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circular-bircular · 2 months

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Hi, sorry this is a big ask but what are your thoughts on this article?

https://powertotheplurals.com/why-the-theory-of-structural-dissociation-is-ableist/

We don't know enough to go through and say exactly that it's wrong but something feels wrong? Like that's not our experience being treated by someone who believes in the theory of structural dissociation.

Also this article was introduced to me as the argument against sysmeds but the theory of structural dissociation has grown since its creation and I can name two people who came up with theories that are the basis of modern psychiatry who should never practice.

Again though we don't really know enough to say any of that for certain and I hope we don't look silly.

Alright, let's start clearing out my drafts and inbox with this lovely ask!

I have been sitting on this ask for eons. I got it, wanted to work on it but died during the school year by way of teaching being hell, and then promptly forgot it existed. However, a thousand and one people have broken this article down for the sheer absurdity of how bad it is. Like, it's really bad.

This article is 1000% just fearmongering bullshit to steer people away from a very, very valuable theory. Anon, you do not need to feel the need to sway your opinions on the ToSD -- first and foremost, above all else, you determine what helps you the most and what theories benefit your system. Not anyone else's sayings.

But let's dig into it, shall we?

We start off with a huge image of a video about Otto Van Der Hart, author of The Haunted Self and a very instrumental psychologist in the understanding of DID. This is immediately followed by the following statement:

The above video was recently released after one of the authors of Structural Dissociation lost his license for life and can never practice again.

[VERY LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER]

He's not one of the authors of Structural Dissociation. He's one of the authors of The Haunted Self. He did not invent the theory; the Theory of Structural Dissociation was not the invention of The Haunted Self. The ToSD was the invention of many, many, many people working together to understand pieces of dissociation, and Van Der Hart, alongside Kathy Steele and Ellert R Nijenhuis, created The Haunted Self to publish a focused overview of everything related to it. To call him "one of the authors of the theory" is really discounting the fact that this theory is far more wide-reaching than just The Haunted Self.

But that's me being a little nitpicky.

Me being VERY nitpicky is their linked article immediately after this statement with the falsehood about how Final Fusion only works 12.8% of the time. This has been thoroughly debunked. Here's an example of a debunk! I'm incredibly frustrated to not even be able to get to the bulk of the article, simply because they're so insistent on plugging their own misinformation.

Then a link about Otto Van Der Hart losing his license... Then another link about it... Why is this necessary for "The ToSD is ableist"? Seems like you meant "Otto Van Der Hart is ableist" and your editors just got confused by the 4 letter word. Let's see, one last PTTP link... Okay, article time!

Anyone who has watched a DID youtube video, or read a few posts in a support group, has seen it pass by: The theory of Structural dissociation, written by Ellert Neijenhuis, Onno van der Hart, Suzette Boon and Kathy Steele.

Very confused why you keep saying the ToSD was written by these people, but you continue on to acknowledge that the ToSD was not written solely by these individuals. This article feels disjointed as fuck and there's only actually been like... two paragraphs! How did you manage that?

It’s good to know that in 1987, the writers of this theory already referred to us as parts, not personalities or alters, as the common terms were back then. Now, you might think this was progressive, ahead of its time — but was it really?

Yes. It was. As someone who is relieved to be seen as a part of a whole, rather than a distinct personality who is wildly out of control, I'm thrilled to see parts language in my history.

It was actually, psychologist and psychiatrist Charles Samual Myers, who in 1916 wrote about Apparently Normal Part (ANP) and Emotional Part (EP) after acute trauma in WW1. So it is fair to say that the theory of Structural dissociation borrowed these terms, not introduced them, as is readable in the haunted self. (page 4)

Yep. So why were you so insistent for so long that the authors of the Haunted Self "created" the theory when... you're literally acknowledging some of the history of the theory here?

Let's see... you then acknowledge another author who should also be credited as helping to create the ToSD, once again contradicting the start of your article...

It is also good to realize that the theory of Structural dissociation is neither about DID, nor is it about alters, as many of us Plurals know them. They speak of ‘dissociative parts of the personality’, caused by trauma. Nota bene, not early childhood trauma, trauma in general. As this theory of structural dissociation also explains single trauma, repeated trauma in adulthood and (early) childhood trauma. It is used to describe changes that are diagnosed as (c)PTSD, trauma related borderline personality disorder, DID and more.

Yeah, this part is true! The ToSD is not only about DID, or childhood trauma, or even repeated trauma. It's... about structural dissociation. It's in the name. Not sure why so many people are so confused about that.

As you can see in this image, all types of Structural dissociation have EP and ANP elements which Myers talked about. In other words, the theory puts forward that all traumatized people have ‘dissociative parts of the personality’ as this is just the collective name for the EP and ANP. Thus, plurality does not just happen in DID, as many people with DID like to claim.

The theory of structural dissociation is not about plurality. You said it yourself that it is neither about DID nor about alters. It is about trauma causing dissociative parts of identity. All traumatized people have dissociative parts of identity, but that does not mean that all traumatized people are plural. Because that's what you're poking at by listing that as plurality.

These dissociative parts of identity are not necessarily fully formed parts. From every single person I've met with PTSD, their ANP/EP structure is nothing like mine -- not just in the fact that I've got more of that sort of thing, but in the fact that their ANP and EP don't have goddamn names. Their parts of self are not full identities that take over the body; they're states of mind.

Now, does that preclude someone from calling that plurality? No. People can call anything plural, if they feel that label fits. But to suggest, looking at these charts, that it is universally plurality -- that the existence of ANP/EPs is plural inherently -- is jumping the shark to the largest degree.

(Lastly, as a syscourse side note -- please stop conflating DID with Anti-Endo in your posts. "Many people with DID like to claim" just say anti-endos. Just say sysmeds, for fucks sake, I would prefer that to you making it about DID)

From which we can conclude that OSDD, complex PTSD, borderline personality disorder or extreme stress may also have alters as we Plurals know them, or at least as the ‘dissociative parts of the personality’, which this theory of structural dissociation calls us. – From a Plural perspective, I do not understand the differences, besides being integrated less in DID (or tertiary Structural dissociation) compared to more integrative capacity in secondary Structural dissociation of the personality.

"I don't understand the differences, besides (lists the vital difference to why DID is called dissociative identity disorder)"

Also, not a single person was arguing that OSDD does not have alters. That is baffling to me why you included that on the list. Furthermore, yes, these could be plural -- but they are not alters similar to DID. There is a major difference there, in that in DID, the alters are fully developed identities, whereas in most cases of PTSD and borderline personality disorder, they aren't. But I will give you credit here -- this time, you said "MAY" also have alters. And yes, I would give you that credit -- some people with borderline personality disorder may see their splits as plural in some way.

But I have found, through talking to people with various trauma based disorders, that often, my alters are very different from their whatever they are experiencing. Because, once again, I am far more distinct. I've actually spoken once to a friend of mine with PTSD and OCD on this topic, because (due to her OCD), after meeting me, she believed she might be plural. It wasn't the case, but her states of being were distinct enough that she felt that way, however briefly. And then she stopped identifying that way, as it was harming her mentally to do so. While that is not the case for every individual who feels plural, it was the case for her. I don't want to look at PTSD and say, "This makes someone inherently plural," because it doesn't.

So, simply put, the ToSD is not about plurality. It is about dissociation of a single personality; not about multiple personalities. While the other disorders listed in the theory can be plural, they are not inherently so. (And this still has not explained why the author believes the ToSD to be ableist).

If DID is not Plurality, then why have such a thing as a DID diagnosis? What is the difference then between complex PTSD and DID, if not the Plurality? – More on this topic next time!

I've deliberated on this point for awhile (and I do NOT care to try to hunt down if PttP made good on their promise and made another article about this idea). I actually tried to discuss it in a server I'm in, which went a bit in a loop due to "plurality" being inherently seen as endogenic plurality (maybe I'll make a post about that sometime).

But leave it to my singlet partner to knock it out of the park, lol.

They brought up the fact that they have spiraling depression; depression that is worsened by other disorders they have, such as ADHD and anxiety. It just loops around continuously. Now, they could have a hypothetical diagnosis (just like C-PTSD would be, as that's not an actual diagnosis that exists) of "Spiraling Depression." But would that diagnosis be as informative as their multiple diagnosis of depression, anxiety, and ADHD?

By having the specific diagnosis they have, they're able to get more clarity on symptoms and understanding of what's happening. And I think that's a compelling argument for DID over C-PTSD in this case. Because, PttP, like it or not, plurality is disordered for many individuals. Even if the symptoms of DID and C-PTSD do overlap in many ways (and differ -- for instance, C-PTSD has far less correlation with dissociation and amnesia, and DID has far less correlation with emotional regulation problems and flashbacks to trauma), they overlap in such a way that it is important to be specific.

And yes, DID is specific in the fact that alters are part of it. No, DID is clearly not just plurality with C-PTSD, as you argue. There's a lot of different factors that differentiate the two disorders. But even with the large amount of overlap they can have (to the degree that the two are so highly comorbid that I see people argue you can't have DID without the other), the plurality is disabling for many individuals. And I say this as an individual who is not disabled by their plurality, and yet is diagnosed with DID.

The reason there's such a thing as a DID diagnosis is because having multiple, dissociative identities is disordered for many individuals. For me, I am disordered by my DID in the fact that I deal with severe amnesia that distresses me, as well as issues that correspond to C-PTSD. The treatment may be similar -- but if I were simply diagnosed with C-PTSD, I would not get the specific care I need, that being an assurance that my individual parts get the help they need. Which you, PttP, rally against later in this article (at the Systematic Approach to Dissociation section).

The haunted self states that Structural dissociation has become chronic in those patients with trauma-related disorders. (page 12.) Which, first and foremost, means that Structural dissociation is not a (trauma-related) disorder on it’s own, as some people claim these days.

Accurate. It's a symptom, not a disorder. I believe what PttP is getting at here is the claim that dissociation is only a symptom of dissociative disorders; however, that's now what that sentence actually says, and it's incredibly frustrating to see this pair of sentences to try and make that claim. "The Haunted Self says that structural dissociation is chronic in patients with trauma-related disorders. This means that structural dissociation isn't a trauma-related disorder." Okay, yes, but that does not negate that it is talking about disorders, not plurality.

However, I point this quote out for a different reason. The theory of Structural dissociation idolizes integration. And although they say that ��’no one has to go away’’, they also clearly explain to therapists, to not engage with us ‘dissociative parts of the personality,’ unless absolutely needed. Instead it is suggested that the therapist speaks whenever possible, through the ANP fronting. We the Plurals, then have the most integrative capacity, which basically means we can integrate the experience best. Which should be encouraged by the therapist at all times. I can understand how it is useful that ‘everyone’ listens in during therapy. But this should not be the case when we express ourselves!

And here we get to the bulk of the picture; PttP's hatred of anyone who so much as dares consider final fusion as an option for recovery.

First, let's correct a major misconception that I have had to correct timelessly in my time on systumblr. Integration is not final fusion. Integration is the lowering of dissociative barriers in order to communicate and function with your system as one whole; this could be through working together (functional multiplicity) or through fusing into one being (final fusion). And, as a few users in sysumblr have pointed out recently, these two things are not diametrically opposed. There's no hard and fast line between FM and FF. They're both just signs of recovery, and any recovery is beautiful. To shame anyone for going a specific route that makes them feel better is shameful in of itself, imo.

Second, let's tackle the image that PttP provides and show you why their quotes-out-of-context are complete bullshit.

"ALL interventions need to be geared toward increasing integration and decreasing dissociation" -- All treatment needs to be geared at helping alters connect with each other and decreasing memory barriers.

"Always use interventions at the highest level of integration possible, e.g., if the client can work with all parts, it is not necessary to work with parts individually" -- I can communicate with all of my parts. My therapist does not need to explain to each of my 14 parts the same exact thing each time they show up; he can work with me one week, and the next week, Curtis will remember what we discussed and can continue without my therapist needing to explain what we did last week -- I just make sure that Curtis is on the same page as me before that session.

"Use integrative language. 'Parts' language is OK, but emphasize 'Parts of you.' Parts should not be treated as individuals -- An individual as in someone who is not sharing a body. An individual as in someone who is a separate body not sharing it with 13 other people ffs. By focusing entirely on "You're an entirely different person," then it's going to be really hard to convince a patient in the throes of flashback, "I know YOU didn't experience that particular trauma, but that other person did, so now it's your problem to deal with" without reminding them that you are together in this one body. (Furthermore... This just straight up isn't as common in modern therapy, at least from what I've seen and experienced. I had to CONVINCE my therapist to stop fucking calling my parts "people" because it made me angry to be stuck in this body. Now I use parts language, and I'm not stuck in this body, I AM this body).

Lastly, I want to highlight: "Always be curious about what a part is unable to realize: this is the treatment target" -- this, to me, is so vital, and I feel like PttP skips over it. This is connected to the "highest part of integration" point; if a part isn't at the highest part of integration. If a part cannot realize something, it is up to the therapist to help them treat that. For instance, I just worked on EMDR yesterday with my therapist on realizing I am capable. Shockingly, about two EMDR sessions ago, Curtis did that same realization -- but as a part, I couldn't realize that myself. So my therapist had to work with me, as a part, directly.

So, to recap: this is all fairly standard, healthy guidelines for working with systems. Don't pit the parts against each other by implying they're all completely separate, work on communication and lowering barriers, and don't repeat yourself when you don't have to.

How's PttP feel about this?

"And although they say that ‘’no one has to go away’’, they also clearly explain to therapists, to not engage with us ‘dissociative parts of the personality,’ unless absolutely needed." Nope. I don't see that anywhere above. "Instead it is suggested that the therapist speaks whenever possible, through the ANP fronting." Also incorrect; nowhere in the above picture does it suggest that the therapist speak through the fronting ANP. That would certainly make my therapy difficult, given that we don't even have clear ANPs; my therapist just works with whoever is out. "We the Plurals, then have the most integrative capacity, which basically means we can integrate the experience best. Which should be encouraged by the therapist at all times. I can understand how it is useful that ‘everyone’ listens in during therapy. But this should not be the case when we express ourselves!" Wow, it sounds like whoever wrote this article feels very separated from their other parts. It sounds like the therapist will need to work at the highest level of integration possible, which is really low for your system. Your therapist would need to work with individual parts far more than mine would, because you don't have a high level of integration currently. Nowhere does it ever suggest that your ANPs need to be out for therapy. That's your jaded and biased view of a completely neutral statement.

To me, it sounds as if they want to make us all like OSDD, where one part regularly fronts and others speak through them. And although I think there is a dissociative spectrum, I do not think that changing the diagnostic criteria we meet from the diagnosis of DID to OSDD will lead to ‘healing.’ And in DID, in particular, requiring all communications to relay through one particular (perhaps malleable or favored) ‘alter’ that sounds a lot like silencing to me. Because the therapist (or any other outside person,) can never know (for sure) whether the part who is presenting, is truly conveying all information which is coming from inside. This book talks a lot about shame, but forgets that our ANPs might not feel comfortable repeating what those EPs just said inside, and that the information may be so overwhelming for them as to cause them to have intense dissociative symptoms. Half-truths might reach the therapist.

"They want to make us all like OSDD" -- not a thing. Stop fearmongering.

"Changing the diagnostic criteria we meet from the diagnosis of DID to OSDD" -- Part of the reason I am all for getting rid of both of those diagnosis and just changing it to CDD, so that people can't make this absolutely batshit argument.

"Relay through one particular (perhaps malleable or favored" alter" -- Already reviewed this, but jesus christ I hate that you just called them malleable. That is so horrifically ableist, to suggest that the fucking therapists -- people who are helping systems -- are just trying to manipulate an alter. Fuck that.

"The therapist can never know for sure whether the part who is presenting is truly conveying all information which is coming from inside" -- =_=.... "Hey, Wade, good to see you! So, what do you remember from last week?" "Wow, hey therapist, I am going to tell you the honest truth, I remember exactly jack shit." "Alright, so let's review-" It's as simple as that PttP. When we aren't able to communicate, we just... review. And if I decided to not be honest with my therapist... well that's just a fucking waste of three hours (two for driving, one for session) and money (gas and session cost).

The final few sentences is running with their misinterpretation of what the image was actually saying, so I'm not going to harp on that any longer.

The writers of this theory of structural dissociation explain dissociation as experiencing separation in simple terms and in more difficult terms use the meaning of the term dissociation, formulated by Pierre Janet (1859–1947), ‘’Structural dissociation is a particular organization in which different psychobiological subsystems of the personality are unduly rigid and closed to each other. These features lead to a lack of coherence and coordination within the survivor’s personality as a whole.’’ (Preface Haunted self)

To translate that, for the layman: Structural dissociation is when parts of the personality are separate from each other, leading to a lack of consistency in a person's being. This can be represented as plurality (such as in CDDs) or as just inconsistent singular personality (such as in PTSD).

They explain integration as ice cubes melting and the water coming together, or dams breaking and water coming together. Which to them equals no one goes away. Everyone is still there, it’s just one body of water now.

Because they're singlets who don't get it. Rather than being a bitch about it, we could... explain in better terms, which so many fucking people have done. For instance, I use the puzzle piece metaphor for ourselves. We are each one puzzle piece; when we come together, you can still see the lines that show I'm a piece of the puzzle, but we are now together. But even if we use their metaphor... Nobody went away. The ice cube melted, but that doesn't mean you suddenly have less water. You're still there. Just together. By phrasing it as "going away" when fusion happens, you're purposefully fearmongering what actually happens in fusion; it's coming together, not someone going away.

To me, it sounds more like soup, because not everyone in a system is the same, like with water. So you throw in your EPs and ANPs (and those are very limited terms for our diversity!) and then you have a soup. Although soup is great, it is not the same as the loose ingredients. A potatoe is a potatoe. A carrot is a carrot. But potatoe-carrot soup is something new and different. You cannot remove the potatoe from the soup, it is no longer a whole potatoe. And potatoe-carrot soup cannot do the same things the original potatoes and carrots could do.

.... I will not lie, this confused the fuck out of me. Is this another analogy for integration? Very confused. Have fun though.

We know from a 6 year follow up study that only 12.8% of participants were able to reach integration as described in the theory of Structural dissociation. (page 4) That is a very low percentage. In any scientific research for medicine or therapy for example, a 12.8% positive outcome would not be tolerable. Yet the whole theory of treatment within Structural dissociation is based on it.

Once again, this was debunked (same link as above). Also, the ToSD isn't fucking based on fusion. It's based on structural dissociation. Yknow. As it says in the name. The therapeutic treatment is based on integrating past dissociation. Yknow. Integration. Not fusion.

A chronic disorder, often debilitating, with a much-respected and idolized healing option with only 12.8% success rate, sounds ableist to me

... how? Genuinely, how is it ableist? Ableism is discrimination against disabled people. How is... How is trying to help people with a disorder discrimination?

Favoring OSDD over DID comes from singular normative biased thinking

This just straight up isn't happening, you just read something in the worst faith possible and pissed on the poor because of it.

The haunted self has a chapter dedicated to phobia of dissociative parts. Maybe the writers, should re-read the chapter and apply it to their own way of thinking.

Oof ouch the edge. Anyways, now I want to read that chapter, I'm curious if they go into the shame around splitting in DID.

It also sounds to me, as if clinicians say something else to our face, then what they write in their books. Especially when it comes to alter integration or final fusion as Kluft calls it.

Integration and Fusion are not the same thing, and a clinician in 2019 (when this article was written) may not match the novel that was published in 2006, based on psychology from as early as 1916. It's almost like shit progresses and time keeps moving! Remarkable I know.

Although I do not think personalities is the right term for us, nor is the word parts. It is derogatory, dehumanizing & it is taking away from our autonomy, roles and authenticity as individuals.

[Stares in "I have never felt more alive, authentic, and real than when I was referred to as a part of a whole"]

[Stares in "I use it/its pronouns and this individual probably hates that huh, if they're so against dehumanization"]

[Stares in "Just tell your fucking therapist what goddamn language you prefer, because I had to do that too, you aren't fucking special"]

Anyways. Parts language is not universally derogatory, dehumanizing, or taking away your individuality. For me, it has been incredibly healing. Furthermore, it is genuinely what is happening from a medical standpoint. From a medical standpoint, splits in DID are occurring due to, you guessed it, trauma. You don't suddenly just... get possessed or mitosis a new person in your brain who is entirely separate from you. The parts of you are parts of you, regardless of how you label them, because you are composed in one body. If we get into possession and endogenesis, then remarkably, the ToSD does not apply, because the ToSD is strictly about structural dissociation. Not plurality.

And so I often wonder whether the alter integration they desire, equals just not being Plural anymore in the minds of the writers of Structural dissociation. If it does, it makes sense to diminish us to parts. And it also makes sense to claim “no one has to go away”, if they never believed we are separated in the first place. After all, it is the ‘experience of separation’, not actual separation, as they say, we did not split off. So was using the term ‘parts’ in 1987 progressive, or a step to further diminish, gaslight and silence us?

If you wonder about this often, you need to step the fuck away from system spaces and touch some grass.

Integration is not fusion, I cannot stress this enough.

Fusion does not equal no longer being plural; ask any fused system (or hell, just a fused part) and they will tell you, flat out, "I'm still us, just different." If someone no longer wants to identify as plural due to fusion, is that not their choice? Why would you care about someone else's experience that much?

Being parts is not diminishing anything, as someone who uses parts language.

If we are multiple parts, and the ToSD acknowledges us as multiple parts, then clearly the ToSD acknowledges we are separate. The goal of the theraputical practices that revolve around the ToSD is to help lessen the separation between parts. Not remove us entirely. Still not sure where you got that idea from, other than your fearmongering about Fusion.

Using parts language was literally just people looking at MPD systems and going, "Huh... you know, maybe that is a single person and not multiple people crammed into one body. Maybe that is just a severely traumatized individual, and we should treat them as a person, same as anyone else."

Or maybe they were all high on cocaine. That's possible too.

Here is my problem with how the DID community treats this theory. From the community feedback it seems that many of you do not want integration, as explained in this theory. And you cannot cherry-pick the sweet parts, when it comes to theories like this. Especially not when integration is so interwoven with this theory. The theory of Structural dissociation is often presented as truth in our communities, even though this theory is not widely accepted, not acknowledged, not proven (or provable) and hence just a theory like any other – there are many theories about DID.

Obligatory "integration and fusion are not the same." Furthermore, this idea is based on community feedback in 2019. I can't wait for 2029, when things will be completely different once again. Lastly, the theory is widely accepted. It is the most accepted theory of how dissociation works structurally that we have. While there are other theories about DID, I have not seen any of them that better describe my experiences or make as much sense. (And, unsurprisingly, you don't add any of those alternative theories here).

You also cannot say you like the application of this theory for DID, but not for borderline and vice versa. The theory comes as a package deal by explaining a progression of Structural dissociation. I think many people did not read all of the haunted self, as it’s long and dry. And even though most quotes from this article come from the first few pages, it is information many do not know. I read the book twice and followed a conference with its writers. I hope this article explains things, to those who endorse this theory without having actually read it. There are many more questionable things about this, but I cannot address them all.

This article only explained your personal vendetta against fusion and parts language, and your lack of ability to comprehend a percentage point. It did nothing to further the understanding of plurality, as the ToSD is not about plurality, and it didn't even explain why the ToSD is ableist. Nowhere have you explained how the ToSD itself is discriminating against disordered/disabled individuals. You just threw the word out, primarily while focusing on the therapeutic practices that utilize the ToSD. Even if we came to an agreement that the practices that utilize the theory are ableist, that does not make the theory itself ableist. Good grief.

Obviously it is not needed to throw away the baby with the bath water either, that is not what I am proposing. What I am proposing though, is that you take a second look at the theory you endorse and why.

I endorse it because it is the clearest understanding of structural dissociation I have found, and it helps me to conceptualize myself as multiple parts within one whole. If that doesn't work for you, congrats, the theory doth not apply. You can find therapists who don't agree with it and who will work with you directly without the ToSD.

But to say it is ableist because it doesn't fit your particular framework is prideful at best and fearmongering at worst.

Because if you just like the part about how we are not split off, but born with different self-states you can quote Putnam. And if you like the idea of PTSD consisting of EPs and ANPs, you can quote Myers. And if you like fusion integration, you can quote theory of Structural dissociation.

Nowhere in the theory of structural dissociation does it suggest you need to fuse. Nowhere in the Haunted Self does it suggest you need to fuse. Nowhere in modern therapeutic best practices does it suggest you need to fuse. You are simply trying to scare people, at this point.

That's... about it for the article. It is horrific from everything I was seeing, and I cannot even begin to process the lack of context. I think it's because, as Stronghold says in the comments, this article was based on a conference they attended. They attended a conference where people discussed the ToSD.

Would it not be better to say, then, that the conference is ableist?

But that wouldn't really draw in a big crowd, would it? Not as many clicks or views. Why not challenge the entire theory? That would get a lot more views. A lot more clicks and attention. Isn't that the point of articles like these? To be seen and viewed?

I implore everyone to remember that this was an opinion article. It is not based on fact; it is based on the authors own bias. This is Stronghold's personal feelings about the ToSD, based on their personal interpretation of the ToSD, based on their personal beliefs on fusion. They try to use quotes to back up their claims, but their claims are entirely based on opinion.

So, to counteract that: From my opinion, the ToSD is not ableist, and while ableists have used it in the past to hurt others, that does not make the theory itself bad. The theory is incredibly useful, and everyone who struggles with dissociation or trauma disorders should do a bit of research into it to see if the framework works for them.

FURTHER READING:

Syscurse posted this link to the System Speak podcast debunking this article. A good podcast overall!

Here's a PDF link to the Haunted Self. I never actually read the whole thing before, so I'm happy to have found a PDF online of it. Cannot vet if that's a good link or not, but I'm moving pretty fast now that this thing is around 5k words.

A debunk of this article from SysmedsareSexist, which, funny enough, I did not read before writing this big long post.

Hiiragi and SoaF's comments about parts language in the article, and a very good reminder that we should critique how science looks at disorders, and discuss potential ableist views -- I don't disagree with that at all. It IS possible that the reason parts language is used is meant in a dehumanizing manner -- but I also think it's good to dig into those ideas and figure out why we feel that way, and what evidence there actually is for it (rather than misinformation about fusion being used as a major basis for the argument).

And honestly, just make sure to look up information on therapeutic practices and the ToSD folks!

#syscourse #asks #anon #armageddon comes while i’m sleeping #clearing out the inbox #debunk #power to the plurals

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when-did-this-become-difficult · 2 years

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Wow. I love a good, detailed conversation so lets carry on if we can, shall we?! :)

About Kyle i also think that he is kind of an plain-sheet character that can go any way - but he still a little bit too temperamental. I mean he is - and his grilfriend -, are clearly showing patterns how an avarage person would exist in a surrounding like Kingstown. Mike, Sawyer and the bald police guy - don't know his characters name -, are in a different mindset in different phases of their lives or jobs. I find it interesting how Mitch seemed to be the piedestal example, Kyle the promising kid who could go either way, and Mike is the one who it is already to late. The prison riot escape must have an emotional and psychological impact on him. I mean i admit i overlooked that at the moment i had written my response. Probably that is why Mike advised him to move locations for his job. An avarage intensity level job as a simple police officer in a simple town, would be a good place for him to heal a little and get it together, even decide whether he wants to continue his job or not - especially that his girlfriend is pregnant. I don't know about anybody, but if i would be pregnant, i would not want to raise my child in a town like this. I also have a prediction for this baby storyline and it is not good.

When it comes to Sawyer, im just trying to put the pieces together. In the very first episode we can see that he gets a kick out of it, of being an agressor and a dominator. Also in the second episode we get just how shady they are doing their jobs, the police i mean. When they make Mike making a car accident so they can find the drugs on the road and now they have the right to search the guys house and they also getting a kick out of it and Mike has a half broken nose and no clue what he had been driving into. So so far it is obvious that Sawyer is never meant to be the hero but the anti-hero, but for this series i think they all anti-heroes, there are no heroes only out of circumstances and personal involvement - for Iris sure Mike is a hero. But in the third episode they saw that he clearly was upset by the fact that a kid got burned alive by his own POS father, so im not really harboring hard feelings for giving out a few bitchslaps and punches to find a guy that blow up his own family out of sheer stupidity. Also i liked his line - this is your mess and you will suck on it in silence! Because he was completely right. This would not have happened if the parole officer would have done his job properly - it is amazing that the show swings between clueless incompetency and competent corruption. I like the last two episodes because how action packed they are and show the out of box thinking of Robert and i think here it is highlighted how swat and police are differ. Police is suited to de-escalate the easiest way, swat meant to dissolve any threat by any means.

