#and like the worst thing is that it feels good. its harder to stop destructive behaviors when they feel good

[jonny-b-meowborn]

The worst thing about skin picking disorder is that no sensory toy or whatever can perfectly replicate that feeling. It's not just about scratching or plucking or popping something with my fingers or a tool, it's about feeling it come off my skin. Like I wanna feel both ends of it, and a toy can't replace that

[mandukkul]

TEENAGE ANGST — n. rk

synopsis: you’re suppose to spend yet another birthday alone wallowing in teenage angst, but someone steps in and breaks the cycle

tags: non!idol!riki x f!reader, comfort, angst (not too much i think), a bit of fluff, maybe coming of age

warnings: riki doesn’t appear until like 1/3 into the oneshot, NOT PROOFREAD!!! cursing, angst (i think), spelling and grammatical errors (i wrote tbis at 2am and finshed it at 3 leave me alone), lots and lots of mis-capitalisations, tense errors probably, teenage angst 😰 , let me know if there are any more

word count: 4.7k

published: 13 July

authors note: first writing piece on here, my birthday is on september 8th but i wrote this maybe back in may

You think as a teenager, the worst thing that could affect you was teenage angst. but for you, it would probably be the least of your problems. Instead wallowing like every other teenager before you, locked deep into their rooms never to see the sun until they were 20, you decide it’s better to fix your problem with a day out. 

you’re going to be better than what the stereotype says. I mean who’s better at swimming in your own self pity than yourself of course. Even if your parents had decided that travelling abroad for months on end as a job was better than staying at home in the giant house they bought to live as a family, or leave a teenager alone instead of bringing her along, you won’t let it bother you like it did the previous years. 

Although you couldn’t feel bad, your parents were dreaming big, even if you became merely a side thought in that dream. Any teenager would live blissfully with all the materials you had. It was truly a dream, but a dream can only become reality if you make it. 

You’re not going to think so negatively and say that people around you would rather see you burn than to see you happy, even though that’s exactly what you’re saying. 

You’re a kid with everything you want, but surrounded by other kids who are and have basically the same as you, only with parents in the picture, you’re at bare minimum on the grand scale of things. 

To live your life with no one by your side, unless you count the people who dislike you at school, is harder than you think. 

But you’ve lived your life like this far too long to complain, it’s been routine to be left alone. only now, the difference is that your birthday was today. 

spending what most would say a precious day, in a house so hollow you’d think it was abandoned isn’t exactly ideal.  Being alone could only add to your ever growing list of reasons to angst over. not even you, who seemed accustomed to this trend, would want to be reminded of how alone— lonely— you are. 

so to attempt to turn a new leaf, you urge yourself to spend it differently, you told yourself. straying from your normally secretive emo self, you decide that traveling to the next suburb ,since you heard about a new promotion of the manga you liked being released in a cafe in said suburb, was a good way to ignore your ever piling problems of self-destructive tendencies. 

but oh how the world is against you, even if it is your birthday. 

The bus suddenly needs to take a detour to a different area you’re not too familiar with, then declares that the route must be canceled due to complications leaving you stranded in the middle of butt fuck nowhere. When checking your phone to find where you are, you see that you are not only an hour walk away from your house, but your phone is standing on its last legs with a messily 20%. 

To test your limits further, the sky starts to cry the moment you’re just far enough from your house that running back would do more harm than good. 

you quickly scope your area, finding that there are no parks in the vicinity to offer mercy from the rain, and the closest shelter is either 20 minutes forward to the bus stop or the array of trees planted along the side wall as decorations. 

you way your options, and take the tree closest to you as refuge. you’re glad the area you’ve wandered to is littered with them, even better that they're thick enough to offer some kind of protection. 

minutes passed and the rain hasn’t let up, going at the same harsh rate it has been going at for the past 10 minutes. your clothes, so obviously drenched, weighs you down causing your minimal moves to become sluggish (or maybe it’s the premonition of sickness approaching). 

the trees hang low with despair, mimicking your very attitude. rain licks your face, and you can’t tell whether your tears finally made its greeting or it’s rain getting into your eyes.  

you start to ponder whether running to the back home would be a better idea than your lovely tree, the idea of escaping your rain soaked clothes seeming like a dream as of right now, a dream escaping you the longer you wait. 

you test your already bad luck, because god so obviously has a vendetta against you, deciding your next best option was to end your little escapade and head back home in the rain. 

Barely ten minutes in, with wet sneakers splashing into deep puddles and your clothes glued to you like second skin, the rain starts to roar, angered by your decision apparently. 

your vision can’t help but blur due to the heavy rain clouding your sight, and the hair that stubbornly sticks itself into your forehead and subsequently, your eyes. it’s hazy and you can barely make out the road in front of you, you’re glad the path ahead of you is empty and that you’ve arrived in a more familiar area. 

I guess not even you can escape the clutches of teenage angst, slowing your strides and accepting your fate. 

you think how stupid and cliche you look walking in the rain with a frown. Your feet dragging, now feeling the effects of almost an hour in the rain, and on your birthday of all days. The only thing to complete your look was loud sad emo music. 

stopping in your tracks, letting the rain do what it wants, you begin to think back to what you must’ve done to anger god so much. 

you shut your eyes for just a moment, to shield yourself from rain trying to attack your eyes, but the rain suddenly stops, or more accurately, something is blocking the rain from you. you begin to hear the pitter patter of rain against an umbrella and just for a moment, you think god has found pity in your wallow and granted you mercy. When opening your eyes, low and behold, a black umbrella meets your face. 

oh and there’s Riki, or what he likes to be called, Niki, standing in front of you, holding the umbrella over your head acting as your current saviour. 

so much for God's mercy. 

