#why do I just fall into a black hole of horrible thoughts anytime something goes wrong

[tealchameleon]

you wanna know what would be really fucking cash money? Really fucking swagtastic ballerific??? If I could PLEASE stop having flashbacks of literally ALL my life trauma randomly throughout my day for the entire week :))) bc lately my brain has been doing the mental equivalent of duct taping my fucking eyes open and forcing me to watch the most fucked up PowerPoint you’ve ever seen and the damn thing is on a loop that you just have to endure all day on repeat. Like obviously I know flashbacks are to be expected as a part of ptsd but they’ve been so bad ever since I got my rejection letter for grad school. I just hate how one thing sets off a chain reaction and triggers all of the rest of those bad thoughts, even ones for trauma that is not at all related to this situation?? Like I got rejected from grad school and all of the sudden I can’t stop thinking of my grandfather on his death bed. You’d think I’d be having flashbacks of my parents abusing me for not performing to their expectations and being The Perfect Child, but no ptsd is a trick ass bitch and just threw a wild card down on the table like “aww so the poor little dummy is too stupid for school? Then here why don’t you agonize over the death of your loved ones. All of the pain, none of the logic :) also you’re a piece of shit in case you forgot”

[notmrskennedy]

Bites and Bullet Holes

(Spencer Reid x Female leaning but sorta GN! Reader)

Summary: Spencer, during college, was bitten by a dog. Working a case involving dogs brings back old memories and friends...

W/C: 3,384

Warnings: Dog bites, bullet holes, bad writing? 

A/N: Guess what I found y’all? I haven’t edited it one single bit but I hope it goes over well anyway. When I was working at the kennel I kept having anxiety over one of my kids getting into a fight so I made this. Be a little extra gentle with this one. 

---

As he leaned over the victim, he made the mistake of thinking about you. Spencer thought he’d gotten over it. The whole randomly thinking about you thing—the thing that’s happened too many times before. He’d chalked it up to you being best friends 15 years ago. Told himself that it’s normal to miss your friends from college. 

But over a dead body? This was new. 

Though he supposes the dead girl could’ve looked like you in another timeline. There’s facial structure similarities—at least to you 15 years ago at 19. She’s been strangled with her dog’s leash and there’s some unspoken quality about her that just…jerks him into nostalgia over you. 

(You are probably the one that got away, but if he’s being honest, you live in DC. He could go see you right now if he wanted to.)

Morgan leans over Spencer and points at the dog leash. “It had to be someone she knew if the dog went off with our un-sub.”

Spencer nods, fidgeting with the 15 year old scars on the inside of his wrist. Whether or not Morgan noticed, he thankfully doesn’t press. Spencer is having enough trouble stamping down that knee-jerk reaction to think about you, let alone if Derek thinks to point out the magical, ‘hey weren’t you bitten by a dog?’

Spencer doesn’t remember the incidence well enough to comment. He wonders if you do. 

“We’ll have to check shelters for the dog,” Spencer remarks. “3.3 million dogs enter shelters every year in the US.” 

Morgan nods, pulls off a glove, pulls out his phone. Spencer looks around the park. Behind the police tape are plenty of people walking their dogs. The sorts of breeds that you’ve gushed about 15 years ago. His brain knew too much about dobermans, shepherds, mallinois—he could even hear that pretty little gasp you had when you’d point out a particularly well trained monster of a pet. 

Spencer wonders if you ever did anything with your finance degree, if you even ended up finishing college at all. You’d come close to dropping out over calculus—he hadn’t been around long enough to help you through the even harder stuff. This wasn’t the first time he’d wanted Garcia to look you up, but it was the first time he’d considered it. 

“Music to my ears, mama,” Morgan laughs into the phone and Spencer tunes back in. 

“I’ll get that puppy BOLO out,” Garcia chirps back. Spencer can imagine her wringing a fluffy pencils through her fingers. “We’re going to find this doggie and make sure that psycho didn’t get him too.”

Spencer smiles despite himself. Penelope would’ve liked you. 

#

JJ sets coffee down in front of his stack of files. She smiles, gracefully sits down next to him. Spencer tries his best to ignore her insistence. Tries to ignore the ever prominent eye contact screaming ‘We’re going to talk about something uncomfortable!’ 

“So, Spence,” she says, pausing for his attention with a sip of her own coffee. He looks up for half a glance before going back to the files. He doesn’t know why, but he’s sure there’s something in this stack of work the first victim had brought home with her. They all knew the un-sub, he had to be somewhere. 

“Spencer,” she says more insistently. He makes the mistake of looking up, of letting her place a hand on his. She gently turns the wrist over and pointedly glances towards the teeth marks. “Are you doing okay?”

He opens his mouth, but decides some things are better kept to himself. He thinks about saying that no, he wasn’t alright, that being plagued by thoughts of the first-love-of-his-life is haunting him more than the dog fight. 

That he can see your face in each of these victims. In their dogs. In the places they died. 

Dogs didn’t like him. They never did. The dog bite wasn’t the big deal out of the altercation. 

JJ won’t understand, so he offers her a truthful smile and says, “I’m okay. Seriously. More than 4.5 million people are bitten by dogs each year. I’m not special.”

JJ nods. Spencer goes back to his files. He forgets to hide his lovesick agony. JJ forgets not to notice. 

#

It’s 4AM and he knows he’s remembering it wrong. That the dog hadn’t been that big. That the teeth hadn’t really gotten him that bad. The bright red devil eyes and thousand yards of slobber were more than grossly incorrect. 

He sits up in bed and forces himself to remember the parts that were real. How real you had been. Before and after. 

Your car had broken down as you were leaving for work—already late—and you’d begged him for a ride. Promised calculus homework on your boss’s couch and only having to let the dogs out. No shit. No bleaching crates. No nothing. Just you, him, and some calculus homework. 

He’d caved. Now, running his hands over his eyes, he laughs at how obvious he had to have been. A skinny little 19 year old pimple of a boy majorly crushing on the first person to pick him out of a crowd and decide they’d be friends. The first friend who’d forced him to a tailgate at a football game. The only person he’d do absolutely anything for. 

And it was just like you promised. Your cute little nose wrinkle. Your horribly frustrated glares. Your over dramatic ‘I’m dropping out!’s every fifteen minutes. And it’d been great until you both heard a thunderous snap of a wooden fence and the wildest, most murderous howling he’d ever heard. 

You’d both bolted for the door, scrambling to get through the gates into the back. There’d been a moment of calm. Another beat. Another. And…you both had stumbled around the corner to find the next door neighbour’s dog, broken chain, trying to kill one of the kennel’s dogs. 

There had been no moment’s hesitation on Spencer’s part. He’d stupidly rushed forward, lodged his hand between the neighbour’s mutt and the sweetest dog he’d ever met. He’d yanked her free from the mutt’s jaws, only to find his own wrist dragging along the teeth. 

(He realised later that he’d always had a propensity to run head first into danger. No calculations needed.)

There’d been two beats for the dog to process it’s chew toy was in Spencer’s arms. To process that Spencer made a better victim. That Spencer’s throat and limbs were softer and easier to tear. Thankfully, he’d scrambled back enough that when the dog launched, it didn’t catch flesh. It chomped on air. Less than three inches from him. 

Fangs. Tightened lips. Black gums. Slobber. 

The mutt could be equated to Stephen King’s The Sun Dog. Always hesitant to process his trauma, it’s the one book—gifted by you during a Halloween birthday for him—that sits untouched on his bookshelves. There’s too much of you in the inscription in the cover. Too much of that horrible mutt in the pages. 

The next part of the night blurred in his memories. In his near perfect memory, it blurred. Trauma, right? 

You’d screamed. You were in front of him. You had the dog’s chain in your hands. He was running. The dog was heavy in his arms. His arm stung. You were screaming. He should’ve gone back. 

