#this is about. doctor who........ again...........

[barbieandkento]

₍^. .^₎⟆ synopsis: nanami wakes up in a hospital - confused, dazed, and suddenly kissed by his attractive doctor. who turns out to be his wife that he can't remember. word count: 2.7k

nanami wakes to the sound of persistent beeping.

at first, he thinks it must be his alarm clock. but it can't be, he reasons, because it's not an uninterrupted noise. rather, it's flicking on and off in a consistent rhythm.

the next thing he notices is the smell. harsh disenfectants, a mix of citrus and bleach. it lacks the smell of his laundry detergent - sandalwood and bergamot - and now that he thinks about it, his sheets were never this itchy and dry.

when he forces open his eyes, they're immediately blinded by the flourscent lighting up ahead. his eyes blinking furiously against the white burst of light to adjust to his surroundings.

he realizes his regular suit has been replaced with a hospital gown, white and frumpy with printed blue squares. his feet are bare against the stale white sheets, the same shade of white as the walls enveloping the room. the darkness outside the window tells him that he must've woken up late at night. a quiet ticking clock on the wall confirms his suspicions - 10.28pm.

the beeping, it turns out, was his heart monitor. situated carefully next to a small bedside table with water and an untouched sandwich. there's a small note next to it, in beautiful cursive writing someone has written - 'feed yourself, kento!' - in black sharpie. examining the sandwich up closer, he can see it's turkey and pesto (his favorite).

to his left, there's a single chair with a cardigan draped over it (a cardigan certainly not belonging to him, nanami notes). on the seat, there's a newspaper open to a crossword puzzle and a pen resting carefully on top.

trying to get a closer look at the crossword, he sits up, nearly swearing out loud from the sharp pain shooting up his left side. his heart mointor goes wild, the silence of the room broken, when he instinctively pulls down his blanket to see a nasty gash along his side.

within a few seconds, he hears hurried footsteps down the hallway and the door slams open.

"you're awake." you say, relieved. you almost sound like you're about to cry, which he finds strange, but chalks it up to you being a very attentive doctor.

the next thing he notices is that you're really pretty. the kind of pretty that would have made him blush profusely in his 20s and stoically stare at from a distance in hopes that you'd make a move first. you smell like daisies and fresh rain; you smile at him so dazzingly that his words turn to mush.

you then suddenly rush towards him, tossing your clipboard onto the chair, before grabbing his face and kissing him. his mind short circuits at the sudden contact, face flushing red at the unsolicited kiss. his whole body is buzzing with electricity, your sticky lipgloss staining his lips, and he almost has to surpress his whine when you pull away looking confused.

"...are you alright?" you question him, noticing your husband seems more quiet and stiff than usual.

nanami coughs awkwardly, attempting to calm his beating heart.

"i... i'm not sure how professional it is to kiss your patients, doctor." he says earnestly, but you (to his surprise) laughs him off.

"oh come on, nanami. you're acting like it's the first time." you quip, shaking your head sideways.

he's genuinely confused.

"is it not?"

you open your mouth again, ready to give him a sassy remark, but the words die in your mouth when you see that serious glint in his eyes.

lack of sleep before the mission. blunt force trauma to the head. submersion in freezing water for five minutes before geto could pull him out.

all things, logically speaking, which could result in temporary amnesia.

"you're... you're joking, right?" you trail off, hoping for even a flicker of amusment on his face. "please say you're joking."

his heart breaks at how desparate your tone becomes, but no matter how hard he tries to remember, he can't seem to find you amongst his memories.

"i-i'm sorry. do we... know each other?"

there's a beat of silence as his question hangs heavy in the air. you seem to swallow nervously, eyes shifting down to the floor as if you're lost in thought before you look back up at him with an unreadable look on your face.

"what'd you think?" you mumble quietly, raising your left hand. a diamond ring with rose details shines back at him, and suddenly nanami can feel the weight of a ring on his own left hand.

but before he can respond, a nurse is calling for you.

"I'll be back in a bit. just... eat something and rest, okay?"

nanami has so many questions he wants to ask you, his wife that he can't remember, but you're gone in an instant with an apologetic look.

what lingers is your smell, your perfume haunting the room for hours before he eventually falls back asleep.

his head plagued with questions.

==================

it's been three days since he's woken up.

so far, you've been in his room daily to monitor his vitals, ask him the usual questions (how have you been eating, any odd pain, do you need your sheets changed), and swap out the usual hospital food with his favorite foods. he suppresses the urge to ask how you know what he wants to eat so easily, and it becomes clear that you're putting in an effort to keep your distance from him.

you no longer smile wide and bright as you did the first time he saw you, your lips always pressed in a professional smile and your body never hovering closer than a few inches from him.

he misses you. there's an odd ache in his body when you're near, like he's trying to hold onto a ghost from his past that's too close and too far from him at the same time. he swears he still tastes your lipgloss when he anxiously licks his lips, which drives him even more insane.

he manages to get a few answers out of you during the routine checks. he asks anything, in hopes it'll spark his memories, but also because he can't stand the silence in the room.

the heavy tension as you avoid his gaze, whilst simultaneously staring at him from the corner of your eyes whenever you're in the room.

"where do we live?"

"fifteen minutes from ueno."

"how long till i get discharged?"

"depends on your vitals, but i'd say maybe another 36 hours."

"are you taking care of yourself?" nanami can't help but ask you that one day, when you look particularly tired and drained.

you give him a weary smile, nodding weakly.

"mostly. don't worry, our neighbours are keeping an eye on yuki."

his throat runs dry at that answer, his mind suddenly flashing with imaginations of a young girl the spitting image of you and nanami.

"yuki? is that... our daughter?" he asks carefully, his heart racing.

your eyes become so wide and you nearly choke on your spit.

"oh! uh... no. yuki's our cat. she's a really sweet, white cat we adopted from a shelter a few months back. she's two." you trail off, feeling guilty. "sorry, I forgot that you would've forgotten that yuki is our cat too."

nanami just quietly thanks you and doesn't press the subject further.

but the image of yours and his fictional daughter lingers.

true to your word, nanami gets his clean bill of health confirmed the next day and his belongings are returned to him in a meticulous manner. changing out of his hospital gown, his old clothes feel foreign against his skin.

staring at himself in the mirror, he traces every curve and dip on his face in an attempt to spark a memory. he knows his name. his friends. dreadfully, his work. but the past two years feels like a blank in his memory, ripped out pages of an incomplete sketchbook.

splashing water onto his face, he steps out the bathroom, feeling more on edge than ever. whilst waiting for you in the reception room, he can't help himself from nervously adjusting his cuff links and fiddling with his tie.

because he's going home. with you.

"ready?" you ask, slinging your bag over your shoulder. you've changed out of the uniform he's gotten so used to seeing - now in a loose tank top with a cherry print on it and form fitting jeans. your lipgloss has become more sheer through out the day, and you're wearing less mascara than usual.

"you look beautiful." he comments, without really thinking it through. you seem embarrassed by the compliment, ducking your head to avoid his gaze.

"thank you."

he purses his lips because you're still avoiding his gaze. it doesn't feel right, even if he doesn't know you as well as you know him.

"please don't look away."

it's the first time he's addressed the fact that you've been avoiding looking at him directly, making you freeze in place.

"please." he nearly whispers it, and you can't find it in your heart to refuse him.

you take in a small breath, mustering up the courage to look at him square in the eyes.

"okay."

he wordlessly takes your bag from your shoulder, trailing behind you as you walk towards your car in the parking lot. he also refuses to let you open the car door by yourself, placing his spare hand on the ceiling so you won't bump your head as you sit down.

it's so routine, you almost forget that he doesn't remember anything.

and he stills sits in the seat next to you, not the back seat. and he switches the radio to the station he'd always listen to, without being prompted to.

"are you alright?" nanami questions, noticing how your eyes are becoming watery.

you're barely able to croak out that you're fine before pulling out of the driveway, your thoughts a complete mess on the drive home.

==================

"this is the living room.... we had a bit of an argument over what color to paint the walls but we eventually settled on sage green because it's calming. though-" you chuckle, mostly to yourself. "you always insisted it wasn't an argument because you'd always let me win."

it's strange, for nanami, getting a tour of his own house. but he dutifully follows behind you, nodding along to each of your descriptions, analysing every nook and cranny of the apartment.

the kitchen is sleek but homey. DIY tiles, vintage kitchenware, vase of sunflowers in the middle of the table.

the bathroom is small but clean. his aftershave and razor sits untouched next to your bottles of perfume and makeup brushes. a crinkled book settled by the bath tub tells him that you're a fan of reading in the bath.

the office room is busy but organized, stacked high with books and files belonging to him. there's a few odd artifacts here and there - souvenirs from travels abroad, you say - and he spots a photo frame with you hugging him from behind. the scenery says malaysia, but he can't make out the exact date of the photo.

"and this... is the bedroom." you wait for him to look around the room by himself, standing at the doorway awkwardly as you wait for the right thing to say.

it's nearly 11pm now, and you're so tired that you want nothing more than to curl up next to him and sleep.

but that would be highly inappropriate, you reason, given that he's a stranger now.

"i've already laid out your clothes for the night on the corner of the bed." you explain slowly. "i've already taken out my stuff for the night, so don't worry."

he spins around and stares at you, confused.

"but then where would you be sleeping?"

you shrug, trying to come off nonchalant.

"i figured you'd want to sleep alone on your first night. what with the temporary amnesia and all." even the word amnesia leaves a sour taste on your mouth as you admit it out loud. "i can sleep on the couch in the living room, it's fin-"

nanami shakes his head sideways immediately.

"nonesense. no lady should be sleeping on a sofa. i'll take the couch, you should take the bed."

"are you-"

"yes, i'm completely sure. i will not have you sleep outside in your own home." he replies sternly, the glint in his eyes oh so familiar. a warning sign that it's not up for debate, he's made up his mind.

"it's your home too." you respond quietly. but nanami catches it, and his stern look falls for a short second.

"i... i know, but... please. i couldn't bear the thought of you sleeping on a sofa after a hospital shift."

"okay."

after moving over a few pillows and a blanket for him to the sofa, and an awkward exchange of 'good nights', you shut the bedroom door behind you and crawl into bed.

suddenly, the bed feels too cold and empty. the blankets are overwhelmingly heavy and hot against your skin, and the ceiling fan seems to be louder than usual. the heaviness of the situation begins to set in and before you know it, you're crying.

salty tears streaking down your face, body shivering under the sheets as you grieve what you've lost.

two years of marriage - gone.

he tries to hide it, but whenver he looks at you, you feel it in your guts.

you're a stranger to him.

and now, you fear he may never remember you again.

it might've been twenty minutes. or a full hour, you're not sure.

but in the complete darkness, you can't tell the passage of time before you hear a soft knock on the door.

"it's nanami." he announces himself, as if you wouldn't know that it was him (if you were in a better mood, it'd probably make you laugh). "can i come in?"

wiping the tears from your face as fast as you can, you sit up to face the door.

"y-yes. come in."

even in the pitch darkness, you can imagine nanami's beautiful face scrunching up in worry, his figure slowly moving towards you in the dark.

"i heard you crying." he whispers, and the tenderness in his voice nearly threatens to break you again.

"i'm sorry, i should've been more quiet." you reply, as he sits down on the bed across from you.

"it's fine, i.... fuck, it's not fine."

you blink in surprise, knowing that it was rare to hear nanami swear.

"of course it's not fine, i can't imagine how painful this whole ordeal must be for you. you've been incredibly strong and brave to tolerate me this long. i am just amazed that i would've managed to land someone like you as my wife."

you want to respond, but all you can feel is the wave of sadness rushing over you again, his sweet words piercing your heart like daggers.

"i... i can't sleep." you whisper into the night. it feels easier to admit it when it's dark, and you can't see how intensely he'd be looking into your eyes, as if he's staring into your soul.

"could i stay with you?" nanami asks, before clarifying. "until you fall asleep."

"you can stay for as long as you want."

his weight leaves the mattress for a moment before he settles down next to you, his familiar cologne washing over your senses.

"can i... hug you?" he asks, voice so gentle, as if he's afraid you're going to break at any moment.

"yes please." you manage to get out, before you're full on sobbing again, staining his shirt with your tears. his arms are now around your back as he scoops you onto his chest, his rough fingers drawing soothing circles on your back. his lips find his way to the crown of your head, and he wishes nothing more but to take some of the pain away from you.

but he can't.

"i'm so, so sorry love." he whispers against your head, lips trembling. "i wish i could remember."

you don't respond, rather, you can't. he's hugging you in bed like everything's normal. he's speaking to you as if he's your nanami, your husband, the same nanami who would bring home pastries on his way back from work and take baths with you on nights you couldn't sleep.

eventually, you feel emptied out of your tears, your limbs finally feeling heavy. his steady heartbeat against your ears lulls you to sleep, your fingers naturally grasping his thin shirt, crinkling the fabric.

"don't leave." you whisper, half-asleep.

"i won't." he whispers back, hugging you closer.

that's the last confirmation you need before your breathing evens out and he's sure you're asleep, your chest rising and falling in regular rhythms.

and despite nanami's eyes begging to close, his mind feels wide awake and sleep won't come to him easily. his nerves are on fire as he hugs you closer to his frame.

looking at your face in the dark, the small green glow of the alarm clock carving shadows onto your face, he presses a small kiss to your forehead and swears to himself he'll remember.

he'll die trying if he has to.

a/n: second ever fic on this blog! i was feeling angsty/slow burn today so wanted to give the loss memory trope a try. seriously am a sucker for pining gentleman!nanami. apologies for any medical inaccuracies in this fic btw i'm not a med student/professional so i googled a few things and called it a day lmao. lowkey tempted to write a part 2 to this if this does well :)

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

[dw-opinions-you-wont-like]

To be honest I never understood the whole 'Daleks are a n@zi allegory' and actually I think that promotes a dangerous and sadly prevalent idea.

Like, Daleks are biologically engineered to experience no emotion but hate. Here's the thing about the n@zis: they weren't aliens, or monsters, or 'psycopaths', or genetically any different from the rest of humanity. They were people. Like us. And they did horrible things, things it is impossible to imagine ourselves doing, which is why we so easily tend to assign a non-human catagory to them, in order to somehow make sense of the evil. But evil doesn't make sense and it isn't alien, it is human. And it is the opposite of helpful or meaningful to imagine n@zism as some biologically determined ideology rather than a human invention, which used very human emotions and systems to further itself.

What you’re doing when you say that Daleks are an allegory for the n@zis, is that you’re reassuring the bigots and the antisemites and the fascists that they couldn’t possibly be like the n@zis because they're not like the daleks.

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

Midnight Visits

Part ten of The Rain series

Synopsis: Rook and Che'nya sneak into the infirmary on two separate nights to visit the recovering Prefect.

TW: Broken bone, entering without breaking, Rook Hunt

A/N: Writing block sucks. Sorry it took so long but I was finally able to form words how I wanted to again!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 (here), Part 11 (coming soon), . . .

Waking up the next morning you were undoubtedly better rested than you had been in a long time, but you were also a little peeved at a certain fae for spelling you to sleep in order to avoid your topic of discussion.

And boy were you happy you slept so good because the rest of the morning was a blur of tests and Styx staff. A good portion of your bandages had been removed by now. Your stomach, head, and select spots on your arms and legs were now freed from bandages. The staff decided you were far enough along in the treatment and that your body was reacting well enough to magical treatments, despite them being foreign to you, that they could do some more intensive procedures and repair your broken bones. The casts were removed, and while the bones were definitely healed now, the places where the cracks and splinters used to be were unbelievably sore. According to the doctors, this soreness would last about a week. And, over this week, you wouldn't be allowed any visitors.

The first couple days passed unbearably slowly. Nothing to do, nobody to talk to, you couldn't even play the games Idia left you because you were too sore. The TV (a gift from Idia as well) had timed out and so you were left to stare at the ceiling and hallucinate patterns in the grain of the stone.

