#if this happened when I had that intense migraine a few days ago I would’ve craved death even more

[ehnrat]

I feel a bit better now, but it has been An Experience™️

[silvfyre-writings]

My Head Hurts (BSD Fanfic)

I wanted to thank you all for reading this fic, even though I'm sure it's not my best one. I had an idea, wrote the first part, and then just kinda, idk, lost the bunnies. But I wanted some caring ADA towards Ranpo, so that's what I did. Besides, it's fanfiction, it's free, and it doesn't have to be great lol.

As long as I enjoy it, and you enjoy it, that's all the matters really.

Anyway, that's all I really want to say, so thank you all for reading, and I'll see you in the next fic!

Ranpo was twelve when he experienced his first migraine.

A headache so intense that he hadn’t been able to so much as open his eyes, let alone leave his bed that day. It felt like his neighbour had smashed their axe against his skull and then just left it there, that was how much it hurt. And on top of that, there was the nausea, and the exhaustion, and really, it just sucked. It was the worst thing he’d ever experienced in his life. The only good thing that had come from this headache—he hadn’t yet known what they were called—was that his mother had walked into his room, taken one look at him and then smothered him in love and attention. It’d made the headache much more bearable to know that someone was there, helping him to bear the burden.

And then his parents died.

And there was no one.

The second time Ranpo experienced a migraine—he now knew what they were, courtesy of his parents—he’d been at the police academy, in the middle of class, and the pain had been so intense that his brain had elected to just shut down rather than even try and deal with it, and he’s passed out. In the middle of class. That all his classmates witnessed. He awoke a few hours later in the infirmary, his head still trying to split itself open, and all he could do was stay still until the nurse noticed that he was awake; she forced him to take some pills that he somehow managed to swallow, nearly gagging as they slid down his throat. After that, he’d been left alone, in a room that wasn’t nearly dark enough, until the pills—painkillers he’d realized afterwards—kicked in and his head hurt a little less.

The third time was the worst time, at least, in his opinion, because he’d been on the streets when it’d hit, and there’d been nothing he could do but curl up in the darkest corner that he could find, and cry over how much it hurt. Because all he could really do was cry; sleep was impossible, it was too bright, too noisy, too painful, and there was no one around that he knew well enough to ask for help from. Sure, he could’ve used the last of the money he’d earnt from his last job to pay for a doctor’s visit, but it’d been four days since his last meal, so he’d gone without. Not that he could bring himself to even buy food, what with the way his stomach was rolling. And by the time the migraine had passed, it’d taken another day before he had the strength to drag himself out of his little corner and back into the world.

After that, whenever another migraine came along, unless he was throwing up or physically unable to see, he forced himself to keep going; they happened with enough frequency, that if he laid in the corner of some alleyway until they passed, he would’ve starved to death long ago. And while Ranpo was starting to think that it would simply be easier to just give up and die, he kept on going. It was hard at times, to keep working through the pain that threatened to bring him to his knees, yet he managed. Barely.

And yet, despite his determination, his life only continued to get worse.

Until Fukuzawa.

The first time he’d experienced a migraine under Fukuzawa’s care, had been two weeks into living with the man. For two weeks, Ranpo had kept his head down and stayed quiet; Fukuzawa had already done so much for him, giving him a place to live, a place to sleep, along with clothes and food, and he really didn’t want to lose that. So, he kept to himself and kept his head down to avoid invoking Fukuzawa’s wrath. But then, in the middle of the night, two weeks into this new living arrangement, he’d woken up to nausea so intense, that he was barely able to process the feeling, let alone the sensation of his skull being smashed between two buildings, before his dinner made its acquaintance with himself and his sheets.

And just because Ranpo’s luck couldn’t possibly get any worse, Fukuzawa woke up.

There was an apology spilling from his lips the moment his bedroom door cracked open, and tears in his eyes because he truly felt awful, because there was nothing fun about throwing up, especially over oneself, and not to mention, he’d woken Fukuzawa from his own sleep. Yet Fukuzawa hadn’t looked mad. In fact, he’d looked concerned, worried even, but that couldn’t be right. Because Fukuzawa was stoic and firm, and this was a new and familiar side to the man that Ranpo hadn’t witnessed before in the short time they’d known each other. And that scared him.

But it was also a lie, since he’d seen that same worry and concern back at the warehouse after he’d nearly died.

However, his head was hurting far too much to think much about it.

Ranpo watched with wide eyes as Fukuzawa took in the scene before him, although he had to close his eyes when the nausea decided to make a reappearance. A cruel thing for his body to do, really, when he’d already thrown up everything he’d eaten. He heard footsteps approach, barely audible to most, but like a timpani to him, and soon he was being lifted and carried. The next few moments blurred together, Ranpo drifting somewhere between conscious and not, but he did remember the distinct feeling of something cold dragging across his skin, bringing with it, utter relief.

Awareness returned to him when he was lifted again, and he blinked once, letting out a whimper when a harsh light assaulted him. The light vanished, but the pain had already increased, and he couldn’t stop the tears from falling. He heard Fukuzawa say something, the words indistinguishable, but oh so gentle and soothing, and Ranpo cried just that little bit harder. Which only made his head pound that much harder.

He felt himself lowered back into bed—at some point, Fukuzawa must’ve changed the sheets, but he couldn’t remember his guardian leaving his side—and the actions were so soft and kind, that Ranpo couldn’t help but let out a sob when he was tucked in. It’d been so long since he’d last experienced such kindness, and it was just so, so overwhelming, especially in his current state where his senses and his emotions were heightened. Still, Fukuzawa said nothing, he just sat on the edge of his bed and wiped away the tears that fell with his sleeve until finally, he drifted off.

When he woke, an hour later, Fukuzawa was still there on the edge of the bed, and dozing himself, but now there was a glass of water, along with a couple of painkillers sitting on his bedside table that Ranpo didn’t hesitate to reach for. His head still felt like it was being stabbed—or being electrocuted, but the point was his head really fucking hurt, and he was honestly desperate for any kind of relief at this point. And while he normally struggled to swallow pills, this time he didn’t, taking them easily before he laid back down, his movements disturbing Fukuzawa from his rest.

“How do you feel?” Fukuzawa asked, voice muffled and quiet, yet still loud, in the sea of pain that was Ranpo’s head. A warm hand rested upon his forehead, the touch gentle and soothing, chasing away some of the tension in his body.

He blinked once, eyes heavy, and grunted, unable to do much more than that. He certainly didn’t feel great, and would very much rather be sleeping off this latest migraine of his, but here he was, awake and hurting, and also burdening someone else with his problems. “’m fine…” Ranpo mumbled. “Jus’ a headache…”

Fukuzawa hummed, and his hand fell away. “I’ll grab an ice pack for you. It might help.”

Ranpo liked to think he made some kind of noise in response to Fukuzawa’s statement, but he honestly couldn’t remember. One second, Fukuzawa was there and the next he was gone, only to return shortly after with an ice pack in hand that was quickly settled on his aching skull. The chill chased away the pain to bring him some relief, enough that he could close his eyes and finally drift back to sleep, and as the last of his consciousness faded, he wished to sleep through the rest of this migraine.

Apparently the gods had decided to be merciful for a change, because he did end up sleeping through the rest of the pain, waking up two days later with just a dull ache behind his eyes, to see Fukuzawa asleep on the spare futon next to his bed that the older man must’ve rolled out at some point while he’d been unaware of the world. Seeing Fukuzawa by his side like that, brought a warm feeling to his chest, and he closed his eyes again with the intention of getting some more rest; he managed to get another hour of rest before he woke and saw that Fukuzawa was also awake.

And that meant it was time for his least favourite pastime.

Talking.

If there was one thing Ranpo didn’t like doing, it was talking about himself. Sure, he didn’t mind bragging about his ability and powers of deduction to those that would listen, but there was a difference between talking about his ability, and talking about his migraines. Because his ability was a strength. It was something good that he could use to help other people. It was what made him, him. But the migraines he’d just one day started having? They weren’t good at all. How could they be, when all they did was stop him from functioning? How were migraines supposed to help the people that came to him? The answer was, they weren’t, which was why Ranpo still hadn’t said anything as he and Fukuzawa sat next to each other—well, Fukuzawa sat, Ranpo laid beside him with a cold towel covering his eyes to further dull the ache behind his eyes that continues to cling.

“You have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.” Fukuzawa murmured, the quiet tone he took on at just the right volume to be comfortable instead of painful. “They’ll find out if there’s a reason behind your migraines—” Of course Fukuzawa had figured out that this wasn’t the first migraine he’d had. Nothing got past the man and his observation skills apparently. “—and treat them if there is.”

Ranpo grunted, almost certain that a doctor wouldn’t be able to help him. Because if a doctor was actually capable of curing these migraines, then surely his parents would’ve dragged him to the local village doctor to help him? They had loved him, they had cared for him, so why hadn’t they taken him to the doctor when he’d had that first migraine? Sure, it’d been the only one he’d had with them, but it’d been the most pain he’d ever been in his life, and they just… hadn’t taken him. Why? Why hadn’t they? Had they truly loved him? Or was he just imagining that love? It would make sense, it really would, looking back on it now, and he—

A hand threaded through his hair, dragging him away from his spiralling thoughts and bringing him back to the present. Fukuzawa’s voice worked further to ground him, and he rolled over to grab at Fukuzawa’s yukata, hiding his face against the man’s leg. The hand in his hair moved to readjust the cloth so it was covering his eyes. “Ranpo?”

He let out a whine this time. “Yeah?”

“You’ll be okay.”

“Really?” Ranpo asked, uncertain, because no one had ever tried to help him, so he couldn’t understand why Fukuzawa was so willing to do what everyone else had failed to do.

“Yes.” Fukuzawa’s hand returned to his hair, fingers moving through his hair. “You’ll be okay, because I promised to take care of you when I took you in, no matter what, and that includes helping you with this.”

“They’re just headaches…” Ranpo tried to argue, because the last thing he wanted to do was waste Fukuzawa’s time in something he’d managed to deal with for years. Sure, his migraines had increased in frequency over time, but he was still managing just fine. It was just that this one had caught him unaware.

Fukuzawa’s hand paused, and his voice softened even more than before. “You deserve to be free of pain, Ranpo, so please, trust that I’ll be able to help you get treatment for your migraines.”

Ranpo sighed and nodded, allowing himself to be lost in the comfort that Fukuzawa brought, placing his trust in a man that he’d only known for two weeks, trusting in Fukuzawa’s promise of getting him help, and trusting in the words you’ll be okay.

He clung to those words and trusted.

He only hoped that trusting wouldn’t fail him.

Something’s wrong.

The thought came to Fukuzawa unbiddenly, and was sudden enough that he paused mid stroke in the report he was signing. He tried to think back to everything that’d happened so far that day, yet there was nothing that came to mind. The day was as normal as a day at the Agency could be; he’d arrived after making sure that Ranpo was awake and out of bed—there’d been too many a time when he’d woken the boy up, only for him to go back to sleep the moment he left the room—to find Kunikida already there with Atsushi, the two of them working on a case together. Dazai was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t a surprise. Seldom was Dazai ever in the office early, much preferring to start late, and finish late, which coincidentally, worked quite well with Yosano’s schedule as well.

Tanizaki had asked for the day off, because he’d heard that Kenji and Kyouka hadn’t been to Cosmo World, and wanted to take them, and who was Fukuzawa to begrudge his younger staff members into acting their age for a change. It would do them some good, and would also promote closer bonds, all things Fukuzawa approved of his employee’s doing, and not just because it improved work ethic. He wasn’t so foolish as to think his employee’s were the kind of people that could keep going and going without the appropriate breaks. Many—if not all—of them were wounded souls that sometimes needed that little bit of extra care, quite often because they were so bad at taking care of themselves. But that was okay, because Fukuzawa was more than willing to be that support.

Ranpo always liked to tell him he’d turned soft in his old age.

Fukuzawa was inclined to agree, but now wasn’t the time to focus on that; there was still that intense feeling in his gut, telling him that something was wrong, or that something was about to go wrong if nothing had yet, and he could no longer ignore it. And since there was nothing in his office, that meant it had to be something within the main office.

Please let it be a broken window. Fukuzawa thought as he stood from his desk, walking around it towards the door. He was hoping for a broken window, but he knew deep down, that it wouldn’t be as simple as that; this feeling in his gut wouldn’t exist if the problem was just a broken window. Because between his employees and the mafia raids, the windows were broken more often than not, and really, if any of his employees decided to stop being detectives, they could probably open up a window repair business just from how often they’d had to repair the windows.

So yeah, a broken window was the best case scenario in Fukuzawa’s mind.

