#tw previous suicidal ideation and attempt

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 103: Fitz's Escape

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tw: mind control, blood drinking, suicidal ideation

December 1925

"Killing the old man at his own party is a crazy idea. You're a madman."

"I'm desperate," said Fitz. "But you're calling me a madman when you're the one who's made a thrall out of a witch and a hunter."

"She's a prestige acquisition, don't you think?" Lily stroked her new thrall's hair, and she looked up at her madam with nothing but love in her eyes. Leave it to Lily to be confident enough in her enthrallment skills to keep a hunter by her side. Fitz certainly could understand the appeal, though. The enticing smell of her blood was a drain on his self-control, and turning a hunter into a docile little thing was a nice trick.

"She'd be worth a fortune, I expect. I'm surprised you're not selling her."

"There are some things more important than profit, even to me. I wanted to make sure she ended up with someone who properly appreciated her."

"I think our Lily has become quite attached despite herself," said Lex with a grin.

"I think you're right," said Fitz. "Isn't that what you've always warned us about?"

Lily scoffed. "I'm not unnecessarily attached, I just know good value when I see it. Now are you going to carve the rune or not?"

"Excuse me for being reluctant to drive a silver knife into my arm." Of course, that was the entire reason why Lily and Vivian were here, so that Fitz could test out the modifications to the rune. If everything went well, he'd be immune to his sire's powers, a theory they could test right away with Lex. If not, then both Lex and Lily would both be at the mercy of the Maestro's compulsions, making it next to impossible for them to kill him.

For all his big talk about the plans, though, he really did not look forward to how much this was going to hurt. The silver knife seared his flesh as soon as he touched it to his forearm, the sudden pain nearly causing him to drop it. It took all of his willpower, gritted teeth and embarrassingly pained noises for him to actually persist in carving out the rune. As he did so, Vivian sat up from Lily's lap, watching Fitz's progress intently.

"It's done," he said, gasping and panting.

Lex didn't congratulate him, though. Instead, he looked very sour.

"What's wrong? Are you worried about going an hour without being able to enthrall me? I promise I won't take advantage of it in any way you won't like."

Truthfully, Fitz's feelings on the matter were far more complicated than he'd like to admit. He'd forbidden Lex from enthralling him without permission as an attempt to establish his own presence as a vampire, and Lex had mostly respected it, as far as Fitz knew. But sometimes Fitz would just as soon be happy to let Lex plunge him into blissful unawareness. He wanted to ask Lex to do it, sometimes, but he had his pride. He was a vampire in his own right now and he didn't need Lex to sing him to sleep.

And if he did indulge himself too far, if he did become accustomed to allowing Lex to take away his thoughts, he might never return from it.

"It's nothing," said Lex, blatantly dodging the question, uncharacteristically irritated. "Let's complete the experiment."

Lex sang, a beautiful perfect clear note, and the already burning cuts on Fitz's arm seemed to sear into him. Fitz wanted to say that it hurt and ask if that meant it was working, but his voice failed him. There was nothing, nothing in the world but the song and its singer. He wanted to shut his eyes. He did so.

"Fitz? Fitz, wake."

His eyes snapped open. He was still sitting up, and he felt groggy. "What -- was I asleep?"

"Soundly asleep," said Lex. "It appears that rune configuration is a failure."

"It should be me to do the deed, sirs," Vivian blurted out, and all turned to look at her. "The rune works for me, and I have experience killing vampires. I've been training my entire life for the chance to kill this wretched monster."

"No," said Lex firmly. "We've tried before with hunters, experienced ones, and it was an abject failure. As skilled as hunters can be, they inevitably lack a vampire's speed and strength."

"But, sir --"

"Hush. It's too dangerous," said Lily. "And I will need you to protect me if things go sideways. Isn't that enough of a role?"

"Madam…" Vivian's brow furrowed. "I could best protect you by carrying out my duty and destroying the Maestro."

"None of that. Lex is right. A hunter won't be enough. Lex can draw close to his sire without arousing suspicion, as well." Lily stroked her hair, trying to soothe her agitated pet, and Fitz couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy. "Now, where do you think we've gone wrong with the protective rune?"

Vivian's mouth opened and closed. She clearly wasn't over the conversation, but she seemed too conditioned to put up much of a fight against her madam. Fitz knew Lily's talents firsthand, and knew how easy it was for her to wrap a human mind around her fingers. That had been him, once.

"The part we were most uncertain about is here," said Vivian, pointing to one of the symbols in Fitz's still-bleeding skin. "It's possible that our substitution of 'vampire' is in the wrong location, or in the wrong dialect. I think the next best thing to try…"

Soon enough, Fitz was carving another agonizing rune into his arm. Soon enough, he was unconscious and disoriented once more. Another failure.

They tried several times, Lex simmering in frustration as Lily grew impatient. Fitz was growing impatient himself. He was running out of room on his arms, and every inch of them burned. The wounds made him crave blood to heal himself, and the hunter smelled delicious, but he knew better than to lay a hand on her without Lily's blessing. The pain and the craving were driving his rational thoughts away. What would happen if they couldn't make the protective rune work on a vampire? Would Lex chance it anyway, hoping to catch his sire off guard? Or would they have Vivian attempt the deed, despite Lex's insistence that she shouldn't?

Would they fail again, and leave Fitz to be stripped of himself once more? He shuddered.

Lex sang his lullaby once more, and the rune burned, and…

Fitz looked up at Lex in surprise. He was still awake, somehow. "Are you running out of steam?"

Lex shook his head, brow furrowing, as he sang with more urgency. Fitz could hear the command in it, trying to lull him asleep, and yet here he was, eyes wide open. Could it actually be working? It seemed too much to hope for. Emboldened by the possibility of success, Fitz tackled Lex to the floor.

"Gotcha."

Stormy eyes bore into Fitz as Lex pulled him close, sang in his ear, and the rune carved into his arm hurt so much, but he kept resisting. Every moment he could keep resisting was a moment that Lex might be able to hold out against his sire, improving their chances of finally killing the old man. He shoved Lex away and rolled, standing up again. "You had better not be toying with me, Lex. Give me everything you've got."

The wave of enthrallment that washed over Fitz was dizzying, enticing him to sink back into sweet oblivion, but he still held out.

"We might actually do this," said Lily in awe. "We might truly pull this off."

It was definitely too much to hope for. He couldn't bear the thought of being captured by the Maestro for good, having his memories and personality obliterated and descending into an eternal hell. Yet he also couldn't bear the opposite thought, the thought that they might win, the thought that there could be a future.

Fitz remained numb to the possibility even as Lily cheered and Vivian clapped his back, even as Lex pulled him into his arms and kissed him. Oh, he maintained an outward show of cheer and good humor. It wouldn't help to pull everyone else down, and acting was always his forte, after all.

After Lily and Vivian had departed, satisfied at the accomplishment, Lex's mood dropped too. He flopped onto one of the overstuffed couches, beckoning for Fitz to join him, and Fitz wasted no time slotting himself into Lex's arms. Even after all these years and all that had happened, Fitz still felt safer there than anywhere.

"There's something very important I must ask of you before we carry out this plan," Lex murmured.

"What is it?"

"If I fail -- and I don't want to argue about this -- if I fail, I want you to take Oliver with you and escape as far as you can go."

"What on earth for?" Fitz asked. "What escape? We both know that there's no escape from him."

"We don't know that, not for sure. After all, he let you go overseas for years. He may not care to pursue you, once he has me at his mercy."

Fitz scoffed. "He'd never let anyone truly escape him for good. Not me, and especially not Oliver."

"But both you and Oliver can use the rune. You may be able to use it to prevent me from compelling either of you. Without me, he has no direct hold over you. He may be counting on being able to control you, and not realize he can't until it's too late for him to catch you."

"Seems like a long shot." Of course, it wasn't the risk that made Fitz want to reject Lex's request. It was the potential loss of his sure way out. If he were responsible for Oliver, if he were forced to make an escape attempt in earnest, he couldn't simply stake himself in the event of failure.

"I don't want you to kill yourself."

Fitz looked up, startled. "I wasn't --"

"I know you. I know you'd rather take your own life than be under my sire's control again." Lex's finger traced a pattern along Fitz's collarbone, close to the place where his old scar was. "But don't, for my sake, if not for your own. You deserve better than a lonely death. You deserve a chance to shine on the stage. To live without fear."

"Mm."

"And if you do make it, you can drink your fill of Oliver's blood. He's a good thrall who would serve you very well. He'd get along with Roger, too. You could make a good life for yourself, far away from here. From me."

Fitz pushed Lex away, standing up abruptly. "I need blood. I'm going to go feed."

"Right now? Are you okay? I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset. I just carved half a dozen runes into my skin, and I need blood to heal. I'll be back."

"All right." Lex looked wounded as Fitz retreated from the library.

He threw on his coat and shoes and made his way outside into the cold night air, looking up at the moon. The wind was crisp and smelled of damp earth.

And if he were taken by the Maestro again, there would be no more night air, no more moon, no more wind. No pleasure in any form, not even in his own mind, as even his dreams would be tightly controlled. He'd much rather die as himself, die while he still had some happiness left. Sometimes he wished he would have died before he was taken by the Maestro so many years ago, when he was still human and still remembered what the sun felt like and food didn't taste like ash.

It would be easier if he hated Lex, and Oliver too. He could easily deny Lex's selfish request, if he did. He could abandon Oliver, his replacement, and leave him to meet an awful fate. It wasn't his business. Lex should have never taken such a desirable thrall in the first place.

Of course, he couldn't hate either of them. He was drawn to Lex no matter how he thrashed against the desire, and every time he returned to his old lover, he was reminded all over again how good it felt to be wanted. Lex wanted him in a way no human could, vampiric need shining in his eyes, and he was the only one who could truly quiet Fitz's mind and give him peace. It was addictive, intoxicating, and although Fitz wasn't sure if he could love as a vampire (or if he ever could have loved as a human), this mutual possessiveness was probably as close as he could come.

And he couldn't hate Oliver, even though Fitz burned with jealousy at his replacement. He was too delightful, the ideal thrall, and he smelled so nice and took to enthrallment so well and reminded him so much of what Lex might have been as a human… no, he didn't truly want to abandon Oliver to be destroyed by the Maestro. It was a fate he wouldn't wish on anyone, much less this dusty, nervous intellectual who looked as if a strong wind could blow him away.

So his only choice left was to hate himself, and that was thankfully easy.

There weren't many people out at this time of night, well after midnight and edging close to morning, but he could still pick up a few scents on the breeze. The most enticing of those scents led him to an exhausted looking man in coveralls, probably returning home from a night shift at a factory. The smell of metal and grease couldn't block out the aroma of his blood, especially when Fitz was so famished.

"Hello," said Fitz, wasting no time at all to invade this man's space, grabbing one wrist and planting his other hand on the man's cheek.

The man tried to back up, but found he was held fast by Fitz's strong grip. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. "If you're trying to rob me, you're going to be disappointed. I'm flat broke."

"Shhh." Fitz placed a finger across his victim's lips, tilting his gaze up to meet his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a friend."

"A… a friend…?" The enthralling touch was clearly having an effect on this unsuspecting human, his eyes already starting to glaze over. Tired humans always made such easy targets. "I don't… I don't know you…"

"You don't need to worry about it." Fitz stroked his cheek tenderly, pouring his power into the poor man's defenseless mind, infusing him with bliss. He was rewarded with a dazed smile. "That's it, just relax. Let yourself feel good. It's been a long night, and you deserve to feel good, just like this."

The man nodded dreamily, slipping easily under Fitz's spell. Satisfied that the human was subdued, Fitz pulled him into a dark alley, away from any prying eyes, and backed the man against the wall. He didn't even try to struggle -- an easy mark. That was just as well as far as Fitz was concerned.

"Nothing's wrong, nothing at all," he whispered in the hypnotized man's ear. "You're going to feel even better when I feed."

"Feed…?"

"Shh, shh, nothing to worry about. Just enjoy yourself." Normally Fitz would draw this out more, enjoy playing with the cute defenseless human, but he was absolutely starving. He wrenched the man's shirt collar to the side, ripping it a bit in the process, and sank his fangs in. Deep relief flowed through Fitz as he satisfied his urges, the pain from the carvings on his arms lessening, his anxious monologue fading. At times like this he wished he could drink forever, keep filling himself up with a human's blood until he felt full and complete and human again himself.

He drank too much, of course. The poor soul collapsed to the filthy ground as soon as Fitz was done with him. Fitz licked the last of the blood from his lips, leaning against the wall. It wasn't as satisfying as Roger's blood, but then Roger was a top-grade thrall who had the benefit of familiarity going for him.

Fitz wondered what Roger was doing now, if he'd ever see his loyal thrall again. He hoped that if none of the rest of them made it out, at least maybe he could. He could take the cash Fitz left for him and start a new life, one without a vampire to wait on.

The man on the ground coughed, and Fitz came back to his senses. He wasn't in the habit of just leaving his prey unconscious, and that pesky bit of morality could certainly be inconvenient at times. He sighed and hauled the man up. "Where do you live?"

Bleary eyes cracked open, and the man mumbled some directions. Fitz carried him home easily, sticking to the darkness so as not to invite attention, and soon he was carrying his prey up the stairs of a rotten tenement. With his hunger sated and the human deposited on a thin mattress in a drafty room, Fitz felt that he could get back to Lex's manor.

Perhaps he should get some food for Lex, as well, but truthfully he was still irritated at Lex for how determined he seemed to protect Oliver, when he'd utterly failed to protect Fitz all those years ago. He didn't mind being a bit petty about it, because he knew he was going to agree to what Lex had asked. If Lex's plan failed, if he had the chance, he would take Oliver and try to run, and maybe, just maybe, they could find some kind of existence far away from all of this.

He didn't truly believe that, but he wanted to.

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Thanks for reading about this vampire's trauma. Next week: Oliver is returned to Alexander, and has a pleasant chat with the Maestro on the way.

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[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Worship of a Sacrificial Lamb.

Pairing: ???!Gojo Satoru x Yandere!Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 8.0k.

Commissioned by the very lovely @elsecrytt.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Dub/Con, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Kidnapping + Prolonged Captivity, Physical + Psychological Abuse, Wildly Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Codependency, Suicidal Ideation, Mentions of Previous Suicide Attempts, and Blood. Gojo's Not The Yandere But He Sure As Hell Isn't Normal Either. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You were sure, beyond the point of reason, that Gojo Satoru was an angel.

