#and he finds it easier to say i love you

[moe-broey]

HEARTBREAKING

Worst Dad You Know Has an Extremely Endearing (Now) Reoccurring Character Trait

For further context: this whole FB involved Sharena and Henriette seeking out lockpickers in the Order of Heroes to open this VERY SECURELY locked box from Gustav's room that took Tina's special staff to finally crack open (or rather -- "steal" the contents out of. No one could actually break the lock!)

And the first instance of this!

It makes me wonder if he saved anything related to Sharena..........

[shivunin]

Ohhhhh oh how about "One talking to the other when they think they're asleep" for Maria and Fenris pretty please?

Thank you for the prompt! <3 I had to ponder this a bit, but I am happy with the results c:

("Sharing a bed" prompts here; I am still open c:)

(Also, please forgive my rusty Latin; it's been eight years since I've had to actually use it for anything more than a party trick. I've also fiddled with the translation below for flow. Apologies to the memory of Catullus)

Tevene/Latin:

Tuus sum: I am yours

Corpus animaque: Body and soul

Placideque quiescas: Rest well and peacefully

Fenris/Maria Hawke | 1,138 Words | No warnings

Corpus Animaque

"Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love, and the rumors of rather stern old men let us value all at just one penny! Suns may set and rise again; for us, when once the brief light has set, an eternal night must be slept. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand, then a hundred; then, when we have performed many thousands, we shall stir them into confusion, so that we might not know, and in order not to let any wicked person envy us, when he knows that our kisses number so many." ---Catullus 5*

“Say something in Tevene,” Hawke had murmured to him perhaps half an hour ago. 

Fenris, who was now well versed in what Hawke sounded like when she was trying to force herself to stay awake, had obliged. He’d taught her hello and goodbye, then described the room at length in disinterested tones, all the while allowing his voice to grow ever quieter. Maria slept deeply now, her cheek pillowed on her arm atop the pillow, and Fenris let his head rest on its side so he could watch her. 

It had been strange to speak the tongue of his birth with her—odd, like two halves of his life twining when he’d expected them to be forever as water and oil. There was something, though, in speaking to Maria when he knew she could not understand him. Fenris pondered this for a time, listening to the crackle of the fire at her hearth and the soft whistle of her sleeping breath. 

“Cor mea,” Fenris murmured after a moment: my heart, a simple enough endearment.

Hawke did not stir. She’d rested her hand near his shoulder, as she often did, and he’d obligingly twined his fingers with hers. Fenris set his other hand over both now, cradling her hand between his. 

There were things he ought to say to her. He knew that. But even now, when he was certain there would be no leaving her, words of love refused to slip easily from his lips. Not in the common tongue; not even in the one he’d spoken for most of his life. 

Not his own words; perhaps the words of others would come to him more easily. 

“Vivamus, mea Maria, atque amemus,” he murmured, feeling the pulse at her wrist where it pressed against his, “rumoresque senum severiorum onmes unius aestemimemus assis.”

Maria pulled her hair back in a red silk scarf when she slept. It prevented her hair from tangling too badly in the night and kept either of them from rolling onto her bounty of curls while they slept. Now, a small curl had snuck from its confines just below her ear, threatening to tickle the sensitive skin and wake her. Fenris lifted one hand and tucked it back with the rest, moving slowly and carefully. Hawke did not stir, for which he was grateful. There was more yet to say. 

“Soles occidere et redire possunt;” Fenris went on, “nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda.” 

An eternal night indeed; they had, both of them, seen enough of death to last several lifetimes. Her pulse thrummed steadily against his own, as if in sweet answer to the unspoken undertone to the words. They were alive now, the two of them; whatever rest they might share tonight was not that long rest, but the blink of an eye in the span of their days.

There will be other nights, she’d told him once. He dwelled too heavily on dreadful possibilities now. While she still slept…let him finish this, at least. 

Fenris spoke the rest of the words—give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand—meaning each of them as he spoke. They were not his words; they were borrowed from someone he’d never met. Even so, they seemed intended for something like this: a room that held only the two of them, an unusually clear night in Kirkwall which showed the stars clearly through her bedroom window, and the gradually softening light from the fire that kept them warm. Such words should be exchanged in whispers and the touches of hands, intended only for a lover’s ears.

It felt wrong to end with the poem, but Fenris didn’t have to cast about for something to end with. There were other words he’d told her before, words he’d conveyed in a dozen different ways if not a hundred. He’d seen her concern when he’d said them the first time—I am yours—as if she was worried about why he might say that. As if she thought he’d somehow conflated her with those who would have owned him once.

