#maybe a severe injury in his vocal cords

[cherrywbb-art]

What if...

What if I make ice bear go completely mute?... just saying :)

[loveandmurders]

Hi! So I absolutely love and adore your sister AU fics for the Sinclair brothers and I’m just wondering if you’d ever do a similar thing with Brahms maybe? I’ve just had these thoughts about what if Brahms had a twin or younger sister who he loved because she was like his only true friend but then after what he did to Emily Cribbs, your parents had you sent away out of concern for your safety either before or after the fire. Maybe you have burn scars that aren’t as severe, or maybe you got away unscathed. But you somehow ended up coming back to the manor many years later (you’re on vacation, you get lost and/or your car breaks down, you get dared to enter the “haunted house” locals are wary of, idk) and at some point Brahms recognizes you and doesn’t want you to leave. He wants— no, he needs you to remember him. He lost you once, and he can’t let it happen again. Your parents and Greta are gone by this point, and he’s been so lonely. Of course weird ghost things happen that conveniently keep you confined to the house (The old doors get stuck and lock you in certain rooms, severe rainstorm/power goes out, idk) and other weird events make you think the place is haunted. Maybe you also have a porcelain doll in your likeness like he does and he tries to gift it to you without showing himself but it unnerves you. Maybe you find old pictures of yourself as a child but don’t recognize them as you until you read your name that’s written on the back. Just an idea, I know you probably have tons of requests to get through so no worries I just thought it could make for a very cool AU since your Sinclair AUs are so incredible and some of my favorite work 💜

Hello love and thank you for your kinds words and for this very cool idea!!!

I had a lot of fun writing for this (wrote two parts for it so far), so I hope you'll enjoy it as well <3

THE PAST HAUNTS ME - PART I (sister!reader x Brahms Heelshire)

Warnings: no proof reading, angst, nightmare/mansion burning down on Brahms, amnesia, mentions of death in a car crash, mentions of killing and violence, mentions of small past injuries and blood.

You woke up, with a strangled scream stuck in your throat, covered in sweats and madly shivering. 

You had this nightmare again. 

It felt like you couldn’t escape it since you were a child. You didn’t remember much of your past, but you perfectly remembered that, as far as your memory was going, there was this nightmare haunting you. You dreamt of a little boy who was screaming your name while a big mansion was burning down. His voice was coming from the mansion and you wanted to run in to help him out, but two adults were holding you back. You were screaming so much, you thought you were going to break your vocal cords. You were absolutely terrified and panicked and concerned, tears freely cascading down your face. You seemed to know who this little boy was. You seemed to care very much about him as well. Sometimes, you even screamed his name when you were waking up from the nightmare. 

Brahms. 

You always opened your eyes when the mansion was collapsing down on him.

You talked a lot about this dream to your adoptive parents and to the doctors you consulted as a child. You had always wondered if those images were actually coming from your past. Because of a very traumatic event, you lost your memory of when you were younger than 9 years old. It was as if your story was starting when you got adopted by your foster family. Because of your amnesia, your parents went to see a lot of doctors and therapists to make sure that you were doing alright. However, at the same time, your new family never wanted to talk about it directly with you, and they always said it was just a nightmare and that you shouldn’t worry about it too much. 

They wanted to be certain you were in good physical and mental health, without having to talk about what they knew about you. They always said that they had no idea who your real parents could be, and you had always wanted to believe them because they were good to you. They treated you well, and they dearly loved you like their own daughter.

Despite your amnesia, you were happy to have a family and you hoped that everything was going to be alright. You grew up to turn into a young woman who was often questioning herself, but who was also afraid of what could await for her if she ever found out the answers to her questions.

When your adoptive parents died in a car crash, you thought you were going to lose it. You never cried that much in your whole existence, and felt so alone. You had no idea what to do at first. You weren’t sure to be ready to carry such a burden on your shoulders and on your own.

And yet, you decided to be strong and you focused on taking care of their funeral and then of their belongings that were now yours. They had a lot of kids but you were the only one they adopted, which was a little bit strange to you. But you didn’t really think about it: you were broken. You lost your second family as well. You felt like you were cursed; it was the only explanation on why everything and everyone was always leaving you. This idea was haunting you as much as the nightmare now; you needed to stay busy to forget about it.

As you were going through their documents, you found a very odd contract. They seemed to receive a lot of money every month in exchange for adopting you and making sure you would never remember what happened. There was an address on the contract and names. Mrs and Mr Heelshire. At first, you didn’t believe this was true. So you checked their bank account, but you realised that they indeed received the money every month from the Heelshires. It would explain why your adoptive parents never wanted to talk about your past; however it didn’t explain why everyone wanted you to stay in the dark. It made you feel sick and you left the contract on a table, while you left the room, trying to digest this crazy news before doing anything about it.

And now that you woke up from your nightmare, all you could think about was finding this burnt mansion. It had to be a memory. Or at least, a part of it even if your mind might have twisted it. It had to be the traumatic event that made you forget about everything.

You needed to know the truth about who you were… About who was Brahms too because he seemed important to you. Now that you lost your adoptive family, you had the even stronger urge to find out your past. You felt ready too. You were an adult, you could handle whatever you were going to find in this mansion. You just hoped you would be able to find it and that it didn’t fully burn.

Even though it was still the middle of the night, you dressed up, took some food with you and clothes, and left. You couldn’t stand to stay around now your parents were dead, so this little adventure was more than welcomed. You started to think about the contract while you were driving. You could only assume that the Heelshires were your biological parents (otherwise, why would they know you and why would they pay for people to care for you?). You couldn’t understand why your real family would have wanted you away from them though and why they would have paid for it. Was it because you did something? Was it because of the little boy who was screaming your name in the fire? Was it because he died?

You realised how far away from where you were the address was, but it was alright. Everything was going to be alright. After a little while, you actually found yourself relaxing and your mind was quietening down.

You made some little stops on the road, sleeping in cheap motels before resuming your journey. But at some point, you finally arrived in front of the big mansion. It seemed empty and you were disappointed. It was in the middle of nowhere too, but it was so beautiful. It was the same one as in your nightmare; except that it wasn’t burning down. You thought the place had to be rebuilt after the fire, because it didn’t seem damaged at all. You wondered if the Heelshires still lived there or if they sometimes came back. You were looking at it from your car, in the middle of the road. 

A car, on the other way, came by and stopped next to you. The man lowered down his window.

“Got lost?” he asked, he seemed quite friendly. You shook your head.

“I was looking for this house. Do you know if anyone still lives here?” you asked

“No one since a while… You aren’t from here, are you?” he asked

“No indeed. Why?”

“Well there are a lot of stories about this place. Last time someone was in there, she said a man who was living in the walls tried to kill her. Cops never found anyone but there was blood and dead bodies in the entrance. The owners killed themselves too” he explained “If I was you I wouldn’t stay around or try to get inside. Some teens disappeared after some stupid dares. And even if cops can’t find shit…” he explained to you and you were positively horrified

“Thank you” you smiled “You seemed to be used of strangers wanting to get in there?” you asked, out of curiosity. He shrugged.

“Can’t explain it, but this mansion is fascinating. Can’t blame people for wanting to explore it to be honest… But it’s not safe. I don’t know how you heard about this place, but trust me, there is nothing for you in there.” he answered and plunged his eyes inside of yours. 

You thanked him again and faked leaving. You waited for the man to disappear before parking nearby the house. Even if his stories made you shiver in fear, you still needed to get inside the mansion. You didn’t know if the owners were the Heelshires or not, but you hoped they weren’t. You had so many questions to ask them. You couldn’t have done all this road for nothing. And you couldn’t be so close to knowing more about yourself and turning back now. You had to have a quick look around the mansion. You weren’t going to touch anything, you were just trying to remember. And then you were going to leave before the crazy killer ghost attacked you. It seemed like a fair plan to you. You took a little knife pocket with you, just in case though.

You discreetly found a way in the property and quickly climbed the stairs towards the entrance. You knocked at the door, just to make sure no one was home. You waited a little while before trying to open it. It was unlocked and you thanked your luck before getting inside.

“Hello?” you called out and your voice resonated in the emptiness of the place. You shivered before sneezing at all the dust flying around. It really looked like the place was deserted. “I don’t know if someone’s here, but I’m not here to rob or do anything bad… I’m just looking for my past. If it’s okay with you, I’ll have a look around and then I’ll go. So please, don’t hurt me” you said. You really thought you were insane, but maybe it would keep the killer away from you. And being polite, even to ghosts (especially to ghosts?), never hurt anyone. You could at least believe it.

You waited a little longer, trying to hear anything, before starting to have a look around when only silence answered your call.

Brahms also woke up from a nightmare the morning you arrived at the mansion. It was always the same as well: his parents were sending you away because he killed a little girl of his age, and full of rage he burnt the mansion down while screaming your name because he couldn’t stand the idea of being apart from you. You were the only thing he ever loved, and your parents were worried he would corrupt the light your eyes always used to hold. He couldn’t explain to them that he would never hurt you in any way. You were his twin sister, you were his best friend, you were his sun. And he could only burn the whole world down if you weren’t there to appease his violence.

It was what actually happened.

And he woke up with the same sadness and anger burning him even worse than the fire did. The physical pain he felt and that his skin still remembered sometimes, was nothing compared to the pain of knowing he had lost you. He missed his baby twin sister so badly. You were what he loved the most in his life. When you were both children, he couldn't stand to be away from you, even though you were of a more independent nature. He killed Emily Crabs because she liked to say things about you. She was saying you were ugly and stupid, and that Brahms deserved a better sister. She was just fooling around, trying to annoy the boy. She couldn't know his love for his sister was so strong, and that he was ready to destroy everything and everyone for her. He killed Emily and your parents understood what happened when they found him covered in blood. They found the body too after they made Brahms talk. They did their best for you to never know about this, and Brahms was eager to keep it a secret from you too. But he hadn’t thought they would decide to keep you away to protect you from him; he was your big brother, he was the one supposed to protect you. Your parents discovered how obsessive he seemed to be and they couldn’t let you be his obsession. 

They hadn’t thought he would go that insane once you would be away. And you hadn’t understood what was happening. You fainted from the panic when you saw the mansion burning down. After that, everything went dark and your parents were grateful for that. It was better that way, so you wouldn’t try to come back home.

Brahms was certain he lost you because you never came back. Since you were forced to leave his life, he could only sleep with a little porcelain doll looking like you when you were a child. Your parents always used this doll as leverage to make him obey when he was being uncontrollable once again. As he grew up and became strong, they worried it would stop working, but it was the only thing that kept him a little bit sane. And even when your parents were still alive, the doll was the only thing he talked to. He was whispering sweet little things to it, because he couldn’t do it with you anymore. He didn’t care about Greta, he just wished he would have killed her like he did with the other “nannies”. And now his parents were gone, he was left alone with his thoughts. He hated it. He hoped some stupid people would come inside the mansion, so he could lurk around before slaughtering them. It was the only thing that was making him almost happy. It was the only thing that made him forget about you, even just a few hours.

He instantly heard your voice echoing around and he quickly got up. He didn’t know who it was, but he knew he was going to play around. He was glad the devil heard his prayers. He didn’t understand what you meant about “your past” though. He wasn’t caring too much; he was just excited to have a new toy around.

He found you and he started to watch you from a hole inside the walls. He thought you were pretty and he appreciated how you truly didn’t touch anything, even if it wasn’t going to change much of your fate… He might give you a quick death if you kept being good. 

He watched you stopping in front of the family pictures laying around in the living room, and tilted his head to the side as you seemed to frown and to internally question yourself. As you leaned closer to the picture, your cardigan fell from one of your shoulders. There was a scar on it, that you did by falling off a tree as you were playing with your brother. You had fallen on a stone that cut deep into your skin. Brahms perfectly remembered how worried he had felt when it seemed like you weren’t going to stop bleeding. After this, Brahms had always kept you under his watch and more importantly he had kissed your injured skin every night before tugging you to bed. So when he saw it, he recognised it right away. He also started to recognise the way you were putting a piece of loose strand of hair behind your ear, and how you were nibbling on your lips in thoughts, and when you turned around, he clearly saw your eyes and your face. He was certain it was you. He wondered if it was all a dream. He wouldn’t survive if he realised it wasn’t reality. He needed you to be real so badly.

He understood why you were here; you were looking for your family. For him. He was so excited. You were back home. You were finally back where you should be.

And he would never let you go ever again.

PART II

[soft-mafia]

Troubled Girl [Buggy x Reader]

[part 1]

warnings: oc insert series, fem reader, fem y/n, age gap, slow burn, violence and blood, oc x canon, HEAVY on the oc insert, if you hate stuff like that don’t interact, barely proof read

a/n: I decided to redo part 1 because the first one was hot shit😭I hope this turns out better now that I have the actual lore figured out. I worked really hard on this so I hope this gets some attention😭

Y/n didn’t know what she was looking at, the way the sea lined up with the horizon in the distance, the way the waves crashed against the side of the ship. Or maybe she was listening to the call of the seagulls. She didn’t even know where she was, really, the sky was a bright pastel blue, the clouds were white and looked like cotton, the ocean below her was a saturated deep blue, it was so unusual. Where was she? Was she dead? When she awoke from her blackout her wounds were patched up, the stench of musk and alcohol greeted her as she rose, but everything seemed.. off.

It was a cramped room, a makeshift med ward but she was tended to with what seemed to be professionalism. The bandages around her arms had only a few faint dried bloodstains on them despite the severity of her injuries. Everything was so bright and saturated, even the light that poured in from the rounded windows.

Her brows furrowed, still trying to recollect what happened, or where she was. It was still clear in her memory, of course, she couldn’t forget what happened. However, in this moment she didn’t know if she should still be on guard or not. Y/n survived, and ran, but was this ship taking her back home? She figured the nuns or the apprentices found her and were transporting her back to Getica, but it couldn’t be that. The ship she was on was filthy and had circus print everywhere, a chipped pattern on the sides of the boat.

Y/n’s eyes were still heavy, she was tired and exhausted and hadn’t eaten since she’d been taken for judgement day.

Y/n froze and whipped her head back in alert when she heard the sound of footsteps creaking on the deck behind her, a tense feeling shot through her body, still in fight or flight.

“Hey! Finally, you’re awake! I didn’t think you’d make it through the night.” The man says, his face painted in makeup to match the circus print, two blue arches smeared almost symmetrically on each arch of his brow, cross bones mark his forehead and red was painted messily around his lips. He was tall with broad shoulders, a bit of a gut, but the main attraction to this man was a huge red growth on the center of his face. Y/n thought it was fake at first glance, but seeing now his nostrils blended so seamlessly into the growth and the gradient of red to a light tan immediately made her think otherwise. Despite the odd red nose, he wasn’t unattractive, in fact he was the handsomest man Y/n had ever seen in her life. His arms were crossed over his chest, there was thick arm hair over sun kissed skin, biceps bulging against his sleeves.

She opened her mouth to speak, sucking in a raspy breath. It had been forever since she actually spoke, the last few days the only thing coming from her mouth were screams and wails. Only now was she aware of the strain in her voice and the sting in her vocal cords. “Where am I?”

“You’re on my ship.” He answered, “Me and my crew were out looking for some treasure on this island but.. we found you bleeding out on the shoreline.” Y/n was still tense, not knowing if she should be threatened or not. “I was feeling generous, I think you owe me a ‘thank you’.” He was cocky, that’s for sure.

“W-Where are we going?” She didn’t mean to stutter, but the salty sea air wasn’t helping with the soreness in her dry throat, she felt so dehydrated in that moment, a bad taste in her mouth from it. Her disregard of his request for gratitude seemed to offend him, his brows furrowing and his grin turning into a slight scowl, “Are you even listening to me?! I saved your LIFE.” He spat, “I could’ve left you for dead!!” He clenched his fists, letting his hands rest at his sides now. “Do you have any water?” Y/n asked, continuing to disregard his words, and it seemed to make him more agitated. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” The man shouted, his voice was deep but shrill, there was a comedic charm to it though. Y/n didn’t feel threatened by him, if he really was a threat, her wounds wouldn’t have been tended to so precisely, she figured. “I just want some water.” She stated more clearly, “Or anything to drink.”

He grumbled something incomprehensible under his breath as he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a flask, which he handed it to her. Upon drinking it, she choked it back and groaned, “What the hell is this?!” It was bitter, warm and unpleasant. It was an unfamiliar taste that she never wanted to have in her mouth again. “It’s liquor. What? You never had booze before?” The man scoffed, grinning and holding back a laugh at her reaction.

It’s not like Y/n never had a drink before, but she much preferred the overly sweetened beverages, the ones the boys would carry in six packs to the lake during the seasonal pardons. Y/n didn’t want to be rude, so she said nothing. “Thanks for saving me. I really appreciate it.” She finally thanked him, the man’s face softened into something serious, his gaze narrowing, “You look like hell, kid.” He muttered, noticing her tense stance, and shaky gaze that she could barely keep locked with his, “Wanna tell me what happened?”

“It’s.. a lot to explain.” Y/n looked down at the ground, crossing her arms tightly, feeling the soreness from her wounds, but it wasn’t unbearable. “Yeah no kidding. We almost thought about chopping your arms off all together.” The man chuckled dryly, before looking away with a grimace on his face, “No offense but damn, I wouldn’t wanna piss off whoever did that to you.”

“I didn’t piss anybody off.” She muttered, “Nobody did. It was nobodies fault we didn’t do anything!” She snapped, earning a confused grimace from the tall man.

Y/n looked back out at the sea, letting the wind blow through her hair. There was a minute of silence until the man decided to speak up again, “So.. uh, just tell me where you live and I’ll take you back home, your injuries should heal in a couple days.” His words struck a feeling of uneasiness in Y/n. She didn’t know if she was safe back home. Despite initially surviving her trap, she had been the only person who successfully escaped the judgement day hall without getting killed by an apprentice, to which she had killed 5 of them.

Besides, there was nothing left for her back home, considering everybody she knew had been killed. Y/n felt a chill run down her spine when the image of the blood vessels popping in her friend’s eyes right before his trap killed him, he didn’t free himself in time. That imagine alone would haunt her forever, it was so gut churning. “I don’t think I can go back.” She mumbled quietly, stuttering as she was unsure, but deep down despite her uncertainty she knew there was no way she could return home and survive. She kept her gaze to the sea below her.

She had already been kicked out of the orphanage after turning 18, she had been living with one of her teachers before apprentices killed her as well, so with no friends and her only living relative being as close to her as a stranger would be, she had nothing. As a survivor of judgement day she would’ve been recruited as an apprentice, Y/n didn’t think she could stomach putting people through the same pain and torture she experienced. On another hand, she could be imprisoned for escaping, her arms, legs and tongue could be carved off before being thrown in a cell, left to rot.

“Well.” The man looked over the railing with her, standing side by side, “I guess there’s always room on my crew for another. You’re already here so why not?”

“So I become a pirate?” Y/n couldn’t help but scoff quietly. The irony of it all, the entire point of judgement days was to make sure orphans wouldn’t grow up to become violent criminals, and immediately after Y/n’s escape she was being offered to become a pirate, a vocation that the dean described to be the worst of any crime. The dean’s hatred for pirates was a common joke around the school, but there was an eeriness to it. There was a rumor a few years back that a student was caught genuinely dreaming of running away and becoming a pirate, and that dream eventually made it around to the dean, so he had carved his tongue out before taking him away to the ward. There were theories about who the student was, but it wasn’t uncommon for people in Getica to go missing, and kids in the orphanage weren’t excluded from that, so whether if it was true or not, nobody would know.

“It’s not so bad. We’re always partying, eating, drinking. Hell, I spent the majority of my life out on sea drunk more than sober.” The man spoke up again. Yeah I can tell. Y/n looked him up and down, and as she thought about it more deeply, she was technically walking with a target on her back now, and if pirates were as cruel and scum as the dean had said, they could serve as good protection if him or any apprentices would find her out. “Ok. I’ll join.” She finally said, looking back up to meet his gaze, green watercolored eyes that she couldn’t help but get lost in, she didn’t think she had seen eyes that pretty before. They were soft in their earthy color, but they held a coldness to them.

Y/n found herself jostled suddenly, he roughly patted her on the back, reminding her of her injuries for a moment before she was pulled close to his body, “Fantastic!!! I’ve been looking for someone to swab the deck!”

The idea of that made her internally recoil, if what he said was accurate and the crew spent the majority of the time drinking, that would mean she would have to clean up the drunken throw up. She ground the back of her teeth. “Let me introduce you to the crew! They’re gonna love you.” He said as he was leading her back down to the lower deck, “Don’t be intimidated but.. you’re the only girl, but we treat each other here like family so you won’t have to worry about any creeps.”

He led her down into a cramped room, looking like a makeshift mess hall, a large crowd of men were eating, stuffing their faces with food. The scent coming from the kitchen was heavenly, the smell of fresh scrambled eggs, crisp bacon; which there was a heap of right in the middle of a table in the far side of the room. It perplexed her that pirates had better food than what was served at the orphanage; day old, sometimes molded bread tossed sloppily on trays. Most days there would only be enough food for 100 kids but that didn’t even make up half of the amount of kids. People would have to fight for food sometimes, leaving others severely injured or worse. There were no such things as ketchup, salt, or honey, Y/n didn’t even know what any of those things were. If you asked her if she knew what a condiment was, she would think you were talking about a book of some sorts.

“Where do you even get all of this food?” Y/n asked as she looked around at the room full of men gleefully stuffing their faces without a care in the world, “Hm? Well.. we make sure to stock up on food every few days, of course.” He replied, as if it was nothing, as if food was easily accessible to them at all times, which apparently it was. She took another look at the crew, they all looked as eccentric as their captain, some dressed in circus outfits, stripes and odd hats, someone rode a unicycle to a table while eating his breakfast. A man in the far corner caught her eye, he looked as if he was wearing fur garments, a fur hat and tunic, but as she continued looking at him she noticed that the fur was coming out of his skin.