The scene you mentioned i also thought was really weird for several reasons. First one of their colleague have died - also what the heck police were doing in a bust when the whole swat team was there with sound and smoke grenades and all?! - so that already made someone frustrated. And then the shot to the womens shoulder are understandable from a tactical standpoint. If he doesnt shot the women and causes surprise on the criminals end - again the police would not shot an unarmed person...mostly i think -, he would have shot the woman in the head. I would imagine any kind of gunshot wound would be terrible, especially an automatic rifles, but one in the shoulder you might pull off but one in the head, certainly would not. I saw his hesitance to help the women and the scene was left open, because we do not see ambulance or something come. Based on this i thought about what the director wanted to do with this scene? It has been meant to be interpreted this way or they wanted to trust the audience with the interpretation?! I don't know, but certainly it was weird.

But there is another one, the one that had meant a lot for me and still not over it, is the bust right in the first episode of the second season. They tear through some kind of drug cooking establishment, and Sawyer comes out to the corridor and a young boy, maybe teenager stands in the door with a gun that is not aimed at him but still in the boys hand. Sawyer notices him, points his rifle at him and waits a few seconds - maybe the kid will get intimidated and throws down the gun, but he did not. So he instructs him once - drop the weapon. And the kid looks down hesitantly to the gun in his own hand. He does not drop it so he warns him two more times before shooting him. And then he walks there, scales the room for more attackers and looks down on the boy with this sad, regretful, little bit guilty look and says - i only ask three times! And i have so many feelings about this. First, it is a freaking cookhouse with god knows what value of drugs and adult males with guns. Places like this, they don't send the police for the very reasons that these places are larger than a house with a basement and has many gangsters protecting their drugs with guns. What the heck a teenager was doing there with a handgun and what did he expected? I mean i got that some people can remain decisive and fully aware of their surroundings in life-death situations but most of the people just freeze into shock. And this is the sad part. I think the kid had frozen a little bit but also was indecisive about what he should do. And Sawyer had the right to shoot him, since he had a gun he did not dropped it, so out of his perspective, maybe if he gives him any more second, he would decide to fire at him. The police maybe have waited more and tried to have him surrendered, but that is the police and many police officers have died in real life too because they were waiting for someone to put down the gun and they decided to raise it. And in this scene i saw, that there is nothing wrong with Sawyer morality. He knows this is a shitty situation, he feels sorry for the kid he had to shoot but he did it because he wasnt waiting around for him to decide over his fate. Interesting scene that keeps coming back to my head. Also im fine with dark characters - not like Ramsay Bolton and Daemon Targaryen because these types just straight up shitty characters and people. Being dark does not mean being unmoral, cruel or sadistic. At least i think.

Milo im kind of more curious and curious than before. It was clearly well established that he is very resourceful - making cofee in his cell, has attention to detail - the keys part and uniform in the riot, and determined - willing to break "angels' wings to get what he wants. Now that he is out im curious to know what he wants, what his goal is. I don't think - and hope, that Sheridan will fuck this up because Milo is the one who kick starts a lot of things - remember Mitch gets shot because of the money that was supposed to go to Milo or something, then the wife is dead which i don't think will remain without retribution on Milos part - or will i dont know how well rounded the plot is -, Iris, the school bus, the lawyer telling Mike it wasnt what he supposed to find, Mike being set up and not yet revealed by who. It seems to me that Milo is the big bad that has many straws in the spider web that the plot is.

Bunnys character is somewhat not resonating with me that well. He seems like the less shitty type of criminal but he is still a criminal - no matter how many relative he has that he tries to give a better life or a way out of the town With the criminal element and deals and stuff i do not sympatise very much and have no care or sympathy for. Many people live in poverty, suffer abuse often times within their own family not even strangers and they not turn out to be thugs and shooting up innocent people and complain to people - namely Mike, about their warehouses being shot and bla bla. Well, you dipped yourself into this shit, if you like the rain then like the mud as well. With the money you have made you could have moved out of town with your family, set up a normal job and life somewhere else. Thousands of people doing it daily and it requires no violence. But i agree with your take on prisoners. Decent food - and not a guards shit being served on a tray -, isn't should be something that needs to be advocated for. Some of them are act like animals but with that guards acting the same way, they just prove themselves on the same level as criminals and that is a really bad strategy because they did their crimes and if not got busted, they would still be doing it so they are much more immoral than the guards could ever try to be and they outnumber them very heavily. Let's not even start what i think about rapes retortion is rape thing. It is disgusting and the lowest level a human being or a resemblence of one can act.

Miriam i...i don't know how i would handle her character really. I think she should have never written in it because of what you said about being only reactive which means passive, which means things will always happen to her and she will not do anything actively. But im starting to think that this is exactly what Sheridan wants with her character and also Rebecca and Kyles wife, as being some sort of moral stones or anchors for the male characters. They are just observers and receivers.

Iris is the only one who is an active female part of the story and i also does not understand her sometimes. I mean...what she have told about her past and rape, i don't understand the whole of it. I think despite being in an adult womens body she is still only a child, stucked in her trauma - hence she is going back to abusers, wanting to feel false safety again - if she follows Milos rules there is nothing "bad" happening to her, at least that is how she perceives it. That is main reason i don't ship her with anyone. She comes across as a wounded childs character and im not willing, i can not see them in a sexual way.

Yes! On it goes <3 @minamartin

I agree with everything you said about Kyle, but I am not sure what your baby storyline prediction is and i am DYING to hear about it, so, spill!

I disagree with you strongly about Sawyer, but I think that probably comes from deeper disagreements about policing and also the nature of heroes/antiheroes/right and wrong in fiction; so it's probably not productive to argue about it.

Yeah I agree that Milo SHOULD be a very interesting character and if he's half as good as they're hinting he is, I will be so so so happy to watch! I just worry that they're just setting up cool stuff but I'm not sure they actually have the payoff. Like, I REALLY really need them to bring up the school bus again at some point before the end of a season. That's a must. In regards to his wife's death, I don't think Milo can avenge her, because her attacker and killer is already dead at the hands of the police, and he wasn't acting on orders, he was just evil and greedy.

Again, disagree about Bunny; I mean, I don't think he's a good guy, but I don't think literally any of them are good guys,and I can't really get into it without arguing about the fundamental nature of crime vs morality, et cetera.

Agree very strongly about the abuse that the guards did to the prisoners! It's despicable. I think that the show is very realistic about rape—the very opening of the show is a scene where Mitch and Mike are discussing the situation of a guy's son where essentially the guy is in deep fear that his son will be raped by guards in retaliation for having punched a guard and broken his nose, and Mitch and Mike act very normal about it, like this is everyday sort of talk. You really get a sense that not just violence but also sexual violence is baked into the system, with perpetrators being both guards and inmates. I understand that they depict it this way because it's honest to real life, but it's very, very, very tiring and probably one of the things that makes the show hardest to watch.

You're so right about Sheridan. What makes me CRAZY is that he doesn't even do a GODO job about women being only "moral stones or anchors for the male characters...just observers and receivers" as you said. God, it's not even good! Like, Kyle's relationship with his wife is sweet, and I need sweetness in this very dark show, but my GOODNESS it is boring! His wife has no personality aside from loving him! I can't with that...I think we need to take away Sheridan's permit to write female characters just like bad drivers get their drivers licenses taken away. He needs adult supervision. Lol.

Everything you said about Iris is spot on; one of the things that makes me so uncomfortable about her is that her age isn't...really I think ever really disclosed? She claims to be in her early twenties, but that was when she was in a position where she had every reason to lie and claim to be older. I get that the actress herself is of age, but the features she has and the way that they choose to portray her just screams young, vulnerable, not finished growing up, traumatized. I couldn't agree more about not shipping her with anyone for that reason. If they even TRY to make her and Mike kiss...oh I'm gonna throw a fit. It's not right. And what you said about her relationship with Milo is also right; she definitely thinks that if she pleases Milo, that's the best way. Historically, in her life, the worst things always happen when she "fails" him or opposes him. It's a real pattern for her. So I don't blame her really for seeing that pattern and doing what her traumatized survivor instincts tell her to do. I mean this abuse has been going on for how long? Maybe years and years? It makes me sad to think about, and I really hope that she manages to find a way to do this without having to engage in sex work. I really hope the writers manage to do this storyline without me having to skip past brutal scenes with her again. Like it's already so much. I can't.

One thing I'm gonna need from season 2...Mike cooking again lol. Just something simple and wholesome like that amidst the chaos. I need it. But in terms of the prison storyline, I also really look forward to seeing whether or not they're able to find the new leadership they're seeking among the inmates; that seems like a prime opportunity to introduce an interesting secondary character, which I think we could use some more of, since many of those from last season died in the revolt.

#mayor of kingstown #correspondence #rape tw #minamartin #long post

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keysmashingfantasies · 3 years

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Bloody Comfort

pre borderlands!Niragi x fem!reader / Niragi x fem!reader

A/N: i feel like i only post Marvel on this blog and i missed my show so here it is, finally an AiB fic! :D also, minigame: how many alice in wonderland references can you spot? also also, bloody comfort is an awesome name for a band and if you do name your band that, i want my money. enjoy the fic! also also also i didn’t proofread SHIT so sorry for any grammar mistakes.

trigger warning: bullying, mentions of violence (nothing too graphic, i think but beware nonetheless), death (graphic. i mean, i’m not that good of a writer but still, beware), very slight mentions of nsfw, especially torwards the end, niragi (HE’S A WARNING OK), niragi having disturbing thoughts (what else is new. but fr, ok), sliiiiiight yandere niragi torwards the end. (also I tried not to describe in too much detail the bullying that niragi and the reader suffer in the fic so it wouldn’t be too sad).

@dreamingofanisland here it is bestie!

Niragi couldn’t pinpoint when he stopped being sad and when he started getting angry. From a suffocating hopelessness came a desperation he could only describe as feral. He often fantasized about just jumping over his desk and strangling each one of them to death but his thoughts quickly ended with Niragi envisioning himself being overpowered and beaten. He started to not only get angry at his bullies, but people in general. Things. Life.

How could so many people turn a blind eye? How could life be so unfair to give people like this the upperhand and not him? Not him that clearly deserved it? This world was backwards.

He knew he was fucked when he saw the bat, and although he braced for the impact he couldn’t help but fall to his knees and wince at the sickening sound that the baseball did in contact with his nose.

He just sat there and while all he wanted to do was to rip their throats with his teeth all he did was to endure a few more punches before they left with a promise that there would be more. He sat there trying not to cry with sheer frustration. His papers were scattered around, the left arm of his glasses was broken and his pristine black outfit was now covered in dust from the gravel, his hands scratched. He could taste blood on his tongue and he felt a sick satisfaction, pretending for one moment that it was another person’s blood he was tasting.

“Do you need help?”, a voice woke him from his violent daydreams. Suddenly everything boiled over and he felt an overwhelming anger rise inside of him. In a blink of an eye he was standing up, yelling at a somewhat blurry image of a girl who he towered over, even more as she shrunk under his anger. If he wouldn’t be so busy screaming profanities, he would be madly aroused.

“WHAT, HUH? CAME TO SEE THE SHOW? TO LAUGH AT ME?”, he was furious, and as he approached her, she proceeded to walk back.

“No. I just wanted to help”, she said. It seemed another flash and suddenly he could see a bit clearer. Although startled, she didn’t seem afraid of him, and was extending him a tissue. “Your nose is bleeding”, she said, and Niragi wanted to scoff at her for stating the obvious. But she was being kind. And as angry as he was, kindness wasn’t something that he could say no to. He tried his best to control his shaky hands as he took the tissue from her hands and carefully dabbed his nose, as she ducked to collect his papers, and tuck them back into his bag.

“Saw what they did to you. ‘m sorry”, she mumbled. Niragi wanted to strangle her out of sheer embarrassment.

“And you just took some popcorn and enjoyed the spectacle?”, he spat.

“I wanted to help but I wasn’t sure what to do. Would you rather if I had called someone?”, she asked. He breathed once, twice. She wasn’t mocking him, but was unnervingly calm. Something about her being calm while he was practically foaming at the mouth had him seeing red and suddenly he regret having wiped the blood off of his lips.

“No”, he said, calmly. “No, I wouldn’t. Sorry. I have to go”, he said, ripping his bag from her hands with such force that he tugged her arm with it.

“Wait! I mean what I said! I want to help!”

“You, help me? What are you going to do, huh? Be my bodyguard?”, he mocked her one more time. He couldn’t help himself, his brain got used to this. Fight or flight. His adrenaline was pumping and everytime he was around school grounds he looked over his shoulder.

“Hmmm, sorta? Not exactly but I could show you a place. A safe place”, she said. He just looked at her.

“If we get there and it’s a prank of some sort I’ll let you punch me. Square in the face”, she said.

“Are you insane? You just go around letting people punch you in the face?”, his mouth was quicker than his brains and suddenly he felt his face grow hot at the irony of what he had said. But if she noticed it, she didn’t mention.

“Let me help you”, she said.

And he did.

He followed her through a wooded area near the school grounds after walking through a hole in a fence.

He was getting ready to beat you to the punch and hit you so hard that you’d bleed as hard as he did, until you stopped until you reached a very underwhelming toolshed with a padlock.

“We’re here”, you said, and he realized that she sounded different. All this time she was on edge. ‘Of course, Suguru, you threatened the girl like, 3 times’, said the voice in the back of his head. She pulled a key from her bag and the padlock opened easily and they heavy chains fell to the ground and she pushed open the door, going inside. He hesitantly followed.

The inside is nothing as he thought it would be. For starters, it was surprisingly clean and it didn’t smell bad. And instead of tools and brooms and leafblowers, it had bean bags, blankets, a table with a radio full of knickknacks in the corner and a chair that had clearly seen better days but looked comfortable none the less. The girl walked to a corner of the room and his eyes followed her as she closed the door, which had small sharpie drawings on it. She reached for a white box and settled it on the floor between the two bean bags, and reached inside a very small thermos to pull out an artificially blue isotonic drink and settled it down too. Then from the plastic bag he previously assumed was trash, she pulled a bag of chips.

She then patted the bean bag next to hers. “Welcome to my clinic”, she said, placing the white box on her lap.

After an entire afternoon of bonding over unhealthy food and an impromptu first aid rescue, Niragi learned that her name was Y/N, she was a year below and that this little world she created was her refuge from the girls in her class that picked on her.

“I found this and decided that it would be nice. No one’s using it, it’s far from everything. It’s on the Beheaded Woman’s territory”.

Niragi heard the rumors through his bullies. “One day we’ll drag you to the Beheaded Woman’s woods and fucking kill you”. After further investigation, he learned that allegedly a girl was dragged through the woods and beheaded with a blunt axe.

“I made the rumors up. I had to make sure no one would find my safe haven”, she explained. “And once you write something in the girls’ bathroom stall, there’s no turning back. It’s out there and it’s truth”, she sighed. “I would know”.

He wasn’t the most up to date in all the gossip but she told him her story. The rumors they spread, the things they did to her. She almost seemed amused. He in turn told her his story. By the end of it, he could kill someone. She then offered him the other key to her safe haven.

“You can decorate it too. Don’t tell anyone else and make sure to lock it after you use it. Use it as much as you want, just make sure they don’t follow you, okay?”

He took the keys with shakey hands, a knot on his throat. Another type of adrenaline was pumping through his veins. When a few moments ago there were a fast white heat, coursing through him like an electric current, this was slow and almost overwhelmingly warm, like molten lava.

“Why are you doing this? Being so nice to me?”, he whispered as if it was a secret, as if this moment was another fantasy, a deer that’s easily spooked. He had fantasized about this too. A safe haven, an ally. A friend.

“Because we’re the same, you and I”.

You hated him. You hated him with a burning passion. What was at first an act of pity, born from the empathy you felt by seeing someone go through what you did, quickly became a friendship and like a disease, it spread to beyond your safe haven. You would spend your free time together, walk home together. You became friends. And what did he do? Exactly what he told you he would.

“Sometimes don’t you wish to disappear?”, he whispered to you once.

“Yeah. Like, run away? Yeah, I do”, you replied agreeing with him.

‘You’re the only one that understands me. We really are the same’, he would say. What at the beginning of your budding crush on him gave you butterflies on the stomach now made you want to throw up.

You lost your only friend. You despised the sound of music now, because every single song you heard, you shared with him. For the same reason, you didn’t enjoy your favorite movies anymore. Your bullies banded together to target you. And the worst part of all, is that you couldn’t even care. There was no silver lining anymore.

“Don’t you get furious?! Don’t you want to hurt them, make them pay?”, he said as he watched you apply concealer to a bruised cheek.

“I mean, I get angry but I try my best to not let it get to me. It’s what they want. I despise those people, I can’t get in a funk because of them”, you said nonchalantly.

But you had loved him. And now you felt like even moving around was an herculean task, like you were almost dead trying to get to safety. But there was no safety anymore.

Ironically, you started to understand him more and more after he disappeared. The anger, the hatred. How could anyone just follow their lives? When there’s people like you just suffering through yours?

Suguru Niragi was an illness, a parasite. He carved his way under your skin and into your heart, laid eggs of his hate on your veins and sucked you dry of your life’s essence. Then, after you were a shell of a human, he disappeared out of thin air, leaving you alone. Leaving you with those people. Leaving you to die.

And you were still in love with him.

You thought you were finally insane when it happened.

The streets were empty. Absolutely no one. You wondered for a moment if you felt so alone that your mind convinced itself that that’s exactly what had happened, if any moment now you would be locked in an insane asylum for running around and screaming until you throat got raw.

It took you two games to understand what was going on. You made sure to change clothes. Running shoes, leggings and a warm hoodie that you never let the hood down. You decided to significantly shorten your hair after you saw a man pull a young girl by the ponytail in a spades game. You loaded a backpack with food and bottles of water, anything you could find. And an axe that you took from an emergency box from the building you slept in.

It was on your 5th game that it happened. You saw people die in these games, but none of it was hands on for you. You just watched your back and hoped to win and let whoever was running this show take care of the rest. Honestly, you didn’t even wait to know if anyone even survived. You were done doing that.

When you got there, there were five people already. They banded together and whispered amongst themselves as you passed them by and grabbed a phone. Probably just a group of friends that got stranded at the same time and decided to stay together. You clutched you axe harder.

You didn’t even realize that you had zoned out until you heard hollering and four guys heavily armed walked you by. Where the fuck did they get guns? One of them let out a boisterous laugh that reminded you of someone that you wanted desperately to forget. You couldn’t even get over him during fucking Saw? That sound made your skin crawl.

Registration closed, said the mechanic voice. Difficulty: 8 of clubs. The first 5 players will be the first team and the last 5 players will be the second. One team must eliminate the others without losing any players. Both teams will be identified by the color of your screen, and will have one minute to hide.

You saw the armed guys’ screens light up red. You sighed in relief as yours did too. You made sure to keep your head down and thank whoever that not killing teammates was a part of the rules. They seemed amused and absolutely calm, and the guy with the rifle laughed again. You were shaking by now.

When the minute started, everyone bolted in different directions. You didn’t even look back to see if your teammates had accompanied you but by the sound of your footsteps crushing leaves, you were alone. You decided to go back after a while, looking around. A lamppost. Huh, lamppost it is. You leaned against the cool metal and focused on the silence. The minute had ended but they were still hunting. You didn’t come across anyone, which was good. After a while, all you could hear were distant gunshots.

You looked to the floor, only to see a shadow approaching you quick. You barely had time to dodge before a man hit you behind the head with a rock. You reacting made him lose his balance, falling to the floor and letting go of the rock. You looked at him. It was one of the boys from the other team. He had on a white button up blouse and a black hoodie. His hair had fallen over his brown eyes and he looked so scared and so alone.

This will have to do.

You didn’t stop, suddenly lifting the axe and bringing it down was like an automatic thing.

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME? AFTER ALL I’VE DONE FOR YOU! YOU ABANDONED ME IN A MINUTE, LEFT ME ALONE IN THAT HELL!”

You didn’t stop when he started praying and then screaming. You didn’t stop when he started bleeding profusely or when the strength of your movements made your hood slide down from your head. You didn’t stop when his head got detached from his body and if you weren’t so angry, you would’ve listened tfootsteps. You didn’t stop until you had made mincemeat out of his face. Just for the sheer audacity of reminding you of him.

He looked at you from afar while you looked at the body of the boy whose skull you just had destroyed, a maniac, victorious smile on your face. You were pretending the boy was him. You really thought he had abandoned you? He would be absolutely heartbroken if he wasn’t so aroused. That’s what he always wanted to see, the instincts that you tried to push down. You were right, you were both the same. He wanted to lick that blood off of you, use it as lube to take you right there. When he first arrived at the Borderlands, when he first killed someone and liked it, he thought you would be disgusted by him. But look at you now. You were here, perfect for him, soaked in blood, feral. He’s never been so hard.

“Y/N”, he said.

“Niragi?,” you said. He ran to you, held you even when you fought back, even when you screamed bloody murder that you were going insane, begging to die already, even when you passed out on his arms. He licked a drop of blood from your neck.

“Let me take you to our safe haven”, he whispered against your skin.

#niragi loving hours in this mf house #niragi x reader #niragi fic #niragi suguru #suguru niragi #niragi imagine #alice in boderland x reader #alice in borderland fic #niragi suguru x reader #suguru niragi x reader

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gazpachoandbooks · 3 years

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Here's a little rant. I love thinking about Arya with her siblings because literally any pair of them is perfect:

Arya and Jon: they literally share neurons, easily the smartest people in the room, GRRM hasn't let them attend a council together yet because he knows they'd be too powerful. BUT at the same time they can literally make the worst decisions ever and the other will disagree AND somehow support them at the same time, no questions asked. If Arya had been there when Jon sent all his friends away because Lord Commanders Can't Have Feelings she would have privately smacked him in the head with a roll of parchment, but if anyone else asked she would puff out her chest and tell them off in seven languages. If Jon had been there when Arya kept circling trees in the Riverlands because of her Moth Only Grows On One Side theory he wouldn't have stopped complaining and teasing her the entire time, but if anyone else had made a comment he would have had Ghost following them menacingly for days. They are each other's favourite person in the whole world and I can't wait to see them being badasses together

Arya and Sansa: the "we used to hate each other but now I can't imagine facing this without you" trope. The "we were raised to believe we were too different to ever get along and I've only realised how much I love you when it's too late". The "bickering goes from frustrated to fond". The "sisters by chance but friends by choice". The "I can't stand you but I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you". The "I didn't realise how much I need you by my side until you weren't there". So little content yet, but so many possibilities for the future

Arya and Bran: THESE TWO. THESE TWO. The hearts of pure gold these two have. How many times do you think they would have allowed the other to feel worthless if they'd been there? If Bran had heard Arya saying their mother might not want her back? If Arya had heard Bran calling himself broken? They would have shut that down before the other could even finish the sentence. These kids who lost everything. Someone should have been taking care of them, but it will be alright, because they're going to meet again and you can bet they're going to take care of each other. But also. BUT ALSO. The sheer power these two irradiate. They're the forgotten ones, the underestimated and overlooked, the ones left for dead, the ones NO ONE WILL SEE COMING. And if they work together? Their middle-sibling-partner-in-crime energy is about to take on a WHOLE new level when they come back and literally no one is prepared for it. Least of all me

Arya and Rickon: my head has mixed the Mother Hen Arya energy and the Abandoned Baby Rickon energy and I haven't been able to produce a single coherent thought since. They share so MUCH. No one is going to be able to understand Rickon's impulsiveness and restlessness like Arya. Rickon speaks in the Old Tongue when he's angry to build a wall between him and everyone else? Watch my polyglot baby girl learn Skagosi in weeks to tear that wall down brick by brick. Watch her make sure he gets the childhood that was taken from his siblings. Watch her tell him stories about their parents, about Robb, watch her take him to the Godswood and their mother's little sept and the crypts to speak to them, to make sure he knows he was loved, that they fought to get back to him, that they are a part of him too, even when he can barely remember what they looked like. Watch him follow her around everywhere, hanging to her every word. Watch him learn Water Dancing movements before any Westerosi technique because it's what his Big Sister does and it is therefore the Coolest Thing In The World, watch him climb into her bed whenever he has a nightmare, watch him grow up tall and proud and kind, watch him smile wider and more freely than any of the starklings because my girl made sure of it

Also this is my post and I do what I want, so:

Arya and Theon: the horrors they have seen. They've both been held prisoners by monsters. They both convince themselves that the person they were is gone, that their name is forbidden even in their own minds, that they've crossed too many lines to ever be worthy of love again. They could understand each other so well and it lives in my head rent-free. What I would give to see them become friends as they heal, and afterwards. Give me Arya visiting Pyke and falling immediately in love with Asha, give me Asha trying to hate the daughter of the man who took so much from her family but finding it impossible, give me them becoming thick as thieves and Theon regretting ever introducing them to one another. Give me Arya holding Theon's hand while he talks to Alannys, give me Dagmer Cleftjaw and everyone in his ship taken aback by how much they care about this tiny, badmouthed, caring girl who was supposed to be their enemy. Give me them whispering to one another that maybe they understand their Prince's protectiveness of the Starks, if they're all like her. Give me Theon teaching her how to finger dance because she will try it whether he likes it or not and at least this way there is someone trying to keep her from accidentally stabbing herself. Give me Arya being the first to pull a laugh from Theon, and always being able to do so from then onwards. Give me them becoming a chaotic duo, sharing dirty jokes and cursing loudly and getting into trouble every time they're together, but it's fine because it's the good kind of trouble now, the hide-under-the-table-before-they-find-us and the laugh-until-your-belly-aches-whenever-you-remember-it kind, and it's so damn good to feel that way again

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk

#someone take my phone away from me I care too much about these kids #arya stark #starklings #theon greyjoy #my squid son #give me domestic starklings being stupid or give me death #sorry about the rant #asoiaf #let arya and theon be friends challenge #arya and jon #stark sisters #arya and bran #arya and rickon

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tevanbegins · 3 years

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The following rant won't suffice to describe the sheer amount of HATRED I feel for 18x10 from the deepest, darkest dungeons of my badly broken heart, but I'll try anyway:

• Levi had the M&M conference and he was late for it, yet Helm doesn't give a flying f*ck about where her best friend / roommate who she knows is profoundly depressed is. And it was so frustrating to see Nico act so clueless about Levi's whereabouts and speechless during the M&M while Levi presented!

• That scene of Nico and Link — I was bewildered to find Nico act so casual about not having found Levi when he had tried to chase him immediately after he rushed out of the M&M...instead he was interested in knowing about how things are between Link and Amelia? What weed are these writers snorting???

• Instead of being there for her best friend who is suffering, Helm tried to gain sympathy from Bailey by making Levi's situation all about herself and playing a victim in it. Please, we all know that she has never been this shy and innocent! Especially with Levi her attitude has always been condescending, so how the f*ck did she say that she was scared to speak up in front of Levi? And Bailey was so sympathetic with her when she didn't show even an ounce of empathy for Levi! Helm is officially the WORST friend and there's no way she can redeem herself to me now. I have never liked her, but now I hate her with a greater passion!

• The extreme lack of screen time Levi/Nico/Schmico gets. What the f*ck was that sh*t? I'm not even expecting anything for Nico because I've given up on that a long time ago, but what about Levi? Being a series regular character, he deserves a lot more screen-time especially now given his current crucial storyline. BUT NO! He was nowhere to be seen after he stormed out of the M&M, and showed up only in the last few minutes, and I'm still reeling under the shock of what he did in that...

• ...And, Schmico is BROKEN up, ONCE AGAIN. 💔💔💔 Why did they even get back together, I ask? The reconciliation happened only at the end of last season, and we barely got to see two happy crumbs of them together before having to endure another break-up just halfway through the new season? I understand that Levi has gone really dark right now, but to say, "Go away. Please don't come back. We're done" to Nico, whom he was GRATEFUL for and he also doodled the sunsword next to his name on paper during Thanksgiving just 4 episodes prior? I was obviously expecting Levi to shut Nico out but to just end things with him out of the blue was something I wasn't remotely expecting at this point! This was devastating beyond words! This show and it's showrunner and writers are all SICK, SICK, SICK. It is traumatising as hell to watch this show and get attached to characters and ships who'll never get to be happy and peaceful as long as they are a part of this f*cking, twisted joke of a show!

