#Fractures around joints

[ghostlynimbus]

Finger is fractured

[raynewolferune]

Meta Jazz, the Arkham Intern Therapist Pt1

Update 5/16/2024: Congrats guys, gals, and others! You have planted the seeds and they have grown. Today I wrote another 46 pages on this story (the first section was only 9 pages ya'll). I'm working on splitting it up into smaller sections so I can post it now because tumblr said no to doing it as one piece. I'll be using the tag #Meta Jazz Arkham Intern Therapist if you want to follow it.

Original Note: I'm going to go ahead and apologize for how OOC Bane is in this. It originally was Joker but I couldn't see Jazz tolerating his proximity for more than a single millisecond so Bane it is.

~*~*~

The hardest thing about being a Meta in Gotham was responding appropriately during a Rouge's attack, Jazz mused to herself. Or perhaps that was just the hardest part about being a Meta intern at Arkham while studying psychology at Gotham University. Or maybe it was just her, she considered watching the guards and Dr. Rylie whom she'd been shadowing for the past 2 weeks wide eyed, pale, and shaking as theybstared at Bane behind her. It must just be her, Jazz decided, newbie guard Kyle Jennings was definitely a Meta after all. She should probably give him some tips on hiding his enhanced strength considering how often he broke mugs, door handles, and other delicate items used in daily life.

"Weapons down or I'll snap her skinny little neck." Bane growled out, shaking her slightly for emphasis. She very much doubted that. Liminials were built different than the standard Meta, stronger, faster, better endurance, and senses even if they could mostly appear to be standard humans on the outside.  As such, their bones and muscles were much were much denser than regular humans or even Meta humans. Technically, she could be considered "invulnerable" much like the Kryptonians are.

"Back up! Let him through!" Dr. Rylie  shouted at the guards. "She's my student! Let him through!" His voice was higher pitched than she could recall hearing it before.

Ah. That was panic.

Jazz sighed involuntarily and glanced over her shoulder at Bane. Why the man had grabbed the only person close to his own height nearby was a mystery to her - no, nevermind, he clearly meant to use her as a shield - but it made looking him in the eye more difficult than necessary.

"Mr. Bane, remove your hands from my person, please." Jazz stated calmly, channeling what Danny called her inner mom as she spoke. "I will give you to one to comply."

Bane looked stunned for a moment then laughed.

"Five."

The laughing continued. Jazz could sense a stir of uncertainty through her colleagues as they looked on.

"Four."

"Did you really think that would work?" Bane snorted out, arms tensing more around her.

"Three." She continued, indifferent to his words from her experiences raising her brother. Once the count down starts you mustn't respond to anything the kids do or say until they comply or the count is done.

"What cab you even do if I don't?" Bane asked darkly breathing directly in her ear. She kept her face expressionless despite the urge to express disgust.

"Two."

"Jasmine..."  Kyle whispered halfway across the hall from her looking on with a pained and horrified expression. Gun tilting towards the floor. Sloppy.

"One." She finished and Bane gave a derisive snort.

Then she was moving. Hauling the enormous man up and over her shoulder using the arm that had been wrapped around her neck. Bane hit the cold tile hard enough that the tiles, subfloor, structural supports, and part of the concrete foundation buckled beneath him. His shoulder popped out of joint, his wrist cracked - a hairline fracture by the sound of it -  and his breath was punched out of him from the force of impact. She released his arm as soon as his was embedded in the tiles and moved forward. Kneeling over him, support most of her weight on her left foot resting on the broken ground, her right knees pressed firmly across his throat without supporting any of her weight. The position put more strain on her muscles than she would've liked but at least Bane couldn't risk fighting back without crushing his own neck in the process. He could hardly throw her while flat on his back with a mangled arm.

"Now," Jazz began, looking directly into the behemoth's pained eyes. "Do you know what you've done wrong?" She asked like she would have done with Danny as a child.

"Yes, Ma'am." Bane choked out. Jazz heard movement and murmuring behind her. She didn't turn to look.

"What did you do wrong?" She asked. It was important to make sure children correctly understood why they were in trouble after all. There was a long pause as Bane appeared to cast around for the exact right answer as if he feared getting it wrong. A bad habit Danny still uses as well, Jazz thought to herself.

"I tried to hold you hostage," He choked out in a rush, words tumbling over one another as he tried to get them all out. "I scared you coworkers and it was very disrespectful."

So he'd gone for the grab-bag response. It wasn't wrong per sey but it did indicate a past history of abuse. The type of answer given by someone who expected to be harmed or ignored if they gave the "wrong" answer. Danny tended to use that method also and their parents had always been negligent at best.

"And are you going to do it again?" She asked giving him a Look as she did. Bane's eyes widened and he tried to frantically shake his head as much as possible with the pressure on his neck.

"No, Ma'am." He promised fervently.

"Alright then," Jazz said giving him a warm smile. She gestured vaguely towards the guards without turning to look at them. "Kyle here is going to take you to see the nurse and then back to your room then. I'm sure you'll behave for him?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll behave." Bane said. Jazz stood slowly asking sure not to put any additional pressure on his neck as she did. Kyle came and stood next to her as the giant of a man slowly pulled himself to his feet then led him away with 5 other guards.

Jazz heaved a sigh. Well, time to find out whether or not she could play all that off as normal, non-Meta human behavior.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Realistic Injuries

References (Minor Injuries; Head Injuries; Broken Bones; Dislocated Joints; Cutting & Piercing; Blood Loss; Blunt Trauma; Burns)

WHAT'S "NORMAL"

For a normal, reasonably healthy adult the following reading are ‘normal’. Some variation is usual and what’s normal for one person may be abnormal for another.

Pulse Rate

Between 60-100 beats per minute

A fitter person will have a rate towards the slower end of the margin and a child or young person will have a naturally high rate.

Any drastic increase or decrease in pulse rate is cause for concern.

Blood Pressure

120-140 over 70-90

Can vary with the time of day, amount of stress and a number of other factors.

High blood pressure is not usually immediately dangerous but can cause long term damage.

Low blood pressure can cause faintness, dizziness and blackouts and is usually a sign that there is an underlying problem to be treated.

Body Temperature

36°C (98.6°F) to 37.5°C (99.5°F)

Relatively minor variations in temperature are cause for concern.

MINOR INJURIES

Bumps, bruises, cuts and grazes

All inconvenient.

But not incapacitating.

A blow to a bony part of a limb or to a joint

Hurts a lot at the time of impact (as anyone who’s banged their shin will agree) and may swell and stiffen.

The impact may also have the effect of temporarily disrupting the ‘power supply’ to the limb meaning the person getting hit is likely to lose their grip on anything they’re carrying and be unable to move the joint for a few minutes.

Bruises

Can take anything from a few seconds to over a day to appear and anything from a day to several weeks to fade away again.

Soft fleshy areas bruise much more colourfully.

Sprains and torn muscles/tendons etc.

Will stiffen, swell and become more painful after a few hours.

A bad sprain can be every bit as incapacitating as a broken bone.

HEAD INJURIES

Probably the most common injury in fiction.

From “let’s bash the bad guy over the head to stop him running after us” to those scenes where everyone gets thrown all over the flight deck by the first bit of turbulence and bounce their heads off consoles.

Minor Head injuries

The human skull is pretty robust and designed to take a fair amount of punishment. Consequently the occasional bump won’t do all that much damage.

A minor bump on the head may leave a character feeling dazed and suffering from a headache, blurred vision and ringing ears but will clear within a few minutes.

Facial bruising - quite uncommon, it takes quite a hard blow or a blow that impacts with the soft tissue around the eyes to leave a mark.

Minor cuts and lacerations on the scalp and face will hurt and bleed out of all proportion to their seriousness. [NOTE: A ‘laceration’ does not mean ‘a very bad cut’ – it is a term for a specific type of wound caused by the tearing rather than the slicing of the skin. It’s the sort of cut you get from being hit with a blunt object (or a fist).]

Medium Head Injuries

A more forceful blow (equivalent to a fall of several feet) can lead to complications of the injury.

Concussion (damage to the brain tissue) is quite common after a hard blow to the head and is often accompanied by temporary unconsciousness. (And it should be very temporary if you don’t want your character to be permanently damaged). This can also result in dizziness, nausea and, not surprisingly, a nasty headache.

Medium cuts and lacerations will be painful and messy but not dangerous. There may be scarring.

Severe Head Injuries

A blow to the head resulting in prolonged unconsciousness will almost certainly result in brain damage, possibly a fractured skull and bruising or bleeding within the brain itself. It can be fatal either straight away if the damage is extensive enough or later as the blood from the injury causes pressure to be put on the brain.

Severe cuts - can damage muscle and sinew and do permanent damage. The pain from such injuries would have most characters unable to concentrate on much else.

Concussion Symptoms

Confusion, disorientation, memory loss,

Dizziness, headache (lingering after the first few hours)

Nausea, vomiting,

Pupils uneven in size and/or reaction,

Sluggish reactions, sleepiness.

Any painkillers given to treat the headache must be non-narcotic and relatively mild. Otherwise it is difficult to tell if sleepiness is caused by a worsening of the injury or by the painkillers.

Someone suffering from a suspected head injury should be watched for at least 24 hours, and woken every few hours if they’re asleep, to check for the above symptoms.

BROKEN BONES

In general they hurt. A lot. Any character with a broken bone (with the possible exception of the ribs) is going to know about it and not be very happy. It is possible that if there is no displacement they might not hurt much at all, and it may not be immediately obvious that the bone is actually broken.

The initial shock and pain is often enough to cause unconsciousness. Keeping the limb immobile will minimise the pain but any pressure or movement is going to be extremely unpleasant.

Severe breaks (compound fractures) can cause part of the bone to protrude through the skin, this will also cause blood loss, which can be severe enough to be dangerous. Nerves and blood vessels can also be permanently damaged.

Smaller bones are obviously more likely to break than larger ones but they hurt every bit as much.

Distinguishing between breaks/sprains is not always easy with just 'it hurts to go on but as a guide… Lots of pain but some movement is a relatively good thing -- it indicates 'just' a tear. Less pain but very limited movement is a worry, because it can mean you've snapped something, and the joint becomes useless without surgery.

Broken Ribs

All sorts of nasty complications can arise here. For a start, though a character who has just broken a rib will feel winded and uncomfortable, the initial discomfort will pass quickly and they may feel fine for some hours afterwards. Possibly they may not even realise that they had broken anything.

After a few hours it will start to hurt badly and breathing may be impaired and painful. Problems can occur when the injured person is breathing only shallowly because of the pain and not expanding their lungs fully, lungs can collapse as a result, causing pneumonia. Interesting in a morbid kind of way is that the breathing difficulties of a collapsed lung aren't what gets you - it's the air pressure that builds up in the chest cutting of the blood flow to the heart.

Broken ribs can also puncture a lung or even the heart with fatal results. A punctured lung would result in death within 3-15 minutes if untreated.

DISLOCATED JOINTS

Hurt just as much as broken bones.

Can be forced back into place without medical facilities but it’s not recommended and will hurt a lot, probably enough to cause unconsciousness. On-the-hoof treatment is the same as for broken bones – imobilise and support the limb.

There are a few dislocations which can be life-threatening -- the sterno-clavicular joint (where the collarbone joins the breastbone) is one. It requires a lot of force to pop it (most people's collarbones will break before the joint goes), and the collarbone usually goes outwards, but if it displaces inwards, it can compress the airways. This joint can dislocate if you get slammed very hard into something like a wall and take the impact on the point of the shoulder. I can also say it hurts very badly and for a very long time.

CUTTING & PIERCING

most human beings come equipped with a healthy set of defensive reflexes to avoid it. If at all possible they will try to put something else (like hands) in the way of the blow. Most people injured in a stabbing have injuries on their hands and arms as well from trying to ward off their assailant.

The severity of the injury depends a great deal on its location:

Limbs

The arms and legs are not protected by much flesh so even a shallow cut or piercing injury here may damage bone and muscle and render the limb effectively useless.

Severe blood loss can occur if the major blood vessels in the inside of the upper arm and inner thigh are damaged.

Abdomen

Piercing injuries will bleed a lot and can easily do fatal damage, although unless a main artery is hit then it’s not going to be a quick death. A piercing more than 2 inches deep starts to get dangerous.

If the main descending aorta is hit, the character has seconds to live.

The femoral or renal arteries will lose a fatal amount of blood in 2 – 3 minutes.

Injury to internal organs would cause bleeding, infections and a nasty slow death if left untreated. Bleeding from the spleen or liver would cause death within 20 minutes. Less major damage to internal organs would cause death either from blood loss over several hours or up to several days later from infection and other complications.

Relatively slight cuts to the stomach area would affect breathing and damage muscles, More major cuts to this area can damage nerves and muscles, meaning the injured character would have no control over their legs. Not nice, when you’re trying to get away from the nutter who’s just sliced you up and suddenly your legs don’t work…

Extensive cuts here can also mean the insides are suddenly outside. Not pretty, not comfortable and, untreated, leaves the character with about 15 minutes to live and they’re going to wish it was much less. Quite apart from the pain (which is pretty horrific) the sight of their own insides tends to make most people quite hysterical.

BLOOD LOSS

Major blood loss will result in a fast weak pulse and accelerated respiratory rate.

For an average healthy person about a litre of blood lost is enough for shock to set in.

Loss of approximately a litre and a half to two litres or more will require transfusion.

Loss of more than 2 and a half litres will probably result in unconsciousness and, if transfusion is not given, death.

Symptoms of Blood Loss

Blood loss in litres < 0.75 || 0.750-1.5 || 1.5-2.0 || > 2.0

Percentage of blood lost < 15% || 15-30% || 30-40% || > 40%

Blood pressure Normal || Normal || Reduced || Low

Pulse rate (beats per minute) < 100 || > 100 || > 120 || > 140

Pulse pressure Normal || Decreased || Decreased || Decreased

Respiratory rate (breaths/min) 14-20 || 20-30 || 30-40 || > 35

Mental state Alert || Anxious || Confused || Lethargic

State of extremities Normal || Pale || Pale/Cool || Pale/Clammy

Amount of blood loss by injury

Severe blood loss, as a wound larger than a fist or that caused by a compound fracture. All figures are approximate and somewhat variable. They are meant as a rough guide only.

SITE OF INJURY || NORMAL BLOOD LOSS (Litres / %) || SEVERE || MAXIMUM

Shoulder: 0.85 / 17% || 1.25 / 25% || 2.1 / 42%

Arm: 0.4 / 8% || 0.85 / 17% || 1.25 / 25%

Elbow: 0.4 / 8% || 0.85 / 17% || 1.65 / 33%

Forearm: 0.4 / 8% || 0.85 / 17% || 1.25 / 25%

Wrist: 0.2 / 4% || 0.6 / 12% || 0.85 / 17%

Chest: 1.25 / 25% || 1.65 / 33% || 5.0 / 100%

Spleen/Liver: 1.25 / 25% || 1.65 / 33% || 5.0 / 100%

Pelvis: 1.25 / 25% || 1.65 / 33% || 5.0 / 100%

Thigh: 1.25 / 25% || 1.65 / 33% || 2.9 / 58%

Leg: 0.85 / 17% || 1.25 / 25% || 2.1 / 42%

Ankle: 0.85 / 17% || 1.25 / 25% || 2.1 / 42%

BLUNT TRAUMA

Getting hit…

Aside from the obvious risk of getting smacked upside the head or breaking bones (see above) there are assorted other injuries and complications which can arise.

Due to the elasticity of the ribcage getting smacked in the chest can cause a person to fly backwards some distance. Of course this means they can bounce off of something else and hurt themselves that way. At best they’re going to be winded and have difficulty breathing, which causes a certain amount of panic in most people. And it looks rather alarming.

Heavy blows to the back can damage the spine resulting in possible paralysis and death. Kidney injuries are also common when someone is hit in the small of the back. They can bleed and may shut down altogether. Kidney failure means the body can’t clear certain waste products from its system, if the waste products build up too far then coma and death can result.

Internal organs such as the liver and spleen can also be damaged by blunt trauma and bleed as detailed above. Other organs which may be injured are the pancreas and the intestines.

If the pancreas is damaged it may spill digestive enzymes which start to digest the person’s own insides. Obviously this is rather painful and unpleasant.

Damage to the intestines can result in blockages (causing pain, nausea and vomiting), bleeding, and the release of bacteria into the bloodstream resulting in septic shock (high fever followed by sudden drop in temperature and blood pressure – fatal if not treated) This can take 24 hours or more.

Usual treatment for internal injuries is IV feeding, antibiotics, painkillers and sometimes surgery.

BURNS

Burns are classified into degree by their seriousness.

1st degree burns – Red, sensitive skin, like a sunburn.

2nd degree burns – Blistering on the first layer of skin (the epidermis) only.

3rd degree burns – Damage to both the epidermis and dermis (the first two layers of skin), visible scars.

Burns over more than 70% of the body are life threatening due to dehydration and the risk of shock, kidney failure and infection.

