#to deal with his trauma with a trained professional...

[fauvester]

the life-changing therapeutic power of a silly little guy in a tiger costume can NOT be overstated

[vaguely-concerned]

walking through lucanis' mind prison. the tam lin of it all

[quickestgold]

Goodbye, My Lover | Part 3 | The Pitt

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Dr. (Ex-Mil)!Reader x Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch

Chapter 3: I Forgive You

Synopsis: When you're rushed into the ER with critical injuries, Robby and Jack find themselves in a desperate battle to save the woman they still love. Amidst the chaos, the line between professional duty and personal history blurs.

Warnings: Age gap is around 18 years. This series deals with some heavy themes around a physical attack, death, grief, ptsd, panic attacks, s*icidal tendencies, heartbreak >>> comfort at the end, I promise

Word count: 1222

A/n: Here it is,,, the chapter where what happened is finally revealed. Fyi, the physical attack isn't detailed, but the treatment of the injuries is pretty graphic, so take care if that isn't your kind of thing besties

Previous Chapter (2): Please Forgive Me | Next Chapter (4): Thank You

“Please forgive me”, Jack’s words echo in your ears. You’re still on the pavement, the three of you in an intimate, fragile circle.

You didn’t realize how much guilt Jack still carried with him.

It wasn’t his fault.

“What do you mean, Jack?” Your voice soothing.

He doesn't react.

“For not being there", Robby speaks, for both of them.

Your eyes flicker to Robby’s and it hits you. The day he snapped at you in the ER.

“No”, you cut him off. “This is not your fault,” your tone direct.

“And not mine.” You surprise yourself. Too long you’ve blamed yourself for what that angry patient did, but hearing Jack and Robby take on this burden, feels like a punch to your gut.

Robby takes Dana to the side: “Where’s Y/N?” Worry evident on his face.

“She went to get some air”, Dana answers reluctantly, having overheard the incident earlier.

Robby lets out a guilty groan, eyes shut, twisting his mouth. He scratches the back of his neck, shaking his head ever so slightly, like he usually does when he’s stressed.

“Okay", exhaling softly. "Come find me when she’s back please? I need to apologize.”

“No shit”, Dana huffs.

“Dr. Robby!” Perlah calls from Trauma One, urgency in her voice. And with that he’s off.

Jack watches from a distance, worry growing within him as well. He heads straight for the stairwell. He should have said something.

But when he reaches your spot, all he finds is Dr. Garcia having a smoke with one of her colleagues. It seems like he's interrupted something, awkward tension hangs heavy in the air.

“Has Y/N been up here?” Jack shouts.

“Check the attending’s lounge, that’s her thing isn’t it?” Yolanda provokes.

Jack groans, rushing back down to find Robby. But his search is cut short when EMTs rush in a patient in bad shape. “What have we got?”

“Unconscious, but breathing. Blunt force trauma to the head, suspected rib fractures, possible pneumothorax and significant blood loss”, the EMT reports quickly.

“Trauma Two” Jack commands, his voice sharp and professional, already assessing the damage.

As he works, something catches his eye, the patient’s wrist. A small tattoo is partially visible, just beneath the bloodied sleeve. He pulls it back slightly, to make sure. Praying, begging, that he's wrong.

He isn’t. It’s the same tattoo that decorates his own arm.

Jack freezes. Unable to move a muscle, paralyzed.

His heart races and for a moment, the sterile walls seem to close in on him. It can’t be, but there’s no mistaking the face beneath all the blood.

“Get Robby. Now!” Jack orders, his voice low but urgent. He knows he can’t do this alone. Not when it's you.

Robby enters the room in a rush, ready for another emergency. “Need a hand?” He teases. But the moment his eyes land on you, his entire world stops.

Jack doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare take his eyes off of you, fearing you might slip away if he does.

“What the fuck happened?” Robby demands, his voice thick with disbelief, as he moves quickly to the side of the gurney.

“We found her in the alley by the back entrance”, the EMT states.

Robby’s mind races, but his training kicks in.

Robby and Jack work in tandem, their movements seamless as they prepare to save you. Jack checks your airway, while Robby begins assessing your chest injuries. Every second is critical, both men struggling to maintain their professionalism.

Their hands move over your exposed form, painfully mirroring the way their fingers used to trail your body when you were together. Every inch of you mapped out and forever burnt into their minds.

Focus. Focus!

“Ribs are displaced”, Robby mutters, his voice tight. “Probable flail chest. We need to drain the pleural cavity.”

Jack nods grimly, his mind running through the necessary procedures. “Collapsed lung, tension pneumothorax most likely." He takes a deep breath, his eyes scanning the monitors. Your heart rate is erratic and your oxygen levels are dangerously low. "Needle decompression first."

Jack presses his fingers along your ribs to locate the entry point. His hands are precise as he performs the procedure, inserting the needle just above your rib. The trapped air escapes immediately.

"Got it", Jack says, a moment of relief, as he watches your chest begin to expand more naturally.

Robby steps back, barking orders, his usual calm demeanor starting to crack. "Prep for intubation. We need to secure the airway."

Jack nods, already setting up the equipment.

Robby checks your pupils, his fingers pressing gently against your neck. "Pulse is weak.”

Jack places the endotracheal tube in, ensuring it’s secured, giving you a few breaths.

Robby moves in with the chest tube, prepared to drain the fluid building up. The tube is inserted and the air begins to flow freely, your breathing starting to stabilize.

"We’ve got a pathway", Robby says, but his voice breaks. He looks at Jack, like a little boy who’s lost their parent in a busy crowd. Willing him to fix this. To fix you.

Without warning, the heart monitor flatlines with a piercing, urgent tone. Jack’s eyes snap to the monitor, heart sinking. "No… No." He moves quickly to your side, checking your pulse. He doesn’t hesitate, positioning himself at your chest.

With practiced urgency, Jack stacks his hands over your sternum. He feels sick, knowing what he’s about to do. He quickly swallows the lump in his throat, using his body weight to compress down, forceful and steady.

The team rushes to prepare the defibrillator.

After a while Robby instructs, “Hold compressions." But the flatline continues.

“Still in asystole”, Donnie states, voice trembling.

Jack resumes compressions seemlessly. Each deep push into your chest feels like a silent plea for you to come back to them.

Sweat begins to pool on Jack’s forehead. Robby motions for him to switch out. Jack complies, as Robby takes over effortlessly. The risk of breaking your ribs sends an icy shiver down his spine, it's brutal and suffocating.

“V-fib. We’ve got a shockable rhythm”, Jack’s firm tone snaps Robby back, all eyes fixed on the monitor. “Charge to 200”, Robby orders.

The machine charges with a loud beeping. “Clear!” Donnie shouts.

Everyone pulls their hands away, as the shock is delivered.

The silence is deafening, everyone collectively holding their breath with you.

The monitor flickers.

Then, a pulse.

Weak, but it’s there. The sound of your heart returning to sinus rhythm.

Finally, Jack allows himself to see you as more than a patient on the table. He studies your face, lightly touching your cheek, cautious not to hurt you any further.

“Stay with us, Y/N", Jack says softly, not daring to look away from your battered body.

“Okay. Let’s take a deep breath. All of us”, Robby speaks calmly, looking directly at Jack.

Everyone takes a slow, necessary breath.

Robby finally dares to look down at you too, his face softening. He leans in, "We’ve got you". Though he knows the fight isn’t over.

Back on the pavement. It feels like you've been out here for a while.

It's not your fault.

Robby takes in your words.

He leans in, placing a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder. They share a look and you realize that’s how they made it through almost losing you.

Together.

Thanks for reading part 3!! If you’re a healthcare professional, please look awayyy, this is probably full of medical inaccuracies, I'm sorry! The next chapter will focus more on their collective healing… As always, pls share your thoughts below!!

PS: Lmk if you want to be added to the taglist: ♡

@queenslandlover-93 @sp00kylesley @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sqrlgrl22 @imonmykneessir @gabsgabsvaz @nowandajenn @cannonindeez @sydney-m @persistent-mango

[da-janela-lateral]

Writing the "Teruki's C-PTSD made his powers develop unhealthy defense mechanisms" post awakened my lingering ESP worldbuilding brainworms, so now I need to note down my other ideas on how the existence of psychic powers may affect public health.

As espers get more and more relevant post-World Domination Arc, brain and mind field professionals are forced to face issues with literally no research about. Therapists struggle to treat clients with traumas that are inseparable from the supernatural world (Claw members, survivors and families of victims; psychic disaster survivors; child espers; people whose powers affects their daily lives, etc.). Psychiatrists have to consider if a person's meds will affect their powers. A new branch of neurology appears to study how neurological diseases and ESP affect each other.

This lack of training in health workers represents one of the many factors that make espers such a mentally vulnerable group. Even when they get help, the inefficiency of most treatments and the risk of forced hospitalization make lots of them give up after a few months.

On the other hand, as a boom in parapsychological research happens (due to increasing government concerns + investments), espers get the opportunity of getting free sessions in exchange of helping teachers and students understand the role of ESP better. In other cases, the subjects are simply paid, while there are also registers of volunteers using their powers just because they feel that would be useful to society.

Healing powers are controversial. Some scientists claim there is too little research and specialized espers to make it a feasible treatment, besides the method possibly increasing the chance of tumor development and/or a harsh immunological response. For this reason, healing abilities are mostly employed in cell and tissue studies.

Years after Sakurai chose a "peaceful" convenience store employee life, he is suddenly called by one of the most prestigious universities in the region. Turns out his power-nullifying curse design became a huge rumor there and they want to know how to adapt it to hospital rooms: this way, esper patients won't cause any danger if their powers go haywire. The possibility of a patent arises. An avalanche of calls come from everywhere. Sakurai just wants to do his shift without a headache.

Nurses now are trained to deal with spirits and possessed patients through specialized classes. They are taught how to make and manage talismans, identify possessions and even neutralize aggressive possessions.

Even so, true psychics are still very valuable whenever things get serious.

[mostlymihawk]

Getting Sick!

Straw Hat Crew (+ Shanks + Mihawk) x GN reader

Prompt: How they react to you getting sick.

CW: Emetophobia (throwing up)

Luffy:

Completely useless.

The man's made of rubber, he doesn't have a clue what to do.

"Um...it's gonna be okay? It's gonna be okay, right?"

You have to ask him for everything.

Does carry you to bed when asked, and will happily snuggle you.

Then asks if you want something to eat.

Food is the solution, and refuses to understand that food can also be the problem.

Nami:

Holds your hair and runs her fingers through it at the same time.

Also dabbing your face and neck with a cold cloth.

Certified professional make-it-better-er.

She did a lot of throwing up when she was younger.

Childhood trauma combined with lying to your sister and working for your mother's murderer will do that.

Knows exactly what she would have wanted, and gives it all to you.

"It's gonna be okay. I've got you, sweetheart."

Keeps tabs on your temperature to make sure this isn't a symptom of something bigger.

Refuses to let you out of bed until you're 100% better.

Zoro:

Keeps his face carefully blank and gently rubs your back.

Looking away the whole time.

You know him well enough to know he does not want to be doing this.

Handles blood just fine but this is a whole other ballgame and he wants no part of it.

Happily helps you to bed after, because it means the gross part is over.

"Better out than in...I guess."

Then he remembers someone has to take care of the cleanup.

Tries to frame it as discipline training to make it better.

Usopp:

Useless, but tries his best.

"Do you need a cloth? Some water? I can get, uh...fresh pair of clothes?"

Standing outside the door, so you croak out what you need and he runs to get it for you.

Needs to be filling the silence.

If he's not asking you something and you're not answering he's talking about how this reminds him of that one time in the Forest of Doom...

Spends the whole night telling stories to help you get to sleep.

Gets a lot better when he realizes this isn't all that much different than barnacles and bird poop.

Unfortunately, the worst of it has already passed by then.

Confidently assures you he'll be ready for next time, though.

Sanji:

As a gentleman, it's his duty to take care of his significant other when they're sick.

He's damn good at it too.

That doesn't mean he has to like it.

His face is pinched as his thumb gently rubs your back, he dabs your face and neck, and offers you sips of water when you can manage it.

"You're alright, sweetheart. A little bit of my tender love and care and you'll be on your feet in no time."

And then he notices the colour, not unlike the blueberry reduction from the dessert you'd asked for after lunch.

Gently helps you to your room, and it's not until the next day that you notice anything is amiss.

In. con. solable.

No one has ever gotten sick from his food before. Ever.

Refuses to serve food.

The Straw Hats have to turn back to Baratie so Zeff can literally beat some sense into him.

Shanks:

Bonus!

This crew loves its alcohol way too much for Shanks to be even the slightest bit bothered by a little vomit.

Sits by your side, dabbing your face, rubbing your back, completely unfazed, cracking jokes the entire time.

"Snuck into the hold and had yourself a little party without me, did you?"

Knows exactly what to do to help you feel better.

Again, the crew loves alcohol too much for anything else to be true.

Cuddles. So many cuddles.

This crew is too experienced to let a sick crew member come back to work early, so despite the unserious approach you're on strict bedrest.

The whole crew makes fun of you...but only once you've recovered.

Mihawk:

This is not a man who routinely deals with people being sick.

Confused.

Why are you sick.

Who caused this.

Who does he need to kill.

(It's whoever cooked your dinner at that restaurant you went to last night, but you don't tell him that.)

Completely repulsed, does not let it show on his face while he tends to you.

Rubs your back very gently, and uses a cool cloth to wipe the sweat off your face.

Helps you to bed, sits up and lets you lean against his chest so you're upright, and encourages a few sips of water.

"Get some rest, my jewel."

The next day there's a doctor at your bedside.

You don't need a doctor, but the look on Mihawk's face says this is non-negotiable.

[traveler-at-heart]

Doctor's In - Part 9

Wanda Maximoff x Doctor!R

Summary: New Year, new... relationship challenges? Sharing a home isn't all fun and games.

A/N: Everyone, please don’t tell me how much you hate where this story is going just because it seems like R will cheat on Wanda. There’s more to the plot and it’s not something I’m doing just randomly, I’m spending time and effort into creating a fic that is a bit more nuanced or at least I hope it is.

Natasha is not a people person.

Which is funny, considering her profession. She’s created a system that allows her to interact with patients as little as possible, and to focus on what she understands best: the human heart.

Not as a metaphor for sentimental stuff, but as a perfect machine.

She’s out of her element now, and considering the stupid drunk that is shouting in the middle of the ER, Natasha thinks it’s better to check if you’re around later.

“Is anybody going to take a look at this?” the man raises his messed up hand, slurring his words. He approaches Natasha, and she busies herself reading a chart. “Are you going to help or not, hot stuff?”

“I don’t work here” she grumbles, deciding that she’ll have to wait for you somewhere else.

“I was hoping you could take care of me. Where are you going? I'm talking to you” he says when she turns to leave, his good hand flying to grab her by the elbow.

Natasha is ready to throw a punch, but she never feels his touch in any part of her body.

“Lay a hand on her and I will strap you to a hospital bed and give you a colonoscopy without anesthesia” you say, surprising him with your strenght. “Now, sir, sit the fuck down and someone will be with you shortly”

“I’ll handle it” Barnes, the new nurse, approaches with his signature frown. He is equally attractive and terrifying, though most of the nurses ignore the latter.

“Thank you” you smile, watching the man become quiet as Barnes grabs him by the shoulder, knowing he won’t be able to say anything stupid to him. “Hi, Nat”

“Hey, stranger” she smiles at you. “I was hoping I’d run into you here”

“Is that why you were wandering the ER? You could just text me” you smile, walking with her to the cafeteria. “My shift ended an hour ago, which is why I wasn’t the one dealing with that asshole”

“Thank you for that, you are such a gentlewoman. I am dissapointed, though. I was hoping you’d stay for our first lesson today”

“Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss it for the world”

Most of the hospital was buzzing with excitement at learning the new surgical technique that had earned Melina Romanoff a Nobel Prize. The exception was Tony, but that was only because he was convinced the Romanoffs had a secret, evil plot to take over. Even Pepper had told me to chill in front of everyone.

