#(and so he's saying it not because he wants to but because he viscerally fear that he will be pushed into that direction)

[allfearstofallto]

Am soo happy to see your back even if it's just for a short while I hope your doing okey and that everything is good with life and work 😊 i wanted to ask if it was possible how do you think Yan Scara would react if reader got sick ? Would he be worried ? Would he try to tend to them or leave it to the doctors and servants ?

Again thank you so much for taking time for us 💕

My asks are FULL of this exact same question, I'm not joking 😭😭 so I just wrote all of them.

Sick Day

Yandere! x Fem! Reader

Featuring: Diluc, Childe, and Scaramouche

Diluc spent most of his life taking care of himself. Before and after the passing of his father, he was independent to a worrying degree for a young child. So when he got sick, he paid it little mind. He took the proper medicine and if the fever was mild enough, he'd still be sitting at his desk filing his mountains of paperwork. The only indication that he was unwell being the slight rasp of his voice and flush of his cheeks.

But that was because Diluc didn't care much for his own well-being. His body wasn't useful for much other than work, but only he believed that. The day you wake up with a cough and runny nose, mentioning to the head maid that you can't leave the bed because you're so lightheaded, Diluc is in shambles. The second the news makes it to his ears that you're under the weather, he's rushing to your bed chambers, at your side even when you don't want him.

Diluc can't stand the idea of losing you. You can hate him until Teyvat freezes over, it hurts, but at the very least he knows you're well. So the second you fall ill, a part of him feels shame for his inability to protect you, the other feels a visceral fear that you won't be around anymore.

For days you're catered to in bed. Not just by maids, but Diluc too. You're given soft, warm foods and plenty of water. Your temperature is taken three times a day by a doctor, who insists that if you're not awake to eat, you should sleep more to regain your strength. You wondered how much Diluc threatened him to get him to say the same thing over and over.

The day that you're deemed well and cleared to roam the manor freely again, is supposed to be a joyous one for you. As much as you love your room, you were growing sick of the wallpaper and you could only look at the same painting so many times before it frustrated you instead of entertaining. But overbearing Diluc is still around, watching you with worried eyes and begging you to take breaks to rest after every three steps you take.

Ajax is the epitome of an old wife when it comes to health remedies. With all of his siblings, some of which he ended up taking care of as he got older, he picked up a thing or two from the way his mother cared for him when he was sick. Her remedies, while strange to those from other countries, always had him in tiptop shape in a day or two.

It didn't help that you didn't hail from Snezhnaya. Liyue got cold, but even the hottest day in Snezhnaya was colder than the coldest in Liyue. Your body would have to acclimate to your new climate, meaning that even if he tried to keep you warm at night with the fireplace roaring and many blankets, all it would take was a little Snezhnayan air tickling your nostrils to make you wake up with a cold.

Using what his mother taught him and what her mother taught her before, he woke you up from your sleep when he noticed your runny nose and tears in your eyes. Pressing a hand against your forehead to check your temperature, all while your dreary eyes slowly blinked, wordlessly begging for more sleep.

“You'll rest soon, my angel, but I need you to drink this first,” Childe spoke in the softest voice he could muster, so as not to intensify your headache.

He knew something was wrong with you, the way you took the cup from his hands and downed without batting an eye. The little grimace your face made when the vodka hit your tongue was cute, but he tried not to get lost in your features while you were still sick and needy for assistance. His mother did a lot of things when he fell ill, but a shock of vodka was always the first, you were out cold after swallowing it down.

Despite his love for you, Ajax doesn't worry when you're sick. He believes that sickness is just one of the many battles of life and that there's no way you won't succeed in conquering it. Even after you're better, Childe insists that the two of you do some light exercises together. You can complain that it's your first day healthy, but he won't listen. Strengthening your body will keep you from getting sick again.

Even though he's lived for hundreds of years, Scaramouche doesn't quite understand the human body. Improper conditions for a prolonged time will just make you cease to work? And in the most inconvenient way possible as well? It's annoying and far too inconvenient.

Or, that's what he told himself. But when he looks over at you that first morning when you're sick, sweay pooling on your forehead and seemingly unable to breathe, something tugs at his heart. He feels something for you, watching as even in your dreams you're writhing in pain. Scaramouche feels pity. He assumes it's something he can only feel towards you because his heart sings for you.

“What are you doing?��� Scaramouche questions a maid who he bumped into in the hallway.

Even though she carried a bowl of water in her hands, she still found a way to bow, “I received news that the Lady has a fever, my lord. A towel soaked in cold water on her forehead will help break it.”

He hummed. He'd heard of such things, but never thought that he himself would see them being used. A sense of urgency took over him when he realized that this would help you though, a need to be the one doing it for you.

“She'll be more comfortable with someone she's familiar with. Let me do it,” he ordered while snatching the bowl from her hands.

She opened her mouth to question him, but he shot her a glare before she could. He marched back to his room promptly, kneeling beside you as you slept. As the maid said, the cool towel did work. You seemed less pained when he placed it on your forehead.

After that moment, Scaramouche insisted he be the one doing everything for you while you were sick. Feeding you ginger soup, changing your blankets, nursing you back health without any assistance. All because he assured everyone that you'd be more comfortable with him doing it, although you rarely even opened your tired eyes the entire time you were getting better, so you had no idea who was cradling you in their arms and insisting you eat more.

When you're better, you're under the assumption that the maids are the ones who helped you, knowing that while you're sick you're practically comatose. But they insist that it wasn't them, saying that Lord Scaramouche himself cared for you and stayed by your side the entire time.

He'll never admit it though, brushing you off by saying something along the lines of, “Why are you saying such stupid things?”

[starplanes]

A (5 star) review of Bury Your Gays, by @drchucktingle!

I read this book in one sitting. I did not plan to read this book in one sitting, but I could not put it down, accepting that my lunch break was now an extended reading break. Bury Your Gays was just that good.

It starts simple. Screenwriter Misha has been told by his exec that the season finale of his show must out, then kill the two leads. He needs to bury his gays because the board has determined it's where the money is. Misha says no. Then starts getting stalked by his (definitely fictional, right?) characters from other shows. Either Misha developed some incredible supernatural powers in that meeting, or something more sinister is at work…

Bury Your Gays illustrates why queer people should be allowed to tell the stories they want to tell, instead of being made to use queerbating, tragic tropes, or fake relentless optimism in the name of corporate Pride. It's a story about the queer struggle to find oneself in a world that makes it so, so hard. There's a lot of love for the queer community poured into this book, and oh does it shines. I especially adored the ace rep - and the concept of ace rep as a plot point. I shall not explain further. However, I am more scared than ever of the corporatization of Pride.

Bury Your Gays also criticizes capitalism's monetization of tragedy and exploitation of workers. It explores what happens when ethics are ignored in the name of an ever-growing profit margin, to the point where the bottom line becomes a near-sentient thing. It leans into the horrors of AI and data-mining by combining the two and going all the way with it. Chuck Tingle has acknowledged all my fears of black box algorithms and also made them ten times worse. Truly a feat! I will be sleeping with my router off!

It's a masterpiece of horror, both visceral and psychological. Since the main character is a horror writer, the story is very genre aware. There's a lot of fun to be had in the tale of "writer being followed by the monsters he wrote," and certainly no small amount of terror. It gets gory here and there, with plenty of suspense in between. Hints are laid out for the reader, enough where I was occasionally able to predict what was coming just a page or two before it landed. My jaw dropped multiple times! The writing is descriptive enough to pull you right in (and gross you out!), and it's paced near-perfectly. There's all these little moments sprinkled in that elevate the whole story, from fun references of other work to subtle clues you'll only catch on a reread.

This book will be living in my head rent-free from now on. It's about so many things and yet has interwoven them all perfectly. Fans of classic horror movies will love this story. Those of us fed up with AI generated trash will love it. Anyone who joined a WGA picket line will love it. Asexuals fed up with lack of representation will love it. People who watched multiple seasons of Supernatural will love it. Is that you? Go pick up Bury Your Gays. Be scared, be sad, be angry. But also validated, loved, and joyful.

TLDR: Read this book when it comes out on July 9!

[riickgrimes]

"The key thing was of course, the fact that Rick has PTSD and that's very much what's driving a lot of his behavior and being in a place of that level of vulnerability, back with the love of his life in that way.

It's also the thing he fears, the loss of her. It manifests itself in a way that is visceral and leads to the lovemaking not just being about love, but the revealing of pain and trauma and fear. That informs Michonne, that she can't just blast him into making sense. There's something deeper going on here that he can't verbalize. She has to help him get through in a different way. So she gets to see him, as well, as he reveals what's really in there, the wound. That's going to happen most likely in that most vulnerable space." — Danai Gurira

"Yeah, I think it is about pain. As Danai just said, it's about him wanting her and then fearing what he's about to unlock again. He gets to sort of articulate it in the scene further in the episode, when he gets to say that, 'I can't do this again. I haven't got the capacity to do this again. I've worked out how to die and live again.' So it is an absolutely necessary scene that allows Michonne to realize that there's something really broken here, more broken than she's ever anticipated. [...]

So the scene was about a real intimacy, a sort of frightening intimacy. This is a part of his personality he has shut down. It's almost like he's trying to stop himself from feeling this love again. She sees that and she just says, 'Just trust. We're back. We're the same...' I find it very moving. I think it's a very, very moving scene, because it's about them connecting in a way that he's had to deny for seven years. He's denied that connection for the sake of living on in this half life for the CRM" — Andrew Lincoln

Andrew Lincoln and Danai Gurira Discuss Episode 4 of The Walking Dead: The Ones Who Live

[revelboo]

Everything is Alright pt 8

Soundwave x reader- whispers

• It’s just out of reach, that whispering tangle of confused emotions at the edge of his awareness. And he isn’t able to block them out like normal, so they’re just there, pulling at him. All the time. Except, no Cybertronian’s mind is this chaotic. Not even Skywarp.

• Fine hair at your nape prickling, you turn and stare out of your cage at the empty space around you. That eerie sense of not being along trips down your spine on icy fingers, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It’s not the first time you’ve felt the sensation over the last several days. Usually faint, it’s like a half-remembered word on the tip of your tongue. A memory you can recall the emotion for, but not the details. And it makes your chest ache even as it scares you.

• That voice whispers without words to you, calming your thoughts when you start to unravel from stress and fear. You haven’t dared mention it to Starscream. What can you even say? That you think you’re losing your mind? That you miss something so viscerally it hurts and you don’t even know what it is?

• No matter how many mental walls he puts up, it’s still there. Always there. Always just out of reach. Soundwave slumps at his console, glyphs running together as he tries to focus. He’s aware of his cassettes’s worry. They don’t share his gift exactly, but they’re all aware that something is wrong.

• It’s frustration that drives him from his office, leaving behind the monitors to stalk the halls. This has to end- this distraction. He drifts through the base, no longer trying to block that whispering mind out. Now he’s seeking it, a thrill of recognition sparking in him as he hesitates in front of the SIC’s closed door. This rotation, Starscream would be on patrol. No one to catch him override the lock and slip inside, because that chaos of needs and emotion is so close, warping sharply, painfully into fear as he steps inside the dimly lit space.

• Frozen, you stare at the boxy new mech and hold your breath. Given how Skywarp and Thundercracker had reacted to finding you hidden away like a favorite toy, you expect pain. Last time, Starscream had shown up just in time, but this time? You might not be so lucky and as its head turns to stare at you from a faintly luminous visor, you have to admit Lady Luck is a jerk.