A guardian angel, actually. Maybe even your guardian angel, if you were going to let yourself be so sickeningly romantic. Even if you were going to hold yourself to some kind of distorted rationality, you weren’t sure how anyone could ever so much as look at him and not see an act of irrefutable divine intervention. He had the body of a marble sculpture – as if some great, ancient master of their art had taken decades aside to carve the embodiment of all things good and beautiful  – and a face any model would’ve killed for. His hair was the most brilliant shade of white you’d ever seem, purer than cloud and softer than velvet, and there was a special place in your heart reserved entirely for his lips – pretty and pale and so lovely that if you ever got the chance to kiss him, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

Of course, his eyes were your favorite. Not that it was easy to pick a favorite part of Satoru – no, you’d spent long hours deliberating over the perfectly straight arch of his jawline and the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, the gentle slope of his shoulders and harsh angles of his hands – but if you absolutely had to, you’d say his eyes were the part of him you spent the most time thinking about, that you adored above all else, that would’ve wanted to keep for yourself if you couldn’t have Satoru as whole. The color of the sky and twice as clear, you could still remember the way they’d seemed to glow in the dim light of the deserted street where you’d first met, the way your heart broke just a little every time he blinked or fluttered those perfect snow-white eyelashes. If you could’ve, you would’ve liked to keep a spare set in a small glass jar – something clear and sturdy that you could carry with you whenever you didn’t have access to the real thi—

“...ma’am?” And then, leaning forward, flashing a perfect smile and snapping his perfect fingers, “I think I might’ve lost you, there.”

You perked up, nodding frantically before thinking better of it and, with a sheepish smile, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I—” You paused, clearing your throat and taking a sip of your coffee before going on. “I’m just having a little trouble concentrating. You can keep going.”

That was enough to earn a breath of a laugh from your perfect Satoru, and immediately, you fell in love with him all over again. He mirrored you, taking a sip of his own drink (some awful, adorable type of frozen hot chocolate served half-drowned in whip-cream) before responding, his melodic voice akin to birdsong and rainfall and every other delicate, beautiful thing in the world. “I know it can be a lot to take in. For someone in your situation, especially.” What that situation was, you weren’t entirely sure. Still, you nodded and smiled like he’d said the most comprehensible thing you’d ever heard. “Just try to stay with me. I promise – curses are a lot less scary when you know what they are.”

His head lulled to the side, his perfect eyes lulling into something softened and dream-like, and just like that, he’d lost you again. It was unfair, honestly. He’d been the one to invite you, scrawling down his name and phone number on a scrap of paper with the excuse that he owed you an explanation, but you’d picked out your meeting spot (a café on the edge of business district, somewhere he’d never go on his own but that suited his preference to a T), made sure you arrived half an hour early to claim a table in the most secluded corner and order a drink you knew he’d like just in time for his to be fifteen minutes late. You were lucky, really. Anyone else would’ve noticed your starry-eyed gaze and giddy smiles and figured out that there was something deeply, deeply wrong with you, but not your Satoru. He was probably used to hero-worship, even if the thought of anyone else sharing the same connection with him that you did was enough to make you grit your teeth.

Now wasn’t the time for that, though. You pulled yourself out of your thoughts as the corner of his lips quirked downward – the closest thing to a proper frown you’d ever seen him wear. Whatever he might’ve gone on to say about wizards and invisible monsters was lost entirely as he trailed off, his eyes darting to either side behind the dark lenses of his glasses. “Sorry, ma’am, I think I—” With an uncharacteristic clumsiness, he pushed himself to his feet, nearly tipping over his chair. In your peripheral, you watched for concerned samaritans and curious onlookers, but came up empty. That was good. That made sense. It was a busy coffee shop during the late-morning rush on a weekday – who’d ever think to pay attention to the couple in the far corner? Even half of that couple was a deity in the flesh. “I think I need a second.”

It was smart of him – to make such a hasty retreat. He barely waited for you to give one final, enthusiastic nod before cutting through the crowd and disappearing into a unisex bathroom.

It was smart, but it would’ve been smarter to run somewhere you couldn’t follow.

Saliva pooled under your tongue, your fingers drumming erratic and involuntary rhythms into the table, but while Satoru might’ve been an angel, you had the patience of a saint. You counted down the seconds, nursing your coffee and occasionally checking your phone, until three minutes had passed, only getting up when you were sure you would’ve been seen waiting. Rather than moving towards the exit, you positioned yourself at the edge of the counter, flagging down the youngest barista – a mousey girl in her late teens, with an expression that said she’d do anything to be helpful and a shrunken quality that told you she’d do even more not to get in trouble. “I’m so, so, so sorry to bother you, but—It’s my boyfriend,” you started, wringing your hands together and keeping your eyes on the floor. There was a sick thrill that came with calling Satoru your boyfriend, even if it wasn’t true, but you were careful to keep your tone strictly apologetic. “He’s, uh—He’s got a thing about crowds, and he’s kind of having an episode. Is there any way I could get him out of here without making a scene?”

There was – an employee exit just next to the door to the storage room, one that opened up directly into a back alley that would’ve kept a comfortable distance between you and the main road. Her eyes lit up, but she made a show of looking concerned, of glancing to her smothered coworkers, before looking back to you. “Well, we’re not supposed to let customers—”

“Please?” You tried, and then, with a type of cloying desperation, “It’s kind of an emergency. He just really needs to get outside.”

It took a second, then another, but finally, she cracked with a muted sigh. “There is a backdoor – past the bathrooms and to your left. I… I have to ask my manager, but I should be able to leave it unlocked.”

You didn’t have to fake your gratitude. You bowed your head, mumbling ecstatic little ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’s as you turned on your heel and moved towards the restroom. You’d been prepared to pick the lock, but Satoru must’ve been more affected than you realized – he was already so out of it, he’d left the door open. You could only be thankful no one else had seen come in. You couldn’t imagine there was anyone in the world who could resist taking advantage of someone as wonderful as Satoru in such a vulnerable state.

Grinning to yourself, you shouldered the door open and stepped inside, shutting and locking it behind you.

Satoru didn’t make himself heard to find. He’d collapsed onto the faux-marble vanity, his feet still on the ground but his back braced against the mirror, one hand clamped around the side of the sick while the other struggled to form one of the strange, distorted symbols he’d used the night you met him. His half-lidded eyes widened when he saw you, his mouth falling open, but he didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. You couldn’t blame him. The sedative you’d used was strong enough to put a grown man under with a single dose, and you’d given Satoru enough to put a horse into a coma.

“Hey, pretty boy.” You took a tentative step forward, and when he didn’t react, another. His fingers twitched, but whatever he was trying to do was forgotten as soon as you took him by the hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “It’s not that bad, is it? You should just be a little tired.”

Again, predictably, there was no response. His perfect lips opened wider before sealing into an acute, adorable pout, and you drank in the sight like a man starved.

Cooing, you leaned in closer – placing your body in the space between his open legs and squeezing his hand before letting go entirely. Rather, you cupped his face, admiring the pink flush spread across his pale cheeks, the glossy sheen over those beautiful eyes. Suddenly, it was too much to take, and you jolting forward; your mouth crashing into his and your tongue pushing past his lips, his teeth. His taste was euphoric – caramel and cream and everything good and sweet and divine – but you didn’t give yourself long to savor it before you pulled away, dropping to your knees. You hadn’t meant to move this quickly, but you loved Satoru. You worshiped Satoru.

And no real acolyte would ever refuse to kneel in front of their sacred alter, if given the chance.

Disappointingly but unsurprisingly, he wasn’t hard. You let his jeans and boxers (the latter patterned with pure-white bunnies – cute) pool at his ankles as you wrapped a fist around his cock, pressing a kiss into the curve of his shaft. Like every other part of him, his dick was perfect – long and lean, with a slight left-leaning tilt and a few thin, ridged veins that you dragged you tongue over before taking the head into your mouth properly. Admittedly, it’d been a while since your last hook-up (and even longer since you’d cared enough about another person to put any more than a passable amount of effort in), but everything about Satoru seemed to come naturally to you. His reactions were limited to a vacant stare and the occasional, breathy noise, but soon enough, you felt him stiffen against the flat of your tongue, filling out your fist where you pumped lazily over his shaft. If it’d been anyone else, you might’ve been disappointed at just how quickly he went from soft to stiff to leaking thick beads of arousal, but not with your Satoru. Of course he was sensitive. Angels were supposed to be delicate.

Using one hand to brace yourself against his thigh, you reached up with the other and found his hand, still hanging dully where you’d left it. It was a bit of an odd position – trying to hold his hand while bobbing your head and doing your best not to choke on his cock – but you made it work. It wasn’t long before those little, breathy noises built into cracked whimpers and airy whines, before you could feel him twitching against the roof of his mouth. It was hard to see, given the angle, but when you thought to look, you could make out tears forming in the corners of his eyes, something new knit into his expression. It wasn’t quite distress – or, at least, not the kind of distress you’d been expecting – but you didn’t recognize it. That didn’t really matter, though, not if you were being honest with yourself.

It was coming from your Satoru, and that was enough to make it beautiful.

You moaned around him, and a pitchy keen slipped past his numb lips, his grip going vice-like where he held your hand. You swallowed him down to the hilt as he came, determined not to waste a drop of what you’d fought so hard for, before pulling back, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his cock for a lingering second, then another before that connection snapped and severed you from him completely. Suppressing the urge to mourn its loss, you pushed yourself to your feet and pulled him close – pressing a kiss into his neck, then his jaw, then the corner of his lips. “Such a good boy,” you purred, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “My good boy. My perfect little angel.”

This time, Satoru did react – slumping against you even as his hand remained braced around yours. You took him by the shoulders, leaning back just far enough to see his eyes lull, blink, then shut entirely. He wasn’t unconscious - you could see a certain stiffness to his shoulder, a rigidity to his posture – but it was clear that you’d worn him out. You smiled, shaking your head as you raked your fingers through his hair and laughing as you found it just as soft as you’d imagined. “Think it’s time to go home, ‘toru?”

Rather than pull away from you, he seemed to melt even further. It was barely more than a whisper, but you made it out as clear as day. “…home?”

“Yes, angel,” you laughed, pressing your lips against his forehead.

“Home.”

~

He was asleep by the time you reached your car, and thoroughly knocked out by the time you got back to your townhouse – a modest machiya in a neighborhood that valued its privacy. Admittedly, carrying a man twice your height with triple your weight in muscle could’ve gone better, but you managed. There was a short list of things you couldn’t do for Satoru.

The sedatives had already proved less effective than you’d been promised, but still, you had plenty of time to get him into his bedroom, lock the titanium collar around his neck, and most importantly, change his clothes. You’d already picked out a new wardrobe for him – all whites and creams and soft pastels, nothing as harsh as the restrictive, black uniform he usually wore. Not that Satoru didn’t look good in black; you were sure he’d look breath-taking in anything! Even if he decided to wear, you didn’t know, an all-leather body suit, you were sure he’d—

…

You’d have to look into ordering a custom set. Preferably in white, but you’d settle for blue, if you had to.

You’d also made sure his room suited him, too. After making sure you had the bare necessities (deadbolts, bars over the windows, etc.), you might’ve gone a little overboard. You wanted Satoru to feel comfortable, so you made sure to work-in a few of the cute, soft things that reminded you of him – string lights and stuffed animals and plush blankets all the same color as his hair. You knew he was prone to migraines, but you couldn’t stand the idea of letting him put anything between you and those beautiful eyes, so you compromised with permanently low lighting and heavy curtains over his singular window. Entertainment might be an issue, since you obviously couldn’t give him anything with an internet connection, but—

You heard Satoru stir, and immediately, every logistic thought you might’ve had died and fell away. You’d planned to keep your distance while he woke up, but in an instant, you were perched on the side of his bed, your gaze fixed on his lax expression as he slowly woke up.

It was surprisingly peaceful – his slow trek back into consciousness. Long seconds passed between the first awkward stagger in the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the moment he actually opened his eyes, still glassy and unfocused with exhaustion. You didn’t rush him. It was all you could do to watch as he sucked in a harsh breath and pulled himself up, only to collapse against the headboard just as quickly. A hand drifted to his shirt, fisting at the alien material, then to the collar around his neck. He didn’t try to take it off, which was good. You didn’t want to have to resort to something so ugly so early on.

Finally, he seemed to perk up – glancing around his new bedroom, as if evaluating it. When he turned to you, you smiled, and Satoru remained blank.

You broke the silence. “Welcome home, ‘toru.” You swallowed back the temptation to tell him how happy you were to finally have him here, how long you’d been waiting for this moment, instead centering your attention on his needs. “Do you want something to drink? You shouldn’t eat so soon, but you were out for a while. It seemed like you could use a little rest.”

A beat passed, but eventually, Satoru shook his head – as polite as could be expected, given the circumstances. “…you’re the one who kidnapped me?”

“Mhm.”

“And you’re not a curse-user? Or working for the higher-ups?”

More made-up words. You decided to let him have his fun. “No, I’m not.”

“Why, then?”

Your smile widened. You’d been hoping he would ask. “You’re not dumb, Satoru. The day you found me—” Or, rather, the day you’d found yourself in his arms, barefoot and shaking, caught by a divinely beautiful stranger after taking a long fall off of a short building. The day you’d fallen in love with him. The most important day of your life. “I’m sure you know that no one actually pushed me.”

And, even if he didn’t, it couldn’t be hard to believe. There were only so many reasons a salary-worker would be on the roof of their office building in the middle the night, only so many reasons you would’ve left your heels and your coat on the same ledge you’d eventually topple off of. He’d been kind enough to get them for you, as you sat sobbing into your hands on the curb. He only pursed his lips, though, his eyes remaining perfectly lifeless. You took that as a sign to go on.

“My job is—” Terrible. Pointless. Soul-sucking. It paid well, and nothing you did was particularly hard, but the constant overtime and mindless pencil-pushing meant you had very little time for yourself and even less to show for it – besides the paycheck, of course. You couldn’t even say you hated it. You’d just been so ready for something, anything else, and it’d worked, in a way. You’d gotten Satoru. “—pretty boring. I’ve never really liked spending time with other people, and I’m not particularly good at anything aside from busy-work, so I really didn’t have a reason to stick around. But, then you saved me, and you were so kind, and so heroic, and I—”

You shut your eyes, curling your hands into fists. Not unlike a schoolgirl, too embarrassed to confess properly. “I love you, Satoru.”

There was no response, not at first. Internally, you panicked – what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he didn’t realize that this was for the best? What if he’d rather die than—

“You…” His tone was light, airy, only the slightest traces of shock shining through. As if he didn’t believe you. “You love me?”

“More than anything.” And, just like that, you were spilling open. “I—I thought it’d be enough to keep an eye on you from a distance, for a while, but after a few days – after seeing how much you worked and how little you slept and how terribly you took care of yourself – I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t live without you, and, well,” You cut yourself off with a sudden laugh, only a little forced. “You couldn’t have gone on much longer if I hadn’t stopped in. Not like that.”

For a second, he seemed to regard you. It was strange, how hollow he seemed compared to how vibrant he’d been every time he’d spoken to you previously, but you didn’t mind. Not all gods could be cheerful ones. Even divinity had to be morose, from time to time.

Still, your racing heart beat a little faster when the corner of his mouth twitched into a slight, cocked smile. He didn’t say anything, but he shifted, reached out, tentatively resting a hand on your knee before bringing it up to your thigh, then your hip. After waiting for you to nod (which you did, eagerly), he pulled you closer – into his lap. You managed to keep your guard up for all of three seconds before he collapsed onto you entirely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You melted against him with just as much pathetic desperation, grateful beyond words to have the distance between you finally closed. “Do you really mean that?”

