#i can't think of any other triggers to add to this

[michaelawinter]

Andre Nikto head canons

We have little information about Niko but here's what I've gathered..

((Also I'd like to kindly add, hi, hello, my name is Mika and I am a Bosnian. The chances of me adding some accurate slav head canons are always high but never low!!🙏🏻 ALSO IM TERRIBLY OBSESSED WITH NIKTO SO IF ENJOY THIS AND YOU WANT DATING NIKTO HEAD CANONS PLEASE LET ME KNOWWW))

Genuine head canons:

Andre Nikto (Никто) is a (scary) Russian military man, roughly 193/194 centimetres (when you compare him to Simon's height) He suffers with acute dissociative disorder (better said DID) yet is still serving the military cause of how he preforms during battle.., so the military still views him as a ideal soldier for combat despite his disorder..

No hate but from what I've seen in some art works claiming it's his "face reveal" you people have to understand that under his mask, his face is disfigured.. so, no he won't be an attractive super model under that mask of his..

I don't think you people are aware how badass Nikto is as a character, almost SIMILAR as Ghost who's in the military for the same reason as everybody else, to risk their life.

Although judging by Nikto's voice lines, he doesn't care who he's killing..if it were up to him, if his teammates serve him zero purpose he'd care less if they die..(after all, you're just a target..) but being a professional, he can't allow that to happen to his teammates

If you look up closely, Nikto wears a military uniform that is different from everyone else with MP-0 written on it. Now if you don't know, MP stands for Military Police (enforcement agencies connected with, or part of, the military of a state.) and zero next to it meaning "nothing" and this is important which is what Nikto refers himself as..

Yeah so about that..

I have a theory about Nikto's nickname

After being captured and brutally tortured with whatever sick tendency mister Z had in store for him. It was Mister Z that couldn't really get much Information about Andre.

They would start torturing him while repeating to Andre that he's nothing, he's no one, what he is is nothing but what he is is everything. Those words play in the back of his head and they never seen to go away.

(This is extremely relevant cause Mister Z tried to get to know a bit of Andre by looking through some research come to find his citizenship and language are censored making him a nobody. Keep in mind, if he found any information about Andre viewing from personal life etc. it will be used as blackmail..)

After recovering his scars and taken to therapy after 7 years he was diagnosed with DID

NOW moving on to the DID part

(What I said about the fact that people overlook Nikto's disorder, I mean it..

Some don't really write about his disorder which is fine but when someone does it gets messy. )

Alters aren't easy to deal with, it's actually gonna haunt you till the day that you die cause there's no cure for it. And in Nikto's case it's from PTSD and Nikto is very aware of his alters..

Let me tell you how Nikto's disorder affects him. Switching can be consensual, forced or triggered, Nikto values silence as much as the next person cause he's dealing with much inside his head already. The kind of guy that would "watch TV" while dissociating with a 100 yard glare with very slow blinking and a slight headache..

There are times where his personalities would correct him when hes referring to himself (example: I'm up..(his personality correctes him) WE'RE up..)

"He made us do this" (and other voice lines I can't recall..)

Maybe cut bits of an apple with a knife and eat it while watching TV..

He has medication prescribed for him but he didn't wanna depend on medications cause they're just drugs..they're nothing to him but just drugs..

He has dissociative amnesia too, sometimes he would wander around confused maybe even annoyed. The amnesia appears to be caused by traumatic or stressful experiences endured or witnessed..Although the forgotten information may be inaccessible to consciousness, it sometimes continues to influence behavior

Like I said he likes quiet people, someone who doesn't waste their air on small talk..

Example; don't really talk to him about the weather, unless you have something interesting to say but if the conversation is gonna go nowhere , don't talk..he finds that a waste of time

People assume just because he's Russian that he likes vodka, he doesn't like vodka...-He doesn't like any alcoholic beverage cause it makes his problems a lot worse,...maybe If you were lending him some as an offering, he'll take it but he has SOME self control, he's okay with coffee, though..

It's relevant cause he stays awake at late hours since he finds it difficult to sleep, he'll stay up late with no music, nothing, just a silent room. It doesn't matter if he tries the military tactic where you just close your eyes and turn off your thoughts, it's very different when you have voices screaming inside your head...

Despite everything he's still intelligent, so being smart + strength + sharp reflexes and you got yourself a criminal

Death doesn't phase him, but to him death is like sleeping, he's not scared of death considering that he's been through hell those past few months.

He likes the simple things, don't complicate anything..because he's quick with catching an attitude..be blunt and forward and stumble over your words..

Nikto shows confidence in the battlefield,just like König, except he has a high rush of adrenaline and will laugh at the enemies death.

Fun fact: in this one comic Price calls Nikto "psycho"

And it's without a doubt that he is one.., a sadistic, sociopathic, psychopath

After splitting, his alters can and will get more aggressive and do more harm and damage to others cause they're doing the most at protecting the host.. (depending on the alter, some wanna protect him while some wanna hurt him)

Oh by the way about the intelligence part, I mean he has a good good memory with remembering faces..

He doesn't like people looking at him funny, he'll get angry really fast and annoyed at the same time.., he won't show hesitation when it comes to approaching you and asking you what are you looking at (it's like trying to avoid eye contact with a homeless man Infront of a store, that's how scared you would be)

He's slow with jokes or any form of humor that you throw at him??? You'll be excited to tell him a joke, and when you do he just looks at you and tells you never to do that again..,or just straight up tell you he doesn't get it...??? and probably trying to explain it either he gets it or not he'll still tell you that it's not funny

He doesn't argue, or he does? Arguing with him will costs you avoiding getting objects thrown at you so you can get out of his sight..tragic, now you have a teammate that hates your guts and won't apologize for it.

[seimsisk]

did I tell you guys I apparently accidentally overdosed on a brownie? yeah I didn't nearly die because you can't really die from THC poisoning but I definitely THOUGHT I had died (or at least become detached from the physical existence as whole) and that was the #1 scariest experience of my life (*) and I kinda wished someone had warned me that was a possibility

I think my mistake was eating it with an empty stomach. Plz don't repeat my mistake y'all.

[flowersforbucky]

moth to a flame

bucky barnes x reader / winter soldier x reader

"I know you. even when I know nothing else, even when I don't know myself, I know you."

summary: bucky is triggered into the winter soldier during a mission and then goes MIA, until he seeks you out in the middle of the night.

warnings/tags: SMUT, canon divergence (bucky hasn't been successfully deprogrammed in this), kind of dub-con, language, some violence, reader is afab, no use of y/n, 18+ only, friends with benefits situation, angst with a happy ending

word count: 4.9k

“You've reached Bucky. I can't answer the phone right now but leave me a mess–”

You hang up before the voicemail recording finishes. You already knew he wasn't going to answer, just as he hasn't answered any of the other thirty-something times you've dialed his number over the course of the last few days. Or read any of the two dozen text messages.

The messages had stopped delivering and the calls had started going straight to voicemail almost two days ago at this point. And yet you still got your hopes up every time you checked your phone, only to be met with gut-wrenching, nauseating disappointment.

It had now been three days of this - not to mention picking your cuticles until they bleed, flipping back and forth between every news station on your TV in hopes (and fear) of seeing his name, a few collective hours of sleep each night, and too much Red Bull.

Just when you were thinking about trying to kick your caffeine addiction, too.

Three days of feeling completely and utterly helpless.

You place the phone back down on your coffee table, staring down at the thick, white cast encasing your left leg from your foot to just under your knee.

Useless.

You knew you were doing what you physically could - the spread of laptops and tablets on the table in front of you continuously supplying data from facial recognition programs across the United States.

Realistically, you knew he could be on the other side of the world by now, but that didn't stop you from checking. It was the only thing that you felt you had any control over right now.

But it wasn't enough. Not when Steve, Sam, Natasha, Sharon, and every other currently able-bodied team member are out scouring every safehouse and known former HYDRA base in the tri-state area while you're holed up in your apartment with a fractured fibula and a brain that won't let you stop reliving the moments before he went missing.

“This is as straightforward as it gets,” Steve re-assures you both for what felt like the dozenth time that day. “You'll be in and out in no time.”

“So straight-forward that you're going to hang back here while we do all the dirty work?” You joke as you make the final adjustments to your parachute.

“We've been monitoring this base for months,” he reminds you. “This place is as abandoned as they come. Get in, get the intel from the database, and get back to the jet.”

“And then blow the place to smithereens,” Bucky adds with a devious grin.

“And then blow the place to smithereens,” Steve agrees.

If only things had been as simple as he had expected.

You had a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach from the moment that you and Bucky landed on the ground outside of the HYDRA base. You told yourself that you were being irrational - but you couldn't shake the looming feeling that something was going to go wrong.

“See?” Bucky says after removing the USB drive from the computer. He sticks the device in the breast pocket of his tactical vest before edging you towards the desk. “Easy-peasy. You've been worried for nothing.”

“I have not been worried,” you deny, leaning against the edge of the desk. “This place is just old, and smelly, and creepy.”

Bucky takes a step closer to you so that there's no space left between you. He places his hands on the desk on either side of you, enclosing you.

“You think that I can't tell when you're nervous?” He says quietly, studying your face. You can smell a lingering hint of cool mint from his mouthwash. “That I haven't spent enough time learning your body to read you like an open book?”

Your thighs clench together and your nipples pebble at his words. You're almost embarrassed at how easily his voice, his scent, his closeness elicits a physical response from your body. Almost.

“What I think,” you murmur against his mouth. His hands come to grip your hips as he nudges your thighs open, standing between your legs. “Is you're crazy if you're thinking about trying to fuck me in an abandoned HYDRA warehouse.”

He exhales a dramatic sigh. “You can't blame me for trying.”

“I am relieved to know that you'd even want to do that here,” you say, hopping down from where you're perched on the desk. “I really think that shows you've processed your trauma–”

You're cut off by the room going completely dark. Every light, every computer, turns to black.

Bucky's flesh hand instinctively reaches to grab your wrist in the dark, tugging you to him.

“What the fuck,” he groans under his breath.

“We need to get out of–” you start to state the obvious but close your mouth when the computer that you and Bucky had retrieved the data from turns back on.

And then a computer to the right - and then across the room - and another to the right - and one to left - until every computer is on and showing the exact same screen. Bucky's hand grips yours so tightly that it borders on being painful.

Displayed on dozens of screens throughout the room is the face of a man. A man who you've never met, but recognize immediately.

“Zola,” Bucky whispers almost inaudibly.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Zola addresses him with a perverted smile. “Welcome home,” his voice pours from every computer speaker throughout the room and echoes off the walls.

“Steve?” You whisper urgently, clicking on the communication device hidden in your ear. “Steve, we've got a prob–”

“There's no use in that,” Zola interrupts you. “It's too late. They're almost here.”

The following sixty seconds were a jumbled blur that you were still trying to piece together in your mind.

You remember hearing the stream of words spoken in Russian.

Longing. Rusted. Seventeen.

You remember Bucky screaming at you to run, the sound of Steve's voice in your ear telling you that back-up was on the way and asking a dozen questions that you were too overwhelmed to respond to.

Daybreak. Furnace. Nine.

You remember begging Steve to hurry. You remember pleading with Bucky to come with you to try to get away; pleading with him to just look at you, just stay with you, help is coming -

Benign. Homecoming. One.

You remember the moment that Bucky went completely still as the room was infiltrated by HYDRA agents.

Freight car.

You knew that Bucky wasn't there anymore. You could sense it in his stance, in the way he wouldn't meet your eyes, in his silence.

Before you could say anything else to him, close to a dozen HYDRA agents came barreling towards you both. He charged through them, taking down one after the next with ease, until there were just a few left standing.

It was a side of Bucky you'd never seen. You thought that you had witnessed his strength, his agility, his determination, his ruthlessness working beside him in this field - but you then saw just how much he had been holding back.

He fled past the remaining few, out the door and down the hallway of the warehouse. The agents turned to follow him, forgetting about you - until you threw a knife directly into one's neck from behind.

Another agent shot at you, the blow hitting your bulletproof vest and sending you flying backwards onto hard cement.

Before you could catch your breath, there was a sharp cracking noise and a blinding pain radiating from your lower leg - but it was short lived.

The last thing you recall is the man's boot swinging towards your face.

You woke up some number of hours later, in a hospital bed with your temple throbbing and leg elevated in a cast.

“Hey,” a soft voice calls from your right. Natasha stands up from the singular chair in the room, both concern and relief evident across her features. “You're okay,” she begins to assure you. “You have a concussion and a fractured–”

“Where's Bucky?” You interrupt her, your voice scratchy. You clear your throat. “Is he okay? Did Steve find him? Did HYDRA get–”

“HYDRA didn't get him. Steve took care of the last of the agents after him,” she stops you from rambling. There's an immediate sense of relief wash over you.

“But we haven't found him yet,” she adds carefully. “Everyone is out searching for him now. You know we won't stop until–”

A gentle knock on your apartment door snaps you back to reality.

You freeze, your heart jumping to your throat. You stand as quickly as you can manage, grabbing your crutches propped up next to you on the couch.

“It's just me,” a feminine voice calls from the other side of the door. Your heart goes from your throat to your stomach. Not him.

“I'm sorry, I should have text you first,” Natasha continues. “But I brought you food. Street tacos from–”

You turn the deadbolt and unhook the chain lock before swinging the door open.

“You look–”

“Like hammered shit?” You finish for her, nodding your head towards the inside of the apartment as indication for her to come in.

“I was going to say exhausted,” she says, walking past you with a large paper sack of take-out food. Your stomach growls at the aroma - when was the last time you ate something more than a bowl of cereal or granola bar?

“Your favorite,” she tells you, placing the bag on the kitchen counter. “Extra salsa verde and lime wedges. Have you gotten any sleep recently?” Her eyes skim across the empty energy drink cans littered around the kitchen.

You maneuver yourself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen's small island, leaning your crutches on the edge of the counter.

“Yes,” you mumble. “For forty-five minutes from 2:30 to 3:15 today.”

She lets out a long groan, rolling her eyes at you.

“You're supposed to be healing from a concussion,” she reminds you, taking a seat for herself. “Which generally doesn't include sleep deprivation and excessive use of computer screens.” She stares in the direction of the array of laptops that overcrowd the limited space of your coffee table.

“Did you find anything in Connecticut? What about Sam, is he back from New Jersey?” You ask, ignoring her concerns as you unbox your food.

“Connecticut was a dead-end,” she sighs. “We're still waiting to hear back from Sam. There's a safehouse up in Vermont that Steve wants to head to tomorrow–”

“You don't think there's a chance of him letting me tag along for that, do you?” You tap the edge of your cast against the base of the island with your foot.

Her eyes soften as she looks at you. You already knew the answer.

“I know this is really hard for you,” she says delicately. “I may not know exactly what has been going on between you and Barnes these last few months, but it's obvious you care a lot for him. We all do. We are going to find him and bring him home,” she assures you.

You nod at her in agreement, not quite trusting your voice enough to speak.

Your eyes sting as you attempt to blink away the tears that threaten to spill over. You had yet to allow yourself to spend any time crying these last few days and you didn't wish to start now.

Her words remind you that no one knows exactly why you are taking Bucky's disappearance so harshly. You assume that your friends have their suspicions about your and Bucky's arrangement but the two of you had agreed to keep it between yourselves.

They didn't know it had started off being a weekly occurrence - late Sunday evenings, your apartment. Or how it had quickly escalated from once a week to twice, and then from two times a week to three - and instead of just your apartment, it would happen anywhere the two of you had a private (and sometimes public) moment - up against the wall of the communal showers at the compound's gym, in the back of the Quinjet after missions while everyone else would be sleeping on the flight back home, even during team meetings with his hand creeping between your thighs while you try to stay quiet enough to not draw any attention to yourselves.

They didn't know you were supposed to be friends with benefits but that at some point during the days and nights spent underneath one another, the line between friends and something more became blurry for you.

You had just been too chickenshit to tell him.

Natasha sits across from you as you inhale the Mexican food that she brought you. She doesn't say anything else, just keeps you company in a comfortable silence as you eat your first legitimate meal in days.

“Thank you,” you tell her as you're finishing your food. “I appreciate you. I've been going a little crazy here by myself,” you add meekly.

“Of course.” She stands back up. “I would stay longer, but I've got to prepare for Vermont. We're leaving early in the morning.”

“Be safe. All of you,” you remind her. “Let me know if you guys find anything. Just tell me if there's anything at all I can do. And please let me know when you hear from Sam–”

“You'll be the first to know when there's anything to know,” she assures you gently.

“Thanks, Nat.”

“You just try to get some rest, okay?” She requests as she walks toward the door. “Maybe drink some water, possibly consider taking a nice, long shower…”

“Goodbye, Natasha.”

She's chuckling as she closes the door behind her.

You lower your nose to your armpit as soon as the door clicks shut, inhaling.

Maybe she makes a valid point about showering.

Half an hour later, there's a heavy rain beating against the windows of your apartment when you finish bathing. You secure a towel around your chest before yanking off the garbage bag that you had wrapped around your cast well enough for you to rinse off.

Belly full and body clean, you felt somewhat better; at least physically.

You listen to the rain pound down as you sit on the edge of the bathtub, massaging lotion into your skin, and wonder where Bucky is right now - if he's safe, if it's raining wherever he's at, if he's somewhere dry -

You come to a sudden halt in the middle of brushing your teeth. It's hard to tell over the deafening roar of the rain and your bathroom fan, but you could have sworn you heard the creaking of a door or window from your living room.

I double checked the door locks after Nat left, you rationalize to yourself. This apartment is on the fourth floor, no one is going to climb the fire escapes to–

There's an unmistakable shadow visible through the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. It's gone as quickly as it appears.

Shit. You start to panic as you realize you left your cell phone in the kitchen. As quietly as you can, you look around the small room for something to defend yourself with. A hair dryer, dental floss, a few week’s worth of dirty laundry..

You hear the creaking of floorboards as footsteps seem to creep closer and closer to the bathroom door.

Crutches. You have two crutches. You can clobber them with your crutches.

“I can hear you,” you call to whoever is just beyond the door. “I know you’re out there.”

Silence. No hint of any further movement.

You place one crutch under your left armpit for support, keeping the other one ready to wield as a weapon. “You have ten seconds to get out of my apartment,” you say a bit louder, willing your voice not to waver. “I have a weapon.”

Yeah, a weapon. If you can call it that.

Ten seconds come and go, followed by another ten seconds.

You weren’t going to let someone play this game with you in your own home.