• A human. The tiny creature stares up at him with frightened eyes, the noise of its thoughts increasing with panic. Becoming almost deafening. “Stop.” He’s reaching for it inside its crude cage before he thinks better and it cringes as he lifts it free. Never having been so close to one, he never realized he could hear them. Their thoughts a living thing, growing wild and chaotic- sharp and painful inside his processor. “Stop,” he repeats again, softening the demand as it trembles and he runs a servo from the bridge of its nose, up and over its hair, and it freezes. The touch startling it into blissful silence just like an anxious sparkling.

• That sense of familiarity washes over you as your heart races. It’s warmth and safety, that voice draining away the fear as he runs a feather-light finger against you again. Nerves still humming, you stare up at this new mech and wonder why you’re suddenly not afraid. Why you want to curl against his servos, because, like Starscream, he’s safe. As you blink up at him, his big shoulders ease slowly and that servo makes another pass, the touch making you lean away. That visor and mask combo make reading his mood from his expression impossible, but you don’t think he’s angry. He’s almost humming, the noise unheard but felt as it buzzes through your bones and you relax further.

• Finally. Finally he’s not drowning in those wild thoughts. He can’t even get a true read like he can on a Cybertronian, organic thoughts are all bright flashes of emotion and movement. But calm, it’s almost music, running constantly like the chatter of water. When it speaks, that soft voice surprises him. “If Starscream finds you here, he’ll be mad.” Those words skitter through his mind with more bright, anxious emotion. Fascinating. Afraid of Starscream? No. Worried about Starscream’s reaction. Worried for… him?

Previous Next

[oddinary4bts]

Chasing Cars | ch 10.5 (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, this chapter contains mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆warnings: it's sad. curses?, jungkook is so far gone for her my dudes, explicit content: oral sex (female receiving), fingering, protected sex

☆word count: 1.7k

☆a/n: this one is sad and i'm sorry, jk is just so sad that he has to go and so afraid he'll lose her please :'( i hope you'll still enjoy <3

☆series masterpost

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

The light of the sun still hides under the horizon when Jungkook wakes up, your deep breathing tickling his neck. He’s on his back, and you’re cuddled up in his side, face hidden in the crook of his neck. He’s a little too warm, yet he doesn’t push you away.

He doesn’t want to. Ever. Not when he’s leaving in the evening, and all that’s left of you and him might just be a few hours. 

He turns to face you, pulling you into his chest, and then he presses a kiss on the top of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo. It must have stirred you awake, because you hum, wrapping your arm around his middle.

“What time is it?” you mumble, your lips grazing his skin ever so slightly.

Jungkook glances behind himself towards where he left his phone on his night table. It’s face down right now, so he can’t see the time, and he reckons he doesn’t want to move to check.

It’s not like you have to wake up early anyway.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Sun isn’t even up yet.”

You nod, and you start drawing idle shapes on his back. Shivers travel up and down his spine, yet he remains still. When you shift, your thigh moves up, brushing him slightly through the fabric of the boxers he slept in.

He’s already hard. He’s been hard since he woke up, like he almost always is, and the feeling of you touching him heats up his blood.

“Someone woke up happy,” you grumble, still half-asleep and groggy with sleep.

Jungkook chuckles, his grip tightening around you. “How can I resist when I wake up with you in my bed?”

You move back enough to be able to catch his gaze, and Jungkook’s heart aches at the forlorn look in your eyes. Your hand moves up, tracing his jaw as your gaze drops to his lips. And then you’re leaning in, brushing your mouth on his once, almost tentatively.

His body’s reaction is visceral. Like it knows there might be the end to the two of you in just a few hours even though he doesn’t want it. There’s something in the way you were looking at him - Jungkook has a bad presentiment about the days that are to come.

He tries to tell himself that it’s because Taehyung will know, and it might cause a lot of arguing, but something in the pit of his stomach tells him that there will be more. 

He doesn’t think he’ll survive if that more ends up breaking the two of you apart.

You part your lips on a sigh as your hand moves to the back of his head, getting lost in his hair. Jungkook forces you to turn on your back, and he immediately climbs on top of you, draping his large body over your small one. He makes sure he’s not crushing you, and then he’s kissing you again, with all the passion and the fear in the future that his heart holds.

The kiss grows fiery, stealing the breath from Jungkook’s lungs, and he disconnects his mouth from you just long enough to find the spot below your ear that makes you moan softly each time. You pull at his hair when he sucks on it, and he grunts softly, instinctively grinding into you.

“I want you, Kook…” you whisper.

It’s all he needed to hear. Indeed, Jungkook travels down your body, throwing the blanket back so that he can look at you while he tastes you. He positions himself between your legs, spreading you apart to take a look at you. You’re not really wet yet - because you sleep naked - but he knows he’ll get you there in no time.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs, almost purrs, and you try to close your thighs but he holds them open. “Nu-uh,” he warns. “Don’t act like you’re shy, peach.”

And then he dives in, closing his lips around your clit to suck on it once. You let out a breathy sound that makes his dick twitch, and he goes lower, pushing his tongue inside of you.

He’s feral for you. Truly, entirely, feral. All he wants is to make you feel good, to show you just how much he cares for your pleasure. So when he feels your juices starting to coat his chin a few moments later, he doesn’t hesitate before slipping a finger inside of you, arching it in search of the soft spot he knows will make you come in no time.

He’s right - less than a minute later you’re coming around his finger, on his chin, your walls pulsing. You moan something that sounds like his name and he milks your orgasm out of you, up until you pull on his hair to force him to raise his head.

He wants to make a snarky comment, wants to say something to tease you about being quick, but you’re crashing your lips on his and he can’t think.

Not that he can usually think when he’s with you. He’s too far gone for you to be able to produce any coherent thought. Especially not as you force him on his back, rid him of his boxers and climb on top of him. He’s painfully hard, his dick even more swollen than it usually is.

“Condom,” Jungkook breathes, the last of his sanity slipping away with the word. 

You let out a noncommittal sound, yet you bend down towards the night table, fishing a condom out of the box in the bottom drawer.

“It’s the last one,” you say as you tear the tinfoil package open.

Jungkook tries to make a mental note to get more before he comes back from his trip, but the moment you start rolling the condom on his dick, the thought flies out the window, replaced by all his lust and desire for you.

Replaced by the love that makes his heart swell in his chest the second you’re sinking down on him. It’s a strong feeling, a scary one considering the uncertainty of you and him, yet he clings to it all the same. Clings to you, too, pulling you down so that he can start fucking you slowly.

You’re inebriating. Your pussy feels just right on him, like it was made for him, and damn him he wants to feel you without the condom. Wants to fill you up, too, no matter how reckless it might be. 

He wants to have everything with you, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it happen.

You straighten, rocking your hips forward. The angle feels good, and Jungkook lets you take the lead so that he can admire you instead. So that he can admire your breasts as they bounce from your motions, so that he can admire the red and black ink on your hip. 

Most of all, so that he can admire the look of pure ecstasy shining in your eyes, painted on your features, making you look even more beautiful than you are. You truly look like a goddess, like you’re someone he was meant to venerate and fuck, he loves it.

He’s addicted to you, through and through.

“Fuck, Kook,” you breathe as you continue rocking your hips.

“Feels good?” he lets out.

You nod, flashing a quick smile that hints at affection more than lust. “Always.”

Jungkook loves that, too. So much so that he forces you to bend down again, and he ravishes a languid kiss on your lips. You moan in his mouth as he thrusts up, and then Jungkook unleashes himself. He spins you around, kneels between your legs and then pushes in, pushes home, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him.

“Love your pussy,” he grunts, and then he’s jackhammering into you, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, soon followed by the banging of his headboard into the wall. 

He doesn’t care. He’ll wake the whole neighbourhood if he can, if that means he doesn’t have to lose you in the end.

“Peach,” he moans, and he opens his eyes to look at you.

Your beauty isn’t diminished by the grey light of pre-dawn. In truth, he thinks you’re even more beautiful, shining like a star, like the goddess you are.

“Kook,” you reply, and it’s equally as desperate. 

He slows down the rhythm, focusing on the feeling of you around him, under him, of his balls tightening as he nears his high. Yet his climax eludes him.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

Fuck.

Jungkook bends down, readjusting his angle, and you wrap your legs around his waist. It allows him to push in deeper, to feel all of you around all of him. He kisses you, drinks you in, and a few seconds later, when you scratch his back, Jungkook feels himself sprinting towards his high.

It hits when your walls clench around him, and Jungkook releases his load in the condom, cursing and grunting through the waves of the orgasm.

“Kook,” you moan as his dick is still twitching deep inside of you. “Fuck, Jungkook.”

“Peach,” he answers, though he barely can focus.

“Kiss me again.”

He obliges. He kisses you with every feeling in his heart, putting all his love in the act. He’d tell you he loves you, yet something refrains him from doing so. Later, he’ll regret it, but for now all he can do is kiss you, his heart swelling and soaring for you.

He hopes you can tell how much he cares for you.

Much later that day, when it is time for him to head to the airport, Jungkook hugs you tight by the door of your shared apartment. He kisses you softly, this time with an aching heart. And then he whispers a promise to you, words he means more than anything he’s ever said in his life.

“I promise I’ll come back to you and make it work.”

Read chapter ten here!

☆☆☆☆☆

my babies please i don't want them to hurt :'( let's pretend ch 11 isn't going to happen :')

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

[napakmahal]

Drop your pin

Chat i MIGHT have cooked with this one

This is bad, this is so bad.

Less than two hours ago you left your house to drive over to a nice restaurant in downtown San Fransokyo and now you were pulled over at a gas station parking lot staring at your dreaded flat tire. If you hadn’t turned off your music to take a phone call from your friend mid-drive you probably would have never heard the dreaded: BANG!

What’s even worse is you were running late for your first formal date with a guy you met at an off-campus study site where you worked as a barista. He looked so cute in his little academic grind, so focused you thought his eyebrows were stuck in a permanent scowl. Thankfully, said the boy was studying so hard that he refilled his caffeinated iced tea almost four times and he came up to you. He started the conversation by rubbing his beautiful brown eyes tiredly saying “I am really tired, but I’m trying to stay away from coffee for a little bit.”

And somehow, his voice made him almost ten times more attractive than you originally thought him to be. By the time you finished pouring his tea, he’d complimented everything about you. From the hairstyle, you had dawned that day to how well you did your job. He was perfect and you were so excited for this date.

Until the universe had just to come and ruin it.

Canceling is one thing, but canceling because your tire popped is another. Everyone knows that whenever someone cancels last minute because they’re having ‘car troubles’ actually means ‘I wanted you to get lost from day one and now I have a reason not to see you.’ That and the lame excuse of ‘Oh I’m just really busy this week.’

This is why you can’t help but feel a sense of dread boiling in your stomach while you hear your phone ring and ring, waiting for him to answer. You like this boy, honest. But after this, he may not be so sure.

You swear you can feel your heart drop to the pits of your stomach when you first hear his voice.

“Hi, I’m not there yet. I just turned onto the 5 and-oh shit! Are you already there? I’m so sorry.”

You would laugh if you didn’t feel like crying. “Umm no, I’m not. Tadashi I have some bad news.”

“Uh-oh, what’s up?”

You took a deep breath. “Okay umm, so when I turned onto the highway my right tire popped and now I’m outside this sketchy-looking gas station trying to figure out what to do.”

Silence. All you could hear on his end of the call was the zooming of other cars next to his.

“Tadashi?” You confirmed. “Are you still there? Look I know it sounds like such a lie and I’m sorry. I really was looking forward to going out with you and I feel so bad about-”

“Drop me the pin.” The sound of his voice forced you to have such a visceral and public reaction.

Drop the pin? Like-to him? Why?

“L-Like,” You stuttered. “My pin? Right now?”

“Yeah, your pin.”