You sit at the front, saving a spot for Darcy and follow every word Natasha says. She’s just going over some of the theory and the process of how the research came to be, which is still very interesting to you. Medical research required patience and focus that you did not have, so you had turned your professional development to trauma, as well as search and rescue training.

“We’ll meet on Wednesday to start the first exercises” she finishes the presentation, and winks at you discreetly.

You smile, leaving the conference room, Darcy right behind you.

“What was that?”

“What? Were you expecting exercises from the get go?”

“I meant the wink. Why was she winking at you?” Darcy insists and you shrug your shoulders.

“I don’t know. Friends wink at each other. I wink at you!”

“If you winked at me, I’d think you’re having a stroke” Darcy insists, and you have to roll your eyes. “It was flirty”

“Natasha knows about my relationship, we are just friends” you say, eager to finish the conversation.

“I just think there’s something fishy about this”

“You too? Stark got to you, Lewis” you mock, nudging her shoulder. “Come on, it’s all fine. I gotta get home, though, I forgot to tell Wanda I was staying longer”

“I hope she kicks your ass for that!” Darcy says as you run out of the hospital.

“Yeah, yeah”

As you drive home, you stop by the shopping street to get Wanda some flowers. You don’t think she’ll be too upset about you being late, but it never hurts to be safe.

Still, as you park in the driveway, you take a couple of minutes inside your car, looking at your old home in the rearview mirror.

Truth be told… you’re stalling. Though you love everyone inside the Maximoff house very much, you’ve had so much work these past two weeks, and it’s always a bit exhausting to get home and find the kids running around or Pietro complaining about something.

As someone who went from living alone to sharing a house with four other people full time, it was definitely overwhelming to say the least.

You take a last, deep breath and step inside the house, Pietro watching a show while the twins play in the backyard.

“You’re late” he comments.

“Work stuff” is all you say, not feeling in the mood to justify your tardiness to someone who isn’t Wanda.

But, as you enter the kitchen and your eyes meet hers, you can tell she’s also a little upset.

“Sorry, work ran long” you apologize, offering the flowers. She tries to smile and you put them down on the counter. “I really am sorry, Wands”

“No, it’s ok. I’m just behind with the book and the kids were a little difficult today… I could have used your help, that’s all”

I could have used some rest, you want to say, but that won’t help. It’s not forever, you keep thinking. Pietro will get better and move out, and things will be less crowded.

“I’ll be here all day tomorrow, I can take care of anything you need” you promise, saying goodbye to the prospect of a good nap. To keep yourself busy, you take out stuff to make a sandwich, sighing when you notice you’re out of cheese. “Like going to the grocery store, I guess”

Pietro keeps eating everything and by the time you’re home, there’s barely any food left.

“And you’re coming to the twins game on Wednesday, right?”

“Oh” you pause, scratching your neck. “I have to go to the hospital”

“Again? It seems like you’re there all week” Wanda protests.

“Well, yeah, we’re understaffed, between people being sick and others taking time off. I have to go and head the department, it’s my job, Wanda” you say, suddenly not hungry.

Nothing’s enough, you’re not good enough.

“I just… miss you. That’s all” Wanda says, and you sigh, feeling like an asshole.

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s always crazy during January, plus we’re doing a new training with a doctor from Boston. Things will settle in a couple of weeks, I promise”

“Ok” she nods, smiling as you approach her, kissing her temple. “But you’ll have to make it up to me”

“I have a few ideas for that, Miss Maximoff” you smile, pulling her against you and kissing her temple. “And none of them include clothes”

“Good” she laughs, standing on her toes to kiss you.

—

You wanted to have a good day, you really did. Wanda needed some work done on her new study so you dropped off the kids and drove to the hardware store, trusting Pietro could be fine on his own for a while.

What really ruined the mood happened on the way back home.

While turning on a busy street, your mother calls and instead of pressing the ignore button, you answer.

“Fuck” you mutter and it’s too late to hang up. “Hey, mom”

Wanda perks up at that, curious about your mother. She has never even heard her voice, let alone watch you have a conversation on the phone with her. She can tell your posture stiffens.

“Hello, Y/N. I missed your call for the holidays”

“Had lots of work” you lie.

“Oh, well. Hope you liked your birthday present” the woman says in a kinder tone and you almost want to laugh.

“Yeah, thanks. Really appreciate it”

“So, I don’t have a lot of time, wanted to let you know we’re flying there next week but we’re just gonna stay for three days. I don’t think we’ll have the time to meet you. Plus, it’s just us family, you know”

“Right” you try to sound disappointed, but are actually tempted to stop the car and dance around the street. “Some other time”

“Just make sure you’re available in case we need anything. It’s the least you can do”

“Of course” you agree, looking out of the corner of your eye at the confused expression on Wanda’s face. “Have fun, say hi to everyone for me”

“Ok, you take care now”

The minute she hangs up, you let out a huge sigh of relief.

“What was that?” Wanda says, frowning.

“Which part, love?”

“Everything! Ok, first of all, the birthday present. What did she get you? I didn’t see anything delivered”

“Wanda, she doesn’t even know where I live. What happened was, someone walked by and she pretended to be nice. She’s always done it” you explain, feeling irritated. All you want is to be happy that you won’t see her, but Wanda is pushing the subject.

“And what about them coming? And not making the time to see you? Just us family? You’re her daughter!”

“Wanda, please, drop it” you plead, parking outside your home and stepping out of the car.

“Why is she like this? Why don’t you call her out on it? And I’m sorry, I just can’t understand someone being so horrible to their own child”

“Wanda!” you snap, slapping the trunk of the car. “I know, she’s horrible. I don’t care if she lies about getting me a birthday present and I don’t care enough about her to call her out for being mommy dearest. I am just so damn happy that I don’t have to be around her anymore, can we please focus on that?”

“I am just trying to understand. You never tell me anything about her” Wanda protests and you can’t believe she’s still talking about this.

“Everything there is to know, you already know, Wanda. What else would you like to learn? That sometimes I went to bed without having dinner because she thought I was getting fat? Or that when I got a summer job and was out too late she only let me sleep on the porch? What other fucking twisted things would you like to learn about that awful woman?”

“I…”

“If I say it’s complicated or I don’t want to talk about it, maybe just listen once. Here” you toss the car keys her way, not caring if she catches them or not. “I’m going for a walk”

You’d do more than walk if you were wearing different shoes and it wasn’t so damn cold. Still, you don’t make it very far, running into a black and white bunny in the middle of the street. None of your neighbors have pet rabbits, not that you can recall.

“Where did you come from?” you say, hugging the little thing and feeling relaxed as it moves its nose and settles in your arms.

“Señor Scratchy!” Agatha yells from her porch, and you turn around.

“I take it he’s yours?”

“Yes, Rio gave him to me. Señor Scratchy, what are you doing outside?” the woman says with a soft voice, taking him back. “I don’t know how he got out”

“Maybe your fence? Let’s take a look” you walk around to her backyard, pointing at an old part of her wooden fence. “Aha!”

“Oh, great. It will take forever to find someone to fix it” she grumbles. “He’ll have to stay inside for the time being”

“I can fix it. It will only take an hour or so” you say, eager to stay out of the house for a bit longer.

“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart?” Agatha squeezes your cheek and then slaps it gently. “Just remember, I’m already taken, hot stuff”

“I’m just fixing your fence, Miss Harkness” you wink. “I’ll be back with the stuff we need”

Wanda seems to be in her study when you go back home. The fact that you feel relieved instead of sad for making her hide does make you a little guilty.

Truth is, you’ve never lived with anyone you had a relationship with, and neither did she. Maybe you’re both expecting things to be perfect, and it’s just not realistic. Disagreements are bound to happen when you share a home.

Right?

As you work on Agatha’s fence, you keep thinking about a way to make things work for everyone, because you’ve had a couple of fights with Wanda in the span of two days and you really don’t want to make it a habit.

“Did that fence do something to you?” Agatha interrupts you, handing over a glass of water.

“Huh?” you look up at her, taking it and nodding your thanks.

“You're nailing that wood a little too hard, hot stuff” she says, dragging a garden chair and sitting next to you. “Spill”

Saying it’s nothing won’t stop her from asking, so you keep working and tell her everything that has been going on. How the house feels too crowded sometimes, and work is kicking your ass. It takes a minute, but you admit that Wanda really upset you, questioning why you didn’t stand up to your mother.

“I don’t know, I guess it’s something I’ve always wondered myself. Why didn’t I say something instead of being weak. It struck a nerve when Wanda said it out loud”

“Did she call you weak?” Agatha says, frowning.

“No, that’s me being dramatic” you chuckle.

“Look, it’s what I told you the other day. Not everyone understands it, because most people have a semi functional relationship with their parents. And from the sound of it, Wanda’s were straight out of a sitcom”

“I guess”

“She doesn’t have to understand it. She just has to respect your boundaries” Agatha says and you nod, still thinking about everything. “Have you ever thought about going no contact with your mother?”

“Is that what you did?”

“Oh, honey, my mother’s dead. So unless I pull out a Ouija board, we’re no contact already” she cackles, which makes you laugh.

“I don’t know. If she needs something, I guess I would try to help her. If she was a bad mother, that’s on her. But I won’t be a bad daughter”

“You’re too good” Agatha pats your back, and you smile at her.

“Alright, well, your fence is fixed. Can we call it even with the therapy session you just gave me?” you stand up, making sure everything’s in its place.

“Nu-uh, you owe me” Agatha jokes, taking the bunny out to the backyard. “You’ll be fine. Tú puedes”

“Duolingo?”

“Rio’s been teaching me Spanish. The other stuff I can’t say it to you because it’s dirty and for her ears only” the brunette winks, which makes you blush. “Bye, Y/N”

“Bye, Agatha” you roll your eyes at her antics, feeling better as you walk back home.

You figure it’s better to start working on what Wanda needs, so you carry the stuff upstairs and knock before entering the guest room turned into a study.

“Hey” you say, as Wanda looks out the window instead of working.

“Hi”

“I’ll fix the lights and then adjust your desk, or do you need to work now?” you ask, unsure if she’s also upset at you.

“No, that’s fine. It’s not even important, you should rest, work has been crazy for you” she finally turns, and you can tell she’s trying hard not to cry.

“Hey… come here” you step closer, pulling her into a hug. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m really sorry for pushing the subject. I can’t imagine someone being so awful to you, and I made you… I should have kept it to myself”

“It’s… yeah. It wasn’t nice and I really don’t like to look back at everything that happened. But I know you didn’t mean any harm, ok? I love you, baby” you kiss her temple, feeling her relax in your arms. “Why don’t you go check on your brother? He’s been too quiet, which can only mean he’s getting into some sort of trouble”

“Or buying more stuff from Amazon. We barely fit here” Wanda grumbles and you laugh, kissing her. “I’m sorry”

“I know. You’ll make it up to me in bed” you joke, which makes her laugh.

“Maybe now that he’s busy…”

In that precise moment, her brother decides to call for Wanda.

“Go” you kiss Wanda again, wishing you had more time just with her.

—

Natasha’s not excited about the day ahead, the only silver lining being that she gets to see you. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course. She’s flirting and constantly eyeing you, but nothing’s gonna happen.

Not on a lack of desire on her part. It’s pretty obvious you’re not the type of person who cheats. Pretty ironic, she finally meets a decent woman and you’re already taken.

What does that girlfriend of yours have that she doesn’t? Aside from two kids that adore you. Is the whole housewife thing really that appealing to someone like you?

As she enters the room for the next lesson, Natasha notices you’re sitting a few rows behind. That’s a little disappointing. Still, your eyes follow her every move and she feels a little surge of pride at that.

If only you were single, Natasha might get you to roleplay that teacher-student fantasy she’s had.

Still, as she finishes her explanation, you walk up to her, smiling.

“That was brilliant, Natasha” a brunette doctor walks behind you, and you reach out to stop her. “Hey, come meet Doctor Romanoff, Darcy”

“Pleased to meet you. We’re loving the lessons” she says, not wanting to make small talk. “Y/N, come on. I’m starving”

“Oh, I was thinking we could go out for a bite if you’d like?” you turn to Natasha, smiling.

“I’ve got surgery in half an hour” Darcy says, glaring at you.

“Nat?” you turn to the woman, smiling. “Bishop can take care of the ER for me”

“Yeah, I’d love to” Natasha says, kicking herself over how fast she agrees to doing anything you ask.

“Awesome, I know this great place” you begin saying, but she gets a phone call. Natasha looks at you apologetically, but you smile, while Darcy is pulling at your sleeve and giving her a strange look.

“I’ll only take a moment” Natasha promises.

“Yeah, that’s fine”

“A word, Y/N?” Darcy finally gets your attention back and you frown.

Natasha doesn’t care much about the new doctor, unless she’s also fighting for your attention. She finds an empty room to take the call, shutting the door behind her.

“What is it, mother?”

“How’s the second lesson?”

“Fine. Do you keep a timer on your desk?”

“I just like to know if the study plan I designed is working, Natalia. That way, when we move to the next one, it can be more efficient until we manage a global, scalable solution”

“We? I’m only doing this here and then I’m going back to my research, you agreed” Natasha reminds her, blood boiling.

“This is your legacy too”

“Then how come I wasn’t up there getting the Nobel with you?”

“Natalia, those are insignificant things compared to what we can acheive” Melina scoffs.

“I’m not going to spend another month in a different hospital just because you’re too paranoid about someone stealing your research”

“Fine, then get me a new Head of Trauma for Boston and we’ll consider it even” Melina says. “You know Yelena wants to focus on that, she needs someone who can teach her”

“There are tons of applicants. Choose one from the pile in your desk, Mother” Natasha sighs, knowing where this is going.

“What about that doctor you told me about? You sounded so enamoured last time”

“She wouldn’t move to another city, her girlfriend’s here” Natasha says.

“Girlfriends aren’t wives. Well, even spouses can get divorced. Maybe she just needs to hear the right offer” Melina insists.

“Mother…”

“You’re not resuming your research until you find a new Head of Trauma. That’s final, Natalia” the woman loses her cool, hanging up on her daughter.

Natasha feels so stupid, of course this would happen. Melina never cared about anything other than herself and her accomplishments.

“Fuck” the woman says, kicking one of the chairs. You walk inside that precise moment, jumping at the outburst.

“You ok?” you say, locking the door.

“Yeah. It’s nothing”

You let out a sigh, sitting next to her in the bed of the on call room.

“We can skip lunch if you’re not hungry”

“It’s not that. I mean, I’m not hungry anymore, my mother just pissed me off” Natasha shakes her head, trying to calm her racing heart.

“You got one of those too, huh?” you chuckle. “I’m sorry, Nat, honestly. It’s the worse feeling in the world. Someone who should support you trying to bring you down, and then no one believing you because there’s this collective denial that mothers can be bad people”

“Yeah, that’s exactly it. To everyone else she’s a genius. To me, she’s the woman who’s always reminding me how ordinary I am compared to her” Natasha fiddles with her hands, not used to being vulnerable. Not with someone who understands her so well.

“You’re not ordinary, Natasha” you say with so much conviction that the redhead looks up, eyes meeting yours. “And if your mother thinks that, I’m sorry to say that she’s not as smart as I thought”

Natasha laughs, blushing a little at the compliment. You nudge her with your elbow, standing up.

“Want some coffee instead? If you’re not hungry anymore” you place your hand in the doorknob, checking if she’s ready to step out.

“Yeah, sure”

As you nod and open the door, Natasha stands up, reaching for your wrist.

“I… thank you. You’re too kind to me” she says in a low voice.

“I guess I know how isolating it can be. If you ever want to talk, I’m here” you squeeze her arm in return, smiling at her.

Natasha is about to say something else, something probably really stupid, when a voice calls behind you.