I guess I'm done ranting for now. But this sh*t is gonna get worse. Now that they are broken up, I think they won't show Nico again unless absolutely required, so I don't think we'll get to see Nico being there for Levi through his spell of depression like we wished. Instead they'll probably date other people, get back together eventually, only to break up again, and again, and again. Schmico is kinda following in the footsteps of Slexie — where they are more often apart than together with the constant on-again and off-again relationship. Hopefully, Levi and Nico won't die on me like those two did, but with this horrid show, who knows? I am not looking forward to any of this bullsh*t. I'm exhausted. It's hopeless in every possible way, and not something any sane person should watch. My real life is less sad than the sorry, f*cked up fiction that this sh*tshow depicts.

By the way, I hope my dearest Schmico fam is coping better than me. Sending love to you'll, I know everyone of us needs it more than ever right now! xoxo

#schmico #greys anatomy #levi schmitt #nico kim #levi and nico #levi schmitt and nico kim #levi schmitt x nico kim #levi x nico #nico and levi #nico kim and levi schmitt #nico x levi #nico kim x levi schmitt #grey's anatomy

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illuminatedquill · 3 years

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Extracurricular, An Analysis

Oh Ji-soo and Bae Gyu-ri

“Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won’t adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is sign on as it’s accomplice.” - Tom Robbins

You know the story. You’ve heard it before, right?

Boy meets girl.

Girl finds out that boy is running a side protection business for prostitutes.

Girl decides to blackmail boy into letting her join his business.

Classic high school criminal shenanigans ensue leading them into more dangerous situations where they are forced to make desperate decisions to stay alive.

Oh, and they fall in love along the way.

Oh? You haven’t heard this one before? Then let me introduce you to this delightful kdrama called Extracurricular.

I watched this one while waiting for the newest Hometown Cha Cha Cha episodes to drop and ended up binging the whole series in two days. There are many remarkable parts of this series: it’s a crime drama, first and foremost, that showcases high school teenagers caught in a cycle of violence and crime, abandoned by the society and adults that are supposed to be protecting them. There are no clear good guys and bad guys in this drama; everyone is cast in shades of grey. Our main leads, Oh Ji-soo and Bae Gyu-ri, run the prostitution business, and are both from broken family backgrounds. Their actions are morally questionable at best, but the top tier performances from Kim Dong Hee (you might remember him from Itaewon Class) and Park Ju Hyun make you cheer for them anyway. You want them to have a happy ending, despite the horrible things they do. The audience is always reminded that despite how clever they are in staying ahead, their actions have consequences, and they’re just high school kids. The drama never pulls it punches.

But, weirdly enough, it’s also a love story. And that’s the part the really sticks with me until now. (The chemistry between the main leads is absolute dynamite and I could watch ten episodes of them just verbally sparring with each other. They don’t even kiss. They’re that fantastic when together on screen.)

I’m writing this because this is undoubtedly one of my all time favorite kdramas and I have a lot of feelings about our main pairing, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri. I can’t call them a couple (wait, didn’t I just say they fall in love) because their relationship can’t be labelled simply as that. Think of it as something similar to the main leads in My Ahjussi. Two people who should have become soulmates, yet met at the wrong time.

This kdrama is not particularly happy, and while I do encourage people to watch this, I am warning that the subject matter is extremely dark. If you’re sensitive to scenes depicting sexual assault, graphic violence, or anything in that zip code you’ll want to steer clear.

Also, I’ll be diving into spoiler territory in this analysis. So if you want to go in clean, then stop reading here.

Still here? Awesome. Let’s dive deep into the messy, amazing pairing that is Oh Ji-soo and Bae Gyu-ri. First, let’s do a brief character background on our two main leads, starting with Ji-soo.

Oh Ji-soo is one half of our main pairing and this story starts with him. He lives by himself and has been essentially abandoned by his only parents; his father is a failed businessman who gambles whatever money he acquires on scams and his mother ran away. His apartment is small, sparse, but functional. He owns only a few outfits aside from his school uniform. The only unique item he owns is a pet hermit crab that he takes care of. His life outside of school is non-existent; he has no friends, no one to hang out with and do typical high school teenager activities with. He takes care of himself and lives only for himself and his “dream”: to graduate, attend college, get married, and have kids like a normal person.

But to do that, he needs a large amount of money. He has no other financial means to do so (his father is largely absent, as is his mother), so he decides, at some point, to start up this protection business for prostitutes. The drama doesn’t go into detail about the how and why he came to this conclusion that this was the best way to make a lot of money in a short amount of time, so you’ll have to suspend your disbelief from the get go. Considering the themes of the story (how youths abandoned by society tend to act out in extreme ways to make it in this world), it’s not hard to believe his desperation would drive him to make such a decision.

Ji-soo, despite his shady business, is actually a decent person. There’s a streak of humanity that exists inside him that refuses to go out, despite the increasingly dark and bleak events that start to overtake his life. He’s attached to his hermit crab, cares for his “employees” outside of them being tools to make him money, and doesn’t want to see anyone get hurt. He goes above and beyond what’s required to help out people at the risk of his own life (in particular, Gyu-ri, and we’ll get into that shortly).

What we learn from the first few episodes is that Oh Ji-soo is extremely smart and methodical in how he approaches his life. At school, he is known as a model student - quiet, top of the class in terms of grades, doesn��t draw any attention to himself, always follows along with what the teachers ask of him. Only his homeroom teacher, Mr. Cho, seems to consider his quiet style of existence to be concerning and tries to make him less socially awkward by pairing him up with another student in a new extracurricular club. This leads to the introduction of Bae Gyu-ri, Ji-soo’s longtime crush and future partner-in-crime.

Meet Bae Gyu-ri, the other half of our dynamic duo. Her introduction into the story kickstarts the entire plot, as one of her earliest actions leads to a domino effect that spells increasing doom and tragedy for our main leads. She messes with Ji-soo’s operation at a critical moment and she spends the rest of the drama doing her best to make up for the consequences that follow.

In my personal opinion, she is probably the best main female lead I’ve ever seen in a kdrama. Hands down, no other character exists (currently) that rivals her sheer cunning, wit, and badassery. Gyu-ri is Crazy, capital C, and is the chaos to Ji-soo’s control; the fire to his ice. Despite being the direct cause of half the events that happen to Ji-soo in the drama, he can’t help but need her because of what she offers. They make an incredible team. Her competitiveness, her need to win no matter the odds, helps them survive time and time again.

Gyu-ri is from the opposite end of the spectrum of Ji-soo; he’s dirt poor and she’s insanely rich (always nice to see a reversal of typical kdrama tropes). Her mother and father run a successful entertainment company. Gyu-ri is popular at school, friends with seemingly everybody, pretty, cheerful and gets along well with her teachers. Ji-soo, and the audience, believe from the beginning that she has the perfect life. It’s not hard to believe that she’s just involving herself in Ji-soo’s business because she’s bored and needs an outlet, at first.

We soon learn otherwise. Gyu-ri has more in common with Ji-soo than he initially realizes, in that they’re both trapped in circumstances beyond their control - it’s just that Gyu-ri’s cage is gilded, whereas his is not. Her parents are strict and have her life planned out for her, all without her consent or input, leaving her feeling frustrated and powerless despite her rich lifestyle. A suicide attempt hasn’t done much to change her parents attitude towards her, only serving to further their control over her life.

So, when she learns of Ji-soo’s operation she immediately seeks to angle her way into it. First, she tries to rip him off, believing that he’s an evil “pimp” and thus deserves it. But after spending some time with him, she changes her mind last second and decides to help him out instead.

And, now, let’s get into their relationship, which is one of the best (if not the best) aspect in the entire series.

I need to be upfront about something: the relationship between Ji-soo and Gyu-ri is not exactly healthy. I wouldn’t describe it as toxic - the circumstances surrounding them aren’t exactly the best environment to encourage open and honest communication - but it’s definitely not what should be considered ideal, especially for young adults, and especially for young adults who are dabbling in crime instead of studying.

So, why do I love them so much? If you’ve read some of my previous posts, you know that I loathe toxic relationships in kdramas, so I understand if you think I’m coming off as hypocritical here. Why do I like Oh Ji-soo and Bae Gyu-ri when I didn’t like, for example from recent history, (oh boy, here I go again on my Nevertheless BS) Park Jae-eon and Yu Na-bi?

First, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri are way cooler than Jae-eon and Na-bi ever could be. They run a criminal enterprise that involves having a high amount of intelligence, cunning, and daring to do so. Do Jae-eon and Na-bi run a criminal enterprise as a side business? No, they don’t, because they’re boring art students.

Secondly, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri actually progress in their relationship and change their views as they learn from each other. Now, granted, that progress isn’t towards becoming better versions of each other - quite the opposite. But at least they have progress. Jae-eon and Na-bi stayed in the same stupid cycle for the whole series and then decided that it was better staying that way as opposed to trying for something else.

Last, but certainly not least, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri are actually interesting to watch for me. The chemistry between Park Ju Hyun and Kim Dong Hee is explosive and they way they spar, exchange looks, and just generally exist around each other on screen is something I can watch forever. I’ve said this before but Han So Hee and Song Kang’s on screen chemistry, outside of their intimate scenes, really didn’t impress me.

Okay, back to Extracurricular. This relationship, man. It’s all I can think about (other than HomeCha’s Du-sik and Hye-jin, but that’s another post). Ji-soo and Gyu-ri are so good together.

I’ve noted before that Ji-soo is methodical in how he approaches his life; he plans out everything ahead, and rigs any situation as much as he can in his favor. It’s brilliant, but when a crisis happens, he doesn’t know how to deal with it effectively. He panics and flounders; becomes indecisive at a time when clear, decisive action is required.

Enter Gyu-ri. She quickly becomes the partner he never knew he needed. When there’s a situation, she becomes invaluable in her quick thinking and wit, coming up with solutions on the fly. It’s not perfect, but it keeps them just one small step ahead of whatever is coming their way.

The only thing preventing them from becoming unstoppable is the lack of communication and trust they have with each other. A lot of that has to do with how Gyu-ri entered Ji-soo’s business - she blackmailed him first, and, when that failed, she strong armed her way into getting him to accept her help. It’s implied in the drama that Ji-soo has had a crush on Gyu-ri for a while (since ninth grade, I believe) and in the first episode he actually gets the chance to spend time with her outside of school on a sort of quasi-date.

It goes sideways pretty quickly because of some shenanigans from his business, but not before she gets to know him and says some pretty touching words regarding his situation. Poor guy is head over heels - even after finding out that she’s the one blackmailing him, his feelings are only dampened, not extinguished. When he catches a glimpse of her family’s situation, he gains a deeper understanding of her and why she acts the way she does. Even more importantly, Ji-soo treats her the same after finding out this information which, to someone like Gyu-ri, means more than if he comforted her about it.

If you want to see a physical representation of how he feels, other than paying attention to his actions, you can see it in him keeping mementos from Gyu-ri. She has an interesting habit of folding bags into origami shapes and giving it to him. Even after the blackmail reveal, you can see that he continues to keep these in a container on his desk. It’s really cute that he keeps these, when it probably doesn’t even matter that much to Gyu-ri.

Towards the end of the drama, Ji-soo prepares to turn himself in to prevent Gyu-ri from being implicated in the crimes they committed. And it costs him almost everything to protect her. Ji-soo, the quiet, nerdy kid, puts himself on the line time and time again to protect Gyu-ri, knowing that it puts his life and his dream at risk to do so. And all for what? For some girl that he thinks doesn’t even like him in return?

Well, let’s talk about that. Because I’ve seen some comments that Gyu-ri was only using Ji-soo for her own selfish gain. And I can agree that was how it was at the beginning for her; she definitely was only interested in acquiring money, like Ji-soo was, in order to achieve her own goal of being free from her parents.

But, oh man, that is not what is motivating her at the end.

It’s actually pointed out relatively early by some of her friends that it’s obvious that she likes Ji-soo more than he likes her. Understandably Ji-soo is keeping her at arms length from him given the whole recent blackmailing, so it would make sense that it looks that way.

Further questioning reveals what she likes the most about him:

“It’s not like I’m crazy about him. He’s fun. And amusing. He’s smart. And there’s a certain charm he has. He also has a wolfish side to him. But he thinks he’s a puppy.”

- Bae Gyu-ri

But, as she gets to know Ji-soo better, you can certainly see that she starts to fall hard for him. As a cover story for why they hang out so much together during and after school, Gyu-ri states to everyone that they’re dating. The reactions across the school definitely imply that this is a shocking development, which means that Gyu-ri hasn’t dated anyone before. So why Ji-soo other than the reasons she herself states?

He challenges her, just as she challenges him. Gyu-ri may be the more dynamic, quick thinking of the pair but Ji-soo is every inch her intellectual equal - just in different ways. She doesn’t seem to be the type to be easily impressed, but you can tell that she’s definitely impressed by Ji-soo’s operation and how thoroughly set up it is. When Ji-soo is frustrated at the beginning by his setbacks, he blows up at another student (knocks him out in a crazy punch) and immediately walks over to Gyu-ri afterwards (who saw the whole thing) to inform her that she is now his partner in crime.

The look in her eyes, and the small smirk she has speaks volumes about her attraction to him in that scene. Smoldering.

And, oh yes, she’s prone to jealousy. Another classmate, Min-hee, gives Ji-soo a present out of the blue (it was supposed to be for her boyfriend, Ki-tae, but that’s another sub-plot) - all within view of Gyu-ri. It’s hilarious how she tries to brush it off. Later, for plot reasons, Ji-soo has to spend more time with Min-hee which only furthers Gyu-ri’s annoyance.

And her motivations stop being entirely about the money and more towards helping preserve the dream that she and Ji-soo share about being free. There’s a scene in episode 8 where it’s revealed that, due to a business partnership with a local gang (set up by none other than Gyu-ri herself in a desperate move), Ji-soo would have to drop out of school permanently to work on their behalf. Gyu-ri overhears this and, despite badly needing the gang’s help in sustaining their own business, immediately terminates the partnership.

All because it would interfere with Ji-soo’s dream.

Man, if that isn’t love.

In the following episode, Gyu-ri, and later on Ji-soo, is kidnapped by the same gang in retaliation for terminating their partnership. Ji-soo comes to her rescue but Gyu-ri is already almost free (again, she’s really, really badass) and is demanding that they bring Ji-soo to her instead of running for her life.

Surviving this latest attempt puts the two in a reflective, vulnerable mood and Gyu-ri asks Ji-soo why he keeps saving her. Ji-soo asks later on why she keeps risking her life to be with him. They don’t say the answer in words but in an almost kiss (yeah, you read that right - almost).

And then, if you aren’t already convinced, Ji-soo crosses his one last remaining line in an effort to keep Gyu-ri safe; he accidentally pushes a fellow classmate down some steps and, instead of helping her, leaves her to die after grabbing the evidence she has on him and Gyu-ri.

Extracurricular pulls off quite the magic trick here, hiding this well done love story in the middle of a serious crime drama.

The real tragedy is that Ji-soo thinks that Gyu-ri views this whole business, and by extension his life, as one big game. It’s something that she takes offense at, visibly becoming upset when he says that.

But even if that were true, he should be assured since Gyu-ri doesn’t like to lose.

As they hurtle towards the end and face up to the consequences of their actions, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri undoubtedly lose sight of their original goals and dreams. They do some fairly horrible things to stay alive and ahead of the police who are close on their trail. You can’t really blame them for doing what they did; in the face of a society that has abandoned them, what they’re doing is a logical outcome to gain what they want so desperately and deserve so much: the chance to be free to live like normal, care-free people.

I can’t say for certain that they achieve that. The drama is serious in consequences and, at the end, the net around them is drawing tighter and tighter. I won’t spoil the ending scene for you, because I highly encourage you watch this drama yourself but I will say this: Ji-soo and Gyu-ri seem stuck in an impossible situation with nowhere to go, and no one to help them, with a clock ticking down towards either death or discovery by the police.

But, all the same, I’m always the optimist. They’ve gotten through situations like this before and they can certainly do so again. Maybe not as bad as this one, but not too far out of their league. And, like I mentioned before, Gyu-ri doesn’t like to lose. Especially when it comes to Ji-soo.

Their relationship is truly dangerous, as Ji-soo himself notes. Them being together is the source of their problems; they’re too much alike now, as opposed to the beginning of the drama where he stated that they’re too different. Their love is the kind of love where both of them are willing to burn the whole world down if it means keeping each other safe.

I’m a real sucker for those kind of love stories. No one’s a hero here. They’re just kids in high school, doing the best with what they know.

Who are we to judge what is right and wrong? Especially when the one committing the acts are high school kids who don’t know any better and just want to save each other?

Do we have that right?

Do they really deserve that punishment? Shouldn’t we be pointing fingers at the society that forced them to act this way?

Extracurricular really makes you think about that. Is it really so outlandish and terrible what Ji-soo and Gyu-ri do to survive when the adults who are supposed to be protecting them, teaching them better, have failed in their duty?

Maybe they really did win at the end. Not so much in succeeding in their goals but in gaining something that not even regular people are likely to find - a partner, a soulmate, someone who will stand by you no matter what.

If you do watch the ending, and are not an optimist like I am, then all I can say is this: whatever happened, they were together at the end.

They were together.

#extracurricular netflix #human class #netflix #kdrama #oh jisoo #bae gyuri #park joo hyun #park ju hyun #kim dong hee

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

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Stabbed

This was written following an anon request that read as follows:

Hello sweetie, can I please request a dean x reader one shot in which she gets stabbed during a rough hunt and it's a race against time to save her (maybe Sam is the one driving and dean gets in the backseat with her?) And dean is scared of losing her and he has a panic attack after she wakes up but she manages to calm him down?

Obviously everyone’s experiences with panic attacks are different, but I tend to think if Dean had one it might manifest more externally as a violent outburst; I think he would subconsciously feel like it’s a more acceptable way to express ~freaking the fuck out~. This fic is sort of loosely set during early season 3, partly because that contextualization made sense to me with what you were describing and partly because I feel like that tenderhearted, slightly-less-jaded Dean would be more likely to allow himself to be perceived as vulnerable in such a fraught moment.

I’ve also taken a couple liberties with the medical situation described for literary purposes. 😋 Don’t @ me, I know this isn’t exactly how hypovolemic shock plays out.

Title: Stabbed

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4206

Summary: Dean’s anxiety gets the best of him when the reader appears fatally injured on a hunt, and is soothed only after the danger is gone.

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence, description of panic attack, swearing

Sam slammed the door once Dean had hauled you into the backseat, propping you up like a mannequin next to him on the bench. Your vision was starting to fade in and out, but the sense memory of the muscles in Dean’s side and the leather seat underneath you were comforting anyway. It seemed like the car started flying before Sam had even closed the driver’s side door and you tried hard to focus on Dean’s babbling.

“You’ll be able to give me shit about this one forever, right, kid? Should’ve listened to you, you said they would’ve left the barn by the time we got there. Always so smart, when am I going to learn?” He was trying to chuckle but it came out breathy and wrong, Dean never quite able to actually hit the casual affect he wanted in moments like this. Honestly, it made you more nervous, knowing that for injuries he wasn’t worried about he wanted to look over you with clinical precision, chastise you for being careless. He only did this pretend calm when he was trying to keep it together—you used to think it was only for you or Sam but after a few years and more than a few bad scares you started to understand it for the defense mechanism it truly was. Not that you needed extra evidence that this was bad; you could feel the life leeching out of you like a water balloon with a pinprick leak.

“Hey, come on—open your eyes for me, lemme see those stunners,” he said, guiding your chin up where you had begun to slump onto his shoulder. “Perfect, yeah, just like that. Hey, stay with me—”

You mustered up everything you had to swim to the surface of the sleep-darkness your body so desperately wanted and straightened your spine to take a deep breath. Bad idea, the wounds in your side feeling like they were splitting you clean in half even through the haze. At least it woke you up for a moment to catch Dean’s eyes, fiery with panic even as he tried to smile.

“Dean, I—” you started, feeling like your throat was full of broken glass.

“Babe, don’t try to talk, it’s okay, you can tell me whatever it is when we get to a hospital.”

Sam turned his head away from the rural highway the Impala was absolutely sailing down to look back at his older brother. “We’re hours away from a hospital, we’ve gotta go back to the motel,” he said, low and serious.

“If we’re hours away from a hospital then I guess we’re driving for a couple hours, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean was getting worse and worse at covering the hard edge of fear-driven anger in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

“Dean, we—she’s—we don’t have a couple hours.”

Dean closed his eyes tight and set his jaw firm. “We’re going to a fucking hospital.”

His brother swerved deftly around a giant pothole, somehow able to turn the wheel so slightly that the car’s path barely changed. “Listen to me. She can’t bleed like that for long enough to get to a hospital. We have to try to handle this one ourselves or there’s no chance—”

The whole conversation felt like it was happening to someone else, your senses starting to detach from your body, and you couldn’t hold onto those trains of thought for long enough to process them. You were forced to expend all the energy you had on what you needed to say, and reached for Dean’s hand with a weak grip.

“Dean, look at me.”

He sounded like a hurt puppy when he said, “please,” and you knew he was asking you not to make him listen but you were worried you were out of options, out of time. That frantic smile looked almost crazed as it started to quiver on his face, eyelashes clumping with moisture.

“Sam, can you hear me too?” you asked, frustrated in an abstract way at how frail your voice sounded.

He gave one tight nod in the rearview mirror with a jaw set firm as iron, and when he said “Yes—yeah,” it was choked.

“I love you idiots so much. These last—ow, Jesus—however many years have been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Sam, I—you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I—fuck,” you winced, something about the breath you took to keep from crying sending an electric jolt of pain through you and doubling you over.

“It’s okay, I know,” Sam said up into the rearview mirror, and you couldn’t tell if the way the headlights were falling on the trees impossibly fast was something about your sight being distorted, because if it wasn’t then you were surprised the Impala hadn’t broken some kind of land speed record. You made a mental note to tell Dean to start drag racing before remembering you might not tell him anything ever again. What you were nearly positive you weren’t imagining were the break in Sam’s voice or the reflection of tears on his cheek as he locked eyes with you in the mirror.

By the grace of whatever higher power the Winchesters were on the good side of at the time, you connected with him in the reflection, were able to absorb some fraction of the bone-crushing, pick-you-up-off-your-feet hug you wanted so badly from Sam in that moment. You tried to be thankful for what you got and drifted back to Dean’s gaze.

“And Dean, baby,” you continued, some bizarre flutter of second wind giving you enough force to clench your hand tightly around his and remember to keep your breaths shallow, keep talking even if your eyes couldn’t quite focus. “This was not your fault, you gotta—promise—me you know it wasn’t.”

“I, ah—” he faltered, throat vibrating as he tried to keep the inevitable tears down.

You gripped his hand tighter, felt your fingers going numb, and tried to smile hoping it didn’t look too grotesque on a face almost certainly drained of lifelike color. “C’mon, gotta obey a last wish, right?” The grief-stricken chuckle of surprise that dark joke punched out of Dean opened the floodgates, and tears burst forward to stream down his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

You’d thought of some goofy punchline to try to give, some ‘no sleeping with random girls for at least a year, want you guys to pour one out for me every day’ bullshit but seeing the love and pain in Dean’s eyes as your vision came in and out zapped it away. “I love you baby. I just—thank you for—everything—and—”

It was getting too hard to take even those shallow breaths, your hearing gone fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing you remembered was seeing a streetlight on the edge of town as Dean took your face in his hands, “I know, kid, I know, come on—please,” fading out like he was being zipped away through a long tunnel.

You were completely motionless in Dean’s arms, pulse gone thready enough that Dean was having a hard time finding it through the rumble of the car.

“Fuck, Sam, FUCK!” Dean screamed, one hand wrapped up in the hair at the back of your neck as he fought desperately to keep you upright.

Sam muscled through the lump in his throat and tried to stay focused. “When we get there you need to be ready to go, okay, Dean? HEY, listen to me. Don’t quit on me like this,” he barked, trying to catch his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror without taking his focus off the road, terrified at the speed of the Impala and the potential of repeating what had happened the last time he’d had someone he loved bleeding out in the backseat.

The car skittered around two corners and Sam prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything that there weren’t any Keystone cops looking to meet their month’s ticket quota by hanging around dark parking lots with radar guns, willed Dean to stop punching the window of the car with the hand that wasn’t clutching your head to his chest. He couldn’t decide if he thought it would’ve been better to have Dean drive, if he would’ve been able to hold it together any better than Dean was right now, if Dean could’ve focused if he was driving and not feeling you drift in his arms. There wasn’t time to figure it out and it ultimately didn’t matter, his brother turning into a bomb in the backseat and Sam needed to figure out a way to funnel Dean’s sheer panic back into the denial that would fuel him to keep moving, do anything to keep you alive, regardless of whether there was any hope left.

“It’s not over, you’ve gotta keep it together. She needs you. See, we’re right around—"

But he didn’t get to finish through the flurry of action as he pulled into the motel. He careened the Impala straight up to the door of the room, more than half of the car parked over a strip of grass intended to make the nondescript building feel more homey. By the time he’d torn the keys from the ignition Dean was practically leaping out of the backseat, carrying you into the room a quarter step after Sam half-busted the door open, laying you on a bed and tearing your t-shirt off with his bare hands like a cheap wrestling gimmick.

Sam didn’t bother closing the motel door, moving too fast to care as he ripped a cork out of whiskey bottle with his teeth and poured it all over your now-exposed side, grimacing with nausea at the way it didn’t make you draw back in pain even a little. Dean tried his best to thread a needle with floss and remember whether it was better or worse that the blood was still flowing fast and bright red out of those stab wounds rather than slowing or oxidizing—this is bush league shit Dad pounded in years ago why can’t I remember fucking any of it? His hands shook with too much adrenaline to get the floss through the needle but Sam was already working on patching the biggest wound, tying knots with the rapid precision of a surgeon.

It was only when he started getting in Sam’s way that the younger Winchester said anything more, encouraged that Dean was at least trying to pull himself together. He began talking through the stitches, muttering when he had to pull one tight with his teeth.

“We—Dean, look at me.” Sam drilled into him with those brackish eyes, struggling to maintain the appearance of being in control that his brother needed of him when he could feel you going cold underneath his fingertips. “We’re going to need to give her a lot of fluids when she wakes up; all we have is beer. Go get some stuff for her to drink—electrolytes, she’ll need electrolytes.”

“I’m not going to fucking leave, asshole!” Dean was strung out and not even pretending to hide it anymore, voice taking on that juvenile squeak Sam had only heard a handful of times since Dean was a teenager.

He took a deep breath in an effort to soothe himself before speaking as clearly and firmly to Dean as possible, no room for negotiation. “Dean. This is not helping. The best thing you can do for her is to go get some fluids. Gatorade, OJ, bananas too, if they have them. She’ll need iron but we can deal with other food once she wakes up.”

“What if she doesn’t—” Dean half-moaned, sounding like he’d been struck by something that was sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, looking like he was on the last ten feet of a hundred-mile race.

“She’s going to wake up.”

And Sam’s stubbornness actually did help Dean a bit in that moment, knowing that even if his life was about to change radically, that never would. “Go get some fucking Gatorade.”

By the time Dean came back—arms filled with so many bags of sports drinks that it would be comical in any other context—his brother had stitched up every wound, cleaned off most of the blood, and put all your limbs atop high stacks of pillows in an attempt to get as much blood to your vital organs as possible. Dean was near catatonic with the singular focus of a task, which was Sam’s intention. One thing at a time.

After about five minutes of sitting alongside Sam watching you, thick, viscous panic bubbled back up to the surface.

At first, he was muttering like he was talking to himself. “She told me, she fucking told me they wouldn’t be in the barn anymore, I didn’t listen. I should’ve been right behind her, Sam, what the fuck was I thinking—she was—she—she was alone, they wouldn’t have—” and then the way his voice built to a fever pitch matched his body, Dean perched on the mattress like a sailboat in a tempest, slammed against invisible waves of panic.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You couldn’t have known—”

“She was alone against five of them, Sam, do you get that? I left her fucking ALONE!” Dean wailed, springing forward from the bed with eruptive energy and bashing the nightstand lamp hard enough that its base shattered against the opposite wall, coming clean out of the socket as easily as if it hadn’t been plugged in. Sam flinched but didn’t get up, instead taking a quick visual inspection that no shards of ceramic somehow bounced back to cut your still body. By the time he glanced up again he only had a millisecond to react as Dean threw a chair from the kitchenette against the wall, exploding the mirror there into shimmering beads of glass and ricocheting back, forcing Sam block it with a forearm lest it hit him or you.

