#tw: implied/referenced overdose

[queermentaldisaster]

Rumor has it that the Riley family is cursed. First, their youngest son, kidnapped under mysterious circumstances. The nephew? Hit by a motorcycle that just happened to roll off the road. The oldest and his wife? Crashed into a tree that was in the middle of the asphalt. The father? Murdered in his hospital bed. The mother? Overdosed on pills she'd never had.

Task Force 141 knows the rumors. Who in the UK doesn't? One day, 141 is sent out to help a team in Las Almas called Los Vaqueros. Apparently, the Las Almas cartel is having a territory dispute with the neighboring city's cartel, the Zaragoza cartel. While Los Vaqueros is handling the Las Almas cartel with Gaz and Roach's help, Price and Soap go to handle the Zaragoza cartel. They go undercover, and discover someone with brown eyes and blond lashes, wearing a balaclava, being passed around like many of the blunts in that room.

Soap manages to get his hands on this person, who's clearly out of it. After some finagling, he manages to get them outside, wrapping them in his coat to provide them with some decency.

When they wake up, they're in a bed in the Los Vaqueros base. Soap asks them for their name and pronouns, and he introduces himself as Ghost.

[aftgficrec]

Hellooooo, I can’t believe this is open!1!1!!1 First of all, I wanted to thank you all so much for all the work you do!

I wanted to ask for fics about the twinyards pretending to be each other. Mainly light funny ones if you find them but any will do. Thank you so much!!!

Hi there, anon! Most of the light funny ones can be found in our previous ask for this. -A

NB: in longer fics this could just be a quick switch, so read them with that in mind

previous recs:

the twins switch 1 here

‘the glow in our mouths’ and ‘The Morning AUs Chapter 52: The Parent Trap AU’ here

‘The one with Kevaaron’ here

‘Aftg Youtube AU’ here

‘Forming a Family; Forging a Future’ here

you may also like:

Neil mistakes Aaron for Andrew here

twinyard mistaken identity here

‘If I Knew You’ here

aaron minyard is a little bit cursed series by BlueJay26 [Rated G, 2 complete works, Updated June 2023, Locked]

Part 1: Jeremy Knox Solves the Transmutation Question: Baffles Centuries' Worth of Alchemists [1429 Words, Twinyards Appreciation Week 2022] [Merriam-Webster] metamorphosis| \ˌme-tə-ˈmȯr-fə-səs\ : a change of physical form, structure, or substance especially by supernatural means // the metamorphosis of a perfectly nice teak table into gold (by your baby cousin who won't stop getting cursed) Or, Nicky endures the twins' shenanigans in every possible universe. **Written for Twinyards Appreciation Week, prompt - metamorphosis**

Part 2: AITA? No. Am I cursed? Very probably. [505 Words] I impersonated my twin brother to play a trick on his boyfriend. AITA?

AFTG Bingo 2k18: The Twinyard Card by exactly13percent [Rated T, Collection, Complete, 2018] 

Chapter 2: Pretend College is difficult enough to navigate without Andrew playing games with Aaron's best friend.

Two of a Kind by gluupor [Rated T, 9957 Words, Complete, 2019]

When Aaron didn't get offered an exy scholarship while Andrew did, they came up with a plan. Andrew would play exy and Aaron would go to class. No one would ever know that they were actually two separate people. What could possibly go wrong?

After Aaron goes to Andrew’s Press conference by @iserenademefan [Tumblr, 2018]

Andrew and Aaron pretending to be eachother by @offbrandginger [Tumblr, 2017]

angstier twins switch:

‘Give Me Another Minute (to Lay Here in Your Echo)’ and ‘another turning point, a fork stuck in the road’ here

‘Unlucky Lies’ here 

‘aparecium’ here 

‘Brother’s Best-Friend’ here

‘white walls’ here

‘Deals With Devils’ here (updated)

Doctor, What Doctor by AceSirenSinger [Rated T, 4081 Words, Complete, 2023]

And then, unfortunately, Aaron has an idea. The idea itself is almost not worth having. It is deeply unethical. It is the opposite of ‘do no harm,’ and it is not even guaranteed to work. Aaron actually thinks that this idea might be worse for his license than performing illegal care on a probable criminal in a back alley in the dark. No, Aaron thinks, it is undeniably worse. “You’re a survivor,” Aaron repeats. “You should already be dead, but you’re not. You should pass out sometime in the next few minutes, but I’m guessing you won’t.” Aaron squares his shoulders, makes himself say the words. “If I give you an address, can you get there? •• An AU where Aaron is a doctor, Andrew is FBI, and Neil’s gone rogue against the mafia. Neil needs medical care, and it really should be Aaron performing it, right? Right??

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: major character injury, tw: blood, tw: violence, tw: needles

Your love is my drug by babyprincess675 [Rated G, 24524 Words, Incomplete, Updated June 2024]

Andrew Minyard’s life has been painfully mediocre for years since high school, nothing but guilt keeping him alive up until his twin brother invites him to his Christmas themed wedding in Alaska, where everything changes. Or Andrew gets invited to Aaron’s wedding after years of no contact and things go wrong.

tw: anxiety disorder, tw: suicide attempt, tw: overdose, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: violence, tw: alcohol

in a manner of speaking by likearecord [Rated T, 6335 Words, Complete, 2021]

In Andrew's defense, blind dates are terrible and almost all of Kevin's friends are even worse. Nine times out of ten, calling in a favor to get Aaron to switch and tank it for him would be fine. Unfortunately, Andrew found number ten.

Crossfire by RoseGold_En [Rated M, 18396 Words, Complete, 2018]

The year is 2073. Andrew and Aaron Minyard are twins born into a world with a strict one-child policy due to overpopulation. They take on a singular identity as "Adam Minyard", with only one of them allowed outside at a time. Siblings who are discovered are separated from their families and put into an eternal cryosleep. One day, Andrew disappears. Aaron and Nicky have to find him while maintaining the twins' cover. It's up to Aaron to find out who sold them out and why a bureau agent named "Neil" knows his brother's real name.

tw: vomit, tw: alcohol, tw: violence, tw: gun violence, tw: death, tw: choking, tw: blood, tw: involuntary outing, tw: fire, tw: needles

Secret twin royalty au by @professionalfangirl24601 [Tumblr, 2021]

When queen Tilda gave birth to male identical twins, she knew it could be a threat to her country's future stability. In order to avoid the brothers fighting for the throne, she decided to give one of them up. He would be raised by a maid and then imprisoned with an iron mask constantly covering his face. 

Backliner Andrew by @palmettofoxden [Tumblr, 2017]

Part 1: Andrew takes Aaron's place  Part 2: Andrew takes Aaron’s place - follow-up ideas  Part 3: Backliner Andrew 3/? 

aaron is fat and buff too!!! hc by @palmett-hoes [Tumblr, 2020]

they're deals on deals on deals. meta by @thespineoftherighteous [Tumblr, 2023]

Art

Minyards art by @lnmei

HAPPY TWINYARD DAY!!! art by @babaleza

Aaron and Andrew sand castle building art by @emry-stars-art

POV: You’re Riko and the Twinyards are burying your body. art by @/capt.christine on instagram

nerdy Minyards art by @/intradaya on instagram

Mindyards on defense art by @/kulartly on instagram

andrew & aaron sarcastic healing art by @oliviaillustrations

[ao3feed-gav900]

painkillers

https://ift.tt/cXgpPuD by Incenseburnerdreams Gavin can't handle being alone, or his own thoughts so when that's all he has he spirals. Massive tw for Graphic material, more descriptive tw in notes Words: 4083, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 20 of D:BH (Mostly Reed900) Fandoms: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Gavin Reed, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed Additional Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Heavy Angst, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, No Dialogue, Angst and Feels, Hopeful Ending, Gavin Reed is Bad at Feelings, Gavin Reed Needs a Hug, Hurt Gavin Reed, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Is Bad at Feelings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, No beta we die like Allen, Not Beta Read, Triggers, Massive trigger warning for graphic material, Graphic Description, Depression, Dissociation, Overdosing, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human)

[tbb-appreciation-week]

TAGS ARE YOUR BEST FRIENDS

(Updated: June 2024)

Hello there!

In the pursuit of giving the participants tools for tagging their works correctly, thus allowing everyone else to curate their experience, I’ve put a non-comprehensive list of tags together that should be used if they apply to your work, during the event (and afterward, if you want).

There are gazillion other things that could be tagged too, but let’s be honest, it’s impossible to tag warnings for every single squick or trigger of every person in the world. So, I collected a list of the most common ones below. Like I said, this barely scratches the surface. It’s just a small guide for themes and things that you should warn about. If there’s anything else you think it needs tagging in your work, do it, please!

As the title says, tags are the best friends of both writers and readers. Use them to warn and/or block the content you write/read. Not only that! They also serve to finding the content you want to consume! You got the power. Use it!

I classify the tags into broad themes or issues, and then give some examples of specific tags within each theme. Those are just a few examples, not a complete list. Use your judgment to add others if your work requires them.

#️⃣ Explicit Language - For stories with excessive use of curse words

Curse words, foul language, profanity, etc.

#️⃣ Sexual Content - For fics where sexual content is explored and described in detail.

NSFW, Smut, kinks (specify which ones), mild/explicit depiction of sex, etc.

#️⃣ Underage: This is NOT for hand holding and sweet pecks on the cheek. It's for detailed depictions of sexual activity by characters under the age of eighteen.

#️⃣ Mental Health Issues: If your work depicts or implies/mentions the characters' mental/emotional struggles.

Paranoia-Inducing, Intrusive Thoughts, Medication, PTSD, Eating Disorder, suicide ideation, self harm, trauma, etc.

#️⃣ Violence: For stories that contain all kinds of violence.

Graphic Depiction of Violence, (implied/referenced, psychological) torture, gore, (mention of) weapons, (gun, domestic, canon-typical) violence, murder, etc.

#️⃣ Whump: For works that rely heavily on the hurt, and might or might not have comfort, especially when it's physical. Almost always, it goes hand in hand with violence and/or abuse.

Whump, injuries, blood, CPR, darkfic, sick fic, brainwashing, kidnapping, broken bones, etc.

#️⃣ Abuse: For works that mention, imply, and/or depict acts of abuse.

Domestic, physical, psychological, gaslighting, emotional, verbal.

#️⃣ Substances use: For when there's use or abuse of legal or illegal substances.

Mention of drugs/alcohol, recreational drug use, drug/alcohol addition, overdose, etc.

#️⃣ Death: For when the dead of a character is part of your work.

Mention of death, Main character death, side/background character death, Child Death, (implied, notes of) Suicide, Graphic Death, Animal Death, etc.

#️⃣ Type of relationship: Let your readers know what kind of relationship is explored in your work.

Platonic, romantic, x reader, clone shipping, father-daughter relationship, sibling rivalry, friendship, etc.

And the list goes on and on and on…

Now that you have some idea of what to warn about, let me remind you how you should tag your work. Be sure to @ this blog and add the following hashtags:

#tbbaw2024

#the theme of the day and/or #prompt(s) used

#medium (gifset, fic, podcast, fanart, etc.)

#trigger warnings, if applies. (see list above)

#prompt(s) used

#nsfw (only for NSFW content)

#any other relevant tags go here

More recommendations:

Please, don’t, I repeat, DO NOT put “tw” if front or at the end of your warning tag. Why, you ask? Because using just the word or phrase is much simpler for readers to block the thing. It’s because of the way the blocking feature works on Tumblr that blocks only the exact wording and not all the tags containing X or Y or Z word (it sucks, I know. I agree!). Let’s use PTSD as an example. I’ve seen #ptsd, #tw ptsd, #ptsd tw, #tw; ptsd, #tw:ptsd and more. So, you see the problem, right? Instead of just PTSD as a tag, people need to block every iteration of the tag that other people come up with, and that happens with every other single tag. Let keep it simple. That will be easier for everyone.

Tumblr veterans know this, but you should neither censor your tags, replacing letters with numbers or symbols. That takes out the very function of the tag, which is mainly to allow people to avoid topics they don’t like for whatever reason. Nothing of su¡cid3 or unalive, please! This is not TikTok or Insta; here on Tumblr, we tag using the actual words like human beings that we are.

Use Keep Reading break to hide NSFW, violence, substance use and/or dark themes, and tag it properly.

For any piece where the creator pairs the reader with a canon character, please use the tag #x reader alone, without canon characters or modifier for the reader. If you want to include also the specific tag of the character x reader, you can add it. That’s fine. An alternative is specifying what kind of reader is in the post text. Because since the combinations of canon characters and several types of reader is virtually endless, it’s easier for anyone who don’t enjoy reading fics in second-person POV to filter out these fics if writers use a wide-spectrum, nonspecific tag for it. It’s the same problem as with the warning tags.

Likewise, writers who do a piece pairing clones romantically, please tag your work as #clone shipping, so people can block the tag if those works aren't their cup of tea for whatever reason.

Gifmakers, if applies, please tag your gifsets #flashing gif or #flashing lights to warn photosensitive folks about it.

Use #dead dove do not eat for when you go hardcore, very dark, and/or graphic in the themes of your work AND also have tagged everything you're presenting in it, to indicate simply that this fic is clearly labelled and fully warned for, so if you open it, you know what you are getting into. If you heed the tags, then there will be no surprises.

