#this doesn’t even have to be about age regression

[b4g3lbit3s]

something about both ed and stede age regressing. they’ll switch between caring for one another, but then there’s times when they’re both regressed.

stede obviously grew up being bullied and i never imagine ed having too many friends either, maybe he just wasn’t super social. sometimes they talk about their poor childhoods and how lonely it was growing up. but now they have each other. so whenever they’re little, they’re practically stuck together, always beside one another, absolutely inseparable. they get to heal that broken part inside them together. finally, they have the best friend they’ve always dreamed of having. even if they met way later in life, they have one another now and they can experience what they’d lost.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

The way Nanami subtly doms you

Tags: dom!Nanami x fem!Reader, sub!Reader, dom/sub relationship, NO age regression, sub space.

An: yeah idk i feel like nanami’s very subtle with his domming style, but i see shiu kong as full on dom.

• Nanami isn’t the type to flex his dominance over you. He doesn’t have to be rude or degrading to drive the point home. You know exactly when he gives you that look, it means to behave. His hazel eyes cut in your direction, and his eyebrow raises ever so slightly, like he’s amused by your disobedience. However, he doesn’t smile — doesn’t reward bad behavior.

• “Want to say that again?”, “Language.”, “Didn’t I tell you no pouting?” when you’re being a brat and mouthing off. bonus points if he’s pulling his tie away from his neck and slowly wrapping it around his palm.

• It’s simple, but he gives you his hoodies or coats to wear when you’re out and about. He likes seeing his clothes encompassed your body, and he enjoys that everyone will immediately be able to tell just whose you are.

• Speaking of clothes, Nanami’s not the type to tell you when you can and can’t wear something. He’s confident in his abilities to keep you safe, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make suggestions. “Are you sure about the skirt, sweetheart? I don’t want your legs getting cold.”

• He takes great care of you in an inconspicuous manner. He’ll adjust your clothes on you, buttoning up your top or gently fixing your unruly hair. He’ll throw your towel and pajamas (that he picked out for you) in the dryer when you’re in the shower, so they are all warm and cozy for you when you get out.

• Nanami is also the type to set a pretty firm bedtime for you. He knows how much you like to stay up and how ill you get in the mornings if you hadn’t had a minimum of 8 hours of rest. So, he sets you on a pretty strict bedtime schedule and routine. Don’t worry. He’s there every night to cuddle you to sleep.

• Insistent that you hold his hand while you two are out. He knows how distractible you are, and it eases his mind when your palm rests in his.

• The way he talks can throw you straight into a more submissive headspace, and he knows it too. He doesn’t do it often, but when he notices you getting too stressed or burnt out, he’ll immediately start with the dom talk, “My baby needs a break, doesn’t she?” He’ll coo and pull you into his lap, and when you inevitably lean into his touch, “There she is. Did my baby miss me?”

• Nanami sees it as a gentlemanly thing, but it could also be seen as another form of domming. He doesn’t let you touch a single door handle if he’s with you, and you best believe he’s walking on the outside. You’re tucked beside him on the inside of the sidewalk. He’ll also never let you hold a shopping bag. No, he does not care that he’s holding a bunch of Victoria’s Secret and Ulta bags. He pays for everything. If your car needs gas, Nanami fills it up.

• On the off chance that you two are out, and he’s not right beside you, all he has to do is curl his finger and point at the ground in front of him to let you know that he wants you to come to him, and you better do as you’re told.

• The king of giving simple stern instructions. “Look at me.” “Speak up, baby.”, “Come here, now.”, “Give me a kiss.”, “Ask nicely.”

• Nanami will sit on the couch, spread his legs, and pat his knee when he wants you to sit on his lap. He doesn’t even have to give simple instructions for that.

• Even while he does all this, he respects your independence, autonomy, and intelligence. Let’s bffr rn he’s your biggest supporter in everything you do. He’s so in love with you because he knows how smart and hard working you are. He’s so damn lucky that he gets to be the man to pamper you and ease your weary mind. He loves being that safe space for you, so you can just relax, lean on him, and just be you.

[planet-dusk]

cw ; cnc, dd/lg elements but no actual age regression, daddy dom!chan, forced breeding, pet names: baby/girl, sweetheart ( 1.2k w. )

minors dni. for mature audiences only !

there are few things in life chan loves more than coming home to you after a long day of work. you’re lying flat on your stomach on the carpet, a flurry of pens and paper around you. with a pleasant smile chan notices you’re wearing the clothes he picked out for you this morning: a soft blue knitted sweater, his favorite pleated skirt and white knee socks. one of your feet taps restlessly against your other ankle. if you’ve heard him enter the house, you don’t show it. 

“hey, baby,” he kneels and rests a hand on your warm thigh, “daddy’s home.”

only a soft hum acknowledges his presence. on a regular day you’d have your arms wrapped around his neck by now. but today’s no regular day, and your lack of response has heat coiling in the pit of his stomach. 

“whatcha reading, baby?”

you shift so he can see your book. the stuffed animal it was propped up against topples over, and chan picks him up. 'wolf chan', you'd called it. the toy had been a joke gift from changbin for his birthday, but you loved the gray plush so much he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it.

"my smart girl."

“thank you, daddy.” 

the room falls quiet again bar the sound of rustling paper. chan slides his hand higher up your thigh, skims past the hem of your skirt to gently pry your legs apart.

“let daddy get a better look, sweetheart.”

he hovers behind you, leaning over your back to steal a glance over your shoulder. the front of his slacks presses against your ass, growing more strained at the contact. 

the carpet surrounding you is covered in your notes and sketches.

“daddy’s little girl is so talented,” chan smiles, “i’m proud of you, baby.” 

strong fingers splay out over your hip. your breath hitches when he grinds his bulge against your ass.

“w-what are you doing, daddy?” 

“daddy just wants to be close to his little girl. don’t worry about it. go on, don’t let daddy stop you.”

one arm keeps you caged in, his body weight pressing you into the carpet. you smell so good: sweet and soft with hints of vanilla, and chan can’t wait to ruin you. 

“that’s my good girl.” 

he shifts and straddles the back of your thighs, flipping your skirt and making quick work of his belt and fly. he doesn’t even bother taking off his slacks, letting his hard cock slap against your ass. 

you jolt, nearly tearing a page. 

“daddy —” 

“shht, daddy just wants to play with his little girl, okay?”

there’s no time to respond; chan pulls your panties to the side, pushing the fat head of his cock between your glistening folds. you’re already dripping for him — you've been wet ever since you discussed this scenario before he left for work this morning — but without prep he knows it’s going to be a big stretch. 

“stop, no, daddy —” you attempt to push yourself up on your elbows, but he presses you down with a hand between your shoulder blades.

“we haven’t even started, baby. don’t you want to be good for daddy?”

you gasp when his tip catches on your fluttering hole. then he pushes through.

“h-hurts, ‘stoo big, daddy —” 

you’re so fucking tight, and with every inch he forces inside he can feel another gush of wetness around his cock.

“i know baby, i know. you're so pretty, daddy couldn't control himself…"

you're whimpering, clenching around his cock, making it even harder for him to fit his full length in. slowly but surely he sinks in, ignoring your cries of protest.

"stop whining, baby. you can take it. aren't you my big girl?"

you moan when he finally bottoms out. he’s got you flush against the carpet — still straddling the back of your thighs, cock snug inside your warm cunt — and it makes it impossible to move. he knows how much it turns you on, this whole act, but it always surprises him how hard it makes him. 

“say it. i want to hear it from you. say you’re daddy’s big girl.” 

there's a beat of silence and he moves his hand to the back of your neck, applying a light but demanding pressure. he still hasn't moved his hips, feeling your walls flutter around him.

“i-i’m daddy’s big girl."

“that’s right, sweetheart. and you know what happens to big girls?”

you shake your head as best as you can with one side of your face against the carpet, and chan bends over so his mouth is right next to your ear. 

“this.” 

he pulls out and thrusts back in again in one smooth motion, forcing his cock deep enough to kiss your cervix. your eyes widen in shock and he clasps a hand over your mouth before you can protest, muffling your moans and gasps as he starts to grind into you.

chan knows it's got to hurt at least a little, fucking you rough and deep like this, but you're clenching so hard he couldn't pull out even if he wanted. he gets up on his feet so he's crouching over you. you're clawing at the carpet but he's stronger, dragging your hips up and holding them an iron grip. the way you let him manhandle you makes his head hazy and his cock throb.

"'s too much daddy, i can't…" your hands find wolf chan, pressing your face into the plush. tears and drool darken the gray fur.

"you can and you will," chan grits out between clenched teeth, trying not to lose composure, "and you better get used to this, baby. daddy's going to fuck this pussy every day."

your body goes slack as you let him use you, drifting away in that cloudy headspace as you feel your orgasm approaching fast. chan fucks you through it without his usual care, too focused on reaching his own peak.

you're writhing underneath him, overstimulated, the drag of his cock on the edge of becoming too painful — pleading for him to stop, to cum, anything.

"you're doing so well for daddy, sweetheart. it'll all be over soon," chan groans as the tell-tale signs of another orgasm wreck through your body — "daddy's going to fill up this pretty cunt. make you a mommy. don't you want to be a mommy, baby?"

"daddy no," you gasp, but it's too late. chan's spilling inside of you, forcing his cock impossibly deeper.

"oh sweetheart," he mocks, "you're supposed to say 'thank you'."

his jerking hips still, and he lets himself fall on his side, rolling you over with him. he kisses your shoulder and wraps his arms around you. it's difficult after such an intense scene, but he wills his breathing to slow down so you can match yours to the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"'s everything okay, baby? need me to get you something? water? a towel?"

"just hold me like this, for now." you snuggle deeper into his arms and sigh. "you were perfect."

"so were you." chan reaches around you and grabs wolf chan, giving you the fluffy wolf to hold. "my perfect little family," he smiles.

© planet-dusk reposting, copying and translating my works is prohibited.

[timmydraker]

There were a lot of hypocrital things about Tim’s parents, as with most living beings. A lot of these things weren’t all that important and usually just came with out of touch rich folk, like the expensive of things and service expectations.

But one thing that really affected Tim was their opinions of material things.

His entire life growing up was filled with as ‘modern’ designs as they could find and all minimalistic. White walls, marble tiles and counters everywhere, abstract art that could be made by a two year old and most importantly, no clutter.

Except of course for all of their artefacts that just ‘didn’t count’.

Tim’s room was the same. He was allowed toys of course, but only ones that would assist his intelligence growth and hand eye coordination. If it didn’t benefit in him getting smarter and more productive quicker, it wasn’t allowed. It also had to be either white, grey or beige coloured.

Needles to say, when Tim saw his class mates with teddies and toys and all kinds of things, he was often left with a sense of imposter syndrome.

When he got his camera that went away for a while, at least until he was told he couldn’t actually print any out because they would shut he left in a box and take up space. The idea that they could be placed upon the fridge or walls just didn’t occur to them at all.

Then when he was eleven and well on his way to living a life only hearing about how smart he was for his age, he had to hide in a dumpster lest he be attacked by Two Face’s goons.

That’s where he found a teddy bear with a missing arm and gross stains all over it.

It was the beta things Tim had ever had. Despite the guck and gunk, it was soft and smooth and the most treasured thing he had touched since his camera.

He hid Watson, named after the most beloved partner to the smartest man alive, from his parents for years. He stitched up his arm, washed him three times, and stuffed a floral scented car smeller inside him.

Naturally after Watson came more, though it took him time to pluck the courage to do so.

Sabrina the white cat plush came into his home four months later, soon joined by Salam the black cat plush just a week later when he felt Sabrina was lonely.

It was never about anything more than the comfort at first, the joy of having something so innocent and childish that he never got to have, but as he got treated with kindness from friends at school and heroes and bats, it became a sort of rebellion.

By the time he lost his mother he had nineteen plushies and teddies hidden away under his bed.

When he lost his father and officially moved into the manner, he had twenty four.

When he moved out he decided he didn’t have to hide them anymore even though he knew full well that Dick had plushies and some of the others and no one cared. Something about it just felt so… personal. It wasn’t for anyone else.

So, when he gets his apartment that’s more like a penthouse, it’s easy for him to have a decoy office and a real one.

A real one that had half of its floor made up of a sunken lounge lined with soft carpet and filled to the brims and over with teddies.

It’s only logical for him to buy thirty six more to make it full after all.

He doesn’t tell anyone about them even though he had a list of all their names on the wall of the room, nor does he feel as if it’s some kind of age regression or something similar.

It’s just… a hobby that soothes some of his problems with his parents.

At least, nobody knew about it until he let his team come over and suddenly found a super boy plushies at his bedroom door.

[artisiumstudios]

Stanley goes through extreme head trauma that causes him to either suffer extreme mental trauma and/or even cause him physical trauma. For example age regression or now being unable to speak properly (maybe unable to read) has to relearn how to do that, basically he has brain damage. Now this could go both ways.

(also TW for suicidal thoughts)

Either ford is called in and is told that his brother has been in an accident and when he gets there to the hospital he is told that Stan now requires full time supervision and needs to relearn how to talk, walk, basically everything, ford still wants to hold onto the grudges and be mad for the past. He tries to reinforce this by thinking "oh yeah of course now that im getting settled in now of all times he decides to be hurt. Now that im finally succeeding he has to barge into my life and make ME have to deal with the consequences of his actions." (he thinks while anxiety bubbles up in the pit of his stomach a voice in the back of his head praying that his brother is okay."

But the moment he sees Stan bandaged up, with tubes and wires wrapping around and inside him, keeping alive, all he feels is guilt, he’s scared. Stanley once so strong and lively now silently laying on a cold hard hospital as machines keep his body alive. Its a slow grueling process, first off having to relocate Stanley to Gravity Falls and then having to reteach him how to speak, motor skills, how to read, how to walk, how to live. Not to mention the mental trauma. The exhaustion for both twins, ford having to make time to go with stan to his physical and mental therapy appointments, and Stan having to actually go through with both of those. It only gets worse as Stan regains some of his memories both from his time from the street and the the worse one, the night at the gym leading to him getting kicked out.

he already felt like dead weight for having to rely on Ford all the time, but now with those memories his self hatred and guilt comes back to him full force and all he wishes is that he would've died upon impact. Maybe that way he'd finally stop being a burden.

Alternatively, ford doesn’t find out and Stan is left to relearn everything on his own (when his memory gets better he has some “sense” to ditch the hospital since he won’t be able to pay.) Unfortunately that means he now walks funny and is practically unable to run, his eyes become far too sensitive to light, he’s can't properly talk (he decides to just not say anything at all, after all what’s talking ever done to him but get him in more trouble) and mentally speaking he’s just worse off then before (mood swings, extreme anxiety, and paranoia).

When Ford calls for him it takes a bit longer for him to get there, and when he finally arrives, Ford is worse than in canon, much more irritable, tired, swaying on his feet. Not to mention he has foggy brain which makes it harder to pay attention to anything, to his brother.

Ford gets pissed thinking Stanley is drunk or high, the few words he has spoken are slurred, he’s wearing sunglasses inside the house for Moses sake! Not to mention that he’s literally tripping over himself and that he went from crying because of the crossbow (although Ford is a bit more sympathetic on that one, it would be weird not to panic at a weapon being pointed at you. But even then, t's odd his brother is crying-) to huffing and puffing like a child, to looking extremely fidgety and anxious in the last 40 minutes. Ford gets even more pissed when he tries to tell him about the portal only to find Stanley messing with something else.

He yells at him that he’s irresponsible to show up drunk and continue wasting his time, that he has shown to be untrustworthy once again. Stanley stays silent and unfortunately Ford can’t see the way tears swell in Stan’s eyes once more, he can’t say the way the glaze over as Stanley begins to dissociate. Ford lets Stanley stay the night, saying tomorrow he must leave. In the morning Ford finds Stanley whimpering in pain, his sunglasses are thrown across the room as his brother hit his palms over his head over and over again. Ford panics trying to understand what’s going on, he tries to pry Stan’s hands but he can’t seem to, his eyes are squeezed shut tears flowing down his cheeks.