Taking one last deep breath and tightening your grip on the defense crutch, you sling the bathroom door open quickly.

“Oh my god,” you exclaim, immediately relaxing your weight against the crutches, releasing the death grip that you had on your uninjured side.

It’s dark in your bedroom save for a few pale orange string lights hung around your bed frame and the light that spills in from the bathroom, but you would recognize his broad frame anywhere.

“Thank fuck you’re okay,” you exhale, swinging yourself over to where he stands at the foot of your bed. When you’re a little over a foot away from him, you realize he’s sopping wet - his hair dripping water droplets and his skin dewy. His clothing, the same clothing that you last saw him in three days ago, clings to his body like a second skin.

He remains still as a statue, and as silent as one.

“Are you okay?” You ask him apprehensively. You give him a once over, from head to toe. You don't see any noticeable injuries, but he is trembling.

“Bucky?” You ask in a small voice.

His lips are set in a hard line. He doesn't answer, just stares at you. Stares at you like he’s trying to figure out why he’s here.

Stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he knows you or not.

The immense relief that you had felt at knowing he's alive is washed away by a sinking feeling.

His eyes trail from your face and slowly down your towel-clad body. He pauses when he gets to your foot, glancing back and forth from your cast to the crutches on either side. His brows furrow together - almost like he's in pain.

“I'm okay,” you assure him in a shaky voice. “It's just a fracture,” you explain. “I'll be healed in no time.”

You notice that his features relax a bit at your words - just enough to give you hope that Bucky, your Bucky, is in there and he's listening to you.

Do whatever you have to do to keep him here. Don't let him out of your sight. Help him remember who he is, your inner monologue screams at you. Just don't let him run away again.

“Are you cold?” You ask him. You're not necessarily expecting him to answer, you're just trying to put him at ease. “How about we get you some dry clothes?” You add, nodding towards his drenched henley.

You retreat into the bathroom, grabbing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that he'd left over the last time he had stayed the night - the night before he went missing. They were at the top of the laundry basket - maybe not the cleanest, but better that the wet, dirty clothing he's in currently.

You limp your way back over to where he stands at your bed, leaning against the mattress for support. You set your crutches down and hand him the shirt and pants, which he hesitantly accepts. He makes no move to remove the wet clothes from his body, instead gently places the dry clothes onto the mattress beside him.

“Would you like some help?” you offer cautiously, terrified of doing anything that could cause him to run. You slowly reach towards the clothing that he had just placed on the bed, but he stops you before you can pick the t-shirt back up - grasping your wrist in his vibranium hand.

You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes past your lips. His hold on you is firm, but not painful. You could rip your hand from him if you wanted to - but you don’t.

Instead, you let him hold your hand as he begins to rub his metal thumb in a circular motion next to yours. You’re frozen; watching him carefully as he examines the movements his metal digit makes on your skin.

The goosebumps that appear in the wake of his touch don’t go unnoticed by him. His eyes trail from where his hand holds yours and up the expanse of your arm, until they land on your exposed neck. The towel covering your midsection has started to come loose, hanging low enough to reveal the top of your breasts.

He drops your hand, taking a step closer to you. You have to remind yourself to breathe - your Bucky is in there. Your Bucky, who is gentle, and soft, and would never do anything to cause you harm.

You have to trust that.

He brings his vibranium fingers up to the edge of the towel, trailing them across the mounds of your breasts. Your nipples harden right away, visible through the thin material of the towel.

You would let this play out however he wants it to. However he needs it to.

When his index finger stops where the towel is tucked into itself at your side, you forget how to breathe. He pauses for a split-second before unhooking the cloth and letting it fall to your feet.

He drinks in the sight of you bare before him, his jaw clenched and pupils dilated.

Dozens of times he has seen you like this, and never have you felt so completely vulnerable under his gaze.

And still there's a slickness gathering at the apex of your thighs.

He brings his flesh hand to your waist, putting the faintest bit of pressure against your skin. You close your eyes at the sensation - he's barely fucking touching you and you could melt into him.

Your name falls off of his lips - it's barely even a whisper, nearly inaudible but unmistakable. Your name. He remembers your name.

“Bucky,” your voice cracks when you whisper his own name back to him. His eyes snap up to yours, a mix of realization and hesitation brewing in them.

You bring both of your hands to the tail of his wet shirt, giving him time to pull away before you start to tug the shirt upwards. He doesn't stop you - in fact, he raises his own arms to help you tug the soaked fabric off of him. You toss the shirt in the general direction of your bathroom.

You didn't think there would ever come a time that the sight of him getting naked for you wouldn't make you want to drool.

You unsnap the button of his tactical pants, keeping your eyes on his face the whole time, hyper-analyzing his expression for any sign of reluctance.

You dip your fingers past the waistband of his boxers, his eyes fluttering closed as your hand travels lower.

He's already fully hard as you hold him, stroking him as best you can from inside the confines of his underwear and pants. You pump him in your hand and his head rolls back so that he's looking up at your ceiling.

Fuck, it takes all the restraint you possess to resist leaning forward and sucking on his neck.

Another time, you tell yourself, anxious about overwhelming him.

He curses under his breath - something in Russian that you don't recognize but the expression on his face indicates it to be a praise. There's a shift in his initially reserved, unsure demeanor when you begin to pump him faster.

His head snaps back down, his eyes raking up and down your body once more before he brings his hands to your lower back, maneuvering you against the bed.

You scoot until your back comes in contact with the cool satin of your pillows, relaxing into the bedding. At last Bucky begins to shed the layers of wet clothing covering his lower half, not taking his eyes off of your body as he removes his boots, followed by his pants and boxers.

He kneels on the mattress, crawling above where you lay. You want nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and pull his mouth to yours, but you are going to let him call the shots.

He nudges your thighs apart with his knee, nestling himself between your legs. He grasps your breast in his vibranium hand, giving it a firm squeeze before rolling your nipple between his icy fingers.

He lowers himself so that he's belly down on your mattress, his face inches away from your pussy. He removes his hand from your breast and you let out a small whimper of disappointment at the abrupt lack of sensation. He uses that same hand to hike your uninjured leg over his shoulder, securing his head between the soft interior of your thighs.

He kisses you, starting at your belly button and working his way to your center. His lips feel like fire against your skin. You keep your hips planted firmly on the bed, fighting the urge to thrust your pussy up to his face.

“Please,” you whine. “Bucky, please.” You swear you can see the faintest trace of a smirk that looks so undeniably Bucky.

You clench your thighs around his face and he lets out a low, guttural groan as his mouth makes contact with you.

Normally, Bucky closes his eyes while he's going down on you - gets completely lost in it. Right now, his eyes are wide open - making sure he doesn't miss the way your mouth gapes when he rolls his tongue around your clit and the way your chest heaves when he nudges his tongue inside you.

You don't know which you find hotter.

You can already feel the tightening of a coil in your lower belly, making it impossible to resist rolling your hips to meet the torturous pace he's set with his tongue. You grind against his face, the thin layer of stubble that's grown across his jaw since you last saw him scratching against the sensitive flesh around your cunt.

You're approaching your climax when he pulls away, making you mewl at the loss of contact. His face glistens with your slick.

He flips you onto your side, placing you on your left side so that your injured leg rests against the mattress. You prop your head up with your hand as he slides in behind you.

His chest presses against your back, the heat of his body warming you all over. His flesh hand juts between your thighs, raising your right leg high enough for him to slap his cock against your pussy.

He strokes himself in his hand while he teases your folds - lubricating himself with your juices.

You turn your head to look at him right as he sheaths himself inside you, filling you entirely in one swift motion.

Fuck, you have to taste yourself on him. You can't handle not having his mouth on yours for another second.

You tilt your head back enough to connect your mouth to his - every worry you once had about coming on too strong and overwhelming him melts away as he opens his mouth for you, moving his lips against yours in an effortless rhythm.

He starts slow, quickly working up to a rapid pace as he repeatedly slams into your cervix from the sweetest angle. The sounds that you're making for him are pornographic - moaning into his mouth as his flesh hand comes around your front, landing on your engorged clitoris. He rubs languid circles while he continues to pound into you from behind.

You pull your lips away from his when you feel your orgasm building. “You always make me feel so good, you know that?” You ask him breathily, your mouth now right next to his ear.

“Every time you fuck me, I'm more sure that no one could ever compare to you. You've ruined me for everyone else. There’s only you for me.”

“Fuck,” he curses and groans your name again - it's the closest he's sounded to his normal self, which only spurs you on.

“I’ve become so fucking addicted to you in such a short amount of time,” you say in between moans as the head of his cock hits your sweet spot just right. “Think about you anytime you're not near me, drives me fucking crazy.”

He flips you - doesn't pull out - so that you're now underneath him. He goes right back to the same brutal pace, bringing his flesh hand to cradle your face as he stares down at you.

Clarity - you recognize it plain as day on his features.

He gives you a few more fast, hard thrusts before you're milking his cock through your orgasm. You crash your lips to his and he's coming - filling you up with his warm seed as he kisses you senseless.

He gradually stills inside you, his body going limp on top of yours as he rests his face in the crook of your neck. You wrap your arms around him, peppering kisses across his scarred shoulder, where flesh meets metal.

“I'm so sorry if I scared you,” he murmurs against the sweat-slicked skin of your throat after a moment. “I wasn't myself. Not even entirely sure how I ended up here - it's like I was pulled in this direction - to you,” he sighs.

You're overcome with such an immense relief at hearing him speak that you could cry. You tighten your hold around him, rubbing your hands up and down his back.

“You could never scare me, Bucky,” you assure him. He pulls out of you, rolling off of you onto the bed beside you and tugging you to his chest. Your cheek rests just over his heart.

"I know you. Even when I know nothing else, even when I don't know myself, I know you."

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist

thanks for reading! as always comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated!

[ikeuverse]

CRIMINAL LOVE — p.sunghoon

PAIRING: killer!sunghoon x rich!fem!reader GENRES: angst, smut, maybe fluff WC: 4.6k+

WARNINGS: weapons, drink, drugs, swearing. mention and execution of murder, blood, fights (physical and verbal). unprotected sex (the details of the sex parts i'll add as i post the chapters), but there are more than two, for sure. lmk if i forgot anything else.

SYNOPSIS: paid to kill people, sunghoon finds himself in the biggest dilemma of his life. getting paid the most money his profession has ever given him to kill a woman. but he can't do it because it goes beyond his principles, who has never laid a finger on a woman. what will he do when the twist is right in front of his eyes?

NOTES: i had this initial idea for jay, but i don't know why i thought i'd write it for sunghoon. i've modified a few things and i'm thinking of making it a story with a few chapters. i hope you like it!

TAGLIST: i don't know if i'll do it, but…

masterlist | prologue | part 1 | part 2 [...]

None of this was new to Park Sunghoon. The eyes stared at him in fear, shining with a pair of panicked features as they begged for their lives. His index finger against the trigger of the gun before he asked to speak his last words and then fired. Seeing the body slowly collapse in front of you, the eyes losing life and the blood dripping through the fabric of the clothes and onto the floor. This was a very familiar scenario, even more so as a hitman.

If anyone ever asked him why he lived this life, the answer would come quickly: easy money.

Sunghoon got used to being on the streets in search of a job to maintain his almost miserable life after the death of his parents. His grandfather, an alcoholic who barely stayed at home, was the only living relative he had. And the only person who could give him a roof over his head at fifteen.

Wandering the streets in search of something solid led Sunghoon to meet all sorts of people and ways of making ends meet. He worked with a bit of everything until he found the job he had settled into today. It was through Jake, one of the first people he befriended, that he learned what it was like to kill for money. His friend's father had a scheme and paid him well enough to eat, dress, and live in his grandfather's house, which he barely saw.

Jake and his father became a family to Sunghoon, even if it was in the worst of environments, but it was the only thing he could get close to that bordered on a good feeling. The boy couldn't call it love because he'd never heard it from any of his friends, although they could say that they respected and cared for each other, but love, for Sunghoon, was too strong.

Who would say about love when, in fact, he was hired to kill? Often people from his own family and for financial reasons. So how could he believe that love existed when his job showed otherwise? Of course, everyone had family problems… Look at him! Sunghoon wasn't the greatest example of this, but come on, he would never have his grandfather or anyone else killed in his own home. It was bizarre, but unfortunately, that's what he dealt with most of the time. And that's what filled his pocket and made him change his life.

Moving into his apartment after his grandfather died, having more contact with Jake and his father about the business, and even getting on a bit more when things started to expand. This was all thanks to Sunghoon's skill and eye for instigating Jake's father to think bigger. It was risky for him to try to suggest that they think big, such as killing some CEO in debt or someone high up.

You've got to be crazy, he heard Jake mutter once, at an informal meeting they had after a successful case. Sunghoon could be crazy, but when it came down to it and money, the highest cases paid well. And that's what he asked Jake's father about until they had their first diplomat client. The amount to be paid was so high that they had never thought of having it in their bank accounts.

"We need to kill about four people to get that" Jake muttered after looking at the amount. A sigh left his father's lips before he agreed.

And so began the great social affair between Jake and Sunghoon – along with Jake's father – for bigger cases with fat sums in their money accounts.

It was dangerous, but Sunghoon lived for it. He didn't have anyone else, he didn't have anything to think about except his well-being and how he could have what he wanted more peacefully after living in poverty for years. He didn't want to go through the insecurity of not having anything to eat, or having to wander the streets looking for something to do or somewhere to stay so that he wouldn't have to be alone in a house where he didn't know who would come back. But now, in his apartment, he shared the peace of knowing that everything was his. Every little thing in there had been earned by him, even if the money wasn't in the cleanest way, but someone had to do that kind of work.

And it wasn't as if Sunghoon would kill just anyone either, he had strict criteria about this that he made very clear to Jake and his father before things got as strong as they are today. Like killing people who had only done some kind of harm to those who had asked for it. Like women who had been beaten by their husbands, or someone in particular who had physically or mentally hurt whoever was hiring the service. Or that person posed a risk to the society in question and they knew that no authority would do anything about it. So they did. And the most important thing of all was that under no circumstances would Sunghoon lay a hand on a woman.

But the universe seemed to play tricks on him that morning, arriving at the office and seeing Jake's eyes light up. It would be pointless to ask why, considering that he was one of the first to receive clients and their proposals, so someone had probably come to Jake to talk to him and give him a huge sum of money.

"Dude, I think we're rich" he threw himself into the leather chair that initially belonged to his father. But as long as the older man didn't arrive at the office, Jake took possession of it until that happened.

"What do you mean?" Sunghoon held back a laugh as he walked a little further into the office, throwing his body into the small armchair opposite the desk Jake was sitting at "A client with good money?"

"Better than that" he sighed, throwing his head back "This client wants to hire our services for two people, but the price is—"

"Jake, spit it out" Sunghoon said quickly.

"Bro, she'll pay two million" he looked directly at Sunghoon. That amount would cheer the boy up if he hadn't heard it before, or even been paid for it "For each of us, and for each of the two people we're going to kill."

Wait, that was new to Sunghoon. Two million for each of them, totaling two people to kill, so… Four million for him, and four million for Jake?

"Man, that's…"

"Insane, I know" Jake interrupted him as if he already knew what his friend was going to say. But something seemed a little off because he didn't have that much energy to say that amount. Normally Jake would have been bouncing around the room literally like a child, totally losing his hitman pose as he commented on the four million that would be playing around in his bank account for the next few weeks.

"What's wrong?" Sunghoon asked at once, noticing the change in his friend's mood as the seconds passed. Jake now looked a little uncomfortable in his father's chair and shifted his body a few times to try to find a comfortable position, opting to lean his elbows on the table and tilt his body a little.

"You know it's four million each, right?" he asked, watching Sunghoon agree "And that the percentage we give my father on each client is very small because, well, he already has a lot of money…"

"Speak up, man. You're stalling on something." Sunghoon wasn't out of patience, but he knew that Jake tended to talk too much when he was nervous. What could have happened to make him like this?

Jake nodded in agreement and continued to lean on the table, leaning towards Sunghoon, who settled into the armchair and imitated his friend's position on the other side. Leaning his elbows on the table and looking at the boy in front of him, who was now looking at his hands.

"A woman wants us to kill her brother and…" Jake slowly closed his eyes "Her niece."

Sunghoon felt a ringing in his ear and then his whole body tensed up. He couldn't explain why he had that reaction, but just mentioning that there was a woman for him to kill made everything seem completely out of place to him.

"You're kidding me, right?" Sunghoon asked.

"I really wanted to, man, I swear" he whined, watching Sunghoon's withdrawal appear little by little as he slid his arms off the table and leaned back in the armchair.

"And what did those two do to make her want to kill two people at once?"

"I don't know" Jake shrugged. "She hasn't told me yet, she's arranged a meeting and my father wants to go along. It's too high…"

"You two do it" he stood up, walking to the middle of the room before he heard Jake calling after him. Without turning around, Sunghoon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He waited a few seconds before finally turning to his friend.

"I can't do this without you, bro. You know we've been working together forever" Jake began.

"But what are my conditions?" Sunghoon asked, and for a moment he saw a glimmer of regret in Jake's eyes. For mentioning or even thinking that his friend might do this kind of thing. Maybe the money had messed with his head a bit and he wouldn't deny it, but Jake knew Sunghoon well enough, he just wanted to try until he couldn't anymore. Even though he knew it would come to nothing because Sunghoon would never accept.

Silence was Jake's way of responding, not knowing exactly what to say because he knew Sunghoon's terms well. Everyone was aware and in agreement, so why change their minds at that moment?

"I just need your help, then" he said after some quiet time.

"I'm not putting my hands on either of you, be warned," Sunghoon said, a little angry about the whole situation until he saw Jake nod silently, implying that he had nothing more to say.

Then, as if on cue, he left the room and walked around the building in search of something to clear his mind of what had just happened. It was an unimaginable amount for him, but Sunghoon wouldn't go against his principles for it.

For the first time, he had refused something that Jake had asked of him. And he felt immensely awkward about it.

You could feel the migraine invading you little by little. The side of your head ached like never before, while your eyes stung and you tried your best to pay attention to people and their words of condolence.

It had been a week since your grandfather's death, and the only sincere tears you had seen – apart from your own – were those of your uncle. He was the closest thing to real family you had after your father's death a year ago. Having him around was comforting, especially as your family was driven by money and scandal. Everything revolved around social and financial status. Your grandfather's company was the focal point of all that arrogance in the family members.