Five god-awful minutes later, you’d come into the house. Limping. Clutching onto your arm. You’d taken one look at Spencer running his wrist under the tap and forgotten about your own injuries. Despite the blood dripping off your arm. Or the quiet yelp every time you stretched. You’d barely taken ‘I’m fine, you’re the one bleeding’ as a reason to not bandage him up first. 

The only thing that calmed down the dream every time he had it was the memory of holding your hand while you got stitches. How your face pinched with the pain. How you’d said, ‘next time, it’s your turn to take the bullet.’ How he’d smiled and promised. 

Spencer watches the clock tick by and decides it’s too late to go back to sleep. Hotch’ll be up in an hour. No need to delay his start. Women were dying. Women you would’ve been friends with.

#

“Okay, crime-fighters, I found our connection,” Garcia chirps over the speaker phone. “All of our victims attended very specialised dog training courses at a facility just outside of DC. The owner said they’d send in one of their trainers to talk to you. Should be there anytime now.”

“What kind of specialised training?” Emily asks. Spencer feels like he should be contributing, should be processing any of this, but his head is pounding. He doesn’t have a hangover, but god does it feel like it. 

Garcia hums as she types. “It’s a military facility. Awww, they’ve got puppy pictures on their website!”

“Garcia—“

“Right, right. It’s a top notch facility and oh! A bunch of the FBI dogs graduate from there. I wonder if they get little caps and gowns and—“

“Hey, baby girl, the trainer’s here. We gotta run,” Morgan interrupts, though he’s all smiles to stare at whomever is plaguing his interest. 

There’s another squeal of please get puppy pictures before the call cuts and Spencer finally has the self preservation to look. And god does he look. 

15 years has made no difference on your skin and he can’t believe he’s not staring at you from across a lecture hall. The only indication you’ve changed is the nervous smile you’ve plastered on and the dog at your side. Every fun fact about german shepherds instantly crosses his mind and he can’t help but drop his jaw a little further. 

It sinks to the floor when you spot him and wave. You wave. At him. In front of coworkers. 

He’s out of his seat before he can stop himself. That easy smile reserved for movie nights falls back into place on your lips. Twinkles in your eyes. 15 years haven’t passed. Maybe he needs to check for pimples again. 

“Y/n,” he croaks and the same time his name leaves your lips. The dog at your side stands and you correct the gesture with a harsh word in what he’s sure is German. 

“FBI, huh?” Your eyes trail over every inch of him, crossing your arms in a relaxed, familiar kind of way. “I expected more math, Mr. I Like Derivatives.”

“The shepherd there doesn’t look like finance either, y/n,” he teases back like no time has passed. Like he doesn’t immediately feel incredibly guilty for ditching you for the academy. 

“Oh come on,” you huff, “you really think that I was cut out for an office job? I lasted six months.”

And before he can warn you, even think about warning you about the team that’s slowly creeping up behind him, they are all suddenly there. Very keen on knowing the ins and outs of how you know Dr. Spencer Reid. 

“Reid, you gonna introduce us?” Morgan smirks, clapping a painful hand on Spencer’s shoulder. You busy yourself with petting the dog at your hip, looking everywhere but Morgan’s insistent gaze. 

“Guys, this is my friend y/n from college.” 

JJ raises an eyebrow at the lack of explanation, but plows ahead with introductions. Takes charge of guiding you to an interview room. Gets through the entire interview without once asking about your relationship with him. 

Morgan watches Spencer rubbing the scars and makes the leap. “You okay, kid?” 

Spencer breaks from staring at your face as you talk about getting your start in Germany—Germany—and swallows. This was fine. It’s okay to tell his friend—his brother—about the story he’s never really talked about. 

“I stupidly put myself in the middle of a dog fight,” Spencer grits out, flexing and un-flexing his fingers. Every scar burns and he can’t help but stare at your smile again. “Y/n saved my life. She choked out the dog, Morgan, before he got a hold of me. Left the hospital with 12 stitches.”

“Oh,” was his all too helpful response. They both turned back to the interview. How everything jovial about your entire countenance shifted once JJ started mentioning the victims. 

“Look, Agent Jareau,” you say, leaning dangerously far away from the conversation, “They are—they were really smart women with some dangerous dogs. I don’t know—I just—there’s a lot of sickos out there.”

Every profiler within a 20 mile radius can hear the change in tone, can hear the fear. Spencer knows a lot can change in 15 years, but he thought for sure you’d never become a serial killer. He doesn’t know if it’s all his years in the bureau or if he’s still too attached to you, but you don’t seem like the killer. Not like JJ seems to think so. Sure, you’re terrified, but the dog you have is nosing your arm. Giving you big ole puppy eyes. Spencer doesn’t think a serial killer can pour that much into a relationship with an animal. 

“What do you mean?” JJ clocks the movement and switches to a maternal type of body language, tone. “Is there something going on?”

Your hand pauses on the dog’s head, and it noses your hand into action. “I, uh, just got a weird letter two weeks ago. It wasn’t—it was just weird. Off-putting.”

“Right before the first victim,” Spencer mutters. Weird letters indicated stalking. Victims with you as a central point meant stalking. Stalking meant you were probably next. Oh, god, you were next. 

JJ stretched a hand across the table and took yours. “You’ll get through this. You’ll get through this, y/n.”

#

Spencer didn’t know what to do with his hands. It was so much worse than normal. Should he stand? But what should he do with his hands because crossing them seemed too defensive? Or should he just sit down? But where? And was that rude?

Instead, he just took the cup of tea you offered and followed you like a lost puppy. Granted, it was your house and he was definitely lost. He also felt vaguely at home—there were a decent amount of bookshelves by his standards and even more mismatched furniture than he had. The house was well cared for and when you sat him down on your couch, you swept away a stack of training manuals, all sporting worn covers. 

Was it wrong to feel like he was settling onto your old apartment couch for movie nights?

You puff out a breath of air and lean your head dramatically into the back of the couch. “So, since you’re my FBI escort, is it wrong to ask if you still like cheesy 90s movies?”

He shakes his head. Grins. “You still have Legally Blonde?”

You just giggle as you head for a stack of movies. You strike up some conversation as you rummage and he knows he’s hooked all over again. It’s going to take weeks to get over you again. It’d taken months the last time, and he feels slightly less attached this time. But did he really think it would take more than a simple question about the latest thing he’s read? He wishes he knew you better, just as well as you seem to still know him. 

Though by the end of the movie, you’ve both returned to your college days. Practically curled into each other’s side. You still have horrible commentary about the movie, peppered in with Spencer’s annoying movie trivia. If it was anyone else, he figures, he would’ve been kicked out long ago. 

You still distinctly smell of vanilla, flailing the scent around as you move closer and further and closer again. You wear enthusiasm with your whole body and if you aren’t turning rapidly between facing Spencer and the movie, how could you possibly begin to explain correctly? 

Your shoulder keeps a constant pressure against his, your knees half over his thigh. There’s too many instances of hollering and laughing that you grab onto his knee to steady yourself. If this hadn’t been a protective detail, he might’ve lost his mind. 

Thank god for focus. Work. Work. Work. Not your hands on his knee. Definitely not your smile as you declare your affection for scented resume stationary. Totally not how hot it’s getting under your too affectionate gaze. 

“Spence, I really missed this,” you whisper, nudging your shoulder with his. “I know it’s weird to be thrown together after 15 years, but I—I missed you.”

“I—“ missed you too; fell in love with you in college; think I love you now. 

But there’s no time for heartfelt declarations when someone’s incessantly banging on the door. Spencer’s got half a mind to get the door for you, holster his gun, focus on keeping you safe. The banging doesn’t soften as he calls out that he’s on his way. If anything it gets worse. 

And it should’ve been the first red flag of the night. 

Spencer opens the door and thinks very loudly, “why the fuck do I always run headfirst into danger?” 

Their un-sub, a buzzcut that looks more Army that not, shakes a pistol at Spencer and demands to be let inside. There’s only so many ways to defuse the situation, so he back ups, tucks you behind him. Their un-sub winds a little tighter, shaking like one of those monkeys with cymbals. 

