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paradiseprincesss · 7 months ago

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the boy is mine | jonathan crane

masterlist

yeah so i wrote this in literally record timing because the music video to the boy is mine is so jonathan crane and his girl coded. i'd like to think i'm keeping u guys fed with all my fics i hope u like !!!

summary: you’re set on doing anything to make that boy yours, and the plan you curated is absolutely purrrfect.

word count: 4.3k

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, p in v, oral (f!receiving), bondage/tying up, rough sex, overstimulation, creampie, stalking, obsessive behaviour, therapist/patient relationship at one point lol

“perfect.” you whisper to yourself as you poured the last drop of the glittery, pink liquid into the small vile, swirling it around as you popped a cork into the top.

you smiled proudly as you sat on the kitchen floor of your apartment, holding up the vile to get a good look at it under the moonlight. it was fool proof — he’d for sure be yours after you forced him to drink this.

some would say you were a little unhinged, but you preferred the term creative. you were a little obsessed with your old therapist, doctor jonathan crane. you started seeing him when you stumbled across his pictures online, and you knew you had to have him. you booked your first session with him roughly nine months ago, and he was there for you every step of the way.

you didn’t actually need therapy (well…), but you still booked sessions with him because he was yours. it was meant to be. you couldn't unsee it. during your first ever session with him, you made sure to put on your cutest, most feminine and dainty mini dress, paired with some matching high heels. you even did your hair and makeup with precision. jonathan didn’t show it on his face, but when you sat there in that leather chair across from him for the first time, his heart started to beat a million miles a minute.

you were jaw-dropping. he couldn’t believe someone could actually possess such beauty, and though he tried to stay professional, it was proving to be quite difficult. every time you spoke, every time you smiled at him, every time you did absolutely anything — he would become more and more infatuated with you.

“i just wish he didn’t leave me, you know?” you say softly, feigning innocence, “it’s been so hard without a man to take care of me.”

jonathan clenched his jaw silently, he couldn’t believe that a man would be stupid enough to break-up with someone like you. be professional, he reminded himself.

“understandably so,” he said clinically, “i can only imagine how difficult it would be to have a relationship like that end so abruptly.”

“it was so difficult,” you say, your eyes watering, “but, i think i’m slowly starting to move on.”

of course, such "ex-boyfriend" did not exist. this was all part of your elaborate act to make him think you were an innocent, naive girl who was heartbroken and needed someone to save her. that someone being him, of course.

he was made for somebody like you.

you only had seven sessions between the two of you before jonathan abruptly reassigned you to his colleague, doctor webber. she wasn’t anything like doctor crane — she didn’t understand you the way that he did.

good things come to those who wait, but patience wasn’t your thing.

“i’m sorry,” jonathan doctor crane said to you, “as much as i want to continue to be there for you and your journey of growth, i believe that my colleague would be better suited to your…needs.”

“what are you talking about, doctor crane?” you asked, trying to to hide the desperation in your voice.

“i have another patient i must attend to,” he says flatly, informing you that your session had come to an end, “but i wish you all the best.”

and with that, he sent you to see doctor webber. of course, you were heartbroken. how could your soulmate do that to you? but jonathan wasn’t doing it because he didn’t want to see you — it was quite the opposite, actually. he knew that feeling this way about his patient was so very wrong, and if he continued to see you, he wouldn’t be able to control himself.

really, he did this for you.

as you placed your little love concoction on the kitchen counter, you turned on your tv. jonathan was supposed to be doing a segment with the mayor of gotham tonight about the crime rates in the city, and what him and his team at arkham asylum were doing to solve the issue. as his face appeared on tv, you sighed to yourself. he was so handsome in his suit and tie — and those sexy little glasses?

meow.

the chilly gust of wind made you shiver for a moment, but your latex bodysuit kept you warm enough — well, not really. with your little cat ear headband, you toss your hair over your shoulders as you quietly make your way into the silent home. your black pumps were surprisingly silent against the wood floors, and you crept into the living room where a woman sat on the couch watching tv.

you went undetected as she completely missed your presence. stealthily, you creep behind her until suddenly, you yanked her by her hair. she screamed loudly, and your hand immediately went up to her mouth to clasp down on it; you were getting really good at this.

“don’t scream,” you whisper, “i just came here to tell you to stay away from my man.”

slowly, you remove your hand and she looks back at you with sheer terror, “wh-who’s your man?” she asked with fear laced in her voice.

you hated this bitch — she was one of jonathans patients. there was nothing going on between them, you knew that (plus you would’ve murdered her if there was!), but you had spent the last few weeks…"cleaning up the streets."

these ratty bitches had to go; any woman who was his patient or in his life at all had to go. you even dressed the part with your sexy little cat costume and all. you know what they say — in the eternal game of cat and mouse, there are no winners, only survivors.

“doctor jonathan crane,” you said dreamily, but your tone turned sinister within seconds, “and if you ever go see him again, i will find you, trust me. i've already found you once, and you don't want me to come prowling back around.”

the woman nodded frantically, and you went on your merry way. this was the last one, you were certain. you’d even made a list of all the women to threaten so that you could make sure they would stay away from your man. finally, you made your way home and started to wind down from all the break-ins you’d been making recently. it was hard work chasing down all these…mice.

jonathan noticed that his belongings were going missing here and there over the last few months, and he knew something strange was going on. he wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but something was off.

first, little things such as his favourite pen (yes, he has a favourite pen) went missing. then, a few patient files would seemingly disappear along with some sticky notes he had stuck on his desk the day prior. he didn’t think too much of it until one of his credit cards went missing from his wallet — but there weren't any fraudulent charges made.

he even continued to monitor his bank account and freeze his card, but no charges were ever made on it regardless. the last straw was when his spare house key went missing. even for a man as smart as jonathan, he could not figure out who was doing this for the life of him.

you were still attending your regular sessions with doctor webber, but you deliberately booked your appointments on days you knew jonathan was working. you knew you’d run into him either on your way in or way out, and you also knew he wasn’t that booked up anymore since most of his clientele went…missing.

as you said your farewell to doctor webber, you noticed jonathan walking out of his office. he noticed you immediately, giving you a soft smile as you turned to close the door to doctor webbers office. he said your name softly, causing you to almost choke on your own words as you clutched his house keys behind your back.

“doctor crane,” you say softly, “hey.”