The captain took an empty glass and a spoon from a nearby table and tapped them together, causing the room to fall silent, they all stared at the captain at first, but then all of their gazes fell upon her. She immediately felt a wave of anxiety rush over her, in the past having all eyes on her didn’t really bother her too much, but ever since she was called in for Judgement Day, she hated the attention. “Listen up men, this little lady just joined our crew, so let’s give her a big welcome and help her feel right at home!” Y/n wasn’t prepared for the amount of noise that would come after the captain’s introduction of her, she couldn’t help but cover her ears when a roar of cheers, hoots and hollers immediately bombarded her ears. They were an extremely enthusiastic bunch.

She felt a little bit out of place. She was now sat at a table, people were piling so much food on her table she didn’t even know what to do with all of it. They were all speaking to her at once, “You gotta try this!” “This goes really good with that!” “You need more syrup on that,” “No she doesn’t!” A fight started over whether or not maple syrup added or took away flavor from a meal. She didn’t even know what “maple syrup” even was.

The food on her plate looked so good, and the smell was enchanting. It actually looked too good to be food, she had never seen anything like it before. It was mesmerizing, the bread especially looked so golden and warm, glossed over with butter that gave it a shine, the sweet honey smell was intoxicating. Y/n didn’t even know it was bread at first, it looked so ethereal, this couldn’t be real food, right? All she had ever known was grey, bland and moldy. She couldn’t believe it. In Getica, they were taught that food was scarce and they had to save every last bite, that fresh food was impossible to obtain. People would kill each other for molded, rotted food, adults fighting with children for scraps and vice versa, but out on the sea, these pirates were just shoveling good, fresh meals down their throats every second without a care.

“Leave the poor girl alone and let her eat!” The captain came up behind her, his hands holding the back of her chair. In an instant, all of the men backed off, giving her some space. They finally stopped piling food onto her plate so she could further take in what she was seeing. “Eat up! You look like you’re starving, you deserve a good meal.” The man said again, patting her back, more gently this time than before. However, she just sat there, utterly awestruck at how unreal this food looked, “I.. I’m not that hungry.” She stated, though her mouth was watering. “What? Oh come on, don’t act like I can’t hear your stomach growling. Eat up, I insist!”

Y/n picked up a fork, it wasn’t wooden, it looked silver, with an elegant floral pattern at the base of it, it felt lightweight between her fingers. She started off with the bread, going to carve a piece off with the fork and matching knife, she expected it to have a hard exterior, but the knife cut through it like water; it was even more softer on the inside, the butter glazed on top gently dripped down into the center when she cut it. The intoxicating, honey-buttery smell grew stronger. She picked up the piece with her fork and held it to her lips, she could practically feel the butter against her skin from the light steam. It was the most flavorful thing she had ever tasted, it melted in her mouth. Even though it was only a small piece, the taste burst in her mouth and she couldn’t stop eating. She took another piece of bread, and then another.

Y/n ate until she was full, which was a new feeling. She didn’t even touch the other food, mostly because everything was so foreign and unfamiliar to her. “You know you can eat more than the bread, right?” The captain laughed. Y/n looked at him, wiping the excess butter from her lips with a napkin, “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She mumbled, staring at him for a few more seconds, taking in the way he looked in the lantern lighting, “I never got your name.”

“Buggy. Captain Buggy.” He said. His name really did fit with his appearance, it was cute. Y/n looked back down at her plate and shoved the last piece of bread in her mouth, she didn’t even bother cutting it this time.

It was later in the evening, he had been training her all day for what she would be doing on the ship. She was basically in charge of cleaning everything, which included the mountains of plates left by his crew after every single meal and party. It wasn’t easy work. She felt stupid asking about the simplest of things, it was really all so foreign to her. Sometimes she didn’t even ask questions when she really should have, she felt dumb but she knew she wasn’t, right? What even was disinfectant spray? The sun was beginning to set though, and she would finally get some time to really think about what just happened, and what she had just gotten herself into. Y/n was still a walking target, and they were probably looking for her right now. The dean is probably covering up her escape right now, deleting footage from the Judgement Day feed to make it look like she died, while the apprentices were out behind the scenes in the hopes of making that a reality.

Most of the day didn’t even feel real to her honestly, she just joined a pirate crew and every event of the day was just glazing by her so quickly. Her thoughts were a jumble of mess and this creeping feeling of dread wouldn’t shake off of her back, like it was clinging there refusing to let go. There was a constant nagging feeling in the back of her mind, she wasn’t supposed to do this, she wasn’t supposed to be alive standing here. Y/n should be dead right now.

“Hey, listen Y/n.” Buggy stated, she had told him her name earlier in the day, he told her it was the prettiest name he had ever heard, he wouldn’t stop saying it. “I don’t.. really have a separate cabin for you. The crew has their own place where they all sleep but I would feel irresponsible putting you in there since y’know, a lady needs her privacy.” He scratched behind his neck. There was something so endearing about his voice, it was raspy, sometimes deep with the occasional crack, “For the time being I can set up a hammock in my quarters, just until we can find a space for you.”

Y/n gave him a half smile, scoffing lightheartedly, “You don’t have to give me any special treatment just because I’m a girl.” She could tell he felt genuinely embarrassed telling her all of that, but for some reason, she didn’t mind. Yes, she had met this man merely hours ago, but there was something so trustworthy about him, he was warm, friendly and funny. Buggy was relatively harmless, she then spoke up again, “But, if you really insist.. I wouldn’t mind.” She shrugged, her smile growing, to which she hid by turning her face away to look off to the side of the ship.

“Well I do insist! Trust me I know how my crew can get.. especially after a couple of drinks.” He rubbed the back of his neck, “I have responsibility as captain to make sure my new little recruit is comfortable!” He gave her a small pat on the head, his hand felt larger than she thought, it took up her entire scalp. She could feel the thick fabric of his gloves, white clown gloves that were unusual for a pirate to wear. She could see the dirt that had collected on the white from his years as a pirate, she hoped none of that gunk got into her hair.

Buggy’s room was awful, it was a mess. Y/n couldn’t stop her eyes from widening when she saw the sight. What the fuck happened? There were empty and half empty bottles of liquor scattered all over the floor, clothes tossed into piles, garbage littered everywhere. She couldn’t pinpoint what it smelled like, it wasn’t unbearably unpleasant, but extremely musky. Y/n looked over to a table in the far side of the room, right across from his bed to see an open bag of something, more food probably.

Y/n’s wide eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Buggy, which made him grimace slightly, “Uh. Sorry.” He mumbled, “I really should’ve cleaned this up, uh..” he stepped into his room, “Let me set up the hammoc-” before he finished, he tripped on a wayward bottle, letting out a gargled shriek before falling to the hard wood floor. His large body landed with a loud thud.

He rolled over, covering his face, “OW!! MY NOSE!!” He growled.

Y/n quickly rushed over and looked down at him, “Are you ok?!” She asked, kneeling down and putting a hand on his shoulder. Buggy slowly took his hand away from his face. Yeah, his nose is definitely real.

The man’s face was a bright red, he scrambled to sit up, his back now facing her. He was probably embarrassed again but Y/n couldn’t help but find his little slip kind of adorable, and that little shriek that he let out. He waved his hand before standing, boosting himself with a hand on his knee, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine!” He grumbled, kicking the bottle that tripped him off to the side, to which it clunk against a pile of more empty bottles.

“I’ll help you put the hammock up.” Y/n stood up as well. She fidgeted with her fingers while watching Buggy dig through his rickety old closet. Y/n peeked her head from behind to take a look into it. Half of the clothes weren’t even hanging on the empty hangers, most of them were just crammed into one small pile in the corner of the closet. Lots of jackets, striped shirts, there were a couple of colorful button downs, a bright blue one with bright reddish floral looking patterns caught her eye.

Buggy certainly seemed to love color. She looked back up at him, the red grease paint on his lips had slightly faded which was expected since it was late in the day, but she could see more of his features now that it was smudged away. His stubble was unkempt but attractive, his skin was textured and had creases, probably from his life on the sea. Her eyes trailed, his jacket was off by now so she could see his biceps which flexed with every move he made. Y/n felt heat come to her ears, which made her quickly avert her gaze back to where Buggy was digging into his closet.

Although she noticed something strange, his gloves were gone, better yet his hands were completely missing. She did a double take before quickly grabbing his forearm, “What the hell happened to your hands?!” She exclaimed. Buggy looked down at her for a moment, confused, then a floating pair of gloved hands came flying out from the top shelf of the closet, hovering in the air which made her step back, nearly stumbling over the garbage on the floor.

Buggy was confused for a few more seconds before a look of realization came over his face, “Ohh.. I forgot, you have no idea.” He let out a deep chuckle, his hands casually attaching themselves back at his wrists. “No idea about what?” Y/n snapped, brows furrowed, a bit of an aggressive response, but she was on edge. “About my devil fruit powers.” He snickered, his hands popping off again, one of them floating over to her to pinch her cheek, making her shiver slightly before instinctively pulling away. “I can split apart my body at will, I can’t get cut by any blade, making me practically invincible.” He boasted as he popped his hands back onto his wrists again, rolling his right wrist as it attached with a hand on his bicep.

Y/n was still tense, staring at Buggy as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She was left speechless as thoughts ran through her head. She always thought devil fruits were something made up to scare kids from venturing too far beyond the towns by themselves. She glanced up to meet Buggy’s gaze, he seemed to be amused at how off put she was. Her eyes flickered back to the top closet shelf, seeing the nets of the hammock in the far corner of it. She walked over, slipping past Buggy to grab it.

“Ah- that’s where it was.” The man croaked out, embarrassed that he had managed to miss it when it was literally right in front of his face.

It didn’t take too long for them to set up the hammock, Buggy threw a few spare pillows and blankets on it, “It’s not much, but it’ll do.” He put his hands on his hips. “Thanks.” Y/n mumbled, looking back up at him, but then looking back down at the hammock. She then nearly toppled over when Buggy gave her a firm pat on the back, “It’s no trouble at all, new girl.” He chuckled before patting her head again, this time ruffling her hair with his filthy gloves. She didn’t seemed to mind it this time, her lips pulling into a soft smile.

“So, I can sleep in this thing without falling out?” Y/n looked back up at him. Buggy shrugged, “I mean, you’re not supposed to fall out, it really just depends on how much you move during your sleep.” He put a hand on his chin as he looked away. Y/n’s gaze flickered over to his mattress that could barely even qualify as a bed, a rickety bed post with pillows tossed onto the floor, his blanket hanging for life off the side, “So you get to sleep in a big comfy bed while everyone else gets these?” She joked.

“Hey! Being a captain is hard work which requires good sleep!” The man barked, making her smile grow. Y/n looked back down at the hammock and adjusted the pillows, “I’m gonna get some sleep too.” She smiled up at Buggy.

Buggy nodded, about to turn away before he looked back down at her, “Oh- wait! Before you do that, the doc said you need to replace those bandages before going to bed.” He walked over to his bedside table and opened a drawer, pulling out a roll of gauze.

Y/n looked back down at the bandages which she had completely forgotten about, she saw the dried bloodstains from her wounds which made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. All of a sudden she was reminded of everything, and the fact that she was most likely being hunted down at this current moment. A pit of dread began to consume her, making her clench her teeth. She felt like she was doing something wrong, she really wasn’t supposed to be alive. Her trap was fully meant to kill her in that moment, she wasn’t supposed to escape.

Buggy sat on the edge of his bed and motioned her, the roll of gauze in his left hand, “Just- sit here. I’m not good at this but I’ll try.” He mumbled. Y/n stood there for a moment, looking down at her arms before turning towards Buggy and nodding softly.

She sat beside of him as he carefully unrolled the bandages on her arms. Y/n’s injuries weren’t healed at all yet, just dried. As Buggy slowly unwrapped the gauze from her right arm, her injuries were slowly revealed to her, making her hold her breath. Her heart raced in her chest, as she kept staring at the gashes mangling her arm, it infested her brain and made her feel a small stinging feeling in her wrists, her breath hitched. Buggy noticed this, glancing up at her for a moment before looking back down at her arms, moving to take off the gauze on her left, “It’s best not to look at them. It’s— really bad.” He said quietly, his voice gruff. Y/n looked at him and nodded, keeping her gaze focused on him, the way he was handling her arms so gently, she even noticed that he had taken off his gloves, the way they were folded on the nightstand. She looked back at him.

“Explosives.” She said, “I had.. bombs, stuck into my arms. I had to rip them out before they exploded.” She added, her voice getting quieter. This made Buggy pause, glancing back up at her, he was in the middle of wrapping up her right arm, he was speechless at first, his mouth hung open, “Oh.” Was what left his mouth first, “Well, that explains it.” His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed, he paused for a few more seconds, their eyes locked. There was a softness to his gaze as he looked at her, he then broke the contact before continuing to wrap her up.

It was quiet, Y/n looked back down once her arms were nearly wrapped up, she looked at his bare hands. His fingers were strong, slightly calloused yet moved meticulously.

“You’re safe now.” Buggy broke the silence, looking up at her as he slowly moved his hands away, finishing her left arm, “You’re gonna be ok.” He put a hand to her face, his palm was soft and warm, a wave of comfort washed over her, the sickening feeling of dread from a while ago seemed to disappear at his touch. Y/n’s gaze softened as it locked with his. She slowly reached up to touch his wrist gently, holding his hand to her face.

He gaze her cheek a gentle pat, putting his hands on his knees before standing, “You should.. get some sleep now.” Buggy said, not looking at her as he walked to take his shirt off. Y/n couldn’t help but stare at his toned back, she had a better few of his biceps from this angle.

She then nodded a few minutes late before standing and walking over to the hammock, giving Buggy’s body a few more glances when he wasn’t looking as she got comfortable under the thick, but comfortable blanket. Y/n was surprised at how soft it was, the fabric wasn’t thin, rough or itchy like the ones back home. It was comforting, like a warm hug.

Y/n sunk deeper into the blanket until her entire body was engulfed, curled up underneath the soft comforter. But she peeked out, watching Buggy as he threw his pillows and blankets back on the bed, adjusting it and straightening his sheets. He looked back at her, noticing how she was looking at him from under the blanket. They locked gazes again for a moment, Y/n caught a glimpse of his thick, fluffy chest hair.

“Goodnight.” He said before turning away, crawling into his bed and laying with his back facing her.

“Night.” She mumbled, fully burrowing into the blankets before shutting her eyes.

[training4theapocalypse-backup]

On Her Majesty’s Supersonic Service (Adrian Chase x Reader)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7K

Warnings: SMUT, Descriptions of murder, Descriptions of violence, Verbal Humiliation, Light bondage, Duct tape, Tent sex, Accidental voyeurism, Bodily fluids, Dubious consent, Characters mistakenly assume non-consent

Summary: Immediately after the attack on the Glan Tai bottling plant, Task Force X sets up camp overnight to rest before the road trip home. Vigilante offers to help you, an MI6 agent working under Amanda Waller, find creative ways to navigate drawbacks of your new superpowers.

A/N: Not a fan of Y/N so there's an original character with powers sort of similar to the DC comics Black Canary

Masterlist

Chapter 1: For Your Ears Only

“Pretty please do it again?”

Vigilante is cross-legged opposite you on the other side of the bonfire. He eagerly lines up empty beer bottles and looks at you expectantly. You don’t hate him exactly but you do find literally every single aspect of his personality annoying. He is so irritatingly enthusiastic and let's face it, a psychopath. Your poor eyes have never rolled so much or so often when you spend time with Vigilante.

He’s like a golden retriever puppy personified- if puppies were armed to the hilt and trained to kill with zero regard for human life. And despite your alias, you’re more like a black cat than a Blackbird. Cautious, quiet, sometimes deadly- you possess a distinct lack of tolerance for dogs like Vigilante.

Tonight though… tonight you have a little more patience for him than usual. Perhaps it’s the fact that he saved your life just hours earlier. Or maybe it’s just the beer you’ve been sinking since your very close brush with death. Normally you’d turn your nose up at American beer, but you definitely needed a drink after today’s mission.

He is waiting expectantly and even though you’ve never seen his face before, you can tell that he has a goofy grin under his mask.

“Will you leave her alone for five minutes?” Harcourt finishes the bottle she’s been sipping and tosses it into the rubbish pile. But she’s less stern than usual, the massacre today brought your team closer together and the mood is still light.

“Yeah, Blackbird, if you need me to kick his ass just yell,” says Adebayo

You smile and raise your eyebrows.

“Uhhh, right. The supersonic scream thing. Well, come bang on the side of my tent if you need me.”

She strains as she tries to stand up with difficulty. Adebayo had had a narrow escape inside Glan Tai - a giant gorilla had knocked her aside and she severely sprained her ankle.

“You won’t be kicking any ass tonight Adebayo, not with that injury.” says Economos, pulling her up. She wraps one arm around Economos’ shoulders and her other around Harcourt’s. “G’night you three,” he says. You lift your hand to give them a short wave in return. They help her limp to her tent before retiring to their own respective ones.

You hope she’s okay. Out of this team of Americans that Waller has ordered you to team up with, you find Adebayo to be the least grating.

You, Vigilante and Chris remain by the campfire. Vigilante rests his face on his cupped hands and looks at you. Like a psychopathic masked cherub.

“C’mon Birdie, just these three bottles? Please?”

You roll your eyes again- you’re going to pull an eye muscle if you spend any more time around Vigilante- his incessant chatting makes you grind your teeth. Mostly because it’s extremely irritating but also because you’re a little bit jealous. Your fellow MI6 agents used to complain that you talked too much and gave each other significant looks whenever you went on and on. 

But of course, that was before your accident. Who would have guessed that stealing a prototype supersonic jet on behalf of Her Majesty’s Secret Service would end up with you being royally fucked? You woke up weeks later with the world’s most deadly sonic vocal cords. The icing on the cake was MI6 ordering you to join Amanda Waller’s investigation into the butterflies, probably as punishment for failing your previous mission.

You take a deep breath and quietly murmur a gentle, low note. The ground vibrates and the first empty bottle of Budweiser shatters. You concentrate hard and hum a second note and the next bottle cracks in a perfect straight line down the middle, the two halves fall apart. Another inhale and you let out a soft whisper- the third beer bottle is blasted backwards into the air by a sonic wave.

Vigilante leans back to rest on his elbows and looks at you appreciatively. “Never gets old.”

There is a moment’s pause as the three of you stare into the fire. “I never asked anyone at Corto Maltese but what does it feel like, having… abilities?” asks Chris “My sonic boom helmet is pretty cool but it must be scary as fuck having it inside your head.”

You shrug. You preferred life before your powers. Before MI6 had sent you here as punishment for failing to retrieve that jet and nearly getting yourself killed. You miss when you could sing Natasha Bedingfield on karaoke and laugh ‘til you cried without shattering every window in your flat. 

“She misses not being able to talk. I get it Birdie, it feels good to open up and get your feelings out.”

“Vij, stop making shit up. You don’t know that she misses talking.”

“Uh- I think I know how my second best friend forever is feeling. I can read her body language.”

Second best friend forever? Is that sarcasm? As far as you could tell, Vigilante doesn’t really understand sarcasm, nevermind make sarcastic quips himself. So does he actually think you’re friends? 

He may be a borderline stalker that follows you around like a little puppy but the fact that he is super observant comes in handy. It’s probably why you work so well together- even if you don’t like to admit it. In combat, he watches your every move and responds and adapts so quickly that it feels like you’re in sync. 

“Tell me he’s talking out his ass,” says Chris

You give a small shake of your head and Chris still looks confused. You pull out your phone and open the notes app.

‘He’s right.’ You type and hold up your screen reluctantly.

“See!” Vigilante points at you enthusiastically. “I can but she hates to admit it! I’m a mind-reader, baby. No wait, better than a mind-reader, a body-reader! And damn, I love to read that body.”

You exhale through your nose, scoffing silently but you take a much longer swig of beer. You really do hate admitting that he’s right. What does it say about you that the only person in the team who can’t pick up on most normal social cues can read you like a book? You remind yourself that his body-reading really did save your backside when you were fighting the butterflies earlier. 

One of them had snuck up on you from behind and clamped his hand over your mouth, stopping you from emitting your sonic scream. He had a blade against your throat, ready to sever your vocal cords to stop you from killing any more of his comrades. But Vigilante threw a knife at his head with precision, the blade inches from your face, leaving you soaked in blood, breathless and lying on your back staring up at him, blinking in disbelief, adrenaline coursing through your veins. His towering figure hoisted you back up to your feet with such ease… it actually looked kind of hot. Not that you could ever tell him that.

“Hey Birdie,” you look up at Vigilante and can tell by his sing-song voice that he’s still smirking under his mask “Have you ever been fucked so hard that you brought down an apartment building?”

“Jesus Christ, Vij!” scolds Chris

This time you don’t make a sour face or give him an eye roll. You flush involuntarily and end up looking down at your crossed legs, praying that neither Vigilante nor Chris can read your expression. Your domino mask only covers part of your face so you hope the bonfire makes the heat rising in your cheeks less noticeable. 

He’s touched a nerve. Yes, you miss laughing and singing but there’s something you miss even more. You haven’t even touched yourself in over a year, nevermind had sex, just in case you make any noise. You’ve had sex dreams that turn into nightmares, always ending the same way- a moan of pleasure that becomes a horrified scream as your sonic waves blow the brains out of the faceless lover in your dreams.

You look up and they’re still staring at you expectantly. You shake your head.

“Shit,” exhales Chris “I thought I had it bad in prison but a vow of silence and abstinence? You’re for sure getting into heaven.”

You smirk. You’ve killed way too many people to get into heaven.

“Say the word and I’ll help you out, Birdie,” says Vigilante. 

“Come on Vij, I said cut it out,” Chris interjects.

Your eyes don’t leave Vigilante, your heart dropping into the pit of your stomach. But you wait for him to finish.

“I saw how that butterfly left you defenceless earlier when he had his hand over your mouth. Just blink twice and I’ll do the same thing, babe. One hand over your mouth and the other deep in your-”

“Okay - that’s enough!” Chris gets up and hoists Vigilante to his feet by the scruff of his suit. “Blackbird is just trying to fuckin’ have a beer and you think you can harass her?”

You sit in stunned silence, momentarily distracted by Chris’ profound moment of self-growth. It was only last week that he was sexually harassing your waitress in Fennel Fields, and according to Harcourt, harassing her in a bar just days ago. You bite your lip, your gaze returning to Vigilante and you can feel the flush on your face spreading down your neck and to your chest. You’re grateful that your leather suit doesn’t leave any skin below your neck exposed.