I understand why some writers are wary of tagging some things, fearing spoiling the story among other reasons, but it's better sinning of over tagging than missing a delicate issue that could disturb a large portion of your audience.

But if you're still insisting of not tagging some things, please use Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings if you add your work to the collection on Ao3. As it says on the site's warning help (x): "Use this if you don't want to warn for anything. You may also choose this option if you don't know what you should warn for; if you don't like warning for certain topics or warnings in general; if you want to avoid some spoilers, but not others; etc.". It's a wordy way to say to your readers: "Read at your own risk because there could be unpleasant surprises".

Also, you can add the tag TBBAW2024 while posting on the Ao3 Collection, if you want. This is optional, not mandatory.

And last, but not least, readers, please curate your own experience. Be sure to block the tags AND post content for the things you find disturbing or could trigger you. Take control of what you interact with.

Two more suggestions, even if they're not exactly tagging related: The first one, let’s make art more accessible to disabled folks, so it’d be nice that fan artists (including artists, gifmakers and graphic manipulators) included image descriptions to their works. You can add those both on the web and the app. Just click on the 3 dots that appear in the bottom right corner once you have uploaded your image/gif, then click on Update image description (on the web) or Add Alt text (on the app), and write your description. Also, there's the option to put it directly in the body of your post.

The second one is also using Keep Reading break to shorten the length of your post if it's too long. It's annoying having to scroll down what feels like forever when you're not interested in said post. Also, you can add the tag #long post, if you want.

This turned out to be longer than I expected, so I'll leave it here. If you got suggestions or questions, please contact me through the ask box or chat, either in this blog or on @nimata-beroya.

And remember: tags, tags, TAGS!!!

[ao3feed-crimeboys]

Catch Me If I Fall

by meowritestuff

‘I’m flying, so catch me if I fall.’

Wilbur is a full-time therapist at Soot’s Therapy. Weird name, I know. He helps a man named Alex who is currently going through severe depression. Trying the best he can, Wilbur unfortunately doesn’t catch him in time.

Angst and TWs ensue.

Disclaimers / TWs : •medium? angst •self harm (SH) •physical abuse •character deaths •overdose mentions •low self-esteem •major insecurities •mental issues, +depression

» this fic is only in relation to characters, never content creators. I do not mean to trigger anyone that has experienced/encountered anything relating to the disclaimers. If you are uncomfortable with the following warnings, please do not read this.

This fic is also posted on my wattpad account: @TheTotalOpposite, along with other fics such as TOTTD & WYO.

And yes, the title is inspired by the actual book.

Words: 3121, Chapters: 3/12, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of DSMP alternate universes [AUs]

Fandoms: Dream SMP, Video Blogging RPF

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Other

Characters: Alexis | Quackity, Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Niki | Nihachu, Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF)

Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, Therapist!Wilbur Soot, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Alexis | Quackity Angst, tommy doesn’t want to be a barista, Barista!Ranboo, Manager!Georgenotfound, Soot’s Therapy AU, Implied TW, angst with a sad/happy ending, Genuine angst

[deathvalleyqueen]

The Gospel of Mary Jane - Part 3

A/N: I really appreciate all the support! This chapter is major angst... possibly triggering for so please pay attention to the TWs bellow, I would hate to be that person. Don’t worry... happier things are ahead for the babes before first...they suffer a little... (okay a lot)

Rating: Explicit 

Chapter TW: Death, Drug Use Mentioned/Alluded to, Overdose ,Serious Emotional Manipulation, Mentioned/Implied Self-harm

Words:  7994

AO3 Link: HERE

The first girl that would fill that odd little role of Faith lasted all of three weeks. I don’t even remember what her name really was now. Just that she hardly ate and rarely spoke. 

My mother had worked for two days to keep her alive but the girl was out to forget her life and leave this mortal plane. She did not want any part of Joseph’s grand plan and seemed determined to end her part in it. 

 I was the one that found her, going into the bathroom in the middle of the night. She had taken something, maybe even was given something in truth, but the girl was dead in the bathtub. It was horrific. 

As had become common, I had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I had little else on other than a dark violet robe and a pair of bunny slippers John had given me as a joke when we were dating, but they remain one of my favorite gifts he has given me. I was expecting nothing else than using the bathroom, checking my e-mails on my phone to pass the time and go back to bed. But, this is the Seed family. Nothing ever goes according to what Mary Jane plans, does it. 

READ THE REST ON AO3

[victoriaholmeswriting]

A Waste of Talent

Chapter Seven: The Falling Out

Read it on AO3!

Rating: M

Words: 808

  John firmly stood his ground as he waited for one of them to start talking.  Sherlock wouldn’t meet his gaze, but Snape’s glare was ice cold and deadly.  That glare that put fear in the hearts of his students.  The one that made Death Eaters and even Voldemort respect him.  The one many believed to be permanently etched on his face.  The very one that preceded most of John’s detention.

  That same glare no longer had any effect on John Watson.

  Years of war and years of living and working with Sherlock Holmes had hardened him far beyond what his former Potions Master’s venomous stare could do.

  John stared right back, completely unflinching, with a slight cocky grin.

  “I beg your pardon, Watson,” Snape growled, John’s grin pissing him off even more.  “I must have misheard you.”

  The brazen Gryffindor shook his head.  “You heard me perfectly fucking clear, Professor.”

  Snape’s nostrils flared.  “You’ve somehow managed to become even more intolerable than you were as a student.”

  “Thank you.”

  Another tense moment passed in which Snape stewed in silent fury.

  “John, leave it,” Sherlock spoke up.  The other two were slightly taken aback by his request, but they did not break eye contact.

  “No, Sherlock,” John responded.  “You told me Snape looked out for you in school and that you were the one that set all of this up so that he could have some peace after the Second War.  But you have been on edge since we left Baker Street and it’s only gotten worse since he opened the fucking door.  And, he is acting the same way towards you despite his obvious interest in helping with the case.  So, one of you is going to have to spill it or we are never going to make any headway with this case because you two will be too busy bitching at each other.  Now, spill it!”  John’s voice was now at a dangerous level.

  Sherlock shifted, but said nothing.  He was incredibly uncomfortable and anxious, and didn’t know what to do; John could see this, but he could also see that Sherlock knew he was right.  He hated watching his friend in such turmoil, trying to decide between self-preservation and solving the most interesting case they’d had in weeks, but he couldn’t let up.  Forcing the source of their tension to the surface was not only what was best for the case, but for Sherlock as well.

  Meanwhile, Snape stood seething at the blatant disrespect John had paid him; his own anger rising with every decibel of John’s voice.  “Very well,” he spat.  “I’ve kept enough secrets for ungrateful brats.”

  Sherlock cut his eyes at him, but didn’t take the bait.

  Snape let the parchment roll backup and stood straight, folding his arms with the parchment secured in his right hand.  “It’s quite simple really,” he hissed at John.  “Quite opposite yourself, your dear friend here was truly the most brilliant and talented student I ever had.  He could have been an auror or a Potions Master or Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.  He could have been absolutely anything.  However, he chose to waste his brilliance on solving Muggle crimes.  And when I expressed my… disappointment in his decision, he lost control, nearly blowing me up, and vanished.  I never saw or heard from him again.  Even Holmes the Elder seemed pissed off at me for the incident, but refused to explain why.

  “After quite some months of hearing nothing, I moved on with my life.  That is, until the two of you decided to grace me with your presence at this glorious hour.”  His closing statement was growled through clenched teeth.

  Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, visibly shaking.  

  John looked to him now, taking in how lost and upset he appeared.  His frustration faded and worry took over as something Snape said hit him.

  “Sherlock, where did you go?” John breathed, afraid he already knew the answer.

  Snape’s brow furrowed, turning his attention to Sherlock as well.  The sudden shift in John’s demeanor had taken him completely off guard.

  The detective tentatively met John’s gaze.  “You know where,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

  John sighed and nodded solemnly.

  Snape looked between them.  “Care to explain?” he demanded when neither of them elaborated.

  John watched as Sherlock flexed his jaw and looked at his shoes.  He looked every bit like a First Year being chastised by his professor.  “A drug den,” he finally admitted even quieter than before.

  Snape’s face fell, his eyes wide with shock.

  “Mycroft found me two weeks later,” he continued.  “At least, that’s how long he said it had been when I woke up in that Muggle hospital.”  Sherlock caught John’s eye again before saying in a shaky voice riddled with shame, “That was the first time that I overdosed.”

[themand0lorian]

And the Oscar Goes To... (1)

Best Production Design

Summary: A good production designer sees the beauty in the imperfect.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: Mature

Words: ~1600 (AO3)

Tags: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Past Relationship, Flashbacks, Strangers to Lovers to Enemies to ???

Notes: This series will be told as flashbacks, as well as present time. I did my best to include realistic timelines/make it obvious at the split.

Thanks to everyone who voted on titles!!!

TW for this part: Dieter experiences a drug overdose; reader uses life saving measures, including needles, to revive him. If you could handle the scene from the movie, you can handle it here.

If you or someone you know struggles with opiod addiction, Naloxone/Narcan is readily available in the US and easy to use. Reader uses an autoinjector here, but it also comes as a nasal spray. I truly hope you never have the need for it, but like in this fic, it is life-saving. Read more at narcan.com.

New York City, 1999

He met you in a dumpster.

Not a metaphor. Though if you tried, you could probably make it one. You were good like that.

But this time, you were actually in a dumpster.

He was walking by, finally in the place he had dreamed of—New York City. Not quite LA, he’d get there, eventually. He had to start somewhere. And somewhere was a shitty studio apartment with walls that always felt damp and rat poison stuffed under the cabinets. He was walking around his neighborhood, counting his seventh pizza place, his fourth “Help Wanted” sign—a playground mostly made of wood and sharp edges that the suburbia he grew up in would scoff at. He took a right down an alley, hoping to make it home before the cockroaches—and then you popped out of the top of the dumpster, an old globe held over your head as you proclaim victory. “Jesus Christ!” He startled, and you winced a bit. “What are you, Oscar the Grouch?”

“No,” you snark back, handing him the globe. He takes it gingerly, pinching the top as you hop out of the dumpster and brush off your slacks like nothing happened before snatching it back from him. “Another teacher was throwing this out--I can’t just let a perfectly good globe go to waste!” He looks at it with a grimace; most of the Americas are scratched off, there’s an unknown substance over Australia, and he’s pretty confident the old thing won’t even spin. A penis drawn over South Africa seals the deal.

“Perfectly good?” You take mock-offence, a hand raised to your heart in indignation. You attempt to spin it, but the globe barely rotates.

“Of course! Some paint and glue, maybe a little WD-40…this will be good as new!” 

You were good at that, too. Making old things like new again. He didn’t know it yet, but he would. He’d watch old tires get turned to alternative seating, watch mirrors turn to gameboards. He’d eventually learn to cut holes in discarded tennis balls with you to make the classroom chairs less scratchy. His observation about Oscar the Grouch—who lives in a trash can—maybe not so far off.

“And then what?”

“Then it will go in my classroom!” You explain eagerly. “The kids need something new.” You gesture around you; he hadn’t realized, but he was blindly following you as you walked, now reapproaching the front of the building. It was well-past closing time, all children long gone—the old brick building was small compared to the apartments around it, but etched in the front was a large “PS 365.” You stop at the steps, a coy smile on your face as you wave the globe around lazily. He’s completely entranced; the golden glow of the late hour haloing your head, the slight smile you wear, your spunky attitude. Even the smell of rotten bananas, likely on your shoes from your dumpster escapade, is barely noticeable to him. Everything about you leaves him wanting more.

“This is it,” you tell him. “Good ol’ PS 365. Now one globe richer.”  You begin to trot up the stairs with your spoils before he calls out to you.

“Wait!—Wait,” he jogs after you, breathless. “Isn’t it a little late to be teaching?”

“You know what they say; public servants, working 24/7, 365,” you joke, pointing at the sign, and he smiles broadly.  

“You—you wanna get something to eat?”

“I don’t even know your name.”.

“Dieter. Dieter Bracho.” You introduce yourself back, reaching to shake his hand; he doesn’t even think about how yours were just rifling through trash, taking it eagerly, stealing just one lasting touch from you before he lets you go. “I—I just moved here. I heard there’s good pizza places here?” He offers, and you laugh. It feels like his chest might explode.

He misses that laugh.

“Lemme put this in the classroom, then I’ll show you—there’s definitely a lot of pizza places. But the best—I know a secret spot.” He nods, watching you trot the rest of the way into the building, eyes trailing over you like a lovesick dog—he knows then, even if he doesn’t admit it.

That’s when things change.

New York City, Present

The hallways look the same. 20 years later, still the same pallid taupe tiles, adorned with colorful bulletin boards and pictures of poorly drawn families of all types. One has tulips on it, each bulb a paint print of a hand too tiny to be real, the top reading “Never stop growing!” Another talks about seeds of kindness. They’re all brightly colored, vibrant and pounding, blinding under fluorescent lights in a way only elementary schools seem to achieve. It all looks the same, feels the same.

Or it would, if he wasn’t blasted out of his fucking mind.

