#it goes from these 'can sort of manage' ache to 'full on out sob' in cicles that I can’t even feel coming

[raksh-writes]

Gosh, Im turning 25 today not 65 so why does it feel like my body feel is gonna fall apart at any moment? 😩

[sleepingdeath-light]

barnaby + going into rut early hcs ; 18+

requested by ; 🎋 anon (15/07/23)

fandom(s) ; welcome home

fandom masterlist(s) ; sfw | nsfw

character(s) ; barnaby b. beagle

outline ; “Hello! I wanted to request a Welcome Home NSFW fanfic (I'm 19 years old!! :DD)

I was wondering if it could be a Barnaby x Male reader, where Barnaby gets his rut early (It being a really difficult one? not sure lol) and goes to find the reader at their home!

🎋 Anon (Hopefully this emoji isn't taken-)”

warning(s) ; sexually explicit content, dom!barnaby, anal sex, unprotected sex, anal cream-pie, size kink, overstimulation, dumbification

note ; playfellowxxx was the tag created by clown and the team specifically for nsfw content — if you don’t want to see that sort of thing then that is the tag to block

note 2 ; i have altered the request a little bit to have the reader going over to find barnaby rather than the other way around but the rest of the request remains unaltered, i hope that the original requested doesn’t mind!

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

barnaby is usually perfect at tracking his heat cycles, keeping a calendar and leaving notes around to remind himself that it’s coming and he has this long to prepare for it (stock up on food at the bugdega, calling you to stay over with him for the duration, clearing up his schedule, etc.) — but somehow, somehow, this one had managed to catch him completely off guard

he’d just been meandering back home from howdy’s bugdega, arms full of groceries and snack foods after a successful shopping trip in advance of your weekly date night (you’d decided to cook dinner together, instead of just ordering takeout like usual) when he’d been hit with a sudden wave of heat rushing to his cock as his abdominal muscles tightened and flexed — a pleasurable but startling feeling so sharp that he nearly dropped his bags, but thankfully he managed to catch himself just in time before panicking and rushing back home before his mind fogged up too much for him to care about preserving his dignity

of course his first instinct is to call you, hands trembling as he dials those familiar numbers once again — this time with slightly blurred vision, a body so aroused he’s trembling, a painful ache between his legs, and heaving breaths as he desperately tries to calm his nerves and ‘keep his cool’ (or as much as he can, hunched over the phone whilst clenching those large thighs together to try and temporarily deal with himself)

thankfully — fucking thankfully — you pick up after the first dial and barnaby almost sobs when he hears your voice, staticky and cutting out with poor reception but still yours, calling out to him

and then he opens his mouth and the words just fall out — coming so quickly that you only manage to catch a few syllables here or there through the slurred, staticky mess you were receiving… but those spese few bits were enough for you to get the broader picture of your boyfriend’s struggles

early… heat… help… can’t… hurts…

and that was all you needed to know before you promised to be there ‘soon’ and grabbed the bare essentials (the lubricant you’d found to work best for the two of you, your favourite pillow, and your fluffiest blanket) and hurrying out the door, still in your pyjamas, to go over and help your poor boyfriend deal with his heat

(of course your priority was taking care of barnaby, but you knew from experience that ‘helping’ would be quite rough on your body and you wanted to at least make sure you were comfortable when he wreaked you)

the moment you arrived barnaby practically pounced on you, barely giving you the time to kick the door shut behind you before he was upon you: pupils dilated so wide you could barely see his eyes, lips wet with spit, whole body trembling, chest heaving, cock out and straining and hard, as he begged you to please let him fuck you

and, of course, ever the loving and selfless boyfriend, you accepted — on the condition that he at least control himself long enough for you to prep yourself with the lubricant you bought so he didn’t actually tear you in half

a condition that he accepted, sitting back on his heels and palming himself as he intently watched what you were doing — groaning and moaning as you prepped and stretched and soothed yourself until you were finally ready to take him and manoeuvred yourself into a more comfortable position

that position happened to be doggy style, ironically, but it had worked well in the past and you didn’t exactly have the time to consider an alternative when barnaby was clearly on the brink of losing it already, so it would just have to do

and barnaby really didn’t hold back with you once you gave him the ‘okay’

fucking into you so harshly that you were pretty much thrown across the floor with every thrust, arms collapsing beneath you until you were held up only by his tight grip on your thighs — just letting yourself be used to his desire

stretching your ass out on his aching cock, groaning and grunting at how tight you were around him despite how many times you’d been intimate before and all of the (admittedly rushed) preparation you’d done

slamming his hips roughly against your ass in such a way that that lingering coherent part of yourself knew that you’d be bruised and unable to sit by the time he was sated

practically using you as a glorified cocksleeve whilst letting out a string of pants, cusses, groans, grunts, and moans — only occasionally interspersing a half-slurred, half-howled cry of your name whenever he crashed through another orgasm

cumming inside of you again, and again, and again, until you were filled to the brim with his seed and even then not stopping — too far gone to care about the masses of cum leaking from your spent hole, dripping down the backs of your thighs, and falling to the floor to form a puddle you were getting closer and closer to collapsing onto by the minute (nor even seeming to notice the smears of his release staining the fur around his crotch as he kept on fucking into you)

turning you into a dumb, thoughtless mess beneath him as he continued to use you — smaller and more fragile than him, only knowing how to take his cock and cry out like a slut, mouth hung agape and eyes fluttering closed as you moaned, and whimpered, and groaned, and grunted, and called out for him until your throat was raw and your voice hoarse, and even after that

you really were a mess: covered in sweat from head to toe, with paw shaped bruises sure to form on your thighs and hips where he’d grabbed and groped you, saliva smeared across your face and tears of overstimulation pouring from your eyes, his cum practically pouring from your ass, and your own seed smeared across your stomach and thighs as you whimpered and sobbed your way through yet another orgasm

too much, too much, too much, and yet you were unable to think of anything but him and how fucking good it felt to have him on and inside of you

to get manhandled, tossed around, used and fucked until you were his dumb ‘breeding’ bitch (or so he’d called you in his breeding season fuelled haze) — how good it felt to be used and allowed to be thoughtless and dumb and blank

and even if it was starting to hurt now — the stretch, the throbbing, the grabbing — you couldn’t find it in yourself to complain (not even if you could think anything about it) as you knew that once barnaby came out the other side and the haze cleared that you’d be receiving the best aftercare you’d ever known

a reward in the form of rest and good food and cuddles for being such an attentive boyfriend

… that small coherent part of you just hoped that this heat wouldn’t last too long because the bottle you’d brought was almost empty and neither of you were in any position to go out and get a refill

[androgynous-sack-of-flesh-3]

Hatchetfield OC Week Day 5: Home (TW: Child Abuse)

Sam is eating lunch at home with his family. His legs are killing him, but ze doesn't mind. Ze's used to it.