Before he knows it Stan is dry heaving, Ford quickly finds a bucket and hands it over. When he asks Stan if he’s hungover Stan just stares at him weakly, his speech slurred he mutters the words bright and hurts. Ford catches on bring Stan’s sunglasses over. It takes moment, Stanley's shaky uncoordinated hands place the glasses over his eyes. He finally sighing in relief, his breathing more calm. Ford looks around the room spotting where sunlight creeps through the wood he hand hung earlier that week, the sun shines bright, the snow probably not helping. Ford looks at Stanley close noticing a jagged line that reaches from the bottom of his neck up to the back of his head, guilt creeps into his bones.

Without thinking he reaches out, brushing his hair tracing the line up til he reaches the lower part of his partial bone. Looking at Stanley once more, he notes the small scars that litter his face and hands, the way he seems uncoordinated, confused, unable to speak. Like he's-

Oh no.

[mossangelll]

yandere!viktor x reader

machine herald controlling you you to the point of infantilisation⁉️

this is probably on the fringe for a lot of people but the idea of a yandere going to such extremes because they “know what’s best for you” and experiencing such a dehumanising loss of agency scratches an itch for me

tw: forced age regression, uncomfortable dynamics, forced drugging, toxic behaviour

“Do you want the crayons or the storybook, hm?” he holds them up to you in either hand, “Speak up for me. I know my darling can do it.” If you didn’t know any better about him and the horrific things he’s capable of, you would honestly believe the gentle cadence paired with his own unique twang was calming and paternal.

What a sick fuck.

He had that smarmy grin plastered to his face as he watched you in silence, waiting for a response that obviously would never come. After all, he made you a makeshift pacifier that was strapped inside your mouth using soft fabric that also wrapped around your hands. He took your voice and mobility all in one fell swoop and you were helpless against him.

“Aw, poor little thing. You must be tired, eh?” His cold metal hand comes to press against your forehead, thumb easing away the tension etched there.

He hoists you up with ease from where you were sat at your miniature table and carries you over to a large mattress in the corner of your room, what he’s lovingly dubbed your “crib” due to the child-friendly gates surrounding it, and places you amongst the sea of soft plushies and pillows.

He sits down next to you on the edge of the bed and smooths the stray hairs that have come out out your immaculate hair do, one he did for you, of course. He wants to be a reassuring presence for you but as you lay before him, you feel bile rise in your throat.

The frustration continues to well up and your eyes burn with unshed tears until you can’t hold them back anymore and you sob. But even your cries come out muffled and you’re not able to truly express the anguish that rages inside of you, a freedom that is your birthright.

Why, out of everyone, did you end up with this psycho that treats you like a child?

Viktor lets out a soft gasp and immediately crouches down by your side. “Shh darling, everything will be ok. Seeing you like this makes me very upset, you know.” He coos but the wide smile he doesn’t even bother to hide tells a different story.

He leaves you for just a moment, fearful of what kind of accidents you could get into in his absence, he once said. You rolled your eyes at the time, still fighting for your independence with venomous words and sharp rebuttals, and was promptly punished for your disobedience. It wasn’t the first time and definitely won’t the last, but now you’re more accepting of your position with Viktor’s - better to make your life easier by giving into his unusual desires than be punished again and again and again until you finally learn your lesson.

He comes back with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, cooled just enough that it wouldn’t burn your mouth.

He pulls a vial full of a pale yellow liquid out of his pocket and drops two splashes of it into your drunk before giving it a good stir. He does this in plain view of you, knowing that there’s nothing you can do to stop him. Though your untrusting gaze cuts right through him, he continues on not caring about what you think is “moral”. He scoffs at such black and white thinking; you don’t have the knowledge and power he does, so how could you ever care for yourself the way he can?

“Drink up, darling. You’ll feel right as rain in no time.” He doesn’t give you the option of declining as he’s quick to pull out your pacifier and press the mug against your lips, cradling your head forwards so you don’t choke.

The hot chocolate is rich and velvety, smooth and indulgent with a slight edge you’re not quite able to place. Something of his invention, no doubt. Viktor often forbade you from eating too many sweets so this was clearly his way of placating you, baiting you into being on your best behaviour.

It’s unnerving, the way his curious amber eyes stare into yours with no intention of looking away, as if you were a perplexing equation he needed to find the solution to. You were simply something he needed to fix, a small stepping stone that meant nothing in his greater plan to solve humanity’s suffering.

Your head feels cloudy as you slowly fall into a smaller version of yourself, one that’s scared of the dark and cries whenever Viktor leaves.

You hate that he’s reduced you to a shadow of your former self, forcing you to act like a child while you frantically grip onto the disintegrating remnants of your past life. You hate the way your eyes start to flicker as drowsiness engulfs each of your senses - you especially hate feeling like you’re rolling over and simply allowing him do as he pleases, but as much as you wish to protest and scream you’re rendered still by whatever concoction he spiked your drink with.

Either way, he would probably get some depraved enjoyment out of you having a tantrum, since it only goes to prove that you need him to look after you and you’d rather not supply him with more fodder for the fire.

Viktor begins to hum a childhood song from the undercity but when the melody reaches your ears, it’s dampened like your head is submerged deep underwater.

He reaches for your hand which you limply grab onto with what little strength you have left, “There, there, little one. Close your eyes and sleep. You’re safe here.”

And sleep you do.

masterlist

[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 16: I don't know who I am, when I am with you

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: The three of you sit down together, to discuss your wellbeing and needs. After the intensity of talking about your feelings, Wanda and Natasha make sure to take extra care of you.

Word count: 8.9k (y'all deserve a long one after waiting for over a month 🙈)

Featuring: slow burn, emerging D/S dynamics, mommy kink, praise kink, copious pet names, non-sexual intimacy (but also with hints of sexual feelings at times), suggestion of sub-drop, elements of aftercare, hints of age-regression maybe? (You decide.)

Heads Up: This chapter contains passing reference (literally blink and you'll miss it) to self injury and disordered eating thoughts.

A/N: I am so, so sorry for the ridiculously long wait for this chapter. The last month has been insane. I've been super busy in my personal life, so it was a challenge finding time to think about the story, let alone write. Plus, I was struck by ADHD burnout (a long time coming, I suppose) and the worst bout of writer's block I've had in a long, long time. Anyway, writing has been hard, but it's finally here. Thank you to everyone who has waited for this, and to those of you who have left lovely comments and asks about Collision Course. Even if I don't reply straight away, please know that every one warms my heart and gives me a little boost, pushing me a bit closer to the next chapter. I really hope you enjoy this one ♡

As you wait, you feel the cold begin to creep through your skin. It draws you into hiding on the patio beneath the balcony, where you curl up on a wide cushioned seat, draping a blanket awkwardly over your body and tucking your bare feet underneath. 

Worries swell and crash like waves in your head, and you’re consumed by thoughts of being thrown out, driven back to your arid apartment and left to languish alone.

There is no distraction, no reprieve from this. There is only waiting. Only enduring. 

———

You hear the door opening a little wider to your side, and you simultaneously turn and shrink into yourself, body balling up beneath the blanket as if this will somehow hide you from her.

Wanda.

There’s fear, but also something else. A swooping feeling at seeing her, which doesn’t entirely surprise you. You missed her today. And it’s silly; it’s only been hours and you’ve only known her for a few days — but this was the longest you’ve been apart since the accident, aside from sleep. You’ve missed her kindness, her warmth, her touch — but you’re also scared that they’ll be withheld from you now, after everything that has happened today. Although, paradoxically, a small part of you feels like you’d deserve that. That you deserve some kind of punishment for what you’ve done, for how you’ve been. 

But now she is there, sending you a soothing smile as she slips past the door. It doesn’t quite break through the icy shell that has crystallised around you, but it’s warm against your edges. Maybe it will melt you, over time. 

“Hi sweetheart,” she greets you quietly, stepping towards you with care. Your whole body begins to shake, and you’re not sure if it’s a shiver from the cold or a tremble of fear. Wanda sits down on your left side, her face full of concern as she draws her legs up to sit cross-legged, facing into you. She studies you for a moment, resting her elbow on the back cushion and tilting her head to lean into her elevated right hand. Then, very slowly, she reaches out with her other hand. You watch it approach, trying desperately to slow your breathing and still your limbs. She places it on the rise of your knee, easily located despite the blanket that covers you, and she presses down, gentle but firm. Wanda doesn’t seem hesitant or unsure. It’s like she knows you now, knows her touch will ground you though you’re nervous.

She’s right. The small but assured link between her body seems to pull you to safety, like she’s thrown a life-ring out to you and is plucking you out from the waves. They still crash somewhere deep inside you, but your head is above the water now, and you can breathe.

“Nat said you’ve had a difficult day,” Wanda tells you softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help, myšička.”

The water level rises then, pooling in your eyes. A gentle stroke to your knee with her thumb coaxes out the tears, which begin to trickle silently down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and it comes out in a choked whisper. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

“Shh…” Wanda soothes, and she reaches out with her right hand to carefully wipe the tears from your cheeks, and tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear.. “It’s okay, honey. I know. You’re not in trouble.”

“But I lied,” you stammer out. “I sort of knew I might do it… I planned it. And I almost left.”

“Almost,” Wanda repeats, emphasising the word as her fingers find your cheek again, cupping it and very slightly brushing her thumb over the tear tracks. “But you didn’t, did you sweetheart? Instead, you found Nat, just like I asked you to.”

The words seem to seep through your skin; they trickle through your veins, finding the guilt and settling in the same space. Not fighting to overrule. Just there, a silent alternative. Maybe the day wasn’t all bad. Maybe you aren’t all bad.

“Nat only let me use the bike because I pressured her so much,” you tell her, feeling obliged to explain fully, to shoulder the blame. “I just… I couldn’t bear it any more.”

“Myšička, no one is in trouble. Not Nat; not you. Nat explained to me, and I know you needed it.”

There’s a hollow, sick feeling in your stomach, and you can’t understand why. Wanda has told you twice now that you’re not in trouble, but you still feel like there are invisible strings pulling at all your limbs from within, the tension aching and shameful. Your head keeps revolving back to her words this morning, and the way they hooked some unknown chain inside you, like you were always meant to be attached like this. God, you just want to be good. And it’s silly, but you need her to know that. To know that you intended it, and that you still intend it to be true.

You turn your head away from her, forcing her hand to slide off your cheek and instead rest upon your shoulder. You can’t say this while looking at her. 

“I wanted to be good for you,” you whisper, and you count the red bricks on the wall beneath the staircase, mentally tracing the lines like beads of a rosary. The action taps into that ancient habit; it scratches the scab and unearths the urge to repent. 

“And you were,” Wanda assures you, finding your chin and gently redirecting your gaze back to her. It hurts a little, to look at her. You want her reassurance so badly, but it feels sinful, somehow, to accept it. It feels like you are bypassing the confession, skipping past the penance. “I asked you to find Natasha if you needed anything, and you did. You went to her, and you told her what you needed. That was all I asked you to do, hm?”

It’s hard to respond to that, because technically she is right — that is all she asked you to do this morning. But it misses everything else: every implicit expectation that compels you in their house, in their presence. And how can you express those in words? Those urges, those obligations that don’t even seem to originate from a clear source… Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’ve created this all in your head, a bizarre alternate reality in which your decorum would matter so much to them. Fuck, it’s so confusing. So you just blink dumbly at her, unable to answer at all. And Wanda simply smiles at your stupor, renewing the gentle stroking of your knee and making you feel a little fuzzy in the soft glow of her full attention. 

“I’m proud of you for opening up to Nat, myšička,” Wanda murmurs, her hand brushing some stray hair behind your ear again, then moving behind your head to gently stroke the baby hairs at the bottom of your neck. A shiver runs through your body, triggered by the electric touch of her fingers and the cool sensation of her rings as they brush against your skin; the fluttering feeling finishes in your half-frozen feet, leaving little prickles in its wake. 

Proud. It feels undeserved, but you bat away the doubt and cling to it like another blanket, desperate for the security it can offer you when the rest of you feels so evil, so unworthy. Wanda’s arm feels warm where it rest against your shoulder and her fingers brush against your neck. Would it be so bad to lean in? 

You give in, and the slow descent feels so sweet. Like with every small yielding movement you are rejecting the bad feelings, and replacing them with Wanda’s gentle alternatives. It feels like the longer you stay here, the more you lose yourself. Every part of you is being rewritten. And you can’t always find it inside you to care. Her fingers respond to your movement, moving down to hold your right waist as you lean down to rest your head on her shoulder. Your body tips, bent knees rocking over to rest every so slightly against Wanda’s crossed legs. A part of you wishes you could curl up there, with both of your limbs tangling together. Wanda’s left hand has moved to cup the back of your right knee, and you imagine her using the hold to lift you into into her lap.

You close your eyes, breathing out and letting go of the last little bits of reserve. One more admission. Not from guilt, but from hope.

“I missed you,” you whisper, the statement barely audible as it slips from your lips and catches on the gentle breeze. But she hears it; you know she does, because she hums a little, the sound happy and soft, and she pairs it with a gentle squeeze of your waist. 

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” she whispers back. “I thought about you a lot while I was at work, wondering how you were doing.”

“Really?” you ask, the question slipping out desperately, your need for reassurance no longer contained by shame or reason.

“Really, myšička. I even texted Nat at lunchtime to check how you were doing. And when she said you were having a hard time, I wanted to come right back. But I had two more lectures to give, so I had to stay.”

You sigh a little in her hold.

“That’s okay,” you murmur, “I understand.” You’re not sure why you feel the need to say it. To reassure her? That seems strange. She shouldn’t need to come back to you. She shouldn’t need to explain herself.

“You’ll have me all day tomorrow,” Wanda tells you quietly, giving you an extra little squeeze, tightening the embrace just slightly, so she doesn’t hurt your shoulder. “And then we can figure out the rest of the week, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

You stay like that for a few minutes, your breathing slow as you gaze out to the garden and feel her thumb rubbing gently at the skin between the waistband of your shorts and the hem of your vest top, which rides up slightly because of your sideways lean. 

“In a moment, we’ll head in and sit on the sofa, okay?” Wanda tells you, and you relax a little more when you hear her gentle direction said in such a soft tone. You love it when she tells you what to expect, what to do. It makes you feel safe. “Natty will join us, and we’ll have a little chat together. Just about how you’ve been feeling, and what you need from us. Nothing bad, little one, I promise.”

The prospect of talking — or that nickname, you’re not sure — pulls out a small sound from your throat. A tiny whine, luckily muffled by the way your face is pressed against Wanda’s shirt. You can tell that she hears it though, because her left hand strokes the back of your leg gently, reassuring you with her touch. 

“After we talk, I think a bath would be good for you, darling. You can get into comfy clothes for dinner, and then we can just relax after eating. Maybe we could watch some more She-Ra, hm?”

You make a small sound of consideration, of approval, and Wanda gives you a little kiss on the forehead in response.

“Let’s get you inside, myšička. Your feet are frozen.”

You make no move at first, your fuzzy brain still catching up, still figuring out the fact that you have to move yourself, that Wanda can’t carry you. Then she gives you a soft pat on the back of your thigh. A reminder, a signal. 

You sit up, wiping your eyes with your freed left hand, then using it to unravel the blanket from your body and place it on the side. Wanda keeps her hand around your waist for a moment, then she lets go and moves to stand. She doesn’t say any more, she just holds out her hand, and you take it without hesitation, letting her lead you back inside. 

When Wanda reaches the sofa she lets go of your hand and gestures for you to sidle between the sofa and the coffee table to take a seat in the middle. Once you’re seated, she sits down next to you, on your right, and places her hand on your leg, just above your knee.

“I’m just going to message Nat,” she tells you, pulling her phone out her pocket with her right hand, “to let her know we’re down here.”