Still, he walks the same way he always did; down the hall, up the stairs. Third door on the left. He trudges more slowly now, robe barely hanging off his body, shirt stained, but he finds the door like a ghost haunting the hallways—your name still written along the side with an apple next to it. The same name, the same door; the door is open. You always left it open. So he walks in.

“Alright, now here—this 9 + 9 is 18, so what do we do with the extra ten?” Your back is to the room, you don’t see him walk in, don’t even turn around until you don’t get an answer. “C’mon, it’s just like the last one, we—”

You drop the chalk when you see him, and it explodes on the floor. You used to accost him over chalk prices—each stick a precious 13 cents. Instead, twenty pairs of wide eyes stare at him in the doorway of your classroom, your own—slightly creased with age, slightly duller, still so fully you—boring into him the most.

“D—Dieter?” The kids still look astonished, silent as you come around the desk. He takes them in, barely recognizing that there are others in the room; that it’s two PM on a Tuesday and Tuesdays are for math. He’s in a trance, a haze, even as one kid pipes up.

“Isn’t that the guy from the Cliff Beasts?” Several others begin to join him. “Is he famous? Miss—how do you know someone famous? He smells! He looks like he’s homeless! That’s how famous people look! Why is he here? Is he learning math?” Dieter doesn’t seem to hear them, eyes focused on one spot as commotion overtakes the room. With a clap of your hands, you gain control again easily.

“Work on your handbooks. I’ll—I’ll deal with this.” The kids go back to their work, not-so-sneakily peering up behind their tattered books to watch as you approach the man slowly, like a rabid animal.

“Dieter?” His eyes are glazed, he still won’t look away. You follow his eyeline to see what he does—the old globe, each continent painted and hand painted over and over, sits on your desk still. You clear your throat. “Dieter, you can’t be here—” “Bananas,” he mutters, letting you begin to lead him back out the door. “Smell like…South Africa…”

“Dieter, what are you—” you don’t get the question out; as soon as he’s through the threshold into the hallway, he collapses, and you begin to panic.

“Dieter? Dee—wake up—Dee,” you plead, shaking him gently as his lips begin to blue. With the commotion, several of your students jumped from their desks, and now peer around the doorframe in fear. “Sam—go get the nurse. Now!” You’ve never yelled at a kid before, even in all this time, and Sam takes it like a champ, running down the hall. “Kelsey—get my purse. Under my desk. Hurry.” Quickly, a young girl in pigtails runs back into the room.

“Dee—wake up—” you plead, shaking him a bit harder, though he lays lifeless, cold to the touch. His breathing has slowed so much you can barely tell if it's still occurring. “You—You said you wouldn’t do this to me. Dee—please—” Tears begin to form at your waterline, but Kelsey appears with your bag, and you do your best to swallow them, put on a brave face, as you dig to the bottom. You can hear several kids crying, comforting each other, a few scared voices. Kelsey stands at Dieter’s head, watching you remove the small plastic rectangle, tears streaming down your face. You quickly discard the safety cap, an automated voice telling you what to do, but you know already. You take the device and push it, hard, into his outer thigh, hands shaking as the timer counts down.

“Kelsey—go inside. Shut the door. You can free-read,” you whisper, the girl frozen as you inject Dieter with Naloxone. “Kelsey! Go!” She snaps back to attention as the counter stops, and you pull away the needle as she follows your directions.

You look at Dieter, really look at him; he’s gaunt. Pallid, a shell of the man you once knew. His face is creased with age and lifestyle, his hands adorned in rings that cost more than your rent. He’s still so handsome; broad and tall in a way you haven’t seen on anyone else. The tears that haven’t stopped running finally fall from your cheeks, adding another stain to his shirt.

“Dieter—you said you wouldn’t,” you sob, crouching closer to him. You can hear the bustle of the nurse, Sam, and others coming up the stairs, but you can’t pull yourself away; you whimper into his chest, feeling the thready breaths he takes.

“Please, please don’t do this to me. Not again—not you.”

TAGS: @pjkimrn @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @marydjarin @eri16 @curiouskeyboard @frankiemoraleswifexo @justjaclin @elegantduckturtle @janebby @leslie-lyman @bison-writes​ @imtryingmybeskar @athalien @vaguely-here-wish-i-was-not  @kirsteng42​ @girlofchaos​ @deadhumourist​ @amneris21​ @swtaura​ @tintinn16​ @squidwell​ @littlemisspascal @churchill356 @thesmutslut @harriedandharassed @pedrostories

[spencers-renaissance]

i can't forgive me & you can't forget

Summary: Spencer is happy that his boyfriend is as compassionate as he is, but watching Derek do everything he can to help Strauss with her alcoholism when he stood by and did nothing back when he was struggling with his dilaudid addiction is beginning to take its toll.

Tags: hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst, insecurity, est. rel., hurt/comfort, cuddling & snuggling, angst w a happy ending, fluff TW: referenced past drug use, addiction, and overdose, implied/referenced alcoholism

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 4.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // The other fic in this universe

Inspired by @marisatomay’s post here!!! The title is from the second part of the poem Betrayal by Lang Leav.

It’s pushing ten pm by the time Spencer finally hears the front door open and close with a soft click, hears the rustling of Derek ditching his leather jacket on the crowded coat rack and toeing off his shoes — no doubt placing them neatly at the side of the hall like he always does — and listens to his footsteps as he nears the bedroom where Spencer’s been holed up since Derek left.

“Hey, baby boy,” Derek says with a warm, relaxed smile, his fingers already working on undoing his shirt buttons, before digging through their wardrobe to find a more comfortable top.

“Hey.”

Spencer watches him with tired eyes. He’s been feeling as hurt and despondent as he does this evening for weeks now, but tonight is the first time he doesn’t have the energy to hide it. He’s spent the entire afternoon in bed, and he’s certain it shows in the imprints of the creased pillowcase on his cheek and his messed up hair, and where just a couple of days ago he’d rush to hide those tells, he simply doesn’t care enough anymore.

Derek turns around from the wardrobe and shrugs off his shirt, replacing it with a soft blue t-shirt Spencer’s always liked on him. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

Spencer shakes his head. Derek undoes his belt and switches his trousers for a pair of grey sweatpants before walking over to the bed and climbing onto the mattress, grinning cheekily as he rolls over Spencer’s body and leans down to press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose.

It’s sweet and romantic and so painfully normal, and maybe that’s exactly why he suddenly finds himself swallowing back tears. He’s hardly spent any time with Derek outside of work in weeks and he’s hurt and sad and struggling, and it’s only making it worse that his loving and attentive boyfriend hasn’t seemed to notice. Really, Spencer knows he needs to communicate, and that a significant part of his pain is his responsibility, but the shame—

“Well that just won’t do,” Derek murmurs, interrupting his thoughts as he brushes his fingers over a lock of curly hair resting on Spencer’s temple. “I’ll go and make you something. Or we can order in? What do you fancy?”

Spencer shrugs, looking away. He’s not trying to be difficult, it’s just incredibly hard to think about food and a relaxing night in with your partner when you feel like your insides are splintering and you’re just barely holding yourself together.

Even without looking directly at his face, Spencer can see Derek’s brow furrow and his happy expression fade, and soon enough Derek’s fingers are at his chin, gently moving his head until he’s looking at him again. “Hey, pretty boy,” he says gently, looking so concerned it makes his chest ache, “what’s wrong? Tell me what’s going on in that big old head of yours.”

So much of him wants to give in and tell him everything, wants to spill his fears and his anxieties and his anger and his shame onto the sheets of their bed and lay it all out for him. He wants to shout, “See? This is who I am! This is all my mess and my pain and my regret! Look at it!”

But he can’t. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to meet the swirling worry in Derek’s deep, beautiful brown eyes and he wills himself not to cry. “Nothing,” he lies. “I’m just tired. Hungry.”

He knows Derek doesn’t believe him, but there isn’t much he can do if Spencer isn’t willing to communicate, so he nods reluctantly and leans down to place a kiss on his forehead this time, lingering there for a moment longer than he usually does. The feeling of his boyfriend hovering over him and asking him what’s wrong and kissing him so tenderly is all Spencer’s craved for weeks, but now it’s here, he still feels sad and empty and hollowed out by shame and bitterness, desperate for something more without so much as an idea as to what exactly more might entail.

“I tell you what, I’ll go make you some tortellini, alright? There’s a pack in the fridge and it only takes a couple of minutes so I’ll be back before you know it,” Derek promises, and Spencer can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Regardless, Derek hops off the bed and heads out to the kitchen, leaving Spencer alone in the softly lit bedroom. He pulls the duvet further up to his chin and buries his face in it, the soft fabric gentle on his skin, and the comforting scent of Spencer’s shampoo mingling with Derek’s cologne settling him slightly.

Derek had spent the afternoon with Strauss at the rehab centre. And not for the first time.

The problem is, how can Spencer be mad at him for that? Really, it’s the epitome of his character: genuine, constant, unconditional compassion for everyone around him, no matter who they are or what his history with them might be. Of course he’d see Strauss struggling with her addiction and swoop right in, getting her settled in at the centre and spending hours with her on visiting days, fighting alongside Hotch to persuade the director to let her keep her job.

But watching him leave every week, watching him text her encouraging messages, hearing him talk about her progress and recovery… it strikes a nerve deep inside Spencer. He isn’t proud of how he feels. He knows it’s petty and illogical, but he can’t help it.

Because somewhere deep in his soul, an old version of himself, a sad, lonely, scared, addicted-to-dilaudid boy is crying out, why didn’t you do that for me?

It’s that question that really plagues him. They’re called into work the next day for a fairly interesting case in North Dakota, and there are some fairly strong links to the world of academia, so usually, Spencer would be all over it, reeling off facts and statistics and reaching out to his contacts to further the case. But for some reason, he just can’t get his head in the game.

He finds himself zoning out on the jet and wandering off at crime scenes without even knowing where he’s going. Initially, his team had assumed that he was thinking, or was going somewhere deliberately that might help them with the case, they’d all counted on Doctor Reid to come up with some brilliant theory to bring them closer to catching their unsub.

But Hotch had quickly realised that his head was somewhere else and kept him close to his side from then on. At least staying at the police station with Hotch and being tasked with reading through the unsub’s literary work and constructing a geographical profile both gives him something specific to focus on, and — as much as Spencer hates to admit it — keeps him away from Derek.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Hotch asks gently when they both find themselves at the coffee pot in the late afternoon. He doesn’t look over at him, his eyes focused on the stream of coffee and creamer headed straight for his mug. Spencer knows it’s a tactic to make him feel less ambushed and more relaxed, but that doesn’t stop it from working.

“No,” he says honestly.

Hotch nods in acceptance. He puts a warm hand on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. “Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.”

Both JJ and Emily eye him suspiciously throughout the case as well, but no one is more confused and concerned than Derek. Spencer tries not to think about the irony.

“Baby, what’s got you all distracted like this?” Derek asks softly when they’re finally alone in their room that night, full up from the rushed dinner they’d all had in the lobby before crawling to their rooms for a couple of hours’ sleep before the manhunt continues in the morning. “This is so unlike you and you know it.”

Spencer doesn’t reply, just continues quietly changing into his pajamas before brushing his teeth and washing his face. Derek’s still sitting in the same position when he comes out, looking frustrated and contemplative, and Spencer feels guilty for making him feel this way, but he just doesn’t know what to do. He can’t act like everything's okay because it isn’t, and he’s tired himself out from pretending that it was for weeks, now. But he can’t tell him what’s going on either.

The thing is, how is Spencer supposed to admit that he’s still hurt over something that happened almost five years ago now? And how is he supposed to admit that Derek doing the right thing is only reopening wounds he’d tried so hard to heal and close? That both Derek and Hotch had specifically helped him heal and close?

He doesn’t know how to verbalise his feelings without sounding petulant or pathetic, so he doesn’t. He keeps them buried deep inside him and hopes desperately that no one comes digging.

“I’m fine, Derek,” he lies again, leaning down to kiss him gently before rounding the bed and crawling under the covers. “Just having an off day, I guess.”

Derek sighs but doesn’t push any further, clearly knowing a lost cause when he sees one. Instead, he follows in Spencer’s footsteps and gets ready for bed silently, whispering a quiet good night before switching off the lamp and climbing into bed on the other side.

It feels like the expanse of white sheet between them goes on for miles.

It’s the first time Spencer’s regretted Hotch’s decision to continue letting them share a room.

The question continues to plague him over the next week. He gets marginally better at pretending he’s not falling apart at the seams, and it’s enough to make almost everyone back off, but Hotch is still concerned and Derek is still confused, and he can feel himself drifting further away from the team each day, as though his rope tying him to the others has been cut, and now the current is having its way with him.

Nothing much changes. He continues in his hurt and lonely quietude, and Derek continues to ask what’s wrong, sighing sadly when he gets nothing out of him, and they exist in tandem.

It had always felt — ever since the beginning of their relationship — as though their relationship was a salsa dance. They were tangled in one another’s lives, both physically and emotionally, and they existed in this relaxed kind of ease that Spencer’s only ever seen before in long-term relationships. They’d fallen into a lucky, easy kind of love, and it was never as much work as everyone had promised him a relationship would be.