He hears vacuuming, and ze winces. The vacuum was always way too loud. So when his mom tells him to go clean the attic, ze obeys.

~~~~~

Sam wakes up from his little trip throughout the timelines, and immediately hears his mom climbing up the steps. Ze quickly hides the Black Books out of sight, but doesn't manage to do much else before she comes in.

"So you've just been doing nothing this whole time?" she sneers. Her tone is angry. Sam knows there is no reasoning with her.

"Huh? Answer me." She yells angrily.

"~I~"

She walks up to him and slaps him in the face. "Don't fucking talk back to me," she hisses.

She walks away, and Sam thinks ze might get off with that, but then she spins back around. "Faster! Faster! FASTER!" she screams, each with a kick into Sam's lower back.

Apparently Sam isn't doing it fast enough for her liking (it's kind of hard to do so when all of this is happening), because she yanks him by the hair, and whispers in his ear to run.

Ze runs out of the attic, but doesn't get very far before his mom screeches "Come back running!" And so the cycle repeats; him running up and down the hall. He doesn't know how long this is for; it feels like eternity, but it's probably only a minute.

Eventually, she tells Sam to stop. "Now you know what it feels like to be fast. Quickly finish cleaning the attic."

Samm is crying at this point, and it would be full-blown sobbing except for the fact that, well–

"Are you fucking crying?! Boo hoo hoo motherfucker, get over it! Stop or I'm gonna give you something to cry about!" she says, kicking him in the shin.

Sam stops, but it's really hard to stop sniffling, so he holds his nose, breathes through his mouth, and waits until she leaves.

After she leaves, Sam tries to finish cleaning the attic, but it's really hard when you're chest is aching from not being able to cry and you have so much anxiety that she will come back and hurt you.

Sam remembers all the times when Mom had taken him, as a little kid, to all the sorts of fun stuff in the world. Ze remembers when Mom wasn't angry. Ze knew it was probably just a bad day for her, but that shouldn't make it his problem.

Ze's not gonna even ask where Dad is, because he knows full damn well Dad would support this. After all, he was raised like this too. Sam wonders how ze ever got here, and why ze would have to go through this.

And then Sam remembers Pokotho.

Wasn't that guy supposed to help him with his home life? Ze summons him, just to make sure.

Immediately, a calmness washes over him, and for once he doesn't fight back. The blue box is back, sitting right in front of him.

I'm so sorry, my child, I was being summoned elsewhere. What is it you need?

Sam tries to talk, but just starts crying.

Oh, my poor child. I have a plan. Run to the bathroom, and cry there, away from the pain and sorrows of the world. I will tell you more then.

Sam doesn't twice, and runs to the bathroom as told. He manages to lock the door before his mom starts banging on it, yelling at him insult after insult. She doesn't manage to break the door lock however (although it's rather flimsy), because of a knock on the front door. Presumably, she goes to answer it.

Meanwhile, Sam is crying, crying, crying. Ze's never been able to cry normally, his tears coming out silently as the only sound he makes are small sniffles. Ze swears ze can feel a soothing hand on his back, and ze keeps crying.

Pokotho may be comforting zem, but he only says one thing.

The tears will make us stronger.

*is the author* sorry you have to go through that, sam. 😞

okay but for serious: most of this was actually very therapeutic to write? because it's mostly my experiences??

also just to be clear: ze's toning it down because he knows if he realizes the true impact of everything his facade will fall apart (or something like that it's hard to put into words)

@hatchetfieldocweek

[oikadori]

a/n: not me crying at 2am about an Oikawa edit, that was my twin sister not me at all...this is totally self indulgent so uhm...yeah. Hope you enjoy it tho!!

edit: i'm so sorry for reposting again but i really feel that the best exposure is int the first hours let's hope this time it stays 😔

Oikawa Tooru x fReader

Summary: in which you are tired of hearing how is never enough for Oikawa Tooru.

Genre: angst, fluffy end tho, established relationship

Now playing ⊳ King by Lauren Aquilina ; Next to me by Imagine Dragons

WC~2k

It had become part of your routine at this point, sitting on the couch for hours, staring bluntly at some program as you wait for your boyfriend to come home.

It was not the passion he has for volleyball that has you on a gloomy mood today. It was  not falling asleep on an empty bed as you heard the sounds of balls hitting the wooden floor coming from the speakers of his laptop in the living room, and it was not how  your throat becomes dry after you begged him to sleep.

But you were tired, that is the only way to express it, tired of feeling your heart clench at the way he neglects himself, at this point you didn’t even care if he neglected you, which wasn’t the case, but him.

Your phone always got texts from him, asking if you had breakfast, if you had lunch or simply saying a hello. He called you before coming home offering you to bring some sweet from that store you liked so much. But, when you asked him if he had a good lunch, those tests always seemed to get lost in his inbox.

Oikawa always gave you a smile as the same words came out of the lips that kissed you every morning.

“Don’t you want me to be the best, my love?”

That simple phrase always seemed to wrap your heart in a death cold no matter the sweetness in his tone, they made impossible for you to come with an argument that would make Oikawa’s stubborn head understand. Understand that he was slowly tearing himself up and hurting you in the process.  

However, none of that is what had you sitting on the couch right now, arms crossed over your chest and lips pressed together, but as soon as Oikawa crossed the door, he knew the exact reason.

“Y/N-chan? I thought you were going out with your friends today”, he drops the bag on the ground, the keys of your shared apartment hitting the floor in the process, “Shit”

Your eyes are trained on the way his face contorts as he reaches for the keys, making your heart sink.

“Anyways, how are you, cutie?”, Oikawa stands in his full height before displaying a closed-eye smile at you.

However, his trademark grin fades as he sees your brows furrowing together, the air suddenly charging with the accumulated tension.

“Is there something w–“

“You tell me”, when you look at his knee with inquiring eyes, Oikawa blinks before turning his face away from you.

“It is nothing”, his mouth twitches down, “I’m fine”

‘no you are not’

His answer only makes you sigh loudly as your mind goes back to the early hours of today, the scene that made your chest sting popping out.

Oikawa had kissed your forehead like every other  morning before mumbling a brief goodbye, he chuckled lightly at the way you babbled some sort of greet and  he walked to the door like every other day but he failed to notice how your eyes opened and gazed at him.

His eyes widened as he felt the burn on his right leg, not knowing you were watching in horror the way his knee falters, causing his leg to tremble before giving in to gravity. He held onto the handle tightly, gritting his teeth to capture the whine that threatened your sleep. However, when he turned around, he founded your half-closed eyes fixated on him, but before you could say anything, he rushed away hoping your mind was clouded enough with tiredness to forget about it.

“How long?”, you ask, standing up slowly and moving towards him.

“I don’t know, what–”

“When started hurting this bad?”

His gaze fixes on the ground, his fists clamp together, annoyance bubbling up in his stomach. He knows what’s coming, he has heard that discourse way too many times to not know how this conversation will go.

“Since always Y/N!”, he cries out almost in pain, his hair moving violently matching with his gestures, the gap in your mouth mirrors the shock in you.

“You need a break Tooru…”

“So they can found someone better? No, thank you”, he lets out a dry laugh as he looks down at you.

“What is the point if you end up not being able to walk without limping??!!”, your voice falters at the end as you picture him holding onto the handle for stability, “You are out of control…”

Oikawa’s nails dig into his palm as he frowns, eyes narrowing at you with dangerous intensity.

“As if you knew…” , the sharpness in his voice makes nothing but press the wound in your heart furthermore.

“Of course, I know, damn it! Tooru you are barely sleeping! I don’t know if you’re even eating properly since we almost never have any meal together!”

And then as if your words had hit the right nerve inside the setter, Oikawa snaps, the look he shoots at you makes your movements halt and your voice dissolves into silence. He was tired and frustrated but ultimately scared and the fact you couldn’t see how scared he was, only frustrates him more.

“No, you don’t know a fucking thing! I need to get better!!”

“Tooru you are their regular setter already!”, you scream at him your face getting red with anger as your tone fades into a bare whisper, “Nothing is enough for you, isn’t it?!”

Oikawa knew that the question itself wasn’t entirely related to his volleyball career. The pleading look you give him and the tremble in your lips tells him that you are not only referring to the all the medals and recognitions but about your relationship itself.

You were asking him if you weren’t enough for him…And maybe you weren’t.

“No!”, the word comes out rushed, his thoughts getting more and more clouded by frustration. You grit your teeth when Oikawa places a hand on his forehead as if he had a bad headache, as if you were the cause of the annoying hammering,

“You are so selfish…can’t you see all what you ha–”, your voice comes in low hiss and before you can finish he lets out a loud groan as the keys in his hand fly across the room landing with a loud thud against your living room table, making you flinch.

“Why can you just let me do what I have to? Is it too much for your head to understand?!”, he shouts, and you feel a sting in your chest, your eyes almost seem to fall from your face and your breath stops as you see how your boyfriend’s face contorts in malice.

“I could pick any of those girls who wait for me after the matches, you know?  I could have any of them and they wouldn’t be as half as annoying as you!”

Oikawa’s chocolate orbits are piercing at you in anticipation when he catches the redness saturating your eyes, causing his heart to drop to the ground.

“I–“

“Go, pick a nobody who only wants to fuck with you,” you try your best to not flinch, but the venom in his words make a silent tear to roll down your cheek, “because I’m not staying to watch how you destroy yourself”

You walk past him, brushing his shoulder roughly, your steps to the door are so fast, he doesn’t get a chance to even try to reach for your hand.

The slam of the door makes a feeling of anguish settle on his chest. His feet move subconsciously to the door when a loud groan leave his lips, the pain on his knee makes his whole body shiver as he falls apart a meter away of the handle.

“Shit, shit, shit”, he whines as he manages to move his body until his back is leaning against the door, his hand travels to his pocket, desperately pulling out his phone, a pout cross his features when your name pops on his recent calls. The phone rings and rings but no answer comes, when the small device turns off, he feels himself growing numb.

And the minutes turn into hours, the night wrapping the city as Oikawa rests against the door.

Oikawa had never felt this desperate, the pain in his knee is unnoticeable compared to the ache swelling in his chest. One call, one message, anything that would let him know that you are safe, that is all he needs right now.

“What did you do for her to stay with you?”, Iwaizumi’ words ring in his ears, “You are lucky Oikawa”

He was lucky indeed, his head drops to the back, hitting the wood, his breath falters as tears stream down his face until they turn into uncontrollable sobs, the sting on his knee and the guilt mixing painfully together.

Suddenly, the door pushes his body to the side, hitting the back of his head causing him to grunt.

“Tooru?”, his eyes widen, he turns immediately to encounter your still glassy eyes gazing down at him in confusion, “What are you doing on the floor?”

Your voice is stoic however it is music for Oikawa’s ears, he quickly brushes the tears away from his face as he tries to stand up, a hiss slipping his throat.

“Oh god, Tooru!”, you quickly leave the store bag you are carrying and bend down to support him, “I bought some–

“I’M SO SORRY Y/N!! I-I DIDN’T MEAN TO–“, he groans as you try to lift him up but your small figure can’t do much to move the former captain of Seijoh, so you just drop him carefully back on the floor and kneel in front of him, “P-Please don’t leave…”

Your silence makes his heartbeat pace faster and he grabs your hands tightly, his gaze fixes on yours and you notice the fear his orbits hold. You have never seen him this vulnerable and your eyes don’t fail to show your surprise.

“Please don’t leave me Y/N-chan“, your lips press softly over his own before he says anything else, Oikawa’s brows furrow together as he squeezes your hands gently, sighing, relived.

“You should get someone better–”, he says,

“You are probably right”, you sigh, “you did hurt me, but– I guess I just love you that much”, he loses himself in the softness of your voice and tears threaten to come out again.

“I truly admire how hard you work but you have to take care of yourself Tooru–“,his glassy eyes look at you, still not able to believe you’re here, next to him, you bit your lip before cupping his cheek, “–you might not be the king of volleyball yet, but for what it is worth, you’re the king to me”

You blush violently but not even as close as the flustered red that tints Oikawa’s features, he leans in hesitantly to claim your lips and you both melt in the kiss.

He never thought such words would made him feel so complete and he realizes that all he ever needed was you by his side.

“Not gonna lie, I was hoping you’d say, ‘you are the king of my heart’ or something like that”

“I-Can’t you just take the stupid compliment?”, he chuckles with a husky tone but suddenly stops, he places a hand on your cheek his thumb making soothing circles over your flushed skin.

“Thank you”

“Uh?”

“For giving me another chance”, your knees start to sore from kneeling on the floor but you can’t move as his chocolates eyes stare into your own brimming with emotion, “I love you so much, I’m so sorry Y/N”

“If so, stop overworking yourself, okay?”

Your fingers tangle with his brown locks as he whispers a silent yes, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping your torso tightly as if he was still scared you fade away.  

Oikawa doesn’t  have a  throne, but he’ll proudly wear the title you gave him, and he’ll do his best the be worthy of the crown that comes with it.

❀ Please reblog if you like it! ❀

Thanks for reading ♡♡♡

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Hot wax with any ocs?

This is an old prompt that I've been sitting on for a while. :') I'm not even 100% sure which prompt list it's from but I THINK it's this one.

Author's note....any time I need to do something really weird and obscure to Shae I'm just going to deem him an ingredient in a spell :') How does he survive? Don't ask me, I'm just a dumb writer.

CW: tiny whumpee, hot wax, heat whump, burned, torture sorta, witchcraft, 'it' as a pronoun, cruel whumper

----

"Is it tied on?"

"Yes...are you sure about this?"

"The spellbook calls for it." The young witch holds her book up. "Besides, they curse people. You don't want that, right?"

"No," the other witch retorts quickly. "Is the wax ready?"

"Mmm...almost. There are some little bits at the bottom."

Shae stirs with a weak little sound. He can smell something sweet in the air and can feel heat radiating from not far away. His head pounds from the impact earlier of being knocked out with a sandal.

When he tries to move his arms or legs...he can't.

He's bound with his legs pressed together, his wings pressed to his back, and his arms at his sides. He's fastened securely with his back up against something thin and flexible and a couple inches taller than him. His feet rest against something round and metal that is attached to the tall thin thing.

"Oh - it's awake!"

The witch who tied him up lifts the top end of the wick, dangling the groggy fairy in front of her and her friends' faces. Shae looks between them fearfully.

"Please don't hurt me," he begs.

The first witch looks alarmed, but the other, more experienced one is undeterred.

"Don't listen. They're manipulators. Besides, the wax is ready."

"I - I don't know..." she glances at the pot sitting on the stove, full of a thick, semi-translucent yellowish liquid.

Shae sees the liquid and the stove and hears wax and thinks his heart might stop right there.

"Fine. I'll do it."

The other witch takes the end of the wick and moves it so quickly to dangle over the pot that it makes Shae's head spin. For a moment he thinks, hopes, he's about to pass out again...but he's not so lucky.

Mere inches over the pot and the smell of the wax is suffocating, the heat sweltering. He squirms in the strings that bind him and whimpers out pleas for mercy.

"Please - please don't - don't do this to me, please -"

"You can't trick us, little fae. We've been studying you."

"Please," he sobs. He stares down at the wax with a knot in the pit of his stomach. At least knock me out first, he wants to beg, but words catch in his throat when he begins to lower down slowly.

"You want to keep it straight up and down, like this," the witch is saying, "so the wax will coat evenly. It will take a few coats - "

no no no no no nO NO NO NO NO NO NO

Shae begins to hyperventilate and tremble violently. He doesn't want to see this happen but he can't look away. He gets lower and lower. The air around him gets thicker and hotter...

Whether he is dipped in fast or slow, it doesn't matter. It feels like an eternity from the moment the scalding liquid touches the bare tips of his tiny toes. He thrashes and wails up to the ceiling and begins a new string of desperate pleas and cries.

Down he goes - the blinding heat engulfing his legs, his hips, weighing down his clothes so they cling to his body. Then his stomach, his chest, each touch of it burning as badly as the last.

The pain steals the breath from him; instead of screams, he merely gasps for air and wheezes out pained sounds. His eyes flutter, his head feels heavy, but somehow he isn't granted the mercy of unconsciousness.

Just before his head goes under he manages to squeeze his eyes shut and close his mouth. As the piping-hot liquid covers him up to the top of his head, he lets out a muffled scream through pressed-together lips before finally blacking out.

The witch is true to her word - she coats the little fairy three more times, until he's barely visible through the wax.

While he's set aside for the wax to cool, Shae drifts awake then back under, into consciousness and out, heavy and weak and sick. In the brief moments of awareness he feels stiff. Sore. Aching. Feverish.

Terrified.

All he can do now is hope he won't be awake to see what happens next.

----

If there's interest I might write a little followup...either the spell, or some sort of rescue, or both?

[tomurasprincess]

quote #41 with dabi and prompt # 15 -hi it be raph and i’m dancing like a crazy rn,,, can’t wait to see what you come up with mari 💜