Electrical shock

Physical marks can vary from none at all to severe tissue damage depending on the severity of the shock.

Internal damage can be done by electrical current traveling along the nerves and blood vessels.

Source: Leia Fee (with additions by Susannah Shepherd)

[reidmarieprentiss]

Something Better

Summary: You overhear Spencer and Diana talking about JJ's confession, it hits too hard with the issues you and Spencer have been experiencing.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt

Warnings/Includes: crying, insecurities, fighting, leaving

Word count: 2.5k

a/n: sorry!!!! i am notttt having a good time in my relationship (he doesn’t know we’re in a relationship)

main masterlist part two

The complexity of your relationship with Spencer had deepened significantly, ever since the enigmatic and dangerous Cat Adams had entered the picture. Understanding the nature of Spencer's job, you had been kept well-informed about his interactions with Cat, ensuring that you were on the same page with him throughout this unsettling chapter. You and Spencer had been together for four years, a relationship that was marked not only by affection but also by the trials that had weathered your joint experiences, including Spencer's traumatic stint in prison. Amidst the turmoil, recent events had only added to the strain: Spencer had once again found himself a hostage, and in those fraught moments, JJ had confessed her love for him.

This unexpected confession stirred a troubling mix of emotions within you. Despite your deep-seated trust and the solid foundation you had built together, insecurities bubbled to the surface. The knowledge of Spencer's initial crush on JJ during his early days at the BAU added layers of doubt and fear. You couldn't help but wonder about the what-ifs—whether Spencer harbored any regrets about the path he had chosen with you instead. 

—

As you held the tray with steaming mugs of tea, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into your palms, your intention was simple: to bring a small comfort to the room where Spencer and his mother, Diana, were deep in conversation. But the words that drifted through the slightly ajar door halted you in your tracks, the comforting heat from the cups suddenly replaced by a cold grip of fear tightening around your heart.

“You think that’s what I’ve been doing? Closing myself off to possibilities because I’m waiting for JJ?” Spencer's voice carried a mix of confusion and introspection, a tone you recognized all too well.

“I hope not,” Diana’s response was gentle, yet it carried an undeniable weight of concern.

The gravity of the conversation, the raw honesty of the words spoken, pierced through the veil of assurances and understandings that had surrounded your relationship with Spencer. The mention of JJ, with the concept of ‘possibilities’ he might be closing off, struck a vulnerable chord. It echoed the very insecurities that had been gnawing at you—fears of being a placeholder, of not being the ultimate choice but rather the safe harbor in the storm of his complex life.

The impact of this realization was instantaneous and visceral. The ceramic mugs slipped from your numb fingers, shattering on the floor as a symbolic fracture mirrored in your composure. A sob escaped your lips—a sound of pain so raw it seemed to carry the weight of every doubt and every shadow of fear that had gathered in the corners of your relationship.

“What was that?” Diana’s voice was sharp with alarm, slicing through the tense air as the sound of the breaking mugs echoed down the hall.

Unable to face them, to see the concern or confusion on Spencer’s face, you turned and fled down the hallway. The coolness of the walls was a stark contrast to the pain burning inside you as each step took you further from the room, from the conversation, from the man you loved yet suddenly felt miles away from. Your mind raced, caught in a whirlwind of emotion and a desperate need for solitude, a space to breathe and to grasp the full meaning of what you had just overheard.

“I’ll go check it out, Mom,” Spencer said, patting his moms hands.

Spencer's heart thudded with increasing urgency as he navigated the hallway, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene of shattered mugs and spilled tea, a silent testament to a sudden departure fueled by distress. "Y/N?" he called out again, his voice tinged with confusion and concern. The lack of response only heightened his worry, each unanswered call amplifying the fear that something was profoundly wrong.

As he passed by a window, his gaze inadvertently swept over the driveway, catching the sight of you getting into your car. The pieces clicked together in his mind, albeit without understanding the why behind your actions. His concern morphed into sheer panic, propelling him into a jog as he made his way swiftly towards the front door, his mind racing with possible reasons for your abrupt exit.

Reaching the door, he flung it open and stepped out into the cool air, his breath visible in the quiet of the afternoon. "Y/N, wait!" he shouted, hoping to catch your attention before you could drive away. His voice carried a desperate edge, a plea woven through the urgency.

Spencer's mind was a whirlwind of worry and bewilderment. He had no clue what had triggered your sudden need to escape, no understanding of the emotional turmoil that had driven you to such a rapid departure. As he jogged towards the car, his only thought was to stop you, to understand, to fix whatever had gone wrong, unaware of the conversation you had overheard and the doubts it had reignited within you.

He reached the car just as you were about to start the engine, his expression full of fear, confusion, and concern. His hands gestured slightly, asking for a moment of your time, his eyes pleading for you to stay, to talk, to explain what had caused this rift to suddenly appear between you.

As the window descended, revealing your tear-streaked face and the distress clearly written across your features, Spencer’s heart sank even further. The sight of you so visibly upset was enough to tighten the already squeezing panic in his chest.

“What happened?” he asked again, his voice rough from the sprint and the growing dread. He leaned closer, his eyes searching yours for an answer, for anything that could explain the sudden shift in the day.

“I don’t want to hold you back from anything,” you managed to say between sniffles, the words muffled slightly by your emotional state. Your voice was thick with pain, each word laden with the weight of your fears.

“What?” Spencer’s confusion deepened, his brows knitting together as he tried to decipher the meaning behind your words. His face fell, a mix of worry and incomprehension as he struggled to connect the dots. He reached out tentatively, resting his hand against the car door, needing some physical connection to bridge the gap that the conversation had opened between you.

“You’re not holding me back, Y/N. Please, tell me what’s going on,” Spencer urged, his tone softening, trying to provide a calm amid the storm of emotions swirling around you both. His eyes held yours, filled with concern and a plea for clarity, as he tried to understand the source of your sudden decision to leave.

As you struggled with the words, each one a reflection of the turmoil within, Spencer's expression shifted from confusion to a dawning realization of the depth of your concerns.

"Why haven't you proposed, Spencer?" The question came out choked, a manifestation of the culmination of doubts and fears that had been gathering, fueled by recent events and lingering insecurities.

"Y/N...what? What is happening?" Spencer's voice was tinged with a blend of confusion and fear, grappling with the sudden confrontation of an issue he hadn't realized was so pressing in your mind.

You shook your head slowly, signaling the seriousness of your need for an answer. "Just answer me," you said quietly, a firm resolve underlying your soft tone. 

"I don't... I don't know," Spencer admitted, his voice faltering. His uncertainty was palpable, reflecting his own confusion about the future and his feelings about where your relationship stood, especially in light of his recent traumas and challenges.

"That's not good enough for me," you stated, the pain in your voice evident as you began to roll up the window, a physical manifestation of the emotional barrier you felt compelled to erect in the face of his indecision.

Spencer's heart raced as he saw the window closing, a barrier rising not just between him and the outside air, but between him and you. He placed his hand against the glass, a silent plea for you to stop and listen.

"Please, Y/N, wait," Spencer's voice cracked, his usual composure unraveled by the intensity of the moment. "I love you. I'm just... I've been dealing with a lot, and I didn't realize you felt this way. Can we just talk about this? Please?" His words rushed out in a torrent of emotion, a mix of apology and confusion, desperately trying to bridge the growing gap with his earnestness and vulnerability.

The tension in the air thickened as you left the window half-cracked, Spencer stood rooted to the spot, his heart heavy with the burden of your words.

"I know you’re going through a lot...I understand, I’ve been here with you through it all," you said, your voice steadier now, each word deliberate. Taking a deep breath, you lifted your gaze to meet Spencer's, the pain in your eyes a clear reflection of the turmoil within. "Are you waiting for something better?"

The question hit Spencer like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily breathless, his mind reeling. "Something better? You’re the best there is, Y/N," he managed to say, his voice laden with sincerity and a touch of desperation, wanting nothing more than to dispel your doubts.

That response, however, triggered a shift from sadness to anger. "Then why did you tell your mom you’re waiting for JJ?" you yelled, the volume of your voice a stark contrast to the quiet despair of moments before.

Spencer's face paled, the accusation and the misunderstanding cutting deep. "No, Y/N, that’s not what I meant," he stammered, his mind racing to correct the misunderstanding. "It was taken out of context. I was talking about not closing myself off to healing, to moving forward with my life, which means with you. JJ's confession threw me off, yes, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you, and I'm not waiting for anyone else."

He stepped closer to the car, his expression earnest, almost pleading. "I haven't proposed because I've been scared—scared of not being enough for you with all my baggage. But I know that's no excuse. You deserve certainty, and I've been unfair. I'm sorry for making you feel this way."

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of understanding or forgiveness, hoping his words could bridge the gap that had opened up between you, driven by fears and miscommunications.

Your glare didn't waver as Spencer began to unravel the layers of the conversation you had misinterpreted, each word weighed with a heavy mix of regret and urgency to clarify the misunderstanding. He shifted uncomfortably under your intense gaze, knowing how crucial this moment was to salvage the trust and future of your relationship.

“Bullshit,” you had said, the sharpness in your voice slicing through the air.

“What?” Spencer’s confusion was evident, a mixture of desperation and hurt flashing across his features.

“That’s bullshit, Spencer. Tell me the truth,” you pressed, your voice firm, demanding honesty over comforting lies.

Spencer took a deep, steadying breath, recognizing the necessity of complete transparency. “Fine. My mom…she wants grandkids, she wanted to know why we hadn’t given her any. I told her the truth, I’m scared to bring children into this world.” His admission came out in a rush, a confession of his deepest fears about fatherhood and the future.

You continued to glare, silently urging him to continue, to explain every nuance of the conversation that had driven you to such a state of distress.

“She asked if I thought JJ made a mistake having kids. I didn’t know what to say. She thought I was being quiet because I was upset about JJ being with Will, which I am not—definitely not. And that’s what you must have heard,” Spencer explained, his voice earnest, pleading with you to understand the context and his true feelings.

The air between you seemed charged with his words, each sentence he spoke unraveling the knot of misunderstanding that had tightened around your heart. His explanation painted a different picture, one not of longing for another but of fear and apprehension about a future he felt unequipped to navigate.

Your expression softened slightly, the initial rush of anger ebbing as the truth of his words began to resonate. The misunderstanding had morphed your fear into anger, but with his honest explanation, the foundations of trust began to show signs of mending.

Spencer watched you carefully, gauging your reaction, hoping that his honesty and the vulnerability he displayed would be enough to start healing the rift that had formed. His eyes conveyed a silent plea for forgiveness, his posture open and unguarded as he stood before you, laid bare by his confessions.

“Okay,” you had said simply, leaving Spencer clinging to that word as if it were a lifeline in the turbulent sea of your relationship.

“Okay? Is that—is that all? Are we okay?” His voice was tinged with uncertainty, searching for more reassurance, more solidity than the ambiguous affirmation offered.

“I don’t know,” you replied, the honesty in your voice reflecting the turmoil within. 

“Y/N...please, I love you so much,” Spencer implored, his words thick with emotion, his eyes begging you to see the depth of his sincerity.

“I love you too, but saying it and showing it are two different things,” you sighed, the weariness in your voice painting a vivid picture of your emotional state. “You’re my world, Spencer. I just want to feel like I’m yours too. Can I go please?”

His heart sank with those words, a stark reminder of the disconnect that had formed between your perceptions of the relationship. “Go? Go where? You’re leaving?” The panic was evident in his voice, his mind racing through scenarios of loss and loneliness.

“I need to be alone right now. Can you catch a cab?” you asked, your tone resolute yet gentle, not wanting to hurt him but needing the space to sort through your swirling thoughts.

“Are you breaking up with me?” The question was out before he could stop it, a fear-driven reflex.

“No,” was your simple, firm reply, a small comfort amid the storm.

Spencer nodded, accepting your need even as it pained him. “I can get a cab. I love you, darling. So, so, so much.” His words were a whispered caress, an affirmation of everything he felt, everything he hoped for despite the current heartache.

“I love you too,” you responded, a whisper of reciprocation that served as a temporary balm to his aching heart.

With that, you drove off, leaving Spencer watching the space where you had been, his mind heavy with love and fear. He pulled out his phone to arrange a ride, his heart clenching in his chest.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[milkbobatyun]

anyone but you

pairing: wanderer/scaramouche x gn!reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: everyone else had abandoned him, but you always stuck true to him.

word count: 1k

a/n: proud to be a scaramouche simp AND wanderer haver !! dont question the lore aspect of this fic, idk myself asw LMAO

the two of you were but mere pipsqueaks when you met. 

your older brother, morax, had just ascended to godhood and was too busy with the affairs of his new nation to be able to carefully look after his baby sister. likewise, ei was too caught up in her pursuit for eternity to care for her newly made puppet. 

so, what better option was there for them than to let the two of you fend for yourselves together? being lumped together from a young age, and being innocent and naive meant that the two of you relied on each other, the two of you against the world.

you were there when his mother, no, creator, had discarded him. he had no strength, only a pure soul, one that had not yet been tainted by the cruelty of the world. his tender heart had been broken.

like a pet thrown out onto the street, kunikuzushi found himself always making his way back home, tracing the familiar steps to the shrine, sitting outside, pitifully waiting in the rain.

beside him, you sat quietly, offering him silent company. despite the bone-chilling cold, you offered him a hug, the warmth of your love engulfing him, a shield against the uncaring world.

as the both of you awaited for some sliver of hope to shine in the dark clouds of despair, you would pet his head and sing quiet lullabies as it lay on your lap, salty tears leaking from his eyes. he didn’t know puppets could cry. 

hope never came. the almighty shogun had abandoned her creation forever, condemning him to live among mortals, whose short lives meant death, a premature one when compared to his immortal lifespan. 

the bitterness of betrayal consumed a portion of his heart.

kunikuzushi had trusted him. his friend, katsuragi. 

they had promised to be family, a happy little family. tiny kuni, katsuragi and small [name].

so why? why did he tremble in fear now, when he saw kunikuzushi approach him?

it used to be cheers of happiness.

“little kuni!” he would greet, waving his arm in greeting, looking like a comical sight. a wide grin would mirror onto kunikuzushi’s face. someone had finally accepted him and [name] for who they were, looking past the non-human features and seeing their fragile hearts and souls.

katsuragi didn’t hate him for his porcelain skin and ball joints. he didn’t hate [name] for her strange, draconic horns. they were loved, remembered, as the blacksmith and his friends presented them with a beautifully decorated cake.

“to commemorate our year of memories together.” he had declared.

how cruel. how heartless of him, to take the hearts they had trustingly bestowed upon him, crushing it in his grip.

the crystalline pieces fractured, shards of a puzzle that could never be pieced together again.

his betrayal had taken a toll on kunikuzushi’s soul. tears rained down onto the ground as he clutched at your clothing with tight fists.

with warm words and soothing lullabies, your gentle touch and the feeling of home lulled the worn out puppet into sleep.

kunikuzushi was heartbroken. he was scared of this ugly nature of humans. no. he wasn’t scared. he was angry. angry at this cruel world.

he was falling into a dark abyss. curse this wretched world, for carelessly throwing his heart around.

the little boy. oh how naive and innocent he was, a fledgling chick, learning to fly.

kunikuzushi and [name] had found the sickly boy sheltering in your small, rundown, forgotten house on one of the many islands of inazuma. he was plagued with illness, not even your knowledge of medicine could cure him.

yet, you still pressed on, nourishing the little boy with lavender melons and a banquet of dishes. kuni often volunteered to go forage for different fruits, proudly bringing back the herbs he had picked in the wilderness.

once, you were even lucky enough to buy a small doll that resembled kuni.

that day had been the little boy’s birthday. you were on your daily trip to the local market when you caught sight of it. with care, you nestled the doll between the ingredients you had bought for the cake.

as the little boy blew out the candles on the sad, slightly lopsided birthday cake, he wished that he could stay with the two of you.

“we’re family now.” he had grinned at you, his two missing front teeth all the more prominent. “we’re going to be together forever and ever.”

how naive and innocent you were.

in the night, you tried to ignore the bone-chilling, hacking coughs that resonated in the empty manor. the worsening coughs that raked through his body, leaving him pale and shaking.

every night, you questioned the gods. if they were so benevolent and kind, why? why rip this young fledgling from his nest and toss him into the harsh world? what twisted sense of joy did it bring?

once again, the two of you foolishly bared your newly-mended hearts to humans, only for it to be crushed underfoot.

humans can’t be trusted. it took three betrayals before you finally understood.

a soft, porcelain heart, in this unjust world would only lead to pain and suffering. only by hardening his heart into stone, could the puppet withstand the test of human nature.