They’ve been together for four years, and their worst fight was over whether the cheese grater went in the cupboard next to the sink or above it. (Granted, it had spiraled into some other disagreements that came along with cohabitation, but. Still.)

Spencer knows he’s introducing a dynamic they’re unused to, and he hates it. Guilt plagues him, mingling with his shame and sadness until he’s drowning under the weight of it, no way to claw himself to the surface to take a breath.

They exist on parallel lines: next to one another; yet never crossing over. Their relationship is no longer a salsa dance.

The next off-day they have, Derek can’t get out the door fast enough. “I’m off to visit Erin,” he tells Spencer, and it still makes him irrationally angry that he’s stopped calling her Strauss and now refers to her like a friend.

Is it better that Strauss is now Derek’s friend? Him helping someone he actually cares about makes him not caring about Spencer all those years again slightly less of a gut-punch, he supposes. But the fact that Derek and Strauss of all people are becoming closer while he and Spencer drift apart hurts in a way he can’t even begin to explain.

This time, he spends the entire day crying. Every time the tears slow down and he catches his breath, another wave of grief and pain and anxiety and shame and jealousy crashes over him, and all of a sudden he can’t breathe again. It’s an exhausting cycle, and by the early afternoon his stomach muscles are aching and his ribs feel bruised.

It’s also the first day he gets a craving.

He’s an addict, right, he’s had periods of intermittent cravings over the years, that’s completely normal. Sometimes, even thinking about it in passing is enough for the itch to come back, to whisper the number of his old dealer in his ear, to recall in both his physical and mental memory the feeling that came with each press of the syringe.

This is the most intense one since his withdrawal immediately after waking up in hospital following his accidental overdose in his parking garage. It’s so intense that it scares him.

Crying harder than he thought it possible, he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and — fighting the temptation to type in the digits of his dealer — he dials the number he’s had memorised since he was nineteen. He can’t speak through his gut-wrenching sobs, but he knows the sound of him crying this hard will be enough, so he lies in bed and continues his pity party until he hears the front door swing open and the rapid steps through the hall.

Soon enough, Hotch is pulling him into his arms and he finally feels a little less alone.

Hotch lets him cry himself out, and only when his tears have dried up and the hiccups have subsided does he say anything besides the reassuring murmurs he’d spoken into Spencer’s ears as he cried.

“Spencer,” he says — somewhat desperately — “please. You have to tell me what’s going on. Let me help you, okay? Whatever it is, I’m here. I won’t let you suffer on your own anymore, I promise.”

Spencer doesn’t raise his head from its position buried in Hotch’s t-shirt, but he does finally say something. He doesn’t know what overrides the shame that’s kept him quiet — maybe it’s the exhaustion or the loneliness finally winning out — but whatever it is, he’s glad it does.

“I had a craving today,” he whispers, because it seems like a good place to start. “Haven’t been feeling good since, uh. Since… Strauss.”

It’s hopelessly phrased, but it’s the best way he can explain it and Hotch, being the miracle profiler and father figure of Spencer Reid, figures it out instantly.

He feels the way he slumps slightly, hears the tired, frustrated sigh, and knows he’s probably beating himself up for not figuring it out sooner.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just… I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”

Hotch shushes him. “You don’t need to apologise for that, Spencer, don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry for being so blind, and I am. I hate that you’ve been suffering like this and we’ve all been too stupid to realise why.”

“It still, it still hurts,” he says quietly, sadly, regretfully, “it still hurts that no one helped me until it was almost too late. But everyone dropped everything to help Strauss— I’m sorry, it’s so selfish, I shouldn’t be—”

“Hey, Spence,” Hotch interrupts him, caressing his arm gently. “It isn’t selfish. It’s human. And you’re right, we should have helped you sooner and it’s always been my greatest regret that we didn’t, and that because of that dereliction of duty, we almost lost you.”

“I’m not, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or anything—”

“Spencer, I know that. But you need to stop feeling guilty for how you feel, alright? It makes complete sense that this is bringing up both the feelings of rejection and betrayal, and also cravings for the drug you were addicted to at the time. It’s so obvious that I don’t know how I didn’t see it earlier.”

Spencer nods, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. “Derek’s been visiting Strauss on our days off,” he admits quietly. “I’ve barely seen him for almost a month now, and that— it isn’t helping.”

“I can understand that. Have you talked to him about any of this?” he asks, even though Spencer’s sure Hotch already knows the answer.

He shakes his head.

“I know it’s hard, Spence, I really do, but I think you need to talk to him. Obviously, it would’ve been better if both he and I had figured it out without you having to tell us, but clearly, he isn’t going to realise by himself. I know that as soon as you explain it, he’ll understand completely.”

Spencer sighs. Some part of him had known this was coming, he just didn’t know how it would come about. He wouldn’t have put money on Hotch being involved, but maybe he should have done. He always seems to come to Spencer’s rescue.

“He’ll probably be out for a while. He usually stays out for hours when he goes to visit her.”

“Well, how about I stay until he comes home, and then you can talk to him? How does that sound?”

Spencer looks up at him. “What about Jack?”

“He’s out with a friend and their family anyway,” Hotch reassures him, smiling as he runs a hand down his arm. “Now how about I make you some tea and we go and sit on the sofa?”

Spencer reluctantly agrees and moves from the safety of his bed to the comfort of his sofa, but he has to admit that the light streaming in from the big bay window and the feeling of sitting up makes him feel just a little better straight away. Once Hotch is back and placing a cup of chamomile tea into his hands, he doesn’t feel quite so much like he’s going to burst into tears at any moment.

“I have to ask, Spencer,” Hotch says carefully, “did you buy any dilaudid? Or attempt to contact your dealer?”

“Thought about it,” he admits, not meeting Hotch’s concerned eyes, “but I didn’t.”

Hotch relaxes. “Good. I’m proud of you, you know.”

Spencer looks at him with a hesitant smile that only grows when Hotch beams back.

They spend the afternoon watching nature documentaries — and Spencer admittedly dozes through a lot of them, exhausted from the burden of carrying so much pain around and the physical exertion of crying so hard — until Derek comes home at just gone five thirty.

“Hotch?” he asks, confused, and his voice wakes Spencer up from one of his unintentional naps.

He scrambles to sit upright, going inexplicably red at the thought of what he knows is coming. For some reason, he feels like he’s done something wrong and he’s about to be told off. He hates that this is what his relationship with Derek has come to.

“Hi, Derek,” Hotch says, squeezing Spencer’s ankle and getting up from the sofa. “Spencer asked me to come over earlier” — which is a bit of a stretch when really Spencer sobbed into the phone until Hotch showed up — “and I was just keeping him company until you came home.”

Derek’s eyebrows only furrow further, looking between them, confused. “Right.”

“Spencer,” Hotch says, meeting his eyes, “are you okay if I go now? You’ll tell Derek what we talked about?”

Immediately, Spencer blushes red as Derek’s scrutinising eyes fixate on him, but he nods and smiles weakly at Hotch, following him with his eyes as he lets himself out, if just to avoid meeting Derek’s.

“Pretty boy?” Derek says cautiously, slowly taking off his jacket and approaching the sofa like Spencer’s a wild animal liable to be spooked away at any given moment. He supposes it’s probably quite a good analogy, actually.

Spencer shifts nervously in his seat, moving his legs out of the way to give Derek more room to sit down on the sofa.

“You finally gonna tell me what’s been up with you these last few weeks?” Derek asks, and Spencer isn’t oblivious to the hope in his voice. “I’ve been worried about you, baby.”

Spencer nods and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a couple of deep breaths to compose himself. He’s told one person, and it went fine— it went well, actually. Derek is his life partner, his soulmate, and they tell each other everything. He just needs to start at the beginning. He needs to tell him all of the disclaimers, remind him that he’s not angry at him for doing the right thing or for being the compassionate person he is, he just needs to— He needs to focus, and he needs to tell the truth.

“I called Hotch earlier because I was scared of myself,” he says, finally opening his eyes and looking into Derek’s. “I was having some of the most intense cravings I’ve had since being sober, and I was seriously considering calling my dealer, but I managed to call Hotch instead, and we talked about how I’ve been feeling.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” Derek says regretfully, his face melting into the very picture of apologetic as he scoots a bit closer on the sofa so he can grab Spencer’s legs and pull them over his lap.

“I know,” Spencer replies, ignoring for now that him not being here is why they have a problem in the first place. He moves on. “I’ve been… struggling… over the last month or so with feelings that I haven’t really known how to rationalise or explain, and when I finally did make sense of them, I felt that I couldn’t share them with anyone, which is why I’ve been so distant and private. And I’m sorry for that, by the way.”

Derek just smiles, caressing his bare ankle with one hand as he rests his other over his shin.

He pauses for a moment, trying to find the best way to word his thoughts, but before he can think about it too hard, the words come spilling out, unbidden. “I’ve found it hard to reconcile your attentiveness and willingness to throw everything at helping Strauss, and the way no-one helped me with my addiction back in 2007.”

Derek’s face instantly falls, and saying the words out loud brings all the emotions he’d managed to control back again in full force, and suddenly his face is crumpling, too. Derek surges forward, moving them both until he’s situated between the sofa cushions and Spencer, cuddling him as close as he can while Spencer cries into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking as he begins to cry as well. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything then and I’m sorry I didn’t put two and two together to realise why you were struggling so much. I can’t believe I was so oblivious, Spence, oh God.”

They lie there for a long time, crying together as Derek runs his hands through Spencer’s hair and Spencer clings desperately to the fabric of Derek’s t-shirt.

“I was just feeling so distant from you because we weren’t spending as much time together, and I had no idea how to admit that I was feeling hurt about something that happened almost five years ago,” he continues when they’ve both calmed down again, and they’re ready to resume the conversation. “I guess I just felt… ashamed of both my feelings now and being jealous, which is so ridiculous, I had no idea how to tell anyone how I was feeling. And I’m so sorry that my lack of communication affected us so much.”

“Oh, baby,” Derek sighs, leaning in to press a kiss to Spencer’s lips. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m sorry that I was hurting you when I should’ve known the effect my actions would have. This whole mess is on me for so many reasons.”

“Der, I don’t want you to feel guilty,” Spencer says insistently, urgently, looking at him imploringly. “You’ve apologised enough for what happened back then, and there’s no way we can change what happened. You were just being the same kind and compassionate person you always are when you were helping Strauss.” He reaches out and cups Derek’s face gently, hating the tells of guilt and self-loathing he can see all over it.

Derek sighs and moves Spencer’s hand to his lips so he can kiss his palm. “When I was sitting in that hospital room waiting for you to wake up,” he explains, “I made a promise to myself. I told myself that I would never let anyone down like that again. I was never going to stand back and watch anyone else I knew fall into the same trap you did. So when I realised Strauss had a drinking problem, all I saw was an opportunity to keep that promise.

“The only problem was that I was so wrapped up in doing the right thing in helping her that I wasn’t doing the right thing by you. I should’ve realised all the feelings, physical and emotional, that this would bring up for you, but I didn’t think. I’m so sorry, baby boy, I really am.”

Spencer cuddles back into Derek, burying his face in the juncture between his neck and shoulder and relaxing into the reassuring scent of his person. “I know, Der. I forgive you.”

“How about we order in some Thai for dinner from your favourite restaurant and watch some Doctor Who?” Derek suggests after a couple of minutes of silence. “I think we’re long overdue for some quality time together.”

Spencer smiles at him, feeling so much of the heaviness that’s been weighing him down over the last few weeks lift that he feels almost like he’s floating. “I think that sounds like a plan.”

They set the living room up to be as cosy as possible, lighting the candles Penelope had made for them and using only their soft lamps to light the room, before piling the couch high with blankets and pillows until they’re cuddled together in a little nest.

The evening is spent eating their favourite food and watching their favourite season of Doctor Who, and while Spencer’s still hurting and they still have healing to do, this feels like a damn good start.

“I’m proud of you,” Spencer whispers to Derek late into the night, when they’re close to falling asleep in the comfort of their blanket pile.

Derek turns to him, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

“You made a mistake when you let things get bad with my addiction back in 2007,” Spencer explains, “and when you saw someone headed down the same path, you stopped at nothing to make sure you didn’t make that mistake again. If anything shows me how much you regret not doing anything sooner, it’s your devotion to Strauss’ recovery.”

Derek smiles at him, his eyes a little watery, and holds his chin gently as he leans in to kiss him. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you so much.”

Spencer kisses him again before cuddling back into his side. “I know you do, Derek. And I love you, too.”

And really, when it comes down to it, that’s enough.

Ahhh, this was the first fic in forever that actually felt fairly easy to write thank GOD. I loved this concept and writing that good, good angst was so much fun. Plus, we always love a happy ending in this house! Also, a reminder that how other people when you confront them with the way they hurt you or made you feel is not your responsibility.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @lesbiantodds @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @enbyspencer @reidology @transhanniballecter @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @marsjareau @oliverbrnch @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @ropoto @thosecriminalminds @wifeyprentiss @cmily @love-pyramus @notevanbuckley @thebipolarbisexualnerd (add yourself to my taglist here!)