Pairing: Dabi x Reader Quote: Maybe I should leave you like this, that way anyone who wanted to use you could have a go with you. Would you like that? Word; Aphrodisiac Warnings: Noncon, aphrodisiac, drugging, fisting, anal sex, double penetration, overstimulation, multiple forced orgasms, bondage, yandere Note: OMG Raph, I am so sorry that this took forever to write but I knew I wanted to make it really good. Hopefully I succeeded...because this is certainly some fierce thirsty energy right here 🥵 And yes, there is some massive sequel bait at the end.

Prompt Masterlist

You stop your frenzied run through the back alleys of your patrol route in order to double over in pain, grabbing at your stomach as more cramps overtake you.

You don’t know what happened, only that you somehow got dosed with a powerful aphrodisiac that’s ravaging through your bloodstream. Your pupils are blown wide open, sweat is pouring down your body, and you can feel your pussy almost soaking through your hero suit pants. You know you have to get away, and quick, before anyone discovers your predicament.

And that was when the villain, Dabi, showed up. Whether he planned it or not, you’re unsure. But you do know that he intends to take advantage of it. He’s been following you for a while now, but has made no move to capture you. Atl least not yet. In fact, he seems like he’s having fun chasing the drugged up hero through the streets, and you worry about what that means for your chances of escape.

You know you have to keep moving, find someone who can help you. But as your lower stomach tightens in the most powerful cramp you’ve had yet, you can’t hold back the pained whine that echoes all the way through the tight confines of the alley.

That’s when you hear the laughter of Dabi, who has chosen this moment to catch up with you.

You turn around, fear turning your blood into pure ice as you meet his eyes. He’s smirking at you as he casually leans against a wall, acting for all the world like he hasn’t been chasing you for hours.

You try to shove yourself up from the wall to begin running again, only for Dabi to slam a hand on the wall right beside your head. Your head is spinning so much that you didn’t even see him move towards you.

“Don’t you dare fucking try it. You know you can’t outrun me.” He glances down at the obvious wet spot on your crotch. “Although at this point, you probably don’t even want to, do you?”

He dips his finger into the slick and brings it up to his mouth, staring at you as he licks his finger clean. “You taste so good, sweetheart.”

“Please - just let me go,” you whisper quietly, too afraid to worry about your pride, and your mind too hazy to think of any other way out of this. “I won’t tell anyone about where you are, just please let me go.”

His palm lights up with blue fire as he raises it towards you, and you close your eyes and brace for the burning. But instead, you feel heat pressed against your body and hear the ripping sound of your hero suit being torn down the middle. Your eyes fly open to see that he singed your costume just enough to make it easy to peel you out of it, and he laughs at your shocked gaze.

“You didn’t actually think I was going to let you go, did you? I have you right where I want you.” He shoves you face first against the wall as he plunges two fingers inside of you, grazing a spot against your inner walls that has you instantly cumming around his fingers. Shame makes your face heat up, a tear running down the side of your face that you’re getting off from being violated in a dirty back alley by a villain.

“Such a fucking slut, already cumming from just this.” He adds in a third as your pussy still convulses with your orgasm, your inner walls seeming to suck them even deeper inside of you. “You’re so damned wet that it’s easy to slip right in.”

Your fingers dig hard against the brick wall in an attempt to ground yourself, trying to let the pain distract from the fire burning through you. But it does nothing, and you cum again when he forces a fourth inside of you. The stretch of it burns to the point of pain, but even that feels amazing.

“Too much,” you whine, “it’s too much.”

“Nah, I think you can take more,” he snickers as his thumb ghosts across your entrance. He ignores your whimpers as he pushes his thumb past the tight outer ring of muscles. Your world narrows down to only the feeling of him working his hand inside of you, pain and pleasure all mixing into one and leaving you lightheaded and panting.

You feel so stretched out, so impossibly full, and his hand isn’t even all the way inside of you. This shouldn’t feel good, you think to yourself, you should be horrified. But as his hand slowly disappears inside of you, inch by agonizingly slow inch, you can’t stop yourself from feeling the intense pleasure. You orgasm two more times before his hand is grazing your cervix.

He removes his hand suddenly, and you hear the sounds of clicking. It takes you a second to place the noise, but when you do, you feel yourself go hot with complete and total shame.

“What is it, doll? Don’t like me taking pictures?” He snickers darkly as he pushes his hand back inside of your dripping, aching cunt. “The sight of that gaping little cunt was too much for me to resist.”

Your gasps and whines as he fits his hand back in are embarrassingly loud as they echo through the alley, and you can feel your juices gushing out and dipping to the pavement below. When he straightens his fingers out as he strokes the inner walls of your pussy, your vision goes white as you squirt everywhere, only managing to remain standing by clinging to the wall.

“Fuck yes, doll, god that was so fucking hot,” he praises you as he unzips his pants. “You better be glad you’re so damned wet, because I intend to fuck this little ass of yours too.”

He gathers your slick on his other hand, using it to pump his painfully hard cock as he guides it to the entrance of your asshole. “No no no, please, you can’t, it’s too much,” you beg and plead in sheer panic, but he ignores you completely as he begins to push inside of you.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” you babble as you feel his cock stretching out the walls of your ass. You orgasm again as his fist and cock press against each other through the thin barrier of muscles separating them. “So - so full,” you whine as you reach between your legs to continue to stroke your aching clit. Despite how many orgasms you’ve already had, the drug is still raging through your system and you still can’t get enough.

“That drug really is strong, isn’t it? Hahh, fuck, look at how much of a fucking whore you are.” Dabi snorts as he smacks your ass, causing you to clench down and drawing a deep groan from the both of you. “Fist in your pussy, thick cock filling up your ass, and you’re still rubbing that little clit of yours like a bitch in heat.”

His hand thrusts inside of you in time with his cock, and you’re only staying upright because of the wall you’re leaning up against. “Please stop,” you sob to the man ravaging your body, “too much, it’s so - oh fuck!” Your next orgasm rips through you, and it’s almost painful in its sheer intensity.

Dabi increases his pace, balls slamming against your ass with every thrust as his fist continues to work your insides, and he hisses out a curse when he feels you tighten around him again. “Not going to last, holy fuck, this ass feels too fucking good,” he grabs your hip with one hand as he slams balls deep inside of your aching ass, releasing thick ropes of cum.

He fucks you through his orgasm before finally pulling out with a choked gasp when the sensitivity becomes too much, and you glance down to see the mess dripping out of you and coating the pavement. You don’t think you even have the energy to cry, at least until you feel a handcuff going around your wrist and snapping closed against a nearby pipe connected to the wall.

Dabi’s face breaks out into a smirk at your confused face. “Maybe I should leave you like this, that way anyone who wanted to use you could have a go with you. Would you like that?”

“No, please don’t leave me like this!” You pull hard at the handcuff, but there’s no give to the metal and it’s cinched too tightly around your wrist to be able to slip out. “Oh fuck, no,” you sob out as you allow your head to fall back against the wall as that terrible, horrible lust is boiling back up, forcing you to rub your thighs together to try and relieve it.

When you open your eyes, Dabi is gone, and you don’t know whether to feel relieved by that or panicked. But then you hear the footsteps approaching where you’re chained, and you feel a hesitant sort of hopefulness that someone is here to rescue you.

That hesitancy goes away completely when you see who it is, and you just know that everything is going to be okay now.

“Are you here to save me?” You whisper quietly as you look up at the winged hero, Hawks with pleading, tear stained eyes. He’s going to save you, you just know it. He’s a hero, right? Of course he would help an innocent civilian after they’ve been violated in a dirty back alley by a villain.

But your heart sinks into your chest, despair filling every fiber of your being as you see Hawks reaching for his pants as the distinct sound of a belt unbuckling echoes through the alleyway.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

Tags: @trafalgar-temptress, @thewheezingwyvern, @vixen-scribbles, @ttamaki, @lildreamer93, @kittygonyan, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @daedaep69, @heyybrittannia, @groovydreamertrash, @chou-maitresse, @shoutogepi, @togasknifes, @kingtamakimurder, @shigaraki-is-my-master, @kittycatkrissa, @reinawritesbnha, @yanderart, @dabilove27, @fae-father, @anxietyplusultra, @flutterfalla, @angmarwitch, @nereida19, @dabis-kitten, @bakugos-cumsock, @yumeneji, 

[myaimistrue]

part two of the fic for my content creator celebration! in this one, cas uses bobby’s story to take care of five year old jack <3 

read part one here (you probably wanna read that first if you haven’t)

read the whole thing on ao3 here

Cas always pays close attention to his son. Jack is at the age where he wants to get into everything, where the whole world feels like it belongs to him and him alone (a common phase for children that seems to have only been exacerbated by Jack’s brief stint as God), so he spends a lot of time exploring their backyard and asking questions and pushing boundaries. Cas understands all of this—he’s read about it in many parenting books—and is always careful to keep an eye on Jack. So he is watching Jack play with legos on the back porch through the window, and he is perfectly able to see the precise moment Jack jumps to his feet to chase a butterfly into the yard, exactly how he goes tumbling down the porch steps without anything there to stop him.

“Daddy!” Jack is already wailing by the time Cas scoops him up in his arms, frantically searching his son for injuries. His knees are bleeding, and his little hands have gone raw at the bottom of the palms; Cas’s stomach twists at the sight of his son’s blood. “It hurts.”

“I know, honey, I know,” Cas says, carrying Jack into the house as quickly as he can. Realistically, he knows that though Jack has been hurt far worse in his life and that this kind of injury is typical for young children anyway, but some instinct within him cries out in fear and worry at the sound of Jack’s sobs.

Cas sits him down in one of the kitchen table chairs and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Stay right here, okay, Jack? I’m going to get something that’ll make you feel better.”

Jack only cries harder, so Cas moves quickly, digging out their first aid kit from the mess that is the pantry and laying it on the table. He mops up the worst of the blood before pulling out a small tube of antibiotic cream.

“This might hurt,” Cas says gently. “But I’ll be quick.”

“No,” Jack sobs. “No, don’t do it if it’s gonna hurt!”

Again, Cas’s heart twinges. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

That only seems to make it worse, and Jack’s crying reaches a fever pitch. Cas feels frantic panic rise up in him—Dean has always been better at this part, has always known how to soothe, how to turn Jack’s tears into laughter into just minutes. Cas wishes desperately that Dean would get back from the store, but it twists uncomfortably in his gut to picture what he’ll find: a hurt, crying child and a husband still too inhuman to know how to comfort anybody. Even at his gruffest, Dean naturally knows how to take care of the people he loves, something Cas still struggles with; he always makes Cas think of Bobby, the rough gentleness he would have about him as he patched Cas up and poured him a glass of terrible whisky.

And then Cas knows exactly what to do.

“Jack, how about this?” He says. “If you try to take a few deep breaths, I’m going to give you permission to do something me and Dee never let you do.”

Jack’s sobbing slows slightly. “W—what?”

“Take a deep breath with me, and I’ll tell you.” Cas inhales, long and slow, and Jack does the same, still sniffling and hiccupping as his crying slows to almost a complete stop.

“Good job, Jack.” Cas smiles fondly and smooths some of his son’s hair back from his forehead. “Now, I’m going to get you cleaned up and put some band-aids on. It’ll hurt. But,” Cas grins in spite of himself. “But, while I’m doing that, you’re allowed to say bad words.”

“Really?” Jack’s eyes go almost comically wide. He always wants to curse—it’s a holdover, Cas thinks, from his time as a sort-of-adult—and Dean and Cas have had to have many conversations with him about appropriate language for little children. “I can? You won’t tell Dee?”

“It’ll be our secret,” Cas says, winking. Jack giggles.

He starts dabbing the antibiotic cream on the cuts before there can be any more discussion, hoping that will be the best way to handle it. Jack’s face screws up in discomfort, and with the utmost conviction, he says, “Dammit, Daddy!”

Cas is almost surprised by the fullness and joyfulness of the laugh that punches out of him at that. He loves his son so much it hurts, a pleasant ache behind his ribs. “Exactly, Jack. Just like that.”

It doesn’t take long to patch him up, after that. Jack takes delight in cursing, going as far as a single “fuck” that sets him off into hysterical giggles. By the time Cas is done, Jack is smiling brightly and swinging his legs back and forth.

“Can I go back to my legos, Daddy?” he asks excitedly, all the tears and pain apparently forgotten. “I didn’t get to finish with my town. They’re having a talent show ‘n I gotta make sure it goes good.”

“Stay on the porch where I can see you from the window,” Cas says as he repacks the first aid kit. “And dinner will be ready soon.”

“Okay!” Jack hops down off the chair and zooms away, tossing a “Hi, Dee!” over his shoulder as he heads outside.

Cas glances at the doorway, and sure enough, Dean’s hulking an absurd amount of grocery bags into the kitchen. He dumps them all into a heap on the table and grins triumphantly at Cas.

“You know you could just ask for help,” Cas says, exasperated.

“It’s a matter of pride, sweetheart.” Dean presses an obnoxious, smacking kiss to Cas’s cheek, and Cas rolls his eyes but smiles anyway as he returns the first aid kit to its proper place.

“Woah, everybody alright?” Dean asks, eyes catching on the white and red case Donna bought them as a housewarming gift (“former angel, hunter, and God, or not, everybody needs a first aid kit!”)

“Jack fell down the back stairs earlier. He skinned his hands and knees,” Cas says. He looks at Dean, then folds himself into his arms—he wants to feel Dean’s steady warmth, and he can now if he wants; it’s been a while, but Cas isn’t sure he’ll ever get over the wonder of having Dean as his husband. “He was crying, but I managed to distract him enough to get him patched up.”

Dean hums as he runs a hand up and down Cas’s back. “Yeah? What’d you do?”

“Something Bobby taught me,” Cas says. He thinks of that night by Dean’s bedside, of the quiet hush in which Cas felt so much younger, somehow, than Bobby sitting beside him.

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice has gone heavy, the way it often does when talking about someone they grieve. “What was it?”

Cas smiles to himself. “I told Jack he could say any swear words he wanted.”

Dean starts to laugh, and Cas feels the vibrations of it through the entirety of his body. He thinks that if he still had his grace, he would feel it singing in joy at the sensation. “Oh, Jesus. I forgot about that.”

“Me too. But then Jack was so upset, and I couldn’t get him to calm down, and I remembered Bobby telling me that story.” Cas pulls back but tangles their hands together, because he always wants to be touching Dean. He glances to make sure Jack is still safely playing on the porch, then back at Dean. “It feels like so long ago.”

“It was,” Dean says. He squeezes Cas’s hand, and he looks a little sad, thinking about Bobby. But around that, there’s a comfortableness, a contentedness, that Cas has only recently seen in Dean’s eyes; it makes him smile. “Never woulda guessed back then that we’d have a kid of our own.”

“Me neither.” Without intending to, they both pivot to look at Jack, at his solemn focus as he rebuilds a lego tower. That feeling of home, of safety and warmth, suffuses Cas from head to toe. It occurs to him that the first time he ever felt that was in Bobby’s house, watching the boys goof around and laughing at them with Bobby. Cas thinks of him, wherever he is, with Karen and Rufus and all the people he’s loved, and for the first time in a very long time, Cas prays—for peace, for love, for comfort and safety. For home.

[hercleverboy]

butterflies

spencer reid x reader

summary ↠ the reader is wrongly accused of murder. spencer doesn’t believe she’s innocent.

category ↠ angst

warnings/includes ↠ wrongful conviction, imprisonment.

word count ↠ 4.3k

“But he, that dares not grasp the thorn, should never crave the rose.” — Anne Brontë

Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?

They say that a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today can result in a devastating hurricane weeks from now. Every decision we make leads us to an array of new paths that we wouldn’t have had we chosen the other option. Every choice we make opens a hundred new doors up for you, but closes a hundred doors behind you.

Y/N liked to think that her meeting Spencer Reid was meant to be.

How else could she explain that her making the last minute decision to stop for coffee on the way to work led to her meeting the most important person in her life? If she’d decided to head straight to work like she was meant to, she may never have met the pretty genius with eyes like honey. 

Y/N wasn’t a big believer. Not in miracles, not in a higher power. But she did believe in the universe, that she was meant to meet Spencer and they were meant to be in one another’s lives.

They were the best of friends. Of course, as every love story goes, Y/N always craved more. She wanted to wake up to Spencer on Sunday mornings, she wanted to have cute dinner dates and autumn walks through the park hand in hand. She would stay up late wondering if their relationship would work, with him being gone a lot of the time. While the two had very different jobs, Y/N being the head of a publishing company, she was always understanding of his schedule. In all honesty, her love wasn’t unrequited. Spencer had wanted the same thing, but he too feared rejection from his best friend. 

As humans, we tend not to admit our feelings to those we like through fear of rejection. Its pure human instinct, to protect ourselves from harm. For that reason, Y/N never told Spencer how she felt. She figured that it confessing her feelings wasn’t worth the risk of losing him from her life altogether, so she said nothing. 

That would prove to be her first mistake. 

Loud banging on her front door awoke her from her sleep with a jolt. She squinted her eyes open, letting them adjust to the darkness as she woke. Her ears picked up on the sound of voices coming from behind her front door, the loud calls rattling through her tiny apartment. She strained her ears to hear what they were saying, still half asleep. 

“Y/N Y/L/N? This is the FBI, open up.” 