If your day wasn’t already so bad, you’d say that seeing niki would be the worst part of your day. Unfortunately for you though, it was the best. 

you and niki have never been on the same page, ever since he ‘accidentally’ bumped into you while you were in an empty hall. you had given him many chances to be nice to you, or atleast apologise, but as days passed from the first meeting, all you’ve received was strange stares you know all too well. When confronting him, all he could do is ignore you and or play dumb.  This interaction had left a massive rift between the two of you, and being a not so popular kid  in highschool compared to the ‘king of dance’ was not a good look. 

“why are you trying to be a main character” is the last voice you want to hear from, especially on this joke of a birthday. you crane your neck slightly, meeting face to face with the face you hate (and hate to say is extremely easy on the eyes). “why are you trying to stop my main character moment” you shoot back with equally as much snark, but it comes off weak as you underestimated the sound of rain. 

Niki looks down at you with the same glint in his eye you dislike, not because it was a judgmental one, but one of mystery because you can never guess what he’s thinking. “sorry sorry, should i let you get back to that” he removes the umbrella from above you but you make no attempt to stop him. 

the rain embraces you once again, as harsh it was moments ago. you state a niki again, his dry figure under the comfort of his darken umbrella, staring at you who seemed to be physically separated from him. 

talk about rift. 

you’ve never noticed how far you were from niki, in a metaphorical sense. Niki had everything you had, and more. He had people to talk to, hang out with, care about and care for. He too, probably went through his fair share of teenage angst, but you think to yourself that this is the first (and only) win.  

he sees this and halts his movement, examining your figure deeply. you seem tired. along with the wet suit you’re wearing, and unruly hair dripping at its tips, you look far different to how you present yourself at school. nonchalant and cool, an enigmatic girl who seems to always be out of everyone’s business but as of now, you look (in the nicest way possible) like a train wreck. 

“Are you taking joy out of watching me wallow?” you scoff, staring at him with a distasteful eye, “i’m not a sadist” he jokes but he’s the only one who’s smiling. 

he coughs to clear his throat, or maybe the awkward atmosphere, you’re too tired to care. you watch as he moves the umbrella back under you, “why are you standing in the rain anyways?” he questions. 

“m trying to get home” you whisper loud enough to beat the rain, looking at Niki who’s features seem to fuzz up the more you blink. 

“don’t you live 3 streets away?” he adds, you only nodding in response.

your movements are suddenly too sluggish to call lazy, the effects of an hour in the rain finally hitting you. 

“aren’t your parents worried?” 

probably

“my parents are overseas,” you mumble as he nods knowingly, having his fair shares of travelling parents, although he has his sisters to accompany him, “and i don’t feel like spending my day alone”

birthday 

you think how this is the first real conversation you’ve had with niki, ever since your first encounter. Normally you’d stray away from him, so much as  look in your direction, you’re off to avoid further conflict and instead plan a faux argument comeback for if the day ever arrives. 

you rub your eye to rid the haze that had gotten worse, along with the bodily ache and pounding head. 

niki notices, he always notices you. seeing you off in your own world from a distance. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his tone laced with concern, or at least that's what you think. He moves his hand to wipe some hair out of your face, attempting to help with your irritable eyes. 

Despite the cold weather, you’re hot to the touch. 

“oh shit, you’re burning up” he goes into mother mode as he touches your forehead, seeing as that’s what his sister and mother do when he has his own fever. you mumble an incoherent response, you’re not sure what you said either. 

“I should get home then” you mumble, stepping away from safety and into the rain. He goes to stop you, but the moment you move you’re in shambles, collapsing into his arms like some damsel in distress. 

oh fuck

…

sometimes you think to yourself, what did you do to end up here? and when i mean here, i don’t mean the literal sense, i mean the place you are in life, because for you, all you seem to do is piss of whoever’s writing your story, because why else would you be living such a shitty (but not enough to outwardly complain) life. 

The second you wake up in bed was your first red flag. the sheets a bluish grey, far different from your own floral white ones. The bed is softer, and the quilt more warm, but that might just be from the sheer exhaustion you exhibited some time ago. 

The next flag was the scary tall silhouette you see entering the room, holding what looks like a black plastic bag filled with various things. 

riki looks much more intimidating when all you can make out is his outline. 

the moment he turns around from shutting the door, he sees your eyes staring at him and the previous blank expression he wore changes into a face of concern. 

“oh you’re awake” he scrambles words together as he stalks up to for bedside, placing the plastic bag beside him as he examines your condition like some kind of doctor. 

“clearly” you croak, and you find out that your voice is extremely hoarse (and sore). 

“try not to speak, i think you have a fever from standing under the rain” he deduces but you can’t help but scoff, “gee, who would’ve guessed”. 

the sick you are even snarky than normal you. 

Niki chuckles at your comment as he shuffles around the plastic bag for a bottle of water and what looks like painkillers. 

you shift your head to watch him as he assorts the medicine and water onto the bedside table, pulling out a small mandarin to complete the collection. 

“What's with the orange?” you whisper, trying to not use your voice too much, “vitamin c” he answers simply and you can’t help but laugh at him. 

you manoeuvre into a sitting position to take what he’s giving you, ignoring the pain striking your head as you do so. 

as you pop pills and chug water, you continue to scan the room. It's pretty boring, with a table with a few pieces of stationary, and a shelf with some personal touches. 

Niki sees you’re so obviously inspecting the room, and coughs up an answer. 