“Detka, there you are”

“Wanda? Hi, what are you doing here?” you step out of the room now, looking at your girlfriend. Wanda, however, is focused on the very attractive redhead that follows behind you, noticing you were alone seconds ago

“Am I interrupting something?” she says, eyes not leaving Natasha’s figure.

“What? No, this is Nat… eh, doctor Romanoff. She’s the doctor from Boston who is giving us the course” you explain, looking between both women. Natasha is the first one to give up the staring contest, extending her hand to Wanda.

“Nice to meet you. Y/N has told me so much about you and your boys”

“I’m happy to hear that”

Happy that you know she’s taken.

“So, uh… what are you doing here?” you ask, still thrown off by Wanda’s presence. Ever since Pietro was discharged, she has never been back to the hospital. If you recall correctly, she said she had enough of hospitals for a lifetime.

“I need to talk to you for a second. Alone”

“I’ll meet you in a second” you smile as Natasha walks back to the conference room and she nods. When you turn to Wanda she has a strange look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You never told me she was this pretty”

“Who?”

“Natasha”

“I didn’t notice” you mumble, scratching your neck. “And anyways, that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

“Right. I just… I wanted to apologize again for yesterday. And make sure we’re ok. I know these past few weeks have been hard. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to come over and see you”

“Hey, we’re ok” you promise, pulling her by the waist. “I love you, you love me and we have a pretty nice family, don’t we? Even with stinky Pietro”

“I’m trying to convince him to shower daily” she laughs against your lips. It’s pretty clear that he was clean during his hospital days because he got sponge baths.

“It’s either that or hosing him down in the backyard”

“I’d like to see that” your girlfriend laughs and you take her hand, bringing it to your lips. “I’ll let you get back to work”

“Ok, if I can I’ll leave early” you kiss her cheek, squeezing her waist until you’re hand goes dangerously lower. “And maybe we can have some makeup sex”

“Mmhm you’d like that wouldn’t you” Wanda slaps your shoulder. “Go”

But as you wave goodbye and walk up to meet Natasha, Wanda doesn’t miss the look on the redhead's eyes.

She knows it, because it’s the same way Wanda looks at you. And that’s all it takes for her to decide, she doesn’t like the other woman.

—

It’s not as late as you thought, because when you get home everyone’s finishing dinner.

“She lives” Pietro says when you walk in.

“He bathes” you say, noticing his wet hair. “Did Wanda tell you I was going to hose you down?”

He doesn’t get to reply, because the kids jump in your arms.

“My stinky minions! Did you win the game today?”

“No, you have to come to the next one. You’re our lucky charm” Billy says.

“Pinky promise, I will come to the next one” you nod, moving to kiss Wanda. “Hey, gorgeous”

“Moya lyubov” she says and you smile, always loving that accent. “Come have dinner while the kids shower”

“Can you read us a story when you finish?” Tommy asks.

“Of course. Now go with Mom, I’ll be there as soon as I’m done”

The kids cheer as you get a plate and serve some delicious lasagna. Now you really don’t regret coming home early.

“Alright, I’m calling it a night. I’m exhausted” Pietro says.

“From showering?” you joke, but he fake laughs as he pushes his wheelchair away. “Leave your plate, I’ll clean it up”

“Thanks, sestra”

As you eat, you remember to send a text to Natasha, asking if she wants to have lunch with you tomorrow before she heads back to Boston for the rest of the week.

The kids are ready for bed and you walk upstairs, sitting between their beds and reading Dragon Feathers, which was your father’s favorite bedtime story to tell. Billy and Tommy laugh as you make different voices, the way your dad did when he told you the tale.

As soon as you’re done, they settle in bed, and Wanda’s the one who tucks them in, joining you at the door.

“I missed this” you say against her temple.

“I missed you” she agrees, leaning against your side. “Come to my study, I want to show you the drawings I made for the book”

The new working space was starting to grow on Wanda. Even if it was smaller, she had enough room to fit everything she needed, and her view was much better from the second floor.

You admire the sketches she hands you, looking at every detail and stroke of her pencil.

“Could I see you work one day? I don’t think I’ve ever done that, baby” you say, in awe of her talent.

“I don’t know, I might get too nervous”

“Please?” you pout, hoping that will change her mind. Wanda rolls her eyes and leans forward, standing on the tip of her toes to kiss you. Her movements turn more frantic and she catches you off guard when she pushes you against the small sofa, straddling your lap.

“Tell me more about her”

“About who?” you say, completely lost in the way her shirt strains against her breasts.

“That new doctor”

“Natasha?” you blink, trying to form a coherent thought. “Why?”

“Because. You’re working a lot, and apparently it’s next to a very beautiful woman whose name I hadn’t heard up until I saw you walking out of a room together”

“We were just talking” you mumble, more focused on undoing the buttons on Wanda’s shirt. She takes your wrists and pulls them away, forcing you to look up.

“I hope she knows your girlfriend is incredibly possesive and jealous” she whispers against your lips. “Or I might have to remind you who you belong to”

“I haven’t forgotten” you promise, looking at her lips intently.

“Then show me” Wanda says, her nails digging in your scalp. Whatever you were about to say dies in your lips as she kisses you, biting your lip and making you forget your name. You open your mouth, allowing her to explore it with her tongue and you carry her to the desk, pushing away everything so she can sit on it.

Wasting no time, Wanda holds her hips up so you can pull down her pants and underwear, and you kneel, moaning against her center when you begin to eat her out, desperate for her taste.

It feels like forever since you’ve had the chance to worship her body.

“That’s it” she moans as you bite the inside of her thigh, pleased with the way her legs close around your head. “I’m gonna…”

“Hold it”

“No, please”

“Did I fucking stutter? God, you are so impatient” you say, squeezing her throat as you move up, sliding two fingers inside her wet cunt. “Why can’t you just let me fuck you?”

“Oh, God” she says, getting wetter at your words.

“I think you’re the one who’s forgetting her place, baby” you say, hitting her G spot over and over until she can’t speak.

“Fuck” Wanda sighs, biting your neck as she finally gets her release. You kiss her, muffling her moans until her breathing evens out. “I missed that”

“Mhm” you smile, letting Wanda taste herself in your lips. “Come on. Let’s go to bed”

As you get changed and clean up, your phone pings several times.

“Work?” Wanda asks, but you’re smiling as you type.

“Huh? No, not work” is all you say, getting in bed and kissing Wanda. “Night, baby”

“Goodnight” she says, watching the screen of your phone light up again. You don’t notice because you’re already asleep, exhausted.

Wanda has to resist the urge to look at the text you just got.

You’ve never given her a reason to doubt you.

And yet, as she goes to bed, looking at your sleeping shape, Wanda can’t help but feel, there’s a part of you that’s not being honest.

[fayelero]

— WILDFLOWER ! timeskip!atsumu

➥ pr : timeskip!atsumu x famous!fem!reader

➥ syn : after a tough argument with your boyfriend, you got in a car accident…

➥ wc : 3.1k

➥ tw : tough argument, car accident, injured reader, angst to comfort, crying reader, y/n employed a lil.

➥ a/n : trauma era ! (it’s weird I’ll stop)

The lights of Shibuya sparkled like they always did—a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of neon advertisements flashing bright against the obsidian night sky, painting the urban landscape in vibrant, electric hues of pink, cerulean, and electric blue. Massive screens flickered with advertisements, music videos, and breaking news, casting their ever-changing glow across the bustling streets below. But high above the cacophony of the city, inside the sleek, minimalist luxury penthouse that had once been their sanctuary, the air was thick with a different kind of electricity—raw, crackling tension that threatened to consume everything in its path.

The once warm and welcoming space now felt cold, almost suffocating. Gone were the soft throw pillows carefully arranged by interior designers, the artful photography capturing moments of their shared past, the subtle scent of sandalwood that typically permeated the air. Now, there was only silence punctuated by ragged breathing and the distant hum of Tokyo's nightlife.

Atsumu stood by the kitchen counter, a study in controlled fury. His muscular frame was tense, arms crossed over his chest, revealing the definition of years of professional volleyball training. His brow was furrowed, a familiar competitive edge that usually served him on the court now turned inward, sharp and dangerous. His blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, was slightly disheveled—a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil brewing inside him.

You were on the opposite side of the room, pacing back and forth. Your designer heels—Louboutins, a gift from a recent magazine shoot—clacked against the pristine marble floor in a staccato rhythm that matched the racing of your heart. Each step was a statement, a declaration of your growing frustration.

The penthouse, situated in one of Shibuya's most exclusive high-rises, had always been a symbol of your collective success. But tonight, it felt more like a pressure cooker, ready to explode under the weight of unspoken resentments and mounting professional tensions.

"I'm so sick of this, Atsumu!" you screamed, your voice a complex mixture of rage and profound hurt. Tears streamed down your face, tracing perfect lines through your meticulously applied makeup. Your hands, adorned with delicate rings from your latest endorsement deals, gestured wildly, punctuating each word with raw emotion. "You're never here! Never! And when you are, all we do is fight. I've spent the last five years supporting you, loving you, waiting for you—while I'm out there building my own damn career!"

The vulnerability beneath your anger was palpable. These weren't just the words of a frustrated partner, but of someone who had consistently placed another's dreams ahead of their own, only to feel increasingly marginalized and forgotten.

Atsumu's response was immediate, defensive—a reflex honed from years of facing down opponents on the volleyball court. "And what? You expect me to just drop everything?!" His voice was louder than you'd ever heard it before, a mixture of Osaka dialect and raw emotion. "You think bein' a professional volleyball player is just fun and games? That it doesn't take everythin' I have to stay at the top?"

His words were defensive, but underneath lay a deep-seated insecurity. The volleyball world was unforgiving, with careers that could end in an instant. Every moment not training, not preparing, felt like a potential threat to everything he had worked for.

"That's not what I'm saying!" you yelled back, your voice cracking with a complexity of emotions. As you wiped furiously at your cheeks, the carefully constructed persona of the confident model and actress momentarily dissolved, revealing the deeply wounded individual beneath. "But it's like I don't exist to you anymore, Atsumu! It's like I'm just a damn afterthought!"

You paused, inhaling sharply, gathering the last reserves of your emotional ammunition. When you spoke again, your words were calculated, designed to wound. "You know what? Maybe you love volleyball more than you ever loved me."

The silence that followed was deafening.

The sting in your words was palpable—a razor-sharp blade that cut through the carefully constructed facade of their relationship. In Atsumu's eyes, you could see a storm brewing. His pupils dilated, the golden-brown irises darkening with a mixture of hurt, anger, and something deeper—a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.

His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching near his temple—a tell-tale sign of his rising frustration. The fists at his sides tightened, knuckles turning white, betraying the athletic control he typically maintained with such precision. Years of professional volleyball had taught him to channel emotions, to convert raw feeling into explosive physical energy. But here, in the intimate battlefield of their home, those skills failed him completely.

"Don't even start with that crap," he spat, his voice dripping with venom that was more pain than malice. The Osaka dialect grew thicker, a subconscious retreat into his most authentic self—the version of Atsumu that existed before the fame, before the pressure, before the constant performance of being a professional athlete. "You're the one out there posin' half-naked for the world to see! You don't even care about what that does to me, do ya? Every single time I see your face plastered all over those magazines, I'm reminded of how everyone else gets to see what's supposed to be mine!"

The words hung in the air, loaded with possessiveness, insecurity, and a deep-seated fear of loss.

You froze, his words slicing through you like a knife. The transformation was immediate—from emotional vulnerability to razor-sharp defensive mode. "Excuse me?" you said, voice dangerously low, each syllable carefully enunciated. The model's training kicked in—controlled, precise, devastating. "What's supposed to be yours? Atsumu, I'm not some possession you can just claim. I've worked my ass off to get where I am. And if you can't handle my success, that's on you—not me."

Your career hadn't been a gift. It had been a battlefield of its own—endless castings, brutal rejections, critical eyes dissecting every inch of your appearance, your talent, your worth. Each magazine cover, each commercial, each film role had been hard-won, purchased with countless sleepless nights and moments of self-doubt.

"Oh, so now I'm the bad guy?" he shot back, his voice heavy with sarcasm that barely concealed his hurt. "Yeah, sure. Poor you. The perfect little model and actress who gets everything handed to her on a silver platter. Do ya even realize how lucky you are?"

The accusation hung between them—a gross oversimplification of a complex journey.

Your mouth fell open, shock mixing with the anger that burned in your chest like an uncontrollable wildfire. "Lucky?" you repeated, the word dripping with disbelief and mounting fury. You took a step closer to him, closing the physical distance between you, your presence electric and challenging. "You think my career is easy? That I haven't sacrificed just as much as you have?"

The vulnerability returned, raw and unfiltered. "You have no idea what it's like to have your entire life picked apart by strangers, to have people constantly criticize you, to feel like you're never enough no matter how hard you try!"

In that moment, the fight transformed. It was no longer just about time, or absence, or professional demands. It was about two individuals drowning in the expectations of their careers, of society, of each other—desperately trying to maintain their individual identities while simultaneously trying to maintain a relationship.

The room fell silent, heavy with unsaid things. The city continued its relentless pulse outside, indifferent to the emotional storm raging within the penthouse. Neon lights continued to dance across the windows, a stark contrast to the stillness inside.

"I can't do this anymore," you whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of you. Your voice was soft, but filled with a finality that seemed to reverberate through the entire space. Shaking your head, you grabbed your designer handbag—a Chanel piece that had been a hard-earned gift by Atsumu after a particularly challenging campaign.

"Where the hell do ya think you're goin'?" Atsumu barked, his voice rising again, a last-ditch attempt to maintain control of a situation rapidly slipping away.

"Anywhere but here," you snapped, your hand already reaching for the Porsche keys in the decorative bowl by the door. The keys clinked against each other, a metallic punctuation to your decision. "I can't even stand to look at you right now."

Before he could respond—before he could plead, argue, or attempt to reconcile—you slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the penthouse, a final, definitive statement that seemed to echo the fracturing of something once believed to be unbreakable.

—

Travis Scott's "SICKO MODE" blasted at maximum volume, the bass so loud it seemed to vibrate through your very bones. The irony wasn't lost on you—a song about chaos and intensity perfectly matching the emotional storm raging inside your mind. The lyrics seemed to mock your pain, each beat a punctuation to your spiraling thoughts.

The words rang out, and you laughed—a broken, hysterical sound that was more sob than anything else.

"I'm so fucking useless," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the thundering music. Tears streamed down your face, cutting perfect lines through your carefully applied makeup. "Nobody could ever really love me. Not Atsumu. Not anyone."

The streets of Tokyo blurred past, your Porsche cutting through the night like a silver blade of desperation. Every word from the fight replayed in your mind with merciless precision. Atsumu's accusations echoed like razor-sharp whispers, each one cutting deeper than the last.

"You don't even care about me anymore," his voice rang in your ears. "You'd rather show off for strangers than even try to make this work."

The music swelled, Travis Scott's voice a backdrop to your internal breakdown.

"I'm nothing," you muttered, your grip on the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. "Just a pretty face. Just something to look at. Never enough to be truly loved." The words were a mantra of self-destruction, each one landing like a physical blow.

Your mind was a tempest of emotions—guilt, rage, self-hatred swirling together in a hurricane of pain. The city lights streaked past like watercolor brushstrokes, Tokyo's infamous neon landscape becoming an impressionistic canvas of blues, pinks, and electric whites.

You pushed the Porsche faster, as if speed could outrun the pain, could silence the voices in your head. The powerful engine roared beneath you, a mechanical beast responding to your emotional turmoil. At 180 kilometers per hour, the world outside became an indistinct smear, much like your sense of self—undefined, chaotic, on the verge of complete disintegration.

The irony of the lyrics wasn't lost on you. Ideas of worthlessness, of being unlovable, of being nothing more than a commodity—they filled your mind completely.

The intersection approached—a critical point of convergence that would change everything in a heartbeat.

