#though there is a bit of angst
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lassie-farce · 2 months ago
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i feel like roy kent definitely would’ve fucked the gaffer if only for scientific purposes
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queenie-ofthe-void · 1 month ago
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Part 1
Eddie’s propped up against the door in the backseat, warm breath fogging the window, eyes open but completely sightless. Nancy wonders what’s going through his head, if he’s figured out why Steve’s upset and Robin’s angry enough to pick a fight. 
She doesn’t think he knows that Steve’s bisexual. Clearly Robin’s constant meddling hasn’t spurred his confessions. At the very least, Eddie has to be confused about how abruptly Steve reacted. Nancy could see the helpless anguish in Eddie’s face as he watched tears shimmer in Steve’s eyes. 
The sight of a heartbroken Steve Harrington is awful to bear. It isn’t something she’d wish on anyone, let alone someone as amazing as Eddie. Now it’s just another shitty thing she and Eddie have in common, like surviving the apocalypse or having curly hair. 
She shifts her eyes sideways and finds Argyle slightly more relaxed than Eddie but still unusually quiet. It could be the high, she supposes. But she’s seen him smoke almost twice as much as he had tonight and be completely fine. She doesn’t even know him that well and the silence is still unsettling. 
They’re about five minutes into the drive when Argyle’s eyes flash to the rearview mirror. “So, Eddie, I didn’t know you and Johnny were a thing.”
“We aren’t,” Eddie startles, almost like in his brooding he forgot where he was. Nancy catches him shifting in his seat. He’s clearly uncomfortable, biting his lip as his eyes skirt back and forth between his lap and Argyle’s in the mirror.
“Sure looked like you two were pretty into each other,” Argyle says. His tone is an honest attempt at light and carefree. It lacks the signature Argyle vibrancy. 
Eddie catches her looking in the rearview mirror, faster than Nancy can avert her gaze. He huffs, nostrils flared, though his eyes are wide with anxiety. “It’s not like that,” he tries to argue back. 
Argyle scoffs. “Seemed like Johnny thought it was.”
“Well it wasn’t.”
The boys almost simultaneously cross their arms and slump back into their seats. It’s quiet until they pull up to Argyle’s new apartment. Once out of the car, he leans back inside. Big brown eyes downcast, his hair hangs loose around his face, shielding him from view of the backseat. Nancy can practically see his heart on his sleeve when he looks at her.
“Nance, let me know how he’s doing?” The question is vague enough that he could mean any of them, but Argyle’s heart is four sizes bigger than anyone she’s met. Of course he’d care about Steve even now that he’s got his own problems.
She smiles, small and sad but hopefully reassuring. “It’s a deal.” He taps the roof of the car, moving to close the door before she surprises herself by calling out to him again. “But if you need anything, you know, maybe someone to talk to–” she hesitates, scrambling for the right words. “It’s just– I know Jonathan better than anyone, other than you, obviously. So if you want to talk, you can always call me.”
Now more than ever Nancy cringes at how socially out-of-place she always feels. It sounds like she’s placing some sort of weird claim on Jonathan, implying that he’s still somehow, inarguably hers after all this time. Even after Robin. 
She quickly gathers her wits to explain herself, wishing she could just shove her tiny foot in her mouth when he cuts through her anxiety with a smile. It matches hers from only moments ago: small, sad, but hopeful. “Sounds like a deal, Big Wheels.”
Nancy chuckles at the new nickname, pulling a more genuine smile out of the both of them. She watches as steps inside before pulling out of the lot and back onto the road toward the trailer park.
Argyle’s absence somehow only makes the tension worse. Eddie stays sitting in the back, slumped forward enough that Nancy worries he’s not actually buckled in. His head is in his hands, face hidden away. 
Her and Eddie have grown close since the final battle with Vecna, just barely making it to the hospital in time to stop him from bleeding out. Nancy, Robin, Steve, and Dustin had sat by his bedside in shifts almost every day for two weeks until he finally woke up. She’d driven him to his appointments, helped him with errands, and made an easy, detailed schedule for his medications.
They’d sat around watching shitty TV reruns. She’d smoked her first joint with him, just two of them sprawled out on the couch talking about all the shit they’d been through. Except every single time, no matter how their conversations started, they always ended with Robin and Steve. 
What started as delicate conversations turned into late night confessions. Eddie was the first person she turned to when she started questioning herself. Nancy knows she was the only person he’d told about his crush on Steve. He’d made her promise not to tell anyone– especially Robin, obviously– and she’d agreed to take it to the grave. She’s fairly sure Robin made a similar promise to Steve. Though, that didn’t stop them from constantly encouraging the boys to just talk to each other.
After what happened today, it’s painfully obvious that Steve likes Eddie just as much as Eddie likes him. Robin’s reaction to everything almost outright confirms it without Steve even having to say anything. At least, it’s obvious to most people.
“I don’t see what the big deal is– why anyone even cares.” Eddie’s words are barely discernible, mumbling into his own hands pressed against his face. He runs his hands roughly through his hair as he leans back against the seat, looking at Nancy through the mirror with wild, angry eyes. 
“I maybe get why you would be upset,” Eddie continues his rant, gesturing at her. His voice begins to rise with frustration, his movements a bit erratic– ‘worked up’ as how Wayne puts it. “You’re with Robin now, and I know you don’t feel that way about Jonathan anymore. But… It just doesn’t make sense.” 
He’s pulling at his curls, and she wants to wrap her hands in his to get him to stop. “Robin’s never been mad at anyone before, and she looked like she was trying not to hit me. She wouldn’t even let me talk to Steve, which is bullshit considering I spend just as much time with him as she does, spend just as many nights there as her. I deserve to know why he’s upset!”