In reply, you give a small nod. You like that she explains, that she keeps you informed even when you don’t ask. 

It doesn’t take long for Natasha to arrive. She moves around the left side of the sofa and then side-steps round to sit on the coffee table right in front of you, holding up some fluffy socks.

“Wanda said you might need these. What do you think?”

You look to Wanda, who smiles reassuringly at you. Then you look back at Natasha, her smile gentle, hopeful. Slowly, you nod.

“Yes please.”

Natasha’s smile deepens, and she places one sock on the table next to her, so she can use both hands to open the other up, bundling the fabric so it can be pulled on it one motion. Shyly, you raise one leg, and let her slide the fluffy fabric over one frozen foot. Then you both repeat the process for the other side. The gesture makes you feel a little warmer inside, more from her kindness than the extra clothing. 

“Thank you.” It comes out small but Natasha looks pleased as she stands up, turns, and sits down on your left side, shuffling herself back until she’s situated in the corner of the L-shape and she can see you and Wanda without twisting. Then she lifts her legs up onto the sofa, tucking her feet in close and hugging her raised knees.

“I know you’re a bit worried about this, lapushka, but we just want to have a chat with you, now that you’re feeling a bit more like yourself,” Natasha says, but despite her reassuring words and Wanda’s gentle stroking of your thigh, you shrink back into the cushion behind you. 

Do you? Feel more like yourself? You’re not so sure.

“Wanda and I like having you here, Y/N,” Natasha continues. “And we want you to stay with us for a while. At least until your arm is better, and you can manage things more independently. How do you feel about that?” 

“I’d like that,” you say quietly. “As long as it’s truly okay with you.”

“It is,” Wanda reiterates, moving her left hand to the back of your neck, fingertips playing with your baby hairs again. “We mean it, myšička.”

“Can I give you anything in return?” you ask. “I mean, I feel bad that you’re feeding me, and I’m using your spare room… I could give you some money for food, maybe?”

“No,” Natasha replies, her tone blunt and unequivocal. “This isn’t transactional, Y/N. We don’t need anything in return — not now, not ever, okay?”

You gnaw at your lip. You’ve paid for yourself for years; even when times have been tough and your parents have offered to send you money, you have refused, and found a way. It’s partly a point of pride, but mainly it’s an obligation you have placed upon yourself. Your childhood problems and ailments have cost the world, cost your family enough. In a way, your financial independence is a form of penance. It feels strange, foreign — wrong — to accept help for free. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, darling — we have more than enough space and food to share,” Wanda tells you lightly, leaning forward a little so you can see her playful grin. “We don’t want you to worry about that, okay?”

“Y/N, all we need from you is honesty, alright?” Natasha says, and you turn to look at her again, feeling Wanda place her other hand above your knee, as she continues to stroke your hair in a slow rhythm. “Just let us know how you’re feeling, and tell us if you ever feel uncomfortable. Can you do that?” 

Tears prickle in your eyes. Honesty. It sounds so simple when she puts it like that, but they don’t know what’s going on with you, not really. They don’t know how you’re fighting the feelings and fearing the fall.

You’ve spent so much time, so much energy over the years trying to paste up your cracks and build yourself into something stable, something independent and unbreakable. The scaffolding they have erected to support you is chipping through the cladding, and you fear it will expose the structural damage within, the ugly joins and uneven stitching where you’ve made hasty, inexpert attempts to pull yourself back together. You’re afraid to let them see. And you’re scared that you’ll learn to rely on their help, and then lose them.

“Sweetheart, what’s upsetting you?” Wanda asks, her voice no longer playful. She sounds concerned, sympathetic. Her hand squeezes the flesh above your knee, and the action encourages the tears to flow.

“I don’t wanna be a burden,” you choke out, squeezing your eyes tight shut in an attempt to both stem the tears and avoid their gaze. “And I… I like being here, I like you both so much, but also I… I…” Your words trail off as your thoughts spiral and fail to align in your head. What do you want to say? What do you need to say? It feels like you’re spinning, flung about in space, and you need to still yourself, you need to ground yourself. The fingers of your left hand, which already lays on your lap, tense into claws. When you can’t run, this is what you are reduced to. Small doses of acute pain, to locate your limbs, to reassert your position in space. Even this tiny pinch helps. It helps you centre yourself on the immediate moment, helps you prioritise calming your breathing first, reminds you to wait for the raging winds to pass, before attempting to speak.

They wait for you, their presence heavy at either side, but also equal. Stabilising. 

You find yourself speaking, the words arranging themselves on your tongue.

“I feel like… like I don’t really know who I am, when I am with you.”

The statement surprises you, but you know it’s true. You hardly recognise yourself, at times. So many parts of your personality are gone, with some pieces were left behind in your homeland, and others ripped away in the accident. The only parts of you left are needy, clinging. Not new, just unfamiliar, forgotten. And though it feels nice to lean into it, at times — especially with them — this isn’t all of you. It can’t be. 

You release your grip from your thigh, and wipe your eyes. Then you turn to Wanda. She looks worried: her head is tilted, and her hands are still, frozen against the back of your head and you right leg. When you look into her eyes, you notice that they look a little more shiny than usual. Have you made her upset?

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, voice panicked and trembling. “I don’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“You’re not a burden,” Natasha’s voice assures you. “And it’s okay to share how you’re feeling with us. It’s important.”

Reluctantly — because you really want to see her, and make sure she’s okay — you turn away from Wanda, and look to Natasha. She looks serious, and her arms move to cross over her chest, then loosen, and fall to her lap again. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” She asks, then she pauses, her jaw tightening ever so slightly. One of her eyebrows lifts quizzically as she adds another question. "Or anything you want us to stop doing?”

You look down to your lap again. You don’t want them to stop being that special kind of soft with you, even if it would probably resolve all the confusing feelings it brings. You just maybe need an outlet. A way to balance it out with other pieces of yourself. A way to remind you — and perhaps remind them — that you’re still yourself; still smart and strong and capable.

“You don’t need to stop anything,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks blush at your answer, and all it entails. The admission that you like them at their most gentle, that you like the hugs and the nicknames and even the slight hint of condescension which imbues their affection with an additional dizzying aura. At your words, Wanda resumes her gentle stroking of your hair, and she deepens the pressure above your knee. Like she was waiting for your confirmation. Like she wanted it. 

“Okay,” Natasha acknowledges quietly. “We won’t stop anything. But we want to help, lapushka. Can you think of anything we can do? Or anything you want to do?”

You try to think, fidgeting with the hem of your shorts as you attempt to reorder your thoughts. But nothing comes. You frown at your lap, frustration building. You want to answer her, you want to supply an idea, and please her. But you can’t.

Natasha’s hand finds yours, interlocking your fingers together. You look up at her, and she smiles gently.

“It’s okay,” she reassures you. “I can help with ideas. What about if we think about exercise first? Is that something you need?”

“Yes,” you whisper, grateful for the prompt. 

“Tell us,” Natasha encourages, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. You nod, and take a deep breath.

“I need to get outside,” you say quietly, your words slow at first, but gradually gaining rhythm and confidence as you continue. “At least once a day, for a bit. I need the fresh air, and the movement.”

“Okay,” Natasha agrees, smiling and nodding in a way which bolsters you even more. “What else?”

“Sometimes I might need a bit more,” you admit, biting your lip briefly, but continuing when Natasha continues to nod. “I know I should be resting, but sometimes I just get so overwhelmed, and when I do, exercise is kind of the only thing that helps.” You turn to look at Wanda. She doesn’t seem upset, like you feared she would. In fact, she gives you a little smile. She seems proud. It makes your cheeks feel warm again. 

“Would using the gym help?” she asks you, and you nod shyly, grateful for her understanding.

“Yes please. If that’s okay. I won’t use it without your permission, I promise.”

Wanda nods at that.

“As long as Natasha or I can supervise, then it’s okay with me, myšička. But if you feel like you’re getting to that point, can you talk to one of us, please? I don’t want you struggling on your own, and reaching that point of overwhelm. We need to have other strategies, too.”

You nod, both embarrassed and touched by her request.

“I… talking is hard, sometimes,” you admit quietly. “But I’ll try. I promise.”

“That’s all we ask for,” Natasha tells you, squeezing your hand again. “Even if you can’t find the words, just find one of us, and we can be with you. We can go for a walk, or do something together to distract, if that helps.”

Your eyes fill with tears again, but happy, relieved ones this time. You’ve never felt so seen, so understood. So held.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Natasha smiles at you, her gaze so soft, so far from the stern demeanour you first associated her with. 

“You said being busy helps,” she reminds you. “Do you want to go into college? Do you feel ready?”

You squirm slightly in your seat, a little overwhelmed by the direct question, and the reminder of your meltdown earlier today.

“I think so,” you breathe, biting your lip and looking down at your lap, trying to focus on what you want, rather than what you think they want to hear. “I think it would help, to have something to do. But I maybe need to start with just a little bit, and see how it goes.”

“That sounds sensible,” Wanda agrees, and her accepting tone reassures you enough to look up at her. “Darling, I don’t want to hold you hostage here, or force you to rest. I just don’t want you to overdo it, and hurt yourself.”

“I know,” you whisper, feeling small. Wanda watches you, breathing in deeply through her nose, then releasing it in a slow, silent exhale.

“How about you email your supervisor and see about rearranging that meeting?” she suggests, giving you a smile.

“Are you sure?” you check, and she nods. Her permission means the world to you, and you want her to know that. You wish you could hug her, touch her — but you have no free hand, and you can’t even lean against her in this position, as it would hurt your shoulder. So all you have to offer are your words, your smile, and your grateful tears. “Thank you, Wanda.”

She beams at you, and moves her hand from your neck to wipe your tears away with her thumb. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. When you have a time, let me know, and I can make sure to get you there.”

You nod, and your smile has to suffice as thanks this time, because you feel far too choked up with gratitude and relief to speak.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Natasha asks then, and you shake your head. “Okay. We can leave it there for now, then. Thank you for talking to us, lapushka. We appreciate it.”

You feel your body relax a little, making you realise how much tension you were still holding. This conversation has been built up in your head over the last few hours, as some terrifying, earth-shattering thing — but it’s over now, and you feel better, not worse for it. 

“Do you want to take a bath now?” Wanda asks you, and you nod. Words have escaped you. You feel so tired, so spent from all the emotions. 

“Okay,” she whispers, cupping your cheek and squeezing above your knee before standing up and holding her hand out to you. You’ll accept it in a moment, but for now you turn to Natasha. Checking her face, checking for something. She smiles, and gives your hand a squeeze. 

“It’s okay, lapushka,” she reassures you softly. “You go with Wanda, and I’ll finish getting dinner ready. When you’re ready, we can eat at the table, and then come down here to watch some TV before bed. Does that sound okay?”

You nod silently, your lips quirking up into a small smile of relief. You didn’t know what you needed, when you looked to her. But whatever it was, she gave it to you.

Natasha lifts your hand to her lips, and gives it a little kiss.

“Go on, kroshka moya. I’ll see you soon.”

She moves your hand to Wanda’s, facilitating an easy transfer. Wanda helps you stand, guiding you out the narrow channel between the sofa and the table, then out the living room and up the stairs. 

Together, you all the way to your room, where she says something to you. But her words sound muffled, like you’re underwater. You blink at her, lost in a daze. Wanda just smiles adoringly at you, then guides you to sit on the end of your bed. And you watch her find clothes for you, taking them out the drawers. She builds a little bundle, then returns to you and guides you back out, back down the stairs, through her bedroom and into the bathroom. 

It takes a while for your brain to catch up to the movement, to the changes. You watch the water flowing out the taps, mesmerised and missing Wanda’s words. She captures your attention with a hand cupped under your chin, gently turning your head to look at her.

“Myšička?”

You watch her lips move, unable to find meaning in the muffled sound. But you feel her. Taking your hand and squeezing it. Brushing her thumb over your cheek. Her touch, pulling you back to her. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asks you, her expression wavering between worry and something else, something almost… pleased. 

“Wanda…?” you whisper, wanting her closer, but unsure how to say it. Your lips wobble with the effort, but you can’t produce the words.

“I’m here,” she tells you, looking deep into your eyes, like she’s searching to find out what it is that you want to say.

Everything feels so heavy, and you just want her to take the weight from you, to hold you in her arms and make everything feel better. Your head droops and leans into her, falling to rest on her shoulder, face turning into her neck. Wanda’s arms waste no time in moving to embrace you. Even without words, she knows what you need. 

“It’s okay, little one,” she soothes you, as you whimper in her skin. “You’re safe here. Safe with Mo… with me.”

Her words blur in your head, the sounds melting together, coalescing into something new. You’re too dazed to register it properly, but it settles there, the idea embedding itself in your brain. Stored in your subconscious. Saved for later.

Wanda rocks you slightly in her arms, as she whispers sweet nothings into your ear. You melt into her, your left hand finding her shirt and taking tight hold near the hem. Clinging to this piece of her, scared she’ll let go and set you adrift.

“I’m so tired,” you tell her, and it comes out in a sad little whine.

“I know, honey. Just let me take care of you now, okay? Let me do the thinking.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and the word feels like an exhale, like letting go. 

It feels good to let her. It feels good to give in.

Wanda hugs you for a few moments longer, then unravels you from her arms, placing one hand under your chin, and the other on your vice-like grip of her shirt, stroking it and coaxing you to release her. 

“Let’s get these clothes off,” she murmurs, smiling reassuringly at you, then moving both hands behind your neck, to release the sling. It’s no more sore than usual, but you feel so sensitive right now, and you wince and whimper as she removes it from your arm. “I know it hurts, baby; I’m sorry,” Wanda coos sympathetically, and it makes you feel a bit better, hearing her words. Just a little. 

Wanda carefully takes your tank top off, sliding your good arm out, taking it up over your head and then sliding it bit by bit down your bad arm, which she holds carefully at the same right-angle. She has become your sling, your protector. 

She sighs sadly, and you look up at her in worry, afraid that you’ve done something wrong.

“Oh sweetheart — I shouldn’t have let you choose this bra this morning. Your poor shoulder must be so sore from the tension…” 

Your lip wobbles, and you open your mouth to apologise again, because you feel so awful, and it’s all your fault, not hers…

But Wanda’s free hand takes your chin quickly, and she presses her forefinger against your lips in a shushing gesture.

“You don’t need to apologise,” she tells you, her voice back to calm, rather than regretful. “I know for next time — I won’t let you wear it for the whole day. Just if you need to exercise, okay?” Her finger brushes down over your lips, and your breath catches a little as you stare up at her avid gaze, your eyes flickering down to her own lips, which press against each other in a very small rolling motion, then curl into a smile. You look away, afraid that she’s noticed your wandering gaze and the heat in your cheeks. “Hold your arm steady for me, please,” she directs you gently, and you obey, staring down and trying to avoid glancing at her chest as she comes a little closer to reach the bra clasp on your back. When she unlatches it, the relief is immediate. Your skin prickles in the place it has left, and you realise, too late, that you’ve been overstimulated all day, the tension of your sports bra a constant drain on your energy and resilience since Wanda helped you put it on this morning. All these things about yourself, that you never notice. The reminder of your uselessness pokes at you, the jabs of self-loathing so prominent in your mind that you barely register your half-naked state. 

Wanda takes hold of your bad arm again, then reaches to turn the taps off. You glance over and see there is a thick layer of bubbles on the surface, enough to cover you completely once you’re in.

“Let’s give your shoulder a proper rest, tonight,” Wanda says, cupping your cheek with her right hand and tilting her head slightly as she speaks to you. “We'll leave the swimming costume, and the shower. Just a bath, and then I can get you straight into some pyjamas, hm?”

You blink at her, the words sinking in slowly, and meeting no resistance inside your mind. So you nod, and are rewarded with her smile. 

“Good girl,” Wanda praises, making you smile back happily. “Can you take your shorts off for me, sweetheart? Then I can get you in.”

