#Trauma :)

[traaumaa]

[andreainlove]

in desperate need of a bone crushing hug which won't allow me to move again

[ttwiligts]

how i felt when it happen, i was 7 years old

[mon-000]

[funeral]

The difficulty of traumatic memory, however, is not limited to its unavailability and resistance to representation. Very much like a photograph, traumatic memory can be characterized by the excessive retention of details that cannot be integrated into a nontraumatic memory or comprehension of the past. The recovery of traumatic memory—and the process of healing—consists often in making the event seem less unreal by draining it of its vividness, its persistence, its haunting details, its color.

Ulrich Baer, "To Give Memory a Place", The Spectrality Reader

[haunted-em0]

I repeat what I've seen 𖤍

“your trauma doesn’t define you” no actually it does. it dictates every aspect of my shitty life.

[snowballseal]

My Dearest

Part 5

LaDS Zayne X Foreseer!Reader

Prologue / Part 4

Summary: Things take a turn in the dead of night. Confessions are made after Zayne suffers a nightmare, and you realize you may have a bigger part in his Fate than you originally thought.

Word Count: 2993

Note: Things are picking up >w< in good and bad ways

Warning!!!! This chapter covers topics of illness, death, torture, and some intense emotions. There is a lot of angst. Zayne's backstory is not nice (woops) but neither is his in-game backstory! Also, he may be a bit ooc, but aren't we all in the face of trauma?

Anyways, read at your own peril and please be safe.

---

Sickness comes with a scent.

Every muscle in Zayne’s body draws taut at the familiarity of it. A cloying mix of bitterness and overly ripe fruit. Bile and medicine and sweat. It lingers in the stale air, thick and even more suffocating than the heat.

“Dab perfume under your nose if you wish to mask the scent.”

The familiar tone of his teacher’s voice murmurs from his side, muffled and distant, as if his ears are stuffed with cotton. Zayne looks, thinks he looks, but the hall before him is empty, stretching and warping and twisting.

A cold feeling sinks into his gut, violently screaming that he is meant to be somewhere else, he is meant to be working, doing something, helping someone.

And his feet are moving. Racing. Throwing him down the endless hallway. Panic buzzes like a thousand ants under his skin.

what have you done what have you done what have you done

The world blurs around him, details colliding, fissioning along the edges of his vision, drifting yet still. Dread curls around his throat like a noose as the scent thickens in the air, rusted iron and sweet perfume and sickness. So intense he can taste it on his tongue. So intense he could choke.

“Give me the medicine.”

“Teacher-”

“There is no time, give it to me, Zayne! We mustn’t let her die!”

The words echo down the grand hall. A thousand voices, overlapping, repeating, screaming, whispering, coming from nowhere and everywhere. They rake across his mind, so violent and clear that even covering his ears can’t drown them out.

Desperation forms like a pit in his stomach.

He can’t let that happen. He can’t fail, not when he’s come so far, not when he’s had to prove himself over and over and over again. He can’t.

It was merely Fate.

A door appears before him and he slams into the heavy wood without hesitation, forcing his way into the all too familiar room. The room he spent so many days in. The room drenched in floral perfumes to disguise the scent of death.

Everything stops.

A bed sits in the middle of the room. Small. Empty. White.

Except for the pool of blood at the head.

His knees hit the ground, the chill of the tiles seeping across his sweat-soaked body.

It was merely Fate…

“You killed my daughter.”

No no no

No, he did everything he could. He worked day and night, researching, brewing medicine, wiping the sweat from her small face. He sacrificed so much-

“I will watch you suffer, just as she did.”

Everything fades, blurs, giving way to a darkness that threatens to drown him.

And then the pain.

The sharp edge of a knife dragging across his fingers, digging into the flesh of his palms, drawing streams of thick thick blood. His skin burns, as though his hands have been forced into the coals of a kindled fire, the flames eating away at his blood and pouring into his veins. He chokes on the pain, on the metallic scent of his own blood, and it’s too much too much to-

“Zayne!”

Zayne jolts up in bed.