“you can’t leave me like him, [name],” kuni’s hoarse voice pleaded, gripping you as though you would disappear. “promise me.”

a link of your pinkies and you promised him, but a flicker of hesitation flitted through your eyes.

from that day on, scaramouche clung tight to you, you were his lifeline in this ugly world. the only thing pure and deserving of his love. he cast away his vulnerable and foolish younger self, burying his heart with his own two hands.

good riddance to the rest of the world, the world that he would curse at and denounce. but you, you would always have to stay by his side, in life and in death.

he would do anything to keep you near him. chain you, shackle you beside him, go to hell and back, anything so you wouldn’t abandon him, like all the others did.

his heart was cold and black, impenetrable like rock. but even a stone could retire under the erosion of time, becoming pure like the most exquisite of gems.

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡

[keferon]

Let there be angst. Let Jazz's world crash and burn as he realizes the old Prowl will never be back. The frustration of caregiving for someone you love, watching them go from being fully capable to unable to even clean themselves, their body failing them even as they are forced to exist.

Can Prowl still even feel his hands? Or can he just see them, unknowing of how much pressure he is exerting with them. Have you ever woken up with your hands numb? Unable to feel them even as you flex them, clenching and clenching hoping for that rush of sensation, of warm and cold, of rough and soft. What if you knew that sensation will never come back, that you will never feel your partner gently intertwine heir hands with yours ever again.

Make it hurt as Prowl recovers. Slowly, excruciatingly. Does Prowl's body even recognize empurata as the torture it is? Or will it heal like a bone that was broken. Sometimes fractured bones will heal wrong. It's called malunion and in order to fix it the bone must be broken once again. Will Prowl need to broken again to heal?

Of course he won't ever be like the old Prowl. Mental scars run deep, deeper than his broken frame, deeper than a surgeon's scalpel will ever cut. Some scars will never disappear, never fade, always around to remind him, never letting him forget.

When he gets new hands, if he ever does, will they ache? Will they burn and freeze, shake and chip? They won't be the same afterwards, even if his old, older, hands survive and were given back to him. The scars will remind him. The suffering lack of mobility, of losing the difference between fingers and hands, palms and knuckles. There could be no blemish upon them and yet his joints are stiff, almost immobile, and no amount of doctor's visits could explain why.

Prowl will survive. No doubt about that. But isn't life more than just surviving. What about living? What about thriving?

Prowl will heal, he always does and always will. But there is something to say when a beloved picture frame is more glue and duct tape then wood. It's kept around because no one could bear parting with it.

So yes, Prowl will die. Maybe not in frame, maybe not in mind, but he will die. And there will be someone new. Someone who shares the same body, the same name, the same spark as Prowl. Maybe that being loves Jazz as Prowl oncr did. Or maybe the trauma is too much and that fragile, loving bond of romance was swept away by the wind, embers too cold to ever reignite.

Let it be a bittersweet ending, let there be pain and hurt that will be felt long after the last words are said, the last picture drawn. Let it be known that Prowl didn't walk through hell without scars.

May the sweetness of fluff burn as it is consumed, bleeding citrus on open wounds. Prowl will never be Prowl again but there is a hope, in the long distant future, that he can smile again and can feel his hands once again.

(Short version: angst and fluff please. Hurt and comfort with a bittersweet and ambigous ending. Oh, I also typed this all on my phone w/o autocorrect so I apologize if it turns out weird and words are mispelled.)

H-hey? Hey Anon? I don’t think I will ever be to recover from this.

[leonw4nter]

Look Into My Eyes and You Won’t Ever Have To Ask

DI!Leon and F!Reader

“Y/N, we’re going to jump into the water. We’ll have to brace for impact, you especially.” Leon informs you urgently as he clutches the top of his dislocated shoulder but he eyes your broken rib, obviously putting more emphasis on your injury even though both your conditions are critical.

“Will we make it with your arm?” You ask before wincing. “Don’t force it back into the joint, you’ll make things worse for yourself.”

Leon scoffs, a soft gust of wind leaving his chapped and busted lips that are somehow still curled skyward. “Drop’s not that high but we still gotta be careful and don’t worry, I won’t pop this thing back in place. I’m not that stupid.”

You two look down from the platform and into the dark and rocky water below; the drop is high and along with other metal debris falling into the water, jumping would be dangerous. The response team’s arrival can’t be estimated due to several factors so you’re not sure how long you and Leon have to stay out in the water; treading will be difficult for him due to his arm and it’s not going to be easy helping Leon stay afloat due to a cracked rib and what you’re guessing, a fractured hip as well. This mission has not been kind to you and him, the B.O.Ws involved seemingly much stronger than those you two have dealt with in the past. The mission was supposed to be a lot simpler, a “slip in and slip out” kind of mission but due to unforeseen circumstances, you two are now on a high platform with broken bones while dressed in formal clothing. There was an auction afterparty on a private island that you two had to infiltrate while posing as a married couple, complete with rings and an expertly-falsified marriage certificate. The goal was to grab the lone sample of an engineered Plaga strain to bring back to a research lab and have scientists re-engineer the DNA to try and weaken it. Sounded simple enough until someone’s advisor recognized Leon and had you two’s cover blown and now landed you two in this shitty situation. Mentally and physically preparing yourselves as much as you can, you two slip your shoes off and chuck them to the water to prevent adding weight to your bodies because staying afloat will prove to be a challenge.

Just as you were about to say you were ready, a Tyrant busts the door and spots the two of you. Not sparing a moment for you two to even think of getting ready, the B.O.W runs towards the both of you. Leon gives you a look and swiftly takes your hand, the both of you leaping into the ocean with eyes shut and breaths held. The impact of sinking into the water knocks the wind out of your lungs, cracked ribs uncomfortably disturbed. Your eyes open, greeted by the dark black blur of the ocean and salt of the sea slowly irritating them. You turn to look for Leon, fighting the pain of your injury and trying to spot him amidst the black sea. You spot a suit trying to swim upwards to get air and that is enough confirmation for you so you try to swim upwards to get some air and try to look for a chopper. Unfortunately, something tugs against your leg and it appears that debris has hooked around your ankle and is dragging you downwards. You bend down and try to wriggle your foot free, feeling around in the dark since you couldn’t see. Fortunately for you, you managed to get it out and you furiously try to get back to the surface to tell Leon you’re fine.

You gasp sharply and tread water despite the roaring ache in your arms and legs, your head turning here and there to look for your partner.

“Y/N!”

You heard a strained call for your name, trying to locate him amidst the splashing surface due to the pitter patter of heavy rains on the surface of the water obstructing your view.

“Leon!” You call out and try to swim to him but he yells your name in a perturbed tone.

“Big wave!”

You look to your right and see a large wave headed for the both of you. You didn’t have time to fully sink back down and so the wave tossed you, causing you to accidentally swallow some water and choke on it while fighting for your life. Could it get any worse? It could, since the Tyrant above you decided to rip the metal door off of its hinges and throw it down into the water above you. Tossed and disoriented in the water while choking, you didn’t realize that you were heading in the direction of a metal part of the door jutting out. You hit your head hard and fell unconscious, all the thrashing and efforts slowly coming to a halt.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Leon woke up in a hospital, his right arm placed in a sling and his other arm attached to IV drips. There were several electrodes stuck to his chest, connected to a beeping machine. Dazed and confused, especially with the bright lights of the hospital room, he nimbly sat up despite the dizziness that overcame him and got up, not minding if he was connected to several machines. The sudden commotion alerts the nurses on duty, rushing to him just as he reaches to remove the devices attached to him.

“Sir, please calm down–”

“Where is she–”

“Sir, you can’t–”

“Where’s my wife?!”

He had never yelled like that, not even during training when cadets couldn’t get their form right. Not even when he was frustrated with how life turned out for him.

“Where’s my wife? I need to see her,” he repeats less loudly but still retaining the same stern tone he used earlier. He isn’t moving as much but he keeps his eyes peeled on the door of his hospital room.

“She’s on the same floor, 3 rooms across yours, sir. She’s still unconscious the last time I checked so please be careful and try not to make any sudden noise,” a nurse tells him. He calms down, his body no longer as tense as it was earlier. His shoulders sink, occasionally moving his free arm so the nurses can reattach the electrodes that have gone loose when he moved violently earlier.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “And thank you. For telling me.”

“It’s fine, sir. You did that out of love and concern for your wife. You must love her very much if you lost your cool and acted irrationally just to make sure she’s safe.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

The nurses helping him simply smiled and continued making sure all instruments on him were secure before helping him back to his hospital bed and making sure he was laying comfortably and didn’t place any pressure on any other injuries he sustained. Before the last nurse turned around to leave him be for the time being to go call a doctor and have the doctor check his vitals, she informed him that guests aren’t allowed at your room for the time being that you’re unconscious. He nods, understanding since you did take a particularly dangerous hit to the head and nearly drowned. He sits in silence, head hung low as he looks at himself and sees his injured arm on a black sling and his suit discarded in favor of a hospital gown. Purples and yellows, along with some small red spots, decorate his skin along with new scars among old ones. Now that he’s more aware of how he’s feeling, he realizes just how much his back hurts and how sore his joints feel. He’s no stranger to an achy and sore body, especially after missions, but as his age progressed the pain seems to have increased along with it. He can’t carry heavy things like he used to and he now takes longer breaks to regain his bearings after training. His gaze falls on his hand and notices the fact that his ring is missing first, not the redness and the bruising in his knuckles on top of recovering wounds from the previous mission. His eyes widened, looking around for his ring until his gaze fell on the ring inside of a tiny ziplock on his bedside table. He sighs, a small lock of brown hair falling down and covering his eye. His mind drifts back to the mission and his small outburst earlier, flitting between the two events. He feels guilty to have taken longer to bring you back up to the surface despite the arm proving to be difficult to swim with. If only he’d already swam up to you and moved you two somewhere less prone to having debris dropped on, you wouldn’t be suffering a concussion. If only he didn’t resist having you style his hair differently, that damn man wouldn’t have recognized him and caused an uproar. For once in a long time, none of his thoughts went into whether or not the mission was a success; he was entirely concerned with your well-being as a nasty guilt eroded his heart slowly and painfully. He loved you, he loved you dangerously for he would do anything brash if it meant securing your safety at the expense of his. He cherished you more than the stars that the night sky offered for your presence outshone even the most stellar cluster of stars. He cherished you more than the serenity that solitude offered for in your presence he could find a peace that solitude could never offer him. He knew the lone and solitary path, having gone down that road almost all his life but when he knew you, he could never go back to living without you by his side again. Hell, he loves you more than he does with whatever freedom he has left after being forced to work for the government for when he’s with you, he finds the true meaning of liberty. For the first time in the longest time, he prays. He stopped praying in the winter of the same year he turned 21, the prospect of believing in a God and holding on to a prayer as good as stupid and a waste of breath. Despite his doubt with the heavens, he is firm in his belief that you will recover soon. In a universe where he sees no god, he prays for you for in you he has found something sacred.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

He waits for several days and nights, occasionally getting up from his room to drag himself and the IV drip to the locked door of your hospital room. He tells nurses passing by that he’s your “husband” and that he just wants to see you, even for a little bit. The more he explains to nurses that he’s your “husband”, he feels like a liar. On a fake piece of paper, he is, but do you really want him to be your husband? He is far from ideal– he used to be a heavy drinker, he’s got emotional baggage, and a life with him would put her and possibly, your future family, in constant danger. He knows you’re very capable, more than capable in fact, to defend yourself but you can only do so much to defend yourself, you lying unconscious in a bed attached to tubes being proof of that. As he turns to walk back into his room, a million thoughts run through his head; he decides to tell you about how he feels and treat you the best he can, whether or not you feel the same way towards him. He’ll even request the D.S.O. to put both of you on a break since you both deserve time to focus on your recovery and pursuit of interests outside of work. He also considers writing a book to record his thoughts but considering the injury on his dominant arm, he realizes that writing will be a lot more difficult. On the steps back to his room, he also mentally lists down what he wants to gift you but he stops himself– realizing that he’s getting too ahead of himself.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“Oh, he did react violently. Very violently.” your nurse tells you as the doctor with her takes your vitals.

You asked her how he’s doing as soon as you got up, looking around worriedly for your ring and your other belongings. The lights disoriented you for a moment, too bright for your pupils that are still adjusting after being asleep for nearly an entire month. You also learned that he got discharged 2 weeks ago but still came by often to visit you. He’s also been said to occasionally brush your hair away from your face and change the water from the vase and flowers he brought you a day after he got discharged.

“He was yelling, moving so much and screamed ‘where’s my wife?!’. Honestly, it was so cute!” she said with a wide smile.

“The entire floor heard him since he opened the door loudly and screamed even louder but he cared less, even if his ass is poking out of his hospital gown.”

You blushed at the mental image of Leon looking for you like a madman in a hospital gown where he’s naked at the back.

“He only calmed down after we told him where you were and he stayed in his room, head hung low the entire day and we all honestly felt bad for him.”

You nodded to her words, your gaze falling to the ring in the ziploc baggie on your bedside table. You asked for a phone and called him, telling him that you woke up and he can come visit you.

“He seemed really happy, could tell that wideass grin of his even through the phone,” you told the nurse and doctor while they smiled and giggled for you.

“Go give him the best kiss you’ve ever given him and profess your love again like it’s the first time!”

Their words made you blush again, only this time it’s because they don’t know you two aren’t exactly married. You two have only kissed once and that was during the fake wedding that the company set up for you two, present with a witness with no affiliation to any of the guests or you two. You’re not even sure if him talking to you was purely out of kindness or if he did that in order to keep up the image that things have not gone awkward. You’re even surprised Leon doesn’t seem to have been picking up the hints you’ve been dropping at him; for an agent who’s trained to be highly perceptive of people’s actions and body language, he sure doesn’t know how to pick up signs that you’re flirting with him. Unless he doesn’t want you. You groan and carefully rest your head on the pillow behind you but you stop, wincing because you just remembered you’ve got a busted rib or two.

A few minutes later, the sliding door to your room opens and in comes Leon with a bouquet of sunflowers on his free hand because the other is on a black sling. His black leather jacket is draped over his shoulders and he can hardly contain his joy at seeing you awake.

Placing the bouquet on your lap, he cages you in for a hug with consideration for your injuries. You swear you hear a soft sniffle from him and feel his body slightly jerk and as he pulls back, he’s got semi-glossy eyes.

“Y/N. Hey, how are you feeling?” He softly asks as he takes your hand in his.

“Feeling amazing. You?”

“Better than ever now that you’re up.”

“That’s good.”

A comfortable silence settles between the both of you, Leon taking one more good look at you. He thought he had a ton of things on his chest but that couldn’t compare to the amount you had on yours– literally and metaphorically. He breaks the silence first by clearing his throat before speaking.

“I– Uh… I got you some flowers,” he explains as he picks up the bouquet and shows some of the flowers to you.

He definitely picked it up in a rush since you spot a small card in the middle of all the sunflowers that says ‘well wishes on your new business’ in swirly gold lettering. You smile for the first time in a long time, finding the gesture to be sweet coming from Leon. He probably got it seeing as how sunflowers seemed to be a bright and happy kind of flower and he wanted you to feel even a little bit positive even in this condition and it’s definitely working but you still decided to ask him why he chose sunflowers amidst all the different pre-packaged flowers.

“Why sunflowers?” you ask as you gently inhale the scent of the flowers despite sunflowers being odorless.

“It only made sense for me to get these for you since sunflowers always face the sun,” he explains as he drags a chair to sit down on as he talks. “I go to you when I need help with something and you’re always there for me so I guess… in a way… you’re kind of like my sun.”

His words trigger your heart to ram itself against your ribcage, your heartbeat thundering so loudly in your ear as you imagine color furiously rushing to fill in the paleness of your face. Leon looks away, a hand making its way to the back of his neck and rubbing it. His gaze returns to you but his eyes shoot up to his brows, picking up your hand with a finger clipped to the pulse oximeter, looking at you worriedly.

“Your pulse is picking up. You alright? Need water? A nurse?” he rapidly asks. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

The pulse oximeter continues to display your heightened heart rate and you want to tell Leon that you feel fine– amazing even– but that would contradict with the reading of the device. You can’t tell him that whatever he just said made your heart race because you love like him so much, it’s almost embarrassing.

“Water would be nice,” you say. He gets up and pours you a glass of water, handing it to you carefully while keeping his hand near the glass in case you don’t have the strength to hold it yet. For the entire day, he tells you all about what he’s been up to while you were unconscious– the break that the D.S.O. gave to the both of you, the mission, his arm, his thoughts while you were gone, and a lot more things.

“Leon Kennedy prayed for me?” you ask in shock, mouth agape while still curled into a perplexed smile. “Leon ‘religion is beyond me’ Kennedy clasped his hands together, shut his eyes, and devoted a few moments of his day to pray for me.”

You laugh heartily, clapping along. You find the image of Leon praying to be a little funny, impossible even; you know about Leon’s past on religion and how he was a practicing Catholic up until the winter of the same year he turned 21 but it seemed so foreign for him to be praying for you. Little did you know, he found himself praying because his love for you taught him devotion in feelings more powerful than he.

“Shut up,” he mumbles while his cheeks burn pink. “Don’t laugh at me like that, at least it worked.”