“McLaggen?” you whimper behind Spencer and the Army man fires a shot into the floor. You grip tighter onto Spencer’s shirt, digging in your fingers dangerously close to his skin. 

The buzzcut is red, boiling over with rage, words bubbling out of his throat. “Y/n, I just can’t stand to see you with them. You never notice me. You’re always working, so I thought I’d get your attention. Cut the competition. I just—you mean so much to me, y/n. You mean too much.”

Spencer is sure he won’t remember this day accurately as he pushes you just a little further behind him. He’s about to do something so incredibly stupid. Dear lord, why the fuck is he like this? And he lunges. 

The gun’s trapped in both of their hands. There’s one more bullet fired—at the ground he’s sure. There’s a squeak of fear. Just enough of a distraction. One more ounce of weight thrown around. One more lasting punch. McLaggen lands on the floor. The gun skitters away. McLaggen groans as he’s handcuffed.

You gasp and he realises immediately that he’s bleeding. That he’s on the floor. That there is a bullet lodged in his thigh. Again. 

One string of swears later, you’re on the phone with 911. Yes, he’s shot. Yes, there’s another in handcuffs. No, I’m not a whore, send the damn ambulance.  

You take his hand as he lays there, much like he did in the hospital 15 years ago. Unlike then, you’ve got tears pricking at your eyes. You’re sniffling like a school girl, and he’s not sure if you’ve said that aloud. 

“Spencer!” You wipe a stray tear. Squeeze his hand too tightly. “Why the hell, you freakin’ moron, did you take a bullet for me?”

He laughs, bubbling up out of his chest before he can stop it. You are too pretty to be this upset at his laughter. You are too lovely to be worried about him. To still be worried, like nothing has changed one bit. 

Every inch of him is trembling. Blood loss and bullets are bitches.

“Y/n,” he wheezes through dry lungs and more leg pain than he remembers there being, “I promised.”

You blink your eyes. What the hell are you talking about, Spencer Reid, you absolute idiot?

“I promised I’d take the next bullet. In the hospital.” He grins, groans as he moves to drag you into a hug. “I’m a man of my word, y/n, and I promise that if I keep the leg, we’re going out. Properly.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” you grumble into his ear and squeeze his neck tighter. If the paramedics don’t bother to pull you off, who’s to say you won’t stay like that forever? Attached to the loveable, danger prone idiot, who traded dog bites for bullet holes?

[sparklingchan]

Perfect ||Yang Hongseok (Pentagon)

Pairing : Reader(fem.) X Hongseok

Genre : Angst,fluff.

Warnings: Mentions of insecurities and self doubt.

Word count : 1.8k+

Enjoy!

They say that actions speak louder than words but I know from experience that sometimes words cause so much damage that even actions aren't able to repair those damages.

Hongseok says I am the love of his life and that he wouldn't trade me for the world, and I believe him because if I were to list all of his good qualities, being honest would top it. Besides being honest , he was practically good at everything. Singing, dancing, sports, studies, you name it. He is perfect , and even perfect is an understatement sometimes.

"(Y/n), Did you forget to buy milk yesterday too?" my dad asks me as I am eating breakfast, phone in my hand and earphones plugged in.

I sigh , pressing my hand to my face out of guilt. Why am I so forgetful?

"No, I'm sorry, pa. I'll go and buy it right now." I say and stand, leaving my half eaten breakfast behind.

He shakes his head in disappointment.

"Leave it, I'll ask Hongseok to buy it. He's coming to meet you today right?" He asks .

I don't know why but I was disappointed to hear him say that. I should be happy that my father got along so well with my boyfriend and adored him so much but I wasn't. Not even close. I felt like a horrible person at that moment for feeling that pang of jealousy.

"It's okay, pa. Hongseok probably has other things to do too. I'll buy right now. He will be coming in the evening anyway." I say, insistent.

"We can wait until the evening. The last time I sent you to get milk ,you bought everything but milk and this time you didn't even go to buy it. It's alright honey, Hongseok is more responsible. He'll buy it. "

That's when the realisation came of not being good enough. It was a small incident , some light words my father had said in the spur of the moment that I could have easily forgotten about it, just how I forgot everything else, but I didn't. I kept replaying the words in my head 'he's more responsible'. It drilled a small crack in my ego but with time the crack became a gaping hole, waiting to swallow me.

Hongseok invited me to his parents' anniversary party that they were hosting at their residence. I was unwilling to go honestly , not because I didn't want to go but because I was afraid of embarrassing Hongseok in front of his friends and relatives.

You see, I didn't fall into the category of pretty girls. I was just average. In a room full of pretty girls, you would never expect someone to have their eyes stuck on me. I am also too hyper , too talkative, too loud. And there is a whole list of other such things that would take me forever to jot down.

Hongseok didn't say it out loud but I just know that I embarrassed him in public, a lot.

"What are you going to wear?" he asks me over call the night before the party. I stare at the three dresses on my bed(the only dresses I own) and sigh, still stressed about limited choices of dresses for a fancy evening party. I hate wearing dresses but I know I cannot show up at the party wearing a pair of jeans and my black hoodie.

"I don't know, Hong. I'm confused." I say as I flop on the bed, nuzzling my face into the pillow.

"Oh god,(y/n). You should have told me earlier. I would have taken you shopping." He says with a hint of excitement in his voice.

But I fail to reciprocate it.

My ears turn red, embarrassed at his comment. I've been very sensitive to everything he says from the past few days and many times, I even tried to ignore his texts or calls . I know he didn't mean to make me feel this way but I couldn't help it. With each passing day, I feel myself becoming more of burden to him than a girlfriend. Truth to be told, I really wanted him to find his happiness in someone who was better than me.

Not to mention that it would break me to see him with someone else , but I am ready to bear that if it means seeing him truly happy.

" It's alright. I'll wear something nice so don't worry about being embarassed because of me." I reply, the words sounding harsher than I intended.

He keeps quiet for a few seconds before talking again.

"(Y/n), is everything alright? I've been observing you since the past few days and you're acting weird. And now you snap at me like that. You wanna talk about it, huh, baby?" he says in the sweetest voice ever. He always knows what to say, doesn't he? It makes me even more angry.

"He does not deserve you. He deserves someone as perfect as him." a voice inside my head says.

"I'm sorry but I've always been weird. Sorry for the goddamned inconvenience." I yell, sarcasm dripping in my voice. But before he can reply I hang up the call.

That night I turn and toss in my bed ,debating in my head whether or not to go to the party. A part of me wants to go because it feels bad for yelling at Hongseok and genuinely loves him and another part of me hates the idea of the party and just wants to stay in the house, not be an embarrassment to anyone. Ultimately, by the time the sun starts rising and my alarm goes off, I decide to go to the party.

********

I wear a red dress that reaches a little above my knees, pencil heels and some accessories. I put on some light make up and head out for the party. I've been ignoring Hongseok's texts and calls yet again and even though I am really tempted to talk to him, I just patiently wait till I reach his house.

And When I finally reach , I find him standing at the gate, busy on his phone and looking around as if searching for something. And that something is me.

"Hongseok." I whisper loud enough for him to hear me, as I slowly walk towards him, his eyes already on me. His face breaks into a smile on seeing me and naturally,mine does too. I haven't met him in person for a long time and right now, looking at him in a tux and perfect hair and with his beautiful smile, I realise how much I missed him.

He wraps his arms around me and it makes me forget about everything else , though just for a moment.

"I missed you." he says to me , nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck.

"I missed you too. " I say, placing my arms around his slim waist, " About yesterday-" I am about to complete my sentence when someone , his cousin if I recall properly , interrupts us.

"Hongseok, they're calling you inside, come on"

The party goes on smoothly . Hongseok and I are together almost throughout the whole time and for once, I didn't feel like I was embarrassing, maybe those feelings would come back but right now I am enjoying his company way too much to let negative thoughts ruin.

He would steal kisses from when I am blabbering about something or he would caresses my cheeks or hold my waist. He is all about PDA and I love it. Neither of us talked about yesterday and I know that the issue is resolved without me even having to say anything.