Panic strangles him, blinds him, his hands trembling so viciously as he grips at the thick pelts at his waist. The pain lingers so vividly in his skin and he can hardly breathe, his chest aching, throat burning.

Until a cool hand presses against his cheek, touch featherlight and hesitant, and his whole body lurches. 

Frenzied, hazel eyes meet yours, and you stare back at him, unwavering.

“Breathe, Zayne,” you murmur, voice tense, commanding, desperate.

And so he does.

---

You’re not sure what wakes you.

The night is still, almost unnervingly so. No storm, no gales, not a single sound you would expect to hear at such a late hour. It is as though the weather itself has grown tired, though the peace feels far more dangerous than the storm.

Your body unwilling to return to a state of sleep, you find yourself wandering the halls aimlessly. It has always brought you comfort, tracing the lines of stone that make up your Tower’s walls. You can feel where your feet take you most often, the edge worn to smoothness under your fingertips, leading you to the staircase that ends at your former bedroom. Where Zayne rests.

You pause at the foot of the stairs, casting your gaze up into the dark, climbing spiral.

How odd that your instincts bring you here. It almost makes you feel a touch pathetic, knowing that your subconscious is drawn to him so certainly. Only a few days have passed since you allowed the ice to thaw between you, and here you are, seeking this man as if he is the only one capable of settling this unease in your chest.

Ridiculous.

Sharply, you turn away, ready to retreat back to your new room, to make another attempt at sleep -

Until a shuddering gasp echoes down the stairs, a gasp filled with pain.

Suddenly your feet are taking you up.

And the sight you find at the top has your whole body freezing over.

Zayne lays twisted in the pelts of your bed, every muscle drawn inhumanly taut as he arches off the bed, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his blanched skin. It is the body of a man ravaged by pure agony, his chest heaving with labored breaths, like his soul is being torn from his flesh.

You move to the side of the bed, magic prickling wildly under your skin as a foreign sense of panic sweeps over you, dropping the temperature in the room drastically. Your eyes scan him, just as wildly, looking for any injuries, any blood, any reason he might be experiencing such pain, but you find a disturbing lack of anything. His body is untouched, apart from his old injuries.

So why is he facing such torment?

“Zayne?” You call, wavering beside the bed. You can’t sit. That would be too close. Too comfortable. You can’t cross that boundary, you can’t.

Yet when the man cries out between his gritted teeth, the sound so completely broken, you can’t bring yourself to stay at a distance.

The bed shifts under your hesitant weight. Now that you’re closer, you can see the stark paleness of his face, the tight clench of his jaw and eyes, the way his dark hair sticks to his forehead. Your hand wavers in your lap, torn between waking him and being unsure of if you should interfere yet again. Could this not be Fate’s form of punishment?

Though, once again, the decision is made for you when Zayne turns his head, face going tight with such inconceivable pain, his fingers curling desperately into the edge of your cloak.

Your mouth sets into a thin line.

 This is not atonement. This is torture.

“Zayne!”

---

“Breathe, Zayne.”

The man takes in air greedily. His whole body trembles with the effort, the cold air easing the burning ache in his throat. And your touch. Your palm is so cool against his heated skin, pressing tenderly against his cheek, like the soft touch of snow.

Mind too torn for proper judgement, he lifts a shaking hand to yours, nuzzling further into your gentle touch. His warm, quivering breath brushes over your pulse, filling your senses with him him him. The balmy heat of his skin, the light touch of his raven hair tickling your fingers, the desperation with which he holds to you, one hand still wrapped in the edge of your robes, as though you might disappear.

How long has it been since someone has wanted you?

A sickening tenderness grips you by the throat, the tension between your shoulders easing as Zayne takes a few deep breaths, face near buried in your palm. Your fingers skim gently over his cheek, magic seeping through your touch to ease his temperature, as you’re not sure what else you can do.

How does one comfort a human? You’re not sure. You have never wanted to. Yet, in this moment, with this man, you want to do nothing but. You want to ease the tightness between his brows and take the pain from his body, his mind, his soul, even if you have to experience it yourself. Oh, how far you have fallen.