“I’ll take first shift. I’m supposed to be watching for butterflies,” says Chris and he roughly lets go of Vigilante. He points two fingers at his eyes and points them at Vigilante. “But I’ll be watching you too.”

“Aww come on! I’m not a creep.” Vigilante holds up his hands in protest and you find yourself noticing how large his hands actually are. “But I do have duct tape,” he adds, glancing over at you. You’re glad when he turns 180 degrees and positively skips off towards his tent so he doesn’t notice your chest heaving as you try to steady your breath. Calm down.  

You continue to watch him on his way to the far side of the camp as you finish your drink. You throw the empty bottle in with the others in the bin. You nod to Chris and point your thumb at your tent.

“Sleep tight Birdie. I’ll keep an eye on Vij for you.”

You smile and wave your hand away, It’s fine don’t worry about me, but Chris totally misreads your body language.

“Yeah, I’ll push him away like that-“ he mimics your hand wave “Read you loud and clear.”

You thought your signing and expressions were obvious but Chris reminds you again that Vigilante is the only person you’ve met who can read your movements like he’s reading your mind.

In your tent, you begin to peel off your skintight black leather suit. The dried blood from earlier cracks and flakes as you peel it off. You’re thankfully uninjured. Just a few aches and bruises, and a small scratch where the butterfly held his blade against your neck but you’re grateful you got off lightly. You strip to your plain black cotton underwear and sports bra and use a bottle of water and washcloth to get rid of the remaining blood and sweat from your body, trying your best to get it out of your hair. You need a real shower but this will do for now.

You crawl into your sleeping bag and as you had expected, you can’t get comfortable. Almost immediately you start to toss and turn. It’s unreasonably hot in here, despite the cool night air outside. Your skin feels like it’s on fire and when you lie still you can hear your heartbeat. 

You unzip your sleeping back, exposing your skin to the cool air and lie on your back, hands resting on your tummy. You trace your hand upwards, imagining Vigilante’s much bigger hand moving up past your throat to cover your mouth. You press your knees shut, trying to ignore the low hum of frequency buzzing between them. Your other hand seems to have a mind of its own and reaches down to lightly graze your swollen clit over the fabric of your underwear. You accidentally let out a single agonising groan. The hard ground vibrates and the fabric of the tent whooshes. Pausing, you hold your breath to see if anyone is stirring.

Nope.

You sit bolt upright. Fuck, it is so fucking frustrating being worked up with no release- ever. 

Breathe. 

Come on, you think, you can do this. You’ve gone over a year without this. Self-preservation. World preservation. You’ve taken down a group of five butterflies with a single, ear-splitting scream- who knows what sonic shockwaves would occur if you orgasmed?

And yet. 

Could Vigilante be right? The butterfly had rendered you helpless with one hand. Could the solution to your frustration be as simple as a strong hand over your mouth?

“I do have duct tape.” 

Heat sears between your legs. You kneel in front of the canvas entrance of your tent. You reach out tentatively to unzip your tent. Your hand hesitates. What if Chris or one of the others sees you?

On second thoughts, you sit back onto your heels, acutely aware of the way your underwear has felt increasingly hot and sticky since Vigilante skipped off to his tent. You place one hand over your mouth and slide the other one into your underwear.

When you close your eyes, the memory of Vigilante standing over you to retrieve his knife from the butterfly's skull enters your mind. The way his strong arms practically scooped you up and out of your stupor. How he firmly placed his hands on each of your shoulders and looked you over to make sure you were uninjured.

“I’ll do the same thing babe. One hand over your mouth and the other deep in your-” 

Oh for God’s sake. You’re furious with your own lack of self-control as you decide you need to find out how that sentence ends. You unzip the door slowly, quietly and poke your head out into the dark night air. To your left, Chris is still beside the fire, looking out towards the horizon, his back facing the small group of tents. You look towards the right- at Vigilante’s tent. It’s the furthest away from the rest of the group- about thirty or so metres away from yours.

You’ve never moved so quickly and so cat-like in your life. You tiptoe barefoot and half-naked out of your tent and creep silently towards Vigilante’s. You unzip his tent door and hastily climb in. 

“Fuck!” Vigilante scrambles around and sits up in his sleeping bag, he shines both a torch and a gun in your face, blinding you. You furiously press a finger to your lips to try and get him to shush. “What the-?” He blurts. Looking at the torch, you make a barely audible “Shh” and the bulb cracks. Everything in the tent goes dark.

“Birdie?” he whispers “I nearly shot you- I thought you were a butterfly.” You both look at the tent opening with bated breath, waiting to see if anyone has noticed the commotion. They don’t. The only sound is the canvas door moving gently in the cool night breeze.

With each blink, bright spots appear in front of your eyelids as your sight adjusts after being hit with the torch light. The dim moonlight barely penetrates the green canvas of the tent. You turn and see that Vigilante is only wearing a pair of teal boxer briefs- he is unsuited and unmasked. He’s no longer faceless and your eyes widen with the realisation that he is the busboy from Fennel Fields. Chris’ friend's brother- Adrian Chase. Adrian’s mouth opens in realisation as he brings a hand to feel his face, reading the recognition crossing yours.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers and tries to jam the mask back over his head but it gets caught on his glasses. “I can’t sleep with my mask on. I knew it would come back to bite me in the ass.” You reach out and grasp his arms firmly to stop his panicked movements. You let go and hold up your arms in an exaggerated shrug. He stops. “You’re right B bird. You were the only one left in the group who didn’t know my secret identity and you’ve seen me now.” And he tosses the mask aside. 

Your stomach does a little flip as your still-adjusting eyes take him in. Wow- he’s handsome. Thank God. Thick wavy black hair, green eyes, glasses and a muscular, lean body littered with scars.

His glasses are askew and he adjusts them- you can’t help but look at the veins on his muscular forearms as he does it. He halts and looks back at you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion “What are you doing here? Shit- did Chris spot something on his watch?”

Fuck. 

You pause. He doesn’t know why you’re here. He was joking. Of course, he was- he never stops joking. He was probably just making fun of you. 

You try to make your expression blank and unreadable and all sorts of wild excuses flash through your mind. You hold up a finger, signalling for him to wait and bring up the notes app on your phone.

‘I heard a wolf’ you type and show him the phone screen.

“And you came in here rather than deal with it yourself? Alright-” he cocks his gun and starts crawling towards the open tent door. You wave your hands, telling him to stop and you zip the tent door blocking his exit. You quickly type on your phone again

‘Gone now. Can I sleep here in case it comes back?’ 

He looks up from your phone screen. “Birdie? Scared of a wolf? Damn, I thought you weren’t scared of anything!” He laughs quietly and you scowl. “Okay, okay- I won’t tell the rest of them you’re scared of wolves. Pinky swear.” He extends his pinky and you grasp it with your own. You wonder if he knows that there aren’t any wolves in these woods.

“Make yourself at home- Casa de Vigilante.” He waves across the surprisingly tidy tent and you’re secretly pleased that he’s scrubbed himself clean of (most of) the blood and dirt from earlier. He looks around the tent and his eyes land back on you and for the first time, he realises you’re wearing underwear and a sports bra. It’s not your sexiest lingerie but you feel a jolt of satisfaction as his gaze lingers a fraction too long. 

“Jeez, you must be freezing,” he says. Oh. Were his eyes just looking over your goosebump-covered skin? “You take the sleeping bag”

You can’t believe that after his comments earlier he is actually being a gentleman. This is not going to plan at all. He has no idea that his throwaway flirtatious remark momentarily shattered your worldview. 

Maybe this is why you find him so maddening. He is everything you aren’t. Everything you can’t be. He’s loud, he’s openly flirtatious and he’s unserious. The quieter you are, the more you recede into your shell. You can’t flirt anymore because you need to suppress all your sexual desires. You can’t even let out a sigh of laughter without causing a serious injury so you feel like you’re gradually losing your sense of humour.

“Hey, Birdie? Are you okay?” He looks into your face, concerned. 

That motherfucker. Of course, he’s caring too. You can’t stand it. You grasp his worried face and wrestle him into a kiss. 

Take that, you think as you bite his bottom lip.

It takes him a beat to realise what is happening but when he does he surges forward hungrily, his hand curls a fistful of your hair. He smells like the 5th of November. The bonfire smoke lingers on his skin and underneath the burnt gunpowder scent, there’s something fresh and citrusy- like bergamot. 

You taste his warm tongue as it enters your mouth and you trace your hand down his chest. He makes a noise low in his throat in response and using his hand to hold your jaw open he kisses you deeply, exploring your mouth with his tongue. You pull apart to get some air. Your masked eyes meet his bright green ones. His glasses are askew again and his cheeks are flushed.  

“Holy fuck- I’ve thought about kissing you every day since the moment I first saw you Birdie but I thought you hated me?”

You shrug and he laughs.

“Aw, I get it. Poor B bird, you’re just mean to me because you’re all frustrated. But I know deep down you like me. ”

You scrunch your nose, mockingly and your fingers continue downwards to graze his cock. But- wait a minute. Your eyes widen as you get a better feel for what you’re dealing with. Your hand grips round his thick cock through the fabric of his underwear. You rip your gaze away from his green eyes to look down and almost do a double-take. You thought they called him ‘ Thimble ’.

“Oh,” he says “Chris gives everyone a dick-based nickname. He gave me mine when I was 12.”

You continue to look at him incredulously.

“It was in a locker room, it’s a lot less weird than it sounds. Alright… maybe it is as weird as it sounds.” He pauses “Fuck is it also weird that your surprised reaction to my dick is making me even harder? The ol’ bait and switch.”

You’re trying very, very hard to keep your eyes unrolled. Your hands travel back up to his pecs and he lets you push him back so that he’s lying on his sleeping bag. You swing your leg over his body to straddle his hips and pull your sports bra off in one swift movement. 

“Holy fuck.” He groans like he can’t believe his eyes, grabbing your tits lecherously. “Your tits look even better than they do in that little black suit.” 

Perv.  

The scars on his body practically beg you to kiss them and so you start working your way down, slowly planting kisses on a healed shrapnel wound on his neck, a small scar on his sternum, following a trail of scratches down his abdomen and your lips meet the trail of dark hair below his belly button. You tug his boxers down, revealing his cock. You feel a rush of heat between your legs as you see it’s hard, leaking and desperate to be sucked.

He adjusts his glasses and looks down in anticipation. You slowly lick the underside of his cock and he lets out a quiet whimper as you circle your tongue over his head. You open your mouth ready to take him in when he sits up on his elbows. “Wait-”

You pause and look at him, eyes wide and mouth open, your tongue resting on his frenulum. 

“Is it safe?” he asks. There’s a glint of something in his eye. Fear? Is Vigilante actually afraid of something- you? You nod reassuringly in answer to his question. “You’re sure you can do it without making any noise?” You nod again, your tongue still on him and his cock bobs with your head movement. “Okay” he acquiesces but he remains on his elbows, looking down at you as you open your jaw as wide as you can and try to take all of him in.

It’s been at least 18 months since you did this but you don’t remember it being this difficult. Your lips feel stretched as you take in as much of his length as you can. Your tongue slides up and down the underside of his penis and you feel his head hit the back of your throat but your lips aren’t even close to the base. 

“Fuck, you were so mean before. And now you’re being such a good girl for me- what happened to you Birdie?”

Good girl. Ugh, why does that make you melt?

You concentrate hard and you desperately want to moan but you can’t make any noise with your vocal cords. The only sound is the obscenely wet slurping of your saliva as you swirl your tongue around his length.

You look up at him again and see he has the same glint in his eyes as before. And you realise it isn’t just fear, it’s excitement. 

Sick fuck.

He’s excited at the danger - that you might accidentally blow him to smithereens while, well, blowing him.

“Wait… wait…” he groans and cups your chin. Oh no- maybe he’s realised the life-threatening position he’s in? “I’m gonna blow my load if you keep doing that.” 

Yes! You think with satisfaction.

“Just looking at your pretty mouth- oh fuck- that dangerous little mouth that just killed an entire swarm of butterflies. Fuck- it makes me wanna cum.”

He’s deranged. But you’re desperate to please him, give him that release he deserves for saving your life earlier. You nod with your mouth still full, giving him permission to cum down your throat.

“I can’t,” he genuinely looks anguished “Because I still wanna fuck you. And I really wanna taste your pussy… will you let me?”

You reluctantly remove his cock from your mouth and purse your lips with worry. You shake your head.

“You don’t want me to go down on you? Isn’t that why you came in here B?” You crawl up towards him and lie on your side, facing him. Adrian turns on his side and looks into your eyes. Your eyes are wide, pleading that he understands. 

“You think it’s too dangerous for me to go down on you?” You give a small embarrassed nod. 

“Hey, what did I promise you?” He tilts your head up. “I promised you I’d put one hand over your mouth…” He covers your mouth with his left hand and you’re forced by the sudden weight of him onto your back “... and the other…” His right hand pulls your underwear off and he gently glides over your wet folds with his fingers. The pads of his fingers lightly graze your throbbing clit and you fight not to buck your hips greedily. He leans in to whisper, his lips touching your ear and his breath hot “...deep in your cunt.”

Adrian sucks two of his fingers and then sinks them deep into your aching pussy, curling up and hitting the spot you crave, his palm rubbing your clit. You arch your back as he presses his fingers inside you.

“Oh man, you are so fucking wet already. Is that just from sucking my cock? Or is it from when you were in your tent coming up with that wolf story?”

Fuck - he did know. 

“Just look at you- squirming and totally fucking defenceless. I could do whatever I wanted to you and you couldn’t even stop me because my hand is stopping your one power.” Your eyes roll back in your head- for once not in exasperation but in pleasure. 

Please, Adrian, do whatever you want with me. 

You feel your pussy getting wetter thinking about how he’ll split you in half with his fat cock after this. Your head is already spinning and he’s only using two fingers.

“I never thought you’d be like this. I never thought you’d be a little slut that creeps into my tent in the middle of the night. I thought you were stuck up but here you are, getting off on being held down and finger fucked by the guy you hate.”

Fuck, he really can talk.

Adrian’s theory is put to the test as you feel a soft moan try to escape your throat. You’re worried that your own head might explode. But nothing happens. The sound is dampened against the palm of his hand. He feels the vibrations against his palm and realises that he was right. It spurs him on to go faster and he lowers his head to your pussy. You feel his hot tongue lick between your folds. He finds your clit and starts moving his tongue in quick firm circles. His fingers continue to curl and press upwards, tapping a beautiful rhythm as your muscles squeeze round his thick digits.

“Oh, Birdie I’m gonna make you cum all over my fingers then I’m going to fuck this tight, wet little pussy.” His mouth returns to your clit but you’re already past the point of no return. His words, God damn his words, sneak up on you and push you over the edge, your first orgasm in over a year and it arrives quicker than it ever has before. Blinding, searing heat rips you apart from inside out as you’re hurled headfirst into your release. The walls of your pussy flare and contract around his fingers, you see stars as your chest heaves and you give another muffled desperate moan into Adrian’s hand. 

Fuck, you can’t believe you’re cumming for Vigilante. 

He gives a few slow licks up the entire length of your slit, releases his hand from your mouth and crawls up towards you. His arms on either side of your head, he gives you another slow, deep kiss. 

“Did you like that, B?” Even if you could use your vocal cords, you’re not sure you’d be able to speak. He laughs as you gaze at him through heavy lids. “You are so adorable when you’re satisfied” he gently pinches your cheek “But I’m not done with you yet.”

He clambers off you and rummages around in his duffel bag and your abdomen clenches with delight when you see he’s holding duct tape. “I need to warn you that this might hurt when you take it off.” He regularly kills people for doing graffiti but looks genuinely concerned at the idea of duct tape causing you discomfort. Maniac. You nod and point to your mouth, encouraging him to seal your lips.

He straddles you, peels a short length of duct tape and rips it off the roll with his teeth. “Ready?” Using his large, gentle hands he firmly presses the duct tape over your lips. Fuck, you feel constricted but it’s turning you on even more. A wicked idea flashes across your mind. You put your wrists together and eagerly extend your arms towards him.

He gasps in mock dismay, and then a wild smile crosses his face. “You are such a little slut for me, pretty Birdie. Are you normally this kinky?”

You flush bright pink. You’re not. But tonight you want to give Adrian total control, so you wait with your arms out, eyes pleading, and he obliges. He wraps the duct tape around your wrists and once again uses his teeth to detach the length from the roll of tape. 

“Holy fucking shit” he tosses the roll back into his bag and looks at you hungrily. He takes your tied arms and moves them above your head to give him a better view of your tits. “All those times I’ve dreamed about you naked in my bed, I never thought you’d be gift-wrapped.” 

You look up at him and feel truly helpless. Adrian’s head drops down to give the contour of your neck a long drag of his tongue, slow and hot and gentle. He trails kisses along your jaw and stops when his lips are almost touching your ear. “If there’s anything you don’t like, baby, just let me know. Hit me or something.” He whispers.

This brief shift in tenderness and his consideration for your enthusiastic consent simply leaves you in a puddle. You nod and hold your breath waiting for his next move.

He starts to work down, kissing your neck, your collarbone and then you feel your blood burning fire through your veins as his lips envelop your left nipple. He squeezes your tits, cupping them with both hands and his teeth gently graze your sensitive skin. Your back arches and he lifts his head up, watching you writhe. His calloused fingers pinch both of your nipples and he plants sloppy, wet kisses across your chest. Adrian’s kisses then land on your ribs and trail down your stomach.

You’re already soaking fucking wet again. You try to move your legs apart, eager to let him see how ready you are but his knees on either side of yours block the way. Your pussy is slick, swollen and desperate for him to fill you up again. 

“Patience, Birdie.” He kisses just below your belly button and when his eyes close and he moves back up to suck your other nipple you let out a muffled whine. 

“Fuck, your skin is so soft,” He buries his face into the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent “And how do you smell so good after kicking ass all day? Like leather…and lavender..”

You wriggle out from underneath him impatiently, pulling your legs up to your chest and wrapping your ankles behind his waist. He pulls his head away from your neck and looks at you with impish delight. You bring your tied wrists over his head and behind his neck so you can better leverage your body into his. He kisses the duct tape across your lips. 

“So demanding.” His whisper chastises you with a cocky smile.

He moves back, untangling himself from you so he can get a better look at you lying flushed and naked on his sleeping bag. You draw your knees up to your chest so he can see how desperate and soaking your pussy is and he holds your legs above you by the calves. Adrian surveys the sight before him appraisingly and slaps the meat of your thigh with an open palm. 

You whine into the sticky covering on your mouth and in response, he traces his fingers gently up and down your soaking-wet entrance.

“God, you have a beautiful pussy. It’s like it was fucking made for me to be in it.”

He puts two fingers inside your leaking cunt and slowly draws them back out. You look down and blush at how wet you are as he takes himself in his now wet hand and strokes his length with your slick. 

Adrian lets go of your calves, catches the backs of your knees, and spreads your legs, pulling you towards him. He kneels in front of you and runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds. A jolt of panic sears through you when you feel his thick head at your entrance. You grab a fistful of Adrian’s wavy hair, and force him to look in your eyes. Be gentle, your eyes plead. It’s been a long time since you’ve had sex and you hope he has the sense not to fucking destroy you with his cock.

“I’ll go slow” Adrian presses his forehead against your head and stares deeply into your eyes as if reading your mind. He pulls back and tenderly brushes your hair away from your masked face then he returns his hand to guide himself into your pussy.

And then- pressure. Blunt and thick as he breaks you open over his cock. 

Your hand grabs his hair as if by instinct and Adrian watches your face intently as you squeeze your eyes shut. Come on, you think to yourself, you’ve literally been stabbed multiple times- you can take a fucking cock.

“This okay B?” You nod determinedly as he pushes deeper. “Fuck, you’re so warm. And so… fucking…tight.” His words are as slow as the incredibly controlled way he pushes himself into you and you feel like your insides are being rearranged. Fuck, you’re know you’re going to ache for days after this.

You let out a deep exhale and at the same time, he groans as he fully sheathes himself into you. You’re grateful for the respite when he pauses and you can tell from his furrowed brow and shaking arms that he’s struggling not to cum already. 

He’s only paused for seconds but his self-restraint sends waves of arousal washing over you. You wriggle again, this time moving your hips in tiny circles, feeling him throb as you squeeze around him as hard as you can.

“Such an impatient little Birdie,” he says, gritting his teeth as you squirm underneath him. “Trying to make me cum first.” Your wriggling has given him newfound determination to make you cum again- before he does.

He starts to ramp up his pace so in return you squeeze your muscles tightly and move your hips, attempting to fuck yourself back into him, even though the stretch of him feels searing.

“Is this what you needed? Needed the fucking you’ve dreamed of - since even before you got your powers?”

His words do something to you. You let out an involuntary whine into the duct tape and he laughs. “Yeah, this is what you needed baby.” 

How does he switch like this? So sweet and then just so, so filthy, so degrading . You remind yourself again that Vigilante is probably a psychopath. But you can’t deny that the way he talks is really, really turning you on - and he knows it. 

Adrian’s hands thread through your hair and his biceps are at either side of your face. For the first time, you wish your mouth wasn’t covered with duct tape so you could kiss his arms and feel his tongue in your mouth again. You plant your tape-covered mouth into his neck anyway, inhaling the scent of smoke and his bergamot fragrance. 

“I’ve wanted to fuck you since I met you Birdie. The way you roll those pretty eyes at me. I knew I could make you like me. And I know you really, really like how my cock is filling you up. The others would never believe how much you fucking like me now.”

The sound of his thrusts become shamefully wetter in response to his words. 

“Fuck, I felt that. Who knew you’d get so wet hearing me talk. You. Pretty. Little. Slut.”

Your toes curl as he punctuates the last four words with brutal thrusts. He takes your tied wrists and pins them above your head, they brush the zips on the tent door. The silhouette of his broad shoulders and outstretched arm makes you notice the size difference between you. His head drops down to your throat and he sucks on your neck as his fingers dig bruises into your forearms.