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

You told Leon about what the nurses told you about him nearly having a meltdown as soon as he woke up. You’ve never seen him bury his face into his hands and groan, leaning into your side and burying his face there as he pulled his leather jacket above his head and begged you to stop teasing him about it. It’s been a week since you’ve woken up and Leon’s visited you every single day since then, occasionally bringing personal items you told him to bring for you or lunch boxes he cooked and made for you. Bento boxes, he called them. He showed you the entire playlist of YouTube videos he made full of bento box cooking videos, some of the videos having the red bar underneath them.

“Rebecca told me all about them, said that they were balanced with everything you’ll need to recover,” he explained. “They’re pretty neat, actually. It’s fun making them look all cutesy for you. I’m pretty sure we’re giving the nurses a new reason to giggle every day.”

You smile as you take a bite of the spam, humming in satisfaction as the flavors erupt. You thank him for the effort he’s been putting into cooking for you, to which he smiles and nods to.

“Leon,” you say as you put the lid back on the bento box. “Um– I’ve… There’s…. I have to tell you something.”

“Hm?” He says, putting his pocketbook into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“We’re on a break right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He shifts in the chair and you begin to fiddle with something small in between your fingers.

“Are we still required to keep this up?”

He stays silent for a moment until you gesture to the rings on both of your hands. “Not sure but not until we confirm that the mission is a success in a briefing, I guess we have to.”

“You don’t have to cook for me, you know. The hospital makes sure to feed me everyday.”

“I don’t have to but I want to.”

“I’m sure no one’s suspicious of us being a sham couple. You’re always nice to me and it seems genuine so you’re free to go.”

“Y/N,” Leon begins. “I’m not doing this for the mission. I’m pretty sure praying for you isn’t required by the D.S.O. Before you begin to tell me that I’m being nice for the record, Y/N, I’ve never prayed for anyone to wake up from a coma. You’re the first.”

“Does that mean you love me, Leon?” you ask. You lock stares with him, determined to not let Leon leave your room for the night without getting a direct answer from him.

“Y/N. If you stared any longer and fiercer into my eyes a long time ago, I would’ve crumbled then and there and told you that I have always loved you. All this started from a deception but it led me to the most honest feeling I’ve ever felt so yes, I do love you.”

Silence befalls the both of you in the room, save for the soft beeping of the machines in the same room as you two are in. Amidst the silence, you two come to a wordless understanding that you two are in love and have been in love for a long time. A delicate smile points the tips of your lips upwards before a soft laugh leaves you, genuinely ecstatic that your feelings have been returned and he fiercely feels the same as you do. He follows suit, smiling and chuckling as he takes your hand into his and kisses the back of your knuckles, nuzzling into your open palm as you gently rub your thumb back and forth on his stubbly cheek.

“In a few years time, we’re going to replace these ones with actual rings,” you say to Leon to which he nods, silently basking in your beauty and in the joy that there’s a future ahead for him with you. A nurse knocks at the door, informing Leon that visitation hours end in a minute and he has to go soon.

“Well, looks like I gotta go,” he quietly says though you know he doesn’t want to go just yet and frankly, you don’t want him to go just yet.

“You’ve only got a minute left before you do leave, just wait it out,” you urge him.

Sighing but not out of displeasure, he sits back down and leans near you to bask in your presence before he heads back into his lonely apartment. An entire minute passes by and Leon begins to get up but not before you sit up, reach for the sleeve of another one of his many jackets, pull him down to your level, and place a hungry yet velvety kiss on his lips. His eyes are widened before he shuts them, his free hand traveling to the base of your head and gently drawing your face nearer to deepen his kiss. A nurse walks in again, telling Leon to leave since his visiting hours are over but neither of you are too stubborn to pull away and break the kiss just yet. Your hands finds a portion of Leon’s jacket draped loosely over his shoulders and lifts it up, shielding both your faces as you feel a smile widen on Leon’s lips fitted against yours. You two are definitely giving the nurses a new reason to gush and giggle every time they are going to see either of you. As for you alone, you’ll have some explaining to do to the doctor checking your vitals for the irregularities in your heart rate.

NOTE - I didn't proofread this so if you spotted errors then I'm rlly sorry because I'm lazy (💀). This fic is a lot longer than my other drops lately so I hope we're all okay w that!!! I've got like 2 requests in my Inbox so to my anons who are waiting, it might take a while but I'm def going to work on them and post something for you <3 Happy Pride Month to my queer readers and queer mutuals, you deserve to be seen, heard, celebrated, and appreciated!!! Support your queer friend or someone you know who is queer by doing something for them or getting them a food item that they like, make them feel extra special this month yk :3 Anyways, that's all and thank you for reading my fics!!!!!!! I <3333333 UUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The wavy divider was made by @roseraris , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[valtsv]

so i’m curious about your enjoyment of pain as someone who also enjoys it. do you like all types of pain? what’s the like. intensity cut off? do you have favorite and least favorite pain sensations? for me personally i sort of like getting zapped, and also getting lightly burned, but not enough to actually leave a burn if that makes sense? like the sensation of having something slightly too warm pressed against my skin for too long is nice but i can’t stand actually healing from a burn wound (there was one time i literally couldn’t sleep due to a burn on my thumb). also bruises are nice. like pressing on them. but i absolutely can’t do cramps of any kind. anywayyyyy i curious about your opinions <3

JAMES CEMETERYTHING PAIN ASSESSMENT (or: i am asking you to get weird with it):

DISCLAIMER: this is a subjective account of my personal experiences with pain, and not intended in any way to dismiss other people's perfectly valid personal experiences, or to promote self-harm or violence towards oneself or others. obviously your body is yours to do with as you wish, but i accept no responsibility for those choices you make. please be kind to yourselves and each other.

- bruises: friendly short-term companions that occasionally stiffen, ache and throb in response to movement and touch. they have pretty privilege but fortunately i like that in a wound.

- scratches: zingy, sharp, and refreshing. like biting into a ripe but still sour berry. sometimes they swell up a little while they're healing. these are the best kind of scratches because they have tenderness and texture that's fun to touch.

- cuts (ie: anything deeper than a scratch, but not puncture/impaling wounds): the pain has a more intoxicating, overwhelming effect than scratches, which can be a good or bad thing. temptingly slippery and reactive to touch, but the risk of infection is a looming threat that takes some of the fun out of the act. cleaning them out can be an enjoyable compromise.

- incisions, stitches, and other consensually inflicted forms of wound (eg: tattoos): the choice and intention you have in the matter makes them more satisfying to experience, and your body's reactions (tensing, gritting your teeth, and breathing sharply through the waves of pain running through your body from the focal point of entry) can be exciting to bear witness to if you allow yourself. please engage in this one responsibly and safely.

- broken bones: immediately nauseating, but the dull ache of a healing bone after it's fractured has an almost comfortingly omnipresent quality to it that i find myself nostalgic for when it's gone. the occasional shooting pains you get when you move wrong, however, are too fleeting and sharp to really enjoy.

- muscle/joint injuries and pains: sickening and hateful. they burrow too deep to easily root out, but remain close enough to the surface to make you feel clumsy and unwelcome in your own body; a throbbing tumour ejecting waves of pain into the world. demanding and ungrateful, relieving them is the only thing they're good for. a notable exception is muscle aches from pleasurable/satisfying experiences, which carry that muscle memory and can redeem themselves in the process.

- headaches: really depends on where and how intense they are. i kind of enjoy the headaches that build behind my eyes, and will roll them and blink exaggeratedly to send little starbursts of pressure-release shooting through my skull. headaches that gather around my temples or build at the bridge of my nose, on the other hand, are unwelcome intrusions.

- impaling/puncturing wounds: perhaps a controversial opinion, but the penetrative aspect is probably the least interesting part to me. the aftermath - having a foreign object lodged inside you, surrounded by shrieking nerves declaring their resentment at the intruder, or a vacant hole of emptiness and strange new sensation where once was untouched flesh - is when things really start to get exciting.

- burns/debridement: generally considered the worst kind of pain, and i'm somewhat inclined to agree. it's hard to find much of a silver lining in having your skin flayed from your body layer by agonising layer. i think it's down to a similar issue to the one muscle cramps present - you're too trapped in the mundane misery of having a body, with no adequate distraction or fascination to make up for it. i do find the way that they heal to be interesting, though. the itching and oozing and peeling is by no means pleasant, but it is a disgustingly welcome relief from what came before. and the shiny new or scarred skin left behind feels like a kind of victory medal. a badge of endurance.

[relia-robot-writes]

The slide projector clicked, and the lecturer at the front of the dark classroom gestured at the picture on the wall. "This," she said, "is a normal, healthy clockwork doll."

The picture displayed a porcelain doll, arms at its side, and that same doll opened up to reveal the clockwork inside. There were a few titters from the audience.

"Oh, come now, you'll be proper witches soon. You can't be giggling at the first sight of clockwork or you'll never get anything done." There was a click as the slide projector advanced, and a low murmur spread through the class at the sight of the new image. Evidently the same doll on the left, but on the right the clockwork had been completely replaced with a green slime. "Physarum Keramimesis, also called the doll mimic. This is the third stage of its life cycle, where it forms a hard pseudo-ceramic shell and moves about in search of a place to release its spores. Some specimens have been shown to be highly intelligent, for a simple slime. They can be taken in and given orders much like a doll, but do not possess true loyalty. Note the slight deviation of the runes here on the upper arms and torso, as well as the slight discoloration of the hair at the roots. This variety is harmless, however..."

The slide projector advanced again, and this time there were gasps of alarm. The left side once again looked identical, but the right side had green slime all around the existing clockwork, jamming it in place. "Phytomexia Plasmokeramikos. A parasitic slime mold that spreads from doll to doll, preventing it from displaying signs of illness. Like Keramimesis, it has enough intelligence to follow orders, but unlike Keramimesis, most of its 'cleaning' activities are actually spreading spores within its environment in the hopes of infecting other nearby dolls. There are still signs, though - note the discoloration at the joints, particularly nearest to the torso." The projector clicked again to show the doll surrounded by a greenish-yellow aura. "And here, through thaumic resonance, the aura can be seen leaking into the doll's standard aura."

Uneasy murmurs spread through the classroom for a moment, only to be interrupted by the lecturer swinging her pointer down on the table. "But! This slime must not be confused with our following slime!"

The projector clicked again. The doll on the left once again appeared identical, and on the right, the same green slime - but this time, instead of attaching itself to the clockwork, it lined the inside of the porcelain like a second shell. "Physarum Parakeramikos, also known as 'The Doll's Helper'. Although this slime has the same appearance as Plasmokeramikos, this slime actually enters into a symbiotic relationship with the doll. It can repair hairline fractures within the doll's porcelain, prevent particles such as Plasmokeramikos spores from entering the doll, and generally improve the doll's lifespan and responsiveness. It is unfortunate that in their early life cycles, Plasmokeramikos and Parakeramikos appear extremely similar. The rest of today's lecture will primarily be on how to distinguish between the parasite and the symbiote. This will be on the mid-term, so please be sure to take notes."

There was assorted grumbling from the room as the audience shuffled around for pencils and notebooks.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Fucked Up Leg

Wanted to throw my hat in the proverbial ring and try out writing about St. Matthew Murdock. This fic is a little dark as it deals with what I go through with my chronic pain. This is why I am Leg and leg is Me.

Ship: Matt Murdock x GN!Reader

Rating: 16+

Wordcount: 1,733

Warnings: cursing, depressive thoughts, talk of doctor visits, talk of dealing with medical issues, an extremely comforting and loving matt murdock

It was half past 9pm when your leg started aching. You sat on the leather couch with a book in your hands and a blanket over your lap. The billboard across the street shined blinding yellows and blues in through the windows, shadows chasing each other along the edges of your vision. The scent of the dinner you’d shared with Matt, fettuccine alfredo with roasted chicken, floated through the air and settled around you. You could hear commotion in the apartment below you. You assumed there were some new neighbors moving in with how much foot traffic there was, but you weren’t quite sure. You, of course, didn’t have Matt’s senses. 

At first, the pain was just a slight twinge, a dull ache. A deep rooted uncomfortableness that seeped from your hip socket and spread throughout your upper thigh. Knowing this was only the start of a quickly worsening night, you retreated to your and Matt's bedroom in an attempt to keep weight off your leg.

Matt was out on his nightly patrols. He had left at around 8, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead and promising to be back before 2am. At the time, the firm deadline appeared a blessing. Usually you would be left in the dark as to how late Matt would be out. Hearing him give you a set time made you breathe a sigh of relief. Now, however, you thought of how far away that curfew seemed as you settled into your shared bed, bracing for the pain to get worse.

You laid on your right side, gingerly placing a thin pillow between your thighs. The little bit of separation between your legs tended to help relieve some of the pressure on your hip socket. You let your knees bend naturally as you tried to get comfortable. The lights from the billboard were less bright in the bedroom. Partially due to the angle of the beacon in the night, but also due to the paper you’d taped to the windows in an attempt to block out any and all light. You could feel the silk sheets slide against your bare legs as your shorts hiked up beneath the covers. You plugged your phone into your, thankfully, long cord that stretched long enough for you to use it on your side. 

You faced the bedroom door, the right side of the bed empty. Not intentionally, as you’d keep off your left leg anyway, but because Matt would lay on the side of the bed between you and any danger. He was sweet like that, always putting himself in harm’s way for you and others. You chuckled to yourself as you began scrolling aimlessly through your phone. You knew for a fact that if Matt could take your reoccurring pain and put it in his leg to give you relief, he would. He would in a heartbeat. Sacrifice his own fighting ability to give you a chance of being able to dance again.

God, you missed dancing. You used to go to dance classes every week, sometimes multiple nights in a row. Letting yourself flow to the music as you followed choreography, bouncing from foot to foot, swaying your hips, laughing when you would mess up. For years that’s how you kept active, kept busy, kept happy.

Until your leg decided to say “fuck you,” that is. The doctors assumed it was “just too much dancing” that did your leg in. What started as a tear in the cartilage in your hip joint spread throughout your thigh as other problems arose. Stress fracture in your femur, a worn ACL, torn muscles under your kneecap. A seemingly never ending list of problems made you debilitated, forcing you to use a cane and, in extreme circumstances, a wheelchair. The doctors tried physical therapy, medication, and even surgery. But the problems kept reappearing. You would have fine mobility and limited aches for a good few months, maybe even a year. But sooner or later that dull ache would find itself rooted in your hip. And you’d just have to strap in for a long ride.

About 10 minutes after you’d laid down the pain got worse. The ache turned into a sharp jab, like someone had stabbed you in the hip and kept the knife there, sliding and slicing to create waves of pain that lasted for minutes at a time. You clenched your jaw as you tried to remain focused on your phone. This wasn’t anything you hadn’t been through before. You could handle this. Of course it felt like a hot poker was stuck in your hip socket, but that was just a regular Tuesday for you.

Then the muscle above your knee twinged. A redhot spark of pain you could feel in your teeth. The pulsing shocks permeated throughout your entire leg, not just your knee. Stacked with the ache in your thigh it was beginning to be unbearable. 

Your phone fell from your hands as your eyes squeezed shut. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shuddering and wincing. Nausea began to build in your stomach and your head began to spin. The muscles beneath your skin started to jump and twitch. You blew a sharp gust of air out of your nose.

“Fuck me,” you whispered. Why? Why, when things are going great, your leg practically lights itself on fire? Just last week you’d helped Matt take out a handful of bank robbers, dodging blows and landing punches like Black Widow herself. Matt had even been impressed at how well you maneuvered yourself. You kicked and squatted and jumped like there was no tomorrow. And not a muscle was out of place the next morning.

Laying in bed, arms wrapped around your trembling body, leg having a tantrum. All you could do was resign yourself to this neverending feeling of hopelessness. Will it ever get better? Is there some magical cure you just haven’t found yet? What are you doing wrong? You could feel yourself spiral in your depression, the minutes and hours blending together to become an ongoing existence of pain. It felt like a rock had sunk itself to the bottom of your stomach. Your heart was racing, anxiety coursing through your veins. Was this what would become of your life? You would be reduced to nothing, just a leg on fire attached to a motionless husk? Would you ever be able to dance again?

“Sweetheart?” a voice rang out from the living room. A familiar, tentative tone laced with concern. Your eyes snapped open to see Matt. Standing just beyond the doorway, all dressed in black, cloth mask in hand, chocolate eyes looking in your general direction. His dark hair was matted to his forehead from the exertion of his nightly outings.

You cleared the edge of pain from your throat, then said, “Yeah?”

Matt was kneeling in front of you on the bed before you could blink. His brow was so tightly furrowed you had the briefest thought it’d stay that way. Warm, large hands began flitting across your body.

��What happened? Are you hurt? Was someone here?” he asked in a flurry of questions. One of his hands landed on your jaw, fingers trailing across where your pulse flowed strongest. The other ended up tangled with your own as you tried to quiet him.