“just jonathan is fine,” he said, but he internally scolded himself for saying that, “how have you been?”

“great,” you say sweetly, “doctor webber is…great.”

“that’s wonderful to hear,” he says, “it was nice seeing you again. take care.”

you two parted ways, and once jonathan was back at his apartment — he was to refrain himself from calling you. god, you looked so good today. with those little dresses of yours and good grief, those sexy, little heels you always paired them with. he grabbed himself a glass of whiskey, neat, and took a swig as he thought about you.

why did you have to be on his mind so much, and dear god, why did you have to be so fucking beautiful?

with a frustrated sigh, he looked at his front door, thinking about his keys that suddenly went missing just a week prior. was he overthinking things? was he just imagining it? did he lose his own keys and forget?

he was a psychiatrist for gods sake, why was he driving himself crazy over this? with so many questions and no answers, he made his way to his bathroom as he flicked his kitchen lights off.

the cold water ran from the bathroom sink as he splashed it on his face after removing his glasses, and he looked at himself in the mirror to get a grip. his pale, icy, blue eyes bore into his own reflection, and-

what was that?

he turned around swiftly, turning the tap off, watching as something, no — someone’s perfectly manicured hand ghosted over the edge of his bathroom doorframe.

he couldn’t see anything — the kitchen light was turned off, and the only thing turned on was his dim bathroom light. the master of fear himself felt a little fearful in this moment as he watched the dainty, feminine hand retract and move back into the shadows and he could've sworn he saw...cat ears?

jonathan had to blink a few times to make sure that he hadn’t spilled a vile of his own fear toxin somewhere and that he wasn’t just hallucinating off of it.

hesitantly, he pushed open his bathroom door only to be met with the darkness of his kitchen. his breath hitched as he flicked on the kitchen lights, but he was met with an empty, quiet space. his eyes quickly darted to the front door, but it was locked shut.

but if the door was locked shut, what did he just see? who did he just see? was the scarecrow himself starting to succumb to silly, little, irrational fears? before his mind could start to wander anymore, he heard a familiar sound.

a certain, distinct, and awfully familiar sound of high heels clicking against the wood flooring — and it was coming right from his bedroom. jonathan went over to his bedroom, swinging the door open unsure of what he might see, only to be met with a sight that made him feel weak in the knees.

you were propped up on his bed, in a latex body suit and high heels, along with cat ears to complete your rather sexy costume. you batted your eyelashes at him innocently, and bit your lip as you showed him the rope in your hands.

“how did you…” he whispered, watching you bite your lip as he trailed off.

“doctor,” you purred, “let’s get intertwined.”

“what the fuck…” he whispered once more, watching you as if in a mesmerized trance.

jonathan couldn’t lie — as much as he should have been terrified and calling the cops, he was awfully turned on right now. jesus christ, that latex cat costume that left absolutely nothing to the imagination? yeah, he was hard the moment he saw you.

“i know it’s simply meant to be.” you say softly, and as if his mind could not control his body, he was making his way over to you on his bed.

“um, what-“

“shh,” you hush him, suddenly grabbing him as you swiftly tie a knot around his wrists, “you don’t need to speak, baby boy.”

in mere seconds you had the scarecrow tied up on his own bed, restrained as you looked down at him. jonathan sat there looking up at you — yes, you were hot but you were clearly also insane.

to be fair, so was he.

he didn't bother trying to get himself out of the ropes. he knew that if he tried to struggle you'd most definitely do something not so pleasant to him. also, if he was being honest — this was hot. like, really hot.

"i just need you to do me a favour, baby boy," you giggle, your high heels clicking against the wood flooring once more, "drink this for me, and know that if you refuse, you won't live to see another day."

you held up a vile of pink, shimmery liquid. jonathan looked at you with a raised brow, and hesitantly nodded.

"...i'll drink it if you answer some questions that i have." he says, trying to bargain with you.

"fine," you shrug, "but make it quick."

"alright, first of all, how did you get in here?" he asked.

"easy, i crawled in through your window. next." you say in an awfully innocent voice.

"are you the one that's been taking my stuff?" he asks, and you nod.

"of course, i needed your stuff for my collection." you say whimsically, biting your lip at the thought of your homemade jonathan crane shrine.

in your apartment, you had a wall dedicated to him. it had cut outs of him, printed pictures, his belongings, his address, photos of him when he was younger — the list just goes on. all just regular, boring, stalker stuff, really.

"no more questions," you huff, "drink up, baby boy."

"what is it?" he asked, to which you rolled your eyes.

"an at-home love potion. i'm going to untie you for this — and if you even attempt to run, i will slice your heart in two." you say with an adorable smile.

jonathan doesn't offer a response, but rather opts out for a simple nod. you slowly untie his wrists, handing him the pink, glittery liquid in the vile. you watch him in awe as he closes his eyes and takes it like a shot, smiling to yourself as you realize that he's finally going to be all yours.

this little concoction that you had whipped up was the real deal — you'd even tested it on other men to see if it did what it was intended to do. it worked on them, bringing these men to their knees for you, but it's not like you really had any trouble doing that without a love potion, anyway.

after jonathan drinks it all, he looks back at you blankly. unbeknownst to you, when you were popping the cork off of the potion, he sneakily grabbed a vile of his fear toxin that was stashed by the foot of his bed — just in case you tried to actually murder him.

his plan was to immediately throw the vile at you and watch you succumb to your fears, but if he was being honest, he wanted to see what this shitty little "love potion" could do. he was a man of science, after all.

"i don't feel anything," he said after a moment, "looks like your potion didn't work after all-"

you cut him off with a small giggle, "you don't feel any different?"

"no."

"i've tested it, i know it works," you giggled, "that means if you don't feel any different from before, then you must already love me-"

suddenly, he lunged at you, making you scramble as you tried to fight back. however, he was much stronger than you, making it physically impossible to overpower him. after struggling for a good minute, he had you tied down on the bed like you had him just moments before.

"you're sick in the head," he says, but you could've sworn you saw him smirking, "you're real fucking twisted, you know that? i could call the cops and have you arrested right now."

"do it," you teased, "i dare you to, baby boy."

jonathan suddenly grabbed you by the neck, "what was that?"

you had you refrain from smiling as he choked you softly, feeling yourself get wet from just a second of his touch. you knew exactly what he wanted now.