And he knew it wasn’t when he heard a timid knock, just as he was about to open the door. Fukuzawa shut his eyes for just a moment, and sighed, steeling himself for whatever problem he was about to encounter, before opening the door.

“Oh, um, President!” Atsushi blinked, surprised at how fast the door had been open. But the boy was quick to recover and stood up straight, restless, and fidgety as he always was. But Fukuzawa was a patient man, so he stood there, calm, as he waited for Atsushi to find his words, which thankfully didn’t take long at all. “Kunikida sent me to get you. Something’s wrong with Ranpo.”

Oh no, what’s happened this time? Fukuzawa closed his eyes, already running through every possible problem that could’ve happened with his ward. Which was a long list because Ranpo and trouble may as well have been the same word, what with how often he ended up in it. He let his mind return to that morning when he’d woken the detective; Ranpo hadn’t seemed off when he’d been woken up, only being a little more annoyed than he usually was if anything, and Ranpo hadn’t yet been summoned for a case that day. So whatever the problem was, it was a sudden one, and that was enough for him to step past Atsushi, worried. “What happened.”

Atsushi fell into step beside him. “I could hear his heart rate increasing, so I looked over and he looked to be in pain? I asked Ranpo if he was okay, but he didn’t answer me. But Kunikida looked up and told me to get you before rushing over.” Atsushi’s thought for a moment. “I think I heard him throwing up as I left, but I’m not sure.”

“He probably was.” Fukuzawa confirmed, knowing just from that brief explanation what was wrong. It’d been years since that time he’d woken up to the sound of Ranpo throwing up, two weeks after taking the kid in, suffering from a headache so strong, he’d barely been coherent as Fukuzawa had tried to figure out what was wrong and take care of him. And even after taking Ranpo to the doctor back then and getting him diagnosed with chronic migraines, and getting him the medicine that helped to reduce the frequency of them, the dreaded headaches still enjoyed making their appearance at the most inconvenient of times.

The last time had been before Atsushi had joined them; Ranpo had been summoned out by the police, only to fall ill upon arrival. Dazai had been with him at the time, to Fukuzawa’s relief, because Ranpo hadn’t even been able to stand from how much pain he’d been in.

“He suffers from migraines.” Fukuzawa explained, getting straight to the point because Atsushi wasn’t a child that needed coddling, and in the short time he’d been with the Agency, he’d become just as protective and caring as the rest of the members, fitting in well. “He’s had them for as long as I’ve known him, and he gets rather sick whenever they happen. Try to remain silent when we enter.”

“I understand.” Atsushi nodded, dashing ahead to open the door for Fukuzawa, and he gave the boy a nod as he stepped into the main office, taking care to be silent as he moved.

The curtains are drawn, and the lights are off, but Fukuzawa has no trouble locating his ward, if only because Ranpo is currently on the floor, leaning against the side of his desk with Dazai beside him, Ranpo’s head on Dazai’s shoulder, eyes closed and body trembling. There’s a wastebasket being clutched tightly in Ranpo’s grips, and as Fukuzawa steps closer, Ranpo makes a noise that has Kunikida reaching over from Ranpo’s other side to gently guide his head back towards the basket.

The sound of Ranpo throwing up always had Fukuzawa’s heart clenching, and this time was no different as he came to kneel in front of his ward, one hand reaching out to touch his ankle so that Ranpo knew he was there. No words were spoken, in fear of aggravating Ranpo’s migraine, but the relief on Ranpo’s face told him that he knew Fukuzawa was there. Once Ranpo finished throwing up, his head returned to Dazai’s shoulder, one of his hands grabbing at Dazai’s own, his grip loosening on the basket; Kunikida quietly placed it to the side, just in case it was needed again.

“It was sudden.” Kunikida informed him, keeping his voice low. “One minute he was fine, the next he was ill.”

Fukuzawa nodded. That was how most of Ranpo’s migraines tended to go, arriving without any kind of prior warning, so he wasn’t surprised to hear that was what happened this time. “Has he taken any medication?”

“The pills came right back up, so Yosano’s preparing a shot for him instead.” Dazai said this time, squeezing Ranpo’s hand gently. Ranpo mumbled something unintelligible. As soon as he finished speaking, there were footsteps approaching, familiar steps that Fukuzawa had grown accustomed to after a decade of listening out for them, but this time without the distinct clicking of heels, no doubt to limit the amount of noise in the room.

Yosano’s smile was soft as Fukuzawa’s eyes met her own, but she was quick to focus her attention back on the task at hand and shooed Kunikida away so that she had the space to work. They all watched as she pushed Ranpo’s sleeve to his elbow and in the very same breathe, inject him with the painkillers that would hopefully work faster than Ranpo’s usual medications. Yosano sat back on her heels. “We can move him to the infirmary in a minute. I’ve got Atsushi blocking out as much light as possible.”

“We can’t send him home?” Kunikida asked, brow furrowed.

“Not when it’s this bad.” Yosano sighed with a shake of her head. “We need to give the painkillers time to kick in anyway, and besides, the rest will do him good.”

“I’ll watch over him, and take him home once he’s in less pain.” Fukuzawa said as Kunikida opened his mouth to say something. Already he was moving, nudging the others out of the way so that he could get a grip on Ranpo and lift him into his arms, going slow so as to not make the nausea worse. At first, he thought Ranpo might’ve been asleep, considering he didn’t make a noise as he was shifted, but as he shuffled his arms to get a better grip, Ranpo moved to bury his face into the crook of his neck, throwing an arm over his shoulder at the same time.

“I’ll come with you.” Yosano got to her feet and followed Fukuzawa to the infirmary, opening and shutting the door so that Fukuzawa didn’t have to try and juggle both Ranpo and the door handle. Together, they worked on getting Ranpo settled into one of the beds; Yosano grabbed an extra pillow and a few blankets whilst Fukuzawa worked on shedding Ranpo of his layers until he was left in just his shirt and pants. The entire time, Ranpo didn’t make a sound, even though it was obvious he was still conscious from the way that he tried to help. Tried being the key word. But soon enough, Ranpo was settled into the bed with an ice pack over his eyes, dozing now, and the scene was so reminiscent of that time when Ranpo was fourteen, that Fukuzawa felt as if he’d been thrown back in time.

Fukuzawa sat in the chair that’d been pulled over and glanced over at Yosano. “How bad was it?”

“It was bad.” Yosano sat in the chair beside him, drawing her knees up so that she could rest her head against his shoulder. Fukuzawa reached over with one hand and patted the top of her head a few times. “Certainly one of the worst ones I’ve seen him have. Have you seen worse?”

“Two weeks after I took him in.” Fukuzawa answered. He didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t need to. Yosano had been apart of their lives for a decade, and was plenty smart herself. She could put the pieces together without him having to say so.

“He’ll be okay.” It wasn’t a question, nor a statement, but more of a reassurance. Still, Fukuzawa nodded.

“He’ll be okay.”

And Ranpo would be, because this wasn’t the first migraine he’d ever had.

Nor would it be the last.

[rebo-chan]

Day 3 Kami/Ghost

The computer’s lighting illuminated the dark room. Light could feel his eyes aching from the overly bright blue light of the computer. The taskforce had gone home for the evening already, but Light had stayed up to finish some leftover work. It was decided that Light would take over the passed detective’s work and Light quickly figured out the reason for the large bags under L’s eyes. He closed his eyes, trying to rub the sleep out of them. A migraine had begun to form in the back of his head. Light let out a groan and slumped against the desk. He was beyond tired. Perhaps, he should go home. 

Misa would still be up waiting on him, probably with dinner already prepared. It would’ve gone cold already, but he could just heat it up. Yes, that’s what he needed right now. A hot meal, a drink, some migraine pills, and to get to sleep. He can complete the work tomorrow. 

Light opened his eyes to the dark room belonging to the taskforce. He lifted his head and went to save his work. In Light’s peripheral vision, there was a silhouette walking down the pitch black hall. Something blue and white. Light froze in his spot. Was there someone in the building? How did they get past all of L’s security measures? No, right now that didn’t matter. Light stood up from his seat. 

“Excuse me,” He called as sternly as he could muster, “This is a confidential building, you’re not allowed to be in here.” 

There was no response back. Light didn’t have any weapons on him. Well, perhaps he had one but without a name, it was virtually useless to protect him in this situation. He steeled himself and went into the hallway where he saw the silhouette turn a corner. Did they not hear him? Should he risk speaking again? Light sucked in a breath and followed them. They kept on going, taking the stairs up to the roof. Light glared as they went on to the roof. The audacity of some people. Breaking and entering was bad enough, but the fact that exploring the place like it was their home was just plain rude. 

“Hey!” Light shouted, walking up to the roof. There were rain clouds out in the night sky. A storm was beginning to brew in the sky, so the winds were rather harsh.

The person seemed to hear him this time, but they didn’t appear startled in the least bit. They began to turn towards them. Light got close enough to make out some features and felt his blood cold. Pale skin, raven black hair, a white shirt, and blue jeans. His lungs began to constrict. No no no, this wasn’t real. The migraine in the back of his head got worse. His head felt like it was splitting open. He tried to suck in as much oxygen as he could, but it only made the pain worse. Light keeled over in pain, gripping his head. Something wet hit his cheek. Then, a few droplets hit the ground. The sound of rain filled Light’s ears. 

Light released his head, glancing up to see the rooftop was now empty. It was Light and the rain on the rooftop. He looked around for the person, but there was no one. Was Light just imagining him? No, he was definitely there but was that possible? Light stood up shakily, having already been soaked from the rain. He left the rooftop in a hurry, his hair and clothes sticking to him. 

Light quickly got back to the taskforce main room, The laptop was still on with Light’s unsaved work on the screen. He was going to leave it untouched. Now, he just wanted to get home. Light packed his things as fast as he could humanely go and evacuated the HQ for the evening. 

In brighter news, he had been right about Misa. When he’d gotten home, she was laid on the couch watching something on the TV. She burst into action as he walked through the door, giving him a tight hug and going to heat up his food. Light sighed as he sat down at the dinner table. There were still remains of the migraine, but he should eat before taking some medicine. Light tried to keep the image of that person out of his head. It wasn’t possible. 

“Light,” Misa chirped, “Do you know what tomorrow is?”

“..Hm?” He looked over at her tiredly. 

“Aw, how could you forget? It’s Sayu’s birthday!” She chuckled.

Light blinked, remembering the date. Oh, shit she was right. He completely forgot about it, so he didn’t have a present. Sayu would skin him apart, if he showed up without a present. Misa placed the plate of Light’s food next to him. 

“You don’t have a present, do you?” She snickered. 

“No, no I don’t..” Light frowned.

“That’s okay, we can go shopping tomorrow together to get something for her before we head over to your family home.” 

Yes, yes that was a good idea. Light would contact Mogi and tell him to save the work that Light had already completed. He needed the day off. It would help him forget what he saw earlier. Misa sat across from Light, her fingers intertwined together as she smiled at Light. She seemed excited. 

“What is it?” Light said. 

“I was thinking, we could buy a cake tomorrow too.” Misa smiled gently.

Images of pale skin and black hair flashed in his mind and the migraine tripled in intensity. Light pressed his lips together tightly, gripping the tableside. 

“Why? Sayu’s not a child anymore.” 

Misa blinked, “Well, I think she’ll like it.”

“Doubt it..” The migraine was getting worse. 

“I talk to her more often than you do now,” Misa hummed, “C’mon, it’s just a cake. What about a vanilla cake?” 

Light glared down at his untouched food. His appetite was gone now and the back of his head was throbbing. Misa kept going. 

“Though, vanilla can be a little boring I guess. How about chocolate?” 

Light didn’t respond, trying to focus on willing the headache away. Misa didn’t seem deterred by Light’s silence.

“What about strawberry?-” 

“Misa, shut up.” Light hissed out. 

Misa went quiet. He looked up at her. A few years ago, she would’ve cried or threw a tantrum at Light doing that. Now, she just watched him like she knew something he didn’t. That’s how she always looks now. 

“I’m sorry,” He said, “I’ve got a horrible headache.” 

Misa perked up at that, “Have you taken any medicine?”

 If Light didn’t know any better, he would’ve been convinced that she was already over it but he did know better. Misa was tiptoeing around him, choosing to play the role of the concerned girlfriend rather than start a fight. 

“No, I haven’t.” Light answered. 

“There’s some medicine in the bathroom mirror cabinet.” She smiled at him. 

Light nodded, getting up from his seat and trekking his way to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, seeing how he looked. Black eyebags had formed, his hair was sticking up in random places completely unbrushed and dirty from the rain, his clothes were wrinkly having dried wrong. Light had to laugh at himself. This had to be some joke. He was a fucking mess.