“DEAN, enough!” he yelled, crossing over to his brother with a few powerful strides and grappling with him, battling to keep Dean still as the older of the Winchester brothers fought to destroy the room to match the chaos in his mind. Sam knew exactly what was going on, the way Dean’s brain converted fear to rage, but hated when his brother got like this, not only because it cut so deep to see him in pain but because the explosiveness was so similar to the knock-down drag-outs they’d grown up with, made it impossible to try to fix the root of the problem.

Sam tackling Dean to the ground was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.

“Do I pull this shit when you guys are sleeping?” you croaked from the mattress, trying to sit up and immediately abandoning that plan, stilling yourself and holding your breath until the pain settled a fraction.

Sam and Dean scrambled to get to their feet and ran over to you, hovering over the bed looking like their backs had a light dusting of glitter rather than a million tiny shards of glass.

“What’re—are you okay? What do you remember?” Sam blurted out, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade out of a plastic bag and cracking it open for you. He snatched a pillow and helped you sit up slowly, jamming it under your head so you could drink.

“Well, I’ve definitely felt better,” you tried to chuckle, but the tension it caused in your abdominal muscles made you wince. “I’m really sorry, you guys, I shouldn’t have—” you began, immediately stopped by the way Sam and Dean shook their heads, sucked on their teeth.

“I’m—ah,” Sam started, smiling self-deprecatingly through the shake in his voice and looking down at the ground for a beat with his tongue in his cheek. It was like his body knew that the worst of the crisis had passed and refused to let him hide his emotions for one second further. After a second he met your eyes again, faintest hint of tears in his eyes. “I’m really glad you’re up.”

Behind him, Dean collapsed into himself, his expression simultaneously complete relief and like he’d seen a ghost. You peered around Sam to meet his gaze. “Hey, dork,” you breathed, unable to come up with anything to match the weight of the moment.

He opened his mouth a few times and couldn’t find anything either, wincing and biting his lip hard as he rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

As always, Sam knew what Dean needed and snatched the car keys off the table as his brother tried in vain to keep his restless limbs still. He gazed at you with such naked thankfulness it made you smile involuntarily. “I’m going to see how much red meat I can find you, I’ll be right back, okay? Drink as many of these as you can and don’t stand up alone.” You nodded gratefully to him as he backed out the door.

When Sam left, Dean still shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands until he ultimately jammed them deep into the pockets of his coat with enough force that it shook loose almost all of the glass, sending it floating to the ground around him as if he was a mirage. You could see, even as he stood a few paces away from the bed, that his breathing was quickened from the rapid, shallow movements of his chest and neck. “I’m—ah, I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—” he stammered against a jaw locked shut tensely enough to make the muscles bulge out of his cheeks, and the lack of the self-assuredness that was normally so Dean to you made him seem unbelievably young, made you want to leap across the room and wrap him up in your arms. As it was, you beckoned him over with a shaky hand.

He walked over to you hesitantly, only sitting down on the side opposite your injuries when you patted the sheets next to you. Awkwardly trying to move your torso as little as possible, you tossed the pillows on that side to the floor and motioned for him to lay down.

“I don’t want to hurt—”

“I’ll be fine. Please?”

Reluctantly taking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, he gingerly tucked himself under your arm and laid his head on your chest. You faintly dragged your fingertips down his back, waiting for his heartbeat and uneven, shallow breathing to slow down. When they didn’t and all you felt was a spreading wetness on the remaining upper half of t-shirt you still had, you twisted laboriously to see Dean’s face.

Tears streamed down onto you, Dean biting his lip so hard to keep quiet you were shocked you couldn’t see blood, the whites of his teeth almost matching the pressure-blanched skin.

“Oh, Dean,” you hummed, pulling him close to you with your one arm. “Babe, I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay; I’m okay, you get to treat me like a princess for a few days and I’ll learn for the hundredth time that I shouldn’t go off by myself.”

“I—I thought you were gone,” Dean whispered between stunted sobs breaking the words off in short staccato, still fighting to speak as though he wasn’t crying even as his tears soaked you.

You craned your neck slowly to kiss the top of his head. “Not gone, right here. Always going to be right here.”

“You were bleeding so mu—just like Sam, it was just like when Sam—” he faltered, speaking slowly to try to grab the reins of his voice as it shook.

“Not just like Sam, baby, I’m still here. Everyone’s okay. And Sam’s okay too, right?” You waited for him to confirm what you knew was true and emphasize your point, drawing back to meet his gaze when he didn’t. “Right?”

Reluctantly, Dean nodded. The redness around his eyes made his irises seem almost unreal in electric green contrast and you couldn’t believe you were so close to never seeing them again. His lashes were even darker than normal, spiky black frames formed with salty tears like cartoonish mascara. You waited a beat then let him settle back into your chest before continuing, feeling the choke-hiccupping of his breath stop even if it stayed rapid. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay,” you hummed into his hair. “You’re okay, baby.”

The two of you stayed like that until Dean’s breathing finally steadied, waiting past the clearly forced long held breaths and through to the point that he genuinely seemed like he’d hit the smooth rhythm you knew so well. “How are you feeling?” you murmured.

“Like a bitch,” he grumbled softly against your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, thankful beyond anything for the glint of humor back in Dean, that shimmer of normalcy returning.

“Sorry for scaring you.”

“I’m never fucking letting you out of my sight again,” he said, words still sticky with swirling emotion and muffled by his cheek pressed against you. You knew he was only partly joking but also that now was not the time to push back, just kissing his hair in response.

There was no way it took Sam an hour to get you a diner burger but you were thankful for his intuition nonetheless, because by the time he got back Dean was calm enough to get up and had even helped you to put on a new t-shirt—one of his black ones; he said it was because it was looser but you suspected it was some kind of metaphor, covering you with part of himself—and shimmy into a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Standing up for a shower was still too ambitious, but the fresh clothes made you feel a little less gross. He was trying his best to clean up as much broken glass as possible when his brother opened the door and tossed him a paper bag with a bubbly illustrated hamburger on it.

Walking into the room without taking his jacket off, Sam set your food on the nightstand and grabbed a motel binder of local attractions (minimal) as a makeshift tray for you to eat off of before carefully helping you to sit up a little more. “Double cheeseburger—eat it before the fries, you need the iron. Oh, and I almost forgot—couple of these too.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two bottles in one big hand that appeared to be acetaminophen and an iron supplement.

“You’re the best, Sam.” It was nice to hear your voice sound more normal, lubricated with two bottles of Gatorade already, and you tried not to imagine how awkward or painful it was going to be to try to get up and go to the bathroom later.

The Winchesters sat on the other bed, still in their boots because of the rug of broken glass no one wanted to acknowledge, and Sam turned on whatever dumb comedy he could find first. For a fleeting moment it felt like any normal night on the road, nursing an injury and eating greasy food in a room you’d never see again past tomorrow morning, and you almost forgot that (minutes? hours? you still didn’t know how long you’d been out) earlier you thought you were saying goodbye to the two people you loved most, who’d moved heaven and earth and miles of rural highway to bring you back, whose superhero resilience you’d seen start to crack at the thought of losing you. A searing jolt of pain when you reached for another Gatorade reminded you all too much, and when you hissed both Sam and Dean leapt off the bed with faces contorted in concern.

“Just stretched too far, I’m okay.”

Watching them take twin deep breaths could’ve been funny and you hoped it would be in a few days—hoped in a few days laughing wouldn’t feel like being impaled. For now, you tried to drink in this little moment of peace and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t take another one for granted ever again.

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moxfirefly · 4 years

Note

Okay okay okay I have something. You are so good at writing tmnt so here it goes. What about... Make up sex? ;) I imagine how there has been a huge fight with their girl. So much so that the turtles thought it would lead to breakup. But the SO returns and it ultimately leads to some angsty action. Of course you can imagine it however you want too! Make up your own reasons if need be!!

As somebody who breathes angst this is truly fun. You didn’t specify a turt lad so I hope you don’t mind me choosing and going from there. Just cause I’m intrigued ima go with my orange boi.

TW: Angst/Feels/Arguments

Rated Explicit (18+ only)

His hands hurt so much. When you ball your fists for too long the tendons tend to protest, the digging of nails into palms stings.

Mikey doesn’t like how loud his head feels right now. He sits against the wall closest to his tv, your scent is surrounding him and it only serves to make him more frustrated and gutted. The two of you have never gone past discussion into full blow arguing. He doesn’t like to fight with you, he does enough fighting on a nightly bases anyways.

But you got stubborn and he got selfish. Voices got raised, things were said and each one got hurt. He knows he can’t keep you glued to his shell forever, he’s had to learn the hard way, that there’s a life above that you inhabit and people around he’ll never truly meet. He knows every detail about your home life, knows your mother’s maiden name, how your aunt likes to get drunk at the family reunions and spill gossip. He knows your childhood home’s street name, the first guy you kissed, the first girl you kissed. Every aspect of your life you have told him in confidence, in laughter, in tears.

But Mikey is never gonna be part of it. He can’t really meet your dad and have that ‘if you break her heart I’ll break your legs’ talk. He won’t bond with your mom over their mutual love of cooking and secretly become her confidant. Knowing all these people but never truly knowing them is something he accepts.

It’s you leaving for three months back home. Three months away from him, three months where you’ll be surrounded by nostalgia you miss and love. Where your family will ask about ‘any boyfriends?’ and you’ll have to fake laugh your way through it. Three months of you being amongst people you constantly miss.

Surrounded by normalcy.

And Mikey wanted to be happy for you, he wanted to say fuck it and face time you every morning and night, watch you be happy to be in your hometown and maybe even get a virtual tour of it...

But that little dark part in his brain calls him a freak and reminds him constantly that you’ll get tired of surrounding yourself in craziness, monsters, end of the world scenarios etc. It just can’t seem to allow him to be happy for you. So the entire thing had ended in a fight, where dumb regretful things had been spat and you had marched off pissed and he had remained here equally pissed.

His brothers think he doesn’t get mad, they think he holds himself together through sheer ignorant bliss but it’s never been the case. Cause you’ve seen fire in his pretty blue eyes, you’ve seen those same very pretty blue eyes turn red with tear, you’ve seen so much of what he hides behind his laughter.

And fuck, three months of you away?!

Mikey pushes his knees up against his chest and sighs. His phone hasn’t made a noise despite his efforts to try and call you after he has calmed down. He debated going to your house and apologizing or at least going for a more calmer approach in expressing why this had left him so triggered. He wants to make sure this hasn’t pushed you both to your end, another nagging little thought that hasn’t quite shut its mouth.

Had this been the end? Had you walked out in a fury of frustration and decided this is it? Would you seize all communication and just erase the memories of him and your time together?

He’s hurting himself, he’s also getting angrier. This is stupid, he’s been stupid and immature and so are you for walking off!

It’s two hours before he decides to get up and toss his phone and try to consume his surrounding in order to relax. Mind over matter and all it’s wonderful bullshit. He doesn’t want to leave his room cause he knows the others must’ve heard.

He’s four hours deep into a shooting game when Raph pokes his head in with some food. He doesn’t look up, cause he knows Raph wants to be a good big brother and talk to him but he doesn’t want to when he’s one unfortunate mishandling away from crying. He lets him sit with him, watch him play and run a little bit of commentary that actually makes him smile just a teeny bit.

Even when Raph gets up and runs a large mitt over his head and tells him ‘broads are just emotional, she’ll come around’ he tries his best to not let his eyes betray him. Even when Raph gives the top of his head a kiss and pats his shell, he tries his best to keep it together.

It’s around 4am when he decides to look for his phone, chucked somewhere near his bed and maybe not broken. He finds it under his bed, screen a little cracked and one text message reading ‘r u awake?’ By you, it was sent twenty minutes ago and somewhere between debating calling or texting he hears the curtain in his room move.

You’re there.

Face two parts unreadable and a good topping of frustrated. Your face is bare, a mixture of sleepwear and winter clothing that clearly shows you had tried to sleep it off but couldn’t. “I just saw this... sorry” Mikey wonders if that sorry is related to the unread text or more so this mess. You look away, the energy around you can be felt. That upset way you bite the inside of your lip, how you cross your arms and run through every possible way of starting your side of things to say.

“Why are you really mad about me going back home?” You can’t meet his gaze and Mikey is thankful because he feels an oncoming headache. “I dunno man...” He sets his phone on his makeshift night table and runs his hands through his face, mask being taken off with the motion.

“That’s not an answer, you’re mad about something and I want to know” This time you do look and Mikey’s playing with the shoe string on one of the sneakers that hangs from the bunk bed. He chooses to stay quiet because if he does say something, what are the chances that you’ll understand?

“Mike, talk to me” He huffs a bitter laugh, ‘Mike’ is the he’s in trouble name. But he feels more obstinate than ever because why talk?

He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at his feet. “I didn’t come back in the freezing cold to actually work through this if you aren’t going to throw me a bone at least-” Your tone is a mix of exasperation and sadness. “You go back and you forget about me” Mikey cuts through.

You furrow your brows at his statement. “What?” You take a few steps but he side steps you and that somehow cuts you. “You go back home and you realize it’s better to be in a normal environment that isn’t New York, in the sewers, with me-“ He motions to all of him. “And all the crazy shit we do” He glares, not necessarily at you but more so at all of this, the current state of affairs.

Running a frustrated hand through your hair you try to settle your thoughts. “You can’t jump to a conclusion like that and you know it, I’m not skulking off back home and ghosting you! And frankly it fucking hurts you think of me like that” You reach for him because Mikey can’t be still for five seconds if his life depended on it, but he grabs your hands and refuses to let you lull him with your touch. “It’s not a conclusion it’s a friggin possibility! Do you see us actually being endgame in all this shit!” He grips your wrists, you want to get through to him but he’s lost in that terrible negative mindset.

“We both aren’t mind readers! But trust me that leaving you is nowhere on my list of achievements” You manage out of his grip and grasp his face. “You are being unfair and stubborn as fuck but I love you okay?” Your voice sounds almost angry, angry at the very idea of living in a world where you and him don’t coexist together.

“I can’t even marry you! I can’t even knock you up!” Another bitter laugh escapes him, he knows your parents would die for some grandkids. Why is he so different, why does he have to be so fucking different he wonders bitterly.

“I don’t care, I don’t fucking care about a piece of paper or screaming babies, I care about you and I want you and I’m fucking happy with you stop sabotaging it” You press your hands to his hard plastron and scowl. “Stop lying to me then! Don’t pity lie at me when I know you want all that shit” He frowns, eyes watery and not caring if he wakes everybody up in the Lair.

Mikey’s ready for the rant of a life time but then you have to go and kiss him.

Kiss him hard, kiss him with rage bubbling on the skin of your lips. He can taste your words, taste every way you would’ve shut down his words with basic truth and facts. You pull away, forehead still pressed to his and you mutter against his lips. “You’re so fucking insufferable, shut up and listen to me” Your eyes are watery as is, hands at his neck to keep him at eye level.

“I love you, I love you so fucking much” You take a shuttering inhale, fingers skimming up towards his cheeks. Mikey can only watch you, take in every detail he’s been obsessed with for so long. You’re so beautiful to him, even when your angry crying, yelling at him to open his eyes. You’re warm and real in front of him, against his body. You watch his eyes go from that calm before the storm into the aftermath.

He’s so real to you, so lovely and he doesn’t seem to understand it.

There’s a pause. A mere ten second reprieve where only silence and breathing remain. Mikey feels your hands slowly slide down his body, nails scratching his sides. You keep your eyes on him, a hand slides into his shorts, index finger mapping out the slit that encompasses his most intimate part. Mikey shudders, sensitivity racking his body at your touch. He walks you up against a wall, a hand on your neck and another finding it’s way into your own pants.

He teases you, just as you tease him. Knees buckle when he pushes your lips apart and feels your moistening folds. There’s already a bump where your touching him and the way he’s tensing gives way to how he’s trying to hold himself in. “Come on, come on” You weren’t aware just how hard you’ve been breathing till you speak. Mikey’s mouths falls open, eyes closing as he drops down into your warm awaiting hand. You stroke him, teasing the flesh of his head just to make him buck and recapture your lips. His own finger finds its way in you, stretching and making your breath hitch.

The only reason you both pull away is to tear at one another’s clothes, an easy accomplishment when Mikey’s got just his shorts. He isn’t soft with your clothing either, yanking and nearly tearing, his on his knees pulling off your underwear. Your scent hits him and he’s gone, trapped in all that is you. He inhales sharply as he gets back on his feet, arms hooking under your thighs as he picks you up.

You both land on the bed, a huff escaping you and a grunt when Mikey feels you push him so you can straddle him. You don’t quite finesse this, it’s not your usual seductive ways that leave him a mess. It’s rough, there’s still frustration lingering in the air and Mikey’s okay with it because he knows he might go to rough if he runs the show.

So you do.

Sinking down on his hard cock with a long guttural moan. Mikey digs his fingers onto the plush skin of your bottom, just enough to make you sit on his cock and relish it. Eyes closed he just basks, the tightness, the wetness, the warmth. His eyes flutter open when he feels your palms on his plastron, firm and with purpose. His hands know already, they go up and rest on your waist and he swallows a churr when your hips begin to move fast and hard.

That rhythmic slapping of flesh, your rear hitting his lap on each thrust down. Mikey can’t stop churring, eyes on your own or slipping down to your beautiful breasts bouncing. You notice and lean forward, he buries his face between him, arm going around your waist as he lifts his hips to help you cross that line. The sweat of your skin is on the top of his tongue as he sucks a bruise onto your breast, you’re tightening up so much, cussing and begging for him.

You both can’t stop moaning, once you’re cummin and Mikey follows closely behind. He holds you close to him as you ride out the sensations, tightly secured against his strong body, held and loved. You’re a broken record of ‘I love you’s and so is he, filling you up and up.

Collapsed on top of him, chest heaving, you still feel the strength in his arms as he hugs you to him. You bury your face on his neck, body shaking with sobs as he whispers he’s sorry over and over as he kisses your shoulder, neck and head.

You say it too, against his skin.

Where you wish you could stay everyday.

#tmnt bayverse #tmnt mikey x reader #tmnt michelangelo x female reader #michelangelo tmnt #tmnt michelangelo x reader #tmnt michelangelo #mikey tmnt #tmnt mikey #michelangelo x reader #mikey x reader #Mikey #Michelangelo #smut prompt #ns*w #ask #bumbleburn

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tomthesoftie · 4 years

Text

let them flow

❧ synopsis: after the collapsing of an unhealthy relationship, each side begins to improve and thrive, one for the other, one for themselves. coincidentally, they meet at the same dreaded party that led to the breaking of their relationship. will this unfortunate series of events lead them to opportunity?

❧ pairing: jock!tom x fem!reader

❧ genre: fluff

❧ warnings: mild angst, fluffy-ish ending, exes to friends to lovers, one or two curse words, lil bit of crying, mentions of alcohol

❧ a/n: it’s finally over. thank goodness. this also is so long it can be considered a second part fuck. i know i took a whole month to write this, but i barely have free time to write nowadays and the times i do, i don’t have much inspiration. anyways this came out better than i expected so hope you guys enjoy.

in order to understand this ending, please read this first: her hidden crystal tears

masterlist prompt list add yourself on my taglist!

In the first month you spent broken up with Tom, you, for once, felt at peace, with no burden of hiding relationships and denying feelings. You had forgotten how free living singly was. Within that month, you were able to reshape your life. Your grades began to improve, and your mental health had phenomenally developed for he better. Your friends had even gone out of their ways to help you with a "glow up."

Tom, on the other hand, had tried to shape him into a better person in hopes of salvaging your crumbling, if you could even call it that, relationship. He worked harder in class, and every time he saw you sitting in the lecture hall, you were surrounded by other classmates, giving him no place to fit in. He also started to distance himself from his old group of friends, looking for a better, influential group.

Tom couldn't help but feel a tug at his heart when he saw you walking with one other friend to class, laughing at something they said. He saw how your under eye-bags turned bright and how you shoulders straightened up after the breakup. It broke his heart to know the negative impact he had on you, which you never complained or spoke out about.

The brunette wanted to improve for you and himself.

How you ended up in a pair of high-waisted, black, denim shorts and a black bandeau with a sheer, cropped, long-sleeved shirt overtop you didn't know. After much begging and bothering, your friend had convinced you to go to the afterparty of the football game. You tried your best to deny their attempts but failed when they baited you with money.

This would be your first time attending a party, for you were always driven home and away from them. You couldn't deny, though, the chills that snaked down your spine at the mention of it.

Stepping into the house, you noticed how similar it looked to a fraternity. People were dancing, pushing their bodies against others and grinding their hips onto drunk partners. Other students were playing beer pong, stripping on tables, or resting on couches with a red, plastic cup in their hands. It smelled terribly of sweat and oversaturated body spray, making you gag on your breath.

"How do so many people like this?" You shouted over the pounding music and loud voices.

"How do you not?" You friend giggled, dragging you through the crowd.

Dodging and pushing people off of you, you gripped your friend's hand tightly, afraid of losing them.

"Where are we going?" You asked, eyes darting all over the place in uncertainty.

"Before we party, we've got to get drinks," they pushed the door of the kitchen open, revealing the alcohol infested space.

Scrambling over to the bulky cooler, they grabbed a can of beer, popping it open and downing it.

Flinching in disgust, you commented, "Don't you want to wash that, first?"

"What d'you mean? It looks perfectly clean to me," they shrugged, throwing you a can.

You clumsily captured the condensated drink, before putting it on the counter behind you, "I don't drink."

They groaned, "Why are you such a doormat? Come on," they nudged your shoulder, "Live a little."

You laughed, "I can "live a little" just fine with water."

"Ugh, fine. I'm guessing you also want to sit in a corner and become a hermit," they spoke, sarcastically.

"Actually," your eyes lit up, "I do."

"You," they pointed at you unsteadily, "annoy me, but since I already brought you along," their finger moved to point at an idle seat in the corner of a calmer room, "There."

You nodded, eyeing the isolated spot with glee. However, before your friend could escape into the crowd, you told them to stay safe and slipped away to occupy said seat.

Although Tom no longer associated himself with his old group of friends, he couldn’t avoid them forever, as they were his teammates. Also, as the captain of the football team, it was practically an obligation for him to attend the after parties.

Honestly, ever since you had broken up with Tom, he had developed a small fear of being whisked away by his fangirls and teammates, constantly thinking you were waiting in his car for him. His guilt had piled on top of his conscious, leaving him an insecure wreck.

Nevertheless, he stepped into the filled building, nodding and waving at familiar faces. One face he wasn’t expecting to see sat in the corner of the room was yours.

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, he murmured to himself, “She’s not there, you idiot.”

“Tom, buddy,” a familiar voice hollered.

Through your peripheral vision, you swore that you saw his chocolate curls, but when you looked up from your phone, he had disappeared. Your eyes began to dart through the crowd of people, looking for the man you supposedly had gotten over.

Quickly realizing your mistake, you shunned yourself for willingly wrapping yourself around his little finger. You returned to scrolling through your phone, distracting yourself with the illuminated screen.

Tom watched as his teammate, and former friend, grabbed at a girl swaying her hips, pushing her ass against his friend’s crotch, into a grind. Suddenly feeling highly uncomfortable where he stood, he moved into the kitchen to grab a drink.

The room let in muffled sounds but ultimately was the quietest room in the building. The white LED lights left the room bright and easy to navigate, albeit the clusters of finished drinks and used cups littered on the counters and in the sink and overflowing out of the trashcan.

The brunette drifted over to the fridge, locating the fresh water bottles hidden from other partygoers.

Feeling quenched, you stood up from your seat, unwillingly. You looked for a quick and precise path to the kitchen, though you failed to do so. Deciding to extemporize it, you awkwardly squished your way through the crowd, mumbling “excuse me” and “sorry” periodically.

Pushing the white-paint clad, wooden door open, you stumbled your way into the room, glaring at the sudden brightness engulfing your vision.

Hearing the music and sound of people cheering grow louder, Tom turned around to see the oh-so familiar girl he had fallen infatuated with many months ago.

You stood, blinking your eyes as they tried to adapt to the sudden change of lighting. Groaning, your hands began massaging and harassing the poor skin of your eyelids.

Your unnoticed ex, still stood in front of the fridge with a cool bottle of water in his hand, smiled at your adorable behaviour — widely contrasting your provocative outfit — watching as your cheeks puffed out in frustration.

Feeling the haze leave your eyes, you looked ahead of you to see a silhouette emerging. Embarrassed, you blushed, looking down at your shoes.

You felt a cool presence resting beside your cheek, and quickly looked at the item.

Water? You thought, confused.

Eyes trailing up the arm holding the bottle, your met with the sight of your former boyfriend smiling at you.

“Tom,” you breathed.

After avoiding and ignoring the boy for so many weeks, you already had forgotten how sweet he looked with a smile and soft blush grazing his cheeks. Maybe you hadn’t forgotten; you were just rarely, if ever, given the opportunity to admire it.

“Hey,” he responded, shyly rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

You glanced at the bottle then back to Tom, silently asking what he was doing with it.

“O-Oh, I just thought you’d want a bottle of water, since you don’t drink, but if you do now, that’s totally cool too,” he rambled nervously, like a little boy talking to his crush on the playground.

Although you had only broken up with him a bit over a month ago, you couldn’t bring yourself to trust taking the drink from him.

“Thanks, but I can get one myself. I’m sure you wanted to drink that too.”

You gave him an awkward, tight-lipped smile before walking past him to the fridge. Reaching into the cool container, you pulled out a frosted water bottle.

The situation was strange. Everything felt so familiar but so different. It didn’t feel right to talk to each other like you knew how they slept in bed at night or how they loved warm cuddles on the couch as they binged shows and movies.

“Look, Y/N,” Tom spoke up, breaking the tension with a breath, “I know that I was a jerk we were together. I also know that I neglected you. I shouldn’t have cared about what everyone else thought about our relationship.

“Looking back, I understand why you were so frustrated with me, and you had every right to break up with me. I was a wuss that used protecting you as an excuse to keep you under covers. I reveled in the popularity and attention I got, back then.

“I’m different, now, though. I’m not saying you have to take me back. You don’t even have to consider it. All I want to do, right here, right now, is to apologize to you, so, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the anguish and sadness I caused. I’m sorry you had to waste your tears on me. I’m so fucking sorry, and if I have the slightest chance to even be your friend again, please let me take it.”

You felt a churning in your core, and tears prickled the corner of your eyes. You didn’t understand where your emotions arose from. You thought that you had moved on from Tom. You thought you had left him behind, left him in the shadows of your life.

You turned around, hand reaching up to quickly wipe your tears away. That is, until a calloused hand grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t,” the accented voice choked, “It hurts me as much as it does you.”

Your words were caught in your throat. You tried to say something, anything, but nothing but sobs slipped your lips.

Everything became a blur. You could only feel warmth enveloping you.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, darling,” Tom murmured into your hair.

After the encounter at the party, you and Tom went on with your life as normal.

Although, nothing that happened that night could be considered normal. You cried while he held you tightly in his arms. He apologized for his faults and asked for a second chance, as a friend or more. You forgave him and gave him the chance.

Will you ever want to have the same relationship you had with Tom as before? No.

You and Tom are working on building a better, healthier relationship for the both of you: an open and honest relationship that won’t be hidden from anyone, especially not his “fangirls.”

“Don’t ever hide your tears again,” Tom whispered into your hair, “Let them flow.” His pointer finger gently lifts your chin, locking his eyes with your tear-filled ones. He brings his thumb to your cheek, wiping away the shining streaks of pain, sadness, desperation.

“Let them flow because I’ll be here. I’ll be here to wipe them away every and any time.”

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justreadingfics · 4 years

Text

It’s a Deal (Chapter 7)

Chapter Summary: How you and Bucky feel about the presence of your ex-boyfriend.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 4.3k

Warnings:+18 only, mention to smut, overdrinking, embarrassing behavior due alcohol consumption, Natasha knows stuff, ex-boyfriend, minor jealousy, minor angst, floof, Bucky has a somewhat creep confession, but give him a break, he’s never been in love.