At first she thought it was some kind of joke. She knew Spencer worked for the BAU, and figured this was likely some sort of prank. Not that Spencer was ever one for practical jokes, but he always managed to surprise her. She pulled herself up from the bed with a groan, grabbing the cardigan she’d tossed on the floor to cover herself, as she was only in the top and shorts she wore to bed. Just as she had begun to walk towards the front door, in bust down in front of her, a loud yelp leaving her in response. The first two faces she sees she recognises. Derek Morgan and David Rossi, Spencer’s co-workers. She’d met them once or twice before and got along with them all well. 

She was about to ask what was going on when she noticed that the two men had guns pointed at her. She locked eyes with Derek, as the fear and realisation that this definitely wasn’t a prank set in. She felt frozen to the spot, her breathing picking up and tears welling in her eyes.

“What- What’s happening?” She mumbled out. She couldn’t comprehend what was happening. The FBI had stormed her apartment, and now they pointing weapons at her - as if she was dangerous. 

Derek and Rossi shared a look, before Derek put his gun back in the holster. “Are you going to come willingly? Or do we have to do this the hard way?” He asked, and Y/N noticed how he spoke so calmly. It made her feel sick. Why was he speaking to her like she was an unsub, a criminal, like she would hurt them given the chance. 

When Y/N didn’t speak or move, paralysed by confusion and fear, he moved toward her, and she could hear the clinking of metal as he reached for her hands, pinning them behind her back and cuffing her tightly. “Y/N Y/L/N. We’re arresting you under suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything-” 

It was as if up until that point things had been moving in slow motion for Y/N, and then all of a sudden everything went back to full speed. She attempted to turn to face Derek as he led her out of the building. She was shaking her head profusely. “I didn’t- I didn’t do anything just please-”. Her thoughts were so jumbled that she struggled to string together a coherent sentence. 

Derek didn’t speak, remaining stoic with his expression as they walked through the doors of the apartment building. Outside were numerous police cars, the blue and red lights flashing. The dirty looks that officers were giving her as she was pulled towards the police car made her feel incredibly nauseous. She wanted to scream, to beg and plead. 

‘Please! Please, I’m not a criminal- I’m not capable of murder, please. It wasn’t me!’

Everything was happening so quickly. 

Derek opened up the car door, pushing her to sit in the seat. she looked at him with pleading eyes as her breathing picked up, panic setting in. “Derek, Derek please. I didn’t do anything. Get Spencer, he’ll- he’ll tell you it wasn’t me.” 

Derek looked almost torn as he looked back at the begging girl, who seemed so genuine and kind that he almost couldn’t believe she was guilty. They’d met a few times when Spencer had invited Y/N along to the BAU’s nights out, and he was actually quite fond of her.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. But Reid’s the one who told us to bring you in.” He sighed, before slamming shut the door. The look of defeat on Y/N’s face was heartbreaking. She felt her chest start to restrict as sobs began to rip through her, her whole body shaking as she cried. 

*

She’d been sat in the interrogation room for what felt like hours but she knew in reality it had likely only been a matter of minutes. They’d sent Derek in to interrogate her first, but he hadn’t been able to get much from her. She insisted she was home on the days the murders happened, but had no one that could prove her alibi. She stared dead ahead at the wall before her, her face drained of colour and hands shaking from where they were now cuffed in front of her. She still couldn’t think, couldn’t wrap her brain around everything. She felt so numb, the words Derek had said swimming around in her head like a mantra. 

“Reid’s the one who told us to bring you in.”

Her eyes drifted to the two way mirror on the wall, where she knew that the team - Spencer - were watching her. 

On the opposite side of the mirror, Derek, JJ and Spencer stood. Spencer was watching her behaviour intently, profiling her. 

“Do you think she did it?” JJ asked quietly.

“Well she fits the profile to a T. Reid said she was asking about the investigation, and we profiled that the unsub would try to inject themselves into the investigation. It fits. Not to mention that she doesn’t have a solid alibi for the three nights the murders took place on.” 

“Yes but that’s all pretty circumstantial. Its either that hair we found at the scene comes back from the lab as a match or we get a confession out of her.” 

Spencer just stared ahead, looking at the woman who sat, looking so small on the uncomfortable metal chair.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. 

But Derek was right, Y/N fit the profile perfectly. She didn’t have anyone that could prove that she’d been at home like she claimed she was on the nights of the murders, and she had asked about the investigation, more so than she usually would, more than a friend just asking if he was okay.

He still couldn’t believe it, though. As he watched his best friend he felt a horrible ache move through his chest. Was she really capable of such things? No, she couldn’t be- but the profile wasn’t wrong, and all the evidence they had so far pointed to her.

It made him angry. Was their friendship just a ploy? Did she use him so she could get away with murder?

His thoughts were interrupted by the comforting hand JJ put on his shoulder, “Spence, one of us can do this instead. You don’t have to do this.”

He shook his head. “Yes I do. She trusts me, she’ll co-operate with me. I can get a confession.” He mumbled, shoving JJ’s hand from his shoulder as he opened the door, stepping into the interrogation room. 

Y/N’s dull and defeated eyes brightened as Spencer walked in, a small amount of relief filling her.

“Spencer! Oh thank god, please can you get me out of these.” She whimpered, struggling against the restraints that made her wrists ache. 

He ignored her request, moving towards the table before her. He slammed the case file down on the table with much more force than necessary, a small yelp leaving her lips. He opened up the case file and Y/N frowned. 

“What are you doing?” She whispered as he began to lay out photos before her on the table. She dared to look at the photos before her, a gasp leaving her lips. They were horrific shots of the crime scenes, blood splattered on walls and the bodies of three different men laid in a pool of their blood, numerous stab wounds covering their abdomens. She looked away, not wanting to see the horror anymore.

“What, you don’t want to look at your masterpiece anymore?” Spencer mused, and she met his eyes, her mouth dropping open in shock.

“You don’t- you don’t seriously think I did this?” She whispered, but Spencer’s act didn’t waver. He clenched his jaw- He was angry.

“I know you did. That is why you were so interested in all the details of the case, isn’t it?” His tone was so cold, it broke Y/N’s heart.

“No. I asked you about the case because you’re my best friend, because I care about you. You wanted to get something of your chest so I asked you to confide in me, that was all. You’re wrong.” Y/N’s tone was pleading, and perhaps If Spencer wasn’t so angry he would’ve seen the truth in her words.

“Is that why we became friends in the first place? Was that the plan all along, Y/N? To plant yourself in my life, become one of the only people I cared about, only to use me for my job? So you could kill in cold blood and wouldn’t get caught? What, did you think I’d protect you?” He spat, breaking his earlier promise to Hotch that he would keep a cool head if they let him interrogate her. 

“Protect me? Spencer I didn’t do this! Look at me! Please tell me you don’t honestly believe I did this. That I am capable of such horrific things. Please-“ She begged, tears falling from her eyes as her voice cracked with her pleading. She was sure she sounded pathetic, but what was she meant to say? He seemed so sure, so adamant that it was her, what could she possibly say to prove her innocence. 

“It all comes down to your father, right? I know how badly he mistreated you growing up. You just wanted to get your revenge, you believe you’re owed justice for what he did to you. But since you couldn’t get to him, you killed substitutes instead. It’s okay, understand.” His voice was still venomous, but he’d over laced the poison in his words with a sickeningly sweet tone, that which he used when he was negotiating unsubs.

That hurt her. She’d confided in Spencer about her awful childhood and how she suffered abuse at the hands of her father before she left home as a teenager. She hadn’t seen him in years, and she didn’t want to. “Why are you bringing up my father? I confided in you about him, you’re the only one who knows about my childhood but that doesn’t mean I did these things. Please.” She whimpered, and her shoulders sagged, crying. Spencer just shook his head.

“Tears won’t get you anywhere.” He scoffed, and Y/N couldn’t believe the ferocity behind his words. 

He truly believed she was capable of this?

The door opened before Y/N could respond and JJ came in, leaning down and whispering in Spencer’s ear before leaving again. His gaze turned back to Y/N.

“They found a strand of hair at the crime scene. The ran it through the lab and got a match.”

“Great. Now you know I’m innocent can you let me out of these?” She asked, holding up her cuffed hands to him. When he made no move towards her she frowned. 

“Y/N the DNA from the hair strand matches you. That’s enough evidence to charge you with the murders of Charles Woods, Tyler Burner and Adam Wright.”

Y/N felt like the world was collapsing around her. She choked on a sob, her hands trembling. “What? No, Spencer please, please I didn’t- oh my god, I didn’t do this-“ She continued to cry, her head dropping down onto the cold metal table as she sobbed, disbelief filling her. Spencer watched, feeling tears prick his own eyes. In the back of his head the thought came. 

If she’d done this, why would she be reacting this way? 

He tried not to, but ended up profiling her body language. It wasn’t the actions of someone who’s committed three brutal murders, that was for sure. Another thought came along that diminished the previous one.

She’s manipulative, Spencer. She’s putting on a show.

An officer came into the room, pulling Y/N up roughly from her seat and escorting her out. She didn’t make any attempt to fight back, the defeated feeling filling her as silent tears cascaded down her cheeks. She didn’t sob anymore. She felt so emotionally drained that all she could do was stare blankly ahead as the tears fells. 

*

Spencer didn’t come to her trial. She’d looked for him in the court, hoping that perhaps he’d at least come to support her, to tell her that he was wrong, that he’d fight to get her out of this mess. 

But he never showed. As if her heart wasn’t shattered already, in broke even more. 

She was given life imprisonment, which was twenty-five years without the possibility of parole. She would spend her life in prison for crimes she didn’t commit. 

She was sent to a Woman’s Correctional Facility, and was placed in the Category A section, as she was seen as a ‘high-risk’ inmate. She spent a lot of her days in her cell, only being allowed out for a few hours a day. When she first arrived, it was hell. She was threatened and hurt within the hallowing walls of the prison, and she finally understood even a fragment of what Spencer had gone through when he was convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. 

Huh, ironic. 

Except Spencer had a team working day and night to prove his innocence. 

No one was coming to save Y/N. 

She never had any visitors. Her mother was too ashamed that herdaughter was a convicted serial killer to come and visit, she didn’t hear from her father at all, and Spencer was the only real friend she ever had. 

 After her first month of imprisonment, she’d reached acceptance. Acceptance in the fact that she’d likely never see anything outside the prison courtyard again, that she’d never marry and have children or achieve her dream job. Some days she felt at peace, others she was filled with an unimaginable anger. She was angry at the world. She’d believed in the divine universe, but how was it fair that she wasted away in a cell whilst the real offender got away with it? How was that justice? 

She was angry with the world. But she was livid with Spencer. 

Her supposed best friend, someone she would’ve died for, the man she loved. He’d left her alone, he’d abandoned her, at a time where she’d never needed him more he turned his head away. 

Two months into her sentence, she got her first visitor. She’d been surprised when the guard had come to collect her from her cell,  telling her she had someone waiting for her in one of the private rooms, where inmates usually met with their lawyers to discuss appeals etc. The door buzzed as it unlocked, the guard opening up the door in front of her. Much to her surprise, the guard then reached down to uncuff her hands. She was told to wait, and so she took a seat on one of the chairs, her hands tracing the red marks the cuffs had left on her wrists. 

The door opened minutes later, and Y/N could hear male voices mumbling to one another before someone entered the room, swiftly closing the door behind them. 

Hotch. 

He took a seat opposite her, as she stared at him wide-eyed. “Agent Hotchner? What are you- Why are you here?” She asked quietly, her voice croaky and low. She didn’t speak much these days, as she had such little interaction with others that there was no need to. 

“Miss Y/L/N-“ He began but Y/N stopped him by speaking.

“Could you call me Y/N? Everyone here calls me by my last name, its kind of dehumanizing. I would like to feel like a human for once, please.” 

Hotch gave her a sad look before nodding. “Alright. Y/N. I’m here to apologise on behalf of the Bureau and my team. Two months ago we were assigned the case, to which we came to the conclusion that you were our unsub.” He pulled out a folder from his briefcase, placing it down on the table before her. “We were wrong.”

Y/N stared at the folder before her as Hotch reached out to open it. From it he pulled an evidence bag containing a single piece of paper. He cleared his throat as he slid the bag across the table so she could read the note for herself. 

“Two weeks ago we were sent this letter. It came directly to the BAU, addressed to Agent Reid.”

 “Agent Reid.

You’ve got the wrong woman.

But how funny it was to watch you turn so easily on the woman you love.

Until next time.”

“Since receiving this letter, the Bureau launched an investigation into where it came from and who sent it. We had to be sure of its authenticity before we made any other moves. Our investigation led us to a woman named Felicity Brooks.” Hotch placed another file before her. It was Felicity Brooks’ file, with information about her life and a picture of her attached. 

“I don’t recognise her.” Y/N murmured, and Hotch sighed. 

“I didn’t suppose you would. You met her once a few years ago when your publishing company rejected the draft of her book. It sent her into a frenzy of sorts, and this was the only way she could gain retribution.” Hotch explained.  “She confessed to all three murders, and admitted to planting the strand of your hair at the crime scene. We’re so incredibly sorry for our part in your conviction. You will receive compensation for the trouble. You’re now a free woman, Y/N.” Hotch gave something that almost resembled a smile, before standing up and grabbing the files, putting them back in his briefcase. “I’ve arranged for a car to take you home, it’ll be waiting outside.” Then he turned swiftly, but she called his name, causing him to stop and turn to face her. 

“Thank you.” She whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, with a genuine smile that she hadn’t worn in months. He just nodded at her before leaving. A guard came into the room, whisking Y/N away to begin the process of leaving the hell that she’d called home for two months. 

*

She’d been home for three days. 

Turned out that her mother had just cared enough to keep up with Y/N’s rent payments so she’d have somewhere to live when she got out. She’d tried reaching out to her to apologise for not supporting her, once her mother found out she was innocent but Y/N wasn’t interested in her apologies. 

She’d used the compensation to replace the door they’d broken down, and she’d heard separately from all of the BAU members, who all apologised profusely for their part in her conviction. All of them apart from Spencer. 

She’d thanked the team for apologising, but ultimately had forgiven them. They had every reason to believe it was her. While part of her was still angry, she knew they were just doing their jobs. 

After all, it was Spencer who had hurt her, who she needed to believe her. He was her best friend, he shoud’ve known that no matter the evidence, Y/N was not capable of murder. He should’ve seen what was going on, considering the same thing had happened to him not a year earlier. 

Three loud knocks sounded through her apartment, and she frowned. She wasn’t expecting company. When she opened the door, the last person she expected to see one the other side was Spencer. 

He was looking down at the floor, but when she opened up the door his eyes lifted up meet hers. His eyes seemed to fill with relief that she’d actually answered the door. 

“Hi, um, how are you?” He stammered, and Y/N just raised her eyebrows as if to say really?

It was a stupid question. Spencer had been in prison, he knew how horrible it was and he knew what it was like to be wrongfully accused but he’d subjected her to the same and he’d never felt so guilty before in his life.

“I’m fine. Did you need something?” She asked, crossing her arms expectantly. 

“Y/N I am so sorry.” He whispered, his lip quivering. 

She sighed, shaking her head. “I appreciate you saying that. Are we done?” She moved to shut the door but he stopped it with his foot.  

She groaned, pulling back the door again. “Spence-”

“Please just- let me in. We need to talk, please?” His voice was pleading, and Y/N saw the tears pooling in his eyes and relented, stepping away to let him into her apartment. 

He thanked her and closed the door behind them, following her into her living room. She sat on the sofa and waited for him to speak as he stood before her, shuffling nervously on his feet. 

“You don’t know how guilty I feel about what happened. You know I went to prison, it wasn’t long before we met. And it fucked me up, Y/N. I barely made it out alive. And now I subjected you to the same hell because I trusted a profile with circumstantial evidence more than I trusted you and I am so sorry.” He was on the verge of tears, and Y/N sighed, tears collecting in her own eyes.

“I just needed you to believe me. I was your best friend. I trusted you more than anything else in the world and you- you thought I was capable of murder?” She cried, standing up from the sofa to exaggerate her point. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking Y/N please-“ He tried but she cut him off. 

“No, Spencer! You meant everything to me, do you understand that? The once time I needed you the most, you turned your back on me!”

“It wasn’t like that-”

“Then what was it like, huh?” 

Silence fell on the two. They both stared at one another, hoping the other would say something that could fix everything. That they’d somehow string together a sentence that would make everything okay again. Y/N visibly slumped, her shoulder dropping from the defensive stance as she turned away from him, not able to look at his red teary eyes anymore. 