“oh umm- sorry. i didn’t know where you lived and you had passed out and i panicked and brought you to my house” he explains. that explains the strange surroundings. you’re in his room. 

you think about how different his room is to what you originally assumed. no trophies, or obnoxious posters. a very standard and boring room for someone so rich. 

his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, “i’ll leave you to rest” he starts to get up and you don’t know what has gotten over you, but the moment you see him shift away, you grasp his wrist urging his attention back on you. 

he stares at you intently, as if he’d listen to the hours of silence you’d make if you chose to. 

under his scrutinising gaze, you can’t help but avert your gaze. “I don't want to spend my birthday alone” you unconsciously mumble and you feel pathetic as you hear the words leave your mouth. 

a raging silence fills the room, and your own anxiety gets the best of you as you loosen your grip around his wrist. 

the moment he longer feels your fingers against him, he reaches for you back which surely catches your attention. 

you never had a real interaction with the boy, especially due to the circumstances you (or him) were put through but your distaste for him wasn't baseless, even if your heart felt different. 

Speaking about heart, it was pounding so loudly against your chest, you could’ve sworn Niki would dance to it. 

“It's your birthday?” he’s grip on your hand is gentle, almost delicate as if you’d crack under the pressure of his touch. you nod softly, not facing him but you can tell what he’s thinking. 

you probably seem more like a loser than you already are, you feel like that at least. 

Riki nods his head, gently as to let your eyes follow enough not to be bothered by such movements. He repositions himself beside his own bed, hand still attached to yours. 

you try everything in your power to ignore his riveting gaze, but the awkwardness is much louder than the silence itself. 

you ponder to yourself, if this birthday was one of your best ones or the worse. you silently compare back to when you were six, and everyone and their friends were there. your parents seemed less concerned with otherworldly matters and you focused on nothing but the people around you. 

That was the last time you felt noticed. 

teenage angst must’ve hit you really early, huh? 

then, back to just 14, where it was yet another year alone, with no one at school knowing who you are (yet because the moment you meet riki everything had a turn for the one worse), your parents at god knows where, living their best business lives, and this is your first time spending your birthday alone (first of a few). 

you think how empty your house was, how dark and voided it felt, feeding into your ever growing reasons to angst. 

and now you think of now, despite being ill with a rising fever, you don’t feel as bad as you did back then. you can’t tell if it’s just your delirious mind putting it’s fair share of delusional thoughts into you, or it’s just because you haven’t had company in so long. but the hand wrapped around yours, and the feeling of someone (even if it’s the ever so terrible niki) next you that made you smile. 

“What are you smiling about? Are you going through shock?” niki’s voice is a mixture of playfulness and concern, because even if the chances of you suddenly falling into a seizure is low, it isn’t zero. 

your eyes trail to him, but not to his eyes, you wouldn’t dare look straight at him. 

“I thought it was going to be another bad birthday” you shrug, and you can’t for the life of you, wipe off your smile, not now because Riki finds it in himself to squeeze your hand. 

you expect another remark, because that’s all your conversations seem to be (from the single one you’ve just had earlier) but nothing of the sort came, instead, from the corner of your eyes, you see him smile. 

the nicest type of smile, with his boxy edges, and eyes squeezing softly. 

if you weren’t looking at him before, you are now. 

“I'm glad” that’s all he says, and your heart clenches at something that isn’t depression and anxiety. 

The overwhelming feeling of awkwardness has long dissipated and has been replaced with something else. 

something new. 

you stare intently into his eyes, moreso, he does and you are compelled to look back. He's searching for something, in the darkness of the room it seems like. 

you can barely make out his features, soft eyes, and sharp jaw. his hair perfectly framing his face, to much of your distaste, and is slightly damp probably from just getting back from wherever he went. 

you wonder what’s going inside that head of his, while staring so intently at you, dissecting every little part of you. does he notice the droop of your eyes, how tired you look, how pale your skin has gotten from days locked in your room, how your cheeks never flushed with life yet was always plush to the touch (probably from all the instant food you’ve consumed)

does he notice the teenage angst you wallow in, him probably going through the same trivial problems as you. 

“Sorry you have to spend your weekend with me” you whisper, thinking about all the other things the “king of dance” could be doing instead of nurturing you back to health. 

He’d probably be out with heeseung or jake at the local gaming cafe, laughing and playing. He was probably on his way there if not for running into you. 

you don’t break eye contact so you see how his eyes double in size, quick to shake his head, your own aching from following his movements. “hey don’t say that” he scolds you, taking his other hand to caress yours. 

How intimate does he get?

your skin burns from his touch, and not because your fever is bordering on 39° C. Your eyes tear away, too much of your brains disliking because, even if you dislike him, he’s very nice to look at. 

“no one deserves to spend their birthday alone” and he may be right, but your own angsty self could beg to differ. 

because with the cards dealt to you, and the way you’ve treated the world (because how it treated you) there’s no doubt there’s a love hate (mostly hate) relationship going on between you and life. 

“Even more, now that you’re sick” he adds on, rubbing circles to the back of your hand and you feel comfort for the first time in a while. 

“i guess even someone who hates me can be nice, huh?” you didn't mean to say that out loud, but your quiet voice is too intertwined with your head voice, mixed with the fact that you’re terribly sick, couldn’t tell the difference. 

he stares at you quizzingly, as if you’ve said something so utterly absurd it’s left him speechless. 

“i don’t hate you” 

those words catch you off guard. because the words “don't” and “hate” have never been uttered on the same line with “you” following after it. 

you stay silent. it’s your birthday so of course he wouldn’t uprightly say it to your face. 

“Do you hate me?”

he asks and you take a moment to ponder, about the strange stairs he’s given you, and the amount of times he’s ignored you piled with how everyone at school seems to stray away from you. 

you only hate him because he hates you 

“i only hated you because you hate me”

niki is left truly speechless (in a metaphorical sense), and his jaw is literally cracked wide. 

“what?!? I don't hate you! god! i could never hate you”

like a cringey teenage cliche, you bite your lip holding back an unwanted grin. 

“don’t say the lord's name in vain” you mutter to make light of the situation. 

not having friends didn't mean you weren’t socially inept. 