“And then some. When you reached out to me, my heart almost burst with happiness. It was hard to believe you even remembered that I existed.” You nestled against him. “I meant what I said about wanting to take care of you, too. You shouldn’t have to worry about yourself ever again, not after everything you did for me.”

There was more, of course. Rules to go over, punishments to warn against, specifics to lay out, but he wasn’t fighting back, or trying to escape, and he was tucked so sweetly against you – it would’ve been a shame to move, let alone start listing off threats. Thankfully, tragically, Satoru ripped the band-aid off first. Slowly, he lifted his head, drawing back just far enough to dart back in for a clumsy, lip-bruising kiss. You’d already, technically, stolen his first, but there was a difference between kissing his limp body and feeling his lips move sloppily against yours. It was a fragile, immature connection – all scraping teeth and kneading hands and Satoru’s little, throaty moans, but you didn’t dare break it off until your lungs ached. Even then, you held him as close as you could as his hands fell to your waist, a thumb slipping under the waistband of your skirt and—

“Down boy,” you laughed, and Satoru glanced up, pouting. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but not so soon. You’re still in shock, and I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

The impulse blowjob a few hours prior felt unnecessary to mention.

Satoru seemed conflicted. He was still in that sort of blank, softened state, but he let out a whine by way of protest. It was all you could do to sigh, kissing his forehead before going on. “Later on, ‘toru. After I’m sure that you can be trusted to behave.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to make love (‘fuck’ felt to crude, ‘sex’ too clinical; making love wasn’t perfect, but it was what you had) to Satoru. You would’ve done anything to take care of him, anything to keep him happy, but there’d always been a gap in your mind when it came to your own pleasure – an instinct that urged against expecting your love to be requited. As far as you could guess, it would come with time – after you’d started thinking of him as less of an angel and more of something able to love you back. The delay was for the best, really. Intimacy would make you vulnerable, exploitable. You needed to show Satoru how strong, how strict you could be, first.

“That sucks.” It was almost endearingly childish, just how shamelessly he sulked. It took a few more pecks and another minute or so of coddling before he sighed. “You can keep kissing me though, right?”

“Of course,” you said, automatically. It was a dangerous promise to make, with plenty of chances for unwanted escalation, but you never would’ve been able to say ‘no’ to Satoru – not so directly, at least. Not when he was looking at you with those beautiful, pitiful eyes.

“Anything for you.”

~

“So when are you going to use the collar?”

The question was posed casually, unprompted and unrushed. Still, you paused, humming as you glanced over to Satoru. He’d gotten more talkative in the two or three weeks since you brought him home, but he still seemed caught in that quiet, liquid haze of tranquility – all easy smiles and half-lidded eyes and slow, sloppy kisses from the moment you came home to the second you had to leave. He seemed to be enjoying himself, spending his time basking in your affection and letting you take care of him, and that made you happy. All you’d ever wanted was for him to be safe and looked after, and he was. You could make sure of that, now.

(Admittedly, there was a small, negligible part of that had expected there to be some resistance – a hissy fit, a muted protest, something aggressive and combative that wouldn’t be calmed with a few kind words and a gentle touch – and mourned the fact that Satoru was taking this all so well. It wasn’t that you wanted him to hate you, but you’d always struggled to trust what came to you easily. If you had to work for Satoru’s love, you could be sure that you’d earned it. If you had to smother him into submission, you wouldn’t have to wonder if he was only lulling you into a false sense of security before stealing away all the tools you used to keep him safe. You tried not to be so pessimistic – outwardly, at least.)

“I won’t have to, preferably.” Pulling a towel off of the nearest rack, you bent down to his height and started to ruffle his hair dry. He shut his eyes, but didn’t try to stop you. Currently, he was sitting on the wall of your bathtub, only partially dressed in a pair of tan sweatpants while you finished drying his hair. You could shower alone before work in the morning, but Satoru needed more care. He needed to be treated like something precious, and he’d already proved that you couldn’t trust him with such an important responsibility. “It’s kind of a last resort. It should only go off if you try to leave.” And then, as you burrowed your nails into the towel., “Is that… Is that something you’re going to do, ‘toru?”

“Never. You keep me too good n’ spoiled.” He flashed you a lazy grin, and just like that, you were looking away, biting down on your tongue, trying to coax your heart back into beating at a steady rhythm. You pretended to be busy rummaging through the nearest drawer for a brush, but Satoru only laughed. His next question was just as probing. “It came with a remote, though, right?”

“…like I said, it’s a last resort,” you repeated, too flustered to lie. “I don’t want to hurt you. Unless you tried to escape or attacked me, I really can’t see myself doing anything so—” Blasphemous. Unforgivable. Sinful. “—harsh.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” Like always, he was a little too quick, a little too willing. You bit back a scowl. “I just think it could be romantic, y’know?  I’d get to see how much you’re willing to do for me, or something like that.”

You forced a bark of a laugh. “There’s nothing romantic about me hurting you, baby. ‘specially not if I’m only doing it because you acted out.”

“I promise, I’m tougher than I look.” Another smile, even more dazzling than the first. Again, you felt your head start to speed up, only to stop beating entirely the second he went on. “I used to have this friend – Suguru – and he’d—”

Your hand was in your pocket before you had time to stop yourself, the plastic remote clenched in your fist before you had time to think. You’d never read the manual, never thought you’d have to use it, but that didn’t matter. There was only one button, and it only did one thing.

Satoru’s voice cut out as the current picked-up, pumping the maximum voltage into his throat. Satoru didn’t scream, didn’t thrash, but he reacted – going rigid as his beautiful eyes went painfully wide. The whole thing was silent save for a low, almost inaudible buzzing-type sound, and you kept your thumb pressed into the singular button for a second, then another, before forcing yourself to let go. Even that was more difficult than it should’ve been. You couldn’t stand the idea of hurting him, but…

Fuck. You would’ve done anything not to hear Satoru say his name ever again.

To his credit, Satoru didn’t collapse. When it was over, he only buckled forward – catching himself on his thighs as he dragged in a jolting, ragged breath. You were on your knees in front of him in a second, his face in your hands and your mouth on his cheek, his forehead, his neck, as if you could kiss away the pain. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” you chanted, each word less coherent than the last. “It’s just—I’ve read about him in your diaries, and I should’ve known you’d bring him up, and—”

“I love you.”

You went quiet.

You tried to pull away from him, but his arms lashed out; wrapping around your midriff and pulling you closer – burying his face in the dip of your shoulder, the crook of your neck. Again, he repeated, “I love you.”

For a second, you thought about pulling away, about sending him back to his room while you pulled yourself together. For a second, you considered reaching for your remote, again.

Then, you settled against him, shutting your eyes and resting your head against his chest.

“I love you too, Satoru.”

~

Admittedly, Satoru’s apartment was the closest thing you had to a guilty pleasure. The first time you’d broken in, you were still on the fence about just how much he needed your help, but by the third, or the fourth, or the fifth, you’d already made up your mind about bringing him home. You’d only visited a handful of times since, but it was nice to stop in every now-and-then, to remind yourself there were two distinct eras of Satoru’s life – prior to the day he’d met you, and post. Getting to spend a few minutes tucked into a space so essentially Satoru wasn’t something you were opposed to, either.

You made your way slowly through his former home – stepping over heaps of abandoned clothes and stopping to straighten forgotten piles of cluttered paperwork he would never be forced to re-visit. Satoru didn’t have any close friends or family who’d stop by uninvited, which meant every little detail was exactly how Satoru would’ve left it. The fridge was still empty, the freezer stocked with frozen, pre-packaged desserts; the walls were still empty and drab, utterly devoid of life; and best of all, his bed still smelled exactly like him. It was a silly thing to be so excited about, especially when you had the source waiting for you at home, but you collapsed onto the mattress without hesitation, shutting your eyes and basking in the evidence of just how hopeless he’d been, before you had a chance to—

Clipped footsteps, followed shortly by the sound of the bedroom door being pushed open. You bolted upward, your pocket knife (because self-defense was important when you treated breaking-and-entering like a hobby) in your hand in a fraction of a second, but the intruder didn’t seem quite so concerned.

It was a woman – deathly pale and worryingly gaunt, just a little too short to be considered average. She regarded you with a cold stare before nodding by way of greeting. “I’m guessing you’re Satoru’s girlfriend?”

The irritation that came with hearing someone else use his given name was immediately overshadowed by pure, euphoric delight. Smiling like an idiot, you asked, “He calls me his girlfriend?”

“Oh, I’m not going to repeat what he calls you.” Her gaze dropped to your knife, now little more than an afterthought. “You can drop the weapon,” she said, holding up a manila envelope stuffed to the point of bursting. “Just here to pick up his lesson plans. It’s been a pain in the ass – having to cover for him since you two started playing house.”

She sounded agitated, but only mildly so. A small, rational part of your mind urged you to linger on the mild irritation in her voice, the odd casualness in the way she spoke to you. She couldn’t have talked to Satoru recently, not the months he’d spent with you, but if she was concerned for his safety, she wasn’t concerned enough to bring up the issue now.

The vast, easily distracted majority could only chant girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend.

You opened your mouth, ready to ask if Satoru had talked about you often, if he’d ever mentioned your name, if she remembered word-for-word what he’d said about you, but she was already gone – muttering a curt goodbye and slamming the bedroom door behind her. By the time you could force yourself off of his bed, she’d disappeared entirely.

That day, you picked up roses as white as his hair and forget-me-nots as blue as his eyes on your way home. Just to remind Satoru how much you really loved him.

~

Satoru greeted you as soon as you got home, like he’d done every day since you gave him permission to roam freely. You didn’t call out, didn’t ring the bell, and yet, as soon as the door was closed and locked behind you, he was there; his arms wrapped around your waist and your body hauled against his. He held you in that bone-crushing embrace for a second, then another before lowering you back onto your feet. You clung to him for just a little longer before letting go.

He always seemed to be smiling, but tonight, he was beaming. He pulled you into an eager kiss, only to jerk back just as abruptly, too excited not to start talking while his lips were still pressed against yours. “Happy six-month anniversary,” he managed, quickly enough for the words to blend together. “I, uh—It’s not much, but I got you something. I thought it’d be cute to leave it in your office, but that might’ve been— I mean, I can bring it to you if—”

“Remember to breathe, ‘toru,” you cut in, laughing. He let his head lull to the side sheepishly, and you went on. “You got me something?”

“It’s not a lot,” he reiterated, still shy. “I’m sorry, I’m not really used to this. I wanted to have dinner ready when you came home, too, but I think it needs a few more minutes.”

It was hard to believe, sometimes – just how lucky you’d gotten. There were only so many human beings who could say they’d met an angel, and you got to come home to one every night.

“You’re perfect.” Satoru blushed, and you pulled him close, pecking the bridge of his nose just underneath the bar of his glasses. “Finish up. I’ll meet you back in the kitchen to tell you how much I love my gift.”

Reluctantly, you detached from Satoru, and made your way to the home office you’d all-but abandoned after bringing Satoru home. His present sat on the edge of your desk: a small mason jar, just the right size to sit in the palm of your hand, filled with water and finished off with a jet-black ribbon tied around the lid. Two spherical objects floated near the bottom. Even from a distance, you recognized them immediately.

Satoru’s eyes.

If you’d been holding the jar, you would’ve dropped it. They had to be fake, but they couldn’t be – replicas wouldn’t have been so bright, so organic, so perfect. He’d been wearing glasses, but you’d been able to see his eyes, and— and even if you couldn’t, it wasn’t like he’d be able to carve his own eyes out in the nine hours you spent away from him. Had there been blood on his clothes? You couldn’t remember, now. Was he hurt? Had you ever seen him hurt himself? He couldn’t have left, but—

You felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your midriff, drawing you against a broad chest. The metal of his collar pressed into the back of your head as he slotted himself against you. “You mentioned how much you like my eyes, once,” Satoru explained, the eagerness in his melodic voice now painful to listen to. “I… I thought you might want a couple spares. For when we can’t be together. And, after dinner, I thought we could finally…”

He trailed off, embarrassed. Still, what he wanted was clear.

For a long moment, you didn’t say anything.

Then, with a heavy exhale, you forced yourself to glance over your shoulder, facing Satoru with a smile. “Not tonight, ‘toru.” You’d never been thankful not to be able to see the clear blue of his eyes, before.

“But soon. I promise.”

~

You couldn’t find Satoru.

It was hard to believe, even as you hunched against the wall of his bedroom, your knees pulled into your chest and tears streaming uncontrollably from your eyes. You’d looked everywhere – torn apart every room in your house, overturned furniture, called his name until your throat ached – but he just—he wasn’t there. You’d checked the locks (still in-tact) and all the windows (decisively unbroken), but the only sign of him you’d managed to find was his collar – cold and abandoned, undone and left carefully on the foot of his bed. It would’ve been impossible for him to take off without the remote still sitting safely in your purse, the mechanism was strong enough to endure getting hit with a car, and yet, it was here, and he wasn’t.

God. You were so fucked.

The open collar sat on the floor next to you, your pocket knife immediately next to it. Satoru was gone. He’d left you, or been taken – it didn’t matter. Your life was over. He’d go to the police, and you’d be arrested, and you’d never get to see Satoru again. Even if he didn’t go to the police, he was never coming back. Either way, it was a death sentence.

You were never going to see Satoru again.

Half-consciously, your hand found your knife, fingers curling around the handle. For the first time in months, you remembered what your life was like prior to meeting Satoru. You remembered what you’d tried to do - what you would’ve done, if he hadn’t been there to save you.

You drew in a shaky breath, tightening your hold on your knife and raising it – first to your chest, and then thinking better of it, your throat. You weren’t very strong, but you weren’t very durable, either. If you were lucky, it’d only take a minute or so before—

“Baby?”

You stiffened, blotting out. For a moment, your mind went perfectly, euphorically blank.

When you came to, you weren’t pressed against the wall, but on your knees – straddling Satoru’s waist. The knife was still in your hand, but you couldn’t see the blade. It was buried in Satoru’s stomach to the hilt.

To his credit, he didn’t scream. His reaction was uncannily alike his response to the shock collar – wide eyes and parted lips, pain and shock only visible in the absence of his smile. Warm blood soaked through the fabric of his uniform jacket, washing over your hand, but you didn’t care. Only half-voluntary, you pulled the knife back and brought it down. You did it again, and again, and again, each motion repetitive and mechanical. You’d never killed anyone, before. It was unfair that the first had to be Satoru.