"sorry," you corrected, "i dare you, sir."

"there we go." he says as he lets go of your throat.

he rummages through his bedside drawer and pulls out some of his own rope, causing your mind to spin at the idea of what he was going to do to you. you didn't run when he untied your wrists initially, but he took a few moments to tie both your wrists up to his bedposts, essentially tying you up so you couldn't move your hands at all.

"oh," you say with a teasing voice, "i see where this is going."

he smirks at you, admiring how sexy you look all tied up in his bed, with your costume and all. he takes his phone out and shamelessly takes a picture with the flash on, and you could feel that you were leaking your arousal down his bedsheets by now.

it seemed that your love potion didn't work on him because, well, he was already obsessed with you.

of course he was — but jonathan was known for his good work ethic. he only gave you up as a patient because it was only a matter of time before he would give in and most likely fuck you on the couch in his office. he just didn't know it was mutual at the time. if he did, well — that's a story for another day.

"maybe i should punish you," he smirks, making his way over to you on the bed, "you've been so disobedient."

"m'sorry, sir," you whimper, "you just make me crazy."

"i know," he cooed condescendingly, "but i think i can fix that, darling."

"you can?"

"i most definitely can," he says lowly, "it might take a few sessions to cure you, but i have a method i think might work on you. i'm gonna fuck you 'till you can't think anymore, no more thoughts after that. sound good?"

you nodded frantically, "mhm, yes. please, fuck yes."

he smirked at you, his hands reaching towards the top of your bodysuit. slowly, he reached his hands behind and unzipped it, slipping it off of you slowly.

"i like the cat costume," he chuckles lowly, "the ears are a cute touch."

you blushed, biting your lip as he slipped you right out of your latex bodysuit. obviously, you wore nothing underneath — not even panties. jonathan groaned at the sight because seriously, no panties? with your wrists tied up and unable to touch him, you were getting pent up real fast.

"i wanna touch you," you whined, "please."

he smirked, "if only you didn't break into my apartment like a stray."

before you could even formulate a proper response, he was crawling between your legs, spreading them out as he got onto his stomach. without warning, he licked a fat stripe up your already soaking cunt, latching his mouth onto your pussy. your back arched at the feeling, and he continued to lap you up.

"f-fuck, jon," you breathed, "feels s-so good."

"i know." he said cooly against your core, lapping up your arousal continuously as you moaned over and over again.

it was sinful how skilled he was with his tongue — it hadn't even been a full five minutes and you were already on the brink of creaming all over his face. he didn't give you any mercy as he continued to eat you out like a starved man, and your wrists were burning against the rope as you tugged on them.

god, the things you would do to run your hands through his soft, dark, and now tousled hair.

"nnnghh," you whimper, "i'm, ah- gon' cum!"

the coil in your stomach snapped as your release hit you like a freight train, making you scream his name as he made you cum. you were left a panting mess, and he finally released the grip he had on your thighs. after wiping his pink, plump lips along with his chin which glistened with your wetness, he smiled softly at you.

"taste s'good," he commented, "you look so pretty like this, darling. tied up and helpless."

"n-need you," you whisper, "baby, please."

this time, he didn't correct you and demand you call him "sir." maybe it was the heat of the moment or maybe it was the realization that he had finally met a woman who was as unhinged as he was. deep down, he was really loving the idea.

he started to undo his belt, making sure to keep his eyes locked on yours, teasing you as he undid his belt at a painfully slow pace. finally, after what felt like an eternity (it maybe thirty seconds at most), his cock sprung out of his pants, hitting his stomach lightly. it was long, veiny, and thick. how was that supposed to fit inside of you? surely it would split you open.

"cat got your tongue?" he teased as he unbuttoned his white button-down, stroking his cock a few times as your hips bucked into nothing.

"uh-huh." you whispered in awe, biting your lip at the thought of how his size was going to stretch you beyond your limits.

with a low chuckle, he lined his thick cock up with your begging hole, pushing in slowly as you felt him stretch your cunt out fully. he was so big and so long, the feeling of him just halfway inside of you was enough to have you pulling against the ropes again. the way the rope was digging into your wrists was degrading but undeniably hot. it was like a silent reminder of how little control you actually had over this whole situation.

"s-so full!" you squeaked, but he kept pushing himself into your tight, warm hole.

"s'okay, you can take it. and if you can't, i'll make you take it." he groaned, finally bottoming out in you.

you were stuffed to the brim with his cock and slowly, he started to thrust his length in and out of you. desperately, you let out a feverish moan. your breaths were short but heavy, and you were a fucked out, cockdrunk mess for him as he picked up his pace.

"you're so fucking tight, my god," he moaned, "i should've fucked you sooner."

"make me cum," you plead desperately, "f-fuck, yes, feels so good, jonathan!"

"yeah? you wanna cum?" he cooed as he continued to fuck your sopping pussy, "you wanna cum on this cock?"

"fuck, yes." you pleaded.

his cock was pressed snugly up against your cervix, so deep that you could feel him in your stomach. he continued to stretch your little hole out, ruthlessly pounding his thick cock into you more and more as you started to see stars. your walls started to flutter around him, letting him know that you were close without having to say a word.

"close already, darling?" he asked, "are you gonna cum for me again, hm?"

"y-yes!" you moaned, "ohmygod- i'm gonna-"

your words started to melt together at one point as you got lost in the pleasure of your high. soon enough, your soaking cunt was tightening up around his fat cock, and a clear liquid poured out from you.

of course — you were so turned on by the way he was screwing you that you'd squirted all over his bedsheets.

"oh, darling," he moaned, "that was so fucking sexy, jesus."

"j-jonathan, baby," you begged, "i-i can't-"

"you can, i promise," he groaned, "i'm close."

"p-please." you started to beg incoherently, the overstimulation making your head spin as your cunt fluttered around his cock again.

he continued to ram your tight pussy until his thrusts started to become sloppier and sloppier, and you could tell that he was close to the edge.