But now, with his death and the will read, you had to assimilate that the only beneficiaries were you and your uncle, the one who was still crying over his father's death and trying to understand how it had all happened. And then there was him, a well-groomed gentleman who eschewed the stereotype of the rich old man and business owner who walked around with a glass of whisky in his hand. On the death certificate, his grandfather had died of cirrhosis, but you were surprised. Even though he wasn't a health professional, you could assume that this would be different, to say the least, since the old man had never drunk a drop of alcohol.

“This is terrible for your health” he once said. “Try never to drink more than necessary. And at parties, I promise to serve you the best natural juice.”

Those words always lingered in your mind because your grandfather was serious, in his own right, but he was very loving. You became so attached to him that you took an interest in the affairs of your grandfather’s company with a genuine gesture of helping him, which he appreciated.

Maybe that was what had made him put your name on that paper, inheriting half of the family fortune. While your uncle got the other half.

Millions and millions, or should say billions? It was so much money that you swore you would die and the amount would continue to yield in your account even though you used it almost every day. That was why you knew that some people who had always been there for your grandfather’s money were now furious because they couldn’t enjoy a single cent of it.

“We are so sorry for the loss of your father, Yvone” someone’s voice took you out of your thoughts, making your eyes dart around the people around you. A well-dressed woman with a tired expression was greeting your aunt. She didn’t have a trace of sadness on her face. That stranger seemed sadder than your aunt over the loss of her father.

“I’m sure you are too” she tried to fake a sad voice that you recognized from afar. Your stomach almost churned as she hugged the other woman.

Suddenly, your embarrassment became even greater, because your aunt's gaze was immediately on you. She seemed angry, with something bad inside her that immediately wanted to be directed at you. Your gaze soon turned away from her to try to find your uncle who was desolate.

Your steps through the environment were fast and precise, the sound of leather shoes against the devastated floor was inhibited by the sound of other people's voices and laments. You weren't running, but the things inside your body said very well that you seemed to be in a hurry.

Your eyes quickly spotted your uncle a little further away, sitting on a bench alone outside. You walked a little calmer towards him until you sat next to the man. He didn't need to look up to know that the only person with compassion in that family was you.

"I wish this nightmare would end" he said quietly, a sob breaking out of his voice when your uncle raised his head and continued to look ahead.

"I still can't believe it" you sighed. Your eyes are locked on the events in front of you. Some people were coming and going from your grandfather's mansion with small flowers in their hands or pieces of paper, like written notes of thanks. Of course, he wouldn't read them, he was dead. But it was a way of thanking everyone he knew, and the reading would be up to you and your uncle. The only ones who cared about the sentimental side of things.

"Do you think Yvone hates us now?" your uncle asked, finally looking at you. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets and bloodshot from his eyeballs, they were so red. You swallowed a sigh and just nodded.

"For the reading of Grandpa's will? Of course" you laughed humorlessly, listening to him accompany you.

As if summoning a haunting, just saying her name out loud made your aunt's figure appear in the doorway of the mansion. She welcomed people by trying to look sad or convincing whoever was arriving. Her eyes quickly fell on you and your uncle, further away from the house and sitting on a secluded bench. She didn't show any reaction but took her cell phone out of her pocket to do something you didn't even care about. Her attention was on the man next to her.

“I can’t be happy knowing that my father left all this for me and you” he ran his hands through his hair, almost pulling it out if it weren’t for your hands stopping him. You held one of his hands and kept it in your lap.

“It’s okay uncle, I’m not happy about this either” you said. “Money won’t erase anything that’s happening to the two of us, you know that.”

Of course, he knew. You and your uncle could sometimes say that you were born into the wrong family because you were the only ones who didn’t count on money. Even though you knew that your whole life revolved around it. Even though every interaction you had since the day you were born was driven by money. It wasn’t your fault for being born into a family like that, but you could deal with it and think about how you spent what you had.

“How about you come in and get a drink? I bet you’re thirsty” your uncle said quietly, making you look at him after some time of contemplation while still watching people entering and leaving the mansion.

“I think I’ll go in a little while, I want to stay here a little longer” you smiled sadly at the man as he stood up and just waved in your direction. Just as you knew when he wanted some time alone, your uncle was also able to understand when you needed it.

Leaving him and going back into the mansion, you saw him disappear among the little people who had now gone inside the house. You remained there, looking around that immense land that your grandfather owned. One of them, to be more exact. You remember playing with your uncle and your father to guess which was the largest land your grandfather had in his name. Of course, the two older men always let you win, even though it was a rather unfunny game. But it was one of the few moments when the three of you were together, aware of the money you had and trying to make good use of it.

Your body slowly shrank with a small gust of wind, indicating that the weather was changing from sunny to something colder and almost rainy. You looked up at the sky, noticing the clouds beginning to darken. Rain was the last thing you wanted, but maybe you needed it. To wash away all that heaviness you've felt since your grandfather died. Rain could help wash away the dirt that remained beneath your feet and wash away all the bad feelings and burdens you would face in the days to come.

The decision to go back inside wasn't so difficult as your body shrank a little more, curses spilling from your lips as you missed a coat or a blanket that could cover your arms. Just a tank top and silk pants weren't a suitable outfit for the moment, but it was the first thing you could think of to wear when your aunt summoned the whole family to pay homage to your grandfather at his mansion.

You got up from the bench and stretched your whole body, trying to shake off some of the day's exhaustion and thinking about how you wanted to go back to your apartment and take a shower. Get all those sticky, fake hugs off your body. Those words buzzing around in your head lamenting what had happened. No one there really cared, so you at least paid attention to the fake tears in front of you.

You walked in slow steps to the front door, trying to avoid walking in with anyone who might greet you. You didn't want to talk to anyone anymore, just to be there long enough to leave. But your steps were quickly stopped.

Feeling a hand around your waist, you looked up to find your aunt standing in the doorway just as something covered your mouth. It all happened too quickly. Your vision began to blur as you struggled against a body that seemed much bigger than yours. Your hands were useless at grabbing any kind of skin to scratch because the arms holding you were covered.

You don't remember much, but the only thing that didn't leave your mind before passing out was the cynical smile of the woman right in front of you.

“What did she ask for?” Sunghoon was exasperated, pacing back and forth as he looked at your unconscious body on the other side of the room.

“To torture her and get a video of her saying she wants to pass everything on to her aunt…” Jake began.

“First of all, I never agreed to this” he interrupted his friend, controlling himself as much as possible so as not to scream and wake you up. They had just taken off the masks and all the equipment when they laid you down on the small mattress with almost no foam.

“My dad just asked you to help me bring her in, I know.” Jake sighed. “I don’t want to do this either, but—”

“Dude, listen” Sunghoon looked at him. “We can deny this and say fuck you to those four million. Seriously, there’s no way we can continue.”

The desperation in his voice was completely real, Jake could feel it. He was also desperate about all of this, although it wasn’t something new for either of them. But the cruelty in how his aunt was making requests of them without even knowing them or having finished the job. How demanding she was and how she wanted everything to be done as quickly as possible. Sunghoon never had bad feelings about his work, he just went there and killed whoever was necessary. But as soon as he looked at his aunt through the gap in the mask and noticed her smile, the way she behaved in front of the people who were entering the house, without even noticing that he and Jake were carrying her to a black car with no license plate.

He didn't know what he was doing, he didn't know why he had accepted all of that. Sunghoon was breaking one of his biggest rules and all because of money? Four million wouldn't pay for his principles even if his job was one of the worst possible. He already had too much blood on his hands, but that didn't matter when you had a woman unconscious and almost ready to be killed by Jake.

Arguing with Mr. Sim was out of the question, he had already tried since he received the offer and saw the man's eyes light up at the amount. Even though he knew that Sunghoon's biggest criteria were at stake.

"If you're not going to kill her, at least help Jake bring her here" was the only thing he said after finishing the little discussion he had started. He couldn't win this one, he couldn't deny something that he had at least managed to keep going.

Now here he was, pacing back and forth and going over what your aunt wanted Jake to do to you.

For one lousy moment, Sunghoon felt a twinge of regret and compassion for you. Your calm countenance while you were unconscious and the way you seemed harmless, something clicked in his mind telling him that you weren't as bad as the woman said you were. Maybe she'd done the worst kind of propaganda just to make you look bad enough for them to kill you.

"Sunghoon, hey" Jake called out quickly, taking off his black glove and throwing it on the table "What are we going to do?"

"I already told you," Sunghoon sighed once again, stopping walking and feeling his throat irritated because he had already shouted at Jake the whole way "Let's give up that four million, it's not worth it."

"Is that all I'm worth?"

Sunghoon looked in Jake's direction and they both froze. Eyes wide, breathing almost labored as they searched for something to cover their faces. But it was too late. As soon as Sunghoon crossed the room and focused on you, there you were. You were sitting with your back against the wall, your hands tied by the ribbons perched perfectly on your lap. Your hair was completely messed up, but he could still see every detail of your face. How, even so, you looked very beautiful.

"Shit" Jake cursed softly, turning away while Sunghoon stood there staring at him. He felt his friend pull him a few times so that you wouldn't stare so hard at his face that you wouldn't recognize him if something went wrong. But Sunghoon simply couldn't move.

"It's okay, I've seen you. I've been awake for a few minutes" your voice was hoarse, perhaps from lack of use, and because you tried to scream before Sunghoon put the cloth over your mouth to force you to faint.

Jake hesitated to turn around but did so when he saw that his friend wasn't moving at all.

"If you say anything—" Sunghoon made Jake look like he was speaking rudely when he landed a weak punch on his arm. He didn't know why he was defending you like that, not least because that was Jake's role, to be rude at first and gradually hurt whoever was in front of them.

Knowing this, Sunghoon already sensed that he would start being rude until Jake's hands were on you to hurt you. And he didn't want that.

"What did you hear?" Sunghoon addressed you for the first time. His eyes still glazed over at your completely weak and staggering figure in front of him.

He noticed that your eyes were bright, maybe watery, and if you blinked a little more, tears would fall like waterfalls. He was already weak just knowing that he had done this to you, seeing you cry would do what to him? Sunghoon didn't want to know. That case was getting too emotional.

"Just the four million part" you moaned a little in pain as you moved and felt your back crack. That mattress was terrible and you assumed you'd been on it for a long time, but it wasn't important. Your mind was elsewhere and on how you were here, so before you could even think of anything, you asked "It was her, wasn't it?"

"Her who?" Sunghoon and Jake asked at the same time.

For a long minute, you were quiet, just thinking about the little interactions you had with the woman who was supposed to have done this to you. Your heart ached, that wasn't possible. You never thought she could do that.

"My aunt told you two to kill me," you tried to keep your voice steady, "did I?"

It was the turn of the two boys to be silent right in front of you. Jake moistened his lips and tried to find the words to answer you, pondering whether or not to be rude to you. Not least because he didn't want to be punched again by Sunghoon. He swallowed dryly and looked away a few times, wondering whether or not to tell the truth.

"I triple it."

"What?" Jake raised his voice, echoing throughout the room as he looked in your direction and then at Sunghoon.

"I say I'll triple that amount" you moved again, trying to find a more comfortable position on that shitty mattress that was making all your muscles ache "If you don't kill me."

Jake laughed. Nervously, perhaps, but he tried to look a little more cool as he walked towards you and bent down right in front of you. Knees bent enough to bring him close to your face. If you were in the best condition, you could lift your leg and kick him in the knee, only to stagger and fall backward. But you just wanted answers.

"Do you think we're open to negotiations, princess?" he shifted his gaze between your eyes and your mouth but remained in your gaze, which was still sparkling. Jake didn't want to seem arrogant, but that's how he'd been taught.

That's how he learned to deal with that kind of situation, listening to everything and every possible appeal before doing his job. But he never received a counter-proposal, especially one as high as that.

"I don't think you'll even get paid that four million, actually" you looked at him, your voice becoming more and more shaky, "but since the whole inheritance is with me, I'll triple it if you don't kill me."

For a second Jake looked back to Sunghoon for support at that moment. He knew that his friend would probably accept because it would give him the chance to never lay a finger on you.

"Instead, I want you to kill my aunt."

That turn of events was making Jake and Sunghoon's heads spin. Hearts pounding as you let a single tear fall down your cheek. You tried to look convincing and strong talking to two guys who were about to kill you.

But being able to protect yourself was one of the few things you learned because it wasn't the first time someone had approached you out of interest. So why not use the money you had to your advantage? You never thought you'd be able to do that kind of thing, but you'd try anything to make sure no one killed you.

And if the case was to have those who wanted you dead killed, then you'd start with that.

© ikeuverse, 2024. do not copy, translate or steal my stories.

[stuffmyfriendssay]

whumptober no. 29, aka 'dead since the beginning' chapter 4

the last chapter of my first fic. I'm so proud of what I've done for whumptober. for sure this isn't my best fill (sleep deprivation, "better me than you") but im proud its out on time and I'm proud of myself for actually putting stuff out for other people to see.

I really hope you like it

Chapter summary:

It was good that that civilised veneer was gone now, that this instinctual thing she had become was all that remained, because this thing would have no qualms about tearing every single one of those slimy bastard motherfuckers to tiny little pieces.

Slowly, the grin crept back onto Eris’ face, colder and sharper this time. She wasn’t only going to rescue this kid, and then James. No, she was going to burn this place to the ground. And she was going to laugh over the ashes.

The bell rang.

Janus glanced across at Selene. She had told him not to leave her behind, so she at least thought she was okay enough to mount a rescue mission. But perception can’t always be trusted, especially self-perception. Especially when the life of your best friend is on the line.

That lingered in his mind–they might not be okay. Any time he went near the thought something twisted in his gut, pulling his face out of its carefully neutral-bordering-on-positive expression into something his sister would probably call a grimace. 

Example A: the face she was making right now. Selene had said they were only an hour or so away, but no distance had ever felt further. He knew it was irrational, there was no point worrying about things you have no immediate influence over, but… this was Eris. This was James.

At least Eris was a known quantity; she had been in situations like this before and she would be in them again and she hated them but she was always scarily good at them. Not that ‘being kidnapped and tortured’ is a thing you can be good at. But the one thing they ever fought about anymore was her stupid self-sacrificing behaviour. If either of them was hurt, it was Eris.

Now, James, on the other hand. He had none of the experience, none of the training, none of the pain tolerance that Eris did. He wasn’t used to things like this. Janus had no way of knowing if he would crack under the pressure, or if he already had.

Janus hated not knowing. Almost as much as he hated worrying. 

Off to his right, Selene stumbled. He silently offered her a hand, focussing on keeping his face looking as non-judgemental as possible. Smiling tiredly at him, she took it, leaning on him.

And on they walked.

“” “” “” “” “” “”

What, to James, feels like so long later that the inevitable heat-death of the universe must already have come and gone…

He wanted a bath.

Was that a strange thing to want? People liked baths, right? Did he like baths? He must do. He wouldn’t be wishing for one if he didn’t like them. But, man, could he really go in for a long, hot, soapy bath right now, filled with epsom salts and him and nothing else.

You know what, no, what he really wanted was to have a nap in a bath. Or in a bed. On a sofa? Fuck, he would take the floor right now. 

Was it even possible to be this tired? 

And how long did it take for a human to start going actually insane from sleep deprivation? Because he was pretty sure that staying awake for thousands of years (it can’t have been only a day or two, surely) qualifies as ‘too long without sleep’. Would his mum let him lie in tomorrow?

Wait, his mum? He didn’t live with his mum anymore. He lived with… fuck. He didn’t know. Definitely with a bath, though. He definitely had a bath in his house.

But wait (again, ha), if he was going insane… Was liking baths not normal? Maybe it wasn’t, maybe people didn’t like baths. 

Maybe this fixation on baths was a little extreme.

But, like, what else was there to fixate on. The fact that his friends hadn’t rescued him? Because at this point, the only reason they would have left him is because either A) they were all too injured to come pick him up, B) they were all too dead to come pick him up, or C) they secretly hated him and always had and always will and had just abandoned him here. He hoped not. To any of those options. He needed to come up with an option D... D for… delayed? Maybe?

Because he was only thinking of things like… like… well, like option C, because he was going delusional. Right? His friends did not hate him. They were his friends. People aren’t friends if they hate each other. Friends basically means ‘list of people you like who like you back’.

And friends like these ones don’t just abandon other friends. Not in places like this. 

Right?

Eris would never leave him behind.

Eris would never leave him behind.

Eris would never leave him behind.

Eris would never…

“” “” “” “” “” “”

They wanted her to fight a kid. To murder a kid. A kid.

How was she supposed to… And letting the kid kill her wasn’t exactly an option either. She couldn’t do that to James, couldn’t do it to her best friends. But most importantly, she couldn’t do it to the kid.

That kind of senseless slaughter… no matter how well you carry it at first, it gets to you. Eventually, it gets to you. And that kid deserved a long life, plenty of time for an act like that to ruin. 

So everyone had to live. Eris laughed. At least, everyone in this cage had to live.

It was good that that civilised veneer was gone now, that this instinctual thing she had become was all that remained, because this thing would have no qualms about tearing every single one of those slimy bastard motherfuckers to tiny little pieces.

Slowly, the grin crept back onto Eris’ face, colder and sharper this time. She wasn’t only going to rescue this kid, and then James. No, she was going to burn this place to the ground. And she was going to laugh over the ashes.

The bell rang.

She launched herself straight at the chain walls. They came apart under her fingers like rotted wood, and she was on the crowd in seconds. Efficiently, brutally, she worked her way through them, bouncing from body to body as they each slowly fell. 

Her bare feet sucked against the floor by the time she was done, concrete painted almost black with blood. The child still hadn’t moved an inch. She picked her way over the fallen mass of the crowd and back out onto the sand.

“Please don’t kill me,” the child whispered. Their eyes were wide with fear, but they didn’t shake. Didn’t flinch back from Eris when she reached out and pulled them up into her arms. She didn’t trust her voice enough to reply. 

With the child balanced under her arm on one hip, the other hand filled by a knife taken off of one of the corpses, Eris took off into the bowels of the building, retracing her steps until she came to that corridor by the exit.

The child had buried their head into her chest at some point along the way. She looked between the exit and the way she had seen James taken before. They hadn’t come across any guards so far, but they would. They would. And she couldn’t subject the kid to that much violence, not again, but…

When she tried to pull them away from her side to put them on the ladder, they gripped her sweat- and blood-soaked shirt in both of their tiny fists, and made a high whining sound in the back of their throat. 

She couldn’t… she couldn’t… She curled her other arm, the one holding the knife, around the child’s shoulders and squeezed them for a moment, imparting what little comfort she could, before turning away from the exit.