So you did. You sent him your GPS pin and waited for a little less than ten minutes. What did he want with your location? Maybe he just wanted to make sure you weren’t lying to him about being at the gas station. He could just never show up. After about seven minutes had passed, a rusty old work truck drove off the exit and into the gas station parking lot. Flashing bright yellow headlights. The truck pulled up almost directly in front of you and for a moment you felt fear. A stranger just coming up to you in a car in a sketchy area while you have no other way of escaping. But that fear dripped away when you saw it was Tadashi who was driving.

“Oh my gosh, hi.” You stared at him, slightly confused but extremely relieved.

He opened the door and walked towards you. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, but my tire isn’t and I really don’t want to have to pay to get a new one.” You groaned at the thought of dealing with car troubles.

Tadashi squated down with a grunt at your popped tire. “Do you know how to change one of these?”

“Erm, kind of.” You answered honestly. “I don’t know it well enough to try it. I’m too scared to try it on my actual tire.”

He hummed before asking you to pop open your trunk so he could reach in and get your spare. And for the next twenty-two minutes, you watched your date grunt, sigh, groan, and flex all the muscles he had lifting and changing your popped tire. You learned two things in those thirty minutes.

1)That your date is one hell of a handyman and 2) That your date is not only cute but damn is he hot.

When he finished, he stood back up stretching out his limbs and cracking his neck.

“Now, you can’t really drive on a spare for too long so we’ll just go back and change it.” He said as if it were the most nonchalant thing in the world and not an act of pure chivalry.

You, who was almost starstruck at this man practically launched yourself and him in the biggest hug you’ve ever given someone.

You gushed, “Oh! Thank you so much. You’re so sweet!”

Thankfully, he hugged you back. Arms fully wrapped around you and jaw rested on the top of your head. When the two of you let go, he took your phone and put an address in it. One you had never even heard of. A place called the Lucky Cat Café and when you asked all he said was “We’re going there to change your tire.”

So the two of you got back onto the highway and drove backwards from your original date spot. For most of the drive you tried to keep the back of his car in your sights even though you had the GPS on. By the time you’d arrived, the street that the Lucky Cat was located on was practically empty. Everyone and all businesses seemed to be asleep for the night, which is why you both had decided on a place in Downtown San Fransokyo where the city rarely sleeps.

You shut your car door behind you. “What is this place?”

“It’s my aunt’s café, we live on the top. You see?” He pointed at a window in the top of the building with a glowing light through it like someone was home. “So my garage is on the side over there, do you want to just park there and I’ll change your tire.”

Wait he was serious. Like he was full-on going to change your spare tire.

“Seriously?” You double-checked.

Tadashi smiled followed by a light and airy laugh. “Yeah, I’m serious.”

So you drove past the main building and into the rather large alleyway where his garage was. From where you were you could see the garage door that was painted on the sides with traditional Japanese art.

“Did you paint that?” You pointed at the door.

Tadashi fumbled around in his pocket for the garage door key. “Me and my brother worked on it when we were in middle school.”

“So you guys are close?”

Guys that love their families are mad hot.

The door slowly propped open. “Extremely close and- oh. Speak of the devil.”

Sitting inside the garage was a boy who couldn’t have been any older then fifteen on the couch resting flat on his back. Scrolling on his phone and eating a green melon popsicle in white calf socks.

He lifted his head to see the two of you standing in the frame of the garage, large brown eyes that resembled Tadashi’s staring like a deer in headlights.

“Oh shit,” He grunted. “What’s up?”

Tadashi alternated his hand between the two of you. “Hiro this is y/n, y/n this is my little brother Hiro.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Hiro.” You smiled. Tadashi had mentioned him a few times and you’d heard him in the background of some of the FaceTime and regular phone calls you had with Tadashi.

Before he could respond, your date looked around his garage with a look of confusion on his face. “Dude, where are the tires?”

“Behind the dumpster.” Hiro said like it was obvious.

Tadashi rolled his eyes. “The unused ones, dumbass.”

“Oh, side shed.”

Your date excused himself and pulled out his phones flashlight to navigate his way through the dark of the night to his familys storage shed. Leaving you alone with his younger brother who had since put his phone down.

“You’re y/n?”

“Yep.” You popped the ‘p’ rocking back and forth on your feet.

Hiro’s face filled with a sudden smugness. “You know he’s like super into you, right?”

You tried to fight the obvious smile that wanted to come to your face. “Really?”

“Before he left he called all of his friends to make sure he looked good enough to leave the house.” He scoffed at the memory.

Just then, Tadashi came back rolling a brand new tire for your car. He told Hiro to scram before setting it down and grabbing his own tools. The garage itself was crazy, filled with tools, walls of water stained blueprints, chalk drawings, and premade machinery including a 3D printer and two different computers.

While changing your new tire, you took the time to really apologize for the messed up ‘date’ you were having.

“I’m so sorry about this, this is not what I planned at all.” Your voice laced with sincerity.

Tadashi’s face fell into one of fake disbelief as he joked, “You mean you didn’t intentionally pop your own tire so I would come and get you and we had to change it instead of going out to the restaurant we’re both appropriately dressed for?”

You laughed and gently punched him in the arm. “Don’t be an ass.”

“I know, I’m just joking.” He reassured you. “You look really beautiful though, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that before.”

“Aww, thank you. You look half decent as well.”

The two of you laughed as he continued to change your tire. There was a point where the new one he brought out for you had weighed so much he had to take off his dress jacket and lift it up like a deadlift. At his obvious struggle you offered to help but it was pointless.

“No it’s okay I got it.”

“Really?” You asked. “I can help you out. Plus it would teach me for the future.”

“Well when you’re with me, you won’t ever have to change your own tire.” Just as he said it, he regretted it. The two of you hadn’t even really been on a first date, just a few flirty texts and calls. That’s it.

He covered his mouth. “Oh-that’s not- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

To his relief and surprise you laughed in the most adorable way he’d ever heard someone laugh. “It’s okay, that was cute. Really cute.”

“Oh thank god.” He breathed out.

After a couple more flirty conversations and remarks, he’d finally finished installing your new tire and placed the spare back in your car.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.” You cooed and kissed him on the cheek.

A warm blush expanded across his face after the kiss your given him as he dizzely responded, “No problem.”

You had your arms hooked around his neck as you both just stared at each other. Tadashi looked down at his watched and hummed.

“You know, they’re still open.” He referred to the restaurant from your original plan.

To say you were shocked would be an understatement. He did all of that for you, and he still wanted to go out?

“Y-you,” You began to stutter in disbelief. “You still want to go out with me.”

“If anything I want to go out with you even more now.” He whispered so low only you could hear. “Do you want to go out with me?”

“Yes.” You whispered back, falling into his dark brown eyes.

He smiled, face getting closer and closer to yours. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Ye-”

Kissing before the first date even starts is unheard of for you. It’s not something you would ever do…normally. But to be fair nothing about that first date was normal. You ran you hands up his jet black hair, lightly pulling at the strands while his hands held yourl ower back. How could making out with someone you hadn’t even gone on a proper date with in the middle of his garage with the door wide open feel so incredibly intimate?

When you two had pulled away all you could do was laugh. What was so funny? You don’t actually know, but something about it had made to so giggly. Face pressed into his chest, laughing.

You two had decided that it seemed like a better idea for Tadashi to drive to two of you downtown and when you opened the passenger seat door there was a large bouquet of pink tulips and daisy fillers on the seat with a calligraphy card with your name on it wrapped in brown paper. You covered your smile with your mouth as you picked up the bouquet.

“I was going to give those to you when we got there.” Tadashi said shyly, embarrassed that he missed the opportunity to give them to you when he pulled up to the gas station parking lot.

All you did was stare at him, endearence in your eyes before kissing that boy straight on the lips another time.

[drewsbuzzcut]

Moving On and On, So Very Bittersweet

Mat Barzal x model!fem!reader

A visceral in doses fic

Warnings: mentions miscarriage, anxiety, nerves, slight angst, and SMUT

Today has been a bit of a haze and you’re not even close to putting your plan in motion yet. You’re finally ready to have sex again after a long, grueling 5 months. The healing process after your miscarriage has been one of the hardest things ever, and it’s still rough sometimes. However, time has healed you mentally and you feel ready to rekindle that spark between yourself and Mat. This morning you made a phone call to your best friend, Beverly, asking if she’d do you the grace of taking care of your babies for the night. Luckily she agreed. You had to run around the house to pack their bags and feed them before they were picked up. Now you’re setting up for tonight, impatiently waiting for Mat to walk through the front door.

The familiar beep of Mat’s car doors locking alerts you instantly. You feel nerves of anticipation and excitement fill you up as you trot over to the front door. You throw it open before he can even insert the key into the keyhole. You’re greeted with his shocked expression and his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his chest.

“Hi, baby,” you mutter, words muffled by the material of his button up.

You practically cuddle into his body as warmth emanates from all around him.

“Hi, pretty girl. I missed you today,” he says back, looking down into your eyes.

An overwhelming swell of love pumps through your veins while you stare at the man you’re insanely in love with.

“The kids are awfully quiet today,” Mat concludes, so used to the bustling sound of his kids coming to greet him when he first gets home.

“They actually aren’t here. They’re with Beverly for the night. We’ll go pick them up tomorrow morning,” you explain.

You fiddle with the hairs at the nape of his neck to distract yourself from feeling any type of anxiety. You’re trying not to let any of your fears get to you. You know you’re ready to move forward with Mat, but you can’t help but feel jittery. It’s almost like it’s your first time all over again.

“That’s nice. What’s the occasion?” Your husband’s hands wander along your back, his fingertips pressing into any knots you may have.

“No occasion, I just want some quality time with my husband,” you murmur and press a kiss onto the side of his neck.

For a moment you feel him freeze because he’s not used to you being affectionate as of late, but then you feel him melt into you. He doesn’t know that it eases your anxiety.

“I can definitely get behind that. I missed being able to be with my wife without the babies crawling all over us. Don’t get me wrong, I love our children, but I love having some time for just you and me,” Mat grins, tugging you further into him.

“Me too, baby. How about we order some takeout?” You ask.

“Deal.”

-

“That was so good,” you comment as you relax into the cushions of the couch.

“Sushi is always good,” Mat agrees, welcoming you into his arms.

You pepper kisses along his collarbones and all the way up to his jaw. Your hands press into his chest and you smirk when you feel his heartbeat start to pick up. After your soft attack is over, you pull him into a hug. You feel so thankful for your husband, and you hate that you haven’t been showing it as often.

“It’s so nice to be able to enjoy a meal with you, baby. We haven’t had a date this week, so I’m glad we were able to do this,” Mat expresses his gratitude.

“Maybe we should cap this over with a nice bath and maybe a glass of wine,” you suggest, eyes peering into his innocently.

“I like that idea very much,” he responds and leads you to your bathroom.

After setting up a warm bubble bath and grabbing some wine, you finally sink into the water. You welcome the liquid to soothe your muscles and you’re sure that Mat welcomes the same feeling. You melt into his chest, feeling the comfort of having him wrapped around you.

“Mat,” you mutter so quietly that he almost doesn’t catch it.

“Yeah, babe?” He leans up, so he’s flushed against your back and his hands wrap around your stomach.

You fight the chill that dares to roll through your spine and try to calm the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

You clear your throat and say, “these past months have been so hard on us. I’m still a little sad, but I miss feeling connected to you-“

“We're always connected, even if it's not sexually. You're my wife, my soulmate, and my everything," Mat adds in. His eyes are filled with sincerity, making you relax a bit.

“I know, baby. In this case, I mean I miss being sexually connected. Seeing you be the best daddy, picking up my slack, and just being the best husband, has made me insanely horny for you,” you finish with a giggle, feeling awfully shy. Your cheeks simmer under Mat’s smirk.