"cum i-inside," you begged him, "i need to be filled, fuck-"

"okay, okay," he panted as his he gave you a few more deep, harsh thrusts, 'm'gonna fill you up, darling."

you nodded, your head spinning as he finally came inside with a low groan, painting your walls white as he stuffed you with his warm seed. he stilled, staying inside of your warm hole for just a little longer to ensure you got every last bit of his cum, before pulling out his semi-hard cock.

he bit his lip as he watched his cum drip out of you (the sight of him biting his lip almost made you cum again), and he reached over to untie your wrists as you slumped down against the pillows. he laughed softly, pulling you into him as you instinctively cuddled into his arms.

he pulled the cat ear headband off your head, which you forgot you still had on, and tossed them to the side.

"i guess i'm going to have a hard time getting rid of you, huh? stalker." he joked, sighing as he took in all the details of your pretty face.

"you won't be able to get rid of me," you say softly, "i'm obsessed with you."

"good, i don't want you around anyone but me." he says, playing with your hair gently.

"i know," you giggle, "but stupid love potion was useless. i should've known you were already in love with me."

the both of you laughed softly, snuggled up in his bed as he told you all about what he did on the side for work — and all about his plans to fear gas gotham city.

jonathan trusted you with this because he knew there wasn't a line in existence that you wouldn't cross for him.

@ciriceimpera @jordyn-yeager @thevelvetvampyre @galactict3a @xanaxiii

@seaamonster @nocturnest @bloodandglitter207 @humbuginmybones @oceanstem

@futurefamousdeadmusician @jonathancraneslittlepet @dolleyednymphette @kpopgirlbtssvt @ll4n4

@ilovetoxicfictionalmen @the-buddy-things @ellebelleshelby @aprilsfrog05 @wiseyouthinfluencer

@minedofmoria @strangeobsessed

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samkerrworshipper · 2 months ago

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the lawn is dead. pt.2

hi! i wrote a part 2! i’m on a unofficial hiatus but had some inspiration the last few days and had to finish this. hope it provides a little bit more comfort then the last chapter .. sorry xo

warnings: suicidal themes, self harm themes, themes of depression, anxiety, dark thoughts. viewer discretion advised.

You can describe the carpet of this office better then most people can describe themselves.

It’s a rug, for the most part, except for the where it’s clear a person has chosen laziness in favour of lifting up the heavier furniture to place the rug down underneath it. Where the rug doesn’t cover, there is bleak grey carpet that feels more boring then the time you spend in this room.

Where the carpet lacks in literally everything, the rug makes up for it blindingly.

It’s a messy mixture of far too many colours, pinks, purples, blues, greens and neutrals. It doesn’t make any sense in your mind, why somebody would chose for the focal point of their room to be a rug that doesn’t match with any of the furniture. It’s another sign that the furniture came before the rug, all of the furniture is dark mahogany, beautiful pieces that look as if they’ve come from and English period piece, whereas the rug looks so modern it’s almost painful.

The rest of the furniture has been picked with similar taste.

The painting on the wall looks like what a child would vomit after going to a birthday party. Every time you’ve come here you’ve had a new analogy, but this week that is the one, it looks like stomach contents and you can’t get past it, to the point it’s made you physically nauseated.

From the painting moves onto the bookshelf, where there is a odd mix of medical textbooks, classics and selfawareness books, all stacked in such disarray that you have to keep your eyes away because it makes you uncomfortable.

Beyond the furniture is your psychologist, with her stupid fucking note pad, stupid glasses perched on the very tip of her nose and stupidly calm face that never really changed.

She was supposed to be a specialist, the best of the best, supposed to be the greatest and getting to the bottom of the most famous athletes problems and yet you found pride in alluding her.

One hour, every four days was what you were down to now, a couple of weeks ago it had been every other day and that had been fucking torture.

Sometimes all you wanted to do was rip her eyeballs out, or her brains, or something else. You swore she made your ears bleed and your will to live deteriorate with every second and it was already pretty low.

“You can’t avoid my question forever.”

It was also that annoying tone that sent you, the sort of tone that meant she knew that technically for the whole of the hour she could ask you whatever she pleased and you were technically supposed to answer her. Defiance on your end just ended up in you being suspended from something else that made your life just a tiny bit more liveable.

“No, I haven’t talked to Mapi yet.”

You’ve been avoiding it, there have bits and pieces of homework from your therapist, but this one is by far the hardest.

“How about Alexia, how does she feel about that.”

You don’t want to tell her that you and Alexia are in shambles as it is, add on the pressure of her best friend being psychologically destroyed because of you and just talking about any of it at all and it’s like dynamite.

“Supportive.”

Your therapist nods, but in the way that you know she doesn’t quite believe you.

“Have you started to reintegrate with the team? I know last time we talked you mentioned that before the incident you’d been feeling quite isolated because of your ankle injury. It’s important that you start to normalise your life again before you start to self isolate.”

You don’t call it self-isolation, you like to call it self protection. You protect yourself by pushing against the grain, by keeping to yourself. It’s a lot easier that way.

“I’ve been busy.”

It’s a lie and a blatant one, your days are filled with complete nothingness. You can’t play football, not until she clears you, and you know that it’s not going to happen anytime soon based on the trend of your current sessions. There has been the same amount of progress as there was two weeks ago when you started with her. You shut down at every attempt she makes to try and open you up, you talk when you have to. It’ll probably get you sent back to a ward. You don’t remember much from your transition from the hospital to home, but you do remember signing something that referred to you making significant process or else you would be sent back.

Progress for your therapist is getting more then two word responses from you. You’re aware she’s in kahoots with Alexia, that Alexia is probably providing her more information then you are.

“You’re giving me the look that means that you’re writing something down along the lines of ‘unncooperative’.”

She is also in kahoots with the staff at Barcelona, another thing you signed was that she would work in conjunction with the clubs doctors to get you back to where you were, or somewhere in the vicinity.

They know every time you have a bad session, you’re guaranteed a consolation call from one of the coaches or even sometimes a teammate check-in telling you how brave you are and how strong you are for doing this.

You don’t agree, you nearly took the cowards way out and you’re proud of it. You wish it had fucking worked, every single second, of every single day, you wish you’d succeeded, wished that this hadn’t all ended up how it did.

“That’s not what I wrote, I wrote a observation. Uncooperative would be you refusing to speak to me like you did for our first two sessions, even if you lie it’s still trying.”

You don’t want to be curious of her, you’ve tried to give her as little attention as possible.

You’ve adapted the act that you call, therapised you.

You do your best job of smiling here and there, or at least when you know that you’re supposed to. Therapised you extends to a few people, Alexia, coaches, physios, people on the street.