Guess they were all leaving together then.

It didn’t take long to find James down the mess of corridors. They ran into a few guards along the way, but they swiftly suffered the same fate as the crowd from around the arena. She felt no remorse for their deaths, only that the child was a witness. And perhaps that she did not have enough time; they deserved far worse than she could inflict in passing.

James sagged, half-supported by a rope machine he was working, when she kicked open the door. Her knife slipped between the ribs of one guard from behind, the air leaving him in one gust. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Eris had the other pinned to the floor, her knife hovering above his carotid, about to finish him off too, before she saw the look in James’ eye. Enraptured, he stared at the machine that–by the look of his near-skinless hands and the bags underneath his eyes–he hadn’t been away from since they were first separated.

She grunted at him, still not wanting to speak, but he didn’t respond. He just moved his eyes slowly over to where she crouched on the floor, begging her silently.

“What does it do.” It was more of a growl than actual speech, but it seemed to get the point across. The guard squirmed underneath her, and she drove her fist hard into his kidney.

“What. Does. It. Do.” 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

The guard writhed again, but stilled at her glare. Glancing back and forth between James and Eris and the child standing in the doorway and the machine, he seemed to decide quickly that not answering her question was the worst of his worries. Smart man.

“Nothing,” he said, “It does nothing.”

James’ eyes narrowed. He tried to convey some tired feeling of both hatred and confirmed expectation. And a little desire for revenge. Eris seemed to get the message. Her knife punched through the guard’s throat. 

They both watched him froth and moan until he fell still. Offering her hand, Eris pulled James to his feet, but moved away quickly. There was a glimmer of something decidedly not human in her eyes, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t want to question. She picked up the child and was gone.

Back down the corridors they went, back to that hatch that James had glimpsed freedom from all that time before. He tried asking Eris how long it had been, but she didn’t answer. He didn’t bother asking about the bodies littering their path. A distant glaze was covering her eyes and she clutched the child on her hip tightly, protectively, like an animal guarding its young.

Still not entirely human looking, she got them back to that hatch.

As they stood together in that early morning light, breathing in the freshest air James had ever tasted, he looked down at himself, across at his friend.

He was ragged, clothes torn, limbs heavy. He’d had to be helped up the ladder to the exit. She made him go first again, but there were no guards running to stop them this time. Eris had seen to that. And, not that he could see them, but he was certain there were bags under his eyes the size of a small country.

Eris still had that feral tinge to her gaze, still that desperate clutch on the child, but there was something softer, fiercer, in her eyes too. Something that said “better me than you”. Her hands were dripping blood. Not just her hands, really, she was drenched, knuckles split open, face bruised and swelling. He didn’t ask. She probably didn’t care about what she had done.

And looking at the child in her arms? He didn’t either.

Drinking in that rising sun, the last thing he saw before crumpling to the ground was Janus coming out of the treeline, Selene just behind him, pointing towards the hatch. 

“” “” “” “” “” “”

He came to on the sofa in his friends’ living room. They acknowledged his waking but left him to gather himself together in his own time. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, slowly stretching and sitting up, he took in that achingly familiar room, and those achingly familiar people.

Selene and Janus were near him, sat on the other sofas, and he could hear Eris humming to herself as she cooked. The others didn’t seem to be there, but he found himself feeling glad about that. It was just the people who were there, and the boy who–he realised, blush blooming across his cheeks–had carried him home.

It wasn’t strange any more, to think of this place as home, to think of these people as family. They simply were. It felt… nice.

The three of them stood up and moved slowly together into the kitchen. Selene’s bruises were fading now, cuts knitting themselves back together. He must have slept for a while.

Something about Eris still looked a bit wrong, but as he walked into her view, she paused, and smiled, gently. She wasn’t okay, none of them were, but she would be. He would make sure of it.

She looked like she wanted to say something, but still couldn’t find any words. Selene broke in for her, “The kid is staying with a local family who has experience with trauma in children. That place,” she shivered with disgust, “is gone now.”

The look in Eris’ eyes did all the elaborating on that that he could ever want. He decided, like he had at the facility, that he didn’t really care. Something smelled good though, and he definitely did want breakfast.

He wasn’t sure Eris should really be upright, let alone cooking, with all of her injuries, but he would let it slide, just this once, if it meant he got one of those blueberry pancakes.

[caraphernellie]

hiiii!! I saw a really good fanfic of yours about Ellie finding out that the reader has praise kink and I was wondering if you could do one where Ellie finds out about the shy reader having degradation kink. anyway, thank you <3

find the og drabble here... but omg ur mind… im sighing dreamily right now… warnings for degradation and slight humiliation obviously. she's going to be a lil mean. this is really short um... yea. this was a nightmare bc i couldn't figure out how to finish it without it seeming really abrupt tbh. and i took the pic for visual ref btw xxx

"oh, no."

ellie moves beside you, free hand grappling with you for the pillow you're using to cover your face. she reigns victorious in the small battle, ditching the pillow somewhere off the bed. she shushes you with haste, lying beside you. her other hand is working her fingers into your pussy, the digits curling with each flick of her wrist.

"i said there'd be no more of that, what happened to being a good girl?" ellie coos, looking down at you now. she's leaning over you, making sure to invade your space, leave no room for you to hide or look away. "are you gonna listen to me?"

as much as ellie feels bad for you always trying to hide, somewhere inside her really, really loves the shyness. being able to tease and make you feel helpless just with some eye contact, boring into you as unfalteringly as her fingers are.

"can't talk to me? is it because you're too dumb to form any words or you just don't want to?" 

"oh," you gasp and try to cover your face once more, this time with your hands, until ellie stops you. between soft moans you barely manage to whisper, "that was mean."

"mm," ellie agrees, "but let's not pretend you aren't moaning about it like a whore, yeah?" you're letting out the sweetest sounds she's ever heard, and to add more insult to her words she curls her fingers deeper into you, pressing up against your inner walls. she thought the praise kink was fairly discernible for you to have, but she just called you dumb and you're gushing over it. the reaction it's garnering is even greater than that of her praises, and all she can do now is smile cruelly and continue to degrade you.

ellie continues pumping her fingers in and out of your wrecked pussy, eliciting more and more of those whimpers, and glaring down at you. you try to close your legs, muscles tensing, and yet you're stopped by ellie once again. she moves her leg over yours, pinning you so you're splayed out for her.

"you're- e-embarrassing me," you whine, spluttering all kinds of pleas despite there being the tiniest semblance of a blissful smile on your dry lips, half-lidded eyes fluttering.

to that, ellie fucking laughs, shaking her head in disbelief. "you think you're such a good liar. you sound pathetic, babe, can't focus on anything, can you?"

she's toying with you to the point where she's right. you're lightheaded, unable to do anything but squirm and rut against her hand, every word she utters another trigger that stirs the butterflies in your stomach.

"didn't know i had such a filthy slut all to myself."

masterlist <3

[hwanchaesong]

Of glasses and performances

a/n: writing this realquick for my pookie @yzzyhee really just a drabble buT IT'S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS. kind of inspired by this post lmao ✌���💀 also hee looks so fucking good in specs tffff literally writing this before i sleep so yeah, pls ignore any mistakes

warnings & genre: idolbf!hee, afab!reader, smut smut smut, public sex, p in v raw etc etc lmao minors dni!!! not proofread ‼️(hee fucking u into oblivion backstage after seeing u in the crowd at his group's concert)

---------------------------------------------------

You saw it. You fucking saw it.

Fighting for the front stage section of their concert is one thing. Obtaining the sexiest outfit to wear is the second thing. But seeing your oh so charming boyfriend up on the platform, performing his heart out and suddenly making eye-contact with him is just... doing things to you.

The blinding lights are not a hindrance for you to truly witness how majestic Lee Heeseung is.

Him in that black outfit, styled hair and that glasses is so fucking flawless. Then you watch him squat near the edge of the stage, his hazel orbs scanning the crowd and he makes eye-contact with you.

Time seemed to have stopped when you noticed a certain glint in his eyes, dark irises scanning your figure and you saw how he tried to hide his smirk, masking it as an expression befitting of their performance.

But you know that once you're hidden from the public, chaos will ensue.

And your instincts are always right.

Once the concert was over, you headed backstage but you were blocked by Heeseung, no words were needed as he dragged you near an empty hallway, making sure that no one is around before he does what he wants.

Pinning your wrists above your head with only one hand, he leans down and lets his breath fan all over your face as his other free hand settles itself on your hips, dangerously creeping inside your scanty dress, "Didn't think you'd wear an outfit that exposes too much skin, baby."

You examine his poorly wiped face, still sweaty probably because he hurried his way out to meet you in the middle instead of making himself more presentable, keen on keeping you alone for himself.

No worries though, he's attractive and gorgeous just the same. The messiness of his appearance just adds to the tingling that you're currently feeling.

"Well," you inclined your head to match the level of his lips, "can't blame me for wanting to look pretty for my very hardworking boyfriend."

That was the end of your short conversation with him, which you believe is the foreplay as you have now found yourself in a rather mind and body bending situation in public.

Hoisted and back flattened against the cemented, cold wall and your lovely dress is bunched up your waist. Panties ripped off and is now currently stashed in your boyfriend's pocket, which you assume he'll use in the future to relieve some frustrations when he's not with you.

Your moans reverberate across the abandoned hallway, music in Heeseung's ears as it triggers him to do more.

Faster, harder, and harsher.

The loud squelching of where the two of you are connected should have been embarrassing for you, but no fucks are given since Heeseung is already giving you all the fucking that you desire.

His thrusts are wild, relentless and undoubtedly, heavenly. The sole reason for each plunge is to send you into utopia.

You can feel his thick cock dragging on your insides, striking your cervix every time he goes in deep, the pulsating vein on the side of his length scratches your drench walls quite wonderfully, causing you to get wetter, probably creating a huge disarray down there.

One particular languid stroke had your back arching on the wall, legs wrapping securely around Heeseung's hips as he hit a delicate, spongy spot inside you.

Jackpot, he thinks, as your insides cling tighter to him like you do at the moment.

A string of curses left him when your nails rake at his nape, gently playing with his hair, eliciting a groan from him as the sensation is feathery yet sensual, a weakness of him that only you can bring out.

"Fuck baby," he rasps, concentrating at the sounds that you're making while he continuously rams into you, "you feel so fucking good. All for me yeah?"

You mewled his name desperately, the knot in your lower belly is getting ready to be snapped, "Yes Hee. I'm yours, all yours f-fuck, you own all of me."

Ah, the things you do to him. If you tried sitting in his brain then you'd be shocked by the images and thoughts that are filled with you, you, and you.

Some are fluffy but most are nasty though you are sure to love it. Of course you will, you're down bad for him just as he is for you.

He wasn't giving you any time to catch your breath as he wasted no time in kissing you, searing and hot, shoving his tongue down your throat that you couldn't help but to submit to him without much of a fight.

His tongue clashes with yours before exploring your mouth, the rhythm of the make-out session matches his pace perfectly, only detaching from you when the need for oxygen arises, leaving you gasping and flushed when a string of saliva

His bruising grip on your thighs loosened a bit as he used his left hand to slide the top of your dress, revealing your tits to him. He watches it bounce along with his thrusts for a solid minute before leaning down to capture a nipple.

Tongue flatting and hardening around your bud, circling and sucking while teasing a bit of nibbles, further adding onto the pleasure that you're receiving.

"A-ah! Heeseung, I-I'm-!" closing your eyes in rapture, tilting your head to the side to give access to your lover when he scoots his face in the crook of your neck, embellishing you with purple and blue spots.

"Close?" he whispers, licking the newly painted marks in his canvas called your skin. His peppery smooches snakes up, reaching your ears as he delicately bites your lobe, "Come for me then, baby. Don't hold back."

You moan loudly, one more. One more push and you're gone.

His palm traces the goosebumps on your thigh, and there it is, his deft fingers playing with your clit is all it took for you to gush all over him. A satisfied smirk on his kissable lips shows itself, then it turns into a sly one when he didn't slow down despite your pleading.

Begging him to take it easier since your high took a toll on your sensitivity, thus the overwhelming rapture that had you shaking in his arms.

He laughs menacingly at your futile requests, giving you a sham apology sealed with a kiss. He then murmurs against your lips, "Didn't you tell me that you're mine?"

You nod your head weakly, and that might be a mistake but at the end of this night, you'll realize that mistakes are options that you just haven't chosen. And not all mistakes are bad.

"Then take what I give you, baby. I haven't cum yet, square up until I'm done with you."

[sayruq]

In the aftermath of a series of disastrous ground incursions by the IDF, the Palestinian resistance is taking advantage of the momentum it has gained. (The tweets will be posted in chronological order in order to show said momentum)

Meanwhile, in the other West Asian battlegrounds

So on and so forth. There's a limit to how many tweets I can add to one post. In short, the resistance is on the attack. The Israeli and American armies no longer have control over the war - they're on the defensive and can't seem to advance in Gaza or anywhere else.

I've been harping on about Russia going from pro Israel to carefully neutral to leading the charge against America and Israel in the UN which is all well and good but it doesn't exactly help Palestinians on the ground. Luckily that seems to be changing. A few days ago a Hamas delegation was in Moscow and we're starting to see what they managed to negotiate

Make no mistake this is huge. Frankly, I think the hostage exchange is just an excuse (the Russians haven't made any noise about their hostages until now). Now that we know there are American special forces and the marines involved the ground incursions of Gaza, it makes sense that Putin would want to arm Hamas - a reverse of the America-Ukraine relationship. Hopefully, they receive the anti aircraft missiles very soon. Israel needs to be just as afraid to fly over Gaza as they are entering Gaza from the ground.

Meanwhile, the high ranking advisor that Biden sent to Israel has returned and quickly distanced himself from Israeli war efforts in Gaza

Make no mistake, this isn't a man who is horrified at the atrocities committed by Israel on Gaza (he was responsible for the atrocities in Falujjah and Mosul after all). It's way more likely that the Israeli war plans are both stupid and highly self destructive and it will likely trigger a regional war (at least a much bigger war than the one we've been witnessing the past couple of weeks).

As you can see, the war for the liberation of Palestine is far from over.

[razzledazzlebeach]

Daryl Dixon took awhile to age mentally

As I read more and more analysis about Daryl and rewatch some of the earlier seasons, I wonder if it was intended for his character to have some kind of age regression issue. (I didn't do, like, extensive research, I just looked into some CPTSD and age regression signs on a few different sites, so this is just an idea I'm tossing out in hopes of hearing some other perspectives!)

The first situation that really catches my attention is his reaction to Merle being left in Atlanta. Now, obviously, this would be an incredibly emotional time for anyone and it's not entirely out of place to just say he was very distraught over the news and anyone could have reacted the same way he did. I just think that the specific way he did might have some signs. If you think about a grown man, especially one who was raised in a very macho household, you would assume that their reaction might be to storm out or yell at someone. Although Daryl did yell, he also started crying and pacing. It seemed almost as if he was having a full-on meltdown. Some signs of age regression are meltdowns (Ranting, shouting, insulting others, threatening others, whining, angry tears, or getting physically violent) that ring any bells?

I couldn't find a gifs of that exact moment :(

It probably didn't help that the entirety of the camp was staring at him as all of this happened. Temper tantrums can happen because someone is scared/ashamed and can't regulate themselves. (Like sensory overload.)

Another thing that I want to kind of address is the way Rick responds to Daryl when he's having these sorts of meltdowns. Throughout the series, and in the third episode, we see Rick bending down almost horizontally just so he can make eye contact with Daryl. He speaks to him like he's a child, and instead of feeling insulted, Daryl actually takes comfort in it and calms down!

"I'd like to have a calm discussion on this topic, do you think we can manage that?"

What is age regression?

We all know that Daryl was abused as a child, and trauma like that can sort of freeze the brain. This is a quote I really like that explains it: “It doesn’t necessarily make you stuck at a certain age, but instead, [you are] acting out the emotional wounding that happened at that age,” Lapides adds." People may start to regress because they are triggered or feel threatened, and an apocalypse seems like it would cause a constant trigger. Daryl might be reverting back to childlike behaviors as a trauma response. (honorable mention being the nail biting, but that's a bit of a reach) Shane being the way that he was could have also been a trigger for him.

One of the symptoms of age regression is overly clingy behavior. And you are probably thinking, "well, if there's anything Daryl has, it's not clingy behavior. He's a loner." I disregarded this too for awhile before I really thought about it. He is highly independent when he's doing things he's comfortable in, like being in the woods or going for runs. But when it comes to making decisions or being social, Daryl immediately clings to someone who he knows will do it for him. Most of his life he had Mere to hide behind. The most outgoing and shameless person alive. I don't think Merle ever asked Daryl his opinion on anything. He would decide, and Daryl would follow, and I think Daryl took a lot of comfort in that. So when Merle was gone, he latched onto Rick because he was the best choice. He knew Rick was a very righteous man who had plenty of leadership qualities. He knew Rick would make decisions for him, and give him directions.

Carol and Rick's mothering

Circling back to the way Rick would react to Daryl's outbursts, carol sometimes did the same thing. I know some people ship them, but honestly, at least in the earlier seaons, I got major mother/son vibes from the two of them. Especially when Beth died and she was trying to teach him how to grieve. The forehead kisses, the pookie nickname, all of it seemed to point in that direction. There was also another time Rick pulled the "Can we manage that?" move, and it was during Aiden and Glenn's fight in S5. He made sure to get low enough to make eye contact, and block his pacing. He kept telling Daryl that "We can't do this now." It all just looks a lot like he and carol are parenting Daryl, if only in moments where he is feeling intense stress and that trauma triggers.

Anyways, this was just a few ideas I was tossing around, and very clearly this in my first analysis lol, any thoughts?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

My Girl 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your brother’s friend from work starts hanging out a lot more often. (short!reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

You carefully pull the pastry over the slices of apple a cinnamon. You twist the corners together to complete the effect and hold it in place. Your blossoms are your specialty. You'll sprinkle coarse sugar over the top before you put them in the oven but for now, they'll have to rest. Your mother still has food cooking for the main course. 

You start another one, roll it out the pastry, slice it just so, wrap, and twist…  

The front door clatters and you hear Isaac say hello to your mom on her way in, “where's dad?” He adds on. 

“He'll be home soon,” she chimes. She's indulging in some wine for all her hard work in the kitchen. 

You can't help but long for your bed and the book you left on your pillow. The real world is always so monotonous. You enjoy baking but you'd rather finish the chapter. Sigh, you suppose that comes with the human condition; you're obligated to acknowledge the non-fictional slog. 