He opened the mirror cabinet and pulled out a pill bottle, taking two out and popping them into his mouth. Light closed the cabinet and stared at the mirror’s reflection. He dropped the pill bottle onto the ground and started shaking. Staring back at him was black eyes, raven black hair, and pale skin.

“L..” Light choked out. 

What appeared to be L only smiled at him in that mischievous way that L would when he knew he was winning. Light trembled, frozen in his spot. L opened his mouth, saying something though there was no noise coming out. Light knew what he was saying though. Ki-ra. 

“Leave me alone!” Light screamed, throwing his fist at L before backing against the bathroom wall in horror. 

There was the sound of shattering glass and Misa shouting from the other room. She ran in, horrified. Light had slided down to the bathroom floor, hand bleeding out from several cuts. There was glass scattered around the bathroom floor and the mirror was broken beyond repair.

“What happened?” Misa’s voice shook with fear. 

“L.. L was there!” Light pointed at the broken mirror with his bloody hand. The pain was beginning to register and he pulled his hand back to his chest, cradling it gently. He panted heavily, trying to calm himself. Misa looked at the mirror. She was still fearful, but from something else now.

“Light..” She said hesitantly, like she was walking into territory she was unsure how to trek on. “L is not there..” 

“He was!” Light exclaimed, “He was there, staring at me!” 

“L is gone, Light.” Misa said. “He has been gone for years now. You did not see L.” 

“Yes, I did..!” Light’s voice came out weak. 

“No, you didn’t.” She smiled weakly. 

Misa walked over to Light, helping him off the bathroom floor, “Let’s patch up your cuts, okay?” 

“I’m not crazy,” Light gripped her hand tightly, “He was there. I saw him.” 

“I know, you’re not crazy, okay? So, let’s go to the bedroom and you can get some sleep. You’ve been working for the last two days.” 

Two days? Is that how long it’s been? He followed Misa out to the bedroom where she set him down on the bed and started immediately bandaging up his hand. 

“He was there..” Light pulled his hand back when she was down.

“Shh, I know.. I know..” 

Misa pushed him down against the bed, wearing that same smile she wore when she knew something he didn’t. Light wasn’t crazy. L was definitely there. It would be just like L to torment Light after death like this.

[pulaasul]

Vengeful Captain

Ryuji found a box inside his room.

Out of curiosity, he opened it.

Ao3 I FFN

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Its Ryuji’s Birthday, so in honor of his birthday, here’s an AU where Ryuji discovers his Persona-related powers a year before Akiren went to Tokyo.

Happy Birthday Ryuji! You deserve justice against Kamoshida, if Atlus won’t give it to you, I will

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It has been a few months since that bastard Kamoshida broke his leg.

Months since his club had been disbanded.

Months since his reputation took a turn for the worse.

All because he can't control his anger.

All because he can't take all the insults hurled towards his mother.

Ryuji Sakamoto was in his bedroom on an imposed bed rest. He wasn't allowed to put stress on his legs, meaning no walking and no running for the foreseeable future, not unless he was doing physical therapy.

He was simply reading his manga when he noticed an inconspicuous box in his bedroom. His current bedroom was his father's former storage room back when they first moved to Tokyo from Tatsumi Port Island.

If he remembered correctly, they had moved away from Tatsumi Port Island at the urging of his father's boss.

Not soon after, the death of one Shuji Ikutsuki was announced.

That was when their relationship with father had gone sour.

Beatings took place instead of hugs.

Harsh words took the place of praise and encouragement.

Everything had gone south, not even his Track accomplishments in middle school assuaged his father's treatment of him and his mother.

Not long after, his father left the family.

Hopefully for good.

Maybe the inconspicuous box was something his father left behind.

Morbid curiosity got ahold of Ryuji, to satiate it, he used his elbows to crawl towards the box and opened it.

--------

Now that he had finally successfully disbanded that pesky Track Team, thanks to Sakamoto, he can finally reign the school as he pleases.

The principal was easy to please, he was obsessed with the school's prestige. Kamoshida knew how good Kobayakawa's name would smell if it'd become public knowledge that he was the one responsible for bringing such reputation to the school.

Kobayakawa wasn't exactly happy when he broke Sakamoto's leg.

A good sob story about defending himself did the trick and brought him to his side.

Kamoshida was currently sorting through the papers of the school's volleyball teams. He looked at them thoroughly and examined which of these students would be easily persuaded to do his bidding.

When a single envelope fell out from the table.

Curious, he opened and saw an ornate ring inside, alongside a note.

Kamoshida-sensei, I know this must be sudden.

But please take this ring as my appreciation.

For teaching at Shujin.

Your Secret Admirer.

A grin was plastered on the teacher's face as he read through the note. He was only a few months in and he already had a secret admirer from the student body.

He immediately took the roster of the girls' volleyball team and tried to think which of the girls would've sent the note.

----------

A few more months had passed since Kamoshida had received the ring and note. He was still far from figuring out who from the student body would send such a note.

In any case, Kamoshida decided to wear the ring every time he was about to go home, where there were no students or fellow teachers around. He knew it'd be easier to figure out his secret admirer if he had worn the ring everywhere he went.

He can't have his reputation sink so low, so early in the game.

As he stepped outside the school, suddenly his surroundings turned green, the small puddle by the walkway turned blood red.

"What's going on?!" Kamoshida growled. "IF this is a joke, you better cut it out."

Kamoshida tried to walk back inside the school but somehow the doors refused to budge. That was when he noticed a coffin standing near the door, sealing it from the inside.

He looked around the school and the walkways and the street, everywhere he looked he could always see a standing coffin.

--------

Ryuji looked at his former teacher with morbid glee. It wasn't long ago that he discovered this new power, this green-red reality.

Who better to test his new abilities on than the one person who destroyed his chance at life in the first place?

As soon as he saw Kamoshida step down the stairs he immediately announced his presence.

"Kamoshida-sensei" Ryuji mocked. "I thought you were above panicking?" He questioned.

"Sakamoto!" Kamoshida growled at the Sakamoto. "What have you done?!" He demanded. "Get me out of here this instant!"

"So demanding." Ryuji yawned. "Or what Kamoshida?" He glared at his former coach.

"Or what?!" Kamoshida scoffed. "Have you forgotten what I did to you, you punk?!" He glared at the young boy. "Or would you like another demonstration and leave you a cripple for life?"

As soon as the inevitable threat left the perverted teacher's mouth, Ryuji couldn't help but guffaw and laugh as hard as he could. Kamoshida was in unknown territory and he still had the gall to blurt out threats.

"What's funny Sakamoto?!" Kamoshida seethed. "Get me out of here this instant!"

It took a few moments for Ryuji to calm down, but he eventually did.

"You know what Kamoshida, you should be begging for your life." Ryuji stated. "You are in an unknown territory, you are talking to someone who you have wronged, and well the entire surrounding is creepy." He continued. "And yet here you are blurting out empty threats."

"Beg to whom?" Kamoshida scoffed. "You?"

"Who else?" Ryuji gave out a feral grin. "You see anybody else here?"

"I didn't peg you to be a comedian Sakamoto." Kamoshida scoffed once more. "Did a broken leg gave you that talent?" He mocked.

"Comedian eh?" Ryuji raised a nonchalant eyebrow. "Let's see you laugh at this!"

Ryuji kneeled down and clutched his head, as if he was having an intense migraine, while he glowed red. He screamed silently as he pulled his hair in an attempt to ease the pain he was feeling.

Suddenly, something eerie just happened, something in red hue appeared behind the Sakamoto.

It looked like a skeleton with a noose tied around its neck area while his upper limbs were bound by together by another piece of rope. It also wore a pirate-themed clothes complete with a hat on its head, hiding the upper part of its skeletal face. It was standing on an old-looking ship that was used back in the day.

"Is the light show supposed to frighten me?" Kamoshida mocked.

"You may mock me Kamoshida, but I can see your legs shaking." Ryuji smirked as he stood up, wincing in the process, and glared at his former coach. "But I guess, that's just you." He sneered.

"Give'im hell Captain Kidd!"

---------

Everyone was abuzz and panicking.

Crumpled on the street, sobbing uncontrollably, was one Suguru Kamoshida. It looked like he went through hell, his clothes were burnt, and even his jogging pants had burn marks in them.

Different shades of purple decorated the Kamoshida's body, in fact some people commented that some of his body parts weren't supposed to go that way.

The emergency response team that arrived tried to gain information on what had happened, but all they can hear the Kamoshida say were words of apologies and begging for his life. No one could make sense of the PE teacher.

It was a miracle that Kamoshida didn't end up being a cripple, but his days as a volleyball coach was over. He needed time to rest his body from the beating he took.

A few weeks went by and Ryuji was accepted back in Shujin. People suspected that he had something to do with the assault on Kamoshida but no one could really prove it.

Leaked interrogations proved his alibi. He was at the hospital doing physical therapy when Kamoshida was found on the streets.

In time, those accusations never came to fruition. They found out that Sakamoto had changed a lot. He doesn't even get angry at the people who antagonize him, even to the people who brought up his father.

A year later however, those very same people were suddenly found on the streets, sobbing uncontrollably, but couldn't remember what happened to them.

Some had even soiled the pants they were wearing.

Of course, the media pinned those as done by the Phantom Thieves of Hearts.

[etraytin]

Quarantine, Day 86

June 5 

Paperwork time is here again, let's all rejoice till we get migraines! Today the houseguests departed after breakfast, promising to be back anytime if MIL needs them, which was very nice of them. With just the four of us in the house once more, we turned our attention to the stuff that comes next. In the morning, MIL was determined to get a bunch of stuff cleaned out of the bedroom and the closet. She let my husband pick through all his dad's clothes for things he wanted (and I think she may have given the sisters a go as well, not sure) and then boxed up the remainder. All the leftover medical things got packed up, socks and shoes and belts from the drawers. She found one of FIL's favorite belts, dark brown leather and a large round buckle with a sculpted belly button on it. It was intensely weird and my husband wanted it immediately. 

In the back of the closet, she found FIL's old backpack guitar, which nobody including him knew how to play but was special because the company that made it is headquartered in the town where my husband grew up. It was very out of tune and the thinnest string was broken entirely. She decided she very much wanted it fixed up and playable and asked if I could make that happen. A couple emails and a phone call, and husband and the kiddo were off to town to the music store. They came back in only about an hour with a tuned and strung guitar. I think that was the happiest I've seen MIL in the past several days. Kiddo spent some time noodling around with it,, and it's amazing how much nicer just fooling around sounds when a guitar is in tune! It's a pretty little thing that looks more like a ren faire instrument than a guitar, but it plays nicely. I bet there are guitar lessons on YouTube somewhere. 

There was a lot of funeral home detail to work out too, even though FIL's planning was comprehensive. He was a thorough, careful man who obviously spent a lot of time considering the fact that he was fifteen years older than his wife and lifting as many end of life burdens as possible from her shoulders. His will was concise and easy to find, his obituary prewritten eight years ago, then updated four years ago and only awaiting plugged-in information. He prepaid for his cremation package and arranged what funeral home would do the work, and when the time comes that we can have a service, he left several pages talking about what he would like. Even with all of that, the process of winding up a life takes time and paperwork. I am technically a lawyer (one MPRE score away from being a double lawyer!) but I know enough to know when I'm out of my depth. We've still got an appointment pending with the attorney next week, only now it will be estate administration instead of asset protection. I had to fill out an entirely new questionnaire! At least it was easier than the first one. The attorney will be able to give us the nitty gritty details about what might wind up in probate and whether we need to do probate at all, plus lots of stuff I probably haven't even thought of yet. 

Side note: did you know it costs 125 dollars to ship cremains in the mail? I did not know that thing. In other news, we are going to make sure we stay in town long enough to personally pick up the four separate boxes MIL requested (one for each kid) and thereby save many many monies. Everything about dying is more expensive than you would imagine. The price for obituaries is basically ridiculous. I guess it's just one more way of supporting print journalism. We're also going to wind up buying like 20 copies of that day's paper, even more support! 

The rest of today's work was mostly making calls and inquiries to different banks and utilities to confirm that we can basically do fuck-all until we have the death certificate in hand, but that once we do, things should go pretty smoothly. I found a website called Peacefully that is basically a series of checkable lists of all the things you need to do after somebody dies. It's been very helpful so far. There's a lot of stuff that I never would've even thought of, just because I've never had a close family member die in a situation where I was even a little responsible for settling things. My last grandparent died when I was 26, but I was in my final year of law school and living far away, so I had nothing to do with that except picking out a few little things from her house before the big estate sale. (I got her jewelry box that plays Fur Elise, one I wound up about a thousand times in childhood and that still smells just a tiny bit like her house.) It's very different to be right up in it, but I'm glad that I'm not trying to help from 400 miles away, or worrying about MIL having to do it all herself. 