“Thank God your mouth is covered or the whole team would know that you’ll be spending tonight cumming all over my cock.”

He moves his other hand down between your bodies and you exhale pitifully at the canvas ceiling when the tip of his finger starts rubbing small firm circles on your clit. Oh fuck, this is it. The same flicker of warning from earlier as he continues to thrust inside you. 

“Y’know I’d gladly let you fucking decimate my entire apartment building if it meant I could hear you cumming for me.” 

From anyone else, this would be a joke but Vigilante is a fucking lunatic and you know he’s being sincere. Is there anyone you could be with who would honestly let you do that? You feel tears swimming in your eyes and you start to see stars. You’d be audibly sobbing with lust and relief if you could.

“Fuck yeah, come on, fucking cum on my cock,” He whispers in your ear, his tone becomes gentle. “Come on, pretty Birdie, do it again for me.” 

Everything surges hot and molten while he keeps pounding himself into you. You cum and the moan that escapes you is so fierce that the masking tape on your face vibrates. Your fingers search wildly behind your head and grab onto the nearest thing- the tent zipper - as your walls convulse and squeeze around his cock in pleasure. 

Adrians hips stutter “Holy shit you get so tight when you cum.” You give him another squeeze “Oh fuck, I’m gonna— I’m- wh-where? Do you want me to cum on your stomach?”

You don’t have time to grab your phone and tell him on your notes app about how your supersonic accident was permanent birth control. So instead you shake your head, wrap your legs even more tightly around his waist and lift your hips off the ground pressing yourself to him tightly. 

Inside. Please cum inside me, Adrian. 

He understands, like you knew he would, and the desperate pull of your legs makes him plow his hips deep into yours. His whispered moans jump up to a fortissimo as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder and he empties his load inside you. “Fuckfuckfuck” his curses turn into an incomprehensible stream of consciousness. His hips shudder, he gives a final loud groan and you feel his cock throbbing as the hot ropes of his release coat your insides. 

He’s heavy on top of you but comfortable. Like a muscular weighted blanket. You could lie here forever, he breathes heavily into the crook of your neck and his warm cum leaks out of you, making a mess of his sleeping bag. 

Your masked face is damp- tears have been streaming down your cheeks. A build-up of emotions passes over you like a wave. You’re just honestly grateful that you met someone as reckless as Vigilante. How many people could say they had someone willing to risk their life just to please them?

Suddenly- footsteps. Fuck, Adrian had been loud. 

“Blackbird? Fuck! Her tent is open and she’s not here!” Shit- that’s Chris’ voice.

“Peacemaker, over here!” yells Harcourt and you can hear her voice only feet from your head. Damn she was stealthy.

You and Adrian barely have time to look at each other before the tent door is wrenched open, and Agent Harcourt is pointing a gun inside. 

Chris and Harcourt stare open mouthed in shock. Adrian on top of you, flushed, sweating, glasses askew. You with tears in your eyes, masking tape over your mouth and your hands bound and stretching for the tent door. You and Adrian come to the same realisation as you lock eyes. 

You wave your hands at Chris and Harcourt wildly, in a ‘Stop!” motion. Chris, as usual, misreads your meaning entirely and seems to think your waving means ‘Help!’ .

“God damnit Vij!”

Adrian looks up, horrified “No, no, no, no. This is so not what it looks like!” 

“I’m not gonna enjoy kicking your ass,” says Chris, putting his helmet on “But someone has to do it.”

Fuck. 

You rip the duct tape off of your mouth- your eyes squeeze shut in pain as you feel your top lip split. “Chris, stop!” you whisper urgently and Chris is hit by the sonic wave, sending him flying into the air and landing on his back over ten feet away. You all watch as he sits up slowly, dazed but uninjured.

“Holy shit,” laughs Adrian in amazement “I didn’t know you had a British accent.”

Idiot. 

Chapter 2: Bird After Reading

[zarvasace]

Disability AU Summary!

Let's go in alphabetical order just because. This isn't really a "masterpost" but these should be in one place.

To reiterate, this AU is avoiding cure plots and excess angst related to the disability. I've done research and put in my own experiences but obviously not everything is going to be perfect.

Four—paraparesis, also called partial paralysis, due to a spinal cord injury inflicted between his first and second adventures. He can't walk without support, which usually comes in the form of a wheelchair he modified, or crutches. The colors experience different intensities, from Vio with near-full paraplegia, to Red who uses crutches, to Green who does as well, to Blue who can walk without support. Four will stab anyone who tries to move his chair without asking.

Hyrule—retinopathy of prematurity, and mild cataracts. He's functionally blind, though he can make out shapes of light and dark with a few shades in between. He has a favorite carved-down stick he uses as a white cane, and his magic can act a little like a radar that blips on good magic (like fairy fountains and Hero Spirits and Zeldas) and bad magic (like corruption and monsters.) He has deep-seated reflexes to stab anything that touches him unexpectedly so please, everyone, advertise your presences.

Legend—RRMS, relapse/remission multiple sclerosis. Translates mostly into stiffness in his legs that gets worse with heat and humidity, and annoying fatigue. Relapse periods for him are characterized by a lot of joint pain and temporary periods of partial blindness. Relapses last days to weeks, remissions last weeks to months. He has an enchanted cane that he will hit your shins with.

Sky—moderate to severe deafness from birth. He can hear low, loud sounds the best. He speaks very clearly (and maybe a bit loudly) due to speech therapy. He gets magic hearing aids in Wild's world because I want him to, and he can now mostly hear voices when they speak up. He can read lips when people are facing him, but even at the best, that only gives him a quarter of what they're saying. Immune to mean taunts and jabs, partly because he can't hear most of them and partly because he's just like that.

Time—that eye he always has closed? It's missing now. He has a cool eye patch. Don't throw things at him.

Twilight—transverse deficiency. He's been missing his right arm between shoulder and bicep since birth. Wolfie is conspicuously three-legged, not that anyone notices the connection sooner. He either needs his modified clothing (thanks Uli) or help getting things on (thanks for nothing Warriors's world with its fancy balls.) He is the definition of "improvise, adapt, overcome." Still a beast on the battlefield. Ba-dum tish.

Warriors—adductor/tremor SD. His vocal cords don't work correctly. He can talk, but it's gotten worse over the years. His voice is quiet and very rough, and shakes almost too much to understand. He prefers signing as his main method of communication. He gets sore throats a lot, and makes a lot of good tea. His laughs are unaffected, and on occasion, he can yell just fine across the battlefield.

Wild—worse burn scars, hypertrophic and contractual. He has spotty hearing on the left, and his shoulder gets stiff a lot. He has a variety of potions and lotions to loosen up and stop the itching that pops up a lot. The shrine did some skin grafts (or whatever the magical equivalent is) and fixed most interior organ issues. The scar is deep but doesn't interfere with those.

EDIT to add—Wild also has atherosclerosis, a heart condition where plaque builds up and heart attacks become a more serious concern. He just needs to stay active and pay attention to his breathing and chest pain. It's not a huge issue, but it could be if he was negligent. The Link he doesn't remember being had more of a difficult time with the condition, and ended up getting heart surgery for it (something like an angioplasty, where they went in to physically unblock the arteries that had gotten buildup.)

Wind—peg leg pirate! Lost his left leg a few inches past the knee to infection. After getting treasure from his adventure, he got a nice, foot-shaped wood and leather prosthetic. It's starting to get a little small.

[i-eat-worlds]

The Subject Part 3

B127 is confused by basic human decency. Hope you enjoy! If you find grammar or spelling mistakes, pls tell me.

CW: pet whump and medical whump, hospital settting, small needle mention, dehumanization, scars and injuries, caretaker new master, doctor caretaker, dubcon touch (non-sexual)

“I’m going to touch you now.” Dr. Brenner warned. “It’s not going to hurt, I’m just going to look.” B127’s eyes had adjusted to the light, and its brain had nally started working. If it wasn’t going to be restrained, the doctor would surely use pain meds for the dissection. That wouldn’t be too bad, B127 decided.

As the doctor studied it, it studied him. Dr. Brenner looked almost like the exact opposite of Dr. Glassener. Where she had been thin and lithe, he was tall and muscular, his scrubs were deep red compared to her pale blue. The most striking difference was in their faces. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, his eyes almost mournful, miles away from Dr. Glassener’s too-sweet smile and the poisonous glint in her eyes. For some reason it didn’t understand, it found itself trusting the doctor as he surveyed the subject's number of wounds.

Dr. Brenner’s eyes widened in horror at the state of B127. Scars ran across its body, each telling a painful story. Several ran from under its breastbone to its belly button, more from hip-bone to hip-bone. Thick bruising covered the sides of its ribs. All of it must have hurt, but the thing that worried the doctor the most was the angry, festering wound on the subject’s left side, tucked right under its rib cage. It looked frighteningly recent like it hadn’t even been a full day since the injury. Taking out his penlight, Dr. Brenner took a closer look at the wound. It was half-stitched, poorly done, some had torn, while the others were in too deep to be of any help. That would be priority number one after the examination was complete.

B127 watched warily as the doctor moved on from its torso and abdomen to its head. The look on his face was not good, the sorrow in his eyes was replaced by anger. Maybe he would pull his teeth. That would make sense. “I’m going to look inside your mouth now. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but it won’t hurt.” Dr. Brenner, still holding the penlight, picked up a tongue depressor. Instead of shoving the stick into its mouth, he waited until B127 compliantly opened it.

The stick pressed against its tongue as the doctor shined his light in. His facial expression improved. “That’s good.” He said as he removed the stick from its mouth. “Your vocal cords haven’t been severed.” It was a common thing with subjects he had seen from Hemlock Labs, but this one appeared to have been spared. “Can you say something for me?’

B127 paled. Was it being asked to talk? “Yes, doctor, it can talk.” Its voice was hoarse and raspy from not being used for so long, barely audible.

“That’s good.” Dr. Brenner smiled softly as B127 nodded. “You can speak freely here, okay? If something hurts, I want you to tell me. If something I do scares you or makes you uncomfortable, I need you to tell me, yeah?”

“Yes, doctor,” B127 said again, still getting used to speaking.

“I need to ask you some questions, okay?” Dr. Brenner said as he grabbed something else from the instrument table. “There aren’t any wrong answers, and it’s okay if you don't know. You understand?”

“It understands, doctor.” B127’s voice was starting to lose its hoarseness, but it was still so quiet. The pit in Dr. Brenner’s stomach was deepened by B127’s perfect, trained responses as he redirected his attention back to the nasty wound on its left side.

First things first, pain meds. B127 had suffered long enough, and Dr. Brenner would be damned if he caused any more pain. “Do you remember when you got this?” He said as he got ready to start an IV. “This might sting a little.”

“It got it this morning, doctor.” It inched as he pushed the needle into the crook of its elbow. “Dr. Glassener wanted to see the results for herself, doctor” Its tone sounded pleasant on the surface, but it hid notes of fear and worry.

“Do you know what she was looking for, exactly?” Dr. Brenner tried to keep the anger from showing on his face. B127 would assume that it was directed at him when it wasn’t, and he was already terried. “It’s okay if you don’t.”

“Dr. Glassener wanted to make sure its stomach had healed properly, doctor,” B127 stated plainly as if it was talking about the weather. It wouldn’t know about the weather though, it hadn’t properly been outside in years Dr. Brenner silently cursed everyone at Hemlock labs. Judging by the poor attempt at wound closing, this “Dr. Glassener” wasn’t a real doctor. The fact that she had been permitted to muck around inside B127 whenever and however she fancied was very concerning. Who knew the internal injuries that the poor thing could have? He would need to get them scanned in the morning. “Hey, can you tell me if you can feel this? Does it hurt?” He gently poked the area around the wound.

“No, doctor.” B127 was confused. Why would Dr. Brenner care if it hurts? It’s supposed to be in pain, that’s how it knows it’s being good.

“If it starts to hurt again, tell me, okay? I’ll get you some more painkillers.” Dr. Brenner said as he picked up a shiny metal instrument from the tray. “I’m going to have to remove the old stitches, clean it out, then put new ones in. It shouldn’t take too long. Any questions, buddy?”

“Uhhh-Ummm.” B127 stuttered. If Dr. Brenner wanted it to ask questions, it should ask a question. “Why…why are you giving it painkillers? It was trained not to feel pain. You don’t need to waste them on it.”

Dr. Brenner cursed again in his mind. Even with the screwed-up laws of the Subject system, they required that subjects receive pain medication. “I don’t want you to be in pain, okay? You don’t deserve to be hurt.” B127 just gave him a quizzical lock and shook it’s-no, his-head.

If Dr. Brenner's heart wasn’t already in a million pieces, it would’ve shattered.

Taglist: @stabby-nunchucks @rainbows-and-whumperflies

[monty-glasses-roxy]

Also I am curious about carrying over the damage, because that means Monty’s been cut in half, Freddy’s decapitated and had his knees broken, Chica had her vocal cords removed as well as a broken off beak, and Roxy’s eyes have been ripped out. That seems a bit much lol

Maybe it’s like toned down and then it heals?

The damage is carrying over, but it's not in the way you're suggesting here.

These changes aren't one to one because a creature of flesh and blood can't be walking around with giant ass holes in their chest. So uhhh yeah that's not a one to one thing that's happening here. I'm not erasing the damage either, it's just carrying over in a less literal sense than you're thinking.

Some context: While I haven't decided exactly where everyone is at the start of Meteors, anyone that is online, has had the repairs necessary to keep them online. Eddie did this at Cassie's insistence and because it gave him something to do while he supervised her in the Plex lobby when they visited. What's important to note though, is that the damage is still very much there, it's just important background to some of this. They're animatronics, their physical bodies are endlessly fixable to them and when they aren't that makes them anxious, so yeah, repairs of any kind were sought out. The human equivalent would be a lack of access to a first aid kit when they really fucking need one, but it's specifically not threatening enough to start making phone calls.

How it carries over, is based on the animatronic and several factors that aren't that relevant, but to explain how the damage is being carried over maybe it's just... better if I give you an example?

Roxy had basically super powered eyesight, had that forcibly taken from her, was not immediately repaired, angrily wants it back, was blind for an extremely dangerous situation, and then given shoddy eyes to replace the super power for her own reasons. She's got very little casing left, barely any of her mane and tail, but still sees herself as she should be whilst Cassie looks at her in the VANNI mask.

When she changed, the damage is applied to what she feels she should look like. The damage to her eyes, and the subsequent replacement, is now abysmal eyesight and awful light sensitivity that needs highly specialised eyewear to help her with, and to be able to wear given she's a canine. The missing mane and tail is translates to her hair and fur respectively being thinned out, scruffy and uneven, but this is something that will fix itself with time and self care. The damaged body shell is what I was wondering about when I made the post you're referring to. Once changed, it appears as extensive scarring, and as time goes on and as Roxy heals, the fur grows over them in a different colour. The scars are still there of course, it's just their visibility that changed. Some take longer than others, some are already growing over when she's changed, and some don't grow over for years, if ever.

This kind of logic extends to the others as well, and how that transfers over depends on what their physical body and their perception of that physical body looks like. None of them are cured or anything in the change, and all of them retain some lasting physical changes specifically from what happened to them. The general idea isn't to 'tone it down' it's translate what the damages mean to the animatronics, into what the injuries mean to the changed bodies. Which of course, is going to range drastically between them.

But yeah, I have my reasonings for all the scarring and other damages and stuff if you're interested in the specifics. And uhh hopefully this covers what I'm going for with damage carry over? Maybe? I'm tired so I hope so.

[aboxthecolourofheartache]

oh man #28, feeling for each other in the dark, for caleb and essek, if you like!

Thank you for the prompt :D  This is a bit sketchy and rough, but it was a very welcome distraction. Caleb picks himself up off the floor.  His ribs hurt.  His arm hurts.  Tomorrow, his right side will be one solid bruise from thigh to shoulder.  He tongues his teeth, relieved to discover none of them feel loose. 

Absolute darkness lays upon him like settling soot, the finest and most opaque of black gauzes.  When he wipes at his eyes, he cannot see his hand before his face, and with every movement is more unnerved by the almost tangible weight of this darkness.  “Caleb.”  Essek cannot be more than ten feet from him, but his voice is miles away. “I am alright.”  Caleb rolls his shoulders and grimaces against the grating pull of jarred joints and bruised muscle.  “I can truthfully say I have had worse.” “Caleb.”  Essek, somewhere to his left, shapes Caleb’s name around barely contained panic. Immediately on guard, Caleb strains his other senses, trying to pinpoint what his human eyes cannot see in the dark.  Whatever it is, it has disturbed Essek enough to as-good-as admit to open fear.  “Come over here if you can?  Are you hurt?” “I cannot see, Caleb.” Neither can Caleb, because it is very fucking dark.  He is opening his mouth to say as much when the dots connect.  “Okay, I am coming to you.” Caleb trips over him.  Essek yelps. Now bruised symmetrically,  Caleb rolls over and cradles the side of his head with a scraped hand.  “So I am thinking that dispel did not work as well as we thought,” he says, trying in vain for something between an air of unflappable cool and humor.  He fails, because Essek, reaching blind to disentangle their legs and help Caleb sit up, pats an oblivious questing hand rather high on Caleb’s thigh.  Caleb grabs Essek’s wrist. “I concur.”  Essek tends to smile when he is afraid, and Caleb can hear the telltale strained levity.  “Are you alright?” “Oh yes.  Nothing the clerics can’t fix with a wave and a prayer.” “Good, good.”  A pause.  “I cannot see in this darkness.  Have you tried casting a light?” “Not yet,” says Caleb, fingers already moving.  He doesn’t need sight for something this simple.  “Have you?” Essek’s invisible nervous smile stretches to show a hint of worried tooth in Caleb’s mind’s eye.  “Ah, yes.  Nothing worked.” He says it, and the evidence of his claim is not at the ends of Caleb’s fingers.  No dancing globules of light.  Caleb tries again.  No clean, magical sphere of arcane light.  Again, and most worrisome, no simple flame playing over his hand. “Do we know exactly what exploded?”  Caleb keeps the fear from his voice, but Essek likely can feel the anxious tremor of his hand. “The entire amphora, I think.”  Essek sighs.  “So much for an uncontaminated sample of the contents.” Caleb cannot help but laugh.  The dark tastes bitter and powdery on his tongue.  Darkness should not have a taste.  “We… might be in the contents.”  Caleb waves a hand before him, trying to sense particles in the air on his skin.  He smacks Essek in the face and comes away with a jolt of surprise and a palm slick with blood.  “What is this? Are you hurt?” “Ow! Yes, a bit.  It was a piece of flying ceramic, I believe.” Caleb mentally recategorizes half of what he perceived as Essek’s fear into the ‘pain’ column.  Maybe with some disorientation.  But there’s nothing to be done about the wound now. Caleb’s first impression of soot and the taste of the dark have jogged his memory.  “I have experienced something like this before.” “A head wound?” “Well, yes, but- This darkness reminds me of a place in the Folding Halls.  It was a prison, full of soot to silence arcanists.  Any spoken word would draw it to the vocal cords.  If there is silencing soot, why not blinding soot?” Essek catches up quickly, even with an injury to the head of unknown severity.  “And it is settling on our skin—“ “—dampening somatic—“ “Yes!  We have been coughing and talking, so it is in our mouths as well.” “So verbal components are also null and void.” The little moment of happy synchrony fades with the persistent fact that they are still blind in a cloud of anti-magic particulates.  “You remember where the door is, yes?” “I do.”  Caleb holds out a hand, then realizes, belatedly, that Essek is as blind as he is.  He extends his hand carefully in the direction of Essek’s voice and catches a few soft ringlets on his fingertips.  “There you are.  Again.” “Again,” Essek agrees.  Gingerly, he laces his fingers with Caleb’s.  “Can you walk?” “We will find out momentarily.” Essek can stand, but walking proves more challenging.  Bruised ribs to bruised ribs, supporting each other, they limp out of the room and towards friends who can help.

[charming-charlie]

Washed Away pt. 5

Title // Washed Away pt. 5

Pairing // Evan Buckley x Reader

Warnings // Mentions of death and a missing kid.

Summary // Who knew hanging out with Buck and Christopher for a day would lead to a life or death situation?

Word Count // 2.5k

Prompt // Hi! Can i request a fic where you were with Buck & Christopher when the tsunami hit? They could be dating or crushing on each other. If nothing comes to mind, then it’s completely fine to ignore this request! Have a nice day!’

Author’s Note // This is the final part of the Washed Away series. || Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

Tagged List // @aprildecker-blog​​​ @coffeewithoutcaffeine​​​ @daddysfavoritesexkitten​​​ @chenfordlove​​​ @comeasyoudar​​​ @carnationworld​​​ @averyhotchner​ @evanbuckos​​

The sun had set. The day was over, but that doesn’t mean the situation is. You and Buck had been wading through the water for hours, heading to the last place someone said they saw Christopher.

Exhaustion was starting to settle in. You were sore all over too. It felt like you just finished running up and down a flight of stairs non-stop while carrying a bookbag full of weights. Your shoulders hurt, your legs felt like they were going to give out any time soon, and your body was so dehydrated from soaking up and drinking in a lot of saltwater that you pretty much felt delirious.

Finally, civilization was within reach.

A makeshift help spot was set up near the bakery where you and Buck were headed. Water bottles were being passed out and you reached out to grab one. How could something so common look so precious, like it was made of gold?

You twisted off the cap and downed half of it in three big gulps and handed the rest of it to Buck. He finished off the water, nearly gasping for breath by the end. He was exhausted too. You didn’t even know how long you two were walking and the little help was most appreciated.

The people around you looked worse for wear. You couldn’t imagine the struggles they went through to try and save themselves or what their story could be. You were sure it was similar. Everyone lost someone or something in the tsunami and you knew it was going to be hard to get over that.

Then again, did you really want to?

The whole event gave you a new outlook on life and appreciate what you have. You didn’t appreciate your job enough, but you were grateful now. You were a school nurse and you realized you love those kids that you looked after. You loved Christopher, having seen him and checked on him many times thanks to his worrisome father, and it would break your heart to never see that little boy again.

Now is not the time to think about those things. You didn’t know for sure. Let’s not focus on the what ifs.