Eventually, Zayne breathing begins to even out. The roaring pace of his heart eases to something normal, adrenaline dripping away and leaving behind a mess of sore muscles. Breathing out a sigh, his eyes flicker back open, pupils wide and dark, glazed with exhaustion.

And then he realizes just the position he is in - his hand trapping yours against his face, his other wrinkling the beautiful fabric of your robes, the mere foot of separation between your body and his.

He rips his hands away, a raspy apology lost on his lips, but you do not move. Your fingers do not waver against his cheek, tracing the dampness of his skin with such utter tenderness. A low shudder traces Zayne’s spine when he feels your magic curling within the depths of his body, like streams of cool water flowing over every nerve. It feels far too intimate, as though you’ve connected yourself to him, as though you are curling your very soul around him.

“My lady,” Zayne chokes, low and rough, eyes desperately searching yours. Why?

You find that you have no answer.

“I have never witnessed someone suffer such a violent dream,” you admit instead, hand drifting down to settle on the curve of his neck.

Another shiver wracks Zayne’s body, though this one you interpret as being due to the cold of your touch.

“My apologies.” You start to pull away, glancing to the side. “You must be far too cold now-”

“No-!”

Both of you freeze as his fingers wrap desperately around your wrist. His touch is still searing, such a stark contrast to your ice - a pleasant one. You turn your eyes back to him, careful to keep your emotions under control. You can’t both be lost.

Zayne wavers. He glances down to where his skin touches yours, his long fingers so effortlessly encircling your wrist. You could pull away with ease, you could reprimand him harshly for stepping too far, for being a mere human daring to touch such divinity, but you do not. You simply sit, watch, as if waiting to see what he will do next.

“I-” Wetting his lips, he allows his dwindling adrenaline to make him brave, and dares to press a little closer. Close enough to lean back into your touch. “I do not dislike the cold, my lady.”

I do not dislike your touch.

Quite the contrary. Zayne desires nothing more than to wrap himself in it, to indulge in the smooth satin of your skin, to press his lips to every curve and every plane, to see if your body will flush under his attention.

What a heathen he has become.

“Not many find comfort in my presence,” you murmur, almost doubtful, as if you wish to correct him in this. “Most claim my touch is as cold as the ice in my veins.”

“My internal temperature runs higher than most,” he assures you, unyielding, gaze soft but certain, “I suffered often during the heat of the warmer seasons. My teacher-”

A lump forms in Zayne’s throat.

His teacher. The dream. It flickers back through his mind, pain still lingering in his fingers, his scars. Ever since he arrived at the Tower, such memories have been so distant, he had almost thought the nightmares were over. 

How foolish of him.

Reading Zayne is like reading a book, you find as you notice the subtle shift in his expression. One must pay close attention, lest they miss his soul. But you have grown too familiar with his being to miss the distant look in his eyes, as though they are locked on something you cannot see. His fingers curl tighter around your wrist. 

The thin scars on his skin catch your attention, and you allow yourself to analyze them for a brief moment. Up close, there are far more than you originally thought. The sight makes your chest clench with something you don’t recognize, and your fingers move without thinking, tracing one of the thin marks.

The touch draws Zayne back and he flinches as though he has been burned. His hand drops to his lap, tucking close to his body, as if he wishes to hide it.

Is that what his dream was about?

Your voice comes out soft when you press, perhaps too soft, “Were the humans who injured your knee also the ones to do so to your hands?”

Zayne swallows thickly, jaw flexing.

“They were.”

“As punishment?”

“Yes.”

“...May I see?”

He takes a sharp breath, hands curling tightly around each other until his knuckles go white.

“They are unsightly, my lady,” he tries, voice raw. Afraid.

“If I were to show you my scars, would you deem them unsightly?” You challenge, brows steepling with gentle disapproval.