You believe you’ve become a seasoned liar.

The funniest part is that sometimes you start to believe your act, you start to believe that all the ash and embers in your chest is really alight with flames, like you’re truly alive.

But then, you would pause, sit down, lie down, dissasociate and you would be reminded that that wasn’t your body. Your body wasn’t a place of life and prosper, it was as dead as anywhere else.

“What was the observation?”

You try not to be curious over her, or curious in general, you keep everything to yourself.

“You’ve told me time and time again that you attempted because you believed that not a single person would care if you were gone. Yet you wrote a letter, you knew that somebody would care, somebody would miss you. Guilt is what kept you from doing it earlier and guilt was what kept you from vanishing without a trace. Your conscience was clean in your own words, but that’s not true, your conscience was anything but clean. So what pushed you over?”

You hate that therapists have a way of worming out weird bits of information that they can use against you to worm out more bits of information, like they know your brain inside to out.

“My conscience was clean.”

Your therapist pulls her glasses up from her nose and scribbles on her pad again.

“Why’d you write a note then, specifically why did you write a note to your ex girlfriend?”

There are so many things you could say to that, but you can’t quite find the words.

“Let me rephrase to make it easier. When you were in the hospital, and Alexia reacted so viscerally, you weren’t surprised. You expected her to feel something about what happened, you didn’t seem surprised at all by her words or actions. You knew that she was going to be hurt by what you did. So, how was your conscience truly clean?”

Thinking about Alexia in the hospital makes you feel as nauseous as the furniture does.

Your still mad at her, still mad at yourself for never changing her as your medical contact and medical proxy. It had all been a clusterfuck.

“I didn’t know Alexia was going to be there, I though that she’d washed her hands of me. I left her a note because I thought there had been things left unsaid between us and I didn’t want to leave that way.”

Your therapist nods, she doesn’t scribble this time and that makes the itchy feeling all over you die down a little bit.

“Alright, let’s move on. Your ankle injury, how’s that going?”

You look to the window, it’s a horrible day outside, just your luck when you’d chosen to walk to your therapists office on what was supposed to be a 20 degree day with sunny skies. It was the epitome of your life, high expectations, low realities.

“Well three weeks between a hospital and psychiatric facility are probably the best thing anybody can do for a injury.”

You let out a self-deprecating chuckle and your therapist does nothing but scribble.

“So you’ve been doing your rehab as advised then?”

Rehab, both kinds, is mind-bogglingly boring. You go to your therapist and she tells you all the ways you have to work to rehab your brain, she gives you medication after medication and exercise after exercise. The same happens every time you see your physio, test after test, exercise after exercise.

Your stuck in the same cycle of boredom, it makes you wonder how people ever expect you to get better when all you are doing is living in a constant state of suffering.

“The physios are happy with me, say that if I continue on the track that I am I should be back on the pitch in a few weeks, with psychological clearance.”

At the current therapeutic rate your going at, you don’t think you’ll see a psychological clearance until your 50th birthday, if you’re lucky.

“How does it feel coming back from that injury, especially considering how the decline in your physical health simulatenously resulted in the decrease in your mental health?”

You keep silent, because you know that if you talk then it’s doing to be something emotional. When you don’t know how to answer questions without exposing yourself you opt to keep quiet, it’s a obvious tell that you feel uncomfortable with the question. But giving away a tell is a whole lot better then starting an emotional downpour.

“Y/n?”

You look at your shoes. You only were allowed to start wearing one on your bad foot a week ago, and you’d forgotten how hard it was to coordinate shoes with your clothes. This morning you’d thought that they matched with your pants but now they look much darker then they truly are against the grey carpet. The mix of your navy adidas that you might have stolen from Mapi’s wardrobe a couple of months ago when she was complaining about the amount of shoes she’d been sent with your grey wide leg pants was a interesting choice but therapy wasn’t a fashion parade. The shoes don’t quite fit your feet, that’sc how you remembered they weren’t yours. When you’d taken them, it had been during some kind of team bonding night at Mapi and Ingrid’s apartment. Life had been so good, Alexia and you had been so good and for once you’d kind of felt like you were beginning to fit in.You’d never felt that way before that era of your life.

But like most things, it was now a far distant memory.

“The injury wasn’t what made me depressed.”

It’s a half truth, you suppose. Yes, the injury definitely contributed to the factors that trigger your depression, but it wasn’t a sole cause.

“I disagree.”

More scribbling on her note pad, in your opinion it must be some psychological form of torture. You’ll google it when you get home, check to make sure that this isn’t a form of manipulation to somehow convince you to say the things that she wants you to.

“If you disagree then tell me why you think that.”

It’s daring of you to say, there is nearly a 99.99 percent chance that whatever she says you are going to deny vehemently. Even if she hits it right on the nail.

“I think that you don’t give yourself enough grace for the challenges that you’ve gone through. You came to Barcelona because you were running from things, from your past. You’ve never stopped running, truly. Everytime somebody gets close enough to begin to try and worm their feet into your shoes to try and relive some of it with you, you shut them down and stop it. For most people, shoes are a means of getting to where they want, for you, you keep running because if you stop you feel like you’ll suffocate, like your feet will be wrapped up in barb wire and you’ll be stuck. For whatever reason, you don’t think anybody will ever be able to empathise with that. You think that if you ever let anybody in for long enough that they learn what you’ve been running from that they’ll try and stop you, that you’ll be faced with everything that you’ve ever struggled with. So, you keep running, and running, you’ve always been in a state of escape. With your relationship, you finally stopped running, you slowed to a jog. Then, you got injured. All of a sudden you felt like you were stuck and instead of letting yourself finally come to a stop and accepting help and complete love for once in your life, and being vulnerable. You chose to start running again, running from your friends, running from your team, running from every single good thing that you’d gotten in your life until you were so consumed with all the running that you just wanted it all to stop. But you didn’t know how to stop parts of your life without stopping other parts, so you chose to stop it all.”

You don’t know what to say for a few seconds. You’ve never had the feeling that you’ve been experiencing your whole life summed up, you don’t know how to feel about it.

You look at your psychologist, and somehow she looks back at you in a way that you somehow feel like she understands, you’ve never really felt that way about her.