For a moment, Buck swore he saw Christopher. He saw a little boy clinging to the leg of some woman, and he let out a relieved sigh, only for his eyes to play tricks on him. It wasn’t Christopher at all.

“Mister, are you okay? You’re bleeding,” a nearby passerby said, and Buck glanced down at his hand.

Sure enough, he was.

There was a cut of some kind, and the two of you didn’t even realize it. You frowned, mentally kicking yourself and cursing yourself out for not realizing Buck’s injury. The ex-firefighter sat down, looking worse for wear and you grabbed his hand carefully while examining it.

You ripped off a strip of your shirt to use as a bandage and Buck’s eyes sort of glazed over. Due to his adrenaline, he probably wasn’t feeling any pain.

“What am I gonna do?” Buck whispered as you tended to him, “how am I gonna tell Eddie?”

You said nothing, because you knew whatever you did say wouldn’t exactly be helpful. However, you were there. Side by side, you were there with Buck and Christopher today and everything Buck did was for that little boy. You never seen someone care so much the way Buck does. He has such a good heart and for once, you were hoping against hope that things would work out in his favor. He didn’t deserve this.

After a bit of a break, including some water to get both of your heads on straight, you two were back to the grind. This time, you didn’t have to walk for long.

There was an old mall or hospital, you couldn’t be sure, that somehow turned into a makeshift triage center not too far from where you and Buck were. The two of you practically dashed over to the building and its tents, being careful since there wasn’t a lot of strength left between you.

Buck was looking in the beds, glancing around for anyone that even remotely passed Christopher. You hijacked a few clipboards, searching for Christopher’s name anywhere you can but you both came up empty.

“Eddie dropped Christopher off with me,” Buck began talking to you and you could hear the defeat in his voice. It sounded like he was fighting the feeling of giving up, but he was on the cusp. “He thought it would get me out of my apartment and… out of my head. And you know what I did? I brought him to the pier. I had him, I kept him safe. And then the three of us were on top of the ladder truck and the water receded, and for a moment I felt like I got this. I had you, I had Christopher, and we would be fine. And now Christopher is gone. We checked everywhere. And now I realize I failed. I’m a failure no matter how you look at it.”

You could hear your heart cracking as you listened to him, and you knew nothing you said would change his mind. He was beating himself up over this situation. He did everything he could, and he was still handed the short end of the stick.

Finding Christopher at the makeshift hospital was the last bit of hope he had and now it was gone. You could see the defeat that wavered in his voice and how it hid behind his eyes.

And if that didn’t help the situation, there was Eddie Diaz, tending to a few patients himself. He wore blue latex gloves, had the navy fire uniform on, and was directing a few people into the hospital. Buck nearly choked back a sob as the realization of what to do next was hitting him faster than a wall of bricks.

He had to tell Eddie, and you were going to be right by his side when he did.

However, Buck dashed behind a white tent, pulling you along with him. Turns out he wanted to hide instead of face Christopher’s father.

“Buck,” you said slowly. Your voice was hoarse from lack of water and from shouting Christopher’s name all afternoon with Buck. You felt like your vocal cords were ripped to shreds at this point, but you soldiered on. Now was not the time to accept defeat. “You have to tell him.”

“How?” Buck answered as he looked at you. His hand slowly slipped into your own, and you squeezed his fingers tightly. “How do you tell your best friend that you lost his son?”

“He’s his father. You have to tell him that Christopher is missing,” you said, knowing this was the only chance he had right now.

Buck shook his head, not wanting to hear it. “No, I need to keep looking for him. I need to find him.”

One of your hands instinctively went up to the side of Buck’s face, caressing him lightly. You still couldn’t believe the man in front of you wasn’t giving up just yet, even though maybe he should. You hated the train of thought you were currently on, but Buck was exhausted, and he lost some blood. Plus, it didn’t help that he was severely dehydrated, much like yourself. The two of you were in no condition to continue searching. You probably wouldn’t make it if you tried. You both needed to rest up and regain your strength.

“Buck,” you heard the voice before you saw who it belonged to and your head whipped around to see Eddie. The man was heading outside to continue helping and he looked a bit surprised to see his best friend standing there. Then his eyes fell on you, and the look of surprise seemed to double. “Nurse Y/N, what are you both doing here? Are you okay? Wait, where’s Christopher?”

There was no time to prepare a giant speech. Eddie Diaz was right there in front of you both, and it was now or never. You let go of Buck as you turned to face the father of one of your favorite patients, ready for what was about to happen. This was a conversation you were dreading, and you couldn’t imagine the internal conflicts Buck must be going through as he mustered up the courage to say what happened.

“Eddie…” Buck interjected in between Eddie’s many questions, and the army vet stopped talking.

For a moment, the two best friends stared at each other, like Buck was hoping Eddie would get the hint without saying anything, but you knew that would be the cowardly way out. If there was one thing you learned today, it was that Buck was not a coward. Not now, not ever.

“Me and Christopher… we were at the beach, and I swear to you…” Buck was choking on his words and you squeezed his hand again for support.

Eddie was nodding, trying to understand, but the look on his face was heartbreaking. It was like if he didn’t hear it, it wouldn’t be true.

“I tried… and I just… but I… Eddie, I just don’t know how to say it. Um, he… he um…” Buck couldn’t get through it. He was stumbling over the words and Eddie’s eyes were brimming with the threat of tears as Buck tried to get the words out.

What made it even worse was that Eddie couldn’t even look at Buck. The army vet was looking behind his best friend, like he needed to avoid eye contact with what Buck was saying.

“Christopher?” Eddie questioned softly, like he needed clearance on what Buck was saying, but your gaze followed Eddie’s. A woman had stepped off a truck, carrying a small child. Your heart almost stopped, and you pulled on Buck’s arm to get him to stop talking.

Eddie slowly walked past you and Buck, and he approached the woman. Slowly, Buck turned around to follow Eddie feeling like this was Eddie’s way of coping with denial.

“Christopher?” Eddie called again, and like music to your ears, you heard the little boy shout for his dad.

The woman was carrying Christopher the entire time, bringing him to safety. Tears exploding out of your eyes once you realized what was going on and you stole a glance at Buck. Buck looked elated, like he was about to cry from relief as well. Christopher was alive and in Eddie’s arms, and there was no greater feeling than that.

“Buck, what happened to you?”

Suddenly, the fire crew of Station 118 popped into view. You didn’t know them personally, but you could venture a guess who from all the stories Christopher was told you during his visits to your little office at the school.

Captain Bobby Nash stood in front of the two of you, and he looked deeply concerned. He looked back and forth from you to Buck before asking, “Are you two okay?”

However, your exhaustion was caving in, along with Buck’s. The two of you practically collapsed to the floor and the fire family scrambled to hold onto both of you. That was the last thing you remembered, passing out next to Buck in the arms of his old crew.

It took a while, but the city was in clean up mode. You and Buck had a nice, extended stay at the hospital, hooked up to fluids and oxygen before given a clean bill of health. You were discharged first, since Buck had some lacerations that needed stitching up but the two of you texted nonstop while he regained his strength.

You went back to your job as the nurse at the elementary school, although you also became sort of a guidance counselor to the kids. Turns out, when you were checking for lice or fevers, they needed someone to talk to and you could just relate to them in a way. You were a familiar face in all the chaos, someone they needed to hold onto in order to make sense of things.

Christopher’s appointments never stopped either. In fact, they seemed to be increasing, only because Christopher wanted to talk to you and hang out with you.

“Honestly Eddie, he’s doing fine,” you spoke to Eddie on the phone about his son. You were sitting at your desk, making your daily calls to parents and Eddie Diaz was no stranger to the phone calls. “He’s in good spirits. Nothing is wrong with him, he’s pretty perfect.”

“You know, I never got to thank you,” Eddie’s voice crackled in your ear, “for what you did. Christopher told me how you and Buck saved him, and you have no idea how much I appreciate that.”

The two of you hung up, although there was promises of talking tomorrow. Talking to Eddie was a recurring thing in your life at this point, and you could use the stability.

“Knock knock,” a head peeked into your office, “these came for you.”

The secretary opened your door and placed a bouquet of colorful roses on you desk. There was a white card attached, looking strikingly clean in the middle of the rainbow of flowers.

You pulled off the card and it only said two words.

Come Outside.

Curiously, you stood up and grabbed your stethoscope, draping it around your neck. You never went anywhere without it now, and you weren’t sure what kind of situation you were getting yourself into. You rounded a corner and pushed open the heavy steel door that led to the front of the school. There, standing in all his glory, was Evan Buckley with the most beautiful smile you had ever seen.

“Thank you very much for the flowers,” you said as you smiled at him in return. “Why didn’t you tell me you were out of the hospital. I would’ve sent you some breakfast or something.”

“That’s part of the surprise. So, surprise!” Buck said happily as he approached you.

You just smiled at him, letting his arms snake around your waist as he hugged you tightly. Your arms draped around his neck and it felt so good. It felt familiar.

As you pulled away, you were greeted with something else. Buck, with no hesitation whatsoever, leaned in and captured your lips in a sudden and welcomed kiss. It was all you wanted, all you were waiting for, and you let yourself melt into his arms as he kissed you with such force and determination, you knew you would be a puddle of goo by the end of it.

“Let me take you out on a date,” Buck whispered against your lips, his lips brushing over yours with each and every word, “a real one this time. Just me and you.”

Your heart felt like it would leap out of your chest and you couldn’t manage to bring any words out. Instead, you nodded as you leaned in to kiss him again.

This was all you wanted. You’ve never been happier. You finally had the moment you wanted with Buck and now, a date on the horizon. With your luck, it would be the first of many, you were sure of it. There was no way you were going to let this man go, ever.

[titularkilljoy]

Black Coffee

Summary: Spencer had changed since prison. And no one seems to be able to help.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Strong language, mental health struggles, angst

Author’s note: Inspired by this post. Also, this is my first time writing for a fandom. So, don’t be gentle. Be brutally honest. 

Spencer was different these days. On that much, everyone could agree.

Everyone on the team walked on eggshells around him now, myself included. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to be there for our friend who had just gotten out of a three-month stint in prison; it was quite the opposite. All of us were waiting with bated breath for an opportunity to help. None of us wanted him to bottle up all his frustration and end up throwing books at the bureau walls again. As it was, he refused to acknowledge it or talk about it, and as a result, we all talked around it, trying to profile him without making it too obvious; trying to help him without him catching on to the fact that we were trying to help him. All in all, it was a Herculean feat. Every time he detected the slightest ounce of what he deemed to be pity, you could see his hackles raise, and an impenetrable barrier would form around him. That was incredibly unpleasant for everyone involved.

Spencer and I had been close, once. Extremely close. We had confided in each other about everything. I think he had always appreciated the fact that I never treated him like an all-knowing alien or a socially awkward little brother. It probably helped that my feelings for him were far from brotherly. But he didn’t need to know that.

Regardless, our close bond seemed to be a thing of the past. I had been there to welcome him back to the outside world on the day he was released. My heart was fuller than it had ever been, with love and relief and grief, and I had thrown my arms around him without a word. He had been stiff in my embrace for a few seconds before I felt the familiar warmth of his arms clutching me tightly. I had sighed deeply. I had missed his touch.

Since then, however, he had shut himself off. I had tried to give him space, to let him resolve those issues , which he clearly did not want to speak to me about, on his own. When that didn’t seem to work, I decided on a more hands-on approach.

For a week, I had been trying to muster the courage to follow through on that decision. But every time I tried to broach the matter, the emptiness of his gaze and the rigid set of his shoulders would stop the words in my throat. I felt like I was trying to speak to a stranger. Worse than that– I knew how to deal with traumatized victims and witnesses. Spencer was neither of those and both of those at once. Besides that, he was the ghost of my best friend. Every conversation felt like trying to breathe new life into a relationship long gone dead and cold.

Right now, he was alone in the break room. On the surface, he seemed to be going about his routine like a normal person. But to the trained eye, it was horrifying. Because he was pouring himself some coffee. A black coffee. With one sugar. Knowing him like I did, the sight was bleak, and it spurred me into action.

I set my shoulders and walked into the room. He lifted his head and nodded at me in greeting. I sidled over to the counter and set my gaze firmly on the pot of coffee as it if contained all the secrets of the universe. He leaned against the counter, staring at the opposite wall while blowing on his coffee. I cleared my throat. There was a palpable tension in the air. Maybe it was just me. He certainly didn’t seem bothered. I, however, was choking on it.

“Spencer,” I tentatively began, “I was thinking, maybe we should talk?”

I cringed at my own words even as I said them. I’d spent a week working on this and the best I could do was some sitcom staple dialogue?

Spencer’s eyes darted over to me, brow furrowing in curiosity. “About what? Is this about the case?”

“No. No, it’s not about the case.”

That seemed to be the wrong answer. He heaved a frustrated sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.

“(Y/N), we really don’t have time for–-“

Another deflection. Except this time, I was expecting it, and wouldn’t accept it.

“Yes, we have time, Spencer. We’ve apprehended the suspect. We saved a victim. Today we’re doing paperwork”, I pointed out, “and this is definitely more important than paperwork.”

“If this is a personal matter then we shouldn’t be talking about it here anyway,” he said in a clipped tone. He was getting defensive.

“You’re right, Spencer.” That took him by surprise, and I was rewarded with his grudging attention.

“You’re right. This conversation shouldn’t be happening here. Except, you’ve been dodging my calls for a month. You pretend you’re not home when I show up at your apartment. You won’t even say a word to me that isn’t about work.” I let the frustration I felt bleed into my words; he needed to know this wasn’t a profiler’s attempt to poke and prod at his psyche. It was just me, and I wanted my best friend back.

“I’ve been busy,” he hedged, but there was a trace of guilt in his eyes. He had never liked seeing me hurt, after all.

“Don’t lie to me, Spencer,” I practically begged, “You’re shutting me out. I know you’re struggling. It’s so damn obvious that you’re struggling. I just want to help you. I hate seeing you like this.”

“I’m not asking you to! And I don’t need your help,” he spat with a scowl. “I’m not struggling. I can do this job just as well as you or anyone else on the team can, if not better.”

The sting from those words was overshadowed by my incredulity. “Are you serious? Spencer, this isn’t about the fucking job!” I cried in frustration. “This is about you. I care about you. You’re in pain, and I don’t understand why you won’t let me help. You used to tell me everything.”

He let out a dark chuckle, placing the mug back on the counter and standing up straight. For the first time in what felt like forever, he stared right into my eyes. Except I would have given anything not to be on the receiving end of that stare. It was so full of malice and bitterness; it was so unlike my Spencer.

“You’re so fucking transparent,” he began in a low tone, and my eyebrows shot up in surprise. Spencer wasn’t usually one for expletives, especially not at work.

“You claim to be worried about me, but you’re really only worried about yourself. You’re lonely, and you can’t form a real connection with anyone. Now that you don’t have me as your emotional crutch, you’re projecting those issues onto me. Typical.”

My jaw dropped against my will. “Spencer, that’s not fair,” I managed to whisper around the lump in my throat. But he wasn’t done yet. Nostrils flaring, he towered over me menacingly.

“Oh, it’s not fair. What isn’t fair is you trying to jeopardize my already precarious position at the FBI by bringing this kind of petty drama into my life. Not everything is about you.”

“I never said it was!” I practically yelled, shocked into anger.

“Yes, but you clearly think it is. You’re not actually worried about me. You just want things to go back to normal. You want me to be the old Spencer again. Sweet, naïve Spencer who would have gladly let you string him along for his entire life. Admit it.”

“String you along? What the fuck are you talking about? How about the other way around? And it’s fucking rich that you’re accusing me of not being able to form a meaningful connection when you’re the one who’s so scared that we’re going to reject you that you’ve completely shut us out. Your fucking family who went through hell and back to get you out. We don’t care that you’re not the same Spencer. No one expects you to be! But I’m sick of all of us talking around the big fat elephant in the room and I’m scared I’m going to find you drugged up and dead on the floor of your apartment one day!”

We were right in each other’s faces at this point, and I was breathing heavily. Surrounding us was a pregnant silence. Spencer’s face had settled into an unreadable mask that I desperately tried to decipher anyway.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was cold as he delivered the killing blow.

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it. So, I’m not going to talk about it. That’s my decision. You’re not entitled to my confidence, (Y/N). Not anymore. Just leave me alone.”

Every word was well enunciated, and I knew he meant them. He was done with me. When he stormed out of the room, I collapsed back against the counter, trying to call out his name but my vocal cords refusing to cooperate.

I didn’t know how I felt. When your body suffers a massive injury, it numbs you for a while, to protect you. You often don’t even realize you’ve been hurt. But after the numbness fades, your entire body feels like it’s on fire. I supposed that was as good a way as any to explain what was happening to me at that moment. Something so monumental and world-shattering had just occurred that I was being given a few moments of numbness as a reprieve, before the pain would inevitably consume me.

I remained rooted to my position for uncomfortably long time before I realized several pairs of eyes were focused on me, trying and failing to be subtle at it. Overcome with a sudden wave of nausea, I rushed to the restroom. Splashing some cold water in my face, I stared at myself in the mirror.

Well, I thought, that backfired pretty spectacularly.

I closed my eyes and came to the grim realization that prison had left some indelible scars on Spencer. We had all been turning a blind eye to it–- we’d been hoping against all odds that Spencer’s endlessly resilient innocence would be preserved, even in the face of solitary confinement and selective memory loss. After all, the man had literally died and been resurrected, once. He had fought a drug addiction all on his own. He had been parenting his schizophrenic mother since he was a child. He was strong. If anyone could come out of this intact, we had reasoned, it would be Dr Spencer Reid. Being faced with clear evidence to the contrary was a bitter reminder that life always managed to snuff out light and goodness wherever it was found.

I kept my head down on my way to my desk. I made it halfway before I heard Hotch call my name. Garcia was at Morgan’s desk and she offered me an anxious, pitying smile. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I turned and met his sympathetic yet firm gaze squarely, summoning a confidence I did not feel as I took the detour into his office. What other choice did I have? Life had to go on.

                                ___________________

The next two weeks were tense, to say the least. Spencer and I could barely stand to be on opposite ends of the briefing room with each other. Hotch, perceptive as always, was gracious enough not to pair us up on either of the two cases we worked in that time. I threw myself into the gory details of case files and victimology, refusing to address the fact that I felt like I had lost a limb. I couldn’t succumb to that. Not quite yet, at least. Spencer, for his part, remained inscrutable, although I noticed Morgan and Emily trying to talk to him on more than one occasion. I appreciated their support, but Spencer had made himself very clear. There was nothing anyone could do.

I was dead on my feet when we finally wrapped up the case in Seattle. Derek Morgan needed to learn the meaning of the word “no”, because he still dragged me to some pub I can barely remember the name of. The memory loss could probably be attributed to the blackout drinking I embarked on that night. I drank, downing whiskey shot after whiskey shot until I lost my inhibitions and started giggling and singing along tunelessly to the music, then I drank some more until I felt comfortable enough to dance, and then I kept drinking until I hit the stage where I started sobbing. I usually knew to cut myself off before then. That night, though, my senses seemed to have left me entirely. To curb the sobbing, I drank some more, and that was about the point where I blacked out.

I woke up the next morning in a hotel room, ruing the day I was born, but there was an unopened bottle of water and some aspirin on the table, next to a note from Emily saying she was downstairs with the others. I gingerly caressed my forehead, groaning, before forcing myself out of bed and into the day.

The dark sunglasses I wore did little to make me feel better, and the teasing from Morgan about my alleged shenanigans the previous night did even less to that end. I boarded the jet with a grateful sigh, relieved that I could just curl up and go to sleep.

Alas, that wasn’t what the universe had planned for me, it seemed, because moments after I had nodded off, a hand on my shoulder gently shook me awake. I opened my mouth, ready to yell at whoever it was, but what came out instead was an embarrassing squeak.

Because standing in front of me, clutching a Starbucks cup, was none other than Spencer Reid.

He looked different. Different, and familiar. There was no tightly wound coil. There was no steel in his eyes. There was only warmth.

I eyed the cup in his hands curiously. Had he taken to tempting diabetes with his coffee once again? Had this mess all just been one long sugar crash?

He looked immensely sheepish as he murmured, apparently mindful of my piercing headache, “Can I sit?”

I nodded dumbly, enraptured by the sight of him sinking into the seat across from me, his knees almost knocking into mine. Was I just having a really good dream? Was I still drunk?

“(Y/N),” he whispered, and it felt like I’d travelled back in time. To back before our fight, before prison, before Mr Scratch, before Cat.

“I owe you an apology. Several, actually. I– you have to know that I didn’t mean any of the things I said. I was just lashing out. Textbook defensive behaviour.” He paused, watching me. I just stared back at him. I could only imagine what he saw on my face that made him continue even more gently, if that was even possible.

“You’re my best friend. You always have been. And you were absolutely right when you accused me of being worried about rejection. I- I’m not the same, anymore. I’ve never been particularly fond of myself, but now, I don’t even recognize myself.” He sounded miserable, and all I wanted to do was hug him. I stayed put, though. He looked like he really needed to finish what he had to say.

“I feel…darker, somehow. And I didn’t want to infect you with that. I didn’t want to hurt you. And instead, I hurt you more than I possibly could have if I’d just let you help me. I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry, (Y/N), I–“

“Spencer,” I finally interjected, and slowly, deliberately, reached out and took one of his hands in both of mine. “Yes, you’re an idiot,” I conceded, trying to hold back the relief that was flooding my entire body, “but I’ll forgive you. If you promise you’re not going to pull that shit again. I’m serious, Spencer. You’re hurting yourself, you’re hurting me, you’re hurting the team. We need you. I need you”, I said vehemently, and that was as close to a confession as I would get. At least, for the foreseeable future.

His face told me he heard the unsaid, and the dark guilt clouded his face once again. He was remembering what he’d said to me. String me along, he’d thrown out. Steady determination chased the guilt, and he opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“No. Not now. You need help. You know how I feel about you. But we can’t right now. It’s not fair to either of us.”

He looked like he was going to protest, but I tried to convey as much sincerity through my eyes as I could. We’ll have our chance, I tried to tell him. I’m not giving up on you, so don’t give up on me, I implored.