No, no of course he wouldn’t. He would rather cut out his tongue than speak such a blatant lie. No scar could tarnish your beauty, though the thought of anything marring your body, marking the delicate color of your skin, fills him with something violent and so uncharacteristically possessive. How dare someone harm you. How dare they spill your blood. He can only hope they are suffering a far worse fate than his own.

None of these thoughts pass the tight grit of his teeth, though.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he whispers instead, eyes downcast.

“Then I would ask you not to think so lowly of me,” you murmur, “Do not forget, mortal, I saved your life. I have been witness to you hanging between life and death and I have witnessed far more gruesome realities than anything you may know. Scars are merely Fate’s way of allowing us to remember what once was so we may continue into what is.”

It is meant to be comforting in some way, in the only way you know how. Fate may be cruel, but not all she allows must be viewed with an eye of suffering. You know that all too well.

And it seems to ease Zayne’s worries, if only a little. The stiffness fades from his body, and he only hesitates a moment before wordlessly offering you his hands, fingers still trembling imperceptibly.

Slowly, you allow your fingers to trace over his, touch lighter than the drifting snow. His muscles twitch, stutter, moving away before pressing back into you like a tide against the sand, more determined, more certain. Still, you keep your movements slow, keenly aware of the unsteady rise and fall of his chest.

His skin is still so warm against yours. It is like holding the sun compared to the biting cold that lingers in your flesh. You trace the fine lines of his knuckles, brush your thumb over the surprisingly soft skin of his palm, trailing down the inside of his wrist. He sucks in another short breath, pulse jumping under your fingers, but remains perfectly still under your attention.

His scars are many, indeed. They cover every inch of his hands, down his fingers, over his knuckles. Faint lines that gleam almost like silver on his pale skin. The marks are easy to recognize, likely from a small knife. How much pain each one must have inflicted…

“Humans can be quite cruel…” It is nothing but a whisper, shivering in the air with muted anger.

Zayne’s chest aches. He wants to agree, he wants to feel the rage you bear so easily. He wants to hate them as much as you do, and maybe a part of him does, but-

“You killed my daughter.”

He nearly chokes on the guilt.

Brows furrowing, your other palm presses more firmly to his jaw, slowly tilting his face up. Your eyes bore into him with such intensity, as if you can strip him bare and draw out every vulnerable thought trapped in his body. And, in part, you do. In the depths of his eyes, wide and dark like a lamb before the slaughter, you see his despair. It threatens to fracture your frozen heart.

“What sin could warrant such suffering?”

The words ache behind Zayne’s teeth, words he has never spoken, a story he has buried so deep under his skin, that drawing it out now feels like stripping his own flesh. What will you think? Your kindness, your mercy, wasted on a man like him. You may very well choose to end his life, as it should have ended in the kingdom, as it should have in the cold grip of Mount Eternal.

But he owes you far more than just his life, doesn’t he?

“I was a student under a renowned physician at the time,” he rasps eventually, fingers twitching in your grip. Anxious. “The royal court called upon us by name. The king’s daughter was ill, a broken leg that led to infection. My teacher claimed it was an honor to treat her, but it was worse than we expected. Her symptoms were unheard of together, and we spent every hour pouring over medicinal journals to find a cure. We tried everything…but nothing worked. The sickness took her only a few days after we arrived.”

So this is his sin, according to man. Being unable to stop the death of a child, a princess. A death seemingly no one could stop…

A feeling of sickness washes over you suddenly, like a pit opening beneath your feet.

You know this tale. You know it far too well.

It was a prophecy from your own lips.

Your fingers tighten around Zayne’s hand, his scars now burning against your palms.

Fate may wield the sword, but you may as well be the one who sentenced him to death.

---

This chapter was interesting to try and balance. It started off way different, but I kept hitting a wall, so I changed it to start with the nightmare and it all made a lot more sense to me. I hope there was enough comfort to balance out the angst, sorry!

Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76 @xx-riffraff-xx @seris-the-amious

[doomedfromthewombfr]

My existence is an apology I never stop making

[tumbleofwires]

Man it really do feel like this sometimes though

People seriously underestimate the long term effects of constant loneliness

"why are you so weird?" Idk, maybe because being completely isolated while growing up has destroyed my brain and now I'm nothing more than a human-mimicking creature that bases all of my actions on what I think is normal human behavior rather than just doing things naturally

[randomreasonstolive]

Reason to Live #11978

  Sour Gushers!  – Guest Submission

(Please don't add negative comments to these posts.) 

[chthonic-cassandra]

One of those days when floral perfume feels rather like my only consolation against the profound horrors of my life and the world.

[tinkerbellini21]

A Stranger's Jacket: Part II

Evan "Buck" Buckley x plus size! reader

Word: 2.3k

Warnings: Mentions of trauma and shooting, fluff, Buck is a flirt

Author Notes: I have decided I am going to make this a plus! size reader since this is a very self indulgent fic. However, I am going to try to minimize the use of this to make this body inclusive for everyone. Reader is also female at birth and may occasionally use she/her pronouns. But I am trying to make this as inclusive for all of us females and nonbinaries!

Masterlist | Part I

Classes were canceled for a week, giving students time to cope with the trauma- or at least try. The university even allowed students to switch to online if they weren’t ready to return and even full reimbursement for those who couldn’t. 

You however sought normalcy and desperately wanted to get back into your routine. Dr. Daniels had made it out alive and would be out until at least November. By the third day of his time in the hospital, he was out of the ICU and was eager to see you. 

After he thanked you and his wife and two boys gave you a $20 gift card to Dunkin and a bouquet of flowers as a thank you, he had told you he wanted you to teach his Introduction to American Government class to lessen the load on the sub instructor the university contracted for him. 

You were both excited and nervous to have the opportunity to experiment with the possibility of teaching in the future. And most of all, it meant a lot to you that Dr. Daniels had enough trust and faith in you to handle the class. Maybe the fact that you saved his life helped him reach that conclusion. 

Now you sit parked across the street from the 118 fire station, with two cups of coffee and granola bars.

 You had bought the Kind Bars he had the day you met, and thanks to the Daniels family, the coffee was free. You hoped the caramel and a French Vanilla were good choices- Buck could pick first. 

God, this wasn’t weird… right? But showing up with nothing felt worse.

Opening the door to your car, you get out before reaching in to get the box of granola bars and the two-slot drink carrier. Taking a deep breath to soothe your anxieties, you close your eyes. 

This isn’t weird

The large bay doors of the firehouse open, giving a view of the firetrucks and people scattered across the station. You feel a bit out of place as you walk across the street, but you keep moving. As you approach the station, your eyes scan the interior for the blonde. 

You spot the woman paramedic talking to a shorter guy, and when you get closer and stop in front of the pair, they turn their attention to you.

“Hey, can I help you?”

“Yeah, I uh—is Buck here? I’m y/n. I was… at the school shooting last week and I just uh- I wanted to thank him for helping me.”

“Yes, he’s over at the weights. I can take you,” she pauses, extending her hand out towards you to shake “my name’s Hen by the way, and this is Chimney. You did an amazing job keeping that professor alive, by the way.”

“Oh, I didn’t do anything besides what I was trained to do.” You deflect.

“But you saved him by acting fast.”

“Thanks,” you reply shyly, still feeling nervous about being here and being praised for keeping Dr. Daniels stable “Thank you for what you do.”

“It’s our pleasure.” Chimney replies with a warm smile before you follow Hen. She weaves through a gap in two fire trucks leading you to the makeshift gym in the back of the firehouse. Buck is with another guy, spotting him as he lifts weights. 

“Buck, you have a guest.”

Buck glances up briefly. When his eyes spot you, the corner of his lips tug up.

“Hey,” he pauses before he turns his attention back to the man “let me finish this rep with Eddie and we can talk.”

 Hen stands beside you, arms crossed at her chest. She looks amused as she observes the situation. You, on the other hand, feel a bit self-conscious, looking at the two fit men in comparison to your plush body. You shift your weight, trying to stand taller, to feel more confident. You are not here to feel bad about your body or compare yourself to literal firefighters. You are here to thank Buck. 

