#because I have low self-esteem but even I have a limit

[allagogtoreblog]

With the over abundance of toxic/bully characterizations that seem to be prevalent on x reader tumblr lately, I just have two questions for you guys:

[xhoneygirlxx]

We’re Not Friends

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

summary: Eddie is just trying to help when he offers to be your date to your sister's wedding, but with all the love in the air will you and Eddie be able to stay friends?

warnings: lots of angst. reader's family sucks. reader's mom makes a comment about her weight. anxiety attacks. reader has low self esteem. fluff. best friends to lovers. fake dating. modern au. (this is titled after an Ed Sheeran song and I also use another one of his songs in the fic, sue me). slight smut. allusions to sex. alcohol consumption. swearing. minors dni!!!!!!!!!! reader and Eddie are both in their 20's. no y/n used, reader is referred to as Birdie. skin color/ethnicity/body type is not mentioned. spelling errors/shitting writing, just pretend you don't notice lmao. also the venue is completely made up and so is the location if you couldn’t tell, im not that creative.

*if I miss anything plz lmk*

a/n: hi my loves!!!! this is one of the last fics on my birthday fic list!!! I want to thank all of you for being patient and being so so supportive of my work. I love you all so much!!! also I do go back to work on Monday so I'm going to try to get as many fics pumped out by the end of the weekend.

And that's why friends should sleep in other beds

And friends shouldn't kiss me like you do

And I know that there's a limit to everything

But my friends won't love me like you do

The turning color of the leaves create the prettiest backdrop, tall trees blooming with orange, red, and a pinch of brown. The ones that have already fallen to the ground get swept up under the wheels of Eddie's car, lifting up and swirling around in a pretty dance, and falling right back into place waiting for the next car.

Although the crisp fall morning is peaceful you can't help but feel like you're living a nightmare. As he soft hum of Eddie's playlist flows through the speakers, you're coming up with a plan to turn the whole car around.

So far you thought about faking an illness, one that would stop the whole journey in it's tracks, only to dismiss it because you couldn't put your best friend through that stress. The idea of pulling the steering wheel also came to mind but you quickly threw that out of the window, not wanting to cause injury to the innocent man next to you or anyone else. Your final idea was one you're sure you could pull off as long as you used all the power within your being. If you pushed your feet on the floorboard hard enough, you could poke them out like the Flintstones and stop the car that way.

Between science and logic, you knew that wasn't possible no matter how hard you wished it would. Instead you'll stare out the window, watching all the pretty trees dance in the wind while you push down the rising anxiety that's forming in the pit of your stomach.

"You good over there, Birdie?" The deep voice next to you shakes you from your thoughts.

Turning your head Eddie's already looking at you with a lopsided grin. His demeanor matches the landscape outside, relaxed and serene. As you look at him you wish you could trade places, be as pleasant as he is.

"Yeah I'm just tired." Trying to sell him your answer, you smile lazily at him even though your response holds more tension than a game of tug of war.

Turning his attention back on the road, you watch as the pavement moves on the darkened lenses of his sunglasses. Eddie looks pretty like this, even though you always thinks he looks pretty. Usually he would be a grump having to be up this early, but today he wears his smile like a badge of honor. The dark curls of his hair cascade down his back, while some falls over his shoulders.

He's wearing the same red and black checkered flannel he always does this time of year, the same one you said was your favorite three years ago and it still holds that title. Underneath is a plain black tee shirt, the only one he has that's free of any band name, and a dark blue pair of jeans that have no holes.

He's still the same Eddie, his rings still sit on his fingers and his pick still hangs from the chain around his neck, but it seems that he only gets prettier and prettier as time passes by - like the turning leaves that still hang on the branches of the trees that you drive by.

"I think you're worried about this whole wedding thing," His voice is unwavering, screaming "I'm right" like it always does. "I don't get what's so bad about an open bar and free food."

Although his point is valid, Eddie couldn't be more wrong than that. This wasn't just an event to get drunk for free and stuffed to the gills at no charge. This was your older sister's wedding, the same sister that was the apple of your parents' eyes. Veronica was your arch nemesis since birth, a rival that you had no option but to defeat in order to survive.

You were the outcast of the family, the black sheep if you will, and you had to endure eighteen years of nonstop torture because of it. Your parents, Christine and Tim, were nothing but successful. The doctor and his trophy wife, the star couple in your small community, that had two beautiful and healthy children.

However you were the hardheaded child, the daughter that didn't have a bright future, you didn't carry as much promise as Vee, and your parents made sure to remind you of that every day. So when you moved out three years ago, you made sure to distance yourself as much as you could. But when you received a pristine white envelope with a glamorous invite on the inside, you were roped right back into the hell hole you worked so hard to leave behind.

You could've just ignore it, faked that you were on a trip and couldn't make it but your mother pretty much threatened you into showing up. So that's how you ended up in the countryside right outside of Chicago, driving in Eddie's Toyota Corolla to the Jefferson Manner on a Friday at eight am.

"You're right, Eddie, I should be so thrilled by that. Thank you so much for pointing it out to me." It's snippy with a hint of malice, and your eye roll held enough venom to injure an army of men.

Whistling loudly, Eddie chuckles lightly. "Woah, killer. Relax, I was just tryna help." He's still soft despite your outburst, sweet like your pumpkin spice latte that sits in the cupholder.

Hanging your head, you inhale a deep breath and release it slowly. "I'm sorry, Eds. I just really fucking hate my family."

He switches his attention from you and the road, taking in your saddened features. Reaching his right hand over the console, he places his hand searches for yours and laces his fingers through yours, which you gladly except.

"Don't apologize for that, kay? That's a valid reason for you to not want to go, I was just trying to make you laugh." The sincerity in his voice wraps around you, easing the nerves that go haywire in your body.

His palm is warm like the coffee cups that sit in the cup holders, his voice is as calming as the trees in the wind, and his smile is just as pretty as it was the first day you met him. You're safe with him, the safest you've ever been in your life, and here in the front seat of his car he reminds you of that.

"They just make me crazy, s'why I don't like seeing them." You feel shy being vulnerable, refusing to meet his gaze by focusing on tracing the back of his hand with your free one.

Eddie doesn't mind, instead he reassures you with a quick squeeze of your hand. "If it makes you feel any better, Birdie, I like you a little crazy."

Dimples deep as the sea and smile still as delicate as a flower's pedal, Eddie looks like a painting that hangs in the Louvre. You want to capture this moment of him to have for the rest of your life, so no matter what you can always remember him just like this.

"You say that now." You tease and he eats it right up.

Looking back over to you, he shines his smile onto you, filling you up with the light of a million stars. "And I'll say it till the end of time." There's no tease to it, nothing but truth in the way he says it.

It turns you into jelly, the feelings that swim through your blood stream, and now you've become too sheepish to answer. You decided to trust your touch over your words, squeezing his hand the same way he did to yours, trying your best to communicate the feelings you hold secretly in your heart for your best friend.

The cobblestone driveway leading to the entrance of Jefferson Manner is, for a lack of a better word, beautiful. It is a straight drive to the property, but once you get closer, a large fountain sits in the middle where the arch of the circle driveway starts.

Different colored cars are already lined up, some you recognize and the rest you have no clue who they belong to. Either way it's pretty evident that Eddie 2018 Toyota sticks out like a sore thumb.

The same dread that you left 45 miles back, is now running through you again. Unintentionally, you squeeze his hand harder as your heart begins to pound in your ear and if it hurts him he doesn't mention it. Instead, Eddie gives you one, two, three squeezes and then lets you continue your attempt to stop the blood flow to his hand.

Pulling behind the Mercedes Benz S Class, he puts his car into park and then shuts the car off. Reading your expression the way he always does, he sits in the silence of the car with you until your features loosen up.

"You okay, Birdie?" Even though he knows you're not okay, you still appreciate him asking anyway.

Breathe in. This is temporary. Breathe out. This is not forever. Breathe in. I am safe. Breathe out. I am here.

You repeat this to yourself a few times, eyes clamped shut as you focus on your breathing pattern. Once your head is above water and your heart stops racing, you open your eyes back up to the real world.

Relaxing your shoulders, you let go of the grip you're holding Eddie's hand in. "I'm okay. I'll be okay." Despite answering him, it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself of what you're saying.

Another brief pause goes by and Eddie continues to monitor you, sunglasses now removed so not only can he see you but you can see him.

Your gaze is unwavering, the thousand yard stare has fallen over you and you have yet to dig out of it. "Are you prepared for what we're about to walk into?"

The tone of your voice scares Eddie, the emotion being sucked right out of the words that you speak despite the feelings that battle in your mind that he doesn't know about.

"Honey, I'm prepared for anything as long as I have you." For a split second he winces, wondering if that was too cringy but when your face breaks out into a sweet smile he feels better.

The two of you get out of the car, retrieving your suitcases and dress bags from the trunk. When the door shuts you begin to count the steps it takes to get to the big wooden doors of the mansion.

You don't have to ask Eddie for his hand, he's already giving it to you and you gladly except it, gripping on for dear life the closer you get. Despite the beautiful landscape and the soothing sound of the running fountain, you feel like this is the soundtrack that plays before your imminent death.

The tall, thick, wooden doors sit menacingly in front of you, the skeletons of your past standing just right behind it waiting for your arrival. The ghosts that have haunted your dreams, the graveyard of your history, and the phantoms of your family, mingle and laugh right behind this door.

Eddie waits for you, not moving a muscle until you say so, and you silently thank him with a smile. Like a switch, he watches your face change from flight to fight mode. In a flash your looking over your outfit, brushing down the long black sleeved shirt that sits on your torso, and then straightening out the jeans that stick to your legs.

Your hair is the next thing you frantically fix, pushing it behind your ears and out of your face, letting it fall over your shoulders while doing so. Like a buzzing bee, you zone in on Eddie, fixing the collar of his flannel and then smoothing the material of his shirt. With out speaking, you pick off a singular piece of fuzz from his pants and then let it blow away in the wind.

Moving your hands back up to his chest, you center the pick on his chain. Then move his hair, fixing the ringlets that got blown around in the breeze. Once your satisfied, you move back to your spot next to him and sweep his hand right back into your hold. Releasing on more deep breath, you settle your pinched eyebrows and your determined eyes, and let the worst fake smile settle onto your lips.

The smile doesn't reach your eyes the way it usually does, your teeth push against one another so forcibly Eddie wonders if you'll shatter teeth, and you simply look like your in pain. Either way, you push open the big oak door and let yourself inside with him following right behind.

The lobby of the manner is everything you expected, high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and every single family member of yours gathered around sipping champagne and speaking to each other like a potential client.

Even though it's magnificent inside with the beautiful décor and lively plants, the sight of everyone in their gaudy outfits and cheap laughter makes it feel like an eternal hell.

Eddie must feel the way your shoulders tense because he's quickly leaning into you, his voice just a whisper in the shell of your ear.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay. You have me and I won't let anything happen." He reminds you, his smile is more sympathetic than anything.

Nodding your head you remain smiling, it's awful and it hurts even doing it but if you want to survive the whirlpool of piranhas, then you just have to fake it until you make it.

"If it isn't our lovely Birdie!" The sound of your mother's voice is like silk, smooth and confident, just like she always was. Walking over to you, she holds a champagne flute in her hand and you wonder how much the bubbling spritz cost your father.

The last time you've seen her was last winter, her million dollar smile outshining the Swarovski crystal tree decorations that sit behind her. Your mother has always been beautiful but her insides are rotten, ugly and maggot infested, all hidden behind the mask that she put on for everyone to see.

You gave up a long time ago trying to figure out her brain, finally accepting defeat to the maze that was her mind. Now when you look at your mother all you see is a shell, a hallow covering that has nothing to offer you other than it's pretty design.

Pulling you into a hug, you're hit with her scent. She smells like Dior and cashmere, the Chanel outfit that sits on her body scratches your skin, and the pearl necklace she wears jabs you right in your collarbone.

"Hello mother, thank you for inviting me to such a wonder occasion." You instantly revert back to your old accent, the same one your mother instilled into you from the time you could even under stand the English language.

A faux laugh comes from her bright red lips, "No need for that, darling, you're always welcome." Her manicured hand waves at you in fake genuineness.

The smile on your face continues to show and you hate to think it matches hers. Even with the sweet tone you use and the gentleness of your actions, the blood that runs through your body continues to boil the longer she stands there.

Eddie on the other hand stands next to you completely and utterly amused by your fake performance. The snort he lets out when you continue to use your "eloquent" voice is quickly covered up by a sniffle.

Like a vulture, your mother's eyes are quick to zero in on the curly haired man next to you. "Excuse my daughter for her bad manner of not introducing us, I'm Christine."

The minute her hand reaches out for a handshake, you're heart stops. This is the one thing that could make or break this whole trip and it was the only thing you didn't prepare your best friend for. Many years of your life, you were trained that a handshake is all it takes for someone to learn about you.

Without skipping a beat, Eddie simply picks embraces her hand like a prince out of a Disney movie and places a kiss to the back of her unwrinkled hand.

"What a pleasure to meet you, Christine, I'm Eddie. And might I say how beautiful you are."

He's all dimples and doe eyes staring at your mother, a true prince charming in his red flannel and jeans. His voice is like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold day, it's smooth going down your throat and it warms your belly better than any blanket can.

That warmth is now tingling your body, a frenzy of butterflies flapping around in the walls of your heart. It clearly works on your mother as well but unlike you she doesn't hide it very well.

"You're really the charmer, Eddie." It's flirtatious and alluring, the same voice she put on for every pool boy your father ever hired.

Annoyance and anger floods through you and you know that your eyes would be shining green to anyone with a trained eye.

While she clutches her pearls and eyes Eddie like he's a four course meal, you intervene into the conversation before it can continue.

"Where's daddy? I'd really like for my boyfriend to meet him." You bat your eyelashes like a pageant queen and your arm acts like a python wrapping around Eddie's, making a mark on what is yours.

"Oh you're father's around here somewhere, you know how he is." She dismisses, taking a drink from her glass and swallowing down the golden liquid quickly. "So how long have you and Birdie here been dating?"

"It's going to be two years next month. Isn't that right, honey?" Eddie turns to you and gives you a playful smile.

Looking back at him you hope he can see the misery that hides being your eyes, a white flag of surrender.

Your mother on the other hand doesn't care about your answer, that's why she didn't ask you. She's reading Eddie, trying to see how much she can push your so called boyfriend until she gets what she wants.

"Well that's just wonderful, young love is a beautiful experience. You have to be careful with Birdie here, she's known to leave the nest quickly." It's a jab, a spiteful and mean comment headed right for your gut.

Eddie doesn't miss the way you're lips falter for a second, the flash of hurt in your eyes. It kills him watching you stand there and take all the comments from your mother like stray bullets.

Turning his attention back to your mother, he gives her a smile, one that you would know as a wicked one but to a stranger would seem kind. "I don't think that will be a problem. Birdie knows where her home is."

It's a direct warning, a clear sign to your mother to not mess with you or what is yours. Just him sticking up for you like that makes your stomach twist in excitement, a feeling you've grown so used to over the course of friendship with Eddie.

"Well, I'm glad she finally found her place then." Your mother responds coldly, clearly hearing the bite in his tone. "Why don't you two go find your room and get settled in, rehearsal dinner is in a few."

Before retreating into the large crowd of family, your mother turns back to you in one more attack.

"Oh and Birdie, wear something that will hide that stomach. Don't want anyone to assume you've been knocked up."

Once you've found your room, you all but rush Eddie inside slamming the door behind you. In the quiet safety of your suite, you can relax your shoulders that have been sitting high since you've arrive.

"Jesus Bird, you weren't lying." Eddie says as he flops himself on the queen sized bed.

You don't respond, instead you squeeze your eyes shut and try to calm the heaviness of your breathing. Behind the darkness of your eyes, little twinkles of stars flash from how hard you have them closed, the swooshing of your heart continuing in your ears like angry waves of the sea.

Breathe in. This is temporary. Breathe out. This is not forever. Breathe in. I am safe. Breathe out. I am here.

You repeat this to yourself over and over again, trying to erase the cruel words of your mother and the images of disgusted family member's faces out of your mind. You're not sure how long you've been standing by the door until a hand grasps at your wrist lightly.

"Birdie," Eddie's coax goes unanswered, "Come on, Birdie."

Warm calloused hands travel to the plump of your cheeks, lifting your face up just enough that he can see you. Finally opening your eyes, you're relieved to be looking into the golden whiskey pools of his.

Smoothing his thumb over your cheek he doesn't say anything, just lets your breathing calm down. Here you are, in the nice room behind the shelter of the locked door, and he's here.

Breathe in. It's okay. Breathe out. You're safe. Breathe in. You are here. Breathe out. So is he.

It's enough to let your feet move on the plush white carpeting, while Eddie leads you to the bed with the tug of your arm. Sitting on the plush mattress on crisp linen sheets you're grounded, and with the heat of Eddie sitting next to you and his hand in yours, you're anchored.

The rehearsal dinner goes over well enough, the Irish mule helping with every single speech that's given and every horror story of your childhood that is told. Luckily for you, Vee didn't ask you to be in her bridal party so you didn't have to attend the actual wedding rehearsal, and even better you won't have to deal with her for the real thing tomorrow.

Eddie does great at dinner, he talks to your father who surprisingly likes him, both getting along over their love for vintage cars. Your soon to be brother in law and his groomsmen also get along with Eddie, they laugh and cut up most of the time while clinking beer bottles together. Not to mention every single woman there wanted to get into his pants, swooning at everything he said and giving him the 'fuck me' eyes while doing it.

You hated it, every single minute of it. Like always you were ignored, simply looked over until some story was being told where you were ultimately the joke of. Any time someone asked you what you were doing with your life, you were met with cringing smiles and snickering laughs.

Four separate times your mother commented on your dress, the way it fit, the price value of it, and how it really wasn't a good color on you. All of your sisters friends rolled their eyes and whispered back and forth while staring at you, aunts and uncles acted dumbfounded when you told them that you were a freelance writer for a small music magazine back in Indy, and your cousins made comments about how badly you look since the last time you saw them.

It didn't matter anyway, even if your sister asked how you managed to get a stand up guy like Eddie to agree to be with you, in front of all of the guests. You had to remind yourself that you were there for the free booze and food or whatever the hell Eddie said in the car on the way here.

This wasn't a popularity contest for you, it was simply you being forced to do something against your wishes because your mother said so. You asked yourself why you even listened to her in the first place while letting the brown liquor burn in your stomach.

Why was it so important that you even showed up here? Why did you have to come to the awarding ceremony of favorite kid when you knew you weren't going to win? Why would you even set yourself up for such failure just because your mom said so?

Well, you're answer came when a flushed faced Eddie was laughing with your grandparents at one of the round tables in the corner. His eyes crinkled at the sides and his head was leaned back so you had a clear view of the neck you loved so much.

Then you looked over at your sweet looking grandparents who laughed loudly at whatever was said. Your grandmother had her hands on her cheeks, shaking her head back and forth, and beaming brightly. Your grandfather smiled around his cigar, big round belly jumping with laugher, and his cheeks smooshing up against the frames of his big glasses.

You didn't come here to win a competition. You didn't come here because your mother threatened you within an inch of your life if you didn't. You didn't come here because you thought it would be fun.

You showed up because you wanted to prove to the people who doubted you for so long just how happy you were. You wanted to prove that happiness doesn't come from the amount of money in your account or how many rooms sit in your house. You came here because you wanted to prove that they were wrong, that the grass on the other side of the fence could be green too, and that someone who grew up differently that you could still do amazing things.

Eddie was someone that your father would've had you kicked out over bringing him home in high school. Eddie was the boy your mother would tell you to stay far away from. Eddie was the kind of guy that your sister wouldn't look twice at because of who he was.

But right now, during the beautiful dinner the night before your sister's wedding, your best friend/fake boyfriend has them all wrapped around his guitar calloused finger.

-

Not much has been said between you and him, especially when he was the man of the hour. You're not really complaining though, you're happy that he made a good impression with them. When the night began to settle into your bones and the alcohol started to make you tipsy, you slyly walked up to Eddie and tugged on his sleeve to let him know it was time to go.