It’s always felt like she’s judging you, like it’s her job to judge every single thing you say. Or at least that’s the way you’ve always seen it. It’s her job to make sure you don’t fall of the rails again, to make decisions about what you can and can’t do. It’s never been a possibility for you that maybe she’s here for a little bit more then just the business side of it all.

“Is that it? Did you come to a point where it felt like you had no other option but to just make it all stop?”

You bite your lip so hard you think it might just bleed, it’s a mission to try and stop the tears that have begun to cling to the back of your eyes at bay. You’ve never cried during a therapy session, and there is no reason why today should be different. The amount of people you’ve cried in front of is limited to a very, very short list of people and you don’t intend for your psychologist to be added.

“It would be okay if that was it. It’s okay to admit that for you at that time it felt like there was no other option but to make it all stop.”

You feel muzzled, like you can’t speak without admitting to something that you don’t want to.

“I thought it would make it all better.”

Your therapist puts down her notepad, and you feel a whole load of anxiety rush out of you.

“You thought it would make what better?”

You keep your tooth pinned to your lip, if it draws blood, it draws blood. The pain helps to take your focus off of the word vomit you can feel coming up.

“Everyone else’s lives.”

Your response is croaky, and when your therapist points to the glass of water you don’t shake your head like normal, you find yourself reaching for it and taking a few tentative sips.

“What about your life, what about making your own life better?”

You take a few more sips, because it stalls the conversation for long enough that you can think up an answer that doesn’t make it sound like you are completely insane.

“I was never really thinking about it like that.”

You look at her, eye to eye again, and there is this weird understanding between the two of you. You can feel it, whether or not it’s real, for the first time you feel like you aren’t crazy for thinking the way that you do. It’s a weird kind of safety that you’ve never had.

“For a minute, I want you to close your eyes and think about exactly what you want, whether it’s the future, it’s right now. Not football, not other people, nobody else. Just you.”

You humour her, and close your eyes.

For a few seconds, you can’t think of much. You’ve never been a future thinker, not beyond emergency plans and second options.

You think about death for a few seconds, a couple of weeks ago it was all you could think of. Permanent, irreversible disappearance. Even then though, it wasn’t what you were actually yearning for, not truly, it was just an easy solution to complex problems, problems that still haven’t been solved.

You think long and hard, and eventually you find a pleasantness.

You want to resolve things with Alexia, you know that for sure. It’s been impossible trying to navigate your relationship in your new reality. You want to get to a place where it’s less impossible. You want happiness with her, pure happiness. You also want some kind of return to football, you don’t know how. You’ve never really played football because it’s what you love, you’ve never loved your sport, it’s more been about having something that could take you places when inevitable wherever you had been was no longer an option because you’d somehow fucked it up.

You want a better relationship with yourself, you want to understand why you think the way you do and why you can’t think the same way and be the same way as everyone. You want to get past the fear you have that you will never be the same.

When you have nothing else to think about, you open your eyes, to your psychologist smiling at you.

“That’s our hour, I’m really happy to leave this here and circle back to some of it in a couple of days. The progress you’re making is definitely getting bigger and I’m happy to sign off on you getting some hours in the gym if your physios are happy with it. I’ll call the team tonight and we can work out a plan that works best.”

You’re in slight disbelief as she speaks.

“You’re sure?”

You stay seated for the sake of making sure that you haven’t somehow dreamt up what she’s just said.

“If you try and make some progress with your homework. I want you to try and talk to Mapi, a text message, coffee, something. I want you to talk to Alexia beyond her being a caregiver for you and I want you to make progress with your teammates, don’t avoid the gym if you know they are going to be there, don’t avoid team events, dip a toe in the water with them and I can guarantee you will have a very different outcome then what you think.”

Contingencies. One thing you’ve learnt about therapy is that there are always contingencies, it’s always a give and take, never one or the other.

You nod your head anyways, somehow, with her weird manipulation games you’ve managed to agree to something that the version of you from and hour ago never would have.

“I’ll try.”

Your therapist smiles and stands up, for whatever reason there is always a part of you that loves the end of your sessions but also never wants to leave.

Whether it seems like it or not, you actually do want to get better, you just don’t know what better looks like for you and that’s scary. You’ve never met the version of yourself that is ‘better’ or ‘normal’. You can’t say that you want to be your old self because there hasn’t ever been a version of yourself that feels better. You’ve always been in the slums, always been dragging yourself through the thickest mud to try and make it to the end of a day or month or year. You don’t actually want to survive like that, you want to live your life properly, or whatever non-sluggish life looks like for you.

Your still desperately trying to work that out.

Alexia is waiting in the carpark as usual, it’s always the same carpark, always the same consolation hot chocolate in her hands afterwards.

Once you’ve sat down in her passenger seat, put on your seatbelt and the takeaway cup is settled in your hands she broaches the topic of your session.

“How was it?”

There is always an awkwardness around your sessions, Alexia picks your up from every one, on the odd occasion she’ll join in if your therapist thinks it would be good. Otherwise, she spends the time sitting in her car and picking up hot drinks.

It’s infinitely awkward between the two of you, but Alexia in your opinion is mostly to blame for that.

She’d been the first person to put her hand up to be your carer, your glorified babysitter.

You know it’s a guilt thing, she feels guilty that part of your pain could have been because of her, even though you’ve insisted time and time again that it wasn’t.

“Fine.”

Therapy is a tough topic for you, mostly because you’ve never wanted to be there in the first place. You’d been tricked into going from the beginning, Alexia insisting that she was taking you to a appointment to check up on your scars when really it had been to your psychologists office. You’d yelled and screamed and insisted that she take you home, but at the end of the day if you ever wanted to play football again it was obvious you were going to have to suck it up.

You hadn’t talked to Alexia for days after that, which is funny because that was less then three weeks ago and now you’re here.

“Fine?”

You nod your head, it’s hard to find words after a normal session, but after this one it’s ever harder.

“I made some progress.”

Alexia nods, you know there are probably a hundred questions going through her head right now, but she won’t ask them. She’s too scared that if she asks them, she’ll get an answer that will terrify her. One that will restart all of the problems, even if that isn’t really how it works. Alexia doesn’t understand mental health, that’s become frighteningly obvious over the past few weeks. She doesn’t understand your struggles because she’s never experienced them. She’s never had self hatred or depression or overwhelming anxiety. It’s what makes you feel so alienated and so out of place amongst your peers. You feel like a shark amongst a sea of dolphins, like you look the same but when it comes down to it you are completely different.