You blush when your brain catches up, but still you don’t feel scared or uncomfortable at the prospect. It makes sense, to save time and pain and pressure on your shoulder. Wanda’s already seen so much of you, and she’s never stared or acted weird around your body. So what does a little more skin matter, really? You trust her. 

You move your left hand to the top of your shorts and tug them down, pushing the elasticated waistband down your thighs until it meets no more resistance and the shorts fall down to your ankles. You step out carefully, then push the fabric with your foot to meet the crumpled bundle of your vest top and bra on the floor, followed by the socks which you pry off with your toes. Your shorts have built-in briefs, so you’re entirely bare now, no fabric nor willpower left to hide any part of yourself from her.

“My beautiful, brave girl,” Wanda whispers, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. She keeps her gaze on your face, never straying to your naked body. It calms you. It makes it feel natural to be like this, with her. “Let’s get you in now.”

You let her take hold of your left hand and guide you to step into the bath. The water is pleasantly warm, not too hot that you’re hesitant to sink in. You crouch down and then sit, feeling the water lap against you and the bubbles press and burst at your edges. It’s a relief to be engulfed like this. Although the exposure was brief and Wanda entirely discreet, you still have enough grip of your faculties to know you ought to be embarrassed, even if you don’t exactly feel it branded on your skin right now. 

Wanda moves to the shelf and finds a hairbrush, then returns to your side, crouching down so she’s not looming over you. 

“I’m going to brush your hair out first, myšička,” she explains, her voice soft and soothing. You nod pliantly, unconcerned. She could probably say anything right now, and you’d agree. 

Wanda brushes your ponytail first, holding the bunch near the top to prevent pulling. She works out the tangles, then takes the hair bobble out and continues to tease out the remaining tangles, starting with small strokes at the bottom, then working up until she’s brushed it all the way through. You feel your eyes drooping, the repetitive strokes against your scalp lulling your deeper into the haze. 

“I’m turning the shower on now, sweetheart,” Wanda tells you, and you just hum in recognition. You hear it turn on, feel the water splash behind you as she tests the temperature. “Okay. Lean back for me, honey.”

Wanda rinses your hair, then massages in the shampoo, making your eyes flutter shut in contentment. 

“Keep your eyes shut for me, sweetheart, while I wash out the shampoo,” Wanda advises, before turning the shower on again and rinsing out the suds. You keep your eyes tight shut until you hear her turn the shower off, and feel her hand squeeze your left shoulder gently. “All done.”

You open your eyes and turn to see her. She smiles at you with such sweetness in her eyes. So kind, you could almost call it loving. 

“Let me get your loofah, and I’ll help you with your arms and back,” she says quietly, standing up and walking away. You frown, your brain seeing her leave before you’re able to process her words, the panic overriding your comprehension. Don’t go, you think desperately. Don’t leave me. Wanda walks to the shower cubicle and slides open the door, reaching in. Her arms returns holding the pale-green loofah she bought you. Her other hand slide the door shut again, and then she turns back to walk towards you. Your body relaxes in relief, and she tilts her head as she approaches, her lips curling up as she considers you. 

“Did you think I was leaving?” she asks you, her nose scrunching up with amusement as she crouches down at the side of the tub and gives your nose a gentle boop with her finger.

“Nuh-uh…” you protest, looking away and blushing at your stupidity. Wanda chuckles quietly, and you poke at the bubbles on the water with your left hand, embarrassment washing over you and spilling out in petulance. Wanda stops laughing then, and brushes her thumb against your cheek.

“I’m not leaving you, miláčik,” Wanda assures you, the mirth gone from her voice, leaving only her heartfelt words. “I promise.”

You breath out, the action halfway between a huff and a sigh of relief. Your hand settles on the surface of the water, your movements slowing and shifting from destructive to explorative on the foam.

“Will you let me wash your back and arms?” Wanda asks, the first real question in a while. She waits patiently for your response, clearly wanting an honest answer this time.

“Okay,” you whisper, after considering. You glance up at her, see her soft smile, then turn back to the bubbles. You’re caught between the realistic need for consent, and the desire for her to just take control — because it’s easier, then. You prefer it when you don’t have to think, don’t have to perform the charade of handing over your control every time. In truth, you’d let her control just about any part of your life without question. If she gave you a direction, you would follow it. Happily. When she asks your permission, it just draws attention to your yielding nature, and makes you doubt if she wants it. 

Wanda moves to the end of the bath again, soaks the loofah in the water behind you, then starts to wash the back of your shoulders. It feels a little scratchy against your skin, but she’s gentle, and the warm water is doing a little to soften the rough texture. Still, the coarse sensation seems to awaken you, and unearths a niggling doubt inside you.

“W-Wanda?” you ask quietly, nibbling at your lower lip as you wait for her response. She stops what she is doing at once, moving back round to the side of the bathtub and crouching down so she can see your face. 

“Yes, darling?”

“Is — is it weird for you?” you ask, voice wobbling. “Having to help me like this?” You try to look at her, but have to alternate between her eyes and the water, because her gaze is too intense, too attentive for you to meet.

“Not at all,” she tells you, and when you look back at her you see the worry has melted from her eyebrows, and her lips have curled into a smile. She reaches out with her free hand, cupping your cheek and stroking her thumb over your cheekbone. “Honestly, little one… I really like it. I like looking after you. I like when you let me.”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

You consider her words, watching her for a while, like you might see a crack in the act. But she holds your gaze, maintains her smile. She means it. You can see that she’s telling the truth. But that doesn’t mean that you understand. 

“But… why?” you ask, struggling to accept it, struggling to believe that she’d want to do all this for you. 

“Because I care about you,” she says simply, never stopping the soothing motions of her thumb against your cheek, “and I like to look after the people I care about, myšička, and make them feel safe, and happy.” She studies you as you take this in. “Do you like it when I look after you?”

You blush, because the answer is obvious, and yet she wants you to say it.

“Yes,” you whisper shyly, holding her gaze even though you want to hide. Wanda smiles.

“Then that’s all that matters,” she says quietly. “Okay?”

You nod in her hold, and she leans forward and presses a kiss against your forehead.

“Good girl.”

And with that, she moves to the end of the tub again, and continues to wash your back. You slide your feet towards your body, raising your knees and pressing them together. Beneath the water, you ache.

Wanda washes your arms and carefully wipes your underarms, then hands the loofah to you and directs you to wash yourself while she readies the towel. You do, blushing and staring resolutely down at the water, feeling thankful for the staying power of the bubbles tonight. Once you’ve cleaned yourself all over — as much as you can, with one arm available for use and one pinned painfully beneath your chest — you squeeze out the loofah, and place it on the rim of the tub. 

“Finished?” Wanda asks, and you nod shyly. She smiles, and raises the towel with both hands, ready to cover you. “Can you stand by yourself?” 

You nod again, glad she’s allowing you to do so, and preparing to preserve your dignity as swiftly as possible when you rise. With your left hand pressing against the rim, you push yourself up to stand, and let Wanda wrap the towel around your body, placing it over your right shoulder and under your left armpit, to keep your bad arm safely compressed and your good arm free. 

“Not too tight?” she checks, and you shake your head. “Alright, let’s get you out safely.” She keeps hold of the towel with one hand, and takes your free hand in her other, helping you step out onto the bathmat. The change in temperature makes you shiver, and Wanda, noticing, doesn’t waste any time in trying to get you dry. She’s careful of your arm and she makes sure not to linger too long or too close in certain areas, but overall she’s clinical and efficient. When she’s done, she rearranges the towel in the same way, so she can clasp it together at your front with one hand. She leans down to pick up the socks from the floor, then gives you a gentle tug with the towel, moving you two steps towards the shelf to add the bundle of clean clothes she picked out to the pair of socks in her hand. The she leads you towards the door, out into her bedroom, where she gently guides you to sit on the edge of her bed, and moves your left hand to replace her grip of the towel. You stare at her expectantly, brain completely blank and waiting for instructions. Your hair drips onto the towel, and your shoulder feels sore from the strain of holding it up without the sling, but you can’t find it within you to care or complain. All you can think of is Wanda, because she crouches in front of you, sliding your dangling feet through the holes of your underwear, and gently sliding the fabric up over your knees. Then she does the same with a pair of pyjama shorts, and finally she replaces the fluffy socks from before. 

“Pull these up, baby,” she tells you, giving you a little pat on your knee. Every time she uses that nickname, it makes you feel so flustered and needy. But it’s a nice feeling, somehow. You wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

You stand up slowly, and fumble awkwardly to shuffle the underwear and shorts up beneath the towel. When you finish,  she smiles praisingly and takes over holding the towel again. She readies the sling behind you on the bed, then holds up one of your oversized t-shirts and gives you a moment to process, before unwrapping the towel from around you and placing it down on the floor. She’s quick to cover you, sliding your bad arm through the sleeve then letting you wriggle your other in before slipping it over your head. The feeling of the soft, loose t-shirt calms you. You’re covered, but not compressed. After a day of emotional upheaval and physical tension, this is what you need.

Wanda carefully pulls your hair out where it’s been tucked beneath the t-shirt, then she starts putting your sling back on. It’s a relief when it’s over, and you can relax your arm muscles again. 

“Now, my darling — I’m going to get changed out of my work clothes and into something comfy too. Would you like to go downstairs and see if dinner is ready?”

You stare at her. She’s worded it as a question, and it confuses you. If she’d given it as an instruction, you would have obeyed, albeit reluctantly. But she’s asked you, and your honest answer would be no. 

Is that even okay? For your answer to be no? 

“C-can I stay?” you ask meekly. Then, realising that this sounds weird and intrusive, you amend your request with haste. “Or — can I wait outside for you? Please?”

Wanda smiles, that nose-scrunching smile that tells you she’s happy, amused. She takes your hand and gives it a little squeeze.

“Of course you can stay, my love. Take a seat and I’ll be quick.” With her hold of your hand, she pushes you back a little until your thighs touch the edge of the bed. You sit, staring at her and mourning the loss of her touch as she lets go of your hand, picks the towel up from the floor and moves to her walk-in closet. When you look down at your lap, you feel that same ache inside. Along with a dampness between your legs, that you can’t entirely blame on the bathwater.

Wanda emerges a minute later in a plain blue t-shirt and light grey joggers, holding a small, thin towel in her hand. 

“For your hair,” she tells you quietly, as she sits down on the bed beside you. “So you don’t get cold, during dinner.” She wraps your hair in it, then gently dries it off. At one point, you feel her chest press against your shoulder as she leans to reach the other side of your head. You bite the inside of your cheek, willing your body not to betray you, but feeling the warmth and the ache blooming anyway.

“Good enough, I think,” Wanda decides, standing up again and walking to the bathroom you watch her walk in and hang the bathmat over the side of the tub, before picking up your running clothes. She brings them and the towel back to her closet, where you assume she must have a laundry basket. “Okay,” she says then, offering her hand as she approaches, “let’s go down and see Natty. Dinner must be ready by now.”

———

When you reach the kitchen, the table is already set, and Natasha is already standing up from her stool at the counter, smiling in greeting.

“Ready when you are,” she says warmly.

Wanda guides you to sit in your usual seat, but then she sits down on the chair at the end, not her usual place opposite you. Natasha doesn’t seem to bat an eye at this, she just rearranges the place settings, moving the plate, glass and cutlery from where she normally sits, to the space in front of Wanda. Then she sits down in Wanda’s usual seat, and smiles reassuringly at you. She doesn’t seem bothered by Wanda’s closeness to you. In fact, she seems happy. It undoes the knot of worry before it can tug itself tight.

You don’t feel hungry at first, and you expect to struggle through even the small plate Natasha serves you, but find yourself pleasantly surprised by your appetite, once you start eating. The food is good, really good, and it’s perhaps also going down better tonight, because you actually did a bit of exercise today. Whenever you look up, Natasha seems to be pleased. And though Wanda doesn’t draw attention to your improved appetite with her words, she grants you an affectionate touch every so often, conveying her approval with a stroke of your hair, or a light squeeze above your knee. 

When you finish your plate, you nibble your lip and look up. Natasha watches you for a moment, still chewing. 

“Would you like some more?” she asks once she’s swallowed. Her voice is neutral; her smile is soft and unassuming. You do want more, but there’s that familiar tug in your brain, holding you back. Natasha tilts her head, but her expression doesn’t change. You know she’s figuring you out, though. She’s good at reading you. Maybe even better than Wanda, at times. “You know, I gave you a small portion to begin with,” she says casually. “Just to see if you liked it. It’s okay to have more, if you want.”

You look down at your plate, thinking. Fighting. 

“Yes please,” you say quietly, looking back up at her and feeling the tension ease in your chest as you breathe out. She nods, her face unchanged apart from the smallest little twitch at the left corner of her lips. A tiny, hidden smile. A smile she’s containing, so she doesn’t put pressure on you. Knowing that makes it seep in through your skin, warm like a hug.

After dinner, the three of you move downstairs to the sofa, and Wanda presses play on the next episode of She-Ra without pre-amble or discussion. You tuck your feet up beneath you for a bit, your left hand lifting to your mouth and the fingernail of your forefinger pressing against your lips until you notice the habit and move your hand back to your lap. You feel so tired but also there’s still that familiar, constant buzzing in your body that won’t still. The longer you spend around them, and the more comfortable you feel in their presence, the harder it is to hide. You cross your legs and shuffle back against the cushions. But that stance only lasts for a minute, before you have to try another, sliding forward to dangle your legs over the edge again. 

“Y/N, would you like me to braid your hair again?” Natasha asks. You turn to face her, sitting cross legged in the corner and waiting patiently for your response. You nod.

“Yes please.”

“Alright,” Natasha says, with a smile. She reaches forward, and pulls a hairbrush out from the shelf beneath the coffee table. Then she opens her legs into a V, placing her feet flat on the cushions at either side so her knees can lift up and form a clear space for you to sit. She pats the empty spot expectantly, and you stand up, left arm curling around your stomach as you approach. You sit down, and she gives you a gentle squeeze on your good shoulder.

“Same braid?” she asks you, and you nod. “Alright. Just focus on the screen to keep your head straight. If it hurts, let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree.

There’s a pause, in which you curl your fingers a little deeper into your waist, trying to contain the buzz, and the urge to move. Natasha seems to be considering something, considering you.

“Can you hold this for me?” she asks, holding something out in her left hand, and forcing you to unravel your anxious hold of your torso to accept the hair tie she holds out to you.

Natasha starts brushing your hair then, and you look back to the screen. You roll the hair tie between your fingertips, twisting and stretching it subconsciously as you tune back in to the episode. The combination of watching the show, fidgeting with the hair tie, and feeling Natasha’s fingers pull your hair into a tight braid — it settles you, muffling the buzz like a weighted blanket, until finally it fades away completely.