A/N: Another smutless one, I hope you don’t mind. Thank you to my sweet Les for having my back. The link to my masterlist, where you can find the other chapters, is on my description. Feedback is highly appreciated.

Tag list for this story is closed.

Previously:

Your shoulder brushes against him as you walk past Bucky and he turns his body around, following you with his gaze. He takes a long sip of his drink and places a hand inside his pocket, watching as you approach your ex-boyfriend.

He tries hard to bury deep down inside him the tug on his chest.

“Oh, fuck…”

Natasha’s curse makes him turn to her and he realizes she’s been watching him, with a dumbfounded expression he’s not used to see on her face.

“What?”

She scoffs and shakes her head, seeming in an estate of disbelief, “This whole time I’d been worried with the wrong person.”

No point. Bucky sees absolutely no point in trying to make it like there isn’t turmoil twisting inside of him. Not for Natasha, anyway, it would be to no avail. Also, he’s pretty sure there’s a kicked puppy look on his face to make it harder for him to put on any kind of façade.

“Fuck,” he sighs and run his hand harshly over his face, “What the hell is this, Natasha?” He whines, failing at trying to not sound as helpless as he does.

“You tell me, buddy.” She points at him with her glass of vodka, tilting her head with interest.

“Shit,” he exhales, looking down, before his face snaps up at her, “I’m … just weird, I’m not myself these days.” Bucky bites his lower lip as if trying to somehow refrain from spilling the words, but he just can’t, he’s dying to let it all out. He steps closer to her and lowers his voice as much as he can with the loud music beating around them, “I’ve spent almost every day of the last month with her. I have absolutely no desire to see or think of another woman and I have to restrain myself constantly, cause if I had it my way I would call her every five minutes to check in on her, and… and when I’m thinking about her - which is all the time, I fucking swear - I wonder if she’s thinking of me, and now? I mean, right now? I feel like snatching the blade right now on my ankle and shooting it right on that fella’s throat.” Finally taking a breath after his rambling, he points in your direction, before turning to see you right when you’re letting out a small laugh at something the punk has said.

“Wow…” Natasha lets out a whistle.

“A few days ago,” he turns back to his friend, “I snuck into her closet to find out the name of her perfume. And you know what I did next? I bought a large bottle for myself, like a fucking creep,” sheer frustration plasters on his tone.

“Oh my…,” Natasha snorts at the same time a mix of incredulity and amusement shines on her eyes, “That’s definitely creepy and it’s even worse than I imagined. The almighty Bucky Barnes, the I’m a whore and proud,” she thickens her voice playfully, moving her arms in a mimicking way, “The I don’t do romance and attachments king is a tiny lost puppy with big blue heart eyes, aww,” she inclines her head as if she’s thinking of him as exactly how she’s just described him.

Bucky tries but he can’t actually find the amusement in all of that. The fact one single woman is making him feel that way is entirely new, unpredictable and… scary as hell. He has no clue where to go from there.

Natasha seems to swiftly catch on his little inner self torment and, after letting out a deep sigh, she puts on a small smile and shakes her head, “Don’t worry Bucky, it’s probably a crush. A big one. But only a crush,” she places her hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze, “Y/n is one of my best friends and I know how delightful it is to be beside her. Maybe you’re just infatuated…”

“Maybe…” he exhales and shrugs, “I wouldn’t know… all I know is I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Not that I remember…. but I’m pretty sure I would.” He looks at you again while you’re still talking to the Eddie guy.

“They have history,” Natasha says in a kind voice, following your gaze.

“I know.”

“He was her first and only boyfriend.”

“I know.”

“She thought she was going to marry him.”

“Damn Nat…” he breathes out his frustration, dropping his head for a moment, before raising his downcast gaze at her again, “Yeah, I know that, too.”

“But you’re Bucky fucking Barnes,” she snaps in a more cheerful voice shaking his arm with a enthusiastic force, “Don’t forget that, buddy,” she shoots him a warning glare, “Also, I’ve never seen a brighter smile on that woman than when she’s talking about you,” she beams.

Bucky’s heart jumps and a quick breathy smile surges on his lips before he takes in a shuddering breath, “I’m not sure what I should do, though.”

“Well, figure it out,” she lets go of his arm and taps on it, “My advice for the night if you should accept it is let it flow,” she shrugs. “Go on with your thing and see what happens. Just try not to hurt you or her on your way, though,” Nat warns.

“I’m not even sure I-Wait,” he frowns after his gaze is drawn to the spot where you are again, “Did that fucker just leave her alone?”

He instantly struts towards you, ignoring Nat’s snicker.

~~~

“Hey,” you smile, gulping down the nervousness down your throat as you approach your ex-boyfriend. The one you haven’t seen ever since he broke up with you months ago.

“Hey,” he offers you a tight but kind smile back.

You halt on your way, the awkwardness building up a barrier on your way as you’re not sure what to do next. Should you give him your hand to shake? Hug him? Do nothing at all? Not once before you had thought that moment would play out between you and Eddie.

But he seems a bit more resolved than you and shrugs, leaning forward and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, “Congratulations again,” he says, still holding you, “You’re the best and most hard working person I know, you deserve it.”

The small smile in your lips grows wider and you accept the compliment, relieved that the awkwardness seems to be tamed. While you’re so close to him after all that time, you notice he’s wearing the same perfume he’s been wearing for years, the one which would make you sneeze all the time, but you never really said anything.

“Thank you,” you lean back, sniffing discreetly to suppress the sneeze threatening to come out, “I’m happy you could make it,” you add. The fact he’s arrived all by himself grasps your interest, considering how everyone around you would tell you he was probably seeing someone else… however, if he did have someone, he wouldn’t bring them to your party, would he?

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it,” he says with a gentle tone, but the formality is still there, you notice.

You two engage in some small conversation and you can’t help but to take him in and realize that, just like the perfume, Eddie looks exactly the same with everything else. The same hairstyle, same grey t-shirt you gifted him on your last Christmas together, the same constant half smile while he talks… he still speaks quietly, letting out just a few small words, which has always forced you to be the one to push on the conversations…

It’s… familiar… even comfortable, you dare say. But if you’re going to be honest with your own feelings, ever since he walked away, you thought you would be yearning to feel that familiarity again, that it would lead you to a sense of… home.

Why it isn’t quite like that, though?

“You look different,” he says as the subjects of small talk seem to come to an ending point.

You put your previous thoughts aside for later consideration.

“Oh…Different good or bad?” you ask, tilting your head with a small pull in the corner of your lips.

“I don’t know... just…different, I guess,” he frowns and quickly puts on that half smile of his.

“Oh, well… it’s been a while…“

“Yeah… I guess you’re right,” he says, regarding you with a wondering look in his eyes that makes you shift on your knees, “Listen,” he clears his throat, “I was wondering if we could meet to talk one of these days.”

“Oh,” you draw in a breath. Talking to him, having a real conversation, is something you’ve been wanting to do for a long time. It still feels like you don’t fully understand why you’re broken-up. Regardless the time it’s passed, you still feel attached to him somehow, like, no matter how exciting and new, you’re now living someone else’s life and not the one you had planned for you years ago.

“I mean,” he adds before you can give him a proper answer, “We still need to figure out what to do about the condo.”

The words are like cold water thrown at your face. There you are, thinking he wanted to talk about your relationship, but what’s really on his mind is the condo you’ve bought together. Swiftly, you work on putting a small smile on your face, “Yeah… sure, you’re right,” you nod.

“Hey! Eddie!”

Both of you look towards the female voice and your eyes fall upon a beautiful young woman you recognize as one of the members of SHIELD’s tech team. You’ve worked with her on a joined project of the two organizations before. Chloe… you believe her name is Chloe.

She’s waving at Eddie excitedly, calling him over the little group she’s with. She doesn’t seem to notice you’re standing next to him until her gaze meets yours. The wide grin on her face drops into a quick cringe before she nods in a respectful manner and shifts her look away, whispering something at one of the guys in the group.

When you set your attention back on Eddie, you tighten your lips just as you notice how the bone on his throat bobs right before his flustered eyes meet yours again.

“I-I, ahm, gotta go,” he runs his hand on the nape of his neck, “Can I call you later?”

“Yeah, sure.” Your voice comes out calm and controlled.

“It was good to see you,” he says, before placing his hand on your shoulder, “Congratulations again.”

After you give him a small nod as a thank you, keeping the tight smile on your face matching his, he walks away towards the group and the woman. The one your friends kept warning you about, apparently, given how uncomfortable he seemed to be in front of you after you saw her. As soon as he gets there, you see the two of them talking in hushed words. He keeps a safe distance from her, but his hand on her arm is where your gaze sticks on.

You don’t have the slightest idea of what’s happening with your feelings right now. Minutes ago you were realizing the familiarity of Eddie wasn’t what you expected it to be anymore, but now, seeing him so close to someone else… a beautiful woman, to be more specific, with her long black straightened hair and fancy blue dress holding each one of her beautiful curves…It just crushes you. A lump grows in your throat and while your gaze flicks around, you feel small… lost… picturing ways you could flee away from your own party at the same time ten years of your life flash in your mind.

The cold, yet gentle touch of metal in your elbow is what takes you out of your own head, “Hey, everything alright?” says the silky and soothing voice.

Your gaze meets Bucky’s while he stares at you with concerned eyes. Those gorgeous blue eyes of his…There’s already a bit less turbulence inside your chest and mind. You think nothing of it, though.

“Yeah, yeah…” you smile, “He, ahm… Some friends called him. He had to go.”

Bucky just lets out a hum – which sounds more like a groan – staring over your shoulder to where the little group stands.

“He said he wants to talk…“ you start, and don’t see when Bucky’s breath hatches catches on his throat, his eyes back on you, “About the condo,” you press your lips, “He said he’ll call me.”

While your gaze gets lost ahead, you have no idea that the sadness in them pinches deep inside Bucky’s chest. If you could read Bucky’s mind at that moment, you would find out that the fact your reencounter with your ex-boyfriend hadn’t ended up in some sort of hope for reconciliation hasn’t left him sad at all, but the lost look in your eyes… makes him wanna hold you in his arms and never let go. Not before punching a douche in the face, of course.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart,” he wraps his arm around your shoulder, side hugging and pulling you closer to him, “You’re the fucking boss now and, look around, ” he gestures with his glass of whiskey to the crowded and jazzing place, ”You have a damn Stark party just for you. We’re all here to celebrate the badass motherfucker you are. You’re not just going to let anything ruin your night, will you?” The corner of his eyes crinkle as he grins at you.

You let out a small laugh, the heaviness inside you slowly slipping out of your body as you allow yourself to synchronize with Bucky’s vibe. You can always trust the upbeat way he presents the world to you to lift whatever mood of yours up. You look down at your empty glass and shrugs, “I might need a refill, though…or two,” you shoot him a warning look.

Bucky’s smile stretches even wider and he lets go of your shoulders to offer his arm, nodding towards the bar, “Shall we?”

You gladly accept his suggestion by wrapping your hand around his elbow and walking with him, not even noticing that Eddie’s gaze follows you with piqued interest.

~~~

Quite a few more drinks later and after listening to Tony’s very nice and very Tony speech on his toast to honor you, you’re already fully invested in your party again. Bucky stays by your side most of the time, but you also come across with a lot of your friends from work and a few others, who are all more than happy to put you high on a pedestal for your promotion and party with you. It stings a bit when Camilla, your friend from work, tells you she heard Eddie and Chole are really together, but two or three more drinks after, you end up hitting the dance floor with a few friends by your side, not even seeing when Eddie leaves the party early, right before Chloe.

You’re happy to see that Amanda, one of Bucky’s friends you met that night in the club, has made it to the party, but you’re already too tipsy and it slips from your attention when she comments on how Bucky has been quite distant from her and the other girls for almost a month now.

If you’re going to be honest, you end up not truly noticing a lot of stuff since you’ve been drinking a great deal more than you’re used to, probably due the drill of having a kickass party thrown for you mixed with the unexpected sight of Eddie with a potential new girl - after months without seeing him. As the alcohol does its thing in your senses, you don’t notice the way Bucky looks at you, the way he holds you a little bit stronger when you’re dancing together, how he glares at the guys who tries to approach you or the fact he only leaves your side when he knows you’re comfortable and safe.

All you see and feel now is the music and the lights as you sway your hips to the beats. The party is almost coming to an end, but there’s still a small crowd of people enjoying their last moments there. The alcohol, the music and your friends, more precisely Camilla, Olivia, Amanda and Nat – the last two in the middle of a flirting contest you fail to notice, as well – are the ones around you. The buzz clouds your mind in a delicious way until your back bumps into a hard wall. Your weakened knees give in but before you hit the floor the wall wraps around you and holds you still.

Oh, you know that hard wall of muscles… You know it pretty well.

“Hey, there.” A foolish smile plasters on your lips at the same time the back of your head leans against the wall so you can see his face. His gorgeous and ungodly sexy face, “Your face is sexy,” you decide it is a very good idea to tell him that now.

“That right?” Bucky smirks, holding your gaze.

“Oh, yeah,” you clumsily turn around to face him, prompting him to grab you tighter since you stumble a bit on your toes. You curl the hand holding your glass around his neck, “And you’re big, too,” you don’t even notice but you’re a slurring mess as you speak and look to see your running hand down his broad chest, roughly probing his muscles, “Very, very big,” you exaggerate a sultry tone, the alcohol erasing any kind of subtleness or refinement in you or the notion that there are people around you, while your hand explores further down his body to say it’s not just about his muscles you’re talking about.

“Sweetheart.” Not making a big fuss about it, he gently grabs your wrist over his lower stomach to place it around his neck along with the other one, ”I’m very flattered to hear that, you’re one very nice piece of ass yourself, too,” he engages with you, keeping the playful tone.

You let out a girlish giggle, turning your face towards your friends, the trio now whispering and laughing among themselves as they watch the both of you, “He said I have a nice ass,” you shout, not realizing how loud you actually are as you lift and shake your hips, making your friends laugh harder and causing you to trip on your toes once again. But of course Bucky catches you before you fall.

“How many drinks, so far, huh?” Bucky chuckles, keeping the hold of his arms and eyes on you.

“Three or four,” you answer with nonchalance, bringing the glass to your lips as you hold yourself on his neck, only to pout when you notice it’s empty.

Your friends scoff at your lie behind you, “You can add at least ten more to that count, sweetheart,” Natasha shouts from behind you, punctuating the word sweetheart with a teasing pull on her mouth.

You make a dismissive face only Bucky can see, “Nonsense, check out what I can do,“ You step back from Bucky with the intention to put on a yoga pose you’re sure will convince your friends of how ok and steady you are and as soon as you lift your leg, you trip again and this time Bucky is not fast enough to catch you before your ass hit the floor.

The four of them rush to help you out as tears fall down from your eyes at how much you’re laughing, holding your glass up. It’s Bucky who ends up picking you up, though.

He and your friends shower you with questions to check if you’re ok but it all falls like a blur sound to your years.

“Ok, I guess it was a bit more than three or five,” ignoring the curious eyes around your group, you laugh making an ok sign with your hands before your stomach churns and you grimace, placing your hand over it, “Oh…” your face drops.

“Alright, come one, let’s go,” Bucky supports you with his hands and urges you to walk with him.

“Where are you taking me?” You frown, sounding almost offended as he takes your glass from you and hands it to Natasha, gently pulling you along.

“My place… let’s freshen up, come on,” Bucky patiently says, nodding at the girls to say goodbye, who just nod back, knowing you would be in good hands.

“Ooooo, bye girls, we’re going to his place to freshen up,” you wink exaggeratedly and make air quotations with your fingers, addressing your friends as you clumsily walk away with Bucky.

~~~

“Bridal style,” you loudly announce stretching your hands and legs to the air as soon as he steps inside his living room with you in his arms.

Bucky can’t help but laugh as a snorting giggle follows your words. If he had his way he would’ve carried you from the party, but he didn’t want to attract even more attention to your state. So, on the second trip on your own feet inside the elevator he picked you up. It would be easier that way.

Bucky carefully puts you standing on the floor and, as soon as he’s convinced you can stand on your feet without stumbling or falling, he turns to shut the door, only to have you jumping on him as soon as he faces you.

“Hey, hey,” he manages to say softly, placing his hands on your hips as you shower his mouth and face with sloppy kisses which taste strongly like fancy champagne.

“What? Let’s freshen up,” you answer in a log slur, dragging your lips on anything of him you can reach.

Bucky laughs, pushing you away with a gentle yet steady touch, looking deep into your eyes, “That’s not what I meant… not when you had so much to drink, sweetheart.” He flicks his thumb on your chin.

It takes a moment or two, but realization – and disappointment- finally dawns on your face, “Oh… you meant freshen up for real…” You shut your eyes and tap your hand on your forehead.

Bucky thinks you’re too damn cute for your own good.

You focus on him again, “Are you sure, though?” You insist, shoving a finger in your mouth and tilting your hips, putting on before him the unsexist pose Bucky has ever seen.

Yet, it’s the most adorable thing and his annoying heart swells inside his chest for you as you keep your attempts of seducing him, “Yeah, I’m sure,” he nods unrelentingly, holding back a laugh and waiting to see the follow up of your shenanigans.

“But I’m horny and I wanted to suck your big dick,” you pout, crossing your arms and thumping your foot against the floor.

Bucky takes in a deep breath. He is only human and can’t help that his poor cock twitches at your bratty whine. But your glossy half open eyes and dragged voice reminds him he’s the only one sober enough to make decisions in the room and therefore, his buddy down there needs to chill, “I’ll be more than happy to allow you to do so,” he’s amused when your face light up, “But not tonight, sweetheart,” he puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you towards the kitchen, not without spotting the dirty look you give him.

“You’re no fun,” you complain, barely able to put one foot in front of the other before you stop and swirl around, trusting on his strong hold to not let you fall wearing a devilish little smirk on your face.

Bucky cocks an eyebrow, waiting for whatever mischievous pearl will come out of your lips now.

“What if…” you start before a hiccup interrupts you, “I show you my boobies?” You offer, leaning over and pressing your breasts together through your dress, “You looove my boobies,” you wiggle your eyebrows suggestively even if your eyelids can’t even remain wide open.

“I do love your boobies,” Bucky can’t deny, not hiding his amusement.

Apparently, that’s all you need to hear before you throw yourself on him again. Bucky swiftly catches you with a huff, but you can’t do much more than circle your arms around his neck and rest your head on him.

“Love your muscles,” you mumble quietly against him, “There are so many of them.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Bucky tries, “As much as I love your boobies and you love my muscles, now it’s not the time. Now it’s time to get you some water, maybe a sandwich, huh? Then I can prepare you a shower and you can rest a bit and… Y/N?” Bucky calls when you’re too quiet- not even making a sex innuendo when he mentions a shower.

He listens a not so soft snore as a response and looks down to see you completely dozed, with your mouth agape against his chest. He sighs… still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, goddammit.

“Guess we can skip right to the resting, then,” he whispers through a fond smile.

Taking you in his arms he walks towards his bedroom and places you on his bed. You only stir a bit when he gently removes your shimmery and apparently uncomfortable dress and unties your heels. He dresses you in a t-shirt of his so you can rest comfortably. He manages to make you drink a little bit of water, to which you whine graciously enough, and, after covering you with a thin blanket – because he knows you’re never really that cold at night, no matter the temperature in the room – he moves to get up and maybe take a shower for himself.

“Bucky,” you mumble and, without opening your eyes, you move yourself to nuzzle against his metal hand sprawled on the mattress, “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

Bucky is absolutely sure you have no idea of what that question really means to him, how it falls upon the rising tangle of feelings inside him… which is all for you. Wonderful and beautiful and special you, who came unannounced and stirred up something in him he never thought possible. Something he just doesn’t know what to do with.

Moving meticulously slowly not to pull his hand and wake you up again now that you’re deep back into slumber, he lays down beside you. For your question… he doesn’t say anything. Simply because he doesn’t know the right answer yet.

~~~

To be continued.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes floof #it's a deal #it's a deal chapter 7

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animereaderinsertwriter · 3 years

Text

Cupbearer (Eren/Reader)

Part II

Part I (complete)

Part III (complete)

Part IV (in progress)

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (im watching you, if you see this, begone!), vampire!eren, hunter!reader, fem!reader, smut, some amount of predator/prey dynamics but only kinda?? there is also a significant age difference but only cos eren is immortal and all that jazz. we're all adults here. there will eventually be smut.... and do i really need to say that there's gonna be blood in a vampire fic?

Description: A story of falling in love in 4 parts.

Eren is a bad man (well, a bad Creature) who has done bad things. When he meets the great-great-great granddaughter of one of his former friends in his favorite blood bar, however, he thinks it might not matter so much what happened in the past, so long as he can make the future something worth living to see.

Ao3 link here

Making deals with a vampire was one thing, (Y/N) supposed, but fulfilling such a deal was quite another.

When Zeke— who held the contradictory position of the regional Commander of the Hunters as well as the alpha of a local werewolf pack— had approached her with the idea of infiltrating Eren Jaeger's inner circle, she had jumped at the chance; her great-to-however-many-degrees grandfather really had been Jean Kirschtein, and she had read his old journal, and her curiosity about the Old Ways was always bubbling just beneath her skin. Zeke, she thought, must have known of her curiosity, because his offer had been everything she was searching for.

You'll have your answers, he told her, And we'll have ours. One way or another, the problem of Eren Jaeger will be solved through your efforts. There is no possible way to lose.

If only she had known how wrong Zeke had been.

At first, things with Eren were simple— well, as simple as things could be with such a delicate arrangement. It had been beyond easy to bait him into approaching her at the Creature bar on 76th Street, and aside from the first time, allowing time for Eren to feed was almost nothing. Even the process of feeding itself wasn't much of an ordeal— there was hardly any pain since he drew from her wrist after a warm soak, and the whole thing took less than five minutes— but around the second time, when the visions began, things began to be… different.

Little snippets of Eren's past began to come as the two of them interacted more and increased the amount of regular feedings. Sometimes it was as little as a feeling, a memory of a face that (Y/N) had never seen before; other times, it was like (Y/N) was truly there centuries ago, in a land that would one day become her home. Now, almost every time she let Eren drink from her, she was thrust back into a world where humanity was (literally) with it's back against the wall, fighting demons and mindless monsters just to survive; and, sometimes, the visions were so intense that she would come back from them terrified, shaking, and incapable of cogent thought. It was during those times that Eren held her, silent, resigned, and yet somehow caring until she was herself again.

It was strange; in the visions, Eren was often passionate to a fault. He was wild, like an animal, but kind, too. During times like these, when he cradled her in his arms as she was trembling with the force of a particularly poignant memory, (Y/N) wondered if the centuries had truly changed him, or if he hid that passion beneath the jaded indifference she had come to expect.

"You think too much," he told her as she buried her face into the crook of his neck. "Your heart is racing."

Of course it was— the terror of watching hundreds of people be consumed by the very wrath of hell itself would do that to a person— but (Y/N) had no rebuttal. She did think too much, and the end result was muddled reports sent back to Zeke and a clouded heart.

"You loved her."

It was a statement, not a question. Mikasa— the brave, beautiful woman that Jean Kirschtein had once loved— may not have always known it, but Eren truly had felt very deeply for her.

"More than life," Eren replied.

(Y/N) thought back to the memory— the sheer panic Eren had felt at the thought of losing his comrades, the desperation with which he strove to save them— and she amended her statement.

"You loved them all."

Eren hummed.

"More than the wide, wide world."

And (Y/N) thought that, perhaps, he truly meant it.

"What did you see this time?" he asked, his voice soft.

(Y/N) pulled back so that she and Eren were face to face, her legs straddling him. His eyes were glowing-green, and she shivered beneath their scrutiny.

"I saw a field full of demons," she told him, unable to meet his gaze. "You and Mikasa were defenseless, yourself having been pushed to your limit, and Mikasa's blades having been broken. There was nowhere to run, and you— you screamed, and—"

A large, warm hand caressed her cheek, and it occurred to (Y/N) that it was her own blood within Eren that gave him such warmth with which to comfort. She placed her smaller hand atop his, and the world seemed to freeze for a moment to allow this brief, intimate interlude.

"Do you understand now?" he asked as he did almost every time she had a vision. "Do you see why I did what I did?"

As always, (Y/N) shook her head, moving his hand from her face.

"No, I don't."

The response was never met with anger or frustration; Eren was only ever resigned to it. Before, (Y/N) might have felt scorn for such a man who cared so little, but now that she had seen who Eren had been, what he'd been through… perhaps he was simply tired of caring so much.

"You're beautiful when you're thinking."

The words caught (Y/N) off guard. She had known that Eren had thought she was attractive— his emotional feedback told her that much— but she had never thought that he would voice such a thought. The compliment heated her cheeks, and (Y/N) had to fight the urge to bury her face in her hands.

"I've always thought," said Eren, speaking slowly, choosing his words carefully, "That one can never truly appreciate the beauty of a blush until one could see it with the eyes of a vampire, or smell it as it rises on the cheek."

Eren placed a hand on her face, tilting it until their eyes were level.

"And as a vampire who has seen many beautiful blushes on many beautiful women, yours is the most bewitching of all."

(Y/N) swallowed thickly.

"Why are you saying this?"

Eren cocked his head to the side, studying her. It was a long moment before he spoke, but when he did, he gave an answer that (Y/N) was not expecting.

"Because it's true, and because I would very much like to kiss you."

(Y/N)'s heart leapt into her throat, but she didn't dare move one way or the other. She just stared at Eren, slack-jawed, as he stared patiently back.

"Why?" she asked when she had collected herself.

Eren shrugged. "Does that matter?"

(Y/N) supposed very much that it did matter, but she didn't feel the need to say so. She studied Eren closely— the latent hunger in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the stain of her blood on his lips— and she thought of how gentle he had been with her, how patient. She had no doubt that he would prove to be equally so in other matters, and she wanted him— but something stopped her.

It would be wrong of me to allow this, she thought, letting her eyes wander to Eren's lips. I'm his enemy, a spy for the Hunters. Allowing him and myself the potential of intimacy is too deep a betrayal, even for me.

Even so, she didn't stop him as he shifted her closer; even so, when his lips brushed hers, she kissed him back, tasting her own blood on his tongue.

"This is a bad idea," she whispered against his lips, shifting in his lap.

"How young you are," he said in return. "There is no such thing as a bad idea, only poor timing and execution. Take it from someone who has centuries of experience; rarely ever is the regret for having done something greater than the regret of not having done it."

So saying, he kissed her again, and (Y/N) threaded her hands in his hair as he reached beneath her shirt. His hands— warm, now, with the heat of her own blood— reached beneath the cup of her bra to cradle her breasts, and she exhaled a hiss as his fingertips found her nipples. She arched into him, pressing her flesh into his hands and parting their lips; he chuckled, dark and low, and she shivered at the sound.

"How many other Creatures have you tricked like this?" he asked, pressing kisses against her neck. "Tell me, pretty girl— just how many have fallen prey to your charms so that you can run back to your little doggy master with their deepest, darkest secrets?"

(Y/N) froze, stuck somewhere between fear, dread, and ecstasy. Eren knew— somehow, he knew— and yet he continued to touch her, kiss her, caress her as though nothing were amiss. Her whole body went still with shock, but Eren never stopped even for a moment.

"Come now, you can't think I didn't know." His lips were just below her ear now, and he closed his teeth around the lobe, teasing her with the sensation. "I can smell him on the papers in your bag; I can hear the clicking of the letters as you type your memos after I've pieced you back together for an evening. Most of all, I can hear the way your heart pumps a little faster when I feed you the information you want. I can taste your guilt in the very blood I take from you. You can hide nothing from me."

"Eren," she said as fear— rancid and terrible— began crawling up the back of her throat, "Eren, please, I haven't told him about the important things, I'm trying to make a case for you—"

He pulled away then, and when his piercing green eyes locked with her own, she stilled like a sparrow caught in the gaze of a cobra.

"I don't care," he replied simply. "You are what you are, and at your core, you cannot change that. It is the same with me. I'm not afraid of my half-mutt half-brother no matter what you tell him, and as long as you want what I have to offer, there's no reason not to take it for your own."

(Y/N)'s mind was reeling.

"Half-brother?"

Eren chuckled at her confusion.