"I'm going to get dessert. Do you want anything?" he says, getting up from the table a little while later.

"I'll come with you." I say as I stand up too even though my feet hurt from wearing heels for too long .

We walk along the outdoor swimming pool, kids playing around and everyone else busy in their own little conversations and for once, I didn't feel out of place. Sadly ,all of that was short lived. Everything that happened next feels like a blur to me, like a video that is fast forwarded a little too much for my liking. I only vaguely remember a kid running right into me with full force, me tripping over and falling right into the swimming pool with a huge splash.

At that moment, I really wish I had stayed home.

*********

My ears are still ringing from to the splash and I feel horrible, embarrassed, sad and anxious all together. I've been holding in my tears all along and I know it isn't long before I snap, horribly. I have never felt so humiliated in my entire life and moreover, I wonder how much embarrassment Hongseok will have to go through because of me. I imagine a better scenario in my head where he is dating someone better than me, someone who'd have never caused so much humiliation. Someone who was more well behaved than me ,someone who wasn't me.

"Wear my t-shirt and pants till your clothes dry out. It shouldn't take long to dry them though." Hongseok says, handing some of his clothes to me.

I don't say anything, afraid of bursting into tears anytime.

I quickly wear his clothes .

"Are you in a mood to go downstairs for lunch or do you want me to bring our plates here? I'm fine with whatever you want, just name it" he says. He removes strands of hair from my face and tucks them behind my ears. His touch is like magic, giving me goosebumps but I force myself to swat his hand away,not being able to look him in the eye.

"I just want to go home. I can't embarrass you or your family anymore. " I say in a choked voice. I didn't want to cry right now but even before I could do anything, my eyes fill with tears.

"(Y/n)! You didn't do anything, sweetheart. Please, don't say that . You could never do that." he says, sitting beside me. He puts his hand comfortingly on my thigh but I move away .

"Why, Hongseok? Why are you lying? I know I have caused you nothing but humiliation and trouble . Stop denying it . I disappoint everyone, you, dad, my teachers, friends. You deserve better than this. Than me, " My voice breaks. "Let me go"

I say the last part in a small voice, unsure of how he'd react but he hears me, loud and clear.

"Okay, stop it now." he says in a tough tone, clearly angry. " I don't know what delusion you're under but let me make one thing clear ,you are more than what I deserve. You are smart, funny, bright, supportive, friendly, romantic, you're perfect. Other girls wish they're you. But they aren't because there can only be one (y/n). And I love her. With all her flaws and perfections. I'm not perfect either. I make mistakes and that's why we're more compatible than anyone else. Do you understand? "

Hearing these words as if breaks a wall that I'd been building from the past few days, and I feel relief wash over me. I start crying.

"You really mean it?" I ask in a small voice as his arms wrap around me. He places a kiss on my head.

"I mean it with all my heart. " He says. "Don't ever say that you're not good enough for me or that I deserve better, because I don't care. You're the one I want and I know you're more than enough for me."

And I believe him, like I always do.

[munofsilver]

Stuck In Between

A Gaa/Lee fanfic. SFW and no trigger warning. This will be a multi chapter fic for @gaalee-bingo.  This chapter is base of the prompt on bounce card 1 Rain. Each chapter will be it’s own prompt. You can read it here on Ao3. Summary: Lee, a human, while trying to escape his "prison," gets lost in the forest due to the heavy rainfall, so he takes shelter in a cave. This is no ordinary cave, for one thing, a tanuki named Gaara lives there. In this chapter Gaara and Lee met. 

Very late into the night, a young man is running for his life in the dark forest. The only light is the lantern given to him by his friend when she helped him escape. With him is a knife given to him by his other friend. His clothes are ripped and dirty, but Lee didn’t care. He also didn’t care that his clothes didn’t fit or his shoes pinched. All he cared about was getting far away from his prison.

Sadly the light from the lantern isn’t that bright, and he can’t seem to remember any marking. It doesn’t help that poor Lee can only see a few feet in front of him, and he keeps looking back to make sure no one is following him. Things are getting worse because it is now starting to rain very hard.  

“I need to get out of the rain,” Lee ensures himself.

Right now, he’s sitting under a tree to keep the rain off of him. Not wanting to be in the open, and his clothes aren’t good for keeping warm, Lee looks desperately to find shelter. Scanning the area the best he can, Lee does see something. Not far from him, near a beautiful large lake, is a cave. The looks of it a nice huge cave that even if they come for him in there, Lee can still hide until they leave.

With sore feet and the pouring rain coming down on his head Lee runs towards the cave. Luckily he didn’t fall or slip on anything. Right now, poor Lee needs all the luck he can get and then some. Once in the cave, Lee takes off his shoes and rubs his feet. Then he takes off his clothes and rings them out. He puts them back on. Still wet, but better than before.

Lee decides to rest a bit before finding the meet-up point, where he is sure his friends are waiting for him. Right now, he is sure they are wondering where he is. Lee knows they will wait for him all day if need be. They both know Lee will show up; if not then, Lee doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to go back to that horrible life.

Lee closes his eyes for a bit and sighs. As soon as the rain stops, Lee will leave this cave, which seems to be the new plan. The next thing Lee knew, it was morning. He woke up to find a small fire near him and a blanket wrap around him.

“You looked cold,” a voice comes from somewhere in the cave.

Lee doesn’t recognize the voice or know where it is even coming from. He jumps up and trips on the blanket wrapped around him. He wiggles out of it and stands up, placing his hand on his knife tied around at his hip. “Who…. Who’s there?” He asked, backing away towards the cave opening.

He turns around to find the cave opening is closing. Lee is about to freak the heck out. “Don’t worry, it does that when the border is opening. You should hide,” the voice calls out this time, it sounds like it’s coming from the back of the cave.

Lee can see the back of the cave. Based on what he saw outside, this cave should be huge and deep. The wall next to his opens up like a door. He spins around to see it and takes a few steps backward.

“You will be safe there. Hurry up now,” the voice is closer, but Lee still sees nothing.

Soon he is pushed through the hole, and it closes behind him. Scared beyond belief, Lee starts to try to get the wall to open again while yelling, “Open up! Let me out, please!”

Nothing happens, and after a while, Lee stops and leans his head against the wall, wondering what to do. The wall opened again, causing Lee to fall and rollover. He lands in front of a pair of feet. No, not feet paws, like raccoon paws. Looking up, Lee sees what looks like a human but doesn’t look like one. The person standing in front of him has black claws for hands, a tail, raccoon looking ears poking out of his blood-red hair, no eyebrows or pupils in his seafoam eyes with black rings around them, and pale skin. This half person is wearing a loosely tied maroon yukata exposing part of his chest and a black haori.

He holds out his clawed hand towards Lee to help him to his feet. Lee didn’t take his hand but wasn’t rude about it. He stands on his own and bows. “Thank you,” he said before he raised his head.

The creature brings back his hand, “No need for that. My name Gaara by the way,” his ears flick as he looks outside, “It seems the rain is not going to stop anytime soon. You can stay if you want. I guess,” Gaara shrugs.

Lee looks and sees the cave opening is indeed back, and it’s still pouring. Lee sighs; it seems the best thing to do is stay here, but will he be safe with this Gaara? Lee glances at Gaara then back outside. He does this a few times, thinking if he should stay or go. Almost as if Gaara could read Lee’s mind, he takes a step bad.

“You can leave if you want up to you. By the way, you are acting. I’m guessing you have never seen a tanuki before,” Gaara calmly says.  

Lee was taken back, but how calm Gaara sounded, “I thought that tanukis look more animal-like,” Lee shyly says.

Gaara sighs in annoyance, “All tanukis have an animal form you are talking about and a human one. This is my human form,” Gaara raises his arms and turns around like he was showing off an outfit.

Gaara’s ears flick again, and he looks outside, “It seems the rain is not going away for at least a few days a week at the most. The forest spirit loves the rain spirit. They can only see each other when he brings the rain,” Gaara faces Lee again, “When he does come, he likes to stay with his love. Like I said before, you are free to leave if you want.”