There are no words to express how grateful you are for your husband. While you’ve been dealing with your grief, Mat has been the ultimate partner. Not that he wasn’t before the miscarriage, but he’s definitely made things easier for you during your fragile state. That’s not to mention that he’s been so patient with you. He didn’t push you to get better, nor did he push you to have sex before you were ready. Mat’s the definition of the perfect husband, perfect father.

"Are you 100% sure you're ready for me?" Your husband asks, wanting to be completely certain that you're not feeling any hesitation.

“I’m sure. I want you,” you state firmly, pushing yourself as close as humanly possible to him.

His hands fall from the small of your back to your ass, grabbing handfuls of you.

You kiss up his throat, licking a line up one of his veins.

“On our bed,” you make sure that he knows he can’t have you until you’re in the comfort of your bed.

-

“Wait here,” Mat says, rubbing your arms and leaving you in your ensuite while he disappears into the master bedroom.

You finish off your skincare and body care routine. You feel so giddy, like you can jump and run around. You’re not sure what your husband is doing and it makes you excited. The lust has already started to pool in your core, waiting for Mat to ignite the fire within you.

You can’t wait to get your hands on him and feel his muscles flex underneath your palms. You yearn to hear his moans close to your ear and feel him hard and thick inside of you.

“You can come out now,” his words break you out of your daydream.

You slip your robe on and anxiously open the door. Your jaw drops to the floor and your heart grows three sizes upon seeing candles set up around your room. The comforter and pillows on the bed are fluffed up. Your shared bedroom has never felt so intimate and safe.

“I love you and I’m proud of you for everything. You’re the strongest person I know, and I’m glad you’re my wife as well as the mother of our children,” he whispers in your ear with his arms wrapped around you.

“I love you more,” your response is tearful, but so thankful at the same time.

When Mat lets go, he waits for you to make the first move. He doesn’t want to rush you, or make you feel like things have to progress quickly. He’d be fine with kissing you in bed if that’s all you wanted.

You let your silk robe slink down your body, the intimidating bed right in front of you. With a deep inhale and exhale of air, you settle in the plush of your blankets and pillows. The candlelight breaks through the dim lighting of the room, highlighting the intimacy of the atmosphere.

When you take a glance at your husband, his eyes are already on you, taking in the sight of you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you. Your breath hitches in your throat and you subconsciously clutch the sheets and tightly close your legs. Mat’s eyes soften at your rigid form, not used to seeing you so timid.

You’re left in silence while you watch your husband drop the towel from around his waist. Finally kneeling on the bed and scooting closer to you, he reaches out to your legs. You unintentionally jump at the touch of his hand, but quickly will yourself to calm down.

It’s Mat, your husband, he’s in love with you and will always take care of you.

He gently pries your legs apart, eyes on your reaction as he slots himself between your legs. He takes in your naked form, one he’s seen a million times and one he’ll never get tired of. He catches sight of your tattoo on your lower abdomen. “Baby,” sits there proudly, remembering your baby that you never had the opportunity to meet. He traces the black ink, letter for letter. Tears start to form in your eyes, but you don’t let them slip. You know it’s okay to be sad, but you don’t want to dampen the moment.

“Are you doing okay?” Your husband asks. The gentle drag of his fingertips make goosebumps prickle at your skin.

“Yes, baby,” you respond and grab onto his wrist, moving his hand over your heart.

You both stay still for a minute, letting him feel the beat of your heart under his palm while you caress his jaw.

“Tell me if you don’t want to do this,” Mat makes sure you’re completely ready to get intimate again.

This time you have no hesitation.

“I want you.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips while he spreads your arousal around your waiting core. After telling him that you were ready in the bathtub, things got a little touchy and it was basically your foreplay.

He grabs his length, dragging the tip through your folds in a small tease. He nudges it against your clit, making your body already feel fluttery.

After coating himself in your wetness, he slowly starts to push into you. Your hole clenches down on his angry, leaking head and your body lurches forward.

“Wait, don’t move. I- I need some time to adjust,” you say, halting his movement with a hand on his torso.

“Take however much time you need, baby. I don’t want to hurt you,” he assures you, his hands rubbing at your long legs.

After a long pause, you start to get antsy. The feeling of pleasure lingers in the forefront of your mind and you want nothing but to feel all of him.

“I want you closer,” you demand, your arms going around his neck and pulling him closer to you.

You need the press of his body on yours, feeling his heartbeat thud against yours. It makes all your worries dissipate.

“I need you, Maty. Please make me feel good,” you whimper and it’s all he needs to hear to start his movements.

He pulls out slowly and gently pushes back in, effectively pulling soft moans from your mouth.

His pace only increases a tad bit, but each thrust is deep and punctuated with a passionate roughness that makes your insides all gooey. You hold onto him firmly, your fingers leaving imprints in his skin. Your legs wrap around his waist and the heels of your feet dig into the small of his back, keeping him sheathed inside of you.

“You’re taking me so well, baby. You’re so wet for me,” Mat moans in your ear before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

His lips tenderly peck at your pulse point, but eventually it leads to him sucking your skin into his mouth.

“Oh my god,” you shriek and your body arches off the bed.

His cock hits all the right spots and repeatedly prods into your sweet spot. The veins on his length feel so good gliding along your slick walls. Each time your greedy pussy sucks him back in, you’re met with fire surging through your veins.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt such euphoria.

“More,” you beg, pulling your husband away from your neck so you can look at him.

His forehead is lined with sweat, curls sticking around his face. His eyes shine with pleasure, and saccharine moans fall from his lips.

“More,” you repeat.

His large paws grip your thighs and spread your legs open. His hips rut into you, allowing your orgasm to bubble up. You claw your nails into the skin of his back, barreling down as you take his long strokes. His strong body moves with yours in perfect synchrony because you won’t let him do all the work. No, you rock your hips up to meet him thrust for thrust.

You smash your lips on his, letting him stick his tongue down your throat. Once your pussy starts to clamp down on Mat’s length, he knows you’re close. He pushes your spread legs closer to your chest, so you can take him deeper and so your orgasm can rip through your body.

“Yes! Just like that,” you scream, eyes shut and hands still attached to Mat.

“Cum for me, pretty girl,” he says hotly.

The knot in your stomach snaps and you throw your head back, mouth falling open in the form of a silent moan. Your body quivers as you release around him. He lets go of your limbs and returns to his softer thrusts, working you through your orgasm.

“I love you,” your husband whispers against your lips before pecking them.

“I love you,” you moan, body still tingling.

The pulsing of your walls signals his own release and soon he’s pumping you full. Usually Mat’s hips will move crazily as he works through his orgasm, but this time his movements are slow and sensual. He kisses your cheek, mumbling incoherently into your skin.

“You’re so perfect,” Mat whispers, leaning on his forearms so he can stare at you.

You’re doused in a post-coital glow and you’re sporting the most perfect smile.

Mat traces the slope of your nose and the cupid’s bow of your lips.

“You’re my everything,” you say back, giggling when he nudges his nose against yours.

“You know, I still can’t believe you’re my wife,” he hums and lays his forehead on yours.

Your eyelashes flutter against each other as you both meld together. You’ve missed everything that’s involved with being intimate with the love of your life.

“You’re so lucky,” you joke and poke at his ribs, making him drop his body on top of yours. You let out a dramatic grunt, but you welcome his weight.

Silence fills the room as you massage your husband’s scalp and softly glide your hands up and down his back. You actually thought he fell asleep until you heard his sniffles.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” You ask, voice full of concern.

Softly you nudge him off of you, so you can face him. There’s nothing clearer than having a conversation and seeing their expressions.

“I don’t know how to move past this. I keep thinking about the baby you could be pregnant with right now. I’d be able to feel them kick and we’d be able to hear their heartbeat. Instead we never got to know them,” Mat sobs and you pull him into your chest.

You kiss the top of his head and try to wrap yourself around him, hoping to help him calm down.

You know Mat has been hurting, you just didn’t know it was this bad. A big chunk of you feels terrible for not being able to be there for him the way he was there for you.

“It’s hard and it sucks. There’s not much that we can do, but try to enjoy the babies we do have. It’s okay to be sad and cry. I’m sorry that I haven’t picked up on your true feelings. You can talk to me. I don’t care what state I’m in, you can talk to me. We’re a team and we’ll have to work through it together,” you try your best to comfort him.

You know words don’t offer much, because it’s difficult to process losing something you’ve never known you had. You do hope that your love can help him the way his love has done wonders for you.

“I mean I’m fine most of the time. Then I start to think about what they’d look like and it just ruins me,” he continues.

“I think about it, too. We’re going to be okay, though. It’ll take some time, but we’ll heal. We’ve already come a long way since it happened. I love you so much, Mathew. I’m so sorry that this is happening to us,” you mutter through the lump in your throat and the tears falling from your eyes.

“I love you.” He kisses your lips desperately as if you’re his only source of air. As of right now, you’re each other’s guiding light. The miscarriage has been one of the hardest things you’ve had to experience, but it brought you and Mat closer together in ways you would’ve never expected.

a/n: This took me so long, but I hope you enjoy it. I loved writing it🫶

[velvetvexations]

Like legitimately one of many reasons why I've taken to talking about transandrophobia and other related concepts nearly every day is that I feel like my oppression is articulated much better by people who recognize animus, fear, and general weirdness about the category of men. It's not entirely enough to get me to say it's the exact same thing but I feel much more seen by that crowd while the takes of TMA/TME folk are complete fantasy land rigmarole that favors arbitrary and pointless validation over recognizing material reality.

Like, when trans men are pushed out of a trans space that's supposed to include them on paper because they're too far into transitioning for the cis and trans women there to be comfortable with them, I straight up refuse to believe that's a safe environment for butch trans women like me or that a she/her pin is a magic talisman that'll override the fact that I don't look anything remotely "like a woman".

I want to be able to go to community events like pride celebrations so badly that it aches in my soul, but I have no illusions about the my hopes of being perceived as one of the gals by other trans women let alone anyone else. But oh, no, please do go on about how masculinity, real or perceived or whatever, is is always rewarded and it's actually just the role of woman that people don't like.

Trans women aren't treated like cis women and if we're going to solve anything you have to fucking deal with that instead of coping by insisting TERFs are just jealous of how womanly you are and literally every single word they say about their motivations are 100% lies solely for the sake of being mean. This is fucking oppression and visceral, genocidal hatred, not your second grade bully pulling on your pigtails because he has a crush on you.

[jaal-ama-daravv]

About the emmrich mortal argument Do you think emmrich actually believed what he said to rook when they said they knew what they're getting into or do you think he was being a dick Not that it makes that line any better but idk we've seen how catty he can get in disagreements and I can't believe he actually thinks we're that wildly naive right

Thank you for asking because this line you are referring to makes me want to rip my skin off.

"At your age?"

As we have discussed before, Emmrich has this fire to him. Remember he is an orphan, grew up poor, and likely faced alot of hardships through childhood and adolescence. The guy has alot of underlying anger - which is why he wears the cool, confident, and suave mask. Not saying Emmrich isn't kind and gentle - but we all know that the nicest people can also be the meanest, as it takes alot of hurt to be that kind.

To answer your question, no I don't think he meant it. I think he was just desperately trying to get his point across and no matter what, Rook was just trying to reassure him. Both had their defensive walls up. Emmrich has a visceral fear of death, 'it cannot be soothed'. He feels it like his bones were on fire, and water wouldn't be able to drown it.

He can definitely be catty, when he is annoyed at people when they won't listen to him or hear him out. So whilst this checks out for his character, it was said in poor taste. Both Rook and Emmrich say things they don't mean, which leads them into feelings of regret going into the final battle. The whole theme of the game.

[makethatelevenrings]

Skeletons in the Closet // D. Grayson x gn!reader

Requested? Yep!