On the walk back to the room, you sway slightly with every step you take, balancing on the walls with one hand while the other holds your strappy heels. When Eddie stops and turns to the door of your room, you all but smack into him with clumsy steps.

While he fumbles with key, you're in blissful content with your eyes closed. The kick of the lock and the turn of the handle doesn't even pull you out of your daze, instead you hold your arms out like a mummy and feel around until you find Eddie's clothed back.

You can tell Eddie is laughing by the large breath that passes through his nose and the tell tale sign of him kissing his teeth. Large hands wrap around your wrists, guiding you into the doorway that you can't see.

Your cheeks are warm, the smile on your face is permanent, and the buzzing in your heart makes you feel light on your feet.

"Alright mummy, lets get you into bed." Letting go of his hold on you, you feel him slightly brush past you to close the door. His voice sounds like the way stars look, sparkling and bright, twinkling all around.

You giggle, eyes still shut and your nose scrunched up. "M'not a mummy but I could be if ya want."

Putting your arms out, you lean back and forth on your feet to mimicking what you think is a mummy but looks more like a zombie.

"Baaaaahhhhh, I'm a mummy. Be very afraid." You deepen your voice, dragging the syllables of every word to make them come out slower.

Eddie must be entertained because the sound of a loud raspberry comes from where he stands, the clear sign of him losing the grip on the laugh he'd been holding in.

Cracking one of your eyes open, you hope to find him with rose cheeks and dimples flashing, the look you love so much. Instead you see him, beaming at you without the shine of his canines. It's an admiring smile, one where your eyes go all gooey and your smile is simple yet dipped with so much love.

Opening your eyes all the way, you let your arms down slowly to rest by your sides, a meek look painting your face.

"Did I do good?" You ask, even though you didn't really want his opinion.

"I think you're perfect." It comes out even, smooth like the hilltops in December covered in a layer of the purest snow.

The two of you sit there for a while, soaking up the glow of each other and letting it sink into your souls. For a moment you wonder if he feels it too, the spark that you feel whenever he's around. You wonder if he feels like crying simply because he loves you that much. You wonder if he wishes this whole dating thing wasn't just a lie and that it was true, the same way you wish it was.

Once the moment ends for him, he's clearing his throat to clear any lovesick daze that's left. "I guess we better head to bed, huh?"

Scratching at the back of his neck, you try with everything in your power to not look down where his turtle neck rode up, where the patch of mouth watering hair trails from his belly button to underneath the waist of his pants.

A part of you wishes you stuck it out longer, stayed in your seat at the dinner table just to see him in his outfit longer. He asked you to help him pick it out this morning and when you think back to it, you get flustered with thinking how domesticated it felt. Making him try on different shirts and jumping for joy when he walked out of the bathroom wearing a turtleneck he swore he'd never wear. The khakis you pulled out of his suitcase was the cause of so much laughter and the pink tinge that sat on the rounds of his cheeks.

God, he looked so good, especially with his hair pulled back and the dangled earring that sat in his ear, but now it would all be a memory for you to file away in the back of your brain.

Eddie had already started taking off his dress shoes, sitting on the edge of the bed bent over and messing with the knots that kept the laces together.

The smile that once held your lips high and proud, now weigh down in a sad frown. Even after the success of the dinner and proving everyone wrong, you are now brought back to the reality of what you and Eddie were. Just friends.

"Since I'm a gentleman and I can't see to get these shoes untied, I'll let you shower first." His voice comes out strained from how hard he pulls on the knotted strings.

You don't say anything, quietly nodding your head before shuffling over to your suitcase that sits by the closet. Grabbing a sleepshirt and some shorts, you go to move around the lanky man that can't get his shoes off no matter how hard he tries.

Without a sound, you kneel in front of him, placing your clothes somewhere off to the side. Taking his calf in your hand, you place his foot on your thigh. Delicately, you remove the first shoe and then the next.

"Y'didn't have to do that." It's quiet but not enough to be a whisper, still you shrug.

"I didn't but I wanted to." It seems so simple when you say it, even though deep down inside you wanted that last piece of your fantasy before it goes away for the rest of the night.

"Will you help me with my dress?" You ask him, standing on your feet and turning so that the golden zipper is facing him.

In the mirrored closet door you can see him and how he hesitates for a moment, shaky hands lingering in the air before they close in on the gold slider.

The sound of the metal teeth unlatching from one another fills the room, clouding the unrhythmic beat of your heart. You try to remember the feeling of him on the sacred part of your skin, the way his light touch tickles you and makes goosebumps rise. You want to memorize it like your favorite song, so that when you leave this place and the fake nature of this whole thing goes away, you still have something to think about on those bad days.

It ends too soon for your liking, his hands retracting right back to the sides of his body like a measuring tape. With the fuzz of your tipsy has now wore off but the sting of everything still remains.

Giving him a small smile and muttering a thank you, you hide in the bathroom where the sound of running water hides the muffled cries that leave your throat.

Waking up felt more painful than any hangover you've ever had. The pain of Eddie's bare back facing you was heartbreaking. You force yourself not connect the freckles that litter his skin or trace your fingers along his spine and shoulder blades.

It's a sight you've seen plenty of times and sharing a bed is something you've done more than enough that you're not uncomfortable. Yet your heart squeezes, wrapping itself up in the tightest loop so that it hurts to even breathe.

The sound of his soft snores only makes it worse, imagining what he dreams about and if it's you.

You use all of the willpower that's left in your body, marching over to the small kitchenette that sits in the corner of the giant room. Pouring yourself a cup of coffee, you try to focus on the swirl of dark liquid mixing with the coffee creamer and how they mix together so perfectly. Without much of a peep, you slide the glass doors that lead out to the balcony and sit down in one of the plush chairs.

You look out over the mountains of colors, tracing over the lines of trees that go on for miles. Although pretentious, you think Veronica did an excellent job and choosing this location.

Sipping on the hot beverage, you watch the clouds in the blue sky go by, wondering what it would've been like if your sister asked you to be a bridesmaid. You imagine that the two of you would've actually gotten along and maybe even laughed together. You envision what it would've been like to have your mother compliment you in your gown and how it would feel to take a picture with your family where all the smiles were real.

Tears begin to burn the back of your eyes, falling rapidly like a fall rainstorm. The skin of your cheeks burn slightly from the heated trails of water that fall. You're sad and incredibly so. Within the first twenty four hours of being here, you remember how much of an outsider you really are to these people.

Even with the company of Eddie, someone that truly loves you, you still can't help but feel so fucking lonely. To put on the mask you wore for many year back on and pretend that the man standing next to you is yours to claim is harder than any other time you had to do it.

This time you weren't really faking it, the love that you showed to him, the happiness you felt with him was real, just the titles weren't. With the cool fall chill, your coffee has gone cold but your tears keep coming.

"You made yourself a cup of coffee but not one for me, and this is how I find out? That's just mean." Eddie's curly hair pokes out from the small gap in the sliding back door that he's created.

His eyes are squinted from the harshness of the morning sun but his cheeky smile is forever unwavering. Sliding a space big enough for him to go through, he stalks out onto the small space in his plaid pajama pants and a hoodie he must've thrown on.

Trying your best to cover up that you've been crying, you wipe the back of your hand across your cheeks, but Eddie still catches your movements.

Instead of embarrassing you, he sits down in the chair across from you and looks out over the balcony.

"You okay?" It's a simple enough question, one that you can answer with one word and he wouldn't pry for more information to not overwhelm you.

Sniffling, you shake your head yes and then move your gaze to where his is. "No, yeah, m'good. The view really does something for me." You say, chuckling just a bit at your own joke.

Eddie also laughs, only this time it's not as genuine as it usually is, just a hard exhale through his nose.

"Yeah, sure does." He agrees, letting his eyes follow the red and orange of the tree tops.

A calm silence falls over you two, only the sounds of the birds that fly and the ruffle of the leaves can be heard from where you sit. It's peaceful.

"You know, I really thought this weekend would be different." It comes out of your mouth as easy as the breeze that blows. Still your eyes stay trained out in front of you and past the mountains of trees.

Eddie doesn't respond but the hole that he burns through the side of your head with his eyes tell you he's listening.

"When I was little, I used to imagine the day Vee got married. I would fantasize that maybe one day we could be close enough that I could enjoy this day with her and we could be sisters for once." You exhale an uneven breath, moving your sights to the cup that still sits in your hand.

"I just wanted all of us to be a family for once. I wanted my mom to actually act like she liked me, for my dad to say that for once he was proud of who I was, and for Veronica, I just wanted her to say she's happy that I'm her little sister."

Just like that, every single thing you've carried since you were little is now out in the open, whipping around in the wind like the dead leaves. Even with the amount of burden that's been lifted, the pain still remains the same. It all hurts, stabbing you over and over again in the scars that you worked so hard to patch up.

Eddie doesn't say anything and for a moment you don't think he'll say anything at all. You watch him pull out the pack of cigarettes he had nestled in his pocket and place one in between his pretty pink lips.

Another second goes by and he's flicking the wheel of his lighter, shielding the flame away from the wind so he can light it. When the end of the smoke burns red, he takes a big inhale and then lets the cloud of smoke out.

"I know what I say won't matter," He starts before taking another drag of his smoke, "But these people don't fucking mean anything."

"They're you're family and I get that but they don't fucking deserve you, they never have. A fake boyfriend, a new haircut, or a cool job shouldn't define their love for you. They're shitty people who were blessed with an amazing person and they didn't even realize it."

Eddie looks at you the same way he speaks, with nothing but truth. You let the words settle in your mind, letting them soak in, in case you forget.

The tears that once ceased start to flow again, except this time it's from relief. It feels good that someone else sees your worth, to know someone actually holds value to you.

"It kills me that they treat you the way they do, that they can say all those things without batting an eye. I know why you asked me to come here and I know I have a job to do, but man do I want to rip them all a new asshole."

Although he speaks with fire behind the words, you have to laugh from the thought of the actions. The moment you giggle, his own smile forms.

"I hope you know that I love you and when everything is done and over with, we'll give them the bird." To make his point, Eddie raises his middle finger high into the sky.

Repeating his actions, you hold your own finger to the sky and smile happily while doing it.

Letting his arm fall back down into place, he pats the tops of your thighs and stands from the chair.

"That's my girl, now let's get ready for an open bar and free booze." Holding his open palm to you, he helps you up.

The wedding reception was what you thought it would be, drawn out and boring. The only saving grace of the whole thing was Eddie's commentary, the scruff on his face tickling you every time he leaned close to your ear.

A lot of the things he was saying was probably just to make you feel better but you did have to agree, the dress Veronica picked out was a bad rip off of Princess Diana's and it shouldn't have seen broad daylight.

You did however get choked up when the vowels started, not because you were happy with your sister but because you wish that were you and Eddie up there instead.

All and all it was okay, even though one of your brother in law's aunt's wore a hat so big you couldn't see past it most of the time.

The wedding reception though was beautiful. The décor of the manner looked exquisite against the maroon coloring of all the bridesmaids dresses. The tables had beautiful bouquets sitting in the middle and you can't help but laugh imagining your father cutting a check for all of them.

To much of yours and Eddie's delight, there is an open bar that is stacked high with pricey alcohol. Again you laugh thinking about your father having to pay the tab, which you and Eddie will be happy to run up.

So far this is the most the two of you had fun, both laughing and enjoying the company that's around you. The table you've been stuck at is also occupied by other family rejects that enjoy the titles they've been given.

Eddie's hand hasn't left your thigh, which you're more than happy about, and every so often he flexes his fingers squeezing the meaty flesh.

You feel good, the boost from the drinks and the feeling of your best friend makes you bloom like a flower in the spring. You watch as he talks to the people at your table and how his hand moves with enthusiasm. You trace the muscles in his neck and watch his adam's apple bob up and down when he speaks. Your chin sits in the palm of your hand as you watch him be himself like he always is.

He's so beautiful, he always has been, and in this moment he gets to be yours. You don't have to think about what anyone else thinks, you don't have to question how the two of you look from another's perception, because you know that your heart bleeds for him and it always will.

Eddie's your home, he's your best friend, and he's your person. You think back to what he said to you this morning and how he called you a blessing but you think he's wrong. Eddie is the true blessing. He's sweet, he's smart, and he's so fucking caring it's disgusting. Behind all the jagged features and dark clothes, he's nothing but a giant teddy bear that wears his heart on his sleeve.

"Birdie." He smiles at you, all goo and mush it makes your heart skip.

You hum in response, still sitting in the same position, looking at him as if he were a painting.

"You wanna dance?" He blushes, embarrassed by the request and you feel like you're back in junior high.

"You, Eddie Munson hate dancing." You say, scrunching your nose cutely.

Laughing loudly, he nods, "Yeah, I know, but I'd dance with you."

That breaks you out of your daze, breath catching in your throat. "O-oh, yeah. I'll um dance."

Again he stands, holding a palm out to you so he can help you up. Leaning you to the dance floor, you can't help but feel jittery despite the wine that you've consumed.

Once out on the floor, he pulls you into his chest. Strong hands grip your waist through the silk fabric of your red dress and you desperately try to fight the need that rises in your guy.

You stand stiff, unsure of what to do with yourself and Eddie's quick to help you, placing your hands around his neck where they lay contently.

He looks good tonight, even better than last night, and you hate how it makes butterflies flap around in your stomach. The black button up shirt sits nicely on his torso, wrapping his arms so deliciously you want to take a bite out of them. The black slacks he wears fit nicely and you wonder if he had them tailored and you have to ignore the want to undo the sleek black belt with a bright golden buckle that holds them up. Again his hair sits in a low bun and that silver chain peeks out at you from underneath his collar.

"I can't believe you asked me to dance to Ed Sheeran." You say breathlessly, still nervous with being this close to him.

Eddie snorts, lopsided smile forming on his lips. "What, a guy can't like Ed Sheeran and metal? That's gatekeeping, sweetheart." He teases.

Rolling your eyes, you try to ignore that tingle that settles in your cheeks. "Whatever you say, Munson."

"I'm serious, Thinking Out Loud was in my top ten last year." The two of you hold eye contact until you can't take it anymore, both bursting into laughter at his admission.

"That's something you shouldn’t repeat." You sputter at him and he laughs even harder.

"Hey, I like this song, okay?" He defends, still swaying back and forth with you.

Raising your hands in defense, you pull back on your clowning for the sake of your friend. Placing your arms back around his neck, you lean your head on his chest and try to hear the beat of his heart.

The scent of him floods your nose, cologne and smoke, whiskey and linen, and you wish you could bottle it to keep forever.

"Why do you like this song anyway? It's kind of basic." You mutter at him.

His shoulders lift in a shrug, and he takes a moment to respond. "Honestly, I like it cause it reminds me of you."

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and you remove your head to look up at him.

"Wha'do you mean?" You mumble, eyes searching his for some sort of answer.

Looking bashful again, red tints his cheeks and ears in a blush. Sticking his tongue out to wet his lips, he hesitantly answers.

"I always felt like he said everything I couldn't, ya know? Everything I ever wanted to say to you, he put in a song."

It feels like the whole world stops, that time freezes and it's just the two of you. You're in shock and for some reason you can't wrap your head around anything he's saying.

"What?" You say harshly and again he shrugs, shying away from your burning focus on him.

"Reminds me of you and everything I ever felt about you. I always wanted to call you mine but if you hadn't noticed, I'm a chicken shit."

You don't say anything, instead you stare at him with your mouth wide open. Eddie starts to loose his cool, frantically flexing his fingers against the material of your dress, looking around at anything but you.

"Sorry, I - shit, I really fucked this up," He doesn't get to finish his sputtering apology because you quickly smash your lips into his.

His lips taste like brown liquor and chapstick, like love and forever, and you can't believe you waited this long to experience it. Two heart sync as one, two people fall together like the leaves outside, and anxieties are finally laid to rest.

You hate that you pull away first but the need for air is too much. Eddie bends enough so that his forehead leans on yours, both looking into each other eyes living in the moment of your blissed out hearts.

"Tell me if I'm being too forward but do you wanna get out of here?" He flirts and you respond simply by pecking his lips once more.

"Thought you'd never ask."

thank you all for reading!!! love you guys <3

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[moonlight-tarot-11-11]

How Does Your Person View You?

This reading is the subjective point of view from your person. It might be or might not be true.

Pile 1. Pile 2. Pile 3.

Pile 1:

You're always on the move and not very emotional. You go and get what you want and aren't afraid to fight for it. You defend your point of view/ believes , but you don't go out of your way to start conflicts. If you're being attacked, then obviously you'll defend yourself.

They see you're up in your head a lot. Very dreamy, imaginative, full of ambition. A little stubborn at times, but with reason. To them, you're standing on stable ground and have valid reasons to be stubborn.

They see you as a knowledgeable person and that you have so many opportunities to succeed in whatever you put your energy in (however they view success).

They don't see you as an emotional person because you haven't really let them see that part of you. When things are getting too personal, you might change the topic and revert back to the composed you.

They admire you. They see you so high up and that you are capable of achieving anything and everything. For most of you, your person has seen you evolve into this 'new' you. They want to know you better, including your emotional side.

Songs: More Than A Friend - girli | Washing Machine Heart (Speed) - Mitski | Two - Sleeping At Last

Pile 2:

An old soul. You're not new in this world let alone, in this universe. They feel like you've gone through so much, but that you've learned from that and continued your path. You're not living in the past. You reflect a lot, but they see you applying what you have learned, into the present.

They think you're a bit lonely, even misunderstood, for some of you. You're so in tune with nature/universe/spirit - what that might look like for your person. You know what you're feeling, why you're feeling it, and what you'll do about it. They see you as a calm collected person.

There's this fear of getting close to you because they don't feel that they're at your level. They view you as knowledgeable in regards to spiritual topics and your person thinks they aren't so spiritual. They are open to it, but there's this irrational fear of you looking down on them for not knowing much.

Regardless of gender, they view you as a masculine person. You make decisions and act upon them. They're amazed by you and they think that you don't think very highly of them. You might have a bit of a resting bitch face without knowing.

Songs: She Likes A Boy - Nxdia | Miss You - Louis Tomlinson | Magia Blanca - Hermanos Carrion

Pile 3:

You limit yourself a lot but they also see you so free, flowing, and in tune with yourself, but for some reason, you limit yourself so much. Your person is frustrated. They don't know what they can do to help you realize this.

"Why do they stop themselves so much? Why do they hold themselves back so much? Why do they hide so much? Why aren't they showing their authentic self, their talents, their light to the world?"

From their point of view, there's nothing holding you back from doing anything. The Devil and 10 of Swords are in reverse - meaning you are free to do what you wish, but you think so low of yourself for a reason they don't understand or see, causing all those opportunities and freedom from happening.

It seems that you're open and trust your person, that's why they see all these amazing things about you. They have strong feelings towards you, but they feel that if they let you know, you'll reject them because of your poor self-esteem.

You think you're the worst being in the world, but they don't understand why you would think such a thing. They see you as the brightest light. The brightest of them all.

"Why are they looking for a devil that isn't there?"

Songs: I Really F**ked It Up - girli | Chance With You - mehiro | Drinking With Cupid - VOILÀ

~*~*~*~

I hope you liked the reading! Thank you for being here!

[rozaalright]

Every detail I caught about revived q!Tubbo:

Sensitive to noise

Changes the subject a lot

Aggressive tendencies such as yelling

Uncontrollable emotions

Yearns to do something valuable

hates wasting precious time on unimportant things

possibly insecure?? always wants to know how people feel about him/if they hate him

has an urge to know who the residents think the worst parent is

Wants to be in control at all times

slight issues with memories (nothing drastic)

yearns for things to change

Isn't afraid of challenging authority

Murderous tendencies

Sense of justice

Knows something about q!Hideduo (they have "limited time")

What I've noticed is that most of these qualities are normal to qTubbo, but we can clearly tell that this person isn't the one from before.

He has the same skin, the same personality, the same connections with people, but he is the exaggerated version of the previous qTubbo.

He is quite literally just a carbon copy, a clone, recovered data. He is as if something tore apart the body and rebuilt it piece by piece. This is qTubbo, but with the incorrect formula.