[wmitomlinson]

FIC RECS- JAN 2021

if it’s not too late, happy 2021 everyone! i know the year hasn’t started out great but let’s keep our fingers crossed, and in case it doesn’t, i’ll be here to rec amazing fics to you! shoutout to all the authors of this fandom for being amazing <3

many of the fics mentioned below may have triggering topics. TW // DRUGS, ADDICTION, DRUG MENTION, ALCOHOL AS A COPING MECHANISM, ACCIDENTS, AMNESIA

never be by cherrystreet @cherrystreet (117k, study abroad au, strangers to friends to lovers, angst, pining, happy ending) this was the first ones i’ve read of this type and it was amazing. i loved the long distance dynamic. 

like a bastard on the burning sea by vashtaneradas (22k, infedility) i have no idea why i ever thought that reading h cheating on l would ever do me any good, but here it is. beautifully written. this had me ugly crying and howling the first time i read it. can confirm i hated irl harry for a while after this. 

we’re not who we used to be by louistomlinsons @adoredontour (30k, sharing a bed, accidental cuddling, exes to lovers, road trip) i absolutely loved the ziam and shiall content, coupled with stupid louis. road trip AUs are very cool and if you like them as much as i do you should read this.

search and rescue me by wild halos (17k, alternate universe - high school, confinement?) this was one of the very few stuck together ones i’ve found and i ADORE it. super exciting. their chemistry is amazing. the things that can happen in a day ,,,, *chef’s kiss*

candles on air by isthatyoularry @isthatyoularry (29k, friends to lovers, unrequited love, angst, pining) i read this during physics and i honestly had to work so hard not to let my self-restraint break because i was exhausted by the end of this. the angst is top-tier. 10/10 would recommend.

but me, i’m not a gamble by orphan_account (33k, football player louis, famous harry, popstar harry, footie au, niall is friends with all the footballers) a lovely posh&becks au featuring a cameo from none other than david and victoria beckham. i love the slow build and how louis leads harry on but can’t live without him either. oh and niall is a smug bastard but what’s new. 

spin me like a record by zarah5 @zarah5 (8k, alternate universe- college/university, friends to lovers, fake/pretend relationship, happy ending) let me start by saying that this author is my absolute favourite and that everything she writes is GOLD. so much captured in just 8k. loved it.

counting the steps between us by zarah5 @zarah5 (24k, friends to lovers, pining, so much pining, also camping) this fic is a gem. i absolutely love the dynamic between them and how easily they fall into step with each other. louis is kinda a dick to harry but they end up happy, so, who cares. 

say that you can see me (i’ll speak up i swear) by coffeelouis (20k, college au, liberal arts college, photographer harry, soccer/football player louis tomlinson) harry is an oblivious idiot and louis is the fool pining over him. zayn is not bothered, except for when he is. wonderful fic. 

larry heartbreak by coinmaisy (47k, cheating harry, angst with a happy ending, it gets worse before it gets better, infedility, heartbroken louis tomlinson, implied/referenced drug use, alcohol) when i first read the summary i was like “what is 47k going to do to me?” huge mistake i promise. this was so exhausting to read and it literally felt like my partner had cheated on me. you really feel for the characters. kind of unconventional with the way they deal with it but beautiful nevertheless.

joke’s on our parents by larrycaring @mystupidamours (alternate universe- high school, louis has a twin named carla, coming out, sort of, closeted character) short and sweet, an extremely adorable read. i wish it didn’t end here! i’d kill for parents like that no joke

life at shutter speed by zarah5 @zarah5 (20k, alternate universe- fashion & models, harry is very forward, louis is charmed even though he wishes he weren’t) photographer!louis au featuring stunning locations and even more stunning models.

oh glory by alivingfire (21k, alternate universe-olympics, 2016 summer olympics, gymnastics, mentions of past zouis, explicit sexual content, praise kink, slight mentions of homophobia typical in work environments) this was soooo good. i’m not particularly into sports fics unless it’s footie louis, but swimmer!harry was something i never knew i needed. wonderful setting and the ending *chef’s kiss*

hold my breath by zarah5 @zarah5 (19k, alternate universe- yoga, alternate universe- football, louis plays football and is a beast when injured, harry and louis ramble around london a lot) this is definitely one of my favourite fics for this month. yoga instructor!harry, football!louis AND angst? sign me up hjdhnjsk 

talk dirty to me by briamaria (13k, friends to lovers, dirty talk, mutual masturbation) uni au with best friends to lovers + dirty talk? this one was fireeeeeee. their chemistry is awesome

own the scars by crinkle-eyed-boo @crinkle-eyed-boo (144k, american au, drug addiction, drug overdose, larry is endgame, so don’t let the tomlinshaw scare you off, you’re gonna suffer, but you’ll be happy about it, lots of larry easter eggs) I AM BEGGING YOU TO READ THIS FIC, but more importantly, please please, READ THE TAGS. this had me ugly crying like crazy. this was very triggering for me but istg i don’t regret it. slow burn and angst and fluff and the jealousy,,, make this a must-read. even the memory of this fic gets me overwhelmed. incredible. ft. zouiall friendship that will most definitely make your heart melt.

no one does it better by nodibs (49k, alcohol abuse, alternate universe) amnesia fic with ot5 friendship, sloooooooooooow burn and a shit ton of tears. 

teenage dreams in a teenage circus by orphan_account (50k, first time, coming of age, alternate universe- high school) gemma/perrie/louis friendship that i never knew i needed. louis falls in love with harry, which, awkwarddd. but this fic gave me major coming of age movie vibes and now i’m angry that i don’t have a childhood like this

play the odds by alivingfire @alivingfire (25k, friends to lovers, bets&wagers, alternate universe- college & university) a bet where they have to kiss 1000 times. maybe it ends up being more than that. i loved the concept and how well it carried throughout the fic.

those are all for this month ! i hope you enjoy them, and if you do, make sure you leave kudos and comments. stay safe, sending love! x

[mcu-fan-fics-blog]

The Helping Hand

This is a Repost from my Ao3 I wanted to bring it to Tumblr. I hope you like it Its currently 5 chapters. As I was editing the last chapter I decided to go a different direction than on Ao3. So moving forward the story will be different.

Word Count: 1500 approx

Summary: Y/N Krast Illegitimate Daughter of Tony Stark. Product of an unwanted teen pregnancy. What would Howard Stark be capable of doing to assure his sons future? What will happen when Tony meets our Beautiful, young, genius, rich philanthropist.

Tw: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Drug use, Drug addiction, Teen Pregnancy. (If there are any I missed please tell me.)

Ch.5

Chapter 6: Mental Fortress

Ch.7

You shuffle in your place as everyone acknowledges your presence. Which you find ironic because it is your house. You chuckle at the thought actually. "So how are we… I see you've made yourselves at home." Everyone just kinda looks at you with scared eyes. You leave them in silence for a while.

"It's a joke lighten up." Your say and everyone seems to release their breath at your words. Behind you, you hear someone clear their throat. "Bruce you've come back! Where'd you go?" He doesn't get the chance to tell when you're interrupted by Pepper. "I asked him to come back." You nod and Bruce jumps back in. "I came back because you helped me and heard you needed some." 

"But we are not talking about that now… now we're doing breakfast." You wave Bruce off As Pepper is about to walk off, you stop her. "Did you tell everyone?" You say as you clear your throat. She nods. "Right fine I guess I should get used to this." Again she nods with a sly smile. You both make your way towards the group you're surprised to see that even Maria Hill was there. Nat is cooking with Steve. You walk towards Pietro and sit next to him. “Hi.” You say simply. He chuckles and gives you an award-winning smile. 

“You’ve got a nice place here.” He mentions looking around at your home. “You said it well It’s a place, not a home.” He turns to face you a more somber look taking place on his face. “You get what I mean dont you?” He nods. “Orphans can spot orphans from a mile away.” You laugh at his joke. “That’s one way to put it.” You look around looking for those eyes that pierce your soul but are disappointed when you don't find them. “Speaking of where is your sister I don't see her.”

He looks down at his hands. “She will kill me if she finds out I told you… She knew about what happened to your friends.” You furrow your eyebrows not understanding until Pietro moves his hands to his own head. “She read your mind.” You nod understanding. “Well if she thinks I’m mad tell her I’m not I’m well aware of the lack of control when it comes to her abilities.” He shakes his head. “Well, as much as I think she'd appreciate your sentiment… I think she’s angry at you.” Your eyes widen. “Well, that’s a first.” He sighs “She’s in the restroom I think.” He finally answers you nod. Making a mental note to keep your distance from the Maximoff Witch. 

“Okay, thanks for the heads up… I’m going to go help, Nat and Steve.” He simply gives you a thumbs up and continues gawking at your place. “Nat, how are you? Steve, it’s been a while.” He smiles while Natasha seems to not be listening to you. You pay no mind to it, starting a conversation with Steve. By the time that you’re done talking with Steve, everyone’s plate has been served. Once you finally settle down you wince when you notice our head throbbing. The first to notice was Tony, but he didn’t mention it. When you stand up to get water you stumble and fall clasping your hands on either side of your head. Curling into a little ball murmuring to yourself. 

Pietro is the first one that makes it to you his hands on your shoulder trying to get you to respond. The pain becoming agonizing you yell pleading for the noise and the pain to stop. Then all of a sudden your mind goes blank no pain no sounds nothing. You’re in an endless white tundra. A woman in the distance walking back and forth until she notices you. “Y/N sweet heart… look at you. I knew you would be strong.” You don't know the woman, but you feel safe in her presence. You walk closer to her curiosity making the best of you. “Do I know you, I feel like I should know you.” She laughs taking your face in her hands. “Y/N, monkey it’s me your mom.” 

As much as those words should take you by surprise they don't. “I’ve seen you before haven’t I?” She nods, “Only when you really needed it, but I’ve never left your side. Not once science I passed.” She shifts in her stance and hugs you. “You’re dead, you didn’t abandon me did you?” She shakes her head. “It’s complicated honey, but no. I brought you here for a reason listen carefully.” you nod  “Right this path you’re on revenge that family it will be the death of you.” You’re shocked to hear those words come out of her mouth. “You say you never left me, you say you were with me, then you know what they did to me. WHAT HE DID TO ME!  I was a kid.” 

“Y/n I need you to understand those people aren’t who they seem… You’ve already been here too long. Promise me Y/n” You shake your head denying her. “They will pay for the pain they caused me.” She walks towards you reaching for you. “No one will stop me, not even you.” Suddenly the pain begins to build again, the noise filling your head again. She takes hold of your head and meets your gaze. “This vendetta will turn you from those around you, you will force them to turn their back on you if you continue down this path Y/N.” She stops noticing you calming down the pain subsiding. 

“If you keep at this it will kill your father… It will kill him to have to turn his back on you. He will do it Y/n if you force his hand they all will, even Logan.” You fall to your knees “Mom, you know I can’t. I can’t forget I still remember and I wish I could just let go, but I CAN’T.” you wail the tears brimming in your eyes. “Y/n listen to me you will, in time you just need to heal I’ll always be here remember that. You need to get back now you’ve been here too long.” Again the noise and the pain begin to take hold of you this time you let it consume you embracing the hurt, the pain and the feeling of helplessness. 

The Avengers Pov 

“What’s happening to her Bruce?” Tony asks desperately. “I don’t know Tony, her scans and tests are normal, nothing is out of place.” Tony begins to pace back and forth not noticing when Wanda walks into the room. She begins to make her way to the medical bed when Bruce stops her. “Wanda stop what are you doing?” He calls out quickly scared of what the witch would do to Y/n. She stops placing her hands in the air to signify peace. “I can go into her head and maybe find out what’s wrong.” she says calmly. “There’s no need, her brain scans are normal and steady. The last thing we need is you making her re-live her worst nightmare, again.” He says spitefully. Tony jumps in again. “She won’t do that again, do what you have to do Wanda, I’m trusting you.” He says looking her in the eyes.

Wanda nods at Tony and continues walking until she makes it to your side. She inhales deeply the red wisp of magic already leaving her hands. Not long after that she screams and jumps back in agony. “Wanda! What happened?” Tony asks as he helps her get up. “I don't know it’s like there’s a barrier around her mind...almost like she doesn’t want me to see. It’s so loud in there and it hurts Tony.” It had already been a couple of hours and nothing she hadn’t woken up. 

“It could be the drugs that she takes maybe she overdosed?” Says Natasha trying to find a plausible explanation for your current state. Pepper only shakes her head. “It’s not possible she would not have woken up today.” Tony cuts in again “Drugs don't make your minds a fortress Wanda could not get into her head. If it was drugs that would not be the case.” He says angrily, and it causes Steve to become suspicious. “What aren’t you telling us, Tony?” He asks harshly, his tone threatening. “Listen Capsicle I don't have to tell you everything.” He spat venomously. “Last time you kept things to yourself all hell broke loose and Y/n’s friends ended up paying the price.” Steve quickly retorted. 

“I can assure you that this one Is not a life-altering secret.” He sighs as now the rest of the team looks at him expectantly. Tony takes a deep breath, taking one last look through the window to see Y/n then turning to Pepper. She nods and Tony exhales. “She’s my daughter.” He says quickly. Letting it sink into the rest of the team. Everyone’s eyes widen in surprise, but their reaction is quickly cut short by Y/n’s scream. “MOM, I CANT PROMISE YOU… JUST DON'T LEAVE, I will try” The last being a whisper that you’re not even sure you said.