Warnings: reader is followed home at night!!! if anyone ever follows you home, you have my consent to beat the everloving shit out of them!!!! your life is far more valuable to a fucking creeps!!!

Summary: While being followed home after work, you get a call from your boyfriend. He sends in some help from a friend. Things are realized.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck fuck.

With your keys clutched tightly between your thumb and palm and your pepper spray poking out from your grip, you hurried down the street with your heart racing faster each step. Another glance over your shoulder confirmed it. You were being followed.

You had to stay late at work because two of your coworkers had the flu and this was the punishment you got for trying to be nice. Fuck this. Fuck capitalism. Fuck the world and having to be scared walking to your fucking apartment.

And just your luck, the red line stop near your apartment was closed for repairs to the platform structure so that meant you had to walk an extra four blocks to get home. Fuck.

Your phone buzzed in your hand and you nearly jumped out of your skin at the sudden jolt to your system. With shaking hands you swiped your thumb across the screen and pressed it against your cheek as you kept walking.

“Hello?” You really hoped that the person on the other line couldn’t hear the pure, visceral fear in your voice but you doubted it.

“Hey. I was just calling because you never texted that you left work or got home.” Oh. Right. Your boyfriend of three months, Dick Grayson, was a perfect gentleman and he always appreciated a text from you when you got home at night, whether it was from work or a night out with friends. He didn’t care if you were out late partying. He just wanted to make sure you were home safe at the end of the night.

“Right, shit. Sorry. I just got out of work a half hour ago and…” You glanced back at the guy following you and dropped your voice. “Someone’s following me. I’m about ten minutes max away from my apartment and I’ve got pepper spray, but you should know that I-”

“Where are you?” His voice had grown frigid in the time you were rambling and you peered up at the street sign you just passed.

“Avalon and Fifth.”

Dick inhaled deeply and then said something away from the phone, as though he was talking to someone in the background. He moved back closer to the phone and started talking quickly.

“Okay, baby, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to put my friend on the line and she’s going to keep talking to you, okay? And in the meantime, I have another friend in the area and he’s going to come meet you. Keep walking towards your place. Don’t stop moving. Barbara will talk you through it.”

The line clicked before you could say anything and then a calm, pleasant voice filled your ear. “Hi, I’m Barbara. Dick’s told me a lot about you. Did you know he’s kind of obsessed with you?”

The sudden levity of the question elicited a laugh from you as you hurried down the darkened street. You could hear the footsteps getting closer and it made your throat close with anxiety.

“Hey Barbara, what’s going to happen?” you asked quietly.

“Don’t you worry about that. Just keep walking. You’re doing fine. Why did you stay late at work?”

“My coworkers are sick. Flu season and all that.”

“Hmmm, viruses are a bitch.” There was something in her voice that indicated more to her comment than you knew, but you didn’t have time to pry. The closer you got to an ally, the faster the steps sounded until the guy was full on sprinting towards you.

“Fuck,” you gasped as you turned to watch him barrel at you. Before he could get within three feet of you, a blur of black and blue swung down from seemingly nowhere and then Nightwing was standing over him, escrima sticks clutched tightly in his hands.

“Go,” the vigilante barked. He looked back at you and what a sight you probably made. Shaking, phone pressed to cheek and other hand gripping keys and pepper spray, and what felt like tears streaming down your cheeks, you stared back at the mask covered eyes. His chin dipped and you realized that he was inspecting you for some kind of injury. Nightwing raised his head to stare at you once more and then he jutted his chin out towards you in a silent command. The silvery white scar on his lower jar stood out under the light of the street lamps.

“Go,” he repeated. The man below him tried to sit up and the vigilante snapped one of his bludgeons down onto the man’s arm with a sickening crack, eliciting a scream from the man. You almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

You didn’t need another prompting and instead you turned, tucked tail, and sprinted the rest of the way home. You nearly forgot that Barbara was on the other end of the phone until you heard her call your name.

“I’m…I’m okay. I think. I…I’m okay.” Your hands shook so hard as you tried to unlock the door to your apartment that your dropped your keys and cursed under your breath. Scooping them up once more, you tried again and flew into your apartment.

“I’m home. Door’s locked. I’m fine. I…fucking hell. What just happened?”

“Hey, hey,” Barbara said. “Breathe with me, okay? That was a scary situation. Breathe. In two, out three. There we go.”

The fragments and pieces of your scattered brain started to knit an image together of what just happened. As the adrenaline receded, you were able to try and come to terms with the events of that night and one thing stood out to you.

The scar on his chin.

Nightwing’s.

The same scar that you pressed a kiss to in thanks for coffee. The same scar you made sure to pepper with kisses when your boyfriend curled around you and fell asleep against your chest. The same scar that you looked up at when he pulled sweet moans out of your lungs.

“I’m going to kill him,” you hissed.

Barbara barked out a laugh. “Please make sure to film it for me.”

“Oh, I will.” You tossed your keys and pepper spray onto the table just as a shadow passed over the window of your living room. “It’s been nice meeting you, Barbara, but I have to go strangle someone.”

“I’m going to put your number in my phone and we will be getting coffee soon.” You gave her a final goodbye and then stalked towards the window. Your phone tumbled onto the plush cushions of the couch as you passed. Yanking open the window, you stuck your head out and glared at the vigilante standing on the far end of your fire escape.

“So this is why you always make an excuse to not stay the night,” you snapped. Anxiety had turned to rage real quick. Nightwing grimaced and raised his gloved hand to run his fingers through his hair. It was then that you saw the fresh blood that mottled his knuckles and you knew exactly where it came from.

“And also why I make sure you get home at night,” he added quietly. You crooked your finger at him and he complied wordlessly. His footsteps were nearly silent on the old fire escape and you took a moment to marvel at how such a muscular man was able to move so quickly and quietly.

“Is this it? Any more skeletons in your closet?” you asked.

“You know about my family, so no. No more skeletons.”

“I’m going to ask Barbara when we go and get coffee,” you breathed against his lips. Dick paled slightly before he cleared his throat.

“That’s fair.”

“Now get in here and get that suit off. I’m still mad at you but I could really do with a hug right now.”

He didn’t protest.

Tag List: @someoneimsure​ @perpetual-fangirl900​ @visagebrise​ @cursedandromedablack​ @alexxavicry​ @the-wayward-daughter​ @raging-trash-of-mind​ @bunny-kawa​ @khaylin27​

[devotioncrater]

the levels of repression in both house and wilson…yet they are opposite of one another. house routinely makes gay innuendos (whether sexual and/or romantic) towards wilson, yet wilson doesn’t take him serious at all.

and this constant rejection from wilson is both a buoy as well as a giant wall. house pushes their relationship time and time again. wilson refuses to let the nature of it change. house brings up a romantic getaway, wilson shoots him down. house sabotages wilson moving out, wilson doesn’t stay. house allows himself to be The Other Woman regardless of how bonnie or wilson’s other ex-wives feel. in a way, it boosts his ego and makes him feel special. he is allowed to have wilson in this way.

amber is an extension of house; she is house in a woman’s body. house can accept it because he has expressed before that if wilson were a woman, they would’ve been married already. so why can’t the same be true for wilson? let him find a woman version of house. house loves wilson so much that he goes into a risky surgery to try and save amber. this is his Place simply because wilson and him cannot escape the confines of compulsive heterosexuality.

and it is compulsive. wilson never feels good enough or secure enough in a relationship outside of his and house’s. he cheats, he lies, he manipulates. all because at his core, wilson’s insecurities render him into a selfish person. he has affairs and he prioritizes house over his wives, because he doesn’t feel like his own wants/needs are met by his wives. or that they should/deserve to be met. he doesn’t know how to communicate them!! he maybe even feels guilty for having them. because even to house, he communicates these desires in metaphors or pranks or whatever other indirect way he sees fit. but the difference between house and his wives is that wilson has no tangible, legal sense of obligation to house. if house doesn’t meet his expressed needs, fuck him!! they don’t owe anything to each other!! the rejection will sting less.

wilson chases women on such a compulsive level that it’s nearly a reaction to whatever house has done. it’s affair after affair. wilson moves in with his patient during the time house is on a ketamine treatment. house, his patient who seemingly no longer needs vicodin. no longer needs him. if wilson is no longer needed, he parasites to the next host. why? because he doesn’t know who he is on his own. why? because he has trouble expressing his own core needs as a person. and as a result, these core (repressed) needs seep out sideways.

so why threaten this sense of safety he gets with keeping house at a platonic level? if they were to entangle into a relationship, wilson would be wrapped under an Obligation Gauze. there is a fear he’d lose house because, historically, all of his relationships end in loss. because, historically, he cannot express his needs to his partners due to his fear of rejection.

and then wilson becomes terminal. and then death becomes bigger than an anxious fear of loss/rejection.

“i need you to tell me that you love me.”

wilson, my brother in christ. house cannot say those words to you because for all the years you’ve known him, you’ve denied him it. the only way house can tell you that he loves you is by burning his home down and faking his death. he is nothing without you. you know it as well as he does. these things remain unspoken because that is the way you’ve molded the relationship to be.

wilson has house on a leash. house runs as far out as possible until the leash yanks him back. when wilson finally trusts house enough to let him go off-leash, house is too conditioned to act as expected.

and this conditioning in house is not just wilson’s doing. it’s primarily house’s own doing. his own self-loathing chains him to wilson’s side. as an addict, yes, but also as a support system. house hates himself so viscerally that it affects every interpersonal relationship he has, including with wilson. but wilson never, ever leaves no matter how bad it gets.

also. who else other than wilson gives him a sense of bodily autonomy? not stacy, not cuddy, not his fellows. wilson doesn’t pity him. wilson enables him. wilson lies for him. house will selfishly keep wilson forever because wilson is all he reliably has.

so house can push and prod wilson into gay romantic/sexual innuendos, but when wilson yanks that leash, he’ll drop it. it’s a buoy for reality checking where he is with wilson. it’s a giant wall for enabling his self-hatred thought process that even his boy best friend has limitations to his love for him (or at least what is acceptable). addict line of thinking.

they both eat each other up like an ouroboros. where does wilson’s repression end and house’s begin?

[kaonarvna]

Every now and again, I remember that my disability (EDS) isn't invisible, actually. People are just uncomfortable when they can see it. People don't want to see it. People like to ignore it. Other people just stare at it, and don't even look at me. All they see is a pile of bones and fascia and something to pity.

I've worn a shoulder brace the past week, because it subluxed horribly a week or so ago. Still healing. Visible.

I always have compression sleeves on my arms, full coverage. Bicep to wrist. Visible.

I have soft braces and compression kit for every joint imaginable. Visible.

I'm covered in KT tape. I've worn it on my goddamn face after a jaw sublux, for that little extra support and proprioception help. Tape. On the face. Very visible.

The people I've worked with for years are used to it by now, the good ones, at least. They don't remark when I take a minute to stretch. They know I'll say something if I'm not okay. They know I'm in a constant state of variable dysfunction. They've seen enough, they're used to it.

But then there's people who aren't used to it. People who see me stretch on the ground, watch in discomfort, then they ask someone else if I'm okay. I can hear them quietly mutter it to other staff. I hear them go, "oh, he does that". I can see their discomfort with me (just existing as I need to exist). I can see the discomfort in these new people who aren't accustomed to bodies with slightly different needs, and it's a visceral reminder of being "other". I wonder, how terrible and scary and different I must be, for them to not even have the fortitude to ask me themselves.

And then there are the new people who see it and ask too many questions. The ones who go "but you're so young!" as though my connective tissue has a concept of social expectations for people under (arbitrary age). They go "but you look great!" as though I'm not covered in bruises and held together by tape (nevermind the implication that the disabled must look "bad"). They go "but you never call in!" as though I'm not often two seconds away from doing so, before the fear of losing my job sets in.