We all know qTubbo is sick and tired of people taking things from him and pushing him around, that he loved his daughter, that he has low self-esteem and that he has plans for things, but those are just qTubbo's thoughts and feelings. After the revival it's as if qTubbo (instead of treating them like simple thoughts and wants) he is treating them like instructions.

"They WILL pay, they WILL learn, things WILL change" instead of "I want them to stop, I want things to change."

This qTubbo is just backed up data, nothing else. Its a shell that is acting like what qTubbo is, but it doesn't quite get it right. And we are not getting him back because this is him restored with backup data and ancient stone and it will continue to live on

(however I am very scared for the eggs and other residents because this tubbo doesn't really seem scared of anything, like he kept yelling and chayanne and even hit him so lets hope that it gets at least a little better lol)

[luci4theminorannoyance]

Hihi! I’m in an angsty mood, so if it’s no bother would you mind writing falsely suspected traitor!reader (gn) with Gaz, ghost, soap, velikan, roach, Keegan and Krueger (I’m sorry, I don’t know your character limit, it’s completely up to you how many and which of them you want to write for!!) but they only find out reader is innocent after they already tortured reader?

Reader does forgive them but is very much traumatised, believing it’s something they did in order to bring suspicion to themselves, so reader starts to act differently. More meek and withdrawn, always keeping their head down and voice quiet, flinches and has low self esteem, …etc

Of course no pressure to write this at all!! And I’m sorry if any of the phrasing is weird, English is not my first language 😅

Hope you have a great day/evening!

a/n: I’m pretty sure I have a request just like this in my inbox and drafts somewhere lol (my drafts from old old requests are still gathering dust I’m so so so sorry to the people who requested btw)

Gaz:

-heart shattered with the most painful look on his face when he found out you didn’t lie to him. That you were innocent.. that when he was doing everything to pull info out of you and treating you like scum, that your answers of ‘I’m not lying!’ And pleas were all.. real

-went to you the second he could, shivering in self hatred especially when he saw the wounds he had caused on your body

-once you finally got back to good terms, he could see all the damage he did and it hurt him so much. He wanted YOU back, the loud, funny, unworried you… he didn’t know what to do

soap:

-held you so close for so long as soon as he figured out you didn’t lie to him. Or the team.

-tried everything and I mean EVERYTHING to try to get you back to how you were before it all

-every time you flinch or whisper, he can feel his guilt stabbing him though the heart, he can just imagine how you must feel.. and to think he could have helped.

-If he wasn’t so close to the rest of the team, he probably would have yelled at all of 141 for even assuming you were the traitor

ghost:

-feels so utterly guilty, like a wound was given to himself rather then you

-hates the fact he genuinely thought you would ever do that to him

-tried to distance himself from you now that you were back… he was just so guilty

-what if he hurt you again? What if you were still mad? What if you hated him now? He just couldn’t face it.

-when he found out you forgave him, an invisible weight was lifted off of him. But as he saw you be so quiet, he could feel his hands sake and his body almost collapse. He did this. He hurt his lover. He could never trust himself with you like he used to again.

-was oh so careful with you since then.. but could never shake the guilt

velikan:

-he HATED you when he thought you were a traitor. He had deleted every photo. Burnt every gift. Broke any shared thought. So finding out he had lost all of that hurt him so much he sat and cried for days, begging and pleading to anything that time could rewind and that he could have his memories and gifts back

-he tried so hard to make new ones with you to, he basically followed you like a lost puppy. But he knew even though you forgave him, he was damned to feel guilt every time you weren’t your same old self

-he missed his memories of you in photos and pages of his journals, he missed your bright smile and loud confidence, he missed all the things you changed from trauma he didn’t stop

-he hated himself for hating you when you were so innocent

keegan:

-he felt rage, rage at his teammates, rage at the captain who reported you for suspicious activity, and most of all, rage at himself for not protecting you like he always promised you he would

-couldn’t stand seeing you flinch, couldn’t stand not being able to reassure you that it would be okay and that he would protect you if it ever happened again

-because he knew his words of protection didn’t mean anything now. He had failed to protect you and even participated in harming you for something as simple as a claim…

kreuger:

-he thought that as soon as he started to fix things, you yourself would get fixed. But he was so wrong

-tried anything he could think of to make you feel safe to be yourself again, and whenever it didn’t work he’d secretly shed a tear

-it was like seeing his lovers ghost.. you weren’t you anymore, and it shattered him so much that he couldn’t fix it

-he could fix his guns, he could clean up your wounds, he could tell you that it was okay to be yourself again, he could fix the broken mirrors in his room, but he couldn’t fix you. He couldn’t get you back the way he remembered you, and he knew no matter how many years of therapy kortac paid for, it still wouldn’t fix you perfectly…

[creedslove]

SHOWER BLISS 🫧

Post Outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel comes home after patrol on a winter day and he's so cold he can't warm up even under water, so he asks you to join him in the shower.

(this could be read as a second part of SLEEP BLISS 💤 or as a stand alone, it's up to you)

Warnings: fluff, like a lot of fluff, sexual tension and mentions of masturbation but no smut at all, a little bit of angst as Joel has low self-esteem, age gap, Joel being probably out of character but idc I want him to be happy

A/N: I will write all the cute/fluff Joel Miller scenarios that come to my mind and this is a threat!!!

1.6k words

Winters in Jackson were hard and your heart tightened every time you had to see Joel leave the comfort and warmth of your shared house to go patrolling.

Your relationship was complicated, you were too distant to be together but also too intimate to not be together.

You weren't a couple. You didn't kiss and you didn't have sex, not because you didn't want to, quite the opposite, you did, you ached even for it. But Joel held himself back. You both started as travel partners and you ended up sharing a house in Jackson.

Despite the fact you got along and you cared for each other, he never wanted to mix up things. Not only was he painfully older, he also had a paralyzing fear of losing you. But there was only one thing worse than losing you to him:

You falling in love with him.

That was definitely off limits, Joel would never accept that, he was a horrible person and he knew you deserved better, it was unfair you got stuck with an old, cold-hearted, violent murderer like him. Not when you were young, bright and full of life and deserved someone who could love you. Someone who didn't have such baggage like he did.

And yet you held him at night, your hands stroked his back when he woke up from a nightmare, your soft words were nothing but sweet to him. You were too good to Joel, more than he ever deserved and even if he knew you should find something better than him, he allowed himself to be selfish and have you by his side.

You opened the door to him, welcoming him inside, brushing off the snow on his shoulders.

"Joel, you must be freezing!" You said as you watched him get rid of his jacket and his pair of gloves.

His face was red from the exposure to the freezing wind and he looked down at you, your sweet warm eyes flooding with relief to see him return safe and sound from patrol.

You hung his coat and gave him some space so he could make himself comfortable. Joel was attracted to the kitchen as the smell of food was so tempting to him. Last he'd eaten was a sloppy sandwich before patrol he made himself while you were still asleep, as he didn't want to bother you about having to get up and prepare him something.

You saw how he eyed the pan you left on the stove and smiled big.

"I made you some carrot potato soup" you said with your big smile and got him a bowl, immediately pouring a lot in it and handing it to him.

Joel loved that. Ever since you made it for the first time it became one of his favorite dishes, you'd told him it was not a big deal and anyone could make it, but he knew it had nothing to do with the ingredients nor the seasoning, it had to do with the fact you made it for him.

Since then, you always made sure to have a warm bowl of it waiting for him during winter days.

"Thanks darlin', it's really good" he mumbled after the first spoon. He groaned in pleasure and felt how he began warming up slowly.

Joel wasn't a man of many words, especially when he was hungry.

You could tell his hands were burned from the cold and again you couldn't help but feel that pit in your stomach once more. It wasn't fair Joel had to freeze his off outside while he already worked so hard during the week, but there was not a way you could tell him, you were afraid he would bark at you for being silly, or overprotective or even clingy so you kept your thoughts to yourself.

Joel was more vulnerable when it was around sleeping time, but when he was wide awake, he was… well… Joel.

You thought of what you could do to help him warm up and thought of suggesting a nap, but when you were about to go say it, he finished his soup and looked at you.

"I'm gonna shower now" he got up and thanked you for the food before leaving. You quickly washed the dishes, hating any kind of mess in your kitchen.

It was a shame you didn't have a bathtub, you could've run a bath for him, though the image of Joel in a scented bubble bath was enough to make you giggle.

Of course you wouldn't complain about using the tub yourself. If you had one, you'd definitely enjoy his patrol time to sink into that relaxing water and just stay there, clearing your mind and not worrying about anything.

You would also use that time to bring yourself some pleasure, it was a need you couldn't control, now that you didn't sleep alone anymore, you didn't have a lot of time to do it, and because you didn't sleep alone anymore your need was going through the roof, as every touch Joel's left on your skin, was enough to set your core on fire.

You could spend the rest of your afternoon in those fantasies if it weren't from Joel's voice coming from the bathroom. He called your name and you snapped awake from your daydream.

You rushed to the bathroom and grabbed the towel you were sure he'd forgotten and was asking you for a new one. However, his towel was right there when you got inside.

You turned to towards the shower and you saw Joel's face peeking through the curtain.

"I…uh" he blushed and looked down, looking into your eyes again as his big brown ones were soft and carried a level of shyness and shame.

The combination of those eyes and his wet hair made him look like a stray puppy caught in the rain. It was amusing to see how Joel could carry so much violence and darkness within and at the same time look like the fluffiest guy on earth.

"What is it Joel?" You tried controlling your breath, not wanting him to notice how accelerated it got from the situation.

Joel naked, less than a meter from you, and the only thing between you two was a painfully thin shower curtain.

"I'm still cold… I was wondering if you'd like to shower with me"

You laughed and looked at him, surprised to see him joke about that, but when he stared at you completely seriously, your smile died.

He wasn't joking.

You held yourself as best as you could not to squeal and bit your lips.

"It's not like that, Y/N… it's like when we sleep, darlin.." he explained feeling mortified and was about to ask you to leave.

Maybe he was crossing the line and didn't think things through, which made him feel pathetic and stupid, besides, you wouldn't waste your time getting in the shower with an old guy like him, that was just dumb.

He could've spent the rest of the afternoon in a self loathing rant, but when he saw you'd stripped down to your bra and panties, he stared at you in shock.

He didn't actually believe you'd do it but there you were, two small pieces of clothes away from being naked.

"I'll turn around so you'll be more comfortable, sweetheart" you rolled your eyes at how gentle he was, you wanted to see his face as you got naked for him, maybe he would finally understand how much you longed for his touch. But he already had his back to you.

You quickly got rid of your remaining clothes and stepped under shower with you.

You placed your hand on his stomach, and felt his bigger one on top of it. He was indeed very cold and you were hit by a sudden need to help him, keep him warm and make everything alright for him.

"It's okay, you can turn around again Joel… remember, it's nothing we haven't seen before when we were bathing in the lake" you reminded him and heard a chuckle. But it was a lie, you did bathe naked once in the lake, but you were at a reasonable distance and deep enough into water to cover your bodies, but you didn't care, and neither did Joel.

He kept his gaze into yours, looking into your eyes and fighting the urge of staring down at your perfect body.

You wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head against his chest at the same time he rested his head on top of yours.

He sighed deeply, your body felt so great against his he felt like breaking the promise he made himself of not touching you.

Joel finally began warming up, at the same time your hands stroked his back so gently. You'd grabbed soap and rubbed on him, feeling the different shapes of scars he gathered around the years and loving each one of them.

He grabbed the shampoo bottle and squirted some onto his hand.

"Close your eyes, sweetheart" he asked in his deep voice and massaged your scalp taking his time and watching the bubbles forming and the delicious familiar smell spread through the bathroom.

He just loved how good your hair smelled and how well you took care of it, but he wanted to take care of it for you, to show you he cared about you, even if you already knew, he just wanted you to be sure.

When he was done rinsing your hair, he found your eyes looking up at his, maybe you waited for a kiss, a hand sliding down your body or something like that, but he couldn't do this, he'd do more harm than good.

Instead, you gave him one of those smiles that made him weak at the knees and he was sure once more you were so much better than he could ever deserve.

_____

A/N: I just want Joel to be happy 😭

[saiyanmazen]

Parenting styles in Dragon Ball Z (and Super)

You know, to me, the interesting thing about this scene (and the one where they could to the aforementioned park) isn't the fact that Vegeta keeps his promise.

It's the fact that he uses positive reinforcement to motivate Trunks.

Do you think Vegeta was ever rewarded for landing a good hit? Definitely not. It was expected of him.

As an expert in children's development, I find it fascinating to look at this example of Vegeta parenting Trunks and what it says about his parenting style. I've seen headcanons that go from calling 'Dadgeta' authoritarian to neglectful, but I disagree.

In the following, I will briefly describe the four styles of parenting with focus on the authoritarian and the authoritative styles. I'll also compare them to how DBZ parents appear to raise their children, but mainly focus on Vegeta.

Authoritarian:

This is the old school parenting method where restrictions and punishments go hand in hand. The parents expect the children to obey rules without a clear explanation as to why and corporal punishment is used when the children overstep.

Unsurprisingly, it seems like a lot of people believe this is how Vegeta raises his children (If he is even involved; I'll address this later on.) It was likely how he was raised.

However, the only parent we actually see using this style is Chichi. She's not entirely unreasonable, but we do see her expect things from Gohan without explanations and she has a lot of restrictions set up. This might have something to do with Goku's parenting style, but more on that later.

Piccolo also uses authoritarianism with Gohan, but he isn't trying to parent him, just train him.

What's really interesting is that children raised in a household practicing authoritarianism tend to hold a lot of anger inside. They also have low self-efficacy and high self blame. Remind you of someone?

Indulgent

Here we see nurturing, accepting parents who don't have behavioral expectations of their children. They are responsive to the children's needs and wishes, but do not expect them to be the same toward other people. The parents want to be the child's friend rather than a demanding parent.

Children of indulgent parents tend to grow up without a sense of others' boundaries and generally have less discipline than their peers. They lack impulse control and are often irresponsible.

In DBZ we do see signs of this parenting style, but only limited. It's not commonly used in Asia and therefore, Toriyama didn't add it. In GT it's obvious that both Trunks and Bulla seem have been parenting this way by Bulma. It's also why many doubt that Vegeta has been much involved.

It's also easy to argue that Goku parents this way, although it's up for discussion.

Neglectful

Although many think that the indulgent parenting style have created a generation of undisciplined young people, the neglectful parenting style has actually had a greater effect.

The parents are either more interested in themselves and their own goals than their children's. (Although sometimes it's because the parents struggle with stress or depression) Children of these parents are usually lonely and melancholic, often have very low self esteem and are needy after affection and approval. This leads them to be easily manipulated and they are at a higher risk to end up in abusive relationships.

I think many of the Vegeta antis and those claiming Goku is a bad parent would place the two Saiyans here.

However, Goku is clearly involved in Gohan's upbringing, albeit choosing a more casual approach than Chichi, and returns after being dead for seven years, ready to be involved with Goten (and Gohan if he wants it). The reason that Goku mainly focuses on training isn't just because it's his own interest. It's what he knows for sure how to do.

Most importantly: it was how Goku was raised himself. First by Grandpa Gohan and later from his other father figure, Master Roshi. It isn't just in his blood; it's in his upbringing.

And then there's Vegeta’s parenting style which was my main focus for this post. It got a little out of control, but we have finally arrived at the last parenting style:

Authoritative

This is the most modern parenting style, even though it isn't really new. It's been used for years in well functioning familes. This type of parent is both demanding and nurturing, being present and engaged in their children's lives. They explain things to their children, teach them how to regulate their feelings and therefore expect a mature behavior from them.

Children of authoritative parents tend to be more successful in their adult lives, capable of discipline and well-liked. Because they aren't constantly being restricted, they naturally develope autonomy within set boundaries and learn to respect others, regardless of authority.

So, what does this have to do with Vegeta and Trunks?

As I mentioned in the beginning, in the scene in the Gravity Chamber, Vegeta uses positive reinforcement to motive Trunks. Positive reinforcement has proven to be a healthy way to motivate children (and animals) and is a part of the authoritative style. By using it, Vegeta provides Trunks with rules that foster motivation and discipline in the child. The fact that Vegeta knows about the amusement and can use it as an incentive also shows that he is involved enough to know what may get Trunks to do his best.

But the most important thing we see is that Vegeta upholds his promise, despite hating every second of it. It shows that he respects Trunks' efforts and achievement. By honoring his word, he also teaches Trunks to do the same.

Of course, this is a small scene and we don't know how Vegeta behaves otherwise in regards to Trunks. But it's safe to say that Vegeta does take his son's wishes into account and uses it to encourage him to move beyond his limits.

I admit that I'm not a fan of GT and don't consider it canon, especially because of Toriyama's lack of involvement. So, while I dislike many aspects of DBS, I do think it's the best representation of the characters.

In Super, both Goten and Trunks are well adjusted boys who both have discipline and test the boundaries of their autonomy. They act like boys their age, albeit with incredibly strength, and it goes to show that their parents have raised them well.

Of course, it's also important to remember that both DBZ and DBS (and even GT) are a product of their time and the parenting styles reflect that. DBZ is from the 80's where the authoritarian (Chichi) and indulgent (Goku) styles were the most common. GT is from the 90's where the media started to focus on indulgent and neglectful parents - even though it wasn't a new thing - and it's shown that Trunks, Bulla and Goten have grown up as spoiled and undisciplined. DBS shows that the parents in the show have become authoritative and their children's behavior reflects that.

It's clear that the parents are doing their best and that the fathers have become more involved nowadays than before. This is the case in modern parenting as well.

Anyway, this is the end of my long rant. I think, as both an expert in children's development and as a parent myself, it's interesting to look into the relationships between the characters, especially the father-son interactions which are explored the most. There's no doubt that Toriyama knew the importance of being a father and wanted to portray it, mainly in Goku and Gohan's relationship.

I don't think Toriyama saw Goku nor Vegeta as bad fathers, but he knew that everyone has different strengths, even in parenthood.

[linkspooky]

So I was genuinely surprised last week when we were finally shown Megumi's mental state inside Sukuna and he was predictably at his lowest point ever, and instead of sympathy from the fans most of the responses on twitter I saw were people mocking him.

Which I am going to assume comes from a misunderstanding as his character. You see Megumi doesn't fit into the role of the black haired supporting protagonist / rival well. He's not Sasuke, he's not Uryu Ishida, he's not Yuno but he's not meant to be a rival or even a typical shonen character who's progress is only measured by a series of power ups. Megumi is perhaps one of the most subtly written characters in the manga, and perhaps he's hard to sympathize with because he doesn't fit into easy to udnerstand shonen tropes. Which is why I will try to explain his arc below and why Jujutsu Kaisen does it like no other manga currently running.

1. Meet Potential Man

Let me introduce you to the worst meme on twitter.

Megumi's inability to live up to his potential to reach his full power as a sorcerer is probably his biggest flaw, one that is rightfully called out by the narrative again and again, but apparently an intentionally written character flaw is bad writing.

It's covered in Gojo's "Swing for the fences" speech.

Gojo notices Megumi bunt in the baseball game and decides to confront him about it later. He highlights that while bunting is alright in baseball, and it's good to sacrifice yourself so your teammates can advance in a team sport that being a sorcerer is a solo sport. No matter what Megumi is going to reach a point where he's forced to fight alone, and instead of trying to push himself to be as strong as he can be he intentionally limits himself to cooperate with the sorcerers around him.

Basically, the opposite of Gojo who literally cannot fight with other sorcerers because he won't be able to fight at full strength as they just get in the way.

It's not just that Megumi can't use the ten shadows to its full potential, something pointed out by Sukuna, and then later again by Gojo, it's also that he always prioritizes either the group or someone else above himself when trying to decide how to act. Megumi is a semi-decent strategist so this is not necessarily a bad thing, but because of Megumi's tendency to care more about trying to live up to other people's expectations towards him, and what other people need of him rather than his own needs he doesn't have the attitude necessary for sorcery, especially since the strongest sorcerers don't take others into account at all and act like living calamities.

Megumi doesn't look at himself, he looks at the people around him. He judges himself based on what the people around him want from him, not what he wants. This is going to be a continual theme in his arc.