A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this, and I wish you well ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat ; @valerie-lexi ; @bishovapls ; @redheadsinmybed ; @electric-guillotines ; @naominanuq ; @alpalpym ; @dreaming-potato ; @snowazul ; @deathbylesbianwitches ; @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ; @loverluzer ; @methealt ; @theslutoflasignora ; @godhatesgoodgirls ; @absolutelyregal

[caotictimmy]

Guys please I can’t take it anymore you hoes ARE DRY. Barely any Mouthwashing x reader. So listen up you depressed whores(jk I love you guys)

I will be taking requests for Mouthingwashing. No I’m not doing Jimmy or well maybe if I can make that whore suffer. I would rather deep throat a freshly made scolding hot sword like I was on Americans got talent then see that man have an ounce of joy in life. But other then that I’ll do the whole crew (esp you Swansea.. i love you Swansea…) And before you ask know I’m not gonna drop one thing and not post for like a year. I need you guys to no I can’t stop thinking about mouthwash. I can’t watch any TikToks, fanfics that arnt Mouthwashing. I’m being so dead ass it’s ong rotting my brain. And I’ve been cranking out Mouthwashing edits on TikTok (Swansea 1. Defender) cough cough.. so I’m ready to put in the work

For requesting you can you my inbox anonymously or not, you can use my comments, hell even fucking dm me. You can even ask to not be shown to request this so it looks like I just wrote it cause I thought of it, if your that shy. . Also yes I can do special names/emojis for anonymous ppl, I think it’s really cool to do that. But anyways please just fucking request

I’ll do almost anything, from smut to crack fics. Head-canons to one-shots. I’ll do them all. Quick rules for smut. I do not do rape, extreme bdsm, age age play (this goes for everything), and stuff like piss and shit. Also when requesting smut, I’m only gonna do AFAB/gn, because I don’t have experience with writing for AMAB cause I’m a Demi girl. That’s it for smut rules. I don’t do oc’s, that doesn’t mean I don’t do “crew x reader with long hair” or “daisuke x tall reader”. That stuff is completely fine. Also please no stuff with age regression, I don’t mind it, just it makes me a bit uncomfortable(personal reasons). Anyways I most likely won’t make Actuall storys to follow, I prefer to do headcanons or one shots, but I might depending. Anyways please request I beg of you.

[kkayyerr]

Rafe when puppy!reader goes into little space. Like how he would treat them. Thank you, I love ur writing 💖

Warnings: Age regression, slight Dark!Rafe, manipulations.

– Usually when you’re regressed, you are getting very clingy, always needing Rafe close to you, following him around like a loyal puppy. Secretly he likes that, even though he would probably mock you about your needy behavior.

– „You know, sometimes I think that I should just buy you a collar, baby.”

– Rafe likes praising you, especially when you’re in the littlespace. He likes the affect that his words have on you, he adores watching you turn into his perfect little girl.

– He probably knows a lot of tricks to help you regress, and sometimes he would use it for his own advantage, manipulating your little brain into following his every instruction.

– „I know that you’re a big girl now, baby, but I just love to hold you in my arms. You love that too, right?”

– Sometimes he would be stunned by the fact that you love him THAT MUCH. Sometimes it would even get too much for him, but he won’t tell you that, because he knows that you can’t control your little pure heart.

– Rafe’s getting tired of you always asking stupid questions, so sometimes he would just use a pacifier to shut you up (or his thumbs).

– He would buy you a lot of pacifiers, because having them in your mouth seems to calm you down.

– Rafe would be so proud when you would practically turn into the guard dog, „protecting” him from the Pogues, cursing them for every bad word that they had said about him. The whole next day he would spoil you rotten.

– Actually, he didn’t need special occasions to spoil you. He just loves to buy you random stuff that he think you would like.

– He would always make you sit on his lap when you would go out, just so he could protect you and keep an eye on you.

– Holding you close to him makes him less anxious. It’s just like having adorable little puppy right by his side 24/7.

– He would practically train you to need him, making sure that you won’t leave like others did. And you wouldn’t, ever. Because what’s the point of your life when you don’t have him right by your side?

– He likes the fact that you never argue with him. It’s even funny just how bad you need his attention, affection and approval.

– „Good girl, daddy’s proud of you for letting those Pogues know their place.”

– Of course he would give you a head pats, isn’t that obvious?

– And hair ruffles.

– Rafe would make sure to tell everyone that you are his. His little girl, his little puppy, doesn’t matter. His. And that is something that would never change.

[super-lovely-star]

⭐️Things to Help you Middle Regress⭐️

This is just what I could think of. Feel free to add on to this list!

Change into clothes with characters that you like on them. I see a lot of cartoon tshirts at Hot Topic, if you’re wondering where to get them.

Play some pop songs or edgy music- or whatever kind of thing you’d listen to in 5th grade.

Write in a journal. Misspell words on purpose, use your non-dominant hand, etc this one helps me slip a lot!

Prepare a snack. Something kiddish in a little bowl, like cut up fruits or goldfish crackers, and a drink (make sure to stay hydrated) in a themed water bottle.

A nostalgic scent can help a lot. You can get scented candles (or wax and a wax warmer if ur scared of fire like me) in scents like fresh laundry, or sugar cookies, and even cut grass.

Dim the lights if it’s late. This helps me relax. If you have fairy lights or a night-light, you can turn those on too.

Put on some big kid cartoons in the background, or even just play the theme song and listen to it.

If you want something more stimulating, go and hang out at a mall. Go into the most nostalgic stores (for me it’s Claire’s or Hot Topic.) Adults shop there all the time, so even if you’re secretive about your regression it won’t look out of place!

If the mall isn’t your thing, wait until it gets dark and then hang out at an empty playground.

Back to the more relaxing side of things: curl up in bed and surround yourself with your comfort items.

You can find computer games that are meant to teach late elementary/middle school math, spelling, history, etc. Try playing one and getting some of it wrong on purpose.

Play a nostalgic video game that was popular when you were chronologically the age you regress to! Even if it doesn’t make you slip, this one is just plain fun.

Read middle grade books. Bonus points for doing it under the covers with a flashlight.

Hope these are helpful!

[wetbatinthenight]

dad, who notices that you are starting to branch out and make friends in your clubs and isn’t liking the fact that his control on you is slipping.

dad, who doesn’t realize him constantly isolating you from your peers (except your loving dad and your mom who aids and believes in his beliefs too) since preschool doesn’t mean you don’t want connections.

you, who are now successful in school, in student council or debate or anything of the sort and now are trying to explore friendships outside of mandatory meetings and fundraising.

dad, that has always doted and babied you a bit but also puts pressure on you to do well and follow the rules, don’t mess up.

dad, who always has conflicting rules, you need to be independent and trustworthy but why can’t he do everything for you? dad, who wants you to be a successful and accomplished child of his but doesn’t let you hop on opportunities unless he allows you to (often school sanctioned where chaperones are everywhere, there has to be some sort of reasonable adult).

dad, who picks you up from school, if you don’t walk home or bus home, picks you up and all the school moms whisper about him (how charming, how mysterious, how dependable he probably is, how strong and intimidating he is, who is charming and people would not expect he wasn’t a normal handsome guy. family, who no one knows too much about and keeps the inner circle small, surface level coming off as the perfect family.

dad, who even now struggles with boundaries, also wanting to cuddle or snuggle. and you, who isn’t a touchy cuddly lovebug like you used to be, still struggling with expressing your emotions (even if you sometimes even want to accept his affection). he loves you and misses being able to connect with you. he never thought he would have a child but then he met your mom, and here you are, an extension of their love and his most precious thing.

dad, who isn’t sure what to do when he starts losing his influence, thinking to himself if he should get stricter (maybe he needs to check through your room more often when you are not home, or place stricter curfews, maybe having you home by seven is too late in the night).

dad, who always wants you to check in with him and spend time with him even though he is intimidating and awkward but also manipulative and charming, something you did not realize when you were a kid because you thought he was a regular loving dad.

you, who after learning more about people your age starts to wonder if the things your dad (and by extension mom does) is normal. it is all starting to feel off to you, making you nervous because you always blindly listened to your dad. I mean cmon, sure your dad was always…quirky, but he was your dad and he knew what was best, right? .

dad, who slowly starts to baby you more and more, trying to take care of your needs whether you like it or not. no, he can get you an after school snack after you walk through the front door (where he waits for you everyday if he isn’t busy at his job). it starts subtle at first.

dad, who immediately, like usual, asks if you spoke to anyone today, if you behaved like should’ve today, if you slept enough, if you are hungry. he doesn’t seem to mind when you interact with school staff.

dad, who immediately makes you sit on the couch and gets you something to eat, after making you give him your school bag and rummaging through it to make sure you don’t have anything you aren’t supposed to (even snacks or candy from peers).

dad, who always in monitoring you, making sure you do not interact with anything rated-R or anything he deems inappropriate, including the books you read. Say goodbye to whatever sci-fi or too intensely gory books you want to read (unless you read them at lunch or a free period at the school library like the clever thing you are).

dad, who starts to slowly try to regress you, even if he isn’t really aware of it at first. he just wants his good little child back, is that so wrong?

dad, who starts to display behaviors and if you ask about them, starts to gaslight and coo (compared to his old tactics) at you and redirect you to something different.

dad, who is manipulative, cunning, intimidating to most. dad, who most people would not suspect would engage in violent behaviors to ward off any “dangers”.

dad, who isn’t afraid to get rid of any “issue” he believes will come in between his and your family’s future.

dad, who of course was also not afraid in his youth to take severe actions towards conflict for your lovely mom, his sweet and caring wife.

dad, whose heart melts inside for his family, his lifeline, who wants to do what his believes to right for his family.

an: check out my page for more works!

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

I’d be interested to see soft dom hiromi. But could I request he be written with y/n having a praise kink instead of degradation? I’d love being his good girl 😭 🩷🥹

The way Hiromi softly doms you

Tags: Hiromi x fem!Reader, praise kink, sub space, NO age regression, nsfw, mdni

An: I am SO sorry it took me so long to put this out 😭

• Hiromi works long hours as a defense attorney. Far too often he gets caught up in court, so when he does finally get home, he needs a good girl like you to cheer him up!

• As soon as he’s home, he wraps his cute girl up in a big hug, and he just holds you to his body for a while. He’s silently decompressing from his day and counting his blessings for getting to come home to you each and every evening.

• Hiromi doesn’t talk about work to his girl. If he needs to vent, he’ll call and rant to Nanami on his way home. The more ignorant you are to his struggles, the better. He doesn’t want you fussing over him, and he wants you to just enjoy being his perfect girl.

• Hiromi’s the type of dom to take off his coat after a long day, still wearing the rest of his suit before he takes a seat on the couch. He guides you to sit on his lap. “Tell me about your day, baby.”

• He runs his fingers through your hair, listening to you yap about your day. Of course, he lets you be a stay at home wife. He prefers it that way so that nothing takes your time or attention away from him.

• He truly listens to all the things you tell him, even the pointless things. “Oh no, I’m sorry the store was out of your favorite creamer, sweetness. I’ll pick you up some on my way home tomorrow.”

• “Such a brave girl.” while his fingers are giving you gentle head scratches.

• All of the sweet/cute nicknames, “baby”, “pretty girl”, “sweetheart”, “darling”, “pumpkin”.

• Hiromi doesn’t make you dress a certain way. His eyes light up seeing you in all types of clothes, even if they are a little revealing. “My love, I can’t keep my eyes off of you. You’re magnetic.”

• He definitely doesn’t let you shy away from compliments. “Look at me, baby… Thereee we go.. Such a pretty girl.”

• Is such a pleasure dom. He just wants to hear your sweet moans and cute breathy whimpers all the time :(

• He loves when you sit on his face. He literally doesn’t want to breathe. He just wants to get drunk off your essence and make you fall apart on his tongue over and over again.

• He’s the type to cum without being touched. He doesn’t need stimulation. All he needs is to know that you’re enjoying yourself so much.

• The only time Hiromi can be a little mean is when he makes you compliment yourself while taking his fat cock. “Say it. Come on… Say it for me, angel. I’ll stop if you don’t say you’re the prettiest girl in the world.”

• Hiromi’s the type to mount you and give you the sweetest forehead kisses while he fucks you from behind, whispering all the praise in your ear, “Keep being so good for me.. That’s it…”, “Oh, you feel fucking incredible, angel.”, “God, I love how you take me. I’m so proud of you.”

• The. Aftercare. King. Hiromi’s the type to clean you off while telling you how lucky he is to have you and how beautiful you are. He doesn’t run a bath just yet. Instead, he holds you in his arms and watches whatever you want to watch whether that’s TikTok, your comfort streamer, or something on TV. He’s there and present with you the entire time.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

[regression-runaway]

Your regression is still valid even if . . .

❥ usually regress when upset or in a negative situation

❥ don’t know what age/animal you regress to exactly

❥ act mainly as a caregiver but also regress

❥ mainly a regressor but also a caregiver

❥ can’t control any/all aspects of your regression

❥ don’t regress for coping but more for fun (sfw)

❥ have done things you regret when regressed

❥ struggle understanding big feelings when regressed

❥ feel your regression is a burden

❥ scared to tell others about your regression

❥ struggles to tell the difference between you regressed and not

❥ scared to or don’t want a caregiver due to trauma

❥ doing things considered “big” or “adult” task when regressed

❥ struggle to fully regress

❥ don’t have / don’t want regression gear

❥ are an alter who’s unsure if your a regressor , age slider or sys kid

❥ your regression doesn’t look the stereotypical way

♡ Your regression is yours and as long as YOU are helped by it is all that matters, your valid. You deserve a happy , safe and comforting regression. ♡

[orellazalonia]

Not a Burden

Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression! Angst & Hurt/Comfort.]

Summary: Lately, you’ve been feeling like a burden to your caregivers. Like you’re too much, too needy, or a problem, causing you to retreat from your usual comforts. It doesn’t take long for Steve and Bucky to notice and reassure you that you’re not a burden. You never are to them and you never will be.

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: I wanted something softer to end the night on. I dunno if angst counts as soft, but this is definitely in the hurt/comfort field. Remember though: You are responsible for the media you consume.

Main Masterlist

You don’t know exactly when the feeling starts.

Maybe it was last night, when you asked Bucky for your nightlight three times in a row and he had to stop cooking dinner to find it. Or maybe this morning, when you spilled juice on the floor and Steve had to mop it up, gently telling you it was okay. But he looked tired, and for some reason, you thought he’d be less tired if you weren’t here. The thoughts are quiet at first. Small things.

“I should’ve gotten it myself.” “They’re always taking care of me.” “I should be big enough to handle this.”

The thoughts aren’t loud, but they sit there weighing heavy on your mind and even heavier on your chest.

You sit curled in the corner of the couch within your bedroom in your softest clothes, hugging your knees with your stuffie squished between your arms. The tower feels too big today. Your limbs feel too small. You want to be held, but also… you’re scared to ask.

Because what if they don’t want to anymore?

They never said that. Not once. In fact, Steve just kissed your forehead that morning. Bucky helped you brush and tie the bow in your hair. But your brain doesn’t care. It just keeps whispering.

“They’d be happier if they didn’t have to tuck you in every night.” “You’re taking up too much space.” “They fought wars, and you cry over broken crayons.”

You hug yourself tighter and your best not to cry. You were fine yesterday. But now, your throat’s all sore from holding everything in, and your body feels too young to explain any of it out loud.

You look toward the hallway, where you can faintly hear the sound of dishes clinking. Steve cleaning up. Bucky’s voice follows, low and tired, saying something about reports.

You shrink smaller in your spot. You don’t want to be more work or the reason they’re tired. Or worried. Or stuck at home instead of doing superhero things.

You love them. And that’s why the thought hurts so much. Because what if loving them means letting go?

You don’t tell them how you feel. Not right away.

Instead, it builds inside of you, resembling a quiet ache behind your ribs. A heaviness you can’t name, not even in your little space. It hums beneath the surface on quiet days, when Steve brings you apple slices cut like stars and Bucky tucks your blanket just right. When they ask how you’re feeling and you just nod, not trusting your voice to hold the truth.

You don't mean to pull away, but you do. You stop asking to be picked up. You hide your stuffies under your bed. You sit stiff and too quiet, like if you're careful enough, they won't notice how heavy you feel inside. You try so hard not to be too much.

You don’t notice how Steve starts watching you a little longer when you say “I’m fine.” How Bucky lingers just a few extra seconds at your door at night.

Until finally, It breaks.

One evening, they make spaghetti and call you for dinner. You don’t answer. You sit curled up in your hoodie on the floor of your room, silent and still, your arms wrapped around your knees. You press your face into your knees, a hot tear sliding down your cheek. You don’t know what to do. You want to disappear. You want someone to notice. You want—

“…Sweetheart?”

Steve’s voice, suddenly close. You hadn’t even noticed him walking in, prompting you to flinch in surprise. He hesitates for a moment before crouching slowly to kneel in front of you.