It was only when the blade of your knife met loose pulp rather than solid flesh that you paused, dropping your weapon entirely. Rather, your hands found his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through tattered fabric and tearing. You let out a miserable sob as you clawed at his chest, trying aimlessly to dig to his heart. “You left,” you whined, like that would explain anything. “You were gone, and I couldn’t find you, and I thought I’d never see you again, and—” You cut yourself, gasping. “And you’re dying. Oh my god, Satoru, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

It never occurred to you to call an ambulance. Your body seemed to move on its own, clambering down just far enough to tear at the waistband of his pants, to free his cock. “’m just fine, princess,” he muttered, but you weren’t in a state to listen. With a frantic sort of desperation, you pumped your fist over his length, his blood serving as good-enough lubrication. Satoru let out a low groan – the noise impossible to read as pain or relief. “Even better, with such a pretty view.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Your fist wasn’t working. Too frantic to be graceful, you forced his cock past your lip and fucked the tip into the hollow of your cheek, doing your best to ignore how his natural bitter mixed with the near-overwhelming iron-tinge. That, at least, got you a reaction – another rough groan, his hand in your hair as his tip started to leak arousal and you felt his shaft stiffen against your hand. You almost choked on your own relief, but Satoru soothed you, his blunt nails scrapping over your scalp as he cooed. “Been waiting so long to see you like this…” He trailed off, laughed. You felt another jolt of fresh blood leak from the tattered flesh of his stomach. There was enough to pool on the floor below him, now. “’m sorry – did I say that already? Thought I could step out for a second before you got home, deal with a last-minute mission, but—” His voice hitched as you let out another sob around him. “—clearly, my pretty girl can’t be left alone for so long.”

You couldn’t understand why he was still talking. Every word hurt more than the last – like he was trying to make it that much harder for you to do the only thing you could. When you pulled away from him, it was only to let out a fractured cry, to bury your face in his thigh, muffling your voice until it was only a whisper above nothing. “You can’t leave me. If I don’t have—If you’re not here, then I can’t—”

“Hey, hey, don’t talk like that. I’m not going anywhere.” You felt the hand in your hair dip lower, cupping your cheek. Another caught you by the chin, tilting your head back, until you were staring at Satoru – blood-drenched and glorious, sitting up and smiling down at you. He shouldn’t have been moving, you shouldn’t have let him move, and yet, it was all you could to do jolt upward and throw yourself against his chest, your mouth latching instinctually onto his neck. You’d always been so careful not to bite, not to bruise, not to do anything that’d leave a mark and mar his perfection, but suddenly, your love felt less like an act of pure-hearted preservation and more like the desperate throes of a forsaken acolyte clinging to the blessings of a dying god. It was hard to worship divinity as something everlasting when your hands were stained in its blood.

 So you didn’t try to. You dug your teeth into the side of his throat without reservation, cautious only not to visit the same patch of skin twice. Satoru felt any pain, if he could feel anything after losing so much blood, his only reaction was an airy laugh and a shallow kiss to your temple as his hand found your hips, then your sides. You felt yourself leaving the ground long seconds before your processed that Satoru was lifting you up, and even then, your awareness was burdened by a numbing sort of confusion. You wanted to tell him not to move, not to breathe, to let you help. You wanted to find your knife.

In the end, though, you only strung your arms around his neck and let him lay you on his bed, the mattress dipping where he kneeled in the space between your open legs.

In a daze, you felt your skirt being slid up to your waist, your panties shoved aside and replaced by the soft warmth of Satoru’s mouth. Like always, he was adorably clumsy – the bridge of his nose grinding against your clit as his tongue lapped and traced over your pussy. His fingertips dug too harshly into your thighs, his tongue thrusting into you too erratically, his little whines and occasional whimper too pitchy to allow for any real reverberation, but your poor nerves were so fried and your heart was still beating so fast and it would’ve taken a miracle for you not to cum – moaning pathetically as you bucked into his mouth. You’d imagined this scenario before, pictured yourself showering him with praise as you taught him exactly how to make you cum on his pretty tongue, but this was too quick, too abrupt, too out of your control. You weren’t in a state to teach. If he learned something from this, you doubted it would be the right lesson.

You reached for him as he straightened his back, but Satoru caught your wrist, guiding your hand to his stomach. Rather than mangled flesh and exposed viscera, your palm pressed against perfect in-tact, perfectly seamless skin. Like he’d never been injured. Like he hadn’t been on the verge of death only a few minutes ago.

Like you’d never even touched him.

“See, baby? I already told you – I’m not going anywhere.” His smile was soft, his voice soothing, but he was distracted. With a fist curled around his shaft, he aligned the head of his cock with your entrance, heavy beads of his arousal drooling onto your cunt and down your slit. “You had me worried for a while, there.” This time, his eyes flickered up to meet yours. “I know what I’m good for. Thought you might get sick of me before I ever got a chance to prove it.”

It would’ve been impossible to tell if Satoru was still in pain, or if he was capable of feeling something so human at all. The hurt that sliced through your chest, though, was agonizing. “I would never do that, ‘toru.”

“I know. And I’m sorry, too – it’s unfair to keep comparing you to him.” He bowed his head, dipping low enough for the heat of his breath to ghost over the shell of your ear, when he went on. “You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

There was a shuddering inhale, a sudden pressure against your slit. He pushed into you slowly, less concerned with your comfort than he was savoring the feeling of your walls clenching around him, of your body inviting him deeper, closer. You held your breath, doing your best to memorize every curve and vein, to accommodate him even as his length threatened to split you open. It wasn’t painful, but even if had been, you wouldn’t have complained. This was what you were supposed to want. This was what you were supposed to do for Satoru.

You could only wonder, then, why it felt so cold.

It was only when hips pressed into yours and he was fully hilted inside of you that he picked himself up – a hand planted on either side of your head, a broad, careless smile plastered across his lips. You registered that his lips were moving a full moment before you recognized the sound of his voice, as angelic as it was unbearable.

“I love you.”

For the first time, you didn’t bother trying to say anything at all.

[psilliguykai]

WELCOME TO WILLIAM’S WANTON WEARY WILES!

An impulsive, apathetic man’s misanthropic jams. An eclectic collection of futile dissensions, a pretentious pile of literary bile filled with self destructive theatrics and rectifying tactics and any other slew of showy words.

Welcome.

(Info under the cut)

*queue WTTH instrumental*

Hello boys, girls, neithers, boths, and in-betweens and welcome to William’s Wanton Weary Wiles, a Will Wood/WWATTW x CCCC AU! Consider this a masterpost. Note that this AU is still very much in development, and this post will be updated as things change/get added :] Also. being totally up front. I’ve never made an AU or attempted a story this complex before, so please bare with me if things get confusing! Feedback is appreciated ^^

Warning! WWWW tackles sensitive topics, but nothing foreign to Will Wood or Chonny Jash’s music. Appropriate warnings will be put in the tags of each post, but overall CW/TW for: alcoholism/addiction, mental health issues, suicidal ideation, manipulation, and (moderate) violence.

The WWWW AU story is very similar to the original CCCC album, but with slightly different themes and tone. It still follows HMSW after Whole splits, creating Heart, Mind, and Soul. However, each character and their dynamics + certain plot points (e.g the Juno incident) are altered.

Asks about this AU are extremely welcome! Could be genuine questions, thoughts, serious, silly - anything (so long as it’s SFW!) is great and will help me with making this a Better and Actual Thing :3

In WWWW each member of HMSW represents and is based off of a WW(ATTW) album. Each character’s songs are from their respective albums, and the story will be told in the form of a written series of covers of songs by WW/WWATTW (plus some visual pieces :]). These will be posted individually and linked here as they get released.

3/31/25 EDIT: The information above is somewhat outdated! The idea of having to write 20+ song covers has been kind of killing my motivation for this project, so I've decided I will only be writing the covers I'm confident and interested in. However, the full tracklist with notes on what happens in each song will be posted soon[ish] and hyperlinked here when it's finished so you all still get the full storyline :]

While HMSW still exist with the same vague concepts and color themes, they do diverge a decent bit from the original CCCC album and I would not consider them to be representations of canon HMSW (or of any real people, including Whole /srs). Ref sheets have been posted and are linked in each character's name.

Important overall info: 

- HMS exists in a sort of parallel reality I’m calling Marybell (as a reference to Suburbia Overture as well as The Prescription). It’s a town within Will’s psyche that reflects his reality. It can change depending on his state of mind/current situation, and pretty much only exists to provide a physical space for HMS.

- Time loop!! Soul remembers every loop and knows the vague events that happen when Will is whole (though the memories are less clear than when he’s split). Heart and Mind don’t remember previous loops and aren’t really aware of anything when HMS is combined. Physical changes caused to any of HMS remain, even when the timeloop resets.

- LI does exist in WWWW! She’s about as significant as she is in CCCC and will probably get at least an intro, if not her own ref sheet at some point. I also have a sort of Darrell-equivelant which will probably get his own thing at some point as well.

Meet the cast: 

All characters have multiple names which can/will be used interchangeably. I’ve included the pronouns I think the characters would use, but you all are welcome to use whatever you’d like for any of them. Run free :3 here are the posts with the ref sheets for each of them - info on its own is below:

William

Jimmy/Laplace/Cotard

Whole:

- Whole/Will/William Racheal McSprout

- In Case I Make It

- He/him (GNC Cis Guy)

- 23-24 years old across the album

- Works at a small grocery/general tourist store

- Makes music as a side hobby. Not that successful lol. He makes decent stuff though - within the AU, the ICIMI covers featured would be considered his original music. 

- Spends his extra money on video games, alcohol, music equipment (sorta, though he mostly borrows shit and uses free programs), and serving cunt (fashion/makeup stuff)

- Not aware of HMS, though they’re aware of him. Mostly just feels a general sense of dissonance during splits, rather than Knowing the presence of these Multiple Actual Guys. Can’t interact with Marybell, same as HMS can’t (directly) interact with the “Real World”.

Soul:

- The Soul/Mr. Capgras/Cotard/Atlas

- He/it

- SELF-iSH

- Whole’s “self” - who he is at his core. His identity and personality at its most raw form. 

- He’s the most in-tune with Will’s actual state of being (health, emotions, etc.) and considers himself to somewhat be William, just separated and with pieces of himself missing. 

- Ultimate goal is to become a Happy Healthy and Alive Whole. Unlike in CCCC, the self-destruction is left more to H/M in this one .

- Knows he needs to get Heart and Mind to work together if he wants to keep William good and well, but he’s growing incredibly tired throughout the loops. He primarily experiences Will’s worst moments and rarely gets a break. Spends most of him life trying to get these. Fuckers. to get along and he’s so incredibly done with both of them. Growing distant, but ultimately does care about H/M on a personal level and really wishes they could all be happy together.

Mind:

- The Mind/Laplace/Al/Marsha/Apollo

- He/she

- The Normal Album

- Whole’s logic, as well as his self-control and calculated decision making. Doing his best to keep Will stable and often doing so to the point of burnout.

- Primarily tries to keep Heart in check, to the point of excessively trying to control it and Soul. Wants to keep Whole productive and functional by any means necessary. 

- At the end of the day, he does want Whole to live a happy life, but (despite keeping up a facade of superiority and strength) fears Heart’s impulsiveness/ erratic nature and feels the need to over-compensate in order to keep Will safe. 

Heart:

- The Heart/Jimmy/Vestal/Artemis

- He/it

- Everything Is a Lot

- Whole’s emotions, as well as his impulsiveness and indulgence. Sometimes joy-seeking, sometimes self-destructive. Often those two go hand in hand.

- Focused on breaking free from Mind’s controlling nature, trying to get her and Soul to “live a little”. Wants to allow Whole unbridled indulgence (in every whim and emotion, including negative) often to the point of self-destruction. 

- Ultimately knows he’s wrecking Will, but finds it’s the only way he knows to soothe his suffering. He knows Mind is right about them needing to get their shit together, but finds him difficult to work with and listen to when he’s so excessively overbearing. 

Tags:

Everything about this AU will be listed under the tags #wwww au and #william’s wanton weary wiles. 

Additional tags (color-coded according to character): #William Racheal McSprout, #Jimmy wwww, #Al wwww, and #Mr. Capgras wwww

[autism-autobot]

LMK Angst Fic Part 5

Author's note: I think there need to be more platonic and friendship cuddling in media and in the world, so here we are. (Definitely not touch starved nope not me!)

Part 4:

It was around three in the morning in the celestial realm. Nezha had become accustomed to sleeping beside Sun Wukong every night and had even begun to enjoy it despite the reason why they started doing it. He had always thought of Wukong as a good friend and companion, which he didn't have very many of thanks to his workaholic attitude. Him and Wukong had even become quite comfortable with each other.

Nezha was aroace and Wukong still considered himself spoken for since his previous marriage had ended in death and not divorce. So it was as platonic as could be. However, they were both touch-starved and emotionally neglected as children, so there's that.

Wukong and Nezha had grown used to falling asleep snuggled up next to each other, with limbs tangled in weird form around each other. But neither of them were exactly still while they slept, so Nezha wasn't immediately concerned when he couldn't feel Wukong next to him when he flopped his arm around beside him to try and find the monkey he'd grown so close to.

Until he heard the whimpering.

That can't be good.

Nezha bolted upright in the bed. He searched the dark room for his friend's ginger-colored fur. He found it at the edge of the bed.

After clambering over to Wukong's side he gently and quietly asked:

Nezha: Wukong, are you awake? What's the matter?

SWK: *sobbing* I-it's my head! It's hurting! It hurts so bad! Please-

Nezha: Shhhhh, Wukong. It's alright. I'm here, it's okay. You'll be okay.

Nezha had become accustomed to Wukong's post-circlet migraines and various other symptoms of Wukong's traumas. It seemed as though even after Wukong had learned to cope with the physical damage done to him, his body had not, and was therefore having it's own posttraumatic episodes.

Nezha had found ways to sooth him luckily.

Nezha laid Wukong in his original position on his side of their shared bed and put an ice pack on his forehead. He then lit some incense and lightly wafted the fumes in Wukong's direction so he could smell it. That was more to soothe the monkey's panic than anything.

After laying back down beside Wukong, Nezha wrapped an arm around his chest.

Nezha: Are you comfortable enough?

SWK: I think so.....*gasps*

Nezha: Wukong what-

SWK: Hot flash. Don't worry, it's already over. Gosh, that felt bad.

Nezha: It will be alright my friend. I am here.

SWK: Thank you. For everything.

Nezha: No problem, I quite enjoy your company. I just wish you weren't in pain as often as you are.