“Hey,” the deep rumble cuts through the air like the distance approach of some lingering dragon in its lair. You pop your head up and look over as Sy sets down his usual courtesy; beer and wine. He looks at you then the pan you line with pastry and fruit. “Er, whatcha making?” 

You look back to your hands and finish the twist, “apple blossoms.” 

“Mm, I like apple,” he steps closer to the counter, stopping at the counter, wavering as if he's afraid to come any further.  

“Thanks, er, oh, me too,” you shrug awkwardly, “my grandma taught me.” 

“Ah,” he nods and looks to the side, scratching his beard as he puffs out, “how's… how's your book?” 

You rinse of your hands, drying them thoroughly, “it's alright. I read it before.” 

“Tolkien, right?” He wonders. 

You nod. 

“Ahem, yeah, I… I started… the Fellowship one… pretty good so far.” 

“Oh? You did?” You face him. 

“I pick it up on my break, get a few pages here and there,” he chews his lip and pats his front pocket, feeling along it before dipping his fingers into the fabric, his brow slanting, “I… I made this.” 

He slides out a long flat piece of metal. It's slender and delicate, corner rounded to an oval, with elven patterning along its face. You squint and lean in to have a better look. 

“Wow. What is it?” 

“It's for you,” he says abruptly, “I mean it's a bookmark. I made it for you.” 

“Me?” You wonder as your eyes round, “that’s…” you look him in the face, “why– you didn't have to do that, Sy.” 

“Eh, it isn't much,” he holds it out, “be good to keep your place and all. You never drink the wine or nothing so…” 

“That's… sweet,” you smile and accept the book mark, turning it over. Your name is wrought in beautiful calligraphy on the other side, “it's beautiful.” 

He's quiet as you admire his handiwork. You don't know what else to say. You didn't expect it. You wouldn't expect him to think that much about you. 

“Anything I can help with?” He breaks the stuffy silence, made more stolid by the radiating heat of the stove. 

“Um, no, I'm pretty much done,” you move the pan of blossoms to the other counter, “but thank you.” 

“Ain't no trouble,” he assures and taps the countertop with his thick fingers, “s'pose I'll see ya at dinner.” 

“Sure,” you say over your shoulder. 

You wait until he's gone and back up, looking down at the bookmark. You can't believe how nice it is. How delicate. How can someone like him make something so elegant? Once more you’re reminded of the brutish dwarves and their renowned creations. 

You'll have to do something for him. To make it even. You don't know much about Sy but you know about Tolkien. You're sure you'll come up with something. 

📖

You sit down for dinner. It seems a lot for just a Wednesday. You won't complain even if you would rather be reading. Your mom has put together a merry feast which could feed a king himself. 

The chair beside you scrapes out and you expect Isaac to elbow you as he always does. Instead, he takes the chair across from you. Sy claims the seat to your left. He’s so big, he can’t help but brush your arm with his thick one. You send him a meek smile and he nods. 

As you serve yourselves from the glistening roast and potatoes and medley of salads and veggies, your mother flutters around offering to fill glasses. When she finally sits, she can barely stay still. 

“So, I know this is a lot,” she begins, “but I have news I wanted to share and this is my little surprise celebration.” 

You quirk your head and Isaac barely reacts as he cuts into the pork. 

“I've been given a really big opportunity at work and I'll be heading up a new project,” she's shaking with excitement, “in London.” 

“London?” You echo and look around. 

Isaac chews around his confusion as he finally reacts but your dad only smiles at your mother. You try to muster some positivity but you’re too surprised. This is a bigger twist than any book you’ve read. 

“I'll be gone for three weeks,” she says, “so yeah, I'll miss you all. I know it's all very sudden but I can't pass this up and I know you'll be okay.” 

“What?” Isaac chokes down his food. 

“Congratulations,” Sy says, “that's big news.” 

“When do you leave?” You ask. 

“Friday.” 

“Friday?” You gasp. 

“I know it's short notice but there were details to be confirmed and–” 

“Mom,” you squeak, “that's… that's great. I'm happy. Just… surprised.” 

“What are we gonna do?” Isaac whines. He dramatically sits back and rubs his cheeks. 

Sy clears his throat, “you're grown. You'll figure it out. You should be happy for your mother.” 

“He's right,” your dad growls, “your mom worked hard for this.” 

“We'll be okay,” you wisp, assuring yourself as much as everyone else. 

“Won't be long at all,” your mother beams even as she gets teary-eyed, “I'll call you every day.” 

📖

After dinner, you offer to clear the table. You want to think. You’’ll miss your mom when she’s gone. You assume you’ll be doing much of the cooking in her absence. You don’t mind, she always does so much. But that isn’t the only thing that will go away with your mom.  

It’s just disappointing that you were away for college and finally get back home and she’s leaving. You wasted the time you did have. You shouldn’t have spent all those hours with the Fellowship. You should have spent it in reality. Funny how fast your perspective can shift. 

You finish up tidying as you hear the voices from the front porch. The smell of the apple blossoms lace the air with cinnamon. You take them out of the oven, they’re perfectly golden and some of the apply good noose oozes out the little slits in the side. You plate each with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and take them out two at a time. 

You elbow out onto the porch, the snap of the screen door announcing your arrival. Your mom and dad sit on the porch swing as Sy stands across from them leaning on the railing. You force out a ‘hi’ and hand your parents their plates before you step back. 

“I’ll grab yours,” you say to Sy, “does anyone want tea or coffee?” 

“Oh, peanut, you’re so sweet, I wouldn’t mind some tea... even though I’m sure I’ll have more than enough in England,” she chuckles. 

“Decaf, please,” your dad grins. 

“Alright, will do,” you say. 

“I’ll help,” Sy stands straight, “you’ll have your hands full.” 

“Aw, Sy, you are too much,” your mother preens. 

“Where’s Isaac?” You wonder allow as your hand hovers on the screen door. 

“Moping, somewhere,” your father scoffs. “let him come out for his own dessert, if he wants it.” 

“Oh, right,” you accept and as you turn, a hand grabs the door above yours and pulls it open. Sy is close as he reaches above you to let you inside. You flit ahead of him and he follows with his sturdy steps, pausing to leave his boots on the mat. 

“You don’t have to help,” you say as you grab his plate and offer it to him as he enters the kitchen, “I just gotta put the water on.” 

“Wanna,” he says, “leave mine there. Why don’t you have some?” He insists. 

“I will,” you assure him and reluctantly put the plate back on the counter. 

You turn and flip on the electric kettle. You take out your mother’s favourite mug and a tea ball. As you do that, Sy nears the counter next to you. 

“Where’s the decaf?” He asks. 

“I said you don’t have to,” you giggle out your nerves, “really, I got it.” 

“I said, I want to,” he shrugs, “I don’t mind.” 

You don’t want to argue. How can you? He’s being helpful and you won’t have much of that. Isaac and your dad work so naturally, you’ll be taking on more of the housework. You’re not unhappy at that prospect, you just don’t want things to change so fast. 

“You’re gonna miss your mom?” Again, his questions sound like statements. 

You wince and nod, “yeah,” you close the tea ball and hook the chain on the rim of the cup. He works diligently to loud the coffee maker, measuring out the grounds deliberately. You can’t really explain everything you feel. 

“Well,” he snaps the lid down, “if ya need anything, let me know.” He backs up and goes to the other end of the counter. He slowly turns the plate of pastry and ice cream, “make sure you get some too. Can’t be doin’ all that hard work for nothing.” 

He slides the plate towards him and lifts it. He turns his broad shoulders to you and stalks out. You hear the spook clink into the porcelain before he reaches the front door and he lets out a rumbling purr. Well, at least the dessert turned out. 

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... J'onn broke the news that Danny thinks he's going to be forced into combat in exchange for his medical care. Everyone disliked that™.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

COME GET YOUR NEW ART HERE 💥🍳!!💥 IT'S FIBERCRAFT!!Shoutout to @rainbowbeansprout for crocheting a fic accurate injured ghost Danny!! That's outstanding!!

💚👻👽👻💚

So, Wally broke all of the bones in his legs yesterday.

Which is…not ideal. Still. He’s pretty used to it at this point, though, and he’s already mostly healed.

It’s just that. Well.

…The rest of healing is kind of…time-consuming.

So Wally’s in basketball shorts and a mask and a t-shirt he’d started using as pajamas when he was in college and he’s on the med floor of the Watchtower, and yet another physical therapist is helping him bend his leg back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, because he’d tripped in the middle of the Speedforce and busted everything hip-down.

So. (Back, and forth. Back, and forth. Back…) This sucks.

“Do we have to do this every time?” Wally asks, as if there isn’t a team of medical professionals kept on hand to deal with Superpower-wrought Super Medical Problems.

“Do you have to shatter your legs every time?” the PT asks back wryly, which, hey! The pressure pressing up against his bare foot is an additional stressor to the sass. “Bend this more for me, Flash. You can do it.”

Wally grumbles, and pretends the angle his leg is bending at doesn’t make him wince. Wow is he going to have to build his flexibility back up again.

The physical therapy room looks just like any other gym, basically; a lot of squishy mats in playful colors, a lot of grippy tape; a LOT of wipeable vinyl surfaces that can be sanitized at a moment’s notice. It smells kind of weird and plasticky and kind of like alcohol cleaner.

It’s not his favorite room in the Watchtower, but, eh. It could be way worse. What’s unusual is the whirrr of the door opening and closing in one of the private care rooms for another patient, since, you know...HIPAA and all that. Wally assumes. Or is it costume confidentiality once you leave Earth's atmosphere...?

Usually everyone knows who’s stopping in for PE through the sheer power of the Justice League gossip groupchats. (There’s at least nine. Wally’s in four of them. He aspires to be in two more by April.) There hasn’t been a big fight that requires long-term medical care in a while, and there’s no one Wally can think of who’d need this kind of recovery.

Something’s buzzing at the outside of his awareness, though. It sounds kind of…

Wally perks up. “Hey, the alien kid’s here!”

The PT holding Wally up at the waist hums. Her name is Cindy, and judging from their previous conversations, she thinks that Wally is the dumbest man alive. “There’s a million of those, Flash. Which one?”

“The one who bit Superman,” Wally adds.

Judging by the face Cindy makes, this clarifies nothing.

“Most recently,” Wally stresses, carefully not wincing as his leg gets stretched out again, only to be pulled back into position as tightly as before. “OW. Cindy, you’re killing me.”

Cindy makes a strangled noise. She asks: “What, again?” which is how Wally remembers that he got torn back out of the time stream not all that long ago, and it may be a big gauche to joke about your own death with the people who care about it.

Whoops. Wally winces. “…Nevermind?”

The other PTs make various fussy and annoyed noises, but the alien kid is wheeled onto the other side of the medical floor’s only gym. (The actual training floors are on another level. Wally wishes he was there. Alone.)

(Without four PTs clinging to his legs at all times.)

Wally waves. It’s a nice enough gesture, and now that the alien-phantasm-turned-flesh-and-blood-boy is more physically embodied than he used to be, the boy even deigns to carefully wave back.

The kid’s PTs—Wally thinks at least one of them is from the team that supervises Bart and his super-powered-leg-problems—end up encouraging the alien kid’s chair round to the soft mats where the kid can lay down. He ends up in the exact same position Wally is—horizontal on the floor, legs forcibly pinwheeled by enthusiastic but firm PTs.

Wally can physically feel the kid’s astonishment and discontentment buzzing in the air as he figures out what’s being done to him. Wally can’t help but laugh.

The kid angles his head towards the speedster. His face still looks—well, it looks…bad. It looks bad, unhealed and still threatening to weep neon green body fluids; there’s a wet, living crack running up and down his face that makes eye contact kind of hard. His hands are all spidery—this kid can probably hold and grip things, but the previous breakage have left his hands a little too easy to splay, a little too oddly-angled. He’s too thin to keep himself fully upright for long. When he looks at you, his eyes shake like a poorly lined-up television signal.

Martian Manhunter had said that he’d once looked like a healthy, happy human child. His current form is a reflection of the injuries he’d experienced since.

...What a thing for a kid to go through. Wally wouldn’t wish this sort of injury on anyone.

“­Alright, up you go,” the PT above him—Rhys, Wally remembers at the very last second—orders, and Wally is prompted to let the man help him back upright. “Over to the bars for you. You think your legs are up to bearing that kind of weight as you try out walking?”

“…Sure,” Wally lies to Rhys. It’ll be fine. Probably. By the time he gets over there, his legs might have already speed-healed by then. “Hand me the—?”

“Yeah, yeah, here’s the crutches. Don’t destroy yourself trying to make this happen, okay?”

So Wally gets set up at the glorified playground equipment in his least restrictive gym clothes, one long iron bar under one arm, and one long iron bar under the other. Two full-size physical therapists spot him as the speedster completes the most strenuous task available to him at the moment: walking across a very short distance without putting his full weight on his legs.

Wally puts one shaking leg in front of the other. The steps are slow. The urge to zoom to the end of the little bowling lane he’s stuck in—and therefore shatter his legs under the speedforce, again—is irresistibly temping.

Healing sucks. And Wally’s even got the longer end of the stick.

In the end, Wally sticks the landing. He is unreasonably sweaty. He is miserable. But he makes it to the end. Every one of the witnessing PTs applauds as if this is a great success. It’s literally not. It’s the inevitable result of pushing himself too far for the third time this year.

A question buzzes through the air, fluffing through Wally’s hair and the little fine hairs up and down his body. It’s nothing but inquisitive—whatareyoudoing whatareyoudoing?

Wally lets the PT maneuver a chair underneath him. It gives him enough breathing room to turn his upper torso, and he ends up catching the eye of the little alien kid in the corner. He’s sat on a yoga ball, two members of his medical team and one of the kids’ PTs trying to get his attention back to his exercises.

“Hey,” Wally realizes suddenly. “Your casts are gone!”

The kids’ legs are actually bare, which Wally’s never seen before. They’re twiggy, sure, stretched taut over a bone frame, and discolored and pale, but they’re legs. Wally hadn’t even known the alien had possessed legs until he’d formed a physical body months and months ago.

“Dude, that’s great!”

Happy/smug/proud vibrates through the room, making Wally’s teeth buzz. The kid smiles through a half-split lip, and bounces on the yoga ball ever so slightly.

“Good,” the kid says, surprising Wally, his PTs, and the kid’s usual medical team. He was talking already?! He thought J’onn had said—

“Hurt?” the boy asks, concern/concern flooding through the air. Oh. Right. He’s probably here for his busted legs; it would make sense that by virtue of the setting, Wally would be injured too.

And, sure, Wally busted his legs, but he at least heals with all the swiftness of the speedforce. “Meh.” Wally waves off the question. “I’m fine. It’ll be quick for me; some rehab and some lunch and a few days off, and I’ll be in shipshape.”

Wait. Wally’s eyes scrunches up. Is using wordplay appropriate with this kid…?

“Pain?” the kid asks, and turned his attention to the closest member of his medical team. “He pain?”

The medical professional sighs, which finally clues Wally in that the man is no longer masked. Hey, the kid is out of medical isolation! “The Flash has his own medication, thankfully. His doctors know what to do.”

The kid frowns. He doesn’t get it. He looks at Wally, and he looks at the staffer, who shrugs. “It’s the usual indicator word he uses for pain medication. He’s wondering if you’re hurt enough to need some.”

Wally hums. On one hand, it’s sweet that the alien kid is worried about him. It’s a huge step upwards from the alien who spent all his time hiding in abandoned meeting rooms and occasionally biting Superheroes.

On the other hand, the kid doesn’t just look worried that Wally might not be getting care; he looks scared.

Something happened to this kid. Something he can't shake off.

Wally breathes in, and breathes out.

—And breathes in sharply when Cindy starts wiggling his feet. She doesn’t respond at all to his glare, because she is a professional, and he is not a big baby of a superhero.

Mean.

“I’m fine,” Wally finally responds, trying to alleviate the kid’s concerns through sheer vibes-telepathy alone. Who knows if it’s working, but it makes Wally feel better about trying at the very least. “I’ve got my own team to fix me up, and they do a good job of taking care of me. Even if they’re bullying me at my most vulnerable.”

“Anything for you, boss,” Cindy volleys back cheerfully. “Gimme your other leg.”

The tension in the air slowly dissipates. The kid doesn’t stop shooting occasional looks at the unadorned, half-out-of-uniform Flash, but he does let Bart’s little PT team get to working on stretching out his previously-bound now-physical legs and getting him upright—if only for a few seconds at a time, balanced precariously by humans who actually touch his back and arms and hips and legs.

Wally’s session wraps up before the kid’s does. He’s not in any rush. He gets onto the walking crutches Rhys leaves out for his temporary use and lopes over to watch, occasionally hooting and applauding when the kid pulls off something no one’d been sure he could do.

The double handed high-five Wally offers him at the end is punctuated with shaky eye contact, two working hands, and a green-threaded beaming grin.

*

Diana cheerfully digs into her kebab lunch, plastic cutlery pushed to their maximum limit before threatening to break under her prodigious strength. “You know, Batman,” she starts, beaming, “My charge gave me his name the other day.”

Bruce sets down his muenster-ham-and-whole-wheat sandwich mid-bite. “I’ll need to hear everything,” he says immediately, to which Diana tuts.

“Oh, Batman, I could never break his trust like that,” she says, sweet as anything. She finesses a bite of lamb from the skewer and takes a neat bite.

“…Wonder Woman,” Batman says.

“Hm?”

“Diana.”

“Is there something you needed, Bruce?” Diana asks, pleased with herself. There genuinely is very little that could be done with a vague description of a now-altered human form and a first name alone; besides, she genuinely does feel that hearing the boy’s name come from others’ lips would be upsetting for him. Danny offered his name to Diana alone, and so it shall remain until hers alone he offers it to others.

Still, she is not above bragging.

“I need information.” Bruce’s face underneath his mask is stone.

Diana dips a second chunk of lamb into a little container of tzatziki sauce. “Well, then,” she points out, “Shouldn’t you spend some time building rapport with my charge, then?”

The feared Batman of Gotham, father of a half-dozen highly trained heroes, bristles like a wet cat. The demeanor is almost comical. He knows what he looks like to non-Gothamite children. He knows his suit will make this fight for common familiarity an uphill battle.

Diana smugly works through her lunch and ignores Bruce’s silent brooding as he does the same.

[girlgenius1111]

one step forward and three steps back

warnings: blood, panic attack, self harm, relapse. seriously, if you are even slightly concerned that this could be triggering for you, don't read it.