Today was also notable for being the last day of school! Kiddo missed the first half hour because we were all distracted this morning with Nana's closet, but he got there in time for most of the school meeting and to see the slide show of the year. There was also a goodbye drive-through at the school this afternoon; he was bummed he couldn't go, but happy that one of his classmates' parents filmed it and sent it to the teacher for him. He watched it tonight before bed, waving to the teachers wistfully as the video played. I really, really hope he can get back into school in the fall! He misses it. Now it's the start of the most anti-climactic summer vacation ever and we have to find stuff for him to do for three _more_ months. Internet, don't fail me now! 

Speaking of finding things to do, we got back on the Avatar train and watched a bunch tonight, with popcorn and everything. I love Toph so very, very much, and so does the kiddo. He appreciates someone who is twelve and can kick the asses of everyone in the room. It is also funny how everyone in the universe continues to be fully immune to bashing damage with the exception of Zuko, who still shakes his many head traumas off very quickly. It's also funny watching how in a TV Y7 show, a character fights with two sharp swords and never actually uses the blades on anybody. I half expect to hear a Phineas and Ferb-style "We're O-Kay!" from the minions at the end of each battle. After that was bedtime and a little bit of podcast, though not nearly so much as last night. He did come into my bedroom a little later because he kept having scary thoughts, apparently mostly about Nana getting sick and dying, but we were able to talk his mood around so that he got to bed at a reasonable hour. That is excellent, he needs the sleep. 

[rubyredsparks]

Blossoming Souls  Ch. 13

Relationship(s): Romantic Logince, Moxiety; Platonic every other relationship

“Tags” for the whole story: morally grey!deceit, Deceit, Remus, Thomas as a character, Romance, Minor violence, someone’s potty mouth, Foul language, Minor homophobia (it’s not that bad), Miscommunication (this one is though), Friendship

Chapter Summary: Virgil and Logan get acquainted only to argue with each other. Roman asks Logan an important question. And there’s a special visitor arriving in Eiehde.

Virgil covered his face with a sigh, hands blocking all sight.

He leant back in his chair, the quiet murmurs of the librarian cataloging a welcome distraction.

He needed to get away from the senators and governors, pulled into a meeting the night after the King had retired from the ball. He knew they meant well, expressing concern for the King and wanting to be involved with the wedding. But he couldn't handle them anytime soon.

Roman and he had issued a statement about Thomas’ health yesterday morning, the public slightly downtrodden that their King wasn’t going to be at the tournament. It had been a longstanding tradition every other month that Eiehde’s royalty would host a tournament and festival to celebrate the peace.

The people had only been slightly mollified that the tourney and tournament would still continue. They had been less happy that the festival would be cut a day, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And Virgil was practically begging for some peace and quiet. A time where his King wasn’t just poisoned.

The sun was close to rising. For some reason he was still in the library, and he was pretty sure that the librarian had locked him in last night. He paused, listening to them cataloging right now.

He thought he might've lost a few hours to sleep because he remembered writing something down before blackness was his last memory. He must've woken up without realizing and written notes less than an hour ago.

A migraine was rising up with a vengeance as he thought about the night's events. His King just had to get poisoned, hadn't he?

Thomas just didn't do things by halves. And then Joan had said they saw Roman and Logan together, alone, in the gardens.

Without a chaperone.

That idiot prince must have been in the midst of some dramatic proposal with the Prince of Eiedhe.

And now the Father of the idiot wanted to continue with the tourney when there would be thousands of eyes on the kingdom and security would most certainly be lax because of the festivities.

Not to mention that there was an assassin in their midst intent to kill. Kill King Thomas dead.

And the wedding was getting closer by the minute and it seemed that the husbands to be have not been planning their wedding at all.

This wasn't what he signed up for, becoming the Royal Advisor. He should just be called a glorified babysitter and be done with it.

He sighed, dropping his hands and massaging his temples. Thirty three and looking after adult-children was making him go stray. Don't get him wrong, he loved the royal family and would absolutely murder anyone who would dare harm him.

But it was getting infinitely harder to enjoy his job with how much anxiety he was earning from it.

Mindlessly, he tapped his fingers against the desk. Now he had to be planning the tourney with Roman.

Virgil pursed his lips. He supposed he could plan around the welcoming speech for the competitors, make it shorter.

No doubt Roman wanted to be in more than just the longsword part. And that was the first part of the competition.

The young man was gifted in weaponry, no doubt. His preference of swordsmanship was known all throughout Eiehde. Even though the kingdom was well known for their navy.

Without the prince as the captain of the royal guard whipping the soldiers new and old into shape, they would've been seized ages ago.

Virgil paused, he was never admitting that out loud to the prince. He was arrogant enough without Virgil stroking his ego.

The joust Roman could skip, surveying that one instead. And it would allow for the fresh blood to be debuted without being dealt with a thrashing from their Prince.

The archery competition Roman could skip as well. That boy was a decent shot, but he really didn't enjoy as he did with the close contact weapons.

Javelins as well could be avoided. Virgil scribbled it down. If he was going to shorten the welcoming speech, then he could move the longsword part to the front and let Roman open up with that.

It would make for a nice opening, showing interpersonal relations with the people and the royal family, showing that they all enjoyed fun.

Yes, Virgil tapped his pen on the table. That would do nicely. He would have to tighten security around the King's quarters as well as the entrances and exits of the tourney.

The tournament just had to be today. King Thomas just had to have the tournament continue even though he had been poisoned. Virgil just had to agree to plan it again even though he had already planned it to a T weeks before. And now he was rushing to finish it before it began in a five hours.

Dropping the pen, he clasped his hands in front of his face, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. He leaned his weight forward, stomach nearly touching the edge.

He was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Since the King had been poisoned only last night, he had been the unofficial ruler in place. Sure, there was Roman. But Virgil wouldn't trust him with this responsibility when he hasn't even taken his wedding into account yet.

Not to mention that Patton had seemed to be avoiding him lately. The past two days, Virgil had seen neither hide nor hair of the red-headed knight. He supposed that he hadn’t done anything to actively seek him out either.

Just thinking about what happened that night of the ball made him blush a deep red. Patton had looked so handsome in his clothes, leading him in a dance that had nothing to do with the music.

The inch difference between them was noted, and he only had to slightly tilt his head up to meet those blue, blue eyes hidden behind black glasses that were so sincere. And that smile.

That smile that stretched across his lips, hiding a thin scar at the corner of his mouth. And those puns. How he entranced the King.

How he himself was entranced with Patton as well.

"Oh, hello." A surprised voice greeted. "I wasn't expecting anyone else to be here. Are you enjoying the quiet this corner has to offer too?"

Virgil stiffened, sleep shaken off in a matter of seconds. Prince Logan of Aowhea.

Great, just what Virgil needed. "I can go." He stood up abruptly, chair screeching against the wooden flooring. His hands were on top of his papers, no doubt being smeared by his palms. Hopefully, he didn't ruin them too badly.

"There's no need. You were here first." Prince Logan said, and Virgil got a good look at the prince for the first time.

He had been there, of course, welcoming this Prince into his home, his country. His first reaction was intimidating. The young man’s back was straight, arms held behind his back, shoulders level with each other, and eyes staring forward to meet Thomas’.

Virgil was just behind the King, taking in the envoy with a cursory, curious look. Half hidden behind shadows and the throne, he was struck by the Prince’s eyes. They were as blue as crispest winter night. Intense and cold. Emotionless and shielded.

Virgil could’ve felt his stomach drop at the resemblance; they were just like his Father’s. The same intense, cold and dead eyes that Ernst always had.

He suppressed a shiver at the memory, cautiously taking a seat again. He eyed Prince Logan, wary. He knew that the Prince wouldn’t do anything. The Prince was a guest here, he could easily be thrown into the dungeons if he did do anything.

The Prince tilted his head, “Well, I suppose I shall have to find another spot to write my theses and study then.”

He looked at the Prince carefully. The man was dressed in casual wear, long navy blue sleeved shirt with a white undershirt peeking out in the ‘V’ of the neck. His long grey pants hung on his hips, loose and comfortable looking.

A bag rested on his shoulder, a leather satchel that was worn and weary, tattered. It was obviously a well-used and well-loved satchel. The contents of it sunk the bag down to near the Prince’s knees with how much was in it.

He didn’t look like a threat. And it must be his sleep deprived brain that made him say, “You can sit here, your Highness. I don’t mind.”

What was he thinking? What was he saying? He did mind, he minded very much!

“Oh,” even Prince Logan looked pleasantly surprised as he took in what Virgil said. “If you’re sure, then I shall.”

The Prince hesitantly pulled out a chair, gingerly making sure that the legs of it did not scrape against the flooring. He set his bag on the floor next to him, left wide open. Wide open for easy access to a weapon?

Virgil watched as the Prince picked up a book and started reading, glasses glinted to obscure his eyes. Virgil narrowed his eyes, watching him for a moment before cautiously going back to his own work.

He pulled out the paper that had the opening speech to the people for the tournament. He could see the words and letters but he wasn’t making neither hide nor tails of any of it.

“Tell me, Advisor Virgil, are you practiced in the sciences?” the Prince asked, and Virgil blinked at the sudden question.

“Er, yeah, I guess.” He didn’t know if he wanted to know where this was going.

“Are you familiar with the theory of the earth being flat?”

Virgil snorted, “Duh, who isn’t? It’s stupid. The earth is obviously a cube.”

Prince Logan’s eyes sparkled in challenge, the blue eyes light as the day sky. “Oh? Are you prepared to defend your statement?”

“Bring it on, Prince Nerd.” Virgil shot back. Oh, that was not going to lend him any favours with the future Prince consort.

But it was too late.

Prince Logan was already pulling out notebooks and texts, spreading it all in front of him on the desk. He organized them, opening and flipping through various pages before settling on the one he wanted. He brought out notebooks and a pencil, settling a pencil in between his fingers as he brought the tip of the pencil to one notebook.

“As there is no moderator for this impromptu debate, we shall have to make due with it just being the two of us as I do not wish to flag down a servant from their duties, especially a servant with no credentials. Have you ever been in a structured mock debate, Lord Advisor?”

Virgil shook his head in growing confusion.

“Well, you’ll be having to open with your argument and I shall with mine. This is a mock debate as well and I shall forgive the fact that you would be unprepared with notes, and have there be no point values in this. With that, I expect you and myself from making any derogatory statement towards each other. No aggravating the opponent and to let the other have their own turn.” Prince Logan looked at him expectantly, and Virgil realized he was looking for agreement.

“Er- yeah sure. Seems legit.”

“Satisfactory. Your opening statement?” Prince Logan prompted him.

“Um, the earth is a cube?” Virgil answered, confused.

“I shall be taking the opposing side and proposing that the earth is flat. Now then, Lord Advisor, you shall provide one piece of evidence that defends your statement.”

“When I walk along a certain path in this Kingdom, there would be a feeling of gravity pulling along my naval making me want to vomit. Since the earth’s a cube, when someone walks closer to the edge or vertices of the earth, there’s less gravity there, making it feel like I’m walking somewhere up a cliff instead of flat land.”

Virgil had no idea where this was going, he had no idea what he just talked about. He was purely reacting with whatever came out of his mouth. Yet he was oddly interested in this debate and was wondering where it would go, and feeling rather proud that he could think of something to say with no moment of preparation at all.

The Prince’s face didn’t change, scribbling whatever Virgil just said down into his notebook. “My argument against that is that the gravity of the statement wouldn’t actually work, since it pulls toward the centre of the disk. With that, the ‘pulling of gravity along your naval’ would just be the earth’s compensation of rotations along its flattened axis points.”

“If the earth was flat, wouldn’t the gravity be too weak to work?” Virgil argued. “On a two dimensional plane, gravity would vary on different sides making it so that people wouldn’t be walking along flat ground without being pulled toward one place.”

“Actually, that would only be if you got farther and farther away from the centre of the earth,” Prince Logan refuted. “The further away, the more horizontal things get. For example, trees would grow more horizontal since they grow away from the centre, and there are numerous cases of trees growing horizontal.”

“Okay, but what if those were flukes,” Virgil argued. “Trees are stubborn motherfuckers and would grow anywhere and in any direction if there was enough sunlight and space to accommodate them.”