“Hey,” He says, softly. “You okay?”

You nod too fast, like usual despite everything about you screaming otherwise.

He watches you for a beat. “You sure?”

Another nod. Too big this time. Your eyes are wet, your breath shallow. Another pair of footsteps approach as Bucky enters the room, spotting the two of you. He comes over in an instant, crouching down to meet your eye-level. You expect them to be mad. To ask why you’re being difficult. But it’s just them, crouched low, concern present in their expressions. You try to shrink away, but Steve doesn’t let you.

Instead, he gently touches your knee, asking gently.

"What’s going on in that head of yours?"

That’s it. That’s the sentence that makes everything fall apart. Your bottom lip trembles as your eyes fill. You try to shake your head, but the words stumble out in a whisper that sounds too small, too broken to be yours:

"I don’ wanna be a burden."

Everything freezes. Steve blinks like you hit him in the chest while Bucky exhales sharply, then moves in instantly, gently, and without hesitation. He’s the one who pulls you into his arms first, holding you against his chest like you might disappear.

You can feel Steve’s hand finding your back, warm and steady. You hear his voice reassure you.

"You could never be a burden. Not to us."

You sob quietly into Bucky’s hoodie. He doesn’t rush you either as he rocks you gently in his embrace, questioning lowly. “Where’s that coming from, baby? Who told you that?"

You don’t know how to explain it though. The guilt, the worry, the awful tug that you take up too much space and ask for too much. But you manage a whisper:

“I need too much… lotta times… I don’ wanna be a problem…”

Steve’s heart clenches at your broken words, reaching up to squeeze your shoulder gently. “Needing care doesn’t make you a problem. It makes you human. And you don’t have to earn our love, sweetheart. You already have it."

Bucky’s voice comes in next, his tone low and protective “Who told you that, huh?”

You shrug, face hidden in Bucky’s shirt. “Just… figured.”

“You listen here,” Bucky says, voice steady as he gently lifts your chin up to face him. “You could ask for every ounce of our time and energy and still not be too much.”

Steve nods in agreement. “Being your caregiver means being there when you need us.“

“But… you both tired,” You whisper.

“We’re human,” Steve replies, rubbing your back again in slow, firm circles. “We get tired. That’s not your fault. You didn’t cause that.”

Bucky nods. “The tired from a mission or a bad dream? That’s different. You?” His expression softens noticeably. “You’re the soft part of our day. You're the reason we want to come home.”

Your eyes well up again, but for a different reason.

Steve leans over and kisses your forehead, saying firmly. “You are wanted, honey. Every version of you whether it be little, big, sleepy, silly, sad. Got it?”

You nod, tearfully.

“Say it for me?” Steve asks gently.

You hiccup. “Am wanted…n’ not a burden…”

Bucky smiles, adjusting you in his lap and holding you snug. “That’s right, baby. Not even close.”

You cling to both of them, your heart slowly settling as their warmth surrounds you: steady, grounding, and safe.

And slowly, that ache in your chest begins to ease.

[samsblades]

something about being close — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, angst, fluff, sam and reader are lovingly mean to each other, bad insults (weird, stupid, lame), bad jokes, swearing, canon typical violence and ghosts, arguing, so much kissing, could be ooc but idc, edited but most likely still contains a few mistakes, single usage of y/n, 9.5K words. requested !

summary : sam's being overprotective of you, and it leads to an argument and something more.

“hey, check this out,” sam calls to you and dean, not bothering to look up from his computer screen. “think we found our violent spirit.” you part from your own research without a single qualm, resting a hand on the back of sam’s chair as he leans back for you and dean to get a better look. “marissa hancock. she was a student at the college, died a violent death there, just like we thought. it’s thought that the janitor impaled her with his mop while he was working in her dorm hall, but he was never put away for lack of evidence.”

“explains the janitor kabob,” dean quips, already headed to shrug on his jacket. 

“easy solve,” you admit. it only took a solid half hour of searching through records to find the right murder. “but why’s she killing now? she’s had, what?” you lean further over sam’s shoulder to inspect the record, “fifty some years to be killing janitors, why start now?”

“dunno,” sam shrugs, and you can feel his shoulder brush against you, reminding you how close he is. doing your best to stay casual and maybe not stare longingly at his pretty face from this close up, you straighten your back and go to grab your own jacket as sam types away on his keyboard. “looks like her original murderer died two weeks ago.”

“right when the killings started,” dean finishes. “alright, let’s go. you got where she’s buried, sam?”

“yep,” he stands, shutting his laptop. “saint mercy cemetery, not too far.”

“hm,” you laugh out, “second saint mercy cemetery this month. people need to get more creative,” you note as you exit the motel room and head down the short hallway to get to the impala.

“and what would you name a cemetery?” dean asks, ready to catch you off guard or tease you for anything he can get his hands on.

“i should have thought of a clever answer before saying that,” you admit, “but i do wish it were socially acceptable to call them dead people neighborhoods.”

“that’s lame,” sam grins, throwing his arm around your shoulders for just about two seconds before he has to let go to get through the small doorway and outside.

“c’mon,” you complain, “i know it’s kind of lame, and definitely insensitive, but imagine someone just asked you where you’re headed after work and you get to tell them you’re going to the dead people neighborhood. cemetery’s no fun, at least dead people neighborhood is accurate.” you close the back door of the car behind you as you settle in to punctuate your point.

“you’re weird,” sam teases in a matter-of-fact tone, not even looking back from the passenger’s seat to see the sneer on your face.

“no, you’re weird,” you fire back.

“alright, kids,” dean interrupts, “enough bickering like we’re four, we’ve got a job to do,” he snickers as he backs the car up.

“okay, dean,” you and sam chime, voices full of mocking and almost totally in sync. dean rolls his eyes hard, because it’s just one of those days where the two of you can’t stop feeding into the antics of the other, regressing the combined mental age of the three of you by at least twenty years. 

having known the brothers since you were kids through bobby, and starting to hunt with them about a year and a half ago, you’ve certainly grown close with the both of them. but a little closer in age, you and sam are nothing but two peas in a pod. and much to dean’s chagrin, that means it only takes a split second for the two of you to switch things up and turn against him when he tries to break up your banter. it’s pretty much all loving argumentation, of course, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t annoying as all hell for whoever has to witness it.

“and for the record, i like dead people neighborhood,” dean offers, ignoring your moment of synchronicity with sam.

“yes!” you celebrate, reaching around the seat in front of you to lightly hit sam’s shoulder. “you’re the lame one, you’re no fun.” 

he scoffs, mumbling something to himself about how, “of course dean likes dead people neighborhood. it’s stupid.”

you resist the urge to tell him that he’s stupid, and instead follow dean’s direction to focus on the case.

“hold on, dean. you should drop me off on campus first, one of us should make sure another janitor doesn’t fall on his mop handle before we can burn the bones,” you suggest.

“no.”

your brow furrows at how fast sam shuts you down, his serious tone a harsh contrast to his practically whiny mumble moments before. you glance at dean to see that he’s got his own eyebrows raised in confusion.

“what’d’you mean, ‘no’?” you question.

“i mean,” he clears his throat as if he’s just realized his strong denial was awkward, “that that could be dangerous alone, so i’ll go and you can stick with dean.”

you send a bewildered look to dean, one he doesn’t catch trying to pay attention to the street name up ahead. “i’m sorry, are you suggesting i can’t handle a measly ghost?” mostly you’re confused by sam’s words, but you can’t help letting a bit of offense slip into your voice.

“n-no, no that’s not what i’m saying,” he fumbles, trying to fix what he said, “i meant– i meant it would be safer for anyone not to go alone. so– so i’ll go with you and dean can stick with burning the body.”

it’s a clumsy, bad save that’s entirely unconvincing.

“you’re seriously gonna stick me with grave digging duty?” dean grunts, “y/n’s right, it’s just one ghost, we don’t need two of us to deal with it. digging up a grave is arguably harder.”

“exactly,” you reason, “which is why i should go scope out the dorm hall, and you should go with dean to the dead people neighborhood.”

“she’s buried in a family mausoleum,” counters sam, “her grave doesn’t need to be dug up, which means it’s a one person job, and since there could be an actual violent ghost in the dorm, two people should go. and don’t try to make dead people neighborhood a thing, at the very least it’s too long, not to mention it’s not funny.”

despite the fact that he’s teasing you, you’re glad to hear something normal come out of his mouth. his hesitancy to let you take on the ghost is odd, especially considering the ghost might not show up at all. it’s not like he’s never been protective of you, it’s in both his and certainly dean’s nature. but he knows full well that you are completely capable of handling one violent ghost, and he’s been weird like this for the past two weeks.

you laugh when you admit, “it wasn’t quite as good in context as i thought it would be, but it wasn’t that bad, i’m just tryna to stick with my bit,” you defend, “and fine, two people at the dorms, one on dead person arson.”

“are you serious?” sam laughs, halfheartedly tossing his head back to give you a judgemental look through the corner of his eye.

“dead serious, pun absolutely intended,” you let out a full laugh at the strangled sigh he lets out. oh how you love to rile him up with bad jokes. “you’re too easy, sam. for that, i’m sticking you on grave duty. dean and i will handle the dorm.”

“you should be on grave duty, for all the bad jokes today,” he argues.

dean practically growls in annoyance, “how about i go on grave duty, so i can get away from your annoying asses.” it’s not a suggestion, and the both of you huff out a sigh, but don’t argue.

dean drops you off a little ways from the dorm hall for you to grab a shotgun and salt rounds with less of a chance of being seen. you leave the other shotgun for dean just in case, bothered that yours is still broken from the last hunt. there hadn’t been enough time to fix it yet. so, you grab an iron rod, hoping to use that before any guns on a college campus. it’d be a sticky situation to get out of, being caught with shotguns in a dorm, and at the very least incredibly inconvenient to scare the hell out of a bunch of college aged kids at eleven pm. sam sticks the shotgun under his jacket, generally hiding it from the view of anyone not looking too closely.

walking a few minutes, you find the right dorm hall and sam hands the gun off to you to pull out his lock pick. but, glancing behind you, you shove the gun back into his hands and yank him into you.

“the hell?” he resists for a split second before you quickly interrupt him.

“shut up! hide the gun and act like you’re piss drunk. someone’s coming,” you hiss. in a swift movement, he tucks the gun back under his jacket as you shimmy the iron rod into your sleeve, then he swings his free arm around you, practically dropping half of his weight on you. “dude,” you complain, before falling into character. “sammy, come on!” you whine loudly. “i can’t reach my id with you like this,” you pretend to feel around for something in your back pocket while keeping him standing, and he immediately picks up on what you’re trying to do. he stumbles forward so that you have to use both hands to keep him upright, and you curse at your false struggle. “help me out here, sammy, will you?” you try to make your voice sound overly desperate, maybe a little innocent too, “why don’t you lean against the wall so we can get inside,” you beg, trusting sam to play his part well.

“nooo,” he slurs, dragging the word out in a whiny pitch, “don’t wanna.” he turns into you and haphazardly wraps his lanky arm all the way around your form, tugging you to him and nearly knocking the both of you over. you feel heat rush to your cheeks at this and desperately remind yourself that he’s only pressing his face into your neck so that he can get a look at the person approaching and keep the shotgun well hidden from view.

you see the girl out of the corner of your eye, young and clearly a student headed for the dorm.

“oh, thank god!” you exclaim, “hey, i’m so sorry to bother you, but do you think you could open the door for us?” you ask as sweetly as you can, pulling your eyebrows together to gain sympathy, before adding on a humorous tone, “my boyfriend is stupid drunk and i can’t get us inside.” you can feel sam stiffen for a split second at your words, and you yourself wonder if you should have just gone the “friend” route for the sake of your own sanity. you’re going to want to keep calling sam your boyfriend, over and over again.

“oh my god, of course,” she laughs goodnaturedly, and you thank the lord she’s laid back, rather than some uptight rule follower ready to report you to administration. she swipes her id and holds the door open for you, and as you struggle into the building, you think that sam is making this harder for you than it has to be. but there’s absolutely no denying you love the way it feels to just have him all over you, even for the sake of illegally entering a building with a gun.

“thank you so much,” your voice is one big sigh of relief, slightly muffled by the fabric of sam’s jacket.

“yeah, don’t worry about it,” she smiles, “you two are super cute, by the way,” she compliments before turning towards the stairs and waving a kind goodbye.

you do your best to not stumble over your words as you thank her, heat once again rising to your face, and you’re sure that sam can feel the warmth of your neck. body stiff, you turn and head down the hallway in the opposite direction, sam still clinging to you until it’s clear.

“alright, get off, you big dork,” you snort, gently pushing him away and doing your best to regain your composure to proceed as if you don’t have a massive crush on him. “did ya have to make it so hard for me?”

he shrugs with a sly grin, “had to make it convincing, didn’t i? besides, it was your idea, you don’t get to complain.”

you stick your tongue out at him and he raises his eyebrows as if to say, “really?”

“she was really nice,” you note, voice almost wistful in a way that sam easily picks up on. about a year into hunting with the brothers and dean was off buying food, you and sam had collapsed onto a motel bed together as you had many times before by then, both exhausted after a long case. that night, as you spoke in tired, hushed tones, with no need for anyone but the other to hear your words, you had somehow ended up with your head resting on his biceps and one of his legs swung over yours. 

that’s the night you told him you were jealous that he got to go to college, even if it wasn’t for long. you’d told him how you liked the idea of that life, even if you had to return to hunting after it was over. you wanted friends your age, to learn, go to stupid parties and have a college partner. you knew the experience wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies, but you wanted it anyway. he’d said, sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it was a hell of a lot better than hunting in his opinion. he wanted you to have that. once this was all over, and you both got justice for your families, he’d help you apply, make sure you got in somewhere, maybe even go with you. a hush fell over the room and he knew you weren’t convinced.

“yeah, she was,” he says, his own voice a touch more gentle than moments ago. “we were lucky.” he doesn’t want to tell you that most college kids would be at least cool enough to let you inside, maybe not as friendly as her, but that it’s true you’d like it here. he doesn’t want to remind you of what you can’t have. 

a silence falls over the two of you, punctuated only by the shuffling of your feet or the rustle of clothes. it’s comfortable and easy because you’ve done it a million times before. you don’t have to say anything to agree that you’ll head to the basement where the original murder occured. the both of you stay quiet and light on your feet, sam always peering around corners before rounding them.

in the basement he stops you with a simple finger to his lips. he leans in close to whisper as quietly as he can, “janitor’s here.”

you resist the urge to call said janitor an idiot, because who the hell is going to be cleaning an area in which three of your coworkers have mysteriously died in the past two weeks, but you just nod instead, taking in the way that sam’s eyes look under the dim light.

“wanna wait around til dean calls or warn him?” you ask, equally as quiet. he turns his head to look back around the corner before continuing.

“well, we should warn him, but we can’t use the drunk ruse on an employee. he probably has a radio scanner on him, might even be connected to campus security,” he points out.

“fbi?”

“we look too much like college kids right now,” he reasons.

“right,” you agree, “well then, stupid college kids trying to see a murder scene? we’ll link arms and you can hide the gun behind your back. just so we’re near him til dean burns the bones. hopefully nothing’ll even happen.” it’s as if you jinxed it all in that moment, as the lights immediately begin to flicker, the buzz of electricity filling your ears and a sudden chill filling the air. “nevermind,” you curse, flicking the iron rod back into your hand and barging around the corner, only a hair behind sam.

“way to jinx it,” he grunts.

you just scoff and beg him, “just try not to use the gun.” this time neither of you attempt to hide your presence as your shoes pound against the tile floor.

“no promises,” sam says, the gun up and loaded in front of him.

“what the hell?” the janitor barely has the time to exclaim before he’s thrown against the wall.