Ingrid-fight.

The weeks following your breakdown were easier than you'd anticipated. You'd taken a couple weeks off, spending the time focusing on your mental health, at Alexia and Jona's insistence. The club told the media that you were taking time for your mental health, which mostly went over well. Some, however, thought the club was being too soft. They only saw you get a red card, and take weeks off from playing; it was a tantrum you were throwing, not taking time for yourself.

Your return game saw you in the starting lineup, along with Mapi and Alexia. Ingrid was still out, being careful with her leg. You were doing better, able to focus more on playing, as well as being significantly less reckless on the pitch. Your hand had healed, and it really should have been your game.

Unfortunately for you, though, was that the other team was desperate to win. Not that every team wasn't, but the dirty tackles coming in every other minute made it clear that they were on a mission. Still, you'd managed to stay out of trouble until it was almost the end of the game.

You were trying to beat a defender, one of the players that had been playing particularly roughly. Normally, you didn't mind this, never not up for a physical challenge. What you didn't appreciate, however, was the elbow thrown into your face, connecting directly with first your nose, and then your eye.

"Fucking hell," You cried out, hands flying to your face as the other girl took the ball. The whistle blew almost instantly, and she groaned. You were pissed. "What, did you think they added throwing elbows when you can't do your job into the rulebook?" You asked her, feeling blood beginning to stream steadily out of your nose.

Your teammates and the ref were still making their way over to you, and only some of them caught the girls response.

"Gonna need to take another few weeks off? Your nose probably needs a mental health break, huh?" She said condescendingly. Alexia and Mapi sped up at this, breaking into runs to get to you. Sure enough, no sooner had the words left her mouth, and you were taking your hands away from your nose, and giving her a harsh shove. She shoved back, and both of you had fists raised by the time you were separated.

Mapi wrapped an arm around your waist, dragging you back. "Easy there, the ref will take care of it," she told you, as you fought against her grasp. You were annoyed, Mapi was normally down for a fight. Instead, she was speaking in soothing tones, her calm eyes meeting your wild ones.

"She said-"

"I know what she said, but your face is bleeding, so sit down and let the physios check you, bueno?" Mapi was pissed, but she could hear Alexia talking to the ref behind her, and felt that as much as she wanted to slap that stupid girl across the face, she was more helpful here, making you take a seat as the physios arrived.

With a huff, you relented, sitting down. The pain in your face was becoming harder to ignore, and you didn't know if you believed the guy when he told you your nose wasn't broken, only badly bruised.

"Feels fucking broken," you said, attempting to add some bite to your words. Instead, they came out all choked, and you realized you were about to cry.

Mapi put a hand on your shoulder, not used to this response. You normally didn't cry when you got hurt, and she realized the comment from the other girl had affected you more than you'd probably admit. Mapi made eye contact with the physio and shook her head slightly, He signaled to the bench for a sub.

"You said it wasn't broken!" you protested.

"No, but you should ice it. No reason to take any unnecessary risks." He told you, and you knew that he and Mapi were just aware that you were upset, not thinking that you really needed to go off. You were going to argue, when Alexia stepped up, fixing you with her general look of "do what they say or I'll yell." You weren't in the mood for any yelling, so you relented, stomping off to the sidelines, without another word to your teammates. You noticed with some satisfaction that the other girl had gotten a red.

You stalked off the pitch, heading for the locker room, and Ingrid fell into step beside you.

"Leave me alone." You told her, wanting to cry in peace. You weren't sure why you were so upset with that girl's comment, but you were.

"No," she responded, meeting your glare with a smile. "Not letting you break another hand." She joked, and you mumbled an insult under your breath. She ignored it, following you into the locker room and watching as you threw yourself down in front of your locker.

Ingrid brought over a towel and some ice, insistently holding them out to you. After you took them, wiping the blood off your face, and pressing the ice to your nose, she sat next to you.

"You looked upset out there." She remarked.

"Yeah well. Elbow to the face." You responded.

"It looked like she said something to you," Ingrid pressed. You paused, before deciding to tell Ingrid what she said. her response would tell you whether you were being dramatic or not. After you'd spoken, Ingrid's eyes narrowed.

"What a little bitch," she seethed, and you huffed out a laugh, that quickly turned into a sob. Ingrid looked at you, startled, before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, rubbing her hand up and down your arm.

"I don't know why I'm crying, it wasn't that bad. It was just mean and my nose hurts and I hate that stupid girl," you blubbered, and Ingrid held back a laugh.

"It's alright, y/n, you're allowed to be upset. It was mean. And it was about something that's sensitive to you, it makes sense why you're upset." She told you rationally. Ingrid had a way of speaking that made whatever she said make sense, instantly believable. You wiped the remaining tears off your face, before quietly thanking her. She squeezed your shoulders, and you both lapsed into silence.

You were impressed with Ingrid, for being able to make you feel better so fast. Ingrid was impressed with you, for expressing your feelings without her having to drag them out of you. It was clear that you were improving, and it filled her with relief. But for every step forward, there's always a step back. Or two.

-----

Mapi- panic.

You weren't really sure what had happened. One second, you were out with the team, celebrating a win in a club. It was a rare occasion for your captains [mostly Alexia], to agree to a night out in the middle of the season, so everyone had taken full advantage. You were dancing with Pina and Patri, surrounded by other people, when you felt it; the beginnings of panic starting to rise within you.

Maybe it was the crowded room, the lack of oxygen, the alcohol, or just a random fit of anxiety. Regardless of the reason, you were quickly growing more panicked. Without a word to either girl you were with, you had spun around and were pushing your way out of the crowd, off the dance floor. You broke free of the crowd, not processing anything happening around you. You still felt like the room was out of air though, so you headed for the door, stumbling slightly as you pushed your way out.

You leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. The air outside was cooler, more plentiful, yet you still couldn't seem to get enough into your body. You slid to the ground, pressing your hands to your face as you tried desperately to regain control. You couldn't hear much except for a faint ringing sound, and you felt completely untethered from the world.

Until you felt a hand on your shoulder. You jerked your head up to find Mapi's concerned face looking down at you. You relaxed slightly, knowing it wasn't a random stranger, putting your head back in your hands.

You felt Mapi take a seat next to you, her hand moving slowly up and down your back. She took one of your hands away from your face, and pressed it to her chest. You felt the steady rise and fall of her breaths, and forced yourself to match them. Your breaths were still stuttering, but they began to slow. You weren't sucking in air as desperately anymore, and the ringing in your ears was giving way to Mapi's gravelly voice.

"In and out, just like that," she said as you began to process her words. "Good, just take it slow. You're safe, I've got you," she told you, her voice and touch working well to calm you.

"Sorry," you gasped out, although you weren't really sure why you were apologizing.

"That's alright, pequeña, you can't help it." She replied. Once you were almost completely calm, she wrapped her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into her. "What happened?" she asked, and you could hear the note of protection in her voice.

"Don't know. Too many people I think," you told her, resting your head against the wall behind you as you breathed in and out. "I'll be okay in a minute," you said.

"Take your time, I've got no where else to be," she said, resting her chin on your head.

It still struck you how much your friends cared for you. Even when you felt like they shouldn't, even when you knew it would be easier for them to give up on you, or let you handle it alone, they never did. And they never would, no matter what.

-----

Alexia - relapse.

You hadn't meant for it to happen- really. You'd been doing better. You were working with a therapist, and you'd started medication. It was clear that you desperately needed both of these things, and they were helping. You were naive to think that it would be only up from there though. Looking back, you'd realize the increase in dosage in your medication had just gone horribly wrong, the way that it could in rare cases. Having a clear reason didn't make what happened disappear though.

It had been a bad day. You'd woken up in an inexplicably bad mood. It had been a while since the familiar heavy cloud of gloom had settled over you, but as you headed to training, you felt it once again. The weight pushed down on you insistently, and as a result, you practiced worse. Your passes weren't connecting, shots weren't going in, and you kept tripping over your own feet.

This only made your mood worse, and by the time practice ended, you were incredibly frustrated with yourself. You avoided conversation, everyone discussing exciting plans for the night since you all had the day off tomorrow. You left the locker room quickly, missing the glances exchanged as you opened the door harder than necessary. You really should have expected to be stopped by your friends, but you were so in your head, you didn't hear them approaching. You jumped when Mapi placed a tattooed hand on your shoulder, halting you in your tracks.

When you turned to look at her, her face was pinched with concern, and you felt yourself grow more frustrated; you weren't supposed to be worrying your friends anymore, you were fine. Alexia stood behind her, watching you carefully. They both had yet to shower, still in their training kits, and you wondered if they were waiting so they could check on you.

"You alright pequeña?" Mapi asked. You nodded, sighing as both girls continued to look at you, clearly not believing you.

"Just a rough day." You told them.

"Do you want one of us to come home with you?" Alexia asked, keeping her voice low and soothing, expecting you to reject the idea. It was something they'd made you promise after that night. If you weren't feeling okay, you were supposed to tell them. You had yet to do this, with things improving, and you didn't want to start now. Admitting that you were having a bad day was one thing, but admitting that your thoughts were going dark was another. You were better, you were supposed to be better.

So, you convinced yourself that you'd be fine on your own, and you told Alexia as much. "No, I'm fine, I promise. I'm just gonna go home and relax." Your plans for the rest of the day consisted of laying in bed until you felt less like your every move was heavy.

The older girls gave you searching looks, but relented, reminding you that they were just a phone call away. They'd slowly begun to trust you again, since that night, trust you'd earned. They'd been able to see your improvements, and as a result, assumed that if you needed them, you'd tell them.

They were wrong.

------

In hindsight, maybe going home by yourself while in the midst of a depressive episode might not have been the best idea. Arriving home, you had tried to distract yourself, which was hard when you barely had the energy to sit upright. You settled yourself on your couch, not bothering to try to eat. You pulled your favorite blanket around your shoulders, settling in against the cushions, putting a random show on. You fell asleep watching TV, with the hopes that when you woke up, you'd feel better.

Instead, you woke up after the sun had set, feeling much worse. Your apartment was completely dark, although the curtains were wide open. You didn't bother with turning the lights on, staying in the same position on the couch as you began to spiral.

The deep sadness that had nestled it's way into the very core of your being this morning had given way some, to numbness. The numbness was normally where things went south. A combination of despair, but the inability to access those emotions choked you. You felt, so deeply, but you couldn't bring it to the surface. Instead, the shadows of these emotions danced just outside your grasp, leaving you desperate for something, anything, other than blank paralysis.

This was normally the point you turned to unhealthy coping mechanisms. Not often, and not for a while, but still, the once the thought popped into your head, you couldn't get rid of it. You knew it was the only thing that could bring you back into yourself, melt the freeze in your brain. The pain never failed at this; you knew it was bad, knew you shouldn't need to resort to this, but sitting there on your couch, you couldn't really think of any other option.

Robotically, you stood up from the couch, pausing as your phone fell to the ground off your lap. There were a few notifications you'd missed, and you stopped, opening them. All were from various teammates group chats. You ignored most of them, opening up the thread with Alexia, Mapi, and Ingrid. Your mind was clouded, focused on the task you had set your mind to, but still, a small part of it reminded you that you didn't have to do this. You had people that could help, would help, wanted to help.

You remembered, though, that they were out tonight. It was Ingrid and Mapi's anniversary, and the spaniard was taking Ingrid somewhere ridiculous and fancy. Alexia had some Barcelona related benefit. Realistically, you knew they'd all drop everything to come to you if you told them you needed them, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. One time wouldn't hurt. You could do it again, just this once. They'd never have to know.

-----

Pulling the blade away from your skin, you watched as blood trailed down your thigh. You didn't feel better, not like you normally did. The feelings had come rushing back to you after the first cut, but they didn't relinquish their grip on you as you continued. You felt desperate, filled with anguish, with no clear way to get rid of it.

Well, there was one way. As soon as you had that thought, you began to panic. You hadn't thought like this in a really long time, and it scared the hell out of you. It was like you were fighting between two parts of yourself, one that wanted you to be okay, and one that didn't care if you were okay, as long as you didn't feel like this anymore. The latter had won out, earlier. You were terrified that if you didn't do something, it would win again.

You forced yourself to breath, to think logically. You grabbed a towel from the shelf next to you. You leaned back against the wall, pressing it tightly against your leg. You just needed to do one thing at a time and everything would be okay. Reaching up to the bathroom counter, you grabbed your phone.

This was the hardest part. Harder than dragging the blade across your skin, harder than hiding your scars. Scars you'd reopened now. Your hand shook as you considered your options. Your mind had cleared slightly, self preservation instincts kicking in.

Ingrid and Mapi deserved a nice anniversary. Alexia hated social events. She'd probably tell you that you were doing her a favor if you called. Probably not when she heard why you called, but regardless.

Taking another breath, you clicked her contact, anxiety finding it's way into your gut.

"Hola, y/n." Alexia answered rather quickly, and you knew then that she hadn't really believed you earlier.

"Ale." You choked the word out, eyes suddenly full of tears. You didn't sound like yourself. Now that she was on the phone with you, the weight of what you'd done, and what you'd considered, was hitting you full force.

"Que paso?" Alexia asked, voice switching from casual to worried instantly. You could picture her expression, the one she got when she was giving someone instructions, or arguing with a ref, an intensity that made her the player that she was. It also made her the friend that she was. You tried to reply, but the words wouldn't come out of your mouth.

"Y/n, I need you to tell me what's happening, now" Alexia said almost frantically. The background of people talking had disappeared and you knew she was leaving, moving fast to get to you.

"I-... I need you," you responded finally, barely getting the words out. You were sucking in air faster now, tears falling freely.

"Okay, I'm coming to you now, nena. I'll be there in 10 minutes," Alexia told you. Her soft tone was one reserved for very few people; at that moment, you counted yourself very lucky that you were one of them. "Are you safe?" She asked, feeling like she already knew the answer.

You weren't really sure how to respond to that. The bleeding had stopped, so you weren't medically in danger. The blade was across the bathroom from you, and Alexia was on her way, so you doubted you'd be able to do any more damage. Your thoughts were still rather dire, but you were focusing on Alexia, on her voice, and the sound of her getting in her car and starting the engine.

"I'm not really sure," you settled on. The Catalan wasn't sure what to make of that response.

"Are you at home?"

"Si"

"Are you hurt?"

You paused, and she knew the answer. You heard the engine increasing in volume as she accelerated. "Pequeña, do you need an ambulance?" Alexia asked. The question made her nauseous but she forced herself to remain focused, to not get caught up in her feelings.

"No. Stopped bleeding." You replied, shutting your eyes tightly as she inhaled a sharp breath. You hated this, hated it so much.

"Okay, that's good, nena. Can you take a breath for me?" You did as she asked, realizing that you'd been holding in air. "Bien, muy bien. I'm almost there, okay? Stay on the phone with me."

"Okay," came your response, voice quiet. Neither of you spoke much after that, Alexia aware that you were struggling to reply, and relying on the sound of your breaths to assure her that you were alright.

She told you when she arrived, though, parking the car and jumping in the elevator. The call cut out while she was in there, which you'd been expecting. As you waited for her to enter the apartment, trusting that she'd use her spare key, you took in the sight in front of you. You didn't pull the towel away from your thigh, but you looked at the red staining the bath mat, the blade discarded where you'd thrown it. Pulling your attention from it, you focused on the door, hearing Alexia move hastily through your apartment.

She opened the door, and had to stifle a gasp. She'd tried to prepare herself, but nothing she could picture in her mind was like seeing it in person. You were sat against the wall, white blood stained towel pressed to your leg. You shorts were pulled up, revealing the scars on your other leg. You were wearing an old training shirt, and there was blood on that too. You were shaking slightly, eyes big and cheeks tearstained. What struck her most was how scared you looked.

"Oh, pequeña," she said, voice breaking. You dropped your gaze at her words, biting your lip to stop yourself from crying. She crouched down next to you, placing a hand on your cheek. She pressed her lips to your forehead, desperate to give you any comfort she could. "I'm here, I've got you. We'll take care of it, alright?" She said, words thick with emotion. You nodded shakily, and she stood back up, pulling the first aid kit out from under your sink. She took a seat back next to you, pausing.

"Can you take the towel off, nena?" Alexia asked. She didn't want to push you too hard, not sure how you'd respond. Wordlessly, you pulled it off your leg, wincing where it stuck to the skin. Alexia swallowed hard, the sight worse than she anticipated.

"Okay. I'm going to disinfect, and then I'm going to cover them." You nodded, still not having spoken. She pulled out a couple of alcohol wipes, opening 3 all at once. "This is gonna sting, tell me if you need a break, okay?" Again, you only nodded. Alexia worked fast, cleaning the wounds. You didn't ask for a break, but she noticed you flinch every so often, let out sharper exhales. She put anti-infection cream on before deciding against bandaids. Instead, she placed a piece of gauze on, wrapping it with medical adhesive tape.

You looked down, taking in the neatly wrapped area. It looked much better like this, much more manageable. Alexia stood to wash her hands. She dried them off, before turning back to you. You were staring at your red stained hands. She reached down, guiding you to stand, before pulling you to the sink, and helping you wash the blood off of them. You were docile under her grasp, blankly following her instructions. She led you out of the bathroom, quickly helping you change out of your blood stained clothes, and into clean ones. She pulled clothes out of your closet for herself, too, changing out of the suit she'd worn the the benefit. She wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, and she'd rather be comfortable.

You found yourself sitting on the couch, like you had been before. This time though, the lights were on, and the room felt warm, inviting, as opposed to cold and lonely. Alexia moved around, keeping an eye on you as she made you a mug of tea. She sat down next to you, typing quickly on her phone before turning to you.

You felt better. Not great, not really even good, but better. You got a better grasp on your emotions, and began to connect the dots in your head. This had been so out of the blue. Normally, you only reached this point after weeks of being down. It was clear to you, now, that increasing your dosage of your meds had been a mistake. You'd always heard warnings, about how in rare cases an antidepressant could increase depression, thoughts of... the things you'd done. And the things you'd thought about doing. The explanation made you feel a little calmer.

Alexia, on the other hand, did not know what had happened. She was trying to give you some time to process, but she was going crazy. You hadn't spoken to her since she'd arrived, and you were sitting next to her, clearly deep in thought.

"Y/n, can you please tell me what you're thinking?" She finally asked. You startled slightly, before nodding your head. You explained your theory, of why what had happened happened.