SWK: You and me both.

~~~

They slept for a few more hours before getting up. Sun Wukong tended to be very weak during and after a migraine, as was the design of the circlet he once wore. Nezha helped him to the downstairs living room and set him up on the couch.

SWK: Ow.

Nezha: Sorry.

SWK: Nah, it's fine. I should be the one saying sorry to you.

Nezha: Whatever do you mean by that?

SWK: You're always having to help me out with stuff and getting me out of trouble.

Nezha: That is only half true. Besides, I do not mind taking care of you.

SWK: But don't you think of me as weak for needing help like this?

Nezha: No, not really. If I did, however, I'd be the world's biggest hypocrite.

SWK: What? How so?

Nezha went into the adjacent closet and pulled out a wheelchair, it was the active kind too, unlike the bulky ones you'd find in the hospital.

Nezha: I haven't told you this before, I probably should've by now but, I guess I share similar insecurities.

Nezha: I am disabled. I'm an ambulatory wheelchair user, meaning I can walk about easily at times, while others I cannot.

Nezha: That is also why I have my fire wheels, sash, and staff. They are mobility devices. Albeit they are a bit atypical.

SWK: Cool!

Nezha: Really? You think they're cool?

SWK: Well, yeah! I think that type of stuff is pretty interesting. I get why you wouldn't exactly want to show it off though.

Nezha: Thank you. Perhaps if you are ever needing some help after a migraine or other health complication, you can use one of my many wheelchairs! I hardly use most of them anymore, it's nice to have backups. Just in case.

SWK: Thanks for the offer. Maybe I'll give one a spin after I feel a little bit better. I still feel like my head will explode if I sit up.

Nezha: Alright then. I'll park this one next to you so you can have an easy transition when you are ready.

SWK: Thanks again.

Nezha: You are quite welcome.

Part 6:

Masterpost

[gamerbot-22]

Unclaimed Item(s) #514v3 - Personal Letters from IPC Stoneheart, Aventurine. Unsent.

Prompt: Letters

TW/CW: Revenge of the Angst, written like in-game readables, implied intoxication, implied suicidal ideation, barely proofread and I appreciate spellchecks, but bear in mind there are intentional errors in parts of the story.

Word Count: 662

A/N: Getting experimental with the blorbo up in this bitch. I was intrigued when I got the prompt, and after some humming and hawing, I had this idea. Now, as mean as i am being to a lot of my faves in this game (Dan Heng cries really hard, Aventurine gets... this, god knows what I’m gonna do to Boothill), I promise I do love these characters, it’s just interesting to break them down--

Likes and Reblogs appreciated (reblogs > likes) and Requests are Open! Read this story on Ao3 here!

<- Previous Ficlet | Collection Post | Next Ficlet ->

The dividers in this post were made by @/gamerbot-22 (me!) ☆

© All rights reserved by miHoYo

Below are the transcribed contents of unsent letters found in IPC Stoneheart Aventurine's (henceforth referred to as "owner") briefcase. They were all placed together in a large, unmarked, yellow envelope, kept in place by a single paperclip.

In accordance with Penacony's abandoned luggage policy, these and all other contents of abandoned luggage (henceforth referred to only as "luggage") remained within said luggage for one (1) system month after the luggage was deemed not a threat to Penacony staff, guests, or infrastructure. (Check staff handout "Penacony Grand Hotel Contraband" for list of items disallowed in the Penacony Grand Hotel.)

Attempts have been made to contact the owner of this luggage, but said attempts remain unsuccessful. If the owner does not claim their luggage within one (1) system month, all personal items will be discarded and the remaining contents will be placed for sale in the Penacony Grand Hotel's Unclaimed Items shop.

Begin Transcription:

Letter 1:

"Dear Sister,

[Line hatched out in black ink.]

[Line hatched out in black ink.]

Sister,

This is stupid.

- Aventurine"

Letter 2:

"Dear Sister,

This is still stupid, but I suppose I have little choice at this time of night.

[Multiple lines hatched out in black ink. Half of the page has been covered.]

I feel like those pretentious authors doing this. You'd be laughing at me if you could see all this.

This is what I get for being desperate...

- Aventurine

P.S. I guess you wouldn't know that name, would you?"

Letter 3 was written in an unsteady hand. Below is the transcriber's best attempts to decipher what is written:

"[indecipherable]

[a paragraph of text that does not resemble any language in the database. A lot of it is scratched out.]

Fuck I’m frgetting all the words.. Sorry sis I hope you learned how to read Intrstrl Standrd [the words are crushed against the side of the paper]

I see you everywhere. I try not too but I do. You and Mama. Sometimes Papa but I bearly remember him as it is. Who wouldve thought necklace displays wuld make me [scrawled out word] n[scrawled out word] fuck n o s t a l g i c? there

It’s hard to keep going. Specialy with this neverending headache. Makes me wamna switch from craps to [scrawled out word] sorry

sorry sorry

- [indecipherable]sha

P.s. give mama a hug for me

P.p.s.. I miss you"

Letter 4:

“Dear sister,

Ridiculous as it is, I hate the thought that you somehow saw that last letter. So… here, I guess. A better one for you. Or for me. For us.

I really did mean what I said last time. About how I see you and Mama everywhere. I meet women who would be your age now and it makes some part of me ache. If I could get this successful, it makes me wonder how well you’d do if you had the chance.

Maybe you’d get a new name, too. Maybe we’d even be Stonehearts together. Might make the job a little more tolerable, you know?

But it’s better this way, I think. If you’re able to read these, then you’ve seen everything that lead up to it, and what kind of brother would I be if I said I wished you were in that with me?

Stay where you are, sis, and keep a seat warm for me next to you and Mama. If all goes to plan… I might be seeing you sooner rather than later.

I love you both. I miss you more than I’d like to admit.

- Aventurine”

End Transcription.

Transcriber’s note: It’s my personal recommendation that if the owner does not claim these letters, both them and this transcription should be destroyed.

[flightfoot]

TW suicide, suicidal ideation and suicidal thoughts

I'm reading the Of Nero for the first time (I haven't finished it, They just defeated Nero) and I really didn't expect how actively suicidal Apollo is in this book. Is it just my impression? Because every time he faces a problem his solution is like 'and that will lead me to my inevitable death'and he doesn't sound scared or worried, even when those are feelings he's experiencing, there's almost a sense of *relief* and *comfort* in his internal narrative

And for me it's much more active than in the previous books. I feel like the first time Apollo can be classified as suicidal and not just self-destructive is when he stabs himself with the arrow (even if he doesn't think so. His excuse of "I knew it wouldn't kill me" resonates too close to some of my own thoughts for me to be comfortable) and then, crushed by guilt and forced to confront some of his worst actions (which he doesn't even really try to justify unlike in previous books), he acts passively suicidal, but here he gave me the impression of a death seeker.

It doesn't feel like the other heroes behave, they are willing to fight and recognize that death could be an outcome, but they still want to live. Apollo behaves as if this outcome is not only probable but also... Not horrible, because to himself he does not recognize that he is behaving suicidally, that he constantly thinks "My destiny is to find death" is not a normal line of thinking.

But that could be me projecting, I'll admit that.

My thoughts for now are that a. Apollo may be scared of what comes next, not of facing his enemy but of returning to his own abusive home (especially since Meg has always been his narrative foil and contrast and he already explained in detail what it meant to return to that environment) and b. In a mix... I don't know if I should call it guilt and admiration, Apollo has come to think that giving his life is not only the ultimate act of atonement but of love and sacrifice for all the people he loves.

Apollo has also been through a lot in just a few months. Rick treated him like Apollo was his blorbo during whunptober. There was plenty of character development, but it also didn't shy away from some of the consequences and psychological weight.

Hm, Apollo didn't seem suicidal to me in Tower of Nero, really. But he'd definitely accepted the idea that he'd probably die, and that he'd rather that he die than anyone else. He'd seen plenty of heroic sacrifices throughout his trials after all, with the dryads in THO, Heloise in TDP, Jason AND Crest in TBM, and Frank made a solid attempt at it in TTT. Honestly both Jason and Frank seemed to have a similar approach to the idea of dying as Apollo does. They definitely don't want to die, but they won't run from it if that's what it takes for the people they care about to survive.

[astheforcewillsit]

Title: The Gathering ao3 link//tw past suicide attempt/suicidal ideation Summary:

For the Jedi, wins after Order 66 are far and few between. But they've managed to keep Appo alive for another day. The younglings consider that a win.

When Caleb finally joins the group of younglings (though he's hesitant to call it a group--Katooni and Ganodi hardly count as that), they are lingering cautiously outside of Appo's suite. Katooni's eyes light up when she spots Caleb, though the wringing in her fingers does not stop.

Ganodi does slow her pacing, though tugs on her padawan beads anxiously. Katooni sports a set of her own too, and they sway as she approaches Caleb. Like the few younglings who managed to survive Order 66, they were granted the rank of padawans.

"We've been waiting for hours. He didn't come down when we called him for breakfast."

Caleb nods stiffly and presses the ringing mechanism. He waits--nothing.

He knocks afterwards. Still--nothing.

A flood of anxiety erupts in his stomach, but he wills it down as he thinks of the first logical thing that comes to his mind.

It could be that he just can't hear them. These rooms used to belong to older Masters, and were more spacious than the others.

The Jedi had granted it to Appo to give him some privacy after Order 66. And mainly because the previous occupant, one of the many fallen Jedi, was dead.

Caleb was furious at first. Fury bordering the Dark Side--or so he'd been told. But more frankly, he was enraged that their Order, still reeling from Order 66, let a clone live with them.

The sentiment was shared amongst some of the others.

They were broken--the entire Order. A sea of missing limbs, of cloth bandages (because Force they'd run out of bacta), and funding nearly drained.

The Sith being revealed as the Chancellor did little to nothing to help their reputation. The Galaxy blamed the Jedi for the Clone Wars.

More than they blamed the clones.

And Caleb, in his anger, had let everyone know his thoughts about a clone living in the temple. A clone who ran down defenseless younglings with his blasters, who led his men into alcoves and crannies Caleb and his friends used to hide in when they were little.

His home had been tainted with ghost that would not leave. They were still removing the stains. Every week someone found a new body.

He didn't care that Appo shot Skyawlker. He didn't care that he had a supposed chip in his head.

He just cared that Appo was there, and he was the closest thing he could direct his anger at. He wanted him gone.

At that moment, he wanted Appo dead.

And then the next day, he walked into Appo swinging by his neck on a rope.

Caleb hasn't touched the Force since then. But he thinks he'll have to use it today if Appo doesn't leave his room.

"It's been almost four hours." Ganodi speaks in the same way she sounded when they cut Appo down, and told them he had a small pulse.

'Okay," Caleb says--Kanan--he likes that name now. He used it when he was on the run, and uses it when he needs to be strong. Caleb hid when Depa died. Kanan helped him survive.

"Stand back."

There is an dread about them as Kanan focuses his will on the door. He doesn't mean to tear it clean off. But the Force is new to him, and since Depa died he can't regulate as well as he used to.

He closes his eyes, and let's the Force guide him.

It's not as clean as he wants it to be. The door rolls off of the sliding mechanism like foil. The metal makes a loud, ugly sound. Katooni covers where Caleb thinks her ears must be, while Ganodi closes her's shut.

Caleb steps over the mess, and immediately finds Appo on the couch. Appo, who's eyes are closed. The sadness has scarred him permanently. Even with his eyes shut, there are heavy bags under them, purple and bruised. He looks older than he should be, and it's not because of the accelerated aging. He looks small on the couch, eaten by the large black hoodie he's wearing and the beige blanket on him.

"Look, there's pills!"

Caleb is free of the mess in a second. Katooni beats him to it though. She's shaking Appo like a rag doll. Ganodi joins too.

"Whoa whoa whoa, I'm awake. I'm awake! Is Coruscant on fire?"

Appo doesn't move like a regular clone anymore. A regular clone would have been up and alert the moment the doors came flying open. Appo is sluggish in his movement, pushing himself up by his elbows as he groggily takes in the wreck of his living room.

He removes his hood, and with it a headphones. His hair is curly, and a bit unkempt.

"You weren't answering the door. We--we thought when we came in, something happened. You weren't waking up." Katooni stammers, "You were supposed to come down for breakfast."

"I'm sorry. I'm on some new sleeping pills. Heavy stuff. heavier than what our medics used to give us to knock out," mechanically, Appo nods towards the half empty bottle, then looks at his door, "I guess they did the job." Caleb scrutinizes the medication. Appo used to scream at night, and he'd heard something about them giving him something to put him to sleep. Caleb couldn't imagine why they would do that.

He thinks Appo is a minor inconvenience away from swallowing the entire thing.

"What were you listening to?" Ganodi doesn't ask when she sits on his couch and takes his headset herself. It's award, maneuvering them on her ears. But she manages.

"It's pretty!" She screams.

They wince.

"Sorry," she apologizes, then says quietly, "this is pretty."

He's less tense around them. Good. He used to not even be able to look at the younglings without feeling guilt. And when Caleb yelled at him? Well that pushed him over the edge. Caleb feels he might as well have given him the rope.

"You should answer your comms. We get scared you know. What if you--" "Caleb, stop." Katooni hisses. She's on her knees with Appo's tooka in her arms, eyes pleading with Caleb to just be normal. Her expression a reminder that they were all hurt.

"What have you three done?" They forgot the door was busted in. Master Kenobi stands outside, jaw dropped and hands on his hips. Caleb is a bit guilty. From what he understands, Kenobi is still cleaning up Skywalker's mess.

"Master, he wasn't answering his door. We commed him earlier...We thought he..." Katooni being the sensible of them all speaks. But even her words fail her.

They do not need to speak to tell Master Kenobi what's befallen them. Why they did what they did. What has transpired. Appo looks tired, his hair curly. Like he hasn't moved in years.

"Goodness, you look just like Cody..." He didn't mean to say it, and by the time it's out he looks so bewildered and disappointed in himself all at once.

"Sir?" "Please forget I said that. Children, out. You have your duties," he fixes his gaze on them, and then at the mess of the door, "And Appo, we will have someone fox the door. I am so sorry."

Katooni returns the tooka to Appo, and threads her fingers in his before she's pulled away by Obi-Wan's presence. Ganodi is no different. She takes the headphones off and hands them back to their owner, squeezing Appo's hand before she leaves.

Caleb lingers, blue eyes locked on brown ones. The last time he turned his back on someone clearly in need, they died.

"Caleb," Obi-Wan says, "We must leave. He will be okay."

It's deeper than that. Caleb is forming an attachment, and everyone knows.

Appo included.

"It's alright," he mumbles, voice lacking all confidence. But stern as it can be.

"Be here...when we get back?" Caleb sounds small, and he feels small. He has a hundred and one things to say. To demand.

They should take the medicine away. His hoodie has strings. His blaster is on his table. Caleb could walk away and never see Appo again, and that terrifies him more than it should.

"Yeah kid, I promise."

Experimentally, Kanan reaches into the Force. It's the only way he'll truly know. When he last did this, when he told Appo to just die, he'd felt a reassurance in the Force that let him know Appo would do just that.

"You mean it?"

"I do." And Appo really means it. The Force is reassuring him, again. But this time, it's different. It's calm, warmth beckoning him back.

He nods and follows Obi-Wan out. He thinks he hears Deppa telling him it will be okay.

[demise-seems-dead]

@askingkyborg's main here to being you another emo chip mini fic! Spoilers for 33-36 and SHHH i know it doesnt make sense timeline wise because they go straight to the vampspire from town but shut up no they dont

this will be posted on ao3 when i fix my account btws!!

also also heavilyly implied OCD chip because yes <3

TW: Suicidal actions, ideation, etc. also minor disordered eating talk.