The sharp, piercing sound of a car horn sliced through the music. A moment of stark clarity emerged, milliseconds stretching into an eternity. Your head turned, eyes widening as massive headlights barreled toward you, bright and unforgiving.

Travis Scott's voice was the last thing you heard.

The impact was sudden. Violent. Apocalyptic.

Metal screamed against metal, a cacophonous symphony of destruction that mixed with the final echoes of the song. Your Porsche—a machine engineered for precision and speed—was reduced to a crumpled sculpture of twisted metal and shattered dreams. The collision flung the car across the intersection with a force that defied physics, spinning and tumbling like a discarded thought.

And then, silence.

Smoke billowed from the crumpled hood, rising like a spectral mourner above the wreckage. The music cut off abruptly, leaving behind a ringing silence that seemed to echo your final, unspoken thoughts.

"Atsu…," you whispered, as darkness began to creep in.

The city continued its relentless pulse, indifferent to the personal tragedy that had just unfolded on its streets. Neon lights flickered, a final, distant reminder of a life that now seemed impossibly far away.

—

The phone's shrill ring cut through the silence of the penthouse. Atsumu, still frozen in the aftermath of your departure, instinctively reached for his mobile. The caller ID displayed the hospital's number—a sight that immediately sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system.

"Hello?," he answered, his voice raw from their earlier argument.

The words that followed would forever divide his life into two distinct periods: before and after this moment.

"Sakusa Kei Memorial Hospital," the voice said. "We're calling about a patient involved in a severe traffic collision. Are you the emergency contact for y/n?"

Time seemed to stop.

The next hours passed in a blur of sterile white corridors, the acrid smell of disinfectant, and the constant beeping of medical equipment. Atsumu's athletic composure—usually so precise, so controlled—completely dissolved. His hands shook as he filled out medical forms, his usually confident Osaka dialect reduced to fragmented, desperate whispers.

The hospital room was quieter than Atsumu had expected, save for the soft hum of machines monitoring your vitals. The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of his fear as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, lying amidst a sea of white linens and medical equipment. The sight nearly brought him to his knees.

Your body looked so small, so fragile against the stark hospital bed. Bruises bloomed across your exposed skin like shadows of the argument that had led you here. A cast encased your left leg, another your arm, and your face was marred with small cuts and swelling that no makeup could disguise. But your eyes—their familiar light dimmed but not extinguished—opened slowly at the sound of his approach.

“Atsumu,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a fragile thread that tugged at his heart.

He froze mid-step, his athletic frame tense, as though moving too quickly might shatter what little remained of you. Tears, warm and unwelcome, blurred his vision as he stumbled forward, his legs carrying him to your side.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. His hand hovered over yours, afraid to touch, afraid of breaking you further. “God, I’m so sorry, darlin’. This is all my fault.”

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion from the accident and the aftermath evident in every line of your body. For a moment, you said nothing, letting his words settle into the quiet. Then, with more strength than he thought you could muster, you managed, “Don’t… do that.”

Atsumu’s brows furrowed in confusion, guilt momentarily eclipsed by the sharpness of your tone, fragile though it was. “Do what?” he asked softly, his voice a broken echo of its usual bravado.

“Don’t you dare make this about you,” you replied, your voice gaining a sliver of its familiar fire. “This isn’t your fault, Atsumu. I was the one driving. I was the one who left.”

The tears he had tried so hard to control now fell freely, streaking down his face as he shook his head vehemently. “But ya wouldn’t have been drivin’ like that if it weren’t for me,” he countered, his Osaka dialect thick with emotion. “If I hadn’t been such an idiot—if I hadn’t said those awful things—ya wouldn’t have been out there at all.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of his guilt palpable in the room. “And if I’d listened to you instead of trying to win the argument… maybe I wouldn’t have stormed out,” you admitted, your tone soft but unwavering. “We were both wrong, Atsumu. Both of us.”

The admission seemed to strike him harder than any spike he’d ever taken on the court. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at you as though you were some ethereal being he’d never quite been worthy of. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sank into the chair beside your bed, his head dropping into his hands.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he muttered, his voice muffled but no less raw. “I thought I lost ya. When they called me and said you’d been in a crash…” His voice cracked, and he lifted his head, his golden-brown eyes now rimmed red with unshed tears. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

You reached for him, wincing as your arm protested the movement. Despite the pain, you managed to place your uninjured hand over his. The contact was light, hesitant, but it was enough to anchor both of you. “I’m here, Atsumu,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, as though he was fighting against every emotion threatening to spill out. Slowly, his hand turned under yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that was both tender and desperate. “I’ve been such a damn fool,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on your intertwined hands. “I’ve been so caught up in everythin’—the games, the pressure, provin’ myself—that I forgot… I forgot what really matters.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his voice, at the sight of the man you loved stripped down to his very core. “You matter to me, Atsumu,” you said, your tone firm despite the weakness in your body. “But I need to matter to you, too. Not as an afterthought. Not as something you’ll get to when volleyball isn’t in the way.”

He nodded slowly, his grip on your hand tightening as though he was afraid to let go. “You do,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “You matter more than anythin’. More than volleyball, more than any championship, more than everythin’ I’ve ever worked for. I just… I didn’t know how to show ya that without feelin’ like I was givin’ somethin’ up. But I see it now. I see you now.”

A single tear escaped down your cheek, and you squeezed his hand gently. “Then show me, Atsumu,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of everything left unsaid. “Be here with me. Don’t just tell me—show me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy but not oppressive, a quiet understanding passing between you as the city lights outside cast shifting patterns on the walls. Finally, Atsumu leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture so soft, so reverent, that it nearly undid you.

“I will,” he promised, his lips brushing against your skin with each word. “I’ll show ya. Every day, every damn moment. I’m gonna make this right, darlin’. I swear it.”

The weight of his words settled into your chest, warm and grounding.

The hospital room was still, the hum of machines and the distant sounds of the city your only company. But in that stillness, amidst the aftermath of chaos and pain, the first fragile threads of healing began to weave themselves through the fractures of your relationship.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him.

Ⓒkiesbrainjuice all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !

tag : @haechansbbg

[cherry-romper]

Hi! Hope you have a nice day. Can I request Mk man with a fem/reader who have a hard time being vulnerable both physically and emotionally especially sexually due of the past traumas and mk man helps them by taking things slower for sake of the reader comfort. Thanks in advance (o^^o)

Comfort Headcannons

+ Lui Kang, Kung Lao, Raiden, Bi-Han, Kuai Liang, Tomas Vrbada, Johnny Cage, Kenshi Takahashi, Syzoth, Shang Tsung.

Warnings; TW: the trauma is not mentioned by name but sexual assault is alluded to.

Contains; GN!reader, Comfort, Fluff.

Liu Kang;

The most understanding and patient person to ever exist. 

Will absolutely never pressure you into anything and will reassure you when you ask or when he feels like you need it.

Will always ask if what he’s doing is okay, if you’re comfortable and if you are sure. 

You have a wordless understanding, if you’re not feeling it or if you need some time alone, you don’t really have to say anything, he always knows and gives you the space you need.

Kung Lao;

He’s a monk, he’s not big into sexual intimacy anyways. Obviously he’d love to, but it's forbidden, so he’s also fine with just the basics.

Honestly, he thinks you being with him is like a reward. So, he doesn’t feel the need to push things because you’re already with THE Kung Lao. Do you need more than that?

Can be difficult at time to communicate with. Sometimes he only hears the sound of his own heart beating and he can’t see past it but when it comes to really serious conversations his attention is all yours. 

He’s no stranger to trauma, he’s understanding in his own way. 

Raiden;

Incredibly patient, he doesn’t push it at all. You only told him once that you wanted to take things slow because of a dark past and he understood immediately. 

Feels a lot of anger for the people who hurt you, though he won’t seek revenge, he thinks about it. He hates seeing you flinch away from intimacy. 

You can talk freely to him about everything. If you need to vent or a shoulder to cry on or even if you need space for prolonged periods of time, he won’t question it.

Checks up on you throughout the day, when he can. Will being you things too, to make sure you’ve eaten and drank enough. 

Bi-han; 

Took some time coming to terms with the fact that you just don’t want to do certain things. 

Initially, he didn’t understand. He’s mostly just angry that someone hurt you so bad that you can’t trust him, but he also knows what it’s like having to hide things, so he came around. 

Honestly, he doesn’t care about sex. He care more about loyalty and power. So, sex isn’t something on his mind. Prefers pure devotion to him and his cause. 

Doesn’t bring the subject up again. It’s like you never even mentioned it. He just avoids it the best he can. 

Kuai Liang;

Patient and understanding, but pushes you to get professional help.

He prefers having someone who can calm his fire AND match it. A perfect balance. For you to not be able to achieve your full potential because of past events, it makes him upset.

Encourages you to push your comfort zones and face your fears, but will never EVER force you. If you’re uncomfortable and feel overwhelmed or afraid, he’ll stop everything and comfort you. 

Gives the best hugs and pep talks, but is also amazing at giving you your space.

Tomas Vrbada;

Was so upset when you told him about your past. He hates that people are capable of such things. Comforted you immediately and set the ground rules there and then.

Always asks if you’re okay, if you need help, if you need space, if there’s anything he can do to make you feel better. 

Doesn’t baby you, but worries about you a lot. If you’re training, he’ll be watching you like a hawk, not even critiquing you but watching for any signs that you might want to stop, or if you’re uncomfortable with the people around you. 

Same goes for when it’s just the two of you. He’s patient and not going anywhere. He’s fine if you have moments of vulnerability, and deals with them as best he can.

Johnny Cage; 

Takes time to adjust. He forgets himself sometimes. Gets so upset if you flinch away from him and apologies like his life depends on it. 

He loves being around you, so when you ask for your own space he can find it hard because you’re the only thing on his mind. He can help think about how hard of a time you’re having and wants to help take that away. Hates that he can't help.

Has some trouble when it comes to communicating. He never means to make you feel unheard or inadequate, but seems to do it without noticing. He’ll realise after and apologies again.

You both work out a good middle ground, and find a way to make it work without anyone feeling unsatisfied or unhappy. 

Kenshi Takahashi;

Patient but needs to know the details of what he can and can’t do immediately. 

The last thing he wants to do is make you feel bad, so the quicker he knows the details, the better he’ll be able to treat you. 

Takes everything into consideration, and because of his heightened senses, you don’t really need to tell him when you’re not okay, he already knows. 

The whole thing is really easy, and you never need to explain yourself, he just accepts it and helps you the best he can. 

Syzoth;

He knows what it’s like having things taken from him. You don’t need to explain yourself, he knows. 

Is often away on business but writes to you as often as he can, he’ll send you things he think will help cope with the trauma. 

Is so sweet with intimacy and take it at whatever pace you set, he’s also fine with not at all. 

He communicates so well and is also an incredible listener, he’ll always be there for you. Even if he’s on official duty, he’ll take a portal to you if you ask him to, no questions asked. 

Shang Tsung; 

Is shocked to learn about your past and isn’t sure how to react.

He’s not going to make you uncomfortable or belittle you, but he takes time coming to terms with it.

Tries his best with being respectful with your wishes, and communicates his wants and needs well too. 

Can be difficult at times, since sometimes his work ends up coming first and he forgets the things you’ve been through, but once he comes down from his power trip he’s incredibly remorseful and tries his best to make it up to you. 

[padawan-snack-packer]

[You Give Them a Hug — Bad Batch (+ Omega!) Edition]

(aka: You broke them. And now they’re in love with you forever.)

So you peeps seemed to love the Clones Edition over here, so here is the Bad Batch version of it!!!

⚠️ TW: Not Canon. Just Vibes. ⚠️

This post contains: – Excessive hugging. – Deeply non-canon affection. – Clones feeling emotions they were not properly equipped to process. – A concerning lack of military professionalism. – Irreversible softness.

If you're looking for canon compliance, emotional restraint, or literally any kind of plot... you're in the wrong galaxy, sweetheart.

This is just me projecting unhinged love onto traumatized war orphans with muscles.

Proceed at your own risk. Hug responsibly. 💥🤗💥

Hunter

You hug Hunter and he just… stops functioning.

Like you initiated it mid-mission and this man has full-on emotion-induced lag.

“...Why’d you do that?”

“Because I wanted to.”

Loading Hunter.exe

He gives you this soft, stunned look like he didn’t know he needed physical affection until just now.

His return hug is slow, careful, warm. His arms wrap around your back and he doesn’t squeeze—he holds.

Stays silent for a moment. Then a low murmur: “...thanks. I needed that.”

From that point on, it’s Hunter Hug Radar Mode™.

You’re sad? He’s already moving.

You’re happy? Hug.

You yawned vaguely near him? “You look tired. C’mere.”

Somehow always smells like leather, dirt, and safety. It's like hugging your childhood treehouse and a protective panther.

Wrecker

OH.

OH YOU’RE IN FOR IT NOW.

You hug Wrecker and he goes FULL GOLDEN RETRIEVER MELTDOWN.

“AWwwwWWWWWWW!!! C’mere!!!”

Picks you up. Swings you. Spins you around until you’re dizzy and giggling and possibly concussed.

His hugs are LIFE-THREATENINGLY STRONG. Like being hit with a loving freight train.

“You’re the best! I’m gonna hug you every day forever now!!”

Immediately makes you a “You Hugged Wrecker” award out of scrap metal. It has glitter glue.

He initiates hugs constantly now. If you don’t hug him back fast enough, he starts whining like a sad bantha.

Tells Crosshair about the hug with tears in his eyes. Crosshair pretends not to care.

“They hugged me, man. Me!! WRECKER!!”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t start crying again.”

Tech

You hug Tech and it’s like hugging a 3D-printed anxiety machine.

Freezes.

“Wh—what are you doing? Is this…physical bonding? Are you malfunctioning? Am I??”

Absolutely stiff as a board. One arm hovers near your back like he's trying to remember what humans do.

You explain it’s just a hug. Tech mutters: “Hmmm. Fascinating. Increases oxytocin. Improves cardiovascular health. Reduces cortisol. Hm.”

But then you do it again.

And he goes quiet.

Softer.

Then his hands gently rest on your back and he melts like butter under a Tatooine sun.

You pull away and he clears his throat 14 times and then gives you a 12-slide presentation on “the measurable benefits of repeat physical affection among squadmates (with graphs).”

Secretly loves it. Won’t say it, but builds you a hug simulator in case he’s unavailable.

Crosshair

Oh.

OH YOU BRAVE, BRAVE FOOL.

You hug Crosshair and it’s like hugging a sniper rifle possessed by the ghost of unresolved trauma.

“...What the kriff are you doing?”

Arms at his sides. Staring down at you like you're a wild animal. Clearly thinking “kill or cuddle?”

You say “just hugging you.” And he just…blinks. Once. Twice.

Then you feel it: the tiniest shift. He leans in. One hand—just one—lands gently at your waist.

It’s not a full hug. It’s not even half a hug.

It’s 0.5 seconds of fragile vulnerability.

Then he pulls back and growls “Don’t make a big deal out of it.” …But his ears are pink. And he doesn’t move away from you for the rest of the day.

Later that week, you find a ration bar left on your bunk. It’s the good flavor.

Written in Sharpie on the wrapper: "Since you like touching people. Here's something to touch your mouth." (he tried)

Echo

Echo is a man held together by trauma, stubbornness, and like...two screws and a charging port.

You hug Echo and it’s like hugging a haunted vending machine with trust issues.

He doesn’t react at first. Just stiffens. Hard. Like his brain didn’t even register this as an available interaction option.

“...Why?” he asks, very quietly. Not suspicious. Not annoyed. Just… genuinely confused. Like he doesn’t think people do that to him anymore.

You say, “Because you deserve it.” And he. Short circuits.

It’s all in the eyes. That distant, shell-shocked clone stare goes soft. And sad. You get half a breath of “I don’t—” before his voice goes hoarse and he just leans in.