“i got it,” you warn sam, eager to avoid gunshots and sprinting full speed towards the apparition, iron rod in front of you. you throw all your weight into reaching the ghost of the young girl before she can flicker out of reach. the iron in your hand makes contact, and she evaporates for the time being. unfortunately for you, your momentum keeps you going, through the space the ghost just occupied and straight into the section of the floor slick with soapy water. with no time to gain any semblance of your balance, you slip and come crashing to the ground. your back hits the floor and the wind gets knocked out of your lungs in the same moment that the iron skitters out of your hand.

you struggle a bit to sit up due to the wetness underneath you, gasping slightly and letting curses fall from your mouth the moment you can speak again.

in a split second reaction, sam shouts your name, his voice inappropriately taught and worried for such a silly accident. he’s by your side in an instant, strong hands pulling you up and his anxious voice asking if you’re alright. you wave him off easily, unconcerned for yourself.

“help him,” you urge, “i’m fine.” but he doesn’t back off nearly as easily as you’d think.

“are you sure, did you hit your head? you couldn’t breathe for a second there,” his hands stay glued to you as he rattles off his concerns, ones that you find utterly unnecessary and unhelpful considering the fact that you’re fine, and the ghost could reappear any second. his strong grip keeps you from bending down to scoop up the iron rod, but you have to wrench yourself away from him when you hear a strangled cry come from the janitor. he whirls around with you to see the ghost with her hands around the janitor’s neck, crushing him against the wall as his feet dangle just above the floor. the iron rod is back in your hand in an instant, but sam’s shotgun lays abandoned on the floor a few feet away.

he dives for the weapon, but with a flick of the ghost’s hand, he’s knocked against the wall with a noise so loud it hurts to hear. before she can pay you attention, you fling the iron towards her, vaporizing her once more. the iron clatters to the ground as the janitor collapses to his knees. you rush towards him, pulling him away from the wall before tugging a container of salt from your jacket’s inside pockets. apologetically, you haul the poor man to his feet, throwing a quick look over your shoulder at sam. he’s groaning painfully, but already moving to get back up. 

knowing he’s easily survived worse, you turn your attention back to the janitor, who’s sputtering out confused and incoherent questions about what in the goddamn hell is happening.

“just stay there,” you urge him, too pressed for time to add adequate sympathy to your tone. “stay in the circle and she can’t get you.” with practiced ease, you shake the salt onto the ground with barely enough to make a small, solid ring around the man.

you scoop up the gun from the ground, then turn to help sam onto his feet. “we’re gonna have to tough this out til dean gets done,” is all you say when you place the weapon into his hands, despite the urge to ask what the hell is wrong with him and why he’s so off his game. you turn to grab your own weapon, but it seems the ghost is reappearing faster and faster. this time, you’re the one who gets tossed into the wall, but you stay pressed against the cold surface as a mop flies to meet you, the long handle pushing against your throat and cutting off your air supply. you take in a strangled gasp, hands clawing at the old wooden handle and giving yourself a few splinters that you couldn’t care less about in the moment. of course, it doesn’t budge.

the second you’re flattened against the wall, sam shouts your name again, this time with his gun in the air, swinging around to get a shot at the ghost. but before he can react, it flies out of his hand and she reappears right in front of him, pushing him against the wall across from you.

he struggles against her wildly, his hand itching to get free of her hold to reach the hidden iron knife in his pocket. but before he can get there, her grip weakens and she lets out a strangled scream as she bursts into flames. the flames climb up her old fashioned pencil skirt and swallow up the bloody wound in her abdomen. her grip on you and sam falters as she burns away, then dissolves completely as the last of her ashes fade out into the musty basement air.

you drop to your knees, coughing and gasping for breath as the sound of the mop clattering to the floor echoes through the hallway. sam’s saying your name, half through a cough and his voice still so worried as he stumbles towards you. then he’s on his knees too and his hands are sturdy on your shoulders.

“‘m fine,” you rasp out, hand reaching for his bicep to ground you to something solid and steady. he stays right there, completely ignoring the poor man who’s still practically frozen in fear in the tiny circle of salt and the ringing of his phone. one of his hands slips around you to rub soothing strokes up and down your back and it brings you even closer to him, your forehead dipping to rest on his shoulder. you feel silly for how much he’s fussing over you, but you can’t quite scold or question him until you’ve caught your breath. clearly something is bothering him (and you want him so bad), so you let him hold you close.

“are you hurt anywhere?” he finally asks once he feels your breathing even out under his touch. 

you pull away from him gently, shaking your head before verbally confirming, “no, i’m alright sam. nothing more than your typical bumps and bruises.” your voice is a touch raspy from the pressure on your throat, but it’s nothing that won’t go away with some water and rest, maybe some tea if really necessary.

his hands stay on you as he stands. “are you sure?” he asks, and you can’t figure out why on earth, heaven, or hell he’s so overly concerned about you. frankly, it’s starting to worry you. and definitely annoy you. all the sudden he’s acting like you’re fragile, like you can’t take care of yourself. things which he should know for a fact aren’t true.

he lets you slip away from his hold as you swoop down to pick up your lost weapons and face the poor janitor.

“sorry about that all. you can step out of the salt now.” he looks at you as if he can’t be sure, and your tone softens a bit. he’s young, probably just a college kid himself. “she’s really gone this time, i promise. you won’t ever have to worry about her again. though, i wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to look for a different job.”

he nods and thanks you, and you tell him to repay the favor by not mentioning you and sam. then, at a pace you certainly can’t blame him for, he scurries away.

“c’mon,” you nod to sam, “we should get out of here. you should also call dean back. he’s probably worried you didn’t answer.” with that, you turn back in the direction of the stairs without looking back at sam, rolling your eyes when your own cell ring. you pick up with a, “we’re fine, dean,” before he can even ask why the hell it took you so long to answer him. he lets out a sigh, half relieved, half annoyed. 

“what took ya so long?” he asks anyway.

“had a few bumps in the road since little miss janitor-killer showed up, but we’re fine. neither of us are hurt. would’ya pick us up in the same spot you left us?”

“yeah, ‘course. already on my way, see you crazy kids in five.” with that, he hangs up and you don’t have to glance over your shoulder to feel sam following behind. it’s all just the familiarity of his footsteps, the sound they make, and the pace at which he walks. it’s the particular rustle of his favorite jacket, soft and scratchy sounding all at once. it’s the feeling of his tall figure, his broad chest so close behind you that he’d run right into you if you stopped even for a moment. you debate whether to ask him what the hell is up now or at the motel. for now, the priority is getting out unnoticed, so you clench your jaw a bit and continue in silence because you’re beginning to feel a little angry with him. you think he can feel it, so he stays quiet too, all the way out the dorm and down the street to wait for dean.

it’s not uncommon to be quieter after a hunt is finished because you’re all usually tired and more often than not achey from some toss around or another. but sam can tell there’s something else bothering you tonight. from the way you tilt your shoulder away from him, the distance so nearly imperceptible that only he would notice, he’s willing to bet that he’s that something. and though he doesn’t want to admit it, he thinks he knows why. he just won’t be the first one to say something about it because he’s stubborn, a little prideful, and most of all, too afraid to explain why he’s acting this way.

even so, he just can’t help himself. he hovers near, so near that once you’re settled by the side of the road, you can feel him without actually touching him. you’re tempted to nudge him away, just because of how overprotective he’s acting. you’re also tempted to lean back into his chest because somehow you know his hands wouldn’t waste a second in gathering you up and keeping you closer than ever before. it starts to rain a little bit, soft and almost unnoticable if it weren’t for the new chill in the air. for a moment, you can feel one hand hover over your waist, just for a second before there’s a light swish of fabric when it falls back to his side. you wonder if he’s worried about you getting too cold.

you hear dean before you see him, the rumble of the impala coming into earshot moments before its headlights appear around the corner. the car slows as it nears you, pulling to the side of the road with the front windows down and some classic rock guitar riff filtering into your ears. the music’s quieter than you know it was just moments ago from when dean was alone. he greets you two with a simple, “hey,” once he’s fully stopped and you place your hand out, palm up and wordlessly asking for sam to hand you the rifle to put in the trunk.

“i got it,” he says, not waiting for you to argue when he takes the iron from the loose grip of your fist and makes his way to the trunk. you slide into the back seat behind the passengers side and return dean’s greeting.

he twists in his seat to watch you as you close your eyes and massage your shoulder with a wince. it’s beginning to become more sore, just like all the rest of your body.

“you okay?” he asks, voice full of his normal gruffness that tells you cares enough to ask but knows not to be too worried.

you open your eyes back up to give him a nod. “‘m fine. just the usual ghost beat down. y’know, bumps and bruises.”

“mm, sure do,” he agrees, “so what? dearly departed marissa thought you were janitors?” he asks skeptically. you hear the slam of the trunk, and moments later sam’s settling into his seat in front of you.

“no,” you scoff, “some idiot kid was actually cleaning down there. told ‘im to get a new job,” you snort humorlessly.

“well, i’ll say,” dean raises his eyebrows in agreement before twisting back to face the wheel. he sneaks a look between you and sam before switching the car out of park and getting back on the road. for a few minutes, all you hear is the muted music, the constant roll of the engine, the light patter of rain on the metal roof, and the road under the tires. then dean switches off the music. “anything happen back there that i should know about?” he ventures.

“no,” sam answers casually, “nothing, just the usual.” you don’t even answer. you just can’t figure out if you should involve dean, tell him how sam was unthinking and almost entirely uncaring about the innocent civilian involved, all because he was so worried about you.

“alright,” dean concedes, glancing at you through the rearview mirror and sounding entirely unconvinced. he doesn’t turn the music back on, just lets the silence reign, so you close your tired eyes and lean your head against the cold glass of the window. you’ve fallen asleep in the back of the impala countless times before, but your drowsiness doesn’t take over this time in favor of letting your mind wander over what to say to sam. you can’t just let it be, and tonight is certainly the worst it’s gotten. plus, it’s an easy habit for you to wait for sleep when you’re already so close to the motel. 

when dean pulls into the parking lot, he doesn’t turn off the engine. “gonna grab some grub. i’ll be back in a bit with the usual.”

“grab me something for dessert, will ya? ‘m craving something sweet,” you request, leaning towards the driver’s seat. 

“sure thing,” he nods, and you slide out of the car and close the door after a thank you and tired smile. “anything for you, sammy?” you hear him ask.

“i’m good, just the regular,” sam responds as he exits the car. you unlock the motel door, and he’s inside the room just a moment later, closing and locking the entrance behind him. you stand facing away from him at the shitty table, your jacket already strewn across the back of a chair. you can hear him behind you, going through his routine movements. he’s taking off his jacket, setting it down on the edge of the bed. then he’s pulling comfier clothes out from his pack.

“you wanna shower first?” he offers, breaking the silence of the room. you can feel his gaze on your back.

“sure,” you swallow, “thanks,” you say without any sort of edge to your voice.

“‘f course,” he says, and he means that. his eyes follow you as you pull out your own change of clothes, just a tshirt and sweats, and make your way to the dingy bathroom. you’re tired, so you’re quick with it, but the water’s already lukewarm by the time you’re done. you dry off and dress quick, eager to lay in bed.

and yet, when sam takes your place in the bathroom and the sounds of the shower start up again, you sit at the table instead, picking out a few splinters in your hands before folding your arms and resting your head against them. you stay that way, even when you hear the water turn off, the bathroom door open, his heavy footfalls that are only heavy because he’s so tall and not for lack of gentleness, then the scraping of the chair across from you. he doesn’t even say a thing, just looks at the top of your head and the tip of your nose. the shape of your hands, the point of your elbows, and the curve of your back.

with a deep breath and some pain in your neck, you lift your head. you look back at him and slump your chin into your palm.

“i’m upset with you,” you state.

he frowns. even his frown is pretty. “i know,” he sighs.

“so? why are you acting like this?” your voice is tired, but you still manage to infuse accusation into your tone, “sam, why are you suddenly acting like i can’t take care of myself out there? you’ve been weird for nearly two weeks now, and i don’t like it. i don’t like this.”

sam doesn’t know how to respond. he’s used to being yelled at, shouted at, angry at. he’s used to yelling and shouting and getting angry back. and though he’s certainly fought with you before, he’s still not used to the level tone and the way you say each word so slow, like you’re not actually arguing. just upset and rightfully a little angry, like you just want to understand. 

sure, he can hear the plain anger in your voice. you’re not trying to hide it. but you’re not yelling. how’s he supposed to use the heat of the moment to shout back, “i don’t know what you’re talking about,” or “i’m just trying to help,” when there is no heat in the moment? instead, he’s embarrassed and the only answer he can come up with, the only one that he can mean if he answers in that same, level tone you’re using is, one he’s having too much trouble saying aloud. any other answer would just be too wrong like that. or maybe if you were shouting, he’d tell you the truth, because he could yell it out, loud and rash without thinking about it. if he says it now, it’s not because he just let it slip. if he says it now, there’s no way to take it back, to get around everything threatening to bubble over the surface like forgotten water on a heated stove.

“i don’t think that you can’t take care of yourself. i know you can,” is all he says, because it’s true and it skirts around the real questions. his voice is rough, halfway between pleading and holding back from the anger he doesn’t yet know how to control. you heave a sigh.

“so why, sam? why?” you let the heavy question stew for a moment, then go on when he doesn’t even meet your gaze, “or, i don’t know, if you’re not gonna tell me, just promise me you’ll stop?”

he clenches his jaw because he knows he can’t. he just wishes you would shout. then, he’d tell you. he can imagine the words coming out of his mouth, but only if they’re loud, only if you’ve pressured him to do it. he realizes that’s probably fucked up. but the other way is too vulnerable, too vast of a leap to take to when he’s just not sure.

“sam,” you press, “you don’t have to worry about me, i swear. i don’t understand what’s got you like this, but it’s getting in the way of you being able to do your job right. that kid could have died because all you could do was worry about me,” that’s when you begin you raise your voice, just a little. because that’s what’s making you most upset about this. you hate it ‘cause you feel like he’s doubting your abilities as a hunter, but you hate it even more because it’s making him disregard the safety of others and of himself, for you. “sam, i only slipped. sure i got the wind knocked out of me, but you dropped your gun for that? frankly, that was stupid. and the poor kid was being choked, and if i hadn’t been lucky enough to throw the iron before she could react, he could have died. i need you to understand that. i need you to understand that i can do this job, that i’m strong enough, and that if you don’t trust me with that? people could die. and i’m not about to let that happen. so either you tell me what’s up and we figure it out, or you stop and i pay you the huge favor of just dropping the whole thing, okay?”

suddenly he looks all sad. “i do trust you,” he says, voice all sincerity and nothing more.

you close your eyes for a moment, half in frustration and half because you could really use some shut eye right about now. “that’s not– well, it is. it is part of the point. but i need an answer from you, i need you to tell me you won’t let whatever this is put somebody else in danger.”

he clenches his jaw. he’s still stuck. you still haven’t shouted.

“just spit it out. i can practically see something rolling around on the tip of your tongue. just say it, sam.”

there’s an edge to your voice, so maybe he can.

“i can’t lose you.”

there it is. it’s said with an edge, too, like he wanted to shout it but couldn’t. it’s said rough and a little bit angry and full of this undying faithfulness and yes, love. 

but you still don’t quite understand it, so it makes you sigh. it makes your eyes soften a bit and it makes you a little angrier than before. it makes you want him to mean that with all his chest and it makes you want to shake him hard until he comes to his senses.

“that’s always been a danger, ever since we met. you know that,” your voice is something so oddly gentle in its frustration, “sammy, you’re my best friend, and i can’t lose you either. hell, i don’t think the words “best friend” even begin to cover the depth of how much i care about you. but we’ll both be safer if we trust each other, if we trust in both of our abilities to keep ourselves and the other safe. tell me that you understand that.”

it takes him a minute to speak again, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he searches for what to say. “two weeks ago,” is all he manages at first. you try to think back to it, and it immediately dawns on you. “i couldn’t prote–”

“sammy, no,” you interrupt, “that wasn’t your fault, okay? i know this doesn’t help to say, but we can’t always protect each other perfectly, to the extent we really want. i’d do anything for you, sammy, you know that.” after that there’s supposed to be a “but” where you explain to him that you can’t let that get in the way of your thinking straight and keeping everyone safe. instead, those last words just hang, suspended and weighty in the air.