Sukuna is a living calamity, the definition of the attitude a strong sorcerer has, Gojo Satoru wields sorcerery only for himself, and is a sorcerer because he finds exorcising curses and using his god given talents to be fun for him.

Megumi's reason for fighting, his self worth, are all much, much less than the strongest characters in this series which is why he continually fails to live up to his potential. It's not because Gege is not good at writing or Megumi is a disappointing character, but rather he's been written as someone with tremendous potential under the pressure to live up to that potential but who continually fails to do so. Megumi's low self-esteem, low self-worth, and lack of self-identity explains both his failure to progress as a sorcerer something that requires selfishness and self-identity to reach greater heights in, but also his tendency to pick the suicide option with Mahoraga because Megumi genuinely believes compared to the others even just his classmates his life is simply worth less.

So potential man, is an intentionally written character flaw already called out in canon. The more interesting question is why does Megumi fail to live up to his potential.

2. Meet The Original Potential Man

So, I said that Megumi is not like a lot of characters in Shonen Jump but that doesn't mean he's entirely unique. To help explain Megumi's inability to live up to his potential I thought it would be helpful to compare him to a character he's clearly inspired by.

Killua Zoldyck, is the deuteragonist of a manga called hunter x hunter. You may have heard of it, Gege certainly has. Killua is born into a family of assassins who all have supernatural powers. The assassins inflict incredibly harsh training on their children from birth in order to raise them into assassins because their potential as assassins is all that matters. They also start with a "Z".

Killua is apparently the most talented Zen'in... I mean Zoldyck of this generation, though he's still young so he's weaker than his father and brother he's expected to easily surpass them one. Which is why Killua's family has already decided for him that he's going to be the next one to take over the family, Killua's opinion doesn't matter. Illumi and Silva are both setting him up for success by forcing their "help" upon him. Several other members of the family even point out that Killua probably doesn't have the attitude to be the head of the family, but what does it matter when he's got such great talent?

Killua is a complicated victim. He's a victim of many things, familial abuse is the most obvious one because the Zoldyck have a nasty habit of torturing their children, but the less obvious one is grooming. Not in a sexual sense, but rather the adults in Killua's life have decided to use their authority over him to manipulate him into becoming what they want him to be - the next head of the family.

What's insidious about this is the Zoldyck's don't just torture or beat Killua into submission, they will use any tool in their arsenal, familial love, emotional blackmail, threats, all to undermine Killua's agency and choices in order to make him not only do what they want to do but make him think he has to grow into the person they want him to.

Grooming not in a sexual sense, but definitely in a psychological sense, an adult using their authority as an adult over a child and their maturity to manipulate that child into becoming what they want them to be instead of letting that child grow naturally. When it's used in a sexual sense it's when an adult establishes a connection with a minor, and then uses that connection in the long-term to manipulate them into having a relationship and lower the child's inhibition. Think of that, but without the sexual part - an adult using their relationship with a child often in a long-term manipulation to lower the child's inhibitions and make them more malleable and raise them to do what you want them to do.

Killua has not been sexually groomed, but he has been groomed by both his parents and his brother to make him more suggestible to becoming the family head which is something he explicitly does not want to do. Not only did Killua's family only raise him for the purpose of becoming an assassin and taking over the family one day (raising him as a child into an adult, his emotional maturity, his health and well being are all secondary priorities to what Killua can do for his family) they also manipulate him into thinking he has no choice other than being an assassin.

Killua is a kid put through extremely harsh training from a young age, to do a horrible job that is being an assassin that doesn't let him make normal friends or have a normal life. On top of the physical abuse he's already endured, whenever he expresses a desire to do something else in his life, his parents send Illumi to emotionally manipulate him into thinking that not only is he a natural born killer, and therefore a bad person who deserves all the abuse he's been put through, to further convince him that his only path forward is to be an assassin.

Killua is a character who has a lot of power, but little agency. Agency, in fiction is the ability a character has to take action and make decisions for themselves. Despite Killua starting as a more powerful and more savvy character than Gon, he has little agency and is often very passive. He doesn't act, he reacts. Even running away from his family is a reaction. We don't really see what he wants in life, we just know that he looked at his family and went "NOT THAT". However, his entire identity is still formed in response to his family's abuse. Even when he gets farther away from them, Killua doesn't really do what he wants, he does what Gon wants, and follows around Gon.

However, it's very understandable why Killua doesn't act with a lot of agency, when Killua does try to make decisions his family always shows up to undermine him and make another attempt to emotionally manipulate him into doing what they want. It's not always Illumi showing up to spook him. Silva pretends to be a loving dad for five minutes and has a heart to heart conversation with his son, and lets his son go adventuring with his friends but that too is a manipulation. He only did so to make sure Killua would eventually come back, by giving Killua more positive memories that would make it harder to make the decision to leave the family.

With the extent that Killua's family goes to sabotage any decision he makes, it's no wonder Killua is so passive and afraid to make his own decisions. It's almost like a character flaw he's gotta work on.

Now here's where I'm going to blow your minds. Megumi is an incredibly similar character to Killua, they are both the victims of longterm grooming however people don't like to acknowledge Megumi's victimhood. That's because in Killua's case, his abuser looks and acts like this.

Killua's abuser Illumi is a creepy guy who looks like the girl from the grudge, telling him he's not allowed to make friends and giving off such rancid vibes that he's obviously a bad guy. Whereas, Megumi's groomer this this guy.

Gojo Satoru who is one of the most popular characters in the series, and who also gives speeches about how he wants to let children be able to live out their youths, which is why it's hard for the fandom to see that he has taken advantage of Megumi and stolen his youth away from him pretty much the same way that Silva / Illumi has for Killua.

Megumi, like Killua has no choice in who he wants to be when he grows up, or what kind of person he wants to grow into. Megumi, like Killua has been groomed for a young age and forced into an incredibly dangerous and life threatening job that he does not want to do, that denies him the chance of a normal life, and that does not really allow him to make many friends. Megumi is railroaded onto this path, not by his choice, but by Toji's choice, and later Gojo's choice... because he has potential. Megumi like Killua cannot leave his family and stop being a sorcerer, otherwise his little sister who is the only family member he cares about will be hurt.

Gojo doesn't show up with an evil aura looking like the grudge girl and telling Megumi that he doesn't have the right to make friends, and that he's inherently evil and a puppet that only exists to kill people though so it's harder to tell that Megumi is a victim of the same kind of grooming that has hurt Killua so thoroughly.

This is what I mean when I say a lot of Megumi's characterization flies over your head because his victimization is written really subtly. Gojo does the same thing that Illumi / Silva does to Killua, he may seem like a stand up guy compared to those two but Megumi has about as much choice about what he can do with his life that Killua has.

Not all grooming is Illumi showing up with his spooky eyes to intimidate and coerce Killua into submission. Silva shows up to give Killua the first fatherly talk he had in his life, and lets him go from the mansion.... not because he realized he was wrong for restricting Killua's life choices and giving him no choice but to become heir.

No, it was a ploy to guilt trip him into coming back because he knew if he held Killua there by force he'd just run away the next chance he got. Fear and intimidation wasn't working at keeping Killua in line, so they switched to love instead.

Gojo can encourage Megumi to make friends, let him hang out and spend time with Itadori, even honor his wish to save Itadori and in the end still be manipulating him into becoming a sorcerer and not letting Megumi choose what he wants to do with his life. Gojo just prefers the carrot to the stick.

This is something the databooks confirm, that Gojo hunts prospects like Yuta, Yuji and Megumi not out of the goodness of his heart, but because they are talented students he can recruit to his cause with the added bonus that by appearing as their savior, they "owe" him.

Megumi is also a character lacking in agency, he is someone who's had no agency his entire life and what little agency he did have was stolen away from him by the adults in his life.

Let's analyze Megumi's situation for a second. As soon as Megumama dies, Toji gives up on the idea of fatherhood entirely, and decides to sell his son, literally, like in the sense of human trafficking to be raised by the highly abusive Zen'in Clan.

However, before the deal could be completed his father died in the middle of a mission. Megumi apparently saw his father so little that he didn't recognize him on coming face to face with him years alter, which says a lot about what kind of role Toji played in Megumi's life before he was outright abandoned.

Not only does Megumi believe his father just left him to run away with his new wife (Megumi's stepmother and the mother of Tsumiki) but now he and Tsumiki had to live together in a household without supervision for an indeterminate amount of time and watch their money slowly run out.

When it looks like they're about to start starving, Gojo Satoru shows up to save the day.... or not.

Gojo seems like he's offering Megumi a choice, but it's a loaded one. There's no choice in this scenario where Megumi gets to be a normal kid. The option of calling social services so this orphaned child does not starve doesn't occur to him.

Megumi's options are a) go to the Zen'in Clan and be a sorcerer where Tsumiki will be abused, or b) be a sorcerer under me where Tsumiki will be safe. The unspoken part is that if Megumi rejects his offer not only will he just let the Zen'in Take him, he'll also probably just let Megumi starve. Megumi the uh six or so year old child at this point has to sign away the rest of his life as a sorcerer, and work in order to earn money to eat.

No adult is taking care of Megumi, no one is raising him, even the food and shelter Megumi is given comes with a price tag that he has to pay back by being a Jujutsu Sorcerer and attending Jujutsu High as a teenager. Gojo even kind of subtly uses Tsumiki as a hostage to get Megumi to join with his agenda, because his offer isn't really much better than the Zen'ins but he needs Megumi on his side because he needs to raise kids to be future allies to his political agenda.

At the tender age of six Megumi signed his life away to be a sorcerer and he hasn't looked back since. Considering his severe behavioral problems getting into fights constantly at school, I think it's safe to say Megumi is about as reluctant to be a sorcerer as Killua is an assassin.

Honestly, if Megumi had phrased it like this:

"I'm so tired of being a sorcerer, I just want to be a kid."

Megumi would have a lot more fans, and Gojo would have a lot of explaining to do, but I think the brilliance of Megumi's grooming is that it's not really as blatant as Killua's. Megumi doesn't talk out loud about how he wants to be a normal kid, he's just angry at the whole world, and prone to fits of violence because he's mentall unwell.

Another way in which he parallels Killua, by the way.

Megumi does not talk about his lost childhood out loud. Instead of knowing his thoughts on the matter, instead we are shown his behavior, the effects of having his childhood taken away from him and how unstable it makes him and left to ponder as the audience what Megumi himself thinks of this.

The same way that Illumi steals all of Killua's agency away, robbing him of the chance to be anything other than what the Zoldycks want him to be, so to does Gojo. It's just instead of Gojo using the stick, he uses the carrot. He is Megumi's benefactor, he's the savior, for whose help Megumi owes him, sort of like repaying a loan with interest.

Gojo tries to shape Megumi into Gojo Satoru 2.0. Or maybe a second Geto. That's more likely as it's Geto defection which inspires Gojo to go looking for him after neglecting to do anything about Megumi until a year after finding out about his existence. Gojo says that Megumi is going to have to work hard or else he'll be left behind, just days after Geto had left him behind. Megumi is helped by Gojo, he is protected from the clans by Gojo, he has been taken on missions alongside Gojo his entire life, Maki even refers to Megumi as a treasure that was raised carefully by him.

Gojo invests a lot of time and effort into Megumi and because of that Megumi is expected to "perform." However, he doesn't.

That's the thing, Megumi is supposed to be either Gojo or Geto 2.0 but he just can't be. THe reason why again is Agency. If Killua is limited because of his inability to decide for himself, then so to is Megumi b/c Nen and Cursed Technique Development both depend on things like imagination, ego and self-image to raise them up to their full potential.

However, Gojo has shot himself in the foot with regards to Megumi. Becoming a Jujutsu Sorcerer requires a strong identity, but Gojo by sabotaging Megumi's agency and ability to decide for himself every step of the way has robbed Megumi of the chance to form that strong identity.

Megumi, just like Killua has no sense of self and instead both judges himself according to others, how he meets their expectations, how he measures up to them - he also glorifies others while constantly putting himself down.

Megumi doesn't give speeches about how Yuji is like pure light, but he also refuses to let Yuji out of his sight post Shibuya, and even says it'd be better to be killed by Sukuna alongside Yuji if Sukuna does take over.

In the Chimera Ant Arc Killua defines all of his self-worth around being useful to Gon, and beats himself up for not being able to measure up to him - because Killua has no sense of self his selfhood has always been undermined by his family who wanted to make him more suggestible to what they wanted.

Megumi is flippant with his own life and very willing to lay down his life for another's sake, because Megumi has very little agency in his life and has been taught by both Gojo and his circumstances that he himself and what he wants does not matter. Megumi doesn't fight fate, and fight for what he wants because he's already been shot in the kneecaps by both Toji's abandonment, and Gojo Satoru, and he's having a difficult time just trying to stand with bullets in his knees.

Maybe, the reason Megumi is so willing to risk his life to summon Mahoraga and sacrifice himself if he thinks it will help his allies is because Megumi has been forced into a job where he's gonig to be expected to sacrifice his life for the greater good since the tender age of six years old and therefore everything in life has conspired to tell him his life is worth less than others.

Yuji isn't the first person in story to think of himself as a cog, that's Megumi. He doesn't even need Shibuya to beat him down to accept the cog mindset, Megumi is already there at the beginning of the story.

I think a lot of misunderstanding of Megumi's character comes from the fact that his grooming is more subtle and insidious, and not as blatant as Killua's, and also that it's done by a character well-liked by the fandom. However, if Megumi has all the same symptoms of Killua then it's logical to deduce that they share the same trauma

Even Megumi's summoning of Mahoraga has a tie to Killua.

There's a pattern of KIllua running away from stronger opponent that's established in HXH that's eventually revealed to be because of a needle that Illumi inserted directly into Killua's brain to mind control him to run if he faced someone that was too much of a threat.

Obviously, that's just continuing the metaphor of the fact that Killua isn't able to believe in himself to face people who are stronger, because Illumi has been constantly putting him down his entire life.

Isn't this essentially what Megumi does as well?

When Megumi is faced with an opponent that's too strong or a hopeless situation, instead of running like Killua he summons Mahoraga. He does this because he doesn't believe in his ability to surpass his limits and fight, because he doesn't believe in himself or his own potential.

When is actually able to think more freely and picture a version of himself who can surpass his limits and who can do these things - these are the moments he is shown to grow.

Megumi however, for the most part isn't free. He can't think of himself as free and he can't free himself, because not only does he still have no choice about what he wants to do with his life (even if he becomes the msot powerful sorcerer in the world Gojo won't let him quit, he's gotta pay off those student loans), but he's also internalized the idea that he's not free. Not only has Gojo raised him to be a cog, Megumi has also accepted the fact that he is a cog and what he wants does not matter - the most he can do is hope that his actions will protect the people he loves and give them a little bit of happiness.

Megumi doesn't need a needle in his brain to control him and make him run away from fights and more obedient, because Megumi has already done all of that to himself with the toxic and self-harming ideas he's internalized.

Megumi and Killua having given up on themselves, try to make others happy, the same people they put on pedestals in order to make themselves feel even worse in comparison.

However, from this point Megumi and Killuas arcs go in opposite directions. You see after the Chimera Ant Arc when Killua hits his lowest point and his codependent friendship with Gon is exposed for what it is, Killua returns home in order to try and rescue his sister Alluka who is probably the reason he ran away in the first place.

Alluka and Tsumiki are both at the start of the story taken away from Killua and Megumi respectively, and with them the only genuine familial affection they ever enjoyed in their lives is taken too.

However, Alluka and Tsumiki are inversions. Alluka finds her freedom and agency, and Killua is able to reform his connection with his sister by accepting both pats of her, Alluka and Nanika. Afterwards the two of them finally leave their family home together and go off on a journey together.

If Alluka finds her personhood, Tsumiki remains a plot device. She never awakens from her coma, she's possessed instead and then murdered.

Now, here is where I point out how unfair the audience is being to Megumi. If you're a hunter x hunter fan remember all the character development that Killua gained by reforging his relationship with Alluka, how much confidence it gave him to connect to the one person who's even unconditionally loved him as a family member.

Now imagine that Alluka is brutally butchered right in front of him, and Killua has a first person point of view, because somehow in this scenario Illumi used a needle to mind control him into killing Alluka.

Do you really think Killua would be able to stand after that?

Sukuna is really just the last in line of a long line of people who've stolen Megumi's agency away from him, in order to benefit themselves. Sukuna even saw the same "potential" in Megumi that Gojo did.

Sukuna physically posessing Megumi's body, is just what both the Zen'in Clan, and Gojo Satoru have been trying to do to him in the most literal way possible. Gojo wants to remake Megumi into Gojo Satoru 2.0 with no regards to who Megumi is as a person, what Megumi's wants and needs are. No he just wants to raise someone as strong as him and pass the burden of protecting society onto Megumi, this starving orphan Gojo decided to exploit.

People have always used Megumi as a puppet for their own agenda, Naobito wanted to make him the head of the Zen'in Clan because he had the technique, Gojo wanted him to become the next strongest sorcerer / Gojo Satoru and also to replace the elders with Gojo's political agenda. They all want Megumi's "potential" for themselves to use to their own ends. Sukuna just takes what Gojo did one step further by literally stealing Megumi's body away from him and using him as a literal puppet instead of a metaphorical one. Gojo took Megumi's childhood by making him work as a sorcerer, Sukuna kills the physical embodiment of Megumi's childhood innocence by murdering Tsumiki, the only thing Megumi had in his life besides being a sorcerer, his only family, the only person he grew up with in his childhood years, the only person who loved him for who he was.

Megumi coped with what Gojo did to him the same way Killua did, by building himself around his use to others, and by building his identity around protecting others but now that's all gone. Tsumiki is gone, Megumi is trying to kill his friends, and he's already butchered Gojo Satoru.

Yet the fans are surprised that Megumi doesn't immediately get back on his feet.

However, and this my slightly optimistic ending to the post. Perhaps, Megumi is going the complete opposite of Killua, because what Megumi needed to learn was not to grow strong and confident enough to protect his sister but to learn to fight for himself.

At this point Megumi has nothing else left. It's sink of swim. He either develops a strong enough identity to regain control of his body and push Sukuna out, or he loses and the anti-Sukuna team will just have to resort to killing Megumi along with Sukuna.

Even in that case.

Megumi not being saved by Yuji is a good thing.

Because a victim who gets rescued by a hero still has no agency.

Megumi told Yuji that he needs to start by "saving me."

However, it might just be the opposite. Before Megumi can save anyone else, before he can become a protector, he has to find his own power and save himself. He has to both accept thathe's someone worthy of salvation, and at the same time he can't just passively accept the hand that Yuji's offered to him he has to actively be the one to break free of Sukuna and save himself.

Megumi can't become the strongest sorcerer by becoming the next Gojo Satoru or being what Gojo or Sukuna wants him to be. THe only way Megumi can become the strongest, is by being himself.

[nogenderbee]

Could I request Headcanons of the brothers with an s/o who smiles at them adoringly whenever they're doing something?

Of course! I honestly couldn't help myself but write short fics... I just felt like it suited more then headcanons so I hope you enjoy it, dear anon <3

Brothers with reader who smiles at them adoringly

TagList: @indi-has-fallen @vodka-glrl @miya-akane

Lucifer was probably doing his work when he felt someone staring at him. Yeah, I just know he's so used to his brothers being troublemaker that he can feel when someone's looking at him for even a second. So it's not a surprise that he looks up at you pretty quickly.

"YN... What are you planning again? I swear if it's another curse you're planning to- *ehem* Enjoying the view~?"

At first he'll be so done, he'll straight up assume that you want to test curses on him again but luckily he's positively surprised. Once he sees that you're staring at him with pure love, his face immidietly turns from disbelief to smirk. And believe me when I say, he looks at you with one of his best teasing eyes and he's not even slightly blushing at that.

If you happen to blush, he'll definitely lightly chuckle from the fact that you tried to make him blush but yet, how tables have turned~ Although he probably won't tell you that and leave you to figure it out by yourself.

"Why was I chuckling? Completely not reason~ Why? Do you not trust me?"

Sure, he gets over that pretty quickly but there's high chance he'll randomly bring it up when you're alone and your scheming on something or when he wants to just make you a little flustered.