One arm—cold metal, whirring servos—wraps around you. The other presses tight, his hand fisting in the back of your shirt like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

His forehead rests on your shoulder. You feel him exhale. And it’s the sound of a man finally letting go of a weight he’s carried since the Citadel.

When he pulls back, his face is unreadable. But he says “...Thanks,” with such quiet, aching sincerity it wrecks you for 48 hours.

The next time you get hurt, Echo’s at your side before the medic droid.

He doesn’t hug you again right away. But he touches your shoulder now. Bumps your arm. Stays close.

Then one day—randomly, silently—he hugs you first. No words. Just that same warm, quiet grip. Like saying: I’m still here. And so are you.

Omega

YOU HUG OMEGA??

SHE SHRIEKS WITH GLEE AND TACKLES YOU LIKE A TINY STAR-WARS THEMED KOALA.

“HUG TIME!!!”

Wraps every limb around you like she’s a baby monkey and you’re a tree.

Refuses to let go for 10 minutes. It’s warm. It’s pure. It’s the most healing hug in galactic history.

Immediately declares you her “hug buddy.”

Makes you a friendship bracelet with “❤️ HUGS THUGS 4 LIFE ❤️” on it.

Tries to get the rest of the squad to join in. “Group hug! Come on! HUNTAH YOU’RE NOT TA COOL FOR LOVE.”

Eventually becomes hug ambassador. Sneak attacks everyone until the whole squad is touch-positive.

Hunter now does “the forehead touch.” Wrecker hugs everyone at breakfast. Tech nods politely and lets her sit in his lap. Crosshair lets her hug him while muttering “don’t tell anyone.”

🧸 BONUS: Bad Batch Group Hug™

You say “GROUP HUG” and Wrecker YEETS HIMSELF AT YOU FIRST.

Omega screams “YESSSS!!” and jumps on like a koala.

Tech mutters “Oh no it’s happening again” and gets absorbed into the chaos.

Crosshair stands two meters away looking like a feral cat. But you hold out your hand and he sighs, grumbles, and slinks in like he’s being drafted into a cult.

It’s warm. It’s slightly sweaty. Someone’s armor is digging into your hip. But everyone’s breathing slows down. There’s peace.

You say “I love you guys” and Hunter goes silent. Then softly replies: “Yeah. You too.”

[evilminji]

Behold! o/ The Face Of Benevolent Evil!

Mr. Principle! A professional hero and educator!

Also possibly some sort of stoat hybrid! Certainly a chimera of Japanese fauna! With the Quirk High Specs, he is one of, if not THE, smartest beings on the planet of which he resides! With a background perfectly justifying a decent into hatred and villiany, he instead chose to channel his incredible world shaking intellect into the shaping of future generations!

He likes to fuck with people!

For FUNSIES~☆!

What can he say? It keeps a man young and mentally stimulated! Plus the hysterical screaming of his staff and students is HILARIOUS. He can even argue it makes for good reaction training! Unforseen situations, children! React!!! *psychotic chortling*

Mmmmm, yes. We all have our trauma responses. Ways we deal with them. He should probably find other means... but he won't! Tea and tormenting the student body make for good future heroes, you know! They adapt!

But! You may ask! Why am I introducing you to this... *polite yet somehow deeply threatening smile* c-completely sane and normal individual!? Esteemed educator that he is! Ha ha...

A good and not at a under threat question!

Villains? Are fuuuuuckin STUPID!

Doesn't matter how many PHDs you possess! In fact! That makes it WORSE! You moron! You absolute fool! No traveling circus would have you, you sub-rate CLOWN of a jingle jangle dunce jester! You have a god damn PHD! Possibly MULTIPLE PHD!

And you thought "ooooh I should go into cwiiiiime~☆"?

Do you hear yourself when you talk? DO YOU?! Ooooh boohoo. They won't let you study what you WANT to study. It's called an ETHICS BOARD. And YEAH, NO SHIT! Maybe get over it and keep you fucked up fantasies to your SELF.

Or? If you REALLY can't hold it in? Lay the ground work like EVERYONE FUCKING ELSE! You're not special! Everyone wants to play god! It's FUN! They let you have the COOL toys! But you have to EARN that shit! Not jump straight from graduation to "fucked up superscience"!

And? If it's NOT the Ethics Board? But just some bureaucrat on a power trip? You don't have to fucking STAY. This? This RIGHT HERE? Is why I-Island fucking EXSISTS.

APPLY.

They are SO MANY countries you could move too. SO MANY other labs. You actual DUMBASS.

But NO! You decided to commit to a fucked up underground Villian Lab. As though HUNTING THOSE isn't the PERSONAL fucking passion project of THE SMARTEST BEING IN JAPAN. Frankly? You deserve this. You deserve this and our school doesn't know you. Never heard of you. You whoms't?

Coulda changed the world. But instead all you did was piss of The Fuzzy White Demon Lord of UA. Rest in pieces. *click*

*sound of doors smashing open*

*violent Raid Upon Your Labs noises*

But! You may ask? What's IN the Lab?

What MAKES this a DP crossover?

I like your question asking spirit! Good one! And the answer? You know what's better then ONE(1) Nedzu? A second one that you can ACTUALLY control this time! After all! You could consider Mr. Principle a prototype. A proof of concept, if you will. If you were able to make ANOTHER.....

Well, you would set off EVERY. SINGLE. ALARM. Nedzu has set up!

All of them!

Because he don't PLAY THAT.

He has long last trauma from the labs and is the SOLE FUCKING SURVIVOR. There WERE others. They Did Not make it. And their slow agonizing deaths are carved into his brain for the rest of his life. Truely "The living shall envy the dead"; it was a place that made hell seem merciful.

When he declare Never Again?

He fucking MEANT Never Again. He will BURN your empires to ash, with you in them. No More Labs.

So :) You can IMAGINE :) HOW HAPPY HE IS :)

That someone out there is trying to RECREATE his SUPER traumatic childhood, on ANOTHER CHILD. Ha ha! Gonna be a second Nedzu huh? Planning to torture HIM like you did me, HUH? Shove him in a cage and treat him like an animal? Force him to watch as the others die? Collars and whips and cattle prods? Mazes?!

Nedzu may lose his shit.

Juuuuust a little bit.

But if anyone there knows what good for them? They saw NOTHING. What's a little PTSD flashback between friends? Now what is the baby?

Smashcut to said baby!

Because it was a TEAM effort, Danny was successful in "Nuh Uh!"ing out of Rulership. But NOT out of governance. Since he DID help. He's a Councilman now. It's? Not as bad as it could be, honestly. Since it's opened the Zone up to a more democratic system.

Still held by "kick the ass of the person you wanna replace" but still!

Babysteps.

Thing is? There was apparently this weird? Leak? Like a couple hundred years ago, in this one area, that was never addressed. Everyone just moved their doors and stuff. Treated it like the floors flooded. But now that they HAVE someone to complain too?

They all want their territories back.

"Go fix it!" What are we? Janitors?

Danny looses the rock, paper, scissors competition. He's pretty sure Boxy cheated. But like? Dude has a kid to go home too, so Danny doesn't fight him to hard on this. Uuuuuugh. Just remember the Spider-Man motto. Great power~ blah blah blaaaah~

And? Wow is it fucked out there.

The whole PLANET has to be limnal as FUCK. Yikes.

Problem is? When he and his team (Because YES, he HAS learned from his mistakes, Jazz.) get close to the... frankly the Zone here looks like distorted spiderwebbing. With him leading the charge, obviously.

....something happens.

It's... it's not a portal. Wrong color. It's like someone USED the weird spiderwebbing effect to... to reach INTO the Zone? But they are severally Limnal. Clawed hands, blue tint. But that's not the problem.

No, the problem.

The Horror.

The thing that his team can only watch on in agonized terror as it plays out... is that hand? It shoots out of nowhere. Ghostlike in the Zone. Meaning it must be living. And PLUNGES directly into Danny's chest to wrap around his core.

Time seems to slow.

He can't even scream in pain. At the violation. His team, acquaintances, yes, but friendly ones. Can not even cry out in horror, as they watch their friend and team lead be butchered before them. Before that uncaring hand is ripping back. Perfect ice and starlight in its uncaring grip.

For a terrible moment... he is in two places at once.

Then he is crushed in a burning grip. Like molten bars. Watching his own body dissolve into nothing in an instant, pain and horror still etched upon his face. The beginnings of screams ripping from his team as they jerk away from the nightmarish threat.

Then he can not think at all.

He... he TRIES. Knows he has been captured. Is certainly not the sort to give up easily. But... he's so tired. His body feels? Weird. Not wrong, per say. It's HIS. But... small and weird. Like he's shape shifted into a new form and hasn't adjusted yet.

....

.......

...........

He's getting really sick of all the goop against his whiskers and in his ears. It feels WEIRD against his fu- WAIT a second... did those assholes shove him into an animal? Why?! To contain him? Ha! Jokes on them! He's DONE THIS before!

For FUN!

He once spent a whole ass summer as a tiny dragon just 'CAUSE!

Unfortunately, said assholes notice him waking up. Dump him in a glorified hamster cage. But like.... a SHITTY "I don't care about the pet I bought" hamster cage. Dude. And he's naked.

Is that Japanese? Ooooh! It IS! Thank you, Tucker's Weeb phase.

......actually, never mind. Lotta dehumanizing language there, my guys. What is this? The GIW international? You couldn't even give me PANTS? Swear to God, call me an "it" ONE more time and the next time I have to go? I am going to aim through the bars at your-! *alarms going off*

....wasn't me.

I mean, be all means, ha ha and get fucked, but? Wasn't me. Oh hey! Some one exploded the doo-

AND? In Lab 4?

Nedzu finds a child with fluffy, ungroomed black and white fur, and the curious yet cautious eyes of a survivor. They are the most magnificent green, pale and luminous they glow in the laboratories lighting. Paws too big for his small frame, delicate ears on the swivel, equally large. Yet to grow into either. Adolescent, at best.

He watches the child take him in. Note his features and the chaos behind him. The injured scientist under his feet. Come to him conclusion. Nedzu will not rush him. Now that he... he stand the chance to be the hero he himself never had. It is a strange feeling. At once cathartic and unbearably painful.

He is given the equivalent of a cheerful grin, as the lad points the the lock on the cage. Is asked if he happened to bring a spare pair of pants. He can not help his amused chortle as he makes quick work of the lock. The unbearable RELIEF he feels.

He... he was not too late.

These monsters had no chance to crush the boy's light. To make a monster of him, like they did with him. He survived his laboratory, his hell. But not all of him left that terrible place. He knows that. Some innocence, some goodness, died alone in the dark. But here? He insured there would be no chance.

With amusement, he watches the boy turn the lab upside down until he finds spare scrubs. Triumphant, he then considers his own, tiny claws. Dismisses them. Attempts to hop up on a chair to retrieve something sharp. It? Is unbearably cute. To watch him rip and shred, problem solve. His little mind churning away. Whiskers twitching as his eyes dart around, considering his options.

Nedzu offers one of his spare knives.

Watches him light up.

Adorable~

@legitimatesatanspawn @hdgnj @nerdpoe @babbling-babull @lolottes

[meazalykov]

independent

sister!trinity rodman x rodman!reader

part one - part two here

summary: even though you're sisters, you might have to let her go

warnings: angst, swearing, childhood trauma mentions

there is no way that you would reject the offer your agent sent you.

at twenty one years old, barcelona feminine offered you a 3 year contract to play at their club as a defender.

for many years while growing up, you were obsessed with barcelona and the atmosphere all of games had.

you idolized messi, before idolizing alexia putellas when barcelona's women's team started putting themselves on the map.

there is no way that you will say no to barcelona.

as of right now, you were with washington spirit. the nwsl club and the catalan club had ties together, so you shouldn't be surprised that barcelona saw you-- spirit's best defender-- before anyone else in america.

when it comes to transfers and talks of contracts, you weren't allowed to disclose the details with anyone.

even with your own sister, trinity.

trinity is your best friend, and your fraternal twin. you were 9 minutes younger than her and stayed attached to her hip.

its not like trinity didn't like it, she loved staying by your side. when you asked your mom to start playing soccer at the age of 4-- a shock considering that your father is one of the basketball legends in the NBA-- trinity joined with you.

now, many years later, the both of you were playing in the NWSL and play for the USWNT. you had the speed, strength, and determination that made you an unstoppable defender while trinity's speed, attitude, and dribbles made her an unstoppable forward.

there were many obstacles that you had to go through to get here.

emotionally, you weren't okay while growing up. missing your father who happened to be very famous in the sports world took a toll on you for a long time.

sometimes, you wondered if he would've came by to see you, your sister, and your brother more if you'd decided to pursue a professional career in basketball instead.

trinity pretended that the absence didn't affect her, as she would comfort you every time you were upset about your father not showing up to the games to see you both.

you knew deep down that it did affect your twin, as she would greet mom and then search the crowd to see if she can find dad anywhere after.

another obstacle was trying to overachieve in soccer, to the point where it would take a toll on your body most days.

having a father who is famous for his NBA career in the 90s, you didn't want people to think that you were "buying" your way into higher spots on the teams. you wanted to prove that you had talent, not nepotism.

after solcal blues, you nearly played soccer for UCLA while trinity wanted to follow DJ to washington state. the both of you had major anxiety about splitting apart from each other-- wondering if the both of you would survive without seeing each other everyday.

however, COVID-19 decided to keep you both together. the quarantine solidified the codependency you shared with trinity.

so, telling trinity that you'll be moving clubs scared you. you didn't know how she'd react.

she would probably see if she could switch clubs with you. you frowned at the idea, knowing that barcelona couldn't offer her a contract, they have too many forwards already.

since you said yes to the catalan club, you'll be in another country while trinity stays in DC-- unless she went to another club in europe to be closer to you.

now, you'll have to tell her before news pages leak the contract deal.

"trin?" you called out inside of your shared apartment with her. you assumed she'd be in the living room, so you walked out of your bedroom to head to there.

"hey, you're awake!" trinity said as you sat down on the couch beside her.

she wasn't smiling, in fact, she sounded like she was waiting for you to wake up to tell you something.

"trin I gotta talk to you about something."

"okay-- coach said you wouldn't be in training or the next game, I was surprised because you didn't tell me that." trinity chuckles as you frowned.

little did she know, the last game with spirit was your last.

"I'm sorry--- I just wanted to talk to you about something important."

she looked at you, waiting for you to continue as you looked down at your sweaty palms.

"I'm leaving." you mumbled.

trinity's eyebrows flared together.

"what do you mean?" she asks.

"another club offered me a contract, and I feel like that would be best for my career." you say.

trinity sighed, in relief, un-crossing her arms before laying her feet out on the coffee table.

"oh okay, you'll still be in the country so I can visit you. maybe we will even clash-"

the older twin had experienced distance with you before. you were gonna play in los angeles while she went to washington state with DJ--- however, she didn't know how far she would be from you.

"trin." you stop her.

trinity read the facial expression on your face. you looked sad, shaking your head slowly as you kept rubbing your hands together-- wondering if this was the end to the close bond you shared with your sister.

"you're going-- overseas?" she mumbled.

trinity is your personal mind-reader, almost, she could tell what you were thinking based off of your facial expressions and the current situation.

"I couldn't say no to barcelona." you say, crossing your arms as you looked away from trinity-- towards the turned off television.

the silence between you and trinity grew heavier, the tension almost palpable. she didn't say anything immediately after, which scared you.

you look over to see that she is looking right at you.

you could see the hurt in her eyes, but there was something else there too—anger.

she finally pulled her hand away from the resting position on her lap, standing up abruptly.

"so, that's it? you're just going to leave?" trinity's voice was sharp, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

"what happened to communication? why were you so secretive about this? weren't we supposed to be into soccer together, y/n? we always said we'd have each others backs, no matter what. and now you're running off to barcelona like its not a big deal."