“I loved you, you know.” She sniffed, and it made his breath hitch.

Silence. And then-

“You what?”

“I was in love with you. I had been for months at that point. You broke my heart, Spencer.” She murmured, still turned away from him. 

I was in love with you. 

Past tense. 

“Was?” Spencer whimpered out, and by the defeated tone in his voice Y/N turned around, meeting his eyes again. 

“I’m not the same person you knew two months ago, Spencer.” She whispered, and he recognised the fear she held in her eyes. She was afraid of herself, of the person prison had made her. He recognised it as the seem look he’d held in his own eyes for months after he was released. 

“That’s okay. I love you, Y/N. I will grow to love the person you are now even more. Just please, forgive me-” He stepped towards her, a reassuring tone in his voice. 

Y/N screwed her eyes shut. “It’s going to take time- I can’t just forget what happened I-” Her voice cracked and he nodded. 

“I’d wait forever for you.” 

She gave a sad smile, and he gave one back. 

She wondered if in some alternate universe she’d never met Spencer Reid. She wondered if her life was better there, more fulfilled. 

But she liked to think that even in all the infinite universes and alternate realities, she got to live a life with Spencer Reid in every one. That they were just so incredibly meant to be that no amount of different choices could stop them from meeting, from falling in love. 

She supposed that made them soulmates, or something of the like. 

The thought made her smile. 

[vampcubus]

Is it bad I'm imagining bunny-like izuku and he goes through a sort of mating season and when he has the urge to just.. mount his partner and when he finally does he's desperately rutting into them, through clothes, but when they're naked he's still rutting and missing his target but then he finally gets it and his hips buck so fucking fast. He goes *multiple* rounds like this, his partner's face pinned to the bed with hips up, his body caged around them but while also holding them flush -🦒

A/N: No not at all!! 😍😍

Warnings: nsfw!! (Duh), bunny Izuku, heats/mating season, dom!Izuku, dry humping, knotting, rough-lovin', breeding kink.

. . .

Overheat | scenario

Bunny!Midoriya x reader

I can just imagine Izuku pouncing on you the moment you get home, him having stayed home from work to keep his heat in check.

You're pressed flat against the front door a horny Izuku smearing kisses all over your face, hips rutting his hard cock against your stomach. There are tears streaming his bright red cheeks after hour upon hours of being away from you, thinking of your tight walls strangling his aching cock, filling you up so full you wouldn't be able to hold it all.

And once you finally manage to convince him to move things away from the door and to the bed, he's on top of you in an instant, pinning you down and wrapping himself around you. His body cages yours, his frantic hands pressing you flush against his body and his hips desperately rutting his clothed bulge against your heat through your clothes. Izuku hasn't the patience to remove your clothing at this point, so mindless and dazed that all he can think about is how fucking good the friction of your pussy against his cock feels. And when you start tugging at your clothes he whines out loud, trying to strip himself of his own sweat-drenched garments.

Even when you've stripped bare his cock only grinds against your cunt, his eyes rolled back and his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he grasps his cock and struggles to find your opening. And once he finally does find it—with your help—he shoves his entire length inside of you and a wanton mewl of ecstasy rips itself from his raw throat, sobbing at the constricting feeling of your pussy finally squeezing around his cock.

"AHhhh! Baby! baby, yes—I-I—f-fu~ck!"

Somehow he manages to lift your hips with his thighs so he can pound into you at a better angle and your head tosses back into the pillow. He's fucking you so hard and deep that you can barely make out his flushed face twisted in delirious bliss behind all the stars bursting before your eyes. He hitting your g-spot just right and before you know it you're convulsing around him, squirming and calling out his name as he only continues to rut into you at a jackrabbit pace.

It so good, too good! Too much and not enough at the same time.

He needs more.

More

Moremoremore-!

He's cums with a loud squeal, squirming around on top of you as he pumps you full of his seed. You can feel every vein and twitch of his length inside of you, harder and more desperate than ever. His knot swells against your entrance and your eyes nearly roll back into your own head at the thought of him knotting you.

He doesn't stop at his first orgasm, he keeps going and going, fucking you into oblivion with each frenzied thrust of his hips. His cum sloshes inside of you with each pump of his cock in and out of your his balls slap noisily against your ass and your legs squirm out of his grip to wrap around his waist and tug him down even closer to you.

He looks like an animal as he pumps your guts, his cock spasms becoming so strong you can practically feel every time he's about to cum again before he spills a drop. He announces each one with loud mewlings of pleasure, anything he tries to say incoherent and spoken much to fast for you to process.

And that's when his knot finally shoved itself into your pussy, adding a new kind of pressure to the already euphoric feeling of him pounding in and out of you. A sweaty hand comes down to rub furious circles around your clit and you gasp, looking up to meet Izuku's wide green eyes staring back at you with hearts eclipsing his dilated pupils. He's gazing at you in surprised pleasure as you clench down around his swollen knot, barely able to breathe as you strangle his cock. And that's when he lets out a strangled sob and his hips start grinding his knot inside of you uncontrollably, the cries torn from both of your throats a symphony of your shared pleasure of being so intimately connected.

You can faint hear him frantically sputtering apologies as his hips only continued to rut into yours.

"I c-c-ca—AHH! Hah~ I—c-can't stop! I'm s-sorrr—oh fuck, oh sh-shit—I'm sorry!"

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Sick Fic I Didn't Bother To Name

Post canon, Tim comes over to look after Jon while Martin is at work.

cw dizziness, fever, nausea, fainting, mentions of vomit, food mention I guess. Let me know if I should add more warnings, this is just a fluffy little sick fic it might have some light angst I don't really remember.

The thought of moving makes Jon want to cry.  All his muscles hurt.  The worm scars aching like the day they were made.  He’s just going to lie there here until someone makes him move.  

Which will probably be soon, because he’s positive Martin has asked Tim to come over and …water him?  

No, in all seriousness, he can’t exactly recall what Martin told him this morning as he was leaving for work.  Something about not letting him go in to work, no working online, no checking his email, something something Tim?  Not that Jon is feeling well enough to get his computer.  Let alone let it assault his over-sensitive eyes with the harsh light of the screen.  Which is unfortunate, because he thinks Martin probably left him a text about whatever he missed this morning.  

He really hopes Martin thought to email his students.  He’ll try to remember to ask Tim to check.  If Tim’s even coming.  

Christ, he’s not thinking straight.  

He thinks Tim is coming, but if not, he’s got paracetamol, his inhaler, water, a thermos of tea, some saltines, a little cup of applesauce, excedrin, a thermometer (Jon isn’t sure why Martin left him that, there is no way he’s going to use that he just… really really hates thermometers, they mean he’s ill and that meant no school and staying quiet alone and miserable in his room so ill to open a book if he was ill enough for his grandmother to notice, it was less bad when he got to go to the school nurse.  Actually got some medicine sometimes, but they often sent him home too, and then his grandmother was cross that she had to pick him up.  In any case, no thermometer if he has a say in it.), bin, tissues (again Jon isn’t sure why, he’s not particularly congested, but Martin is Martin and is taking care of him even when he’s at work which makes Jon feel warm to his core, not from the fever that he knows he’s running.), lucozade, and his cane.  Everything in easy reach.  

He should probably take some medicine, but even reaching that far feels like too much.  He’s just going to lay here, on top of his blanket pile until the fever chills take him back and he has to burrow under them again.  It’s been the challenge all night to find a comfortable enough temperature to sleep.  A challenge he’s mostly been losing.  Leaving him feeling gritty and heavy and with a headache.  

He just wants to sleep.  Drifting in and out of it with frantic almost laziness.  Rolling heat to biting cold.  He wishes he could get his laptop, willing to bear the brightness if only to get a distraction from his discomfort.  

He’s just managed a trip to and from the loo, when Tim arrives.  Jon’s collapsed back on his blanket nest on the couch when Tim calls out before keys jangle in the lock.  Jon’s too busy trying not to pass out to make out words.  He’s impressed he managed the loo without a surprise nap.  But, he can make no promises that he won’t pass out now.  

He comes to with the inside of Tim’s wrist pressed to his forehead.  With a quiet gasp.  And then a frankly embarrassing sound as he fully absorbs how wonderfully cool Tim’s wrist is.  

“Hey there, bud.  Hate to ask, but did you just pass out from just lying there, because if so, I’m gonna have to be a little worried?”  

Jon tries to focus on Tim.  “No… no got back from the toilet and surprise nap.”  

Tim looks relieved.  

Jon is just relieved that he isn’t alone.  Where he can too easily spiral.  Being alone and miserable leaves it too easy to slip into memories.  Especially with the impressive fever that he’s got to be running, if the agonizing walk from couch to loo and loo to couch is any indication.  His muscles are shaking from fatigue from that pathetically short walk, and he’d had a death grip on his cane and the wall to keep upright.  Christ, he’s really not well.  

Tim makes a big show of wiping his brow and breathing a sigh of relief.  “Hey think you can give me some of the couch?”  

Jon would love to, he nods, but consciousness flutters when he tries to sit up.  Losing his vision to the dizziness again.  Tim catches him against his chest, and gently holds him steady as he slips onto the couch, positioning Jon as best he can.  Jon snuggling against Tim’s hooded jumper.  

He still can’t believe he’s allowed to do this.  A few years ago, Tim didn’t want to be in the same room with him.  But …here he is.  Here when it counts.  (Although Martin would probably tell him that it counted earlier too, that Tim should have been by his side, a thought that he’s been trying to work through in therapy, and Jon is working through in reverse in his own.)  Jon could cry.  Might cry.  Fever’s high enough that he probably will.  

“Got a bit worried when you didn’t answer any texts.  Wanted to see if you needed anything.”  

“‘m sorry.”  Jon really hadn’t thought to check his phone, and even if he had, well not as if he’d been up to reading anything on a tiny bright screen.  Even the thought of doing so makes his head hurt more than it already does.  

“Don’t worry about it.  Have you taken some meds recently?”  

Jon has no idea what time it is, or when Martin left.  Can’t even keep track of how light it is outside with the blinds drawn and his face shoved into Tim.  “Had some before Martin left?”  

Tim’s got an arm around Jon.  He’s rubbing his back.  And there is a tightness in Jon’s chest.  It’s been years.  It’s been years.  It’s been years, and he still can’t believe that Tim is really back and here and cares.  Tim could hold him every moment he can stand touch, and it wouldn’t be enough.  Jon needs.  He needs the attention and care, and just needs his friend in general.  And if he didn’t feel so sick, he could happily live in this moment forever.  If he wasn’t dizzy and feverish and dreadfully queasy.  

Tim’s hand stills, and a shuddery breath escapes Jon with the absence.  

Tim’s heart lurches.  He goes back to rubbing Jon’s back.  He’s pretty sure this is Jon crying and not Jon about to puke.  Jon’s decent at letting him know these sorts of things, or at least is consistent in his physical cues.  “Hey, bud.  Just gonna get you some fever reducers, it’s about time, I think.  Marto texted me when he was leaving.  Sorry about leaving you alone for a bit.  Had to finish up my shift and grab a shower and grab some soup making stuff and some DVDs, in case you wanna watch anything.  But, I’m not going anywhere.  You’re stuck with me.”  

Jon huffs a watery laugh.  Or maybe it’s a sob.  it’s damp, but that’s okay.   

“You just gotta sit up a little.  Wow, Marto really stocked up the coffee table for you, huh.  He loves you a lot.  Also, he worries.”  

Tim tilts Jon slightly more upright, and wipes away the tears, before handing him some medicine and some lucozade.  Martin said Jon had been sick earlier (probably more due to the POTS flaring up, Martin hoped, and Tim also hopes.  Not that a POTS flare up is a good thing, but if he can keep Jon full of salt and keep his feet up, he shouldn’t have any trouble keeping fluids in him, which makes things easier), in any case, the electrolytes are probably a good idea.  

“You thrown up recently?”  

Signs ‘no.’  That’s good.  

“Wanna try some crackers?”  

Jon shrugs.  

“If you’re up to it later, I can make us some soup, ‘kay?”  

Jon nods, looking …faded.  Probably best to get his legs up and him cozy.  

“Mind if I get you in a more comfy position?”  

Jon doesn’t answer, just blinks dizzily, so Tim carefully gets up, and props Jon’s feet up with the decorative pillows that he knows Jon thinks are stupid, and tucks a couple of the blankets around Jon.  Not too many, not wanting Jon’s temperature to climb any higher, but he can’t just watch Jon shiver.  Hurts too much to watch.  

Reminds him of all the times he ignored him.  All the times he hasn’t been there.  And there’ve been many.  He should have been there.  

So he’ll risk a couple blankets, even though Jon is burning away.  Hopefully the fever reducers do their job soon.  He does, however get a damp flannel for Jon’s forehead while he’s up.  

He thinks Jon might be unconscious again, but he won’t worry about that unless he doesn’t come around in a minute or so.  

Jon’s awake again by the time Tim has himself settled back on the couch.  

“How about some TV?  You up for that?”  

Jon just whines.  

“We’ll start some, and if it makes it worse, we’ll turn it off, okay?”  

Jon wiggles a little, getting comfortable.  And Tim chuckles.  

“Okay, bud.  You get some rest, okay?  I’ll make you some soup later, if you’re up for it.  I got ingredients for your favorite.  Or smoothies, if that sounds better.”  

Jon makes a sound of complaint as Tim as started to talk over the intro music.  

Tim chuckles.  “Alright, alright.  Just let me know if you get hungry.  Martin will be home tonight, until then, you’re stuck with me.”  

Jon falls asleep within an episode with Tim gently carding his fingers through his hair.  

[janekfan]

You need to back off + Please come home for some angsty Jmart?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122362

Prompts are getting filled! Slowly but surely! :D

I hope you like it ^^

Jon woke himself coughing with the realization that what he’d hoped were allergies the day before was now full blown body aches, chills and a productive hacking cough. Reaching out for comfort, he encountered only cold sheets and he shut his throbbing eyes tightly against sudden tears, too emotional. Needy. Sick. Not that he wasn’t needy when he was well either, but.

Martin wasn’t here.

Jon gripped a handful of bedclothes, curling on his side in the space where Martin should be and wasn’t. He thought of warm hands and soft kisses testing his temperature and gentle tutting. Martin would fuss over him terribly, plying him with medicine and perfectly steeped tea with honey and lemon for his sore throat. He would want for nothing, of that he was certain, but.

Martin wasn’t here.

And it was Jon’s fault.

No. Not entirely. He was away for the long weekend for an international conference.

But the shouting match they’d had before he left was very much Jon’s fault.

It figured that he would chase him away. Jon was miserable and ungrateful on his best days and like a dog with a bone on his worst. Why couldn’t he just let things go? Why did he have to push and question and needle Martin like that when he knew his partner needed time to think? Was already anxious about being away for so long? Jon certainly knew how to pick the best time for a row. Impeccable timing as usual, god damn him. Another fit crept its way through his tight chest, up his throat, painfully forcing itself free, and he stifled himself in a pillow.

He wanted Martin.

He had no right to, but he wanted him just the same.

After allowing himself just a few moments to wallow in misery, he forced himself up, driving the heels of both hands against his eyelids. It was a cold. It’d been going around the university and he was always early to catch whatever pathogens his students carried with them. He’d been run down and tired the last week and not from finals apparently. He shuffled awkwardly to the bathroom, limping heavily on his bad leg, absently trying to massage the deep ache left over from the worms all those years ago. He let the water run for a moment, get as hot as he could stand it, and with Martin’s voice in the back of his head, resigned himself to the use of the shower stool he’d insisted on. Sagging forward, Jon let the pounding pressure beat heavy against his back, breathing in the steam in the hopes it would loosen the knots tied thick and rigid around his lungs. Washing up took everything he had left and he wanted nothing more than to collapse back into bed and curl up around Martin’s pillow. Instead he slipped on his favorite of Martin’s jumpers over his pyjamas and took up his cane and made himself tea with honey and lemon and forced himself to drink it even though it tasted wrong. Struggling through the foil of the blister pack exhausted him further but he dutifully downed the tablets with the dregs of his cold cup of subpar tea. Dizzy, nauseated, the room spun around him wildly and he swallowed it down with a sob, laying his hot face against the cool surface of the dining table.

He wanted Martin.

Martin asked him to please not call unless there was an emergency. This wasn’t that. This was some sort of bug and Jon was an adult and he could take care of himself. He shivered. Teeth chattering in his skull and against his better judgement he fumbled for his cell with numb fingers. He thumbed it awake, blinking at the blinding glare. Recents. Martin. Messages. Jon scrolled through them, lingering on his responses. It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough and Martin had asked him. Asked him not to contact him. For emergencies only. This wasn’t an emergency. It wasn’t. The screen went dark. The tears slipped over the bridge of his nose, tracing the faint scar there left by some fear or another so long ago and Jon chose to be selfish.

What else was new?

“Jon.” Measured, but not cold like he feared so much it would be but focused enough to cut him off before he could even think to apologize. “You need to back off. I’ve asked for some space and I would appreciate it if you would let me focus on this conference. I’ll be back soon. We can talk then.” He paused and with it, so did Jon’s heart. “I love you.”

“I, I love you.” But he’d already hung up and Jon didn’t blame him.