Mammon was casually counting his Grimm to know how much he can gamble and when to run. But his human was awfully quiet for some time now... And silence means nothing good, that's what he learned!

"Hey, human! Whatcha do-"

But then he saw how you looked at him. It's as if there's no one and nothing else but him. And on top of that, your eyes were filled with such an adoration... He swears he could feel heat on his cheeks when he saw your loving stare.

"O-Oi! Whatcha think you're doing?! S-Staring at me like that..."

He'll definitely have this adorable shade of red on his cheeks for like couple of hours or so. But of course he needs to keep his cool, so he pretends it's nothing. Honestly it's kind of funny how he tries to hide how flustered that made him even if you point it out.

"I-It's nothing! I mean... of course you'd want to admire THE Mammon!"

Yeah, well, Mams you might want to get rid of that blush first-

The best part is hell never or if so then very slowly get used to it. Like you can do that simple act for 100th time or so and he still panics.

Alright, Levi will definitely get so flustered easily. You don't even have to try hard to get a reaction out of him.

When he's busy playing games while you realize your plan, it can take him some times before realizing that you're staring at home, especially if the game he's playing requires focus. But once he finally notices that, there's no way he can go back to playing and his face is redder than tomato.

"W-What? I got something on my face? Are you making fun of me or something?"

Even if he notices the loving stare in your eyes, he'll refuse to believe it's meant for him mostly because of his low self-esteem.

His reaction when he realizes you're staring with such a love at him is so adorable. He'll blush and stutter like crazy while trying to not scream, collapse or run away in the process.

"Y-You're joking, right?! There's no way you're staring at me with such a... l-love... AHHHH What is this normie strategy?!!!"

Let me tell you: he's NEVER getting over with it. He'll blush every single time you do it, no matter how long you're together or how many times you already tried it.

Satan is another person to just feel someone staring at him. Unlike his eldest brother tho, he won't recast immidietly and wait but of course he has limits to his patience so he'll eventually blow up. It's just that he probably finds staring without any explanation a little annoying.

"For how long do you plan to stare exactly?! If you want to say something just say it to my face!"

But don't worry it takes him a few seconds to realize it but once he does, his face softness as well as his voice.

"Oh? Well, maybe you tell me what's on your mind, hm~?"

He really expects you to become flustered so do just that if you want to see his smirk get even wider. Although if you won't get flustered after all and answer him that you're only admiring him, it's him who will go immidietly flustered.

"W-What?! *ehem* That's... very nice of you... No, I'm not blushing! ... Maybe just a little..."

He'll remember about this till the very end and he'll bring it up every time in a while. Mostly whenever he wants to fluster you or to just being back nice memories you can enjoy chatting about.

If you thought that you can fluster Asmo just by staring at him adoringly then you're either extremely optimistic or clearly don't know him.

He was doing his make up and just looked at you so he can know your opinion when he noticed that you're staring at him. And oh boy, he knows that state so well. This stare is literally screaming "COMPETITION" to him.

"Hey, darling, tell me what do you think of my eye make up? Pretty cu- aooh~"

Once he noticed your stare, it's over. He's staring at you with even more admiration and to him it's staring contest and he'll do his best to win it.

Trust me when I say, he won't loose so easily, so if you want to win prepare to stay like that for hours. He'll eventually go take a bath or his beauty sleep after all.

If you win, he'll spoil your entire face with kisses saying that it's reward for your win. If he wins tho, he'll demand you give him a reward.

"Hehe~ I won~ So what do I get? C'mon I have to get a prize! What could it be? Whatever you can think of~"

Also, he'll never forget it. If it made you flustered, it's a reason for him to speak more about it. But even if it didn't, he'll still want you to repeat it sometime. Like that, he can stare into your eyes for hours while you stare into his! That's truly a magical moment, isn't it?

Perfect opportunity for you to realize your plan would be when Beel is training. He often mentions that you can come even if you won't train in the end. Bells love language being Quality Time real So you definitely won't have problem with admiring him. When he notices you're staring at him, he simply waves with a smile clearly not noticing how in love you are. But don't worry once he comes up to you, he quickly notices your eyes are filled with affection!

He's quick to notice your loving stare tho once he comes up to you. His face immidietly receives slight shade of pink and you can see him slightly smiling at you but he's still not sure if he got it all right.

"Did something happen while I was training? Why were you staring at me?"

He just wants to hear from your mouth that you're looking at him with admiration, mostly to make sure. And once you tell him or when he's sure you're staring at him with only pure love, his smile gets even bigger now and you receive a nice bear hug.

But if you ask him why he's so affectionate, he'll probably say he just felt like it since he doesn't want to make you feel like your staring was uncomfortable or so for him.

"Why am I hugging you? No reason, I simply just wanted to! Is that really a bad thing?"

Belphie is sleeping basically all the time! And he also drags you with him... so when he's sleeping, you're usually to or just are snuggled up to him. So why not use that perfect opportunity and admire him a little while he's asleep.

But unfortunately, he can feel someone staring at him when he sleeps. At first, of course he brushes it off since sleeping in public does being a little bit of attention but when the staring doesn't stop and only gets more intense for him, he decides to take a look on who's staring at him.

And that's when he saw you, eyes filled with love and admiration as you stared at him and he smiled at you with a bit of love before chuckling and hugging you tighter or just hugging you if he already wasn't. Of course, he'll compliment you a little bit as well.

"Hehe~ You're really cute, you know that?"

But if he's feeling moody or if he becomes tired of constantly staring at him SPOILER: he never will then he'll only tell you that it's creepy before pulling you into a hug, so you have no idea if he had something against you staring at him or not.

"Staring again? That's becoming creepy... Alright, well come here. Let's cuddle!"

❉⊱•═•⊰❉⊱•═•⊰❉⊱•═•⊰❉⊱•═•⊰❉⊱•═•⊰❉⊱•═•⊰❉

[m00nt4r0t]

✮ your star qualities! ✮

pile one, two, three, four, five, or six?

these are short messages, so feel free to pick more than one pile if you wish!

patreon ⭑ masterlist ⭑ personal readings

﹒ . ⊹ ♡ ⁺ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹ ❀ . ﹒ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ pile one!

song on shuffle: “freakyt” by tiacorine

you’re very compassionate and you don’t play ego games with people, pile one. you’re very naturally beautiful, and you don’t care much about drama or competition. you’re also very forgiving, not only to yourself but also those who have crossed you. you don’t like to hold hate in your heart. you naturally shine like a star and you grab a lot of peoples attention just by existing. you have a lot of faith and trust in the divine, which is why you don’t bother with getting revenge because you know that the divine has your back. you could have a dark aesthetic, or you tend to attract people who are a bit darker than most people (physically and/or energetically.) you’re very well protected and your guides refuse to let you fall from grace.

﹒ . ⊹ ♡ ⁺ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹ ❀ . ﹒ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ pile two!

song on shuffle: “lover is a day” by cuco

you’re someone who is very complex, and yet, you don’t allow the differences within you to confuse you. at times, yes, you may have a tough time making decisions on where to go or how to react, but you make it seem easy to those who are on the outside looking in. you’re very balanced and well-tempered, pile two. you don’t let people get to you emotionally and you always come out on top. people have a hard time making you mad or making you insecure. you could make music or you have a really good music taste. also, people love your dimples if you have them. people who tend who have low self esteem are very attracted to your light because you naturally make people feel good, and im seeing that people could think about you for years after parting ways from you.

﹒ . ⊹ ♡ ⁺ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹ ❀ . ﹒ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ pile three!

song on shuffle: “i wanna be yours” by arctic monkeys

you have no limitations, pile three. you have the entirety of the universe within your soul and you’re starting to realize this, aren’t you? it may seem too good to be true, which may cause you to doubt yourself at times, but it’s true. you’re a go getter and you always get what you want, even if it takes longer than you expected, or comes in a different form than you originally thought. you quite literally have the ability to go wherever you pease, much like a bird. your mind is wired differently than others and you’re able to see and understand things that most people cannot. there’s some emphasis on your nose being part of your star quality, as well. you attract powerful relationships and connections into your life.

﹒ . ⊹ ♡ ⁺ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹ ❀ . ﹒ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ pile four!

song on shuffle: “putrid pride” by $uicideboy$

you’re very striking and magnetic, pile four. people are so attracted and pulled to you and they don’t fully understand why. yes, you’re attractive, but a lot of people are attractive - so why do people become so addicted to you? well, because you’re not like anyone else. you evoke emotions and feelings within people that have never been evoked before by anyone else. people become obsessed with you, pile four. your sacral chakra is very magnetic, and your eyes lure people in and it seems so innocent at first, but then they realize there’s no way out. you have a way with words and you’re very sweet and sensual, which makes people overlook the depth within you. people love to watch you, pile four. you’re very entertaining.

﹒ . ⊹ ♡ ⁺ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹ ❀ . ﹒ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ pile five!

song on shuffle: "the beach" by the neighbourhood

you are fearless, pile five. you have the ability to let go of anything and everything that does not serve you, and in the end, you're good on your own. it may not be something you prefer, but you would rather by by yourself than be surrounded with people who are going to hold you back from your highest potential. you've gone through a lot of tough situations alone and most people aren't able to do this, but it seems that you prefer it that way anyway - you probably don't like being vulnerable in front of others. you read people like a book and you can always feel it when someone is lying or keeping something hidden. you're very mystical and magical; you have the ability to influence people with your words and your creations. a lot of people don't understand you and even if they try to, they may give up because you're out of their reach.

﹒ . ⊹ ♡ ⁺ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹ ❀ . ﹒ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ pile six!

song on shuffle: "self care" by mac miller

well, pile six... you naturally shine. everything about you screams "star quality" and everyone around you knows it. you're extremely powerful, attractive, brave, and talented. if anyone doubted you before, they're eating their words now. you naturally shine, even in a room full of light, your light is the brightest. people are so naturally gravitated towards you; your appearance as well as your energy is very eye-catching. how could anyone not notice you? however, you're a very reserved person and you may not like to go out much. you have a connection with mother nature and you like to spend time expanding your mind and gaining knowledge. you're a very divine being, pile six, and you're here to spread your light to others, so try not to keep yourself tucked away too much.

﹒ . ⊹ ♡ ⁺ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹ ❀ . ﹒ ₊ ✮ ₊ ⁺ ⊹

thank you for reading & interacting! <3

patreon ⭑ masterlist ⭑ personal readings

[hrizantemy]

One of my main issues with Sarah J. Maas is at the beginning of “A Court of Silver Flames” she said and I quote “For every Nesta out there- climb the mountain.” Forcing anyone. regardless of gender, to endure physical exertion beyond their limits to the point of physical and mental breakdown is abusive behavior. Forcing someone to hike for multiple days beyond their physical capacity can lead to exhaustion, dehydration, injury, and even death. It disregards the person's physical well-being and safety.

Enduring such extreme physical exertion can lead to significant mental and emotional distress, including feelings of despair, hopelessness, and trauma. Forcing someone into a strenuous activity against their will violates their autonomy and personal agency. Everyone has the right to make decisions about their own body and activities, and forcing them to engage in activities they do not consent to is a violation of that right.

Experiencing such traumatic events can have long-lasting effects on an individual's mental and emotional well-being, potentially leading to ongoing issues such as PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder).

The same mountain that she was forced to climb by the male that also said this and I quote again “Everyone fucking hates you. Is that what you want? Because congratulations, it's happened.” Verbal abuse, such as telling someone that everyone hates them, is harmful and can deeply affect an individual's self-esteem, mental well-being, and sense of belonging.

Using language to intentionally hurt someone emotionally is a form of manipulation and control. It's an attempt to undermine the person's self-worth and isolate them from others. By telling someone that everyone hates them, the abuser is attempting to distort the victim's perception of reality, making them doubt their own experiences and feelings. This contributes to feelings of confusion and self-doubt.

The statement suggests that the victim is universally disliked, which can lead to feelings of isolation and alienation. This isolation can further empower the abuser by cutting off the victim from potential sources of support. Verbal abuse can have long-lasting psychological effects, including anxiety, depression, low self-esteem, and trauma. It can also contribute to a cycle of abuse, where the victim may internalize the abusive messages and believe they deserve such treatment.

So in conclusion for every Nesta out there who is going through this or a situation like this. Please seek support from friends, family, or professionals. Contact authorities, and know that there are organizations, especially ones that provide the victim with access to appropriate medical and mental health care.

[sprout-fics]

Stitches (Part Two)

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Three of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Wordcount: 7.2k Tags: Slow Burn, Heavy Angst, Trauma, Found Family, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics, Major Character Injury, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Unreliable Narrator, Self Esteem Issues, Referenced Familial abuse, Hospitalization, Self Sabotage Warnings: Explicit Injury mention, Forced sedation A/N: I'm in so much pain

Wakefulness comes in small doses, glimpses of another realm you've yet to enter. There's no physical sensation beyond the weight of your body, the effort it takes for your eyes to flutter open only for a mere moment before being forced to close once more. Like dreams, the world slips through your grasp, colors and sounds wavering like dyed mist. You struggle against it, feeling somehow like you're under water, trying desperately to swim to the surface even as you sink further down. Bubbles float up and away, the brilliant shimmering reflection of the waves above a taunt to your fatigue.

There's voices, spoken like they're warbled through water. There's the sound of waves in your ears, distant, churning and rhythmic. They crash against your thoughts, leave you scrubbed raw, bleached by the sun. Every time you try to wake, to stand, the force of the sea breaks over your head, forces you back down.

Between them, you can hear voices speaking, words indiscernible. You can make out the sounds, hear tones dipping soft and low with concern, mumbled conversations you can't make out.

You don't know how long you last like that, because every instance you get close to wakefulness there's pain, deep and unrelenting. Every breath forces a ragged, wet inhale that summons a docile touch, a hushed reassurance, and once more you're lost at sea.

It's unclear what is a dream and what isn't. You think you hear Gaz's voice, talking for some time, and his words are soft, almost sad. There's a distant, forlorn echo of him that curls beside you in the deep, whispers a sempiternal lullaby to you as you float inside the abyss. You think at one point  you can make out sentences from one of your novels. You try and reach for Gaz- and find the calloused grip of his palm against yours moments before you're tugged back under into the evanescent depths.

Soap appears, talks with someone quieter, someone that you think you know. He hovers at the edge of your unconsciousness, skims across your thoughts like passing shadows. Yet the touch of him isn't cold. When you hear him stand at your beside, in the absence of others, you feel the presence of him weigh down on you, as if Ghost too, resides within the abyss.

He's gone before you struggle to the surface.

Soap talks to you like he would a conversation partner. His voice is light, cheery, but it contains falsities. You can hear the strain under it, listen to his words as they sometimes waver in his throat. There's a distant drone of a TV flickering with advertisements that pop with cheery tunes and colors as Soap watches. It summons a rare burst of clarity to you, the realization that you're no longer on base with the limited medical staff and rooms absent of much more than a cot and basic medical equipment. They must have taken you to a civilian hospital, but the reason why remains a mystery as once again you succumb to sleep.

You brush against full wakefulness when the lights go dim, and it's Price's voice that manages to bypass the haze of drowsiness. You hear him talking to someone who doesn't seem to be there, tone low, concerned.

"Yeah. Yeah I know...No. Not yet."

"You...just should have seen her, Kate. Scared, terrified, like some injured, sick animal. I...haven't seen anyone with eyes like that since...yes. You know what he was like. Wouldn't let anyone touch him. Can't blame him. Not after that."

"But that was...there's nothing like that on her file. She's never...no."

"Just...Christ, Kate. What happened to her?"

Darkness drowns you once again.

When you do at last wake fully, it's to the steady beep of a heart monitor, the low drone of a TV, and the smell of black tea.

There's something over your face, and when you reach a hand up to touch it you groan at just how heavy you feel, dizzy and weighed down.

"Jumping Jesus!" The person next to you flinches at your noise, clearly unprepared for your wakefulness. There's a moment before the world begins to focus and Kyle's face hovers over you, face in hopeful disbelief.

"Fix!" He breathes, clearly overjoyed, and the reaction seems severe for what you think you're feeling. The pain is muted now, and when you take a deep inhale there's not as much tightness as there was before. Something inside your chest feels different, somehow, clearer.

You try and talk, but your voice is muffled by whatever is strapped to your face, and quickly Kyle vanishes, talks with someone outside the door. There's a flurry of movement, and it only creates a further dizzying world around you, makes you groan as the lights switch on. There's hands, and when you flinch it's Kyle's voice that keeps you steady, holds your hand in both of his.

"Hey, easy. They're just getting you all settled, doll. Focus on me, yeah?"

You try to, even as the nurse tells you to take a deep breath, and then gently unstraps an oxygen mask from your face. She asks a few questions, which you answer with varying degrees of cognizance, until she makes a note and vanishes.

All the while Kyle talks to you in slow, steady murmurs, draws you back to him like an anchor, tethering you from the fear and confusion.

"What happened?" You manage at last when the nurses clear, voice grinding against the back of your throat like gravel. You wince at the horrific scrape there, feeling like someone has forced your mouth far too wide for far too long. The dry walls of your throat, tacky and gypsum, seals itself together like velcro, forcing a sputtering cough that only alerts you to the horrible, bone deep ache in your chest.

"Careful." Kyle warns you once more, as you try and grip a hand to your chest. Your fingers fist into unfamiliar fabric, an IV taped to the back of your wrist. Someone's changed your clothes. You're only in a cotton hospital gown now, and the knowledge of that alone has your heart racing higher in your throat, seeking reason in the midst of confusion and growing panic.

"Where am I?" You try, hating the way your voice wavers with fearful confusion, the warble of your hoarse words.

"St. George's hospital, off base." Gaz tells you gently. He's caught your other hand between his own, smoothes his thumb over the dry back of it in a paltry attempt to distract you. "There weren't medical facilities on base to handle you."

"Handle me?" You ask, and with every word you feel your voice returning. Even so, your senses feel cloudy, cloaked in a fuzzy, uncomfortably haze. The lights are too bright, the TV flickers with advertisements which feel too vibrant for your sleep addled brain. Kyle himself seems to blur strangely as your eyes adjust to your strange new surroundings. You find him in the midst of it- lost, wary, already ready to flee.

Kyle looks distraught then, as he watches the expressions flicker across your face. Then, slowly, he unravels to you the tale of your journey.

"You tore your stitches." He tells you at first, and you fix him with your stare because you know that's not it, nothing as light as that could have landed you in the hospital like this.

"Your...lung got blocked, somehow. Got blood into it. They had to intubate you and drain the fluid. Something got missed and you..." He swallows then, looks a little sick, eyes a little lost, almost frightened. "You developed an infection. They had to put you under so they could intubate you, and even then..."

He looks at you then, and despite the tight draw of his mouth there's something in his gaze that looks less like the steely resolution of a soldier and more of a friend, someone who nearly lost you.

"You nearly died, Fix." He mutters at last, and his eyes fall from yours, his brow scrunching in clear distress, hands tightening over yours. "You were so pale and barely breathing. We thought..."

You blink at him, and your chest feels a different kind of tightness now, a winding anxiety that coils in your chest, makes the outline of you shiver. It takes a moment for the immense weight of his words to sink into you. Yet when they do you can't contain a dry swallow at the whisper of the reaper across your nape, ghosting his skeletal fingers across the exposed flesh of you, tries to coax you into his cold embrace.

"How long?" You ask, voice rusty with disuse. There's a tremor there you've long since forgotten, an anxiety that lays dormant inside of you, a thing to never be shown to those who might glimpse at the fractured interior of you.

Kyle's face falls, he looks away. You feel your stomach sink with despair.

"Six days."

The world stills as you suck in a breath, so deep it hurts your bruised and battered lungs, feels much too like inhaling the cold, biting mix of frost atop the summit of your own failures. The memory of snow blindness, of huddling in the dark and freezing, praying for your body to hold out a little longer, curls around you like a sheet of white, engulfs you into shocked silence.

Six days.

Six weeks.

All of this, for six seconds of not paying attention.

Kyle must see the distress on your face as something else, as a flash of fear at your would-be fate, because he's leaning over you and trying to gently shake you from your thousand-yard stare.

"Hey, hey, you're okay." He murmurs, hands rising up to your shoulders now. "You're a fighter, yeah? You made it. You're okay."