“Hey, hey, hey. I’m okay,” you breathed. You brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his bruised knuckles. Matt’s fingers held your hand tighter as he let his eyes fall closed, his breathing slowing. You knew this was what he did when he sent his senses out, listening and smelling and tasting and feeling your body better than you could. His awareness diving deep beneath your skin to seek out anything abnormal.

When his eyes fluttered open, his gaze landed on your chin and a frown settled across his lips.

“It’s your leg again, isn’t it,” Matt said, not posing the phrase as a question. He already knew the answer.

All you could do was nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You could feel the grief of decades of pain and sorrow build along the walls of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged as the tears broke free and slid their way down your flushed cheeks. What if he grew tired of you? Grew tired of constantly needing to take care of you, tired of dealing with the bursts of pain you needlessly endured. A man of his skill, his charisma, his fighting ability. Surely he wouldn’t want to stay with someone as encumbered as you.

No further words were exchanged between the two of you. Matt gingerly slid his arm beneath your head, letting you cuddle against his chest, as his other arm pulled your torso close to him. His body curled around yours, as if the pain you were feeling was an outside source and he was the shield that protected you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck and breathed his comforting scent, cinnamon and smoke, in. Hot tears trailed their way from your eyes and stained his shirt.

“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere,” he said, lips pressed to the shell of your ear, saying exactly what you needed to hear as if he knew. He slid one of his legs between your thighs, replacing the pillow that was there originally. At first the movement was a shock to your already agonized body. Then, the extra bit of space between your legs lifted some of the pressure on your hip joint. You sighed shakily against Matt’s neck.

The two of you remained that way, Matt’s leg between your thighs, his arm beneath your head, your face tucked against his neck, his free hand rubbing soothing circles into your side. He whispered sweet words of reassurance every now and then. Saying he loved you, he wasn’t going anywhere, he’d help you find a way to fix your leg. 

You knew that soon he’d have to get up to go to work. You knew he’d unwind his limbs from yours, would give you the softest kiss you’ve ever felt, and promise to be back with your favorite foods.

But until then, you would stay tucked in against your Devil. Your guiding light. Your comfort when things were dark. Your relief from a fucked up leg.

[talesofadragon]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

Summary: Theodore Nott came to learn that an inciting incident can alter the course of history. Lucius Malfoy’s fall led to Draco’s dark mark and the death of Dumbledore. The rise of the Dark Lord urged Harry Potter into hiding and Death Eaters into prominence. And then there was Amycus Carrow, with his tainted hands on Y/N, who forced Theodore Nott to do the unforgivable.

Warnings: Sexual assault, attempted rape, graphic description of violence, panic attacks

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Non-Slytherin!Reader

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort

Word count: 5.8K

All Masterlists | Theodore Nott Masterlist

𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐥𝐬. The lines between the two flow steadily, each following its own cadence. And yet, despite their distinct course and the light years between them, they somehow find a way to draw parameters of joint space. Somehow, someway, they eventually overlap—meeting each other at the apex of catalysts and the twists between junctures to shape history and write the present.

Today starts like most stories do: quaint and subtle, setting the tone for an inciting incident that will tip this fable on its axis.

It’s a typical day, or as typical as it could get during Y/N’s last year at Hogwarts. She’s sitting at the far end of her Defense Against the Dark Arts class, donning the same apprehensive expression as all her classmates. The turmoil that governs the halls is a jarring contrast to the flourishing and effervescent school of witchcraft and wizardry Hogwarts once was.

In this mangled reality, there are specks of the idyllic tales she’s heard about, and witnessed, growing up. Slytherins and Gryffindors sustain their infamous rivalry while in search of their individual purpose, purebloods hold themselves on par with Merlin himself, and more often than not, students find refuge in a forgotten nuke in Hogwarts when the burden of magic becomes too heavy to bear.

In the first drafts of the story, Hogwarts held its students under one embrace. But now, as we’re nearing a hazy end, an isolating veil drapes over the school, fracturing it into fewer than four houses and dividing it more than ever before.

“Now, as Barty Crouch Junior has so tirelessly shared, you have already been acquainted with Merlin’s three most formidable spells,” Alecto Carrow, one of Voldemort’s trusted Death Eaters explains. Her heels dig into the marble floors of the classroom, their screeches ricocheting across the walls in warning. 

“The Unforgivables,” her brother Amycus eagerly finishes. His yellow teeth wither under the dim light of the darkened sun as his arms open wide. It’s unsettling how he and his sister welcome such misfortune so openly.

As it happens every single time the Carrow twins revel in the darkest boulevards of magic, Y/N shifts in her seat until she’s nearly imperceptible. Each time, her eyes rove the expanse of the classroom, seeking out the comfort of peculiar hazel eyes. Within just ten seconds, her wandering gaze comes to rest on the idle brown walls, a weight of defeat settling upon her.

Upon her reluctant return to Hogwarts this year, Y/N was met with a torrent of unimaginable changes, starting with students being separated not only based on their house but also their blood status.

Purebloods became a procession of peacocks—majestic, refined, otherworldly. Only allowed to flick around with students of the same upper class. 

Half-bloods, on the other hand, belong to inconsistent ideologies. They teeter on the precipice of honor, waiting for Death Eaters like Umbridge and whoever else is in the Ministry to decide their fate. 

Muggleborns, it's best not to get started.

Y/N doodles a few meaningless shapes, swirling her quill around the parchment as she thinks of Theodore. Lately, it's become increasingly difficult to talk to him, let alone spot him, with all the changes in place.

Her classmates know she’s not paying attention and that she's only pretending she has her nose buried deep in her notes. Her quill, which scratches against the parchment, is nothing but a ruse to get the Carrows off her scent. 

This class truly has nothing to offer except for a modicum of nostalgia and a barrage of abuse, so if the Carrows are so gullible to believe that Y/N is actively listening, then so be it. 

By now, she takes it a step further, looking up to meet the eyes of the young children brought forth by the Carrows. She’s mastered the art of stoicism to a T, gazing at their expressions without showing a measly emotion. But every single time, she finds herself transported eons back to a time when things were drastically better.

Her memories vary, depending on whatever catalyst she encounters. She recalls seeing a girl with ginger waves once, and her mind acted on autopilot, bringing her back to the times she and her friends would huddle in their common room to animatedly talk about the latest Weasley prank. 

At the previous hints of pink, she remembered Umbridge when she was finally escorted outside of Hogwarts grounds. 

And today, her memories are not too different. Bittersweet at best and wistful at most. 

She finds a boy biting down on his lower lip. He’s a Gryffindor, judging by the color of his tie, more so by his audaciousness when he decides to lift his head and contain his fear. His eyes are hazel, edging closer to honey brown underneath the dim light of the classroom. And her mind is cruel enough to conjure the image of Theodore hovering above her naked body with lustful hazel eyes and abused fiery lips. 

Theodore doesn’t particularly fancy his eye color—he doesn’t quite fancy much about himself. He’s not oblivious to his popularity, but unlike Draco Malfoy, who shines like the stars, Theodore Nott glows like the moon in a dance of subtlety and intensity; a paradoxical luminosity that always leaves Y/N in awe. 

He never particularly bothered her during their first couple of years at Hogwarts, which explains why they never interacted until their fifth year. Back when Umbridge was foul toward the student population, especially vile toward anyone of lesser blood. 

Dennis Creevey, who had been a first-year at that time, fell victim to her malice. His penance for being born to muggle parents was bloodily etched on his hand. Y/N tried to help him, even though her own hand was hurting just as badly. The healing spells didn’t counter the dark magic infused in the quills, and while she could handle the pain, the poor eleven-year-old couldn’t. 

"May I?" a voice softly breathed from behind her, causing her to jump slightly. She turned to see the unexpected sight of Theodore Nott, dressed in an emerald green tie and an aura of pristine silver. Y/N's breath caught in her throat, and her hands trembled, a reaction heightened by the delicate hints of cinnamon swirling in the air.

When Theodore pulled out his wand, Dennis cowered. And to her surprise, Theodore’s face fell. Yet he quickly covered his crestfallen expression with a mask of pure stoicism.

Y/N’s gaze meandered away from the Slytherin and settled on the young Gryffindor. “It’s okay, Dennis,” she recalled herself saying at the time, even though she hadn’t mentally given her words the green light to tumble out of her mouth. Both Dennis and Theodore seemed equally surprised, turning their heads her way. “He’s not going to hurt you.” 

Maybe it was the softness of Theodore’s hazel eyes, or maybe it was how he abstained from touching the boy's bruised hand and elected to kneel to his level. To this day, Y/N doesn’t know what exactly made her fall for Theodore at that exact moment in time. 

Yet, all she knows in certainty is that she’s in love with Theodore Aurelius Nott. Pureblood, Slytherin Elite, Son of Darkness. But what can she do if one glance at his hazel orbs leaves her drowning in the depths of his moonshine?

“Miss Y/L/N!” 

Y/N’s head jerks when a protruding voice disturbs her reverie. She chances a glance at the front of the classroom, finding Alecto Carrow’s lidded eyes on her. Bright and sage, a stark contrast to the malevolence nestled within them.

“Yes?” Y/N wonders aloud.

“Given your diligence in recording the theoretical aspect of The Unforgivables, I believe it’s time for you to engage in the practicalities of said lesson,” Alecto announces with a tone that leaves no room for negotiation or refutation. 

With a sharp nod, she ushers Y/N out of her seat, beckoning her over until she's two steps away from her. Y/N stands idly, unaware of whether she's going to role-play as the tormentor or the tormented. But her internal questions are answered the moment Amycus Carrow shoves the Gryffindor boy with hazel eyes into her line of sight.

"Go on." Alecto wears a sinister expression as she levels Y/N with a taunting smile. "Demonstrate your aptitude to the class.”

Y/N doesn't step back nor does she shy away. She clings to the apathetic front she's adopted from her boyfriend, her gaze falling on the young boy, and her thoughts drowning out Alecto's sharp voice. By the time Amycus asks her to draw out her wand, she's mustered up enough confidence to answer with a terse "no."

“What do you mean no, you insolent brat!” Alecto bellows, being the first to succumb to her temper. For a snake, she is known to be as hot-headed as a lion. 

“I refuse to perform any curse on anyone,” Y/N clarifies, purposefully refraining from calling her “professor.” And if she had half a brain cell, perhaps she would’ve figured it out. 

“Is that so?” Alecto challenges. 

“Yes.” 

“Very well, despicable half-breed. You know the rules. You’re either the rodent or the snake. Guess you’ll always be the former.” 

She's calm and aloof on the outside, but Y/N is dreading what’s coming next. She’s never fallen victim to the Cruciatus, though she has heard all about it from Theodore and his friends—even once from Harry. 

She watches with steady eyelashes as Alecto draws her wand and points it at her. Although the curse is released, and screams reverberate across the walls, both Alecto and Y/N remain silent.

To Y/N's horror, the young Gryffindor boy thrashes on the ground with clenched fists and agonizing wails. Above him, Amycus stands like a conductor, his wand beckoning the crooked notes of the boy's voice to rise to a crescendo.

Finally, the screams die down, extinguishing and feeding the anguish of every student at once. Amycus turns to address the class, dismissing them all except for one. “You go ahead, Alecto,” he directs toward his sister. “If the little mouse wishes to squeak, then she’ll have to suffer graver consequences than what you have to offer.” 

Whatever Amycus has in mind seems to appease Alecto. Her expression is mirthful as she grabs the robes of the young Gryffindor boy and sweeps him out of the class, using his body as a cleaning broom. 

The students all file out, their glances lingering on Y/N. As the last of the students leaves, Amycus turns to the young girl. 

“Your wand, Miss Y/L/N,” he demands. Y/N debates not giving it to him, but she knows if she doesn’t, he’ll come and collect it himself. So, she reluctantly hands it over. “Ah, pretty little thing. What’s the core?”

“Dragon heartstring.” 

“Fitting for a spitfire like you.” 

“I thought I was a meek little mouse,” Y/N counters, making Amycus grin. 

“You are a lot of things, little girl,” he replies as he twirls her wand in his hand. “The wood?” 

“Larch.” 

“Enlighten me, Y/L/N,” Amycus voices out. If Y/N’s a mouse, then he seems to enjoy being a cat. His long and calloused fingers trace her wand while he circles her, trying to break her resolve. “What does the wood say about you?”

The question strokes her ear, carried by Amycus’ ghastly voice. Y/N stills, not seeing where he’s going. She jolts as Amycus taps the wand against her thigh, particularly the exposed skin between her skirt and stockings. 

“It’s best paired with wizards and witches who possess hidden talents,” she replies tersely. 

The hum coming from her side indicates that Amycus is listening—paying attention, though, not so much, considering he’s rather preoccupied with poking her skin with her wand while rotating around her. 

He’s playing with his food, Y/N tells herself, knowing this is just another trick of his. Somewhere in his sadist brain, his senses are sparking with delight at the prospect of Y/N’s discomfort, relishing the power he has over her.

A part of her wants to jam her wand in his eyes, pluck his eyeballs out, and proceed to stuff each in his nostrils. But another part of her stands idle, not even blinking as he keeps up his ministrations. 

Amycus smiles, taking up more of her personal space. Y/N’s senses are lit on fire as he traces her wand across her body. “Is your mouth a part of those talents, filthy witch? You don’t talk much, but rotten girls like you must know how to use their mouths.”

“To scream, I presume,” Y/N breathes. Her quip hits Amycus right in the face, and the maniac grins. His face is painted with a nefarious glee, that of a predator eager to feast on its prey. 

SA and Attempted Rape Content Begins Here. Skip Through This Scene by Scrolling to "Scene End."

The unsettling sensation against her ribs dissipates when Amycus pulls the wand away, but the apprehension still lingers. As she mentally prepares herself for the inevitable pain that comes along with the Cruciatus, Amycus’ hand cups her chin, and his molten lips crash against hers. The sensation is so crippling and unfavorable it sends her tumbling back into the table.

The pressure on YN’s cheeks intensifies until it becomes sharp and metallic. Fingers dig into her flesh, paving a path for Amycus’ tongue to follow. Though her hands slap against his chest, legs flailing around, he continues his exploration in the depths of her throat. 

It feels like he’s finally thrown her off a cliff, yet with all the energy Y/N can muster, she pushes his body away and slaps him across the face. 

He looks at her with unadulterated rage. Y/N forgoes reading his face in favor of bolting toward the door. But before she reaches the handle, she’s yanked back by her robes. The fabric tears, as does her heart. Amycus then throws her on top of the teacher’s desk and catches both her wrists in his hand. 

“Pitty your blood is impure, little witch. If you had to match your filthy mouth with something, I’d rather it be your pussy than your blood.” 

“Get off me,” Y/N enunciates with a quiver in her voice. It seems to feed Amycus’ wicked desires because she suddenly finds him nipping at her neck in pure delight. 

“You’ve disobeyed my direct order. When witches are bad, they’re punished.”

“You’re sick!” 

“And you’re delicious.” 

Y/N takes a deep breath, burying his face further in the junction between her neck and shoulder. His kisses are filthy, heavy, frigid. They make her body feel like ice—they make her feel as if she's been snatched and thrown into the depths of the Dark Lake. 

Amycus' hands grab her waist and flip her over until her gaze meets the darkness of the desk’s wood. If the sensation of the wand against her thigh left acid in her mouth, then Amycus’ fingers left her with bile overwhelming her senses.

“What a pretty little ass you’re hiding under here. It was made to be ruined.”

Y/N doesn’t have time to panic. In fluid movements, Amycus lifts her skirt, rips off the shorts she typically wears beneath, and spanks her ass. 

She yelps, struggling against the hand against her back that’s keeping her on the desk. She’s hit one more time and then two and three. The slaps are forceful and fiery, leaving her skin scalded and singed. 

A roar erupts from the depths of her soul when she feels a finger easing her thong. The force of her scream catches Amycus off guard, enough for Y/N to elbow him and dive to the ground for her wand. 

“Cruc—”

“Oh, so now you want to cast it!” 

With ease, Amycus manages to slap Y/N’s wand away. He ruthlessly places his palm against her stomach, pushing her back to the ground. 

Her head aches from the force of the blow, a scream barrelling through the space between her lips when Amycus towers over her, digging his obsidian nails into her skin. 

“It’s a shame that the most delightful toys happen to be the filthiest. Maybe this will teach you and your kind that you will forever remain beneath us.”

Y/N cries as Amycus incapacitates her lips. She squirms underneath his body, vaguely aware of the fabric he’s tearing in half, though oblivious to what clothing item it belongs to. 

She tries to non-verbally cast a spell, but her mind is too distracted to focus on the incantation. All she knows is that she needs to get Amycus off her. And yet, no amount of strength in her hands or her spells manages to draw him to a stop. 

His spit traces her lower lip, tantalizingly closing the distance between her mouth and collarbone. Y/N shudders, bellowing at the thought of his saliva trailing her skin. 

She wails, screams, and shouts until she realizes that Amycus probably cast Silencio without her knowing. Though futile, she tries to push his body weight off her, even resorts to kicking his ribs. 