“That’s good, no?”

You nod your head, disguising the grimace on your face by the mouth of the lid on your hot chocolate.

“She says I can start doing some hours in the gym.”

Alexia smiles, big and wide, like it’s her whose been given the good news.

“That’s good bebita, you’ll be on the pitch in no time.”

The pitch. It’s all Alexia cares about.

When you can be back, how she can get you to the point you can be back. Because when Alexia is injured, it’s all she cares about. What she can do to get herself back on the pitch, how she can make the rehab process faster, she thinks of every single logistic and possibility.

You want to make it back to the pitch, or you think you do. But it’s not your priority. It’s become abundantly clear that your main priority has to be yourself, figuring yourself out.

“Mhm.”

You focus your energy on counting how many bike riders pass Alexia’s car as she navigates through peak city traffic. You get to 38 before she interrupts your intense search for every person on two wheels.

“Vicky’s supposed to be coming over later, I promised I’d help her with a school project. I can go to her house instead if you’d prefer?”

Every time Alexia’s broached the topic of teammates you’ve immediately refused any contact, and your immediate reaction is to say no. but you think about what your therapist said.

“I might text Mapi and see if she wants to talk to me.”

You hear the sound of Alexia’s shock in the form of a choken sort of cough, she tries to cover it up by slapping her hand against the wheel of her car, but it doesn’t do much.

“I think that would be a really good idea, bebita, I think she would be really happy to see you.”

You don’t look at Alexia, you don’t want to see the look of perplexion or shock or whatever emotion she’s going through. You haven’t seen Mapi since the hospital, and as little as you remember from then, you remember Mapi very clearly.

She had been just as out of it as you’d been, refusing to leave your bedside but Ingrid having to do everything for her to keep her alive. Every time she visited you, she looked like she’d seen a ghost, or something worse. You weren’t sure what was worse, seeing somebody dead or seeing somebody who was hanging on the cliff of life and death and having to save their life, knowing that if action hadn’t of been taken they would be dead.

Definitely the latter.

“I’ll text her, see if she can come and pick you up before Vicky comes over?”

You nod your head, allowing yourself to focus back on counting your tally, except moving over to motorcycles this time.

You shower with the bathroom door halfway open. There are no sharps anywhere in your apartment, knives, razors, scissors, nail clippers, vegetable peelers, glasses, anything that could cause any kind of bodily harm. For now, you aren’t allowed to be left alone for longer then an hour. You sleep with your bedroom door open and Alexia sleeping in the guest room next door. You eat a set meal plan, you do two hours of rehab every single day, you live on a schedule that is so carefully planned that you have no time to yourself and yet every single moment feels lonely.

It’s a process, you’ve been told. It’s crucial to your recovery that there are measurements in place to assure your ‘success’.

Alexia knocks on your door every five minutes whilst you shower, you yell back every time.

It had become a rule after the first time you’d showered with the door open you’d made a joke about using the shower curtain to harm yourself, because what did they really expect you to be doing?

It hadn’t gone well, Alexia going silent for a few days and a very heated conversation with your psychologist about the inappropriateness of making jokes about suicide.

It was your trauma, it was your fucking story, and everyone was acting like it was their most sensitive issue.

Bathrooms are a bit of a touchy subject, you don’t shower in your ensuite bathroom anymore, you can’t. The room has permanently been blocked off, completely forgotten about.

The first thing you want to do once you’ve ‘recovered’ is leave this apartment, there are to many bad memories, it feels like you’ll never be able to recover if your stuck in the same place that you were in when it all went bad.

It’s a problem for when you can deal with the stress of packing up your whole life and moving it to somewhere.

When you shut the water off and step out of the warm stream you let yourself breathe, showers are the only real alone time you get. Everywhere else you are supervised, watched like a hawk to make sure that you don’t try anything else that could jeopardise your return to football. The reality is that Barca can’t afford to have you sit on the sideline for a whole season, they need you back, they can’t risk another slip up.

Alexia at least gives you the privacy of getting dressed in your own wardrobe, all of your wired bras have been removed, but for the most part it’s all normal.

You get dressed in another sweat suit, it’s become your new uniform over the last few weeks, no draw strings of course.

Your hair gets swept into a messy bun, it’s too much effort to deal with the brushing and braiding and tying that you would have normally gone through with a couple of weeks ago. You aren’t allowed to wear jewellery anymore so your accessories consist of pretty much nothing. You’re bare from the bones to your clothes, your soul feels as bare as the rest of your body.

You’re allowed to wear laced shoes, but you often opt not to, slip on birkenstocks or uggs are just easier. The Barcelona January chill has been getting to you recently, so you upt for your ugg boots.

Your outfit choice is the most choice you get in your day, so you try and put as little thinking into it as possible, it’s easier for you to just succumb to the reality that everything in your life is controlled by other people.

By the time you’ve finished, you’re towing very close to the time Mapi had told Alexia she’d come and meet you. You collect the things that you might need from your vanity and shove them in your pocket, before making your way out to your living room.

It’s unofficially become Alexia’s office, her laptop and books cover your dining table now. She lives out of your apartment, leaves only for training and barcelona commitments, so it’s fair to say that she’s made herself at home.

When you were living together before, it had bothered you more, having her things everywhere. Alexia is a organiser, of everything and everybody but herself. You’d spend hours telling her to pick up her shoes from random spots around the apartment floor or getting her to pick up random clothing items laying on top of pieces of furniture. This mess is different, it reflects how the situation is different. There is nothing comfortable about your predicament, it’s not the same kind of comfortable coexistence you had when you were dating Alexia.

There is a boundary between the two of you now and it makes it all so much more confusing.

Alexia isn’t just your friend or your teammate, she’s you caregiver, the person who holds you accountable, unofficially the person who is supposed to keep you from doing anything to yourself. It adds a whole layer of stress to the situation, you can’t relax around her the same way you used to.

Your relationship is never going to be the same, but parts of you wished that Alexia hadn’t taken over the burden of caring for you, because maybe the two of you could work on rebuilding yourselves as a couple instead of Alexia trying to rebuild you as a person, as if you are a broken lego set that needed to be put back together.