Gaara walks over to the fire and tosses a few more logs onto it. Lee watches the heavy rainfall. If he goes back into that, he will get lost and soaking wet like last night. Thinking about how wet his clothes were when he first entered the cave. Now his clothes are dry, wait when did that happen? These aren’t the clothes he had on before. Then Lee noticed his clothes were hanging up to dry near the fire. That’s not all; he’s wearing the same thing Gaara is. This time instead of his clothes being too big, they are too small.

It’s easy to tell that Gaara is shorter than Lee. Deciding to stay for now. Lee sits by the fire across from Gaara. The tanuki looks up and seems surprised a bit, “You want to stay?”

“I won’t get far with this rain,” Lee answered.

“I could help with that. I can get you an umbrella,” Gaara answered back.

“I will need my clothes back,” Lee points over to his hanging clothes.

“I think your clothes are dry now,” Gaara gets up to check on them.

“It seems like you want to get rid of me,” Lee looks hurt; he doesn’t like the idea of being unwanted.

Gaara only shrugs, “Makes no difference to me,” he sits back down by the fire, “They are dry now.”

Lee gets dressed in his original clothes. If he had a choice, he liked the other set better. They were small only because of how tall Lee is. “Sorry, if you didn’t like the clothes, those are the only ones I can make,” Gaara looks over his shoulder, glancing at Lee before turning his attention back at the fire.

Lee holding the clothes he was wearing, “You make your own clothes?”

“Not really, I just transformed some leaves,” Gaara shrugs.

The clothes are now gone, and Lee is holding two leaves, one was a brown color. He drops the leaves. Stepping around them so he won’t step on them, Lee takes one more look outside. Nothing has changed. Lee doesn’t know why he thought it would, wishful thinking maybe. It looks like his friends will have to wait a little longer. Lee just hopes they aren’t out stuck in the rain.

“I take it you are staying,” Gaara now poking at the fire.

“At least until the rain stops,” Lee answer sitting across from Gaara once again.

Gaara only nods his head. Something smelled good to Lee. It’s making his mouth water and his belly growl. Something that the tanuki had noticed, “Hungry?”

Lee’s head shot up. With a little blush of embarrassment, he slowly nods his head, “I’m starving.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Gaara turned over some fish he was cooking over the fire.

“Yesterday morning,” Lee whispers.

Gaara was able to pick it up with his big ears. He glances at him as he hears Lee’s stomach growl a second time. Adding more fish on the fire Gaara also adds some leeks with them.

“Do you usually only eat one meal a day? From what I understand, a person eats three.”

Lee looks at the fish and leeks cooking. He can’t wait to eat some. That is if Gaara will let him. Lee won’t take anything unless offered. He takes in the scent, and it brings him back to the camping trips he would take with his father. Lee wished he could go back to those days. Gaara’s question brings Lee back.

“Humans are supposed to have three meals a day. Some are unable to. For me, a meal or two a day is normal now,” Lee answered.

“You will be fine with only one meal today?” Gaara seems confused.

Most humans he sees have more weight to them than Lee. The young human sitting across from him is tall and has very little body fat.  Gaara doesn’t truly understand all the human ways. Lee is the first human he has seen in ten years. They rarely come here, and when they do, it’s usually with another yokai. No one has looked as weak as Lee did. Maybe weak is not the right thing to say. Healthier looking would be better.

Lee thinks to himself. He never really ever had three meals a day. Every day before he goes hunting, Gai would make a huge breakfast that would keep Lee full until dinner time. Then have a big dinner full of meat. Mostly whatever Lee brought home from hunting or fishing. A question came to Lee.

“Forgive me for asking a question instead of answering yours. Where did you get the fish and leeks?”

Gaara smiles, “Answer my question, then I’ll answer yours.”  

Lee smiles in return. “Fair enough. Eating when I can is my usual when it comes to food in general, is my new normal. Before it was two big meals a day,” Lee regrets saying the last part.

“Interesting. As for the food, I grew the leeks in my garden in the back of the cave. There is a lake outside full of fish,” Gaara now has two plates and is placing the fully cooked food on them.

Lee has more questions, but they can wait until he’s done eating. Right now, Gaara has placed a plate full of food, and Lee doesn’t want to wait or beg for it. The food tasted as good as it smells. Lee eats like a wild animal, or that he hasn’t eaten in days. Did Lee lie to Gaara? Not that it matters. The thing is Gaara doesn’t like it when others lie to him.

[royaltyjunk]

Confront Nothing [T, New Danganronpa V3]

Summary:

Nobody wants it to be real, he knows that, and when Yumeno calls for him from the kitchen, he shakes off the thoughts of that god-forsaken killing game and forces himself to pretend there's nothing wrong with the world even when there is.

Author's Ideas: SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS GO BACK IF YOU HAVEN'T COMPLETED V3

gUESS WHO'S WRITING FIC WHILE SHE SHOULD BE DOING OTHER THINGS

Ha ha ha look at me showing my face and writing emo things ha ha

Oh yeah I'm using the traditional Japanese name thing. So it'll be "last name, first name" and I'll be referring to the characters with their last names. Just because I'm so used to that

This fic's title for a whole month was "saihara-centric fic where I rip apart his feelings" so that should give you a good idea of what this whole thing is going to be about

As always, readable on FF.net and AO3.

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

The sound of a moving bookcase fills his ears, a puddle of blood catches the corner of his eye, and he turns his head. There, collapsed and crumpled on the floor, is a man with green hair, a boy that he had once called Amami who can now only be called a corpse, a dead body, a victim of the killing game.

Then he watches despairingly as feet connect with piano keys, as her face goes red and blue, then purple, until she's dead and swinging unsteadily in front of a wall of spikes that destroy her, the Akamatsu Kaede he knew, the Akamatsu Kaede he loved, and he collapses to his feet, unable to comprehend anything except her last words to him, her wish.

The water is crystal clear and there he is. Hoshi Ryoma, the Ultimate Tennis Pro, who killed a gang of mafia for the one he loved, floats in the tank, weighed down by a pair of handcuffs that mean little to the piranhas that attack him and send the water swirling into a whirlpool of death; of blood and flesh and bones and handcuffs that once were a classmate of his.

Then he finds that he can't even see Toujou on the vine she's climbing but he's vouching for her, yelling at her in his mind to escape, to run and get away, but in the blink of an eye the world they thought they saw was just a crude crayon drawing, and the vine she's climbing on snaps, and she plummets to the ground, a scarred and marred body that may have been the classmate that took care of them. Saihara doesn't know.

Akamatsu and Amami and Hoshi and Toujou are all staring at her upside-down, and Saihara can feel the bile building up in his throat and he gags, holding his hand to his mouth when he sees Yonaga Angie, the creator of those eerily perfect wax dolls lying in the center of her own smeared blood. The scene changes, but the bile in his throat doesn't go away, because they find Chabashira's body immediately after the necromancy, and there's something so vile about killing two classmates at once that Saihara doesn't know what to do except weep harder that night.

Then even after they find out the disgusting man Shinguuji really is, and even after he's killed by his own sister, the person he god damn loved, and even after everyone knows he's dead but couldn't really care, Saihara can't help but feel sorry for him. He'd grown to respect the man's presence and knowledge, and to feel his absence was unsettling in the most disturbing way.

He feels the visor drop onto his foot when he sees Iruma's tortured face, her eyes rolled back and her white sclera showing, her blue irises barely showing, and he stumbles back into his chair and stares at Iruma's body with a look that can only be described as despair.

Then bugs are attacking the muscular teenager and the computer tied to a pole, his face puffy with stings, and then Monophanie and Monotaro are lying as scraps of machinery beside the great bug that erupts from them, and the huge bug tears through the air and slams its blade-like arm through Gokuhara Gonta, the kind entomologist who had always wanted to be a gentlemen, who had wanted to protect his friends at any cost.