"Oh yes, pretty one. Zeke Jaeger is my older brother, and I suspect he sent you to me just to you with the both of us." With a carnivorous grin, he added, "But little does he know that I play for keeps, and you're not the good little Huntress he must assume you are— that is to say, he must have no clue at all how hungry you are for vampire cock, hm?"

(Y/N) would be lying if she hadn't pictured Eren in… less than appropriate situations, but for fuck's sake, she wasnt blind. The man— vampire, Creature, whatever— was fucking gorgeous, and he damn well knew it, but that didn't mean she was gagging for it.

Did it?

"We can't do this," she said, pushing at Eren's chest, though he didn't budge an inch. "We shouldn't do this."

Eren cracked a grin, toothy with fangs that glistened.

"Says who?" he asked, his large, strong hands coming around to grab her by the ass. "You were perfectly fine with letting me kiss and touch when you thought I was in the dark— is it no longer any fun now that you don't feel like you're taking advantage of me?"

(Y/N) couldn't take it.

"Eren, be serious—"

"I am serious."

When she looked in his eyes and reached out with her own heart, (Y/N) knew that he was telling the truth. He wanted her regardless of anything, regardless of everything.

He simply wanted her.

Could that be so bad?

***

Eren didn't think that this would happen even in his wildest dreams, but when he saw (Y/N) splayed out on his gold silk sheets, he knew it wasn't the madness that Armin accused him of lying to himself about. No mind, well and whole or not, could ever conjure up such a vision. The woman who lay before him— naked and gorgeous— was beyond imagining. She was something from another world entirely.

"What are you doing?" she asked, puzzled as Eren stood over her, watching the rise and fall of her breasts. "Come hold me."

And how lovely was that? His natural enemy, his perfect prey, asking him to come hold her, as though his skin on hers was blessed assurance that he was there and wanting.

Maybe Eren was mad— or, perhaps he was dreaming. If he was, he hoped he never came back to himself. A world without this was not a world he ever wanted to return to.

"Yes," she hissed as he crawled atop her, his mouth suckling at her breast. No other creature that walked the earth could ever taste as sweet as her— having tasted many, many before, Eren would know— but even were that to be disproved, Eren wasn't sure he would much care. This woman would be his undoing.

"Touch me," she demanded, canting her hips up to him. "I want to feel you."

How could Eren ever deny her? He brought a hand down to her sex, caressing her there before parting her folds to quest for her clit. Having found it, he drew small, teasing circles, and she whined.

"Am I still a monster to you?" he asked into the hollow of her throat, placing biting kisses there as his hand kept busy with its work. "Still something to hate and abhor?"

"You're still a monster," she replied, so startlingly honest even now, "But I never once hated you. Oh Eren, please, I want you inside me, I—"

Her wish was his command; Eren plunged two fingers into her depths, and (Y/N) gasped at the intrusion. She was so wet already, and so tempting as she squeezed down on those fingers, rocking her hips as he withdrew them just to the tip and repeated the motion. The way she felt around his digits shouldn't have turned him on as much as it did, but as Eren slid in a third finger, he had to keep himself from letting out a groan.

"You're so beautiful," he told her as she writhed beneath him. "You truly, truly are."

Distantly, Eren wondered what Jean would think if he were alive to know who was finger-fucking his great-granddaughter, but when Eren remembered the nasty right hooks the taller man used to give him when he was being a shit, he figured that he would rather not know. Still, as he watched (Y/N) come undone on the tip of his fingers, he couldn't help but think that perhaps it was something of Jean's spirit— the part that even Eren had to admit was better, kinder, more human than most— that drew him to her.

"I want you," he said, withdrawing his hands and licking his fingers clean of her juices. "Do you feel ready enough?"

And then, as though to prove his point, (Y/N) sat straight up with the cutest little Jean-like scowl he had ever seen and pushed at his chest with no small amount of force. He went with the motion, and he found himself being mounted by her as she said,

"I'm not made of glass— if you can't wrap your head around that, I'll have to show you just what I'm capable of."

She did— and how! Powerful thighs— the thighs of a Hunter— levered her up and down on his cock, squeezing him until he thought he might die from it. He thought she was never going to stop impaling herself again and again, and by the time she did eventually tire, Eren was sort of hoping she never would. He was in ecstasy with her, and like the selfish bastard he was, he wanted it to last forever.

"Such fire," he said, reaching up to press kisses into the skin just between her breasts. "You've made your point, now let me take over."

Let me take care of you.

"Yes, yes, yes," she chanted as he thrust up into her, the head of his cock buried so deeply within her that he marveled at how she didn't seem to be feeling any discomfort. "Oh fuck, right there, please don't stop—"

Eren didn't stop; he couldn't. He was beyond restraint.

"May I?" He asked, tapping the wrist that was trapped in his right hand. "I won't take much, but I want to show you something."

Delirious, drunk with lust, (Y/N) nodded, and Eren pierced her skin with a single fang, letting a drop of blood fall onto his tongue. In that moment, as they connected physically, her blood connected them spiritually, and Eren groaned as he physically felt how close she was through the link he had created.

It wouldn't be long now.

"Oh, fuck!" she cried, and Eren buried himself as deeply as he could within her as he came. "Oh, oh, oh—"

And then (Y/N) was following him, shaking and gasping as her orgasm overtook her. It seemed that the world had stopped existing for a moment, and Eren found it hard to breathe even though he had no particular need to do so at all.

In the afterglow, they clung to each other like the survivors of a shipwreck; when the world began to exist again, it felt new, and as Eren closed his eyes to sleep, he knew that this changed everything.

I must keep her, he thought as sleep overtook him. I don't know if I could feel like this ever again for anyone else.

#aot x y/n #aot x reader #aot #aot fanfiction #eren x reader #vampire!eren jaeger #aot smut

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thedistantdusk · 3 years

Text

Arcadia, Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who followed along! Things are heating up with this chapter! Most of the referenced triggers from chapter 1 apply in this chapter specifically. Here's the link to chapter 2, if you're just seeing this now :)

Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @remedialpotions, @jamezbot, @jenoramaca, @not-steve42, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey... god, I'm forgetting people, and I'm sorry! But you're all amazing <3

___________________________

D A Y + T H R E E

As fate would have it, Ginny wakes before 0-700.

Not that she sleeps.

Nightmares, the likes of which she hasn’t experienced in years, torment her throughout the night. They leave her scared. Miserable. Guilty. Around 3 AM, she finally reaches for her Dreamless Sleep potion with shaking hands. For more reasons than one, she’s pleased that Harry’s slept on the couch.

She knows now just how stupid this entire mission truly was. The longer she analyzes it, the more she accepts that her bloody pride got her here in the first place. A chance for a promotion, however small, gave her false confidence in her ability to disregard a decade of sexual tension, all while trapped in close quarters with the person she wants the most.

She hopes Harry makes himself sparse today, though she knows that sounds cruel. But the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes they’re on the cusp of something… and not something that would look good on a performance review. He’s been kind and understanding so far, even when she’s fucked things up. She just hopes she can ignore the most human parts of herself until they’ve dealt with this.

So at half-past 8, Ginny — Jenny — emerges from the house in a bright floral sundress and nude pumps. Were it not for the secret weapon clutched in her right fist, she might have fit in quite well... but Jenny has no intention of fitting in. Not anymore. In three confident strides, she marches across the front lawn, bends down, and spears the prongs of a lurid pink flamingo into the grass.

Yes.

She grins and takes in her work. How ghastly against the backdrop of earth tones! How repugnant!

Ginny steals quick glimpses over each shoulder, only to be met with the eerie, blanketed silence that’s defined Arcadia since their arrival. No activity at all. Which means she’ll have no issue with the next bit…

She strides to the mailbox at the end of their driveway and gives it a sharp kick. The post slides out of alignment, leaving it askew. Perfect. She returns to the house with a bounce in her step. Living with the twins taught her a thing or two about how to infuriate complete strangers.

She just hopes it’ll be enough.

___________________________

As luck would have it, it is enough. Her efforts receive reward more quickly than she thought— more quickly than she’s been conditioned to expect.

Scarcely an hour passes before she finds the warning she needs. And to be honest, it could’ve been there sooner; she just figured she’d give it that long before she checked.

Still, it’s not even 10 AM when she opens the door and sees it on their welcome mat: a folded paper with Pee-tri scrolled on the front. She can’t help but admire the sheer cheek as she unfolds it; this is the closest they’ll get to a public call-out for the way Harry insists on correcting everyone’s pronunciation. The message inside doesn’t surprise her, either.

Be like the others before dark. Or else.

Ginny glimpses out at the lawn, just to confirm— and yes. Sure enough. Just as she’d suspected, the flamingo's gone. The mailbox is straight. Everything’s back to normal.

She kicks the door closed with a smirk and wonders if they’re aware of how easily they’ve exposed themselves. How—

“What’ve you got there?” Harry calls from the sofa in the living room. He looks up from his laptop with bleary, dark-rimmed eyes. A wave of guilt washes through her; that sofa clearly didn’t get more comfortable overnight. Not that he would’ve accepted the alternative.

“Erm. A letter.” She waves in front of her and walks into the living room. “I’ve done a great job annoying them!”

He offers a gentle smile. “Any chance you’ll let me know who this ‘them’ is that you’re so worried about?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and settles on the other end of the couch. “You know I can’t—”

“Talk about your work,” Harry finishes, turning back to his computer. “Right.”

“Mm. Not exactly that I can’t… talk about my work,” she ventures, putting her feet up on the white ottoman. “More like I can’t give information until it’s essential knowledge for all parties involved. Based on criteria that I also can’t share.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Harry deadpans, still looking at the computer. “But anyway, if I were to suggest something like… I don’t know…” He casually tilts the screen in her direction. “The fact that Oliver Skinner definitely has a criminal record, and maybe that’s worth looking into. You couldn’t confirm or deny that?”

Ginny just shrugs. “That’s correct. I can neither confirm nor deny.”

His theory is wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

They wouldn’t have sent an Unspeakable and an Auror into the country if this were a simple Muggle murderer. Harry would be able to suss this out, she reckons, if he had more sleep. Poor bloke.

He groans and cracks his back. “I’m starting to understand why King’s always so frustrated.”

“Probably because he has to deal with you all the time,” Ginny quips, reaching for a magazine on the floor. Ugh. Of course, it’s only the TV guide, Radio Times. They don’t even have a TV, but it came with the Daily Mail on Sunday.

Harry reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. “Fine,” he relents, in between sips. “I’ll stay in my lane. But if I get bored, I’ll get tetchy.” He gestures to the computer. “And since they’ve given us this laptop, I’ve had time to do a bit of—”

“They’ve given me a laptop,” Ginny corrects, arching a brow. “As you’re well aware, Auror Potter, that is technically the property of the DoM.” She returns to the guide with a shrug. “I just don’t care if you use it, mostly because I don’t expect you’ll be looking up tits all day.”

He chokes on his water; Ginny just laughs and turns the page. Ooh, lovely! Eurovision looks particularly flamboyant this year…

“You’re absolutely right,” Harry says, once he recovers. “I’d never look up tits on government property!” He looks affronted as he hands over the laptop, but she knows he’s not done... not when he’s set that up so perfectly. Annnnd sure enough…

“You of all people should know I'm an arse-man, Ginny.”

Now it’s her turn for an unattractive snort as he winks over his shoulder and marches upstairs.

When he’s gone, Ginny rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. He’s an incredible liar on the arse-man front, but it was a good joke. A simple joke…. one that didn’t deserve looking into.

It’s just unfortunate that can’t stop these stupid fucking butterflies from erupting in her stomach like she’s ten years old again.

___________________________

He launches into the air again, the gardens of his neighbors spanning out in front of him. Each perfectly manicured. Each disturbing in its performative precision. None of this is real; none of this is life.

He pulled out the trampoline after dinner, when Ginny okayed it. He’s not used to that— checking before he does things. This whole exercise has been a great reminder that his teamwork skills are rusty, especially when he’s in a subordinate role. Ron left after their first year to work in the magic shop instead, which only made sense after… yeah. Harry draws a deep breath and jumps again. Ron and Hermione haven’t been problem-solving in his head for ages. There’s been no one to share the burden of choices or—

“OI!” Oliver’s voice thunders across the garden.

Harry smiles and takes another huge leap into the air. Just in time…

He rips open the fence door and stomps over, hands balled into fists. Harry’s never seen anyone look quite so furious while dressed in cashmere. And standing beside a trampoline.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you trying to make enemies, Henry? Is this entire estate a bloody joke to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry lands on his bum before he jumps up again. “This is very serious!”

“Oliver!” Sharon wails, hurrying over. “Oliver. Please! This really—”

“Keep your nose where it belongs, woman,” Oliver snarls, looking at her like she’s scum on his shoe. “No one wants your opinion!”

Sharon flinches… and this, more than anything else, gets Harry’s back up. “No need to take it out on her!” he snaps, climbing down from the trampoline. “Talk to me if you’ve got a problem, Ollie. Why not—”

But just as Harry’s feet touch the grass, something very weird happens: A dull buzzing fills his ears. Sharon and Oliver hear it too, but unlike Harry, they aren’t looking around in bewildered confusion. In a flash, the rage on Oliver’s face transforms into something much different: fear. And as the pressure grows, Harry can only watch as Oliver grabs Sharon’s hand, yanking her from the garden, when—

An unmistakable sound replaces the buzzing. A large piece of glass from somewhere in the front of the house shatters on the pavement. And with that, the buzzing stops.

Birds chirp again. Someone laughs in the distance. Harry jabs a finger in his ear, trying to clear it, but it seems Oliver’s returned to his furious state. He lunges towards Harry, a vein ticking in his neck, his hands outstretched as if to push him over— but Harry doesn’t have time for this. He’s already running around him, bolting towards the source of the sound, his hand inching for his pocket…

Because whatever they’ve got going on isn’t related to Oliver, is it? No… definitely not. That buzzing was too creepy to be muggle. Harry hadn’t really been convinced of the Oliver theory in the first place, even if the wanker has a criminal record for drunk driving. He mostly suggested it to Ginny to see if she’d give him any information.

Harry spots the broken glass the second he reaches the pavement. The lamppost right outside their house has shattered, light bulb and all. Bits of glass sparkle on the street, but the lamppost is at least 10 feet high. Harry scans around for signs of a ladder, or some form of a projectile… any method someone might’ve used to— oh! A baseball rolls around in one of the open garages across the street. He’s about to march over and collect it when his conscience stops him.

Because that’s the definition of circumstantial evidence, isn’t it? Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. Snatching the baseball while working alone is one thing, but it’s not worth risking Ginny’s job. Especially because he reckons these thoroughly unmemorable homes are each equipped with monitoring systems. At absolute best, that would be… awkward to explain to the muggle police, especially without an obvious connection between the ball and the shattered lamppost...

Harry’s just about to turn back inside and write it off a freak occurrence when—

Shit.

His breath freezes in his throat.

What the...

He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it, but no...

There’s no weird buzzing this time… but something else is happening instead. The grass on the far side of their yard is bulging and curling, right in front of his eyes. The soil creaks as this… this mass — a huge sphere of some sort — passes through; bits of dirt fly into the air before settling back.

Harry’s veins turn to ice, his stomach churning. Work has introduced him to new, vile varieties of ghouls and nasties. He’s been bitten by a leprechaun. Stalked by a vampire. He’s encountered every disturbing otherworldly menace that one could imagine.

But he’s never seen anything like this.

His only solace is that it’s headed towards Mike’s empty house… this massive, rolling boulder that travels beneath the soil. ‘Boulder’ isn’t exactly the right term, though; he’s never seen a boulder move with a slinking, predatory grace. He’s never gotten gooseflesh from a rock, no matter how large.

And try as he might, he can only stand there, wide-eyed, his heart racing. Because now he knows for sure what Ginny only alluded to before: whatever they’re chasing isn’t human.

And it’s aware of them.

___________________________

The door creaks open less than five minutes after the glass shatters, but Ginny’s prepared.

She’s standing in the alcove just off the entryway, wand in one hand, fire poker in the other. It’s probably not the best strategy she’s ever had— but she reckons that if a Muggle were to catch sight of an altercation, it would be an easy memory supplantation. Wands and fire pokers don’t look that dissimilar, and—

“Ginny?” Harry calls. Directly into her ear.

Shit! She jumps into the air, the poker clattering to the ground.

“When did you learn to move like a cat?” she demands, turning to face him. “You nearly—”

“We need to talk,” he says brusquely. It’s only then that she takes in his wide, haunted eyes. His white pallor. The way he hasn’t even commented on the ridiculousness of her fire poker.

Oh.

He’s scared.

Scared in a way she hasn’t seen him in ages. Maybe ever. Which means he heard…? Shit. She’d might as well ask.

“What do you erm…” She toys with her wand handle. “Want to talk about?”

Harry heaves a tired sigh. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” he says flatly, rubbing his hand over his forehead. Then he blinks up at her, his eyes pulsing and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

“The… shattered lamppost?” she hedges. “I’ve no idea. I just—”

Apparently, that was the wrong response.

Harry groans. “You know damn well I don’t mean the bloody lamppost!” he snarls. “I mean that… that thing! First the weird buzzing, then whatever moved through the grass! It was like some creepy worm, or—”

“—not a worm,” she amends, staring at her cuticles.

This, too, was the wrong reply; she’s never seen him go from bewildered to enraged quite so fast.

Harry lets out a furious roar and kicks at an empty box. “This is why Unspeakables are so fucking annoying!” he shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “You never fucking say anything — even if it might help someone!”

Pfft! He can do better than that...

“Not sure what you expected,” she deadpans. “Would it help if I were a Speakable instead?”

Harry rolls his eyes and throws himself on the couch. Ginny just leans against the door… and waits. She can’t say she blames him for being angry. It’s probably made him feel vulnerable in ways he hasn’t in ages.

“The least you can bloody do,” Harry says, cutting into her thoughts, “is to let me know how to kill it.” He glimpses up at her, his chest still heaving. “Because if anything happened to you….” His hand curls around his wand, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We both know I’d never forgive myself.”

Fuck.

Her heart clenches; as embarrassing as it is, tears sting the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that… but it makes perfect sense. He’s not angry because he’s vulnerable; he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to protect her.

Because he’s Harry.

Her Harry.

And try as she might, she can’t deny that. He’s hers… even though now he’s broken and angry and scared and alone. Which is probably why she loves the fucking fuck out of him.

No.

She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Mission. Mission. They’re on a mission.

Right. She clears her throat and steps forward, two papers clutched in her hand.

“What’s that?” Harry grumbles as she hands them over. He scans the pages, brow furrowing. “Sugar… engine oil. Red Dye 40. What am I supposed to do with—?”

Ginny smiles and tries to make this easy. “It’s the report from the necklace. The thing that was on Mike’s medallion… it’s rubbish. Not blood, not some ghost slime. It’s just a weird mixture of types of rubbish.”

She should’ve figured he wouldn’t find this significant.

“What a brilliant scientific discovery.” Harry tosses the paper to the side. “Hermione would be thrilled.”

Ginny gnaws at her cheek, choosing her words carefully… but if he’s already seen it, if he’s already heard it, surely there’s no harm...

Harry rises to his feet and takes a step closer until he’s towering over her, all warm and brooding. They aren’t touching… not exactly. He’s just hovering close enough to give her strength, whether he knows it or not. When she finally gets the nerve to look up at him, his green eyes are swirling with more pain than rage. Truth be told, she prefers the rage. “I deserve to know,” he says thickly, like he’s suppressing something in his throat, “what the fuck is going on.”

Ginny breaks their eye contact. Some of this she hasn’t even shared with Attica yet. She’s violating about a million protocols by telling Harry first, but if they’re together on a mission…

“It’s… not what we thought. Not what I thought,” she admits softly, after a moment. “We came out here under the assumption of chasing something from the Thought Chamber. Something that erm… may have escaped. During a routine experiment.”

He’s not impressed, though. “Yeah,” he says, arching a brow. “I gathered all of that from your intro with the camera, thanks. Do you ever plan on telling me anything new?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “Because you’ve sure as hell never mentioned Evil Grass Monster Experiment #6, and that may have been helpful to fucking know before I saw it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

His attitude is more infuriating than his actual words, but she lacks the patience for dealing with either. The bloody nerve, to act all impatient with information that’s kept secret for a reason...

“I don’t have to tell you shit, actually,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in case you’re unaware, I can protect myself.”

Harry pulls back with a laugh, but this one is cruel. Dark. The sort she’s never heard from him before. “Makes sense,” he says with a fake grin. Then he taps her on the nose. “Because when that thing outside inevitably kills someone else, we all know how well you’ll manage the guilt.”

Ouch.

She reels back, stung. He’s got to know that’s a low blow. Younger Ginny would have Bat Bogeyed him into oblivion, but she’s better now. She’s changed.

At least that’s what she tells herself as she glares at him, her hands fisted so tightly they turn white. “Say what you mean,” she manages several moments later, when rage isn’t clawing at her chest. “If you’d like to rehash our breakup, Auror Potter, I’m all ears!” She gives her best impression of an icy smirk. “This isn’t exactly professional… but then again, when have you ever been?”

Harry looks like he’s going to respond, but a loud vibration starts in his back pocket. “Fuck!” Now it’s his turn to leap into the air before he realizes it’s just his wand. And really, she’s tempted to laugh— but the look on his face helps her put the pieces together.

Because if his wand’s vibrating, that means it’s an emergency; only department heads can summon their employees like that. They’re the only ones with access to that sort of technology, not that she’s really interested either way.

“It’s King,” he mutters. She’s about to get on him for stating the obvious, but when he peers at her again, his face is filled with such timid yearning that she can only see the 11-year-old boy on the train platform. “Can I…erm. Use your mobile?”

Fine. Ginny nods towards the bedroom, her head still spinning. She’s still a bit angry with him, but he’s so fucking broken. They both are. And besides, they’ve got bigger problems. What could possibly have King so worried that he’d call Harry from a mission? The man is unflappable.

Harry returns a minute later, his face stony, jaw set. In another life, she might’ve seen the bulge in his pocket and asked if that’s just her mobile, or if he’s happy to see her.

Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears like the seasoned professional she is. “There’s no reception inside,” she points out. “I’ve had luck calling Attica from up the street, right at the corner. Just watch out for…”

Harry smirks. “Grass monsters?”

Ginny draws a breath to consider her options. She could keep him in the dark forever, but isn’t that the whole point of this assignment? To learn? It’s time for the truth, she reckons...

“It’s erm. It’s called a tulpa, actually.”

His eyes light up at this. “A tulpa?”

Ginny shifts her weight and searches for the right words. “It’s a… it’s sort of like an evil imaginary friend, created by a group of people to do their bidding,” she explains, reaching for the discarded papers. “They come from the material of whatever’s underground. I’ve only heard of creatures made from clay or water, but since this village was built on a rubbish tip”— she flicks the papers with her fingers— “that’s our guy!”

She can almost see the gears spinning in Harry’s head as he studies the far wall. “So…” he says slowly, still peering off, “it’s basically an evil dump monster, made of rubbish, that can murder people.”

A laugh slips past her lips. It sounds a bit dumb when he puts it that way. She clears her throat and continues. “I was wrong because it’s not something that’s escaped, more like something that’s—”

“Formed,” Harry finishes quickly. For the first time all week, he sounds intrigued. Like he’s happy to be here. “So… they’ve made it to keep order, then?”

“It would seem so.” She shrugs. “I… honestly don’t know. But between the weird buzzing and the rubbish, it’s the closest match we’ve got. According to the system database, anyway.”

There’s another pause as Harry mulls this over. “So, how do we get rid of it, then?”

How fucked up is it that her heart warms at the way he says ��we’?

Ginny brushes that aside. “Considering the mask in Gogolak’s house and the way they’ve made a point to tell us he’s in charge, I’d say he’s the one we need to get rid of.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t object.

“Or at least… knock him totally unconscious,” she adds, swallowing; Gogolak’s a wanker, but she’d rather not kill him, either. “Beyond just being asleep. Because he sleeps at night, but the tulpa’s still here, which means he needs to be down for the count. Comatose, even.”

Harry’s wand buzzes again. Ah, shit; in all the hubbub, she’d forgotten about that.

Concern floods Harry’s face. “Give me five minutes.” He blinks. “Ok?”

She waves towards the door. “Duty calls.”

He gives her a weak smile and turns away; she begins the trek upstairs to send Attica an email update.

“Ginny?”

She stops to look down at him. Harry’s paused, halfway out the door. “Thank you,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “And… I’m sorry. For everything. Ok? I’ll always, erm…”

But she can’t right now. She actually fucking can’t.

“Later,” she whispers, nearly begging. “Please. Let’s do this later.”

Because of course she loves him.

She’s always fucking loved him, even though that’s changed forms. It’s shifted. It’s evolved. He feels the same way… she knows he’s bloody feels the same way. She just doesn’t have the resources to deal with whatever this fuck is reigniting, right in front of her eyes, as the tulpa dances in the back of her head.

Luckily, he understands. Harry just swallows again, nods at her, and heads out into the night.

___________________________

As it would turn out, he was wrong about the identity of the summoner.

“Great news!” Hermione announces on the other end of the mobile. “MLE found Yaxley. He was hiding in a cave in Romania, just like you said.”

Harry snorts; he wishes that gave him more pride. “Well, if you’d listened to me months ago, then—”

“The important part is that we have him,” Hermione says, cutting across. “We need you back ASAP to prep for witness questioning. You’ll take the stand, of course. The trial’s set to start next week!”

He can practically hear her bouncing with excitement. Very little brings her more joy than trials of former Death Eaters.

“Erm… about that.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “We’re actually right on the cusp of something here. I’m gonna need a couple more days to wrap things up.”

“Really?” Hermione sounds surprised. “Kingsley and Robards said you’d be pleased. Said you found this mission as useless as they did.”

Fuck, he was such an arse.

“Well, things… changed,” he offers lamely. “It’s going really well. This mission is so important to her. I’d just hate to leave at the last minute.”

“Ohhh?” Hermione draws out the word in a way that suggests she finds herself quite clever. Even before she asks, he knows what she’s on about. “How’s it going with Ginny, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. Her coy prodding is obvious, even over the phone.

“As I already said, it’s going well,” he replies flatly. “We’re a great team. Always have been.”

But she can’t let him have that one, can she?

“Well… not always,” Hermione allows. “After Percy—”

Harry groans. For fuck’s sake, what’s her obsession with stating the obvious? “Yeah, well,” he retorts, “I’d like to know who you think did well after that, especially since…”

He trails off with a sigh.

Especially since what, exactly?

He toys with the fraying ends of his hoodie string.

Especially since Ginny was the last to speak with Percy? That she still carries the weight of the guilt for what she said that night? That she’s never admitted it, but that he suspects her choice to become an Unspeakable was influenced by the things she wishes she could un-say?

Harry makes a face. That’s corny as fuck, isn’t it? What a thing to pull from his arse...

Hermione interrupts his thoughts for a bit of bragging. “Well, Ron and I have done just fine.”

He can almost imagine her staring at her engagement ring in dreamy affection. The mental image makes his reply sound more bitter than he intends.

“Well,” Harry snaps, “Ron wasn’t the last person to speak with Percy. So I’m not sure how you could compare the two, really.”

Shit.

The silence on the other end tells him he needs to apologize, even if it’s true. Fortunately, Hermione gives him an easy out. “Anyway.” She clears her throat. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night, but we really need you the following day. If you haven’t settled this, we’re swapping you out. Got it?”

Harry sighs. He’s exhausted, but this couldn’t possibly take much longer. Ginny’s more or less got the proof she needs now. They just need to confront Gogolak, knock him out, and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Harry cranes his neck towards the source of the noise. Huh… weird. Far up the street, flashing lights tip him off. That’s definitely Oliver’s Audi, the one parked in the driveway directly beside theirs. It’s in utopia blue with a metallic finish, a detail Oliver probably mentioned at least fifty times the other night. Then, while Sharon and Ginny were out walking the dog, Oliver began a mind-numbing lecture on the car’s exact miles per liter. Harry was a bit drunk, which is probably why he interrupted to ask a much more important maths question: How many blow jobs per week is too many, exactly?

Even from a distance, Harry can tell that Oliver’s nearly the same shade of murderous red now; he storms from the house and turns off the alarm with his key fob. But then he pauses, glancing around like something’s spooked him. He must decide it’s not that significant, though, because he huffs back inside soon enough. Fucking wanker...

“....Harry?”