She stays quiet, knowing she’ll get her moment when he runs out of fuel. He always does eventually, it’s just a matter of patience– something she’s grown a lot better at between being best friends with Eddie and dating Robin.
He slumps down into the seat, strings cut. Eddie fails to stop a stray tear from breaking loose as he tips his head back. She sighs as they finally pull up to the trailer, throwing the car in park before she fully turns around to face him. When he refuses to meet her gaze, Nancy sighs again, loud and obnoxious to get his attention. 
She puts a steadying hand on his knee and heaves herself over the center counsel, pushing herself clumsily into the back seat. Eddie yelps in surprise when her knee hits something soft, but they eventually sort themselves out. They turn to face each other, legs tangled up in the middle.
“Nance,” Eddie sighs, his quiet voice tinged with sadness, “why do I feel so shitty about a stupid kiss?”
She reaches across the seats to grab his hand, gently running her thumb across the top of his knuckles. “Do you like Jonathan?”
“Of course I do. What’s not to like?” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself it’s true, eyes scrunched and brow furrowed. She shoots him a scrutinizing glare, and he rolls his eyes in response. “Jesus Christ, Nancy, just say whatever you want to say. You look like you’re trying to kill me with your brain.”
“No, El kills people with her brain. I shoot guns.”
He chuckles nervously, trying to pull his hand away, but she grips it tighter.
She sighs and asks him again, with pointed emphasis. “Do you like like him, though?”
“Do I like like him?” Eddie mimics her, his teasing laugh strained with sarcasm. “Never thought I’d see the day where Nancy Wheeler– my actual fucking best friend, despite the odds– holds my hand and asks if I like like her ex.”
“Which ex?” Nancy shoots back, quick as a whip.
“... What?”
“Jonathan or Steve?”
“What–” Eddie tries to pull away again, and this time she lets him– “I thought we were talking about Jon?”
Nancy hums in thought. “Are we? Is this about your feelings for Jonathan?”
Before Nancy can stop him, he scoffs and throws himself out of the car. She scrambles across the seat and follows him out. His legs may be longer, but even after almost a full recovery, she’s still faster on her feet. Nancy catches him by the wrist just as he jams his key into the front door.
“Eddie, stop acting like a child and talk to me,” Nancy says. “Don’t storm off and pretend like we both don’t know why you’re upset.”
“It was just a kiss!” He rounds on her with red fury in his cheeks, tears clinging to his lashline. “It was just a stupid, fun kiss. I shouldn’t have to feel this way because someone kissed me at a party and I kissed them back. I don’t see why it’s a big deal, it’s not like it matters.”
“Seems like it mattered to Steve.” It’s about as close as she can hint without getting into trouble with Robin. Nancy knows Steve’s still playing his cards close to his chest, but she also knows sometimes it’s best to just go all in. 
Air rushes out of Eddie’s lungs, breath punched out of him as Nancy hits her proverbial target. Although she does wish she could actually punch him sometimes. Which is why it almost feels like a small triumph when she watches the poorly-obscured implication settle over him. 
Another tear breaks from its hold. He uses the back of his sleeve to wipe his face and drag it across his sniffling nose. Absolutely disgusting, but she doesn’t say anything, even though she desperately wants to offer him a tissue from her car.
“He was just upset because of the–”
“‘The shitty weed?’” Nancy finishes for him, quoting Robin’s awful excuse from earlier. “Do you mean Argyle’s personal stash?” It’s the best marijuana Nancy’s ever smoked, although that only includes Eddie’s wrinkled joints he re-discovers in random pockets and bags.
When Eddie opens his mouth, she’s already one step ahead of his ridiculous arguments. “And don’t you dare say he was upset because he’s homophobic.”
She hears the click of his teeth for how hard his jaw snaps closed. Nancy slips her hand down from his wrist and slides her fingers between his. This time when she squeezes, he squeezes back.
“He’s straight, Nance. You should know that better than anyone.” He sniffles and– to her horror– doesn’t let go of her hand when he uses the same arm to wipe his face again. God, men are animals. At least she’s never had to watch Robin pick her nose, even though the way she flosses is pretty graphic.
She sighs, throwing her arms around him in a hug, if not to get away from his snotty hands. “Seemed pretty upset for a straight best friend.” Nancy kisses him on the cheek before pulling away, making her way back down the stairs toward her car. “But you’re right, I would know better than anyone how Steve could feel right now.”
Driving home, she hopes her message landed, that maybe she’s helped and not overstepped. Especially when it comes to Steve. She can’t bear to see him heartbroken again, up close and personal in a way she selfishly distanced herself from last time. 
But she thinks, unlike the last time, Steve has a chance to be truly happy with someone who loves him more than anything in the world. The chance to be with someone who wants to take care of him, and be doted on in return. She’s finally found that in Robin, and she damn well knows Eddie’s the one for Steve. So if it means she toed the line on saying too much, then it’ll all be worth it if it’s the nudge Eddie needs to find his courage.