"That spot looks like Roi du Lions."

You nearly jumped out of your skin. Your body ached in protest and a pained yelp ripped from your throat. You could barely see a mop of blonde hair out of your peripherals. "Rook?" you winced.

"Oui" came his unbothered response. Likely understanding how sore you were at the moment, Rook moved to sit on the edge of your bed so you could properly see him. He looked the same as usual except for some very distinctive leaves in twigs that were tangled in his hair. They were from a tree of which there was only one on campus. That tree was outside the window to the room you were now sickeningly familiar with.

You didn't bother asking how he managed to get inside the room, the slight breeze you felt tickling your cheeks answered that question rather clearly. Instead, you asked: "How long were you in the tree?"

Rook gave you his signature cryptic smile. "Only three days this time. Worry not. I packed myself rations for my stay in the canopy."

You ignored the absurdity of his statement mostly and asked: "This time?"

"Oui!"

You stared at him.

His face remained in a close eyed smile. He looked like a fox.

"Rook-"

"Oh! Do not look at me with such an expression! I simply could not simply allow my beloved Trickster to lay all alone whilst they battled so valiantly!"

You managed to decipher his flowery words ad essentially being him saying he had been in the tree for some duration between the time you first got admitted and now in order to keep an eye on you. You didn't bother asking if it was an occasional thing of if he was up there the whole time. You weren't sure you wanted to hear the answer.

Despite everything, Rook seemed to be at his usual level of weirdness. You were just about to wright him off as being the one who took all of this the best when a phone screen flickered before your face.

"My first stint was for 4 weeks! I was in such a rush to be by your side that I hadn't even brought rations and supplies with me! I had to rely on Monsieur Crabapple and Roi du Poison to bring me food and water in exchange for information on your condition." On his phone screen flickered an image of an unruly and wild looking Rook. His hair was far from its usual neatness, dirt and mud dirtied his clothes and complexion, his usual cleanshaven face was prickly with stubble, and he overall looked like he had just survived a month living like a beast in the forest. "Roi du Poison was quite cross with me when I finally returned, but his heart was not in his scolding."

"Wait. . .were you out there throughout the entire storm?" you croaked, memories of the storm conjured from Malleus' emotion flashed through your mind. How had he survived that?

Rook simply smiled and reached a hand up to brush the hair from your face.

He didn't stay much longer after that. He left declaring you needed rest. As he left you realized. . .his hair was much longer.

The next few nights after Rook's visit were peaceful. Your soreness was now just a dull ache of a memory of its prior intensity. You were absentmindedly staring up at the TV across the room, watching some old cartoon professor Trein had brought over CDs of saying his daughters loved it when they were younger and perhaps you would too. It was the last night of your recovery period. Tomorrow you would get to see another of your friends.

You finally decided to turn off the cartoons and go to bed for the night when you began to see flashes of pink and cartoony looking smiles out of the corners of your eyes.

You flicked off the television and were about to lay down when- "Aww. I liked that one."

You surprised even yourself by not being startled by the voice. Perhaps you'd had a suspicion in the back of your mind that you hadn't been simply hallucinating.

"Well it's no fun if you don't jump" a floating head materialized above the mattress beside you and huffed.

"Hello, Che'nya"

The mattress beside you dipped as a body materialized to go along with the head. "Hello, Little Prefect." Che'nya grinned back. "You really have set the whole island into a uproar, you know."

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration." you sigh. NRC was understandable since it's the school you go to and therefore you knew a lot to the people there and they knew you. RSA was too to an extent since you had a couple friends there. But the whole island? Maybe the press was annoying the townsfolk?

"Oh, but it's not" Che'nya coos. "I don't think you realize it, Little Prefect, but you've wiggled yourself into lives and hearts of many people here." As he spoke, his tail flicked lazily around. "Neige was nearly inconsolable."

Your eyes flick over to the bouquet on your windowsill. You received it pretty soon after the incident and a spell had been cast on it to keep the flowers from wilting.

"And I was hardly in any shape to do any consoling myself." Suddenly his soft tail coils around your leg while his fingers intertwine with yours.

"Che'nya" you sigh. "Stop joking."

The beastman laughs at your blank expression but tucks his head under your chin. "I'm not." he pouts.

You open your mouth to reprimand him once more but stop and close it again when you feel his grip on your hand tighten ever so slightly.

The room falls silent and you soon fall asleep. When you wake up in the morning Che'nya is gone but the side of the bed on which he laid the night before is still warm.

You can't help but remember how the way he clung to you last night felt more. . .desperate than usual.

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[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: Simon POV (mostly)

“Riley, hold up.”

There’s a fat horse fly on Molly’s flank, twitching as she trots along beside you on the well worn path. She turns in the saddle.

“What?”

“Swat that fly.” You point to where it sits, wings vibrating, no doubt waiting to bite. It’s not that you don’t trust Molly, you do. She’s always been a good mare, confident and comfortable and pretty unflappable, but you’re not sure how she’ll react to getting bitten, and you don’t want to find out while Riley’s on her back.

“What fly?”

“The fly, down there behind the saddle pad.” She leans back to wave her hand around and it buzzes off, and relief settles your stomach.

“Shoo fly!” You laugh.

“Good job you got it.” It’s beautiful today. Sunny, breezy, and full of Riley smiles. You’re plodding along the trail that winds along the pasture, up the hill and then dips into the woods for some shade, the one Tess carved out right after they bought the land. It’s easy to feel close to her out here, easy for Riley to get to know her mom this way, riding the same path Tess made and hoped to share with her one day. Watching Riley on Mabel’s daughter, hair shining in the sun, these are the weightless moments, the ones that will stick to your bones forever. The ones you never want to let go, the ones that are worth everything, all of it.

You’re just about to tell Riley how much she looks like her mom when that fly lands on Molly again, except this time it doesn’t just sit there.

It bites.

The chat window pops up at the same time as the alert.

John: Get down here.

Simon frowns, and thumbs over the blinking red dot in the corner of the tablet.

It’s a patient notification, an automatic alert for whenever one of his kids is checked in at the hospital.

His stomach flips when he sees who it is.

Riley.

All he sees is you.

Not the child on the gurney with her helmet knocked askew and her arm bent at an odd angle, not Alex Keller talking to her in low tones or the nurses taking her boots off, but you, off to the side, shell shocked, rattling with fear.

You, his strong, brave girl, still trying to stand when everything is crumbling.

He allows himself a second to take you in, look you over. You’re not hurt that he can see, just covered in dust, standing stiffly at John’s side as he rubs your shoulder.

He wants to reach for you, hold you, tell you it’s going to be okay. He’s going to fix it.

But his focus needs to shift, for now.

Alex cocks his head as the doors slide closed. “What can I do for you Simon?”

“Personal interest.” He steps in beside the pediatrician as he works, and smiles down at the trembling little girl. “Hey Riley.”

“H-hi.” She hiccups.

“Heard you took a bit of a fall today.” He glances at the monitor. “We have anything on board for pain control?” Alex carefully unbuckles her helmet and lifts it off.

“Yeah. One of yours?” He nods, and then crouches so he’s eye level with her.

“We have the same name, that’s cool right?”

“We do?” She’s squeaky from crying, and he squeezes her good hand.

“We do. I’m Doctor Riley, and you’re Riley. Must mean we’re meant to be friends.” Her lower lip trembles.

“Uh huh.” Poor thing.

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re doing great, and we’re going to get you all fixed up.” Big tears gather at the corners of her eyes and spill over, and Keller smiles to reassure her.

“Okay we’re going to bring a machine in here to take a picture of the inside of your arm now, alright?” Her lower lip quivers. “X-rays okay mom? Anything we should know?” Simon turns to you, and while your throat bobs, there’s no reply. “Is there-”

“X-rays are fine, right Daisy?” He cuts Keller off, and you blink in surprise, finally seeing him, noticing him in the room. He gives you an encouraging nod, one you follow.

“X-rays are fine.” Riley holds perfectly still like a champ, and once a fracture is confirmed Alex moves on.

“Daisy right?” You nod again, and he gives you his best ‘try not to freak the parent out’ smile. “We’re going to get her arm stabilized and then I want to take Riley for a CT, just in case. Everything looks good but we like to be extra thorough when it comes to head injuries in children. She’ll be evaluated by orthopedics right after to see where we are with the arm.”

“Okay.” There’s no emotion in your voice. It’s hollow, and his stomach twists.

“Someone will bring you the consent forms while we take her upstairs, and then you can wait for her in-”

“I have to go with her.” Alex opens his mouth to give you the standard spiel, but you cut him off. “No. I have to go with her.”

“Unfortunately you can’t. We’ll take a good care of her, I promise. I know it’s scary, but she’s in great hands.”

“I- she needs me.” Simon shifts, blocks your line of sight and lowers his voice.

“Daisy.” Nothing. It’s like he never spoke. “Daisy. Look at me.” No reaction, so he takes a chance, tucks two fingers under your chin and tilts your face to his to find your eyes. “Go tell Riley everything’s okay and you’ll see her as soon as she’s done.”

“You don’t understand.” You whisper hoarsely, and your pained expression is so desperate, so scared.

“I do, you know I do.” Riley is in a gown now, bed rails in place, and Keller is giving him an odd, impatient look. Simon holds up a finger. “This patient is your family and you’re off the clock. If the roles were reversed, you’d be saying the same thing as Keller.” Your face crumples, almost shatters, before you reign it back in. You’re so, so close to cracking, and he hates that this is what’s going to do it, this is what will shatter your control. “Now take a deep breath, go give Riley a kiss, and tell her you’ll see soon. We don’t want her to be even more stressed, right?” You bite down on your bottom lip to smother something, some outburst of emotion that’s trying to claw free, and nod.

“Right.”

“Seems like you’ve coddled her enough already.” There’s a ripple that starts from your mouth upwards, a feeling trying to fight its way out, but you shut it down immediately and stare silently at the elevator doors.

When they open and you bolt, John growls.

“Aresehole. She needs-”

“I know what she needs,” he snaps, turning on his friend. He can still smell you in the elevator, warm leather and honeysuckle. It’s been lingering in the halls, haunting him. Taunting him. “I’m trying to give it to her, and I can’t treat her differently than anyone else just starting in the unit. You know I weed them out.” John’s skepticism is clear.

“You’re making a mess of it.” He knows he’s been harsh and heavy handed, but you’re not just going to roll over for him. It’s hard for John to reconcile considering he’s been handling you with a soft touch for the last few years, but he doesn’t know what Simon knows. He doesn’t understand how it’s not just the weight of the responsibility on your back, it’s grief. For your sister, for Riley, for yourself. It’s overwhelming loss that doesn’t just go away, gaping wounds you’ll never truly heal. The stress, the money, these things compound it, they make it harder to process, to accept the loss and move forward. It jams everything up and turns it to rot.

Simon would know.

So he won’t stop pushing you, and every time you give him nothing, he’ll continue to give more right back. He won’t cow you, but he will set you right. He will fix it, and you’ll let him.

“You’re making it harder on her than it needs to be.”

“I know what I’m doing.” He doesn’t need advice or guidance with this. With you. The line between too much and too little can only be determined by him, and he doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinion.

You will walk it.

Whether it be of your own choosing or by his hand, you will do it either way.

“She’s drowning, John. It’s worse than you know, and there’s no time to handle her with kid gloves.” The elevator comes to a stop, and John steps out with a parting glance.

“Just be careful, Simon.”

You haven’t moved in two minutes. Frozen in place with your back to him, shoulders tight under your ears, ribcage occasionally deflating with an exhale until you’re taking another breath and holding it hostage.

You didn’t even notice when John left the room, pulled the doors closed to ensure no one would come in.

He grits his teeth. It’s going to be difficult.

The room crackles with the promise of a fight, rolling thunder and lightning electrifying the very foundation you stand on, shaking it to its core.

But he knows you won’t let it crumble. Not so easily, anyway.

“It’s going to be okay.” You don’t answer, you don’t turn to face him. “She’s in good hands, she-”

“I know.” It’s not your normal edge, your insistence. It’s more raw, precarious, and he circles you, ignoring the way you refuse to look at him. For now.

“Her CT will come back clear, and her arm needs a screw or two at most. She’ll be in a cast for six weeks, maybe eight. It’s-”

“I know.” You’re a stone wall, staring straight ahead, but he sees the cracks and splinters them wider when he takes your hand, holding you firmly in place when you try to tug free.

“Peds has a great-”

“I know!” You rip out of his grasp, and for a second, a split second, you look at him in horror. Gut wrenching terror, like you’re desperately trying to climb onto a life raft and you keep slipping off, reaching out for something to pull yourself up with, something to save you, though it’s not there.

Like you’ve just figured out what he’s been planning all along.

You know what’s happening.

When the first tear falls, it comes with an anguished noise that rips from your throat so brutally he has to steady himself.

“It’s okay, Daisy.” The palm you’ve flung forward does nothing to stop him snaking an arm around your back as you frantically shake your head and trip backwards, trying and failing to escape. “Everything’s okay.” He goes for the kill, pulls you into his body, reels you in, unsurprised when you thrash on the line, cheeks wet and gasping for air.

“Let me go!” You push, but you’re no match for him, not even close. You fight anyway, just as he knew you would, just like you’ve been fighting him at every turn, just like you’ve been fighting every day since your sister died.

It’s what you know, it’s how you’ve survived. You’re scarred and bruised but battle tested, and you’re not going down without fight.

John was convinced you needed a soft hand, told him as much. “Can’t tame a wild horse without some sugar cubes Simon.” Whatever the bloody hell that meant.

Simon knew better.

You can’t tame a wild horse. You have to break them.

“Fuck- get off me!” You twist and try to push off, but he holds you through it, holds you as you hiss and scratch and beat on him, holds you as you cuss at him, scream at him. It’s your last line of defense, the final pieces of armor falling away. “Let go, let go.”

“No.” You try to throw yourself out of his arms so violently he has to dig his hooks in, press your face into his chest, cupping the back of your head. “Stop, Daisy. Stop.”

“I can’t, I-” You try, desperately, to hold onto your rage, your mask, the control on which your life is built around, but your softening muscles and panicked breaths tell him its all slipping through your fingers. Come on sweetheart, let me see you. “This- I-”

The last tether snaps, you collapse into him and your vitriol slips away.

In its place is pain.

So much pain. It comes pouring out of you like a flood, one that would wash you away if he wasn’t holding you, and your sobs are gut wrenching, so vicious he’s worried you’ll make yourself sick. “Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

“I c-can’t, I tried-”

“I know, I know.” You’ve been so brave, he wants to say, kiss the salt from your cheeks, you’ve done so well. You won’t have to do it alone anymore.

“This is m-my fault, I- I did this.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I’m supposed- supposed to- to-” your words are sticky, soaked with tears and mucus and garbled, “keep her s-safe and I c-can’t, I didn’t-” He takes your face into his hands.

“You do keep her safe, Daisy. You do take care of her. This was an accident, accidents happen.” You struggle for air and he rubs your back. “Breathe, just breathe. Nice and deep, there- that’s it-” The fight is gone. Drained dry, you follow his instructions, carefully drawing air in through your nose and out through your mouth until the heaving of your diaphragm is somewhat slower.

“I’m supposed to take care of her.” He wipes your cheeks.

“You do-”

“I can’t. I’m supposed to and I can’t and I’m failing, I’m failing and- and the insurance, oh my god.” Your eyes widen, anxiety peaking all over again, muscles and lungs locking up. He smothers his confusion.

“Insurance?”