“Sorry!” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, that works. See you then, Hermione.”

“Can’t wait!” she trills. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s smug and grinning.

___________________________

Two minutes after Harry leaves, Ginny feels it again: that same sensation she experienced while walking Captain Bone.

She’s sitting at her laptop when it starts… this deeply unsettling shift. It stands the hair up on the back of her neck. She rushes to the window on instinct, but just like before, everything outside looks the same. There’s no “moving grass monster,” as Harry called it. Not yet, at least.

Still, she can’t deny it’s growing louder. Getting stronger. And now that she’s felt it for a bit longer, she can put more words to it. It’s like she’s plummeting through the absence of sound; like all the wind’s been sucked from the air. It’s a building pressure, a mounting unease, and before she knows it, her whole body starts to shake.

Then two things happen in quick succession: that weird feeling stops, and a car alarm begins to blare in the distance.

Weird.

She shudders. This whole thing is so fucking weird. Weird is her job, and this place is still Very Fucking Weird. Seriously, who enjoys living here? She’s reaching for her wand, just in case, when the front door slams open.

In retrospect, it’s a blessing she knows Harry as well as she does… because she can tell that those heavy, clobbering footsteps don’t belong to him. She knows he’s not the one drawing deep, ragged breaths as he marches up the stairs.

She hides around the corner of the bedroom, her heart racing, and goes through a mental list of spells she might use. Shield charms. Enchantments. The buzzing’s stopped, so this probably isn’t the tulpa… but who else would be here? Gogolak? It sounds more human than—

“Jenny?” a deep, soothing voice asks. “Are you in here?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. She’s only heard that voice once before… but it’s so similar to her former life that she identifies it at once.

“Mike?” A wave of relief washes through her. She shoves her wand into her dress as she comes around the corner. Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. Mike Snodgrass. A man she presumed dead days ago.

“Hi!” Mike pants. He cracks a smile. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but.” He winces, wiping a palm on his ripped khakis. “Been hiding!” Fuck. His whole outfit (yellow Polo, khakis) is the same he wore days ago to unload their boxes, except now it’s filthy. Stained. Like he’s been living beneath cars and inside drains. He’s just missing his Saint Julian medallion, which she’s sent to the Ministry.

Ginny feels sick. She wrote him off as dead so carelessly...

“I’ve been trying to take it down,” he adds earnestly, peering at her. His cheeks are caked in something red and grimy, the same stuff she stuffed into her bra. He’s been tailing the tulpa, she realizes, her stomach plummeting…

Except he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“I was about to leave the development, to just run away, but that’s when I figured out it was coming for you two!” He shudders, closing his eyes. It feels like he’s been waiting a long, long time to say this. “And I’ve been aimless without Jess in the first place. So what was the point in leaving, really, if I could save…?”

He trails off, clearing his throat; when he looks up at her again, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been leaving clues, though! Why didn’t you listen?”

“Clues?” Ginny sounds like she’s a million miles away.

Mike’s nearly pleading now. “You had to go and kick the mailbox and stick the flamingo in the grass, didn’t you?” He raises his pointer finger. “And even though I left you a note, you had to make it even worse! It only attacks when the sun goes down, see.”

“You… you left the note?” she whispers. She was so certain that it was from Gogolak...

But Mike proceeds in such a rush it’s clear he hasn’t heard her. “It was about to get Henry by the trampoline, so I threw the baseball as a diversion. I broke the lamppost, too— which worked. For a second,” he adds hastily, glancing over his shoulder.

“How did you also set off the car alarm— oh.” Her head’s still spinning. “Buddy system. Right.”

Mike dangles a keyfob. “Covenant rules. Stole the spare off Jane.” He glances into the hall again before whipping back to face her. “It’ll need a sacrifice tonight, though,” he adds grimly. “And every night, until you all have perfect behavior. It was coming for you earlier, see. We aren’t meant to be outdoors after dark without a permit for dog-walking, so.” He shrugs. “If there’s an unapproved disruption like a car alarm, it knows just where to hunt.”

It’s then that the final pieces of this dreadful puzzle slide together in her brain. “Captain Bone,” Ginny breathes; she swears a feather could knock her over. “He was the first since we arrived. Punishment for us sticking out.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Mike laments. “It came up and snatched him. So I threw in my medallion, right after his collar, just to make them think I was already gone.”

“That’s… that was brilliant,” she admits, biting her lip. “Thank you. You didn’t have—”

“Nah,” he says firmly. “I did. For starters, you remind me so much of…” He stops mid-sentence, an odd expression on his face.

For a second, she thinks he’s being sentimental, but then she feels it too.

Shit.

The hairs on her arm stand up. It’s back… that weird way she felt before. Like the air’s sucked from the room. That creeping, clawing silence. This time, though, it only gets louder, louder, louder, until she’s throwing her hands over her ears, all hope of self-defense forgotten.

But Mike knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. She doesn’t have the chance to object or get her wand before he’s ripping open the closet door and throwing her inside. Ginny opens her mouth in a startled cry, but it’s like she’s screaming underwater, the sound distant and distorted. Mike slams the door closed with her inside and stomps to the center of the room— but now the thundering, roaring wind is causing her physical pain… it’s so loud now that it reverberates in her chest, so loud that her hands shake as she reaches for her wand at long last, but fuck fuck fuck, it’s too late…

It’s too fucking late.

Because Mike’s made a choice. One he can’t take back. He just stands in the middle of the room, puffing out his chest, offering himself as the proud sacrifice, even as the noise grows so loud that Ginny screams her throat raw.

She feels it enter the bedroom, this looming, shifting mass— but by then, she’s certain her ears are bleeding, her eardrums bursting. Her whole body rattles and shakes as she peers through the slats in the closet door, but she’s frozen. Stuck. Miserable. She couldn’t cast a spell if she tried… even as the tulpa oozes into the room, lunges itself back, and swallows Mike with a sickening squelch.

Even though the slats of the door, Ginny’s sprayed with blood. Covered. And she’s dizzy now… so dizzy. A drop of blood trickles into her eye; she reaches up to wipe it from her face, and it’s only then that she hears her own screams again. They reverberate through the small space, anguished and pleading, so loud that she’s certain someone up the street could hear, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t fucking care. She just screams over and over and over, her nails clawing at the walls, until the world slips away into darkness.

___________________________

Blood.

It’s the first thing he smells as he charges up the steps. His chest squeezes, his eyes water, his head pounds over and over again with one word: No.

No. No. No.

Not Ginny. It can’t be.

But almost as soon as he smells the blood, he hears her screaming, and yes! His heart soars. Screaming is good; screaming means she’s alive and breathing and—

Fuck.

His dinner rises in his throat as he steps into the bedroom. He smelled the blood from the steps, he hadn’t expected… this much. It always takes him aback, exactly how much blood is in one human body, and he’s certainly never seen it sprayed, all over the floor… covering the walls. Covering the closet, even, where Ginny’s still screaming.

He flings open the door, thinking he’s prepared for what he might see. Somehow, though, none of that measures up. Because he’s dealt with tears in his line of work… but he’s never, ever seen her so broken. His chest clenches when he takes her in. Her perfect suburban dress — the yellow floral one, the one he liked so much— is now red and grimy, caked in blood, as Ginny rocks back and forth on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Blood’s covering her face, too, and her arms. Dried trails of it have crusted around her eyes, like she’s fallen asleep wiping them away… or perhaps lost consciousness. The thought is too terrible to bear. He kicks the door open completely and brings her into his arms in one fell swoop.

She melts against him, her voice raw and broken. “H-Harry!” she manages. “P-please! I need-I need!” She begins to shake, pressing her face to his chest.

“A shower,” he says firmly, stepping into the en-suite. “You… you just need a shower. Ok? And maybe some calming draught, I’ve got some in my luggage, and—”

“No!” she cries, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide and filled with horror. “Don’t… don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Harry, please!”

“I… ok,” he allows, carrying her to his luggage to retrieve the bottle. She clings to his neck as he reaches for it, but she weighs next to nothing. Fuck, she’s so thin… he’d just been too busy eyeing her up to realize exactly how thin. What a complete wanker.

It’s not difficult to unzip the suitcase with one hand and pass her the bottle. “Take this,” he urges, thrusting it into her hands. “Please, Ginny. You’ll feel—”

She’s already downed it before he gets to the end of the sentence. She tips her head back, drawing air into her lungs. “Thanks.” Her voice is still hoarse. Ragged.

“Shower, then,” he murmurs, walking her into the bathroom. He feels her start to relax against him, her body growing looser, as he opens the curtain and turns on the tap.

“Thanks,” she whispers again, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers itch with restraint; he’d do anything, he thinks, to hold her against him. To press a kiss to her temple. To tell her he loves her and that she’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sorry, so sorry, that any of this happened and—

She peers up at him, her eyes more focused now, less wide-eyed and horror-struck. “Would you stay here?” she asks, biting her lip. “While I shower? Just so I’m not—”

“‘Course.” Harry swallows, putting her on her feet. She lands with unintentional grace, one foot after the next.

“And can you… erm.” She turns her back to him, lifting her hair above her zipper. His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. He knows the exact shape of her back as he slides it down, over the middle bump of her white bra strap. He nearly unstraps that for her, too, before he catches himself. It reeks of intimacy, doesn’t it? All of this…

His eyes linger on the soft swell of her bum before he turns around, self-disgust hammering in his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds feebly. He balls his hands into fists as her dress hits the floor… followed by her bra. And her knickers.

“Not your fault,” she croaks, stepping into the shower. He smiles, his glasses fogging up as he moves to sit on the closed toilet seat. Even covered in blood and traumatized, she can't bring herself to blame him.

She finishes several minutes later.

“Erm… towel?” She shuts the water off. “Could you?”

“Sure,” he soothes, thrusting one through the curtain. “D’you want me to leave, or…?”

Ginny manages a weak snort. “Nah. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He chuckles at the door as he turns around again. She’s right, of course; he knows every bloody inch of her… but it’s not quite the same now.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whips around to face her. Admittedly, she looks… better. The blood’s gone. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from sobbing, but she’s looking a bit less like a woman who witnessed a death. Which reminds him…

“Erm. Give me a second to get it all cleaned up?”

Ginny shudders and settles on the toilet seat; he immediately kicks himself for asking. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “Just… come get me, ok? When you’re done?”

He nods.

___________________________

It can’t be later than 10 PM when he finally carries her to the bed, still wrapped in a towel.

He’s exhausted from the nights on the sofa, but he knows she’s worse off. He’s cleaned the bedroom fairly well, he thinks, considering. There’s a rust-colored stain above the closet that he reckons won’t go anywhere anytime soon. He just hopes she doesn’t see it.

He rests her on the duvet surface, fully prepared to head downstairs for the night— but the pleading look on her face informs him he’s got other plans, instead. So without sharing a single word, he spreads his palms, lies beside her, and waits.

It comes eventually, as he knew it would. One person can’t deal with all that, see all that, without eventually cracking. And as a fellow fucked-up individual, he would know.

It starts as simple tears, ones that he wipes away. It progresses into sobs… full-body sobs. The sort he heard coming up the stairs. He’s surprised she’s got any left, but Ginny’s always been the sort to keep him on his toes. And just as her water-dark hair starts to dry and sprout red tendrils, he faces the thing he expected least of all: a kiss.

She starts softly. Slowly. Her lips so tender and soft that he forgets everything. She moans against his mouth, her whole body leaning into it; he’s instantly reminded of how much he’s fucking missed her. How lonely he’s been. How could he have forgotten the tiny mewl she makes in the back of her throat as her tongue parts his lips? He must’ve blocked it out, he realizes, as she begins to slide her body against him, panting, as she tips her head back. His lips trail down her neck, nibbling and biting, as she grips his arms and hair and bum. Because if he’d remembered all of these little details, he’d have gone mad long ago.

He’s throbbing hard by the time he gets to the tail end of her towel, which brushes the tip of her thighs. He tries to adjust himself, to—

“You can take it out, you know.”

Oh. He blinks up at her, his breath freezing in his throat. She’s peering down at him, her lips red and swollen.

“I know you’re hard,” she adds, her voice still raw. “So if it’s uncomfortable… take it out.”

He arches a brow from his position at her thigh. He’s about to retort with something snappy. Something that might keep them bantering for ages. But Ginny has no patience.

“Please.” It’s nearly a command. She blinks down with glassy eyes, her lips swollen. “I want you, Harry.”

Fuck. He groans, rubbing his cock against his palm to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn’t help for long, not that it matters; he’d rather focus on her, anyway. So with a slip of his fingers, the towel opens. She releases a breathy moan, tipping her head back.

Naked.

She’s finally naked. In front of him. His breathing grows ragged, his eyes scanning the territory somehow both totally familiar and completely new. She is thinner; he was right. Her hip bones jut out now, her stomach more sunken. But most of her is the same. The smattering of freckles on her chest. The way her breasts have puckered and darkened, the way her chest is rising and falling so fast. The thatch of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Well,” she quips. He blinks up at her as she reclines on her elbow. “Are you going to fuck me, Harry, or just stare all day?”

With that, he removes his glasses and gives her a smirk— her only real warning— before he kisses her one more time, just as his fingers spread her thighs.

She opens beneath him with a breathy sigh. Fuck, she’s so wet… he groans into her mouth as he dips his fingers further and further down. She’s dripping by the time he finds her clit… by the time he begins to swirl in tight circles. Clockwise. The pattern that screams of such intimate familiarity that it’s as if the years never passed.

He’s scarcely done anything, but she’s already writhing against his fingers, arching her back. “Please,” she slurs after a minute, “put them in.”

He’s never been one to deny her, has he?

It’s like muscle memory how quickly he finds his face between her thighs instead. He spares a moment of self-indulgence as he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells like home. She always has. It’s comfort… but more than that, it’s proof. Proof she wants him as much as he wants her. It’s why he stuffed his face in her knickers whenever he got a spare moment on the Horcrux hunt: one hand on that black lace, the other pulling at his cock. It’s bloody erotic, seeing proof of how much she wants him… but it’s more than that.

It’s love.

And despite all the things he’s forgotten tonight, he’d never forget this. He presses two fingers inside her, his hands shaking, and lets his body do the rest. Fuck, he’s missed this. She cries out above him, her hands grasping at his hair, tugging him closer. He’s never forgotten this… the way she tastes. The way she smells. The right way to run his tongue against her clit. Exactly how many fingers she needs, pressed against her just there… crooked in a certain position… just as she begins to thrust herself up and down on them, her cries growing louder, more insistent… and yesssss, there it is, she’s right there, right fucking there—

“Harry!” Her hair rubs against the pillow with abandon. “I’m… I’m so close,” she pants, her body starting to shake.

“Come for me,” he commands, his cock fit to burst, his face slippery. “Come for me, Ginny.”

He returns to her clit for a split-second before she says the words that change everything.

Her whole body tenses, a blush spreading up her chest. “I love you!” she cries, her voice strangled… and with that, she’s coming, clenching around him, her body shaking as he rides her through it.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he comes, too. The second those words wash over him. Those fucking words that prove he’s fucked up, fucked up, fucked up… but he can’t exactly help that, can he?

He just shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting his hips once, twice, and with a grunt, he’s off. His cock tightens and bursts, filling his boxers. Soaking through his jeans. He pulls back, dizzy, when the clenching finally stops.

Luckily, she seems too distracted to notice. Ginny’s half-asleep as he rises from between her thighs, pulling the blanket over her. He presses a kiss to her temple and makes quick work of removing his soggy clothes. Fairly embarrassing, this. Like he’s 16 again and rutting on the lawn.

He mutters a quick cleaning charm and changes into basketball shorts before settling down beside her in bed… making sure he’s on top of the duvet.

But as he drifts off, there’s something far less sentimental that hammers through his chest: They need to get their shit sorted.

Before he ever, ever lets that happen again.

#harry/ginny fanfic #harry x ginny #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction

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sassooda · 3 years

Text

Worlds Away JJK AU / Chapter 58 - What We Wanted 🔞

w/c - 6,770

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER!?”, the only words to leave Naoya as he engages his projection technique, viciously storming towards Getou.

Suguru prepares himself for impact but that hardly helps lessen the pain. The wind stolen from his lungs, he rests into the jagged indentation where his body has been slammed into the wall.

“NAOYA!”, Elska cries with a broken heart after understanding that her prince is mistaking what actually occurred. Before she can continue with the pleas, Toji’s arms scoop her up and she’s being carried to the other side of the room. She thrashes around in his stern hold, “Toji! Please!! I have to stop them!”.

Her beloved huffs with an agitated expression, wanting to acknowledge her sincerity but also angered by how they were found. He sets her down in the farthest corner and negotiates, “Stay here doll, this is something he needs to do.”, referring to Naoya’s violent behavior. As soon as Toji turns around to assist his cousin, Elska is already trying to run past him so he grabs her wrist and traps her against his chest as she struggles against his sturdy arms and sobs. He lowers his head, not wanting to upset her but as the image of Suguru between her legs reappears, he squeezes her until she settles a little.

Naoya brings his arm back, “HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!?”, infusing the swing with his projection and connecting to Getou’s face. With rapid speed, he’s pummeling the dazed, half-naked Titer into the wall until he thinks Suguru is losing consciousness, which is when he stops. “No, you will endure this…”, he seethes with glowing eyes that reflect off of Getou’s skin. “I want you to feel it.”.

Suguru coughs some and smiles wickedly, a flare of inevitability ramping up his adrenaline. Without so much as an indication, he jerks his neck forward and headbutts Naoya harshly in the nose. He’s forced to immediately duck as the Zenin swings with energized fists and tucks his body to roll away from the wall, not wanting to remain cornered. He watches Naoya wipe the blood away, brutishly growling with sheer rage as their eyes lock. Being able to tell that he was about to use his projection again, Suguru licks his lips and taunts, “Such a sweet tasting pussy…”. His eyes angle with excitement as Naoya roars and charges at him, a maniacal laugh escaping as he engages his time dilation and enjoys the fulfillment of the Zenin’s stupor.

Naoya feels like he’s in slow motion again, so heavy and inefficient even as he tries to heighten his speed. ‘It’s like the day they attacked…’, he discerns, the frustration and hatred boiling over and seeping out of his pores. He roars again and perceives the arrogant expression on Getou’s face as the golden light travels over his body. ‘I’ll obliterate this fucker…’, he thinks as he attempts to focus enough energy for his scalar warfare technique.

“NAOYA PLEASE!!!”, Elska twists in Toji’s arms to see them but right as she does, she’s helplessly witnessing her prince being slammed into the ground by Getou’s gravity. Although she was wanting to save them both from this fight, the sight of Naoya being crushed triggers a menacing wave of energy from Elska and before she knows it, Toji and Suguru are being blown off of their feet. She turns to worriedly eye Toji, never in her life wanting to cause him harm but gathers he’s just feeling the disorienting affects the instinctual attack. “I’m sorry my beloved…”, she cries as she runs full force towards Naoya, dropping down beside him and looking over his wounds with tears in her eyes.

Suguru has difficulties getting to his feet, swaying as his disrupted equilibrium conveys the world is spinning. Using the small desk where his paint station is, he strains to steady his stance, noticing that Toji isn’t having much luck either across the room. His eyes fall to Elska though and how she’s frantically crying above Naoya who wears a beaten grin. It enrages him actually, how she can only seem to focus on the blonde when he suffers wounds too. With a furrowed brow he stumbles over towards them, eventually crawling until he’s beside her.

Toji is finally able to regain his composure, “Damn, I hate it when she does that…”, he chuckles to himself, shaking his head to fling off the effects. He hears Naoya growl so he darts his eyes over to him. What he finds is Suguru latching his lips to Elska’s, a clear method of creating insanity. With a grunt, Toji walks until his feet are running, his voice bellowing through the air as he launches over Elska and onto the Titer. “YOU’RE JUST GOING TO KEEP MAKING THIS WORSE, HUH?”, he questions as pins Suguru into the floor by the throat with his left hand and barrels down heavy fists with his right.

Naoya sits up and grabs Elska’s jaw, searching her eyes for residual repulsion from Getou’s kiss. All they communicate to him though is an apology, the very thought stinging his heart. “No baby…”, he whispers to her pulling her forehead against his own, “No.”. He keeps her there, propped into him until his vision darts to Suguru sending cursed energy into Toji’s bare chest. He snarls and goes to move but sees that although it may have hurt, Toji is not about to stopped so easily.

Elska reaches out towards her beloved but meets eyes with Suguru. Even through all of the chaos she swears he managed to wink, that or the blood from his split brow was obstructing the use of his eye. She holds her breath as he runs from Toji, putting his back against one of the giant marble slabs. “SUGU-…”, she tries to call out to him but Naoya’s hand is soon covering her mouth as he tries to force her to look away. A mere shriek leaves her as Toji swings. Getou managed to evade it but she feels a wave of terror as Toji’s punch decimates the upper half of the solid block. ‘He’s going to kill him!’.

Suguru falls to ground with shock in his eyes as he gathers had he not been so quick, that would have been it for him. Energy flies into Toji’s back and wings, knocking him to his knees which Getou is instantly scooting away from as he turns to see who would’ve helped him. His heart smiles when the bonds of loyalty shine, “Sain…”.

Naoya grabs Elska’s face, kissing her deeply before muttering, “Protect yourself princess…”. He balls up his fists and roars into the room, salivating at the massacre he has in mind. He half flies over to Sain, throwing him into the wall and sinking his fangs into the man’s neck so he could replenish his damaged body.

Sain yelps but is otherwise unable to fight off Naoya. With all of his might he repels the Zenin unsuccessfully and with this being the first time he was ever bitten, stammers while frozen with disbelief. Naoya is soon brought to the ground by Getou’s gravity but the move also makes Sain’s wounds much worse as the Zenin’s teeth sliced down his neck.

Toji sneaks up behind Suguru, bringing his hands together. “You piece of SHIT!”, he yells as he brings his cojoined fists down across the back of Getou’s neck. It does the trick, Naoya is soon alleviated of the extra pressure and Suguru falls to the floor unconscious. As he’s straddling over the Titer’s back to finish the job, Elska releases another sonic wave and screeches an unholy sound.

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“Brat! Wake up!”.

“Huh?”, Itadori blinks open his eyes, not recognizing his surroundings at first. He looks around the dark room with the hint of anxiety until his gaze lands on Choso. “That’s right…”, he quietly remembers, the previous events playing through his mind. He blushes and touches his lips after recalling how Sukuna fed Elska his blood. ‘NOBURA IS GOING TO KILL ME!’, he thinks with panic.

Sukuna, who has manifested on the side of Itadori’s face informs him, “There’s a fight somewhere below us, brat. Your friends are involved.”.

“OH SHIT!”, hollers Itadori as he jumps to his feet. Taking a moment to hone into the different energies, he discerns that Toji, Naoya, Elska and some others are going at it. A breeze whips across his abdomen where a huge section of his shirt is missing and raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, that silver cunt got me but I healed your body so it should be fine.”, Sukuna enlightens with urgency in his voice.

Itadori freezes in place as the walls shake and Elska’s presence can be detected surging, “EL!”. He turns to his sleeping brother, “You just wait here!” and heads for the door. As he opens it an ominous outpour of energy begins to exude from Choso, it being so creepy that Itadori immediately begins to sweat as he gulps down air and cautiously turns around. “Choso?”, he asks with a nervously high-pitched tone.

“Brat!”, Sukuna demands Yuiji’s attention but it’s as if the boy has been scared stiff.

Itadori’s feet start sluggishly backing him out of the door as he watches Choso sit straight up in the bed with deeply red luminescent eyes. He knows somethings off and questions, “Choso, wha…what is it?”, but squeaks as the being snarls ferociously while gathering to his knees. ‘Why is his energy like that?!’, he wonders internally, wincing as Choso calls for his wings and then positions himself as if he were about to start running a relay. “Ch…Choso?”.

“GET OUT OF HIS WAY!”, Sukuna hollers and just in time. No sooner than he said the words, Choso launches off of the bed and towards the open door. Itadori tumbles into the hallway, landing against the opposite wall and has to curl up and cover himself as debris falls down overtop of him from where Choso rammed it.

Choso merely looks down at Itadori with crazed eyes but as he’s lowering himself over the boy, Elska’s sonic wave shakes the walls again, giving the hybrid his purpose. “El…ska…”, he barbarically groans as he turns his head to the right and attempts flying through the hall.

Sukuna screams, “He’s going after the winged wench!”, trying to coach Itadori through the madness. “FOLLOW HIM!”.

Choso is already down the end of the hallway, banking another right and clipping his wings on various structures of the compound. “Holy shit!”, he cries out with unease as he gears himself to catch up. Luckily, Yuiji is substantially faster than your average human so after a strong start, he’s able to close the distance between them. As he progresses along the path though, Choso’s blood becomes evident as it’s smeared along the walls. “He’s hurting himself!”, Itadori gasps with horror as he runs over and past dark red feathers that are scattered across the floor. As he’s chasing his brother, Itadori’s attention is stolen upon seeing two Titers that are working on the walls, “GET AWAY!”, he warns with all of his vocal might. But he was too late.

Choso sends his fist through the chest of the man he reaches first and then swiftly grabs, rotates and breaks the neck of the other while roaring at the top of his lungs. He stands over the bodies for a moment, just staring at them but his mission to reach Elska consumes his mind once more.

“That’s it kid, let me handle this.”, is all Sukuna declares before taking over Itadori’s body. He winds up kneeling into the floor as the boy fights him for dominance so he announces, “I won’t kill him! I know he’s your brother!”. He’s met with relief as Itadori ultimately gives in, reassured by Sukuna’s words that harm won’t befall Choso. “Alright then…”, the curse confidently ensures, all of his eyes following the bloodied walls and feathers. He runs as fast as he can, narrowly maneuvering around the corners until he spots the hybrid once more. ‘We’re getting close…’, he thinks and in a noble attempt to warn the others he shouts, “WEEENNNNNNNCHH!”.

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Sain is still palming his neck as he scurries to reach Getou, “Master Suguru!”. He shakes his leader’s body until signs of him coming to surface. “We have to GO!”, he insists as Choso can be felt gaining on their location.

With wide eyes, Toji snaps his view to Elska and takes in how she’s stuck in place to the feeling of Choso’s arrival. “Shit…”, he grits he teeth as his own memories of waking berate his soul, knowing that it’s very possible Choso could treat her cruelly, “Not good…”. He sighs heavily through his nose and shouts for Naoya who’s picking himself off of the floor, “HE’S COMING!”.

Elska feels terrified as her imagination runs wild, brutal imagined scenes of Choso ravaging her eclipse her thoughts as she makes out the state of his energy. “Please…no…”, she whimpers as a tear falls from her face. His roars chill her blood, the absolute savage hunger communicated within his calls. She screams in fear momentarily but the room falls silent as Sukuna can be heard shouting, “WEEEENNNNNNNCH!”. Toji is soon standing in front of her, blocking her from the view of the door but she peeks around him with trembling lips. “OH MY GOD!”, she cries as she caught a glimpse of Sukuna flying into the hallway’s wall, dust clouding into the room from the newly powdered clay accumulating. She wants to stay in Toji’s protection but she also knows that they’re all in serious danger while Choso is in this state. She’s afraid to bond with the being as she doesn’t know what that will do to their dynamic but she’s also not about to let more bloodshed happen on her behalf. The courage she forms dissipates as she steps from behind Toji and her eyes befall upon the shadow of the growling hybrid as he eerily saunters through the doorway.

Naoya inhales sharply and whines quietly as his eyes find Elska, “Cho don’t do it!”, he begs with a broken voice. Still being rather injured, Naoya trips with his declined coordination and lands on his knees, the horror of his friend fucking his princess spiraling him into despair. His hands reach into his hair and pull on the strands as he’s not even gotten over finding Suguru on top of her, the maddening vice grip of his disgust for her being at their mercy causing his heart to writhe in despondence.

Sain falls silent as he places his palm firmly on Suguru’s chest to keep him down, “Don’t move…”, he advises while watching the situation unfold. He thinks back to Genghis’s explanation of the ritual performed once a turned awakens and wonders, ‘What happens if we’re all in here and not just the two of them?’, with a heavy heart as his gut tells him nothing good.