~~~
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Part 3
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dandelion-roots · 6 months ago
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[ID: a series of drawings featuring Riz Gukgak from D20 Fantasy High. In the first, Pok holds Riz's shoulders in heaven as says, smiling, when you work until the dead of night, your friends know you do it because you love them. In the second, Riz is having a group hug with his party and the text reads, but is it really love that drives you, Riz Gukgak... In the next, a desperate, pleading Riz clutches the shoulder of an indifferent, faceless person and the text continues, ...or is it fear? In the fourth, Riz is younger and digging through crystals with bleeding hands; the text reads, what use are you when you can no longer dig. In the fifth, Kalina, shrouded in darkness with only her eyes glowing, reaches towards the camera with a smile; the text reads, when you're too scared to think. Sixth, Riz is filling out Fig and Kristen's papers under the light of a lamp, serious and tired; the text reads, when you're too tired to work. Seventh, Riz is lying in bed, eyes hidden behind hair, hand on his father's picture; the text reads, too sad to keep the mood up. Eighth, Baron stares into the camera; the text reads, too lonely, too insecure, too weird. Ninth, Baron is holding a defeated Riz by the throat; the text reads, to keep moving? Tenth, Riz is standing in the distance, holding his briefcase, and behind him is a football/soccer ball; the text reads, what use is a ball that can no longer roll? The last drawing just says none in brackets on a dark background. End ID]
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astraystayyh · 1 year ago
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chan x reader. hurt and lots of comfort. description of an anxiety attack and its aftermath (based on my own experiences).
please consider donating for gaza through my kofi. we have exceeded 1k dollars and our goal is 1500! a little goes a long way, you can donate as much as you can! thank you
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If you remain still long enough, breathe as quietly as you can muster, would the world forget you exist and pass your anxiety along to somebody else?
A selfish question, perhaps, but one that you can’t help but ask as you sit on your freezing bathroom floor, knees tightly hugged to your chest.
You don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve sat in this position. Time suddenly seemed elusive to you, as if a concept too hard for your frantic heart to grasp. All you knew was the ache of your limbs and the feeling that doom was just around the corner.
It was one of those days where you woke up feeling anxious. As if your brain had made up its mind about you in your sleep, deciding to hold you hostage to your anxiety. The bed was cold, your boyfriend Chan long gone to his studio, his lingering cologne the only indication he was ever there. So, you tried to distract yourself throughout the day— going on a walk, listening to music, cleaning your house, but it didn't help. Nothing seemed to help you.
So here you were, hours later, sat on your bathroom floor, trying to calm yourself down, all alone. But you could tell that it wasn't working, that you were on a losing race against your own body. Soon, you wouldn't be able to control your anxiety, soon it would turn into a full blown attack.
You wanted to call Chan, you truly did, but he was busy, and you refused to be a burden. Especially since he told you through texts that he'd be home late, so that definitely meant that he was making a new track in his studio.
So, you settled on rocking yourself back and forth, your hands slowly moving up to your shoulders, patting yourself down. This is what you used to do before knowing Chan. When you didn't have anyone around you who understood. You’d trick your bruised mind into believing you were hugged, the warmth of your own touch easing your anxiety a little.
But tonight it had the opposite effect. Tonight, you broke down in sobs, your breathing more irregular than ever. You curled into a ball on the floor, your hand moving to your chest in a futile attempt to slow down your heart. You could no longer breathe, the air in your lungs morphing into unkind fingers, choking you from within. White dots started dancing in front of your eyes, as your entire being shook like a lone leaf, left to fend for itself before the unyielding winds.
It suddenly got too much— the sobs, the pain, the ache. You couldn't bare it anymore. So with trembling hands, you unlocked your phone, calling the only person who would be able to calm you down. Chan. You put the phone on speaker, before tossing it on the ground next to you. You couldn't even muster the energy to hold it to your ear.
“Hi my love, I'm a bit busy right now can I call you later?” Chan's rushed words ring through the bathroom, your anxiety intensifying before the possible antidote. “Honey?” he asks again when he doesn’t hear your reply.
“Chan—“ you sob, the only word your weighted tongue allows you to speak of.
“I’m here, I'm here baby. I'm coming right now,” his panicked voice rings through your ears, following the frantic rush of your boiling blood. The sound of shuffling indicates that he’s getting up and leaving the studio, the confused ‘what’s going on?’ Han shouts confirms it.
The only reply you give him is your sobs, and his heart constricts, twists and turns at the sound of your cries. “Hey, hey, sweetheart. It’s okay, you’re okay. Breathe for me, okay? Take a deep breath with me, please—” his voice breaks, “please baby.”
You try, with all your will, to force a steady breath to rise from your stomach to the tip of your tongue. It escapes faintly, but Chan catches it. “You’re doing well, baby. Fuck—” he turns on his car’s engine. “Um… Minho bit my ass today.”
His words catch you off guard, the gears in your mind stopping for a split second. You remember a faint conversation under your covers, months ago, when you told him that distractions help you when you’re anxious. Force you to redirect your thinking somewhere else.
He remembered.
“Was it tasty?” you breathe out, and he chuckles, a sweet sound intermingled with a sigh of relief. “I don’t know, I need to ask him baby.”
You nod though he can’t see you, willing yourself to breathe again. In, out, in, out, Chan’s own breathing guiding you. “Should I bite him in return?” he asks. Tears pool in your eyes once again. “I’m close, so close,” he reassures.
“Okay.”
“To the biting?”
“Mm,” you manage to hum, as you hear the door of your apartment open, Chan's hurried steps echoing in your home. You knew he was looking for you but you couldn't call out to him. After painfully long seconds, stretching out as if to torture you even more, he finally opens the bathroom floor.
He finally finds you.
“It's okay, I'm here. I'm here,” he wastes no time before scooping you into his arms and hugging you. He knows that the pressure eases your anxiety so he tightens his hold without you having to say so, pulling you as close as two pages of the same book.
With you on his lap, he starts rocking back and forth, his words coming out a jumble mess. He can’t settle on what to say to you, switching between stupid jokes his friends told him, and words of reassurance he repeats like a promise.
His words break, his tongue faltering each time your sob gets louder, but he speaks. He speaks and speaks for twenty minutes, all to distract you, all to keep you grounded, and safe.