The sound of Harukawa's knife falling to the floor pierces the silence of the Exisal hanger, the silence that hangs over all of them because of the green crushing machine that spills over with red blood, and the thing that catches Saihara's eye above it all is the purple sleeve hanging out of the crusher, that familiar purple jacket that Momota wears everywhere, and Harukawa falls to her knees as Saihara stumbles backwards, something in him screaming that Momota can't be dead, no one would want him dead, Momota -

Then he's watching as the spaceship comes flying up through the ground, and the door swings open, and there is Momota, his friend Momota, laying in a pool of his own blood as he smiles, and all Saihara can do is watch Harukawa scream and wail as she holds his lifeless body in her arms.

The school is collapsing, and K1-B0 continues to tear down the buildings. Saihara's buried under a pile of rubble, but as Saihara slips out of consciousness he sees a large boulder crush Shirogane in an explosion of blood, and he can't help but feel proud that he's finally stopped these horrible games.

Then they awaken them alive, miraculously, to a hole blown in the Wall, and K1-B0's remains scattered under their feet, and Saihara knows he hasn't been forced to go through the killing game again, it's all a dream but it feels so real, so tangible, so -

He falls off the bed, and his head hits the floor in a loud thump. Pain jolts him awake, and out of instinct, he mutters, "Ow."

And just like that, the nightmares that haunt him every night are gone to the morning, and he sits up, rubbing the back of his head. His long black hair ruffles beneath his touch, and he sighs. He needs a haircut, and soon. Maybe Harukawa can help him.

There's a knock on his door. "Saihara…? Are you alright…?"

"I'm fine, Yumeno," he grunts, slowly standing and opening the door, glancing down at the short woman. "Did you need something?"

She shakes her head, her long red hair falling around her. "No… I just heard a thump from your room and came to see what it was…"

"I'm fine, Yumeno. I just fell off my bed. Who's turn is it to cook today?"

"Mine… I'm going to go now…"

"Alright, Yumeno. If you need help, just call for me or Harukawa, okay?"

"Harukawa won't respond… I'll just call for you…"

Saihara lets out an awkward chuckle. "I suppose you're right."

He shuts the door and hears Yumeno shuffle down the hallway.

The three of them have ended up living together in a remote corner of Okinawa, in a small house meant for three people, just like them. They've been given the house by Team Danganronpa, for "giving them the best ending to Danganronpa they could ask for", even promising to keep their location secret. Harukawa had hissed at them to refuse the house, but Saihara had argued that they couldn't possibly live anywhere else without paparazzi and fans flooding their house, and keeping their location was crucial. Harukawa hadn't spoken to him for two weeks afterwards, but now she acknowledges that his choice was right.

The thoughts bring him back to the nightmares, and the nightmares bring him back to the killing game, that stupid killing game that had ruined their entire lives, all of their lives.

Nobody wants it to be real, he knows that, and when Yumeno calls for him from the kitchen, he shakes off the thoughts of that god-forsaken killing game and forces himself to pretend there's nothing wrong with the world even when there is.

~ / . / . / ~

The lock to their front door clicks, and Saihara's in the doorway immediately. Harukawa brushes past him, her hands full.

"Wait, Harukawa-san - "

"There are more groceries in the car," she replies, setting down the multiple bags in her arms. She pulls open the refrigerator violently, and Saihara knows better than to ask her what happened now. It was something Harukawa would do eventually.

He slips from the house and hurries to the black car in the garage, its trunk still open. He grabs the remaining bags and slams the trunk shut.

"Be nicer with my car," Harukawa mutters when he comes back into the house.

"Oh, sorry."

She shrugs, taking out the contents of another bag. He follows suit, packing away the bagged vegetables and fruit into the fridge.

"...Someone recognized me," Harukawa speaks up, "and tried to follow me home."

Saihara looks at her. Truthfully, it's not too hard to recognize Harukawa behind her short, choppy hair, the purple jacket draped over her body, the colored contacts she wears. It's the best they can do, though, when their facial features have been memorized by crazy fans and paparazzi. That's why only Harukawa is allowed out of the house - she's the easiest to hide, she's the person who's best at seeming like she's a normal person.

"Please don't tell me you - "

"I didn't," she responds instantly. "They told me our season was dumb when I confronted them, then left."

Saihara doesn't say anything; simply shuts the refrigerator door and makes to go back to his room.

"Wait, Saihara."

Saihara turns to see Harukawa pull out a bottle of scotch from the final bag. He steps back inside the kitchen immediately, reaching for glasses. She smiles, and pulls out the cork with little trouble.

"You should stop doing that. One day you're going to shatter the glass bottle."

Harukawa sighs and rolls her eyes, but pours him a glass filled to the brim when he places the glasses in front of her.

"We should stop drinking so often," Saihara murmurs, leaning against the counter as he takes a sip of his scotch.

"You know we're not going to stop anytime soon," Harukawa retorts, downing a large gulp of her drink.

Saihara shrugs, but he can't ignore the truth in her words. There's something comforting about drinking, but not in the way he wants it to be comforting. It's comforting in the way that punching someone is, satisfying in the way that breaking something is.

"I don't even think I know what I'm drinking for," Saihara mutters in the heat of the moment. The alcohol's hitting him already, he can tell. He never could hold his drink that well. "There's so much."

"Give me one thing," Harukawa demands, "one god damn thing, you overly emotional young adult."

"Akamatsu-san." The name falls from his lips before he can stop and even think about it.

"...You too, huh." Harukawa snorts, and she slams her fist into the counter. "They tampered with our minds… those assholes…"

"No. I've just… always been like this. For as long as I can remember. Which doesn't say much."

"What do you mean?"

Saihara takes a long sip of his drink. "I… don't know, honestly. I've always fallen in love easily. And after everything Akamatsu did…" he lets out a bitter laugh. "How could I not? I haven't even been able to get over her, even after all these years."

Harukawa, for once, hums in agreement. "Yeah. I think I've always been like that too."

It's then that Saihara realizes Harukawa's been speaking like Momota all these past few years. The way her words are spoken, and the swear words thrown in, it all seemed so obvious, he can't believe he missed it - a detective like him missed something so different about his friend, and he realizes it when he's drunk. He can't believe himself.

"To Momota," he murmurs, and even in his drunken stupor he can't crack a smile. Harukawa touches her glass to his.

"To Akamatsu."

~ / . / . / ~

"Yumeno," Harukawa frowns. "Have you gotten taller?"

"Hm…? I think so. My clothes aren't fitting that well anymore…"

"I can see that. Wow, are you actually growing?" She crosses her arms, looking Yumeno up and down. Saihara scratches the back of his neck, laughing.

"She definitely is. A rather late bloomer, aren't you?"

"Well… yeah… I'm twenty one, and just now hitting puberty…" Yumeno grumbles, and Harukawa grins coyly.

"Isn't the cut off usually nineteen or so?" Saihara asks, frowning.

"Nyeh… Did I set a new record for the latest age to hit puberty?"

Saihara shrugs, and Harukawa shakes her head.

"I don't know, but we're not calling those World Record collector assholes over."

"Definitely not."

Saihara shakes his head wordlessly. They don't need the attention - the people crowding to see them, the paparazzi asking for interviews and spouting crazy questions, the fans screeching and squealing. They have enough of a reminder of their dependence on the team they had given up their sanity for. Every month, a pile of checks come in, enclosed in an envelope with the Team Danganronpa logo etched on it, sealed with stamps of them in the 53rd season.

They're checks from Team Danganronpa, who give them checks for a lifetime because the 53rd season is "undoubtedly worth all of our money". It's hard to accept them, hard to feed them into the ATM, hard to flip through the cash they get and hard to stare at the total accumulating in their credit cards. All three of them know it's for the best, though. They wouldn't be able to get by if they didn't.

"Saihara…" Yumeno calls, and he snaps back to reality. He looks over at her.

"What is it?"

"How much taller do I have to grow?" she inquires, standing with her back to Harukawa's back. Harukawa laughs and doesn't pull away, glancing over at Saihara.