[thewhumperinwhite]

And Then You Kill Me, part 2

continued directly from this

Karim is inspired by the work of @sweetheartblue

also tagging @whumpitywhumpwhump but let me know if you’d rather i didn’t

TW for: referenced death/murder; guilt/mild self-dehumanization; suicidal behavior; consensual sexuality (no nsfw but a fairly clear lead up to sexy times); implied/referenced unhealthy relationship dynamics (including inappropriate use of the title “Father”). Referenced drug abuse/overdose. Also I don’t know what the right term for this is but like... Art is clearly turned on by Things That Could Kill Him, so watch out for that.

----

“I think—” Karim stops and licks his lips. “I think I’m offering to kill you.”

Karim has been dead for nine years, and in that time, he has killed a lot of people.

There’s no reason his (useless, unnecessary) heart should be pounding in his chest when he makes this offer. Especially because—well. The boy has seen his teeth; the choice he’s offering isn’t really a choice at all.

(It’s his Father’s number two rule: never tell the truth to any person you aren’t planning to kill.)

The boy stares at Karim. His eyes are light-colored, like the rest of him, though the yellow streetlight makes it hard to tell what color, specifically. There was a look on his face, when he first saw Karim’s teeth, that Karim’s never seen before. The boy looked like a deer in headlights—if the deer kind of wanted the oncoming truck to fuck him.

There’s a different look on his face now. He’s holding himself up on his heels, leaning back on one hand, because Karim is still holding his opposite wrist. Karim is on his heels too, leaning over; his face is very close to the boy’s face, in other words. It is not helping him read the boy’s expression.

The boy might be twenty; he’s surely no older than that. He’s slender, with long narrow limbs, and a pretty, angular face sprinkled with freckles. His hair is messy but fashionably cut, shaved in the back and long enough on top to flop over his forehead and into his eyes. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and torn jeans and nothing else. He smells like adrenaline and the kind of sweat you get inside your clothes from running on a cold night, and a little—increasingly—like blood.

“Why,” the boy says, searching Karim’s face, though Karim has no idea what for. He isn’t trying to pull his arm out of Karim’s grip anymore. His hand is still bleeding and so are his feet, but only a little. Also, his heart is pounding hard enough that Karim can see the artery in his throat jumping.

The sight of it makes Karim’s mouth water. As though he might have briefly forgotten that he is a monster.

“I think you know why,” Karim says, delicately.

The boy—flushes, goes deep red under his freckles.

Which is an interesting reaction.

He does yank back on his arm, then, and Karim lets him tug it free; the boy sits properly on his heels. He’s eyeing Karim with—suspicion. Like Karim might be hiding something.

It’s a little baffling, since this is the one time where he really isn’t.

“What’s in it for me,” the boy demands. He holds the wrist Karim was holding in the opposite hand, cradling it against his (alive, beating) heart. Karim hopes, nonsensically, that he hasn’t hurt him.

Karim blinks, and tilts his head, deliberately.

“I’m more fun than a bottle of pills,” he says, rattling the bottle in his pocket for emphasis.

That makes the boy’s pulse spike again.

He still doesn’t smell like fear.

The boy looks at Karim’s mouth. Karim parts his lips to show his teeth, again.

(It feels—Karim doesn’t know how it feels. He holds his mouth carefully, always. His fangs aren’t so obvious when he’s full and calm, but they come out when he’s hungry, or upset, or aroused. He doesn’t lisp around them anymore—his Father hated that—but he doesn’t open his mouth in public, either. People don’t look at them. Even Father doesn’t look at them, really.)

(The boy is definitely looking at them.)

(And he doesn’t smell like fear at all.)

“Come back to my apartment,” Karim says, and the boy backs up so fast he almost falls again, and has to catch himself on his hands. His blush fades, blotchily.

Karim almost laughs—and eases forward onto his knees, back into the boy’s space again.

“Why is that the part that scares you?” he says, pitching his voice low, the way people like.

The boy glares at him again. Karim grins; he doesn’t know the color of this boy’s eyes, but he does know that they’re sharp.

“Why can’t you just do it here,” the boy says, hotly.

Like Karim might take it back at any moment, and not kill this boy, and like the boy can’t think of anything worse than that.

It’s so—wrong, so outside of his experience with the living, who do not want to die

(even Karim, who had already agreed, panicked and tried to push away his Father’s mouth, when his head started to pound and his hands and feet go numb, from lack of blood, though of course by then it was far too late)

that he almost wants to ask—ask what the boy’s hurry is, at least.

But also—he doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, not when it’s a horse he doesn’t deserve, one so beautiful he never even thought to properly wish for it.

“I could,” Karim says, and, because he can, he reaches out and cups his hand around the side of the boy’s throat, and puts his thumb, very gently over his Adam’s apple, and strokes it, once. “I could do it here.”

The boy doesn’t close his eyes—keeps his sharp eyes on Karim’s; his gaze feels a little like an electric shock—but he does gasp, very quietly, like he can’t help it.

Karim feels almost lightheaded. It takes him a second to realize what he’s feeling is delight.

“But I’d rather take my time,” Karim says, moving closer so he can lower his voice, and now the boy does close his eyes, and it’s almost intoxicating. “And not worry about interruptions. If it’s all the same to you.” By the end of that sentence, he’s almost whispering in the boy’s ear, and the boy shivers, visibly.

Then the boy pulls himself together, and moves back so he can meet Karim’s eyes again.

“It’s got to be tonight,” he says, sharply.

Karim looks at him. The boy looks—very serious. Maybe slightly desperate. Karim shrugs. “Okay,” he says.

“Promise,” the boy says, narrowing his sharp eyes. “Promise me I’ll be dead by sunrise.” He puts it so bluntly Karim almost winces, because he is a coward. “Say it.”

Karim does want to ask. The boy’s face is flushed again, and he’s a little out of breath, and his eyes are a light color Karim can’t identify, and he is inescapably alive, even for one of the living.

But Karim has done nothing, for nine years, except lie, and take what is not offered. It turns out that, in exchange for the opportunity to do otherwise, he will do pretty much anything.

“Alright, beautiful thing,” Karim says softly, with the boy’s pulse warm under his hand. “By sunrise, then. I promise.”

[queermentaldisaster]

I totally forgot about this omg yum

Rumor has it that the Riley family is cursed. First, their youngest son, kidnapped under mysterious circumstances. The nephew? Hit by a motorcycle that just happened to roll off the road. The oldest and his wife? Crashed into a tree that was in the middle of the asphalt. The father? Murdered in his hospital bed. The mother? Overdosed on pills she'd never had.

Task Force 141 knows the rumors. Who in the UK doesn't? One day, 141 is sent out to help a team in Las Almas called Los Vaqueros. Apparently, the Las Almas cartel is having a territory dispute with the neighboring city's cartel, the Zaragoza cartel. While Los Vaqueros is handling the Las Almas cartel with Gaz and Roach's help, Price and Soap go to handle the Zaragoza cartel. They go undercover, and discover someone with brown eyes and blond lashes, wearing a balaclava, being passed around like many of the blunts in that room.

Soap manages to get his hands on this person, who's clearly out of it. After some finagling, he manages to get them outside, wrapping them in his coat to provide them with some decency.

When they wake up, they're in a bed in the Los Vaqueros base. Soap asks them for their name and pronouns, and he introduces himself as Ghost.

[ao3feed-bnha-girls]

I Just Need a Helping Hand

i just need a helping hand by izukub0at

izuku is dealing with suicidal thoughts and winds up going through with certain things.

tw: suicide, vomiting, overdose, intrusive thoughts

Words: 1062, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Other

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Class 1-A, Uraraka Ochako, Iida Tenya, Bakugou Katsuki, Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead

Relationships: Class 1-A & Midoriya Izuku, Iida Tenya/Midoriya Izuku, Iida Tenya & Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku/Uraraka Ochako, Midoriya Izuku & Uraraka Ochako, Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku, dekusquad, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku & Yagi Toshinori | All Might

Additional Tags: Depression, Depressed Midoriya Izuku, Suicidal Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku Needs A Hug, Midoriya Izuku Gets A Hug, Midoriya Izuku Needs A Break, Hurt Midoriya Izuku, Sick Midoriya Izuku, Suicide Attempt, Suicide, Overdose, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Worried Class 1-A, Bakugou Katsuki is a Good Friend, Uraraka Ochako is a Good Friend, Iida Tenya is a Good Friend, Parental Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Parental Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Vomiting

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32461621

[nicostolemybones]

The Doctor Is Not In

Tw: mental breakdown. implied/referenced: medical emergencies, ptsd, disordered eating, self harm, contamination ocd, paranoia, and delusions

Today was not a normal day in the infirmary. Anyone at the doors asking for Will was being met with a very angry Nico harshly growling at them to fuck off. Sure, severe injuries and breakdowns really had to be dealt with, but Nico demanded they be taken to Chiron or Apollo. Because behind the infirmary walls you could hear inconsolable screams, unsettling the campers- the doctor was calm, clinical. 

Nico made his way in, where Will was pacing like a caged animal, pulling his hair so hard a few strands came out, and Will kept hitting the walls and smacking his head and throwing stuff to the floor.

He wasn't okay.

He wasn't okay and it pissed Nico off because there shouldn't be a reason for Will to ever be like this. Will should not be in dire need of psychiatric help. Will should have been outside playing sports or indoors playing fortnite or studying subjects he was interested in or doing literally anything other than being a doctor. 

Because at this point? They were fifteen. Fifteen years old. And Will? On a daily basis, Will was exposed to medical emergencies that leave seasoned hospital workers with ptsd. Will was having to spend all his free time studying way beyond his age and overusing his powers, doing surgeries that required a team of specialists by himself. No anaesth- aneeth- whatever the putting you to sleep with drugs and making sure you don't die people were, no nurses, no actual experts. No cardiologists, radiologists, obstetricians, gynaecologists, midwives, oncologists, anaesthetists- that was the word- but Nico's point was:

Will was a literal fucking child dealing with injuries that would take a whole team of specialists literal decades of their life to be prepared for. Doctors who had been qualified since before Will was even born would not be qualified enough to do what Will was expected to do alone. 

And mental health issues? Will was expected to deal with them too. And it wasn't like it was the occasional anxious camper or the occasional bout of depression. No, Will was dealing with regular overdoses, self mutilation, severely disordered eating, psychosis, dissociative disorders, mood disorders, personality disorders- things that psychiatrists with a PhD were sometimes genuinely unqualified to help with. And Will? Will hadn't even reached middle school before he was working in the infirmary and wouldn't have even graduated middle school by the time he was head medic. Will hadn't seen the inside of a classroom since he was seven. 

Will was a fucking child.

Nico was mad enough that he was an undertaker himself so young, but this? The sheer amount that Will was expected to handle was too much. Being a combat medic? Expected to endanger his life on a battlefield defenseless to treat horrifying wounds no person should ever have to see let alone a child-

Yeah, Nico was fucking livid.

Because Will was having some kind of breakdown or episode from it all. And he shouldn't be because he should never have had to do this. 

Nico had to watch Will completely hysterical and nonsensical, watching him completely falling apart. Nico was the one who had been watching this brewing, had been listening to Will late at night, watching to him becoming paranoid and delusional, flashbacks and night terrors, jumpy, watching him losing sleep, afraid he'd die if he went to sleep, watching Will's odd behaviours spiral into obsessive rituals, watched him wash his hands until they were bleeding, shaking and crying because he was so scared of the germs, had watched Will develop an unhealthy obsession with pure healthy foods to the point that he would have a panic attack at the sight of fatty foods, obsessed with exercise to the point Nico would find him doing sit ups in the dead of night, spine all bruised, and now beginning to lose weight, panicking about that too to the point Will would sit calculating everything that went in or out of his body in an attempt to not lose weight, because by Will's flawed logic, as long as he didn't lose weight his diet wasn't dangerous or disordered.

Will wasn't well. He was traumatised and he had been allowed to spiral this bad, allowed to develop serious disorders, because as long as Will was functional enough to play doctor, nobody truly cared how much it hurt him.

All this responsibility had made Will ill.

Will was not supposed to be a doctor. He was a child. He wouldn't be the doctor now. Will was the patient. The inpatient, in urgent need of psychiatric help, having some kind of breakdown that Nico didn't know enough about to be able to help. 

Nico was in and out- he didn't want to leave Will alone but Austin and Kayla were there too and somebody had called his mama who was on her way and Nico had to make sure he had Will's belongings for his stay. 

His favourite blanket, the soft knitted blue one way too small and threadbare patched up with darker yarn that he'd had since a baby, knitted by his grandma. His small dinosaur plush, buried under his blankets, that Nico knew Will couldn't sleep without. His favourite hoodie- the pastel blue one with the clouds at the top, his favourite cozy yellow cable knit jumper, his favourite grey sweatpants, the cozy dog onesie he liked to sleep in when he was sad. The picture of Will and his mom when Will was seven. The one of him and Nico embracing in the rain. The small box Nico had never seen the contents of that he knew Will kept his dearest memories in. His diary, which Will had shared with Nico, his Frisbee, his favourite trophy from school- the one for his running. Nico's aviator jacket- it was big on Nico so it was the only thing of his that Will could really steal and be comfortable in- it grounded Will when Nico couldn't be there in person to help. And finally, Will's essentials, like his toothbrush and various creams and gels. 