Shivering with chills, Jon dragged his sorry self back into bed, curling into the duvet and closing his eyes against the woozy rolling of his stomach. The tea wasn’t sitting well and Jon found himself panting, shallow and fast, concentrating on keeping himself together and willing himself to sleep though that plan didn’t seem to be working. Salt flooded his tongue and he lurched for the bin beside the bedside, dry heaving painfully. Sweat poured down his face, dripped off his chin.

It wasn’t an emergency.

It wasn’t.

He coughed, wincing and lifting a trembling hand to his throat and pressing against Daisy’s remnant souvenir, imagining the hurt there. A mewling whimper carried on an uneven breath escaped the cage of his fingers. Restless sleep crashed over him, was dragged away from him, uncomfortable, hot and cold somehow simultaneously. Jon picked up his phone repeatedly to call, to text. But he needed to let Martin have this. He wasn’t like him. He needed time and Jon needed to be patient no matter how ill he was feeling, no matter how much he wanted Martin’s reassuring voice. And it was his fault he couldn’t have it.

Jon couldn’t remember a time in his life where he felt this poorly; not even starved for statements, or scarred by numerous fears. Sleep hadn’t been forthcoming after he lurched awake to be sick again and he hadn’t had the forethought to put anything he might need on the bedside table. Objectively, he knew when he ran fevers they had a tendency to spike at night and that if he could just get up to fetch some medicine he would feel better. Subjectively, he was convinced his legs wouldn’t hold him, that he was dying here alone and when Martin returned for his things he would find his body. Panic built and built and built in his chest, cutting off his ability to breathe, stealing the air around him as surely as Crew had when he dropped him effortlessly, eternally through the void and before he knew it his fingers were acting without express permission.

Insistent buzzing next to his ear dragged Martin up from the depths and he groaned in irritation when the rectangle of light blinded him momentarily. He sighed when he could finally see the caller and he supposed Jon had waited as long as he could before giving in and ringing him again. The man was not known for his patience, after all. Martin glanced at his still sleeping roommate, a paramedic out of Brussels, and slipped out of bed to take the call in the hallway.

“Jon.” The frustration was warranted but melted away into concern when his only answer was a strangled, hitching gasp.

“I, I’m s’sorry.”

“Jon, darling, what’s wrong?”

“Y’you want space and, and m’sorry, but I--” A sudden explosive cough caught him off guard; it sounded painful and tight.

“Jon, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’m sorry.” His hoarse whisper didn’t hide the wheeze on his breath. “Shouldn’have called, m’sorry.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong.” Martin clutched his phone, voice calm and steady, hundreds of miles away from where Jon was falling apart.

“P’please?”

“What, Jon?” He was openly crying; big, ugly sobs in between each shuddering syllable, and Martin was almost at a total loss, murmuring sweet things through the line in an attempt to calm him, until his hiccuping slowed and he asked again and he answered, sad and small.

“Please? Come h’home?”

“Jon?” Tim let himself into the flat, speaking soft and low, lest Jon was asleep. “Martin told me you aren’t feeling so hot.” He pushed forward to the bedroom, sympathy welling up at the sight of Jon curled up so small, face hidden in his sweat-damp pillow. “Hey, bud.”

“Tim.” Raspy and rough, like he’d been chewing on rocks, he finished his identification on a weak cough.

“The one, the only.” When he laid the backs of his fingers against his temple, Tim hissed through his teeth at the blazing, dry heat of his skin.

“M’sorry…” the ghost of an exhale, shaky and slurred, and Jon managed somehow to pry heavy lashes apart to reveal unfocused eyes glassy with fever. Tim stroked messy curls away from his face, heart clenching when he groaned low in his throat, before deep brown rolled back and dislodged more tears.

“Let’s get you taken care of, okay?” But first, a quick status update for Martin, who had called him nearly in tears himself.

“How is he? Are you taking him to A&E?” Tim could almost see the way he was clinging to his phone.

“I don’t think so. Gonna get some water and medicine into him and see how that goes.”

“Tim? Is he okay?”

“He’s sick, looks like the flu and he’s likely been down with it a couple of days.”

“God, he tried to call me and I--”

“Gonna cut you off right there, Marto. This isn’t anyone’s fault. It just happens.”

“I was so upset with him--”

“And I’m sure he earned it. When he’s well again you can talk it out.”

“Tim.” Trembling,

“I’ll make certain he’s alright until you get home. I’ve got him, Martin.” While on the phone, Tim gathered up supplies, thankful that Jon lived with someone with brains enough to keep a stocked medicine cabinet complete with a fancy ear thermometer with disposable covers. Because Martin. Jon didn’t so much as twitch this time. 39.4. “Okay, buddy. Up you come now.”

“Nng…”

“Mhm,” Tim hummed good naturedly, holding the glass of water to chapped lips and going slow. “Good?” He took the unintelligible noise as a yes, allowing him a few more careful sips before slipping the capsules onto his tongue. “There we go. We’ll see how that sits.” He divested Jon of the wash worn wool keeping in all the heat, soothing him wordlessly when he tried in vain to keep it. A clean set of pyjamas would make him feel better and he let the relatively cool air of the room wick away the moisture left from a cursory damp flannel.

“...Tim?”

“Hey, sleeping beauty.”

“Why’m’I in...in my pants…?”

“Did your best to sweat through the last set, here.” Tim helped guide loose limbs through the appropriate holes.

“S’cold…” punctuating his statement with a full body shiver, Jon slumped forward into Tim’s chest. “M’Martin’s cross.” Nodding, Tim gathered him up to deposit him on the sofa so he could change the bedclothes. “S’my fault…”

“When he comes home, you can apologize. Get him his favorite takeaway, yeah?” Jon listened intently, watery gaze fixed to Tim’s. “Put up those books of yours he’s always tripping over.”

“He, he. He’s coming home?” Lower lip trembling, Jon sounded too hopeful for this to be the distance of a long weekend.

“Oh, you daft fool, of course he is, of course.” He let Jon cry himself out on his shoulder. “He loves you, just needed some space, you know he likes space to get his thoughts in order. Of course he’s coming back.” Gentle and soft, Tim kept up his reassurances and hoped he’d forget that particular fear. Jon was too used to abandonment and all too accepting that he was the cause of it. That he was unlovable. “Alright, dry your eyes now.” Tim thumbed away matching saltwater tracks after settling him back on the couch cushions. “There we are.” Lord, he looked exhausted, the very textbook image of a bad flu with sore, red rimmed eyes limned with bruises. “Back in a tick, love.”

Clean, cool sheets, Jon tucked between them, kettle cooling off the hob, Tim set himself up on Martin’s side of the bed, getting another read, 38.1, and sending a quick update text before tapping open his most recent gaming obsession. The conference ended tomorrow morning and Martin would be home the same evening. With the next day off, Tim could wait that long. Jon’s burn-scarred hand snaked from under the blankets to grip his joggers.

“Hullo.” Tim tugged his fingers through messy curls. “Feeling a little better, champ?”

“Yeah…” It was still early hours and Jon needed all the sleep he could get.

“Sip on this.” And fluids. Tim levered him up, helping him hold the lukewarm mug of tea in shaky hands and laying him in his lap where he could knead out the knots tying up his shoulder blades until he sank deep.

Familiar voices hummed around him like moths just out of reach, melting together, drifting apart, slipping through his fingers. A door opened, closed, and Jon thought for a moment the Distortion must have him until a familiar palm pressed itself against his forehead. Martin’s face materialized in front of him and blurred just as quickly when tears filled his eyes. Wildly, he dove for him, not thinking about the edge of the mattress and collapsing into him when his legs gave way.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re alright, love.” Jon pushed his face into Martin’s neck, body numb with relief. “Shh, shh, shhh.”

“M’m’sorry, so sorry.”

“I know.” Martin curled around him, holding him firmly, tightly, running his hand up and down the shallow seam of his spine. Jon didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve how good Martin was to him. And he, he didn’t--

“I d’don’t unders’stand.”

“Understand what?” Jon couldn’t look at him for fear of what he might see, hiding instead in Martin’s jumper. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. “Why I came home?” He didn’t speak, shook harder, swallowed with difficulty past the cloying clot of emotion in his throat. “Oh, love. You’re not well and everything’s a little mixed up right now.” Lightly, softly, Martin kissed his temple. “I’ll always come home.” Jon felt needy and childish, choosing to believe Martin and taking comfort in it, in the chaste press of his lips against any skin he could reach. “Back in bed now, you’re burning up. Tea?” Nodding once, Jon couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth again, worried that he’d destroy this tentative peace and so, so grateful to have Martin home and the next time he opened his eyes it was to Martin climbing into bed in his pyjamas, tea already on the nightstand.

“Will you tell me about the conference?” Jon accepted the open arms as the offer they were, fitting himself like a puzzle piece against his side, sick and sweaty and lulled by the soothing rumble of Martin’s voice beneath his ear.

There were other things to talk about, but for now, the two of them, here and now, were enough.

[dreamsmp-au-ideas]

Can we get some fluff in the 2b2t!Eret au??

Eret’s been stuck in hell for almost a month straight, there’s been no sign of her friends, no word. She’s given up on them coming for her, but she’s going to get back to them even if it kills her. Anywhere is better than here.

She keeps an ear to the ground at all times. Information can be a life saver out here, so over a month in to the worst period of her life she hears about the strange new group of fighters almost immediately. They move in a group, probably some sort of new faction. It doesn’t affect her right now so she dismisses it. She’ll keep an eye out if she needs to.

It’s been two months when Eret walks right into an ambush. Her glasses had been shattered beyond repair in a crystal explosion her second night on the server. She’s given up on trying to hide them, ignoring the usual unease at people seeing them for the advantage of night vision and the intimidation factor they give her. The night vision doesn’t save her. There’s an explosion, her ears ringing as she hits the ground. The shine of enchanted armor emerges from the dark, at least five people, possibly more. She tries to push herself up but a foot lands solidly between her shoulder blades and pushes her back down.

“Well well, look what we have here”

“I’ve heard of you. Ghost eyes. Herobrine’s descendent.”

“Bet you’d look lovely decorating our base.”

“I say we just take the head”

Eret presses her forehead into the dirt and tries to breathe. She just needs to get her hands on something, anything from her inventory.

Someone grabs her wrists and she manages to push past the ringing in her head enough to struggle. Her helmet is pulled off and someone starts tugging at the straps of her chest plate. There’s tears pricking at the corner of her eyes but she viciously pushes them away, this is hardly the time or place. She considers calling out, but that would only make things worse, though she might just have a chance to get away if whoever shows up decides to fight.

She’s still struggling under the weight of the people pinning her down when there’s the familiar whistlling thud of arrow fire. Some of the weight disappears from Eret’s back, sliding sideways to crumple to the ground with an arrow put precisely through the small gap between their armor plates. The people around her stand at attention, pulling out crossbows and axes, “the fuck? Is this you?” one demands, kicking her solidly in the temple. Eret isn’t sure if she cries out or not, but she’s definitely sure she’s bleeding now. He goes down in the next moment with a choked off cry. His buddies start to shift, looking nervous. One says “fuck this!” And takes off, he screeches as a figure looms out of the darkness. Barely raising his enchanted sword in time to block a heavy axe blow. More figures drop down and the person sitting on Erets back stands up and nervously backs away, “heyyy let’s talk about this” they gesture to Eret, “you want it you can have it, seriously. Just let me go and that’s all yours”

Eret scrambles for her helmet, her chest plate, anything. She’s alone and unarmed and vastly outnumbered and she dearly want to cry but this is quite possibly the worst possible moment for that. Someone touches her shoulder and Eret nearly jumps out of her skin, instead she dives forward. She’s got no gear, and no chance of beating a single armed fighter, let alone a group as clearly organized as this one. Her only chance is to get away and hope the two groups will be too distracted killing each other to go after one lone runner. She’ll have to start over, but at least she’ll be alive.

One of them is still coming after her, armor gleaming in the faint moonlight. Their arms are out stretched and they’re saying something but Eret’s ears are still ringing from the blast and her breath is starting to quicken. They reach for her again, get a hand around her wrist. Eret panics and plants a foot on their chest, sending them flying. They must not have been expecting it because they’re in full armor and Eret has nothing. She scrambles to her feet, swaying and starts to run. She only manages a few steps before she slams into something solid and unyielding. She bounces off of what must be someone’s chest before they tug her back, her back slamming into their chest plate. “Eret!” The person is shouting right next to her ear, pinning her arms, how did they know her name? “Eret calm down!”

Eret’s temple throbs, her eyes hurt from overuse, and her wrist aches where one of her first assailants had ground their heel down on it. She’s been hunted down for weeks, ambushed and trapped and finally caught and she’s so tired. She just wants to go home. She sobs and her knees go out from under her. The person pinning her -it’s funny she could almost swear it feels like a hug- sinks with her, murmuring something.

The last thing Eret sees before she passes out is the stars.

When Eret wakes up, she’s lying in a bed. She panics immediately, flailing upright. She’s not restrained and she’s wearing a loose shirt and pants. But the last thing she remembers doesn’t exactly fill her with confidence for her safety. The room looks almost comfortable, cluttered. It reminds her of- Eret shuts that thought down hard. She doesn’t have time to break down right now. Whoever is keeping her has obviously underestimated her because there are multiple things she could use as improvised weaponry. She refuses to entertain the thought that her captors are good enough that they don’t have to worry about her not insignificant combat skills, because that means she’s fucked from the start.

She’s deliberating over what to do when footsteps sound out from the hall. Eret grabs whatever’s nearest, long fingers wrapping around a metal candlestick. She flattens herself against the wall behind the door and slows her breathing. The door opens and the person hums as they walk in. Eret shoulders the door closed and gets a hold of the back of their jacket. She jerks them backwards against her chest, the candlestick braced against their throat. The person squawks and drops the tray they were holding.

Eret licks her lips and tries to sound as threatening as possible as she says, “You’re going to tell whoever’s-“ she breaks off as she gets a good look at their face, “Fundy?”

The fox hybrid stares up at her, blinking owlishly, “uh, hey Eret.”

Eret blinks, dropping the candlestick from Fundy’s throat, “I... what?”

Fundy shifts, “sorry it took so long to find you, we’ve been looking for ages. That server is crazy, it’s a good thing we showed up when we did, huh?”

Eret stumbles backwards, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed, “Fundy? I-what?” She repeats.

Fundy crouches down, looking concerned, “Eret? are you alright?”

“But- but-How are you here?” Eret bursts out, sounding like she’s second away from tearing her hair out, she feels about three seconds away from screaming into a pillow and not stopping.

Fundy wrings his hands together, “oh I yes-I guess you wouldn’t know, huh? So uh Dream? You know Dream?” Eret flinches at the name and Fundy hurries to continue on, “of course you know Dream. So anyway, we kind of figured out, finally, that’s he’s been um. Manipulating everyone. Yeah, really creepy hall of things people cared about. Like there was a cage for Skeppy? It was weird. Then someone pointed out that there wasn’t anything for you and then someone else pointed out that they hadn’t seen you in a while. And then Dream started laughing so Tommy made him tell us what he did and um. yeah.” He fidgets again, his voice going quieter, “sorry we didn’t notice sooner.”

Eret blinks, “so I’m, I’m back on the smp? We’re not in- we’re not... there anymore?”

“No! We left as soon as we got you, and Techno finished murdering those assholes who jumped you. It kind of took a while to convince him to stop.” Fundy grimaces, looking squeamish.

“Oh,” Eret says faintly, the thought of Technoblade in a protective rage over her causing some cognitive dissonance.

“Are you alright though, Eret? You never answered my questio-“ Fundy is cut off as Eret envelops him in a tight hug.

Her voice is choked as she says, “I am now.”

“Oh! Eret, you’re awake!” Niki claps her hands together delightedly in the doorframe, before the door slams open wider to reveal Tommy and Tubbo and Ghostbur standing there, behind them is the entire rest of the server, “We’re so glad you’re ok! Everyone was so worried.” She hurries inside, everyone pouring in after her and suddenly Eret is surrounded in the biggest cuddle pile she’s ever experienced. There’s legs tangled in hers and someone is running their hands through her hair and Ghostbur is humming something soft and soothing. She lets out a slightly choked laugh and tugs Fundy closer. It’s good to be home.

I love this. Oh god this is good fluff. Just fluff after hurt and hurt/comfort is something I love. Oh my god.

[whumpinggrounds]

Panic - SOW

another @summer-of-whump prompt! had an idea and then didn’t get around to it until ELEVEN but managed to scribble something down so here goes. more angst for isabella :)

tagging @shapeshiftersandfire and @killtheprotagonist

CW: lady whump, pet whump, aftermath of conditioning, mentions of noncon touch, intimate whumper, migraines, panic attacks, amnesia

Days pass and Isabella wanders the apartment, examining every piece of Miss Mara’s clothing, staring at the photos on the wall until her eyes stream with tears. The memories come slowly, sporadically, and sometimes, not at all. Some mornings, Isabella wakes with the distinct feeling that she remembered something the night before that melted away in the morning light. Some days, Miss Mara gets irritated, and the boxgirl’s new resolve crumbles under the pressure to be good quiet obedient loving GOOD.

Hardly a week has passed and already, Isabella has made all the progress she thinks she can make. Shaking with adrenaline, she hesitates in front of the desk in the corner of Miss Mara’s apartment.

