If you were in fact a spy, this would be the holy grail of information. You should have been more careful. 

“I didn’t know. I’ll do better, Alpha.” He lets you go and you slink backward, holding your throat. 

“I don’t give second warnings. Tread carefully, Omega.”

“I will, I promise.” You watch as he pours himself a drink and takes a seat at the table as if the whole encounter has drained him. Legs give way as you sink to the floor. Tomorrow there will likely be a handprint in black and blue across your throat. You’ve felt his strength before, but this is a wake-up call. You can’t become comfortable. Sam would snap your neck without a second thought if you gave him a reason. 

When you look up he’s watching you, his face now indifferent. He sighs, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his legs. What rage overtook him is gone just as fast as it came. 

“You are not allowed to look at the maps,” he explains calmly. “No maps, no books, no letters you may come across. And you never repeat a word you hear between Dean and me.”

“I understand...but I can’t read.” Books have been one of the great loves of your life, but Sam doesn’t need to know that. 

“Good, less temptation to be curious.” He stares at you a moment longer before downing the rest of his wine and pouring more. There’s a shout in the distance and Sam smiles, pointing at you. “Get yourself up. We have a guest.”

You manage to get to your feet just in time for Dean and the woman trailing him. There’s a clanking of metal and you look at the chain around her left ankle. She’s an Omega, you can smell her instantly. She’s a few years younger than you, but old enough that her scent is sickeningly strong. She looks around wildly from both Alphas to you. 

Dean’s brought back women before. Always Betas, never for more than an hour and definitely not in chains. 

“Brought you a friend,” Dean chuckles, winking at you. He takes the end of the chain and secures it around one of the thick poles holding up the tent, before clicking the heavy lock shut. “Gotta be careful with this one. She’s a runner.” 

“So was she.” Sam grunts in your direction as you stand frozen, still reeling from his assault. 

“You see what happens?” Dean places a hand at the back of the girl’s neck, both of them looking at you. She looks more angry than scared, an indication she doesn’t understand where she is. She should be pissing herself. “Don’t make me break your arm like hers.”

You’re the cautionary tale. The example to keep her in check. 

“One of your countrymen.” Dean goes on, appraising her from head to toe. 

You suck in a breath at the thought. She doesn’t know who you are. Few commoners had the occasion to see you for more than a few minutes during a parade through town and even less would recognize you now. But there’s no sense in tempting fate. Nothing good can come of familiarity. The moment you open your mouth you could say something that might cast doubt on the backstory you’ve created. 

You look from her to Sam, taking a step closer to your Alpha. 

“You see how good she is?” Dean explains. “You’d do well to follow her example.” 

“I thought you were riding ahead to the scout camp?” Sam asks, picking a hunk of bread off the table.

“I am. I’ll be back in a few hours. I can’t take her with me, can I?” Dean cocks his head, checking his flash before nodding to the new Omega. “Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

Sam is about to protest, but before he has the chance Dean is gone. Sam moves on as if this is nothing out of the ordinary. 

“You’re there.” Sam points to Dean’s bed. “Stay quiet. No talking. I don’t want to know you’re here.”

“Let me go,” she grits out, anger seeping from her pores. You snap to attention waiting for his reaction. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” Sam snuffs out one torch after the next until the fire is the only light in the tent. “Lay down, shut your mouth and be quiet. You’ll sleep if you’re smart.”

“I’ll kill you both!” She yanks at the chain attached to her leg, glaring at Sam. 

“You should do what he says.” You speak up, offering advice you hope will keep her alive. “Stop talking and lay down.” 

Her eyes go wild, staring at you in surprise. 

Sam tugs at the back of your dress, pulling at the ties until you’re able to step out. You can feel her watching from across the room. Hidden in the shadows of Dean’s bed, she’s about to understand exactly what’s expected from her. 

Sam is already stark naked, the muscles of his back flexing as he pulls back the cover on the bed. 

“In,” he gestures. 

You lay down on your back as he slides in beside you. A hand comes down on your belly and you flinch, looking up at him in horror at your reaction. 

“I scared you, little bird.” He rubs his palm over your naked hip. His eyes fall to your neck, bruises already forming. 

“You hurt me,” you whisper back. “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to look. You could have just told me. I always follow your rules.”

“Yes, you do.” His hand moves upward, tracing the underside of your breast. “And now you’ll know next time. Do you know what the penalty for an Omega caught reading is?”

“No,” you whisper, scared of the answer. “What?”

“Your eyes. Both of them plucked out.” His thumb brushes over your nipple, feeling it harden under his touch. 