“Okay.”

With three more overhead presses, Buck lifts the bar and puts it onto the two black metal hooks. You can’t help but look at the muscles in his forearms as they flex under the weight… or the small beads of sweat that coat his forehead. The navy shirt he is sporting is different from the button down he was wearing in the field. He reaches for a towel, patting his neck and face before tossing it onto the floor by a water bottle. 

“I uh, brought coffee. My professor’s wife bought me a gift card to Dunkin, which happens to be two blocks from here. I hope this isn’t weird, but I just wanted to say thank you for that day. I also have this box of granola bars for you. I didn’t know if you wanted caramel or vanilla coffee, so I figured I’d let you choose.”

“It’s not weird at all. It happens all the time,” he towers over you, that irresistible smile still gracing his face as he joins you, “but thank you. Do you mind if I take the vanilla?”

You nod, shoving the Kind Bars in his direction. With your free hand, you grab the warm disposable cup.  Buck’s already opening the package of granola bars.

“Are you sure you like Vanilla? I really don’t mind either flavor, I want you to pick what you really want.”

“Wow, so now you don't trust me?” he teases, feigning offense, but his cheeky face shows otherwise. “I’m hurt… But really, I’m in a vanilla mood today.”

Vanilla mood. You try not to overthink that, as the tone changed from teasing to a bit flirtatious. Or at least in your delusional mind, that’s how you interpreted it. 

 When he sees that you have the coffee he requested, he shifts the opened box to one hand, wrapping his large hand around the cup. You know you shouldn’t be ogling him, but you can’t help but think how his hand would feel on you. 

‘Enough. You’re here to say thank you, not get horny’ your conscience scolds you.  

“Do you want to go on a walk?”

“Sure.”

He guides you back through the firehouse to the front. His hand is hovering behind you, and you tell yourself that he’s just making sure that you are safe. That you aren’t going to bump into anything. 

Buck leads you to the edge of the parking lot, sitting down on a small concrete edge encasing a small flower garden. As you sit down, he turns his body to you, giving you all of his attention again. This time his blue eyes on you leaves you with a different feeling- less sympathetic, more intrigued.

“So, how have you been?”

You flip open the small tab, letting warm steam out to cool the coffee to a tolerable temperature. Buck reaches into the box, fishing out two granola bars. You give a wide smile as he hands one to you, without protest this time. 

“I’m doing good considering the situation,” you pause, feeling a bit flustered as his eyes focus on your face. You gaze down, swinging your foot out of anxiety, “I’m supposed to see a therapist once a week now, but I feel like I’m doing pretty good compared to others. I’ve been back since, and I feel like I handled it well. I still had to lock the door to the office, but the therapist said being able to step into the building was a big accomplishment on its own. I’m lucky, I didn’t see much of the shooting, you know?” 

“But you went through the experience. You saw someone almost die. I’ve been through enough therapy to know that you don’t have to compare your experiences to others.”

“Yeah,” you take a sip of the warm coffee, watching as Buck puts the granola bar up to his mouth to take a bite. The bite he took was at least ⅓ of the granola, acting like he had been starved for days and this was his first time getting food into his system. “I get to teach Introduction to American Government until my professor comes back. It may be until the end of the semester, but I’m excited to be able to get some experience.”

“That’s awesome, y/n. Those students are lucky to have you. When do you start?”

“I’m supposed to start Wednesday. I have nine students online and eleven in-person, so I’ll be on Zoom while I teach.”

“You’ll do great. Are you nervous? You seem like the type to handle pressure well.” 

You laugh at him, leaning towards him. Your arms touch a little, and you pull back again to create some distance. The last thing you wanted to do was make him uncomfortable. You miss the way his eyes flicker, face falling slightly before he subtly shakes his head to clear his thoughts. 

“Surprisingly, no. I know the material and have always liked tutoring others. And the school has provided additional safety features for inside the classroom. So I’m ready to go back.”