You swallow, and the stickiness of your throat helps prevent you from speaking. You want to tell him, want for a horrifying moment to admit the truth: that you'd rather never wake up than disappoint them again. The realization summons a faint stab of pain, a distant, obscure thing you've nearly forgotten about. Mourning, for the person that the paralysis of fear has transformed you into.

You wonder then, if when you look in the mirror, if it will still be you who looks into your eyes, and not somehow a stranger.

Suddenly there's footsteps echoing down the hallway, and both you and Kyle startle as not one, but three figures hover in the doorway.

"You're awake!"

Soap manages to push his way past Price, and you ignore the grimace on your captain's face in favor of the pure relief that rolls off the sergeant. He's by your side in two large strides, just as Gaz leans back to give you some more space, not willing to crowd you in after such a rude awakening. You look over his shoulder to Price, and then to Ghost, who lingers just beyond the threshold, as if afraid to haunt what should be a joyous occasion.

"Steamin' Jesus it's good to see you." Soap breathes, and leans over you much like a brother would, takes your frail form into his arms with a delicacy you didn't know he possessed. The embrace lingers as he presses a hand to your hair, tucks you into his shoulder.

It's warm. You can smell his clothes, clean laundry and standard military issued bath soap, can just barely feel the dampness of a recent shower cling to his skin. He feels scrubbed clean, anew and fresh, and it feels far too pristine for the grimy things that dwell inside of you.

He leans back after a moment too long, and there's a part of you that feels like it isn't nearly long enough. His hands clasp onto your shoulders as he holds you at arm's length, head tilting as he looks over your face, brow knotting at the exhaustion he finds there.

"How do you feel?" He asks softly, and your expressions changes before you can help it, feeling an asymmetric thump of your heart at just how concerned he is, absent of disappointment, of any indication of frustration.

"I'm okay." You whisper back and blame the lack of conviction in your voice on the soreness of your throat, the fatigue that draws across you like a shroud.

Soap grins, but the smile doesn't meet his eyes. There's something there that lingers like a bitter aftertaste, something you don't yet know, but the gaze of it sets your heart to flutter in panic.

It almost looks like grief.

"Give her some space, Soap." A voice from behind him declares, and Soap twists to reveal both Price and Ghost. You can still smell the smoky, acrid scent of cigars on your captain, and as your eyes dart down you think you see the outline of the case in the pocket of his jacket.

He leans on the wall in front of you, exhales through his nose. You feel your heart murmur in apprehension at the silent, appraising look on his face. The air in your chest feels too tepid, sickly and warm as his gaze slides over to Gaz, and then back to you.

"Garrick gave you the rundown, then?"

You nod, swallow, wince at the hard scrape of your throat. Fortunately, Soap seems to notice instantly, and after a brief murmur to himself and a turn, he supplies you with a bottle full of cool water, which you suck down gratefully. You ignore the shudder inside of you as he soothes a hand over your back as you drink, nearly splutter as you swallow. It feels like he's touching something small, soft, breakable. Something that isn't you.

Yet you take your time, ignoring the tremble of your hands as Price's gaze never leaves you. With each sip you feel your throat restored, and yet the weight of unspoken words hangs heavy over you all. Oppressive. Imminent.

He knows. A voice whispers. He knows now that you aren't who you say you are. That you're nothing more than a pretender, that you don't deserve this.

Your eyes shift under Price's gaze as you hand the bottle back to Soap with a small murmur of thanks. The smile he gives you doesn't reach his eyes. Yet he stays by your side, one arm pressed in a feather-light touch to your back as he looks up at Price. Attentive, watching, guarding.

Price's eyes flick to him for only a moment, but there's silent words there you don't understand- a meaning conveyed between the two of them that lingers like a bitter aftertaste.

Yet Price relents, strangely, under Soap's stare. He heaves a sigh, drags a hand over his face, and it's only then that you notice the heavy bags under his eyes, a telltale lack of sleep coloring his complexion.

"How's your pain?" He asks instead. "We can get a nurse for you, probably get some pills in you if it's too much."

You blink, press a hand to your tender throat, let it drift down to your chest. You poke and prod for a moment, absorbing, noting, checking in with your body to catalogue the aches there, try to discern the physical from the phantom.

"My...chest hurts a bit." You supply after a moment, hesitantly. "And my throat, but it's...manageable."

Your mind summons the memory of agony before you fell unconscious. Of the horrific, clawing pain in your side that seemed to fissure outwards, clinging to your veins, your ribs, your lungs. This now, the pain that occurs only when you breathe too deeply, the lingering ache that you can't separate from your own anxiety...

You've lived with this pain for a while now.

Price nods, but otherwise remains silent, offering little insight into the dark, stormy heaviness of his gaze as it rests on you.

You swallow, feeling suddenly like Price can see you, can see through you, looking through the transparency of your form.

The whole room feels too heavy, too quiet. There's shifting glances between the men around you as they communicate silently through their eyes, have whole conversations you aren’t privy to.

You swallow, force a nervous smile as you turn from Price to Soap, then to Gaz, meeting both of their hard, averted stares.

"Damn, what's the matter with you guys? Thought you'd all be happy to see me wake up." You try, but your voice wavers, and it betrays the nervous energy that sparks inside of you, barely contained.

"O-of course we are!" Soap blurts out beside you and reaches his hand up to tousle your greasy, unkempt hair. "Was tellin' Gaz you’re a cat with nine lives, hard as shite to kill."

The lightness of his voice seems to shake loose the tense atmosphere between you all, drains the grey and ruin from the room and replaces it with something more vibrant.

Gaz smiles then, and even if it's halfhearted you drink in the sight of his expression like warm, honeyed tea.

"You were the one pacing in the hall and muttering to yourself, Soap." He supplies, and Soap scoffs, taking a step back to wave a dismissive hand at his friend.

"Because the Rangers match was going to shite." He declares, spreading his arms dramatically for emphasis. "I wasnae worried. Not for a single second."

"I had to order you to go back to base and shower." Price grumbles, voice low. Yet there's a fondness to his annoyance that tugs your lips into a smile.

Soap manages a look of mock offense. "Yer' callin me stink, now Cap?" He asks, feigning hurt. "I've smelled your ripe scent in the trenches before and lemme tell you-"

"For a bloke named 'Soap' you really do smell sometimes." Gaz pipes up helpfully, and you turn to see the sly grin crawling across his face, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Oh, smell my boggin arse y-"

"Already have, mate, that's why I'm tellin' you."

"I think you smelled nice and clean." You offer up at Soap, and he turns his eyes to you with fondness before turning back to Gaz and Price.

"Fix is the only one who likes me." He complains loudly, and it earns a chuff of laughter from Gaz on your other side.

"Great, then she can bunk with you next time you haven't showered for three days."

"Three?" You ask up at Soap, who's mouth flaps open indignantly.

"Two!" He bites back.

"And a half." Price offers wearily.

You shrug up at Johnny. "That is pretty much three days."

Soap fixes you with a look of betrayal that has a laugh bubbling up your throat before you can stop it.

"Then again-" You offer, raising your arm and giving a preliminary sniff, nose wrinkling. "I probably smell worse. Haven't showered for a week now."

You pause, face drawing aghast as you turn to Gaz. "Oh God, they didn't give me a sponge bath, did they?"

"Aye." Soap crows, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Had to pull Gaz here away when they said he couldnae help. Tried to insist on doing it himself."

"Oh, now you're taking the piss." Gaz complains, sitting back in his chair with a huff.

You turn to Gaz, feigning shyness, crossing your arms over your chest as you teasingly ask him: "You didn't look, did you sergeant? How could you?"

Soap's bark of laughter is nearly deafening when he watches Gaz straighten and splutter, stammering out an indignant "N-no! I-"

"I thought we were friends." You press, pretending to wipe away a tear.

"I didn't look!!"

"Couldnae take his eyes off you, lass." Soap jibes, voice trilling with laughter. "Man looked as if he were restin' his eyes on the birth of Venus herself."

"Soap!!"

You laugh then too, feeling your chest lighten, something inside of it shaking loose and rising up through your voice, dissipating between you all like a gentle breeze.

"Gents." Price suddenly says. "Will you give us a minute?"

And just like that, the oxygen drains from the room.

You feel it suck the air from your chest, Price's words, stale in your throat as the laughter cuts off abruptly. You can still remember the sound of the gunshot, the one that punched a hole in your side, robbed you of your air and sent you spiraling into unconsciousness. Now, Price's voice sounds very much the same. The toll of a funeral bell, a final, imminent sound from which there’s no escape. Only grief.

Soap sees the tight draw of your face, and it feels familiar to you, the way your lips thin, shoulders tense. You remember it, the sensation of waiting outside an office furnished with oakwood, a glossy desk with papers and ornaments meticulously placed, of the squeak of your father's chair as he turns to you, pins you with his untempered stare.

It shows on your face, you realize, and you jolt when Soap's hand lands on your shoulder. He offers you a smile, but behind his gaze you see the trepidation there. A whisper of a warning. Danger.

"I'll see if I can scrounge you a plate of somethin'." He tells you softly, an entreaty. "You like chocolate pudding?"

You nod a little numbly, swallow as his hand drifts from your side as he paces to the door, Gaz trailing close behind. It's only once they pass that you see him, the large, lurking specter that hovers just beyond the door. Ghost's head turns as he watches the two sergeants pass, only for his stare to slowly look back to you.

It's the first time you've seen his face since that moment where he found you, when you had let the ink-dyed threads of you spill into his palms and spoken the words to him that you'd been keeping hidden as an execrable secret.

"I-I didn't-" You hiccup, and the world is in chaos now, with your cries and your secrets exposed, with his gaze raking over your trembling, injured form. "Didn't want you to see, Ghost. I'm sorry-"

Now, Ghost locks eyes with you, holds your gaze captive in his stare.

"I see you."

You can't look away.

"Just you."

When he turns, you fight the urge to call for him, to ask what exactly he has seen in you, if it is enough to lose his faith in you, to leave you behind and march ever onwards, blotting out the light as you're cast in his shadow. You...you want to ask for forgiveness. To atone for the things you aren't, the things you might never be.

"Ghost-" You try, but he's gone, heavy footsteps fading down the hallway as he vanishes, leaving only you behind.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

"Fix."

You turn your eyes to meet the gaze of your captain, of his smoky, laden stare that feels rife with omens, sinister prophecies that press down on your shoulders.

"We need to talk about what happened."

Ah. This is it then. The moment you founder, feet stumbling from the apex of your achievements before tumbling down, down, down int the abyss that haunts your dreams. The one where you're left alone, empty, with only your failures and regrets to provide you with solitary company.

"Ghost said he found you bleeding out in the barracks, on your way to your room instead of the medical station." Price goes on, not bothering to mince words. Ever direct, forthright in a way that is unmistakably him. "Care to explain what that was about?"

You swallow. Your throat feels tacky, dry. You make a point to reach for the water bottle at your bedside, take a gulp. It's a blatantly obvious move to stall, but you are beginning to realize that no matter what you do, these men, your brothers, will be able to discern you like the rising tides under a full moon. It's futile. Maybe it always has been.

"I was on my way to the medical unit." You reply and manage to surprise yourself with how even your voice sounds. "I was on my way to my room to grab the keys to the supply closet."

"Instead of reporting to the medic on duty?" Price questions, nonplussed.

"Yes, Sir."

"Why was that?"

You swallow, feel a tremor in your hands, try to shake the image of your father sitting at his desk before you.

"I believed my injuries were not severe at the time, and that I could tend to them myself." You reply honestly, ignoring the dragging, haunting childhood memory of tall windows and a portrait above the fireplace, of the smell of your father’s cigars.

"Hmm." Price offers, the sound growling low in his chest, eyes unblinking, pinning you to where you sit. "Ghost mentioned something else too. About how you 'didn't want him to see.' Is that right?"

You should have expected this. Should have known Ghost would spare no detail in whatever report he gave Price, would toss you to the wolves like this.

"I don't recall saying that, Sir." You offer instead, lying, trying to keep your voice even, unwavering even as your heart thumps erratically in your chest.

"So, you believe your lieutenant gave a false report?" Price asks sharply, and you nearly flinch at the sudden shift of his voice.

"N-no sir." You falter, and your fingers fist the sheets under your hands. "Only that I don't remember saying that."

Price only ignores you, soldiering on with his questions. "Some of the squaddies said they saw you earlier that night on the training grounds." He states, and you watch as his finger taps on his crossed arm. "Give me a good reason why you were there and not resting and taking care of yourself?"

You try to remember how the breathe, feel the push and pull of you inhales and exhales, stifling the sensation to run. Run.

"What is going on Fix?"

You remember the first time you were caught in a sniper's snare. Seeing the red dot appear on your vest, looking for cover, finding none, trying to flatten yourself and make yourself as small as possible to avoid the hail of bullets that rained down on you.

Now, in the target of Price's scope, pinned beneath his gaze, you feel very much the same.

Your silence is telling. Too much time has passed already, and you know any answer you give now would be futile, instantly seen as the lie that it is. So instead, you stay silent, force yourself to breathe, imbue yourself in the rise and fall of your chest, the ache that oxygen summons as it flows through your lungs.

Price doesn't waver before you, unblinking, unrelenting. Still as a statue, his eyes gazing at you from below his furrowed brow. Face impassive, but his eyes dark, calculating, discerning.

"I know what I saw." He says at last as the silence drags on, voice dragging in his chest. "I saw a young woman who was terrified of being touched, who tore her own stitches by pushing herself too hard and then panicked and lashed out when someone noticed. That's not normal behavior. Not from a soldier who supposedly passed all her psych evals before joining my team."

You swallow, but the air feels stagnant, filled with ash and ruin. The aftermath of an explosion, where the gunpowder flavors across your tongue.

"I-I didn't-" You try, voice finally fracturing. Yet Price ignores you, plowing onwards.

"Fix." He goes on, and his voice sounds tired now. Weary, and it feels too close to disappointment. "You're a good soldier, a damn good one. One of the best medics I've ever met. But I can't have you risking this team by not taking care of yourself."

"I-I was taking care of myself." You manage, voice trembling down, shoulders shivering. "I was trying to recover sooner so you didn't...didn't have to wait for me."

"And where did that get you, hmm?" Price snaps suddenly, voice rising, straightening off the wall and you flinch, hard enough for him to notice. "You know better than that. You're the bloody medic. Do you have any idea how long it took for me to find a suitable candidate for this team? We've had you less than four months, and you've already landed yourself in the ICU twice. Once for not checking your corners, and the second because you were disobeying orders to stay put and heal."

"I'm...sorry, captain." You force yourself to say, and a traitorous sob clings to the back of your throat. You can feel the dam inside you cracking, feel the dark, ichor of you begin to seep out. It makes words choke your throat before you can stop them.

"I-I'll do better. I'll tend to my injuries better. I'll not tear my stitches again-"

"What you are going to do-" Price snaps, and the panic inside you flares brighter, and you swallow down the sob that threatens your voice, trying vainly to reign in your errant emotions. To not let him see, to not let any of them see. Please- "-is take a psych eval while you recover, and you are NOT going to repeat this behavior again or you'll be off my taskforce."

Off the taskforce.

You begin to shake then, trembling as you sit upright in the hospital bed, eyes glassy, unseeing, feeling the gale howl in your thoughts, and the phantasm of failure and inconsolable loneliness wrap her thin, pale fingers around your neck, starving you of air.

Alone, again. Because of the things you couldn't accomplish. Of never, ever being enough, of wearing a body too big for your meagre soul.

"P-Price." You manage, voice trembling as you attempt one last effort to save his faith in you, to cling to this place of yours you've worked so hard for and to never, ever let go.

"I'll do better." You try, and the words come tumbling loose, like an avalanche you can’t prevent. "I can. I can make it up to the team. I-I worked so hard to be here, I can't...can't  fail. I just need another chance, so I can prove myself.”

You try and stop your words, but it’s a useless effort. You circle the drain in an imminent vacuum as it sucks you down, down. “I can prove I’m a good soldier, a good medic, and prove that I deserve to be here. I can prove that you don’t need to get rid of me because I fucked up. I can still do it. I can prove myself, can prove I’m not a failure. So please."

You swallow, but all you taste is bile and regret.

"Please."

The room stills.

In the silence, you think you feel your fragile heart begin to shatter.

"Oh Fix." Price murmurs at last, and you watch as the anger from his eyes melts, his shoulders loosening, uncrunching from their tight draw. There's an emotion that passes over his face, makes his eyes seem forlorn, lost at the sight of you. It's as if he's found not a soldier but an injured animal, skittish and afraid. It takes you a moment to name the sorrow in his expression, eyes blinking and threatening tears.

Pity.

It stabs at you sharper than the sound in your side, flays open the cavity of your chest and renders you exposed, vulnerable under his gaze. Sharp and sudden, it chokes the air in your lungs, makes your ribs tighten, seize as you try vainly to curl away from it, with no ground on which to retreat.

Price lowers his head, avoiding your gaze for a moment as if he's grappling with guilt, blaming himself for this instead of you and somehow that feels worse. Like he's shouldering a burden he doesn't trust you with despite the fact that it's your weight to carry.

When Price's eyes meet yours again they're traitorously sad. Not with disappointment, Price regards you as if he would a frail, grieving thing- something to be treated with a care you don't deserve.

"You have nothing to prove." He tells you, and there's a tone to his voice you haven't heard before, something that suffers at finally witnessing the cracked, broken shadows you fail to conceal inside your heart.

It's too much.

You can't...can't do this. They were never supposed to know, never supposed to see the wreck inside you you've been trying to hide so desperately. They were only supposed to see your triumphs, your victories and not the silhouette of devastation that flickered beyond your smiling form. Never were they supposed to glimpse the raw, rotten interior of you, witness the horrific truth of all those years ago that has since fused to your bones and created a horrible, grotesque reflection of you.

They were never supposed to know.

Now Price stands before you, despairing, despondent at what he's seen, and told to you the words you've feared this entire time. That all this effort has been for nothing, that you've suffered for nothing, that your struggle to stay with him, with Ghost, with Soap and Gaz and Laswell was nothing more than a naive fantasy.

It bubbles up inside you before you can stop it- the searing, scorching hurt and white-hot flash of fury. Like an eruption there's no warning as magma courses through your veins and you sit up in your bed, ignoring the sudden, horrible agony that claws into your side and chokes the air in your throat. Instead, you look at Price through a watery, burning gaze and raise your voice to the loudest you've ever allowed it to echo from the hurt of your chest.

"I HAVE EVERYTHING TO PROVE!!"

Your voice rises and cracks like a whip between you both, shatters the remnants of your composure and leaves you trembling, shaken, clinging desperately to whatever shreds of hope remain inside you.

Price looks stunned.

You've never seen that expression on his face before, you realize, and it's enough to make the anger seep from you, coloring with regret as you watch his face transform from shock to a stony, impassive silence.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

"You are suspended." He tells you flatly. "I'm giving you mandatory three months leave so you can heal and figure out whatever you've got going on."

Silence. Then, the fragile sound of your hopes and dreams fracturing, cracks spider-webbing out further, further, until they seem to consume you, mar your spirit into something that appears as only a mockery of yourself.

"Price-" You try breathlessly, unable to find any other words except his name, absent of his title. Trying desperately to appeal to him not as a superior, but as the thing you dare to dream he is- a friend. "Please."

It softens him, that, makes his face briefly scrunch as if he's the one in pain, not you. Yet he doesn't waver, not even as his voice dips softer between you both.

"This is for the best, Fix. Take some time to go home, see your family, get some distance."

No. You think desperately, paralyzed, unable to speak. That's the last thing I want. Don't send me back to them. don't take me further from you all. Let me stay here, even if I can't be useful, even if I don't deserve it. Let me stay.

Instead, all you give him is silence. Wordless, your voice dying in your throat.

Price looks at you then, and that emotion returns to his eyes- sadness. Guilt. He paces towards you, and it takes all your strength to not press yourself away from him, and yet to crowd even closer, seeking an anchor, a semblance of comfort.

He rests a hand on your shoulder, fatherly, reassuring and yet somehow his touch burns against your skin.

"You're a bloody good medic, Fix." He murmurs to you, softer now. "Might be the best one I've ever worked with."