“But I couldn’t even read it,” you reiterate, yet again. 

“It doesn’t matter. If anyone else found you inspecting that map, you’d be blind for the rest of your life. I wouldn’t have any say in it.”

“Oh,” you’re silent as he rubs the pad of his thumb over the hard peak of your nipple, swirling in small circles. 

“Lucky for you, I believe in my own brand of discipline. Don’t let me catch you again. Are we clear?” He waits for you to nod in confirmation. “Good. Now turn onto your stomach.” 

[miaouerie]

[coda] a pyrrhic victory/an elpidian daydream

this coda marks my first multichapter fic wrapped up and completed!!! so here’s some more related ramblings as a way for me to commemorate this milestone n___n

with the nonlinear narrative I thought I’d include a linked timeline for the chapters in case anyone (like me lol) wants to read the story in chronological order. then there’s some further explanation of what I’ve dubbed ~the jeron’s death conspiracy~ and notes from characterization I wasn’t able to include directly in the story, but were still important regardless...

furthermore, I want to thank @ninelanterns, @atthelamppost, and @sadieandor for following along with this story, as well as anyone else who came along for the adventure. this is definitely a darkfic as far as rebelcaptain goes but I hope that both endings were satisfying in their own ways !!

1. an actual chronological table of contents

Before Cassian is reaped:

day 15

Cassian’s time in the Games:

days 2, 9, 5, 18

What came after that:

days 6, 7, 11, 13, 14, 22, 26◆

Jeron dies:

days 20, 8, 25

Jyn is reaped and Cassian mentors her:

days 1, 3, 4, 12, 10, 16, 17◆, 19◆, 21, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30

After Jyn wins her Games:

bonus chapter, day 31

◆ = chapters that are about trauma concurrent to most of the story, and loosely placed chronologically

2. the Jeron conspiracy

I decided to do a summary for this because I changed my plan slightly after posting day 8: “don’t say goodbye”/abandoned due to some inspiration from @ninelanterns; originally I was going to have snow have cassian brainwashed into genuinely believing that irga and his father were killed by someone with a grudge against them and the capitol (aka someone closely related to a tribute who died under their mentorship) in order to use him as a mouthpiece against those plotting against the capitol; the angst would’ve been from him finding out the truth and hating that his dad’s suicide was used for the capitol’s means. but then I got the idea to have snow brainwash cassian into believing that the “accident” his father and irga died in was actually his fault, because he told jeron the truth of what snow was doing to him in the capitol:

Snow sells Cassian “under the table” until he turns 19, which is when he has Cassian adopt a new persona that can be better capitalized on. Jeron realizes that Cassian’s faking it, suspects that Cassian has been hiding his victimhood this entire time, and when he confirms it realizes there’s no other way to get Cassian out of it; Snow certainly won’t let him sub in to mentor. Suicide is his solution to both Cassian’s problem and his guilt over not being able to protect his son.

Snow has Irga killed in the same way that Jeron kills himself to let Cassian and Lila know that Snow knows it was a suicide. Suicide is the ultimate refutation of Snow’s power—as well as the complete antithesis to any victor’s innate clinging to survival—so Snow has it covered up: Cassian, as one of two people to know the truth about Jeron’s suicide and Irga’s death, is tortured and brainwashed into believing that Jeron and Irga were killed in a power plant explosion as retribution for him disobeying Snow. Doing so serves two purposes: installing the cover-up and guarantees Cassian’s submission.

Before his death Jeron wrote a suicide note, knowing that he couldn’t kill himself and leave Cassian without an explanation. He knows that Snow will have their house stripped and searched, so he hides the note in what was designated to be Cassian’s house. He couldn’t have known it would be the one thing that would break through the brainwashing; if Cassian hadn’t found it, he would have continued to believe that it was all his fault.

Draven does his own investigation into Jeron and Irga’s deaths after witnessing the whiplash that was Cassian’s first three years as an unwilling victor whore, his outrageous personality flip after turning ninteen, and how his demeanor changed after undergoing “therapy” to cope with Jeron’s death. He finds out that Jeron’s death was a suicide, Irga’s death was retribution, and that Snow has an entire program to monetize and exploit victors after their Games.