“In multiple cases?” Prince Logan raised a brow. “Unlikely. Especially in the town Nealdan, horizontal trees are infamous there.”

“Okay, what about the sun then.” Virgil pointed out, hands in front of him and pushing him up as he got more fired up. “If the sun were flat, it wouldn’t be able to orbit the earth whereas if it were a cube it would still be able to do that because the axis and focus points would still fundamentally work as the two orbit each other, giving us night and day.”

“The sun and moon hover over the earth, like a desk lamp over your papers,” the Prince said as if it was obvious, and Virgil was already getting worked up that he missed the flare of amusement and competition in the Prince’s eyes.

“Because it does, it loops the number of days, simulating night and day. The distance the sun is from the earth would allow for the sun to go across the planes of the earth.”

“Okay, that one didn’t even make any fucking sense! My grandmama would’ve made a better argument and she believes that alcohol makes good medicine when you have a cold.”

“Well, if you’re not going to comply with the rules of the debate, then you concede.”

“Like hell I do!” Virgil exclaimed. “This is stupid, you’re stupid, everything is stupid.”

“With all of these expletives, it seems like you’re unable to form another valid point for your argument,” the Prince pointed out. “That means that you have no more statements or arguments for your side. Thus conceding the match.”

Virgil stayed silent, knowing that the Prince had a point. He settled for a harsh glare, receiving one back.

They held each other’s glares.

Virgil broke first and dissolved into giggles. And Prince Logan’s lips twitched as he sat back down, hands folded in front of him.

“That was so stupid,” Virgil gasped out in between laughs.

Prince Logan allowed himself a small laugh as he tilted his head, eyes softer than he had ever seen them.

“You don’t--” Virgil struggled to get a hold of himself, “You don’t really believe that the earth is flat, do you? Because if you do, I’ll have to fight you.”

“I believe it as much as you truly believe that the earth is a cube,” Prince Logan said it with so much derision, nose wrinkling in offense. “The earth is round. Well, the more scientific description is oblate-spheroid for it isn’t truly and perfectly round.”

“Thank the Lady.” Virgil paused, tilting his head as he looked at the Prince, “Why did you ask me if I thought the earth was flat then? Actually, why did you instigate a debate if you knew that I knew that we were both wrong.”

“Ah,” Prince Logan clicked his tongue, looking away before answering. “That would be Patton’s fault.”

“Patton?” Virgil raised an incredulous brow. “What does Patton have anything to do with it?”

“He noticed that you looked stressed the past couple of days, and he asked me if I could ask you or help in some way,” Prince Logan explained, putting his notebooks and papers back inside his bag.

“Ah, so you’re the buffer.” If Virgil’s bitter tone was noticed by the Prince, he didn’t show it.

“No,” Logan corrected, neatly stacking his books in a pile. “Though I suppose it can be interpreted that way. Patton was afraid that anything he would’ve done to get your attention would be rebuffed or that he would come on too strong. He didn’t want to metaphorically step on your toes when trying to help you.

“So he sent me in his stead, and I must confess, this meeting was also self-motivated.”

“Oh?” Virgil leaned forward, intrigued.

Logan nodded, adjusting his glasses. “I had wanted to meet you for some time now as well. Royal Advisor Virgil, you’re quite well-known in the country. The people speak highly of you. I can see that it is not undeserved.”

The Prince fixed him with a piercing stare, though not an unkind one, that made Virgil shiver. “You are a very intelligent man, Lord Advisor, and a very worthy opponent. I enjoyed our debate very much as baseless in facts as it was, I hope to have another one soon, my Lord.”

“Call me Virgil or Virge,” Virgil said after a long pause as his brain rebooted to try and process the compliments.

“Virge then if you’ll call me Logan,” Logan tipped his head in acknowledgement. “I understand that it may seem odd, but Patton does care for you. He had wanted to see you himself, but he was busy with other arrangements regarding the tournament.”

“I… I think I care for him as well,” Virgil muttered, ducking his head, curls falling in front of his eyes.

Logan’s smile was all teeth. “Excellent.”

“Logan? Nerd? Where are you? The servants said that they saw you come in here.”

Logan and Virgil exchanged glances.

They could hear him rummaging around, calling for Logan again. Logan gave Virgil an apologetic smile. “I suppose I should answer otherwise he’d be even more annoying.”

Virgil gave a derisive snort. “I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s always going to be annoying. Good luck dealing with him for the rest of your life.”

Logan frowned, opening his mouth.

“Oh, Logan, there you are!” Roman popped out from behind a bookshelf. “I’ve been looking for you for ages. I’ve got something to ask you. Come on.”

Roman tugged insistently on Logan’s arms. “Wait- Roman, my books-!”

The red-brown haired Prince swiped the other’s books into his arms, grabbing the bag on the floor, swift and neat, and tugged the bespectacled man out of the library.

Virgil shook his head. Roman was never going to change. He shook out his nerves, feeling more relaxed and got back to work.

-----------------------------------------------

Logan felt slightly annoyed. He had been having a lovely time debating with Lor- with Virgil. Truth be told, he felt that he had found a friend in this kingdom.

Over the two weeks he had been here, he hadn’t had time to go around seeking companionship. And Patton, bless his heart, was talkative enough for Logan to feel satisfied about any other sort of company.

Princ- Roman.

Roman had avoided him until the incident with the library as well as the time he spent with him during the ball. He wasn’t able to inquire after him because of his anger as well.

The other had been oddly… sweet after the ball two days ago. He had spent more time with Logan, sticking almost dangerously close to Logan’s side some days. They spent much of their time talking about poems and books, which Logan hadn’t thought Roman was capable of spending longer than an hour without getting restless.

(He lasted two.)

Logan wasn’t sure, but he thought that the Prince regarded him as a friend. He had said so to Noble Joan that night. And he felt oddly touched with an emotion he couldn’t comprehend.

He had asked for the details of what had happened. And while Roman seemed very reluctant to share. He told Logan all that had transpired in the King’s room. The whole thing had been... an ordeal, to say the least.

Of course, there was also the gifts.

The many, many, many gifts that the Prince had sent to him and his room the past two days.

It had started innocently enough, a vase of wisteria when he woke up. Then an hour later, a servant handed him a box of chocolate with a note from Roman saying that he wished him a good day.

Which was weird enough because he was allergic to chocolate, so he just gave it to Patton and went on with his day.

But the gifts didn’t stop there.

An hour after that, a servant with a dog on a lead walked up to him as well when he was reading in one of the gazebos. That sent him into a fit of sneezes and a red face because of course, he also was allergic to dog fur.

The servant and dog had to be sent away before he nearly broke out into hives.

He had to spend the rest of the day in his room, resting from his allergic reaction. There had been numerous knocks on his doors as he rested that he had to steadfastly ignore. But he had welcomed oblivion as he fell asleep.

And when he recovered enough a few hours later, he found a neatly wrapped box on his desk. Which promptly threw him into a panic because what if the assassin had left him a poison in that box? What if it had been the assassin?

Letting Patton handle the box opening hadn’t been his best decision either because the knight had opened it to find a rose dipped in gold.

The humiliated and embarrassed flush as Patton read the note that was much too embarrassing to remember in exactness only grew redder as Logan snatched the gift away from Patton when he knew that it was safe. That did not stop any puns as Logan ushered the man from his room.

The gifts hadn’t stopped coming.

A golden, diamond encrusted watch.

A dark red and blue silk handkerchief.

A self-help book about how to live a better life.

(Was the Prince trying to tell him something with that one?)

A golden set of dominoes.

A golden telescope.

A set of gold cufflinks with a constellation on it.

(The Prince seemed to have a thing for gold.)

A singing troupe that followed him for five hours. If he heard another ditty about his eyes or how strong Prince Roman was, he would stab someone.

A red leather journal with a wisteria and aster twisting together on the cover.

A caricature of Prince Roman slaying a dragon.

(That one he burned.)

Countless others that he couldn’t keep track of and had to give to the villagers in lieu of any other place to put them. His room ran out of space the second day when he woke up to petals in his face and a room filled with vases and vases of flowers.

“Now that I’ve got you alone,” Roman was saying, hands gesticulating and drawing Logan back to the present.

The two were in Roman’s room after he had dragged Logan off, the other Prince waving off any servants inquiring them and practically clearing a path to his destination.

They entered, and Roman set Logan’s things on the ground, standing in front of him, nervous. Logan took in his surroundings.

The Prince’s room wasn’t what he had been expecting. Logan imagined that the extravagant Prince would have tapestries and canopies and drapes hanging everywhere in fine silks and cottons.

Logan thought there would’ve been more space, canvases of art and busts of odd sculptures. Red and gold covering every single square living space.

It was nothing like that.

The room was bare, to say the least. There was a bed pushed into a corner of the room, an armoire next to it. A table a few feet away from it and a desk pushed into the other corner away from the bed.

The desk seemed to be the only evidence that the Prince lived there. The chair had his armour laid messily upon it, sword laid atop the desk. Papers strewn across the top of the desk in disarray that made Logan’s eye twitch.

It was still bigger than Logan expected. Easily double the size of his own. The windows as well were the size of two men stacked atop each other as well with simple black drapes tied to let in sunlight.

But other than that, it was empty.

There was a space far across the other side of the bed that was empty, left alone and wide open with no furniture and bare enough that Logan bet that there must’ve been some other pieces of furniture that was taken away.

“I wanted to ask you a question.”

“That it had to be asked in your room and couldn’t wait until later?” Logan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Roman said. He smiled sheepishly, “Okay, maybe not so much. But I didn’t really want anyone else to listen in on us. And I wanted to ask you right away.”

How important must this be question be for Roman to seek him out straight away?

“Well?” Logan crossed his arms. “What is it?”

Roman flushed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. He fumbled as he tried to open it, nearly dropping it as the paper crinkled.

“You wrote it down?” Logan asked, highly amused by the scene playing out in front of him.

Roman shot him a feeble glare, finally managing to open the paper. He took a deep breath, opening his mouth.

Only for no words to come out.

“I’m sorry, was I supposed to hear a question or…?”

The Prince flushed a brighter red, his eyes flashing with embarrassment. He mumbled something that Logan couldn’t make out, stuffing the paper back into his pocket.

Logan couldn’t help but feel immense pleasure at seeing the Prince squirm. The usually well spoken man at a loss for words.

The man took a deep breath, “Will you give me a token for me to wear during the tourney?”

Logan froze. Did he hear right? Did Roman really ask him for a token? Him, a neighboring prince and a man.

“Why?”

“Because you’re my friend,” Roman said simply. “And I want to wear a token from you.”

“But I’m a male,” Logan said. “Shouldn’t this be a question for your Destined?”

Roman frowned, tilting his head in confusion. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he said slowly. “I just wanted to ask.”

Logan didn’t know what to do. Should he agree? Should he decline? To decline seemed terribly rude when the Prince went through all of this to ask him alone, taking into consideration how private this moment should be.

But to agree would be to enter a situation he wouldn’t be able to take back. This would be a big gesture, something open and public should he give Roman something.

Everyone would see that Roman was unavailable for courting. That he was taken. Taken by Logan. And that was a situation that he was uncomfortable with.

He didn’t want to be the sole reason Roman would be unable to court anyone. Because this gesture, as innocuous as it seemed, was a big gesture.

“Are you sure? This is… this is something big.” Logan said, because he wanted to, but he also didn’t. It would be that he supported Roman, but also a million other things that would be incriminating.

“It can just mean something between friends,” Roman reassured him. “Someone to support me in the tourney. Loads of knights and challengers have one from family. Why? Does it mean something in Aowhea?”

Logan gulped. “It’s- it’s basically like a courting mark. Something to claim one as the other’s Destined.”

Roman nodded slowly, as if unable to comprehend why this would be so bad. “It doesn’t have to mean it like that here. Please, Logan, please give me a token from you.”

Logan looked away from those pleading brown-red eyes, biting his bottom lip. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, unable to find an answer. On one hand, he could decline and just walk away from this whole scenario.

On the other, he could just agree and have it marked under Aowhea’s traditions, just ignore the implications of his own traditions. He was in Eiehde after all.

“Please, Logan?”

It was the sentence that broke him.

“Fine,” he heaved a sigh. With trembling fingers, he untied the dark blue ascot around his neck. He delicately folded it and, with hesitant hands, handed it over to Roman.

“Thank you, my Prince,” Roman said softly, taking the ascot gently and giving Logan a heavy look that he had to avert his eyes.

“Princess, where the fuck you at?” Remy’s obnoxious voice broke the moment as he slammed open the door. “Where have you been? Virgil has been harping me for hours, asking where you were. He needs you for the opening speech, dumbo. Why aren’t you-?”