‘Care to spar with me, mon ami?” Chip looks up from the campfire at that point, maybe for the first time all day. His eyes focused up on Mathilde, the bird's eyes glinting softly. Of course, if Chip was honest with himself, that was a flat out no. Chip wasn't in the mood for being tactical, which is normally his thing. The only thing he wanted was for everyone to leave him alone. His brain has been on autopilot for the past two days and all he's done is sleep, eat and walk.

Chip isn't dumb. He knows mathilde is just trying to get him to do something, but what's even the point any more?

“Sure. I’ll spar, but we both know I'll lose.” The forced smile on his face wavers a bit.

Chip stands up, popping his back with a deep crackle. He sighs gingerly, and unlatches his arm blade. He knows I'd be smarter to use his crossbow if mathilde is going to fly, but it's not like he was intending to win. Chip is not a bad fighter, of course. No, he's actually quite good. It's just hard to think about when your mind is static and ocean foam.

Absently he loosens his neck, one of his habits that never ceased to leave him from years of assassin work. He always seems to have a crick in his neck, but it’s not really surprising. Chip had found himself in and out of jails, hostage situations, and attempted murder more times than he could shake a stick at. His body was a wheat maze of scars and old wounds, of torture and strain. But it was all part of the job, or at least that's the half assed excuse he gave himself.

The other part of Chip's fight ritual was coming into his surroundings. He followed mathildes movements in the clearing with lidded eyes, focusing in on the world for the first time since-...

Mathilde was moving cockily, as they almost always do. Slowly and elegant, feathers smoothed and freshly preened, it looks like. Chip raises his heels up off the ground, eyes narrowing in, trying to get lighter on his feet. His own body is different, and he feels less familiar with it. He's lost weight recently- not having eaten in a few days- too sick to his stomach from the previous weeks to even think about it. It wasn't a lot, but his shouldie hung off him in a different way. It made him wish he still had his D.A.G.A.R suit for training. His hand smelt like wild onions, and the rest of him like ash. He's been lighting the campfires with his tiefling abilities lately, instead of using his boy scout training from his childhood. Using that fire always drained him, but he can't help but be glad it helps him pass out at night rather than lie awake. He needed to sleep, to sleep, to dream and fight it off for a while. It's been his only time of peace for quite some time.

A few more seconds till the battle begins, mathilde is counting down, but he doesn't dare let the sound get into his ears. You focus on your target and your target alone when you fight. He’ll read their beaks movements for days instead of breaking his focus if he needs to.

Chip repositions, moving his left side forward. Not only is it the hand he's got his armblade on, but it helps hide his weak spot- the crossbow wounds still healing from the previous night. Barney had given him some healing in between, but in the night he'd gently picked at it. The red stains have always calmed him down, and on himself no different. Red meant alive still, red was the enemy, but red meant weakened and ready to die. To embrace the people they miss… so…so…bad.

Mathilde moves, battle begins. He knows they're saying something snarky but he's too tuned out to regard it. He's watching and commanding from third person, and that's just how he wants it. Bob down, weave right. Mathilde lands a firm noncorporeal blow to his face, and he gasps out a little, breaking part of his concentration. A smooth trickle of blood drips from a now busted lip, and chip can't help but smile.

The chipper killer. That's what people used to call him, back in the day. Always had a smile when he killed, made jokes and jabs. This was basically the same, just less lethal. A laugh busts through chips teeth, and he smiles. Mathilde obviously looks a little shocked by his reaction. 

Chip plants his left foot, pressing all of his weight on his toes and not his heels to keep him flighty. He takes a slash with his arm blade. His eyes shut, but fly back open in seconds. Mathilde has a sting of blood dripping from the cut over his chest, red plumage soaking even redder. Chip laughs, and he sounds wild. A snarky insult comes to his lips but he presses it down.He can't cause hesitation, you hesitate you die. He needs to get his target. 

Chips' eyes are blurry, and he can hardly make out the figure in front of him. He's used to shots in the dark though. The blurriness backs up, and a sneer falls into his face. Kill. His ears flicker down a bit, and he moves forward. The kill drive of his nature was seizing him, hands steady and brain calculated. A stab at the shadows, voice howling in his own skull. “DIE!” 

Blood was splattered onto his hands, and it didn't matter whos it was. There's shouting all around him. He wants his target dead. He wants everything to die. He wants to die-

“CHIIIPPP!” a high pitched squeak breaks his brain, and the haze fades. The dark shadows reform, and suddenly he sees mathilde, blood dripping down their front and hands in front of their face, not in cowardice but in preparation for attack. An attack from him. 

Chips eyes shoot down at ellga, who was the one who snapped him out of it. His arm blade glistened in the draining sun, wet blood still on it. He looks up at mathilde, and the bird gives a sympathetic look at the absolute horror streaked across Chip's face.

“Mathilde i am so-’ “Don't be sorry, we were sparing, you just got a little into it is all. im fine, barney can heal me right up-”

“Already on it” the old man blurts, but looks at Chip with a spike of fear that makes the tiefling want to dry heave. 

“I-I-”

Chip runs a hand through his hair, unable to talk. He knew his killing nature was catching back up to him with carol dying, but now he's going back to how he was. 

Chip stumbles a little, back into ellga. He jumps forward and turns, pulling his hands all the way away. Sweat beads down in a streak off his chin.

‘IM- i- I'm gonna go forage-!” Chip announces with his most normal smile, his fakest smile, and turns on his heel. Mathilde makes a noise like they're going to talk, but just sighs, and it wills Chip into walking even faster in the opposite direction. He stumbles his way down the hill, moving away from the patch of grass they'd been at and into the main town of vania. He bumps into every person there, and several ask him if hes alright from the blood on his hands and his face. They don't know him, they don't know he's a monster. They don't know he's a friend hurter, or that he's the reason his wife is dead. They don't know anything, so Chip doesn't say anything. He just walks.

By the time the sun starts setting, Chip doesn't even know where he is. Vania isn't huge by any stretch of the imagination, but chip is already lost enough in his own mind to know where exactly he is in this unfamiliar place. After a while, he settles, tucked behind a building and hidden, breathing heavily.

He stares at the blood on his hands, and he twitches. Chip has never been a messy killer. Blood makes his hands itch, too wet then too dry. Dirty and disgusting. As much as he hates the smell of bleach, he always uses it for crime scenes. Blood was too dirty. Filthy, nasty, and wrong. He's been nervously rubbing his hands for hours, the blood mainly off, but still feeling like it's on there. He rubs some more at it, and curses under his breath.

He hurt his friend. 

He's a bad omen. An omen of death.

He's killed hundreds.

He's a bad person. An omen of death.

He's the reason his wife is dead.

He's a bad husband. An omen of death.

He's the real problem.

A monster. An omen of death. 

Why does he even bother being ALIVE? 

Chip sighs, running a hand through his hair and then wincing. Now that's contaminated too. Everything about him is dirty and wrong. Tears threaten his eyes, pushing into the corners and making a soft noise as they roll over his cheeks.Days of lapsing suicidal urges and injuries have snapped him into a terrible, terrible place.  Softly he presses his forehead onto his knees, feeling the cool scared up skin over his hot face.

He's not sure how long he rests but his dreams are uncomfortable. Swirling memories of killings past. Bad bad memories. They never bothered him before, but now he knows what it's like to lose somebody. Now he knows how much of a monster he really is. 

He's only ever startled awake by voices. Mushing noises of high and low pitches. He opened his eyes, and they flooded over with brightness. He stifled a groan, headache and ready airdropping into his skull and ears ringing like a kenku scream. His eyes focus, and he sees several balls of gleaming light, and his party in front of them. 

“What is tarnation…?” he grumbles, and the light speckles vanish, the sun's last entrails covered by mathilde spreading their wings. His eyes go up to his team mates who are staring at him with worry in their eyes. He winces distantly, feeling a spike of guilt as he sees mathildes feathers pushed out of place and puffed up. 

‘Oh.. uh… hey guys..” He rubs the back of his now sore neck.

“Chip crétin! Je devrais avoir ton visage pour ça, pourquoi diable m'enfuirais-tu comme ça, Ellga était inquiète, Barney était inquiet, j'étais inquiet d'avoir crié à haute voix ! Ce n'est pas si mal, je vais bien, c'est bien!” mathilde scolds in panicked sounding French, grabbing Chip by the collar of his hoodie and yanking him up.

 Ellga huffs. “Why’d you run off? It's fine! You two were having fun! It was a play fight. It's not real! Mathildes is not dead- well, they are, but it's unrelated!”

“I-” chip sighs heavily, shutting his eyes a bit. “You're right. Sorry. I guess…” chip searches for the words in his head, scrambling to think of what to say. Tiredness flushes over him in a wave, and he lets out a sigh, throwing his hands up. He lets his head embrace the wall behind him, and his horns click on it. 

‘I'm just.. I'm just so..so..tired.” he gives. “I didn't mean to hurtcha’ mathilde, I just got lost in my own head. Guess my…killer ways are catching up with me…” “Well you’d never intentionally hurt any of us. You told me coming into town that you're a good assassin.” Barney tries to encourage, but chips heart falls. “Yeah, well…is there really such a thing?I'm still a murderer” he chokes, and his body tingles with the feeling of blood splats from past kills all surging up and bubbling under his purple skin.

“Nonsense. Words are all made up, mon ami. One isn't worse than another. An assassin is a profession, and a murderer is apparently a death sentence to ‘za living. It dos’ant matt’ar! Those titles don't dictate who you a’hre, the people who love you do. And I say you're perfectly fine. We all do bad t’ings sometimes.” Chip sighs at mathildes word, ever wise in their later later years. “I suppose.” he says, not at all convinced. Ellga frowns, and it makes Chip want to bury his head in the vanian dirt. She turns to the alchemist, who Chip had almost forgotten about.

“Mr alchemist, do you have any cures for sadness?” “Not…quite, ellga, but i have somethings that may help, if chip here is willing.” The room pauses, and all eyes form onto Chip. “Awh, what da heck..?”

“Give me your arm blade.”

“What?” Chip stares at Robert like he's crazy. “Just hand it to me.” Chip sighs, and unties the arm band to it and tosses it over to the alchemist, who catches deftly. He looks at it for a moment, and then tucks it into his bag.

“How's that supposed to help? That's my best stealth weapon.'' Chip finds himself grumbling.

“Exactly. That way if you try to hurt yourself, you don't have anything silent to do it with.”

“Oh.” He momentarily wants to fight off the claim, but the arrow wounds in his foot and his lower neck burn with a shot of pain to remind him. 

“Okay.”

“Besides that-” Robert continues momentarily, digging around in his bag, tophat sliding down his head, “I've got a potion I want you to try. It should help.”

He extends out a vial filled with a shimmering blue liquid. Chip extends a gloved hand, and takes it. He removes the cap with a pop, and tips it back. He drains the liquid in a quick motion, and wipes the corner of his mouth.

“I don't feel any different. I just feel really tired and useless, mainly.” He says, and his head flinches back at his own words. Robert smiles, and taps the vile.

“Truth telling serum. Now you can't hide anything from us.” he pats his shoulder as he chuckles.

Chip goes to scold, but realises everything would get turned on its head when he says it. 

Mathilde snickers. "There isn't any way to heal depression with a potion, but now our too clever rogue cant hide anything from us.”

“You guys are my favourite people.” chip sighs, exasperatedly. Ellga squeezes his hand.

“Come on, let's go to the vampspire. Maybe seeing my home will cheer you up.”

“Yeah… maybe it will.”

[chaosandcrimson]

no way is that ISIDORA VEGA.. they're a 33-year-old SYNTH notoriously known for being FRACTURED & DISCONNECTED but there are some people who have seen them being COY & ENIGMATIC. if you ask me, they remind me a lot of the power of a little black dress, growing up in a house where everyone looks at you like you’re a stranger, and the ability to appear warm while keeping people at arm’s length, but that could just be because they're considered the COVER-UP CLONE around town. just keep an eye on them & see if their true colors shine through..

Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead? Did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed? Were you writing a book? Were you a sleeper cell spy? In fifty years, will all this be declassified?

OVERVIEW

Name: Isidora Aurelia Vega

Nickname(s): Izzy, Iz, Serotonin

DOB: Unknown, 2107 February 24, 2092

Age: 33

FC: Adria Arjona

Height: 5'7"

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Pansexual

Occupation:��Registrar at the DFW Museum of History and Art

Relationship Status: Single (Closed)

[+] coy, enigmatic, no-nonsense [–] fractured, disconnected, mistrusting

BIOGRAPHY

tw: human experimentation, death, depression, suicidal ideation

Isidora was the first child born into large, low-income family in the lower district, and to say that they struggled to make ends meet would be an understatement. Her parents tried their best, but by the time she was a freshman in high school, she was taking part-time jobs while also juggling her studies.

When she was 15 years old, her parents picked up chatter about a clinical study run by Epsilon Labs that was said to have a big payout due to the risk involved. She volunteered to participate and left for the study once it had been confirmed that the money had been paid out to her parents.

The study involved an experimental process that allowed the human brain to be mapped and copied into a synth body. Previous rounds of testing had seen a high fatality among test subjects, and tragically, Isidora was no different.

However, her clone survived, and her memory was altered to make her think that she had always been a synth. She was checked over and cleared to leave the facility after her family signed several NDAs regarding her condition.

Her family weren't necessarily unhappy to see her, but even as she tried to settle back in to her regular routine, it was clear that something was bothering them. She could never quite place what it was, but it almost felt like they were looking at her like they didn't know who she was, like she was a stranger to them.

Their emotional distance took a serious toll on her mental health and her grades slipped as she became severely depressed. She started going through extended periods of heavy dissociation, feeling extremely disconnected from both herself and her surroundings, to the point that she considered ending it all.

She was briefly institutionalised after making an actual attempt on her life. Once released, she moved into a group home and cut all contact with her family.

She took a job as a waitress at the diner while she worked on getting her GED, and continued working there when she was taking classes at community college, eventually earning an associate's degree in art history and museum studies.

Isidora worked at several different art galleries and smaller museums before eventually getting the job as registrar at the DFW Museum of History and Art.

She has not spoken to her family in 15 years. Some days, she still struggles with her sense of self and with feeling connected to the world around her, but it has been a long time since it got as bad as it got when she was at her worst.

MISC

Roughly translated, her full name means gift of the golden meadow.

One of her best friends from the lower district, Callum Valentine, is the famous masked musician Dopamine. She knows his real identity, and will often accompany him in her own disguise, referring to herself as Serotonin.

[new0bsessionss]

I just watched Me Before You

More thoughts below TW for discussion of Suicide and Ableism

This movie is so fucking Ableist™

Not in the way I expect, which was against quadriplegics, but in a new unexpected way which is against suicidal people.

Camilla Traynor and Louisa Clark were the only ones with any sense in the whole movie.

When someone is suicidal you don't go "Sure Will! Here's some paperwork and drugs so you can go ahead and kill yourself!" Especially when they have previous attempts! Just cause they're in a wheelchair doesn't mean they don't deserve the work it takes to help them live!!

The answer is therapy! and anti-depressants! and pain killers that actually help with his nerve damage! and any number of options that don't end with someone dying!

The thing that pisses me off the most is the way damn near everyone failed Will!