"it is a big deal," you shot back, standing up to face her.

"but this is my career we're talking about, trin. i can't pass up an opportunity like this just because it's hard. you know how much this means to me. YOU know how much I grew up loving barcelona."

"and what about me?" trinity demanded, her voice rising.

"do i mean anything to you? because it sure doesn't feel like it right now. you didn't even talk to me about it before making your decision. you just decided on your own, like me or DJ don't even matter to you." trinity rubs her left temple with her finger, overwhelmed and frustrated at your decision.

"DJ? he doesn't even live in DC!" you protest.

"at least he will be in the fucking country!" trinity snaps.

"that's not fucking fair trinity," you argued, frustration creeping into your own voice.

you never said trinity's name fully, always calling her trin.

"of course you matter to me, but this is my life! i have to do what's best for me, and that means taking this chance. you would do the same if you were in my shoes." you stood up, just five feet in front of her standing body.

"you really don't get it, do you? it's not just about you, y/n. we were supposed to be a duo, and now you're breaking that up. you're leaving your own twin behind, and you don't even care because you want to prioritize your career over that." trinity let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head.

"of course i care!" you shouted, feeling your emotions getting the best of you. "but i can't let that stop me from going after what I want, especially since dad stopped coming around so much before we grew up. i need this, trin. if you can't understand that, if you can't be happy for me, if you want to stay at the same club for your whole career-- then maybe you need to let me go."

the words hung in the air like a bomb that had just gone off. trinity's face twisted in hurt and disbelief, her eyes narrowing as she stared at you.

"let you go? are you serious right now? you're the one who's leaving, y/n-- just like dad did. you're the one who’s letting go!"

"i'm not giving up on us!" you insisted, your voice trembling with the overwhelming process of your feelings. "but if you can't support me like a twin sister would… then yeah, maybe you need to let me go."

trinity stared at you, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she processed your words.

for a moment, you thought she might say something—anything—to bridge the gap that had opened between you. but instead, she just shook her head, tears filling her eyes.

"fine," she said, her voice breaking as she relaxed her arms in defeat.

"go. do what you have to do. but don't expect me to be here waiting when you realize that the grass isn't greener on the other side."

with that, trinity turned on her heel and stormed out of the apartment, leaving you standing there. you flinched when she slammed the door shut, probably scaring your neighbors in the process.

you wanted to run after her, to take back everything you'd said, take back your contract with barcelona and stay in washington-- but you knew it was too late for that.

the rift between you and your lifetime companion had been torn wide open, and there was no going back now.

all you could do was hope that, in time, she would come to understand why you had to do this—why you had to follow your own path and break your dependency from her, even if it meant leaving her behind.

for now, the only thing you could do was stand firm in your decision and hope that your dream didn't cost you the most important person in your life.

part two

my master list is here if you want to read more fics <3

[katsfixationcorner]

Sleepless Nights

tfatws!Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader

Chapter One

Next Chapter

Summary: James Buchanan Barnes is struggling to put his life together after the Blip. Free from HYDRA’s control, he now has the freedom of choosing how he lives his life but he has no idea how. He’s somehow managed to maintain moderate normalcy but his constant nightmares serve as a reminder that he could never be anything more than a killer. Before he can truly heal, he needs to deal with his lack of sleep, which proves difficult until a chance encounter intertwines his life with that of his neighbor across the hall.

Warnings: Slice of Life, Canon-divergent, Slow-burn, Friends to Lovers, Neighbors Trope, Depictions of trauma, Mild Stalking, No use of Y/N

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: I’m not a mental health professional. All trauma/mental illness depictions are based on my personal knowledge/experience. If any depictions are incorrect or misrepresented, kindly educate me.

This is my first fic! I hope you enjoy~

I do NOT consent to have my work copied, translated, or run through AI.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Change makes James ‘Bucky’ Barnes uncomfortable. He’s trying his best to be okay with it but he still has a very lengthy list of things he’s trying to work through. Dealing with change isn’t exactly at the top.

When things change, bad things happen. It always starts with the small things normal people don’t notice: a mailbox gets left open, a neighbor’s doormat gets skewed, the subway train he takes to his therapist appointments is five minutes late.

Then it escalates. It always escalates.

Instead of random instances, it manifests in the people around him: the neighbor’s dog barks at a late hour, a nondescript van parks on the street outside his apartment complex, a stranger gives him a second glance at the grocery store. It’s always the things that other people don’t think twice about that Bucky can’t ignore. When he ignores them -when things slip by his radar- people around him get hurt or disappear.

Now when you live in an apartment building people disappear all the time. People move out frequently. Just this month alone Bucky has already noticed several people he doesn’t recognize walking to and from his building.

It’s unnerving.

Unsettling.

Bucky likes to keep tabs on those around him. When he can’t, bad thoughts flood his mind like a running faucet filling a bathtub. Who are they? What do they do? How long will they be around? Or worse things like: Do they know who he is -who he was? Do they know which unit he lives in? Has he bolted the front door? What about the windows? If he has to make a run for it, could he make the jump to the building next door?

Sometimes the bathtub overflows, spilling his thoughts out of his head and into his bloodstream. When that happens, he freezes, unable to do anything more than sit with his back to a wall and his eyes glued to his front door. His small apartment becomes enemy territory. Every sound -no matter how mundane- explodes in his ears and triggers violent involuntary tremors. His entire body goes into lock-down mode as he prepares to defend against a non-existent threat. It often takes hours for Bucky to recover the ability to move let alone care for himself.

He doesn’t go anywhere on those days, even if they happen to interfere with his schedule.

Bucky likes his schedule: morning workouts, grocery shopping every other Monday, lunch with a friend on Wednesdays, therapy on Thursdays. It isn’t much but it makes him feel normal, like he’s a regular person who isn’t still trying to heal from a lifetime of trauma. Every other day, Bucky stays at home trying to catch up on things he’s missed and doing his damndest to get through the day without losing it.

Not even the promise of sleep offers him any sort of respite. The night only gives way to new terrors, the kind he can’t escape no matter how good a day he’s had. Nightmares -flashes of blood, pain, and an innocent person’s pleas- overtake him every time he beds down for the night.

Nothing helps - and he’s tried everything. Thanks to the serum, his body devours medication, alcohol, and other nasty habits he’s given into too quickly to feel any effect. The TV -though helpful at first- has become more annoying than useful. Leaving a window open to let in the city ambience isn’t an option, and the thin apartment walls won’t mask any music he has on for long. At least not at the volume needed to make any meaningful impact in his sleep schedule.

He doesn’t even have a stereo.

Most nights the nightmares wake him violently, bolting him upright so suddenly his torso jerks forward and his breath gets caught in his chest.

Tonight is no different.

After a particularly distressing one, Bucky finds himself woken by his own choking gasps. As he struggles to regain control of the air flowing into his lungs, Bucky presses his hands against the floor underneath him. The blanket between him and the wood is thin and scratchy. In an effort to still his breaths, Bucky slides his flesh hand across the fabric, picking absently at the tiny lint balls dotted along the blanket folds. The soothing action is safe enough to direct his mind towards; it carries no weight nor threatens to trigger any locked memory.

With every passing minute, Bucky’s breathing becomes less strained and more manageable. He tries to turn his attention to the room around him. The living room is dark, the moonlight streaming through the thin blinds being the only source of light in the room. From what he can see into the kitchen, nothing seems off or disturbed. Both areas are bare with only the essential furniture. There’s no dining table, though there is one barstool in the kitchen. The sofa, coffee table, bookshelf, and TV are all in their usual locations.

Taking note of his surroundings starts to help Bucky regulate his breathing. Just as he was regaining composure, Bucky’s body flinches suddenly as he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He tenses, pulling his knees up to his chest as he prepares to roll out of the way of an attack. Though as his eyes adjust, the silent assassins morph into shadows dancing across the kitchen counters.

He lets out a breath and leans against the cool leather of the sofa. Bucky does his best to redirect his mind to the room. He can see the front door now. It’s still dead-bolted. Good. Maybe he can actually get through the night with only this mild incident.

But as his panic turns from a roaring fire into simmering embers, the memories begin to seep into his mind threatening to reignite the blaze.

The wall suddenly seems way too close. Screams and gunfire begin trickling into the stillness of the dark apartment. The sound starts at a low hum in the back of his mind. But before long it grows into a roaring avalanche threatening to bury him under the weight of the Winter Soldier.

Bucky groans out a swear as he drags his hands down his face. He grips his head tightly as if he can keep the torment at bay with pressure. It doesn’t help. The panic threatens to return, forcing Bucky to make a decision: either try to relax and go back to sleep or do something about it.

After barely a second of thought, Bucky concludes there’s no way he can sit still. Before he pushes himself off his makeshift bed, he extends his legs until they burn from the stretch, grimacing at the stiffness caused by sitting still for a while. He eventually detangles himself from the bed sheet then manages to pull himself up.

Without thinking about it, Bucky wanders in the direction of the bathroom. The cramped enclosed space provides a more secure environment than the living room. Bucky feels like he can breathe a bit better in here. The screams that followed him, however, won’t let him rest.

With his body still on autopilot, Bucky pulls back the shower curtain and turns the water on, not caring about what temperature it’s been set to. As the screams get muffled by the running water, Bucky stumbles his way to the sink, gripping the edges tightly as he leans into it. He lets a minute pass before he forces himself to look up at his reflection.

Bucky looks awful. The dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and unkempt stubble make how little he’s been sleeping obvious. Even his eyes -usually a cool steely blue- are muted and grey. Scars litter his shoulders and torso, evidence of a tortured past etched into his skin. Even if -by some miracle- he came across someone who wasn’t aware of what he’s done, they’d know the second they saw how destroyed his body is.

He can only stomach a few seconds of glaring before his gaze drops to the dog tags around his neck. He doesn’t like who he sees. It’s been such a long time since he has that he’s not even sure he ever thought differently. When he looks at himself, all he ever sees is a man broken beyond repair - the shattered remnants of a soldier HYDRA ripped apart.

The rushing water pulls Bucky out of a new set of spiraling thoughts. He makes an attempt to shake them away before straightening up to peel off his sweat soaked boxers. They get tossed into a corner as Bucky steps into the shower.

Bucky doesn’t spend a lot of time under the water. He doesn’t even wash much, only enough to get rid of the layer of sweat on his skin. Once it’s gone, he feels a bit better. The water becomes cold rather quickly (not that it was very warm to begin with). By the time Bucky decides to get out, his teeth are chattering and his body trembles from the low temperature.

Bucky’s always cold. He always has been. At least since…it doesn’t matter. The discomfort of being chilled to the bone is something he’s used to, something normal, something he deserves. He doesn’t even notice it anymore. The fact that the room never even steamed up leaving him to get hit with a rush of cold air when he opens the shower curtain doesn’t even phase him.

Bucky shakes the intruding thoughts away then tugs a towel free from the wall rack like he does every day and pulls it across his body carelessly. It’s only when his skin is rubbed raw that he stops, realizing now that he’s been dry for a couple minutes. A small exhale leaves his lips as he returns the now-damp towel to its place

Bucky isn’t quite sure what to do now. The screams have dulled and he’s left with the quietness of his apartment. The silence never helps with the storm brewing in his mind. Bucky knows it’s only a matter of time before he can’t continue pushing his memories away.

Though he isn’t sure what to make of the thoughts seeping in and out of his consciousness, he does know one thing: he’s sure as hell not going back to sleep.

With a sigh, Bucky retrieves his boxers from the floor then walks into his bedroom. Like the rest of his apartment, it’s sparsely decorated. The dresser by the door is practically brand new and rarely used. It’s where he keeps his comfortable clothes -underwear, socks, one pair of sweatpants, and some t-shirts Sam forced on him- while the items he wears more frequently are folded in neat piles on the edge of the bed. The bed, which is just a mattress on the floor, is only made with a fitted sheet and a singular pillow. Several small boxes containing various pieces of his life Steve put together for him cover the surface.

Bucky went through them once. When he came across a collection of old photographs, he dropped them back into the box then closed the lid. He couldn’t bring himself to look through the pictures, especially when most of them contain the face of someone he loved, someone he doesn’t have anymore.

He hasn’t touched the boxes since. It’s easier to ignore them, but he can’t bring himself to hide them away in a closet. So there they sit, taking up space on a mattress he never uses.

Bucky doesn’t even notice them anymore. He drops his boxers onto a clear spot on the mattress then pulls on the first things he grabs: a pair of worn jeans and a simple long sleeved shirt. As he gets dressed, his gaze wanders past the boxes, stopping on a plastic hamper at the foot of the bed. It’s practically empty but Bucky takes it anyway. He spends the next few minutes tossing anything he can find into the basket. He doesn’t care what’s fresh and what isn’t; he just needs to do something.

When he returns to the living room, Bucky bunches the sweat stained blankets together then shoves them into the hamper. He walks around the room once -grabbing his shoes, keys, detergent, and several dollars worth of quarters- before exiting the apartment, locking the door, and making the descent to the complex’s laundry room.

The laundry room is probably the only place outside of his apartment where Bucky feels relatively safe. It’s in the basement so it has no windows and only one entrance, and it’s never quiet. The machines are old and rumble whenever they’re in use.

It’s perfect.

When Bucky pushes the door open, a wave of hot air bursts free and hits him in the face. Bucky takes a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs. The stale warm air helps relax his muscles. After half a minute of standing in the doorway absorbing the heat, most of the tension leaves Bucky’s shoulders. He takes another deep breath, exhaling slowly, before finally stepping into the room.

None of the machines are in use so Bucky gets to pick whichever ones he wants. He makes his way to the far end of the room, depositing the hamper and detergent on top of the last washer. He takes his time filling the machine, ensuring every piece of clothing is right side out before tossing it in.

Bucky doesn’t mind the monotony of the chore. If anything it gives him something else to focus on. Thankfully the machines are pretty simple. Of all the things he’s had to learn lately, using these laundry machines has been the easiest by far. Press a few buttons, give it the amount of money it asks for, then wait for the timer to beep. Easy.

As the washer roars to life, Bucky leans back against one of the dryers and crosses his arms over his chest. He watches the machine rattle while trying not to pay attention to the time on the display.

Thirty minutes.

He could easily head back upstairs and take a few laps of his apartment before the machine goes off, but he can’t seem to make himself move. The thought of leaving his things here unsupervised leaves a knot in the pit of his stomach.

No, he won’t leave, only so the odd feeling goes away. Besides, he doesn’t mind standing for long periods of time. Lord knows he doesn’t have anything better to be doing.

By the time Bucky’s machine reaches fifteen minutes, his mind has been efficiently distracted. He no longer lingers on the terrifying thoughts in the back of his mind. They’ll eventually force themselves back to the front, but it’s manageable for the moment. That is until any calming thought he has is ripped away by the sound of the door opening.

Bucky’s eyes snap up to the intruder - a young woman carrying a wicker hamper with a plastic bag hanging from her wrist. She stops in her tracks when their eyes meet. A look of surprise and hesitation crosses her features before it shifts into a polite mask of neutrality. She gives Bucky a nod then continues forward as if she never stopped at all, unloading her own laundry into a machine near the doorway.

Bucky watches her cautiously. He’s never seen her before and that could be dangerous.

Sure he’s down here doing laundry at- Wait, how late is it?

When she pauses to place her phone on the machine, his gaze flickers from her back to the analog clock that hangs over the middle-most washer.

Would a normal person do their laundry at a quarter to three in the morning or is she here because he’s here?

His eyes narrow when the thought presents itself. He redirects his gaze back to her and continues assessing the situation. She could just be going about her own business, but Bucky doesn’t know that.

He needs to be sure.

He scans the stranger while she closes the machine, eyeing all of her movements with suspicion. Her hair is tied up and messy - she must just be up at this hour normally. If she came from somewhere, Bucky muses, she might have been more put together. Her shirt has no pockets nor do her pants. They’re tight, hugging her form comfortably, so Bucky decides it’s unlikely she’s concealing any weapons. Though he knows that means very little when his own body is practically a weapon.