On his way back, Nico's mood switched quickly from sentimental back to anger as people were gossiping ungratefully about the lazy sunshine boy who couldn't possibly be sad and was just faking for attention. Nico had seen too many scars to believe that, hidden beneath the long sleeves of the white shirt Will wore beneath his scrubs, the ones on the tops of his thighs and his stomach and chest and anywhere he could reach. 

Nico returned to Will, who was distraught, begging, because he didn't want to be in hospital anymore. He just wanted to go home. But he needed urgent treatment, he needed it now, and it broke Nico's heart.

Because Will should never have been a doctor, should never have lived the circumstances that lead to him being in this state.

So Nico placed the sign on the front of the infirmary doors, heart heavy with concern. 

'The doctor is not in.'

[themand0lorian]

AND THE OSCAR GOES TO… (3)

BEST VISUAL EFFECTS

Summary: Visual effects create the illusion of something there when it's not. Is this all a trick of the eye?

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: Mature

Words: ~5700 (AO3)

Tags: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Death of a sibling, Past Relationship, Flashbacks, Strangers to Lovers to Enemies to ???

Notes: Maybe after this things can start to look up for these two, huh???

TW for this part: underfunded schools, general allusion to 9/11/tragedy, rehab/mental health discussions, overdose talk

New York City, 2003

In the same way you frequented Uncle Louie’s, Dieter was a fixture in your classroom, too. It started with small things; stopping by at the end of the day to walk with you back home when you stayed late with a student. Helping you hang decorations over the summer before the next class rolled in. You tried to make things special; for a lot of the kids, this was their escape for the day. A chance to be kids and learn and not be so weighed down by the hand they were dealt. Some of the parents could barely get their kids out of the house dressed, fed, and on time—sometimes through none of their own fault—and you always wanted them to feel safe and loved when they were with you. Lord knows how many coats, mittens, hats you thrifted or scrounged up over the years; granola bars or bars of soap or a clean baby wipe offered without comment. These kids were little humans, and they needed someone on their side. Even if it meant taking some of your meager teacher’s salary to better their days.

Ten is always a tricky age. Still a kid to grown-ups, basically a grown up to younger kids. Some started sprouting in inches overnight, some had other bodily functions that they didn’t expect—some didn’t, and felt worse. Sometimes they still cried when their knees scuffed, sometimes they were trying to be tough. Either way, you were a lifeline for them; a chance for them to grow and explore and figure out who they were. To have fun—as much fun as the curriculum allowed, anyway.

It started on Halloween. You always went all out—decorated the classroom with spooky cutouts of bats and pumpkins, hung streamers from the ceiling. You planned a little party with Lizzie’s class for after lunch, with green punch in a witch’s cauldron and toilet-paper-mummies and even little masks the kids could decorate and wear if they didn’t have a costume that year. You didn’t have any volunteers to help out—something you had fretted over the morning of as you redid your costume one more time. You tried to pick relatively easy ones—always homemade, since it was cheaper that way, and something the kids would recognize. Last year you were Spongebob, which was a big hit. The year before, Ursula from The Little Mermaid—that had maybe been over the top.

This year, you were going to be Lilo from Lilo and Stitch. The kids loved the movie—talked about it all the time. Several lesson plans had been altered to be about Hawaii or surfing, kids seeing themselves in Lilo’s broken and put-back-together family or Stitch’s rowdiness. You even had the kids “hula dance” when you noticed them getting too fidgety. So a giant red tshirt from the thrift store with hand painted leaves, flip flops, and a flower for your hair, you were set. You even had a little plush Stitch to come with you. You didn’t necessarily look like Lilo in your face, but you think it came across.

Still, Dieter wished you luck, a quick peck before your flourished out the door with four bags strung through your hands.

The kids were brimming with excitement, in awe of the little piece of the holiday you brought into the classroom. You tried to make your lessons that day a bit spooky, but it was clear you were losing them. The party came quickly, yours and Lizzie’s class squeezing into one room. But it was difficult for the two of you to keep up with 50 kids, dole out punch, organize games. You felt a little overwhelmed, especially when Matt came up to get another cookie.

“Miss—are you dressed up, or is that your real clothes?” You puffed out a breath, a bit defeated, but before you could answer, your classroom door swung open, shocking both you and the students.

There stood Dieter, decked out in head-to-toe blue, two large pink ears clipped to his unkempt hair and an eyeliner button nose drawn on.

“She’s Lilo, of course! My best friend!” He supplied, coming in with a big smile as some of the kids ooh-ed and aah-ed. He strung his arm around your shoulders as you looked at him incredulously.

“What are you doing here?” “Heard you needed help,” he smiled, eyes on you with a look you could only pinpoint as adoration. “Louie’s was slow. Here I am.” He could feel your shoulders sag in relief, a big smile across your face. Your knight in shining armor.

“Here you are,” you murmur, lost in the moment until one of the kids runs up to start asking Dee about life as an alien.

To his credit, he plays the part. You didn’t know he had even seen the movie, but he fills in all the best details while helping to wrangle kids into games, glue sparkles onto masks, or dish out snacks. He even started handing out Kit-Kats—no doubt making a stop for his favorite before coming in—to each kid who said “Trick or Treat!” knowing they wouldn’t be going around once they got home. Overall, it was a memorable, fun, happy day, one you hoped the kids would remember.

Remember they did. It took all of about two days for them to ask when “Mr. Dee” was coming back. They pleaded and begged, clearly developing a new favorite. Dieter had never been super into children, but he liked them well-enough, and he was happy as a clam when you told him they were asking after him.

That’s how he became a regular in the classroom. Sometimes he would stop by on half days, when free lunch wasn’t provided, with pizza and water. Sometimes he came to read to the kids as a guest reader—they were infinitely more excited for him than Dr. Partridge, who had just finished up the last guest reading spot with a book about George Washington. Dieter always wowed them, big and animated as he changed his voice or walked around the room. You tried not to be jealous of their new favorite—even when Jennie shyly gave him a string bracelet she had made after school, insisting she made it just for him and blushing when he thanked her sincerely.

“Do I sense some competition?” You murmur to him jokingly, glancing down at the string tied to his wrist.

“Never,” he replies simply, a chaste squeeze of your hand. “Unless it’s for who’s their favorite. Then it’s no competition.” You hit his chest playfully, watching as he helped hang some of the kids’ art in the hallway.

He always seemed to know just when to step in—when you told him about the kids not believing in Santa, many of their parents struggling too much to keep the spirit alive, he bust into your classroom holiday party in a rented red suit, allowing each kid to tell him what they wanted before handing them a little book of puzzles and mazes from the dollar store. He answered questions easily, whether they be why some people celebrated different holidays (you had covered them the last few days) or why Santa never seemed to come to their house. For so many of them, the biggest gift they got that year, was the day of celebration at school.

When you fretted over the art program being cut—worried about what other after school activities would come to fruition—he volunteered readily, easily leading a makeshift version of the Wizard of Oz. He even convinced some of the kindergarteners to act as the munchkins, and he beamed when they all took their final bows. The mess-ups, the forgotten lines, the number of times he had to go out on stage and hold a kindergartener’s hand so they would say what they needed to—none of it mattered.

To either of you.

Dieter had a big heart. You knew that about him, of course. But you loved watching this side of him too. Considering the future—would he want kids of your own? Would he coach their baseball teams or attend dance recitals? Or would he be too busy being the big Hollywood star he was meant to be?

Dieter had gotten a few more roles since Jason died. He had an agent now, booking him small gigs on pilots and minor recurring characters. He wasn’t exactly recognizable, but he was doing well, and he was happy—even when pilots went unaired or characters were quickly killed off. He truly did everything with his full heart—even waitering at Louie’s—as you both fell further into your routines. He supported you a year after Jason’s death, acting as your anchor when you had to nervously give the dedication speech for a park bench in your hometown. You supported him when yet another pilot went nowhere, encouraging him to get the next one. You had fun staying in, had fun going out with friends, had fun just being together. You were both so hopelessly, endlessly in love with each other, you’re surprised you didn’t see it coming.

Dieter had a particular fondness with one of your classes—the first one he had helped out with, with Jennie and Matt and all the other kids trying to find their way after their home was rocked by a national tragedy at a young age. Even as they moved up a grade, you kept in touch with them, supporting them when they needed it, and eventually, most of them had cited you as their favorite teacher in their 5th grade yearbook. When the time came, you had been asked to give their graduation speech—it was a small thing, mostly for their classmates since you knew their parents wouldn’t make it, but you still fretted over your words like it was your inauguration speech. Dieter watched as you nervously dressed and redressed the kids, as you adjusted little caps and gowns that had been used in the ceremony for the last twenty years—you had asked him to come, to be your calm—which he was always good at. He sat in the back, dutifully watched as each 5th grader’s name was read out, clapping for all of them. He listened to your speech with rapt attention. He gave Jennie a big thumbs up when she stood to lead the pledge of allegiance, proudly displaying the bracelet she gave him, still tied to his wrist. He was probably more into the whole thing than the few parents who were able to make it.

Which is why it was so puzzling when, in the craze of getting caps and gowns Lysol-ed and put away and kids sent home and goodbyes and short yearbook signatures, you couldn’t find him when you were ready to head out. Most of the kids had left, a few stragglers around, and you looked around confusedly until Lizzie came up to you, holding out a few last caps.

“Hey—can you throw these in your closet? Mine is packed to the brim.” You nod, ignoring her broad smile with a shrug and walking toward your classroom instead, ready to stow a few more things in your closet which was already packed with enough stuff to cause an earthquake if pulled the wrong way. You notice the door cracked open to your room—not how you would’ve left it—and roll your eyes.

“Lizzie, did you forget—” Your words get caught in your throat as you step into the classroom, the items you were holding falling to the floor; each of your students stands there with a piece of construction paper, clearly drawn or painted or decorated by each of them with their own flair. Each of them have wide smiles as they fidget excitedly. They’re standing there in a distinct order—the large black letters over their drawings spelling out “Will you marry me?” while Dieter is down on one knee in front of them, presenting a ring box to you as he nervously smiles.

“Sweetheart—I know—I know I’m just another failing actor-turned-waiter in this big city. A nobody. Still, you’ve loved me anyway, all this time. You’ve always been my number one fan, even when I wasn’t even sure I would continue doing this. We’ve gone through too much already, but I can’t imagine going through it with anyone else—I don’t ever want to go through it with anyone else. I’ll be honest--finding you in that dumpster is the best thing that ever happened to me.” A few of the kids snicker behind him as he chuckles; you have tears in your eyes, a hand over your mouth, but you huff in amusement too as he says your full name. “I promise I will always love you. I will always be with you. You will always be my number one—in love, in life, in everything. Will you marry me?”

You take a moment to look at the scene in front of you; Dieter presenting a beautiful ring, down on one knee; the kids eagerly smiling and squirming, awaiting a response; the sun starting to set, streaming through the classroom windows. Nothing could be more perfect—Dieter couldn’t be more perfect. It’s why the answer comes out of you with a shout.

“Yes!” You choke out, and he crumples in relief, finally standing to you. He begins to slip the ring on your finger as you speak. “Of course I’ll marry you, Dee—I—oh, God,” you stutter, watching as he slides it on. “I promise, I love you so much—I’ll always love you as much as I do in this moment,” you sob, and he laughs lightly, tears pooling in his eyes as he pulls your face to his for a passionate kiss; his arms encircling you like he’ll never let you go as you move as one, lips locked--

Only to be broken up by a chorus of disgusted children.

“Hey—isn’t a lady allowed to kiss her future husband?” You ask jokingly, looking to the kids, and Dieter preens.

“No!” Jennie huffs, stomping a foot, and you both laugh as Dieter pulls you into another embrace and kiss.

 New York City, Present

You end up taking the next day off from work, emailing sub plans to Lizzie and then turning off to the world as you led into the weekend. Dieter showing up again, after all this time—it feels like he’s tilted your world off its axis. Again.

He had a knack for doing that. For waiting until things felt still, for waiting until you’re calm and happy and able to forget about him, push him to the edges of your mind until he whisks in like a storm, disrupting the quiet you worked hard to make. You used to love that about him; the way he would knock you off your axis, only to right you again; always the knight in shining armor. But now—now it’s been years. And you like your axis how it is.

You heard some things about Dieter throughout the years—it would have been hard not to. You never sought it out, but printed on magazines in checkout lanes and entertainment news on the TV while you got your nails done, or just by word of mouth, he always lingered. International superstar, Hollywood villain—none of it felt like the Dieter you knew. You watched as he rose in the ranks, taking on bigger and bigger projects, walking red carpets with beautiful women and giving interviews—even after you left, he always seemed fine. Happy. He never faltered in his career, never became reclusive with a broken heart. It all just cemented your decision; you had been holding him back. He could finally get everything he wanted—be who he wanted to be, who he was supposed to be—without you in the picture.