Slowly, he nodded. For the first time in half a year, my heart felt light. I knew there would be plenty of hurdles to navigate, but for now, the promise of his company in doing so was enough.

“Besides,” I said seriously, “we need to talk about this bad habit of ours.”

The bafflement on his face was familiar, and I grinned, biting my lip.

“Having these intense conversations in front of everyone in the FBI absolutely has to stop,” I clarified, staring at each of the other people on the jet pointedly. They were doing a very good job of looking busy. Morgan had a smirk on his face. I caught his eye for a second, and we shared a smile.

My comment made Spencer chuckle. “I’ll, uh- I’ll let you get back to your nap then.”

“Oh, thank God,” I groaned dramatically, pulling the blanket over my head to block out the dim light.  It served another purpose; as I listened to the soft cadence of his retreating footsteps, it obscured the smile which threatened to rip my face in two. Morgan would never let me live that down.

[fandom-space-princess]

Every Day's Most Quiet Need

midam week prompt 5: whisper - (v) speak very softly using one's breath without one's vocal cords, especially for the sake of privacy/(n) a soft or confidential tone of voice; a whispered word or phrase

Rating: Teen [2.5k words, a tiny bit h/c, mostly just sort of sweet]

Some things can't be spoken aloud. The only way to get them out is to say them as softly as you can.

read below the cut, or on AO3

When Adam thinks of whispers, he thinks of Michael's wings.

-----

"Michael? Why are you shivering?"

Maybe a silly question. The Cage is cold. An understatement, of course, but trying to hyperbolize about it has never taken the sting out. No matter how Adam tries to wrap it up in description, thinking of it as frozen as the Arctic tundra or the original ice cube or goddamn Minneapolis in February is never enough to distract from bitter reality.

So: the Cage is cold.

Shouldn't matter, though, and usually it doesn't. Michael is an inferno inside his chest, and he runs hot even by angelic standards (at least, according to him; not that Adam has any basis for comparison). Adam barely registers the frigidity of the place, and as far as he knows the cold bothers Michael not at all, either from his vantage in Adam's head or, as he's taken to doing more and more lately, manifesting as a separate presence.

Not that he's really asked. They've been down here for close to two hundred years, and it's only the last fifty or so that the rapport between them has been something resembling friendly.

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it." Michael curls himself up smaller near the wall of the Cage, knees clasped to his chest, and slips into what Adam has privately begun to refer to as his Stoic Angel Face. The juxtaposition strikes him as odd: this intense, commanding creature, tucked into the corner like a human child, tight with tension, but wearing an expression that would seem more at home on a commander of armies, or carved into a mountainside.

Adam has been looking at Michael for two centuries, though. He's getting good at spotting the cracks in his masks.

He settles himself down next to Michael, a bare few inches separating them. "Ok. Say I believe you. You're still pretty clearly uncomfortable right now. Can I... is there anything I can do to help?" He rests a hand cautiously on Michael's arm, watching his face closely. Doesn't miss the flicker of Michael's eyes to where they touch, then away again, tight and guilty like he doesn't want Adam to see.

He leans into it, though, and Adam shifts to press into his side, shoulder to shoulder.

This close, he can feel the fine shivers still running through Michael's frame. Can make out the shallowness of his breathing.

"Michael. Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't usually hang around out here when you want to be left alone. So what's up?"

Michael sighs. "As you say, I am merely uncomfortable. I — the last time we fought —" He nods across the Cage, at the far shadowy corner where Lucifer broods in solitude, "— I sustained a few... minor injuries. Injuries I am incapable of healing except by waiting for my grace to recover. In much the same way as your body would heal naturally."

Adam blinks. He doesn't know what he'd expected, but that — that wasn't it. Lucifer and Michael often scrap with each other. When they first arrived, it had been out of genuine fury. But as they have settled into a more permanent resignation to life in this place, Adam has come to suspect that their ongoing fighting is mostly out of habit, and frustration.

At least now they do it in their own forms. Being conscripted into participation on a physical level, especially when Sam had still been present, had not been among Adam's favorite activities.

He casts his gaze over Michael, critically. "You don't look injured anywhere that I can see. Is it — it's an angel thing, isn't it."

"Yes." Michael fidgets against the wall. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Another bitter sigh. With a face like he regrets ever consenting to participate in this conversation at all, Michael mutters, "My wings hurt."

"Your... oh." He understands, suddenly, why Michael is reluctant to talk about this. While there is no longer any aspect of each other that either of them is uncomfortable with, at least on a physical level (Adam's body has been home to both archangelic grace and human soul for an order of magnitude longer than he had ever occupied it alone), Michael's wings aren't entirely physical, even by his particularly lax definition of the term. They're tied up too closely with his grace, with his power, with his place in Heaven and the burdens that come with it. Adam has seen them, time to time, out of the corner of his eye. Knows that Michael can and does manifest them when he's coping with some severe emotion.

Usually violence. Or fear.

He fidgets again, and shivers, and the emotionless mask he tries to keep in place is betrayed by the tightness around his eyes. Adam realizes that he's never seen Michael look quite so shaky, quite so miserable. How much pain does it take, he wonders, to make the Sword of Heaven look like he wants nothing more than to sink into merciful unconsciousness?

Which is a good point, actually.

"I know you've gotten in fights before, bad ones. I've never seen you like this." He nudges Michael gently with his shoulder. "What's so different now? Is it that we're stuck here, something about the Cage?"

"No, it's... well. To be blunt: I have never injured part of my noncorporeal form this badly while also possessing a corporeal one." His voice has dropped to a low murmur, and Adam tilts his head closer. He's curled in on himself, as though making himself as small as he can. "If I were to leave you, I could tend to the problem much more quickly. Given our circumstances, that would likely be unpleasant for me, and fatal for you." His eyes dart to Adam, then away again.

Oh.

"You'd rather be in pain then risk hurting me?" Adam asks softly.

A scowl is all the acknowledgement he gets for his trouble, before Michael returns to staring fixedly off into the middle distance.

"I care about you too, you know," he says. He rests a hand on the archangel's arm again, in reassurance. Once again, he leans into the contact, a response which seems almost involuntary.

Interesting.

Testing a theory, Adam leans back against the wall of the Cage. Slowly, allowing Michael time to object if desired, he stretches an arm out and settles it lightly over his shoulders. Michael goes utterly still, and Adam wonders if he's made a mistake. He's about to draw back, offer an apology, when some measure of the tension leaves Michael's frame and he relaxes fractionally against Adam.

"You'd tell me if there was anything I could do to help, right? I want to know, if there is."

"I don't want to presume upon you further than I already have. Given time, I'll be fine."

"So there is something. Come on, halo, out with it. Let me help."

Michael frowns, then shivers again, appears to reach a decision.

"Fine." He uncoils himself from Adam's embrace, and moves to kneel a few feet away. Pointedly meets Adam's gaze, and holds it, as if in challenge.

A crackle like embers from a fire along his skin, raising goosebumps over his arms, and a soft displacement of air. And then —

— he's seen them before, of course, but never dead on like this. Michael's wings are gigantic, and beautiful: the soft grey of storm clouds, fading to a darker slate blue at the tips of the largest feathers. Threads of silver and steel grey etch through them, and they refract the dim light oddly, half-translucent, as though they only partially exist in this plane. Which, now that Adam thinks about it, they probably do.

They're also a mess. From where he sits, Adam can see patches of broken and scorched feathers, clumps of dried blood and sulfur, places where the flesh has started to heal badly. A pang of sympathy, like a lightning bolt through his chest, and he's extending one hand out toward Michael on impulse before he realizes what he's doing.

"You can't reach them, can you? While you're possessing me? That's what you meant."

Michael's eyes track his hand, the aborted gesture hanging in midair. His face and posture have gone closed-off, rigid, like Adam might change his mind at the last moment and strike him instead. "The metaphor is imperfect, but that's essentially accurate. In Heaven, I could tend my own form. Here, my options are... limited."

Adam slides closer, until he sits at his side, facing him. Watching Michael for any sign of distress or hesitation, he extends his hand until the tips of his fingers brush a patch of uninjured feathers over his shoulder. They're softer than they look, and they buzz faintly under his touch, a barely perceptible hum of bioelectric feedback.

Jaw clenched, Michael looks away. Nods once. Presses the wing forward against Adam's hand.

"I'm going to clean the injured parts as much as I can, ok?" Adam says gently, trying to catch Michael's gaze. When that fails, he reaches out to clasp a hand to his shoulder, squeezes once. "Let me know if I should stop."

He grazes his fingertips over one of the burned patches, and Michael hisses, flinching away.

"No," he responds immediately as Adam draws back by reflex. He catches Adam's hand in one of his own, lightning quick, and shakes his head. Deliberately presses the hand back against the scorched feathers. A wince, but his eyes lock on Adam's. "You won't hurt me." His voice falls to nearly a whisper, and his hand drops away. "Please."

This time, when Adam touches him, he is still.

The damage is extensive, and Michael's wings are... well, there's a lot of ground to cover. Adam suspects that he's not getting the whole picture, somehow; that what he sees are only the parts of himself that Michael has chosen (or, perhaps, is able) to bring forward into this plane. That there might, in truth, be more injuries over more of him — and in more dimensions — than Adam's mind is capable of perceiving.

He hums as he works, fingers combing careful through clumps of feathers. Straightening those healthy enough to be salvaged, pulling away bits of dried blood and occasionally tugging free those feathers too bent or broken to be saved. Michael makes a low, pained sound deep in his chest at the first one, and Adam presses his hands back to the space immediately, soothing.

To get his mind off it, Adam speaks. "So, what, you'd do this yourself in Heaven? Or the — I dunno, whatever the metaphysical equivalent of grooming your wings is for angels?"

Michael leans into him, hip pressed to thigh and shoulder against his arm. "Yes. They'd heal more quickly if I was, as you say, able to 'reach' them. But much of my grace is currently constrained within your form. The ways in which I can manifest and manipulate it are comparatively limited."

"But you'd always do that for yourself? Not that a ton of the angels I've met seemed too friendly —" He snorts, thinking of Zachariah. "I wouldn't blame you if you were picky about who you let get that close. But you must have had someone."

For a moment, Michael goes tense against him, and his face clouds. Then it passes, as though it had never been. "No," he says, clearly unwilling to elaborate.

Adam doesn't press the issue. He leans back on his heels, then stands, stretches. "You doing ok? I should do the back." Michael nods up at him, from his place on the floor, and Adam circles behind him. Taps him on the shoulder. "Stop kneeling there and sit down." His voice is light, teasing. "I'm going to need all the height advantage I can get on your ridiculous, massive wings."

It startles a chuckle out of Michael, and Adam grins to himself. Michael settles near his feet, and Adam resumes carding through the wings. He starts at the tips and works inward, down along the leading edge, gradually moving back toward Michael's body.

When he's close enough, Michael relaxes back against his legs. Almost like he doesn't realize he's doing it, Adam thinks. He doesn't mention it, and when he moves away to start on the outer edge of the other wing, the quality of the silence between them is different than before. The pain seems to be fading, and Michael no longer shivers, but some less definite emotion is rooting in its place, something quieter and almost sorrowful.

When Adam kneels behind him to reach the places closest to Michael's body, he can feel the difference. It's in the way the wings press eagerly into his hands, rather than shying away. In the way the angel tilts back into him, posture more relaxed than Adam has seen him — maybe ever.

Adam encourages him, pressing his weight in turn against Michael's back. As levelly and casually as he can, he says, "What about the others? I was under the impression that you guys were, well, close. A family. For whatever that means for you."

"Heaven is not —" Michael tenses, but Adam just leans more firmly against him, fingers moving soothingly over his wings, and after a moment he relents. His words sound fragile, hollow, and his voice is almost too quiet to hear. As though speaking this too loudly would be too much, would mean acknowledging something he was unwilling or unable to acknowledge. "We aren't like humans; we don't interact like you do. We don't — we don't touch each other. Except to fight." He glances furtively across the Cage. In that moment, Adam sees a glimpse of his deeper nature, the weight of an impossible stretch of time on this being as old as the universe. "Once, perhaps. But not for a very long time."

Adam says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

He sits against the wall of the Cage, spreads his legs out, and tugs at Michael's waist. Michael's wings vanish, and he turns his head to speak, but Adam cuts him off.

"Don't argue with me, ok? Just come over here."

Michael lets himself be pulled along, until he rests between Adam's legs. He leans back against his chest, and fidgets for a few moments. Then Adam curls his arms around his waist, and he settles.

"You deserve to be touched in something other than violence," he murmurs, chin hooked over Michael's shoulder. He runs hands down his arms, until their fingers twine together, pressing close to Michael's body. "Don't give me that 'not like humans' line. Just stay here with me for a few minutes."

He has no power to hold Michael here against his will, he knows. He could vanish, fly off, simply stand up and walk away — he is far stronger than Adam will ever be.

But Adam holds him, the only comfort he has to offer.

And Michael, a silent weight against his chest, doesn't move away.

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Softer Than Silence

Read here on AO3!

(Takes place right after this fic which I wrote like a year ago and only now got to making a sequel for whoops.)

Summary:

“Your larynx was severed. It was a pretty nasty injury and Leslie did everything she could, but your vocal cords...they weren’t salvageable. I’m...I’m so sorry, Tim.”

Tim lets that sink in. Severed larynx. Unsalvageable vocal cords.

Oh, god.

Tim doesn’t know how much time has passed when he wakes up. He’s not even sure how he’s waking up. A slit throat in any universe should be a certain one-way ticket to the afterlife—don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars. Dead. Maybe Tim is dreaming. Or maybe he’s dying right now and this is just his brain flashing forward to the future he could have had, “Owl Creek Bridge”-style. His ears feel like they’re packed with pillows, but voices make their way through his warped awareness like pencils poking through aluminum foil. “I say we should draw straws.” “Really, Jay? That’s your suggestion?” “You got a better idea, Dickface?” Someone clicks their tongue. “You’re both cowards. Let me be the one to tell him and I’ll have it done in less than a minute.” “I can’t even tell you all of the reasons I’m not letting you do that.” “Yeah, kid, your bedside manner fucking sucks.” “It’s better than yours!” “Will you both shut up?” Tim would feign sleep and listen longer, but the drug-induced haze is fading faster than he can keep up with. His throat burns with a fiery vengeance, flames creeping up his windpipe. He shifts, a hand instinctively grappling for his throat. Someone stops him. “Tim? You awake?” He opens his eyes. Dick is beside him, lowering Tim’s wrist back to the bed. They’re in the medical area of the Batcave; he can tell by the dank air and a sliver of rock peeking through the gap in the curtain surrounding them. Jason and Damian stand off to the side, their expressions unreadable. Tim opens his mouth to ask them what happened, but before he can utter a vowel, Dick is squeezing his hand. “Don’t try to talk,” he says. Tim obediently settles back, wariness rising in his gut. He reaches up with the hand not in Dick’s grasp and discovers a thick bandage plastered over his neck. That can’t be good. “Do you remember what happened?” The man flicks Tim’s blood off of his sword. “I would love to continue this riveting visit of ours, but it seems like my mission is complete. Have a pleasant night, Mr. Drake.” Tim nods with a wince. “You were lucky,” Dick says. “Conner found you and brought you here just in time. You lost a lot of blood and Leslie had you in surgery for a while, but she was able to fix most of the damage.” Tim doesn’t miss the most, and Dick grimaces when he catches it as well. Tim arches one eyebrow—a clear, What aren’t you telling me? “Looks like that’s our cue to duck out,” Jason says. He grabs Damian by the shoulder and ignores the raccoon-like hands smacking him away. “Glad you didn’t die, Tim.” He ushers Damian out and they disappear, leaving Tim’s stomach curdling. He looks to Dick for an explanation. “There...there was a lot of damage, Tim. You’re lucky to be breathing right now.” That should be good, right? Tim is alive. There’s no tube in his neck so he can breathe on his own, and aside from some residual soreness under the buzz of the drugs, he feels fine. This is a monumental victory. So why does Dick look like he’s delivering a death sentence? Tim wants to ask, but he physically can’t do that. Dick doesn’t seem to be able to either. “Your larynx was severed. It was a pretty nasty injury and Leslie did everything she could, but your vocal cords...they weren’t salvageable. I’m...I’m so sorry, Tim.” Tim lets that sink in. Severed larynx. Unsalvageable vocal cords. Oh, god. The utter horror on Tim’s face must be unmistakable because Dick is rushing to comfort him. “It’s okay, Tim. You’re going to get through this.” But Dick’s voice is muffled by the ringing in Tim’s ears. He can’t lose his voice. He can’t. This isn’t happening. Tim scrambles to sit up, his breathing becoming ragged. He sucks in a deep breath, opens his mouth, and tries, tries to make a noise. Tries to make a single sound, but all that comes out is a rush of air. He’s shaking. He tries to speak, to yell, to scream, and there are tears running down his cheeks and his gasps are empty and his throat hurts but he doesn’t stop. Dick’s hand is on his back. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out.” Tim hates that he doesn’t even have the ability to argue, to tell Dick that there’s nothing to figure out. Tim can’t speak and meaningless encouragement isn’t going to change that. Nothing will change it. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s an adjustment, to say the least. The first day, Tim holds out a flicker of hope that this is all some dream and any minute he’ll wake up again in the med bay, throat repaired and vocal cords intact. He can’t believe this is happening to him. In his entire life Tim never once considered what it would be like to lose his voice, never prepared himself for the possibility. He’s watched Cass trudge through reading assignments from Barbara and struggle to find the right words in a conversation, but it never occurred to him just how much Tim relied on his ability to speak. He took it for granted. His first day out of the med bay he finds himself slipping up again and again, opening his mouth in response to a question only to remember that that’s no longer an option. He doesn’t know enough sign language to partake in a conversation, so he avoids them altogether. He hears Alfred humming along to an opera album down the hall and is filled with a vicious, panging envy. Never again will Tim hum, sing, laugh. It’s all gone. Everyone keeps giving him the same droll sermons. He’ll get through this. It could have been worse; he could be dead. Cass manages just fine with sign language, and Tim can too. He should count himself lucky that the damage wasn’t more severe. But is he lucky? Is he really? Tim has already lost so much: his parents, his friends, his Robin career, Bruce. And now his voice. Life just doesn’t know when to stop taking from him. Maybe it will never stop taking, not until he’s an empty husk. Conner left for Smallville just a few days after Tim awoke. He never said why, but Tim knows it’s because he feels guilty. Tim wants to reassure him that this isn’t his fault, that Tim would be dead if Conner hadn’t saved him, but it would take too long to write down. Bruce taught Tim basic ASL shortly after he began his Robin training, sticking to the most rudimentary of phrases that one would need for crime-fighting. Yes. No. Please. Thank you. Help. Safe. Danger. Steph offered to learn sign language with him and Alfred left a sneaky pile of ASL books on Tim’s desk, but he hasn’t touched them. He instead relies on a whiteboard and marker to communicate, rarely as he does. His search for Bruce has been put on hold, not of his own volition. He supposes it’s fair. After all, Tim can’t even order a hamburger anymore without the help of his whiteboard. Not that he leaves the manor much, anyway. The bandage on his neck draws too much unwanted attention. He’d hate to see what Gotham’s press would conspirize about a Wayne son with a mysteriously slit throat. Tim’s days are spent in his room, working on cases out of the action. That’s what he does now, sitting on his bed with his laptop, music blasting through his headphones. Dick pokes his head in without knocking. They still haven’t devised a system for that yet. “Hey, you got a second?” Tim flicks his fingers in Dick’s direction: his way of acknowledging people these days. He pauses his music. “Damian and I are heading out on patrol now.” Tim says nothing. Obviously. “Alfred told me you didn’t eat dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.” Tim rifles through the papers sprawled around his knees and holds up a crumpled pink post-it. Throat hurts. “That excuse again?” Tim shrugs. “Look, I know you’re frustrated, but what you’re doing isn’t healthy. You know that, right?” Tim twirls a finger in the air. Whoop-dee-doo. “That’s real mature.” Of all the things I have to worry about right now, I’d say maturity is pretty low on the list. Not that Tim says any of that. He doesn’t know the signs and he let his whiteboard fall off the bed somewhere to his left hours ago. He doesn’t bother reaching for it. Dick comes closer to the bed and stops. “Can I sit?” Tim shrugs and goes back to his laptop. Dick sits on the edge by Tim’s knee and reaches over to close the computer. Tim flips him one of the few ASL signs he does know. “You have a right to be angry about this, but you can’t project that anger onto us. Me, Damian, Alfred—we’re not the ones you’re mad at. And we all want to help you, but we can’t do that if you don’t let us. So start letting us.” Easy for him to say. But Tim knows he’s right, as infuriating as it is, which is the only reason he doesn’t turn his music back on and shut down for another week. Sighing, Tim opens the laptop. He pulls up a blank word document and types for a moment. He turns the computer around to show Dick. Speech for Neon Knights foundation in a couple days. Already written. Just need someone to deliver it. Dick nods, smiling. “Sure. I can take care of that. And it’s okay if you need more time to work through this, but I want you to remember that I’m here if you ever want to talk. Or, well—you know what I mean. Just remember you’re not alone in this.” Tim wishes he could tell Dick the truth. That Tim does appreciate everything he’s trying to do—really, he does. Tim doesn’t know where he’d even be if he didn’t have Dick by his side, making the world a brighter place just by existing in it with his endless patience and unfaltering optimism. If only he had the voice to tell him. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jason wouldn’t call himself a particularly caring individual. That sort of legacy is better left to the real heroes, like Bruce and Roy and Dick-fucking-Grayson. It’s for this reason that Jason didn’t stick around for a hot second when Tim got hurt, nor did he return for the aftermath. Tim is dealing with enough shit right now. He doesn’t need his asshole older brother getting involved and making him feel worse. Jason can’t imagine what it would be like to be in Tim’s situation. For starters, it would utterly butcher his knack for smartass remarks. Plus, there’s no finer euphoria than screaming obscenities at a blubbering criminal right before he puts a bullet through their skull. Losing his voice would be losing half of what makes him the Red Hood. Red Robin, on the other hand...he’s always been quiet. Not like Cass, but getting there. He relies on shadows and ninja-like swiftness to get the point across that this is goddamn Red Robin and you should be wetting your pants in his wake. But Jason’s smart enough to know that the silent schtick is done by choice. It’s a maneuver and a learned behavior rolled into one. He can only imagine how torturous it must be to be silenced by force—to be muzzled by something completely out of his control. (Fine, so Jason cares about the kid a little. Sue him.) He goes into the Batburger restaurant (Jesus shit, whoever came up with the idea of a Batman-themed restaurant should be shot in the head. Or maybe thrown a parade. He can’t decide) and scouts for black hair and pale skin. He spots Tim in a booth all the way at the back and heads over, sliding into the seat across from him. “Hey, kid.” Tim picks his head up from where he was engrossed in a game of Solitaire on his phone and gives a two-fingered salute. A notepad and Superman pen sit on the table in front of him. “Did you order yet?” Tim points to the scar on his neck and Jason mentally slaps himself in the forehead. “Right.” Tim picks up the pen and scribbles for a minute. “What,” Jason says, “no whiteboard today?” Tim turns the pad around to show Jason. Too bulky. People notice. Below that: Nuggets, fries & grape zesti. “Magic words?” Tim rolls his eyes. He tears out the page and bounces it off Jason’s forehead. However, he does lift his right hand and rotate it in front of his chest, palm flat: the ASL sign for “please.” Jason recognizes it from his minimal knowledge accumulated from Robin training and conversations with Cass. “Attaboy. For a minute there I was worried Alf failed in making a decent person out of you.” Tim sticks his tongue out, which makes Jason chuckle. He goes to the counter and relays Tim’s order, along with his own. While he waits he dares a look back and finds Tim back to staring down at his phone, shirt collar pulled as high as it’ll go. What must it be like, going from Gotham’s favorite billionaire playboy-in-training to a silent teenager who can’t go to a restaurant without people staring at the killer scar across his throat? Jason’s seen the gossip magazines. Some speculate a failed assassination, while others are sure it was a suicide attempt gone wrong. At least Jason’s scars can be covered by a t-shirt. Tim can’t hide his without a turtleneck, but it’s summer now. He’s forced to endure the speculated theories and pitiful glances, meanwhile Jason has the benefit of being legally dead on his side. He doesn’t have to worry about people remembering him. Losing one’s voice only months after losing his second father figure is tough shit for a seventeen-year-old. For anyone. He doesn’t know how Tim does it. Jason goes back to the table and finds Tim doodling a stick figure on the notepad. It’s got thick, narrowed eyebrows and pointed teeth. “That supposed to be me?” Tim’s mouth quirks. He fingerspells, Damian. His sleeve falls down an inch, exposing a med-alert bracelet. Alfred must have made him start wearing it. What with his asplenia and nasty habit of fainting in places when he forgets to eat, it makes sense that Tim would need it. If something were to happen, it’s not like he can inform paramedics of the deal. “You really captured the evil in his eyes.” Jason takes a bite of his cheeseburger while Tim busies himself with arranging his fries in size order, the little weirdo. “So how are things at home?” Good, Tim signs, his movements clunky and unpracticed. Dick… He frowns and scribbles on the pad. Helicopter parenting. “Same old, same old, right?” Tim levels an unimpressed look. “What? It can’t be that bad.” Benched indefinitely. It sucks. “Can you blame him? I wouldn’t want you in the field like this yet either.” Cass, Tim writes, and leaves it at that. “But she’s been functioning without speech for her whole life. She doesn’t need it to be understood. You’ve only been doing it for two weeks.” And a half, Tim writes. “You know what I mean. ‘s not like you can call for help if you get gutted in an alley.” Never thought I’d see the day when you’d take Dick’s side. “Yeah, well, sometimes the fucker has a point.” He takes a sip of his soda. “You know, I talked to Babs yesterday. Said she’s working on tech that’ll let you use morse code over the comms. If she finishes it on schedule, you can be back out there in less than a month.” Tim just nods, eyes dimmed. It’s weird seeing the kid so quiet. The real trick used to be getting Tim to shut up. He used to spend hours rambling on and on about whatever science kick he was on at the moment. For as quiet as Red Robin could be, Tim Drake never ran out of things to say. Jason misses it. He throws a sesame seed at Tim. “Hey. I’m trying to have a conversation here.” Tim makes a gesture that Jason doesn’t recognize. At Jay’s confused look, Tim writes on the notepad, Fuck off. “Cassie teach you that one?” Steph. Wanted to learn curse words first. “Of course you did. You know, you should hit up Jericho. He knows exactly what you’re going through, and I’m pretty sure he was able to teach Dick sign language in less than a year.” You’re the fifth person to say that. “I’m a fucking genius, we know this. But seriously. It might be useful to have someone in your corner who knows how to cope with this kind of thing.” I’m coping fine. “By listening to shitty emo music all day in your room? Yeah, because that’s super healthy.” Tim twiddles the pen between his fingers, glaring at Jason. Finally, he puts it to paper. I keep calling my cell phone to listen to the voicemail. Jason blinks. “Why?” Don’t want to forget what my voice sounds like. “You won’t.” Forgot my mom’s after a year. Starting to forget my dad’s. Tim pauses before adding, He yelled a lot though, so I think he’s got a lead. Jason has no fucking idea what to say to that, thanks for asking. He gives it a shot anyway. “Then...then I’ll remember it enough for the both of us. It's kind of hard to forget that annoying-ass nasally voice babbling about Star Wars for hours anyway.” Wow, thanks, Tim signs with an eye roll. No problem, Jason signs back. That makes Tim smile for the first time since Jason sat down. Maybe this kid will be all right, after all.