Elska watches hopelessly as Choso reacts to Naoya’s words and stampedes towards her prince. She’s completely mortified by how mangled the being’s dark crimson wings are, the tips rubbed raw to the bone from him scraping them against the walls. She feels Toji’s hand grab her wrist but as Naoya and Choso begin viciously fighting, she comes to terms with what she has to do. “CHOSO!”, she boldly shouts, “IT’S ME YOU WANT RIGHT?!”.

Choso receives a strong punch to the face from Naoya but it hardly seems to bother him as his breathing quickens and he finds her. “EL…SKA…”, he forces out in a starved tone. He opens his wings back up and pushes off the ground towards her but falls short and into the floor.

Sukuna sent his chains to capture the being mid-flight. “Why don’t you simmer down you freak…”, the curse taunts, impressed enough by himself for everyone as that was a close one. He wraps the chains around his wrists and yanks on them, dragging the fevered Choso along the hard floor, away from Elska. The hybrid jerks his head to face him though but Sukuna states, “Not so big and bad now, are we?”, but is soon eating his words when Choso shrieks into the air and sends electrifying destructive black energy through the chains and into Sukuna.

Toji rams himself into the chains will all of his strength to break the connection from Itadori’s body before too much was absorbed. The metal-linked attack disperses into smoke but he’s quick to raise his voice and demand, “BE CAREFUL WITH THE KID’S LIFE FUCKER!”, although he’s grateful for the curse’s desire to help.

Naoya takes a deep breath and resolves himself to have to fight his dear friend. “I won’t let any of you hurt her…”, he hisses rancorously while taking in how malicious Choso’s energy feels. He makes quick eyes with Getou though and clicks his tongue, “Neither of you…”. As he was about to engage his projection into the being, the breath is stolen from his body after watching Choso crash Elska over the table and into the wall.

Choso roars into Elska animalistically, looking down at the wounded girl that he’s restraining against the jagged and broken wall. She winces and cries to his force, embarrassed by what everyone is about to see as the obsession in the hybrid’s glowing eyes rise to new heights. She feels herself being flipped around, her chest and face now painfully trapped into the chunked-out wall. She shuts her eyes as Choso growls into her ear and he lifts her dress, all while thinking, “Forgive me my turned…”. She hears, “GET OFF OF HER!”, which unfastens her eyes as she wasn’t expecting the voice that said it.

Suguru grabs Choso by his black hair and tries to pull him off of Elska, fueled by the need to keep her safe from the being’s violence. When he doesn’t budge Getou scoffs and begins engaging his gravity but is caught off guard when Choso whips around with heated eyes and screams in a demonic voice, “SLEEP.”.

Elska uses her right arm to bring her from out of the crater in the wall to see what’s happening, her voice gone as she watches everyone but her and Choso collapse in the room. She forgets to breathe as she comprehends that he just knocked everyone into a REM stage at once. Suddenly her breaths are frequent, the cold fear clawing at her sanity as Choso turns back around to view her. “Cho-…”, she tries to say but she can’t as he slams her back into the wall by her throat, a pain shooting through her and she realizes she’s bleeding from her head.

Choso lifts her by her neck, inattentive to her kicking legs or scratching nails. A feral toothy grin expands across his expression as he licks his lips and scowls into her. The sight of her blood excites him so he’s quickly licking up the side of her cheek towards her hairline in order to experience her taste.

Elska tenses up as his tongue travels across her, still not feeling up to the task at hand. “Please…I’ll do what you want…just don’t make it hurt.”, she whimpers out in response to his intensity, her wondering if begging would really make a difference. As she closes her eyes again and turns her head away, she feels his wrenching grip around her throat loosen.

After partaking in her flavor, clarity releases through Choso and he understands what’s going on and who she is to him. He lowers her gently back to the ground and stoically grabs her chin to make her face his direction again. When she opens her eyes, his luminous ones shine off her complexion, the confusion on her face clear as day. He says nothing but holds her by the chin until he embraces her and puts their lips together.

Elska gasps to how differently he’s acting now, being made to accept his kiss. As his tongue pushes past her lips and sensually caresses her own, she can’t help but keep her eyes glued onto his. ‘What just happened?’, she asks herself as his right-hand tangles into her hair passionately, her stress somewhat alleviated as he tenderly washes his other palm over her body. Resting his nose on the side of her own, he brushes it back and forth, the action seeming almost romantic.

Choso picks Elska up and walks her over to the edge of the table with metal pedals sprawled about and sits her down. His fingers affectionately slide the straps of her dark grey slip down as he wedges himself between her thighs. A guttural groan leaves his lips as he looks over her exposed breasts and he loses his ability to be separated from her body. He pulls down the front of his sweatpants, showing an aching erection and pushes the tip into her mound, slightly frustrated that her dress is still in the way.

Elska remains stiff as Choso’s hands lift her slip and he pulls her closer to the edge of the table. She studies him in bewilderment as he’s clearly not himself but he’s also behaving differently than a newly turned should, ‘And he already understands how to use his wings…’, she dumbfoundedly asserts. He wraps one of his muscular arms around her back, his fingers splaying towards her neck as she comprehends that he’s trying to get her to rest her weight into it, quiet breaths fumbling from her mouth as he aligns himself to her.

Choso grabs her waist with his free hand and stares at her folds as he nudges through them, her yelping to his intrusion. He moans pleasantly as the instant relief begins nourishing his soul, his senses gradually seeping back into existence. He backs out of her and then sinks back in while observing her facial reactions, ease swarming him as her warmth embraces his length. His nuzzles into her cheek while he pushes himself in completely, anchoring there as she conforms around him.

Elska whimpers heatedly to his caution, her gratitude for his care bringing tears to well. She looks down at how their connected and her lips part lustfully as a wave of desire courses through her. ‘Why am I feeling this way?’, she asks herself as he incites a moan from her with his rolling hips. She clings to him desperately while a forgotten surge of salaciousness takes over her mind, the dreams she’d had of him flashing behind her eyes as he leans down to kiss her again.

Choso has become more vocal, his breathless moans entering her ear as he pants with a furrowed brow. “Elska…”. His endearing intentions spill over, his fingertips gripping into her back and neck as he guides his girth through her. She throws her up which makes him stare into her crook, him knowing that her essence is that of which he needs. While continuing to sensually rock his hips, he forms his fangs and punctures her, made restless by her sweet cries.

Elska’s eyes roll back as the Master’s Ecstasy floods her sensibilities. She cradles Choso’s head and whimpers to every sensation he’s making her feel. His thick girth stroking into her womanhood, his blissful fangs breaking her skin and the sound of his reprieve as he drinks throws her into a nature-based trance. Her voice is small but she praises, “Yes…”, while combing her fingers through his wavy black hair, “My hybrid…”. The words almost shock her though as she’s never referred to him as that while in this form but they felt so right to say. He whimpers in between gulps, making her toes curl and the way he exhales with concentration tickles her neck. “It’s ok…”, she coos when he begins to sniffle, “It’s not your fault…”.

Back to being fully aware, Choso opens his wet eyes to take in the scene. He remembers fighting with Naoya and using his improved sleep ability on everyone, he also recalls hurting Elska. He lifts his head from her neck, knowing to close the wounds without thought. His breaths are labored and he exerts them through an open mouth as he brings his view to be that of her once more.

Elska is easily able to detect the distress on his face and almost forgets that he was inside her as she brushes her thumb underneath his lid. With an angled brow, she grazes her fingertips over his lips, taking in how full and soft they really are. He opens his mouth as if to speak but nothing comes out so she lowers her hand cautiously, not having any words to share in this moment either.

He feels like his head is building up pressure, clutching at it and screaming in agony. Elska grabs his wrists and holds them while sympathetically explaining, “It’s only for a minute, you’re ok!”. She’s right, the excruciating pain is fleeting and while he’s recuperating from the strange sensation, she pulls him against her body while trailing her nails along his skin. He stays there like that with her for a bit, before bearing his weight on his own feet again.

They have this undisturbed moment of silence that creates the illusion of their solidarity. Elska is completely speechless to the awe his expression leaves her in, how he gazes upon her as if she’s precious. She’s a little thrown off by how his introduction to the sensory processing barely lasted unlike its effects on Toji and Naoya but she’s also glad he didn’t have to suffer. After he shifts his stance, she gasps to the way he rubs her walls and with no time to spare Choso is back to slowly motioning his hips.

He wraps his arm around her back again, leaning her at an angle over the table. “Master…”, he whispers, her moaning with volume and clenching him in reaction. His mouth travels to her breasts, his lips being just shy of reaching her nipples so he licks them instead. He listens to the wet sounds they create together from her arousal and shudders in place by the heavenly soaked cavern she keeps him in. His tongue now dampens her skin all the way to her jawline where he aggressively forces it into her mouth.

Choso’s rhythm increases and she melts in his hold to his skillful methods. ‘How is he this good? Why does it feel so…fucking…good?’, rampaging her brain in the few seconds she can utilize thought. His throbbing member sails through her now with ease, her mouth hanging open as he hovers over it, they’re teeth lightly colliding. She feels her body heating up, the billowing pheromones threatening to explode from within. “I’m going to-…”, she attempts to warn him but she stops when she hears him huffing it up already, the wide smile on his face informing her that he’s already aware.

When the wave ruptures through him, Choso whines salaciously. He picks her up off of the table and holds her chivalrously while they battle for each other’s air, them both desperately caught between breathing and the feeling of the other’s lips. He feels himself becoming enthralled with how they are, the excitement of finally being with her in the physical realm sending synapses through his brain. He backs her into the table again but turns her around and lifts one of her legs up onto it. The half lidded, flustered face she wears brings him to a smile, him feeling like all of the practice paid off as he’s clearly doing a good job. He looks down her entrances and gulps as he wishes to discover all of her true flavors.

Elska’s back arches when Choso dives his head down. Her fingers fold around the far table’s edge as he spreads her apart and licks everything. She gasps into a squeal as he moans his approval for this position, her being far beyond surprised that he’s as good as her dreams indicated. “Oh fuck…”, she whimpers when he buries his face further like a starved animal, her trying to control the volume of her pleasures. She sees her breath fogging the laminated table top, shamelessly becoming overrun by his teasing methods. He sticks his tongue into her while massaging her second entrance and her eyes shoot open wide as she lifts and twists her neck to see him.

With a glistened face Choso meets her gaze and plainly says, “You taught me everything you liked, or do you still not remember?”. He sees the confusion in her eyes, so he stands back up, pressing against her and motioning himself in a way that rubs Elska with his length. His left arm snakes around her chest to hold her throat, “You will soon. You won’t be wearing the blindfold anymore…”, he utters while slowly squeezing. She bites her lip with a flushed face, the look filling him with pride. “Just trust me…”, he says as he ghosts his lips over her eye and cheek, “This is what we wanted…”.

Elska tries to throw her head back when he enters her again but she’s sustained in this same position from the way he has her situated. He pulls back on her so that his chin rests over her shoulder while he splits her from behind, quietly moaning, “Yeah? That’s one of the spots…”, stretching and hooking his index finger into her mouth. His hips are soon slapping against her rear, the sounds of her cries echoing through the large room, the very indication of her pleasure structuring him with certainty. “I’ve been waiting for this, Elska…”, he moans into her ear, him hissing when she contracts around him again.

She’s limp to the extent that his thrusts reverberate through her, the wildness of her contorting only lessened when he slows down and coasts his girth teasingly. She sucks on his finger submissively, the thoughts of how wrong this scenario is eluding her consciousness altogether. She soon feels his thumb prodding at her second entrance but she doesn’t fight it as this new version of Choso rocks her very existence. Her brow furrows when he breaches her, the combined sensations of everything he’s doing liquifying her structure.

He pulls away, biting his lip while perceiving this visual for their first time as his awakened self. There’s not a spot on her he doesn’t want to touch, an inch of her he doesn’t want to feel. He turns her head so their lips can meet again, him moaning when they do.

Suguru opens his heavy eyes, unable to move or even collect on what’s happening around him. He hears evidence of sexual behavior and grins to his memory of Elska, the deed that has earned him a much-needed trip to the healer. Upon becoming more alert, he determines that it’s her voice though, prompting him to recall Choso entering the equation. The disposal he feels by not being able to move his body causes him to panic but with maximum effort he’s able to rotate his neck to the other side. ‘What the fuck?!’, he screams internally as his eyes betray him with the scene of Choso making love to Elska. He tries to thrash around but metaphorically sinks to his disposition and is instead forced to watch their passion as it continues to unfurl.

Choso refastens his fingers around Elska’s throat and with a rousingly familiar air, asks her, “Are you going to cum for me Elska?”, jutting his length into her fully and holding it there while she squirms. Him simply questioning her so lewdly makes her heart flutter wildly, the desire she has to do exactly that heating her entire body. “Ye…Yes!”, she quivers out as if his words alone contracted her release. His hand leaves her neck and grabs at her bouncing breasts while his lips rest against her temple. She’s in pure disbelief as he’s still maneuvering himself in ways to treat her holes with the perfect remedy, her weight collapsing into his arm as she spasms around him.

He slaps her ass and grips it fiercely as she unravels, stroking himself within her folds with furrowed brow, “Just like before…”, he coos with a devious smirk, planting a kiss on her lips. His fangs form by themselves and he thinks to drink her while he finds his own high, the idea of filling her making him feel cemented into her life. She’s so wet that he nearly slips out of her while plummeting his hips against her supple skin, “Master…”, he whispers into a whine as he feels the staggering coil in his testicles snap.

Elska feels his seed roping inside of her, his vocal cries of satisfaction dancing in her eardrum. When he rests his chest against her back, the sticky proof of their insane experience adheres to her skin, her hands blanketing over his own as he heaves breathlessly next to her. She wonders why he has yet to move but he’s soon telling her, “I love our bond, I’ve loved every minute of it.”, her realizing that he’s speaking of what she did to him, how her other self manipulated him. The gravity of her guilt weighs heavily but its as if he was able to tell because now he’s wrapping his arms around her, the action giving her security.

“Please, do not shy away from me…I’m happy with what we’ve become…”, he tells her sincerely. He backs out of her reluctantly, wanting to live his life out inside of her before lowering her leg back to the floor. She’s not looking at him, which breaks his heart as he’s already decided that he’ll do what he has to in order to keep them on this level of intimacy. He lifts her chin to face him while searching her eyes for the indication that he did something wrong and tears begin to flow from her glowing orbs. “Shhh…”, he soothes, looking over and seeing Naoya and Toji passed out on the floor. That part worries him as well, ‘How do I explain myself to them?’, creeps from the darkest parts of him mind. He looks back down to Elska, lifting the straps of her slip to hang from her shoulders once more but not being able to stop himself from engulfing her left clothed breast into his mouth.

Elska rests her hand in Choso’s hair as he dampens her slip with his arousing impulse. She’s closely attuning her eyes to all of his mannerisms, beside herself with how much she thoroughly loves it. She thinks about how much has occurred while they’ve been at the Titer compound, how she’s longs to go home and escape this place that has seemingly thrown everyone she cares for into disaster. She’s taken out of her thoughts as Choso lifts his head and glares menacingly past her head, her eyes scanning to follow and discover why.

Suguru rolls over to his side, straining to fight off the dizzying effects of Choso’s sleep enforcement. He figures he’s the only one still awake because of his clan’s metaphysical capabilities and notices that Sain seems to be somewhat conscious as well. Getou’s dark hateful eyes hone into Choso’s, “You are not good for her!”, he struggles out, having the knowledge of what terrible outcomes await them all if she’s not careful.

Elska’s heart drops as she wonders how long Suguru was observing them for, completely plunged into revulsion for herself, her actions, her truths. Choso growls in front of her and she can sense his presence picking up. Fearing another brawl will ensue, she thinks quickly, cups his face and holds it while his eyes switch and soften for her.

Choso rests his face into her palm, sighing happily to the fact she chose to give attention to him. “Can you call me by nickname again?”, he sweetly asks, “The one that only works for me?”. He ignores Getou’s grunts of annoyance at this time, completely swept away as he replays her voice saying it in his mind from their dreams.

“Wait…huh?”, Elska dips her head back with muddle, “What do you mean?”. He smiles into her hand, kissing it before sloping his face down to hers, with an adorning expression. Almost inaudibly, he whispers it into her ear, landing his lips on her lobe, then her neck as he gives her time to understand.

Elska giggles lightly to the way he’s tickling her but asks with gawking look, “You actually like that?”, becoming smitten when he bashfully nods yes.

“But only from you…”, he winks and kisses the tip of her nose, embracing her again as he cannot bring himself to leave her alone. Even before he was being tutored by her other form, he recalls always feeling acknowledged by her. The very long and interesting path that led the to this point now is unlike anything he’s ever experienced in all his time on this earth and he vows to make sure he never loses it. As his view becomes of Suguru who’s still lying on the ground, he smirks devilishly with superiority. After everything the Titer did to try and stop them from coming together, Choso’s reinforced by the fact that they beat all of the odds.

Elska wraps her arms around him too, grazing over his beautiful maroon feathers, feeling uplifted by how his feelings for her were able to reach him when he was in a frenzied state. She silently shakes her head against his chest, breathing in his natural scent and being thankful that it didn’t turn out like she expected. She doesn’t know what will happen next, how of all people, she’s worried about Naoya the most upon noting how adamant he was about keeping Choso away earlier. “My hybrid?”, she asks while raising her head to see him.

Choso feels his mutilated wings flutter when she says it, her snickering to the way he reacts. He smiles into her lips and hums, “Hmmm?”, playfully pulling at her hips and swinging them both together in unison. He’s so elated, feeling the reciprocation of affection after spending what felt like an eternity wandering realms fearing she wouldn’t have the room in her heart when it was all said and done.

She takes a deep breath but sighs, “You need to be mindful of Naoya’s feelings, he’s very important to me and I’ve already hurt him enough.”. She brushes her thumb over his cheek and continues, “I think Toji is more understanding but please be considerate as this may be difficult for them…”.

Suguru bursts into wicked condescending laughter, ending it with, “The one you need to worry about is Satoru Gojo.”.

Elska breath becomes hitched as she recognizes that tone from Getou and becomes severely displaced upon hearing it again, ‘He laughed the same way when he took my wing…’. She knows he’s right though and refrains from sharing her displeasure as she probably deserved this to hear and feel that, considering.

Choso stiffens up to the mention of Gojo and does a double take around the room, “Where is he by the way?”, only now realizing he’s no where in sight. ‘Did he leave the compound?’.

Elska scrunches her face in a hesitant way and admits, “I…kind of turned him too…”, not looking forward to suffering more resistance on the matter. To her surprise Choso bounces his head as if he understands and then shrugs it off. She begins to question his reasoning but he beats her to it.

“I have my issues with him but I’ve grown to learn that he truly loves you Elska. If he is to be like the rest of us, so be it.”. Her eyes light up, him swooning all over again as he’s glad it brought her some peace. He rubs his hands along her arms, adoring the way her actual flesh feels against his own.

“When he wakes, he will destroy everything.”, Getou scoffs and shifts his eyes to Elska. His heart bleeds tormentedly as he wishes she would only see him in the same light, his confidence shattered after witnessing her and Choso. His efforts to always protect Choso, even when he became a traitor sear his veins. Although he still wishes no harm to come to the being, he can’t ignore his abhorrence Choso’s new behavior, how smooth, obsessed and charismatic he’s become. ‘Just like her dream…’.

Choso laughs quietly but stares into Elska, lifting her fingers to his lips before simmering, “It would be wise to not underestimate me now…”.

((Thank you for reading and a special thanks to @syynnaaah for helping me with motivation to execute this chapter tonight. I hope yall enjoy!))

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Tagging : @angelofthorr @syynnaaah @itstackytime @animemenrbettr

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aimeelouart · 4 years

Text

Repurposing a bit of server freewriting for part 2 of purring!Cloud (Saving Subject C AU). Lil’ bit of whump, lil’ bit of hurt/comfort, and lovely fluffy cuddles

Also doubles as a preview if we end up going in a certain direction, but tbh I doubt it. Either way, spoiler free.

Cloud held pressure across his stomach, grimacing as the pain came and went in throbbing waves. He’d already pulled the shrapnel out so his body wouldn’t seal around it. Now it was just a matter of staying still and keeping pressure on until it closed enough for him to safely move.

His chest was doing the fucking thing (he refused to put a name to it) but he couldn’t make it stop, which didn’t make any sense. Didn’t cats only...do the thing when they were happy? Why was it happening to him now?

Fuck, at least the SOLDIERs weren’t around to hear it.

“Cloud!”

The call was still fairly distant. Cloud loosed an involuntary, irritated grunt at the sound. Shit, they were persistent. Maybe that wasn’t surprising. He had run off and destroyed Shinra property at the first available opportunity. With any luck, his hiding space would work until the hole in his side closed and he could make a proper escape. It didn’t have to be long. Just...long enough.

Gaia, he was starting to feel lightheaded. He cracked an eye open and checked the size of the blood puddle spreading from his side. It was much wider than he’d hoped. He might be in more trouble than he thought.

“There you are.”

Cloud breathed out a heartfelt “fuck” as Sephiroth’s voice reached him. Grimacing, he tilted his head enough to see the silver-haired demon kneeling and peering into the dark space beneath the broken lift Cloud was using for cover. He snarled at the man, but it was half-hearted at best. Even if he somehow found the strength to take up his commandeered knives again, he was too weak to run, never mind fight.

He’d miscalculated, and how he was going to pay for it.

But…

But.

Sephiroth didn’t sound angry when he dropped down onto his stomach and slid as far into the narrow space as he could. “Cloud, where are you hurt?” He sounded…concerned, alarmed, maybe even a little bit…afraid? “Cloud?”

“Fuck off,” Cloud slurred, confused. His sight was starting to gray a little bit around the edges. A real pang of concern shot through him. Had he missed an exit wound?

Sephiroth snorted a little, disbelieving. “Even when you are bleeding out, you still…” He reached, but even his long arm wasn’t quite enough to snag Cloud’s shirt. “Cloud, can you move toward me? Just a little bit.”

He hunkered down into himself, trying to apply more pressure. The pain was fading, and he still couldn’t make the stupid rumbling stop. “No.”

“I can’t help you unless you move a little bit, Cloud.”

“Fuck off,” he repeated, eyes starting to slide shut.

Another voice. “Seph?”

“He’s here. I can’t reach him.”

Cloud’s eyes shut all the way.

“Let me try. Here, Angeal, take my coat for a second.”

The voices were starting to sound like they were coming from underwater. Cloud felt, distantly, that this was definitely the point at which he should have been outright alarmed. He’d missed something. Probably an exit wound on his back, based on the blood loss. He’d be fine, even if they left him where he was, but they weren’t going to do that. He wished he had the strength to grab one of his knives.

“Cloud, sweetheart, can you say something?”

He found the will to say “fuck off” a third time. It sounded like “f’k ov.”

Genesis—that was Genesis—snorted. “Okay. Okay, I’ve…” Fingers snagged the edge of his sleeve. “…got you! I’ve got you, come on.” He pulled, sliding Cloud across the blood-slicked ground until he could grab an arm, and then Cloud was dragged from the safety of his hiding space and out into the light. Alarms were still going off in the distance. He smirked weakly.

“Shit, kiddo,” someone breathed as he was rolled onto his back. He couldn’t quite find the strength to keep his hand over the wound and it fell limply to the ground. “Did you⁠—is this a shrapnel wound? Cloud, did you pull it out?”

Duh, he thought, unable to articulate his disdain.

“Later, Genesis,” someone else said. Large, strong hands provided the compression Cloud wasn’t able to any more.

“I need to see his back. Get the shirt off.”

His shirt was cut off as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was shifted, then propped up across someone as two more hands pressed down on either side of his torso. Magic flooded his body, sealing the path carved through his flesh. The gray retreated a little as another flood of magical energy compensated for his blood loss until his body could make up the difference.

And, finally, the stupid purring stopped. He really, really hated that it seemed to be involuntary.

Cloud was shifted again, wrapped up in something primarily leather and then picked up like a swaddled infant. Fucking rude, he thought, struggling to drag his leaden eyelids up. A vaguely silver blur hovered above his face. He tried to object, but what came out of his mouth was closer to a grumpy kitten growl than articulated displeasure.

“Hush,” someone said. It might have been the silver blur. A water bottle was pressed against his lips and since he wasn’t completely self destructive, he drank.

“Little idiot. What was your plan, hmm? To bleed out under there?”

That was probably Genesis. Out of pure spite, Cloud managed to spit out a “yeah” in response.

A frustrated noise. A tired sigh. A rumbling, half-stifled laugh against his ear.

“Stop antagonizing him,” someone said. A hand passed over his face, brushing his staggering eyelids down. Tired, he let them stay closed. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about appropriate responses to severe bodily harm later.”

And Cloud was...increasingly confused. It was hard to think, drained and cold and barely hanging on to consciousness, but none of this was what should have been happening. They were threatening...scoldings? No one was angry. He’d destroyed a massive amount of Shinra property, practically spat in their faces, and somehow no one was angry.

He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill.

Cloud’s little stunt had scared the hell out of them. It wasn’t that they didn’t care that he’d demolished Shinra property and made their job fending off the Turks much, much more difficult—they did—but when they’d started searching, they really had thought it would be a tiny, lifeless body they found. Any anger and frustration they might have felt paled in comparison to the sheer relief of finding him alive.

Sephiroth was the one watching him (hiding him, more or less), while Genesis and Angeal dealt with getting all of them back to the Tower in one piece. It wasn’t going to be easy, but Cloud was so little and this event just reinforced the fact that only SOLDIERs had any hope of containing him. Hopefully that would bolster their argument rather than encourage Science to get involved, because...well, forget what he and Genesis and Angeal would do to save the kid, Cloud himself would rip the whole department to shreds using only his teeth if they even tried to take him.

On some distant level, Sephiroth wondered how Cloud had managed to ensnare the three of them (and more SOLDIERs besides) so quickly. Or at all. Sephiroth wasn’t supposed to have a heart. He was supposed to be the pure paragon of SOLDIER, a soulless weapon forged only to mete out death. But here he was, holding a child safe in his arms and feeling his breath stutter every time he wondered what it would have been like to find a cold, unmoving body beneath that broken equipment.

Cloud was asleep, face milk-pale where it rested against the dark leather of his coat. He had proper blankets now, and Sephiroth’s own body heat besides. Angeal had been very clear about that—Cloud was not to be without a heat source until he was no longer anemic.

Not that Sephiroth would have willingly put him down. He found himself oddly agitated at the thought of not being able to feel the boy’s heartbeat beneath his palm. And, more than that...he felt unwilling to give up the strange, powerful contentment he felt just having Cloud safe in his arms.

“Seph?”

He startled a little, moving his eyes from Cloud’s face to find Genesis standing with one hand on the door frame, watching them with an unreadable expression. “...yes?” Sephiroth responded when Genesis didn’t continue. He realized that he had been shifting back and forth from foot to foot without noticing. When had that started?

“...you’re purring.”

What? He stopped—he stopped breathing entirely, actually. They’d told him about Cloud’s near-violent reaction to his own purring weeks before, but only now did he really understand. Because humans weren’t meant to be able to do that.

“Hey,” Genesis said quickly, crossing over to touch his arm, “stop. I know what you’re thinking.” His eyes were unusually gentle, maybe because he was riding the same relieved high Sephiroth was. “But...aren’t you glad Cloud isn’t alone?”

Aren’t you glad you’re not alone?

And he...was. He really was, once the thought was put to words. Cloud had been frightened by his own body and abilities, but he didn’t need to be anymore. Not when Sephiroth was with him. Neither of them were alone.

The rumbling started back up. He thoughtlessly leaned his head down and pressed his cheek to Cloud’s damp, unruly hair. The boy smelled like mako and blood and explosives. Sephiroth didn’t mind at all.

Genesis huffed a laugh, but it choked a little, and Sephiroth cracked an eye open inquisitively. “You’ve...you’ve never been injured enough or happy enough to do this before, have you?” he asked.

Oh. Was that it? He thought it might have been in response to Cloud, somehow, but...he really hadn’t ever felt such powerful relief and contentment until today, had he? Objectively, that was probably sad—that’s what Genesis’s expression was telling him. He didn’t much care though. There were more important things to think about.

So he just hummed noncommittally and gathered Cloud a little closer, shutting his eyes again. When Genesis huffed a second laugh, it was much lighter.

“So,” Genesis said, nudging him, “when is it my turn to play space heater?”

Sephiroth growled.

#Tumblr exclusive writing #Saving Subject C #ff7 #Cloud Strife #Sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #aimeelouwrites #SSC Purring Saga

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