It doesn’t work... until by some miracle from Merlin himself Amycus’ body flies toward the back wall, releasing her.

Scene End

Y/N gasps, pushing her palms against the tiled floor and lifting herself to a sitting position. Her chest heaves as she looks at the discarded fabric of her skirt, the scattered buttons of her shirt, and the remains of her robe that are haphazardly strewn across the room. 

Faint sounds register at the back of her mind. A heavy breath, mirroring her own, emanates from behind, accompanied by an erratic heartbeat that matches hers. Amidst it all, she picks up on Amycus’s forlorn groans, muffled by the surrounding darkness. Resilient ropes now bind his hands and feet, rendering him completely motionless.

“Get Y/N out of here,” a voice orders. It’s far away—at least, Y/N thinks so. But despite the fog around its edges, she can somehow sense the enmity lacing it. 

Before she can process the shadows creeping closer to her side, a robe is draped over her shoulders as arms wrap securely around her.

She thrashes against the man holding her, trying to repel his hands from her body. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he says in a low octave. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. I promise you. He can't touch you anymore.” 

The voice carries a bit of an edge, yet it’s the most soothing sound she’s heard all day. Her lips quiver as she internally fights with her thoughts, head spinning and shaking in defeat. 

The halls around her move fast, time seemingly irrelevant at this point. She’s crying and mumbling incoherently, burying her face in the fabric of this stranger’s clothes, which smell like a familiar blend of mint and citrus. 

The robe is wrapped tighter around her shoulders, and she receives a faint squeeze as she’s brought up a staircase. Words are whispered, a door is opened, and voices mingle with one another until a delicate tone enters her headspace.

“Draco, who’s that you’re carrying?” 

“It’s Y/N,” the male voice, the one belonging to Draco, replies. Draco kicks open a door and places Y/N on the bed. She wails even more at the action, curling herself into a ball—at this point, she doesn’t know if she should be relieved or terrified.

“What the hell happened to her?” 

“Lower your voice, Pansy! Can’t you see she’s scared enough?” 

Pansy stutters for a few seconds before asking again, “Who did this to her?” 

Draco hesitates, looking between the two young women. “Amycus,” he replies. And though it’s barely a mumble, it’s enough to send Y/N spiraling. 

Pansy’s jade eyes tread carefully as they peer over Y/N’s frail body. She sees the red marks on her hands and the blood that seeps from the cuts on her face. “Cruciatus?” she asks, but something in her tone makes it obvious that it’s just wishful thinking. 

“No,” Draco answers. Y/N’s sniffles and shudders fill the air as Pansy and Draco exchange silent glances. Y/N clutches her throat, rubbing it to try and get herself more oxygen. 

“What do we do?” 

Draco's footsteps echo as he retreats toward the door. “You're going to her clean up. If Theo hasn’t killed Amycus yet, I’m going to join him in his pursuit.”

There was something in that last line that clamped agony around Y/N’s heart, squeezing like a vice. She wept, only vaguely conscious of Pansy’s soothing touch in her hair and the remnants of Draco's anger looming around the room.

The mirror in the bathroom captures two girls in its glassy frame. One of them is put together while the other looks worse for wear. Y/N stares at her wild reflection, moroseness painting her irises. A tiny sob escapes her barely parted lips, and Pansy decides to tear Y/N’s attention away from the broken girl staring at them through the mirror. 

She softly holds Y/N's hand and helps her to the shower, turning her head when Y/N undresses and then carefully cleans her blotched skin. Once they’re done, she lends Y/N some pajamas and underwear, giving her the privacy and space to change into them before helping her dry her hair.

Wordlessly, Pansy leads Y/N away from the mirror. Her grip is firm as she swings open the bathroom door. Y/N squints against the sudden invasion of light from the room beyond. Her gaze takes in the expanse of her surroundings and the rich emerald hue of the Head Dorm's walls. Then, her eyes lock on two men. One with platinum blond hair and the other with brunette locks, both embracing the shadows with deadly intent in their fiery eyes.

She bristles, caught between shying away and clutching the attention she’s receiving from them. Y/N doesn’t dwell on their appearance for too long, afraid to develop the ability to read their eyes and stumble across the shame and pity possibly nestled within them. 

Pansy whispers something under her breath, which Y/N fails to hear under the barrage of despondency she finds herself in. She feels Pansy’s hesitant touch on her forearm, briefly catching her and Draco retreating away, the door to the room closing behind them in a soft thud. 

Silence runs freely around the room, undeterred by the confined space. Its loudness disturbs Y/N, forcing her to wince. She wills herself to say something, but all the words are lodged in her throat, searing it from the inside out.

Theodore takes a deep breath, the sound piercing the stillness in the air. But his words don’t leave his mouth the same way his gaze never paces beyond a fixed point on the ground. 

“Why are you not looking at me?” Y/N asks. She’s surprised that she’s articulated her thoughts even though she doesn’t have enough strength to speak.

Theodore shakes his head. “I can’t”. His words have finally forced his gaze away from the ground, although he’s refusing to settle it on her.

“I wouldn’t look at me either. I get it.” Y/N sniffles. Darkness clouds her sight. She’s tired and aching, barely finding her grip on reality. 

She wants to scream, and she wants to cry, but it’s like she doesn’t know how. Like her mainframe has been hijacked and forced to shut down. 

Something in her periphery catches her attention. Theodore is now standing before her, hands trembling by his sides. They move to embrace her waist, to hold her shoulders, to cup her face; but they never do. They only trace invisible lines that mirror her figure. It’s then that she notices the fray in his gaze. Instead of the rejection and the indifference she expected to find, there’s dejectedness, misery, and pain. 

“I would look at you forever if you let me,” Theodore answers with his hands hanging in the space between them. “If you would still allow me.”

“Touch me,” Y/N retorts. Hold me, find me, fix me, love me.

And Theodore does just that with unprecedented gentleness. He traces her cheeks with his thumb and pulls her by the waist closer to his side. His nose nuzzles her neck, breathing in her scent. His lips press against the shell of her ear, his warm breath penetrating her soul and sending a fond tingle down her spine. 

He touches her, not like she’s a porcelain doll or a bomb about to detonate. Theodore touches her like she’s the most precious piece of art he’s ever encountered, and he’s afraid that even one stumbled breath could force her colors away.

“I love you,” he confesses. A loan tear accompanies his declaration, inscribing the words on the fabric of Y/N’s soul. “And I am so sorry. So sorry, my love, for what my absence and negligence have put you through.”

“Theo…”

“No, Y/N. Don’t. Don’t try to say anything.” 

Theodore wipes her tears, gently tucking some loose strands of her hair behind her ears. Y/N nods, allowing her boyfriend to hoist her in his arms and carry her to bed. She hides her face in his neck, absorbing the lingering traces of his sandalwood perfume. 

When he places her on the bed, she notices the change in his demeanor as soon as she tangles her legs with his and rushes to press his hands against his chest. Her eyes fill with tears, and she fails to prepare herself for the rejection that she’s afraid might be rushing her way. 

To her astonishment, Theodore pulls her into a tighter hug, as if seeking a connection beyond the surface, binding together not only their skin but also the intricate layers below—souls, hearts, atoms.

“Did he…” Theodore pauses, choking on unspoken words. “Did he go far?”

Y/N shook her head. “No. You and Draco came just in time.”

“Barely,” Theodore denies. A stolen glance gives Y/N a clear view of his clenched jaw and crestfallen expression. The war may be looming, yet to find its way to the Wizarding World, but it has already made a dominion in Theodore’s features. 

“Just in time.” Minutes pass while Y/N is cocooned protectively in between Theodore’s strong arms. They encase her, filling her being with the placidity and the tenderness that was robbed of her some time ago. Her eyes close, darkness not as fearful as it seemed now that Theodore’s hands are weaving through her hair, and his voice is carrying a tender lullaby. “How did you know?”

Theodore’s hands falter and the lullaby ends on an abrupt note. His arms pull Y/N closer to his chest as he ruefully explains what happened, “A Gryffindor boy found me. He was frightened and jittery. At first, I thought it was because Draco and I were standing together. Then he said something about Defense class, the Carrows, and the Cruciatus. Your name got suddenly tangled in the gruesomeness of it all, so I rushed to the class as far as I could." 

“They wanted me to hurt him,” Y/N whispers in a small voice.

“I know.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

Theodore looks at her with glassy eyes. “I know you would never.” 

His hands sooth Y/N, featherless touches easing the altercation in her soul. She meets his gaze, heart shattering at the pain he harbors. She knows it’s not easy for Theodore to be a silent witness to torture and heartache, understanding his unconscious pursuit of absorbing pain and rooting it in his very being.

“Please,” she begins, “please, Theo. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I’ve failed you.”

“You haven’t.”

He declines vehemently, “I promised to protect you from the darkness, within me and beyond me. And I have clearly done neither.”

You had no way of knowing! Y/N argued in her head. You, alone, cannot stop this madness! So many rebuttals swarmed her head. She wanted to pelt Theodore with every single one of them until some sense got knocked into him. “Darkness,” he says so loosely as if he’s ever exposed her to any of it. 

All her memories of Theodore exuded radiance, softness, and peace. He’s only ever steered her away from the darkness, whether it was from Umbridge’s rage back in their fifth year or Bellatrix’s terror at the end of their sixth. 

To hear him speak of himself like this, as if he’s one of them, a shadow branded by the mark of death, hurts her more than everything Amycus did to her. 

“What did you do to Amycus?”

The name causes Theodore’s heart to falter beneath the palm of Y/N’s hands. Her eyes trace the veins of his neck, astounded by the voraciousness of their color as his anger escalates. “Do not say that vermin’s name.” 

Darkness, Theodore would call it if he sees himself now. And yet, all the world is witnessing according to Y/N is a darker shade of love and concern: just as sincere, a lot more warm. 

“Carrow,” she concedes. “What did you do to Carrow?”

“I wanted to kill him,” Theodore answers, studying Y/N’s face for a reaction. “I almost killed him.” If he was looking for disgust or worse, fear, he couldn’t find it.

“And why didn’t you?”

“Draco called for Snape.”

Y/N hums, absentmindedly reaching for Theodore’s hand. He hesitates when he feels her fingers entwining with his, his entire body tensing up. Y/N whines, and he takes a deep breath. His fingers lace hers, squeezing her hand before bringing it to his lips. 

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, treasure. No one but that scum is. Snape said nothing. He bound his hands and escorted him to his office.”

“Good,” Y/N replies.

“That’s not all,” Theodore intercedes, catching her attention. She shifts in his arms, waiting for his next words with a bated breath. “We’re getting out of here.”

“What?” came Y/N’s question, loud, sharp, and clear. It resonated across the room, its intensity surprising her.

“I didn’t kill him,” Theodore admits. He’s moved now, body peering away from Y/N’s hold to better study her features. She keeps them the way they are, with no sign of the acrimony or the resentment she suspects Theodore is looking for. “But I uttered the curse. Draco countered it somehow, and it rebounded. Hit the wall instead. It cracked it, the same way I cracked every single bone in his body and watched him bleed.”

As the words fill the space between them, Y/N rushes to grab Theodore’s hands. She inspects them, surprised to find them bruising. How did I not notice this? She whimpers at her late realization—her neglect. But now that his marred skin is beneath the scrutiny of her gaze, she notices that the blue and purple hues are rather dull in comparison to his story.

Almost as if Theodore understood her silent concerns, he says, “Cruciatus.” Y/N bristles, though her body is traitorous. It jolts, feeling the residue of the invisible needles and acid-laced knives. “Sectumsempra and a number of other curses that flew out of my mouth without thought when I saw you lying on the ground, bloody, bruised, broken. Torn apart by a mediocre middle-aged man, who deserves nothing but to be decapitated, torn limb by limb, until there’s not even a speck of his ashes left on the—”

“Theo,” Y/N calls. Her voice quivers, mirroring the tremble in her body provoked by those words. “Stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Theodore sniffs, head bending down. 

Y/N rushes to answer, shaking her head violently. “No. I can’t… I can’t watch you tear yourself apart over something you had no control over.”

“I—”

“Listen to me! Listen to me and not the lies inside your head. Does it hurt? Yes. Does it burn? More than a Fienfyre cast by the Dark Lord himself. But you weren’t there—no, Theo, come back to me and stop traveling in time inside your head.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Theo defended. “Merlin, Y/N. I was supposed to be there! To stop all of this from happening. You’re in pain more than I am. So, stop subduing my anger!”

“I’m subduing your self-deprecation! I’m not blaming you, and I will not fan the flames of your anger. You had no way, no way, of knowing Carrow would do this.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he answers with a little less fight and a lot more shame. 

“And you did, Theo,” Y/N assures, bringing herself closer to his side. “You got me out. You saved me. In time.”

“Barely!” Theodore screams, a deluge of tears running down his cheeks and burying his resolve in their undertow. “But I will save you this time. I’ll get you out. Both of us. I’ll take you away, somewhere you won’t be judged for your blood or your mistake in choosing me.”

“You’re not a mistake,” Y/N refutes, begging him to see. “Look at you. You call yourself a vision of darkness when your love and care are shining through.”

“My love is darkness, viciousness, and cruelty.” It’s almost as if he’s the one begging her to understand.

Tears cascade down Y/N’s cheeks, the saltiness and bitterness of them incomparable to Theodore’s words. “Your love is fierceness,” Y/N professes, taking Theodore’s breath away, “seamlessness, and warmth.”

“I made you live through pain,” Theodore pleads, hoping she agrees. But she doesn't.

“And I will live after it. With you.”

The confession shatters the last of Theodore’s resolve. He pulls Y/N closer, resting his chin atop her head and enveloping her in a secure embrace. “I’m so sorry,” he cries. His fingers weave through her hair, gripping the back of her head, anchoring himself in her presence—convincing himself that she’s here. “You are so strong, treasure. Stronger than life and death, brighter than light, and fiercer than shadows. I love you, my Y/N. And I swear on your head and on my mother’s last breath that I will protect you even if I have to do the unforgivable. No one will ever hurt you ever again.”

“I know,” Y/N nods as Theodore kisses the crown of her head. Each breath he takes, every word he utters, stitches through her soul, mending the threads of herself. “And I love you all the more for it.”

“You’ve endured a war. I’ll be damned if I let you face another,” Theodore promises, capturing Y/N’s lips and seamlessly merging his soul with hers.

Tomorrow remains uncertain, and control extends only so far across the horizon. Yet, with Theodore by her side, Y/N finds the darkness considerably less formidable. Even if he's willing to commit the unforgivable to shield her, forgiveness is a given. His love is the tranquility that follows the tempest, and she's ready to navigate through destruction with Theodore.

I never expected to write about a topic as painful and sensitive as SA or rape.

Hearing the multiple accounts of women around me made me see how these experiences are prevalent yet scarcely communicated. When I wrote this piece, it was with no intention to diminish the seriousness of the issue but rather use this platform as a conduit to raise the matter and bring it to light. Whether you’ve been personally impacted by this disheartening situation or witnessed someone close to you go through this, I want you to know that you are not alone. You are incredibly brave for enduring this, and there is no reason to feel ashamed. You lived through it and will live after it with even more fierceness and courage than you've ever had.

If you ever feel like talking, please know that I am here to listen, without judgment or reservation. 🤍

All-Fandom Taglist: @xxrougefangxx

[fandumb-whimsey]

Scarecrow Leg Observations/Headcanons

aka I thought about it too much and now it's everyone else's problem.

(important note: I am not in the medical field and I learned/looked up a lot of this with the help of Dr. Google)

The leg brace seems like a simple detail which can be overlooked in the larger design. On the surface, it's pretty straight forward: leg got damaged and now needs an orthopedic brace to function. This in and of itself is interesting since the artist undoubtedly referenced actual braces, specifically old ones, to fit Scarecrow's aesthetic:

This is a running theme with him; he seems to favor old, antique items and will repair things (like the use of duct tape or zigzag stitching for tears on his costume) before replacing them, which fits an image of someone coming from a background of poverty. Not entirely important to the conversation, just an interesting aside.

There is official material which states his leg is "permanently broken", which is probably the easiest, most succinct way to state this issue, but it's not entirely an accurate way to put it. If a leg is considered broken beyond repair, it's likely to be amputated. Bones which don't heal correctly the first time can be broken again and realigned to heal properly, often through surgery with the use of pins, rods, plates, and/or screws. However, "permanently broken" could also be implying he has suffered irreparable nerve damage which affects the use of the leg (more on that in a moment). One possibility: The bones in Scarecrow's leg do not heal properly due to the severity of his fractures likely needing surgery. Unable to access such resources after his run-in with Croc, this results in a malunion. In his case, the misalignment could be subtle as there is no obvious bend or twist in his leg, but still causes problems which requires use of a brace.

Another possibility: Perhaps he is lucky and his leg does heal well. Maybe there's no malunion at all. Unfortunately, whether the bones mend together well or not, evidence strongly implies that it was broken seriously enough that it damaged his peroneal nerve, leading to muscle weakness and foot drop, which necessitates the use of the brace to function.