He spotted the two of them standing. “Oh. Ohhh. That’s where you’ve been. Well, I’m not one to stop a romantic rendezvous but Virgil needed you like yesterday. And I am not above dragging you to him. So stop snogging, and come on.”

Roman sighed, closing his hand tightly around Logan’s ascot. He walked over to his desk and grabbed his armour and sword. “I’ll see you later, my Prince.” It was said with a tender look, and Roman’s hand lingered as he patted Logan goodbye.

Logan nodded dumbly as he walked away, whacking Remy on the shoulder and hearing, “You could not have worse timing, Remy.”

The bespectacled man stood, frozen, in Roman’s room. Remy’s words caught up to him.

“Did- did Remy say romantic?! Did he think we were romantically involved?!” This was not good. If word got out to his Father… Logan didn’t even want to think about the consequences of what may happen.

“Your Highness? There you are,” Patton’s voice came out of nowhere. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’ve got a guest.”

Patton grabbed his arm, tugging him out of the room. He was still speaking, but Logan’s mind wasn’t comprehending his words, just letting himself be dragged along.

All he could think about how unhappy his Father would be with him. He sent Logan here as an envoy, a representative of Aowhea, something that made Logan proud.

If someone told his Father that he was off- off gallivanting out with someone, a male someone at that, there would be hell to pay.

“Here we are, Highness.” Patton pushed him into his own room, and Logan blinked, not grasping the situation. “Your Majesty, His Highness has arrived.”

There was a man standing in front of the window, his back to Logan. He had a long, black cape trailing down to the floor that prevented him from telling who it was exactly .

But then the man turned around, and Logan felt the blood drain from his face.

The gold was the first clue. His second was the famous burn mark on the left side of his face. His third was the greeting.

“Hello, son of mine.”

King Ernst of Aowhea was here.

Logan’s Father was here.

Masterpost | Previous | Next

[sagiow]

A parley of provocation

 https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889482            

« Emma? »

All four were at a stand-off, silent, waiting for someone to shoot, for the bullet to bite; yet no one pulled the trigger. In the middle, Mary’s eyes darted from the irate young woman, burning with anger, to the frozen preacher, his jaw set, his posture rigid. Across, Jedidiah's were fixed on the Head Nurse, waiting for that mysterious fifth sense of hers to tingle and tell him, with the lightest twitch of her brow, the slightest tensing of her muscles, that it was time to spring into action.

They were in the kitchen, but they could have been in the Mongolian desert or one of Jupiter’s moons and it would not have been the strangest thing in this foreign situation.

« HOW COULD YOU! » Emma finally cried, from the depths of her belly. “You knew what it meant to me!”

Henry did not flinch, his blue gaze an icy pond in winter. “Yes, I did.”

“I trusted you!” she pressed on, fists clenched. “And you… took advantage!”

At her desperate accusation, Jed’s face blanched, while Mary’s colored. Their eyes met over the quarrellers and they suddenly wished they were anywhere but in this room, this early in the day, after such a late night, in such delicate company. “Miz Mary…” a woman’s voice was heard again, and shushed just as promptly with an impatient wave of a hand.

Henry was paying them no mind, his full focus on the livid lady before him, a certain detachment now to his bearing as he leaned against a chair. “I could say the same to you, Miss Green,” he retorted, with an uncharacteristic bite to his speech. “You were most… cavalier with your attentions.”

“I most surely was not!” she gasped. “I demand you apologize, Sir!”

“Oh, but I won’t. Not for my words, nor for helping myself to that satisfying compensation you are now so loath to be parted from. I admit it was even sweeter than I anticipated,” he added with a sneer, to another huff of rage from Emma. She took a step forward, her hand lifting once more, but Mary expected it, and she briskly grasped her wrist to prevent further damage to Henry’s physique.

Jed took this as his cue to intervene, and he grabbed the other man’s arm, twisting him away from his unexpected opponent. “Hopkins, what happened? What the devil are you speaking of?!” The devil now, he noted; how far from Grace this discussion had apparently fallen.

“Why, of Miss Green’s lovely apples, of course.”

There was a stunned silence. “Her… her what now?” Mary finally stuttered, trying to decipher his meaning, and blushing furiously at the various images her attempts conjured.

“My apples!” Emma shouted. “Belinda brought me leftover Apples à la Parisienne from the ball for breakfast and this thief stole them! I told him they were my favorite and he ate them all!”

She pointed accusingly to the table, where they now saw a fine plate, empty if not for a few crumbs and streaks of meringue. Henry crossed his arms, a polished spoon appearing forth in his hand, and Jed could not believe he had failed to notice how odd it was for him to hold such a utensil in the previous pandemonium.

Henry only shrugged. “Seems to me you would’ve had your share if you had just taken the smallest of intermissions from dancing all night with your gallant soldiers.”

“I could not! I was being a gracious host!” Emma riposted.

The chaplain scoffed. “Oh, indeed, is that what you were being ? You had me quite fooled.”

“Isn't one slap enough, Chaplain?” Mary warned him. “I’ve a mind to release her if you keep this language up.”

“Fine. Let’s say you were a charming hostess to these handsome officers, and not deviously seducing them away from their duty.”

“Hopkins! Enough!” growled Foster, straining to keep his rising pressure in check. “What’s the matter with you, man?! You blame her for young Fairfax’s escape?”

Too far along into his foray to retrench, too lacking in subtlety to plan a diversion, Henry did not back down, but charged bitterly ahead. “Well, yes, I do, but the main matter here, and the greater offense, is that she never honored the dance she pledged me. And since she didn’t, well… I just had to divert all that unwanted attention to that delectable dessert of her mother’s and, I must admit, now find it much more agreeable and honest company!"

At his words, all three recoiled. Emma started, as if she had been the one struck. Jed frowned, a warning clear in the taut angle of his neck. Utterly bewildered, Mary turned to Belinda, who rolled her eyes and lifted her palms in surrender. “Don’t be lookin’ at me like that, Miz Mary. I done tried to tell ya.”

“This is all about… the ball? About dessert and a dance?” Mary summarized slowly, every word a strain to pronounce.

“Not just any desert!”

“Not just any dance!”

“Oh Lord in Heaven, you two!” Jed exploded, his patience extinguished. “This is beyond ridiculous! Are you bloody children? Were you raised by wolves?! No?! Hopkins, you go fetch the girl something sweet and apologize for eating her stupid French whatnot out of pitiful spite. And Miss Green, just grant the poor fellow a damn dance, will you? Can’t you see all the hearts in his eyes every time he looks at you? Hell, I can see them clear as day all the way across the ward, and I can’t even focus on my own hands most of the time because I’m high as a kite! Jesus! Nurse Mary, a word, and not one more from the two of you, or so help me God!”

With a murderous last look to the sullen yet quieted younger people, Jed stole Mary to the hallway, his hand insistent upon her elbow. Once they were out of earshot and eyesight, in the relative comfort of the dimmed lighting, he leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in muted frustration.

Mary granted him an instant to collect himself, at once concerned and amused. “That was… pious. I’ve rarely heard you speak so devoutly.”

He exhaled dramatically, both a chuckle and a sigh. “I apologize if it offended you, but it does seem to have paused their ludicrous bickering, so I can't say I'm all that sorry." When his hand dropped limply to his side, he appeared aged, defeated, a silent plea in his weary expression.

"All this talk of longing gazes and jealous retaliation has made me realize something,” he muttered dejectedly. “Something I must confess and humbly ask of you.”

Caught by the intensity of his suppliant gaze, she found herself unable to speak, and could only manage an imperceptible nod. Suddenly, there was the warmest of touches to her hand, his fingers curling around hers, and she grew unable to breathe as well.

“Mary,” Jed finally confessed. “I fear I’m not steadfast enough in my new soberness to deal with such bunkum drama. I have rarely felt the needle calling me as it is in this excruciating moment. So please, before I lapse, lock me up again. Help me stay the course.”

The breath returned in a gust, her lungs violently deflating along with her newborn hope. Against her palm, so hot an instant ago, she now felt the cold metal of a key, pressed beseechingly. Numbly, she took it, retreating her hand to the safety of its sister. Somehow, she managed to will her lips to curl into a reassuring smile and not the painful grimace she inwardly felt.

“Of course, J- Doctor,” she replied, forgoing the allowed familiarity for the known comfort of formality. “Perhaps a bit dramatic, but if you feel there is a risk to your health -”

“To mine and theirs, if they continue on with this nonsense. It’s unbearable to watch such stupidity unfold, such wasted time and energy in such young, free people.” Was that bitterness she detected? He did not allow her time to wonder as he pressed on: “Do fetch me for any medical emergency, but if I cross these two again today, I’m afraid I will be the cause of yet another.”

“You can count on me. Besides, you said yourself how I relish locking you up,” Mary jested, hoping humor would hide the disappointment she could not seem to shake. “What shall we say ails you, this time?”

“A most grievous, head-splitting, soul-crushing migraine, and it will not be a lie.”

“I know of a most effective remedy for this,” she offered, leading the way to the upper levels.

“Thank you, Nurse Phinney. As long as it’s not what you administered the steward, I’ll gladly take it.”

(Pic from here, not mine, don’t sue me)

[petersvibes]

never can say goodbye pt. 2 - peter parker

anonymous asked:

Hey! Can I request a Peter P. Imagine where he and y/n where bff and one day they got into a huge fight because he was always late and she didn’t knew why (because of his spidey duty) and Peter said smth in the fight that made y/n cry and run away and then she didn’t talked to him for 3 weeks and you can make a fluffy end? Thank u❤❤❤❤❤❤

description: the aftermath of y/n’s fight with peter. (platonic relationship through and through) (see pt. 1)

song: never can say goodbye - the jackson 5

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader

warnings: language

author’s note: i wasn’t gonna write a part two to this but whatever, might as well. i made this much more intense than i think the anon requested but like... that’s how i live my life! if i forgot to tag you i’m sorry and i hate myself 

It takes one look from your mother the following morning to know her child is heartbroken. 

For you, however, it feels less like your heart is shattered, and more like it has been cut out of your chest with a dull knife. You wake up with a throbbing head and aching all over your body, Peter’s words looping over and over; you don’t mean anything to me anymore. You don’t mean anything to me anymore. You don’t mean anything to me anymore. 

Even though you don’t speak about what happened, you’re allowed to stay home on Monday in an effort to emotionally recover. In that time, your blankets encompass you, but you’re feel cold and unfeeling, unable to even produce tears from the shock alone. It’s probably unhealthy for you sit in silence, alone with your own self deprecating thoughts, but to lose the one person you care about the most in such an emotionally assaulting way is completely traumatic. 

You become slightly alarmed on Monday night, when your physical health deteriorates quicker than your psyche Unprovoked, your mother finds that you’ve developed a 101 fever, cold sweats and a migraine. She gives you a look of sympathy that you don’t return with any form of reassurance of your wellbeing and you stay home the next day. 

You’re not at school Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and by Thursday, Peter’s out of his mind. The first few days, he had to physically restrain himself from busting in through your window to make sure you’re alive. Much to Ned’s distain, (they had an environmental science project due that Friday) Peter’s absentminded, uncontrollably anxious. He begs both Ned and Michelle to call you, as juvenile as it is, but you don't answer. It’s after 40 missed calls that he fully grasps how painfully final his last words to you were, and on Thursday night, he breaks. 

Peter lands on your fire escape, dressed in his normal clothes, (right now, his Spider-Man outfit didn’t seem right to wear) but to his dismay, your window is locked for the first time in the history of your friendship. Your curtains are drawn shut and from what he can tell, the only thing illuminating your room is probably your coconut breeze candle. He groans, leaning his head on the coolness of your window and gently placing his palm on the condensation. He’s gone almost an entire week trying to convince himself it was for your own good, that now you wouldn’t get hurt because of him. He rather himself be the villain of your story than for you to even get a glimpse of the ones that haunt his nightmares. 

He slides down your window, landing in a heap on the grates of the fire escape, tears flowing freely down his ice cold cheeks. If he weren’t so damn cold he would sob right here, right where you can hear and see if you poke your head out the window, but he’s silent. He wishes you would just pop your head out, forgive him for what he’s done, but he knows you won’t. Inside, you’re sitting right below the sill of your window, praying he won’t come in. 

Friday morning, your fever has long since broken and your headache has alleviated, and at your mother’s command you’re walking into your calculus class. You receive confused looks and giggling whispers from kids in your class, but you pay them no mind, immediately making eye contact with Michelle and Peter, your empty seat between them taunting you. His expression is hard enough that you wince and shuffle across the room, sitting in the back corner with one of the girls in your art class. For the entirety of class, your teacher’s words fade into mere ambiance and you’re thinking about Peter, again. 