3. getting from day 1 to 31?!

when I originally thought of this AU it was more about the angst that growing up in the limelight of the capitol as the son of a victor would be like, with constant camera crews as cassian was growing up, betting pools on when he was going to be reaped, etc. and more of an emphasis on the issues that cassian (as part of the pseudo-celebrity class that victors occupy in the capitol) would have trying to promote this fake relationship with jyn during the games to save her. there was also going to be a straight downer ending, with the closing scene being cassian telling jyn that they have to fake a relationship now in front of the cameras and jyn having a “what have you done?” moment

I deliberately did not go in depth with what jeron’s life as a victor was like, partly because plotting both jyn and cassian’s hunger games was already a Lot (I found out pretty quickly that you have to start with planning the arena first, in order to plan tribute deaths and sponsor gifts...) but jeron was an underdog winner, as are most of the victors from non-career districts. lila was pregnant around the time that jeron was reaped and esperanza, their first child, was born some time before jeron’s victory tour. snow had their daughter killed because of something jeron did/didn’t do on the tour; even though jeron and lila are shaken from the loss they agree to be open to having another child, provided that jeron doesn’t do anything to put the child at risk ever again.... but cassian would’ve gotten reaped regardless because there is no way snow wouldn’t have exploited the family drama!!! but cassian’s reaping creates a rift that is referenced in day 15: accidents. and even though jeron is successful in saving cassian that isn’t the end of it; while lila isn’t privy to what cassian is going through she can feel a marked difference each year he comes back in the way that mothers do, as well as the tension between father and son (cassian’s fear of jeron finding out as he’s dragged deeper and deeper vs. jeron’s suspicion that something wrong is happening that has to do with cassian), which all culminates in the year that cassian turns nineteen with jeron’s death. when her husband arrived in district 5 before cassian did he didn’t tell lila about their son being a horndog in the capitol, but lila seeing cassian after he finally gets back five weeks later confirms her worst fears. then she’s the one that discovers jeron’s body and is present when the peacekeepers come to take cassian back to the capitol. her son is gone for a month....... then when he comes back he’s spouting lies about jeron’s death even though both of them saw the body??? yeah, that’s why she nopes on out of victors’ village. after jeron’s death her and cassian don’t see each other for four years until cassian brings jyn home from the games

jyn’s backstory came together quickly but I had considered having bodhi be one of the tributes who died under cassian’s mentorship. bodhi and jyn would’ve been close friends so jyn would have already had that vendetta against cassian; it would’ve made hitting that original ending easier but having jyn be against cassian from the very start would’ve made it less plausible that they could earn each other’s trust before the start of jyn’s games............. while I wanted this story to be dark and depressing I still wanted it to have a reciprocated rebelcaptain end game, so :’)

it wasn’t until day 28 (the cassian/finnick noncon) that I got an idea for a not-so-horrible ending, and I blame the completely depressingly hopeless whump in that chapter for making me think “hmm maybe this shouldn’t end terribly” :’D btw, if anyone noticed I forgot annie cresta is in canon the 70th hunger games victor. for someone who’s neurotic about looking up details I have no idea how this fact escaped me because I didn’t notice until at least halfway through whumptober, so we’ll just say in this AU she’s the 71st victor. this weaves in nicely with my headcanon that after snow saw how easily cassian was manipulated when someone he loved was on the line, he had annie reaped to exert more control over finnick (which happens to be my favorite kind of odesta fic tbh). anyway after writing 3k of depressing andair (andor/odair ship name? ok i’m shutting up) cassian/finnick I had a lovely mental image of cassian and jyn cuddling on the train back home to district 5, relieved and alive, and thought that would be a more uplifting note to end on. then I remembered that I was writing this for whumptober, and decided to write the terrible ending too :’)

4. some chapter commentary because why not

[ETA later!]

5. is there no escape?

yes!!! yes they do escape:

in a pyrrhic victory, post-day 31, draven succeeds in absconding with cassian and meeting up with jyn, saw, lyra, and the rest of their resistance cell (an underground, pan-panem organization fittingly called.... the alliance). draven has to cut out cassian’s implant before they rendezvous with the group, which he ropes a medical professional into doing (he may or may not kill them afterwards); it’s the only mark cassian bears on his body until he starts getting freckles from being in the sun again. similar to mockingjay in how peeta’s hijacking was treated with therapy in district 13, cassian undergoes actual, legitimate therapy after he and draven settle in with the alliance HQ. draven hovers anxiously for the first several sessions because “therapy” in the capitol has a stigma, even before he read the term “extensive in-patient therapy” in cassian’s intendance records, and it does take a good while before they make any remarkable progress. but unlike katniss and peeta cassian is alright in jyn’s presence, and in fact prefers it. they’re almost always seen together, and while jyn has a good amount of guilt for leaving him behind the first time her motivation for staying with him is out of a genuine desire to help him get better so they can be with each other the same way they were in an elpidian daydream again.