[amethystpath-writes]

Just A Poke:

******

“You need to chill out,” Merilyn said with a mocking voice, shoving a needle through the cloth doll in her hand. She only needed to stitch the hair in. Of course, she would be ripping it out later, but in order for the doll to work at all, it had to be complete. How stupid? Lyn rolled her eyes at the thought. Why couldn’t this be as simple as whispering a few words and wreaking havoc that way? At least then there’d be no evidence. But noooo. Dear Grammy thinks this will be more beneficial to me.

The witch’s grandmother had once been the same as her, angry and wanting to do anything to hurt the person who hurt her. It did no good. The person she was angry with thought she was crazy and continued down his hellish path, and she was left feeling exhausted from her spells, and unsatisfied with the results. Merilyn would only reenact it all, and Grammy wouldn’t allow that to happen. ‘Make a doll,’ she said. ‘It will bleed in your hands and soon you will realize hurting this boy is not worth the sticky and smelly palms.’ Lyn only agreed because her grandmother wasn’t in the best of shape- best to please her than to have her die and haunt me for being a terrible ancestor. There was little else thought beyond this.

“It’s not like I’m making out with her or anything.” Lyn’s lip lifted in disgust. She could just hear that dumbass’ voice. Soon enough, though, she’d be severing his vocal cords; that didn’t mean she’d ever be able to forget his voice.

“We’re just friends. You’re being dramatic.” Maybe the voodoo doll in her hand was dramatic, but at the time Lyn was upset with Jackson, she was perfectly reasonable. In fact, she hadn’t even thought he was making out with another girl.

‘Hey, what were you up to this weekend?’ A simple question, one asked innocently and without thought. Lyn hadn’t seen her boyfriend this weekend. They texted, but Jackson said he was busy; she left him alone. Now they were at school and he wasn’t busy.

‘With a friend.’ A simple answer. Merilyn was expecting him to be more excited than that. He used to be excited to tell her about his weekends. Maybe he got into an argument with whoever it was.

She brushed aside any worry. ‘Oh. Who were you hanging out with?’ Jackson was on the baseball team and hung out with them a lot. Maybe he went out with Patrick and Nate. Lyn heard about a party going on over the weekend, too, for Madison’s birthday. He could have gone to that and just didn’t have much time to talk. Whatever it was, Lyn was hopeful it went well, although seeing how Jackson acted now, it didn’t look so great.

‘A friend, alright? What’s your deal?’

Her eyes widened in response to this. It genuinely took her by surprise. ‘I only asked two questions, Jackie. What’s going on?’ She tried to grab his hand and…console him, she guessed. What was wrong with him?

‘I was at Madison’s, okay? Jesus, stop hounding me.’

Lyn’s hand fell away. ‘Oh,’ she said, and paused for a moment. She wasn’t hounding him, was she? Maybe if she just showed interest then this would all be cleared up. ‘It was her birthday on Friday, right? Or maybe it was Saturday. You would know better than me,’ she laughed. Jackson didn’t.

‘You need to chill out. It’s not like I’m making out with her or anything behind your back. Jesus.’

‘I didn’t say you were. I just asked-’

‘We’re just friends. You’re being dramatic.’

That was it. Merilyn stood from her desk and walked away, finding any desk that was still open to sit at. Why was he treating her like this when all she did was pretty much ask how his weekend went? She didn’t suspect him of anything- well, not until he volunteered being at Madison’s when Lyn asked what was going on with him.

It had been all downhill from there. Eventually, Jackson didn’t even pretend he wasn’t cheating on Merilyn. Of course, once it was officially discovered, she was heartbroken, muttering ‘Why would he do this to me?’ amongst other broken phrases into her pillow during the day and at night. She was a miserable little sop. She wouldn’t be for much longer.

The doll was done. Now, begged the question, what to do first? Lyn very much intended on ripping his luscious locks out. Carve her name into his arm? No. Carve her initials; one onto his forehead, and the other two on his palms. Was the doll even large enough to do that with precision? Ugh. No, it wasn’t. Well, then, she would just…make lines and hope he got the message.

Lyn got to work, first yanking at the strands of hair- which she’d sewn so tightly and well that she couldn’t pull them out. At least, she thought, his hair is being pulled if nothing else. It probably hurt like shit, and that was really Merilyn’s only goal. Make him hurt, the way he did her- only in a different form of hurt.

She stopped thinking. It was only wasting time that she could be hurting Jackson instead. With that in mind, Merilyn stabbed the needle into the doll, relishing in the gasp she imagined in her mind. A gasp like what would come from a papercut- sudden, but quickly over. A tiny bead of red ran down the arm of the doll. Still, there really shouldn’t have been enough blood to make a whole bead. Maybe Lyn reopened an old injury and that was why it bled more than it should have.

Wonder what would happen if I poked his heart real fast. Just a poke, nothing more. So, she did, and like before, more blood poured out than what she’d anticipated. And it kept going, pouring out like a spout that was unable to shut. Lyn swallowed. The blood ran over her fingers, coating them in a disturbing sticky layer.

Right now, Lyn wasn’t sure whether she had regrets or not. The sticky sure wasn’t pleasant, but she was happy knowing that something was coming out of this doll- although it definitely seemed like way too much. Was she right to be a little concerned? She was supposed to be angry, not worried, but…well, what if this killed him?

Gods, it was still bleeding. This wasn’t right. It was just a needle, just a tiny little thing. It wasn’t…like a sword or anything- those were way outdated. Merilyn couldn’t imagine someone carrying a whole ass sword down the street.

“Gramma?” she called out.

Thankfully, she answered. “Yes, dear? Is there a problem?”

Merilyn considered her response for a moment. Maybe everything was okay, and this was normal. As much blood as it was pouring out of the doll, it wasn’t actually Jackson. Jack was probably only bleeding from like…a scratch or something small.

Lyn’s phone rang and she dropped the doll in her hands, along with the needle. The name on her phone was Madison’s. She clicked answer, slowly bringing the phone to her ear, not knowing what to expect. Was Madi with Jackson?

“Merilyn? Merilyn, oh god, are you there?”

“Um…yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Lyn only had Madi’s number because they were partners for a science project once.

“I don’t know what to do, Linny. He’s- he’s just gasping for air and I don’t- oh my god. Has he ever done this before?”

Merilyn didn’t know what to say. “Who? Jackson?” She waited for Madi to respond before answering the girl’s first question. “I- no, but…have you called emergency services yet?”

“Emergen- what?”

“The police. Have you called dispatchers?”

“No. Oh my god. I should have called. I should have- oh my god, Jack? Jack, are you- Linny, he’s not- his eyes are closed, oh my god.”

“Get off this call,” Merilyn said, “and call the police. I’m…I don’t have my license yet. I’d have to take a- oh never mind. Call the police. They’ll be able to help.” She hung up and ran into the kitchen where her grandma wasn’t. Where’d she go? Grammy was just in there and asking if everything was okay. Where in the hell was she? “Gramma! Gramma, it’s urgent!”

She scoured the house, looking in the kitchen, the living room, dining room, bedrooms, bathrooms- everywhere. Merilyn finally found her grandmother in the back yard. “Gramma,” Lyn was breathless from looking. “Gramma, it’s Jack. I didn’t- He wasn’t supposed- I don’t know what to do!”

“He’s fine,” Grammy said, but settled a disappointed look on her granddaughter. “I handled it. He’s all healed, and it will just look like an anxiety or panic attack. You sent him into a cardiac tamponade.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Lyn said, and stared at her feet. She had to blink to hold back tears, but the withholding didn’t last long as Grammy rose and circled Merilyn in a hug. “I didn’t think- it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Gramma patted Lyn on her back, and shushed her quietly. “You learned,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

[herohotline]

It’s Gonna Be Okay (It Has To)

Izuku Midoriya x Reader

A/N: because apparently I can only write dark shit if Deku is involved

Request from Ao3:  Can I get an Izuku x Reader? Reader is another student with a weaker quirk(they can heal others, but in order to do so they must take on the wound themself, maybe?) Maybe kinda the “Are you crazy? You almost lost your life!” prompt.

Warnings: Descriptions of gore, trauma, angst. Also some dadzawa because I’m weak

Like many quirks, yours had an upside and a downside to it. Your parents called you blessed to have such a quirk; as if you were some sort of angel. You didn’t really agree with that phrasing- and you soon had to run away from your parent's eager hands so they stopped abusing your quirk. You took refuge in U.A- once you barely passed the exam you explained your situation to the teachers, they were quick to take you in. Aizawa had interestingly enough decided to house you- but he made it quite clear that even though you were in his class he wouldn’t be playing favorites and you would be graded fairly. 

Your quirk is simple enough. You have the ability to heal others completely, but it might cost you your own life. You take their pain and transfer it to yourself- sometimes it’s not a big deal, and sometimes it is. For instance, you are not allergic to peanuts, but if someone else is and starts to choke from the effects, you can easily snatch that away and save their life while having no real consequences yourself because your body is not allergic to peanuts. 

Your parents thought of you as a lifesaver; anytime they were presented with discomfort, they demanded their angel take it from them. Not only was this abusing your quirk, but it was abusing you in the process. You had since learned from Aizawa housing you that you are not required to heal anything and anyone- you have a choice in the matter. 

Today, you made a rather… drastic choice. 

It was a completely normal day. You, Midoriya, and Uraraka had been traveling Musutafu for fun when you had heard about a villain attack nearby. Of course, your blood boiled at the thought of another villainous attack, but you knew that you were still in training and going in to help was the last thing anyone needed right now. Convincing Midoriya was difficult- in the end, you weren’t even able to win- but you made a compromise. 

You’d go look at the damage, and once the villains were dealt with, you’d help with damage control and any civilians that needed a hand after the attack. That sounded fair enough. 

When you arrived at the scene, everything was pretty much taken care of, to your relief. There was some rubble and people needed help getting out from under them, so Izuku and Uraraka used their abilities to help while you observed from the background. Your quirk wasn’t exactly useful in this area, but you could help with any minor injuries people may have. 

As you look around the area, you notice something moving from underneath all the rubble. At first, you think it’s a civilian, but claws snatch out from the rocks and the nails make angry marks as the thing pushes itself up from the boulders. 

You freeze in shock. It’s a Nomu- of course it is, when is it not? 

“Deku!!” 

You scream, your vocal cords shredding as you do. It’s not enough time- you were too late with your warning as you watch Midoriya get pummeled into the ground by the Nomu. You can hear everything-

Midoriya and Uraraka’s screams, the heroes nearby telling everyone to evacuate, the vibrations in the ground as people run and scatter. 

You don’t even get a choice to run in and help- a hero scoops you up in his arms and runs away with you. He can't get very far until the Nomu has clawed his back- the whole thing looks like an insane, mutated bird. It has fierce wings, but the most threatening thing about it is its strong legs with talons that are sharp as knives and several inches long. He picks the hero up with the talons, flying him up into the air before swinging and dropping him onto the ground below. It all happens right in front of you- 

The blood. The limbs, the guts… flying everywhere- what used to be a man is scattered in several disgusting pieces- all over you, all over the concrete, all over all over all over- 

Your scream is bloodcurdling. 

Uraraka scoops you up as you scream, and you’re vaguely aware that she’s taking you somewhere, but you don’t know where. You don’t stop screaming, you don’t stop crying- you don’t stop because you can’t. All you can see is blood, blood, blood, and it makes you want to vomit. 

Uraraka keeps running. 

Eventually, the chaos ends, but you’re unsure exactly when. You don’t know how long it’s been, you don’t know if you’re even alive, really, but police cars and their sirens fill your senses as well as the ambulances. Your friend places you in one before quickly running off again, and you don’t even get to say anything. 

Can you say anything?

There’s doctors, nurses- people, they’re all just people in uniform- checking your vitals and asking you questions you can’t answer. You feel partially numb, partially scared and partially frozen. You sit there and let them do what they need to do, but they don’t do a good job. Nothing will help the white noise in your ears and the pictures in your head and how your body just won’t stop shaking. 

As you stare at all the damage the Nomu caused, there’s a stretcher being carried into another ambulance. You can barely see who it is from your spot, but there’s a glimpse of green hair. Your stomach flips when you think about who it could be.

You don’t ask the doctors for permission. You know that nothing is wrong with you, nothing but your head, so you tear out all the wires they put in you and jump out of the vehicle. You don’t listen to them calling out for you as you rush toward the stretcher, breaking your way through the several men in white that surround him- Midoriya. 

He’s covered in bruises, scrapes, and gashes. There are three gnarly, ugly tears on his side that look like the very definition of worrying. The voice you couldn’t find before suddenly comes back. “Will he make it?” You look at the doctors. 

“Please get out of the way!” 

“No!” You scream, holding onto Midoriya’s stretcher with all your strength. “Is he going to live?!” 

“We don’t know-”

Not good enough. 

“Okay, okay,” you breathe shakily, looking down at Midoriya. He’s barely lucid, you can tell- his eyes are open and unfocused, looking in several different directions in a haze. Tears run down your cheeks and snot down your nose as you grab his face with shaky hands. “Okay, Midoriya. Listen to me- okay? Listen. You’re gonna be okay, I swear- I swear you’re gonna be okay. Everything is going to be okay.” 

Your hand drifts down to the torn-up flesh on his side. You can do this- you know you can do this. It’s just as easy as taking a paper cut. 

Another shaky breath leaves you as you sob, preparing yourself for the pain- and then you activate your quirk. 

---

You hate the color white. 

It’s not even a color- it’s meaningless and void of anything real. It’s the beginning of color but isn’t a color itself. It is ugly and dark in your opinion. 

When you wake up, you’re surrounded by that non-color. It’s all white- the walls, the ceiling, the bedsheets, and your gown. You know where you are immediately. Only a hospital can bring you such dread. 

No one is in the room at the moment and you’re glad. It gives you a moment to think about what happened. There’s a burning sensation on your waist, something that hurts more than you think you’re processing at the moment- you’re probably drugged. Sloppy and heavy hands lift up your bedsheets and your gown, revealing the fresh, dark scar. It hugs your entire waist, curling around you as if it were a curse. 

But you think it’s a blessing. You saved Midoriya, right? God, please- he’s still alive, right? 

Alone in the hospital, you cry again. It’s silent, the tears leaving in streams but you don’t have the energy to sob. You lean back into the uncomfortable, stiff pillows on your bed and let yourself sink into the mattress. Tears fall into your ears and your hair, but that’s okay. 

You’re alive- Midoriya is alive. He has to be. 

---

The next time you wake up, you’re not alone. 

There’s a doctor on one side of your bed, her hands on you and doing something you don’t really know. On the other side, there’s a familiar shade of green sitting on a plastic chair. They’re both talking but it’s all muffled in your ears- you’re too drowsy to fully grasp what you’re seeing and what they’re saying. 

But the green- it makes your heart feel warm. 

“Deku,” you whisper. 

And then you fall unconscious again. 

--- 

You’re a lot more lucid when you wake up next. You’re once again alone in your little hospital room, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Soon, the door straight in front of you opens, several people walking in at once. They’re doing their best to be quiet as they walk around your bed and you can’t help but smile. 

“Hey, guys,” you croak- your throat more dry and hoarse than you realized.

Midoriya, Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki… and surprisingly, but maybe not so much, Aizawa. 

“___!” Uraraka speaks first, a hand slapping over her mouth as she gasps. “You’re-” her eyes are already watering, “you’re awake!” 

You give her a sad, broken smile- but before anyone else can say anything you watch as Aizawa makes his way over to the front of the bed. He stands right next to you, his eyes boring holes as he reaches forward and grabs at your forehead with his hand. 

Something that’s meant to be threatening, but he’s much too gentle for the message to really stick. 

“What were you thinking?” He asks.

“I wasn’t,” you tell him honestly, looking your teacher- your parental figure- in the eye as you speak. “I was scared. I was really, really scared, and I made a choice. But I’m not sorry.” Maybe you haven’t had a lot of time to fully process what happened- what consequences your choices might have- but this you are sure about. Your lip quivers slightly as you try to take a deep breath, holding Aizawa’s wrist gently and taking his hand off your head. “But I am sorry for worrying you.” 

It’s silent for a long moment- the tension was tight enough to wrap around your throat and it’s hard to breathe, but eventually, it loosens as Aizawa’s tense shoulders sag and he huffs. He turns on his heel, heading right for the door. “Come on. Let’s give them some privacy,” he says, a hand reaching out toward Uraraka’s back and gently pushing her toward the door. Iida silently waves as he leaves alongside Todoroki, and then the door shuts- silence once again coming in waves as you sit alone with Midoriya for the first time. 

“...You’re not sorry?” He asks, a hand grabbing the foot of the bed. You can see how it shakes. 