...and these are the ones who seem to wish not to see it the most. The ones who ask questions like I should be on display, and as soon as the conversation ends, so does my disability. They'll ask the same questions the next time, and the next time, and the next. It always ends with statements of pity, or something pity-adjacent. If I'm "lucky", they might even make an inappropriate comment about how I shouldn't be working, or sex must be "interesting", or act like I'm some eldritch horror that shouldn't exist.

And I'm reminded of the training I was once made to sit though. A ninety minute training, where you sit and watch the PowerPoint for ninety minutes in a too-small plastic chair, while someone reads the PowerPoint. The presenter started with a cute little "haha I know it's long, feel free to get up and walk around, or stretch".

I did.

I got up, walked myself to the side well out of the way of the tight chair lines, and laid down to stretch (a good spinal twist, loosen things up).

And she stopped the presentation.

She asked if there were any first-aiders present.

She was going to keep going on and on, until I heard someone say, "oh, he's fine, he does that." and a few "that's just (name), he does that". She started apologising profusely, waffling about how she thought there must have been a medical emergency, how people don't usually get up. She seemed baffled by the mere concept that someone would actually need to get up, and couldn't sit for ages. Her statement was entirely performative and insincere.

Today, after the day was effectively done, I laid down on the clean, carpeted floor in my classroom to just...be horizontal for a moment. Find some way, any way, to get my lower back to move and function and not feel like it was being clawed apart from the inside. Relieve myself a little, so I could finish the day without abject misery. And this very-new member of staff sat on the other side of the room, presumably watching me. When I got up, she asked very quietly, "Is something wrong with you?" and all I had the energy to say was "I'm fine". I'm tired of explaining my body. I'm tired of explaining my needs. I'm tired of justifying taking care of myself.

Someone recently told me "You're very brave. I think I'd rather die than live like you."

I didn't respond. I didn't have the energy to break down that she'd effectively told me I should die. I didn't have the energy to tell her that it's not bravery to live "like this".

It's my only option.

I know nothing else.

And I'm just tired. And hurting.

I'm grateful for the few good ones, the ones that are used to it. The people who have stopped asking me if I'm okay when I stretch, or need a little break, or get out the tape and scissors.

They know I'm not okay. That's why I'm on the ground. That's why I'm checking my range of motion, or feeling a joint, or holding pressure on a digit that's come undone. I'm not okay, and I'm trying not to get even worse.

I'm not okay, actually. I'm never okay, and that's fine. I'll never be your version of "okay", and that's fine. I've no choice. Thank you for knowing that I'm not okay, but that that's normal, and that if something was seriously, horribly wrong, I'd do something. Thank you, for just going about your business and talking to me as normal when I'm taking care of myself, instead of sprinkling eggshells on the ground for your own personal crunching.

I'm just tired. I'm visibly disabled if you look for ten goddamn seconds. I'm a person if you look for twenty. I'm a fetish if you just keep staring and staring and asking about my body like you're entitled to my flesh. I just want to sleep for more than two hours without my body waking itself up to remind me it hurts. I'm so tired.

[hwangism143]

limbo (part 1)

synopsis: five years ago, lee minho had broken your heart. but five years ago, unbeknown to you, he had also broken his

pairing: non-idol!minho x non-idol!fem reader

warnings: angst, angst, angst. mentions of a breakup and being heartbroken. phrases using the words 'knife' and 'drowning'

word count: 1.6k words

masterlist I part 2

"you took the best of my heart, and left it all in pieces"

then (five years ago).

The moon was always your favorite companion. It made you feel protected. During every important moment in your life, the moon was always there with you. It's silver glow shone on you and your surroundings, dousing everything in an ethereal light.

You prayed that night, for the moon to give you courage.

Minho walked over to you, carrying two lemonades in his hands. Oh, he was beautiful. Even if he was wearing a loose fitting over-sized hoodie and jeans that he had grabbed when you suggested this spontaneous late-night walk, he looked like the world revolved around him.

"Here," he said, sitting down beside you. He quietly sipped his drink and each time he brought the cup to his lips, your heart sank further. He wasn't even looking at you. Since the past few days, all your interactions felt transactional.

All you interactions felt like they had lost the love that used to be infused in them.

"I got a job offer," you say softly, willing for him to look at you. You wait patiently for his response.

"Oh," is all he can muster.

You feel numb. "Oh?" you ask. You hesitate, "Minho, you aren't even looking at me. Look at me."

His face slowly snaps towards yours. Minho's eyes reflect a tired, dull expression. His hair falls to one side and his mouth is slightly open, releasing a puff of breath.

"When did you fall out of love with me?" you ask, eyes shining with tears of hope and fear.

"I don't think I did," comes his cold response.

"Really, because-"

"I don't think I fell in love with you in the first place," he abruptly says.

A tear of anguish and hurt rolled down your right cheek. This time, you're the one who takes a while to say anything. You feel like you're crumbling. Sure, you hadn't known each other for that long, but how could he be so cruel? Why lead you on like this? Why whispers empty affirmations of love when he never fell in the first place?

That night, Minho lay in bed alone. You were at your parents house. You had told him to pack your things and send it to your parents. You were gone. The bed felt cold and empty. It felt like all the light in the house had been snuffed out. And Minho?

Minho felt utterly and completely broken. He had no other word for it. It felt like the parts of his body were tossed around everywhere, like his brain had completely shut down. He couldn't function. His better half had left him and all he had was himself, purely imperfect and unable to do anything.

Minho lied to you. The part about not falling out of love was true. But the reason he lied was because he was still in so, so much love.

He cursed himself for loving you so much. Maybe if he was a little selfish, maybe if he wanted something for himself, you would still be here with him. Maybe you would still be here for him. However, he loved you so much, that he knew he had to let you go.

When he saw the email with the job offer on your computer, the world froze. Minho knew you had the beautiful and lethal quality of loving so viscerally that you would devote yourself wholly to the person you loved. Minho on the other hand, considered love to be a fleeting entity. He knew that you would refuse to follow your dreams, citing distance as a reason to stay in Seoul with him, for a love that would possibly even fizzle out down the road.

That was the day Minho decided that he would have to let you spread your wings as he clipped his.

Minho figured that arguing with you to go would be pointless. You would continue to push the argument until the date of confirmation had passed. And so, he took up the heart-breaking endeavor of making you seem like it was never love. The only way that you would let go of the love you shared was if you thought it was never even love at all.

It was a painful process, making it seem like he didn't love you anymore. Every fallen smile, every quick glance made it feel like a knife was twisting inside Minho. He considered backing out and begging you to stay multiple times. Absolutely not, he would chide himself whenever those thoughts entered his mind, I must let her go for her own happiness.

Even Minho's beloved cats knew he betrayed them. They barely came to him and snarled at him as he shuffled around, a ghost in his own home. He began packing up your things handling them with a care and affection he could no longer show you.

There were so many tidbits of the journey of your relationship around the house. Each one brought back a flood of memories that temporarily paralyzed Minho. Tickets from the first movie you went to, your books and the couple items that you both owned. The cup with your lipstick stain and the brownies you had poorly attempted to bake. The gifts you had gotten him and the the trinkets he had gotten you.

Those inanimate objects belonged more in the house you both shared than Minho did.

He packed everything up when his eyes fell on your favorite, oversized sweater. The cats would not budge from their home in the sweater, looking up at him with steely glares. It smelled like you, he thought.

"Please," his voice broke, "I need it. I need to give it to her. Please."

He collapsed next to the sweater and let out a shaky breath. "Please." His cats didn't move.

Silent cries and quiet pain filled the room.

now (five years later).

Minho was sitting in the SoDoNg lobby. Being the owner of one of the most successful cat café franchises in Korea was certainly... humbling. Seungmin and Jeongin, the finances and socials managers respectively, bickered over coffee flavors. The head chef of the Seoul branch, Felix, watched as the cafe's designer Hyunjin drew a sketch of the plant sitting in front of him.

All of them being here made sense, but Minho wondered what Changbin, Han and Chan were doing here. The music producing trio were here all the time anyways, now they were even present during the business meetings.

Although, considering how they hadn't spoken a word about business, Minho thought that Sunday brunch might have been a more befitting moniker for the meet-up.

"Damn hyung," said Changbin, "Y/N turned hot."

Minho didn't spare him a glance. None of them knew the whole truth of what had happened, just that she'd gotten a job and that the two of them broke up. Minho could feel Hyunjin studying him intently. The hopeless romantic of the group was always trying to set up the other boys to make up the absence of romance in his own life.

"Look, I just hope she's happy. We're done and I bet she doesn't even remember me."

You wondered how he was. Some of your mutual friends had said that Minho was an owner of a chain of cat cafes. You were slightly surprised, never taking him as the business executive type. Only the cat part made sense to you.

You despised him for what he did to you. Because of him, you couldn't love properly anymore. Anytime you felt yourself falling or somebody else told you they were falling, you pushed them away. You couldn't suffer from the heartbreak of finding out that the love you had deluded yourself into thinking you were happy in was an illusion.

The thought of coming back to Seoul filled you with dread. What if you saw him again? What would happen then? You wanted to slap him. You needed to hear an apology from him. You would probably end up bursting into to tears.

These were the thoughts that clouded your mind as you made your way to the dairy section of the grocery store. Working abroad had definitely changed you. You felt so much more mature and confident. Maybe not in the romantic sense, but it felt like your skin truly fit over your bones. You had grown out your hair, changed your style and decided to reflect who you were, not who the world wanted you to be.

You tried to reach for the ricotta cheese at the top of the open freezer. Another thing that had changed were your cooking skills. Back when you lived with Minho, and even before that, he always insisted on cooking for you. Now, you had to fend for yourself.

"Excuse me," you ask the man in front of you, "can you please get down the ricotta cheese for me? I can't reach and I would really appreciate it."

Minho stilled. He recognized that voice. He would recognize it anywhere, no matter where he was.

It was the voice that whispered 'I love you' to him for the first time. It was the voice that scolded him playfully, that told him he was perfect. It was the voice that had shakily asked him if he didn't love anymore. It was the voice that he played in recordings when he felt like he was drowning in loneliness. It was the voice that he willed himself to forget and couldn't for the life of him.

Minho quietly handed the ricotta to you without even turning towards you. You thought there was something familiar about him.

"I'm sorry if this is a weird questions but, do I know you?" you asked tentatively.

Minho should have said no. He should have walked away and spared both of you the agony of seeing each other again. But this time, he let himself be selfish. He left himself fulfill his desires, his urge to see you in all you beauty and all you glory.

Minho turned to face you.

"Minho?"

a/n: haha. i have delivered you a steaming platter of pain. if you want, i'll maybe make a pt. 2?? anyways, drop your feedback, and honestly anything you wanna say, below!

[rustic-space-fiddle]

Things I love about EPIC: The Musical

Greek mythology hehehehehhehe (my weakness)

Little Ajax

The slightly different styles in each segment but the overarching cohesiveness

The crew singing choral vocals for Odysseus

POLITES *screaming crying throwing up*

The crew introducing Eurylochus but Odysseus introducing Polites

Odysseus’s ‘Ha ha HA Haaaaa!” What a smug lil $h!*

His whole description of Athena ~ fanboy energy

“Bestest of friends(?)!” “Okay chill kid” ”okay :D”

Polites definitely almost knocking himself out with lotus before Odysseus definitely takes it away like “oh honey no”

POLITES *STILL CRYING AND THROWING UP*

The RUMBBBBLING BOOOOOMS when Polyphemus enters—WOOO YOU CAN FEEL THE FEAR IN HIS FOOTSTEPS (also: heartbeats!)