in happily ever after!an elpidian daydream, cassian and jyn are able to escape together in between arriving home in district 5 and what was supposed to be jyn’s victory tour. jyn was never aware of what snow did with desirable victors because it’s really only the top 1% of panem and the victors who know about it; she and cassian escape after he tells her that he wants to leave with her, but he doesn’t tell her the real reason why he wants to escape until much later and jyn never sees the recording of cassian and finnick (but he does tell her it exists when he’s explaining the details of how snow exerts his control over the victors). their relationship progresses steadily, but the secret doesn’t come out until jyn points out that cassian is extremely passive in bed and only mirrors her desires. there’s varying attitudes towards sex in the districts vs. the libertine views in the capitol but cassian’s shame stems from his powerlessness in what he had to do Before. he receives therapy for it but jyn is patient and firm with reminding him that he had absolutely zero choice in the matter, and that she could never hate or be disgusted with him for it. there’s a lot to work through there as a result of cassian having to lie to himself about it for the first couple of years of it happening and then willingly choosing to engage with it when he was trying to save jyn, but their relationship comes out all the more stronger for it. as for what happens to draven?.... because this is the happily ever after ending I like to think he’s able to stay in the capitol and work as an agent codenamed fulcrum 🤪🤙 and that after his extraction when things get too dangerous for him in the capitol he and cassian are able to reunite again as part of the alliance/rebellion !!

[banashee]

Part 21 of my @badthingshappenbingo​

Square: Depression

Please mind the tags and warnings in the bottom notes

 A night like this

 On some days, Phil just stops completely.

 He’ll power through whatever he needs to, keeping himself occupied with work and little else for as long as he can but when he hits a certain point, it’s like someone took his breath away. On those days, Phil deflates entirely, unable to do anything else.

 If it is a really bad day, he might not even find the energy to get out of bed to shower or feed himself, even now that he is on a combo of medication. Those days are not as often now, but they still happen quite frequently. Especially after long or hard work days. Weeks.

 When those days happen, he calls in sick to work then and feels incredibly guilty about it.

 Agent Coulson is amongst SHIELD’s higher ranking agents, and thus an important factor in the planning of recent and upcoming missions. He takes pride at being good at his job, and it satisfies him most days, although there is also the ever present looming of “What if” in the back of his head.

 What if he messes up when his brain betrays him?

 What if someone gets hurt or dies because he’s making a mistake?

 What if a important mission is delayed or endangered when Phil is home in bed for days on end because he simply can’t force himself to get up?

 What if some day, he’ll look into the muzzle of a gun and doesn’t care if the bullet hits him?

 It’s not like he never thought about finishing the job himself.

 Phil has probably spent more years with a loaded gun, a bottle of painkillers and a bottle of vodka in the drawer of his bedside table than most people would guess.

 “This comes with the job, most people in this profession end up with PTSD and depression at some point.” some might say, and while they’re statistically right, Phil can’t remember a life without the darkness in his head.

 He is able to deal with it on his own for quite some time - but it isn’t until years later when he hits rock bottom that he realizes how bad things really are. Phil manages to reach out for help, but the gun, pills and alcohol in his drawer remain there for a long time.

 He hasn’t touched either the gun or the alcohol in almost 2 years - he considers it progress.

 *+~

 Today is one of the bad days.

 To be fair, it’s been one hell of a month, and Phil has expected the crash sooner rather than later, but he does make it home after a gruelling debrief. Here, he can finally let go of Agent Coulson and simply be Phil.

 Agent Coulson is always impeccable and calm, capable. Phil is struggling and exhausted.

 It’s only when he just locked the apartment door behind him that he realizes that he needs a refill for his prescriptions. It’s too late to go out now, and he highly doubts he’ll be able to go in the upcoming days, when he’ll have to try and get back on track as best as he can. That usually takes up all of his energy.

 Damn it.

 Phil curses under his breath. He can feel his eyes welling up with tears and fights to hold them back - he does not need this. None of it, not right now when all he wants to do is sleep.

 Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Rinse and repeat.

 He can do this.

 Except, it is late at night or very early in the morning, Phil has been on his feet for too long and his mind screams at him for a break.

 Forcing himself to keep breathing is all he can do for now, and it takes Phil half an eternity to take off his shoes and jacket. While he does so, he notices the pair of purple canvas shoes haphazardly piled into a corner and despite everything, Phil smiles.

 He won’t have to be alone after all.

 Despite being friends for many years, the romantic relationship with Clint is still fairly new. It has probably taken them much longer than it should have to get their shit together and finally get a move on after many months - some might say years - of mutual pining. But they figured it out, despite personal hang-ups and insecurities .