The whole of it was too much to explain, too strange to say aloud: if I may at last choose what to do with my life, I choose to give it to you. I would give all of myself to you if I could, because you would never ask me to, because you have insisted on seeing me as a person from the first moment we met. 

Too formal. 

Too many possible hidden meanings, when he’d first said the words to her in those bruised days after that disastrous night together. Fenris had chosen the easiest ones instead of the explanation, willing to risk her concern in exchange for some level of understanding. 

It was easier now; he could say them with more affection, and she’d returned the words more than once. They meant something different when Hawke said them, but that had never bothered him. 

“Tuus sum,” Fenris told her now, the words feeling firmer in this language, more binding—though the weight of them was a comfortable one, words and bonds he’d chosen rather than ones that had been chosen for him. 

“Corpus animaque,” Fenris finished, his voice hardly more than a whisper, “placideque quiescas, cor mea.”

It seemed fitting, somehow, to dip his head and kiss her hand then. If he were less tired, he may have considered why such an implicit vow had felt necessary. Matters had passed tense in Kirkwall weeks ago and slid unstoppably toward some imminent danger. Fenris could not smooth her way; he could not fight her battles for her. 

But he could hold her hand in the night, and whisper to her of kisses and days to come. He could stay by her side as long as she would allow him. 

As long as there was strength in his arms, as long as he could stand with her, he believed he would see her safe. He had never been an optimist; if pressed, he would not wager on their odds. 

But Hawke—he believed in her. If anyone could navigate them out of this disaster, it was her.

“Mea cor,” he said one more time, setting her hand back over his chest with exquisite care. 

The time for words had passed. It was past time for rest. Fenris looked at Hawke once more before he closed his eyes, tracing the shadows of her face, the softness of her eyelids, the unfading smile lines on either side of her mouth. When he’d looked his fill for now (only for now; it could never be enough for forever, as he knew well), Fenris closed his eyes at last. 

It was much longer before his focus slipped from the steady pulse in her wrist and Fenris fell asleep at last.

*Base source for translation: Wikipedia

(I know, there are prettier versions elsewhere, but it's nearly one am and i don't want to look)

[biromantic-nerd]

I think representation in characters is so funny bc some people are like "I'm [rep] and that is the WORST rep I've ever seen" and some people are like "I'm [rep] and this rep is so important to me this is exactly my experience"

and by funny I mean no character is going to match every single person's experience simultaneously. Someone might criticize a character for being a stereotype and someone else might recognize themselves in that portrayal. And vice versa, etc, and so on and on forth.

[scionshtola]

shb is such a trying time for cori for many reasons obviously but especially for shtola reasons

[dirt-str1der]

Trans kiryu is a genuinely funny hc because like trans majima is like oohh angst ohh she has to fight to be accepted she has to deal with people making fun of her for being a man in a dress she has to take into account her position and social standing and kiryu is literally just kiryu forever because the universe loves him too much to ever force him into a situation unless its to go to prison in which case hes like yayyy i love jail yayy yayyy

[kaus-quietis]

The circus bookclub - The Letter Killer Club, by Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky

There are some authors I simply cannot get enough of, and Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky is one of them. In this first ever edition of this new bookclub, here in the circus, I'll share with you my most recent read of him! And what more fitting title than The Letter Killer Club to introduce the bookclub, right?

Hello there! I'm the circus resident poltergeist, Eliott, managing this blog until Lav comes back. Here in the circus bookclub I share with you my most recent reads/amazing books I wish everyone would pick up one day!

Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky is an Ukrainian author born in 1887 in Kyiv, who died in Moscow in 1950. He wrote his works in russian language, and was little published in his lifetime: most of his works were published posthumously.

The Letter Killer Club is a short novel (approx. 100-150pages according to the publisher/language of translation) written in 1926. Its story revolves around the life of a Club, the Letter Killer Club, run by 7 individuals. The story starts when they welcome an 8th member, a writer intrigued by the peculiar people seeing each other once a week, in a quiet room lit by the fireplace.