“I messed up, I messed up so bad. I changed plans to that new one because it would be better for Riley but I didn’t… I didn’t read the instructions clearly or I wasn’t paying attention and I thought she would just roll over with me but she didn’t and now she won’t have insurance and I don’t know what to do, I-”

“Okay, okay. Slow down.” What a gift. He’s never been more grateful for America’s dumpster fire health insurance system. “Let’s focus on what’s in front of us right now.” Us. It’s natural on his tongue, easy like it should have been there all along.

“I…” your shoulders slump, completely void of all resistance. “Okay.”

“She tell ye yet?” He shakes his head.

“I think she’s too nervous.”

“She thinks he doesn’t recognize her.” Price grumbles. “And he hasn’t told her otherwise.” Kyle rolls his eyes.

“You should just tell her. You know, rip the bandaid off an’ all that. It’s probably turning her into knots.” Kyle reaches for Johnny’s beer and tips it back, which earns him a scoff.

“Ach, get yer own.” He grins devilishly at his partner.

“What’s yours is mine.”

“I want her to do it on her own.” He’s not surprised you haven’t brought it up yet. Riley is special, but to you, she’s your world and your weight, and you need time. “It means more to her than Riley just being my patient.”

“She wasn’t just your patient though, she’s the hallmark of your success. She’s your legacy.” Laswell circles the rim of her drink and watches him thoughtfully. “You invented a procedure for her, her case is published. She means more to you, too.” He opens his mouth to respond but a dimple appears at the corner of his vision, and his eyes swing.

You’re smiling.

Johnny whistles low. “Christ ye’ve got it bad.”

“Fuck off.” His chest is tight. He’s never seen you truly smile outside of the polite frozen ones you’re usually giving at work. This one is real. It’s genuine and so beautiful, so bright. You’re a star born in the night sky, a brilliant spot exploding in an endless spiral of darkness, and he’s too greedy to look away. He drinks up every second of it, trying to memorize the curve of your lips and the shine in your eyes in case he never sees it again. He wants to bottle it up, put it away high on a shelf so it’s only for him.

“She’s lovely.” Laswell says kindly, softly, and he nods. His throat is dry.

“She is.”

“How is she?” Price peers through the room’s glass window and crosses his arms. Rocks on his heels.

“Fine. CT is clear, arm only needed one screw.” You’re both asleep, Riley peacefully in the bed, and you fitfully on the recliner at her side.

“And Daisy?”

“Exhausted.”

“You break ‘er?” He nods, but not in victory. It’s progress, that’s all, and it’s painful. It hurts him, as it hurts you, as it has been hurting him since the day he saw you, grey rocking from behind a fortress.

“Won’t last.” Simon rubs his hand over his face. “By sunrise, it will be like most of it never happened.” Most of it. He won’t be starting from scratch, but it will be a long time before he gets you that exposed again.

You toss, sending the thin blanket to the floor, twitching when your skin is exposed to the cool hospital air. John claps him on his back. “Good luck.” Simon grunts.

“Thanks. Gonna need it.”

Your lashes flutter as the blanket is tucked in around your shoulders, and you peer up at him, bleary and and barely conscious. “Riley?”

“Right over there.” He murmurs and points to where she sleeps, her freshly cast arm propped on a pillow. “She’s okay, still asleep.”

“Is it morning?” You slur, trying to open your eyes, but he stills you with a hand on your shoulder.

“No, it’s the middle of the night. You can rest.”

“Yeah,” you agree and tuck your hands under your chin, mumbling incoherent nonsense. “Okay.” Your brow furrows briefly before the little wrinkle smooths and you nod insistently. “I’ll be here when she wakes up.”

“You will, don’t worry.” He brushes his fingers across your cheek, soaking in the warmth of your skin. He’d stay, if he thought you could handle it but he knows tomorrow the status quo will be mostly back in place. It’s a long road, but at least he’s on it now. You twitch and shudder, but he settles you, stretches his hand wide between your shoulder blades and works in long strokes, eases you into a deeper sleep, satisfied only when your breathing evens out. He doesn’t need you to tell him your dreams do not give you peace, that the world is not quiet between your ears, he already knows. He’ll fix it. He’ll crack you open again and again, break your control, and fix it all.

He’ll give you the world. He just needs to teach you how to take it.

[straows]

Satoru and his pregnant wife headcannons.

Satoru who is the kinda baby daddy that would drop everything and everybody to be around his woman.

Satoru who is more than happy to go to the gas station at 2 am to get Cheetos and cherry yogurt for his wife’s pregnancy cravings.

Satoru who is foaming at the mouth to fuck his pregnant wife, especially after the doctor recommended it.

Satoru who is now exhausted, cock sore and shooting blanks after his pregnant wife used him all day.

Satoru who cries when his wife cries, and then cries again when she tells him to stop crying.

Satoru who always has a hand on his wife’s stomach, whispering to the baby and starts yapping about stupid conspiracy’s.

Satoru who, while your giving birth is micro managing the doctor and following around the nurses to make sure they do everything right.

Satoru who, when the baby is born, immediately tries to mark it with a sharpy so it doesn’t get mixed up with another baby, even though the baby is the only one with white hair, and is also the BIGGEST baby in the fucking hospital.

Satoru who REFUSES to let his wife or his baby out of his sight for the next month at the minimum.

Satoru who sent a letter back to the elders. The envelope was empty and the only thing inside was a cut out middle finger.

Satoru who, even after his wife has given birth, is making sure everything is perfect and taken care of, and refuses to let her lift a finger.

Satoru who cries with the baby, and manages to piss the baby off enough that baby glares at him.

Satoru who gets jealous of said baby when his wife is breast feeding.

Satoru who gets INSANELY possessive and ups security, refuses to let ANYONE except you or him hold the baby, and won’t let anyone in the house.

Satoru who loves his baby and his wife. And plans on fucking at least five more babies into you once your baby becomes a toddler.

Satoru who will genuinely kill anyone who tries to hurt or offend his wife. This man is insane and will lose his goddamn mind if he finds out something has happened to his woman or his baby.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

The Crash-Bang Incident - Part Four

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Or: on the way to the tunnels with a concussed Steve Harrington passed out in the back seat, Max crashes into Eddie's van.

It’s a bad idea not to go straight to the hospital. It’s obvious even before Eddie pulls up to Will’s house and has to support Steve’s weight all the way inside. They should have hauled him straight to a doctor, the moment he’d had his head cracked open by a plate and gone down like a sack of flour. 

Lucas hadn’t been sure he’d ever get up again. 

Even still, as they’d dragged Steve Harrington’s lifeless body into Billy’s car, Lucas couldn’t help but be glad that it hadn’t been him. 

His heart had been galloping away in his chest when Billy had first stormed into the house and pinned Lucas against the wall with such force that his feet had dangled off the ground. But then Steve had inserted himself between them, broad back shielding Lucas from Billy’s view and his heart did a little skip instead, the same way it had when Max had smiled at him in the junkyard. 

Then Billy had smashed the plate over Steve’s head, and his heart had plopped onto the floor right along with him. 

They should have gone to the hospital. He might not be as smart as Dustin pretends to be, but he knows enough to realize that losing consciousness after a hit to the head is bad. 

But the party sticks together; it always has. So, when Mike had concocted a plan to draw the demo-dogs away and give El a fighting chance at closing the gate, Lucas hadn’t insisted they go to the hospital. He’d gotten into that car right along with the rest of them. 

It’s a poor way to repay the dude who literally saved his scrawny neck, but Will and El come first. They have to, no matter how safe he’d felt at Steve’s back. 

It feels like the wrong choice now as he watches Eddie drop Steve onto the couch. He looks worse now, and Lucas isn’t sure if it’s because they’re finally in a bright enough light to see the state of his face, or if it’s because they’ve given his soft tissue long enough to really begin swelling. 

“Billy’s gone,” Max says, and Lucas can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he spins, eyes roving over his surroundings. 

Even as he’d watched the aftermath of his fists bloom across Steve’s face, he’d somehow forgotten about Billy. But, Max is right. There’s no sign of the guy. Despite his stolen car and the tranquilizers coursing through his bloodstream, he’d managed to leave without a trace. 

Goosebumps travel up his arms and he shivers, pulling his coat tighter around him. He looks down at the spot they’d left Billy’s body, convinced that somehow his whole body will ooze out of the carpet and attack him. 

“Uh uh, settle down, big guy,” Eddie says, and when Lucas looks back over at him, he’s seated next to Steve on the couch, pressing him down into the cushions by his shoulders as Steve tries to lever himself up and on his feet.

“Need to clean up before Ms. Byers comes back,” he slurs out, still trying to stand.

“The kids can worry about that,” Eddie says, not removing his hands from Steve’s shoulders as he turns to look at the rest of them with a pointedly raised brow. “As soon as one of them brings me a first aid kit.”

Lucas rushes to grab it from the bathroom, but Mike beats him to it. He drops to the floor to retrieve it from beneath the sink, knocking everything else all over the linoleum in his haste to retrieve it. He shoulder-checks Lucas in his rush out of the bathroom, first aid kit held securely beneath his arm.

Lucas looks down at the mess he left. There’s a few overturned spray bottles, one of which is leaking all over some of the foam rollers Ms. Byers sometimes sleeps in, a few bath toys that must be leftovers from when Will was younger, and a roll of toilet paper, now partially unraveled. Everywhere they go, they leave messes that have to be cleaned up. 

Ms. Byers’ bathroom, Eddie’s van, Steve Harrington’s face, it never stops. 

“And some ice!” Eddie calls. 

Lucas rushes into the kitchen, glad to finally contribute something. Max beats him to it, grabbing a twist-tied bag of frozen peas when she doesn’t locate any ice and running back to the couch with it, leaving Lucas alone and useless in the kitchen. 

 “Let me get a look at you.” Eddie’s voice carries, just like Steve’s little hiss does in reply. 

Lucas doesn’t look. He can’t seem to force himself to turn and face what he’d wrought. Instead, he grabs the broom where it’s tucked in the crack between the fridge and the counter and begins sweeping up the remnants of Ms. Byers’ broken china, trying his best not to look at the specks of blood coating it. 

If he can’t help Steve, he can at least be useful some other way. Max joins him soon after. They clean in companionable silence, both ignoring the sounds of Mike and Dustin bickering in the living room. Lucas is glad for it, happy for any noise that will drown out any pained sounds Steve could be making. 

“And this girl has super powers?” Eddie’s voice sounds incredulous. Lucas isn’t sure why, not when he’d already seen the monsters. Super powers should be an easier sell. 

“Yes, come on, keep up!” Dustin responds. Lucas and Max share an exasperated look. He smiles when Max rolls her eyes, but it drops off soon after when he hears Steve  hiss  and Eddie’s murmured apology.

He focuses back on cleaning up. Mike and Dustin can read in the new guy, Lucas doesn’t care. 

Max holds the dustpan steady for him to sweep his pile into. Once she’s dumped it into the trash, there’s nothing left to do. He knows there’s a dead demo-dog to somehow dispose of  in the living room and blood to scrub out of the carpet, but he can’t face it yet, can’t face him yet, so he puts the broom back into its hiding place and then leans against the fridge, letting himself slide down it until his butt hits the floor.

Max’s warmth settles beside him, close enough that their knees knock together. He wants to hold her hand, but his palms are clammy from hours of fear and Steve Harrington’s blood is dried into his life line so he clutches at his own denim-covered thighs instead.

“This is my fault,” he says, staring at the open entryway of the kitchen. Mike says something and Dustin laughs, bright and happy, like  Nancy’s boyfriend’s blood isn’t caked into the carpet beneath his feet. Like his face isn’t closer to Frankenstein’s monster rather than Prince Charming. 

Erica always makes him watch that movie with her, even though she spends half the movie complaining that Cinderella should just beat up her stupid evil step-sisters and go get her man. Lucas never thought he was good enough for her. Cinderella had to do all the work in their relationship, and all Prince Charming had to do was show up and have a lot of money.

Maybe he’s not so different from Steve after all. If the Hawkins rumor mill is to be believed, he’s got money, and girls, and holds himself a lot like a prince. And he’d shown up too, but instead of getting the girl, he’d ended up half-dead.

Max punches him in the shoulder, hard enough to sting, and he snaps back into his body so fast, it’s like she’d smacked his brain back into his skull.

“What the hell was that for?” he asks, rubbing away the pain.

“For being an idiot!” she replies, loud enough that all the noise in the living room ceases. “How the hell is this your fault?”

“Billy was going for me,” Lucas replies hotly. “If I hadn’t been–”

“Been what?” Max hisses.

Lucas doesn’t know. Hadn’t been here? Hadn’t been black? Hadn’t had a crush on the new white girl with a racist brother? There’s a lot of ways to end his sentence, and he’s pretty sure every one of them would get him smacked, by Max and his mother both.

“He was going for me,” he mutters, staring down at his dirty knees, the corners of his eyes watering. “Steve got hurt helping me.”

It’s quiet enough in the kitchen now that Lucas can hear the buzzing of electricity traveling through the fridge behind him, and the sounds of Max’s breathing beside him, and the pounding of his own heart beneath his ribcage. He wishes she’d say something, even if it was to lay all the sins at his feet. Instead, he watches as she slides her hand into his, clammy palm to clammy palm.

“Billy’s my step-brother,” she says, quiet, so quiet, like she’s afraid someone else might hear. Even him. “Doesn’t that mean it’s my fault he was here at all?”

She says it like she knows there can only be one answer, and it’s going to be a bad one. And when he turns to look at her, she’s looking down at their linked hands, eyebrows all scrunched together like she’s real mad. Lucas is starting to wonder if maybe every time she gets mad, it’s just to keep from getting sad, or afraid, or any of the other feelings she doesn’t want to face.

He squeezes her hand, turning his palm in hers so he can link their fingers. They’re both sweaty, and dirty, and covered in someone else’s blood. It’s set up to be the worst first time holding a girl’s hand, but Lucas has never liked the feel of anything better.

“Of course not, Max.” he says.

She squeezes his fingers right back hard enough to hurt, and when they finally lock eyes, there’s a fierceness in hers that surprises him, even though it shouldn’t. It’s like a storm on a cloudy day, looking into her serious eyes. 

“Then it’s not your fault either,” she says. 

Lucas swallows, throat suddenly dry as he nods. There’s no course to take but to agree in the face of her certainty, if not for herself, than for him. After a few seconds more, they both turn back to the threshold of the kitchen.

Noise filters back in patches. Mike’s bitchy voice, Dustin’s bitchier one. Eddie’s soothing words as he does what he can to keep Steve alive and comfortable. Neither he or Max make any move to join them. They sit, hand in hand in the Byers’ kitchen and wait for the real adults to finally come back and help them. 

As always, thanks to @queenie-ofthe-void for the beta editing, and specifically keeping track of what the hell Eddie know in this fic! The answer, was not much <3

[7-wonders]

Workplace Injuries (and other hazards of working with Johanna Constantine)

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender-neutral!reader

Summary: When you're concussed by a demon while on a job with Johanna Constantine, Morpheus takes it upon himself to care for you. The only problem? Concussion protocol dictates that the King of Dreams can't let you fall asleep right away.

Word count: 3.5k

A note from the author: I know that concussion protocols have been updated in the past few years and that best practice isn't to keep people awake for a certain time anymore, but the plot was just too fun to not write. Please forgive me for the inaccuracy!

(There's technically a work related to this that goes into a bit more of reader and Jo's dynamic but the reader in that is explicitly female, so it's really not required reading but it's here if you want it!)

It feels so good to be inspired to write for Morpheus once more, and to have the dramatic fics as well as the funny/goofy ones. I sincerely hope you enjoy; likes, comments, reblogs, and asks make me smile and are much appreciated!

“Right, here we go, easy does it.” Johanna Constantine shuts the car door behind you and slings one of your arms over her shoulders.

“Please slow down, Jo,” you beg as she starts to drag you along. “I’m going to throw up again.”

“We’re moving at a snail’s pace, babe. I physically can’t go any slower!”