Plastic rustles as she digs through her bag in search of her detergent. Once she’s finished, she ties the bag and places it on top of the machine along with her hamper. She groans quietly, leaning forward to input the settings she wants then picks up her phone. Bucky can’t see what she’s doing from where he’s standing, but when her machine turns on he realizes she was just paying wirelessly - something he hasn’t learned to do nor does he wish to.

Unlike Bucky, the woman feels safe enough to leave her belongings unsupervised. She doesn’t pay him any mind - as if he isn’t a threat - when she turns to leave, leaving her bag and hamper on her machine. Bucky watches her walk away until the closing door blocks his view.

He really shouldn’t bother, he thinks to himself - though his mind decides otherwise. She’s in the same building he lives in, using the same machines he is at the same time he happens to be here. None of that can be a coincidence. He’s never seen anyone down here this late, and he unfortunately has a habit of doing laundry in the small hours of the morning. He also happens to know just about everyone in the building (at least their face), and he doesn’t know her.

He needs to be sure.

It’s difficult - even for him - to catch the sound of the stranger’s footsteps through the rumbling of the machines. By the time her faint steps reach his ears, he’s already moving towards the door. He stalks quietly through the hall, catching up to her just as she rounds a corner. She doesn’t seem to notice him at all, barely looking behind her as she climbs up the stairs towards the first floor. Bucky waits at the foot of the stairs, pressed against the wall listening for any disturbance. Only when he hears her reach the landing above him does he make a move, taking two stairs at a time while remaining silent and light on his feet.

This dance of theirs continues until the stranger breaks her pattern and opens the door leading to the third floor hall.

His floor.

Cursing under his breath, Bucky bounds up the stairs, managing to catch the door with the tip of his foot before it closes. Before she has a chance to notice anything, Bucky slides his foot free then closes it carefully, holding it open enough to see through yet in a way that it doesn’t look open. He waits for a second to pass, ensuring she isn’t paying any attention to her surroundings, before glancing through the crack between the door and the wall.

True to Bucky’s suspicions, the stranger walks down the hall only to pause in front of his door. Bucky’s breath gets caught in his chest. His eyes never leave her, fully expecting her to make an attempt to break into his home, and preparing to interfere. To his surprise she doesn’t pay his door any mind. Instead, she turns to the right and reaches for the door across from his. In less than a second, the stranger -who Bucky was absolutely sure was after him- disappears from his sight, retreating into the privacy of her own apartment.

It’s only when Bucky hears the click of a lock does he realize the tightness in his chest has eased. He’s been so careful up until this point and yet one woman manages to get past him - and she lives directly across from him.

Bucky comes to a conclusion rather quickly: he needs to figure out who she is. It’s not for him, he reasons as he retreats to the laundry room. If she happens to be an ex-HYDRA agent or some form of secret service, he as well as everyone else could be compromised.

That’s what he tells himself, at least, as he glances into the bag the woman left on her washing machine. Nothing but detergent and dryer sheets. Bucky scoffs to himself then returns to his own machine, leaning on the wall this time so he can watch the door.

It’ll take a bit of time and effort to find out everything he needs to know. It took him a couple months to clear everyone else on his floor. Maybe the nightmares will leave him alone if he can prove that no one near him is out to get him.

Besides, he’s got nothing but time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you’re interested in being on my taglist, click here!

[valiwrites]

hiiii, please can you do one where the readers a medical student and she makes marc bernal be her test subject for studying xxxxx

DOCTOR IN TRAINING

pairing: marc bernal x reader

type: fluff

warnings: none

MASTERLIST

<><><><><><>

“Marc, please,” you said, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “I really need to practice before my exam, and you’re the only one I trust to help me.”

Marc, sitting across the couch with his long legs stretched out, looked at you skeptically. “What exactly does ‘practice’ mean? You’re not going to, like, dissect me, are you?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you grabbed your stethoscope from your bag. “No, drama queen. Just some simple stuff—like listening to your heartbeat, taking your blood pressure. You’ll survive, I promise.”

He groaned but stood up, towering over you as always. “Fine, but only because you asked so nicely,” he teased, leaning down to peck your forehead before sitting on the edge of the couch.

You bit back a smile, trying to focus on keeping things professional. “Okay, let’s start. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

Marc obliged, pulling up the sleeve of his hoodie to reveal his forearm. As you wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it, he smirked. “You’re taking this very seriously, aren’t you, doc?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to suppress a laugh. “I have to. This exam determines if I’m qualified to do this for real, you know. And stop calling me doc. It’s distracting.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pumped the cuff, listening intently as you measured his blood pressure. Marc sat there, uncharacteristically quiet, watching you with an amused smile as you jotted down the numbers.

“Okay, now your heart rate,” you said, grabbing your stethoscope.

Marc raised an eyebrow. “Do I take off my shirt for this part?”

Your cheeks burned instantly. “No! You can just lift it a little,” you stammered, avoiding his teasing gaze.

He chuckled but did as you asked, lifting his hoodie to reveal his toned chest. You ignored the butterflies in your stomach as you placed the stethoscope over his heart, listening closely.

“Am I dying?” he asked dramatically, making you roll your eyes.

“No, but you might be if you don’t stop talking,” you quipped, trying to hide your grin.

As you finished writing down the results, Marc tilted his head to look at you. “You’re really good at this, you know. Like, I can see how much you care about getting it right.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “Thanks, Marc. That actually means a lot.”

He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on your lips. “Anything for my favorite future doctor,” he said, his voice soft and affectionate.

You laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Okay, last test—reflexes. Sit back.”

Marc groaned dramatically, stretching out his long legs. “So bossy,” he muttered, earning a laugh from you.

As you tapped his knee with the reflex hammer, his leg jerked slightly, making him laugh. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted, grinning.

By the time you finished, Marc was lying back on the couch, watching you pack up your tools with a lazy smile. “You’re going to pass with flying colors, you know that, right?”

“I hope so,” you said, sitting beside him. “Thanks for letting me practice on you. You were a very cooperative patient.”

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. “Anything to help my girl. But you owe me dinner for all the emotional trauma I went through.”

You laughed, leaning up to kiss him softly. “Deal. Dinner’s on me.”

Marc grinned against your lips. “I’ll let you practice on me anytime if it means I get kisses and free food.”

“Noted,” you said with a smile, resting your head against his chest as he held you close.

Turns out, Marc wasn’t just the perfect test subject—he was also the perfect support system.

-------

[marinettesaltprompts]

The Maribat deconstruction got me thinking: am I the only one who thinks Adribat is a more....plausible (??is that the word) concept than Maribat? Like, not even in a romantic sense but a familial platonic sense.

Think about it, he's :

got the tragic backstory & suffered from neglect

canonically been abused waaaaay beyond school bullies

taken for granted by adults (primarily his dad & Master Fu) and by his peers (LB)

dealing with the existential crisis of not being human if we go the sentimonster route.

Look, I get that trauma & suffering should NEVER be a competition but when you think abt it, Adrien's suffered just as much, if not more so than Mari ever did even with Chloe & Lila in the picture. You could argue that some of what she suffers in salt fics (isolation, no support system, emotional suppression, harassment) are ALSO things Adrien goes through bcz while he's a superhero like her, UNlike her, his home life sucks.

So if there's either hero the Bat Fam would empathize with more, it's him. Yes, they can hold him accountable for screw ups but if we go the Good Parent!Bruce route, he can give Adrien the physical & nuanced emotional training he needs to spot red flags & deal with them beyond passivity. The training is harsh but at least he doesn't play favourites, giving Adrien no excuse to slack off & proper motivation to mature. Plus, in the Bat Fam, everyone has clear roles & secrets aside, nobody strings anyone along, offering him a reliable structure to fall back on.

He doesn't come into the Bat Fam expecting to be in charge. Instead, the nitty-grittiness would push him to be more independent & decisive instead of impulsive.

If LB tries to call him out, he could point out how for all she claims to be the 'responsible professional hero', she REacted instead of acted & if real IDs are thrown in the mix, he can call out how she just went with the 'woe is me' route, resenting that everyone didn't jump on her call for a witch hunt when she could've communicated to them privately.

Sorry, this turned out longer & less explicitly mari salt-centric than I thought but I tried to stay objective. I hope you don't mind.

Technically everyone would have their own opinion about whether a Miraculous/Batman crossover could actually work. In my opinion however, I believe that the best bet for a good crossover would be through Adrien more than Marinette, in part because of the reasoning you gave, but also because Adrien would fit the idea of a Batfamily member more thematically than Ladybug ever could. If anything, he's like Catwoman but without the whole stealing bit.

Keep in mind that the whole Maribat AU was created with the goal of creating a salt fic (albiet with a crossover), and the OG creator even took a character that was no way romantical and turned him OOC to make their convoluted idea work, ironically in a method reminding me of the "My Immortal" Harry Potter fanfic. Regardless how it later developed, the original idea was pure salt, albiet one that took off because of everyone's hate boner for any character that wasn't Marinette, with people later trying to justify it for one reason or another. It's an idea that should have never worked in the first place outside of this context. In contrast though, Adribat would actually work because of a genuine commonality connection.

Also I don't mind talking about Adrien on this blog. In my mind, Marinette salt and Adrien sugar are the one and the same on this blog, because the salt of one character is usally sugar of the other due to how these prompts go.

Hell, my entire blog was made in opposition to the more well know Adrien Salt Blog made by another individual, which has both plenty of Adrien salt and LOTS of Marinette sugar, though I would call the latter justification for Marinette's own bad behavior as it never discusses her own issues, it just let's her go off scott free by pinning the blame all on Adrien.

In any case, I like your idea! If you or anyone else want's to share any Adribat prompts that you got, feel free to send them here!

[lilith0fthevalley]

Now Showing… Raccoon City’s Mad Doctor

Silence of the Lambs AU!Albert Wesker x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: This story contains mature and intense themes including psychological manipulation, obsession, stalking, references to human experimentation, bioweapon transformation, and discussions of mental instability. It features tense dialogue between a behavioral science agent and a dangerous, manipulative criminal (Albert Wesker), with underlying tones of control, threat, and trauma. Readers should be advised that the narrative explores complex emotional distress, family-related grief, and professional burnout, as well as disturbing implications of body horror and identity loss.

And as always… Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count: 3590

Event Poster Back of Case Summary Event Masterlist

Your eyes feel heavy as you stare at the various papers littering your kitchen island. The documents pour over the edges of the countertop, some threaten to careen off the surface. It’s… Organized… In your own way. Sheepishly, you glance over at the mess chaos papers.

One part transcripts and tapes from voice recorders, one part psychological profiles and examinations, one part crude data recently collected by the BSAA about a ‘Subject-05-[State]’

A cigarette hangs in your fingers limply as you tear your gaze from the documents, instead opting to stare at the lone photo on the fridge, held in place by a magnet. It’s you and a younger girl who looks similar to you.

Your Sister.

Along the edge of the picture is written in gold sharpie marker: ‘Guppy & Minnow—RC Music Festival 20xx!’ She had always been the sentimental one of the two of you, still using your childhood nickname of ‘Guppy’ to refer to you and ‘Minnow’ to refer to herself when she would scrapbook.

The photo was taken not too long ago, about 2 months back at some festival she had been begging you to go to with her for weeks.

You remembered how you would gaze at her with a small remorseful expression, reiterating that you had to study for your final trainings. You could hear your tutting tone as you would dramatically inform her, ‘The BSAA’s behavioral science training is cut throat! I ha-’ She cut you off with a mocking motion of talking with her hand. ‘Have to be on top of your studies, so you can be on your A-Game. Yeah, yeah, I know…’ Her words trailed off with disappointment and your hard gaze softened.

‘…Look. There isn’t much more of my training. As soon as I get the results of my exams, good or bad, We’ll spend some time together before I ship you back off to University. Deal?’ You offered, attempting to lessen her dismay. It works as she brightens up with a grin and nods. ‘Deal. Thanks, Guppy. I love you.’

‘Phht. I love you too, Minnow.’

The shrill ringing of your phone draws your attention. You grimace at the name. It once was a beacon of comfort in your early time with the BSAA, representing a cherished and respected captain, the BSAA’s Golden Boy, but now, any call from him always came with a heaping side of bad news. Well, not just bad…

“Hey Chris. How is she?” You answer the phone. At your words, he sighs. “Hey Agent…” Based on his use of title alone, you know it’s not about her… It’s about the other fire you’re supposed to be putting out… You snub out the cigarette and rub your eyes. “Let me guess… No dice on the anagram?”

To your surprise, instead of the sound of him shaking his head, or the usual background chatter of his squad mates, it’s silent. Unnervingly so. This is about something else entirely.

More bad news.

Before you can speak, he begins again; Clearing his throat and assuming the air of the no nonsense Captain Redfield.

“Agent L/N. Where are you at the moment? Are you somewhere safe?” Your eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, I’m at my apartment. Why? What’s going on?” You ask, confusion colouring your tone. On his end, you can hear him moving, the soft clinking, rustling and scraping of his gear-his full gear, you realize-can be heard. Something is wrong… Very wrong…

“… Doc- … Wesker somehow escaped containment when he was being moved… He’s fled and we think he’s looking for you.” Chris reveals, the words heavy on his tongue, and pressing down on the air you breathe; Even in the safety of your apartment.

You feel yourself shaking your head.

“What? But… But why? I only had a handful of interviews with him before-”

“Before you took leave so you could take care of-and maneuver-the sudden reality that your Sister was not just sick with the flu, but being turned into a mindless, violent bioweapon from the inside out. Yeah. I know.” Chris says curtly. The frustrated shake of his head is practically audible as he sighs into the receiver.

“… You… Weren’t told this, because you hadn’t yet returned to the office but… Wesker is obsessed with you. We just found out earlier this week that he’s been writing letters…” The rest of the captain’s words go unheard as ringing in your ears picks up. ‘Wesker? Obsessed? With me?? But I’m just an agent… I’m not someone with a shared history like Chris, or someone who has lorded over him like the Director… I was just a newbie, sent in by superiors who wanted to break my hubris! I didn’t mean to-!’ Your thoughts are cut off by your own thoughts, bringing a swift end to the cascade of panicked inner monologue.

‘Breathe, Y/N. We need to breathe.’ Your eyes flit around the kitchen, unconsciously and catch on the bundle of mail by the pantry… A set of envelopes bound by a rubber band, unopened, unreviewed, waiting.

You let out a heavy sigh at the sight of the various items addressed to both you and your Sister which have been neglected in the past days? Weeks? Yikes.

Unconsciously, you tune back into your call with Chris.

“Look… Me and my team are on our way to come pick you up, and take you somewhere safe… Just… Please, please promise me you wont?” His tone is gruff, but there’s an edge of pleading in there. You force a smile into your tone, as to not reveal any of the swirling concerns and creeping suspicions nipping at the edges of your mind. “Sure. Yeah. Promise” Your words are hollow and you know it. You’re too distracted by the fact that you now have 3 major, overarching issues that you’re wrapped up in.

“…Ok. I’ll see you in a bit… Possibly an hour, depending on-”

“Yep. Cool. No worries. Thank you, Captain Redfield.” You say quickly and end the call.

Your attention falls back to the documents littering your counter. Specifically to the conveniently placed psychological evaluation on top of the mess…

CONFIDENTIAL — PSYCHOLOGICAL REPORT

SUBJECT NAME: WESKER, ALBERT Psy.D

ALIAS: “Raccoon City’s Mad Doctor”

DATE OF BIRTH: [REDACTED]

CHRONOLOGICAL AGE: 40

DATE OF EVALUATION: [REDACTED]

EXAMINER: Director [REDACTED], Psy.D;PhD

CLEARANCE LEVEL: 5 (Eyes Only)

SECTION I - REASON FOR REFERRAL:

[REDACTED]

SECTION II - BEHAVIORAL OBSERVATIONS:

Dr. Wesker demonstrates extraordinary restraint and control during all monitored interviews. His posture is consistently relaxed, bordering on arrogant, with no visible signs of anxiety, discomfort, or agitation regardless of topic. His speech patterns are deliberate and articulate, often elliptical, and layered with metaphor or philosophical musing. He utilizes prolonged silences and subtle inflection shifts as control mechanisms during dialogue.