But this time, it’s different. You no longer feel on the verge of tears, but you start to fill with an unprecedented rage. He didn’t know up. He lied, over and over. Your best friend treated you like a you were an idiotic stranger, and when you gave him the opportunity to come clean, he spat in your face. You were willing to do anything for him and he abandoned you. 

You hold that anger for three hours, through two math classes and with not even one bit of acknowledgement from him. At lunch, you sit at the far end of the same lunch table you did only a week ago, your eyes transfixed on Peter’s seemingly satisfied demeanor. Michelle sits across from you, and after two illustrations of works she titles, “(Y/N) in Crisis”, she puts her pen down and folds her hands, leaning across the table. 

“If looks could kill, he’d be dead a million times over.” She remarks, obnoxiously biting into one of your chips. “If you kill him I won’t help you dump the body. I have to get into college.” 

You finally break your glare and look at her, with softer eyes that still hold some ice in them. “He’s a dick.” You say, folding your arms over your chest. “A spineless, selfish, unpalatable bast-”

“Okay,” Michelle says, jokingly grabbing your tense shoulders. “You are an angry, angry gal.” She nods, surveying you pensively. “I like it, I do. But you haven’t exactly told me why you want to bury Parker’s body in an undisclosed location?” 

“He would have rather died than be honest with me,” You say, shaking your head at the thought of it. “And when he was, he said that I meant nothing to him anymore. So yeah, I’m a tad steamed.”

Michelle nods, chewing on her bottom lip. “And you believed him?” 

Your eyes narrow, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

She leans in, folding her hands together and tilting her head, her sarcasm blending seamlessly with her sympathy. “It means,” She starts, quirking her brow, “Peter Parker is the kid who waited on you hand and foot when you were in the hospital for appendicitis last year. He stuffs your locker with your favorite candy on your birthday. You finish each other’s sentences, (Y/N). If you weren’t so joined at the hip I would assume you’re in love with each other.” 

“What are you saying then?” You ask, unintentionally harsh. 

Michelle rolls her eyes, wondering how you couldn’t see it already. “You love Peter, (Y/N). And he loves you. You’re astrally connected. So just because he couldn’t be honest with you doesn’t mean he loves you any less. So stop thinking about what you want to say to him and say it.” She says, patting your shoulder as the bell rings, signaling that lunch is over. 

Her advice rolls around in your head for the rest of your day, through your two remaining classes and on lonely walk home. As your music plays in your ears, you look around your neighborhood and try to imagine what your life would’ve been like without Peter in it, but all you see are memories. The park across the street from the bakery, isn’t just a park across the street from a bakery. It’s where May and Ben would take you on Friday afternoons just like this one, when the breeze was just right and the smell of baked goods from a few feet away was just too enticing. Patrick’s Skate Shop: it’s where you two rented skateboards that one time, and although you came home with a shared total of 23 scrapes and bruises, it’s where you joke about it when you pass it by. The streets are lined with laughs, with the affects of a lifelong friendship. What he said struck you in a previously untouched place, but as much as it pains you to think about, being without him hurts more. 

You’re so tied up in your own thoughts when you hear it, that you almost think your mind is playing tricks on you. You don’t see the man snatch the old woman’s purse; that happen’s too far ahead of you. What you do see, however, is the flash of red and blue start to run in your direction, chasing the rushing man. You stand frozen in your spot, mouth slightly parted as you watch the scene unfold. It’s Spider-Man, it’s the guy you’ve frequently discussed with Peter and who you’ve had yet to see despite him operating in your neighborhood. But just being able to recognize the masked man isn’t what makes your blood run cold. 

It’s the slight shove the red blur makes against your shoulder, followed by the quick ‘sorry’ that unmasks the superhero and reduces him down to your idiot best friend. Because you’ve heard that voice before. You’ve heard that little apology countless times, when he accidentally jabs you in the side or when he hugs you a bit too tight, and it’s no different in tone, or in voice, than just now, when it filled your ears after Spider-Man shoved your shoulder. 

And without a doubt in your dumbfounded mind, you know. Peter Parker  is Spider-Man. Spider-Man is Peter Parker.

tags: @anali-022506 @nicunt @fairydustparker @hista-girl @hollandroos @iminlovewithafictionalguy

[peacelovesmile-pazamorsonrisa]

Suicide

So, I posted something about this less than a year ago and it proves just how much of a struggle mental illness can be because I’m once again fighting with myself over thoughts of self- destructive behaviors or suicide.  I’m thinking about how much I’ve gone through and how much I’m still gonna have to go through with my head the way it is.  This is just part of my story, not all of it.  There’s plenty more to add, but this is one of my attempts.  It confuses me to be like I’ve come so far, but I still have these thoughts.  I guess it’s just a reminder of the constant fight.

Two years ago I was almost successful in my suicide attempt.  This was my second attempt I had a friend and counselor that could tell something was up and got me to the hospital. I overdosed on some migraine medication (the one where you’re only supposed to take up to 5 in a day and 12 in a week).  I took around 23. So, not horrible, but with the other medicine I was on(and whatever else I had taken earlier that day that I wasn’t supposed to) and the being drunk at the time(I drunk my way through classes that day), it was definitely not good. Looking back, the first thing I think is that I should’ve taken more.  If I had taken more, maybe it would’ve worked.  I know that’s not what I’m supposed to think, especially with how far I’ve supposedly come, but once you get those thoughts in your head, they never really go away. Or at least they have yet to go away for me.  I remember looking up ways to kill yourself and reasons to die, and my friend saw it and was like you shouldn’t be doing that, but she kinda just shrugged it off. She could tell I’d been drinking (and we were actually sitting on campus at this point, which never happened because I was usually too anxious to leave my room) and offered to take me home. I just said I was fine. That was always my answer. Fine. I’m always fine. So, she went on her way, and I sat on campus looking up ways to die and why people wouldn’t miss me.  Just thinking about how much of a burden I was and how people would be better off without me.  That’s all I could think about. All I was good at doing was destroying myself.  There were constantly fresh cuts on my arm, and that day was no different. I also tried burning and breaking bones, but cutting was my go to.  Cutting and whiskey. Great combination. I don’t remember everything that happened, but I know I showed up to rugby practice drunk about 30 minutes after I overdosed.  I had apparently texted my counselor and she could tell something was up. My friend was starting to notice, too. I couldn’t even make it one lap around the field without getting sick. I remember laying down on our horribly broken wooden bleachers and hearing a couple friends talk about trying to make me throw up. I told them I was fine again. I remember thoughts like I’m worthless and useless and I’ll never amount to nothing going through my head.  My head telling me I was an anxious and depressed mess that was never going to get better. That I was going to be stuck in that cycle forever and nothing I did would make me better. My friend got hurt in a tackling drill and came over to see how I was doing. I was kinda in and out at that point, but my phone rang and I gave it to her. It was my counselor asking what was up and what was wrong. I got the phone and with slurred words told her I’d taken some stuff I wasn’t supposed to. My counselor told me to hand the phone back to my friend. Next thing I know we were in the car on the way to the hospital. My friend had my phone and called my counselor back when we got there and I remember filling out forms and having to wait for a while. At one point I passed out on my friend’s shoulder. I woke up to her frantically shaking me, trying to keep me awake. Eventually, I got called back and I don’t really know what happened after that. The lights were moving, I was rambling about things that didn’t make sense, and I couldn’t stand up or walk on my own. I had to drink this disgusting liquid mixed with sprite to try and counteract the medicine I had taken(it was horrible and I just took it in shot form with a sprite chaser after that for a week). My friend left at some point(which she constantly apologizes for and says she should’ve stayed the night). I was taken to ICU for 3-4 days.  I was in and out the whole time and hooked up to monitors because my heart had gotten out of rhythm(or something like that) and my liver was outta whack(luckily not permanently). My friend came and brought me clothes. At one point I had to switch beds, but I could’t stand up to do it, so they had to pick me up. That was embarrassing. I had to stay in the ICU for a few days and then go to the psych unit for a week. One of the worst experiences I can remember. When I woke up(and was coherent) I just thought about how I didn’t succeed. How I fail at everything. About the repercussions of not killing myself and having to explain why I was in the hospital. Having to miss school and talk to my teachers afterwards. Having to talk to my parents. Having people give me that sad looked every time they walked by my room. People constantly asking why and telling me that it’ll get better. Nothing could penetrate my skull at that point. I was convinced I was better off dead. That I wasn’t supposed to live. I never thought I’d make it to my high school graduation, much less be a Junior in college. The simple fact was that I thought I wasn’t supposed to be alive. And I continued to think that. Sometimes I still do. I eventually got so bad that I wouldn’t leave my room for anything but counseling and rugby. And only when I was on my way to one of them would I eat. I had to drop out of school(again). I had to go into treatment where I was PHP. After 3 months in treatment, they decided that I was so bad off that they couldn’t keep me and sent me to an intense psychiatric facility where I was too scared to leave my room.. again. Another month-long program accepted me and I had to live at home with my parents(which is where my c-ptsd comes from) and drive two hours there every morning and two hours back every night. I had to go to counseling three times a week after that for over a year. But now I’m here.  I still have my bad thoughts and bad days, but I’m glad I survived. I had to go through a lot to get where I am, but I learned that suicide is not the answer. Suicide isn’t the answer to the problem.  It doesn’t make things better, it just makes it to where things won’t have a chance to get better.

[outstanding-ocs]

// hi! this is abt an oc i submitted a long time ago named Isaiah!! i originally wrote this bc it’s really hard for me to describe him without going into extreme detail nd now i want to share it bc it’s probably the best piece of writing i’ve ever done. i hope it’s alright!! //