Hope, vibrant and colorful. You look up at him with a wide, watery gaze, daring to dream of the things that could be.

The things that aren't.

"But I can't have a medic who can barely take care of herself." He finishes, and once again the world sucks into colorless monochrome, devoid of anything remotely related to the thing called joy.

A pat to your shoulder, and it feels like goodbye.

"You get yourself sorted." He tells you, turning away. "We will be here when you get back. Understood?"

You barely hear him, barely hear his footsteps fade from the room, barely hear him talk to someone hidden just beyond the doorway as they vanish together.

Silence reigns supreme in the absence that follows, carving deep into your bones, etching prophecies within the cracks, filling them with ash, runes to be discovered by a future you. The air around you is nothing but a frigid vacuum, sucking up the sound of your own heartbeat, tinnitus singing a wry, shrill sound in your ears.

Failure.

Of the highest degree. You feel the earth shake and tremble beneath you, and atop the mountain of bones from which you stand the chasm below yawns with a dark, gaping maw, threatening to swallow you whole. It feels like an inevitability, an imminent destiny from which there is no escape.

Your lungs must be filled with ichor, you think, because when you breath there's a wetness in the back of your throat that feels like a dark, horrid thing. You wonder if you slice back the layers of you if only ink will spill outwards. Perhaps it will drown you, fill the space in which you occupy alone, clinging to you like tar and taking you down, down into oblivion.

There's wetness on your face before you realize it. Hot, fat tears rolling down your cheeks in the absence of sound. They water your gaze, obscure your vision until the world is nothing more than the liquid haze of your own regrets.

I should have known better. You think, in a final, bitter sacrament. Than to think I could belong.

When you cry, it's with a hand clutched to your chest, fingers gripping at the cotton fabric of your hospital gown, threatening to rip it to shreds just like the remainder of your hope. Sobs crack your throat- broken sounds caught in the wet, putrid vile of your lungs. Pain blossoms like a funeral bouquet across your chest, white flowers symbolizing grief.

White. White. White.

White lace napkins, white sheer curtains, pressed white blouses, white pearls at your mother's throat. Unblemished, artificial, holy and yet somehow blasphemous to the fibers of your soul. Things that are a reminder of where you've come from, where you shall return, what you have to lose.

Everything to prove. Everything to lose.

A cry cracks at your dry throat, and you hate it- a broken sound that seems to show who you truly are, something fracturing and barely held together. You bow into your hands, tears spilling through your fingers, slipping away with the remainder of your composure.

There's footsteps, voices at the door, and a voice calls your name.

You don't respond, caught and ensnared within the silvery web of despair, absent from everything except your own self-hatred, the grief and hopelessness that forces shattered cries from your throat.

"Hey, hey, hey." A voice shushes you, and arms wrap around you. Warm, solid, tender. There's a hand in your hair, tucking you into a chest that feels like a comfort you don't deserve it. "It's alright doll, just breathe. Take it easy."

"I'm- I'm sorry." You choke between sobs, fingers clawing into Kyle's shirt. "Gaz, I-I didn't mean, I never thought. I'm...I'm sorry."

Gaz says nothing, only presses you deeper into his chest and you let him, surrendering to the temptation of just being held even though you don't deserve it, even though you know you'll have to say goodbye.

Briefly, you wonder if you should have let go then, in that grimy, dusty cartel hideout, so that way you didn't have to live with the disappointment, the pain, the hurt.

You continue to chant apologies, and Gaz welcomes them into him, never speaks beyond gentle words to try and soothe your cries. There's another hand in between it all, a voice that tries to speak but finds himself absent of the words needed.

"You're going to be okay, Fix." Soap offers at last, and you don't believe him. You want him to say you didn't disappoint them, that you can stay, that somehow they won't forget about you.

You want him to tell you that you can stay.

Yet he doesn't, only offers hollow reassurances that ring empty in your ears between sobs that you pour into Gaz's shirt.

They're finding ways to say goodbye.

You push back from Gaz's front abruptly, suddenly, the movement enough to dizzy you and shock the two men crowded close to your bed.

"Get out."

Gaz and Soap look at each other, brows knotted, words exchanging through their gazes alone.

"Hey, listen-" Gaz tries, echoing your name.

"Don’t. Don't call me that." You spit back, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively, refusing to look at them, to see the worry in their eyes. That wasn't your name. Your name, your callsign is Fix, even if you can never fix the broken things in your own soul.

"Go." You say again, firmer now. Hurt. Angry. "I-I want to be alone."

It's a lie, you know that. You want them, want them to be here with you, to comfort you in the face of your own insurmountable failures. Yet now, on the precipice of farewell, you can't stand the reprieve they offer you to indulge in. Not when you're about to say goodbye.

There's a pause as both sergeants wait for you to say anything more, pray for you to swallow your words and invite them into you once again, but you can't. You don't. You refuse.

So slowly, they pull away, as they all do, until there's nothing left but you and your own shadow that sems to swallow you from all sides.

It's Soap that pauses at the door, and you look up then, see the brokenness in his eyes. The hurt.

"Come back to us." Is all he tells you, voice barely strained, eyes sad. "Soon."

You blink, and his words summon something like the blossoms you saw blooming in the mountains of Nepal- striving against the harsh, unforgiving rocky outcropping. They turn their petals to the thin blue sky in search of a sunrise you can't yet see. Striving, resilient, hopeful, alive. Despite everything. Alive.

When Soap vanishes, you see them, see the blossoms bloom across your thoughts, roots fragile but deep, awaiting the thaw in which they'll stretch once more upwards towards the heavens. They entwine with your stitches like creeping ivy, hold you fast and refuse to let you crumble further as much as you want to shatter.

They march on, the four of them, vanishing into the blizzard atop a mountain of expectations you'll never meet. Yet in the snow where you've fallen, rhododendrons unfurl in the cracked confines of your lonely heart.

Taglist:

@atenceladusiaawfytbwb @nachtcirce @jujubashow @mutuallimbenclosure @kkinky @trash-boi-4-life @scatter-mind001

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

10. S'mores

It’s the “sex play” (God, that term is so cringe) thing being on the table that builds the tension in the apartment, all of them knowing about it but none of them talking about it. Mary sure as shit doesn’t have the guts to break that ice, and now Bucky’s always deep in thought and quiet around her. And Steve, well.

Steve is like a big, mopey golden retriever who knows its humans are upset but doesn’t know how to help besides headbutting things affectionately.

Mary’s feelings for him only grow when she realizes that he really hasn’t told Bucky about that night in the kitchen: the things she’d confided about the razor and her nightmares and sneaking out to the gym. Knowing that Steve’s stuck by his word like that makes her like him and trust him a whole heck of a lot more. 

But it doesn’t solve the underlying problem. 

There’s a court hearing in front of a judge next month to revisit the custody arrangement—Next month. And one afternoon while Bucky’s out of the apartment, Steve gently informs Mary that Dr. Linda is recommending the order be extended. Jesus fucking Christ. 

And then the results to that test Linda made her take, the “Submissive Sexual Interests and Tendencies Assessment”, arrive in the mail (addressed to Bucky, because of course they would be), and Mary gets her hands on them after Bucky and Steve read them, and she’s mortified at what it says about her.

Tendencies: Passive aggression (reactive aggression in lieu of submission), emotional outbursts, low self-esteem, impulsive sexual promiscuity, self-harm, alcohol use disorder, possible co-morbidity (OCD, EDNOS, BDD). Dynamic Preferences: single dominant authority figure, structured domestic routine, service, discipline, monogamous relationship, emotional bonding. Recommendations: Following assessment review, patient is most likely to benefit from continued domestic control in a consistent (24/7) environment. Transfer of custody not recommended. Continued therapy sessions and educational courses at CDP highly recommended. Most beneficial therapeutic modalities include limited corporal discipline, sex play, and reward-based service routine.

There’s a ton of infuriating psycho babble bullshit packed into those results that she could get upset about, and she does, but Mary’s eyes track over that one, most-horrible phrase over and over again: 

“Transfer of custody not recommended.”

Fuck.

She loses sleep over it, sneaks out of the apartment in the middle of the night and does cardio at the gym until she’s exhausted enough to head back home and pass out. It pisses her off that this is such a thing now. She doesn’t want to be special needs, she should have the right to choose whether she even wants treatment or not! She resents the hell out of Bucky and Steve for having custody of her the way that they do. They’re clearly expecting her to blow up or something, after the news from Linda and the SSITA results come in. It’s so obvious that they’re walking on eggshells around her, Mary halfway wishes they’d just do something. One way or the other, it’d be better than this.

Linda claims that they’ve expressed “positive feelings” about a sexual dynamic, but if they have, they sure aren’t expressing it to Mary. She suspects that most of that positivity has come from Steve, and probably only because he’s a golden retriever in human form who just wants to do what’s right and good, not because he or Bucky are particularly attracted to her.

While she has managed to clean herself up quite a bit since moving in with them, Mary isn’t delusional: she realizes that Steve and Bucky are very attractive men, whereas she’s just average. She tries to tell herself she’s fine with that. She knows Bucky and Steve could probably get like, a supermodel to sleep with them if they really wanted to. Mary’s not in their league, and that’s okay. 

But if they’re not attracted to her that way then they should at least have the decency to just say so! At least then she could find someone else, get back on Tinder, or even sign up for one of those ProDoms that the CDP has. Darcy said Thor was good, so maybe Mary could request him? The way that Darcy had described the guy, he sounds like he's a hunka hunka burning Nordic god. Mary could go for that.

She brings it up casually over dinner, framing it lightheartedly, and Bucky literally crushes his water glass in his prosthetic hand. “What?” he snaps, frowning down at the mess he’s just made. “No.”

Mary huffs and goes to fetch the desserts while Steve gets the waste bin and begins scraping the broken pieces of glass into it like it’s just another Tuesday. “I don’t see why not,” Mary complains from over at the counter. She’s pulled the plates out from the fridge and grabs the butane torch for the meringue.

“Jesus,” Bucky exclaims when he sees the industrial sized torch she's wielding. “Where’d you get that?”

Mary purses her lips as she focuses on achieving the perfect amount of toastedness. “Hardware store,” she mutters. “So why can’t I go see one of the ProDom’s again?” She purposefully over-torches Bucky’s meringue, because she can tell that this isn’t going to go her way. “Sounds like a win-win. You don’t have to deal with me, I can meet new people, and insurance pays for it. What exactly is the problem?” She’s trying to force him to admit that he doesn’t want to Dom her sexually, trying to get him to see that something’s gotta give and he’ll have to let her use one of the ProDoms eventually if that’s what the severity of her “condition” requires (gigantic ‘Ew’). 

But frustratingly, he refuses to engage with her on the topic. “It’s a no, Mare,” he tells her sternly. “Pros are for people who have more experience. You don’t.”

Mary seriously doubts that. “Linda didn’t say that,” she argues, carrying the plates over to the table and handing the nice one to Steve and the burnt one to Bucky. 

He pulls it closer to himself and raises an eyebrow at it. “Linda’s being diplomatic,” he mutters. “I thought you said you were making s’mores?” 

Yesterday, Bucky had been talking with Steve about how much they both missed their old camping trips they used to take. The two of them must’ve waxed poetic over campfire s’mores for ten whole minutes. So Mary thought this would be an excellent way to butter them up. Apparently not.

She sniffs and picks up her fork. “They are s’mores. It’s a plated dessert, Bucky. An interpretation. It’s not literal.”

He grunts and peers at his portion, poking it dubiously with his fork. “What’s it made of?”

Mary heaves a sigh and snottily recites: “Honey Sablé, 70% Valrhona cremeux, cold-smoked Italian meringue, torched ‘mallow, Graham crumb streusel, and tempered chocolate stick for garnish." Both Bucky and Steve stop poking at their plates and just stare at her for a second. 

“Sounds good,” Steve chirps, and digs into his.

Mary stares Bucky down, until he too, deigns to eat the apparently too fancy for him version of a  s’more. “Oh, damn,” he says after the first bite, looking taken-aback. “I can taste the smoke.”

Mary preens, then asks again about the ProDom. “Well if I’m not getting it there then who the heck’s supposed to fuck me?” she winds up blurting out of frustration.

When that direct reference doesn’t elicit any response from Bucky besides a barrage of bossy instructions for after-dinner cleanup, Mary loses a bit of the hope she’d been holding onto that maybe Linda was right about them being attracted to her. She just gave him the perfect fucking opening, and he didn’t take it. She gets the kitchen cleaned up from dinner, resigning herself to another evening of platonic domination that doesn’t quite hit the spot. 

Nightly drops are nice. Not as nice as they were in the beginning, the effects having waned quite a bit from what they once were, but still better than no drops at all. 

Mary sits on her pillow on the floor, head on the couch cushion next to Bucky’s thigh, listening vaguely to the sound of the television while she enjoys the feeling of his fingers carding through her hair, lightly massaging her scalp. It’s been a while now, and she doesn’t think she’s going to get any deeper. It’s late, already they’ve watched two full episodes of their show, and Mary’s got work tomorrow. It’ll be bedtime soon. 

A big yawn works its way up in her throat, and Bucky chuckles when it finally breaks free. “Tired?” he asks.

“Mmhm.” She inhales deeply and sits up, sleepy and squinting. It takes a moment before her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room and Bucky’s form sitting right in front of her. Wow, she’d been really close to him, hadn’t realized just how close. Had she been … hugging his shin? God, she hopes not. Not like she hasn’t spent whole evenings fantasizing about rubbing her face all over his thighs and his— Nope. Not gonna think about that when he’s sitting right there. She tears her eyes away and forces that train of thought to stop right in its metaphorical tracks. 

“You good, Hon?” Bucky asks, his soft voice drawing her attention back from her own head. She looks up and sees his fond expression, his relaxed posture. Wonders if he’s in Domspace at all. Probably not.

Then her eyes land on the line of his cock at the front of his pants. 

He’s hard. Not very, but some. Underneath his sweats his dick is chubbed up enough that it creates a slight bulge against the fabric. Mary freezes, staring for too long before she’s able to tear her eyes away. When she does, and she looks up, Bucky’s watching her with an inscrutable expression. Her breath catches and her mind goes absolutely dumb.

Does he want ..? Should she ..?

She looks back down at it, at the relaxed splay of his thighs. She wets her lips and thinks about reaching forward and sliding her hand over it, what it would feel like, if it would twitch, if Bucky would shiver or make a sound. She wants to touch it, and seriously considers doing so, but when she looks up at Bucky again, he doesn’t look like he’s excited, or anticipating her touching him. He looks … resigned. 

“Tired?” he asks kindly. "Do you maybe ... Do you need anything else tonight? From me?"

Mary's lips part, heart leaping at what that might mean ... but then Bucky looks over at Steve with visible yearning in his eyes, and the two of them share one of their silent conversations, brows pinched and expectant. 

Oh. Right. Bucky’s just horny and eager to get Steve into bed, wants to wrap this up. Mary wonders if he really can’t tell that she's not far down like she used to get. Maybe he thinks this is all she needs and he really isn’t going to take Linda’s advice seriously. Mary should be happy about that. After all, it’s what she wanted. Isn’t it?

She balls up the hand that she’d been imagining touching Bucky with and nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m tired. Think I’m gonna … go get ready for bed.”

She glances over at Steve, but he looks mopey and eager to get out of the room just like his husband does, cementing the notion in Mary’s mind that they don’t want to be with her that way. No doubt they will if push comes to shove, because Linda’s told them Mary needs a sexual dynamic, but it’s not something they’re excited about. Mary knows men: They’re not the sort to sit around and wait for a girl they like to make the first move. And certainly not a man like Bucky, of all people. 

She tries not to be hurt by it, but still gets a little weepy while brushing her teeth, the unintended rejection stinging more when she’s down in the tingly, vulnerable throes of subspace. She spits, rinses, flosses, rinses. Grabs the mouthwash that she hates to use but that Bucky has ordered her to always use after brushing her teeth at night. 

She says goodnight to Steve and Bucky through the safety of her closed bedroom door, and despite her voice being warbly, neither one of them knocks on the door to see what’s up. That drives the point home, and Mary tucks herself into bed with the mindset that she’ll let them know they don’t have to sleep with her just to be nice or to help her or whatever. She’ll just find a way to convince them that she really is fine with going to one of the ProDoms, and that it really is a better arrangement.

Better than a pity fuck, at least.

It’s disappointing to know that Mary prefers the ProDom, that she doesn’t want to make their relationship sexual, but Bucky gets it, and he knows that he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s not exactly an easy person to get along with, after all. He’s prickly as fuck, grumpy, bossy, selfish. And aside from her natural submission, Mary’s personality clashes with his horribly. Steve is essential, but he just isn’t enough to successfully buffer between the two of them—not enough to make her want them that way, at least. 

Bucky can see the profound disappointment in Steve’s eyes that night, as Mary doesn’t react the way they were both hoping, doesn’t take the offerings Bucky puts out.

They have to let it be her choice, of course, having planned it out and discussed it between just the two of them. It's all anybody ever talks about in the D/s community these days: making sure subs are the initiators at key moments like this, not letting domination creep in and become manipulation-so easy to do with how naturally vulnerable and people pleasing submissives are. Gone are the days when Doms like Bucky were encouraged to guide new partners in the "right" direction. That leads to too much trauma, too many subs in situations they don't really want. Mary has to be left to make the choice on her own, it's her right.

But it's still the hardest fucking thing for him to do, to just sit there and wait passively. And it still stings when she looks straight at his erection and declares that she’s ready for bed. Well, if it wasn’t clear before.

Steve looks like a friggin’ kicked puppy, as he stands outside of Mary’s closed bedroom door and bids her goodnight. Bucky nudges him in the direction of their own room and murmurs, “Come on, Sweetheart.” 

In their bedroom, they each get undressed. Steve continues to mope, so Bucky goes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder and rubs. “Hey. Don’t sulk. You’ve still got me.” Steve’s mouth twitches in a small smile and Bucky’s heart flares with fondness for him. “You wanna play a game?” he offers, leaning in and kissing him once on the lips. “Mm?” He looks down pointedly to both of their boners that haven’t completely lagged since tv time ended.

“Okay.” 

Bucky hums and turns, putting his left shoulder out. “Lend a guy a hand?” Steve obliges. He removes the prosthetic arm with practiced motions. Bucky moans quietly at how good it feels to get the heavy weight off. “Fuck.” He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck each way with a blissed out groan. “Yes.”

“You’ve been wearing it more than usual, lately,” Steve points out, going over to set it on the table at Bucky’s side of the bed. “Why?”

He already knows: Bucky can tell from the way he asks it. He grunts and looks away, refraining from answering. He normally only wears the arm to work and to the gym, skipping it around the house or when he’s just got simple errands to run. There’s a surprising amount he can do just fine without the use of two arms, and he’s been confident about being seen in public without it for a long time now, thanks to Steve and their friends at the V.A. Being self conscious about it again after all these years isn’t something Bucky wants to admit out loud or think about, but Steve isn’t stupid. He can put two and two together. 

“Babe,” he says softly, walking back over to stand behind him. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and noses into his neck. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Bucky inhales deeply. “I know. I’m not.” Steve makes a sound that clearly says he doesn’t believe that. But Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it, so he reaches back with the only arm he has to grab playfully at the side of Steve’s ass. “Go in the bathroom. Get the water going how I like.”

Steve groans and thunks his forehead against the back of Bucky’s neck. “Not that game,” he complains, though there’s no conviction to it. He slinks off towards the bathroom to go do as he’s been told. “I hate that game.”

“Fuck you. You love that game.” 

Steve shoots him the finger from over his shoulder, but something about his naked body and tight little ass being on display strips the gesture of its animosity. He disappears into the bathroom and Bucky walks over to their bedroom dresser to grab a hair tie, still snickering. He sobers when he takes one from the valet tray and realizes that he’ll have to have Steve tie his hair back. That’s one thing he never could figure out how to do one handed. He stands there and looks in the mirror above the dresser, studying the left side of his body in a way that he rarely does anymore. 