Relying on people does not come easily to you. It’s hard to relinquish control, to admit that you need somebody to help you. Unfortunately, there’s no denying that today, you need help. You just wish it wasn’t so embarrassing as needing somebody to help you walk from the car to your front door.

While it certainly wasn’t a career path you had ever envisioned for yourself, you like to think that you’ve gotten pretty good at the whole “part-time occultist assistant” thing lately! After having first been put into contact with one Johanna Constantine due to her needing someone with your abilities as a medium, you found out that you worked very well together. So well, in fact, that she had started calling you every time she ran across trouble summoning or speaking to spirits (which was frequently, since she was not gifted in that particular area). Not that you minded. No, the work was honestly fun, and you enjoyed Jo’s presence—she joked now that you had forced her to be your friend against her will; a claim that you wouldn’t deny.

Today, you were meeting in an abandoned pub that was at least 600 years old, if not older (you had your reservations about doing this kind of stuff during the day, but it was kind of astounding how little people paid attention to their surroundings and to the things they didn’t believe to be real). There was a grassroots campaign to restore the pub and reopen it, but something kept thwarting even the most basic start of restoration efforts. The man leading the crusade contacted Jo to try to figure out what was haunting the pub, and to remove it if possible. Since it was unknown what entity it was, she brought you along in case it was the spirit of some long-dead patron who hadn’t figured out how to move on to whatever their afterlife was supposed to be.

It was decidedly not a spirit, as you found out when it broke the containment circle, morphed into some nasty horror of a demon, and threw you into a pile of crates like you were a ragdoll. 

Being that Johanna’s an accomplished occultist, there are a few healing spells and charms that can be used to patch up bruises and minor injuries. She absolutely will not fuck around with anything bigger than that, though, trusting doctors, medicine, and science over any of the magic that she possesses. So when you came to (you had been out for five minutes, apparently), she decided it was straight to A&E for you.

You attempted to plead your case almost immediately after Jo had made up her mind. Hospitals are not your favorite place in the world—you might even say it’s one of your least favorite—and you would love to stay out of them at all costs. Plus, it was just a bump on the head. Everyone deals with those!

“I’m fine!” you insisted as Johanna hauled your limp body out of the pub with strength reminiscent of those mothers who were able to lift cars off of their babies.

“It’s nothing to worry about!” you assured her when the harsh light of day made your head throb in an agony that had you dizzy and falling to your knees.

“Seriously, I just need to sleep it off,” you claimed after ordering resident getaway driver Chas to pull over and barely leaning far enough out of the car before throwing up from too much happening at once.

Okay, so perhaps the trip was warranted.

Two hours of waiting and tests and one concussion diagnosis later, you were set free from the dreaded hospital and finally on your way home (with Chas taking turns much slower this time, thankfully). Just getting from point A to point B, though, was proving to be an odyssey. You’re still little more than dead weight, leaning heavily on Jo to keep you upright while you stumble through the insurmountable task of putting one foot in front of the other. It’s extremely slow-going, and you’re really glad the only witness to this is Chas, for whom this is a completely normal day.

When you finally make it to the front door, Johanna starts feeling her coat with her free hand. “Keys, where did I put your keys?”

“Saw you slip them into your inside jacket pocket,” you mumble, forcing yourself to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth in an attempt to ward off nausea.

Reaching into said pocket, she grins at you upon seeing that you’re correct. “Ah, look at you! No memory loss or anything. You’re golden.”

“I don’t feel golden.”

Indeed, you’re pretty sure you don’t look golden either. You’re wearing a massive pair of sunglasses that Jo had hidden in her purse (you can only guess what type of undercover work she’s done wearing these) to keep out any of the brutal sun. There are probably still wood chips on your clothes from being thrown into crates, and, if it weren’t for being held up, you’re almost certain you’d be sideways on the ground.

Some people compare having a concussion to being drunk. At this point, you think you’d rather take feeling shitty after too many drinks over the hit that’s sent your body haywire.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you into bed, and in a couple of days you’ll be back to normal.” She pauses. “Well, your particular brand of normal.”

Johanna unlocks your front door and ushers you inside—

—right into the arms of Morpheus, who has, it seems, been waiting in your entryway for who knows how long. You stumble into his chest, and his grip around you tightens possessively as Johanna curses under her breath.

“What happened?” He’s absolutely furious, but your brain is still too foggy to clock things that aren’t obvious. Instead, you take off the sunglasses to stare at him in disbelief before turning to Johanna.

“How did you call him?” you ask. “He doesn’t have a phone.”

Morpheus looks visibly confused and on the verge of having a conniption. The air is charged with tension, and there’s only one person in the room level enough to diffuse it. To you, Jo says, “Don’t need a phone when you know how to summon his magic raven.” 

She then turns to Morpheus with an explanation. “You, Dreamlord, are looking at a concussion, courtesy of a very sneaky, very annoying demon who has already been banished back to Hell.”

“You should see the other guy,” you joke.

Jo rolls her eyes. “Happy to see your sense of humor’s still intact.”

“A…concussion,” Morpheus says slowly, as though testing the word out. It makes sense that he’s unfamiliar with this, both because he doesn’t ever deal with normal, human injuries and because he was trapped in a giant glass ball before brain injuries were really understood and studied.

“Aye,” Johanna confirms. “A hard bump on the head that jolts your brain a wee bit.”

Morpheus goes silent instead of beginning an expected volley of questioning, his form going slightly fuzzy and transparent around the edges as he stares ahead.

“Why am I watching him dissociate right now?” Johanna stage-whispers. “It’s creepy as hell.”

You’ve seen this before, and thus share none of her discomfort. “He’s back in the Dreaming, using the collective human unconsciousness to figure out what a concussion is. Give him a second.”

As expected, it only takes him a couple more moments to come back to himself in the Waking, eyes that were once filled with rage now concerned as he holds you at arms’ length as though to study you.

“You suffered a traumatic brain injury?” he asks.

“A mild traumatic brain injury, thank you very much,” you point out. Though you had stopped seeing double shortly after leaving the hospital, the minor physical exertion has brought that symptom back in force. Morpheus doubles in front of you, and you blink furiously in the hopes that he goes back to being one person-shaped being.

“Debatable,” Johanna murmurs, having had a front-row seat to see that it was definitely verging closer to moderate than it was mild.

“That does not make me feel better in the slightest,” Morpheus says.

The painkillers that the nurse gave you at the hospital (over-the-counter meds, just administered by a professional instead of your own hand) are quickly beginning to wear off and make the full brunt of your injury known. Through gritted teeth, you say, “While I’d love to stand in my living room and chat all day, it feels like somebody is hammering my skull from the inside out, and I’d like to go lie down.” 

Indeed, you can barely keep your eyes open right now, the pain so intense that you have to work to remember a language that normally comes so naturally to you. The ground under you has also started to betray you once more, swaying dangerously as though you’re on a boat. Your grip tightens on Morpheus’s coat and his bicep, actions that do not go unnoticed by the Endless.

Jo makes a small noise of sympathy. “Of course, love, let’s get you to—” 

Morpheus stops her. “Thank you for your help, but I will assume care now.”

“Will you now? Since you’re so experienced at caring for mortal injuries.” She sounds entirely unimpressed and instead asks you, “You remember what the doctor said?”

You shake your head before grimacing at the sharp reminder of why moving your head at all is not a good idea currently. “Was too busy trying to think something beyond ‘ow,’ so I left the listening to you.”

“Smart. You need to stay awake for the first eight hours after your concussion to make sure you don’t get a brain bleed or anything else that can make you slip into a coma. Right now, you have about,” Johanna checks her watch, “four hours before you can sleep. After that? Rest, rest, and more rest. Don’t look at your electronics, don’t do any reading, nothing that requires too much brain power. Here’s the list that A&E gave us. Doc wrote down a pain med schedule, too.” 

She hands Morpheus the paper she’s been holding, and he takes it as though it’s a foreign object.

“Look at me,” she commands, probably the only person on Earth who could speak to a being such as Morpheus like this without any noticeable fear. “I am mainly talking to you here, because this one is concussed and therefore unable to follow care directions. You need to follow these to the letter, do you hear me?”

Morpheus glowers, and you can hear the lights beginning to flicker as his anger surges the electricity. “Yes, Johanna Constantine, contrary to your belief, I am more than able to provide aid.”

She stops, realizing that she’s come off a little too harshly. “I’m sorry, okay? It’s just…it’s my fault. I’m the one who thought I was dealing with a spirit, and if I had just done some more research, I—”

“You know better than almost anyone that demons are crafty and cunning. No matter how much and how often you train, you are still mortal,” Morpheus reminds her. “It would be impossible for you to see through the tricks of every single demon. So no, it is not your fault.”

Johanna looks…oddly touched at Morpheus’s assurance. “Not what I was expecting from you, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“That was really nice of you, Morpheus.” You smile at him even though the action causes you pain. “Now, can somebody please help me to my bedroom? I’m not sure I could find it in my current condition.”

Morpheus is flustered by your and Johanna’s reactions to his unexpected kindness and quickly puts one of your arms around him in the hopes that everybody will forget and move past it. Johanna takes your other side, and together the two get you to your bedroom without you passing out or throwing up.

“Sorry, it’s kind of messy in here,” you apologize as you’re settled onto your bed, Jo arranging the pillows until she deems you comfortable. Morpheus seems poised to just stand by your bed and watch you, so you pull on him until he gets the message and sits next to you.

She laughs. “Pssh, you’ve seen my place. You look like a neat freak compared to me.” 

Jo searches in the pockets of her coat again until she finds the bottle of painkillers the hospital had given her, sets them down on your nightstand, and then disappears into the hallway. When she reappears, she holds yet another bottle of painkillers and a glass of water, presumably procured from your kitchen.

“Here, the drugs you have are different from the ones A&E gave you, so you can have a dose now.” Jo shakes out two of the pills into your waiting hand and hands you the water so that you can take them. 

“Thank you for all your help,” you say to her, settling into Morpheus’s hold now that he’s magicked his coat and boots away so that he can fully lie with you.

“Eh, what are friends for?” She turns her eyes to Morpheus. “Do you know how to use a phone?”

“Enough to get by.” The way he says it, though, makes it sound like he’s simply seen a phone a couple of times and thus thinks that he would be able to figure out if needed.

Still, Johanna is appeased with that answer. “Good. Text me if you need my help with anything.”

“We shall manage.”

She smiles at you and waves. “Ta, darling. Get to feeling better.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you in Morpheus’s care. While you’re happy to close your eyes finally in blissful silence, your beloved quickly realizes that he has no clue what caring for somebody with a concussion is like.

“Have the…drugs had any effect on you yet?” he asks, using the term that Jo gave them.

You hum. “Not yet, but I only just took them. Give it a few minutes, and then my headache should hopefully go from ‘agonizing’ to just plain ‘painful.’”

“Did you—”

“Sweetheart,” you cut him off, “I love you so much, but I need you to be quiet right now. Agonizing headache, remember?”

“Ah.” Peeling your eyes open is worth it when you see his embarrassed flush. “My apologies, dearest.”

Finally, quiet. Sometimes (often), when you find yourself trying to rest, it’s nearly impossible to shut your brain off. Especially since you started solving supernatural cases with a renowned occultist and dating a billions-of-years-old anthropomorphic personification, you’ve had a lot on your mind. Now that it hurts too much to even think, you find that, for once, there are no pressing questions or problems on your mind to keep you from resting. Huh, maybe you should get concussed more often.

As the adrenaline of the afternoon begins to wear off, you feel fatigued down to your bones. Not only did you get blindsided by a demon, but you also had to swallow your fear and sit in a hospital for hours. Even without the injury, that would constitute a very busy day. But in your current predicament, and resting in the arms of your love, it’s easy simply to let yourself drift off.

Above you, Morpheus straightens in alarm as he feels you begin to slip into unconsciousness. Johanna said that you were not to sleep, but does he really go against his function and keep someone from reaching his realm? He would never forgive himself if something terrible were to happen to you as a result of his inaction, though, so he begrudgingly shakes your shoulder and uses a touch of his power to turn you away from the Dreaming.

“Mmm,” you grumble, eyes landing on Morpheus and glaring at him. “Why do you hate me?”

“You must not fall asleep, beloved, not for a few hours.”

“But, like, what are the odds of something actually happening to me if I sleep before I’m supposed to?”

“Whatever they are, they are odds that I am not willing to take. I would not be able to live with myself if something were to happen to you.”

It’s sweet, of course, that he’s so worried about you. But right now, the only thing keeping you from snapping at him and demanding he leave so you can sleep is the fact. “Ugh, fine, I won’t sleep. I’m never letting a demon throw me into a wall again.”

“Which demon did this to you?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t conscious when Jo banished it back to Hell.” You don’t need to look at him to know that there surely must be storm clouds gathering in the Dreaming, so you decide to keep talking in the hopes that it calms him. “We were called in on a job for an old pub that hasn’t been able to be restored due to repeated instances of paranormal activity. After doing some research, I truly thought that it was a spirit. So did Jo.”

“As I said earlier, demons can fool even the most experienced of occultists. The line of work that you have found yourself in can be dangerous, though you are lucky to have not experienced such danger until now.”

“I know it’s dangerous. But knowing that there are spirits out there who are lost, spirits that can cross over if I can just find them? I’m happy to risk getting injured.”

“You do what you can to help those my sister cannot. I find that quite admirable.” Smiling slightly at Morpheus doesn’t hurt like it did earlier, and he picks up on it easily. “Are you feeling less pain?”

“Yes, the meds finally kicked in. Still hurts, but I can handle having a small conversation. Now, I just have to wait until I can finally sleep.” 

“Shall I read to you to keep you awake?” Morpheus asks, hand already in the air as he prepares to summon a book from the Dreaming.

“No. Your voice is very soothing, so I would definitely fall asleep.”

After thinking for a moment of what might help you stay awake while also being enough of a non-activity that you’re not at risk of aggravating your concussion more, you voice-activate your phone and ask it to turn on your newest podcast obsession. Morpheus startles upon hearing your phone answer back to you before starting to play, and you snicker under your breath. Oh, the joys of dating a being so woefully behind on learning about modern technology. 

Even with the podcast being a topic you’re interested in, you still find yourself dozing off multiple times, Morpheus waking you when you get too close to his realm every time. When you’re not injured, you’ll have to thank him for doing what must feel entirely wrong and keeping you from dreaming. Just when you’re starting to wonder if you need to break the electronics ban and check the clock on your phone, it begins vibrating and playing an alarm. Johanna, bless her, must have set an alarm on your phone without you knowing.

“Can you turn that off, please?” you ask Morpheus, who studies your phone screen intently before hesitantly hitting the ‘stop’ button. “Thank you.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“That I can finally go to sleep.” You’re so tired at this point that you doubt you’ll need Morpheus’s help finding sleep, though you wouldn’t be surprised if he still tries. “Am I still going to have a concussion in the Dreaming?” you wonder.

Morpheus thinks for a moment. “I must confess that I am not sure. You are one of the only mortals who has ever visited the Dreaming proper, and probably the only one who has spent a significant amount of time there. Even if you are, I shall ensure that you are as comfortable as possible.”

“Y’know, you’re a pretty good nurse,” you whisper, leaning back against him and already feeling consciousness slip from you.

“That is a relief, considering I do not know what I am doing,” he admits.

A puff of air leaves you, the most laugh-like sound you can manage at present. “You know enough to have made sure I wouldn’t die in my sleep, so thank you.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Today is not the day that my sister takes your hand, nor is that any day soon. Rest now, and I shall see you soon.”

You think that you manage to mutter something that sounds close to ‘I love you’ before you pass out, but the only person who knows for certain is Morpheus. 

(Morpheus, who remains frustratingly tight-lipped when it turns out that you don’t still have a concussion in the Dreaming and thus immediately try to figure out if anything you said or did would be considered embarrassing by your non-addled self.)