“but you could’ve been killed,” the way he says your name is almost desperate. “it was dean that saved you. i was there and i couldn’t even help. what if next time, dean isn’t there? what if–,” his voice breaks, and he effectively cuts himself off from finishing the sentence. you know what he was trying to say.

any answer you give to that, you know isn’t enough. “but i wasn’t killed, sam. i’m here. i’m right here and i’m alive and i’m well and i don’t want to spend all my time worrying about you worrying about me. not like this.” you let that sit for a moment or two, and though his eyebrows are still all sad and pinched together, you think you’re starting to get through to him.

“but i can’t lose you,” he repeats stubbornly.

“sam,” you’re practically begging at this point, frustration creeping back into your voice, “the best way for you to keep me safe from ghosts and monsters and everything else is to take care of the problem, efficiently and effectively, like we always do. if there’s no monster, it can’t hurt me. but if you drop your weapon just because i slipped on soapy floors and lost my breath for a second? then it’s not just you and whatever innocent bystander around who’s more vulnerable now, it’s me too. so if that’s what it’s gonna take for me to convince you to stop fussing over me, then, please, think about it like that.”

sam is smart. he loves logic and reason, and you’ve handed him just that. but even more than that, he loves you. in the end, that trumps all.

“but i love you.”

he says it like a plea. like he didn’t mean to say it at all but it was the only thing running through his mind, and therefore, the only thing running off his tongue.

“sammy,” you breathe out, and then it’s like there’s no more air for you to breathe back in. that sweet nickname of his coming out of your mouth, resting on your tongue before tumbling into the air, is half like a drug to him, half like a bitter wind to sober him up quick.

“i– i only meant that i–,” he meant just that and now it’s said and now he’s never going to take it back, even if you hate him for it. “i meant that,” he says it firm and true this time, “i love you, so i can’t lose you.”

the way he looks at you, right into your eyes like they’re the prettiest things he’s ever seen, like you’re the best thing he’s ever had, oh, it has you hooked like bait has a fish who bit down too hard. it has you praying he never looks at anybody else like that again. it has you rising out of your seat and it’s pulling you across the small, wobbly table. he’s wedged into the grooves of your heart, so deep it could kill you to pull him out, so you follow the tug and he leans in too so the line isn’t so taught, so that it’s easy and comfortable and beautiful to reach his lips. 

his hands are like a net that catches you up in big, lovely swaths. they travel from your own hands, that lean against the table to keep your lips pressed to his, up to your elbows and then he knows he can never get enough. so he pushes up out of his own seat, drags his hands further up your arms until they can wrap around your biceps and push you up. not for a moment does he let his lips leave yours as he stands and pulls the both of you away from the table until he can bring you close, right into his wide, warm chest. then his hands can roam, gentle over your sensitive back, up to your neck then the back of your head to push your face into his. the other hand gets to go from your waist to your hips, or dip to the small of your back and press you flush to him.

you can only get away from him for a second, just enough time to whisper, “i love you, too,” before he swallows you back up. you melt right into him, and he loves it so much, but he feels how tired you are and he remembers he is too. so he only kisses you for a minute longer before letting your head rest on his shoulder. without any reservation, he presses a long kiss to your temple and you sigh a sweet sigh into his worn out tshirt.

unwilling to let go, he waddles with you, all bundled up into his arms, to the edge of the bed. without warning, he collapses into it, taking you right down with him and pulling out a little shriek from your mouth that he finds to be nothing short of endearing. he laughs, a belly laugh that you can feel the vibrations of as it moves up into his chest and out of those pretty lips of his. with some struggle to readjust yourself, you press a sweet peck to those lips. another easy i love you.

then you collapse back into his hold and the low quality plush of the motel bed. “now promise me you’ll pull yourself together next time we get a case?” this time your ask is so much more lighthearted, sweeter because it’s mumbled into the skin of his arm. you mean it just as much, but you can’t help the fact that you feel like you’re floating, “now i really, really can’t have you getting us in trouble. i’ll need to be able to kiss you at any given moment, so you have to promise me that you’ll trust me to take care of myself. because it works, and you know it. it’s the safest way. for both of us.”

the sigh he heaves can be felt through practically your whole body. it’s heavier than you wish it’d be, but he relaxes against you just a bit more. “i know,” he relents, “i’ll do my best, okay?”

“thank you,” you breathe out, too relieved to care that he couldn’t quite promise. you know this all means he’ll just be more protective of you, but you can say the same for yourself. now that you’ve kissed him and he’s told you he loves you and you’ve said it back, right against his lips, you’ll worry about him extra. but the both of you know the best ways to keep each other alive, and that has to be enough for you. you allow yourself to snuggle closer into him before joking, “d’you think dean’s ever gonna come back?”

you feel sam’s quiet laugh more than you hear it. “yeah, he really did us a favor with that one, didn’t he?” you can hear the smile in his voice before he remembers himself, “do not tell him i said that.” having you in his arms like this has got him a little giddy, saying things aloud that he normally wouldn’t.

letting out a laugh of your own, you promise, “i won’t. but i’m starting to get hungry. maybe we should call him and tell him the coast is clear, we didn’t tear the room to shreds or anything like that.”

sam chuckles again, and you decide very quickly that you like the way it feels for him to laugh with you so close. neither of you move, not to get a phone to call dean or to stop yourselves from growing drowsy. not for anything.

you’re half asleep when you hear the familiar sound of the impala’s engine near the room. it turns off, then comes the sound of its front door being open and shut. just because you’re hungry and it spells the arrival of food, you force your eyes open and let out a groan when you wiggle your arms out of sam’s hold to stretch. the way his hands shift to your waist as you do so has you a bit flustered and you wonder if you’re supposed to pretend in front of dean that you haven’t spent the last half hour kissing and cuddling. but sam doesn’t seem to care, because he just sits up when the door’s lock clicks, one hand by your head to hold him up, the other still settled decidedly on your waist. so you decide not to care either, and turn your head around to accidentally grin at dean when he peeks his head through the door. you had meant to look casual, but the second someone else becomes a witness to the fact that you’re laying together like this, you’re beaming.

dean visibly relaxes when he takes in the sight, pushing the door all the way open to walk in, then lock the door back up behind him.

“hey, there,” is all he says, shooting the both of you a look that says, really, you’re just gonna keep sitting there like that in front of me? it’s not that bad, but he’s allowed to tease because he just turned a twenty minute food trip into an hour purely for yours and sam’s sake. you clear your throat awkwardly, and only when you sit up does sam’s hand fall away from you.

you pad over to the table as dean places the paper bag of fast food on the surface. he drags over an extra mismatched chair and sam follows close behind you, pulling the remaining chair to sit beside you. as you begin to pull food out from the bag, now clearly gone cold to the touch, dean sits down, complaining that they didn’t have pie, so he bought you two cookies for dessert instead.

“well, thank you for the food anyways,” you smile, hoping he picks up on the fact that you’re thanking him for the other thing too, “damn shame there was no pie, though,” you say, more for his sake than yours. you wonder why he didn’t just pick some up from somewhere else since he was gone so long.

“mhmm, and don’t sweat about the pie. just got a slice somewhere else,” he shrugs, “ate it in the car, there was only one slice left and i didn’t want you to feel like you were missing out,” he explains with that familiar teasing edge which makes you think he indeed caught onto the double meaning of your thanks. you let out a small huff of laughter before tearing into the food, only now realizing just how hungry you are. you’d felt it creep up on you on the car ride back, smiled at the mention of food from dean, even stupidly thought about it during a quiet moment in the argument with sam. but the second your lips found his, that was the only hunger you’d felt. to keep kissing him, to keep him close, keep him loving you. only when you settled all the way into his arms, sure that you’d be able to satiate that hunger again, could your body remember you hadn’t eaten since early this afternoon.

the three of you eating like this, late at night and without much conversation, is common and comfortable. dean is on what you assume to be his second burger, because there’s no way he’d have just sat in the car, probably parked in a random lot and wondering how long he should be gone, and just waited to eat an extra-bacon burger until he came back. sam’s nearly the same as always, too, but tonight he sits so close that his forearm brushes against yours. you bump elbows or knees every so often, and the side of his socked foot is pressed against yours the entire time.

you sigh, content with the nearness of him that’s so much more complete and full than it was just hours ago. now, there’s no need to hover. now, you can just swoop in and land, take what you want, give what the other needs.

dean makes no teasing comments, but you can feel the way he’s been examining, reading the two of you. you’re not sure if you’re supposed to say something aloud, but you know that he knows the two of you so well that he understands almost exactly what must’ve happened while he was gone. maybe he’s not teasing because this is the outcome he wanted to come back to. he probably knows better than the both of you how you were crushing, pining even, over the other.

he takes his turn in the shower when he finishes his food, and you and sam begin to clean up a few minutes later. once all the trash is crumbled up and tossed away, you go around and turn off all the lights but a single bedside lamp. as you turn away from clicking off the lamp in the corner of the room, sam’s right there in front of you. you don’t have the time to be startled by him sneaking up on you, he’s so quick to cup your face with his hands and slot his lips against yours. he lingers a long moment before pulling apart just enough to rest his forehead on yours.

“gonna kiss you forever,” he whispers, and you realize you’ve turned this giant man into a complete and utter sap. 

“you better.” your grin is wide and real and he can almost feel your lips moving, he’s so close. just as you’re ready to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him hard, the steady white noise of the shower shuts off. you sigh and laugh a little, leaning in to steal one more chaste kiss before brushing past him. but he turns with you, hands still warm on your cheeks and not letting go until he’s kissed you once more.

when dean��s gone from the bathroom, sam follows you in to brush his teeth with you. you’ve done so plenty of times, but tonight, sam gets to loop his free arm around your waist and pull you into him, rather than stand shoulder to shoulder in the cramped space. he gets to make you giggle through toothpaste when he does so, and you get to switch your toothbrush to your other hand and wrap your own arm around his waist, too. he gets to make you laugh dangerously harder when he tightens his hold on you to prevent you from bending and spitting into the sink when you’re done. you try to hold back the laughter with your mouth full of toothpaste, then he’s the one laughing around his toothbrush because there’s white, foamy spit rolling down your chin from the corner of your mouth and threatening to drip to your dark-colored tshirt. of course, he lets you spit and rinse your mouth, relishing in the continued sound of your laughter.

“you asshole! almost ruined my shirt til the next time we make a laundry stop!” you take revenge as he rinses out his own mouth, splashing the running water onto his face as he swishes water around in his mouth. 

he spits the water out in surprise and sputters an indignant, “hey!” before he bursts into laughter again.

you’re both giddy, high off of kissing each other, and silly from the exhaustion of a hunt, so he tugs you into him by your hips and keeps laughing into the crook of your neck. you wrap your arms around his neck and thread your fingers up through his soft, newly washed hair. you kiss the closest thing you can reach and he melts right into your arms.

it’s only when you yawn that he pulls away from you. “we should get to bed, huh?”

you nod and twist towards the door, peeking through it to see dean sleeping in his bed, his still form highlighted by the warm light of the cheap lamp. taking sam’s hand with a shy smile, you lead him to the other bed, turning off the last light and climbing under the covers with him not far behind. he loops his arm under your head, then the other over your waist to splay his hand flat across the small of your back. the way he does it is exactly the way you wished he would, as if he’s thought about holding you like this every night you share a bed, just as you had. with a final glance towards dean, he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

you try to stifle the giggle that the soft, ticklish contact of his lips wants to pull from your chest, praying that dean is really as asleep as he looks. the both of you stiffen a bit when you hear dean’s blankets rustling, but you let out another breathy, quiet laugh when it goes silent again.

sam’s about to kiss you all over again when dean’s voice rings out into the hush of the night, startling you both.

“no shenanigans while i’m asleep, lovebirds,” he grunts.

that brings more laughter out of your lips and a rush of heat to your face that you’re sure sam feels, too. he just groans in annoyance at his brother, because of course dean had to get in at least one borderline dirty comment. neither of you really answer as dean shifts around in his bed again, likely turning his back to you and mumbling something mostly unintelligible. 

the only word you can catch is “finally.”

[callmrmorrow]

mark v cecil debate is way too polarized for what it is

cecil is reacting exactly how he should react. omni-man pretty much deceived them all for 20 years to the point where cecil was actually “hurt” by his betrayal (yes he might’ve known he was lying, but had no clue what he was lying about — was his planet fake, was his government fake, was he here to protect him, was he even really a viltrumite). mark defenders saying “how many times does he have to save the world for cecil to think he’s good” ignore the fact that omni-man saved their world MULTIPLE times over, and still was intent on committing genocide. the inner-ear device is extreme, but so is the threat that mark poses. this guy disappeared to go help his father on a faraway planet, came back with another overpowered kid, and is talking shit about how “it’ll take a long time for anyone to forgive him,” which implies that mark thinks, on some level, his father should be forgiven.

wanting to forgive nolan for everything he did but refusing to forgive any of the murderers that cecil employs is… super hypocritical from mark, and is exactly what he scolds oliver for doing: prioritizing people he knows and cares for over the world at large. objectively, the reanimen (who aren’t even ALIVE, they’re donated corpses) and darkwing 2 will save more people than they hurt. mark is a killer. oliver is a killer. omni-man is a killer. mark has more compassion in his heart for killers that he loves than innocent people that he doesn’t know.

on the other hand, we the audience KNOW mark is a good guy. we know it’s his prerogative to be offended, even scared, at the idea of cecil having that kind of power over him, over ANYONE that he cares about. mark is 18, first and foremost, and he didn’t get much choice in the situation he’s in (though he does have choice in how he reacts to it, which he did badly because of how morally conflicted he is). it really is as simple as mark wanting to be a good person and cecil wanting to save the world. of course cecil sees his heroes as tools! it’s shocking that none of the new GOG understood that earlier. the guy isn’t lying and acting like he cares any more than he does. mark is very caught up in his own situation — reasonably so, it’s a really fucking nasty one — and can’t see things objectively, and has a sort of entitlement to him that is very normal for a guy his age, half-alien or not. it’s shown when he gets pissed at debbie for sharing his identity with paul, as if it isn’t debbie’s prerogative to talk about her kids, as if she hasn’t been through the same shit that he has regarding nolan. it’s shown when he’s berating oliver for ideas that he fostered when he killed angstrom (albeit accidentally), that it’s not okay to kill even if it’s to save others. no wonder oliver was confused — he’s just following his brother’s example.

on that note… why have a no-kill rule and then be anti-rehabilitation? mark won’t kill the bad guys, but he won’t accept cecil using them to save other people. there’s nuance to the situation, i’m sure, but mark’s flying off the handle because he thinks his might is right. it’s obvious from the pilot of the show, where the moment he realizes he has powers, he tells his own mom to “make him” go to bed. mark has always wanted to be like his father, and he’s trying to find a way to be LESS like him now that he knows the truth, and that’s confusing. his path is diverging unexpectedly in so many ways, and of course he’s gonna struggle. he’s holding onto the only stuff he knows for sure, which is that “good guys do not kill. i am a hero, and i don’t work with villains.” when something flies in the face of that, he freaks out, because he’s losing a moral foundation of his that he grew up on.

i would even go as far as to say the fact that they call him “invinciboy” in the news is kind of symbolic of a moral regression, where he’s just going back to what he knows to be true, and sticking to it even if the ideas clash with how the world has to be — because it isn’t all so black and white anymore, and mark has a hard time slotting himself into a world that isn’t clear-cut.

tl;dr cecil’s idea is right, but mark’s reaction is justified not for cecil’s handling of the situation, but due to mark’s difficulties with figuring out who “invincible” is.