Your dry chuckle is the only sound left in the room, other than the pattering of rain. riki can’t help but frown at the news he just heard. 

“i’ve never hated you, not for a second”  he looks at you as if he’s trying to convince you, telling you that all your internalised monologues were for nothing, “i just thought… since you were so stand-off-ish, that you just didn't like me” you shrug, averting from his gaze. 

words pour out of you like vomit and you can no longer keep up your enigmatic cool girl facade, not now that you’re sick. 

“not many people like me, so i assume you hate me jusy as much, and well, if you hated me, i figured i should hate you back” 

and you did, well you tried to at least. but in moments like these; where niki holds your hand as if you’re the only thing keeping him alive, where his eyes never leave your lips because he’s so set on remembering every little detail you say, afraid your words will be lost to tone. you can’t help but not hate him at all, noy one bit. 

“how could i hate you when you’re just so perfect” he whispers, almost like a confession. 

actually he did confess. to you. right now. 

you owlishly blink, and suddenly think that your beating heart is more serious than your fever. 

you try to snatch your hand away from him, in embarrassment of him feeling how hot you feel, with the tips of your ears flaming red. 

with your averted gaze, it’s not like you can see that his neck has a creeping speck of hot red as well as his cheeks, ears, and everything on him. 

He's so glad it’s dark right now. 

“you can’t just say that, riki” it’s the first time you’ve said his name. 

his name out of your mouth, your tongue, your lips. 

He wants to hear it again. 

“Why not?” he eggs, leaning closer despite the strange territory they’ve suddenly entered. 

“Some people might get the wrong idea” and by some, you mean yourself because even with the minimal things you know about the boy next to you, your heart is fluttering like crazy it makes you want to vomit.

“But I'm not lying, you’re so perfect” Riki reiterates, “you’re so perfect, i’m afraid to even talk to you, or look at you, even be around you” he rambled at the amount of failed attempts to talk to you, caused by his shyness. 

so… everytime you tried to talk to him, walked near him, caught him staring, it was all because of some silly crush?

and now you feel stupid, ontop of your crippling angst, you’ve failed at teenage romance. 

letting out a frustrating sigh, so heavy you might even blow the poor boy away, you drop down ontop your back and whine. 

he’s shocked for a moment, watching you wail with your hands covering your face. 

he finds you so cute, his stomach might because an olympic gymnast at this point. 

riki crawls closer to you, kneeling onto his knees as he gently pries your hand away from your face. “I feel so stupid” you can’t help but utter, eyes shut to avoid his eyes. 

riki grins, leaning closer (not that you could see), “the smartest girl at school? Feeling stupid? That's a first” he jokes and you unintentionally snort out a laugh, “i’m not the smartest” you instantly shoot back, slowly opening your eyes. 

“oh but you are, you’re smart, and beautiful, and mysterious and witty and-“  you rip your hand from his grip to cover his mouth, any more and your ego will start to inflate and be as big as Sunghoon’s. “aish, stop that 

'' You laugh, and you can hear him giggling along. 

“But why? can’t i tell the girl i like how amazingly perfect she is?”

the girl he likes…

the. 

girl

he

likes

IS YOU?

“you like me…” you gape, maybe you are socially inept, or at least, romantically. 

riki laughs, and a hearty one at that. the type of laugh that comes straight from the stomach. “how could anyone not?” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

like the teenage girl you are, you can’t help but feel bubbly and giddy, like the princess in some lame disney movie being swept off her feet by a guy who’s probably way too old for her (funny seeing that riki’s younger than you). 

Then guilt hits you. as much as you want to revel in this blissful joy, you know nothing about riki, and you spent so long hating on him in your head to suddenly switch up. 

“I know nothing about you though…” you break the news to him, “i mean, we technically just had our first real conversation”. 

riki can’t help but smile, even if he’s just been indirectly rejected, your gentleness in letting him down makes him swoon even more. 

“we can get to know each other then” he declares, smiling down at you. 

“But are you willing to wait?” your eyes fill with anticipation, hoping for the best (it is your birthday after all), and wonder for the first time in forever, smiling from ear to ear.

“for you, i’d wait a thousand years” 

if what he said before wasn't swoon worthy, this definitely was. 

you feel like one of his silly fangirls that wait outside of class, giggling at his stupid smile but this time, you know you’re the cause of it. 

“Are you going to start singing Christina Aguilera now?” you joke, giggling quietly to yourself. “I mean you should, since it’s my birthday after all” oh what a good birthday it was. 

“anything for my birthday girl” Seeing your smile stretch for the first time, he hopes he’d be seeing that everyday in the near future.

Riki looks at you, for what feels like the millionth time. He really looks at you, like he did at school, like he did on the street in the rain, and like he does now. 

and he thinks to himself:

yeah, I can definitely wait.

authors note pt.2: as you can see i write a lot for riki (my bias) mostly because i have so many wips that i s decided to release 🤭 might accept request who knows. also if you have any tips on how to write or do a layout please pm!!!!

[jpmarvel90]

Grief

Masterlist Natasha Masterlist

Relationship: Natasha x Reader, Sister Wanda x Sister Reader

Summary: After Clint's death, Natasha falls of the rails and her marriage is at stake.

Word Count: 6554

Y/n’s POV:

When Clint died, it affected everyone in the team. But most of all, it affected his best friend, Nat. After his funeral, Nat started to withdraw from everyone, including me, her wife. Her walls went up and she almost went into self-destruct mode. I barely saw her. She would be out all-night doing God knows what. Most of the mornings when she would eventually come back home, she was drunk or high.

She had stopped working, which was for the best anyway as she wasn’t in the right mind set for it. But work was always her outlet when things got rough for her. I barely saw her and when I did, she would talk to me. I was lucky if I got a good morning or goodbye. She would never tell me where she was or where she was going. At first I would wait up for her, terrified something had happened, then she would come in to bed in the early hours, not even addressing the fact she had been out all night.