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Prairie madness-Yandere outlaw x fem reader

Contains- violence, abuse, threat of noncon, gun violence, age gap, manipulation, set during American westward expansion 1865-85, reader is explicitly an Irish immigrant to the us, I am enforcing the yandere cowboy agenda.

It's your own damned fault for smiling back at the tall stranger who rode alongside your wagon. You didn't say nothing, only lifted your gaze to meet him with a fleeting smile when he called you a pretty gal. You liked his accent, nothing you ever heard before coming here, there's been lots of new discoveries.

You missed home something fierce, that cottage always smelling of the dried peat in the fireplace. You never thought that would be the smell you missed most, but when the evenings are spent searching for dry buffalo muck to fuel the fire, peat is a distant memory. You missed the closeness of it all, everyone knowing everything, when one person coughed the doctor would practically already know. That's the funny bit, the familiarity you once thought you would suffocate under, compared to here where you companions barely speak the same as you, and some don't take too kindly to folk like you. When your family got off the boat in New York, you couldn't begin to count all the “Irish need not apply” signs that littered the walls, not to mention how you heard some of the others on the trail loudly talk about how your kind bring nothing but disease with their lazy godless ways. After that you stopped trying to find friends amongst the other families, sticking close to yours.

So you smiled at the stranger, glad to be found pretty after three months on the trail, not to mention the six weeks on the coffin ship to get to this vast country. You only catch glimpses of your face in the reflection of rivers as you bathe or cross them, vanity doesn't do much out here where your body is already worn through.

And when your Mam tutted and told you to lift up your shawl you let it slip lower, wanting him to see more of your face, trying to be noticed for something good for once. He seemed kind, gentle even with how he handled his horse, cantering beside you at a steady pace while your mam drove the oxen. Was clean too, a great difference between him and many other men. It wasn't as though you even knew other men, sure there were the boys in your village, but those were but the elder brothers of your friends, but this cowboy was a man. Not quite your father's age but between yours and your father's you assumed, he looked practical, sure of himself and the sweet words he said to you.

When you camped for the night he asked you your name, giggling gently as he stumbled on the Gaeilge. He only lifted his stenton hat up in response, showing you the flash in his stormy eyes.“I reckon rather than butchering a pretty name I'm just gonna call you little bird instead.” His voice measured and deep. With your cheeks blushing you don't know what possessed you to talk back to him to ask him why he was choosing that of all things to call you. He only smiled back with sharp teeth, “cause I think that little Irish lilt of yours is the sweetest song I've ever heard.” Your voice got caught in your throat as you practically ran away, mumbling some excuse about needing to watch over the children. No matter what, he saw the red in your cheeks, heard the stammer of your voice, you were never smart enough to wear your emotions anywhere other than your sleeve. He wasn't the only one to see, despite how well you thought you hid yourself. Your mam pulled you off to the side one night to lecture you about how to act right around the men. Telling you nothing more to mind yourself and not get into any trouble, confused you asked for clarification about what kind of trouble she thinks you'd fall into. The only answer she said was to never mind the details and just to not be foolish. Without her letting you have the truth you posed the question again to the only other person you could.

“My Mam is telling me to not get into trouble, but I didn't think I was troubling you, was I?” You turn to him earnestly wondering if perhaps the fact that you followed him about like a duckling was bothersome. He didn't need to accompany you and the little ones out to go berry picking a ways away from camp, but when you told him of your plans he simply followed suit, gun on him in the case for bears. He snorted hearing your genuine worry, trying not to laugh in your face as he responded.

“Little bird, I don't quite reckon that was the kinda trouble she was meaning, but I'll let you know now that you are the opposite of troublesome when I see your sweet face,” before you can question what he even means by that your attention is pulled away, back to the littles you're meant to be watching over. Leaving him to watch over you. Sometimes now you wonder why no one said nothing, if anyone else could have seen the way he looked at you. Perhaps they were all so smitten as you, or they let you make your own bed with the expectation you'd have to lie in it eventually.

It was warm that day, a cloudless kind of heat where the sun almost makes you feel ill. The men having all ridden ahead of their family's, scouting for camp while the rest stayed by the lazy riverside. No use for all of you to ride when washing had to be done, with the absence of the men it was almost freeing the way the women congregated. Turns out months of the same dust do wonders for those who think they are better based on the language they speak.

You didn't expect to see your cowboy come riding over. Funny how then you thought of him as yours, no longer a stranger but as yours in a way. Only this time it felt odd, he was alone, with a hardness in his gaze once he dismounted. When he approached you, there wasn't even a sensation of anything wrong till he had one arm round your neck so tight you lost the air to scream, and the other pressing his pistol against your head, barking out as everyone else screamed.

“Now we don't need to stop being civil, cause if anyone tries something I'd have to blast her pretty little head open and we don't want that do we?” receiving a round of terrified nods, you trash trying to break free only to be hit across the temple with the barrel, over and over until you still against him, “now if you don't stop squirming I'm gonna do something I'll regret to you, so I'd appreciate if you'd calm the fuck down.”His voice has never sounded like that before, gone was the easy softness about himself. In its place was a coldness you had only ever seen in the eyes of little boys throwing rocks at penned dogs, knowing the poor things can do nothing but take the violence in hopes it will stop. You can barely register his words, ears ringing and head throbbing. You understand nothing as all the other women frantically hand over what little valuables they have, only somewhat aware of a dampness trickling down your forehead. He has never touched you before, and now all of a sudden he's done it with such violence you can't begin to separate the dissonance of it all. Where have all those sweet words gone, dripped into the dust like the blood down your face?

Suddenly you're being yanked backwards, you can't understand a thing that he is doing, everyone did as he said. Why won't he release you? Your Mam lunges forward, only freezing when he quickly moves the gun from your head to shoot in the ground, the sound as the bullet ricochets from the floor deafening you further and sobering everyone else. “I won't want to do it, but I will if you make me, and where would that leave me? If you make me shoot her I might have to go for someone else next to make sure you understand how I feel.” You can't move, can't breathe, only slump with a dead weight as he pulls you with him, throwing you atop his horse with the rest of his loot. Turning back to the terrified corral of women he just tips his hat with a smirk, “I can promise you I'll take care of her at the very least.” Before he mounts his steed and rides off, the last you see of your Mam and the littles clouded by the kicked up dust.

You don't know how long it takes before the thoughts come back to you, before you realise the man you always made sweet eyes with was nothing short of a rotten bastard.

“Aren't you gonna tie me up?” Your mumble is only received with a snicker, why is that the first thing you say to him after what he's just done. You say no word of his violence, curtsey and thieving, no word of the fact he's just stolen you from all the family you have left and he's riding deeper into territory unknown to not just you but to civilisation.

“I don't need to. You'd be smart not to run unless you want the wild to eat you right up little bird.” His light and easy demeanor is back, at first you thought these could have been two different parts of him, but you know violence comes just as easy as his smile, the only difference earlier was that he showed you the smile.

He only rests at nightfall, pitching the horse and building a fire for your sake. He makes a big to do of giving you his bedroll like a gentleman, that he will sleep on the cold ground and ruin his old bones further, you find no humour silently wishing his sleep is fitfull, without any rest.

“Why did you do it,” you ask quietly over the glowing flames, knees tucked to your chest. He looks at you as though you are soft in the head.

“Because I wanted too, sweet bird, I was always gonna rob you folk, that was a given. I ride alongside for a few days, gain trust and have you think I'm just a fellow traveller, then I rob the women when the men are far away. The only difference this time,” he outreaches a firm hand to lift up your chin “was you, and suddenly I began to think how nice it would be to hear your lilt every morning when I wake and every night when I sleep. Fuck, if I was a worse man I would have just had you out in the woods like a whore and left you with your skirts about your head.” The casual way in which he speaks of such a thing makes your stomach turn and you taste bile in the back of your throat. You know nothing of what goes on between couples, nothing but the hushes spread by other girls, or the mumbling of your Mam that marriage is first.

“You can't do that, we aren't married.” You don't know what even possesses you to find that is where the problem lies, not his threats, his easy violence, or the very fact that if you didn't respond back to him that awful morning you wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be bruised and torn from all those you've ever loved. Your voice is pitiful but he howls as though you've uttered the greatest joke.

“You'd like me to marry you little bird? Can't say I've heard any other women say that to me, but you ain't a woman are you? Just a sweet girl who doesn't know a thing of what she's gotten herself into, but I quite like the idea of having a wife. Might find some traveling reverend and make it proper like one day.”

“I'd need a priest, I'm Catholic” you don't even understand why this is what you're fixated on, the absence of a priest as though God wasn't looking away from you right this moment. But when you've lost everything else it's only the meaningless things you've been left with.

“Sugar, I think I'm doing enough by entertaining your proper ass, what the fuck would it matter out here for the specifics? This is godless country, you don't realise how good you have it that I'm such a gentleman to you.” he smiles despite his words, leaning down to give you a kiss atop your hair. “But I'll be a good husband to you, give you little trinkets and treats when I come home to you. You just got to be a good girl to me like you were a good girl to your family, maybe in time we will have littles of our own running about.” The thought made you feel ill, curling up on yourself further and refusing to give him an answer. He just sighs and tells you to get to bed before the fire dies out.

You wake sometime in the dead of night, confused about where you are when you open your eyes to see stars rather than the canvas tent that has been your bedroom all these months. Until it all comes crashing back to you, your forehead has scabbed over, strands of hair stuck to the dried blood. Other than the hoot or howl of some far off creature the prairie night is silent. The outlaw is silent too, turned on his side, his chest rising and falling with each breath he takes, doesn’t seem like the hard ground causes him to lose any sleep. You get up slowly, like a kicked dog slinking its way to the barn. He's left his belt off, close by his head but you could grab it, it would only take a few seconds to steal his gun. Without it he couldn't hurt you, or do worse.

Steadying yourself you crawl over, both hands reaching for the holster, it is heavier than you expected. Almost like a newborn, the same kind of warmth to it too. The moment you have it you start sprinting, the entire ride he only went north, facing far from the sun, with the moon gloaming above you only hope you're making your way south. Hopefully to some farmstead or town or anything. Anyone even who could help you, who could keep you safe from his wrath when he wakes to find you and his gun gone. You still, catching your breath. It is cold, you have no food nor water and are exhausted after barely half an hour at most. And your lost, lost in this stupid land of false promises and nothing but the fucking prairie for company. You should go back, crawl on your knees and tail between your legs and beg for what mercy he can give to you. Go back before he finds you and gives you an answer to those veiled threats. Perhaps he will forgive you, it wasn't as though he couldn't be kind, he made those promises like he meant them. Between death and the devil at least the devil offers you warmth, you turn around.

You hear him before you see him, the horse galloping as fast as it can, searching for you. The dust clouding up his silhouette as he comes into focus, before you can say a thing he is atop you. A hand wrapped tight on your throat pushing you further to the dirt, his eyes are a whirlwind of anger and fear fighting over each other, with the faintest flicker of relief.

“What we're you thinking?” He hisses, spittle hitting your face, he's that close. “You don't even know where you are and you thought to fucking run from me? You stupid little girl, you could have gotten yourself killed.” He is heavy atop you, hand squeezing sharper as if to punctuate his points. “Did you think I was just teasing when I said that you would die if I was not there? You know nothing of this land you little fool!” He heaves above you for breath, his free hand making its way up your skirt, grabbing onto your bloomers. “What will it take for you to learn huh? Should I fuck you in the dirt to teach you a lesson? Break your legs and cripple you? Ruin you so badly you'd never think something so stupid as this!” He screams with only the cicadas to hear you two.

“I'm sorry!” You howl with tears streaming down your face, he is so startled he drops his hand from your drawers, “you were right, I was stupid and so scared I didn't know what else to do. Please I'm sorry it won't happen again, please! I was stupid and ungrateful and you were right.”

He pauses, hands moving to wipe your face and his eyes turning tender once more as it was before all this. Your heart settles in your throat like a jackrabbit

“Come now sweet bird I only was worried for you, that's why I'm upset. When I woke to find you and my gun missing why, you made me mad. I can't lose you to the land or two some other man who wouldn't treat you as gentle as me.” As you babble your apologies over and over he slowly relaxes, dropping his shoulders and holding you tight. “Now now let's stop the waterworks, I understand you were scared but you still did the right thing to understand that without me there's nothing for you. I forgive you this time, but if you ever try this again I will need to take matters into my own hands.”

He helps you back up, climbing behind you on his horse as you soberly renew your journey. Eventually you come across it- a small homestead in a clearing. Surrounded with nothing but great trees as far as the eye can stretch. If you squint you could almost pretend it was the whitewashed cottage you left far behind you, how long has it even been since you've had the safety a house can provide? It is dusty and disused but he looks at you with pride in his eyes as he opens the doors. “Now I finally have a reason to return home so long as you're here.” He leans in again, a chase kiss upon your cheek as though the past few hours never happened. But you know there's no one to blame but yourself for giving up and accepting this as yours. For accepting those easy eyes and quick smiles without peeling them back to understand what could be underneath. For smiling back at a strange man who rode up one day alongside you.

[apoemaday]

I'm not a religious person but

by Chen Chen

God sent an angel. One of his least qualified, though. Fluent only in Lemme get back to you. The angel sounded like me, early twenties, unpaid interning. Proficient in fetching coffee, sending super vague emails. It got so bad God personally had to speak to me. This was annoying because I’m not a religious person. I thought I’d made this clear to God by reading Harry Potter & not attending church except for gay weddings. God did not listen to me. God is not a good listener. I said Stop it please, I’ll give you wedding cake, money, candy, marijuana. Go talk to married people, politicians, children, reality TV stars. I’ll even set up a booth for you, then everyone who wants to talk to you can do so without the stuffy house of worship, the stuffier middlemen, & the football blimps that accidentally intercept prayers on their way to heaven. I’ll keep the booth decorations simple but attractive: stickers of angels & cats, because I’m not religious but didn’t people worship cats? Thing is, God couldn’t take a hint. My doctor said to eat an apple every day. My best friend said to stop sleeping with guys with messiah complexes. My mother said she is pretty sure she had sex with my father so I can’t be some new Asian Jesus. I tried to enrage God by saying things like When I asked my mother about you, she was in the middle of making dinner so she just said Too busy. I tried to confuse God by saying I am a made-up dinosaur & a real dinosaur & who knows maybe I love you, but then God ended up relating to me. God said I am a good dinosaur but also sort of evil & sometimes loving no one. It rained & we stayed inside. Played a few rounds of backgammon. We used our indoor voices. It got so quiet I asked God about the afterlife. Its existence, human continued existence. He said Oh. That. Then sent his angel again. Who said Ummmmmmm. I never heard from God or his rookie angel after that. I miss them. Like creatures I made up or found in a book, then got to know a bit.

[zepskies]

IF YOU LEAVE ME NOW

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: After struggling not to “label it,” you and Mark come to an understanding about salvaging your relationship.

AN: Ahh couldn't help myself. Releasing this one a day early! This is a Gif Check requested by @spnwoman for the 5K Celebration — set shortly after Sister, Sister! 

Song Inspo: Title inspired by the Chicago song.

Word Count: 4.9K

Tags/Warnings: [Set during 1x03] 18+ only! Heavy angst (medical, emotional, the works), but also hurt/comfort, implied smut (m. receiving oral), and actual smut

Series Masterlist

Mark popped two pills and took them dry. Even the motion of swallowing intensified the sharp pulsing in his skull.

Fuck. As bad as it was, he knew it was going to get worse. Not just headaches, the rest of the bullshit the doctor mentioned. Plus, Mark didn’t need his GED to scour WebMD with the best of them. Seizures, motor function, speech—what it all boiled down to was loss of control. The end of who he was.

He sighed, grimacing, shutting his eyes tight for a second.

He had less than an hour before he had to be at work. No time to go through this too-familiar mental spiral.