I’m not a musically intelligent person so forgive me but the way the “take from you like you took from me / gift from you and a gift from me” sounds just makes my brain so happy

If music is math then that is definitely some solid well done math

“Nooooooobody, noooooooooobody, noo~ooOOOOOOOOOOOOH~bodyyyyyy”

“WATCH OUUUUUT!” *AGGRESSIVE CHORUS*

“My brothers-!” yall I’m gonna freakin cry

The visceral death sounds when the club comes out

Polyphemus’s voice slowing like a giant robot powering down to show him falling asleep

The sound slowly fading in as Odysseus takes in the death around him (I imagine he’s looking at the remains of Polites)

The sound Athena makes whenever she appears or disappears (NOTICE SHE DOESNT MAKE THAT SOUND WHEN SHE LEAVES FOR THE LAST TIME! just empty wind…)

“HEY CYCLOPS!”

“The next time that you dare choose not to spare, remember them.” UGH BEAUTIFUL

The growl in “REMEMBER ME.”

Ship sounds!

The entirety of “My Goodbye”. It’s just such a good argument song and I love it so much.

Odysseus’s angry “HEY.” when Athena basically blames the death of his friends on his kindness.

The fact that Odysseus isn’t afraid to absolutely WRECK Athena verbally? She has definitely killed and turned people into spiders for less

You can tell he felt a little bad about it and that she actually was kinda hurt by it too (silence is a heckuva tool)

“Aim for the island in the sky” oh yeah I’m listening to a Greek myth wHEEEZE

Eurylochus slowly getting on Odysseus’s nerves till he literally has to pull him aside and tell him to stfu

No but actually Eurylochus is not being a real one rn he is not being helpful

The wind god ( *0v0*)

“Why are my eyes and my heart and my soul so heavy?” WOW OKAY DANG

Poseidon’s entrance — DANG SON THE POWER OF THE SEA IS PALPABLE

“Ruthlessness is mercy—DIE.”

The crew calling for their captain as they’re taken by the sea

THE AUDACITY OF POSEIDON TO REMIND ODYSSEUS OF HIS OWN WORD—“when does a ripple become a tidal wave/ when does a man become a monster”—DURING THIS CRISIS. WHAT A PETTY JERK (do it again)

Eurylochus try to confess and Odysseus refusing to let him. There three reasons I think this is: 1) he doesn’t know why he wants to confess but he literally does not have time for his #2 to be having a moment rn. 2) he knows what Eurylochus did and is choosing to keep him quiet because he needs the crew not to dwell on this/he’s trying not to punch him in the face. 3) he knows what he did and he’s saying “stfu” as a way of forgiveness. All of these are great options imo

“We couldn’t resist!” “What was it?” “A woman!” “…w h a t. -_-“ my man is fed up rn

“We have to save them!” “NO WE DON’T” EURYLOCHUS WTF IS WRONG W YOU BRO

Hermes’s insane laugh !!!! LOVE

Hermes’s entire song

Rhyming “Be hurt” with “beat her” BRAIN SO HAPPY

Someofthamagic~ BRAIN SO HAPPY AGH

The fight between Odysseus and Circe~ so evenly matched! Wits, power, but she beat him! She beat him even though he didn’t cave.

“I dug the root up w my bare hands!” “Hermes gave it to you didn’t he” “…okay fine yes but rGARDLESS—“

The fact that Odysseus calls Penelope his power

Circe’s empathetic sigh because she’s not a monster, she’s a protector, and her heart has been touched by Odysseus’s earnestness and love for his wife and for his brothers

HER OUTRO WAHHHHHHH

[revelboo]

HIIII! i just wanted to say I have been devouring your writing; you have such a lovely talent for conjuring whole worlds with such brevity.

Hope the sudden spam of likes/reblogs was okay >u<''

Thanks! I’ve gotten a bit used to short form and needing to pack a punch in brief snippets from Twitter’s vss365 writing prompts.

Everything is Alright Pt 26

Starscream x Reader

• This isn’t right. Isn’t what he wanted. You’re supposed to be happy. Thankful. And that black rage washes higher threatening to drown him as his servos curl under into fists with the need to lash out, because it’s all wrong. Then you’re looking up at him, those big eyes afraid, fingers tightening on that stuffed animal. Afraid of him? Afraid for humans you likely don’t even know because deep down you think he’s a monster?

• And he’s yanking his chair back from his desk, the legs screeching on the floor before he slings it against the wall. It’s not enough to bank that fury crackling through him. Not nearly enough. Because he understands that fear on your face. Knows too well the feeling of saying what must be said even though you know there will be repercussions. For a moment, he’s paralyzed, venting raggedly as a memory claws its way out of the dark corners of his processor. Of pain and fear so visceral and inescapable. Megatron in a fury, big hands curling into fists.

• You’d backed away when he’d slung the chair, now you’re staring as he shakes, shoulders hunched, wings trembling and hands curled into claws, servos flexing like he wants to tear something apart. This isn’t just temper, there’s something else going on that you don’t understand. Something that hurts you to watch. “This isn’t right,” he snarls, head dropping as those tremors run wild through his frame. “Why isn’t it right?”

• His rasping voice is cracking with something more than just anger, there’s pain there that lances through you as you clutch the stuffed bear tighter to yourself. You’re terrified of him like this, all too aware that one careless swipe of his hand can break you. “I’m sorry,” you call out, despite the very real fear of pulling his attention back to you. Those red optics are bloody and wild as his helm swings your way and you start trembling. “You’re always taking care of me,” you forge on wanting nothing more than to hide from that stare. He’s going to hurt you this time. You’re sure of it.

• He can’t stop shaking, torn between memories he doesn’t want and the soft sound of your voice. Apologizing even as it wavers in fear. That breaks through the confused rage, his hand slamming against the edge of the desk as he lunges toward that sound. Needing it to anchor him in the sea of pain and hate and self loathing. You stagger back, little frame tense. Scared of him. Moving slowly, he lays his helm down on the desk, unable to stand you looking at him like that. Like how he stares at Megatron in a rage. The feel of your soft, little hand on his cheek almost breaks him. You’re trying to comfort him? Shuttering his optics, he just savors the feel of your gentle touch and your voice, your words. Thanking him and apologizing even as you break. “No one was home,” he growls, because he understands. Wants to reach for you, hook a servo around you and tug you against him. But doesn’t dare. Not yet.

Previous Next

[undead-supernova]

It's My Body and It Hates You / Masterlist

plot: memories are resurfacing. you thought that you were getting better. he wasn't haunting you now that you are with eddie. but, fuck, healing is just not that linear.

pairing: boyfriend!Eddie x afab!reader

important notes: this is about healing from previous sexual assault. this is as self-serving as it gets!!! and it can be HIGHLY TRIGGERING for other victims! but i thought maybe if someone else has gone through this before too, they could find comfort in it.

hate that I have to add this but please be respectful of my experiences. I have cowered away from posting this for months, but I think I should be allowed the right to shine a light on these issues and what intimacy looks like post-trauma.

wc: 3.4k

song reference: Everybody Loves You by Charlotte Lawrence (which has helped with my healing so so much over the last few years)

It starts the moment you wake up.

The remembering.

It’s his cerulean eyes you think about first, nearly glossed over with the glare of the morning light. The way it used to, at least. It made everything inside you soften; made everything slow down.

Back in the early days. Back when it didn’t fill you with melancholy. Back when you thought being in love meant to be in constant fear.

Way before you ever met someone like Eddie. Way before you knew that good men existed.

You look over to find Eddie gone already, having promised to help set up for a parade at the local middle school Nancy works at. He’s been teaching some of her students how to play guitar, even going so far as to buy them some cables and help update the sheet music they stashed in a closet.

Eddie’s good like that.

Generous. Observant. Selfless.

And it’s awful, but you wish he’d stayed home. Because something in you is starting to fall apart and it’s not pretty. It’s not palatable like they show on TV.

No, it’s something much more visceral.

It’s been almost four years since it started, since you fell into a not-so-serious relationship with some guy that turned into something sinister.

All of the running around and the secrets kept from your friend group that (not so surprisingly) doesn’t exist anymore. The ones who were so sure you were just obsessed with him. The ones who still talked to him after.

You were supposed to only have sex. That was it.

But, of course, what’s a little sex without his longing glances and soft embrace and sleeping over and early morning kisses? Sweet nothings, cuddles and hand holding?

But, no. He swore it to be friendship, just something casual. Even when he told you three separate times throughout your time together that he wanted something more. But it was fleeting, backtracking a day or two later to say he just wasn’t ready for a relationship. Ghosted you for two weeks, maybe a month at the most. Come back with a few sexts and suddenly you were fucking again. 

No strings, he’d say. We can’t be in a relationship.

So you stayed that way. Kept everything inside the best you could. Stood in the mirror with your lips sewn shut, tears trickling down your cheeks as if every teardrop was another regret. Smiled as much as you could, waiting for him to look away before you allowed yourself to let it falter.

And then there was the sex. That’s all anyone cared about in relationships, right? Not the person, just the body. Just the sexual object, a mere paperweight for the other to use.

The sex hurt from the beginning, his fingers never fitting right. His mouth always just a little bit too rough. But, fuck, it just always seemed to hurt. So you never truly finished, always faking it and finishing in the shower afterwards.

But you loved him. You loved the way he held you afterwards, the way his back shone in the morning light whenever he slept over. The fun little bickering back and forth whenever he was coming down from the dopamine rush. Ordering in and laughing at each other when stealing fries became a full-on wrestling match.

And at some point. 

Well. 

You stopped receiving. 

He’d try to arouse you, but ultimately it was always to please him. He was always too tired afterwards anyways. And though you wanted to stop, you just…did it anyways. You would sit there, reminding yourself that it would stop once you got him off. 

When it ends, it’ll be okay. He’ll stay. He’ll finally tell you he loves you. Just hold on. Just keep doing that and he’ll finish and then you’ll be fine. Just a few more minutes. Just do this. Just do that. 

Just, just, just… 

It’s fine.

Until it didn’t feel fine. Until he berated you one day, saying that the two of you couldn’t have sex every day and that your “friendship” was getting out of hand. That you wanted too much from him even though he was the one who initiated. 

Because, like with your emotions, you’d learned that if you attempted to initiate sex, the answer was no.

And so he yelled. And yelled. And yelled. Until you were sitting on the couch watching one of his lame TV shows and his hand ghosted over to your thigh. Stroked it. Gave you that look. Leaned in. Kissed you. Wrapped his fingers around your jaw and brought you back in unexpectedly.

This happened more times than you like to admit.

When he finally decided to commit, it lasted a month.

And, god, was it was a shitty month.

He introduced you to his mother who really didn’t care enough to ask you any questions about yourself and even made it a point to say that you and her son were very different—almost too different. When you told your friends, they weren’t happy for you. They were confused, even. He never talked about you, so how were you now suddenly dating? 

He never wanted to go on dates, never gave you anything special that he hadn’t stolen. Only called you beautiful between the sheets and told you he loved you in whispers. Even told you that telling him you miss him was manipulation, guilt tripping him into feeling bad for being gone.

So you stopped saying it. Stopped thinking about it. Started telling yourself to be grateful that he was still there.

When he dumped you that final time, on April 1st of all days, you’d laughed hysterically. It was the moment you realized that this was all he’d ever be. All he’d ever do. You saw all the patterns and the seduction and the manipulation and the fucking fucking and knew that this was a vicious cycle that would never end unless you were the one to cut the cord. 

And, well, you’d already snapped.

You thought that everything had been consensual. That you’d wanted it. Even though you didn’t, not one bit. You just wanted him to stay.

But it couldn’t have been rape. No, not at all.