Eventually, I would be asleep before she came in and then she would be gone before I woke up. I felt helpless that I couldn’t help her. I would try to get her to open up, but she would just ignore me. We started to argue more, something we had rarely done. If we disagreed, we would always talk about it. Even if we didn’t end up agreeing, it would rarely end up in a fight. Now, it seemed like just saying good morning would get a rise out of her.

The team were worried too, and they had all tried to help her as well. But it was no use. I spent so much time talking to my sister Wanda about how I was worried that she was slipping away. But she would encourage me to be patient and just be there so when she was ready to talk, she knew I was there to listen. But she was becoming nasty and the worst she got, the harder it became.

I would tell myself that she had lost her best friend, the man that saved her life and gave her a second chance to fight for what was right. If I ever lost Wanda, I would be devastated and know that I wouldn’t cope. I was Natasha’s wife. It was my job to be there for her, for better or for worse. But it looked like better was never going to make its way back again.

It was late on a Tuesday evening when Natasha stumbled through the door to our house. The smell of alcohol seeped off her and she looked a mess. When looked closer, I could see lipstick on her neck. I felt my heart constrict at the sight, but I wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions. “Nat, where have you been?” I asked calmly, making way towards her. She just started to giggle. “I wanted a drink.” She slurred out, pushing past me to the stairs.

I followed her and watched as she stumbled around trying to get herself ready for bed. I knew there was no use in talking to her now. She was drunk and probably wouldn’t hear anything I had to say anyway. So, I waited. I sat up in bed and waited until she woke up a few hours later. One thing about Nat was she never got a hangover so was always ready to function the next day. She looked at me surprised when she saw me awake and watching her. I heard her sigh, but we needed to talk. It had been 6 months since Clint died and she was getting worse. I know she is grieving but this isn’t healthy, and I hate not being able to help her. What sort of a wife isn’t able to comfort the person they love?

“Where were you last night?” I asked, keeping my voice calm and low, not wanting to frustrate her. But it didn’t work. “I was just out for a drink.” She said coldly, making her way to the bathroom. “Please Nat, I’m worried about you. I want to help you.” I said trying to contain the emotions. “I don’t need your help Y/n. I’m fine.” She huffed, doing everything to ignore looking in my direction.

“I know you’re hurting, and I can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling, but you can’t keep doing this. It’s unhealthy.” I said and I could tell she was starting to get angry, but I wasn’t planning on backing down today. “Exactly, you don’t know what I’m feeling so just back the fuck off.” She spat, shoving past me to leave.

I ran down the stairs and blocked the door so she couldn’t leave. “Natasha, I’m your wife. I’m not going to force you to talk to me, but please talk to someone. You need help. I’m worried about you. I don’t know where you go and then you come home drunk and last night you came home with lipstick on you.” I said frustrated, my resolve breaking.

She slammed her keys down on to the counter and walked towards me not breaking eye contact. “I do not need you telling me what to do. Being my wife doesn’t give you some special pass to know everything about me. And the so what, I was having fun last night. Isn’t that a good thing?” She said with an evil smirk on her face. “Fun with someone else is that what you mean?” I ask, almost at a whisper, terrified of her answer.

She paused for a moment before answering. “Yeah, someone who doesn’t badger me at every minute of the day.” She said it so casually, and I felt my heart shatter. She cheated. “I mean that little to you, that you would go and cheat?” I asked. “This just isn’t working anymore Y/n. Neither of us are happy. Let’s just cut our loses whilst we can.” Her words were cold and callous. “Nat, you don’t mean that. We’re married, we’ve been together for 8 years. You’re grieving and if you need space, then I’ll give it to you. But please, this isn’t the end for us.” I argued, tears filling my eyes.

“Well, maybe 8 years was enough. This isn’t the grief talking Y/n. I can’t do this anymore. I think we should break up.” She said, not making eye contact anymore. I felt sick and my legs were shaking. “Break up? You want a divorce?” I asked in shock, and she just nodded. I was speechless. I looked at her and I knew that there was nothing that I could do. I moved away from the door and walked away from her, tears streaming down my face.

When I heard the door close, as she left, I fell to my knees and broke down. I couldn’t believe that the woman that I had fallen in love with could do that to me. Not wanting to stay in this house any longer, I grabbed my bags and filled them with my clothes and anything I wanted to take with me. Which wasn’t much as I didn’t want the memories of this anymore. I locked the door and push my key through the letter box. I packed up my car and made my way to the compound.

I was greeted by Jarvis, and I asked where Tony was. As usual he was in his lab. I was making my way there when Wanda saw me and chased after me, trying to find out what’s wrong. “Y/n/n, please slow down. Have you been crying?” She asked as I ignored her and found Tony. “Y/n what do I owe the pleasu…. Y/n, oh God what’s wrong” He asked, his voice turning to one of concern. “Can I move back in please?” I asked with no emotion to my voice.

Both him and Wanda looked at me confused. “This place will always be your home, but what about Nat?” Tony asked and I felt myself shudder at her name. “She’s asked for a divorce.” I stated and they both gasped. Wanda pulled me into a tight hug. “She’s just grieving Y/n she didn’t mean it.” Tony tried to comfort me, but it was no use. I shook my head. “She said it wasn’t that. She wasn’t happy and she um. She cheated last night.” I shared and I felt Wanda’s grip on my arm tighten. I looked up to see her eyes going red. “I’m going to kill her.” She said but I grabbed her hand.