He went for the edge of the bathroom sink in a heavy grip, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror, wet hair slicked back from the shower. Apart from the creases under his eyes from stress and intentional sleep deprivation, he looked normal. For now.

He heard the bedsprings creak, and one of the reasons for his lack of sleep came into view. You stepped into his bathroom, barefooted, wearing that old favorite college shirt that liked to slip off your shoulder. Except this time, he was willing to bet you had nothing on underneath. His fault.

Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A smile began to tug at his lips on reflex. He felt your head resting against his dewy skin. Your hands inched up his chest and playfully teased with your nails. Little sexy scratch. Little kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. A teasing note crept into his voice, “It’s too early for you.”

“You got in late last night.” Again. He’d been pulling late hours all week. Whatever case he was on, you had a feeling it was a big one. He still wouldn’t give you any details though. Not even when he was gone for almost two days, coming back smelling like a farmhouse and covered in grime.

“I want to see you,” you added softly. “Kinda the whole point of me being here.”

Mark grabbed one of your hands and brought it to his lips. He turned around in your arms, just so he could gather you up into his. Your fingers brushed the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist, a smile playing on your lips…until you noticed the open medicine cabinet, and the now familiar label of his prescription. 

You glanced up at him, biting your lip. “Are you hurting?”

He gave a minimal shake of his head.

“I’m good.”

A lie, for your benefit. You were beginning to figure him out again, now with this new layer of uncharted no man’s land between you. You dropped a kiss onto his chest, but it couldn’t stop the lump of emotion rising in your throat, or the tears welling up in your eyes. None of this was fucking fair—to him or to you.

Mark sighed. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“All right. If we’re gonna do this, promise me no more tears, okay?” he teased lightly.

You shook your head, unable to smile.

“Sorry. Can’t promise that.”

Mark hummed. He released his hold on you, just to take your face in his hands. His thumbs gently brushed under your eyes and collected tears from your lashes.

“Well, then we’ve got a problem. ‘Cause the one thing I can’t fucking take, is seeing this,” he said with a sigh. “What’re we doing here, sweetheart?”

You grabbed onto his wrists and kept his hands in place. You even closed your eyes for a moment, reveling in his touch. You hadn’t had this in so long…

“We’re together again. That’s what’s important, right?” you said, eventually meeting his heavy gaze.

“We’ve still got the same problem,” he said. “I don’t want to see you tearing yourself up over something we can’t change.”

You stared up at him, willing yourself not to spark with upset. Wasn’t he the one who said he’d consider looking for a second opinion?

“Well,” you said, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “I actually got you an appointment with another oncologist.”

Mark paused, pursing his lips, a subtle exhale. His hands fell back to his sides. “You did, huh?”

“Yeah, I did,” you said pointedly, “because it didn’t seem like you were in a hurry to do it yourself, and if we wait until you’ve wrapped up your case, it could be too late.”

Your voice broke a little on the end there. It took away most of your bravado, but it also cut through Mark’s annoyance. Just hacked it at the root, really.

“It’s my mom’s friend, Indira Rashid. She can see you on Monday,” you said.

He sighed through his nose. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Really? Your brows raised.

That one hurt. It was a gripping blow, shaking down to your foundations as you glared up at him.

“What do you want me to do, Mark? Walk away and not even fight for you, like you did to me?” you said, your tone as sharp as your words were cutting. He almost looked away, but he didn’t. He looked you in the eyes.

“You really want me to live my life and pretend I don’t know what you’re going through—alone?” you said, a little softer. “If this was the other way around, you’d be fucking pissed if I even suggested you leave me.”

Mark faltered.

Well, shit.

You had him there, and you both knew it too.

Another tear found a path down your cheek, but he swept it away. You took in a shaky breath.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” you said. You dared him with your eyes. “Tell me you don’t want me here.”

Mark quirked a smile. You should’ve been a goddamn lawyer, because there really was no winning against you.

He tilted your chin up to meet his kiss, slow and thorough.

“You know that’s never fucking happening,” he said.

Only then were you able to smile.

You rose up on your toes for a deeper kiss, luring his tongue into your mouth with a soft moan. He held you to him tightly, solid and strong. He still kissed you like this was the first and the last—like he was making up for lost time. He supposed he was, and he wouldn’t stop.

Until your hands slipped in between your bodies to start unraveling the towel from his waist. 

“How much time you have before work?” you asked mischievously. You slid down his body, all the way down to your knees on the bathroom mat as you brushed your hair out of your face.

Mark grinned down at you, equally amused and aroused when you laid soft, purposeful kisses down his bare thighs. Your grip ensured that he wasn’t going anywhere, even if he wanted to.

“Uh, well, I’m thinking just long enough.”

Your sweet giggle was the best fucking thing—aside from the rest you could do with your mouth.

Mark whipped his Ford Bronco into the parking space. Thanks to you, he was running a few minutes late. Punctuality wasn’t usually one of the things bent the rules on, but today, he didn’t give a fuck.

He’d seen a car bomb practically go off on his face last night. He’d knelt down over a cartel thug and gripped his shoulders while the guy choked out his last words. Volchek.

Mark had that name ringing in his ears all night, apart from the high-pitched whirring from, you know, being within blast range.

But you’d also sucked him off three ways to Sunday this morning, so today was looking up. He even smiled after getting out of his car. A real smile, not a maintenance mask. Because his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he saw the text from you.

What time you think you’ll be home tonight? I wanna cook for us.

Jesus, what he’d give to see you in his sad fucking kitchen. He’d been living off of Hamburger Helper and canned tuna ever since he got out of lockup.

Btw, you know all you have here is half of an old breakfast burrito and a jar of pickles. Pretty pathetic.

Mark smirked. He texted back:

Guilty. Can I put in a request for the Thursday Special?

Oh my God. Of course you remember that! 😂

How the hell am I gonna forget naked cooking? You still have those heels I got you? The red ones with a little bling on the side? Tall as fuck.

Maaaaybe…

Ooh, and the matching—

“Hey,” said Oliveras, who was getting out of her own car not far from his.

Mark gave her a distracted nod. “Hey.”

She soon rose a brow when she noticed the way he was texting, smiling to himself like a teenage girl. Considering the night they’d had, it was more than a little weird.

“What, got a match on Tinder?” she said, a small smirk curving her lips.

Mark quickly looked up, like he’d been caught. He put his phone away, his casual gait back in place.

“Nah, just some stupid Facebook meme.”

A snort escaped her. “Facebook? All right, granddad.”

He eyed her in amusement, but feeling his pocket buzz again, he took out his phone to keep texting you while he and Oliveras entered the Wilshire Federal Building and waited for the elevator. She watched him discreetly, her brown eyes perceptive.

“You know, you never said what happened after that night at the bar,” she said.

That definitely earned his attention. Whatever he was smiling at faded away when he met her gaze.

“I mean, it’s not really any of my business, but did you at least get her home okay?” she asked.

Mark's smile hinted back in place. “Yeah, I did. She was all right, just needed to sleep it off.”

Again, not much slipped by Oliveras. Her brows dipped, her head tilted in suspicion.

“Waaait, wait. Did you two actually hook up?” she said.

Mark debated on an answer for that one. The elevator finally dinged and opened up for them, giving him another beat to think.

“Well, technically not that night,” he said, inclining his head, “or the next day, but—”

Amber crossed her arms along with her duffel bag, absolutely beside herself. “How…the fuck did you finesse that?”

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He opened his mouth to reply, but she just waved her hand like a white flag.

“Jesus, don’t say anything,” she groused, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. I thought she was fucking smarter than that.”

Mark's amusement faded. “’Scuse me?”

It was a warning, subtle in his eyes.

Oliveras rolled hers. She wasn’t afraid of bruising his apparent fragile ego. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was you he was defending.

Oliveras tempered what she wanted to say, even what she was thinking.

“Whatever. Forget I said anything,” she said. She did wonder if she should call you though.

She hadn’t spoken to you in months. You two had grown apart after graduating from college and diving head-first into your respective careers; you weren’t exactly friends anymore. Although Oliveras was of the mind that women should look out for each other, whenever possible, taking back the bastard who cheated on you and left you weeks before the wedding…

Well, if she didn’t know you personally, she’d say it was a weak woman move.

Matter of fact, she would’ve punched him in the trachea. She was kind of fantasizing about it now as she and Mark stepped off the elevator and made brusque steps toward the office.

“Look, it’s complicated,” Mark said, in a lowered voice. His gaze was straight ahead. She knew it was his way of saving face.

But what she didn’t know was that it was mostly a stoic front, weighed by thoughts of guilt, desire, regret, and deeper shit too—more complicated than she gave him credit for.

“She’s a good woman," he said, "better than I fucking deserve.”

Something about that look on his face, the tone of his voice…it made Oliveras pause. She quirked a smile.

“On that, we actually agree.”

Was it normal for your heart to be close to shattering one moment, then damn near light and giddy the next? You didn’t think it was good for you. It was giving you whiplash, and possibly acid reflux.

But after you sent one last text to Mark, you ignored the flip-flop fluttery feeling of going too fast down a rollercoaster, and you smiled. More than giving him a “Thursday Special,” you were just looking forward to having a nice dinner together, not unlike the one you two shared with your mom on Tuesday. Not unlike countless other nights you and Mark used to have.

Again, your smile was short-lived. You stopped your car short at a red light, laying on the breaks harder than you should have. It earned you a blaring honk from the car behind you, but you didn’t even acknowledge it.

How could you have a honeymoon phase with what lied over the horizon? Every time you thought of making plans, it just reminded you that nothing could ever be set in stone. Nothing was in your control, and you fucking hated that.

When you eventually got to work, you ran through the motions of doing your job, making sure District Attorney Valwell made it to his appointments, making your calls and follow-up emails, filing the document, writing briefs, even grabbing Valwell’s lunch order (and yours). You ate at your desk and did one of the things you did best—research.

You didn’t trust WebMD. You went right to medical journals and clinical research, like you’d been doing for the past few days. You even called Indira again. You felt bad for taking away her own lunch hour with your questions, but you had to know. 

What she told you about cases like Mark’s only made your heart bleed and your stomach rebel. After you got off the phone, you found yourself throwing up your $20 enchiladas in the restroom down the hall.

That was around the time you got an all too cheerful-sounding text. After rinsing your mouth out in the bathroom sink, you groaned and wiped your face with a rough paper towel. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and checked the notification: from Mark.

Hey, baby. Sorry, need to raincheck dinner tonight. I’ll be home late.

You frowned in disappointment. If he was postponing the Thursday Special, then he really was busy. Your shoulders sunk, but you replied.

How late do you think?

…No response.

A heavy sigh fell from your lips. This was actually familiar territory. When Mark was at work, he was easily distracted and a terrible texter. Which, fair enough, considering he was usually running down leads and hopping fences and whatever other reckless shit he was bound to do.

Some things don’t change, you thought ruefully.

But it didn’t mean you couldn’t try to change them. 

7:00 AM.

The next morning. You were almost dressed for work, still checking your phone, still out of your damn mind with worry because Mark never came home. He never checked in after around 2:30 PM yesterday, no matter how many texts you sent him.

You called his precinct, and Captain Victor Morales only told you that Mark was out on assignment. He wouldn’t tell you what that meant, or when Mark would be back. All you could do was wait.

Around twenty minutes later, it was about the time you absolutely needed to leave for work, or else you’d get caught in traffic again. But that was also when the front door lock twisted. The door itself creaked open, and there was Mark, looking exhausted and rough. He wore a strange gray jumpsuit, but your eyes were drawn to the bloodstains on the cuffs of his sleeves.

You tried to swallow your tears when you went to him, but relief hit you square in the chest. Mark took the impact of you in his arms with a soft grunt, but he held you on instinct. You wrapped your arms around his neck and shut your eyes against a salty sting.

“Where the hell were you?” You fingered the rough material of his collar. “What are you wearing? You smell like fucking gunpowder, and antiseptic—”

“Just,” Mark interrupted, squeezing your waist. “Just…give me a second.”

“What happened?” you asked, couldn’t help yourself.

Mark shook his head. Heavy sigh. He couldn’t tell you, he realized.

 Just seeing your face was a relief, even creased with worry and tears. He felt guilty for that, and a fuck ton of other things, but he couldn’t tell you.

He couldn’t tell you that he lost a member of his team, or that he felt like he was the one responsible with his half-cocked scheme going shit sideways. He couldn’t tell you that his hands had been literally coated in Drew’s blood, or that Mark watched the man's eyes roll up and disappear behind his lids as blood continued to pour out of his chest.

Drew didn’t get to go home to his wife, but somehow, Mark was the son of a bitch who was allowed to come home and find you waiting for him.

“Sorry. Long night…can’t really get into it,” he rasped. You smelled good, like your face lotion and a hint of perfume. He was a mess, probably getting three flavors of grime on your nice silky blouse and black skirt.

You relented, nodding shakily and sweeping your hand over his greasy hair in a caress.

“You should get cleaned up,” you said.

After a beat, Mark nodded. Every muscle in his body protested, but he pulled away from you. It was hard to meet your gaze as he aimed for his bedroom. He disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and scrubbed himself in a shower so hot, he probably burned off a couple layers of skin. He still didn’t feel entirely clean when he walked out.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

While getting dressed in some old sweatpants, he caught sight of the time by the digital clock on his nightstand. He checked his phone too. Nothing from Blythe or the team. They would get eight hours of recovery before they were expected back, reporting for fucking duty.

Mark rubbed the aching space between his brows as he stepped out of the bedroom. He stopped short when he found you in his kitchen, scrambling up some eggs. You’d already kicked your shoes off, leaving you in just that flowy blouse and a tempting skirt, perfectly shaped around your ass and thighs.

It also looked like you went to the grocery store yesterday. He saw the evidence of it in the jumbo carton of eggs lying on the counter, the little cannisters of salt and pepper (the ones you had to hand-grind yourself, which only you would buy), and the slices of ham and deli cheese you were ripping up to add into the steaming pan. The smell wafted nostalgia up his nose and into his brain.

On any other day, he would’ve smiled.

On any other day, he would’ve sidled up behind you, dragging his hands, heavy with intention over your hips, playfully and possessively up your sides. Your body would respond before your head could catch up, arching up against his chest like a cat. He’d whisper only half of the filthiest ideas he had in your ear, just to see if he could break your concentration. Most of the time, he won.

Today, he paused in the doorway and watched you. In his mind, he still saw the barrel of a gun aimed between his eyes, thinking that narrow darkness was probably the last thing he was ever going to see.

Instead, he got to see you. That was the bleeding duality: a relief that clawed through his chest, and a guilt that sunk those claws deeper.  

You glanced over your shoulder and aimed an attempt at a smile his way.

“This is almost done,” you said. The wooden spoon moved deftly in your hand.

“You’re gonna be late for work,” he said.

“I called out sick.”

He blew out a sigh, a shake of his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You turned off the stove, shifted the pan of eggs off to the side before your frown turned his way. Really? said your eyes.

Mark couldn’t hold your gaze for long. He escaped the inviting aroma in the kitchen and got as far as the living room. You followed him to the couch and took a seat right on the edge of it, beside him.

“I know you can’t tell me what happened, but I know this isn’t a routine case,” you said. You were almost hesitant when you reached out to caress his cheek, earning his carefully guarded gaze.

Whatever it was, he was trying hard to keep you out of it, which only gave you a deeper pit in your stomach. You were afraid for him in so many ways, but you knew there was probably nothing you could say to pull him out of what he was doing. It was his job, and if Mark took one thing seriously, regardless of the means, it was his fucking job. You knew it all too well.

You found the courage to ask him a question, even though the answer had the potential to cut into you again.

“What do you want, Mark? You want me to stay, or do you want to handle this by yourself?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

You shook your head. “That’s not what I asked.”

Mark’s lips twitched slightly. “It’s not about what I want.”