After a long while, the storm finally passes, leaving behind an excruciating exhaustion. You turn into a puddle in his hold, softening like malleable clay. He holds you as gently as a porcelain vase.
His warm palms settle atop your cheeks, his eyes gazing into yours for the first time since he got here. A sheen glaze taints them, one you know is mirrored in your own. His thumbs gently swipe away your remaining tears, grazing your face with a tenderness that makes your being ache. Your lips press a faint kiss onto his palm, his find their way to your forehead, and you feel it all, through his kiss. His fear, his relief, his love, soft and gentle, for you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, voice slightly hoarse as you kiss his forehead back.
“I’ve got you my love. Always,” he smiles at you softly, his dimples appearing like the sun after a cold day.
“Did Minho really bite you?” you giggle faintly, and he scratches his ear sheepishly. “No, but I don’t put it past him to do it.”
“Is that something you’re into?” You cock a teasing eyebrow at him, and he shakes his head, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. “Only if it’s you,” he says as he wraps his arm around your waist, picking you up swiftly.
“I’ll consider,” you yawn, wrapping your arms around his neck, your face finding a refuge in the crook of his neck.
“Why thank you,” he smiles as he leads you to your bedroom, settling you gently atop the bed. He quickly climbs in with you, bringing you so close to him, his warmth ends up spreading through your entire being, filling up every nook and cranny of your soul.
“I think as long as you’re near, I’ll always be okay,” you say, as your eyes close slowly, you miss the tender smile that blooms in his face at your words.
“Good thing I exist to be near you, then.”
please consider donating for gaza through my kofi. we have exceeded 1k dollars and our goal is 1500! a little goes a long way, you can donate as much as you can! thank you
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stars-obsession-pit · 25 days ago
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“How dare you use his face”
The Infinite Realms and the Faerie Lands are closely interlinked. Not quite identical, but overlapping and intermingling with each other far more than they do with the mundane world. The haunts of ghosts and the distant lands of Fantasy are all but indistinguishable to most outsiders.
The denizens, too, sometimes bear many similarities. It can be difficult to tell at a glance which category an entity falls under—especially if they’re a more liminal case.
So when Damian saw one such entity wearing the guise of his missing twin, he came to a reasonable but incorrect conclusion. One that made him very, very angry at the thing standing before him.
He assumed that he was seeing a Faerie that had stolen Danyal’s face and name.
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yourstrulynobody · 17 days ago
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"Charlie Sees The REAL MONTY?!" well you see these real tears dont you. /silly
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littlebirdygirlywriting · 18 days ago
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Seeing Stars, I Can’t Breathe
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Daredevil Masterlist
Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Summary: “What do I do? Claire, she can’t breathe!” When a respiratory illness starts to get a little out of hand, Matt gets worried. But what is he supposed to do when you’re terrified of hospitals?
Author’s Note: This was written as a quick little thing for @mattmurdocksscars 2.5k Writer Challenge! I was almost too late, but I saw it just in time! (Also, this turned out barely fluffy…almost no fluff at all. But it has angst! So, that’s something!)
Warnings: Brief innuendos. Sickness (specifically respiratory, though a fever is implied). Angst. Fluff if you squint. Panic Attack? Fear of hospitals. (Because apparently your girl needs to offload every single one of her traumas onto the poor, unsuspecting reader characters she writes—yolo!). No use of y/n.
Word Count: 930 (short and somewhat sweet)
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“Open your mouth.”
“Geez, Murdock. You could at least buy me dinner first.”
Matt glared, thermometer paused in midair, clearly not amused by your attempt at humour, and the hacking cough shuddering through your lungs obviously agreed with his sentiment.
Chest convulsing, lungs constricting, you coughed until oxygen was a distant memory. Until you were bent over your knees, hacking and gasping. Until black spots floated merrily through your vision and copper tanged the back of your throat.
Finally, wheezing, you became aware of Matt’s hand on your back, rubbing circles between the arches of your shoulder blades. His jaw ticked, muscles working overtime to control the worry in his expression. But you could see it.
“I don’t like the way that sounds, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine.” It was hoarse, strangled…definitely not convincing in any sense of the word.
But dear God, you needed it to be true.
“It’s just a cold.”
Matt didn’t dignify that with a response.
Instead, he simply lifted the thermometer, waiting for you to catch your breath before instructing you again.
“Open your mouth.”
You hesitated.
“Matt…” There was a tremor in your voice that didn’t belong to sickness. Your fingers found the seam of the blanket draped around you, fiddling with it, rubbing the stitches between your fingertips.
His head tilted slightly, a crease of concern forming between his brows. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“It’s just…” You inhaled a shaky breath, eliciting yet another series of coughs.
When the fit was over, and the world returned to the light, you found yourself tucked against Matt’s chest, his arms wrapped protectively around you. His own breaths felt laboured beneath his shirt, and you grasped the fabric in your hands.
“Matt, I’m scared.”
His inhale was sharp.
Warm lips met your hairline, one hand smoothing strands away from your face before his chin laid down to rest against the top of your head.
When he spoke, his voice was pained, the words barely a whisper. “What are you scared of?”
“I…Matt, I…” Your chest tightened, another cough rising, cresting the horizon. “Hospitals. Matt…” The coughs burst forth, lungs spasming as you struggled to take in enough oxygen.
The black spots returned. Spinning. Multiplying.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, Matt was calling you, something raw and desperate and pleading in his tone.
You followed the sound, let it lead you back to the light.
He was on the phone now, pacing across the room, hand coming up to muss his hair back away from his face.