If you look closely, you can see there is additional support around Scarecrow's ankle that would otherwise prevent rotation of that joint. You can see this in the game when he circles Batman on the airship:

When he takes a step with his good leg, the foot remains more parallel to the floor. Compare that to the foot in the brace, where the toes point upward with each stride due to being in a fixed position. I feel this is a strong indication of him having lasting damage here (such as foot drop) and part of why the leg brace is vital to his mobility (and undoubtedly one of many reasons why he's so furious at Batman).

Something like this often has trickle down effects. Having to compensate for a weaker limb can throw the body off balance, especially if it's a leg. This can create joint and back pain outside of (or in addition to) the issues related to the initial trauma. Combined with the other things he has had to deal with, there is something to be said of Scarecrow's tenacity. He is very driven and ambitious, even if it's the pure, seething drive for vengeance which causes him to persevere. It's a quality one can admire. :)

The rambling ends here, thanks for reading. And an extra big thanks to a very special someone who, without their help, none of this would be possible...I'm of course talking about my guy KILLER CROC for going absolutely feral in those Asylum sewers, really gave Jonny here a spooky glow-up, am I right?

Pictured: Scarecrow regretting his fear toxin frivolity into the sewers.

[k2padfoot]

Perfect

Eddie Munson x Y/n

summary: when your mind is plagued by bad thoughts Eddie wants nothing more than to comfort and reassure you just how perfect you really are. best friends to lovers.

warnings: TW. body shaming, mentions of anorexia, smoking, self loathing, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff. SMUT!! (unprotected sex).

A/N: this fic is based on my own experience of skinny shaming. i don’t think a lot of people realize how hurtful it really is to be shamed in any way about your body. please be understanding and kind, all bodies are beautiful! also this is my first time writing smut so i hope y’all like it!!

“She’s so skinny it’s gross.”

“Look at her chicken legs.”

“Does she even eat anything?”

“She looks anorexic.”

“Isn’t she eighteen? She literally looks twelve.”

When your ears caught echo of the painful words from the girls behind you, you abandoned your lunch tray, it’s contents untouched on the table. A rush of emotion had you swiftly leaving the cafeteria, seeking solace beyond its walls.

It's not as if the whispers were unfamiliar to you. They’ve been a haunting refrain since childhood, but with the passing of time their intensity swelled, casting a darker shadow over you.

You harbored a self-loathing, a visual disdain to your own reflection, fueled by the relentless comparison to every other girl in school. Your legs seemed too slender, arms too skinny, lacking in curves, and a chest that barley made its presence known.

You found yourself walking into the woods and taking a seat at the aging picnic table nestled in the clearing. As you settled onto its weathered surface you allowed your head to fall into your hands while the tears began to flow.

The cascade of tears persisted, blurring your perception of the world around you, but the subtle sound of someone settling into the seat across from you reached your ears.

Aware that it was none other than your best friend, Eddie Munson, you didn’t have the courage to lift your gaze and meet his eyes.

You felt his comforting touch on your wrist as he delicately withdrew your trembling hands from your face, his voice laced with genuine concern, “What’s wrong sweetheart?”

Your gaze barley rose to meet his, and the tears that welled in your eyes tugged at the strings of Eddie’s heart.

A fractured sigh escaped your lips, “You know just the perfect little cheerleaders spitting insults at me like usual.” You remarked with a scoff, a touch of bitterness in your voice.

A wave of distress swept over Eddie, unsettled by your words. “I’m sorry sweetheart. They’re just a bunch of preppy assholes, I know how shitty it feels to be the focal point of their laughs but you don’t deserve that. How can I help?”

In the quiet recess of your mind you considered a little temporary solution. “Hmm, you got a joint on you by any chance?”

A sly grin splayed on his lips, “Of course I do.” He quickly reached into his backpack pulling one out and sparking the end, “Don’t go anywhere without one.” Your eyes were glued to his lips as he took the joint into his mouth and slowly exhaled the smoke.

You finally broke the unyielding hold of your gaze when Eddie passed you the joint, taking it in between your lips and drawing in the smoke, Eddie couldn’t help but stare at the way it left your lips.

After the joint was passed back and forth until it was no longer burning you began to gather your things.

“You going home?” Eddie asked as he started to get up from the table.

“Yeah, don’t really feel up to going back to class.” You said, following his actions standing up and swinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Okay, I’ll join you.”

A rough sigh left your lips, “No Eddie, you have to go back to class if you want to graduate this year. I’ll be fine, seriously don’t worry about it.”

Eddie was hesitant to leave, in all honesty he just wants to take you home and tell you how beautiful you are, but he knows he can’t. “If you’re sure.” He said.

“I am Eddie, I’ll see you later tonight okay? Now get back to class.” You teased and he nodded before turning around, reluctance lingering in his every step away from you.

Eddie Munson found himself entangled in an enchantment with you, a feeling reciprocated by your own infatuation of him. However, the unspoken truth hung in the air, an uncharted territory where vulnerability loomed, both fearing to confess thinking the other might not feel the same.

Eddie hurried out of Hellfire in anticipation to get to your house. It was a movie night just like every Friday night, and in the wake of todays events, Eddie felt an undeniable urge to make this night special for you. To get your mind off of the harsh realities of the day. So he stopped at the general store grabbing all of your favorite snacks and picked up one of your favorite horror films from family video, A Nightmare on Elm Street.

When Eddie pulled into your driveway he was confused to see no lights on, he knew your parents were out of town but not even your bedroom light was on. Eddie jumped out of the van and hurried to the door, he knew you were home because your car was in the driveway so with his hands full of snacks he knocked a few times.

After the fourth unanswered knock, he hesitated briefly before cautiously turning the doorknob, and to his surprise it was unlocked.

Venturing into the dimly lit living area, he called out your name, the echoes of his voice fading into an unsettling silence. He continued on through the house making his way upstairs to your bedroom. As he reached your bedroom, Eddie’s worry intensified at the absence of your presence.

In that moment a delicate murmur of hushed sniffles reached his ears coming from the direction of your bathroom.

As he got closer he could hear the sobs racking through your body resonating through the closed door like a haunted melody.

Slowly as to not startle you he eased the door open revealing a sight that sent a shiver through him. There you were, a fragile silhouette against the wall, your form cradled by the floor. Knees drawn close, hands entwined in strands of your hair, and your face pressed against the haven of your legs. 

“Y-Y/n?” Eddie's voice, a gentle whisper, faltered as he knelt before you. "Sweetheart, I'm here.” He uttered, his warm hands finding solace on the curve of your knees.

At the sudden awareness of his presence, your head snapped upward, revealing your puffy red-rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks. Your words struggled to escape, “Shit, I-I forgot you were coming over, I’m sorry.” A wave of guilt and embarrassment draped over you as you let your head fall back to your knees and your fingers grip into your hair.

“Princess, please stop pulling at that beautiful hair of yours.” Eddie’s gentle touch eased your hands from your head. “Can you look at me?” He whispered, delicately lifting your chin, his eyes searching the depths of your own.

“Talk to me sweetheart, tell me what’s bothering you.” His soft voice accompanied the feather-light dance of his thumb along the curve of your cheek.

A pause hung in the air as more tears fell from your eyes. “I-I hate my body. I hate the way I’m so fucking skinny compared to all the beautiful girls at school. I wish that I didn’t look like this, it’s disgusting!”

A heavy ache settled in his chest as he looked at you with sad eyes. “Don’t say that, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen Y/n.” His words softly spilled.

“W-What?”

He smiled gently, fingers softly sweeping to push aside a stray hair from your face, his touch lingering there for a moment. “Yeah, to me your perfect.”

Once more, you lowered your head, “Eddie—

“Stop, just listen to me for a second.” Again, he tenderly lifted your chin coaxing your eyes to meet his. “The first time I saw you, you took my breath away. Everything about you is so captivating, every facet of your being mesmerized me. From your striking eyes, to your infectious smile, the tiny little freckles like constellations on your skin. To the curves of your hips, and the shape of your thighs like a dance of contours, God you are just so beautiful Y/n.”

In that instant, your eyes welled up with tears stirred by his unexpected honesty. Caught in the shock of the moment, you instinctively surged forward bridging the gap as your lips met his in a tender, unexpected embrace.

Initially catching Eddie off guard, the awareness finally dawned on him that your lips had found his, instantly melting into the kiss. His hands ascended, gently cradling your face, while you fervently grasped at his soft locks. You both felt a whirlwind of sensations as neither of you had the intention to stop, yet the necessity for a breath of air became an undeniable plea.

As you reluctantly pulled away, a glistening thread of your mixed saliva separated your entwined lips. In that lingering moment you exchanged an intense gaze full of unspoken emotions.

“W-Wow, I’ve been waiting forever to do that.” He admitted, a warm smile splayed across his lips that was woven with threads of love.

You couldn’t help the flutter of butterflies in your stomach, and the undeniable love swelling within your chest. “Me too.”

“Good, I’ve always liked you I just didn’t want to ruin our friendship incase you didn’t feel the same way about me.” He told you.

You let out a light hearted giggle, “Well that’s ridiculous isn’t it, because I’ve had feelings for you for years now.”

A curious frown etched across his brow, “So you’re saying you could’ve been mine all along?”

“Yes, because I’ve always been yours Eddie. I think we’ve wasted some serious time tiptoeing around our feelings for each other.” You let out a playful laugh.

“Well we don’t have to waste time anymore, do we?” Eddie said, his lips turning into a cunning grin.

You had to squeeze your thighs together when your eyes caught the bulge forming in his jeans. “Well, I-I guess you’re right.”

He roughly planted his lips on yours in a needy manner, swiftly pulling you to your feet and tugging you flush against his chest. His hands were exploring all over your body as he gently guided you towards your bedroom.

He softly tossed you onto the bed before reconnecting your lips in a desperate manner. “So beautiful.” Eddie muttered between kisses before his lips trailed to your neck and then to your ear. When he placed a gentle bite to your ear a hushed moan escaped your lips.

After placing a few more marks on your neck he drew himself back, his hands reaching for the hem of your t-shirt.

“W-wait!” you hastily rose your voice.

Eddie’s eyes went wide with fear, “I-I’m sorry, did I do something wrong? Is this too much?”

“No! No, it’s just— I don’t want you to be disappointed.” A sad frown cast upon your face as you looked down to your hands.

“Disappointed? Baby I could never be disappointed by you. Please, let me show you how truly beautiful I think you are.” Eddie pleaded with you, his hands gliding softly up your arms until they reached your cheeks, gently cradling your face to meet his gaze.

You hesitated for a moment but you trust Eddie, and his earlier words echoed in the chambers of your mind reassuring your decision to trust him. “O-Okay, you can take it off.”

Gently Eddie pulled off your shirt and you instinctively wrapped your arms around your chest as to conceal yourself.

“Hey, don’t do that sweetheart, I want to see all of your beauty.” His gentle words resonated as he reached for your arms, slowly encouraging them away from the protective fortress of your chest.

“See, you’re gorgeous baby. Is it okay if I take this off?” He gestured to your lacy pink bra and you tentatively nodded.

The clasp of your bra broke free and Eddie took this chance to take the rest of it off, “Fuck.” He let out a hushed breath as he took in the sight of your bare chest. “So fucking perfect.” He muttered through sloppy kisses down your neck until he reached your breast. Without warning he took your nipple into his mouth and began swirling his tongue around it, earning a loud moan from you.

“Mmm, you sound so pretty baby.” Eddie groaned against your tits.

Through muffled moans you pushed Eddie off of your chest, “Eds, c-can you take your shirt off? I wanna see you too.” You practically begged.

Eddie grinned at your anticipation before throwing his shirt over his head and onto the floor. Your fingers ran across his exposed skin stopping to trace the tattoos adorning his chest. “You’re so pretty Eds.”

Immediately he closed the gap between you engulfing your lips into his with a hungry intent. Swiftly his hand slid into your shorts and found your clothed heat, he didn’t waste a minute before rubbing soft circles on your clit causing you to moan even more. “Eddie, please.” you plead against his lips.

“Shh princess, I wanna show you how pretty you are.” Before you could grasp any thoughts they were quickly swept away when he yanked down your shorts along with your panties earning a sultry gasp from your lips.

“Shit. You’re fucking unreal.” Eddie kneeled in front of you staring at you like a piece of art. He bent down planting tender kisses across the landscape of your stomach, continuing with equal devotion down to the curve of your hips. Delicate kisses lingered in the warmth between each thigh, “So, so beautiful.” He whispered with an unwavering devotion

You could feel your heat dripping in anticipation. In any other situation you would’ve halted any advance to get your shirt off, let alone your pants, but this was Eddie. Eddie, who was currently worshiping you as if you were a divine being.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good princess.” He uttered just before engulfing his face into your pussy. “Ahh, fuck Eddie!” you cried out between breathless moans, his tongue lapping at your clit like a starved animal.

“That feel good baby?” Eddie struggled to say with his mouth on your cunt.

“Fuck yes baby, keep going!” you shouted out in bliss.

A wave of confidence swept through him at the passionate sounds he was eliciting from you, compelling him to slip a finger into your entrance while he worked at your clit with his tongue.

Intense waves of pleasure began to consume your body as his fingers plunged in and out of your hole, finding yourself having no control you gripped onto Eddie’s hair, “I-I’m gonna, fuck I’m—

“Let go sweetheart, I’ve got you.” His words were enough to have your orgasm rushing through you as loud moans and Eddie’s name repeated like a mantra from your lips.

He quickly lapped up your juices, gazing at you with blown eyes before gently caressing his hands up and down the length of your legs. “Jesus, I love these gorgeous legs.” He uttered softly before trailing his hands up to your hips, delicately tracing them with the grace of his fingertips. “And these sexy hips.”

Before you knew it his hands were gliding up your stomach, ascending to your chest, only to stop with a gentle touch to your face. “Beautiful girl.” He whispered, allowing his thumb to tenderly stroke your cheek.

His sweet words stirred a spring of tears in your eyes, an irresistible surge of emotion that had you crashing your lips into his. Your lips worked in sync, tongues dancing in a fervent rhythm, creating a mess of wet kisses and the occasional collision of teeth.

“Eddie?” You pulled away from the kiss, “I want to feel you.”

Eddie could feel his cock angry against his jeans and he wanted nothing more than to give it to you and only you. He quickly jumped up, pulling his pants down along with his boxers before he reclaimed his position, settling once again atop you. In a breathy whisper, he spoke softly, his lips grazing yours, “You don’t have to tell me twice sweetheart.”

He took his cock in his hands and swiped it through your glistening folds a few times before slapping it against your clit. “Oohh, Eddie please.” You begged.

A content smile traced its way across his lips as he hovered above your entrance, leaning down to kiss you before sinking into your pussy. An audible gasp could be heard from your lips as his cock filled you up, “Fuck you’re so tight.” Eddie practically moaned into your mouth.

He was taking it slow, indulging in the warmth of your walls, but you reached a point where you couldn’t take it any longer. “Eddie fuck me, fuck me faster!” You practically yelled after parting your lips from his, and your legs wrapped around his back, a deliberate gesture to have him deeper inside of you.

Eddie reached his limit, unable to resit your desperate pleas for him, unable to resit the way your walls sucked him in. “Yeah? You want more?” He said, words laced with desire. You watched as he began to relentlessly thrust into you, the way his cock slid in out of your wet hole so easily had your head spinning, and his hands trailing all over your body earned more sinful moans from your mouth.

“Mmm, that’s it. You’re so fucking gorgeous Y/n.” He uttered before seizing your hips with a firm grip to draw you closer as he settled onto his knees, a new angle that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

With each rough thrust he skillfully targeted that sensitive spot you craved the most, you were seconds away from unraveling, that familiar euphoric wave rendering your brain with bliss and leaving you breathless. Your walls began clenching around him and he knew you were coming undone, “Cum for me baby, cum all over my cock.”

As your orgasm washed over you, you were a moaning mess unable to stop yourself from the cries and disarray of words leaving your lips. “Ahhh! Fuck, oh fuck Eddie I love you!”

Eddie’s thrust we’re starting to get sloppy as his own orgasm was approaching, “Say that again.” He muttered, grabbing your chin with a gentle but firm touch ensuring you were looking at him.

“I love you Eddie.” You repeated for him, and Eddie’s hips rutted into yours roughly.

“Ohhh fuck Y/n, I love you so much!” He practically cried out, his lips latching onto yours as his cock twitched inside of you, his warm release spilling into your pussy.

Through breathless pants and sloppy kisses, Eddie laid you back down on the bed and slowly eased out of you. “Let me go get something to clean you up.” He told you before darting to your the bathroom.

When he came back, a fresh towel in hand, he couldn’t help but smile at the way you looked so fucked out against the pillows.

“I’m just gonna clean you up quick.” He said and in response you mindlessly nodded as he gently wiped away your mixtures of cum.