Your hand slid down to his chest, feeling the steady thrum underneath.

“Then what about what you need?” you asked. Like it was that simple.

What am I gonna do with you? Mark thought, smiling ruefully. After how thoroughly you’d hated him last week, it was like dousing ice-cold water over his head when you said shit like that. But his heart remembered, pulsing painfully, the way it all was before. He could have it again, at least for a little while.

He should’ve told you to go to work—that he’d be fine, just needed to sleep the night off.

He should’ve just let you go altogether.

Maybe he really was just a selfish asshole at his core.

He slid a hand behind your neck, through your hair, and guided you to him for a rougher kiss than he meant it to be. He swallowed the hint of your surprise and was satisfied when your body responded to him before your brain could catch up; your eyes fell shut, and the tension melted from your frame as you sunk against him.

You grabbed for his shoulders and straddled his hips when he hefted you into his arms. Mark slid his hands up your skirt until it bunched all the way up your waist, taking the opportunity to squeeze the plush of your ass. There was no part of you he didn't crave getting his hands full of.

You were of a similar mind as you tugged his gray henley up from the hem, soft hands burning up his stomach, chest, and shoulders. The solidity of his frame; you knew that when he held you, he had you.

Teeth clicked and tongues warred, tasted, devoured. His lips dragged down to the spot where your neck met your shoulder, teeth grazing, biting, his hands claiming your hip and tangling in your hair. Breaths panted hot in the small spaces in between moments.

You managed to slip a hand down into his sweatpants and palm over the growing bulge, smiling when he groaned into your mouth. You reached behind the band to find his cock, already hot and heavy and hard for you.

His resulting hiss was sharp behind his teeth, his grip on your bare thigh just shy of bruising as he throbbed in your hand. His voice devolved into a deeper, more guttural groan as his head tipped back against the sofa. You worked him over with a sensuous hand, using beads of his precum to stroke your thumb over the sensitive head.

You had half a mind to slide down between his legs like you did yesterday morning, but he had you gripped tight in his arms, like he didn’t want you going anywhere.

And he didn’t. He wanted your thighs spread for him, just like they were now. He slid your panties down as far as they’d go, and he ripped the black lace on either side, earning a small gasp from you.

“I liked those,” you said, nipping his lower lip in retaliation. Mark smirked against your pouting mouth.

“I liked ‘em too. But now they’re in my goddamn way,” he said, that trademark cockiness in his grin that made you want to slap him and kiss it off his lips at the same time.

He tugged the ruined fabric slowly, with purpose, letting it slide between your wet folds and brushing your clit. You clung to him with a quiet whimper, especially when his long fingers found a familiar path into your slippery channel. The knuckle of his thumb pressed against your clit as well, making your hips buck into his hand. A small zing of pleasure sparked in your lower belly, reaching the very depths of you. It just wasn’t enough.

“Need you,” you whispered into his mouth. Your fingers ran through his hair, lovingly first, then scraping your nails along his scalp.

He groaned, nodding in agreement. His fingers withdrew from your core and spread some slick up to your clit. He drew circles with a firm, tantalizing pressure, enough to have your voice shuddering his name and your hips bucking into his hand. "Oh, fuck, please..."

"Good angle, right?" he teased. Smug bastard.

"Mhmm," you nodded, smiling into his lips. But all you could really do was cling to his neck while his fingers wreaked havoc on your pussy. Just when you began to taste that delicious edge, the crest of a tidal wave—he stopped.

He fucking stopped, withdrawing his fingers and moving his hands back to your waist. Your uneven breaths also accounted for your shock, and then your annoyance. But before you could even start to call him an asshole, he grabbed you up strong by your hips, just so he could all but impale you on his cock.

Choked of whatever words that might've slipped off your tongue, you gasped and cursed in the same breath. The inner walls of your pussy quivered around his length and thickness as he worked himself deeper inside. There was just so much of him, you sucked in deeper breaths just taking him, inch by inch.

But you led the rhythm, a rolling sway that built its momentum as you rode him. Mark tore through those last clinging buttons of your blouse and freed your breasts, snapping the bra open too. Straps and silky fabric got tossed to who gives a fuck where. All that mattered was his hands cradling you possessively, his beard rasping against your skin as his teeth dragged over the sensitive buds of your nipples.

There wasn’t any part of you he didn’t know, no square inch of supple flesh he hadn’t mapped out, devastated, and claimed. But it didn’t stop him from relishing the taste. Every sound out of your mouth was black velvet in his ears, adding to his satisfaction when your body practically hummed underneath his touch.

The bob of your hips faltered, distracted, your limbs trembling and your thighs burning.

“You close already, baby?” Mark rasped, deep and ragged in your ear. He was just as wrecked as you. The feeling of you, so goddamn tight and warm and wet—fucking perfect. Making him almost lose his goddamn sense of reality. He thrust up inside you, hard enough to knock a gasp out of you, feel you clench on him in response. Your nails raked down the back of his neck.

“You are, I can fuckin’ feel it,” he gritted out. Like his sixth fucking sense.

“Yeah,” you confessed, breathless and desperate. “Little more. Need your help, please—”

“I’ve got’cha,” he said. His hands tightened on your hips and gave you both what you needed, a few hammering strokes that hit just the right spot—that sensitive place inside that made your inner walls quiver and throb. A rush of heat and white spots on the edge of your vision, you buried your face into his neck and screamed your release.

Mark felt your inner walls pulse and tighten impossibly around his cock. He drove into you through the height of your orgasm, as long as he could hold out, until his body locked up on him too. He held himself inside you, nestled deep as he could until he was spent. You shuddered at the feeling of his warmth coating your inner walls. It soon began to leak out between your thighs.

Mark rolled his shoulders with a short wince at the sting your nails had left against his back. He didn’t mind though. He just smiled and rubbed a gentler hand up and down your spine, quelling the little goosebumps.

When you could even breathe, you slipped your fingers into his hair and drew him into a softer kiss.

It was a necessary grounding, a moment of peace after the storm.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his forehead rest against yours. He felt the tickle of your hair against his cheek, the rise and fall of your breaths evening out in a quiet room, blending with the low hum of the AC.

He could hear the faint sounds of cars passing by outside, another morning at full swing. He only had a few hours left to rest, but even these minutes were important. They were yours, and his.

“Thanks,” he said. “For, uh…staying.”

You blinked your eyes open and pulled back a little, prompting him to do the same. This part was important, and you wanted him to know that.

“I’m not leaving unless you tell me to,” you said.

Mark’s lips tugged at a tired smile. “Then buckle up, sweetheart.”

Once again, your soft giggles filled the room.

AN: The angst! You could bottle it. 😫💙 How do you like how they figured out this hurdle together?

...And are you ready for another one? lol

The next one-shot for this series is a fun little flashback to their first date! But what's also coming up in the future is very much inspired by “You’re Losing Me (From the Vault)” by Taylor Swift. Thanks again, @waynes-multiverse for that perfect - hella angsty - inspo! 😂

(Hint: The reader might finally find out what Mark's "special assignment" has been for the past couple of weeks.)

Until then, please let me know what you thought of this little angsty/smutty adventure! lol Your feedback fuels my creative spark! 🥰💜

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on.

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[witchbitchlovesdilfs]

Too Many Sounds

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

synopsis: reader's misophonia is being particularly nasty today. robby's the comfort they need.

warnings: reader has misophonia (hinted misokinesia as well), reader is a nurse, hurt comfort, angst, negativity

words: 1.4k

a/n: I never see fics about readers with miso, so I decided to make one of my own. Misophonia is a real, serious condition, and there's rarely any comfort or breaks...So here's to every misophone who just wants a little love and understanding. 🖤

You knew it was going to be a tough day when you woke to your neighbor’s dog barking. While you were prepping breakfast, hair wet from a shower, the showerhead dripped not-so-quietly. With a sigh, you slipped on your earbuds and blared your music to distract yourself. Because that’s all you can really do. 

Your shift at the PTMC hasn’t been going any better. Whitaker decided to eat his lunch at his station instead of the breakroom, making sure to crunch loudly and chew with his mouth open. Princess tapped her fingers against the desk, and Perlah slurped as she downed her third coffee of the morning.

With a sigh and a tight lipped smile in departure, you get up abruptly and check the status board for a patient. There’s a man in one of the rooms still needing triage, so you grab your clipboard and head over. 

“Hi, Mr. Starling,” you greet as you push the curtain open. The older man greets you with a strained, curt nod and pants out a greeting of his own.

“I see you’ve been having a migraine,” you say, lowering the intensity of the overhead lights and settling down on the chair next to you. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since Monday,” he says, holding a hand up to his temple.

“Are they chronic?”

“Nah,” he huffs. “I’m usually healthy as a horse.”

You snap on some gloves. “Have you been dealing with any other head pain?”

He sniffs, and you flinch. He doesn’t notice. “My jaw’s been aching, around the right side.”

You nod, clenching your fists to fight the rising emotions the unexpected, sharp sound released. “Any pain around your ear?”

He sniffs again, and you squeeze your eyes together for a moment as he speaks. “Actually, yeah.”

You open your eyes again. “Are you congested at all? I notice you’re sniffling.”

“Yeah.” He rubs his nose with his hand, and the movement nearly paralyzes you. 

Desperate to get out of there, you nod and pull out a thermometer. You test it, and his temperature comes back high. “101,” you read aloud, leaning back. “As of right now, I don’t believe this is anything serious. I think you might have a sinus fever, but I’ll grab a doctor to double check.”

“Thank you, nurse.”

You smile weakly, and before you can make it out of the room, he makes sure to sniff again before hacking excessively. You push the curtain open with barely concealed tears.

As you turn a corner, you nearly ram into Michael Robinavitch - your boyfriend and attending. 

“Oh shit,” he exclaims, putting out a hand to help steady you. He squints at you quizzically, immediately picking up on your mood. “You okay?”

“Patient shows symptoms of a sinus fever,” you say emotionlessly. 

Robby nods and opens his mouth, probably to check in on you, but you don’t let him get to it. “I’m taking five.”

You push past before he can respond, yanking off your gloves and throwing them in the trash, hardly glancing over to make sure they made it in. 

You barrel through the doors of the ambulance bay, letting out a relieved exhale as you move over to one of the walls and lean against it, letting the slight breeze cool your nerves. Sliding onto the ground, you rest your head on your knees and let yourself cry. Your lips wobble as you finally let out of the emotions this day has caused you. You can’t describe them, not really. Sadness? Anger? Guilt? Helplessness is the best way to put it.

You’re so lost in this tornado of despair that you don’t notice another figure stepping out of the hospital, sliding down next to you. Not until you hear his voice. “What do you need?” Robby asks softly, softer than you’ve ever heard him before. Like he’s afraid his voice will trigger you again, like if he’s too loud you’ll fall apart. And you hate that.

The two of you had been working together for years, but it wasn’t until you started dating that you shared your suffering. No one else in the hospital knows; you’re afraid how they would react. You were absolutely terrified of how Robby would feel - after being shamed and disbelieved for your entire life, you’re not particularly used to a positive reception. But he took it well, nodding silently as you explained and asking genuine and noninvasive questions to better understand. You even noticed a book about misophonia appear on his bookshelf.

Despite all of this, you never let him see you react. If you’re at a restaurant and the clanking of silverware bothers you, you run off to the bathroom and return with a wide smile like nothing’s wrong. When you’re at a movie theater and all the crunching around you gets to be too much, you grip the arm rest a little tighter but don’t apply any more pressure to his hand you’re holding.

So him seeing you now, completely distraught without any filter, you can’t help but let the fear creep in. He’ll leave you when he realizes just how damaging your miso is, you tell yourself. You’ll live alone forever - which might be a good thing. Maybe you just can’t be around other people. Maybe you need to lock yourself away. Maybe-

“Hey,” Robby says, and you come out of whatever daze you’ve let yourself fall into. “I’m here.”

“Why?” you ask weakly, voice cracking as you look down at the ground, arms wrapping around yourself. 

“Y/n,” he says. You bite your lip to keep from crying out. “You aren’t a burden.”

You let the tears drop. “But-”

“I’m serious,” he continues with a steady tone. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here.”

You can hear his breathing - deep, like a pant, and you fold into yourself, terrified at the thought that now he is the one triggering you now. With shaking fingers, your hand slips into your scrub pocket, plucking out your earbuds as you put them in. The noise cancelling kicks in immediately, and you set it to a more relaxed mode, turning to Robby with wide, teary eyes. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, regarding the earbuds. “I’m just on edge right now.” It’s nothing personal, your eyes say.

Robby understands this. He reaches an arm out but stops far enough that he isn’t actually touching you. His eyes ask if he can. You nod slightly, but he notices, and then he’s pulling you into him, leaning you against his side. You fold instantly, melting into his embrace as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

He squeezes your side. “It’s not your fault.”

You can’t hold back the sob this releases, and Robby frowns down at you, upset he can’t do anything to help. The two of you sit there for a few more minutes, feeling the comfort of each other, before he says, “I want you to take the rest of the day off.”

“Robby-” you start, but he isn’t having it. The look on his face tells you not to try him right now, so you don’t.

“Make yourself something healthy to eat and take a nap,” he continues, helping you to your feet. “I’ll come over after my shift, check on you.” He pauses, studying you. “Only if you want me to.”

Your expression softens. “Of course I do.”

He nods, reaches out for your hand. You let him take it, and he runs his thumb over the back. “If you need to be alone… just text me. I’ll understand.”

He’s so considerate you nearly start to cry again. “I want you,” you say softly. “You’re the only thing that comforts me.”

Robby smiles gently and lets go, pulling you in for a passionate kiss you immediately reciprocate. The kiss tells you that he accepts you, that he’s there. It tells him thank you, that his care means the world to you. 

You may be spiraling, but with Robby there, you know it’ll get better - even if it’s just a little bit.

[galaxymagitech]

Every time I see the hacked Elmo thing again I start laughing uncontrollably.

It’s not funny. It’s horrifying, and people actually believe these things. But I can’t stop laughing.

Because someone (possibly multiple someones) hates Jews so much that they hacked Elmo over it. This is an action that benefits no one, raises no awareness, and accomplishes absolutely nothing. It isn’t even useful as some sort of fakeout because it’s just too ridiculous.

Someone is such an angry, mangled, hateful person inside them that they used their time and energy and broke laws…in order to get a children’s show character to say “Kill all Jews” on a dying social media app inhabited by bigots.

I can understand people who are hurting, who are afraid, who lash out in anger. I can understand people who do awful things because they’ve fallen for dehumanizing propaganda or have been misled by people with power. I can understand how people will do anything they can to keep themselves safe, even hurt others. I can even understand how someone prioritizes gaining power, uncaring of who they hurt in the process. I obviously think their actions or words are awful, but I can at least have a taste of what’s going through their heads, you know? I do my very best to listen to people coming from all different perspectives so that I can see how their beliefs make sense in their own internal worlds.

This doesn’t make sense. Not in any world. Can someone really feel righteous about hacking a cartoon character’s account to advocate for killing all Jews? How can someone think this is activism or helpful in any way shape or form? How can anyone feel good about this? Is there a single thing this could accomplish?

Do they honestly think this will convince anyone of anything? Do they honestly think this will make them feel better? Do they honestly think this scares us?

This has to be someone’s fucked up idea of a joke. What else can I do but laugh at it until I start to cry?

So I’m laughing at the Elmo tweets themselves whenever I see them. What I’m not laughing at is when I see people saying Elmo is “based” for those tweets or “what if he wasn’t hacked at all?” or “maybe Elmo just finally got tired.”

Oh, it’s not surprising. It’s the same thing we’ve seen far too many times. TERFs allying themselves with evangelicals. Some of my former acquaintances allying themselves with Trump because they believed he’d protect them. Immigrants voting for Trump because he claimed he’d lower the price of eggs. Throw people a bone (a call-out of Trump, a mention of the Epstein files) and they’ll agree with anything.