She spends most of her time in your living room, doesn’t push the boundary of your bedroom unless it’s needed.

She’s sat at the kitchen table, preparing herself to help with whatever project it is that Vicky needs help with.

“Shouldn’t Vicky have maybe asked one of the younger girls? You’re practically ancient now, they probably teach the kids these days history from when you were growing up.”

Whatever Alexia looks like she’s going to be helping with looks like something she’s definitely not qualified in, although Alexia’s never the person to say no.

“You’re acting like I’m a dinosaur, I’m only four years older then you.”

She rolls her eyes at you and it feels so normal, for a second you feel so much more normal. Life would be so much easier if everybody stopped treating you like a fine fucking piece of china. An eye roll here or there, a yell here or there, some kind of emotion beyond sympathy would be nice.

“I mean, in comparison to Vicky you’re pretty much from the stone ages.”

Alexia rolls her eyes again, she looks like she’s about to fight back against you but a knock at the door silences you both.

All of a sudden the little smile is gone and the air goes thick again, thick with the reminder that you can’t just exist in a bubble of nothingness were nobody else exists and you can just be free from everything.

Alexia gets up to open the door, and you let her, allowing yourself to loiter around the table and enjoy the moment for just a little bit longer. It’s that moment that might just get you through what is about to happen.

Alexia calls for you and you know it’s Mapi, you know it’s Mapi because Mapi won’t step foot in your apartment.

Ingrid had come to visit when you’d come home, along with a handful of other people, but Mapi hadn’t been one of them. Ingrid had explained that it had been to hard for her, that she’d made it to the door but couldn’t come in, and you couldn’t find it in you to blame her.

Mapi smiles at you when she sees you, it’s the first time you’ve seen her since the hospital and the both of you look very different since then.

She looks less dead, that’s the first thing you take notice of. She doesn’t look like she would blow away into a puff of smoke if a gust of wind came past. She looks good, she looks healed.

Mapi and you don’t talk, for whatever reason, you take the normal walk you would every sunday morning before it happened.

Down from your apartment, onto the main street, up to the mouth of the road, across the street and then onto the boardwalk.

It’s the main reason you chose your apartment, it’s right next to the beach. Perfect for post matchday swims and a morning walk on the beach. It used to be yours and Mapi’s pregame routine and it’s easy to fall into the rhythm of your feet moving down the sidewalk.

No words are spoken until the two of you are seated on the sand, a wordless agreement that you both come to when your toes hit the beach.

You’re both seated, your eyes looking over the horizon. Your too scared to break the silence, so you wait for Mapi.

“You look good, chica.”

You nod your head, you feel better, you must look better then how you did.

“I feel better.”

Mapi nods, when her hand reaches out to sit on top of your own on the sand, you don’t flinch away, it feels good to have a physical connection with a person who isn’t Alexia.

The silence falls over the two of you again, except this time it feels less uncomfortable. You let it linger for a little bit, before you feel in a place to speak.

“I need to say thank you. I know I said some things in the hospital, I meant it in the moment but I want to take it back now. You saved me, you did something so brave and amazing and the version of me now is so grateful that you did.”

Mapi stops your rant, before you can say something else.

“I would have done it for anybody else.”

The problem is you think, that you aren’t anybody else. It would be so much easier to give cpr to a random person on the street and never see them again, never have to be worried that you would see them again and there would be some kind of problem.

“But you did it for me. You saved me from myself, and I want you to know that I genuinely am so thankful for you. You didn’t choose the easy option and I put you in a extremely hard position. If anything had of happened to me, you would have blamed yourself and it wouldn’t have been your fault but you would have felt like it was.”

Mapi nods, and then you hear a sniffle and it makes you feel horrible.

Mapi’s crying, she’s crying and you don’t know what to do.

“You begged me to reverse it, in the hospital, you didn’t say some things. You begged me to stab you or do something. You told me it was my fault you were alive and that it was my responsibility to undo what I’d done.”

You take a deep breath, you didn’t remember it being that bad, but you remember Alexia telling you that some of the things you’d said had been unrepeatable.

“I can’t reverse what I said, in that moment I was in so much pain Maps. I actually can’t tell you how much pain i was in, all I wanted was to disappear. I’m working through not feeling that way and that starts by apologising. You did not deserve to experience what you did. You did not deserve to see what you did. You did not deserve to hear what I said to you. I am sorry. There is nothing I can say that will make any of it okay, I am sorry that for whatever reason god chose you to be the person burdened with this. I am so sorry.”

Mapi sniffles again. You knew that the possibility of no reconciliation was possible, that Mapi would reject any offer of apologies you had, you’d just really hoped it wouldn’t be like that.

“You’ve been like a little sister to me. I know you didn’t feel like we were that close, but I saw so much of me in you from when I was younger, and that was part of the reason I ended up at your apartment that night. Because I was worried, more then anybody else. I had this weird feeling, and I hated that I was right about it. You were like my little sister, and I watched as they strapped you onto a gurney and wheeled you off whilst telling me that they would try their hardest. I don’t blame you, there is no blame for something like this. But I need you to understand that I can’t just get over what I www, I’m working through it, I’m trying. My therapist has really been helping me, but it’s not going to disappear.”

You nod, Mapi and you have been through two mirroring experiences, and oddly you feel the same way about your own therapy. You’re working through it, you’re trying, but nothing that has happened is ever going to disappear, with yourself or with your peers.

“Maps, you’re allowed to experience however you want. If you never want to see me again I won’t hate you.”

Mapi shakes her head.

“I don’t know how I feel yet, I just need you to know that I understand that the you right now is different to the you from weeks ago, and you are entitled to separate yourself from that person. You don’t have to be that person if you don’t want to be. Let yourself live in the new version of you, the old version died back then.”

You bite your lip, there is beginning to become a permanent divet from your front teeth, you like it in a weird way.

“I’m trying, I’m really trying.”

Mapi nods, raising her arm from your hand, to your shoulders, bringing you into her side.

“We’ll try together then, huh? You try for me and I’ll try for you?”

You nod your head, and for the first time it doesn’t feel like you’re totally alone in the battle that you’re fighting. It’s still very much your battle, but it feels like you have somebody in your corner letting you know that you are going to be okay.

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well aware it’s not edited… if u have an issue with that such my dick xoxo

hope you enjoyed !!!! 🫶🫶🫶🫶

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