“What do I do? Claire, she can’t breathe!” His steps were frenzied, jaw ticking, those beautiful hazel eyes roiling before he turned on his heels towards the bathroom. “Okay…okay, tell me what to do.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, and a wave of exhaustion barrelled over you. Your eyes flickered. Shuttered.
…Then closed entirely.
“She should be in a hospital, Matt.”
“I know, Claire. I know. But what else was I supposed to do? You didn’t…” He hesitated, voice hitching, before dropping almost out of your hearing range. “You didn’t hear how terrified she was at the idea. Her heart…”
He didn’t elaborate, and Claire must’ve accepted the reply, because a bone-weary sigh echoed through the entryway.
“Lots of rest. Lots of fluids. Give her this medication, twice a day. And if she gets any worse, I want you to call a hospital immediately. No matter what she says.”
“Thank you, Claire.”
Fabric rustled faintly before the door opened, hinges creaking. Footsteps wandered out into the hallway, padded and quiet. Another series of creaks, the lock clicking back into place, then silence.
Silence. Living, breathing, permeating the walls of the apartment.
Matt must have followed Claire out. You must be alone.
Pushing yourself into a sitting position, your arms ached and lungs quivered. Tightness in your chest spiralled into a wave of dizziness, and you groaned.
The sound was barely out of your throat before Matt appeared before you, kneeling in front of your face, warm hands landing firmly on your shoulders.
“Easy. Easy, sweetheart.”
You winced, hoarse cough ricocheting in your ribcage, Matt’s strong grasp guiding you gently back against the pillow propped up on the arm of the couch.
His fingers moved to your hairline, discretely gauging your temperature, and sighed.
“Just rest, okay? I’ll go get you some of your medicine.”
“Matt?” Your fingers wrapped around his wrist. Weak, so pathetically weak, but he halted in his tracks. “Am I…I mean… No hospital?”
His expression flickered, something raw and unguarded warring behind his eyes, and a frown marred his features.
The battle waged for several seconds until a tense, guarded sentence came out. “For now.”
Tears trickled into your vision, watery gratitude raising a well in your throat.
“Thank you.”
Matt’s hands found their way to your hair, brushing it softly away from your face before cradling your jaw between his fingers.
His kiss was swift, chaste, the protest of his sharing your germs dying on your lips as you melted into the briefest of touches.
He was in the kitchen before you could even form the words to chastise him.
The clatter of a childproof cap untwisting grated through the apartment, the silverware drawer clanking obnoxiously before Matt returned, on his knees before you again, a spoonful of nasty white medicine in hand.
He smirked, ever so slightly, at the utter revulsion on your face, but worry still formed the baseline of his expression.
“Now,” he said, his words from earlier repeating like a broken record, thumb grazing your cheek softly, reverently. “Open your mouth.”
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joyfulhottubfuntik · 5 months ago
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Forever thinking about the period of time before Stan fully regained his memory. Especially from Ford's perspective. Because, like, that's the brother he has just now almost lost and he is so immensely grateful that he hasn't. But here he is, watching their grand niblings and Soos tell Stan all kinds of stories about the time they spent together. And Ford realises that, aside from their childhood, he doesn't have anything to add. Because of course he mattered to Stan SO much. He knows that now, even if he failed to recognise that before. But his role in Stan's life has been mostly defined by his absence and the pain that it caused. So here Ford is, absolutely refusing to leave his brother's side but also being... well, not unable, just not ready to help. Because helping would mean having to tell Stan that they had been apart for most of their lives for reasons that were partly Ford's fault. And of course this won't last long and Ford will eventually tell his brother what happened between them and they will get over it. But for a short but painful while Ford sees a Stan who only remembers Soos and the kids, a Stan who is for once genuinely carefree and happy and wonders, whether maybe it's better this way, maybe that's his punishment for all of his wrongdoings. That maybe he deserves to have one of the very few people who have ever mattered to him remember everyone but him. That maybe Stan deserves to have his family back, but Ford does not.
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magicpiano · 3 months ago
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Dark AU, Arkham patient! Jazz Fenton.
Sadly, Jazz Fenton is convinced that her brother Danny is still alive, that Phantom didn't kill him, that ghosts are actually sentient and not necessarily evil. Clearly she was brainwashed by Phantom who was pretending to be her brother.
The GIW graciously don't charge her with the crime of violating the anti-ecto act by protecting ghosts as a kindness to her parents who have done so much good work. She is sent to a mental hospital outside of Amity Park because they think she will recover better away from ghosts.
Well Arkham doesn't know what is about to hit it and Jazz is going to do whatever it takes to escape and save her brother.
#i think this could be well combined with arkham patient Jason and Jazz/Jason ship#Maybe Jason senses that Jazz is Important (ghost princess) and they team up to escape together#Jason is happy to have his murder urges turned on people who deserve it#you could take this two ways depending on your taste. Either the bats actually help and realize what is happening OR they are the antagonis#if Jason is there than probably they are antagonists. Even though he was treated okay there in the comics actually#but we can ignore canon for angst if we want#does this one exist yet? I have seen villain jazz and dark jazz but not this specifically#mostly i see AUs where she works at Arkham#some quick content warnings for implied:#psychiatric abuse#medical abuse#psych abuse#Although I am a bit tired of the use of medical abuse in Arkham in canon and fanon.#It would be neat to see it portrayed as a place that actually tries to help people.#Because in canon they do try to make it better!! So it would be interesting if Jazz wasn't abused in the typical way here#instead they ARE trying to help her but they are just WRONG about her 'illness'. It would make things more fucked up actually.#Like wouldn't it be MORE fucked up if she was treated well? If her parents were kind and supportive? Trying to help her 'recover'.#Imagine the Fentons bringing sweets books games to their 'sick' child. The only child they have left. They want her to 'get better'#Wouldn't that be like peak fucked up?#especially because she is a person who believes in psychology so much. yet it betrays her...#jazz fenton#danny phantom#dc x dp#dc x dp crossover#dc comics#dpxdc#dp x dc crossover#dp x dc prompt#batman#arkham asylum
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hairmetal666 · 1 year ago
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He hates Steve Harrington, everything about him. His stupid, upbeat pop music. His tall fucking hair. His annoyingly bright clothes. His bullshit German luxury car.