After tossing the towel into the hamper, he leaned down to grab his discarded clothes when you protested. “No don’t, lay with me?”

The warm smile upon his lips illuminated the room as he gracefully joined you in bed. You gently raised your head, resting it upon his chest, as he nestled below you. His arms instinctively wrapping around you, legs entwined, a profound sense of comfort and familiarity enveloped you both, as if this was the missing piece, the way you were always meant to be.

Eddie’s fingers gently threaded through you hair, almost sending you into a soothing slumber when his voice gently interrupted your sleepy state.

“Can I ask you something?”

You blinked your tired eyes glancing upward at him,“Hmm? Yeah sure.”

Eddie’s voice carried a delicate hesitation, “Did you really mean that? You know when you said—

“When I said I love you? Yeah, I meant it.” You interrupted before he could finish.

Emotion quietly unfolded in the depths of his gaze, a softness reflecting in his eyes at your words. “Good, because I did too.”

A broad smile crept across your cheeks as you leaned in sealing the connection with a kiss, a kiss filled with not only passion but the language of love.

As Eddie gently withdrew, his gaze lingered in a tender lock with your eyes, “One more question, can I be your boyfriend?”

A fluttering storm of butterflies danced within the confines of your stomach as a delightful giggle escaped you, “Yes. Yes, yes, 1000x yes!” The sheer excitement had you throwing yourself into his arms as he embraced you with an even firmer grip.

You knew with Eddie by your side, the shadows of doubt would never cast themselves upon you again.

[inkykeiji]

character: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, overstimulation, blood, toxic relationship words: 747

as much as sukuna would love to deny it, he has a habit. 

it’s unintentional, it’s instinctual, and it’s almost always entirely your fault. 

it appears when he teases you—a simple quirk up of the left side of his mouth, something that grows from a toothless smirk to a gleaming grin at your inevitable whine of his name, all scrunched up and filtered through your petulant little pout. oh, how precious. 

it’s accompanied by a sharp glint of amusement in his eye; something that flickers, that flares, the more upset you get, the more you grumble and scowl and sulk. because it’s so cute, baby, he’s murmuring through the steadily spreading lopsided smile slapped across his face, cooed out words oozing condescension, just how easily he can work you into a frenzy.

it appears when you’re riding him—a soft tugging at the left corner of his lips as he watches you bounce and rock and gyrate on his cock, using it as if it’s your favourite toy, just like he told you to. his usually keen stare is lidded, having turned melty and thick while observing you above him, because god, you’re so gorgeous; rolling whites of your eyes framed by fluttering lashes, dainty hands splayed wide on his chest and nails digging into plush muscle for leverage, fragments of his name and his title leaving your tongue in the sweetest little huffs, each one shoved from your chest with every graze of his cockhead over that engorged patch of flesh, puffy and swollen and buried deep inside of you.

it appears when he’s eating you out—vicious and vigorous and downright voracious—after you’ve lost count of how many times he’s forced you to cream on his tongue, immense pleasure having mollified your brain to a sticky goo, steady streams of glittering salt cascading down your cheeks, face twisted up somewhere between pleasure and pain.

you can feel his lips spreading against your licked-raw cunt, crooked simper reflected in his rust irises, curved mouth slippery as it glides over your slit, screwing up a little further on the left side just like it always does, the bottom half of his face soaked with his spit and your slick.

that skewed smile stretches unnaturally wider as you squirm beneath his grasp, nails scrabbling at whatever they can find—the cotton sheets and his scalp and those hulking shoulders—spine contorting off the bed and chest heaving with the cries that keep ripping up your throat, ragged and hoarse.

the strong arms wrapped around your thighs tighten, forearms weighing on the joints, effectively trapping you in his grip, tangled up in his limbs. two pairs of hands stay curled around your hips, pinning them to the mattress, twenty fingers flexing, leaving fresh steaks of blood across your pelvis, sticky and steadily oozing from the piercing claws gorging on your flesh.

it appears when he hurts you, hands too rough, grip too tight, tone too harsh—a worming sort of leer slanted to the left, something smug and arrogant smeared across his face when he soils your skin with him, a collar of twenty fingers etched into your neck in grotesque shades of plum, or twin sets of handprints stamped into your ass, swollen and stinging. it’s something that takes shape when your fragile veins snap beneath his touch, flooding your flesh with irregular blotches of purples and blues and speckled crimson; something that surfaces when yelps fracture in your throat and sobs hitch in your chest, so heavy your ribs shudder with them.

it appears when you do something so unbearably adorable, something so endearingly stupid, that he just can’t help but snort or snicker, the left side of his mouth twitching with mirth, something he desperately tries to smother, something he devastatingly discovers he can’t. 

because maybe he doesn’t even want to anymore, tired of fighting, tired of feigning. maybe it makes him feel something irritatingly unfamiliar, something much too human, something that binds itself to the void buried beneath his ribcage.

maybe it fills that void with something irrevocable, irreversible, unpreventable. maybe it fills that void with something bright and airy and warm, when you tell him you like his crooked smile, when you tell him it has got to be one of your favourite things about him, your favourite feature of his, happy to see it even as he drags you through hell with it carved into his face.

[makethatelevenrings]

Reports and Renewal // S. Riley x f!reader

A/N: hiiiii consider this a 5k follower celebration!!! thank you!!! wtf!!! I am SLAMMED with life and work right now. I'm about to post this and go study some more but HI I APPRECIATE YOU ALL SO MUCH.

I will hopefully be able to do more of a celebration/interactive follower thing once I absolutely dominate this test. Bc I will. (Manifesting!!) warnings: mentions of injuries (fractures, ligament tears) and fatigue, subtle misogyny, swearing but tbh if you're reading COD fanfics and are surprised by swearing...I can't help you

Two sharp raps against the wood of your door drew you away from the cursor blinking repeatedly and the slow creep of it across the page. It wasn’t your fault that it was taking you longer than usual. Only one of your hands was in commission right now thanks to a nasty fall during the last mission. The thought of the injury made your lips thin into a grimace as the sling on your shoulder dug into the tender skin there. A fractured radius and a torn ligament in your shoulder meant you would be stuck at a desk for about two months.

You shuffled the papers back into the manila folder and cleared your throat before calling out a brusque, “come in.”

While you were expecting someone to come in and add more to the growing piles of reports that you needed to type out. Since you weren’t able to be in the field, everyone on your team assumed that you would gladly take on their grunt work.

The massive form of Lieutenant Riley filled the doorframe and you instinctively glanced at his hands for some files, relieved to see something other than those fucking folders. But your brow raised as he stepped into your office and brandished what he held in his gloved hands.

“They gave me an extra sandwich by accident,” he said in lieu of an explanation. “Cook thinks I need to eat the whole fuckin’ Mess. Figured you’d need t’eat something since you weren’t there.”

You spared a glance at the clock on your computer and let out a noncommittal hum. Huh. Guess you were so focused on getting through all this work that you missed dinner call. That sparked your body into making you aware of the stiffness of your joints. You sat back against your chair, a small groan escaping you as your spine stretched and popped.

“Yeah, thanks.” You gestured with your uninjured hand for him to sit across from you. The lieutenant eased himself down into the small wooden desk chair and grimaced at the creak it emitted as it strained under his mass. He leaned forward and placed the sandwich on top of the file you had been working on before sitting back, eyeing the pile that had amassed in the corner of your desk.

“These all yours?” he grunted. You huffed out a laugh that turned into a triumphant cry when you successfully got the sandwich unwrapped.

“Clearly not considering I’m the only asshole around here who finishes their shit on time. Apparently desk duty means being the paperwork lackey. I’m surprised you haven’t caught on and brought me something to type up.”

His dark eyes studied the pile of papers and then he picked them up, thumbing through the paperwork. You didn’t worry about him looking at it. He was of equal rank as you and, while you weren’t 141, you operated in similar circles and collaborated on missions enough to know that he was a cold bastard, but he wouldn’t jeopardize anything.

“Any of these my guys?”

“Nah, MacTavish and Garrick would never.” You took a bite of the dry sandwich and nearly moaned. It was boring and plain and tasted a bit like sawdust, but you were starving. Simon silently nudged your water bottle closer to you and you nodded in thanks. He snapped the files close and set them back on the edge of the desk, the corner teetering off the side and nearly tipping over under the weight.

“Arm’s alright?” Ever the conscientious leader. The constant ache of your torn ligament and broken bone was frustrating, but it was a nice reminder that you were alive. The fall had been from a warehouse walkway when an assailant tossed his empty gun and instead went for a tackle that sent you both over the edge. You twisted your body to make sure he took the brunt of the fall, but your arm hit the ground first after he did. The evac had been a nightmare and couldn’t get in for three hours. Three hours of brutal pain radiating with every move as you and your team held back an onslaught of fire until the 141 was sent to finish business.

“I live to see another day,” you said, with both a hint of humor and the tension of your tentative morality lining your words. You sat back in your chair and winced as your arm jostled against your side.

“You should be resting,” he chastised.

You scoffed. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you come back to work three hours after your appendix burst?”

His mask hid his face, but you could see the slight crinkle of his eyes and that was enough to confirm that the bastard was smirking. You had seen him walk out of medical after they dug two bullets out of his shoulder. There was a reason why the Ghost was such a legend. He didn’t answer but instead pointed at your food and you dutifully took another bite.

“Your team is a bunch of dicks,” he finally said. You bristled at his words and immediately went to defend your men, but he simply raised a hand to stop any arguments. That just made your skin prickle even more with indignation.

“Don’t get me wrong, they’re good at what they do. But you’re better. Price has asked about bringing you onto our team.”

“Pretty sure I’d slow you down,” you muttered. Yeah, your team had no qualms in dropping piles of paperwork on your desk, leaving their shit in the gym for you to clean up, and made a point of never inviting you out after work hours. But you didn’t join the military to become best buddies with everyone. You were good at your job, but you weren’t task force material. The 141 were the guys that went in when no one else could. You were the person they sent in when it was a mid-level threat.

“Top of your recruitment class, high marks in everything except in things we can easily train you on. Besides, we got some demolition nuts already. Don’t need a third one of you or Price will go gray by next year. You’re one of the best analysts and have prepared more missions than most. Price thinks you should join us.”

You took a sip of your water to jostle the dryness out of your throat and then screwed the cap back on. Your eyes caught his and you met his stare head on. The Ghost should scare you. He should make you avert your gaze and apologize for daring to look.

He had never made you feel that way. From the moment you were assigned to this base, to this unit, to this office, the Ghost had been distant but decently nice. You had seen him ream out privates for forgetting to tuck their pants into their boots before. Hell, you could hear him yelling at privates and cadets as they attempted the obstacle courses in the pouring rain while you were inside. But he had never raised his voice with you. 

Sure, he had been firm and even snapped once or twice, but he hadn’t yelled the way he had at the kid who tracked mud through the halls last week. Simon made him get a bucket and a brush and to scrub the floors by hand so the janitors wouldn’t have to clean up his mess.

“You’re an established team already. I would just throw off the dynamics.”

“Garrick and Soap already agree they want you in,” he retorted.

Maybe you had a concussion too. Your mind was fuzzy with the details when the 141 came to evac your team. The pain had started to make your brain go foggy when they breached the building. How did you get onto the heli? Surely you walked, right? But you can also remember someone shaking you. That hurt like a bitch. Your team hadn’t given a shit about you at that point when they were busy saving their own hides. 

“What do you think about me joining?” The words left you before you could reel them back. You wanted to know. You were terrified of the answer. He had given you this hope, but was he cruel enough to take it away? Was this the Ghost toying with you? You wished you could see his face.

He merely stood and grabbed the stack of files from your desk, nodded curtly, and exited your office without another word. You waited until the door shut behind him before you let out a long, frustrated breath.

“That motherfucker,” you swore under your breath. Fucking hell, your shoulder ached. Your head ached too. You let it fall against the cool wood of your desk and shut your eyes in an attempt to ward off the exhaustion, pain, and embarrassment that now burned its way through your chest.

Might as well get this goddamn fucking report done.

You sat back up, pushed it all aside, compartmentalized, breathed. You opened the folder and began to peck at the keyboard once more.

Once it was done and sent to the appropriate COs and channels, you grabbed your bag and made your way down the hall towards the Mess. You were almost out of the office quadrant when a gruff voice called your name. Captain Price exited his office and extended his hand, luckily the opposite of your uninjured one so it wasn’t an awkward shake.

“Got your transfer paperwork drawn up and ready, if you want to sign it before you head out. Get you over to our team faster. I’ve heard great things from your CO and I’ve seen the work you’ve done in the field. It’ll be nice having someone more level headed than those muppets.” He paused and an almost pained look took over his face. “How likely are you to accidentally set off an explosive just for shits and giggles?”

You stifled a laugh and followed him into his office so you could sign those papers.

“Simon has told me what he’s seen during your training. You’ll be a great asset to have on the 141,” Price continued once you signed your name without hesitation. You paused once his words sunk in and looked up at your new boss.

“Ghost has talked about me?”

“Christ, I think he might be ready to make some fucking t-shirts with your face on it. Thought he damn near ripped the spines out of those boys who had you doing their reports. Don’t tell him I told you that. He’d take a right fucking piss out of me.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, sir,” you assured.

“Right, dismissed then. Be here at 0700 tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if you’re on IR, we’ll find something for you that isn’t pecking the keys until your eyes fall out from staring at that screen.” You nodded and didn’t even try to fight the smile that crept onto your face. It lingered on your face, right next to the phantom touch of the Ghost’s gloves when he grasped your face the moment they found you in that warehouse.

[yourheart-inmyhands]

hey! question/something you could turn into a concept if you wish. do you think yandere scaramouche (fatui era) would act differently than yandere wanderer? or do you think they'd act generally the same? it's so interesting to see peoples interpretations of different versions of scara lol :3

ah this was such a fun concept, i could talk endlessly about the differences between them but i kept it short and sweet for now! i hope you enjoy :D

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including verbal abuse, scaramouche being a douche, delusional behaviors, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

There are very noticeable differences between Scaramouche and Wanderer and some that only those close would pick up on. For one, Scaramouche always walked with confidence, drawing attention to himself and commanding everyone’s eyes, Wanderer now prefers a different approach, lingering on the sidelines and watching others, observing.

Scaramouche’s porcelain was pristine, his cracks repaired and his joints flawless. Wanderer is rougher, some small hairline fractures and other larger chunks missing from different parts of him, patched over with bandages for the time being. His joints are no better, with him always in the forest he’s prone to getting dirt and rocks in them, making it not only difficult but also painful to move them. He often has to get assistance in cleaning them.

Those are some of the more noticeable ones, but less noticeable ones are how they would speak to a darling. Scaramouche is rough, standoffish to ensure he isn’t abandoned once more, left behind and forgotten again. Wanderer is snarky, a bit rude, but there’s less of an edge to it. He’s snippy to maintain a facade, not wanting others to see how soft he’s gone despite him being wiped from everyone’s memory. 

“You disgusting waste of space, you should be grateful I even spare you a minute of my time. Honestly, what purpose do you serve aside from keeping my bed warm? Pathetic.” Scaramouche doesn’t even look at you as he scoffs out insult after insult, his focus on himself in the mirror as he looks over a crack he’d recently gotten. He’d have to go to that wretched doctor to get it fixed, couldn’t go around looking broken, looking weak.

“You’re in my way, move before I make you.” The crossing of his arms and the annoyed, melodramatic tone of his voice are enough to move you away from the bookcase. Your eyes are wide, an apology caught in your throat as he huffs, grabs a book off the shelf without even pausing to look before stalking off again. It was like he’d done this before. As he walks off though, you can’t help but notice the strange way he moves, his left leg swings strangely, like there was something stopping it from bending all the way when he lifts it. Strange.

Neither are particularly nice or sweet, but you’re more likely to get Wanderer to warm up to you than Scaramouche. The cold-hearted puppet that was a Fatui member didn’t need anyone, nor did he want them, he only wanted power, wanted to be recognized for what he was and what he could do. Wanderer isn’t after that, he’s looking for himself in the trees, hoping that by rescuing another lost child, eliminating a camp of bandits, freeing one more Rishboland tiger from an illegal trap will tell him something. Will give him some hint or clue as to what he was really made for. 

Scaramouche works best with a willing darling who is ok with being pushed around, ignored, and verbally degraded. He won’t ever say he loves you, won’t coddle you when you cry or get hurt, won’t buy you gifts or make things for you. But he always returns to bed with you at night, laying beside you as he watches you sleep. He’s above it, but there’s a comfort in watching you sleep, a time where he can just shut his mind down and pretend he’s nothing and no one.

Wanderer works best with a darling who is a little more forceful in asserting themselves, showing up at the bookstore he frequents, following him into the forest to see what he’s up to, asking around about him until word gets back to him and he confronts you about it. It takes a long time for him to open up to you, even more so before he starts to seek you out himself, but slowly he grows to become as much a part of your life as you have his. And he doesn’t entirely hate it.