When you have someone experience such a disabling accident, it is almost expected that they are going to be depressed and suicidal afterwards. And if That Isn't Addressed™, no matter how great their prognosis or how far they get through recovery THEY WILL TRY, AND POTENTIALLY SUCCEED TO KILL THEMSELVES!!!! AND UNLESS YOU ARE A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL TRAINED IN MENTAL HEALTH(like a therapist, psychiatrist, ect) THERE IS VERY LITTLE YOU CAN DO TO SAVE THEM!!! Which is why I'm not mad with Camilla or Louisa because they tried their best but when someone gets to this level it's going to take a lot more than some concerts or trips to fix it.

And while there's not much you can do to save them there a whole lot you can do to hurt them which is what everyone else did. Like yeah Alicia invite Will to your wedding to his best friend like he wasn't the one suffering while you were "being comforted" through his recovery that'll cheer him up! Like sure Rupert go behind your best friend's back and fuck his girlfriend while he's recovering from a spinal cord injury! Like yeah Stephen Traynor cosign your son's suicide ideation by helping him get an assisted suicide!

Like everyone did wonders for his physical recovery! They got him specialists for a six month checkup! Kept an eye on his (what looked to me like) Autoimmune Disorder! Two caregivers! With an absolute beast of a binder full of information to make sure his every need was met!

BUT they did absolutely nothing for mental recovery! And that drove me insane because he could've lived but you can't love people out of mental illness! They need more than love, they need adequate medical help.

TLDR: EVERYONE DESERVES TO HAVE PROPER MEDICAL CARE! EVERYONE 👏🏾 DESERVES 👏🏾 TO LIVE👏🏾 EVEN IF👏🏾 THEY'RE A SUICIDAL QUADRIPLEGIC WITH AN AUTOIMMUNE DISORDER!!! 👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾

[lixiestix]

Poison

tw: mentions of drugs and addiction, suicide ideation, survivor's guilt, disassociation.

It was days like this when he found himself thinking back on his past. Days like this when it was quiet and raining, and he found himself entirely alone. Sitting in silence, fingers fidget with the phone they cradled. Felix sat in front of a window and sharp eyes watched the rain crash and slip down the glass, drop by drop. Dark eyes glaze over as their focus disintegrates when he falls into his own memory.

***

This time, it was how he managed his new life, his new abilities. For a time, it took everything in him to not kill anyone – assuming he went after those who were still so full of life. He remembers being captured one night, thrown into a cage made of silver. Felix was still such a new vampire, he had no idea how to fight back and he was weak from having not fed in some time.

It didn't matter how much he struggled, the bars were stronger and he could hear the sounds of maniacal giggles, voices cooing softly over how pretty he was - how feisty. His nose crinkled listening to them – and he could only make assumptions. Was this some trafficking thing? It certainly felt like one.

The next thing he remembers is his confinement being pulled from the back of a carriage and taken inside a large building. His senses were assaulted by everything happening inside, the scents, sights, sounds. It was all dizzying. The place reeked of sex and drugs and stale blood. Moans and screams echoed into his ears as if they were right next to him. And the fucking decor – gods, it was the tackiest shit he’d ever seen.

Another soft coo, from someone else this time. Felix twitched when his entrapment was sat down in front of a woman.

“Oh, you’re a gorgeous one, aren’t you darling?”

Eyes flutter and he attempts to steel himself, but the way his eyes dilated fully gave him away. Whatever game she was running, she could tell the young vampire was already enticed. The woman knelt down, fingers gesturing someone over.

“Open it up. I want a good look at this lovely thing you’ve found.”

The sound of the cage’s door open sent chills bolting through him and he damn near panicked when a thin hand reached in to curl around his wrist, guiding him out. 

At first, it was a lot of fawning over him – he had been in a pitiful state, how he seemed so frail, how beautiful he was and how dangerous he could be. There was a lot of talk about how dangerous he could be.

It proved true. Once he had regained his strength, he was given his first taste of fae blood – then his first job. He didn’t care about the work, it was the blood. Felix found himself quickly addicted and he’d do whatever he needed to get his fix. Nights without it, he swore he was on fire, like he was being torn apart. Everything about his previous life, his life as a human, came crashing down in heavy, suffocating waves.

His mother, his father, his sisters – gods, they’d have been so disappointed. Without the high, all he could think about was his family. So, he chased it. He was obedient, a good boy for the person he now saw as his savior. Any normal functioning person would have disagreed, but Felix was naive and alone and had no guidance for this world. He was, however, smart enough to not give her his real name.

Caspian. That was the name he had given her. His days spent with her and whatever jobs she chose to send him out for, Caspian.

Caspian was the addict, the entertainer, the ever obedient man who would do anything for a fix. Caspian was the one that other vampires found themselves enamored with, sending him love letters after one night, the confident and flirtatious little vampire. Caspian was the one keeping Felix alive, protected.

Felix was the one wanting it all to stop. Felix wanted to simply rest.

It wasn’t until he was unknowingly abandoned in an unfamiliar city, surrounded by unfamiliar strangers who had evidently bought him that something in him broke. Felix – no, Caspian held out for just a little while but it seemed even he had his limits. Felix managed to tear himself away, refusing even a drop of fae blood. Felix managed to get away, to fly under the radar. It surprised even himself but he wouldn’t complain.

He doesn’t know how long he spent hiding in the shadows, suffering the most painful withdrawal he could ever imagine. On better days, he could just barely hear the voices of his family, the voices of his employer, all scolding him for screwing up so royally. On the worst days, he was trembling with books and stakes in hand, praying to a god he no longer believed in to just take him or he’d do it himself – to simply make the screams of his family stop, the memories of their death painted faces fade. 

Felix never could bring himself to go through with it, no matter how much he was already sick of this immortal nonsense. 

***

A knock at the door pulled Felix from his memories, eyes flitting toward his hands to see knuckles turning white from their grip on his phone. Setting the device down, he quickly rubs at his face in an attempt to gather his bearings.

Clearly, he made it through all those decades ago. He was in a better place now. Happier. Surrounded by people that meant everything to him. There was no longer a need for Caspian.

[writingrose29]

Two Birds Masterlist

Pairings: Steven Grant x Fem!Reader; Marc Spector x Fem!Reader; Jake Lockley x Fem!Reader (Slowburn, Post-Moon Knight)

Prequel-Strangers

Summary: Sometimes the best person to talk to is the one that you will never meet again

Two Birds:

Summary: Her life was a continuous cycle of good and bad things. Anytime things were good she knew for a fact some shitstorm was going to hit her. However, she never could've predicted the mess her adoptive father's death would bring.

TW/CW: Childhood Trauma, Past Child Abuse, Implied/Reference to Suicide, Implied/Reference to Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Drug and Alcohol Abuse, Previous Suicide Attempts, Child Soldiers/Mercenaries, Will add more when they come up and on the chapters (Full list of tags and tw can be found here on ao3)

Other Content Involved: X-Men Crossover, Mutant Reader, Reader has a placeholder name

Read on: Ao3

Chapter 1:  A Death in the Family

Chapter 2:  Hell House

Chapter 3:  Déjà Vu (Steven’s POV: Déjà Vu)

Chapter 4 (in progress...)

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Future Chapters to be listed....

[vaticancameos221]

tant pis ou tant mieux? : Chapter 2

Here is chapter two of my first Johnlock fic! Thank you to @liliedailes for beta-reading this fic and also listening to me talking about my constant fic ideas!

Summary:

“Less trouble for ‘im.” There’s a sniffle at the other end of the line, ragged breaths like Sherlock is trying to keep sobs at bay, trying to stop them. As if John has no idea how upset he is already. “Goodbye, John.”

(or, Sherlock is drowning after having lost John and doesn't realise how many people care about him.)

Tw for chapter 2 only: suicide ideation, references to previous suicide attempt

Click here to read the chapter~~~

[ask-the-good-creeps]

You can open up if you'd like

TW: SUICIDE ATTEMPT MENTIONS. DEPRESSION MENTIONS. MENTAL HEALTH MENTIONS. DO NOT READ IF THESE THINGS COULD NEGATIVELY AFFECT YOU.

 Okiedokes, mi amigos. The following story happened years ago, but it still comes up in my mind a lot; and I feel like sharing the experience may benefit someone going through a rough patch and/or yield a bit of insight to y’all about why I think the way I do. If you decide to read further, please read it to the end.

 So, this story begins with my first year of university. I was nineteen years old, fresh out of the Arizona foster care system, and had a history of mental health issues (official diagnoses from the psychologists I saw was PTSD, Anxiety, Depression, and Bipolar Disorder Type II – all of which triggered and fed into each other) that I was medicated for at that point in my life.

 Things were going well for the first year…I made friends, I joined clubs and events, had an on-campus work study job, and was pulling decent grades in my classes. Then, the year ended and summer rolled around. I volunteered to spend my summer on-campus as a Resident Advisor for the university’s honors outreach program (where we brought 7th-9th graders to the campus for 2-week programs to give them a taste of college life and encourage them to come to us after high school, pretty much).

 To anyone on the outside looking in, things looked like they were going great for me. In my eyes, everything was going great. Except for one thing…my grade hadn’t posted in one of my classes for the semester, and I didn’t do to well on the final (in my opinion). I was slightly worried that I was going to fail the class – looking back now, that was a ridiculous worry because I was doing great in the class and the professor was a really cool dude that usually didn’t fail students unless they put in literally zero effort throughout the semester.

 But, I worried nonetheless.

 Even then, it didn’t feel like a big deal to me…what I didn’t realize is that subconsciously it was the straw that broke the camel’s back for my mental health.

 You see, being in foster care as a teen is Hell. Especially in Arizona. One of the things they drill into the heads of teens in “the system” is that we’re absolute failures who will drop off the map and end up leading miserable lives after we age out of foster care (probably because they don’t teach us the necessary life skills to survive outside of their care, but I digress…that’s another story for another day).

 In the group homes, I was the kid that stayed out of trouble and got straight-A’s in school. I was the kid who never smoked, drank alcohol, or tried drugs not even once in my life. I was the one that kept climbing and got accepted into university on full scholarship after high school. So, I was the one that all those adults of the foster care system used as an example…the one who had extremely high expectations on their shoulders as a result.

 So, when the grade for that class finally posted online and was not an A like my other classes (it was a C), it was the end of the world to my mind. I didn’t realize it when it happened, but seeing that grade made a thread of stability quietly snap behind the scenes where I couldn’t see it.

 As a result, I had a rogue thought.

 Now, when it comes to my thinking patterns, there is always a clear…well, pattern. If I’m thinking about my Great Aunt Vickie’s cat, for example, I can recognize that I started thinking about her because I thought of a funny cat story that was something similar to what Vickie’s cat did; and I can recognize that I thought of that funny cat story because I saw a cat meme on the internet yesterday; and so on, and so on, until I find the real-life stimulus that triggered the whole line of thinking.

 Rogue thoughts are a whole different matter entirely. Unlike my usual thinking patterns, these rogue thoughts just show up without any noticeable stimulus or previous thinking…and that makes them dangerous for someone like me, who has learned to control my depression through CBT and recognizing when my thought patterns are starting to get too negative for me.

 I returned to my apartment in between summer outreach programs (we had a few days to recoup between each 2-week session) and that’s when the rogue thought in question appeared.

 “Kill yourself.”

 That was the thought. It was not linked to any depressive thinking patterns, it was just there. It didn’t feel like a big thing, just another item on my to-do list for the short break I had. Had I been more used to rogue thoughts and encountered a similar one to this in the past, I would have thought more about it.

 I would have recognized that this thought may have popped into my conscious line of thought out of nowhere, but seen that it had deep roots in my subconscious thinking.

 But, I hadn’t had a rogue thought like this in the past.

 All of my previous suicidal ideations had patterns to trace back to in my conscious mind that allowed me to work through most of them without incident.

 So, I sat at my desk and started writing out a suicide note. It was very casual in tone, like a friendly farewell to my friends and family as opposed to being a depressing final record. I planned to jump off my apartment balcony the next day. After careful consideration, I decided that I would prefer my body to stay in one piece (my apartment was on the eighth floor, after all) and I opted to overdose on my medication instead.

 I had a little garden at my window, and I set the note there. I sent a quick text to my father that simply read, “My plants know the reason why.” I was prepared to take the pills…then my father called me.

 He was concerned, but I lied and said that I was just spouting random nonsense with the intent to confuse people (easily believable, as my catchphrase at the time seemed to be, ‘the pancakes fly at midnight and the waffles swim at dawn’ for some reason). He asked multiple times if I was alright, to which I always answered affirmatively. Then, the call ended.

 I went to my room and laid in bed. I put in my headphones and turned on my music. Then, I swallowed ten of my prescription pills (which I was only supposed to take one of every 24 hours, for reference). After that, I swallowed a literal handful of melatonin tablets I picked up OTC, because I didn’t want to be awake for the damage the prescription meds would do to my system.

 I laid back in bed with the music going, and passed out fairly quickly. However, the melatonin wasn’t enough to keep me unconscious as my body started trying to purge the pills in an act of self-preservation. I couldn’t open my eyes because every time I did, the room spun. I was throwing up a lot, and at one point when I leaned over the bedside to get it on the floor instead I lost my balance and faceplanted onto the ground (which I found out later had led to a broken nose). I didn’t even feel it, just the pain my insides were going through as I faded in and out of consciousness.

 Here’s where it gets interesting, reader. It was night by now, and the lights in my room were off. The livingroom light was on and it shined in through the crack under my closed (and locked) bedroom door. Even if I could open my eyes, it wasn’t enough light to see by.

 Yet, it wasn’t my eyes that detected anything. I felt a presence in my room with me, there in the dark. It felt like I knew this person, as if they were a close friend, despite the fact that I had no idea who they were. I remember asking this person,

 “Do I still have enough of the poison left in my system to kill me?”

 To which I received their reply:

 “No. You’ve coughed enough of it up. You’re going to be alright.”

 I cracked my eyes open ever so slightly and saw a flashing blue light shining up at the ceiling every so often. It was a notification light on my phone, which I had left plugged in to charge on the dresser next to my bed.

 My goal here was to die, not to suffer. Since this person there with me insisted I wasn’t going to die, I reached out with my eyes still closed a couple times. I managed to grab my charge cord and pull my phone off the dresser and to the floor next to me.

 It took a couple tries to dial emergency services (911) because I couldn’t keep my eyes open very well, but eventually I got an operator on the line and managed to briefly explain why I called in between bouts of vomiting.

 The paramedics came in. They asked me what I had overdosed on, how many pills I’d taken, and when I took them. I answered with the name of my med, that I had taken ten times my normal dose, and that I didn’t check the time but it was still light out.

The paramedics didn’t believe me at first. One of them told me it was almost light out again now, and that taking that amount of that med meant I should not be alive still, let alone able to express semi-coherent thoughts. They didn’t believe me until they picked up my pill bottle and saw how many were gone.

 I was taken to the hospital and spent a few days recovering there. I had my eyes closed and was in and out of consciousness the whole time, so I’m still not sure exactly what they had to do to keep me alive (though I don’t remember getting my stomach pumped, and I think I heard someone say something about charcoal).