Eddie hates that Steve's a good guy. Hates that he carried Eddie's broken and dying body out of hell. Hates that the kids love him how they do. Hates that he and Robin Buckley are the kind of best friends who might as well be siblings. Hates the way that Jonathan is back and Nancy is happy, and Steve has no resentment about any of it. Hates that he'll never, for as long as he lives, forget about six kids and a Winnebago.
And he hates, more than anything of all, the way he's always finding himself in Steve's bed. The way he falls apart when Steve is deep inside, the way he begs for more, pleads for Steve to wreck him. The way Steve treats him so good that it makes him sob.
Eddie hates himself for not being able to stop. For wanting Steve so much that sometimes he feels it as a visceral ache in the back of his molars. He hates himself for how little fight his dumb traitor heart puts into not being astronomically down bad in love with the guy immediately.
And none of this is supposed to flow from his brain to his tongue to out of his mouth, but Steve fucks him so good and slow--gives him the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life--that it all just slips out of the safe confines of his mind.
"I fucking hate you," he says. Or pants, more like, he's all flushed and sweaty and covered in come, not yet settled back to himself.
"W-what?" Steve stutters. He's standing at the edge of the bed, damp towel clenched in his fist.
True, full consciousness strikes then and he doesn't know what else to say. Steve's big eyes are wide and sad, and Eddie's brain is screaming at him to fix it, and isn't that just another thing that he hates?
"Steve. Like. Fucking look at yourself, man." He waves his hand up Harrington's perfect body. "You're the most beautiful fucking thing in the universe. And you--you embody like every fucking thing I'm supposed to hate with your money and your athletic ability, and your whole goddamn clean-cut All-American boy next door bullshit. And I--I keep ending up here when everything in me says to run away, that this--you--are too good to be fucking true."
And Steve, he's pinching the bridge of his nose, looking more than anything like he's trying not to burst into tears and this--this cannot be borne.
"I love you so fucking much." His voice cracks and he reaches out to circle his fingers around Steve's wrist, the one holding the towel. "I love you so much and I don't deserve even a second of it. Not a minute. Because you're Steve Harrington, you're--"
Steve presses his hand (he hates the the wide palms and long fingers, how they're perfect, how they hold him and comfort him and wring out pleasure again and again like it's nothing, like Steve's hands were made for making Eddie come) over Eddie's mouth. "Shut-up, Munson," he says.
"I fucking hate you too." There's ease in the way he says it, a lightness in his eyes. "I hate that you don't use conditioner. I hate that your van makes that turkey gobble sound every time you turn a corner, and you refuse to let me look at it. I hate how loud you play your music, how it makes my fucking skin shake. I hate when you forget to take the damn chains off your jeans when you put them in the wash."
Steve climbs into bed, straddling him, towel long forgotten. "You know what else I fucking hate, Eddie?" He leans down, ghosting his lips against the tip of Eddie's nose, skimming his mouth. "I hate that I've never loved anyone like I love you. I hate that I almost fucking lost you. I hate that we can't spend every minute in this goddamn bed, so I can memorize every inch of your skin, every sound you make, every single way I tear you apart, and all of the things that put you back together. I love you, Ed. Every fucking terrible part."
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trunktrash · 1 month ago
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[Rafayel x Reader] [Synopsis] 》 Despite any apprehensions, you agree to help Rafayel with his paintings by modeling for him. Three hours later the two of you both find yourselves at your wits end. Who'll snap first? [Content] 》 Angst to Fluff : Comfort : Guilt tripping
[Still as a Statue]
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"My legs are starting to hurt.", A soft mumble escapes your mouth. A slight grimace pulls at your top lip and nose.
You stand in the middle of Rafayel's living room, surrounded by his piles upon piles of half finished paintings. You're posed quite gracefully, set like stone. It's actually a pose you had come up with on the spot after Rafayel had asked you to be his model on one random morning.
Given how rarely he liked to paint people you didn't want to waste the opportunity to be his muse. Even if it was just once.
The windows are open, and the sun glares through the unblocked glass. Bathing your form in a sheet of warm light. You can feel a bead of swear move down from of your neck to your back to even lower. Its coolness against your heated skin makes you shiver.
Moments pass by, and with no response you feel your skin heat up even more. Whether that's due to your rising impatience or the sun, you don't know.
"Rafayel?" You call out, your voice has a slight tremble. For a moment, there's no answer. The only sound in the room is your small breathes and the soft scrapes of your lovers paintbrush against the canvas.
And then he sighs, a tired, grating sigh. It's the kind you hear all the time when he has to deal with long phone calls from Thomas, the kind that releases the annoyance slowly building inside of him.
You want to flinch at the sound, you don't though, thankfully.
Instead, a weight pull at your chest and a cold wave of guilt washing over you. The feeling akin to rock sinking to the bottom of a lake.
Setting down his paintbrush, Rafayel looks to you, his dear love and bodyguard. And he frowns..
"I did warn you earlier.", he says finally,"I said you'd likely experience some aches if agreed and you still did." He brings a hand to his face, the one previously holding the paintbrush, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Now you've broken my concentration and not only that, you've been fidgeting this entire time." His tone is harsh, impaitent. No different than the Rafayel you're used to. So you don't understand why tears suddenly prick at the corners of your eyes.