"I just need to go back down on my meds. Or try a different one." Alexia felt relieved, but not completely. She could see you trying to convince yourself that, because there was a clear explanation, it was fine. You were fine. That this wasn't a big deal. She also could tell that you were trying not to let yourself get upset about it.

"I'm glad you understand why this happened, we can go see the psychiatrist tomorrow," she said, carefully contemplating her next words. "That was still really scary, nena."

"I'm so sorry, Ale. I'm so sorry you had to see that, that I called, that I messed up again and scared you," you rambled, clearly thinking she was talking about being scared herself. She had been terrified, but that's not what she meant.

"No, I meant for you. Having those thoughts must have been really frightening, especially out of the blue like that." Alexia replied, and you looked away. "Please, please, do not ever apologize for this. For any of it. I don't care that you scared me, I'm just glad you called. So glad, and so so proud of you, pequeña." She implored, watching carefully as you shook your head unconsciously.

"I messed up, you shouldn't be proud of me," was all you said. You looked like you were about to cry again, and Alexia couldn't resist pulling you into her arms. You let her, resting your head on her chest, blinking rapidly to try to stave off the tears.

"Well, I am proud of you. You called me. You wouldn't have done that a few months ago." She paused, thoughtful. She was trying to think of something that would relieve your guilt, your disappointment in yourself. "Relapses are part of recovery, y/n. It sucks, but they are. Relapsing doesn't make you weak, or a bad person. I know you feel like you should be better, but it's okay if you're not. Because of your medicine, or because of anything else. There's no timeline here, no requirements of being okay that you have to meet. All you need to do is try your best. And you are, I can tell. You asked for help when you needed it, and that is something to celebrate."

You looked up at her, the hopeful expression on your face making her heart clench. "I haven't let you down?" You asked quietly.

"No, nena. You haven't let anyone down. I was scared, yes, but all I feel right now is love for you, and pride for you." She said, determined for you to believe her. You were starting to. Her tone, her face, were so full of conviction, it was hard to do anything but listen.

"Thank you for coming so fast."

"I'll always come when you need me, as fast as I can." Her reply was almost instant. Alexia watched as you smiled weakly at her, before it dropped from your face, and tears welled in your eyes yet again. "What is it, pequeña," she wondered, rubbing a hand up and down your back. You leaned your head back against her, speaking into the fabric of her sweatshirt.

"I have to start all over again," you choked out.

Alexia sighed. "I know, I'm sorry. But we're all gonna be here again, okay? All of us, for every second."

They'd proven they'd be there for you, time and time again. Their commitment to being good friends, to taking care of you, was what made you believe that you were worth it. They were some of the best people you knew, and if they were going to be there every step of the way, the journey must be worth it.

-----

I hope you guys enjoyed :). Obviously a super heavy part. I'm not really sure what else to say, other than I hope that if you read this, it can bring you comfort in some way. Asking for help is terrifying, but it's so worth it, I promise. You deserve to feel good, and be happy.

[unicornpopcorn14]

Dazai and his (dis)association with Guns

It's interesting to me how Dazai conically wields no firearms on him, neither in the PM nor in the ADA.

I mean, taking how dangerous both jobs are into consideration, and how he isn't as physically capable as the strongest ability users out there, you'd think he'd at least ensure a safety measure with him at all times.

But every gun he wields in the series is someone else's.

Every. single. one.

Even the handgun he wields in the Azure messanger arc, despite belonging to the agency, he doesn't constantly use:

While in Stormbringer, Dazai uses a tazer gun before meeting Adam and relying on him:

I've had many speculations regarding this pattern (feel free to add onto them), one of them being that Dazai thinks he doesn't even need guns, since strategies are his weapons, his hands alone are his weapons. In a world of crazy abilities, and users completely relying on said abilitis, being a nullifier might be considered the biggest threat, and a pretty sturdy weapon to rely on.

After some thinking, however, I found that while this might be part of the reason, it isn't enough to just disregard firearms as weapons entirely. Dazai's plans/predictions aren't foolproof, and as he'd explained, they are full of uncertanties, contrary to Fyodor's plans.

And Dazai's ability can't be relied on all the time. Having to touch the enemies/maintain proximity in order to activate it is definitely a hindrance. Besides, some enemies can be physically competent without their abilities, some might not even have abilities, but are formidable. Firearms in these situations would be extremely useful, given their range, and a good precaution.

Aside from combat, tw: suicide Let's not forget that a shooting oneself is subjectively the most painless way to die. So if anything, Dazai should be eager to have one on him and even attempt with it. But he doesn't, he never even seems interested in using guns at all in his suicide methods, hence he would have succeeded long ago...

So if it isn't out of unnecessity, then what might be the reason? I mean, having to count on your enemies to have guns in order to use one is rather inconveniet, right? Why can't he just carry the agency's gun or, before that, any of the countless PM's firearms? Well...

Here is what I think: Killing with guns is triggering for Dazai

Let's rewind a little...

15!Dazai is the earliest we see him using a firearm, and one of the few times he does shoot with said firearm, resulting in this fiasco:

He's clearly having a mental breakdown, spiraling, can't stop, and most importantly: can't think straight. This is Dazai's lowest moment in the whole series.

Thing worth mentioning: in the manga/lightnovel, Dazai does stop after shooting the man one time (basically killing him) and pauses, before he continues again and again and agian...

So I believe the triggering factor is either the death/corpse itself, or how the recoil felt.

We can't exactly determine what it might be, since remember, this is before Dazai even joins the Mafia. He's known Mori for mere weeks at this point. Whatever Dazai's going through in this moment has to related to his past prior to the mafia that we have yet to (or might never) see.

You'd get why Dazai, a person whose greatest ability is his mind above all else, would never wish to go through a moment where he can't keep his thoughts in check. Where he'd lose control.

And you know what's crazy? Dazai seems to avoid that outcome since then, as This is the only moment we see him actively kill someone with a gun in the series.

18!Dazai, through his (abusive) teaching moment with Akutagawa, shoots three times in hopes the other finally uses his ability defensively. There is a cause, and a motif, that a gun has to be involved in. And he knows Akutagawa is going to succeed in repelling them, he knows that won't kill him. Which is why wielding a gun is safe along with shooting it.

While in the ADA, in the instances Dazai wields a gun, he doesn't even shoot:

And that checks. Each one of these example were mere empty threats, but now I see that, as much as it's a threat to whoever he's pointing the barrel at, he's also under the mercy of it. Which means that every time he's used a gun since fifteen was a means to scare and not kill, if only to avoid the worst outcome which is losing control.

Dazai's sanity is on the line whenever the trigger is at the tip of his finger...

So why would he carry guns when he never even plans to shoot? When properly putting them to use threatens to send him into a breakdown, to overthrow his entire line of thinking?

One moment out of control might cost him his plans, his objectives, his subordinates, the lives he wishes to protect. And unless there is a motif for the gun (other than of course, killing) using it is a threat looming over him.

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 9]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to protect his new family from not only Hell's Kitchen but from the world.

pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Words: 4.8k

"Matt…how did you know where the window is?"

The words leave your lips and the entire mood of the apartment shifts. Matt's frame stiffens and fear begins to course through you. 

If the answer to the question was simple, he'd have no reason to react like he got caught in a lie, but that is exactly what he is doing. His posture is screaming that he knows you've realized something you shouldn't have, and it scares you. It scares you so much because you don't want Matt to be someone you can't trust. 

You want so so badly to trust him. Everything was going so well, and you don't want it to be ruined so early. You haven't prepared your heart for that disappointment and instinctively you wrap your arms around yourself to stave off any potential pain. 

"I can explain," Matt says, voice quiet and on the edge of pleading. He's looking at you with his own fear on his face and it triggers you to step back and away from him.

People have told you before that they can explain - that you are in the wrong for simply not understanding them - and it always ends with you hurt. So, you close your eyes and duck your chin to your chest and brace yourself for the metaphorical blow, whatever it may be. 

But there is only silence.

No more than a minute of nothingness passes, but it feels like an eternity. You force your eyes open and are shocked to see Matt looking absolutely devastated. Instead of standing tall and confident in himself, like you are so used to seeing, he has completely deflated. His shoulders are slumped and his head hung. You can practically feel the self hating energy coming off of him - it is something you are so familiar with. 

Guilt pools in your belly. You can't hurt him because of your distrust of others and past experiences - he's given you no reason to think anything he's doing is malicious or only self serving. 

So, you take the ball back into your court, squeezing your eyes back shut and taking a deep breath before asking, "should…should we sit?"

You hear him inhale sharply and you really, really hope you are doing the right thing. 

"Please?" 

He sounds like he's trying to not beg, and the knot forming in your stomach squeezes around your heart. 

"Can we sit on the couch?" You ask, motioning to it. You finally allow yourself to look at him again to see him nod. You lick your lips and hesitantly add, "it's about five feet to your left," before going to sit yourself. By the time you are sitting, Matt is at the back of the couch and moving around the side to sit next to you. You watch as his fingers brush along the back and arm, too anxious to dare to look at his face or the giant lasagna stain on his chest. 

You let him settle before asking again, in a calmer tone, "How did you know where the window was? And that it was open?"

You feel so accusatory, but he's told you before he has absolutely no light perception and in the panic of the moment, he closed the window without any hesitation or confusion. 

He rubs his hands over his knees before removing his glasses and setting them on the coffee table. He then leans back into the couch, while turning to face you, and to be respectful, you turn so you are facing him, though you keep your eyes down cast to your lap. 

"I was a child when I lost my eyesight," he starts slowly, and you try to keep your stomach from clenching. "And whatever it was that got in my eyes, it enhanced my other senses. It took what remained and pushed them past what normal people should be able to do. I could hear conversations from blocks away. I could figure out what people had for lunch the day before by the smell still in their breath. I could feel what was happening around me, based on air movement on my skin. And now…. Now I can…I can use all of that, all those inputs, to act as kind of a 3D map to determine things. Like a sonar, but instead of just sound reflecting back, it's a bit of everything. I can't see with my eyes, but I do know what is happening around me. That's how I knew where the window was. I could feel the breeze coming in. I could hear where the noise came in more clearly, versus the slight muffling of the wall. I could sense where the couch was based on the same factors."

You take in what he is trying to tell you and nod just a tiny bit. What he is saying makes sense - kind of. You know it's possible for other people's senses to strengthen when they lose one, but not nearly to the degree he is explaining. It is a hard concept to wrap your mind around. But you try. 

You can tell he's not used to explaining this and you can also tell he's waiting for you to be angry or upset with him. It's a feeling you are so very used to experiencing yourself - that you did something wrong, and the other person is going to leave. It's like it's tangible in the air.

You force your gaze up to Matt's face. His hazel eyes are truly windows to his soul, and he looks so scared that you are going to explode on him and your heart aches for him. You're by no means angry about him not telling you about this upfront - it's clear he's had issues with that in the past and it's not like you deserve to know all his trauma and secrets from day one just because you had his child. 

But you are still confused and do want to understand.

You turn so are facing him even more fully and force words from your throat, "Can I ask you some questions?"

Matt nods his head, jerky with it, "Yes, anything."

You can tell he means it, and that eases your own anxiety. You rub at your thighs, needing to transfer your internal anxieties outward, and go for the first thing that comes to mind. 

"You said…you can hear blocks away. What does that mean? You can hear everything in like...a two block radius?" You ask, hoping you aren't sounding like an absolute idiot.

Matt's lips twitch, like they want to go into a sad smile, but he keeps his face firmly in 'kicked puppy' territory, "A little more than two blocks. I haven't…tested the maximum range, but if I stand in the middle of Hell's Kitchen, I can hear almost all of it. Sort of - I learned to filter and push things into the background so it's not constant input. If I focus, I can hear the couple down the street debating about what they want for dinner. I can hear everyone in this building and the next. But it isn't just..." he trails off for a moment, biting his lip and wrinkling his brow. Like he's trying to figure out the right words. You wait, not wanting to rush him. 

"It isn't just a macro experience; it is also micro. I can hear the way the pipes in your kitchen are creaking. The way your shirt brushes against your skin. The differences in your breath as you exhale…I can hear your lungs expand and contract. I can... Hear your heart - it was beating fast a few moments ago but it's started to calm. Or you're trying to keep calm. I can... Tell your adrenaline and fear are still high. You're nervous and I don't blame you."

Your brows scrunch up in disbelief, "you can…hear my heartbeat?" You look down at your own chest, reaching up to place your hand over your heart. You can feel it beating rather hard, but as Matt said, you feel like you are calming down now that the two of you are talking. 

"I can hear your heartbeat," he confirms, then adds, "But I don't go around listening to those sorts of things. I try to give people their privacy."

That makes sense to you - you wouldn't want to constantly have to listen to people's body functions. 

The thought triggers another question. 

"Why aren't you a doctor?"

Matt opens his mouth as if to answer, then pauses as his expression morphs into bafflement. "What?"

"Why aren't you a doctor?" You repeat, then motion at him, "I mean, based on what you said, wouldn't it make sense to be a doctor?"

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, reminding you of a fish, before he shakes his head, finally, finally starting to smile again, "I, uh, never considered it. I've always wanted to be a lawyer, since I was a kid. I wanted to help people." He leans forward slightly, putting his elbows on his knees, "You learn I can hear your heartbeat and you ask why I'm not a doctor. Are you not…freaked out?"

"I mean, a little, yes," you admit with a shrug, "but also…" you look back down to your lap and clasp your hands together, squeezing a little too tightly, "You're telling me and…we're talking like adults about it. I get why you didn't tell me, and it's not like…it's not like it's something terrible. It's weird but…it's not the weirdest thing?" You bite into your lip, then, because your nature is to put everyone else's needs in front of yours, you can't help but ask, "Is there anything I can do to make things easier? I mean, is there anything in here that's too loud or something? Something I can adjust to make you more comfortable?"

He seems to need a minute to process what you are telling him before he shakes his head, "No. No, I've spent my life adjusting to everything." He takes a breath before his voice becomes a little softer, "I didn't want to hide this from you. Foggy and Karen know the truth and were helping me come up with a way to tell you that makes sense."

"You did a good job, it made sense," you quickly confirm. That makes him smile, just a little. 

"I'm glad... they are also helping me make a binder, like you made for me. About everything," he mimics you, motioning to himself. "I'm hoping it will help you with Minnie." 

You're confused at first why your daughter is mentioned, then the wheels quickly begin to turn. 

Memories flash in your mind of Minnie saying things are too loud - all her weird little complaints you've heard since she started being able to articulate - and your stomach starts to turn as things start to slot into place.

She inherited Matt's senses. 

It makes so much sense and you very suddenly feel like you need to throw up. 

You scramble to stand up, clamping your hands over your mouth. Matt shoots up so he is standing beside you, reaching out to touch your arm while saying your name in concern.

"She's been trying to tell me,” you choke out. All of the emotion of the day is crashing into you. Your eyes are stinging, and you can feel the tears gathering. 

You've been such an awful parent. 

How could you have not listened to what she was saying? Toddlers say weird things, but she's been consistent about what she tells you and you thought it was just her imagination or exaggerations. 

What has your poor baby been putting up with? 

The thought of her suffering because her senses are being overwhelmed and you not helping her pushes you over the edge and you begin to cry. 

Tears start to pour out of you and only years of training has you strangling the sob that tries to escape as well. 

You see Matt move through blurry eyes and suddenly you are wrapped in his arms, tucked under his chin like Minnie had been.

"It's okay," he whispers into your temple, holding you firmly against his chest. You want to struggle because you are not used to being held when you cry. You aren't used to being held at all. You aren't used to crying around other people. 

All of it is so much and it just makes you cry harder, awkwardly standing stiff as a board while Matt tries to comfort you. 

"It's okay," he repeats, and you manage to shake your head, because none of it is okay. It isn't.

You think of all the tantrums that have resulted from her being overstimulated and try to imagine how awful she must have been feeling. You get headaches from things being just a little too loud and that has been all of her life - and you have no idea how much she can hear. Can she hear blocks away like her father can? How many horrible things has she heard that you don't know about? 

How has it shaped her?

"Hey, hey, look at me," Matt says so softly you barely hear him over your own choked sobs. His hands go from holding you to his chest up to your face and he cups your jaw, gently forcing you to tilt your head up towards his. You squeeze your eyes shut, too ashamed of yourself to look right into his face. "You are an amazing mother. You care so much about Minnie and doing right by her. You said she's been trying to tell you and you've been listening. You have been. The headphones you got her? They do help. I promise you they help. Everything you do helps." 

There's a gentle pressure against your forehead, and you realize Matt is touching his to yours. You can feel his nose brushing against your own. "I asked her at the park the other day what helps when things start getting too loud. Do you know what she said?" 

You shake your head because you have no idea. You didn't even know they had talked without you present. 

What else didn't you know about your daughter?

"She listens to your heart. When things get too much for her, she finds the thing that centers her and soothes her and that's the sound of your heart." 

You try to process his words but it's another gut punch to your emotions. It's a swell of love for your sweet little angel with a mix of horror because how often has she needed to center herself on you? 

Matt smooths his thumbs over your cheeks, pushing away tears that are still streaming down them. "You take such good care of her. It blew my mind the first time we were all together, that you're so attentive and loving. You care so much. I didn't understand how I was so lucky that you were the one I got to have a child with. Someone with such a good heart. I thought you must have been mistaken because I certainly don't deserve you. I don't deserve Minnie. But you let me in and I have been praying that I can be a fraction of what a good parent you are. Minnie loves you so much. You've done so good with her. You didn't know about her senses, but how could you, and you still did so much to help her. And now that you do know, I know you'll do everything within your power to help her. And I will as well. I promise. It's okay. She's okay."

You try to focus on Matt's words, but it is so hard. Your crying is quickly cascading from emotional crying to being completely panicked anxiety crying. 

You aren't used to being comforted. You aren't used to people telling you it's okay and you did good. It's confusing and you don't know how to act. You don't know what you are supposed to do. 

Are you supposed to calm down? How do you calm down? How do you just stop crying?

And his hands are so warm on your face. They are surprisingly rough, but they feel good, petting you so gently. He's so close everywhere - you're still right against him from when he was holding you. You can taste his breath. 

It feels like he's right on top of you - he practically is - and you suddenly can't breathe. It feels like your esophagus has locked up and you can no longer swallow air. 

Fear surges up your spine and before it can take hold, a low resonating bong goes through your mind, telling you to go get a glass of water. 

It's something you've trained into your mind, taking years to perfect. 

To prevent a panic attack, drink a glass of water.