“No Wanda. It’s not worth it. Clearly, I was stupid to ever believe that she ever truly loved me. I never should have let my walls down.” Wanda’s eyes calmed and she looked at me with pity. “Please don’t put them back up Y/n. I can’t see you like that again.” She pleaded but it was too late. I didn’t plan to let anyone back in. “Tony, could you give me a number of a divorce lawyer? I’d rather get this done and out of the way so we can move on.” I explained.

I noticed his eyes move towards Wanda with concern, but I ignored it. “Sure, I’ll email you the details for when you’re ready.” She offered with a kind smile. I thanked him and made my way to my car to grab my bags. Wanda helped as we unpacked my things in silence. I had never felt so lost and hurt. Wanda could feel the pain I was in, and I could tell it was hurting her to see it. I started to block off my mind, not wanting her to her my thoughts. The first step to building my walls back up.

Third Person POV:

The team were shocked by Natasha’s actions. They barely saw her anymore, but how she so callously broke up with Y/n was something none of them expected. Natasha had never been happier than when she was with Y/n. They all knew she was hurting, but to cheat on Y/n and ask for a divorce was a complete shock. Although they understood that Natasha was grieving, many of them were angry at her.

Y/n had done nothing but be there for Natasha. She had never pushed, and she had taken every argument and insult that Natasha would throw at her in the heat of the argument. She stayed when many people would have left. Instead of working to get better for her wife, she pushed her away and did the one thing that was unforgivable. She broke Y/n’s trust the moment she decided to cheat. The team didn’t recognise Natasha anymore and they didn’t know what to do. They only person they thought that could get through to her was slowly falling into their own pit of depression.

Y/n thought she was being strong by hiding her feelings and focusing back on work. But the team could see past it. They knew she was hurting, and it pained them that they couldn’t help. When Y/n and Wanda joined the team, both of them struggled to settle in. But Y/n found it harder. She had spent more of her life in Hydra, and it took years before she was the fun, caring and loving person that the team grew to know. They were terrified that she was going to fall back to being that broken girl that joined the team 10 years ago.

Everyone was shocked when Y/n got divorce papers so soon. They thought she would give Nat time to realise her mistake, but Y/n was beyond hurt now and was doing everything she could to protect what as left of her heart. Wanda was most worried. Not being able to understand how Y/n was feeling scared her. Even in Hydra when Y/n would block Wanda from her mind, she still spoke to her. But this time she had totally shut herself off.

Y/n threw herself into missions and was nearly always away from the compound. For Fury it was great. Her success rate was high, and she never complained regardless of what the mission was. He started to use the fact that she was hurting to his advantage, which frustrated, Tony, Steve and Wanda. But Y/n passed all evaluations and was will which didn’t really given them a leg to stand on to stop it.

On team missions, it was clear that Y/n was reckless. Not with the safety of others or the success of the mission, but with her own life. On multiple occasions she would come back with some form of injury, but it wouldn’t stop her. Y/n main focus was to get the job done and protect Wanda. The last person that she truly cared for.

She still loved the team, but Wanda had been there her whole life. Y/n would do anything to make sure her sister came home in one piece, regardless of the cost. Wanda was the last person Y/n could lose. She knew she would never come back from that if she did. Y/n would rather die if it meant that Wanda survived.

It was a solo mission that ultimately brought trouble for Y/n. Fury had underestimated the forces that Y/n would go up against and within a few hours, Y/n was missing. Steve was leading comms from the compound and her tracker and comms were down. There was no sign of her. Tony started to do all he could to find her, whilst Steve had to have the difficult conversation with her sister.

He found Wanda in the common room reading when he took a seat next to her. She looked up and instantly her eyes started to gloss over. “Its Y/n isn’t it.” She said before Steve could say anything. He nodded sombrely. “She’s missing. Tony and SHEILD are doing everything they can to find her.” He explained and Wanda broke down. Steve was quick to pull her into his arms to hold her. “I can’t lose her Steve. She’s all I’ve got. I should have done more. She was hurting and I couldn’t help. My own sister. I let her go back to closing herself off and now she’s gone.” Wanda cried into Steve’s shoulder who tried to keep her calm.

“You did everything you could Wanda. Do not blame yourself. No one could have helped her in the state she was in. You being there was what she needed, and you did that. This was just her way of coping.” She consoled. “I’m terrified Steve. My sister can’t be dead.” She sobbed. “Y/n is dead?” both Steve and Wanda’s head shot up, anger filling the witch’s eyes when she saw the source of the voice.

Nat’s POV:

Losing Clint was the hardest thing I’ve had to go through. He was the reason I was able to make a difference and start to clear my ledger. He made a choice to save me and give me a second chance. One that lead to me gaining a family and a job that allowed me to make a difference. He was the reason I met my wife.

I knew I was pushing everyone away, but I couldn’t help it. I could feel the grief consume me and I was angry at everyone. So, I didn’t what I did best, I ran from my feelings. I knew I was hurting Y/n but in my mind, I didn’t care. I knew she would be there for me when I got my shit together. She didn’t push me at the start, and I was grateful for that. But then she would question where I was more, and I didn’t want to talk about it. So, I pushed her even further.

I started to dread coming home and seeing her. Our relationship wasn’t the same anymore. I know it was my fault but in the heat of the moment, I decided I wasn’t prepared to do that anymore. So, I did something I never thought I would do. I broke her trust and then asked for a divorce. I could see her heart break but the grief I was feeling was selfish and I didn’t care. So, I left.

If I had not been so fucking stupid, I would have seen that Y/n had done everything I needed to work through my grief. I was just too stubborn to do what I needed to. I let it consume me and I didn’t care who I hurt along the way. Even if that was my wife. The woman that I adored with all my heart. The woman I would die for. I was an asshole.

I lied to her. I didn’t cheat. Well, I guess technically you could say I did. I kissed another woman, then as it started to go further, I realised what I was doing and stopped it. I couldn’t do that to Y/n, even if I couldn’t see that everything else I was doing was toxic towards her.