"I'm sorry.", you barely manage to push the words out of your throat. Your knees shake and your muscles twitch in discomfort. You show the weakness in your heart, and you hate yourself for it.
"I swear-"
Rafayel stops mid-sentence, finally looking up at you. Something snaps the gears within his mind into place and he realizes something.
You are weak.
You are fragile.
And it's only because of him.
In a single moment, Rafayel practically leaps from his stool. Dropping his painters pallette, and tripping over his easel. He pays no mind to the damage he causes to the painting he spent the past three hours on. His focus solely remains on you.
You didn't let go of your pose, you couldn't, not until you felt Rafayels desperate hands reach for you. His frantic mind searching to feel you against him. To know that you were with him.
The moment his cold fingers touched your heated skin you feel every ounce of strength, every wall you had built, all come tumbling down. Like he had pulled out the singular brick that held together the impenetrable fortress that was you.
Sinking to the floor, the tears you'd silently been holding back fell onto your cheeks. And the once silent whimpers turned into full sobs and tremors.
Rafayel fell with you, not daring to look away, not once leaving your side. His eyes widen and his stomach twist sickeningly.
Oh how he hated your tears, and the spew of emotions you'd put into his chest. It weighed down heavy upon his heart, seeing you ache.
Slowly he wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you into his chest. Your head nestled just above his heart. With every tear that wetted his expensive cotton shirt, and every hiccup that clawed through your throat he could feel his own throat begin to close up.
In an attempt to soothe both you and himself; Rafayel began to rock back and forth, humming a tune his mother would sing to him when he was a young guppy.
Gradually, he could feel each and every muscle in his body relax, including his heart. In turn making yours do the same. At the same time he could hear your sobs turn into cries, to whimpers, and into mere sniffles.
Lifting your head up to look at him in the eye, your dear painter, you can't help but sniffle. Which elicits a small chuckle from him. Before his expression becomes more somber, his eyes harden into something much more serious.
"Are you okay my love?", his voice is soft. Likes he's scared you'd break at anything louder than a whisper. "It's okay if you're upset at me, I shouldn'-"
You plant a hand his chest, the motion freezing him in place. "Rafayel.", your voice is raspy from crying, "You know I love you very much, correct?"
"Yes? But what does-"
"Shhh.", you put a finger to his lips,"Let me finish."
He quickly nods, and you start to speak once more.
"Rafayel, my love, you are my light. You're the most creative yet curious peron I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. You're able to capture and hold others attention without even trying. You make my day better without even trying, you just smile and all else disapears. . .", There's a pause, "So the idea of disappointing you, or becoming an inconvenience to you is...", you trail off softly. Allowing the thoughts in your head swim with millions of possibilities and "What-If's"
Rafayel snaps you back into reality, with his palms cupping each side of your face.
"Don't. Don't ever think that." His tone is firm, demanding. In way that you'd never heard before, you almost don't understand it.
"I will love you always. No matter what. You're worth more than any art I could dream to create.", he becomes more breatheless which each word, "Do you even realize why I wanted to make a portrait of you?" His eyes search yours, looking for a response, an answer.
He looks into your eyes he can't find it, instead he sees pool's of confusion, twinges of fear flicker inside them.
Sighing softly to himself, he brings your head to his chest once again. Your face smashes against the cotton shirt as your ears pick up the sound of his lungs and heart. They move steadily, not in tandem with one another but each their own unique rhythm.
"Everytime you leave for a mission", his is so soft you almost don't hear it,"I-..I worry you won't come back. I'm scared you'll leave me." There's a solemn look in his eyes.
The confession makes the air within your lungs disapate. "Raf..", you can only stare up at him.
Rare do you find that your painter is able to be honest about his emotions with you, much less himself.
Reaching up, you cup his cheeks with your hands and you stare into his eyes. "I'm sorry my love.", his gaze softens, " I think we both mean more to each other than we let on."
He shifts his eyes, thinking to himself for moment, before nodding, "Yeah.."
"And I promise you this.", you take one hand off his face, and hold up your pinky to him, "No matter how hard the mission is, I will always come home to you. If I don't, you have every right to hate me."
A spark lights in Rafayels eyes, and he can't help but laugh at the situation you two were in. Before quickly regaining his composure, "I don't think I could ever hate you.", He says as he wipes his face, "But..I would like that."
A sweet smile graces his faces, lifting a hand he holds out his own pinky and intertwines with yours.
"And I promise you, no matter what, my love and my heart will always belong to you.. Mrs. Bodygaurd."
A giggle erupts from your throat, "You still call me that?"
"What? You don't like it?" Rafayel sounds hurt but you know by the look on his face it isn't real. You laugh a bit more before pressing your forehead to his.
"No, it's perfect."
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delusionships · 9 months ago
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A doubtful reunion [4/4]
ending is up to your interpretation, and honestly id encourage you to make an ending and post it !!
i'll also do 2 separate endings and see how it goes :^) stay tuned! and thank you
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okjii · 1 year ago
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once again thinking about the parallels of Neil going into the Nest over Christmas break for Andrew and Orpheus going into the Underworld for Eurydice. hows your day going though.