"I need water," you manage to say before pulling away from Matt and go purposefully to the kitchen, ordering yourself to not rush. You have a specific glass you use on these occasions and pull it from the top shelf. You hear Matt follow you into the kitchen, but you force yourself to focus on getting out your water pitcher and pouring your glass of water. Your hands are shaking and water is splashing on the side of the glass. 

Once it is full, you refill the pitcher and put it away, before returning to your glass. You drink slowly, taking a sip, swallowing, taking a breath, then repeating. Matt keeps his distance as he waits for you. He looks concerned and he keeps flexing his hands and you have to avert your gaze because it is making you anxious again. 

Tears are still streaming down your face but with each breath, you regain control of your emotions. You pull them back in and reorganize your thoughts. First, you must deal in facts.

Fact - Matt has enhanced senses due to the accident where he lost his eyesight. Fact - Matt is Minnie's father. Fact - Minnie inherited Matt's enhanced senses. Fact - having enhanced senses can be overwhelming for your daughter and it causes tantrums. 

These are your facts, one of which is a problem, the over stimulation, and you need to find a solution to it, but to find a solution you need to know the trigger. 

You finish your glass of water and set it in the sink to wash later, then turn to face Matt. He looks so worried, but now that you are looking at him, he perks up - attentive and waiting for you to address him.

You wonder what signals your body is giving him - can he sense your change in demeanor?

"Do you know what upset her at dinner? Why she started crying?" You ask, hoping you don't sound like a complete mess.

Matt nods quickly, ready to explain, "the building behind us on this block's fire alarm started going off. Based on what I can tell, a rat chewed through a wire and set it off somehow. The second tantrum was from a fire truck arriving - it had it's sirens going off "

You stare at Matt in wonder. You heard none of that. The window was wide open and you didn't hear a siren at all, and if you did you automatically put it into the background of your mind. 

"It was on the other side of the block," he says, like he knows exactly what you are thinking, "and we're facing the wrong direction. There's no chance you would have been able to hear it."

Your hands clench into fists at your side, dread starting to build up inside of you and threatening to pull more tears, "how can I protect her from things I can't hear?"

Matt's face softens into something understanding. He hesitantly steps forward, and as he reaches for you, you understand his love language is touch. He's trying to comfort you through touch, and by extension, comfort himself. This must be horrible for him, you realize with a start. He told you this big secret and you proceeded to freak the fuck out on him. 

He needs comfort as well. He needs someone telling him it's okay.

You're being so selfish again.

He touches your arm and begins to ghost his fingers up and down it, barely pushing at the sleeves of your T-shirt. The back of his fingers are rough, but the sensation isn't terrible. You are still so unsure what you are supposed to do, so you take a breath and take a small step closer to him then decide the best course of action is to ignore the petting.

"You can't protect her, but we can help give her the tools to protect herself. She was born with it and has adapted naturally. I had to be taught and have had a lifetime to learn. That's why I want to make that guide for you. I fully intended to tell you everything, and still do," he ducks his head and becomes almost sheepish, “I was just…trying to do it in the right way?"

You absorb his words and let them roll around in your mind, ignoring for now the implication there are more people with enhanced senses than just Matt. 

"You can teach her?" You confirm after a few moments.

"We can both teach her. I told you before, you've already helped so much. No one has ever gotten me sound proof headphones - and certainly not a dozen different pairs. We can talk to her together and she can tell us what she needs," he says and it does sound like he's thought this through. 

And that brings you comfort.

He has a plan. He's coming at this prepared and with research and consultants. 

He's committed. 

You don't need to search for a solution because he already has one.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and your shoulders relax.

A literal sigh of relief.

"Thank you," you whisper and Matt quickly shakes his head, but before you can say anything, the larger red stain on his shirt catches your eye again and your Mom brain activates. "Matt, your shirt!"

He looks down at his chest, clearly confused by the sudden change in conversation and tone, "what about my shirt?"

"There's lasagna all over it. It's going to stain so badly. Here, let me get you another shirt," you pull away from him and start hurrying towards the bedroom. You wipe at your tears as you call back to him, "I think I can still get the stain out. It's still wet."

In the bedroom, Minnie has rolled over and is now face down on her bed, sprawled out like a starfish. You know from that she will not be awake until morning. She must be so exhausted, your poor Mouse. Guilt swirls in your belly and you vow you're going to learn to help prevent this. 

You're not going to let her suffer any longer.

You look away from your daughter to rummage through your dresser. You grab one of your largest T-shirts and quickly leave the room, lest you disturb your daughter. You head back down the short hallway to the main living area, hoping what you got will be big enough for Matt. 

You look up from your musings as you come around the corner and freeze.

Matt's taken his shirt off.

You are very intimately aware that he was in shape before, but this is a different level. His muscles are well defined and his biceps are at least as big as Minnie's head. You've never seen someone with v-cut abs in person and you feel your cheeks start to heat up because you are only human and your brain is definitely short circuiting.

You force your eyes away from how his hips disappear into his pants and up his chest. 

There are scars, all across his torso, long and deliberate. They don't look surgical, even with the sight symmetry of some. Going over one of the smaller scars on his right side is a nasty bruise that seems to wrap around to his back. It looks painful and at least a few days old by the coloring.

Your instinct is to ask if he is alright, but you clamp it down. 

You understand. 

You understand this extension of trust, silent and hopeful but terrified, and you take it and cradle it to your heart. He will tell you in time. You have to trust him.

You have to trust whatever is blooming between the two of you. 

But does he really need to be so insanely hot? Was it not complicated enough?

Matt calls your name, breaking you out of your thoughts. He sounds more than a little smug.

"Sorry, it has been a long day. Um, I think this will fit you," you step forward and hold it out, asking as you do, "Do I need to tell you where it is or…?"

He shakes his head with a chuckle, and you wonder how many times people have asked him such questions, "You can just toss it at me. It's okay, I understand." 

You feel rude but do as you are told. He catches it easily, and after turning it over in his hands to orient it, pulls it on. 

"What's it got on it?" He asks, rubbing his hands over his chest to feel the screen print, unintentionally emphasizing how broad he is.

You blame your slight delay in response on your exhaustion.

"It's... got the word 'cosmos' on it with a galaxy print behind it. It's from that old science show with um...I don't know his name. I just remember something about the universe being a pie?" You answer, wishing you'd actually looked at what you had grabbed him.

But Matt nods anyways, like he understands what you mean, "Carl Sagan?"

The name rings a bell, and you shrug, honestly not remembering in the moment, "I think that's it, I never was a big science person but the shirt was free..."

He chuckles at your answer and you have to look away from him, shuffling towards the couch instead. It isn't fair how good he looks. The shirt is one you wear every so often to sleep and now you very much understand the trope of men enjoying women wearing their t-shirts and you've already experienced too many emotions today to try to process that.

You plop down and put your head into your hands. Exhaustion is creeping into your bones and your eyes ache from crying and it feels like you've been hit with the emotional equivalent of an eighteen wheeler. You feel the couch dip as he sits beside you and a moment later, Matt's fingers are tracing up and down your spine. It feels like a feather and instead of locking up at the touch, you find yourself slumping more.

"How're you doing?" He asks and part of you wants to laugh. 

"I don't know," you admit, "it is a lot to take in at once. I just want to make sure I'm doing the right thing - with Minnie. With you. Not just with…your senses, but with everything. I don't want to mess up."

"You won't mess up," Matt assures you and he sounds so confident that you want to believe him. "Things might not always be easy, but you won't mess up. I believe in you." 

You don't know how to respond to that. You haven't had anyone tell you they believe in you in so long. It sends this sort of warmth through you that you don't understand and the only thing you can think of to do is hide your face more into your hands. 

He doesn't press for more as you both sit there. The silence somehow isn't awkward, even as minutes start to creep by. He continues to run his fingers up and down your back and it doesn't take long for your eyes to start to feel heavy. You tell yourself to get up, you still have to clean up the mess from dinner, but your body doesn't listen.

You just want to sit. 

All you want to do is just sit.

You'll get up in a minute. You just need to recharge. You keep telling yourself that, even as you feel your body start to sag and your thoughts start to fade in and out. You don't notice as your exhaustion starts to take over and you begin to drift - and you don't notice as Matt helps you lay down on the couch or when a blanket is draped over you. 

As your thoughts finally allow sleep to take over, the last thing your mind lets you process is the brush of lips against your temple and gentle words whispered against your skin. 

Tags:

@midnightreids @cloudroomblog @yeonalie @thychuvaluswife 

@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt

@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374

@theclassicvinyldragon @aoi-targaryen @lunaticgurly @nikitawolfxo @shireentapestry @snakevyro @yondiii @echos-muses @honeybug-victoria @the-bisaster @ristare @mrs-bellingham @eugene-emt-roe @cometenthusiast @stevenknightmarc @hunnybelha @

Specialagentjackbauer @yarrystyleeza @ofmusesandsecrets 

@mayp11-blog @danzer8705 @thinking-at-dusk @remuslupinwifee @akila-twt  @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @dil3mma @allllium @

two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8

[olderthannetfic]

Okay, I need advice: I'm in a very tiny fandom (like less than two dozen active people and everyone knows each other) and one of the women in it is kind of freaking me out.

We became mutuals because we had some good discussions on some of the characters we liked, but I soon became sort of uncomfortable with a lot of her online behavior whereas simultaneously she's DM-ing me more and more.

She's one of those people who's a hardliner on the issues she cares about (mostly feminism- and SA-related) while talking over people when it comes to issues she doesn't care about (mostly racism and related things). And I see a lot of her trying to intrusively police how other people talk/act, derailing people's posts, arguing with people online over the most stupid shit (where not even her own opinions come off as overly coherent - this week she'll argue something along the lines of "men are evil" and the next she'll argue that people are "demonizing masculinity" - I'll add for clarification that she's not a TERF and supports trans rights but boy... Does she sound like one sometimes) and then digging through people's profiles to find and publicize minor transgressions and bad takes, passive-aggressive vagueposting, and going into mental breakdowns over the most innocuous of online interactions.

TBH she scares me. As someone who suffered through toxic people getting overly attached to me, I genuinely sometimes get a physical reaction when I see her lashing out on the dash.

And she keeps initiating conversations! And sometimes I don't reply or bring the conversation to a natural closure and she keeps at it, or sends me random fics of hers to read that I don't have the heart to tell her don't interest me or whatever. And recently when she disagrees with something I reblogged she direct messages me to rant about it - with a lot of sort of indirect language because she doesn't want to offend me but I can see the intent. The last couple of times I replied politely because I cared about clearing misunderstandings on the topic but next time I'm just gonna tell her I dislike it when she does that.

I really want this person to stop interacting with me, to be honest, and all my polite hints to the effect go unnoticed. But the fandom is so small I feel awkward and uncomfortable about unfollowing or blocking her. I don't think she's too bad of a person, she just comes off as very... Mentally ill, I guess? And since I've tried to be polite so far I feel like it might come out of left field for her?

TBH I feel like something about her behavior also triggers some kind of freeze/fawn reaction inside of me that I don't often get and consequently don't know how to deal with.

So I need impartial advice because I don't see the situation clearly myself

--

To summarize, a person who is a walking red flag wants to be friends, and you can't easily ghost her because the fandom is small.

I think you have to accept that there is no low-conflict way out of this.

That's what's holding you back, right? You don't want more drama and you know it's coming. I think you already know in your heart of hearts that you need to get away from her even if it's a pain in the ass.

Step one is to stop responding to her DMs. That will probably make her reach out more, but you should keep not responding. If she escalates and attacks you over it, block her.

The more you offer reasons or try to gently hint, the more that will encourage her. I don't think that's true of everyone, but I do think it's the case here. This is both because it doesn't sound like she's good at perceiving or respecting boundaries and because she inspires a bad lack of ability to assert boundaries in you.

I agree that it's unfortunate that you can't stand up for yourself or tell her plainly when she's out of line, but since you can't and that probably won't change any time soon, you'll need to protect yourself a different way. Sometimes, we just have to avoid people who are bad for us even when it's an us problem. (And here, whoaaaa red flags, so I don't think it's just a you problem anyway.)

There are many sad, lonely, needy people in the world. Some of them are officially mentally ill in some way with a diagnosis. Some just need things they aren't currently getting. That sucks...

But it's also not your job to fix.

[princeoftheeternalbog]

Helloooo, I’m not sure if you still do requests on One Piece characters or anything- but if you do I have a scenario in mind. I was wondering if you could do one specifically with Traflagar Law who has a S/O which gets injured and refuses his help. The S/O has a problem with accepting help and has trouble being vulnerable in front of others- only seeing it as weakness. This could also work for the other more colder One Piece characters…cause idk they just have a special place in my heart. (Though if you can’t that’s okay, but I thought I’d ask)

ALSO I read lots of your posts and absolutely love your scenarios and head-cannons, you literally portray all the characters so well and it’s amazing.

This is the cutest ask and thank you omg😭

I hope this is good🫶

And little trigger warning for descriptions of injury and blood at the beginning, I'll put a line so you know where to skip to if you don't want to read that bit.

I totally accidentally posted this so now I'm writing as it's up, forgive me😞 OKAY IT'S IN A FINISHED STATE I MAY ADD MORE AFTER I FORCE MY FRIEND TO READ OVER IT🕺🏻🕺🏻

I don't know if I'm happy with the length either i kinda feel it should be longer.

-

The soft, shlick of a blade through flesh rings in your ears. The adrenaline rushing through your body swallows any pain in an instant, but you can feel the pressure as it drags into your side and you wince anyway.

But you can't stop.

If you stop he's going to get past, he's going to hurt the people you call a family and so you can't stop.

His frame is hulking, freakishly tall and looming over you. The level of brute force he's exerting has your heart stuttering in fear, the staccato rhythm making you feel light headed. Though that could be the blood that's dripping from your side.

You hit his sternum, hard, and feel a crack. He stumbles, dazed, your fist comes up to head height and your aim is killer as it slams into the side of the man's head.

He's out cold.

The sigh of relief that exits your body almost overshadows the sudden pain resonating throughout your torso. Without an oncoming threat, you're able to take the time to lift your shirt and look at the damage. It's mostly mottled bruising but just under your lowest left rib is a long but shallow cut. Not life threatening in any way but still inconvenient.

It hurts to breathe and you're not sure if your rib bones are fully intact either, not with the way he was hitting.

The adrenaline is fading quickly, you needed to get him inside.

He'd crumpled into a very ungraceful pile when you knocked him out and it's difficult to tie him securely. But you do. And then you take a deep breath and haul him up over your shoulders in a botched fireman's lift.

Your captain would want to find out who decided it would be a good idea to send someone after the heart pirates.

Your captain would...

The last thing you think about before you hit the deck face first is him.

-

He's silent as he works.

It's almost unnerving actually, how quiet he can be when he wants to.

"Law-"

The look he shoots you is so intense that you physically shrink back, mouth closing as you drop your gaze to the floor.

He lets out a heavy sigh as he finishes disinfecting the last of his tools before he turns to you.

"What is wrong with you."

He's angry, you can feel it radiating off him, it digs into the soft underbelly of your emotions and you bristle at his words.

"I was just doing my job" Your tone is sharp but he doesn't flinch.

"Your job does not involved getting killed you idiot."

"Well I didn't get killed so it's not that big of a deal"

He looks like he's about to blow a gasket, the vein in his forehead pulsing with the renewed blood flow.

"Not a big deal? Not a big deal?"

You have the distinct feeling that you might've fucked up a little. That still doesn't stop you from digging a deeper hole to be buried in.

"I'm fine just let me deal with my own problems"

His eye actually twitches but you keep talking.

"It's barely a scratch, I don't need help- especially not yours."

The thunderous anger on his face is now accompanied by hurt, but his voice is soft when he says,

"Let me help you"

"I just said I don't need help"

"I don't think that you know what you need"

That stings. To know he doesn't trust your judgement after everything you've been through. There's a pressure at the back of your throat now and it's so uncomfortable, you need to leave.

But as you go to move, Law is much quicker as he grabs you by your upper arm, pulling you into his space.

"Where are you going"

You don't look at him.

He sighs before his other arm comes around your waist and he lifts, walking across the room to set you down onto a table.

"Why don't you understand that I care about you"

The emotion in his voice unsettles you, makes your chest feel tight and you really don't want to deal with this.

He's gentle as he gets to work on your injuries, easily cleaning and stitching up your side before moving to bind your ribs.

"I need you to remove your shirt"

Your hands are shaking, he hasn't really seen the full extent and you're sure he's not going to respond well. It's hard to get the buttons of your shirt undone so when a second pair of hands come up, you don't push them away. But him being closer means you hear the exact moment he realises how bad it is, his inhale is sharp and he says something in a language you don't know.

"Why didn't you call for backup?"

You take a while to respond, trying to squash down any emotion in your voice,

"I didn't need it"

"Did you want it?"

The question makes you squirm with discomfort, your eyes water.

"It doesn't matter because I didn't need it"

He sighs again. That's all you seem to be making him do today.

And then his arms are coming up around you, pulling you closer to the edge of the table and closer to him. One of his hands rests on your back and the other pushes your head into the crook of his shoulder, allowing you a semblance of privacy in such an intimate moment.

"You need to understand that not letting us help you is counterintuitive to being part of a crew"

The statement makes you flinch and you try to push away from him but that fight took a lot of your strength. His grip tightens anyways.

"Do you think I find it easy to be vulnerable?"

"...No"

"Do you think I would want you to die?"

You don't respond this time, chest heaving as you tremble.

"It's not easy to see you like this. You are not a human shield."

"I know" Your voice is quiet and thick with tears but he seems to relax slightly at your agreement.

The hand on your back is moving in gentle shapes, but his grip is still firm, as if he's trying to affirm that you're here and alive.

"I can't have a crew member that doesn't trust anyone"

You tense.

"I can't have a partner that won't be vulnerable with me"

Guilt and dread roll through your stomach. Surely he doesn't mean-

"I can't trust that you won't die because you feel can't rely on others so you're benched until we work through it"

Oh. You actually feel a bit relieved, you thought he was going in a much different direction. You lean back out of his hold so you can look at his face through wet eyes.

His expression is soft but he looks tired and the guilt rears it's head again.

"I'm sorry"

Somehow his expression gets even softer,

"I know"

He kisses you then. It's grounding, brings you back to a semblance of calm and you almost wonder why you were so apprehensive in the first place. He's gentle and warm and you feel slightly self conscious that your lips might be puffy from crying but you don't pull away.

It's reverent, like he worships you.

You think you could learn to let him take care of you.

You think you would let him do anything.

If it feels like this.