[REMAINING TEXT REDACTED]

SECTION III - EXAMINER’S NOTES:

Albert Wesker—Raccoon City’s Mad Doctor—is a man who plays with his victims. He plans out his actions so far in advance and toys with them, giving them hints along the way.

This isn’t merely pathology. It’s ritual.

He thrives on psychological entanglement, not just dominance. He wants his observers to understand him just enough to become ensnared. It is the hook of genius wrapped in madness: offer insight, cloak it in riddles, then pull the floor out from beneath anyone who tries to follow the logic to safety.

Wesker does not speak unless it furthers a goal. Every sentence is a move. Every silence is pressure. Agent [REDACTED] believed she could hold her ground against him. So did the officers before her. Most still do, even now. That is the most dangerous myth surrounding this man—that he’s behind bars and therefore neutralized.

What the staff calls “charming,” I recognize as predation.

He is studying us.

And he’s already made his choice about which piece moves next.

{Read the entire report here!}

“Surely, surely he’s mentioned something about where he would go… That’s the kind of person he is. The kind of person from the profiles…” You murmur to yourself as you tear your gaze from the psychological evaluation and let it fall onto the off white printed pages of a transcript.

The following is the transcript for the first meeting between Agent [REDACTED] and the BSAA’s former head of psychological operations, convicted serial killer, Doctor Albert Wesker. The date is recorded to be [REDACTED] at 11:03 AM. The interview lasted 38 minutes and 17 seconds. The general consensus of the supervisory board is cautiously optimistic about the patient being willing to speak to Agent [REDACTED].

Agent [REDACTED]: Is this on? Oh! Ok, it looks like it is…

[Agent [REDACTED] clears their throat and takes a deep breath.]

Agent [REDACTED]: Date: [REDACTED], Time: 11:03 AM in BSAA Headquarters in [REDACTED], United States…

Agent [REDACTED]: I am about to enter the holding cell of Doctor Albert Wesker, this BSAA’s former head of psychological operations and convicted serial killer hunting Raccoon City from the years of 1996 to 2003.

[Agent [REDACTED] takes another deep breath.]

Agent [REDACTED]: I have been informed that the individual does not take to interviews well, and has proven to be difficult with other agents in the past. Additionally, he has been deemed unfit for external interaction. Due to these facts, I am acting with caution in my interactions with him.

[Agent [REDACTED] opens the door to the holding cell where Doctor Albert Wesker is strapped to a gurney with a muzzle over his mouth. There are no other doors, windows or individuals in the room.]

Dr. Albert Wesker: Well now. You’re not the insufferable Agent [REDACTED].

[A.W. stares at Agent [REDACTED] and grins widely before tilting his head.]

A.W.: They sent someone new. Young. Pretty. Mm… green. I assume this is punishment—for you or for me, I’m not sure yet…

A.W.: Come then, Agent. Let’s have your little questions. I promise to pretend I’m harmless.

[He leans back in the gurney.]

Agent [REDACTED]: Doctor Wesker, thank you so much for accepting to meet with me. I’m Agent [REDACTED] of the BSAA’s Behavioral Assessment unit. We’re investigating a case involving a strain of your Uroboros project. I was hoping I could pick your brain a little bit about it.

A.W.: You’ve rehearsed that line, haven’t you?

A.W.: Polite. Respectful. Just the right touch of gratitude… You were taught by Miss Valentine, weren’t you? Or, I suppose she goes by Doctor now. Unless… of course, her studies fell through.

[A.W. chuckles and shakes his head. Agent [REDACTED] sits straight in her seat. Her hands are folded on top of a stack of files.]

A.W.: Tell me about your case. What makes you think it’s mine?

Agent [REDACTED]: Well… Doctor…. It’s not yours. That’s what’s concerning. It is an imitation of your work. Someone is trying to either mutate, change, or improve upon your Uroboros project. Someone who has access to your research… Either by you giving it to them… Or through other means…

Agent [REDACTED]: … Did you ever… Give your research to anyone? Share it with a colleague? Have a partner?

[A.W. Stares at Agent [REDACTED] before letting out a slow exhale.]

A.W.: You think I’d partner with someone?

A.W.: [REDACTED]. May I call you that? Good. You think… because I’m in a cage I must’ve lost my standards. No, Agent. I do not partner with others. I create. I improve. I perfect. Others, imitate. But not I. Never I.

A.W.: So if someone out there is mangling my legacy like a child dissecting a clock, your concern is valid.

[A.W. smirks under the muzzle.]

A.W.: …Unless, of course, they didn’t steal it. Unless I gave them just enough to watch them choke on it.

Agent [REDACTED]: … Doctor, are you confirming that you shared your research on Uroboros with someone

A.W.: Tell me, Agent. What does your gut tell you?

A.W.: Do you think I’d give away the key to godhood? And if I did… what do you think they’d owe me in return?

Agent [REDACTED]: … They would owe you everything. They… Couldn’t possibly think to become a God, they would be beneath you…

A.W.: You do understand. Good.

A.W.: That’s rare, you know. Most agents who sit across from me think they’re here to outsmart the monster. They think insight is power. That if they understand me, they can control me. How laughable.

A.W.: If someone has perverted my research, Agent … It is not merely a threat to the safety of the public. It is sacrilege.

Agent [REDACTED]: Who did you give your research to? Did you publish it? Did you send it to one person? A group? Is it online somewhere? Please, Doctor. I need to know.

A.W.: Ah, Agent… you ask as if the truth is a page I’d hand you freely… No, my dear. The research was never published. It was never meant for the masses. It was… entrusted. A select few, carefully chosen. A secret passed like a dark torch in the night.

A.W.: Now, Agent, tell me—what are you willing to risk to see this through? To ensure that one of my… Students are brought to justice?

[Silence falls over the room.]

A.W.: Ah! There it is… That look. That flicker… Who is it?

A.W.: This isn’t about the victims. This isn’t a selfless little visit! Ha! This is personal for you… So who. Is. It?

[Agent [REDACTED] opens her mouth like she’s about to speak but pauses. ]

A.W.: What are they becoming, Y/N? I can help you stop it, you just need to trust me…

Agent [REDACTED]: … My si-

[Captain Christopher Redfield and 4 members of his Hound Wolf Squad enter the holding cell and surround Dr. Albert Wesker. Their rifles are all drawn and the laser sights are pointed at the subject’s chest.]

Captain Christopher Redfield: Say nothing more, Agent! Move behind me please!

Agent [REDACTED]: Captain Redfield, I still have time do I not?!

A.W.: Ah, Christopher. Still charging in like a righteous fool with a badge and a gun. Do try not to shoot me this time—your aim’s never been that good.

C.R.: Cut the bullshit Wesker! Hands where we can see them!

[Dr. Wesker raises his hands, which were believed to be bound to the gurney, his actions are taunting and defiant all at once. The Hound Wolf Squad moves to restrain him once more. As they do, Dr. Wesker turns to Agent [REDACTED].]

A.W.: Your time’s running out, [REDACTED] … And hers is running faster.

[End Of Transcript]

Nimble hands flutter through the pages, grabbing at notes for you to assess before promptly tossing them away.

“C’mon, C’mon, Come on! There’s got to be something!” You cry out in frustration.

“Albert Wesker—Raccoon City’s Mad Doctor—is a man who plays with his victims. He plans out his actions so far in advance and toys with them, giving them hints along the way…” You reread the examiner’s notes from the profile out loud and toss the evaluation away from you in a huff.

“Like some sick game!! Which means there has to be a hint, a clue, anything, among th-”

Your eyes catch on the stack of unopened mail on the counter and the apartment feels like it’s dropped a few degrees. A stamp in the corner of 7 envelopes is the green postage stamp of the BSAA facility’s mail machine. Spreading them out, you take notice that each envelope holds the same neat, surgical lettering that writes out your full name and your address.

You want to deny your gut feeling. Tell yourself that it’s a coincidence and that they’re surely not being sent from him.

Lithe, panicked fingers tear open the letters…

Written in that same elegant hand:

“You’ve delayed, Cass. But grief has a scent. And desperation leaves a trail even a blind man could follow. You’ll find the key where it hurts most. But you’ll need to choose: do you want your answers? Or do you want your sister? One will cost you the other. Be swift. —A.W.”

Behind it, another letter waits. And another.

Some longer. Some brief.

All dated. All sent before the escape.

Wesker was planning this. Not days ago. Weeks.

And he wrote to you through all of it.

Like a lover.

Like a prophet.

And outside, a cold wind rattles the window.

As if something just shifted.

The envelopes tear like skin beneath your fingers, one after another.

Each letter is precise. Cold. And personal. Like he knew how you’d read them—alone, hands shaking, and utterly too late.

The second letter is postmarked from 3 weeks ago.

“Have you ever watched someone transform from within? It starts behind the eyes. That’s where the soul goes to rot first. Your sister is still in there, Agent. For now. But if she begins to hum, if she starts repeating names you’ve never heard—call me. You won’t understand what it means. But I will.”

The third letter is marked from 2 and a half weeks ago, and it makes your skin crawl like the rest. It makes you feel revulsion and nausea.

“They’re studying her, aren’t they? Tucking her into clean little data sheets, filing her agony into charts. They’ll keep her alive just long enough to write the paper. Then they’ll euthanize her and move on. Unless you move first.”

Most of them continued this way. Short notes referencing the things you had spoken about in your short time interviewing the disgraced doctor. But the letters that really raise your flags are the three that start from 10 days ago.

Letter five - postmarked 10 days ago:

“I will be leaving soon. The BSAA grows… clumsy. Your Captain has become too fond of threats, too reliant on containment procedures. How quaint. But you, Agent… You never needed a cage to hear me.”

Letter six - postmarked 7 days ago:

“There is a storage unit registered under the name E.R. Black. Locker #61, in the industrial district. Go alone. Go before your Captain finds it. There’s a dose of something I no longer need, and a file your sister might. Leave the lights off when you read it.”

Letter seven is just a key. No paper. No greeting. Nothing but a polished, newly cut metal key.

“Shit… SHIT!!” You cry out and stuff the letters into your purse as arms flail to swipe keys off the counter and a jacket off the hook. Industrial district. Storage unit. That’s not close, but it’s not far. Taking one look at the traffic, you huff. ‘I’ll have to run.’ You think and go sprinting through the rain, clutching your purse like it holds all the answers to life’s questions.

By the time you reach the storage unit building, your eyes are blurry from droplets and your lungs burn. Slamming into the storage unit building, you bark at the poor receptionist: “E.R. Black! Locker 61!! Where is it?!” The panic must be obvious because the shocked receptionist just throws his hands up and points down a hallway. “R-right, okay—row F, aisle three. Left side!” And you take off.

The hallway is long and silent, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly. Your boots squeak with each step as you move fast through the concrete labyrinth, pulse hammering in your ears.

Locker 61 is tucked into the corner. A slab of unassuming, padlocked, cold metal.

But something about it feels wrong.

Like the hallway behind you just got quieter.

Like something’s watching.

You fumble the small key tucked in the envelope of the final letter and slide it into the lock.

Click.

The door swings open with a metallic groan and you step inside.

He steps out of the shadows like he never left them. No rush. No sound. Just appears—gloved hands behind his back, raindrops still clinging to the shoulders of his coat, as if the storm outside hadn’t touched him at all. His eyes settle on you with quiet satisfaction.

“You’re late.”

He walks a slow circle around the unit, eyes grazing over the open attaché case placed in the middle of the floor. It holds a syringe with a neatly printed label and a thick manila file, wrapped with twine to hold the top flap shut. On the back you can see his signature printed and the notes ‘Uroboros Data - Copy # 3’

“I had a sister once, you know. Half-blood. Sickly. Fragile.” A pause.

“She died before I understood the value of control.”

He turns to face you. His voice lowers—something silkier, darker, meant only for you. “You do understand now, don’t you?”

He takes one step closer, eyes catching yours in a vice grip.

“How much they’ve taken from you. How little they’ll give back. Redfield would’ve left her to rot in a lab cell.” He gestures to the case.

“You have in that box what no one else will offer you: choice. Sure, the cure isn’t perfect. But it’s better than the alternative...” A slow tilt of his head.

“All you have to do… is trust me.”

His smile doesn’t touch his eyes.

But there’s something else there.

Something wickedly patient.

And very, very interested.

“Work with me, Y/N… We can develop a proper cure for your dear, sweet Sister.” His voice continues to drop lower,

“And in return…”

He circles you, placing a gentle, gloved hand on your shoulder before purring in your ear–You can hear his lips curl into a sardonic smile…

“Loyalty, Agent. That’s all I ask for…”

Fin.

~~~

Taglist: @shymoob

Event Masterlist

[echo-and-dust]

now that my brain has somewhat unscrambled itself i have gotten most of my thoughts in order about season 3.

and the first thing i will say is: i loved it.

while it was gutwrenching and polarizing in some ways and i feel that i am entitled to financial compensation for what its done to my mental health, i loved this season for pretty much almost everything it did.

i cannot fault people for having issues with much of the characterization and plot choices made—that’s been the trend during the entire run of the show after all, and imo it’s a testament to the phenomenal way it generates nuance—but i wanted to share my feelings on the recurring opinions i’ve seen about some of these things.

first, i do not blame simon at all for the things he said in the final scene. he’s a child who has been receiving endless verbal and physical harassment on top of all the trauma he is still trying to heal from. he just watched his boyfriend lash out in anger and hurt—while not at him, but it must’ve been a close resemblance of how he might’ve seen micke act. at least, that's what i thought, though i've seen others say otherwise.

and yes, wille is not micke, but just because wille’s source of outbursts is different from micke’s doesn’t mean simon is wrong in drawing similarities. at least he's finally getting a true glimpse into what wille has had to deal with. i've honestly grown to like that they didn't have simon immediately comfort him though; wille's mental illness is not his fault, but it is his responsibility, and instead of pushing a message of unhealthy co-dependence, the show has simon be honest: "but i see that everything hurts you and that hurts me too." and to me, that's so important.

plus, it doesn't make their love any less genuine. wille is a victim of the circumstances; he is not evil, and he is not undeserving of simon. he just has a lot of growing and healing to do, a lot of unlearning and exposure therapy because he's still blinded by privilege even when he tries not to be.

speaking of, i have so many thoughts about wille that i feel like i need to save for its own separate post, but to sum them up: i'll still defend him with my life, and he needs to get the fuck away from that institution.

also, the fact that the responsibility of controlling simon's media decisions was placed solely on wille confused me at first like—why wouldn't they get a professional to give him proper media training?

then i realized, this could be the royal court's way of sabotaging their relationship. they knew that making wille the one to tell simon what he can and cannot say or post would create distance and animosity between them. despite the ramifications of simon's behavior on social media, it seems they still thought it best to have his boyfriend be the one to try to mold him into the system. because they knew that's how they could get rid of him. in conclusion, fuck the royal court (we been knew but still).

one of the standouts this season was their transparency regarding the show's politics. it not only works well with the show's arc (wilmon is public, everything's out in the open now and there's nothing to hide), but also it felt necessary at a time where censorship has been rapidly gaining momentum. it felt so refreshing for these characters to talk so openly about racial discrimination and queerphobia and class disparities, forcing both character and viewer to acknowledge that they exist and you should feel uncomfortable about it.

i don't think i can add much more to what was already said about it—most of the fandom is more eloquent and observant than i am anyway—i just wanted to reinforce how important this season is to myself and the story even with how controversial it is to fans right now. a lot of people may disagree with me and that's fine.