tws for death, some cursing, self-hate, and injury

   You hate the cards you’ve been dealt.    You could have been someone great. You should have been someone great. You should have been a banker, like your father. You should have had a normal life. You were nobility. Your fiancée was nobility. Your entire family line was nobility. And yet, here you are. Laying in the grass, trying to nurse your bleeding wounds and not pass out from the pain.    You should be in Heaven. You should be an angel. You should be laying on fluffy fucking cushions and having life handed to you on a silver platter. But, instead, you’re escaping a battlefield, watching both allies and enemies get hurt because of you. And the worst part is, this is a normal day for you. You don’t bat an eye anymore if you see a friend’s arm get broken. You can’t feel anything anymore when you hear an ally’s cries of agony. You’re numb.        Yeah. Numb. That’s one way to put it.    To be fair, you got yourself into this mess. If you could just control your anger like a normal fucking person could, you wouldn’t have gotten baited into the brawl. You shouldn’t have let yourself get worked up like that. You shouldn’t have thrown the first punch. You shouldn’t have gotten others into this petty fight. But you did, and now you’re paying the price.    It’s all your fault. It’s always your fault. You’re always the one who hits first. And on the rare cases you’re not, you’re always the one to continue it. No matter how hard you try, you just can’t control it. It’s wired in your brain. You’ve tried everything. Stress balls, deep breathing, having someone calm you down. None of it worked. You still have a very hard time controlling your own anger. It’s so pathetic.    You’re so pathetic.    You let out a quiet laugh as you lean back on your arms, turning your gaze towards the night sky and ignoring the white hot flames that shoot up your arms from the pressure being applied so harshly while you’re already injured. You could float or fly, yes, but you deserve this. You deserve these searing flames. Pain is nothing to you. You have, both literally and metaphorically, been through Hell and back. You’ve felt it all. You’re numb to pain.    Numb.        The stars are beautiful tonight, you think. You’re in a very rural area, so space is more obvious than usual. The beautiful pinks and purples and blues all swirled together, surrounded by the tiny, twinkling white dots that are stars. It’s amazing how such tiny things could hold such immense power as to completely explode when they die. For all you know, every single star in front of you could be dead. They could all just be black dwarfs. They could have exploded, and you would never know.     You sigh. Space is the one thing that always stays the same. It’s the one thing you can always count on. Space is always there. You’re not just going to wake up one day and, poof. Space is gone. Sorry, no more stars. It just…doesn’t happen.    Space is one out of only two things that can calm you completely. It’s all you can rely on now. Space and Elvira. That’s all you have. Not even Quinn can control you most of the time. All you can rely on are the love of your “life” and the stars.     Life. Oh, how many memories that one word brings. Memories of screams, mostly your own. Screams of fury, screams of fear. Memories of tears. Tears of terror, tears of sadness, tears of anger. Destroyed rooms. Overturned tables. Broken glass.     The memories of embraces, both warm and cold. Calming embraces. Loving, nurturing, comforting. Controlling embraces that would pin you down, keep you in one place as you struggled and cried and screamed and tried to hit and kick. The inability to pull away. It was for the best. It was for the best, Isaiah. It was the only option. The only way.    The memories of faraway voices, trying to bring you back. Faraway cries, yells, screams. Hands that felt like air that pulled you in close, stroked your hair, touched your face. Airy hands that you didn’t want, didn’t deserve, but wasn’t in the state of mind to protest against them.    The memory of her voice. That calming voice she always used. Quiet and sensitive, she was. Caring and compassionate. Loving and endearing. So many adjectives you could use for just one person. She tried, the poor thing. She really did do her best. You were so lucky to have her. You didn’t deserve her kindness, her support. You didn’t deserve her.    Maybe that’s why he did it. Maybe that’s why the man took her from you. Maybe that’s why he made sure you could still hear the gunshot, feel it to this day. Maybe that’s why he did it on your special day. Maybe…    You shut your eyes tightly. Stop. Stop that. No. Remember something else. Anything else. Anything but that day. You’re over her. You’ve been over her for a very long time. So why does it still hurt you? Why do you still feel physical pain at the thought of her that day? You’re over her.    You’re over her.    …Maybe it’s best to just stop remembering for now.    You let out a gasp of pain as you stand, shocked at the sudden sharp pains that race up your legs. Damn, they really messed you up. They probably would’ve killed you if you hadn’t ran. That’s the one thing you enjoy about being a Demon: no one takes any shame in fleeing. You just wish you hadn’t underestimated your foes. But how were you supposed to know one of them had fire?    You don’t even try to attempt flying right now; that would only cause more strain on your body. Instead, you brush yourself off and start walking. You don’t really care where this direction will take you; you’ve been here already. You’ve been here several times. You’ve been almost everywhere in this country by now. But where else can you go? It’s not like you’re going to be stationed anywhere else any time soon. Ever since you were revived, you’ve wanted to go home. To Britain. Just to see how much has changed, see what everything is like now. It wouldn’t take very long; the entirety of the UK is pretty damn small.     You chuckle, bowing your head. Every building and person from your memories of life feel so small compared to now. You were always in one small space, either in one small room or having small space to move around in due to crowds. The buildings were small, the people were small. Everything is small in Britain!    You actually manage to make yourself laugh a little and keep a small smile on your face for more than a few seconds.     It’s been a while since you’ve had a laugh, what with all the drama going on lately. All the wars and death and fighting. Not just in your world, but with the humans too. There’s been a ton more souls to collect with how violent all of the humans have gotten as of late. Almost all of the Reapers are overworked, the poor things. Sure, you adore seeing people get the justice they deserve in death and you do like participating in the violence every once in a while, but this is just getting ridiculous.     To be fair, it’s still all of your doing. Maybe not you specifically, but your kind is at fault. The second that Demons and Angels begin their conflicts, the entire planet Earth feels it. The more you fight, the more tense the humans and animals get. The conflicts between you two cause the planet to start their own.     But it’s not really like God or Satan are going to listen to that argument, are they? No, they’re too wound up in their own petty conflicts that end the exact same way every god damn time to even notice how their subjects or even the people they’re supposed to be watching over are feeling or how they’re doing or…    You cut yourself off mid-thought. You’re getting worked up again, you tell yourself. You just now notice how your body has grown tense and your pace has slowed down dramatically. Oh no, please don’t say this means that one of those is about to come on. You lean against the nearest tree, ignoring the pain it causes in your shoulder, and try to relax yourself by taking a few deep breaths and trying to make any tight muscles loosen up. It seems to work for a while, and you let out a slow sigh of relief.     That second you’re relaxed, of course, is when the nausea and lightheartedness kicks in. Lights start flashing in the corners of your eyes and you take that as a sign to sit back down, prepared for what’s going to come. The left side of your head begins throbbing and pulsing, gradually moving down your neck and causing dull pains there too. You groan in pain and curl up, pressing your legs to your chest and laying your head against your knees. The world starts spinning and the flashes of light start getting more intense and frequent, only adding to your nausea. You close your eyes and bury your hands in your hair, just waiting for it to be over. The wind and rustling leaves and crickets chirping is more annoying than it’s ever been and you just feel like screaming. The pain and the aggravation is something you’re accustomed to by now but still hard to ignore.     You just sit there, enduring the pain. You’ve felt worse, for sure, but this is the fourth migraine in just this month alone, with many more in both the past and the future. It’s more of a nuisance than anything by now.       You always go through so much pain and suffering for your Lord. And for what? What do you get out of this? What do you achieve? What is your reward?    Nothing.    You gave up everything just for some meager power.    You were weak. And you still are. And now you’re paying the price for that weakness.    You hate the cards you’ve been dealt.    And you also just hate yourself.

[rebo-chan]

Day 3 Kami/Ghost

The computer’s lighting illuminated the dark room. Light could feel his eyes aching from the overly bright blue light of the computer. The taskforce had gone home for the evening already, but Light had stayed up to finish some leftover work. It was decided that Light would take over the passed detective’s work and Light quickly figured out the reason for the large bags under L’s eyes. He closed his eyes, trying to rub the sleep out of them. A migraine had begun to form in the back of his head. Light let out a groan and slumped against the desk. He was beyond tired. Perhaps, he should go home. 

Misa would still be up waiting on him, probably with dinner already prepared. It would’ve gone cold already, but he could just heat it up. Yes, that’s what he needed right now. A hot meal, a drink, some migraine pills, and to get to sleep. He can complete the work tomorrow. 

Light opened his eyes to the dark room belonging to the taskforce. He lifted his head and went to save his work. In Light’s peripheral vision, there was a silhouette walking down the pitch black hall. Something blue and white. Light froze in his spot. Was there someone in the building? How did they get past all of L’s security measures? No, right now that didn’t matter. Light stood up from his seat. 

“Excuse me,” He called as sternly as he could muster, “This is a confidential building, you’re not allowed to be in here.” 

There was no response back. Light didn’t have any weapons on him. Well, perhaps he had one but without a name, it was virtually useless to protect him in this situation. He steeled himself and went into the hallway where he saw the silhouette turn a corner. Did they not hear him? Should he risk speaking again? Light sucked in a breath and followed them. They kept on going, taking the stairs up to the roof. Light glared as they went on to the roof. The audacity of some people. Breaking and entering was bad enough, but the fact that exploring the place like it was their home was just plain rude. 

“Hey!” Light shouted, walking up to the roof. There were rain clouds out in the night sky. A storm was beginning to brew in the sky, so the winds were rather harsh.

The person seemed to hear him this time, but they didn’t appear startled in the least bit. They began to turn towards them. Light got close enough to make out some features and felt his blood cold. Pale skin, raven black hair, a white shirt, and blue jeans. His lungs began to constrict. No no no, this wasn’t real. The migraine in the back of his head got worse. His head felt like it was splitting open. He tried to suck in as much oxygen as he could, but it only made the pain worse. Light keeled over in pain, gripping his head. Something wet hit his cheek. Then, a few droplets hit the ground. The sound of rain filled Light’s ears. 

Light released his head, glancing up to see the rooftop was now empty. It was Light and the rain on the rooftop. He looked around for the person, but there was no one. Was Light just imagining him? No, he was definitely there but was that possible? Light stood up shakily, having already been soaked from the rain. He left the rooftop in a hurry, his hair and clothes sticking to him. 

Light quickly got back to the taskforce main room, The laptop was still on with Light’s unsaved work on the screen. He was going to leave it untouched. Now, he just wanted to get home. Light packed his things as fast as he could humanely go and evacuated the HQ for the evening. 

In brighter news, he had been right about Misa. When he’d gotten home, she was laid on the couch watching something on the TV. She burst into action as he walked through the door, giving him a tight hug and going to heat up his food. Light sighed as he sat down at the dinner table. There were still remains of the migraine, but he should eat before taking some medicine. Light tried to keep the image of that person out of his head. It wasn’t possible. 

“Light,” Misa chirped, “Do you know what tomorrow is?”

“..Hm?” He looked over at her tiredly. 

“Aw, how could you forget? It’s Sayu’s birthday!” She chuckled.

Light blinked, remembering the date. Oh, shit she was right. He completely forgot about it, so he didn’t have a present. Sayu would skin him apart, if he showed up without a present. Misa placed the plate of Light’s food next to him. 

“You don’t have a present, do you?” She snickered. 

“No, no I don’t..” Light frowned.

“That’s okay, we can go shopping tomorrow together to get something for her before we head over to your family home.” 

Yes, yes that was a good idea. Light would contact Mogi and tell him to save the work that Light had already completed. He needed the day off. It would help him forget what he saw earlier. Misa sat across from Light, her fingers intertwined together as she smiled at Light. She seemed excited. 

“What is it?” Light said. 

“I was thinking, we could buy a cake tomorrow too.” Misa smiled gently.

Images of pale skin and black hair flashed in his mind and the migraine tripled in intensity. Light pressed his lips together tightly, gripping the tableside. 

“Why? Sayu’s not a child anymore.” 

Misa blinked, “Well, I think she’ll like it.”

“Doubt it..” The migraine was getting worse. 

“I talk to her more often than you do now,” Misa hummed, “C’mon, it’s just a cake. What about a vanilla cake?” 

Light glared down at his untouched food. His appetite was gone now and the back of his head was throbbing. Misa kept going. 

“Though, vanilla can be a little boring I guess. How about chocolate?” 

Light didn’t respond, trying to focus on willing the headache away. Misa didn’t seem deterred by Light’s silence.

“What about strawberry?-” 

“Misa, shut up.” Light hissed out. 

Misa went quiet. He looked up at her. A few years ago, she would’ve cried or threw a tantrum at Light doing that. Now, she just watched him like she knew something he didn’t. That’s how she always looks now. 

“I’m sorry,” He said, “I’ve got a horrible headache.” 

Misa perked up at that, “Have you taken any medicine?”

 If Light didn’t know any better, he would’ve been convinced that she was already over it but he did know better. Misa was tiptoeing around him, choosing to play the role of the concerned girlfriend rather than start a fight. 

“No, I haven’t.” Light answered. 

“There’s some medicine in the bathroom mirror cabinet.” She smiled at him. 

Light nodded, getting up from his seat and trekking his way to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, seeing how he looked. Black eyebags had formed, his hair was sticking up in random places completely unbrushed and dirty from the rain, his clothes were wrinkly having dried wrong. Light had to laugh at himself. This had to be some joke. He was a fucking mess.

He opened the mirror cabinet and pulled out a pill bottle, taking two out and popping them into his mouth. Light closed the cabinet and stared at the mirror’s reflection. He dropped the pill bottle onto the ground and started shaking. Staring back at him was black eyes, raven black hair, and pale skin.

“L..” Light choked out. 

What appeared to be L only smiled at him in that mischievous way that L would when he knew he was winning. Light trembled, frozen in his spot. L opened his mouth, saying something though there was no noise coming out. Light knew what he was saying though. Ki-ra. 

“Leave me alone!” Light screamed, throwing his fist at L before backing against the bathroom wall in horror. 

There was the sound of shattering glass and Misa shouting from the other room. She ran in, horrified. Light had slided down to the bathroom floor, hand bleeding out from several cuts. There was glass scattered around the bathroom floor and the mirror was broken beyond repair.

“What happened?” Misa’s voice shook with fear. 

“L.. L was there!” Light pointed at the broken mirror with his bloody hand. The pain was beginning to register and he pulled his hand back to his chest, cradling it gently. He panted heavily, trying to calm himself. Misa looked at the mirror. She was still fearful, but from something else now.

“Light..” She said hesitantly, like she was walking into territory she was unsure how to trek on. “L is not there..” 

“He was!” Light exclaimed, “He was there, staring at me!” 

“L is gone, Light.” Misa said. “He has been gone for years now. You did not see L.” 

“Yes, I did..!” Light’s voice came out weak. 

“No, you didn’t.” She smiled weakly. 

Misa walked over to Light, helping him off the bathroom floor, “Let’s patch up your cuts, okay?” 

“I’m not crazy,” Light gripped her hand tightly, “He was there. I saw him.” 

“I know, you’re not crazy, okay? So, let’s go to the bedroom and you can get some sleep. You’ve been working for the last two days.” 

Two days? Is that how long it’s been? He followed Misa out to the bedroom where she set him down on the bed and started immediately bandaging up his hand. 

“He was there..” Light pulled his hand back when she was down.

“Shh, I know.. I know..” 

Misa pushed him down against the bed, wearing that same smile she wore when she knew something he didn’t. Light wasn’t crazy. L was definitely there. It would be just like L to torment Light after death like this.