“I’m so happy for you, y/n,” he pauses, looking at your granola bar. His fingers grab it, tearing it open for you. You’re taken off guard when he bumps you with his shoulder, tilting his head closer to yours. He raises his eyebrows slightly, a teasing grin on his face “is this going to be our thing, granola bars?”

You let out a giggle that would easily rival that of a school girl’s bubbly laugh. As you observe him, you notice the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“What, you’re going to be carrying around a spare granola bar in case you bump into me ever again?”

He chuckles before turning away from you slightly. His legs stretch out, crossing his ankles as he leans back a little, his hands resting on part of the dirt behind him. You twist your torso to observe him, the sun highlighting his features, his blue eyes still locked on you. You breath hitches as he catches you staring. 

“Well, I was thinking that we could meet again. Maybe this time, for drinks?”

You’re completely caught off guard by his proposal. Would this be crossing a line, mingling with the person who sought to ground you? Who quite literally helped prevent further, long-term mental health issues by talking you down from excessive distress right away? There was no way that this was more than getting to know each other as friends, right?

You decide to keep it light hearted, showing your interest but not getting your hopes up too high. After all, maybe he just wanted to be friends. Right?

“So you want to share granola bars at a bar?”

You get a snort with a shake of his head. 

“I mean, if you want to, sure,” he pauses, his face softer this time. “We could go somewhere smaller, in a safer part of the city, if you want. Maybe a bar and grille so it isn’t full of totally intoxicated people.

“Besides, I can’t imagine how you may feel about bigger spaces at the moment.”

You let out a sigh, bigger than you mean to. The relief you feel is instant and unexpected. He continues to be a naturally caring person, considering a possible trigger of public spaces that may feel dangerous.

“I’d like that, Buck. When were you thinking?”

“Ironically, I have Wednesday off. How about I take you out for celebratory drinks and dinner after you’re done at school?”

“Let me check my calendar to see if I’m free,” you tease, pulling out your phone to unlock it. You open up your phonebook, pretending to scroll through as you create a new contact. “Give me your number, it looks like I can squeeze you in, Wednesday, you said?”

You pass over the device, watching as he enters his name and phone number. He pushes a button to confirm it before he takes it upon himself to send a text to his number. 

“There, we can iron out the details tonight,” he leans forward, stretching out his shoulders with an extension of his arms above his head. His shirt lifts up, giving you a brief glimpse of his abdomen. You know you shouldn’t have looked, but 

 Your cheeks ache from smiling. You can’t remember the last time you smiled like this within the past week, let alone for what feels like forever. Being a Master’s student, you have been running on autopilot, going through the motions. Yet Buck makes you feel like you’re alive again, light and almost normal. 

 “I should probably get back before Captain notices I’m gone.”

He stands, offering his hand. You take it as you pull yourself up, your smaller palm fitting into his larger, warmer one. Neither of you let go right away. His touch is so steadying, so grounding, and you know you should let go. 

You pull back with a reminder that he’s just being polite. Just being a gentleman

His facial expression changes, so small and brief that if you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t have noticed. Like there was something else he wanted to say.

Instead, he flashes that charming smile of his, head tilted. The sun hits his gorgeous blue eyes, causing a light glisten to them.

“I’ll see you Wednesday, y/n.” 

“Yeah…Wednesday.”

As you start to walk away, you glance back over your shoulder. He’s still standing at the entrance of the firehouse, watching you go. 

You face forward, biting your lip to contain the sound of excitement bubbling in your chest. 

Maybe, just maybe… this isn’t just two people getting to know each other.  

Maybe it had always been something more.

[aventurineswife]

Hello! I like your headcanons and I would like to suggest an idea. Can I request Jiyan from Wuthering Waves with a reader who was a slave in childhood and still has a barcode on his/her neck? Maybe some hurt/comfort. I just finished Aventurin's quest and it was so sad. I'm sorry if there are mistakes. English is not my native language 💕

Marked Yet Unbroken

Tags: Jiyan x Reader, Headcanons, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Healing, Mentions of Slavery, PTSD, Nightmares, Emotional Support, Protective Jiyan, Comforting Relationship, Empowerment, Slow Burn.