Isabella knows every inch of the apartment aside from Miss Mara’s desk drawers. Isabella has seen, soaped, and scrubbed every centimeter of wall, floor, and counter. She’s dusted the ceiling. She’s folded clothes and organized spices and sat and watched the empty walls until she thought she’d go cross-eyed. No matter how bored she’d gotten, Isabella had never dreamed of opening the desk drawers. During the first week of owning her, Miss Mara had declared the drawers off-limits.

Now, Isabella stands before them, not breathing.

This is the first rule she’s actually broken. The-the…what Miss Mara called a crush on Jamie – that hadn’t been a rule, just Box Babe programming that was supposed to be unshakable. This would be something else. This would be a direct violation of the owner that bought and paid and takes care of her. Miss Mara ordered Isabella to do one thing, and now Isabella plans to do something else. The idea of it terrifies her, makes her throat thick and her palms sweaty.

Deep down inside, where Isabella keeps her confusion and her questions and her anger, the idea of it makes her a little bit excited, too.

The first hour, Isabella just stands in front of the desk. She sits down, waits nervously for a moment in her owner’s chair, and then stands back up. Isabella isn’t allowed on the furniture without permission, not anymore. Miss Mara prefers her on her knees, looking up adoringly, or else perched on Miss Mara’s lap, where Miss Mara’s hands can move over any part of her pet’s body. Miss Mara would absolutely not want Isabella in her chair, hand trembling on the handle to her drawer. After almost three hours of practice, that’s where Isabella finds herself.

By the time she eases the top drawer open, Isabella’s head thrums with every beat of her heart. Her palms are slick with sweat, and she breathes fast and shallow, like her lungs have shrunk to a quarter of their former size. She’s been hyperventilating so long that her head feels empty and airy, her skin cold. When her arm draws back, bringing the drawer with it, Isabella can almost pretend it’s someone else’s fingers, attached to someone else’s hand.

After all this buildup, the contents of the drawer are underwhelming. Pens and pencils neatly aligned, a few sticky note pads lining the bottom. There’s a checkbook tucked in the corner, a roll of tape that hasn’t been opened yet. The clear order of the drawer soothes Isabella for a moment, relaxes her even as she has to slide the drawer shut again, quickly, quickly, so her absent owner can’t catch her.

The next drawer has paper in it, blank paper of three kinds. One has a grid of blue lines, and another is lined just one way, and the last sort is entirely blank. Looking at the empty pages, Isabella’s fingers twitch. An unspecified longing rises in her. If she put a pencil to paper, what could she do? Could she write? Could she draw? Back in training, Handler Collins broke her fingers for signing something forbidden, signing her old name. The bones creak, sometimes, the hand aches when Isabella works with water that’s too cold, or spends too long on her knees, scrubbing the floor.

Without realizing it, Isabella has taken her right hand in her left, is rubbing her thumb over the back of her hand as if she can heal the damaged bones that Handler Collins broke. If she pretends the problem is her hand, she doesn’t have to admit that the thing that would really keep her from writing is her broken fucking brain.

Slamming the drawer shut harder than she means to, Isabella rips the last one open with all the leftover adrenaline in her, heart slamming hard in her chest. There’s a headache singing in her head, nerves prickling in her fingers, and when the last drawer is packed full of files, the thought of all those pages full of writing makes Isabella want to give in entirely.

Instead, she reaches down tentatively, runs her fingers over the cascade of brown tabs. They didn’t break her of reading, not really. She’s grown so used to the migraines that the pain sparking behind her eyes hardly registers as she scans over the labels on the files.

There, right after Interviews – Handlers, is a tab that makes Isabella swallow hard. It’s her name, written in Miss Mara’s confident hand. Arm trembling so bad she’s afraid she’ll drop the thing altogether, Isabella reaches down and withdraws her file.

It’s thin. Almost empty. There are five documents inside – Isabella counts them before she tries to read a word. The first is a transfer of ownership. Though the words stretch on for one page, two pages, three pages, four, the purpose of the packet is outlined in the very first paragraph that Isabella scans.

It’s a document of sale. It transfers responsibility of Isabella from WRU to Ms. Mara Langford, MS. On the final page, Isabella traces her fingers over Miss Mara’s big, loopy signature, and feels her meager breakfast flip, deep in her stomach.

The next three documents are six pages each. They detail Isabella’s checkups – the questions asked and the answers given. They’re the same questions, over and over, and always, the same answers. In the very back of her mind, Isabella feels a flash of something like fleeting pride. There’s a sentence printed at the bottom of each transcript, a judgment meted out in emotionless capital letters.

MEMORY STATUS: SATISFACTORY

If the handlers knew what Isabella was doing now, she thinks, faintly hysterical, they wouldn’t think her status was satisfactory, no, no, not at all.

If Isabella had stopped there, her life might have turned out very, very differently. If the tidal wave of guilt had dragged her under, she might’ve gone on living as she did for a very long time. As it was, she came close, so incredibly close, to carefully replacing the papers, sliding the folder back in the drawer, and leaving her discontent for another day.

Before she can do that, though, Isabella catches a glimpse of the lone document left on the table. Her eyes catch at the title, the first paragraph, the last paragraph, the signature beneath. Each new realization hits her separately and hits her hard.

It’s an informal document, drafted by someone only relatively familiar with the law. It’s an agreement – a retraining agreement.

Isabella’s glad she’s sitting down, because if she wasn’t, she thinks she’d lose her legs.

On this paper, it says that Handler Collins has permission to retrain Isabella, and that he has permission to use whatever method he sees fit. In the last paragraph, right before the signatures, it says that this procedure may be repeated, whenever the owner deems necessary.

Beneath that, Miss Mara’s signature repeats, big and loopy and dark.

For what feels like an age, Isabella sits there, wanting to vomit, wanting to sob, wanting to cry. Miss Mara had petted her and soothed her and cooed over her, made sad faces over Handler Collins’ cruelty. The whole time, she’d been…she’d been admiring his work. She’d been thinking that if Isabella ever needed another tune up, it would be Handler Collins who would take care of that for them.

With excessive care, Isabella lines the papers up neatly. She places them inside the folder, lining up the edges. The folder slides back into the desk drawer, between Interviews – Handlers and the start of the J files. The drawer she shuts neatly. She stands from the desk, steps back, and slides the chair into place. Everything is aligned, in order, neatly in place. Satisfied with her precision, Isabella retreats numbly away from the desk, away from the drawers and the documents and the dark truths within.

There’s nowhere in the apartment that’s truly safe. There’s nowhere in the apartment that’s hers. The best Isabella can do is retreat into the closet next to the front door, curl up on the floor in the dark, quiet corner where no one ever comes but her.

Legs tucked up tight against her chest, Isabella wraps her arms around herself and sinks her head down between her knees. Finally, her icy numb calm starts to slip. Her breathing is the first to go – the hyperventilation that tightens her chest until it aches. Chills race over her skin, shaking that rattles her audibly against the back of the closet wall. The sobs are almost silent, but ring loud in Isabella’s ears, too loud, much too loud – she’s going to get hurt for that, hurt for this, hurt for anything, for everything –

Her breath comes shorter. Her eyes blur with tears. The sobs heave unevenly out of her, a collection of ragged, desperate, broken sounds. She wants to dig her nails into her arms, wants a grounding kind of pain, but she can’t do that. She’s not allowed to hurt, to touch, to damage. Her body is not her own.

Instead of perfect, soothing pain, Isabella falls apart in the closet, fist stuffed in her mouth so she won’t cry too loud. Her eyes swell and her throat closes and her chest aches – and then, when it’s all too much, when there’s too little air for her to go on gasping, then, thankfully, finally, the closet goes black, and Isabella passes out.

[oikadori]

a/n: not me crying at 2am about an Oikawa edit, that was my twin sister not me at all...this is totally self indulgent so uhm...yeah. Hope you enjoy it tho!!

Oikawa Tooru x fReader

Summary: in which you are tired of hearing how is never enough for Oikawa Tooru. 

Genre: angst, fluffy end tho, established relationship 

Now playing ⊳ King by Lauren Aquilina ; Next to me by Imagine Dragons

WC~2k

It had become part of your routine at this point, sitting on the couch for hours, staring bluntly at some program as you wait for your boyfriend to come home.

It was not the passion he has for volleyball that has you on a gloomy mood today. It was  not falling asleep on an empty bed as you heard the sounds of balls hitting the wooden floor coming from the speakers of his laptop in the living room, and it was not how  your throat becomes dry after you begged him to sleep.

But you were tired, that is the only way to express it, tired of feeling your heart clench at the way he neglects himself, at this point you didn’t even care if he neglected you, which wasn’t the case, but him.

Your phone always got texts from him, asking if you had breakfast, if you had lunch or simply saying a hello. He called you before coming home offering you to bring some sweet from that store you liked so much. But, when you asked him if he had a good lunch, those tests always seemed to get lost in his inbox.

Oikawa always gave you a smile as the same words came out of the lips that kissed you every morning.

“Don’t you want me to be the best, my love?”

That simple phrase always seemed to wrap your heart in a death cold no matter the sweetness in his tone, they made impossible for you to come with an argument that would make Oikawa’s stubborn head understand. Understand that he was slowly tearing himself up and hurting you in the process.  

However, none of that is what had you sitting on the couch right now, arms crossed over your chest and lips pressed together, but as soon as Oikawa crossed the door, he knew the exact reason.

“Y/N-chan? I thought you were going out with your friends today”, he drops the bag on the ground, the keys of your shared apartment hitting the floor in the process, “Shit”

Your eyes are trained on the way his face contorts as he reaches for the keys, making your heart sink.

“Anyways, how are you, cutie?”, Oikawa stands in his full height before displaying a closed-eye smile at you.

However, his trademark grin fades as he sees your brows furrowing together, the air suddenly charging with the accumulated tension.

“Is there something w–“

“You tell me”, when you look at his knee with inquiring eyes, Oikawa blinks before turning his face away from you.

“It is nothing”, his mouth twitches down, “I’m fine”

‘no you are not’

His answer only makes you sigh loudly as your mind goes back to the early hours of today, the scene that made your chest sting popping out.

Oikawa had kissed your forehead like every other  morning before mumbling a brief goodbye, he chuckled lightly at the way you babbled some sort of greet and  he walked to the door like every other day but he failed to notice how your eyes opened and gazed at him.

His eyes widened as he felt the burn on his right leg, not knowing you were watching in horror the way his knee falters, causing his leg to tremble before giving in to gravity. He held onto the handle tightly, gritting his teeth to capture the whine that threatened your sleep. However, when he turned around, he founded your half-closed eyes fixated on him, but before you could say anything, he rushed away hoping your mind was clouded enough with tiredness to forget about it.

“How long?”, you ask, standing up slowly and moving towards him.

“I don’t know, what–”

“When started hurting this bad?”

His gaze fixes on the ground, his fists clamp together, annoyance bubbling up in his stomach. He knows what’s coming, he has heard that discourse way too many times to not know how this conversation will go.

“Since always Y/N!”, he cries out almost in pain, his hair moving violently matching with his gestures, the gap in your mouth mirrors the shock in you.

“You need a break Tooru…”

“So they can found someone better? No, thank you”, he lets out a dry laugh as he looks down at you.

“What is the point if you end up not being able to walk without limping??!!”, your voice falters at the end as you picture him holding onto the handle for stability, “You are out of control…”

Oikawa’s nails dig into his palm as he frowns, eyes narrowing at you with dangerous intensity.

“As if you knew…” , the sharpness in his voice makes nothing but press the wound in your heart furthermore.

“Of course, I know, damn it! Tooru you are barely sleeping! I don’t know if you’re even eating properly since we almost never have any meal together!”

And then as if your words had hit the right nerve inside the setter, Oikawa snaps, the look he shoots at you makes your movements halt and your voice dissolves into silence. He was tired and frustrated but ultimately scared and the fact you couldn’t see how scared he was, only frustrates him more.

“No, you don’t know a fucking thing! I need to get better!!”

“Tooru you are their regular setter already!”, you scream at him your face getting red with anger as your tone fades into a bare whisper, “Nothing is enough for you, isn’t it?!”

Oikawa knew that the question itself wasn’t entirely related to his volleyball career. The pleading look you give him and the tremble in your lips tells him that you are not only referring to the all the medals and recognitions but about your relationship itself.

You were asking him if you weren’t enough for him…And maybe you weren’t.

“No!”, the word comes out rushed, his thoughts getting more and more clouded by frustration. You grit your teeth when Oikawa places a hand on his forehead as if he had a bad headache, as if you were the cause of the annoying hammering,

“You are so selfish…can’t you see all what you ha–”, your voice comes in low hiss and before you can finish he lets out a loud groan as the keys in his hand fly across the room landing with a loud thud against your living room table, making you flinch.

“Why can you just let me do what I have to? Is it too much for your head to understand?!”, he shouts, and you feel a sting in your chest, your eyes almost seem to fall from your face and your breath stops as you see how your boyfriend’s face contorts in malice.

“I could pick any of those girls who wait for me after the matches, you know?  I could have any of them and they wouldn’t be as half as annoying as you!”

Oikawa’s chocolate orbits are piercing at you in anticipation when he catches the redness saturating your eyes, causing his heart to drop to the ground.

“I–“

“Go, pick a nobody who only wants to fuck with you,” you try your best to not flinch, but the venom in his words make a silent tear to roll down your cheek, “because I’m not staying to watch how you destroy yourself”

You walk past him, brushing his shoulder roughly, your steps to the door are so fast, he doesn’t get a chance to even try to reach for your hand.

The slam of the door makes a feeling of anguish settle on his chest. His feet move subconsciously to the door when a loud groan leave his lips, the pain on his knee makes his whole body shiver as he falls apart a meter away of the handle.

“Shit, shit, shit”, he whines as he manages to move his body until his back is leaning against the door, his hand travels to his pocket, desperately pulling out his phone, a pout cross his features when your name pops on his recent calls. The phone rings and rings but no answer comes, when the small device turns off, he feels himself growing numb.

And the minutes turn into hours, the night wrapping the city as Oikawa rests against the door.

Oikawa had never felt this desperate, the pain in his knee is unnoticeable compared to the ache swelling in his chest. One call, one message, anything that would let him know that you are safe, that is all he needs right now.

“What did you do for her to stay with you?”, Iwaizumi’ words ring in his ears, “You are lucky Oikawa”

He was lucky indeed, his head drops to the back, hitting the wood, his breath falters as tears stream down his face until they turn into uncontrollable sobs, the sting on his knee and the guilt mixing painfully together.

Suddenly, the door pushes his body to the side, hitting the back of his head causing him to grunt.

“Tooru?”, his eyes widen, he turns immediately to encounter your still glassy eyes gazing down at him in confusion, “What are you doing on the floor?”

Your voice is stoic however it is music for Oikawa’s ears, he quickly brushes the tears away from his face as he tries to stand up, a hiss slipping his throat.

“Oh god, Tooru!”, you quickly leave the store bag you are carrying and bend down to support him, “I bought some–

“I’M SO SORRY Y/N!! I-I DIDN’T MEAN TO–“, he groans as you try to lift him up but your small figure can’t do much to move the former captain of Seijoh, so you just drop him carefully back on the floor and kneel in front of him, “P-Please don’t leave…”

Your silence makes his heartbeat pace faster and he grabs your hands tightly, his gaze fixes on yours and you notice the fear his orbits hold. You have never seen him this vulnerable and your eyes don’t fail to show your surprise.

“Please don’t leave me Y/N-chan“, your lips press softly over his own before he says anything else, Oikawa’s brows furrow together as he squeezes your hands gently, sighing, relived.

“You should get someone better–”, he says,

“You are probably right”, you sigh, “you did hurt me, but– I guess I just love you that much”, he loses himself in the softness of your voice and tears threaten to come out again.

“I truly admire how hard you work but you have to take care of yourself Tooru–“,his glassy eyes look at you, still not able to believe you’re here, next to him, you bit your lip before cupping his cheek, “–you might not be the king of volleyball yet, but for what it is worth, you’re the king to me”

You blush violently but not even as close as the flustered red that tints Oikawa’s features, he leans in hesitantly to claim your lips and you both melt in the kiss.

He never thought such words would made him feel so complete and he realizes that all he ever needed was you by his side.

“Not gonna lie, I was hoping you’d say, ‘you are the king of my heart’ or something like that”

“I-Can’t you just take the stupid compliment?”, he chuckles with a husky tone but suddenly stops, he places a hand on your cheek his thumb making soothing circles over your flushed skin.

“Thank you”

“Uh?”

“For giving me another chance”, your knees start to sore from kneeling on the floor but you can’t move as his chocolates eyes stare into your own brimming with emotion, “I love you so much, I’m so sorry Y/N”

“If so, stop overworking yourself, okay?”

Your fingers tangle with his brown locks as he whispers a silent yes, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping your torso tightly as if he was still scared you fade away.  

Oikawa doesn’t  have a  throne, but he’ll proudly wear the title you gave him, and he’ll do his best the be worthy of the crown that comes with it. 