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kerizaret · 2 months ago
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I know i like to joke around that haha tsukasa scared of bugs haha funny loser, but please do remember and be mindful of people irl with fears that might seem silly or petty to you, because you never know how it truly makes them feel
#not meant to be a tks angst post necessarily i just relate to his fear a bit so hes a good outlet#its just something i think about sometimes#bc ive had ppl esp family laugh at me for being scared of bugs#and sometimes i laugh too! especially if i made the joke first#but sometimes its frustrating because it really can make you Feel Bad and Scared and Filthy. and they laugh like those feelings dont matter#so this is moreso just me kind of. setting a reminder to be respectful and kind of any kind of fear someone expresses#no matter if you understand it or not or if it feels stupid to you or not#its Their feelings#this doesnt mean im mad at anyone for any jokes and in fact i do like to joke about it too sometimes!! so its not a sign to stop#im just moreso saying. if someone says its not funny at the given moment then its not. period#bc i alsohave moments when it rly isnt funny. and then laughing at it just. yeah. isnt fun#anyway this is just a ramble bc its just been on my mind for a while#and maybe at times i feel annoyed at how tsukasa's fear is played off for jokes in the game more often than not#esp since akito's fear of dogs is not as much. and even got a whole event abt it. yk#like theyre Different but also Not Really#so i wish someone other than toya was more kind about it instead of. throwing bugs at him more. yk. at least sometimes#im mostly saying this in reference to real people though of course. please dont take this too seriously as a tks post 😭 do keep making fun#its not that serious and im probbaly just projecting onto him lmao#anyway ramble over peace off#tw bugs#cw bug#its not super graphic but yk#prsk#tenma tsukasa#akito shinonome#kerizart#project sekai#prsk fa
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lucasandlily · 7 months ago
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Rui x Reader who is really affectionate, but can't touch him because of The Curse.
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A/N: I'm alive!! Rui my beautiful beautiful tragic boy. I've actually been having a lot of brainrot for this game, particularly an isekai AU that made me contemplate making RP blog (I love you guys btw. This is probably my first fandom where they're so active, I've been really well connected with this fandom somehow and it's so fun!!), so I figured I might as well be writing it down now. This is an idea I've had spinning in my head for a while, so it's VERY self-indulgent/insert, but enjoy!! AO3 link here
Rui's POV. Second-person pronoun "You" is used. Angst! But also fluff!! (825 words)
You’ve always been an affectionate little thing. It’s something Rui finds adorable about you, staying optimistic despite all that looms over you, not letting any of the ghouls he KNOWS can be more than a little much sometimes destroy your positive attitude. It’s as if you decided to be the light in a place that literally has dark in its name, and he lov admires you for that.
He can’t help but feel the bitter green of envy though, when he watches you ruffle Lyca’s hair after he whines at you for treating him like a dog. 
He pointedly turns away from the look Ed gives him over your head when you relax into his chest after he leans over your shoulder.  
He just laughs along at your drunken antics when you nuzzle into Haru’s hand, somehow even more touchy when your cheeks are flushed with alcohol. 
He tries not to remember the flash of hurt, confusion, the first time he’d backed away from your hand when all you wanted to do was give him a pat for a job well done. He doesn’t know if it hurt more when your face morphed into regretful understanding, or when you apologised and told him you’d try not to do it again. 
Rui tells himself it’s for the better when he notices you’ve been avoiding him for the past week. He’d have done the same to you anyway, if he realised his feelings were starting to fester. He tries to not let it get to him when he hears you enter the Obscuary mansion, only to quickly patter up the stairs without stopping by the bar first, as you would have done previously. 
Maybe before, he would have made it a little competition to see who could mess up the other’s hair more. He’d watched you run your fingers through Lyca’s after you’d tousled it out of place, anyway. Maybe in another life, you’d gently hold his face as you showered him with kisses. He’d do the same to you anyway, if he wasn’t forced to keep his hands to himself. 
If he didn’t notice you hold your hand back every time you saw his mask slip. If he didn’t see your hand stop short before pulling it back to tell him he had a bit of hair out of place. 
It’s all just part of the cursed life, he tells himself. He should be getting used to it by now, he sighs as he walks down the hall over to his room. 
Behind him, he hears the jingle of the bell you like to wear on your keychain. He turns at the sound of your quick steps approaching. 
“Rui! Ruiruiruiii!!” You call.
“Ah, there you are! Haha, I’m not going anywhere you know~ though I guess I don’t mind being chased?” He teases as you approach. 
You smile up at him brightly, “I have something to show you!” You tell him, he notices now that you have a hand behind your back. 
“Hm? Aw, did you get me a gift? And here I was thinking you were hiding from me!” He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. Your smile falters a bit as you blink at his confession. 
But before he can backtrack with a “Just kidding!” your smile lightens again, eyes filling with some sort of resolve as you pull out… a glove on a stick? in your other hand.
He doesn’t pull away when he feels the simulation of a hand on his head. He can’t, when you look into his eyes with such unmistakable fondness. The awkward, stilted movements as you try to run the imitation hand through his hair communicates how long you’ve wanted to do this, and the tears that well up in his eyes betray how much he’s needed it. 
He feels the cloth soak up the tears when you move the glove down to hold his face. It feels soft under his skin, and he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. 
“How long did it take you to make this?” He asks as you let him lace his fingers with your hand extension. He squeezes the plush hand, feeling the soft give before it reaches the stick inside, inspecting where the glove and stick are attached. 
“Um! A week? It took a bit of experimenting to get it to stay on… And they don’t really sell gloves on campus either.” 
Your eyes crinkle when you look at him, the corners of your lips pull up triumphantly when he lets go of the hand to let you pat his head again. 
“You deserve at least this much,” you tell him. “I know it’s not really the same or anything, but I don’t wanna leave you out, y’know?” 
“It was worth it though, if it made you happy.” You look into his eyes as you say this, and he can’t help but believe you.
Reblogs and Comments are appreciated! I love you (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。
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myokk · 8 months ago
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