In the Letter Killer Club, the members think that writing their ideas on paper would denature them. In their philosophy, ideas stay pure when they only stay to this stage: ideas. Every week, the members of the club tell each other their book ideas, scenarios, without ever writting them on paper. Each week, one member speaks. This is how the seven chapters of this book are organized, by the story of one individual, followed or interrupted by the occasionnal remarks or conversations around it (reminding me of Marguerite de Navarre's Heptameron, if some of you are familiar with french late medieval literature here). In these stories, Krzhizhanovsky seems to always explore a philosophical thought, or ideas about literature and what it is to be a writer. This is, according to me, part of what makes this book so interesting to read.

These stories are strange, almost metaphysical at times, funny and tragic. I will not go in details about them so you can fully enjoy this book, should you decide to read it, but what striked me in The Letter Killer Club is how well balanced Krzhizhanovsky's writing was, between telling the stories and the characters of the Club themselves. With very few elements, Krzhizhanovsky succeeds in creating a particular atmosphere, one that engulfs you and makes you feel like you are seated there, amongst them, almost as a 9th member of this strange reunion.

Krzhizhanovsky is an incredible writer. These themes of the idea vs. writing it, putting it on paper, what it is to write, to have ideas, to be a writer, are extremely present in most of his works, but they seem to be particularly explored in this one. During his lifetime, while he wasn't much published, Krzhizhanovsky was very present in literary circles, and therefore certainly involved in many philosophical discussions of what it meant to be a writer at that time. This shows in his works, and he explores these questions in a very clever way.

Krzhizhanovsky's writing is demanding and his ideas need some thinking and time to be well reflected upon, but I believe his works are extremely interesting if you ever want to explore more of the literature of his time. Often using fantastic elements or situations to convey his ideas, his writing is a clever mix of fantastic, abstract, absurd and reflection on writing itself.

I hope this made you curious about this author's works! Krzhizhanovsky has written many short stories as well, and these are also great if you ever want to give a chance to reading his writing.

Sources : his wikipedia page for the bio / goodreads for the english edition of the letter killer club

[age-of-moonknight]

“Soldier, Rich Man, Scoundrel,” Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #14.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[scorpionwins]

hi, I just wanted to ask something. This has been bugging me for a while, but how come you're not as mad as Archie as you are at Betty? it takes TWO people to kiss...

Why hello!! I'm more than happy to rant about this because it's been on my BRAIN, just sitting there, so thanks for giving me an opportunity :D

So, I'm going to assume you're asking why I don't hold Betty and Archie to the same standard when it comes to bringing up the b*ghead break up/the infamous double judas kiss that started it all. To be as frank as possible; It's very much favoritism. But the justified kind, so lower your pitchforks.

Just by a quick scroll to my blog, I think it's unmistakably evident I like Archie over Betty; Like a red dot in a white room. You can't miss it. It's there. And as third party viewers, our individual feelings, opinion, and attachments we form towards these characters motivate the moral standards we set for them.

Take a generous majority of Betty stans, for example; Despite being united by the same romantic relationship in the show, they have a direct connection in strongly disliking the male half of said relationship; Jughead.

Betty is very much the golden child of B*gheads, so I figured it was fair game. Arguably, you can say some of them maintain some objectivism, but not enough for me to consider it valuable.

Now, am I saying Archie's a perfect angel who could do no wrong? That because he's the fandom's ' haha, big himbo Boi golden retriever stupid wholesome jock' means all guilt and responsibility should be absorbed from his part? No! Absolutely not.

I don't think there's anyone in this fandom who hates the " Archie is a perfect angel and our annoying but beloved protagonist " narrative more than I do;

Fuck. No. Archie is a violent, careless, emotionally inept douchebag, who wouldn't know what a non-dysfunctional relationship was if it spit in his eye. But here's a thing, Archie isn't the protagonist; He's the antagonist.

Arguably speaking, Archie's the most morally ambiguous/morally grey character on the show, in my opinion. Not because he struggles with separating dark from light, but because he chooses both.

I can't really look at a kiss and all that other shit he's done and be like ' oh YEA, kissing was definetly worse!' the same logic can apply to Betty, but here's ANOTHER thing; Archie didn't owe Jughead loyalty.

Archie wasn't his boyfriend; Archie wasn't the one promising he won't do it again; Archie wasn't the one who went behind his back. He's the mistress in this scenario, and mistresses aren't morally indebted to anyone.

Betty was. She was Jughead's girlfriend. She was the one who sang " you're the only man for me" and yet does the opposite, on quite clear multiple times. (There's accounts of consecutive emotional cheating as well) and she's the one who's actions hurt Jughead the most because SHE was dating him.