After going on a 3-day bender, I found myself at the door of Clint’s old house, knocking. Laura opened the door with a smile which dropped when she saw my state. “Natasha, what are you doing here?” She asked a little shocked. I hadn’t seen her since the funeral. I could face her knowing that Clint was gone. Clearly my subconscious had brought me here. “I uh. I don’t really know.” I told her honestly and she was quick to pull me inside.

She made a pot of coffee and we talked for a while. I apologised for not being around. But she said that she was doing good. She had her good days and her bad, but she was strong for the kids, and they were finally started to heal as they knew that Clint wouldn’t want them to be stuck in a cycle of grief.

Her words hit home with me. If his wife and kids could move on with their grief, why couldn’t I? “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look awful.” Laura said with a smirk, but worried eyes. “Yeah, I’ve not really been dealing with everything so well.” I explained and she nodded. “So I’ve heard.” She responded and I looked at her confused. “I see the team regularly. Tony told me that you and Y/n aren’t together anymore.” She said and I was shocked that she knew.

“I must say, you’re a fucking idiot.” She said and it shocked me. “What?” I asked confused. “You let go, well pushed away, someone as great as Y/n. I never too you for the cheating type Natasha. I know you’ve been grieving but you were selfish. Grief doesn’t give you a free pass to hurt someone else.” She scolded me and my eyes dropped to my hands in embarrassment. “We weren’t in a good place. We were fighting all the time and it seemed like the right decision.” I defended.

“Well, you’re even more of an idiot than I thought. Y/n was terrified that she was going to lose you. That you’d end up hurt or worse. She did everything that you wanted until it was becoming too much. Then you broke her trust for what? Because she cared too much about you to let you throw away your life as you were doing. You know, Clint didn’t save you for you to fall back to your old habits.” She said sternly. She really wasn’t letting me off the hook here.

“I would do anything to have even one more minute with Clint. Yet you are happy to throw away the one good thing in your life?” She questioned and I could see the hurt in her eyes. “If you want to self-destruct, fine. But breaking someone who worked so hard to build themselves up is unacceptable. Life is short, don’t throw it away.” As she spoke, it was like a movie reel was playing in my head of all the horrible things I had done to Y/n over the last 6 months. Then I saw everything good thing she had ever done for me. I was a coward, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to fix what I’ve broken.

I spend the next couple of weeks with Laura. She helped me to get my shit together. Spending time with her and the kids help me to come to terms with losing Clint and finally being in a position I could move on and honour Clint in the way he deserved. I had to make myself better not just for me, but for my wife. I eventually went back home ready to fix things with Y/n. Firstly, I needed to explain to her what really happened that night.

I opened the door to our house, and it struggled to open as there was a pile of post. I picked it all up and was surprised when I saw a key underneath it all. I picked it up and realised it was Y/n’s key. I called out to her, but knew she wasn’t here as her car was gone. I made my way up to our room and saw all of her things were gone. I don’t know what I was expecting. I asked her for a divorce, so of course she wasn’t going to wait for me anymore.

After clearing up a bit, I started making my way through the mail and paused when I got to a large A4 envelope. I opened it and felt my heart complete shatter. It was divorce papers. Fuck, I was too late. I grabbed my keys and made my way to compound. I knew she’d have gone back there to be with Wanda.

Tears were falling down my cheeks the whole way there. I can’t believe that I hurt the one person I love more than life itself. How could I let my grief get to the point I was willing to let her go? When I got to the compound I ran as quickly as I could to find her but was greeted by a sobbing Wanda in the common room. Steve was holding her, and I could tell that he was holding back tears as well.

Then I heard the words that shattered my world. “I’m terrified Steve. My sister can’t be dead.” Wanda sobbed and I couldn’t believe what I had heard. I was speaking before I even knew it. “Y/n is dead?” I asked. They both looked up at me and I could see how angry Wanda was. Her eyes had turned red. She stood up and marched over to me and before I knew it, I was on the floor with a bloodied nose and Wanda stood over me.

Ok I deserved that. Jeeze she packs a hell of a punch. “This is all your fault! You were so selfish that you pushed her to her limit.” Wanda screamed at me. I could hear the pain in her voice. What had happened? Where was Y/n? Was she actually dead? I had all these questions flying around my head, but the words didn’t come out. At my silence, Wanda started to generate an energy ball. I prepared myself for the impact, but it never came.

I looked up and saw Wanda’s hands drop to her side, the energy ball extinguished. She fell to her knees, heart breaking sobs leaving her. I sat up and pulled her towards me. I hated seeing her like this. She fought my comfort but eventually gave in. When she had calmed down, she pulled away, the anger had replaced the sadness that filled her eyes a moment ago. “If anything happens to Y/n, I’ll never forgive you.” She said coldly and walked off.

Steve was looking at me like I’d never seen before. He was disappointed but also hurt. “Steve, where’s Y/n? What is going on?” I asked needing to know what was actually happening. Steve went on to explain what had happened and the guilt was just continuing to grow. “She shut down Nat. It was like she was when she first got here. Her only priorities were missions and protecting Wanda. I know you were grieving, but I never thought you’d ever be able to do what you’ve done to her.” I couldn’t respond to him. I knew exactly what I had done and how unforgivable it was. I just had to hope that Y/n would come back safe to try to fix this.

For the next two weeks we all worked as hard as we could to find Y/n. We attacked numerous Hydra bases in the hopes we’d get more information, but it was useless. The more time that went on the more we realised, it was a high possibility that Hydra didn’t have her and that she had been hurt, or worse, in a fight with them.