He stares at Yumeno and Harukawa, and then he realizes just how much Yumeno's grown, and disgustingly he's reminded of Saionji Hiyoko, a Danganronpa character he knows his previous self absolutely loved, and he realizes just how much he hates Team Danganronpa for ruining his life for him - every aspect of his life.

~ / . / . / ~

He can't say he's not surprised when he stumbles through the darkness into the kitchen and through the glass door sees Yumeno in the backyard puffing smoke from her mouth, a cigarette in her hands.

"Yumeno," he calls as he opens the doorway, and she starts, turning to look over her shoulder at him.

"...Saihara," she murmurs. "I didn't expect you to be up at this time."

"What time is it?" he asks, his shoulder leaning against the doorway.

"Two or three in the morning…" she responds, her breath smoky. "...Did you know I do this often?"

"I knew there was a reason for the smoke I faintly smell all the time when I fall asleep."

"I thought so… You always talk yourself to sleep… talking to one or two until you fall asleep… of course you'd know."

"So you knew."

"Harukawa told me… That's why I never bothered you when we first moved in and I'd get nightmares… I'd always go to Harukawa's room…"

Saihara shuts his eyes and sighs, a wash of tiredness coming over him.

"Hey, Saihara…"

"Hm?" He opens his eyes, tilting his head.

"When you talk to yourself… you pretend that you're talking to Akamatsu, don't you…?" Yumeno questions gently, looking over her shoulder at him.

"...Yes." A gaping hole opens in his heart, and he must reflect it on his face, or in his eyes, because Yumeno looks at her feet, her face full of shame.

"...Sorry. I… don't even understand what you and Harukawa are going through…"

"It's okay. But… try not to smoke as much," he murmurs. "I can't say that I'm doing better, and I can't say that Harukawa is either, but… I want you to do better, Yumeno. I think she does too."

"Mm… I'll try," she mutters as she drops the stub of tobacco to the ground and crushes the butt of her cigarette under her heel. He steps inside and shuts the door to the backyard. He ignores the fact that Yumeno pulls out another cigarette immediately after, and feels his heart go numb as he downs a can of beer in the fridge meant for Harukawa.

~ / . / . / ~

"I'm going out with someone tomorrow," Harukawa tells them over dinner, and Saihara almost chokes on his spaghetti.

"Wait, what?" he asks, coughing.

"Really?" Yumeno questions, her eyes sparkling. "Who?"

"He's just the clerk at the grocery store. That's all. He asked me to go to dinner with him, and I agreed. I don't see no reason why…" she trails off, and Saihara's fingers tighten around his fork.

He knows what she wants to say. She wants to say that she doesn't see a reason not to agree. She wants to say it, she really does. But Saihara knows she can't say it. There's a name branded in her mind, a person's touch branded on her body that will never go away no matter how much she tries. She will never forget him, but she sure can try.

It makes Saihara shudder, how Harukawa is changing. She's gone from cold and uncaring to someone who wants to change, who wants to be different, but there's something off about the way she's changing or trying to, because it's so much like the last time she tried to change, and everyone at the table knows what happened to her after that, mainly because the result is sitting right there, telling them she's going to change.

So it's truly not a surprise to Saihara when Harukawa comes storming into the house, her face streaming with dried tears and smeared mascara. Saihara and Yumeno are out of their rooms in an instant, next to Harukawa immediately when she drops onto the couch, punching angrily at the arm of the couch. There's a fist-shaped indent in the leather that slowly fades away, and Harukawa runs a hand through the hair that reaches down to her back now.

"What happened?" Yumeno questions softly, kneeling in front of Harukawa. Saihara leans against the wall next to the couch. "You said you were going out, weren't you?"

"I can't do it," Harukawa rubs at her eyes, but doesn't bother wiping away the rest of the tears that fall down her cheeks. "I can't…"

"Did he do something?" Saihara inquires, and Harukawa nods slowly. "What did he do?"

"He… said he had a surprise… and then he took me to the… the planetarium."

Harukawa's words are soft, but Saihara freezes up as soon as she says that. Yumeno sniffles softly, sitting beside Harukawa. The brown-haired woman shifts to rest her head against Yumeno's shoulder.

"He asked me why I would have fallen in love with a lame guy like Momota. He was Momota's friend. He knew him… and he hated him. And he tried to…" Harukawa's fingers twitch angrily, curling into fists, and Saihara sits on the other side of her. He stares at her fists, watching her long nails dig into her palm, leaving crescent-shaped marks.

"I'm sorry, Harukawa…" he murmurs, and Yumeno rubs her back gently. Harukawa sniffles, and Saihara can't help but rest a hand on her shoulder when he sees the tears crawling down her cheek.

"I wish I could move on…" she sobs, drawing her knees into her chest. "That idiot… he…" Those words, the way she speaks them. The Harukawa from the killing game, the Harukawa he'd seen grow had come back. He squeezes her shoulder, pulls her into a one-armed hug.

"I know," Saihara murmurs softly, and she bows her head, letting the tears fall onto her legs, staining her old red leggings. Yumeno braids Harukawa's hair, ties it with her old red scrunchies. For once, they relive the pain of the killing game together.

He knows they can't recover unless everyone they've ever lost comes back, but that's impossible. Those deaths were real, those executions were real and that killing game was real.

He knows it's all real, and nobody wants to confront it. They will, eventually. He knows they will.

But for now, they can't. And they won't.

[emberlynnrayne]

BPD- My struggle with mental health

[I wrote this for facebook, but felt it was important to have here, too. Opening up like this was incredibly difficult.]

I promised a few days ago to write about my struggles with mental health, so here goes.

My biggest struggles are with a combination of Anxiety, Depression, and something called BPD. While real education about anxiety and depression is sorely lacking generally, it’s still far more understood and accepted than BPD, and I’ve written about them before. So let me tell you about BPD. First and foremost, despite much confusion, it does not mean bipolar disorder. It means Borderline Personality Disorder, and despite how it sounds, it has nothing to do with having multiple personalities. BPD can stem from many things, but in my case, it boils down to the environment in which I was raised. With the combination of my own mother and father suffering from their own untreated mental illnesses, the sexual abuse I suffered, and a myriad of other environmental detriments, I basically did not learn to function in an emotionally healthy way. BPD is different for everyone. That means that you may know someone with BPD who acts completely differently, it means that it needs to be treated differently per individual, and it means that the lasting effects work us in different ways.

I’m going to tell you what BPD means for me.

First and foremost, I feel strongly. I feel in extremes. It’s black or white. Good or bad. Higher highs and lower lows. I feel too much, or nothing at all, and I don’t know how to manage it. I’m getting better, but you have to realize that I don’t know any different. This is just the way it is and always has been for me. Learning that it doesn’t have to be has been slow, and trying to put it into practice has been slower. I can feel utterly overwhelmed by my thoughts and feelings, too full to think or express, or even understand. And I can feel empty. Just, utterly empty. Like a black hole. There’s no bottom. There’s no filling it up, or turning it around. I just have to function around the hole. There’s not always a cause for either. I don’t even know it’s happening when it starts. I just suddenly realized that it is. It is. It also makes me an extremely empathetic person. It also applies to people. I am slow to trust, but when I do, oh my god I love you so much, you’re so amazing and I put you on this beautiful ornate pedestal without ever realizing it. I am loyal to a fault. And it goes the other way, too. If I don’t like you, I really don’t like you. I don’t want to be near you, I don’t want to look at you or talk to you. If you’re in the good with me, it is incredibly hard to break out. If you manage to do something or build up enough things to fall out of the good with me, it’s worse than having been in the bad in the first place. It is incredibly difficult to do, so you would have hurt me or someone I love in a deep and horrible way. You become less than a person to me, you become less than scum. You become nothing but something to laugh at and hate simultaneously. You will never come back to my good side.

It sounds exhausting, doesn’t it? Try living it. On a list of signs and symptoms, this would be ‘unstable relationships’ and 'mood swings’.