You know it might not be what he wants to hear, but it’s the truth. Your eyes fall to your lap as you tug on the scratchy blankets with your fingers. “I’m not.” You tell him. “...You were dying.”

“So were you!” He suddenly yells and his expression flashes to an angry one as he frowns. “You… you were dying! And it was my fault!” 

“It wasn’t!” You yell back at him. “It was my choice!” 

“Well, you shouldn’t have made it! You- you weren’t in the right mind to make a choice like that!” 

“But I did!” Your voice raises again- there’s a frantic pounding in your chest and you’re sure Midoriya can hear it through the heart monitor. 

You don’t want him to be angry at you- you don’t want to fight. You just wanted to make it better. 

“I made my choice, and I- I’m sorry it hurt you, Midoriya,” you keep fighting back your tears as you stutter along with your words. It’s hard- your eyes are stinging like crazy- but you don’t want to cry in front of him. You don’t want to make it worse. “I’m sorry I made you sad… I just… At that moment- I couldn't bear it. I couldn’t do it again- I couldn’t watch another person die. I didn’t want you to die!” 

Quickly you use your hands to cover your face as you start hyperventilating. The tears come in bursts, and you can’t help it, so you try to wipe them away and cover them up. The beeping from the monitor is driving you crazy. 

You feel something touch your wrist, and then fully grab it, pulling your hand away. Midoriya is by your side now, his eyes wet and his lips wobbly as he grabs your other wrist. He pulls them up to his lips, closing his eyes and placing your hands against his mouth as he stands there. You watch him with wide eyes, your breathing still coming out in funny waves, but it slowly starts to even out as Midoriya continues to calmly stand next to you. 

“___,” He finally speaks. It’s squeaky and quiet- he clears his throat to try again as he finally opens his eyes and looks at you. “___, thank you… Thank you for helping me… But you have to be more careful, alright?” Midoriya’s hand reaches out, cupping your cheek and wiping away the tears that lie there. “Cause… cause I don’t want you to die either, okay? So please- please be more careful.” 

“You too, okay?” You bite your lip. “No more going into fights. We… We don't do anything until we’re called in. If there’s an attack somewhere… you don’t do anything until we graduate. Okay?” 

Midoriya clicks his tongue, giving you a watery smile as he shakes his head. “I guess that’s fair, huh?” You smile back and nod, and as Midoriya lets go of your wrists you place a hand on top of the one on your cheek. 

You’re alive- Midoriya is alive. Things are okay.

Things will be okay.

[gazelonger]

“Did you get any sleep last night?” - Buddie :)

thank you! xx

In comparison to twenty-four-hour shifts, twelve-hour-shifts were usually a piece of cake. Buck looked forward to them, even, because that meant he could go back to work the next day instead of being cooped up in his apartment while he recuperated.

The only reason he hadn’t been enjoying this one was because he was exhausted.

Going to sleep hadn’t been easy ever since the tsunami. Buck’s dreams were riddled with floating corpses and a never-ending search for Christopher. Sometimes he recognized the corpses’ faces as those of Maddie or his team and their families. Other times he was never able to break the surface to even try and begin searching for Christopher.

The first few weeks, when the nightmares were really bad, Buck woke up screaming himself raw. His vocal cords had been torn to shreds, and it would take him longer than he’d care to admit to realize that he was awake and safe, and that everyone else was, too. And, being alone in his apartment and not wanting to wake anyone up to drag them into his mess, Buck had to calm himself down on his own. It had been hard to fall asleep knowing what waited for him in his slumber, so he resorted to taking a sleeping medication which helped him fall asleep easily.

Only problem is, he had run out the other night. And he had been so busy lately that he hadn’t had the chance to get more. Irrationally, maybe—definitely—Buck had just decided he was better off staying awake.

Personal issues aside, it had been a busy day. First call was to rescue a woman and her infant from a car which had overturned. Second call was to put out a blazer in a motel which was violating several health code guidelines. Then there had been three calls to put out house fires. Three! And not a single break between them. With a lot of hard work, everyone got out safely on all calls—minor injuries aside—and the day was almost over. Buck could barely keep his eyes open on the ride back to the station.

A boot nudged his own. Buck jerked his head up, focusing on Eddie who was sitting in front of him.

“You tired, man?” Eddie asked. Buck lifted the corner of his mouth and nodded sheepishly.

“Yeah,” he admitted. And he was. He was going to pick up more of that medicine on his way home from work.

“You look like hell,” Eddie said, and Buck laughed lightly at that. He was positive he did, and he would have normally shot back something along the lines of ‘You’re one to talk,’ but he just didn’t have the energy. He let his eyes slip shut again and tilted his head back.

He didn’t feel Eddie eyeing him warily.

When they made it back to the station, Buck was aware of how slowly he moved when he took off his gear. The hot water in the shower was relaxing as all hell, and it was a feat of its own that Buck didn’t collapse right there on the tiled floor.

Buck didn’t want to sleep, anyways. Not now. Not when the threat of nightmares plagued his mind.

He turned the faucet towards cold, and speedily rinsed the grime from his skin.

Bobby was cooking dinner in the loft when Buck headed up. It smelled ridiculously good. He offered to help, but Bobby insisted he was almost done. Buck set the table, then sat on the sofa.

He must have dozed off, because he didn’t notice that Eddie was sitting next to him until the older man rubbed his arm lightly. “Hey,” Eddie was whispering, and Buck rubbed the back of his fists against his groggy eyes. When Buck finally realized that Eddie was there, he felt pinned under the man’s concerned frown.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Eddie asked like he already knew the answer. Buck’s cheeks warmed under the scrutinizing gaze. It was bad enough he had a crush on the man, but did he have to be a damn know-it-all, too?

“Not since Thursday night,” Buck admitted. There wasn’t any use lying when he was already caught.

“Buck, it’s Saturday.”

Buck cleared his throat, looking away.

“What’s going on?” Eddie pushed. He rested one hand on Buck’s shoulder comfortingly, and Buck felt his stomach flip. “Why haven’t you slept?”

Buck bit the inside of his lip, then glanced at Eddie. He didn’t look angry, he just looked worried. Not that either was something Buck wanted to make Eddie feel, but he almost wishes Eddie was angry. He knows how to deal with anger. Worry…not so much. He didn’t know how to react to that kind of attention.

“I ran out of this medicine I’ve been taking to help me sleep,” Buck said, shifting on the couch. His voice was low; so low that Eddie had to lean in slightly to hear him. “It…it stops nightmares.”

Eddie considered him for a moment, and just when Buck thought that he was going to call him a coward, or selfish, or stupid, the man surprised him by standing up.

“Come on,” he said. Buck’s mouth fell open slightly, but he pushed off the couch to follow him.

Eddie ended up taking him back to the bunks. Buck hesitated by the door, and Eddie clearly sensed this because he looked over his shoulder and held out his hand. “Come on,” he said again in a softer voice. Ears hot, Buck took Eddie’s hand, and let the man lead him to his bunk.

Eddie turned down the bed, then clambered in. He pats the empty space for Buck, who—dumbstruck—obediently lies down beside him.

They both lie on their sides, facing one another, and Buck willed himself to appear calm as Eddie pulled the blanket over their shoulders. He was incredibly close to Eddie, who smelled like soap and vaguely like smoke which, Buck knew from experience, wouldn’t go away from one shower alone.

“Christopher has nightmares sometimes, too,” Eddie said in a quiet tone.

Buck’s heart ached for the boy. “The tsunami?” He asks. But he already knows.

“Yeah. They’re less frequent now, though.” He looked away momentarily, like he was thinking about whether to say something else, and when he returned his gaze it was soft but also knowing. “But they only got better when he talked about them with someone.”

Buck felt his eyes sting at that, and he had to look away from Eddie’s heavy expression.

“The medicine has been working just fine,” Buck argued weakly.

“Yeah, until you ran out—”

“I was going to get more tonight—” Buck started, looking back to Eddie now, but Eddie cut him off like he had done.

“Yeah, but after your shift. You could have gotten hurt, Buck.”

Buck felt a tear slide down over the bridge of his nose and onto the pillow, but he didn’t care. He was so tired. And Eddie was right.

“I know,” he whispered. His eyes were glassy as he looked helplessly at Eddie. “But I was too scared to sleep. I didn’t want…I hate them.”

Eddie lifted his hand to hold the side of Buck’s face in a soothing gesture, his thumb stroking under his eye.

“I know, I know,” Eddie hushed. Buck closed his eyes, too far gone to care that he leaned closer into Eddie’s space, which was warm and soft. If anything, Eddie didn’t seem to mind at all. He was pulling him closer.

“But I’m here now. Okay? And you’re gonna sleep. And if you have any nightmares, I’ll be right here for you when you wake up,” Eddie said. He pressed his forehead against Buck’s and carded his fingers through his hair, too.  Buck exhaled shakily, nodding his head. Heat was radiating from Eddie, and Buck’s skin burned nicely where Eddie was touching him, and he found himself wanting to give into his exhaustion now.

“Sleep, cariño,” Eddie whispered, his own eyes watching the worry lines disappear from Buck’s face as his breathing evened out.

Buck decided that it would be okay if he went to sleep. And for the first time in what felt like a very long time, Buck didn’t think he had to worry about any nightmares haunting his slumber. Eddie was holding him, and he felt safe.

[lia-jones]

Growing Together - Chapter Eight - Aftermath

Author’s note: This chapter has graphic descriptions of violence, as Andrea remembers a very specific episode of her abuse. If you sensitive to this kind of things, avoid the third part in italic.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes were hers. They were red and puffy, almost unable to stay open. It was obvious that she had been crying for days. I tried to call for her, but only a raspy sound came out.

“Don’t try to talk just yet.” I heard her instruct. “Your vocal cords must be sore from the tube.”

“She woke up?” I heard my father ask. “Andy, can you hear us?” He bolted to my mother’s side, allowing me to see his face.

“Andy, do you remember what happened to you?” My mother’s eyes shone again with tears.

I lied, shaking my head. I knew exactly what had happened. I wished that I didn’t.

“Do you need a blanket?” I felt Victor’s hand touching my shoulder. I turned my gaze from the jet window to face him, seeing concern in his eyes.

“I’m ok.” I quipped, turning to the window again. I could feel Victor watching me, but he didn’t speak another word.

“The pilot wants to let you know that we will be arriving in Loveland at 3 pm, local time.” We were informed by the flight attendant. “The duration of flight is estimated to be 11 hours. Should I prepare the bed?”

“Maybe for later.” Victor answered. “Put on some extra pillows for my wife as well.”

We sat in silence for a moment, as the flight attendant walked back to the booth.

“You have been very quiet since we left the clinic.” He held my hand. “Are you in pain? I’ll ask for a bottle of water so you can take an analgesic.” Victor motioned to press the CALL button.

“I’m fine, I’m just tired.” I rubbed my forehead. Victor lovingly took my hand, lowering it to my lap.

“That doesn’t mean tired.” He quipped softly. “But maybe you should take a nap. You’ll be more comfortable in bed.”

I laid down beside my husband, letting him wrap a protective arm around me. His hand took mine, drawing soft lines on my skin.

“Are you comfortable?” I heard him whisper.

“Yes.” I closed my eyes, trying to end the conversation.

“Do you need another pillow?”

“I’m sleepy.”

I felt his lips touch my hair.

“Good night.”

I got the pen and paper from my mother’s hand and placed it on my lap, writing furiously on it.

“The baby?” I wrote.

My mother sighed heavily, and took my hand.

“Andy…” She trailed off. I slapped the paper hard with my hand. Why couldn’t she tell me already? I knew he was dead, no embryo would survive that beating. But I needed to hear it.

“It’s incredibly rare, but it can happen to a woman to have a false positive pregnancy test.” My mother explained. “There was no baby. You weren’t pregnant.”

That was simply ridiculous. There was a baby, I was sure there was a baby. I had symptoms, my breasts were swollen, I was late, there was a positive test…

“I have something to tell you, Andrea.” My mother warned me, with tears in her eyes. “But you have to promise me you’ll be strong.”

I nodded, without knowing exactly what I was agreeing to, or what kind of strength would I need.

“You had severe uterine bleeding.”  She held my hand tightly. “They had to perform a hysterectomy.”

I woke up, enjoying the soft sun and the earthy colors of our bedroom for the first time in a week. We were back in Loveland. I had left in Switzerland the dream of giving Victor a biological child.

What exactly does one do when one’s dream is gone? Until our trip to Switzerland, my infertility was a reality, but with the help of science, it could still be overcome. The dream was dormant, but still alive. Now, not even all the fighting in the world could make me have a child of my own. The dream was dead. The only thing left to do was to bury it, and move on.

Without much thought, I got up from bed and did what I did every morning, on a normal day: I went to the kitchen. And predictably enough, Victor was finishing cooking, the scrambled eggs and toast already on the table, a mug with coffee placed by my usual seat.

“Good morning.” He announced, as he added to the table some sliced fruit. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”

“The cramps seem to be gone.” I declared, making an effort to look perky. “ Will you give me a ride today? I need to go to LCG today, see how the remodeling is going. Any interesting news?”

My husband didn’t seem interested in the news, though.

“You’re going to work?” He frowned at me. “You had a procedure two days ago.”

I gently placed my forkful of eggs on my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. I didn’t want to think about Switzerland or my procedure. I just wanted to move on.

“Three days ago.” I corrected. “There’s a time difference. Besides, I’m fine, I’m just going to see the remodel, I’m not going to break any walls myself.”

I needed to sound as normal and healthy as possible if I was going to convince my husband.  But the truth was, I was not only trying to convince Victor, I was also trying to convince myself. Except my body wasn’t in on my lie. I felt a painful cramp in my lower abdomen that almost made me double over, suppressing a whimper.

“I have to find my phone.” I got up from my seat carefully, before Victor could be any wiser. “I must have a hundred emails to return.”

Victor and I didn’t reveal what we were doing in Switzerland, just stating we had meetings with new clients there and would be extremely busy, so we kept communications to a bare minimum. When I went to the clinic for the procedure I turned off my phone, and because of all that happened after, I never remembered to turn it on again. The moment my device came to life, it started beeping non-stop.

I started skimming through the messages, already categorizing the most urgent ones to reply as soon as I got to my computer. My eyes lingered on one sent by Diane.

Aunty Andrea, I have arrived! I was born on August 19th, at 7 pm, weighing 6 pounds. I am a healthy and happy baby and I can’t wait to meet you. Mommy and Daddy say hi! Lots of love, Penny.

Below there was a picture of a sweet baby wrapped in a pink soft blanket, sleeping peacefully. I heard Victor speaking from behind me, leaning against the door frame.

“I was going to tell you after breakfast.”

I took a deep breath, afraid I might start to cry. Clearing my throat, I turned to him, trying to act as perky as possible.

“It’s ok, now I know.” I moved past him to the walking closet. “Penny looks absolutely precious.” I picked a shirt to wear. “I need to call Diane to know when it’s the most convenient to visit. They’re probably too tired to see people right now.”

“Just stop it already.” Victor scolded, making me start to get jittery. “I know you are unwell, you shouldn’t be going to work. You need time to recover.”

“No, what I need is a shower and to get back to my life. I can’t do that staying at home and moping.” I was desperate to get steaming water on my abdomen to ease the pain I was feeling. “Give me 20 minutes and we can leave.”

My wish to pretend everything was ok soon fell apart, as the dull pain I was feeling sharpened and made my knees buckle. The only reason I didn’t fall was Victor’s watchful stance, as he promptly gathered me in his arms.

“You’re not going to work today. Neither am I.” He sat me on the bed. “I’ll help you shower and change into more comfortable clothes, but no one is leaving the house today. You just had surgery, and you are still in pain.”

Despite my protests, Victor undressed me and took me to the bathroom, allowing me to shower by myself under the condition that he would sit outside the stall, waiting for me. I let the hot water dissolve the knots in my body, my mind reeling with thoughts of the recent events.

For the past two years, I had worked hard to get rid of all the marks Daniel left in me. I got my self-esteem back, fell in love, made a career for myself. But I couldn’t erase the mark that hurt me the most, my infertility. I had told everyone that I couldn’t remember what had happened, convincing them that my head injury or maybe shock had erased it from my mind. However, I was trying to spare their feelings. The truth was too cruel, I needed to keep it to myself, so it wouldn’t hurt anyone else. That day at the hospital, I swore to myself that what happened that night would die with me.

First, the memory came in flashes. I did my best to keep it hidden in the dark corner of my mind, but to no avail. It was overpowering me, to the point that I forgot where I was, and simply closed my eyes, finding myself on the cold floor of my old kitchen again.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” Daniel circled me as I sat on the floor, wiping the blood from my nose. “Did you really think I would just let you walk away?”

He removed the belt from his pants and wrapped it around my neck, tightening it as he kneeled behind me.

“Listen carefully, my love. You don’t get a say about your life. You don’t get a say about that baby’s life. You don’t even get to decide where you go.” I fumbled uselessly to get the belt off my neck, almost passing out with the lack of oxygen. I was startled with his mouth whispering in my ear. “I’m the one who decides who stays and who goes, and I decide who gets to live. Let me tell you what I have decided.”

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and suddenly smashed my head against the tile. After that, I couldn’t get up. The pain was so unbearable I was paralyzed and temporarily blind, my ears ringing loudly. The only thing I could feel was the blood pouring from my forehead and pooling on my hair and ears, and his voice, far away, like I was under water.

“I will let you live your pathetic miserable life.” He spoke with disdain. “But you will not have that child, or any other child.”

The first kick made the air suddenly leave my lungs, and I couldn’t breathe in anymore, before another kick followed. And another. And another. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t cry, I was helpless. The only thing I could do was hope he was wrong, and death would take me anyway.

The sound of the shower door opening startled me, my mind still somewhat fuzzy, stuck between memory and reality. The water stopped, I felt a towel wrapping around me, arms lifting me from the wet floor.

When I fully came to my senses, I was in Victor’s arms, his face close to mine, whispering. It was then that I realized I was gasping for air.

“Deep breaths.” I heard his voice in my ear, while he rocked me back and forth. “Take deep breaths, Andy.”

I couldn’t stop the sobs that followed, making me shake violently. Victor held on tight to me, and I grabbed the fabric of his shirt like my life depended on it, wanting to escape the memory.

After seeing I was more relaxed, he helped me dress and laid me in bed.

“Talk to me.” He urged, as he pulled the comforter over me. “Tell me how I can help.”

“I just want to sleep.” My voice was weak as raspy, barely audible.

His hand rested on my back and lingered, as he seemed to ponder on what to do. After a moment, I felt the mattress rise as his weight left it, and I heard the sound of the door closing softly behind him. He came to the room numerous times, checking up on me. I pretended to be asleep in every single one of them, until he eventually grew tired of it and woke me up, stroking my curls.

“Your mother is on the phone, she wants to talk to you.” I opened my eyes, and his phone came into my line of sight.

“Tell her I’m sleeping.” I covered my head with the comforter.

“You need to talk to someone.” Victor’s voice had lost all his softness. “If not me, your mother. Take the phone.” He almost ordered.

“I said I don’t want to talk to her.” I turned my back. “Stop pressuring me.”

Victor unmuted his phone, bringing it to his ear.

“I’m sorry, Mariana, she’s asleep. I’ll tell her to call you later.”

I closed my eyes again, waiting for him to leave.

“You’re avoiding your mother now?” He scolded me.

“I’m not avoiding anyone, I just want to be left alone. Is that so difficult to understand?” I buried myself under the comforter.

“Yes, you are. You are avoiding your mother and you are avoiding me. Don’t think I don’t know you were pretending to be asleep every time I came to the room. You can’t deal with this all by yourself Andy, you need to speak up.”

I got up from the bed, running to the door, trying to avoid a discussion. I didn’t have it in me to fight. I was too weak. But before I could reach it, Victor pushed my back against the wall, resting his hands on it, blocking any exit for me. I was trapped.

“Victor, please, just let me go!” I begged, tears already forming in my eyes.

“I will not.” He spoke assertively. “Not until you talk to me.”

I looked down, avoiding his gaze. His forehead pressed on mine.

“Don’t hide from me, Andrea. Please.”

I felt the bad blood rising fast, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. All the frustration and the anguish of the past days came full force in one single wave, and before I could help it, it was spilling all over.

“What do you want me to tell you, Victor?” I felt so enraged I just wanted to scream at his face. “That I’m a horrible person that can’t even be happy for her friend? That I’m consumed by bitterness and jealousy? Or that I feel guilty for having let that piece of shit into my life, and take everything I held dear? Can you possibly understand what that’s like? He won, Victor. You are already paying the price for my bad decisions, I can’t let you pick up the pieces too.”

Victor grabbed my face with his hands, looking at me with piercing eyes.

“You are not a terrible person and you are not responsible for what happened to you. I understand this can be hard for you, but don’t avoid the people that love you. Talk to me.”

“I don’t need to talk!” I yelled, frustrated. “I need normalcy, I need to feel like I’m not about to break, and I need space! I’ll figure it out by myself. Just let me figure it out by myself.”

Victor looked down, seemingly trying to hold himself back. After a moment, he let me go, walking away in frustration.

“What am I supposed to do then, sit idly as I watch you crumble to pieces? Pretend I don’t hear you cry? I will not see you like this and do nothing!“ He lifted his left hand, showing me his wedding ring. “I made a vow I have every intention to keep. In the good times and the bad, remember? It’s my duty as a husband to be at your side at all times, why won’t you let me?” He paused, looking down again. “Am I not good enough?”

His question felt like a bucket of ice dropping on me, freezing me to the core. In my mind’s eye, I could remember all the times I urged him to open up to me, worried about him. I could remember how I felt unwanted every time he pushed me back. Now, I was doing the same. I broke down sobbing, and immediately I felt my husband's arms around me, steadying me. Like they always did.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore!” I pulled him tightly to me, taking the strength he was offering me. “You are more than enough, please don’t think otherwise. You are the man that I love, I need you.” I nudged his chest, letting all my anguish finally out, unrestrained. “I’m so sorry, Victor, please forgive me.”

“I’m here, my light, don’t cry.” He whispered softly in my ear, one hand holding the back of my head, the other running soothingly in my back. “All will be well, I promise. You are safe in my arms.”