Warnings: Trauma (mentions of past slavery and abuse), Emotional Struggles, Mentions of Violence.

A/N: I always start crying when I remember Aventurine's backstory... 🥺💔 (Tried new style for hcs, i probably won't keep it)

When Jiyan first notices the slave mark on your neck, he doesn’t comment immediately. Instead, his sharp eyes linger for just a moment longer than usual before shifting away. You can tell from his slight frown and clenched fists that he understands its implication but refrains from prying, respecting your boundaries.

Over time, as your bond with Jiyan deepens, he gently shares his own burdens and regrets, like the loss of his mentor Beiwang. It’s his way of inviting you to share your story, making sure you know he sees you as an equal, not as someone to be pitied.

Jiyan becomes fiercely protective of you, though in his usual stoic way. If anyone dares to bring up your past or stare at the mark, his sharp eyes silence them instantly. His commanding aura makes it clear you’re under his protection.

Despite his reputation as the "Qingloong," Jiyan has a tender side that he reserves for you. When you’re feeling overwhelmed, he’ll sit beside you in quiet solidarity, offering his presence without forcing you to speak. On rare occasions, he’ll gently trace the outline of the mark with his thumb, silently reassuring you that it doesn’t define you in his eyes.

Jiyan is no stranger to nightmares, and when he finds you trembling after a bad dream, he’ll stay by your side, holding your hand and whispering quiet reassurances. His steady voice and warmth feel like a shield against the shadows of your past.

Jiyan admires your resilience, often marveling at how you’ve endured so much yet found the strength to keep moving forward. He sees the barcode as a mark of survival, not shame, and will remind you of that whenever your confidence wavers.

The first time you show him the full story behind the slave mark—sharing the horrors of your childhood—Jiyan listens intently, his usually calm demeanor giving way to a rare flicker of visible anger. He doesn’t press for details, but his quiet vow to ensure your safety is clear in his gaze.

Jiyan offers to teach you self-defense or combat techniques if you're willing. Though he respects your past, he also wants you to feel empowered and never trapped again. His training sessions are intense but filled with patience, and he always gives subtle praise when you make progress.

When you’re ready, Jiyan helps you create new memories to reclaim your life. Whether it’s through walks under the stars, sparring together, or quiet evenings reading or practicing medicine, he ensures you feel like your present and future are yours to shape.

Jiyan may not be the most openly affectionate person, but his actions speak volumes. He’ll cook your favorite meals (even if he’s not a great chef), surprise you with small gifts like medicinal herbs or trinkets he thinks you’d like, and ensure you have a safe place to rest whenever the weight of your past feels too heavy.

In a deeply intimate moment, Jiyan crafts a teal silk ribbon, inspired by the Qingloong. He ties it gently around your wrist, telling you it’s a symbol of your strength and freedom. “This,” he says softly, “is who you are now. Not what they tried to make you.”

[funeral]

In the Romantic tradition of landscape art, artists often sought to create a disturbing impression that the viewer was being watched from an unidentifiable spot in the picture. This illusion of the returned gaze, established by organizing the painting according to a one-point perspective, might be compared to the uncanny feeling that results from traumatic memories, which seem to “possess” and haunt an individual, even though they are not properly remembered . . . [S]uch experiences “cannot be forgotten because [they have] always already fallen outside memory.” If we rely on the metaphor of the mind as spatially organized, the “inner landscape” of a traumatized individual might be said to harbor . . . “unclaimed experiences” that register as painfully real but are inaccessible to consciousness. Strikingly, when such fragments of traumatic memory intrude upon common memory, they often emerge as memories of a particular site. Trauma survivors may recall a particular place or area in great detail without being able to associate it with the actual event.

Ulrich Baer, "To Give Memory a Place", The Spectrality Reader

[andreainlove]

I'm that kind of girl who'll send you to the psych ward if you hurt my little brother and I swear it. I will not break your bones but will break your fucking brain so bad that you'll be left traumatised and will never forget my name. And that's a threat.