He’s gotten so used to it: his life with Steve, whom he knows down to his bones accepts him unconditionally. He’s almost forgotten what it feels like to be self conscious about his body. Bucky hasn’t known how to talk about it, and Mary hasn’t asked. She’s seen him with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, or in tee shirts at the gym, but that’s all so far. Sometimes he’ll catch her looking, but he’s got no clue what she’s thinking. He considers his reflection, looks at the scars and puckered skin, the implanted base of the arm where his stump used to be. He doesn’t like the uncomfortability of being critical of his body again. In a way, he almost resents Mary for it, for making that feeling come back after all these years. Silly, he knows. 

“Babe?” Steve’s voice calls out from the bathroom. Bucky’s ears register the sound of rushing water. “You coming?” 

Bucky inhales deeply and decides it doesn’t matter anyway. Mary wants a ProDom, not them, so he doesn’t have to stress over what she thinks about any part of his body, let alone the one part he doesn’t have.

“Yeah.” He turns his back to the judgmental mirror and heads towards his very non-judgmental best guy.

“Okay. Stop clenching.”

Steve exhales shakily, but he does obey, body slumping back against the end of the tub as he relaxes his muscles. “Fuck,” he breathes, overwhelmed.

“Hand too, Baby.”

His hand abandons his dick in the bathwater. “Ungh.”

Bucky smiles lazily and rubs the side of his foot against Steve’s hip in praise. “Good boy.”

They’re in the bathtub together, opposite ends, legs tangled. Their combined bulk displaces the water all the way up to above their shoulders, but that’s part of the game: they’re not allowed to splash on the floor, so they can’t jerk off very hard or fast. First one to splash water on the floor is the automatic loser and has to bottom the next time they fuck (Bucky added that little caveat because he’s very good at not splashing, whereas Steve is hopelessly clumsy and overeager ). “How you doing, Sweetheart?” he asks, drinking in the sight of Steve with his lips parted, chest heaving, squirming. He’s pink from temple to tits, flushed from the bathwater and arousal both, and Bucky loves it. “You’re not close already, are you?” he tuts, grinning. “So sensitive.”

“Buck,” Steve croaks, heated eyes dragging over Bucky’s body at the other end of the tub where he’s still gently jerking himself off. “Please.”

Bucky affords himself another toe-curlingly good swipe over the head of his dick before he nods. “Okay. Slow. Just like me”

Steve huffs and wraps his hand back around himself, stroking his dick in slow, measured strokes, just like Bucky said. Bucky’s guts warm and another heady rush of dominance swirls low in his belly at watching Steve do exactly as he says. “You can start workin’ it again, too,” he says.

Steve moans gratefully. “Thank you. Fuck.” His abs start clenching, his body straining again with visible tension as he works the Aneros that’s seated up inside him. Under the water, his knees move in and out in that instinctive motion as he tries to rock it just right. But it’s hard to do it with the water so high, and more than once he catches himself and holds back at the sight of the bathwater sloshing precariously close to the lip of the tub. At one point he gasps and his eyes slam shut, and Bucky figures the toy must’ve shifted to press even more directly against his prostate. 

“Ooh, does that feel good, Stevie?”

Steve peeks his eyes open, glaring across the way at him. “You know it does.”

Bucky does, in fact, know exactly how good it feels—because he’s got another of the exact same toy inside of himself, right now. “I don’t know why you still agree to play this game,” he taunts, grunting from the effort of holding back his own moan as his prostate gets a firm prod from the head of the toy. “You—nngh—you always wind up losing.”

“Yeah, well …” Steve’s throat bobs as he swallows heavily. “Maybe I don’t mind you coming out on top, sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Bucky scoffs, but he’s breathing heavier than he was thirty minutes ago, his composure slipping the longer he works the toy inside himself and jerks himself off agonizingly slowly underneath the water. In fact, he’s not even sure it even counts as jerking off at this slow a pace.

Edging is something he’d introduced Steve to early on in their relationship, as soon as he’d realized how delightfully sensitive his new boyfriend was. And Steve, the big idiot, had worried Bucky wouldn’t like it, had actually thought of it as a negative! An absurd notion that Bucky promptly disabused him of. Watching his ungodly sexy blond behemoth of a husband whine and squirm and struggle to hold himself in check is one of the fucking hottest things Bucky’s ever seen—and he’s seen a lot. He’d been a bit of a manwhore back in his heyday, racking up the bodies as he fought to find himself as a Dom and accept the body an IED had left him with.

Steve, his overly-sensitive, glorious hunk of a then-boyfriend, had helped him to do both. And it’s times like this where Bucky remembers just how goddamn lucky he is. Having Steve to love and fuck around with feels like the best gift in the world. 

At the other end of the tub, the water sloshes as something he’s done to himself makes Steve’s breath hitch in another helpless moan. He tosses his head back for a moment, eyes clamped shut as his expression crumples beautifully and he whimpers. Bucky’s ass clenches down hard in arousal at the sight, which only makes the toy in his ass rub over his prostate that much better. His cock throbs as his pleasure flares dangerously high. Fuck, he wants to come. 

Licking his lips, he decides it's time to end this. His balls are pulled up too close to his body, taut and full and aching for release. Trying to school his breathing into something resembling nonchalance is a lost cause, and his face feels almost as flushed as Steve’s looks right now. Bucky decides to call it, because even though he’s the automatic favorite to win this game every time, he is capable of losing, if he gets too caught up in ogling Steve’s body and reactions and doesn’t focus enough on playing his cards right. “Okay,” he finally says, smirking when Steve’s head jerks back to attention, his irises visibly flaring in excitement. “Yeah, Baby. It’s time.”

“Fuck.”

“You ready for the home stretch?” He waggles his eyebrows and lets his head rest back against the tub, spreading his legs wider and keeping his eyes on Steve. “Gotta keep up,” he instructs, even though Steve already knows how this goes. When Bucky tightens his hand and speeds up the pace of how fast he’s jerking himself off, Steve copies him. That’s how it is at the end of this—totally-rigged-in-Bucky’s-favor—game. They both jerk off at the pace that Bucky sets, and the first one to splash water on the floor or come is the loser. It’s not very fair, but Bucky never claimed he was a fair guy. He is, in fact, selfish as fuck. 

Lucky for him, Steve’s into that.

“Fuck,” Steve pants from his end of the tub. He slides down lower, keeping more of his body under the water in an attempt to prevent splashing. It’s a futile effort, though, because he’s doomed to lose anyway with the faster pace that Bucky’s set. Already, he’s going lobster red in the face, brow pinched and desperate, knees knocking the sides of the tub as he compulsively works the toy in his ass. 

The arousal in Bucky’s gut coils tighter at the sight. “Watch my hand,” he warns, when he notices Steve slacking off. “Gotta match it, Baby.”

“I am.”

“Tighter,” he says, eyes gleaming. “And stop avoiding the head. I can see you cheatin’ over there, Punk.”

Steve whimpers, and Bucky knows that he really wasn’t going as tight as he is, because Steve’s hand changes its hold and he starts getting the head of his dick with the same intensity that Bucky is. Bucky grins open mouthed, panting. “Atta boy.”

“You should—ugn.” Steve grimaces. “Should get a penalty, for being cut. I should get an extra, nnnh, th-thirty seconds, at least.”

Bucky laughs, because trust Steve to think of a sportsman’s solution to the inequity of their dicks. Steve being uncut means that it takes less intense stimulation for him to come. They both know this, Bucky loves this, and again: he never claimed the game was fair. “No penalty,” he grunts, speeding up his pace even further. Steve’s eyes widen but he matches it. Bucky grits his teeth. He can hold out long enough. Steve’ll blow in seconds at this pace. 

And sure enough, it’s not even twenty seconds later when Steve is crying out, body tensing and muscles straining gorgeously as he seizes up and starts to come. “Agh!” His knees fling out hard and hit the sides of the tub, splashing water over the lip to the floor below. But he hasn’t even noticed, he’s so lost to his orgasm. His asshole is twitching, sucking on the Aneros as the contractions of his body pull the toy up against his prostate again and again, drawing the pleasure out. He shoves down hard in the water and shouts louder, as though he’s getting a second orgasm on top of the first. “Ohnfuck …” 

Bucky groans as he watches it happen: Steve’s gorgeous face and juddering hips, big hand wringing up hard underneath the head the whole way through. The fucking sounds he makes, Jesus wept. It’s leagues better than any porn Bucky’s ever seen. “Fuck, Baby,” he praises. “Yes. Fuck that’s so hot …” 

Steve’s hand keeps working the whole way through, only abandoning his cock once it’s fully spent and softening, the cloudy ribbons of his cum floating away in the bathwater. “Fuck,” he exhales hugely once it’s done, letting his body go lax and slump so far down that only his face is above the waterline.

Bucky grunts and spreads his legs wider, not heeding the splashing rule now that he’s already won. The water splashes precariously as he shoves his hips down and down and down, squeezing the shape of the toy inside so fucking perfectly. Fuck, it feels fucking good working over his spot like that. “Oghnnn,” he pants, grunting and groaning and jerking his cock hard. “Fuck, Baby. You’re so fucking pretty. Fuck. M’gonna cum …” 

Steve gives a sated hum from his end of the tub. Bucky can sense him shifting in the water, and then gasps when he feels the ball of Steve’s foot gently press up on his balls. His eyes fly open and he looks down. “Oh, shit,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck.”

Steve grins and rubs his foot against him. And Bucky doesn’t have that fetish, but there’s something so fucking perverse about seeing Steve’s toes up against his balls that it turns his brain to mush anyway and pushes him right on over into orgasm. He shoots off beneath the water, stroking and thrusting and moaning—and probably splashing water all over the floor just as badly as Steve ever has.

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[misslovasstuff]

Sanji and Pedro

Insight into Sanji’s character

I was watching episode 877 and noticed a very beautiful piece of dialog between Sanji and Carrot regarding Pedro’s death.

Sanji finds out about Pedro sacrificing himself for the others, dying for Luffy and his crew, a part of reason to thank the Strawhats for being kind and helping the minks when they needed help the most. We all know how strawhats are, they do good out of the goodness of their hearts, not expecting any return of favour.

However, Sanji can’t help but feel guilty, thinking that Pedro died because of him, because he joined in this mission in the first place to save him. If there is something I understood from Sanji, is that he doesn’t deal well with guilt on his conscience. Remember back in Punk Hazard when he saved the samurai, this is what he said:

Even going through the trouble of finding and getting him back safe.

This trait of his character only becomes more evident in the whole cake island arc when he is terrified of even thinking that something can happen to his crew because they came to save him. Because now he’s not the one protecting them, but the one putting them in terrible danger. This crushes him down emotionally, a weight that is so hard to carry and is portrayed beautifully in wci. One can easily tell how scared and taken aback he is since the moment he sees Luffy and Nami, desperately tries to push them away and goes to his room, tried to convince himself they’re gonna be safe without the trouble of having to save him as he anxiously smokes while walking back and forth in his room. Sanji’s self esteem up to this point was so low that the fact that his friends would go out of their way for him was too good to be true, he didn’t even dared to think about it let alone ask for help. He’s ready to sacrifice himself in any way to save or thank someone. Goodness, he was ready to go through hell again if it meant his friends would go out safely.

Now that this arc is almost over, Sanji’s character development has only catapulted. In this dialogue, we notice something grandiose. Let me show you:

A simple thank you would be enough to thank them. Pedro didn’t have to sacrifice himself in order to express gratitude. Sounds familiar?

Sanji sees his now ‘past’ self in Pedro, just a bit different. Sanji is someone whose self-worth is something that has been pushed down for him all his life. He was willing to die for Zeff and his restaurant, not really thinking through that how that kind of sacrifice devastates the people around you, the people that care for you. He sees this scenario playing with Carrot and Pedro.

What hurts the most is that, Sanji thinks that that way is the only way he can be useful, when clearly that is not the only way out. Nothing should be payed with your own life. If people are kind to you, that doesn’t give them a right over your life. He has people who care deeply about him, people who not only think he is crucial, but would go beating their limits to save him.

I think our cook had such an amazingly written development after wci, so so beautiful and definitely there is much more to talk about him, maybe in another post.

Thank you for reading!

[amysubmits]

Do you think a woman that has been in relationships previously that were abusive (physically, verbally, financially, emotionally or any one of the above) can ever truly submit? Or is that self-protection wall just too much of a barrier to this dynamic? The D/s dynamic is so appealing at first consideration, bc she would want to build that deep trust and have that open communication, find that place of safety that she never had.

But then her mind jumps even quicker to those thoughts of “I’m not enough”, “I’m not wanted” “I’m not desired”, the downward cascade is endless and so she hits the road for self-preservation.

In your opinion is that insurmountable?

So, disclaimer - I'm no mental health professional, just a traumatized ND person who has had psychology and therapy as an interest and hyperfixations several times in my life, and who has 5ish years of being in therapy as a client.

I wonder what you mean by 'truly submit', to be honest.

I think most people (not just women) have experienced at least a little abuse at some point in their life...and I think literally all people have experienced at least a little trauma. And abuse and other causes of trauma can definitely lead people to be unable to let go of control and/or to trust. So, I think abuse can make submission harder. I think abuse and trauma are really common causes for specific hard limits. For example, if someone had been verbally abused as a child and told they were stupid, that may have a really direct correlation with why they might make verbal degradation a hard limit. Or it can be a more vague relationship. Maybe they weren't outright called stupid or verbally abused, but they were emotionally neglected and part of that meant they were never told good things about themselves, but were criticized frequently. So they have low self esteem as a result of having their shortcomings highlighted but not having their strengths highlighted - this may cause them to be unable to tolerate being verbally degraded in a BDSM context. Different causes, but essentially the same trauma and outcome.

On the other hand...sometimes abuse or other forms of trauma makes people people-pleasers who are prone to fawning or freezing. They may have the same internal beliefs that you mentioned - I'm not good enough, I'm not wanted, etc - but rather than that leading them to avoid submission, it may make them submit in ways they shouldn't. For those people, submission may be harder because they will try to submit when they should be setting limits. These people may be misread as deeply submissive, but if they are agreeing to what their dom says out of a trauma response and not out of a true choice, then IMO, that is a big problem. So anyway...I think abuse can make D/s or BDSM hard. It can pose challenges that have to be navigated very delicately. I think it can (and should!) result in hard limits being set. Do I think it impedes 'true' submission? I don't like that 'true' word as I think it's often used to mean unhealthy things. But I don't think abuse keeps people from D/s or BDSM generally speaking. To me, submitting does not mean having as few limits as possible. Submitting means being as open and honest and vulnerable with your Dom as you can be given the amount of trust that you've built together - and submitting in the ways that you've agreed to and that are healthy for you to do so. What is healthy for one person may not be healthy for another. Being the best submissive possible is a totally personal, individual thing.

That may mean that you never submit in certain areas. If you have financial trauma, you may never submit to financial control, for example. That can be being the BEST submissive possible because it means you know your needs enough to advocate for not having your trauma triggered and that is being a great submissive, helping your dom protect you from harm. Where for someone else, learning to submit in that area might feel like their best submission. It's totally individualized.

[crystalsenergy]

We are all mirrors of each other...

literally 🪞

Don't cling to others' opinions.

They don't even represent the truth of things.

✨

Many times the people we deal with are dealing with THEIR OWN PROJECTIONS, they are not even looking at us for who we are. And we do the same with others. And reading about this, recognizing this, is so important, because then we stop projecting our own disorganized things onto others, as well as stop receiving so openly the projections of people as absolute truths of life.

How much of your opinions about others doesn't exactly reflect your view of them, but rather what you feel about yourself when looking at them? Some examples.

Examples:

The person who is already in their adulthood and who specifically has the frustration of not having lived their dreams, not having pursued something that fulfilled them, for various personal reasons of theirs.

It is something that calls for healing and harmonization of this, so that the person does not live with this unhappiness within themselves. However, many of us do not have the habit of reflecting on how much our past impacts our present, and neither on how much we have our baggage disorganized that we reflect onto others the who-o-le time.

So, the person in the example, older, and who has this specific issue of frustration, sees a young adult being independent, chasing their dreams.

Whenever dealing with a young person who reminds them of this, their ego immediately confronts with the information of "I wished I was living this", and this being's energy shifts to a position of envy, and sometimes it can even seek to harm the other person by inventing stories, distorting the other's independence into arrogance, gossiping, and so on.

And the "crazy" thing is that, believe it or not, this being tells themselves that they are doing this for reasons they invent for themselves ("this person is arrogant, look at them, all independent!") when, in reality, it is they who are constantly feeling uncomfortable with the strong and independent presence of the other. Low self-esteem and comparison, which unfortunately lead to envy.

The young person, in the example's case, doesn't need to say anything to the person for this to be triggered, because the ego, which is the primary channel through which we tend to have contacts with others, captures this information.

The ego will capture, will know that it is something that needs to be compensated internally but that the person, out of pride, out of ignorance, out of disinterest, out of stagnation, or whatever, did not run after correcting.

Knowing this, the ego, which has important functions for our psychic structure, but will always depend on how its "owner" conducts it, will deal with envy, as this is the way the person deals with things they receive from their surroundings and that "hit" them in the mirror effect, since, in reality, we all serve as mirrors to each other. All the time (and it was supposed to be a good thing, but the way we deal with it makes it bad).

The human ego is important,

but not the end of everything.

It is only a part of the mind's structure. It is limited, but it exists so that the human being, with their current limitations, deals little by little with what they can from the exchanges they make.

The conscious mind is limited. The unconscious, infinite (and we are more than 80% made of unconscious mind!).

The ego is the most active part in us, but it is not the only one that exists.

And so there is an axis to be activated, which is the Ego-Self axis, so that every human being knows that the place of the Ego is the place of support to live the moment, to deal with the moment.

The Ego is like a filter for consciousness to support and live. But it's not the end.

Therefore, not everything your conscious mind says is real.

The "conscious" mind needs to be refuted and reviewed by yourself, because it PROJECTS itself all the time, it is always in contact with others and taking to others what is uniquely its own (especially unresolved things, but also good things), as well as always bringing in what others say.

And if so, and if the Ego is in the part of consciousness but it is limited, does not reflect everything, it needs to be refuted. So that our mental life is healthier and truly conscious, in the pure and true sense of the word.

In the example, the person who is envying lacks independence and confidence to follow their own path internally, they are absent from it, it is something they know they do not have within them but that for their own well-being and dream, it would be important to have (after all, the more we live our lives in integrity, seeking to be and live more sides of ourselves, less restricted, limited, we will be, and your consciousness, deep down, knows this 🙌🌟).

Another important point to mention is: On the other side, if it is a person with traits of fear of judgment, fear of exclusion, this situation will negatively fit, making the being who is envying seem so right and the one who is afraid of judgment, feels down. It is important to take care of this to avoid further internal issues.

If you identify that someone is projecting onto you in a very negative way, step back, take care of it in yourself and let the other's internal work be their own. But, although difficult, avoid the issue of anger and revenge. This will keep you in this process longer than necessary.

Both people need help,

in the first case, for having a deep low self-esteem to the point of letting this splash onto others;

in the second case, for having a root of fear of judgment and fear of not pleasing others, which leads them to believe that the harshest and most negative criticisms that arise from people reflect reality.

Another example:

A woman who denies the experience of her feminine side in integrity (the issue of sexual self-awareness, for example) by conditioning herself to some kind of intense restriction, and who also experiences the difficulty of, when looking at any woman who does not do the same as her, judges, but it is not just any judgment, but rather a categorization and labeling, because for her the wound with the experience of other sides of her femininity is so limited, and, because she keeps denying this to herself, the anger at those who live in freedom arises and increases whenever she encounters such a person.

It is important for both sides to take care of this, the first, who is emanating and projecting, the second, so that their internal difficulties with fear of judgment or something similar, do not increase.

Everything can be reversed into an opportunity for healing! Heal, heal, heal, still and especially if the person has come, in malice, because of their projection, to hurt me.

These are just some of the various examples we could give to illustrate how our opinions about others and the opinions they give are not always what things really are.

Don't cling to others' opinions.

They don't even represent the truth of things.

Many times the people we deal with are dealing with THEIR OWN PROJECTIONS, they are not even looking at us for who we are. And we do the same with others.

And reading about this, recognizing this, is so important, because then we stop projecting our own disorganized things onto others, as well as stop receiving so openly the projections of people as absolute truths of life.