You watched the public downfall of his career from afar. It started with a very messy, very public breakup—another beautiful, rich actress accusing him of everything under the sun; he was never sober. He threatened her. He called her names, he ruined her life—none of it sounded like the Dieter you knew, but you supposed you didn’t really know him at the end, anyway. Still, you held out hope that it was all some ruse.

He fell into the drugs more after that; at least, according to the tabloids. She was right, he was never sober anymore—though he always claimed he had it under control. There had been stints of rehab that he didn’t complete, wild benders with alcohol and women and more drugs—every promise he ever made seemed insignificant. There was rumors he OD’d on a film set—some D-list threequel, four-quel, five-quel that barely even made it to screen. That was where he met his latest blond—young, pretty thing. “Normal,” like you. It made you want to vomit.

It wasn’t that you held on hope for him—no matter what your heart whispered late at night. It wasn’t that he was a stranger, the man you thought would always be linked to you. It was that these women—this life he was leading—he never once reached out to you. Checked on your parents, asked how that shitty park bench in your hometown was holding up. You thought, at first, that he might—the ball had to be in his court. You knew you’d never get close to Hollywood superstar Dieter Bravo. He needed to get to you.

So you stayed in the same apartment; kept the landline for way too long. You knew it was a long shot, knew your life wasn’t a shitty rom com—even if he did star in one—but still. It was like he completely forgot about you.

So you tried to do the same. Tried to move, realized you couldn't afford it, ended up staying; ditched the landline; pulled yourself up, alone. You poured yourself into your work—PS 365 always the same—and ignored the pain in your heart until you could compartmentalize it like another lesson plan. Everything you had learned about him had essentially been against your will, stuck in the same compartment until it was close to bursting, poured out over wine nights with Lizzie or alone in the dark.

She knew not to ask when she saw you on Monday. Lizzie, for all the things she heard, for everything she knew, was a saint. She never leaked it to the press, never pushed when you were wrung dry. She did her best to keep all things Dieter Bravo out of your life—as much as she could—and just be a steady, loving friend, even when things fell apart.

That, of course, didn’t stop her from giving you a pointed look when you walked into the teacher’s room for lunch.

“Don’t say it, Liz,” you sigh.

“I didn’t say anything,” she mumbles innocently around her salad. “I just—is everything okay?” “He’s fine. I stayed until he woke up and then left.”

“Okay—” she huffs. “But what about you? Are you okay?”

“I’m not the one who overdosed on school property—” “I don’t care. You’re the one I care about,” she retorts, and you shrink a bit. “He has the whole world to care about him and how he’s doing. You have me.” Dr. Partridge walks in, eyeing your table, and you wither.

“I—I’m okay. Or I will be. I don’t know,” you shrug, and watch as the principal makes her way over, calling you by your last name.

“I trust that—things—have been dealt with?” She gives both you and Lizzie a look, and Liz rolls her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” you murmur, breaking into your own lunch. “Won’t happen again.”

“I’ve brought in counselors for the children—some are rightfully upset.” “I understand that, Anya,” you retort. “But I did not ask him to come here. I did not ask him to come back and ruin my life again. He knows where I work—it’s the same classroom as twenty years ago. So if you’re trying to blame me for this—”

“I’m not,” she replies quickly. “I—I just think—” She pauses, gathering herself. “The counselors are here. If you need them.” You soften a bit; Anya had always been like a second mother, a mentor, a professional advisor for you. She didn’t deserve your ire, but she also did everything by the books, and for as fiercely as she loved and protected her school, she would have anyone’s neck for potentially ruining things.

“I’ll think about it,” you placate, and she walks away, satisfied, as Liz rolls her eyes again.

“You were saying—you’re not okay?”

“Liz,” you sigh. “I—I’ll get there, you know? I just—it’s brought up a lot of things. He did what he does best—swoops in at the last minute to try to fix everything. But some stuff—I don’t know if it can be fixed,” you offer honestly. “I told him if he gets clean—then maybe we could talk. But we both know—he’s probably already forgotten what happened and is on to the next catastrophe,” you roll your eyes, noticing that Lizzie has stopped mid-chew to pull out her phone. “What?” “I saw this on Instagram yesterday—” she continues scrolling as she speaks, pulling up something before handing her phone to you. On her recommended page is a picture of Dieter looking particularly haggard, walking into a white building. The location is tagged as the Tribeca Opioid Center—opening the link, you see it’s another rehab program. You look between the phone and Liz in shock.

“I—I’m sure it’s just his team making him clean up his act. The press from overdosing in a school could not have been good--” you try to explain.

“Maybe,” Liz offers, as the school bell rings. You barely touched your lunch. “But maybe not.”

The rest of the school year moves as it always does, albeit a bit more focused on safety. The kids are shaken up, and you spend some time going over what to do in an emergency, how to get help and find trusted adults, and a watered-down version of what drugs can do to you to assuage their fears until you can fall back into your routine. Unfortunately, with the state of the world, they were all too familiar with tragedy, and were able to put the preparation information away in their brains until they needed it to get back to spelling tests and kickball.

Soon enough, it was like Dieter had never happened. Lost in standardized testing and end-of-year recommendations and IEPs, you could almost forget how upsetting it was to watch him almost die. To sit in that hospital room. To see him again.

You could almost get lost in the routine, until you shuffled through your mail on the four-floor walkup to your apartment, and saw a letter addressed to you with the return address only listing “TOC.”

You ripped it open in confusion, anticipating another request for donations or a credit card offer with awful rates. But you stop in your tracks just outside your door, dropping the other items in your arms when you pull out a hand-written letter in familiar scrawled capital letters.

Sweetheart—

I did what you asked. It was time. Seeing you again, even like that—it was like you opened my eyes again. You always knew how to do that.

I’ve been here for almost 90 days now—a new record for me. This is one of the last steps we have—to write a letter to someone we’ve hurt because of our drug use. The next one is supposed to be to someone who inspires us to be better—I decided to kill two birds with one stone.

I’m sorry. There are no better words to convey more than that. I am so, truly sorry for all the hurt you’ve been through because of me. I was hurting too, and I guess—that’s why this all started. With the pain pills. At least that’s what the therapist says. I was trying to deal with my hurt, and nothing seemed to work, until it did. And then I couldn’t stop.

I don’t want to bore you with all that. I’m almost done here—a few more weeks. I made a promise to you, and I intend to keep it—I want to get clean. I need to get clean. I think I’m getting there.

I suppose I intended to keep all those promises we used to make, but this time I really

When we go to group, so many of these guys say this is the hardest thing they’ve ever done in their life. They’re right—it’s hard. Really hard.

But the hardest thing I ever did in my life is watching you walk away and knowing you weren’t coming back. I would do this a thousand times over if it meant that never happened. Even all these years later, it’s you who inspires me. In my job, in my life—in everything.

In a few weeks, they’re having a thing. They call it a “graduation” since it’s the end of the program. I know you’ve been to a lot of those—usually a bunch of 11-year-olds—but I included an invitation here. I know I fucked up and I don’t deserve you there. But I’d like you there, if you want.

-D

There were two things you refused to tolerate in your classroom; lateness, and giving up on something without a good reason.

Unfortunately, you had already ruined one of those things—the subway shut down mid-ride, leaving you stranded for 45 minutes somewhere underground while the teenager next to you blasted music from a speaker and the old woman across from you read the paper, huffing and mumbling over every new headline. Eventually, they had fixed whatever the problem was, the trains starting to move again, but the damage was done.

The second, you were close to ruining as well—alarm bells rang in your head as you ran the three blocks to the building, up the stairs, and checked in at the main office. You persevered all the way until you reached the room, but then, it was like your feet were cemented to the floor.

The room was nice, unassuming. Bright, though you guessed the large windows were tinted from the outside for privacy despite being several floors up. TV’s lined the top of the walls, playing various outdated sitcoms or the news. Several tables were set up, silver metal bolted to the floor along with the attached chairs. One long one along the back wall held snacks and drinks, mostly untouched—but each table held families in varying degrees of conversation. Kids sitting on laps, wives and husbands holding hands. Everyone full of congratulations and pride. Families.

And at a table off to the side sat Dieter. Alone. No one to celebrate with, to pat him on the back. And you realized—maybe you had made a mistake.

You weren’t his family—not anymore. You weren’t anything to him but the woman who saved his life. Sure, you had poured over his letter—analyzed every crossed T and dotted I, practically memorized the words until you could hear them in his voice. But you shouldn’t have come.

You turn to leave, lost in the shuffle of the other families and friends but then you hear it—your name, from his lips. And you look up.

And you can almost see Dieter from 20 years ago in that face, standing in his spot at the table. The sheer hope; the happiness. The awestruck, goofy smile, the wide eyes with a few more wrinkles. He somehow looks 20 years younger and fifteen years older from how you remember him, but the unbridled joy he radiates at seeing you—you make your way to his table.

“I—I can’t believe you came,” he offers quietly. He moves to hug you, but you both dance around each other, settling after no greeting at all.

“You asked me to,” you reply smally. You both sit there awkwardly; Dieter drums his hands on the table as you both fidget. Something hangs over you both, but discomfort seems to cloud either of you.

“You—you look great,” he tries, an innocent smile.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” You huff sarcastically, and he shakes his head.

“Not when you look like that,” he gestures. He can still make your heart skip a beat after all these years.

“You look good, too, Dee. Healthy,” you add, and he releases a sardonic chuckle. “I mean it. You look good.”

“I feel good,” he replies simply. “Well—better. I’m still—the road doesn’t end here,” he scrubs a hand over his face. “Still gotta keep up with everything, you know?” You don’t, not really, but you nod anyway.

“I hope you do.”

“I will,” he assures you. “I promise.”

“Dieter, don’t—“ You bite your tongue before you can get into it, not wanting to ruin the moment, but it seems to spill out anyway. “—Don’t make any more promises. Please.”

“Baby—” “Dieter, no,” you try, a little more forcefully. He snaps his mouth shut, shaking his head and mumbling. “You said if I got clean, we could talk.”

“Is that why you invited me here?” You narrow your gaze. “To prove you could get clean?” “That’s really what you’re asking?” He asks incredulously. “Everything that’s happened and that’s your question?”

“No—I have so many questions, Dee. But I thought we could start there.” He huffs, scrubbing a hand over his scruff. Most of the other families have left by now, eager to get home, but you shift uncomfortably in the metal chair. Your heart is in your throat, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the swooping pain of heartbreak—to fade and be forgotten in the fray.

“I asked you here because everything I said in that letter was true. You are—were—my inspiration, and I wanted—I don’t know. I just—I needed to see you.”

“Is that why you came to my classroom?”

“I don’t even know if I knew I was going to your classroom. I—I was so rough, it was like my feet just led me there.” You nod, fiddling with your fingers in your lap. “I’m sorry—I know it was fucked up. To make you go through all that, after Jason and everything—I really didn’t intend to—”

“No one intends to overdose, Dieter,” you mumble, and he deflates.

“I know. And I’m sorry. There’s really nothing else for me to say but that.”

He looks sadly sincere, but without an acceptance of his apology, you both begin to look around awkwardly. The tension between you is clear, like some unmoving rock, and you watch one of the TVs in the corner to distract you a moment. An older movie is playing—daytime TV—about a substitute teacher trying to turn his elementary school class into a rock band. You chuckle a bit, watching as the man tries to teach his students to play guitar.

“You know, I always thought you’d be a good Dewey,” you try, throwing a lifeline as you raise your eyebrows toward the screen. Dieter looks at it, then back to you.

“I almost was,” he admits sheepishly, and you pin him with a look to explain. “I had a callback for that movie. Would’ve been my first starring role.”

“I don’t think I knew that.” “You didn’t,” he admits. “It—uh—they wanted me to fly out to LA for a week. It was the same week as Jason’s dedication ceremony, and you needed me there—” Your face falls, and he quickly compensates. “I told them 'no.'”

“Dee—” You start, tears beginning to form. Losing out on a role like that—even just the opportunity for it—would’ve been a big deal. It could have put him on the map well before he actually “made it,” would have launched his career.  A huge sacrifice over a speech in a local park to your family and friends that made you nervous. “You know I would’ve told you to go if I knew—” “I know,” he cuts you off. “It’s why I never told you. I wanted to be here. For you. With you.” He looks around, trying to brush it off, but you finally reach a tentative hand over the table and lock your fingers with his.

“Thank you, Dieter.” He nods, squeezing your hand back. For the first time since you walked in, he smiles—really smiles—even if it’s small.

“I would do it again in a heartbeat,” he admits. You both sit quietly, enjoying each other’s company a bit more now that the ice is broken, your hand in his. A clinic worker begins clearing things from the tables, signaling the time to leave.

“What will you do now?”

“Uh—not sure,” he admits, running a hand over his neck as he stands with you to walk you out. “I—I don’t know if I should go back to my house in LA. I just—there’s a lot of memories there. Triggers. And hiding spots. I think—it might be too tempting.” You nod in understanding. “Plus, I have to keep up with my therapist here, so—I don’t know. Maybe a hotel for a while.” You turn to look at him, approaching the exit to the clinic. He stops, looking back at you with some level of familiarity in those chocolate eyes; some level of fondness that can’t be extinguished. You take a deep breath, then take the plunge your heart has been waiting for.

“You know—the spare bedroom is free.”

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