 On my third day there, I started to think on what happened and realized something. I still didn’t know who had been in that room with me. The paramedics had to get a key from the front desk when they arrived and go through two locked doors (my front door and my bedroom) to get to me. My apartment was on the eighth floor, so someone coming in through the (also locked) window was out of the question.

 I didn’t recognize the person’s voice, so I chalked it up to my brain treating me to reverse psychology through an auditory hallucination to keep me alive. Though, that is just a theory.

 So, dear reader, you’re probably wondering why I decided to share this story. Well, it’s not really the story that I wanted to share, but what I learned from the experience.

 I learned that suicide is not a proper course of action, no matter the circumstances. 

I learned that we cannot die before it is our time – the universe will intervene. 

I learned that I have plenty of people who care (though very few of them know why I was in the hospital in 2015). 

I learned that stress is not to be taken lightly (subconsciously I had been super stressed about my C-grade and the implications that I was a failure because of it, and also because of everything loaded on my plate) and it must be handled in a healthy way. 

I learned how to say ‘no’ to avoid putting too much on my plate.

 Most importantly, I learned about freeing myself from the expectations of others. You see, my friend, you will meet many people throughout your life that are important to you that have expectations of you. Family, friends, teachers, mentors, and so on…and you may be worried about disappointing them, as I once was. But please understand that only your own expectations for yourself truly matter, and if you try to please everyone else you’ll end up in a really tight spot. Learn to let go of what they want and pursue your own passions and dreams (preferably before you end up going to university for a major you aren’t even fond of, like I did).

 Lastly, If you feel or think in any capacity that suicide is something you should do, I encourage you to think twice, and reach out openly and honestly with what you’re experiencing to someone you trust in your life or to a Mental Health/Suicide Prevention hotline. If you feel like you have nowhere else to turn, I’m here.

 As someone who almost became a statistic, believe me…I understand.

[thewhumperinwhite]

FBI: Confrontation

Simon makes some questionable decisions.

Previous: Rescue / Interrogation / Awkward / Painkillers / Father / Flashback / Visitation / Intravenous

This is simultaneous with Intravenous so Simon is not yet aware of the events of that chapter.

@whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: past child abuse, referenced death/murder of a child, abuse of power, systemic injustice, slut-shaming and feminized slurs relating to it, suicidal ideation referenced in the least respectful way possible, gore.

----

Simon parks illegally outside of the biggest house he has ever seen in real life, and before he gets out of the car he pulls his arm out of the sling and tests the range of motion he has in his shoulder.

It hurts to raise his arm, and it hurts to make a fist, but not too much to manage. He leaves the sling in the car.

The house— actually it’s probably big enough to be safely classed as a “mansion,” big and square and ugly with ornate columns and banks of windows that may as well be one big billboard reading “old money”—is surrounded by a fence slightly taller than Simon is himself, with clearly electrified wire at the top; the gate is carved stone and metal but clearly more functional than decorative. There’s a buzzer beside it with a keypad and a camera above it.

Simon holds down the buzzer and fishes his badge out to point it up at the camera. There’s no way anybody’ll be able to read it but it’s been Simon’s experience that people don’t actually read the badge, just having something to hold up confidently is enough, and the almost unbearable level of rage hammering in Simon’s temples is currently translating into complete, serene confidence that has the person manning the buzzer scurrying to open the gate faster than Simon can say “Agent”.

“Please come in, Agent Blake.” This voice is new, not the first one that answered the buzzer, and it sounds fussy and exasperated, like Simon is here to make a customer service complaint. Simon bounces once on the balls of his feet. That doesn’t sound like the voice of Heinrich Lange Senior, which makes it the voice of an obstacle he’s either going to go around or through. “Stephens will show you in. I can give you a few minutes.”

Simon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t greet “Stephens,” either, when the nervous-looking security guard comes around from the gatehouse to escort him up the needlessly-long drive to the front door of the mansion. Stephens tries twice to engage Simon in conversation, and Simon doesn’t even consciously decide to ignore him, it’s just a consequence of the size of the feeling in his chest, so big he can barely even recognize it as anger anymore. It doesn’t leave room for anything else.

Simon knows the owner of the stuffy little voice the second he sees him. Stephens the security guard leads him into a parlor off the house’s palatial entrance hall, and a man in a crisp gray suit is already seated at a meeting table waiting for him. He has narrow wire-rimmed glasses, an earpiece, and a tablet he’s holding like a clipboard and busily tapping away on, though he sets it down with a heavy sigh when Simon enters.

“Thank you, Stephens,” the man says, and gestures at the seat across the table from him. “Please sit down, Agent Blake.”

Simon doesn’t sit.

“I want to talk to Heinrich Lange,” he says, hearing his own voice in his ears like it’s a stranger’s, the voice of some very calm reasonable man he has never met.

The fussy man sighs heavily, steepling his fingers in front of him on the table. “So I understand. Agent Blake.” He looks at Simon, with tired eyes and pinched lips that are clearly supposed to send the message I am far too busy and important to be meeting with you. “My name is Carl Schoffstall. I manage the Senator’s affairs. I understand you were a member of the team responsible for finding his son Arthur.”

“Art,” Simon says immediately, without even deciding to. Carl Schoffstall twitches slightly as though in discomfort.

“I take it you’ve spoken to the boy, then,” he says bleakly. 

Simon raises his eyebrows and nods, because wow, this should be good.

Schoffstall sighs and takes his glasses off, folding them neatly on the table in front of him, so he can look up at Simon with the utmost seriousness. It’s like he’s trying very hard to look like Simon’s disappointed dad. Simon is so angry he almost can’t even feel it anymore, like he’s just barely hearing the blood roar in his ears from a different room.

“Then perhaps you’ll know what I mean when I say that Arthur Lange is a very troubled young man,” Schoffstall says. Simon almost wants to laugh. “Candidly, Agent Blake, he was traumatized by his younger brother’s accidental death several years ago, and I don’t believe he ever fully recovered. Is that why you’re here, Agent Blake? Has Arthur been feeding you stories about the manner of his brother’s death? Whatever he’s been saying, Arthur wasn’t even present at the time of the accident.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Simon says.

Schoffstall blinks rapidly, clearly caught off guard. Then he huffs, glaring at Simon. “Well, Senator Lange has nothing to do with your case, Agent Blake, and I think you’d be much better off to leave the Senator to grieve in peace, thank you.”

Simon does laugh at that, a single harsh bark. “Oh, haven’t y’all heard? His grieving’s a little early, he hasn’t succeeded in getting Art killed yet.”

Schoffstall pales, his hands skittering across the table to find his tablet while still staring at Simon with alarm. “Agent Blake,” he says in a mock-scandalized voice. “I have no idea what you—”

Simon leans forward, drops his palms on the table, leans just slightly into Schoffstall's space. He honestly has no idea what expression is on his face right now, but it makes the smaller man lean back and clutch his tablet to his chest like it’s a shield. “You ‘manage his affairs,’ huh? All his affairs? You didn’t make the actual call, but you must’ve known about it, right? Or maybe he didn’t feel like he needed help killing his son. Maybe that’s all old hat to you people by now.”

Schoffstall actually gasps, this time, and now he’s frantically tapping away on the tablet. “Agent Blake,” he says, looking back up at Simon and pressing the tablet back to his chest like Simon is going to try to read it over his shoulder. “I can assure you, I would know about any phone call— the—” Schoffstall trails off, raising a hand to his earpiece, and then he sags in his chair, letting his forehead smack into his hand, and mutters to himself, “Wonderful.”

When Schoffstall looks back up at Simon, most of the scandalized how-dare-you-even-suggest act is gone, and he looks like a normal overworked publicist. “Senator Lange has agreed to speak with you,” Schoffstall says flatly.

“Has he,” Simon says. His heart picks up, and the feeling in his chest is too large for him to tell if it’s anger or excitement. 

“God,” Schoffstall says, and gets to his feet. “I’ll walk you up. But for the love of God, Blake, don’t antagonize him. I’ve done enough cleanup for one week.”

Simon thinks he might be smiling at Schoffstall now. Certainly he seems to be baring his teeth.

——

Simon hasn’t done much research on Heinrich Lange, Sr., but he remembers the old man’s military background the second Schoffstall opens the office door and he sees the man standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to them, at full parade-rest. 

Schoffstall opens his mouth, and then Heinrich Lange turns at the sound of the door and shoots Schoffstall a withering look and the little man sighs, gives Simon a mocking all-yours gesture into the room, and leaves, shaking his head.

Simon closes the door behind him.

Senator Heinrich Lange is a broad and taut sixty-five, wearing a suit like he’d rather be wearing a uniform. He looks at Simon, still half-turned toward the window, his big heavy wooden desk unoccupied between them, and waits for Simon to talk first.

Fair enough, Simon thinks, his good hand clenching in anticipation.

“You’ll be happy to hear that your son is going to live,” Simon says, still in that same distant reasonable voice. Heinrich Lange’s face doesn’t change. “It was touch and go there for a while. Some of the hospital staff were taking bribes to deny him medical care. But we’re working on tracing that attempt on his life back to its source.” When Lange still doesn’t respond or move or blink, Simon adds. “We’re working on that right now, actually.”

Lange narrows his eyes at Simon, and what he says is, “Leaving the boy to his own histrionics isn’t exactly a murder attempt.” He turns more fully to face Simon. His face is totally impassive. “It won’t hold up that way in court.”

Bold of you to assume you’ll make it to court, Simon doesn’t say. “Your son is in the ICU, Lange. Denying someone life-saving care is murder, Senator.”

Heinrich Lange rolls his eyes. “I know my son,” he says, “and whatever shape he’s in, he got himself into. If you asked him, he’d tell you to hold the pillow over his face yourself, Agent.”

Simon has to catch his breath. He doesn’t say, your son held on to life by his fingernails when I would have given up a dozen times over, your son is nineteen and you and the devil combined couldn’t kill him and he’s twice the man you are; because he does not actually care what Heinrich Lange thinks, he’s here to talk about what Heinrich Lange has done.

“That’s not what he talked to me about, actually,” he says instead, and Lange sighs with exactly the same impatience Schoffstall had.

“You’ve been listening to him talk,” Lange says in a tired voice. He sits down heavily at his desk, no longer looking at Simon. “Look. How much do you want?”

“What,” Simon says.

“Whatever I’ve done, Agent, I can’t undo it now,” Lange says down at his desk, scrubbing a hand across his forehead like a tired old man. “Whatever the boy’s been telling you, he’s got no case against me. He just wants to dredge all my mistakes up again so he knows he’s not the only one still thinking about them.” He shuffles papers around on his desk, like he thinks he’s making some great admission. “Well, I— there’s not a day I don’t think about what happened to Michael. And once Arthur’s succeeded in getting himself killed, I’ll be alone with it, which will be punishment enough. You can tell him that if you want.” He runs a hand through his close-cropped gray hair, and then looks up at Simon. There’s a pen in his hand, and now Simon realizes there’s a checkbook out on the desk, too. “But first tell me how much it will take to get you the fuck out of my sight, Agent.”

“Jesus,” Simon says. He’s literally nauseous at this point. “I don’t want your fucking money. Christ.”

“Then what the fuck are you here for?” Heinrich Lange snarls, pushing himself up to his feet. “I suppose you’re here to sweep to his rescue, like the other one. Been telling you lots of sob stories, I imagine, about his terrible unfeeling father. He wasn’t here when Michael died, do you know that? He makes all the right noises now about how much he loved Michael, how all he cares about is justice for Michael, but that night what he cared about was drinking and whoring himself around half the East Side.” Lange’s face twists. “I suppose you already know about that,” he spits. “Is he well enough to fuck you yet, or did he promise to suck you off la—”

Simon punches him in the face.

Lange stumbles back into the window, eyes and mouth wide and shocked, raising a hand to catch the sudden gush of blood down his chin from his busted nose.

The desk is heavy, but not so heavy Simon can’t shove it out of the way with one arm and his hip if he really tries.

Lange launches himself at Simon the second the desk is out of the way, which is admittedly a surprise for the two seconds it takes them to crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and then Simon’s head is blessedly empty except for fighting protocols so well-trained his conscious mind doesn’t have to get involved at all.

Their training seems to be roughly equivalent, but Lange is sixty-five and out of practice, and Simon has recently been shot.

Lange lands on top of him and his first punch lands hard against Simon’s eye socket; it will bruise and gives Simon a few seconds of seeing stars but it’s a rookie move to punch solid bone with unwrapped hands and Lange’ll regret it tomorrow; Simon drives his fist up into Lange’s age-softened belly and it’s easy to shove Lange off of him; Lange is immediately winded and looks almost offended. Simon thinks that’s what happens when you’re used to punching unarmed children and grabs for the collar of Lange’s shirt, yanks him down to sink his fist into the old man’s kidneys again. 

Lange shoves Simon away by the shoulder, and by sheer bad luck his thumb lands squarely on the bandaged gunshot wound in Simon’s shoulder and Simon feels an immediate hot gush as it bursts straight back open. He stumbles back with a strangled yell.

Lange’s eyes flash like a predator seeing wounded prey, but Simon isn’t prey yet; he kicks Lange hard in the sternum when the old man darts forward to go for his shoulder again.

The fight is short and very messy.

Simon’s fist crashes into Lange’s teeth and he feels two of them give. Lange bodytackles him into a bookshelf, sending his spine back against the edge and then giving three hard jabbing hits to his wounded shoulder. Simon brings his knee up into the old man’s stomach and when the old man stumbles back he brings Simon with him, pulls him down by his jacket, jams his fist into Simon’s ribs.

By the time Schoffstall throws the office door open and four armed security guards pour into the room, the office floor is covered in loose pages from the bookshelf and shattered knickknacks from the desk, and Simon and Heinrich Lange are panting roughly in unison, Simon with a fist full of Lange’s shirtfront and Lange about to jam his thumb back into Simon’s shoulder. There is blood all down the front of Lange’s shirt and soaking the sleeve of Simon’s jacket.

“Senator!” Schoffstall practically squeals, and Lange shoves Simon away—Simon staggers dizzily against the wall, just barely keeping his feet—and yanks his shirt back into place, wiping his bloody mouth on his sleeve.

“Get him out of here,” he snaps, jerking his chin at Simon, and two of the guards descend on him. They’re about to seize him by the arms but they pull up short at the absolute ruin that is his shoulder and sort of awkwardly push him upright instead.

Schoffstall is hammering desperately at his tablet. “I’m calling the police,” he squeaks, but Lange makes a harsh sweeping gesture at him.

“Don’t,” Lange says in a nasally voice. He’s looking at Simon like he’s impressed, like he thinks they’re respectful rivals now, or something.

“You don’t decide what’s punishment enough,” Simon says, and he spits at Heinrich Lange before they drag him out.

——

Simon has seven missed calls from Rona. Rona never, ever calls him more than once, but as he’s staring down at his phone in the car it rings again.

“Where the fuck are you,” Rona snarls, and doesn’t give him time to answer. “Actually, I don’t care. Get your ass back to the hospital now. You fucking moron.”

Simon’s—fairly confident he can get back there without passing out. Maybe he should call a taxi just to be safe. “Lange paid off the nurses to leave Art alone,” he tells her, by way of an explanation. “He already killed his other son, and he wants Art dead.”

“Does he really,” Rona says with absolutely no surprise, and Simon can hear her teeth in her voice, and knows that at least thirty percent of her anger is directed right at him. “Apparently,” she says, and Simon goes cold to his bones at the sound of her voice, “he’ll have to get in line.”