That’s the scary part, to me. Not that some loser is so fucked up that they decided they wanted a Sesame Street character to scream for genocide. That part just makes me laugh. No, the scary part is that “kill all Jews” isn’t difficult for people to swallow. All it takes is the tiniest bit of sugar. Not even a teaspoon.

But it’s not like I didn’t already know that either. The hack didn’t even show us something new. It’s just utterly pointless and absurd.

And I want to be clear that I’m not choosing to post about some antisemitic idiot hacking Elmo’s X account of all things because I think it’s the most important thing to talk about. It isn’t. It really isn’t. I don’t post much about politics because it’s generally out of my wheelhouse. I’m on Tumblr to talk about how awesome Batman is and how the Doctor and the Master should kill each other erotically on TV. I’m not here to prioritize important world events and provide actionable commentary on them.

But some loser hates us enough to hack Elmo, and some other losers hate us enough to publicly agree with it. Do you get it now, how ridiculous this is? Like, yeah, we’ve got a superpower. And it isn’t horns or access to the space lasers. Apparently it’s the ability to make people suddenly lose their fucking minds. Always has been.

[kharmii]

The problem with this is that normally, most children will grow and mature and become well-adjusted in society as they get older. They will grow out of the anarchist radical leftist bull-crap in the link.

Unfortunately, if they are also doing DIY schizophrenia/BPD inducing hormonal imbalance therapy (sometimes with mutilation) then they will never grow out of the nonsense. They will end up as dysfunctional, pharmaceutical-dependent mental-midgets who will never reach adulthood in their own minds. They will obsess over every perceived trauma in their past while refusing to move on.

Those are the types who keep believing that reality/morality is subjective while the rest of us with families and a stake in the future try to move as far away from the places they congregate as possible. After all, I personally wouldn't want my children raised around people who believe that mass migration from countries that hate us and defund the police movements, and 'catch-and-release bail' policies are good mixes.

An aside......nobody talks about this enough, but there should be a common leftwing stereotype known as the "I won't admit I'm a leftist because my weirdo mom ruined me" type of radical leftist. One of the MLA fans who called me out fits this trope. She has the 'tism because her van life mom moved her around so much as a child that she never really became 100% fluent in a single language. She was never allowed to become socialized in a stable environment. Listening to her talk though, the worst problem in her life is ZOMG! I was misgendered! A Donald Trump supporter 'liked' my posts! I'm gonna crash out and end up in the mental hospital again!!1!!1

Then, of course, there are all the people who were mutilated as children because their weirdo mothers with Munchausen by Proxy took them to transgender clinics when they were grade school aged. I've already brought that up so much I had to come up with another example to mix it up. -Not that I shouldn't keep bringing this point up often as possible until we stop mutilating children and sue every doctor and medical facility practicing this barbarism into nonexistence.

This one's for the kids

[stuck-in-the-1960s]

His mildly androgynous energy and anxious disposition both intrigue and beguile me

[bitters-n-sweets]

Hey!! Love all your Jack Abbot's fic!!! ❤️❤️❤️ Can I request something? You can decide if you want to do it or not. I'm fine with either. Jack Abbot x fem reader. Her childhood friend end up at ER after something happened to him. He wanted to surprise her by visiting her at work after travelling around the world but the worse happened. Jack didn't know who that man was and why he was talking to his girl. And he didn't like it (cue jealous Abbot🤭). And the whole ER just watched the night attending glaring (perhaps killing with his eyes). Just do whatever you want to. Suggestive, jealous, teasing, ER. Thanks!!! :))

hiiiii! thank you and yes of courseeeeee ❤️ i’m obsessed with the new superman atm so…human!clark kent cameo yay! also I probably made this a lot more complicated that it normally should be, but I couldn’t help myself 😅

pretty fucked — jack abbot x fem!reader Your childhood friend is wheeled into the ER, and Jack—unaware of who he is—isn’t too happy about all the Midwestern smiles and charm he’s throwing your way.

warnings: jealous trope(kinda), jealous!jack, reader is from Kansas for the plot, reader’s parents weren’t around in the past, slightly angsty—who am i without angst

You’re busy charting when EMTs wheel in another patient through the doors. You exhale—night shift is just as relentless as ever. You head toward the gurney—clearly too small, given that the man’s legs are hanging over the end—and glance at the EMT for the handoff.

“Male patient, late 20s or early 30s. Took a fall down about ten stairs outside a bakery. Hit his head—got a decent gash above the left eyebrow, but stayed conscious the whole time. Complains of dizziness, likely mild concussion. No signs of neck or spine injury. Vitals are stable,” she reports.

You nod and finally look at the patient—who’s got his eyes squeezed shut and is groaning quietly.

You freeze.

“What the hell?” you mutter, brow furrowing. You know that voice. That haircut. That stupid flannel.

The patient cracks one eye open. Recognition dawns—and then he grins, lopsided and blood-smeared.

“Oh, hey! Funny running into you here, Peach.”

He says it a little too loud—loud enough to turn heads at the nurses’ station behind you. Loud enough to draw Jack Abbot’s attention. He’s frowning now—watching the man on the gurney smile at you like you hung the moon. Like he’s known you forever.

“Clark Kent.” You say his name sternly, “What are you doing here in Pittsburgh??”

“Well it’s nice to see you too.”

“You know this guy?” The EMT asks, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “My idiot childhood friend. Thanks—I’ve got it from here.”

You help move him to the trauma bay, and as soon as the gurney’s parked, you pinch his arm.

“Ow!” he protests, wincing.

“What did you do this time?” Your browse raise, gloving up to examine him.

“Nothing!”

It seems like Clark is fine—his breathing is normal, pupils reactive, vital signs are normal, all you need to do is stitch up that wound on his forehead.

“Do you have any idea what your mom’s gonna say when she finds out I had to stitch you up??”

“She doesn’t have to find out,” Clark mutters, clearly hoping.

���You need, like, at least 4-5 stitches.”

“It’ll heal.”

“It might leave a scar.”

“I thought you’d be a good enough doctor to not leave a scar.”

You shoot him a look and pinch him again, a little harder this time. “First of all, it doesn’t work that way. And second of all, I might just give you a bigger scar myself!”

A good few feet away from you and Clark, Jack watches the entire interaction. How you held him with certainty, no hesitation—you’re so comfortable with this guy. Clearly, you two know each other. He’s just never seen you so touchy with another guy before.

And the guy—Clark, apparently—he’s smiling through a busted forehead like it’s a reunion, not an injury. He's looking at you like he’s the happiest guy on earth.

Jack’s jaw ticks.

He forces himself to look down at the tablet in his hand, re-scanning vitals that don’t need rechecking. He tells himself it’s nothing. That the guy’s just some old friend. A dumbass who fell down stairs and got lucky you happened to be working tonight.

But when he hears him call you Peach—in that fond, teasing voice, and without you flinching like it’s weird?—something shifts in his chest. Something uncomfortable.

Jack’s fingers curl slightly around the edge of the tablet.

He watches you tuck a piece of gauze under the wound with practiced care, brow furrowed in concentration, but your body language is relaxed. Like you’ve done this—caring for this Clark—a million times.

Jack doesn’t realize he’s still staring until one of the nurses brushes past him with a chart and he snaps out of it. He clears his throat, turns away like he’s just passing by on the way to somewhere else.

Like he’s not wondering who the hell this guy is. But he’s about to find out.

Clark hisses when you clean the area around the cut and your other hand has to hold his jaw to make sure he doesn’t move around.

“You know, some would say this is not standard care.” Clark says with squished cheeks.

“Oh shush and let me do my job.” You wave him off.

He smiles. “This is just like middle school,” he mutters, wincing. “Except you’re not using your sleeve this time.”

You snort. “Be grateful. My sleeves were never clean.”

“You still punched that kid in the mouth for me. That was heroic.” Clark recalls.

“The kid had it coming.” You shrug. “You, however, had a nosebleed and cried.”

“Did not cry.” Clark protests.

You lift your brows without looking up.

“Okay, I teared up. But only because blood was pouring out of my face.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you reach for the suture kit. It’s easy, slipping into this rhythm with Clark—like no time has passed. Like you're still two dumb kids on a playground with more grit than grace.

“Everything alright in here?”

You both glance up.

Jack’s pulled the curtains open, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His tone is neutral, but there’s something guarded behind his eyes. He takes in the scene: Clark lounging casually on the gurney, you gloved up and leaning in close. Too close for his liking.

“It’s superficial,” you reply, glancing at the wound. “I’ve got it.”

Clark perks up, all Midwestern friendliness. “Hey. You must be the famous Dr. Jack Abbot.”

You suck in your breath at Clark and he feigns innocence. “What?”

Jack’s eyebrows lift faintly. “Do I know you?”

“Nah,” Clark says cheerfully. “Just heard your name a few times.”

You roll your eyes. “Jack, meet Clark Kent. My childhood pain in the ass.”

Clark jerks his thumb toward you. “She used to beat up my bullies and steal my lunch snacks.”

“You gave me those snacks,” you correct.

“Under duress.” He mutters.

Jack doesn’t laugh, though he tries to look polite about it.

“Well. Glad you’re in good hands,” Jack says, and turns like he’s about to go.

But Clark speaks up again, casual and cheerful. “Hey, wait—are you the one who keeps giving her rides home when her car won’t start?”

You pause mid-suture. Jack hesitates at the doorframe.

“Sometimes,” Jack replies, strangely neutral.

“Man,” Clark grins, “some things never change. She’s always had junk cars. You remember that old Chevy you drove in high school? The one where the passenger door wouldn’t open unless you kicked it?”

“Oh my God, don’t even bring that up.” You shake your head.

“How can I? You made me crawl through the backseat for two years.”

Jack watches your banter with him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You had a Chevy?”

“Yeah, and old one,” you say. “Baby blue. It was technically my uncle’s, but he never asked for it back.”

“She used to drive us to the river after school,” Clark adds. “We’d skip stones and talk about how we were gonna escape Smallville one day.”

You glance up at that. “That was your dream.”

“Yeah, well. You made it out first.”

You go quiet for a moment, hands still busy with the final stitch. A sad smile plasters on your face.

Jack, still standing just inside the trauma bay, shifts his weight. “Didn’t realize you grew up in Kansas,” he says.

“It doesn’t come up much,” you murmur.

Clark senses the tension bubbling and offers Jack a small, polite smile, like he's apologizing for making it awkward.

“What are you doing here anyway, Clark?” you add, tying off the last suture.

He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to surprise you. It’s been a while since you visited. Two years.”

You wince. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“It has,” he says simply. “Ma and Pa's been asking about you.”

You bite your lip. “You know why I don’t visit, Clark.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But… we all miss you, Peach.”

The nickname makes Jack’s gaze flick between you again. He doesn’t comment. He just stands there a beat longer than he needs to, then gives a stiff nod.

“I’ll let you two catch up.” And then he turns and walks off.

Clark watches him go, and sees your pained expression.

“So… he doesn’t like me.” Clark states.

You sigh. “No, it's not that. I should go talk to him.”

You toss your gloves in the bin, spray on some hand sanitizer, and step out before you can overthink it. Jack’s not moving fast, but he’s already halfway down the hall. You jog a few paces to catch up, calling out softly—

“Jack.”

He slows but doesn’t stop.

“Hey,” you try again, gentler this time.

“Everything okay with your friend?” he asks without looking at you.

You frown. “You mean Clark? Yeah. Just a few stitches. He’s fine.”

“Good.” His voice is clipped. He starts walking again.

“Jack,” you say, stopping. “Can you just—wait a second?”

He stops, finally turning to face you. His jaw’s tight, his hands in his pockets. He trying not to look at you, he’s trying not to say something he’ll regret.

“What?” he asks, quiet.

You shift your weight, suddenly unsure where to start.

“He’s just a friend,” you say. “Clark. He’s like a brother to me.”

“Didn’t say he wasn’t.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That hits him. Jack glances down the hall, like he’s buying himself a second before he speaks.

“I’m not jealous,” he finally says.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You let out a slow breath, the tension between you sharp and awkward now. You want to smooth it out, but something about Jack’s posture makes you hesitate—he’s bracing for a hit.

“I don’t talk about Kansas because it’s not a part of me I… bring up often,” you say, voice softer now. “Clark showing up—he’s not here to stir things. He just missed me. That’s all.”

Jack nods once. It’s a little stiff, but not cold.

“He called you Peach.”

“He’s called me that since I was eight.”

“Why?”

“Because despite me fighting off his bullies like a champ, I still bruised like a peach. Still do.”

That gets the smallest twitch of a smile out of him.

“Charming,” he breathes, stepping closer to you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I just… it surprises me how much I still don’t know about you.”

“And I guess I am jealous,” he admits. “Not because I’m afraid he’ll whisk you away in his horse and cowboy hat—” that earns him a chuckle from you, “—but because he knows you. Really knows you.”

You nod, understanding his earnestness. “Look, I… I didn’t tell you everything about my life yet because well… I wasn’t ready for you realize I’m kind of fucked up.”

Jack frowns at that.

“My parents weren’t really around when I was a kid. And when they were… the house would reek of alcohol and weed. I didn’t have a perfect childhood. And I guess I was scared that it might not be what you signed up for.”

He exhales slowly, then gently nudges open the door to an empty consult room and guides you inside. Once the door clicks shut, he steps forward and wraps you into a hug, one that you very much need. You press your ear to his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart, letting yourself sink into it.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to see your face, “I have one leg, I went to war, and I’m well older than you. I think we’re both pretty fucked up.”

You laugh, hands still curled around his waist.

“So you’re okay with me probably having daddy issues and that being why I’m so into you?”

Jack shrugs, his lip twitching. “I kind of guessed that much.”

You smile, your eyes stinging a little.

His tone softens even more as he lifts a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” Jack says. “But I want you to know that I’m here for you. And that I want you. Your past, your present…” He pauses, his gaze on you. “And certainly your future. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, leaning into his touch. “I won’t scare you away?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “You can’t even try.”

[syhli]

Just based on all the fanart I've seen, yes, I do think and agree that Zayne is the most susceptible to being drawn into the fog of Silent Hill. Out of every single L/I, the most guilt-ridden person is him, with the layers of grief he carries with him. A close call could be made with Caleb, but no. The perfect visitor for Silent Hill is Zayne.

When thinking about the individualistic effect of luring someone in (based on everything that transpired in SH2 specifically), Zayne is a figure who takes on one too many roles that leave him prone to shouldering so much burden. Where he swears the Hippocratic Oath and becomes a well-praised doctor, everything that is the shadow of Dawnbreaker is what leads him to his own undoing. The events of Death and Rebirth completely pull back the curtain that contained everything Zayne once was. A reliable, near-perfect surgeon who seemed unscathed. But it was only a matter of time until his repressed guilt would come up and swallow him whole.

Everything he repressed was given enough time to fester and derail him, already slowly creeping up on him through his nightmares.

And similar to how Mary is James' catalyst for being at Silent Hill in the first place, MC is Zayne's catalyst. What happened on Mt. Eternal. What happened when he harmed MC when they were children. His constant, inner turmoil over losing control over his power and harming MC again. The looming shadow of Dawnbreaker's role as an executioner, the darkest extreme of Zayne's subconscious and then the guilt of faith tied to Astra's religion (Foreseer, Master of Fate).

He would be forced to confront the most horrific amalgamations of things he hasn't allowed himself to confront. Thinking about Zayne's story in Silent Hill - he would have to confront Dawnbreaker, human-Wanderer fusions of patients he's carried guilt over and most importantly, his colleagues he lost at Mt. Eternal.

(If we're pushing it, you could interpret what Dawnbreaker is to Zayne as what Pyramid Head is to James. Do they represent vastly different things as to what the darker impulses are within? Yes. But the parallels are there. Both are sub-labeled as Executioners.)