But, like, you didn’t want it and you most definitely felt taken advantage of every single time and he definitely touched you whenever he wanted you to fuck him and get your arousal to distract you and the word coercion definitely sat in your mouth all funny and…

It had to be consensual. 

Right?

For two years, you thought you’d never go near romance again.

When you met Eddie, a friend of a friend, you were so confused by how gentle he was. Always having a smile for you, always telling your friend that he enjoyed your presence. He gave you little presents, like stickers and rocks from conventions and comic book stores. A few amethysts after you told him they were your favorite. Learned your coffee order and your favorite foods.

If you were hanging out, you were playing video games or board games with his friends or laughing or giggling or swapping embarrassing secrets or, or or...

His friends would leak in every now and then, filling up cups and hosting potlucks galore. Steve, Robin, and Nancy made sure to affirm your solidified place in their lives while Gareth, Grant, and Jeff made sure you were a key member in campaigns. 

And Eddie was always there at the end of those nights, washing your dishes and collecting trash just so you could catch some sleep.

It was such a stark contrast from the friend group you’d been in before.

And, fuck, you’d never felt so free.

A few months into your friendship, Eddie made it clear that he had feelings for you. Asked if you were feeling the same way and that he’d fuck off if you told him to. When you laughed and said you kind of liked him back, he asked you out on a proper date, something you hadn’t had before. 

He did that whole thing with the flowers and the tie and the car door and the restaurant door and the chair and the laughter and the nice champagne and the walking you up to your apartment. 

His arms were behind his back, keeping a safe distance. Under the dim flickering light of the hallway, his dark irises met yours. You searched them for any sign of danger.

But they were gentle. Kind. 

Warm.

And you stood there, waiting for him to kiss you or try to come in.

But he didn’t.

He’d said, “Could we do this again?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He turned to walk back down the stairs. But you touched his shoulder. 

“Wait, you’re not going to try to come in?”

Eddie merely smiled at you, tugging at the stray hairs leaving his bun. “Oh, uh. That’s not how I want to do things.”

“Really?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Really. Sorry to disappoint—”

“No!” you exclaimed, maybe a little too loud. “No, I just. Um, no one’s ever— Anyways, it’s not important. I’m sorry. I’d love to go on a second date.”

You sat in bed that night, trying to ward away the nightmares creeping up. Feeling locked in place, feeling scared. Felt it in your arms. Your spine. Your cracked chest.

Feeling terrified that Eddie was just lying. 

Feeling doubtful that this would ever be more than some hookup.

And yet, it became anything but that.

On your sixth date, you finally told him about your ex, trying to explain why you were the way you were. Why you flinched at any casual touch and why the idea of being intimate was scary for you. Why you’d been so hesitant with Eddie in the first place. 

You rambled on and on, from the way you couldn’t even masturbate half of the time to avoiding porn because you flashed back to those moments. The ones where everything always had to hurt. The ones where you had to make yourself into a sex doll just to be seen. Just to have worth that ultimately meant nothing.

It was like your body was stuck, like it was empty and full of cobwebs. It was just the strangest sensation, like your body knew something you didn’t.

“It’s silly, I know,” you’d said. “I don’t know why it’s all still so scary for me. It’s not even a big deal.”

Eddie whispered your name then, hesitantly reaching his fingers out to skim yours. “And you have no idea why you feel this way?” he asked, an eyebrow lifting.

Yours furrowed. Softly, you asked, “What are you trying to say?”

“I think…” Eddie took a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily before gazing at you again. “Um, I think he raped you.”

He watched your eyes widen then.

And as the waves of grief washed through you that night, Eddie held onto you. His strong arms anchored you to the life you had now, the one you were living in spite of this horror. 

But it didn’t mean any of this made sense. What had you done to deserve this? Where was your fault?

But, fuck, how could you have even known?

And why would that be your fault anyways?

“You don’t need to see this,” you’d sobbed, shaking your head. “I-I—”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence, heaving another sob before his arms tightened around you.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “I’m here, okay?”

“I’m here.”

You cried the first time he made you cum. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he’d cooed. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me, I promise. Let it out.”

You nodded then, taking your tired arms and wrapping them around his neck. Pulled him closer, closer than you’d been with anyone. Hugged him tight. Kept him inside you. Tried to remind yourself that he wasn’t going to walk away. He was here with you. He was present. 

​​Not too long after that, you’d been under him again, breathlessly thanking him.

Eddie had stilled inside you, leaning back to look into your glassy eyes. 

“What for?” he’d asked.

“For being so sweet to me,” you responded, sniffling. “For letting me feel good.”

“Sweetheart, I—” Eddie got choked up on the words, getting teary-eyed himself. “You never have to thank me for making sure you feel good, alright?” You nodded. “I want you to feel good. Always.”

Nodding again, you asked, “Would you…keep going? Please?”

He smiled then, wiping the sides of his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Anything you want.”

“Thank you,” you’d said, taking his hand in yours. “Thank you.”

After that, Eddie approached things a bit differently.

Even when he was fucking the shit out of you, which you didn’t even know could actually feel good, he was so gentle. Kissed your face after you came two, three times before praising you.

“You did so good, baby. So, so good.”

“So proud of you.”

“You’re so beautiful. I bet you knew that already, though. Absolutely perfect.”

It started to stitch back together something inside you that you didn’t know could be mended.

Somehow, within the last six months, you stopped being able to have sex.

It came out of nowhere—all the flashbacks and panic attacks. The moments of arousal that seem to wash away seconds after it’s felt. Hell, even the thought of masturbation has started to make you sad again.

Your body recoils from that kind of intimacy now, even Eddie’s touch being clouded with the memory of Him. And you’re working on it. You are. Sometimes you have therapy twice a week just to talk about it and undo whatever it is that’s starting to worm its way into your every day life.

Despite it all, you still try doing little things with him so that you can enjoy yourselves, like getting off while lying next to each other. It always ends in giddy laughter and gentle cuddling. Soft kisses and the promise for another round later.

But recently you can’t help but feel like you’re something that weighs him down, keeps him from experiencing true pleasure. That you’re just a tattered and torn tapestry that holds no image anymore.

By the time Eddie gets home that night, you’re on your third glass of wine, silently crying in your shared living room. It’s not the best sight, your white t-shirt gone after you’d spilled the drink while trying to sit down. You’re naked, chest stained with the scarlet liquid from shaky fingers. 

Eddie immediately throws the keys on the counter and rushes over to you. 

“Hey, what happened? What’s going on?” He gently runs his fingers through your hair. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

You shake your head. “He’s back. In my head. I can’t get him out, Eddie. I can’t get him out.”

“Hey, come here. It’s going to be—”

He tries to wrap his arms around you, but it’s seconds before you’re pushing him away from you. You can’t feel Eddie tonight. No. You only feel Him. That monster, that unforgivable personification of hell.

“Stop! Stop!” you plead. “There’s so much pain. Just so much. I can’t keep doing this. It’s so painful.”

There’s nothing but those cobwebs inside you with little insects scurrying about. Maggots squirming in and out of your flesh. The hands, His hands that disemboweled you from the start, are still clawing at your ribcage. After all, He left you for dead, disgusting and discarded. Poisoned. Tained.

You’re suffering. 

And you don’t suffer beautifully. You’re not draped in silk sheets and clutching your pearls as your trauma washes over you in delicate, smudged mascara tears. No, your naked body shivers with the cold air and sticky spilled wine and your nails are crooked from the biting and the picking. Your eyes are sore and there’s something worse clawing at your throat.

“Baby, hey…” Eddie trails, lightly stroking your arm. “It’s okay. Just breathe for me, okay?”

“No, I’m so fucking done!” you scream, slamming your glass on the coffee table, watching as it cracks. “I can’t fucking believe this stupid thing happened to me and now I can’t do shit during sex and I’m just broken. I’m just fucking broken. And it’s all his fault!”

You choke on a sob, collapsing back onto the carpet. “It’s all his fault,” you whisper, overcome with sorrow.

“Hey, hey. Come here,” Eddie whispers, tentatively pulling you back into his arms. 

“I want this to be over with.” Your voice comes out exasperated. Exhausted. Like even the thought of having to keep going through this is about to do you in. “I just want it to be over.”

“I know.”

“It’s so gross. It’s so gross! I feel so fucking tainted and like I’m full of toxic waste. Like goo, you know? Just fucking oozing with the stuff.”

Eddie simply nods, holding you tighter to his chest. “Did you, like, get triggered? Last time, you said it was that detergent at the store.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s like I woke up being assaulted or something. It’s absolute bullshit. I thought I was done with this. I thought it was over. I thought I’d been to therapy enough that it was letting me get back to having sex and being normal.”

“Ah, come on, sweetheart,” he cooed. “There’s no such thing as being normal, especially after something like that. You know that.” You let out a huff, one of your stubborn ones that leaves a small smile on Eddie’s lips. “Besides, you’re the only one punishing yourself for not being able to have sex right now.”

Sniffling, you look up to meet his eyes. “You’re not mad at me?”

His eyebrows furrow, shaking his head as he continues to smile at you. “Why would I be mad at you, hm? I don’t want to have sex if you’re not feeling it.”

“Oh,” you say simply. “Okay. Yeah.”

Arms tightening, he states, “That’s how it should always be.”

You nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“And we have our things we do,” he adds, fiddling with your fingers. “You know, getting off at the same time.”

“You don’t think it’s weird?” you ask.

“Not to get, like, vulgar right now, but I think it’s hot.” That gets a laugh out of you. “I’m really into it ‘cause you’re super into it.”

“I like it,” you agree, the haze starting to dissipate from your vision. “It makes me feel safe and I just…it’s nice.”

“Then we can keep doing that until you’re ready to do anything else, alright?” 

You nod, still trying to clear the fog.

“I know what I signed up for, sweetheart,” he says, giving you a quick squeeze. “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for you, no matter how much I wish it was.”

“I’m gonna get through this,” you say with a nod. “I know I can do this. I just need some time to figure out how to change what’s happening inside me.”

“See? That’s my girl,” he whispers, placing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “My strong, beautiful, brave girl.”

“How were the kids?”

It’s dark in your bed, the covers seemingly comfier than they’ve ever been. Eddie has you curled into his arms, hiding you away from the assailants and the monsters of the world. There’s no Him here. For now, you’re resting in the arms of solace. 

“Absolutely terrible,” he says, causing you to chuckle. “But I think they had fun. Nance is good at the teaching thing, bossing the kids around, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you keep talking to me?” you ask. “I want to hear more about your day.”

Eddie trails on, stroking your hair. He tells you about the tiny parade the classes had and how the mini float they made stopped moving halfway through. Steve came just in time to see it break down and they worked together to get it back up and running again. 

He says you would’ve had fun.

Says it’s okay that you weren’t okay enough to come.

Says it’s okay that you’re struggling with this.

“You’re doing your best,” he whispers as your eyes start to get too difficult to open. “And I love you so much. I’m right here with you.”

Love doesn’t come easily after sexual assault. When there’s no one left to trust and the idea of sex is appealing but the follow through fills you with intense anxiety, the thought of a relationship is…tough. It’s easy until it’s hard and it’s hard until it’s easy. It’s like every day comes with something new, whether it be good or bad.

Eddie’s the exception that you never saw coming. And you’re so fucking glad you were able to see the day where you got to meet him. Fall in love with him. Stay with him.

And he tells you one last truth before you fall asleep.

“You aren’t broken, even if you feel like it. Just a little bent, baby. That’s all.”

shout out to @strangergraphics for her dividers...and a big thanks to her for encouraging me to share this when I was giving up.

if you are going through anything like this, know that you're not alone. it's a scary experience and people don't really talk about the way the body is just as affected by trauma as the brain is. healing is not linear and you will get through this.

stay strong.