I’ve gotten better in this aspect. Of course I still struggle with the extremes, but Im much better about holding people up on unmaintainable pedestals. I recognize that the faults in my loved ones are not secrets to be ignored and hushed, but things to love and understand with them. When you manage to fall from my good side, it is not impossible to come back. It will take time, work, and a level of honesty that is difficult for most people. The honesty is imperative though, because I am incredibly sensitive to lies, and there is no room in my life for liars. So, it is possible, but I still need you to really want it, and be willing to work for it, because remember, whatever you did had to be extreme to go from my good side to bad.

That brings me to the next point, though. Trust. I mentioned that I’m slow to trust. That is an understatement. It is incredibly difficult for me to manage my trust in people. I know that having no trust in anyone is incredibly unhealthy and isolating, so (in my naturally extreme way) I tend to trust the people on my good side almost implicitly. Lies are the easiest way to fall out. White lies, I understand. I can accept now with understanding that the world basically requires them. Unnecessary, repeatedly, or maliciously lying to me, however, is a deal breaker. Generally, though, I don’t trust people. I don’t trust strangers to any extent. No matter your gender, race, or how much space is between us, it doesn’t matter how well I know you or how much I love you. There is a deep, however slight, level of mistrust. I suspect they intend me harm. It’s irrational, but there is only one person I trust without a shadow of a doubt. The ones you love the most hurt you the worst, after all. So who can you trust? It’s such a big part of my BPD, that it actually has sub-topics. Because of the incredibly unhealthy environment I was raised in, I developed an acute sense for people’s character, integrity, and trustworthiness. It is not a brag, it is not a fun game, it is not something I usually want to 'test’ or discuss. It is an unfortunately necessary skill I had to develop to protect myself. That being said, it is always happening. I know if I’m being lied to. If I like you, I will quickly analyze it, and probably choose to ignore it, but I rarely forget it.

Once again, it goes both ways. I consider myself an incredibly honest person. Unless I am in a professional environment, I don’t typically hide what I think or how I feel. It’s difficult to do if I want to. ( I’ve actually had more than one conversation about my eyes and eyebrows away my thoughts.) I joke about 'word vomit’ on the regular because I struggle to filter my thoughts and words. (Communication in general is a topic we’ll get to soon.) I am an open book, for the first few layers, and if you care enough to ask, if I’m comfortable enough with you, Im usually open to talk down to my core. If you’re on my good side, if I love you, I truly give you my whole self. My heart is yours and I genuinely love you. I can’t not.

Personal communication. Holy shit, guys, if you gave me a month’s notice to prepare and asked me to verbally express this to you, I could not. Verbal expression is incredibly difficult for me. I can’t think when I hear my own voice, and I process incoming information best by reading or watching, too. This one is another unique to the cause of my BPD. I could give you exact details why my brain works better this way now, but that’s another story. I can’t think when I’m talking, which makes filtering, controlling, and generally communicating incredibly difficult. I get overwhelmed by the sound of my own voice. When I hear it my brain screams at me to stop talking, to the point that sometimes I’m not even sure what I’m saying anymore. It is an overgrown scar from the fight or flight response, in which my voice fled, because fighting with my voice was a wet noodle against a brick wall. My voice meant nothing, and to exercise it usually brought trouble and pain. I can write, though. I was a caged bird with so much to express. It found an out through writing- my vocabulary the muscles I could flex freely, my escape was reading, my breath was writing. The only freedom I always had was writing. I can write. I can’t speak.

But it’s currently 3:40 in the morning and while I love to write, writing about myself and translating my massive struggle into something I feel accurately expresses it, is difficult and exhausting. For now, I may need to dial back the explanations and keep it simple. If I can, I’ll expand upon the parts I feel I should later.

I have intense abandonment issues, and practically no self esteem. I truly struggle with the belief that people don’t actually like me, they’re just being nice and tolerating me. One day, they’ll all get bored of me, or grow to hate me, or I’ll do something wrong, or we’ll just grow apart and I will 100% lose everything I have and everyone I love. I haven’t been able to tackle that yet. Its almost a fact in my mind. The sky is blue, and everyone in my life will leave me. Grass is green and I am a worthless pile of human waste. The sun is a star and I hate myself and I’m terrible at everything I will ever try to do or be. Forgive me, I know that’s the part people usually jump to argue with first, but please don’t. It’s not based in logic. I appreciate the sentiment, but it almost makes things worse. My brain says 'look at how they pity you, pathetic thing’. It’s ugly, but it’s my reality.

The second ugliest thing that people seem to struggle with is self harm and suicidal thoughts. It’s not always cutting or burning, or jumping or hanging. For some people it’s over eating. For others it’s substance abuse. For some it’s spending, for others it’s sex. Self harm, for me, it is either vivid thoughts of being roughly, uncomfortably bound with rope or wire. In a completely not-sexual way. Being able to tighten it or struggle against it and feel the pain. I don’t know why, but that’s what it is these days. The suicidal thoughts for me are much more passive. “What if that car swerved and hit me.” “What if I got really sick and there was no cure.” “What if a vein popped in my brain and I bled out.” Not actively trying, or even hoping. Just recurring thoughts of the end of my life. (Let me reassure you, right now, because suicide is no joke and it is not something I take lightly. I have no intention of trying to end my life. I have no intention of letting anything else do it for me. If I can avoid it, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I promise.) It’s just one of those things. Like a song getting stuck in your head. It just happens.

I am sensitive. I notice the slightest change in the tone of your voice. I notice the twitch of your brow. I see the wringing of your hands. These tiny changes can be absolutely nothing, and part of me will know that, but the other part of myself is already obsessing about what I’ve said and what mistake I’ve made and how much I’ve upset this person or how far I’ve just managed to push them away.

I take it to heart when you make a joke at my expense. Even if you’re kidding, and I know you are, even if its super funny and I’m laughing my butt off, even if I know that it’s absolutely untrue, a sliver of it goes straight to my soft heart. It will sting regardless, and I will stress and worry that it might be true.

I am socially inept. I second guess EVERYTHING I do socially and if I make a slip that you’ll forget in seconds, I will still be mentally beating myself up for it the unforeseeable future. (As I write this, one slip I made 4 or 5 months ago comes to mind, and it still makes my stomach drop and anxiety raise.)

I am incredibly hard on myself, with a massive guilt complex, and have absolutely no idea how to to cope with or express it. If I accidentally stepped on your toe, I am immediately burying myself in insults and scolding and hating myself. I am imagining the rough ropes binding me, and wishing I could just disappear. I’m already so far gone in my mind that in reality I am clumsily trying to apologize and the worse it is, the worse I feel, the less I know how to express my regret properly. No one wants you to cry with guilt over stepping on their toe. So I can seem stilted and callous. I know sometimes it seems like I’m not sorry, but I just don’t know how to express it in a socially acceptable, healthy way. I genuinely blame myself completely for things I had absolutely no control over, and I’m always apologizing. Sometimes I’m apologizing just for existing, taking up space and your time with my foolish self. But that’s not socially acceptable to say. To I apologize again with a laugh or joke, so it’s easier for everyone to move on.

I, personally, struggle with the need for validation and reassurance in a very big and real way. I can’t really express why and how, but it’s so, so important to me.

Trying to juggle this issue and trying to remember and practice functioning like a healthy person absolutely contributes to my anxiety and depression. It is exhausting and isolating, and even as I write this, I’m not sure if I’m actually learning to function in a healthier way, or of I’m learning how to pretend better. I am happy and life is generally good, but these are deep set scars that are going to take a long, long time and a lot of effort to work through.

So there you are. An incredibly intimate and honest look at my struggle with mental health. My cards are on the table and Im nearly out of words.

I know that being around me requires a level of patience that not everyone has. I know that loving me can be complicated and challenging. But I feel your support. It is immeasurably appreciated. It is held with serene awe and gratitude. To know that people actually choose to spend their time sharing any level of existing space with me, always surprises me and brings me strength.

Thank you for reading.