❀ Please reblog if you like it! ❀

Thanks for reading ♡♡♡

[livesincerely]

[Bits & Bobs] we’ll be on the road like some country song

AKA the Run Away With Me Fic

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Davey nearly loses his nerve about a hundred times in between dialing the number and Jack answering. The phone seems to ring forever⁠—for a moment he thinks that Jack’s not going to pick up and that will be that⁠—but somehow, incredibly, the call connects.

“‘Ello?” Jack rumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

Davey opens his mouth but no sound comes out, his words smothered down by a sudden wave of bitter, scalding doubt. What is he doing?

“Davey? Are you there?”

He needs to hang up. He needs to hang up, needs to stop bothering Jack and let him sleep, needs to pull himself together and just get it over with because there’s no point in putting it off, no point in pretending like there’s anything to be done except accept the fact that… The fact that he… 

He’s holding his cellphone so tightly that the plastic creaks under his fingers, his lungs straining in his chest and his stomach churning and churning. He tries to calm himself, breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, just like you’re supposed to, but it feels like no matter how hard he tries he can’t get enough air.  

“Guess not,” Jack murmurs to himself, voice trailing away.

Panic seizes Davey like a hand around his throat.

“Jack,” he gasps out. “Jackie, wait.”

“Dave?” Jack asks. “Hey, what’s⁠—”

“Jackie,” Davey says again, because he can’t figure out how to say anything else. “I—“

“What’s wrong?” Jack says, his tone spiking with alarm. “Are you okay?”

Davey presses a hand to his mouth, hot, shuddering breaths stifled by his palm. His vision clouds over, his bedroom fading into a shapeless, colorless blur, and it’s only then that Davey realizes that he’s crying⁠, tears streaming down his face. 

“David,” Jack says. “Are you okay?”

Davey’s shoulders shake. He tries to explain⁠—instead, he sobs.

“I’m coming over,” Jack says, and there’s a flurry of movement on his side of the line: the rustle of bedsheets thrown back, the clattering of car keys, soft, hurried footsteps. 

“You don’t have to,” Davey chokes out, because he didn’t call intending to drag Jack out of bed in the middle of the night. He just didn’t know what else to do. “Nothing’s wrong, Jackie, I’m not hurt or anything⁠—”

“Bullshit, you ain’t hurt,” Jack says sharply. “You’re crying.”

“But you don’t have to⁠—”

“I’m coming over,” Jack says, in that voice that says he’s made up his mind and there’s no talking him out of it. “Give me ten minutes, okay? I’ll be right there.”

Davey sniffs, feeling at once horribly pathetic and unspeakably relieved. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

“Do you want me to stay on the line?” Jack asks.

Yes, Davey thinks, because the last thing he wants is to be alone with his thoughts. Instead, he says, “You shouldn’t be on the phone while you’re driving. You can hang up.”

Jack hesitates. “Ten minutes,” he says eventually. “I’m already in the car.”

“Okay,” Davey whispers. “Ten minutes.”

Even though he’s expecting him, Davey still jumps when Jack finally knocks on his bedroom window. 

He half crawls, half staggers over. His hands are trembling so badly he almost can’t get the latches unlocked, but he eventually manages to get the window open. 

“Are you okay?” Jack demands as he clambers inside. He’s dressed like he literally rolled out of bed and drove straight here⁠—he’s thrown a thin jacket on over his shirtless torso, the bottoms of his sweatpants wet with dew and littered with grass clippings, his feet shoved hastily into a pair of his mother’s slippers instead of his shoes. “What’s wrong, what happened?”

Davey can’t help but wilt in the face of such genuine concern, guilt and shame spreading like twin frosts across the plains of his heart.

“Jack,” he starts, curling in on himself. “Jackie, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have called you, it’s nothing, really, nothing I can’t handle myself, I’m sorry I woke you up, I⁠—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jack says, stepping forward and taking him gently by the shoulders. Davey’s frantic ramblings peter out. “Breathe for me, alright, Dave? I need you to breathe for me.”

“Sorry,” Davey says again, struggling to do as he’s asked. “It’s nothing, it’s stupid, honestly, I don’t know why I’m being so⁠—”

“Davey,” Jack interrupts, eyes serious. “Nothing that’s got you this upset is stupid. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

It shouldn’t feel like as huge of a question as it does. Davey doesn’t even know where to start, and the thought of having to try to explain makes something acrid and agonizing rise up like bile in the back of his throat. 

“The letters came,” he forces out. 

Jack’s mouth goes tight. “All of ‘em?”

Davey gives a weak nod. “I’ve been stealing them out of the mailbox. I didn’t want my parents to see…”

“Where are they?”

“In my nightstand,” Davey answers. 

With one last reassuring squeeze, Jack goes to look. He pulls open the drawer and unearths a stack of creamy envelopes, each one thicker and heavier than the last: Columbia, Dartmouth, Yale, NYU, UCLA, UC Berkeley... Just the sight of them sends another wave of anxiety rushing through him; Davey hugs himself against a sudden chill, his nails biting into his arms.

Jack flips one of the envelopes over, dragging a finger over the shiny, golden seal. 

“You haven’t opened them,” he says, more of a comment than a question.

“I couldn’t,” Davey confesses. “I tried but I couldn’t make myself… I just couldn’t.”

He doesn’t know how to explain, the feelings refusing to condense down into words. Because they’re just letters, except that they’re not just letters, not really. They’re only the start. 

The start of another four years of this: of working himself into the ground and being miserable, of studying and struggling and grinding and endlessly competing against this idealized, perfected, unattainable version of himself. A version of himself that his parents want him to be, a person that they insist he must become, never once considering if that’s who he wants to be. 

He can’t even imagine spending the next chapter of his life like this. He can’t do it. He can’t.

But even as Davey thinks it, that familiar sensation starts creeping in again⁠—bitter doubt, overwhelming worry, desperate, aching fear⁠—screaming at him from every corner of his mind. Of course he’s going to college. Of course he is, he has to, there’s nothing to be done, no choice but to make his peace and learn to live with...

Another wave of nausea hits so hard and so abruptly he goes dizzy with it, just barely able to keep from retching⁠—not that there’s anything left in his stomach to throw up. 

“Woah, hey,” Jack says softly. He wraps a hand around Davey’s forearm to steady him, guiding him over to sit down on the bed. “Breathe, Davey, breathe⁠. I gotcha.”

“Sorry,” Davey mutters.

“You don’t gotta be sorry,” Jack replies, his face full of understanding. “You just gotta tell me the best way to help you. Do you need me to open the letters for you?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Davey shakes his head, like that might shuffle his scattered thoughts into coherence. “I don’t want anyone to open them. I wish they didn’t fucking exist at all.”

Davey takes a deep breath, straining for calm. Jack watches him silently, rubbing his hand comfortingly along his arm.

“I should’ve listened to you,” Davey admits. “I should’ve put a stop to this months ago. But I didn’t know what to tell them and I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me and now it’s too late, all these fucking letters keep showing up because they made me apply to every goddamn Ivy League in the country, and I don’t know what to do. Jackie, I don’t know what to do.”

“Davey,” Jack says quietly. “What do you need from me?”

“Help me figure this out?” Davey pleads. “I know it’s a lot, but every day my parents ask if I’ve heard back from any schools and I’ve got to come up with a plan before they catch on and I don’t think I can do it by myself.”

He gestures at the pile of letters sitting in Jack’s lap, and as he does, he realizes that his hand is trembling. He lowers it back down before Jack can notice.

“Maybe you can help me sort through these?” Davey suggests. “I just need advice, an outside perspective, an opinion from someone I trust. Someone that will help me pick something I can live with, not just whatever’s most prestigious.”

“But you don’t want to go to any of these schools,” Jack says slowly. “You ain’t even interested in any of ‘em.”

Davey can’t meet his eyes. 

“At least one of them must be decent,” he says, in a tone that’s not at all convincing. “It’s just a matter of figuring out which one.”

“And what if none of them are?” Jack says. “What if none of ‘em are decent? What if none of ‘em are right for you?”

“One of them will be,” Davey insists.

“But what if they’re not?” Jack says, still pressing. “What if all of ‘em are horrible? What if we start looking at ‘em and every one is guaranteed to be four years of misery?”

“Then I guess I’m just going to be fucking miserable, aren’t I?” Davey bursts out. 

He immediately clamps his hand over his mouth, praying that no one else heard. But the house remains sleepy and silent. 

Jack stares back at him, a sea of feeling behind his eyes.

“I can’t think like that, Jackie,” Davey continues after a second, fighting to keep his voice down despite the edge of hysteria that’s creeping into his tone. “I have to hope that one of these schools will be a good enough fit or else I’m actually going to lose my mind. So I need you to help me figure this out. I need your advice because⁠, if nothing else, at least you’re actually on my side. I’m so tangled up at this point that I can’t even tell if⁠—” ⁠

If I’m on my own side anymore, Davey doesn’t say, cutting himself off before he can finish the thought. But Jack looks at him like he knows exactly what Davey was about to say, his expression turning sad and maybe a little angry.

“And you really think that’s what’s best?” Jack asks, voice rough with disbelief and displeasure.

“What else is there to do?” Davey replies, helpless.

Jack’s mouth flattens out into a harsh, thin line, jaw clenched. He stares down at the letter from earlier, then at the rest of the stack, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. He picks one up and at first Davey can’t tell if he’s going to finally open it, or if he’s just going to rip it in half.

Instead, he says, “We could run.”

“...What?” Davey whispers.

Jack turns to him, and the look in his eyes is like nothing Davey’s ever seem before: almost fever bright, threaded with urgency and realization, and speckled with warmth and hints of promise.

“Run away with me, Dave,” Jack says. “Let me take you away from all’a this. We’ll hit the road, drive ‘til the pavement ends, ‘til we’re far away from all these expectations and plans and supposed to’s. Because it’s crushing you. It’s making you fucking miserable, and if distance is what you need to find steady ground and make a choice for your own sake, that’s actually about you and what you want? Then I’m your ticket outta town.”

“Jackie...” Davey says, utterly floored. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, stuttering with something like anticipation and fear and terrible, terrible longing. “Jackie, that’s not… We can’t.”

“And why can’t we?”

“Because,” Davey insists, because one of them has to be reasonable. “Because, we can’t just pack up and leave. It’s the middle of the semester, we’ve got another three months of school left, we’re supposed to graduate, and fuck, can you even imagine the fallout? My parents would kill me, just hunt me down and murder me if I left.”

“I’m still not hearin’ any reasons not to,” Jack says, still looking at Davey with those warm, steady eyes.

“I just told you—“ Davey starts.

“No,” Jack calmly interrupts. “You gave me a bunch of excuses for not going, not reasons. There’s a difference. I’m waitin’ for something more along the lines of ‘my ridiculously long legs make road trips super uncomfortable’ or ‘our friendship won’t survive us traveling together for weeks in close quarters’ or ‘I wouldn’t trust your rusted old Chevy to take us to the state line, let alone any further,’ or how about ‘Jack, I don’t want to.’”

Davey’s mouth closes with a soft click, swallowing heavily around a sudden lump in his throat.

Jack keeps looking at him, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much to handle, simmering with something quietly fierce. 

“I’m not gonna stand by and watch you kill yourself over a life that you don’t even want. Not anymore. Not when it makes you call me at one in the morning, sounding like the weight of the fucking world’s on your shoulders and you’re terrified to set it down. Not after seven months of watching you waste away right in front of me, moving around like a goddamn shadow, pale as a ghost and hollow inside. Not unless you can look me in the eye right now and tell me that college is what you want. That any of this is gonna make you happy.”

Davey can’t speak. Something’s gone taut in his chest, like a piano wire about to snap. Davey could prevent it. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

Jack leans closer and takes both of Davey’s hands in his own. His palms are warm, or maybe it’s just that Davey’s freezing, has been so painfully cold and lonely these past few months, withering away in the shadow of his parent’s expectations. But the tangle of their fingers threading together is like a balm on Davey’s soul—the spark that reignites the embers of a dying fire.

He’s so tired of being cold.

“I just wanna know that you’ll be happy,” Jack says after a moment—softly, like he’s afraid he might shatter Davey if he speaks any louder, sending the broken shards of him scattering into nothingness. Davey’s not sure he’s wrong. “And I know you, David, and this isn’t going to make you happy.”

“This is crazy,” Davey breathes out, and it’s not what he means to say but it’s what comes out, regardless. “It’s... Jack, this is insanity.”

“Who cares about what’s sane?” Jack says. “Fuck sanity.”

“Jackie.”

“Tell me you’re happy,” Jack says, and the gentleness of the command doesn’t make it any less compelling. “Tell me you’re happy, that you think you’ll be happy with all’a this, and I’ll drop it. I’ll drop it right this second, I swear.”

Davey’s eyes slip shut. He breathes in and breathes out, feeling his ribs pressing against that band in his chest, the last pieces of it holding fast.

“You know this isn’t what you want,” Jack continues. “You’ve known right from the start that this isn’t what you want, you just wouldn’t admit it. But you gotta finally put yourself first for once, Davey. You gotta figure out what’s best for you, and you can’t do that here, not with everything that’s weighing you down.”

In and out. In and out.

“Please, Dave,” Jack murmurs. “Please.”

And the wire snaps.

“Okay,” Davey says, fingers tightening around Jack’s, his lone anchor as the world tilts out from underneath him. “Okay.”

“You’ll—?”

“Let me pack a bag,” Davey agrees.

00000

Tags! @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside, @corbinthecowboy

[patheticlittleguy]

Fairy Dust

Masterlist. Part four of a series.

content warnings: hospital settings, descriptions of magical healing. Things are finally getting whumpy!

The Healer arrives at ten o’clock sharp. Like all Healers, he wears a white jacket with red hems and a big red plus sign on the breast. This particular Healer has short, dirty blonde hair, and looks mildly inconvenienced by everything around him. Leo kind of thinks he’s cute.

“What’s wrong with you?” The Healer says, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Instead of waiting for a response, he puts a hand on Leo’s waist.

Leo knows he’s in pretty bad shape down there, but he hasn’t really been thinking about it. As the Healer mutters to himself, Leo gets a vague idea of how bad it really is.

“Well, man, I think you’ve broken some kind of record for most bones broken. Congrats, I guess.”

Leo snorts at that, and though the statement had some troubling implications, he can’t help but smile a little bit.

The Healer’s face is suddenly serious again. “This is probably gonna hurt, alright? Let me know if you need to stop.” He carefully sets a hand on Leo’s chest.

It feels warm and itchy, and then it burns. Leo can’t breathe. He feels something shift, and then it’s over. The Healer takes their hand away. Leo can breathe, but it’s shaky.

There’s a long moment where the Healer waits for Leo to catch his breath, and Leo tries not to cry. He finally manages to calm down, and then the Healer splays a hand on Leo’s right hip.

Leo nearly panics, and he forces himself to keep breathing steadily. He feels the itchy heat of the healing again. The muscles in his leg twitch minutely, weakly trying to jerk out of the Healer’s grasp. Pain pierces through his bones. Something shifts, and he cries out.

The Healer stops, giving Leo a moment to catch his breath. Leo swallows thickly. Everything is sort of fuzzy, like someone put TV static in a humidifier and left it on high.

A nurse says in a sickly sweet voice, “I think he’s done for the day, alright?” She shoos the Healer out, which frustrates Leo a bit. He never got the guy’s name.

Leo spends the rest of the afternoon fiddling with shadows. The nurses lower the amount of pain medicine he’s on, and he’s sound of mind enough that he can finally reach out with his mind and feel them. It’s like seeing an old friend again, partly because Leo has had a sad and lonely life and the shadows are like a companion to him.

He passes the time by seeing how big and silly he can make a shadow look before any nurses notice. As it turns out, people rarely pay attention to something as mundane as a shadow. He manages to keep a straight face as he makes a nurse’s shadow look like a cartoon monster, and then shrinks it back down to normal size before the nurse sees. It’s entertaining for a little while, but then he gets bored and stares out of the window again.

It occurs to him, out of the blue, that he hasn’t had a haircut in a while. He’s been more lax about them ever since graduation, a few months ago, but now it’s really starting to get long. Not that it matters that much. There’s no one he cares about enough for their opinion of him to matter.

Two days later, the Healer comes back. This time, his jacket is rumpled and his hair looks unwashed. Leo tries not to wonder if everything’s alright- the Healers are here to help him, not the other way around. There’s a time and a place.

The Healer has a hand on Leo’s knee- or, rather, the brace wrapped around Leo’s knee- when Leo blurts out, “What’s your name?”

The Healer’s eyes flick up, but his face is still angled away. It makes him look even more tired, somehow. “I’m Matthew,” he says. “Now, you know the drill. This is gonna hurt.”

Leo nods, and takes a deep breath. The pain is sharp and sudden, this time, and Leo instinctively tries to gasp but his lungs are already full. He exhales like a balloon popping, and another burst of pain leaves him gasping and shuddering.

“There, there,” Matthew says awkwardly. Leo’s throat aches with the need to sob. The Healer adds, “I’m all done. You can breathe now.”

Leo does breathe, in big gasps like he’s drowning. His whole body gradually goes limp again, ragdolling in slow motion. A nurse puts the back of their hand against his forehead, as if there isn’t a thermometer handy. His vision is blurry with exhaustion and tears, and he can’t make out who it is.

He’s still sniffling weakly as he falls asleep. When he wakes, he will not remember having dreamt. Diego will run his fingers through Leo’s hair, and say, welcome back to the land of the living, big guy. Leo will be perfectly content that way.

—-

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