 What they have now is solid, real and very much the best thing that happened to either of them in a very long time.

 Occasionally, when their schedules allow for it, Phil gets the treat of coming home to find his partner already there. It always brightens his mood, at least a little bit.

 And really, when he enters the half dark bedroom, there is a lump under the blankets which Phil knows contains Clint. In the low light of the dimmed reading lamp, he can make out a bit of dirty blond hair sticking out from under the blankets. If it wasn’t the sight, the soft snore alone would tell-tale enough. And so is the dog bed in the corner, even when it is empty.

 Surprising absolutely no one, Lucky is sprawled on the end of the king size human bed, fast asleep like Clint and clearly satisfied with himself.

 Phil can’t find it in him to care. On the contrary, he is very much looking forward to spending the foreseeable future cuddling with Clint and the dog.

 Luckily, neither of them needs to be anywhere until Wednesday. Hopefully, he’ll feel a little more human by then, Phil thinks. He doesn’t want to call out of work, but he knows Nick wouldn’t say anything about it. He knows, after all.

 Phil pulls some clean clothes from his closet and enters the bathroom to take a shower.

 For one, he feels disgusting at the moment. But on the other side, he’s not sure when he’ll have the energy to do anything about it next. Clint would help him, he knows now. But still.

 The hot water feels comfortable on his sore and heavy muscles, but Phil can feel his eyes almost falling shut. He startles himself out of the trance, forcing himself to wash up. His movements are sluggish with exhaustion and hands that are starting to shake.

 By the time he steps out of the shower, Phil is dead on his feet. But when he pulls the shirt over his head, something catches his eye on the bathroom counter - it is obnoxiously pink and faintly heart shaped. Not something he usually tends to keep in his bathroom.  Phil squints at it from a distance, and then he steps closer.

 It is a giant post-it-note, cut out like a lopsided heart and a familiar scrawl on it.

 ‘Picked it up for you. ♥”

 Under the post-it note, there is a brand new bottle of Phil’s antidepressants, sitting right next to the most recent bottle of Clint’s own prescriptions.

 The gesture might be small, but it means the world to Phil. He looks at it and asks himself what he ever did to deserve someone caring like this by his side.

 He takes his second dose of the day. It’s late for it, way too late by the clock, but he figures it’s better than not taking it at all.

 Phil is careful when he crawls into bed, not wanting to wake Clint, but he stirs immediately when the bed dips down under the weight of another person and his usually sharp eyes blink open. They’re soft and sleepy now, lighting up with happiness when he realizes that Phil is here.

 “Hey, you’re home.” his voice is slightly croaky with sleep. “You okay?” he asks then, and Phil just hums without really answering.

 He lightly taps Clint on the temple, their way of asking “Are you okay?” when Clint doesn’t wear his hearing aids and it is too dark to sign. Or for when they’re simply too tired. Phil is certainly tired, and this is easier.

 “Could be worse.” Clint shrugs a little. It’s that kinda night - they are both familiar with it.

 Phil keeps one hand running over the light stubble on his cheek while they kiss. Then he allows himself to be pulled close, gracelessly flopping down on top of Clint who doesn't seem to plan on letting go of him anytime soon.

 They stay wrapped around each other, and Phil takes a few shuddering breaths.

 “Bad day?” Clint asks quietly, and Phil just nods against him. He doesn’t give a verbal answer because the hearing aids are on the bedside table. The very same one with the gun and the vodka in the drawer.

 ‘      No. Stop thinking about that    .’

 Talking also seems like a bad idea now - they might do so tomorrow, always needing to make sure the other is okay after they have spent time apart.

 Instead of an answer, Clint just hugs him closer, pressing a kiss into his dark hair as they drift off to sleep together.

 The thing is, both of them know what difficulties can come with a messed up brain chemistry and too many painful life experiences.

 Life has been unkind to both of them, on different and similar occasions. They deal with it as best as they know how - sometimes, that means they can’t cope on their own at all, and this is when love and trust come in handy.

 Having a shower or forcing down a meal is a lot easier with someone close by. Someone who understands, helps or simply is there.

 Phil is asleep within minutes, but clinging on for dear life. He barely notices Lucky shuffling over and laying down right on top of their feet, warm and alive, and Phil finds that he can finally let go for a while now.

                                 Notes:  

Warnings:

- Mental health issues - Depression - Suicidal thoughts - Coping with depression and suicidal thoughts - Discussion of medication - Alcohol, but not alcoholism