Hell, Archie and Jughead were barely even friends; I'll even argue to say a constant theme in the show is the constant construction and reconstruction of Jarchie's friendship. How they fail to be friends but still choose eachother, over and over again, because they're held together by memories and nostalgia.

Of course I can't hold the same bitterness for Archie when his involvement and presence in Jughead's life doesn't hold the same impact as Betty's. Archie never promised him anything. Betty did.

At best, Archie owes Jughead an apology, but his real target of compensation should be his actual partner. Veronica. Archie owes her remorse.

I'll even go ahead and say it - the varchie break up hurt more because their relationship was build on actual meaningful, mature grounds.

b*ughead is a middle schooler's relationship goals. Which is to be expected because they were 16, teenagers, yet! Archie and Veronica happen to be characters with more experience in romance, both by direct and indirect contact. (From multiple partners to their own parents separating respectively)

I don't necessarily like comparing emotional damage; I do my best not to cherry pick. However, I don't think I owe cheaters the courtesy of fair thinking.

There's no good reason to cheat. It's a destructive, cruel, abusive act of disrespect towards your partner, and I'm not at all moved by Betty's performative remorse, especially because she clearly doesn't feel it as much as the fandom pushes it.

But I'll say it once and I'll say it for as long as I can; If anti Barchies dislike barchie because they like Betty, I dislike b*ghead because I love Jughead.

[arcgeminga]

♚— Damn. I have 10 ongoing Defteros threads (with 1 halted), and like... 3 ongoing Aspros threads.

It’s all the same RP partner (because the StS Fandom is dead), but like... Defteros is so popular.

[paleontaxi]

//kyle's mom is like "jarod just needs a grief counselor and a friend" and bitch true!

[medicinemane]

I just think that the main barrier to being good at a lot of different things isn't about that you couldn't be good at it, it's about time, and it's about affording equipment and materials

It's gonna be a lot harder to find the time for even one hobby if you're working full time, and make no mistake, there's a real problem of getting what you need to actually work on stuff

[starlit-mansion]

i am overall glad that i left comedy nerd spaces (esp since i got out while the getting was still good and i didn't have to hear other people make their bad jokes about the various creeps ousted from their thrones with credible accusations of sexual misconduct), but i do sort of mourn that an entire swath of my foundational nerd knowledge is rendered useless by exclusively staying in a space that thought john mulaney was a wholesome friendly good guy for three years until he eventually displeased them

[nbmahoushoujo]

me, in the midst of a tournament and planning the next one already: what if... i made another side blog for another 2 tournaments... right now

[lady-harrowhark]

while i am surprised to discover that the silly post i made about my dog last night has somehow gotten more than 500 notes overnight, i am delighted to see all the tags on it that are like “she’s a maltese that explains literally everything about this post” because they are so correct. such delightful stubborn little personalities.

[bats-and-the-birds]

There are a lot of fics about the Justice League finding out about Batman's children via a series of circumstances leading to Nightwing joining the League (usually against Batman's will)

and I LOVE this trope, don't get me wrong, but I'd like to imagine a situation where it doesn't happen like that. I want a situation where Nightwing joins the League, but he and Batman play it off well enough that the JL doesn't put them together. They notice that they work well together, sure, and Batman seems to trust Nightwing easier than the other new members, but no one questions it because Nightwing is good.

And the JL reaches a point where it's been months or even years and they still don't know.

Until Nightwing gets hurt. They've seen him hurt before, but he gets hurt. Bleeding out, affected by fear toxin, whatever, the point is, he's in bad shape. And Nightwing - strong, crooked grin, happy facade - screams. He screams for his dad - a word that he never uses, but that doesn't matter now, because he's scared, and he's hurt, and he just wants to go home.

And nobody knows what to do. Every single League member very quickly realizes that they know nothing about this guy. Everyone wonders about Batman because he seems so mysterious, but Nightwing always seemed so open, and it's only in that moment that they realize they have no actual information on him.

But that only last for a split second, because, of course Batman reacts first. He runs to his side and starts to stabilize his injuries while assuring him in a voice that they've never heard before, a voice that is distinctly not his Batman growl, that he's right there and it's all going to be okay.

And Nightwing... well, he stops calling out for his father. And he doesn't stay in the watchtower infirmary after that. When they ask Batman where he took him, he just tells them home.

Nightwing's back a few months later, and that's when they start asking him if he's really Batman's kid, and he just smiles the same crooked grin and says, Of course. You didn't know?

[criminalamnesia]

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