Over these weeks, I had slowly been able to gain the others trust back. Wanda still hated me, and I didn’t blame her for that, but we worked well together. We both had the same drive and we understood how the other was feeling. We often would end up in the kitchen late at night talking about what was going on in our heads. “When I lost Pietro, I thought I would never get out of the darkness, but Y/n was there guiding me back to the light. When she started throwing herself into missions, I knew it was only a matter of time before something would happen. I tried everything I could to get to her, but she had shut me out. I failed her.” 

I watched the turmoil on Wanda’s face. I hated that I had caused Y/n to close herself off to the world again. “Wanda, it’s not your fault. I broke her when I promised I never would. She cares for you, and she would hate that you are blaming yourself.” I try to comfort her. She sniffles and nods in acknowledgement. “Why did you do it?” She asked quietly but her eyes were boring into me.

I took a breath. “It’s a shit excuse, but with all the fighting we were doing, I convinced myself that we were coming to an end, and it was best to end it. I was too lost to realise that I was the cause of all the fighting and Y/n was just trying to help. When I came home to find the divorce papers, it felt like my world stopped. I took her for granted thinking that she would always be there no matter how horrible I was.” I explained. I was waiting for another punch or yelling but nothing came.

Wanda looked at me with sad eyes. “Is that why you cheated?” She asked and was quickly shaking my head. “I didn’t cheat. Well not like she thinks. I lied.” I said and I saw a hint of anger in Wanda’s eyes. “You lied about cheating?” She asked clearly not believing me, but I quickly told her to go into my mind and see what really happened that night. When her eyes returned to their normal emerald green she sighed. “I’m terrified that I’m going to lose her, like I lost Clint, but she won’t know that I’m sorry and I truly love her. She’s my light, my life. I can’t live in this world without her.” I started to cry and was shocked when Wanda comforted me.

“You broke her walls down once, maybe you can do it again.” She said calmly. “You really think she’d let me back in?” I asked surprised. “There was one emotion she couldn’t shut off from me the last few weeks, her love for you. It was so strong she couldn’t block it off. That doesn’t mean that she’ll forgive you, but I know she got the papers to protect herself. She thought it would stop the pain, but it didn’t.” She explained and I felt a small bit of hope.

The next morning, I was woken by Steve rushing into my room. “The quinjet is about to land. Y/n is on it.” He said out of breath. I shot out of bed and ran with him to the landing pad. “Do we know how she is?” I asked, wanting to be prepared for what we were about to see. “No, Fury’s team found her but there was no report of her condition.” He shared. We arrived and I stood next to Wanda, taking her hand in mine to give her comfort.

We could hear an argument from the back of the yet. “Y/n, you need to go to the medbay, please just get on the gurney.” We could hear Bruce say frustrated. “I’m fine Bruce, I don’t need a bed. My legs will be able to carry me to the medbay and I’ll let you do what every you need to do.” Hearing her voice was a relief and I could hear Wanda let out a big of a chuckle. As Y/n appeared at the back of jet, I noticed that she was covered in cuts and bruises and her shirt was saturated in blood.

Bruce was walking next to her, helping her as she limped her way over towards us. Wanda was quick to let go of my hand and made her way to Y/n. She was hesitant but still pulled her into a hug. “You scared the shit out of me! Don’t you dare do that again.” She scolded, but Wanda was quick to hug her again. “Here, let me help you.” Steve said, jogging over to help Bruce get Y/n to the medbay.

My heart rate was increasing with every step closer they took. Then our eyes met and for a brief moment it was like I couldn’t breathe. “As if getting shot wasn’t bad enough.” She muttered under her breath, but loud enough that I could hear. I followed as they took her to the medbay and watched as they started to patch her up. Wanda stayed with her whilst the rest of us observed from the waiting area.

Once he was done, Bruce came out to give us an update. “She’s doing good. Bullet wound to her shoulder and abdomen, but both were through and throughs. She did a good job of keeping them clean and stemming the bleeding until she was found. She got some small injuries such as broken ribs, fractured eye socket and a few broken fingers. But they’ll heal over time. She’s lucky.” She explained and we thanked him before making our way into the room. I took my place next to Y/n and couldn’t hold back anymore.

I grabbed her hand between mine. “Thank God you’re ok. I was so scared.” I said through tears. She turned to look at me, but her eyes were empty. Wanda was right, she had closed herself off again. She didn’t respond to me, but she also didn’t take her hand away. “What happened?” Wanda asked from her seat next to Y/n’s bed. “Mission went sideways. I was able to fight them off as best I could before I got hit. Thankfully I was able to get away. But the bleeding was too much so I took shelter in an abandoned hut. I was in and out of consciousness for a while and with no comms I had no way to call for help. Eventually I was found by a hunter and his son. They helped me get in contact with Fury and now I’m here.” She summarised.

Wanda held her hand tighter and ran her hand through Y/n’s hair. “I thought I lost you. Please, you have to be more careful and stop taking so many missions.” She pleaded. We were all surprised when Y/n agreed so easily. The team started to disperse, saying their goodbyes leaving just Wanda, Y/n and me. Wanda looked between us and stood up to leave. “I’ll come back later with some dinner.” She said but Y/n wouldn’t let go of her hand. I could tell they were having a conversation in their minds and obviously Wanda won when Y/n let go of her hand.

I sat in silence for a moment thinking about what to say, but it turns out I didn’t have to. “Have you signed the papers yet?” She asked coldly. Her words were like daggers to my heart. “No, and I don’t plan to.” I responded and she scoffed. “You were the one that wanted a divorce Natasha, just sign them and we can move on.” She retorted, not making eye contact with me once.

I know Y/n more than I know myself. I can always get a pretty good read on her. I thought it would be difficult if she had closed herself off, but I could tell she was in so much physical pain, that she wasn’t able to fight to keep those walls up right now. And I knew she didn’t really want me to sign the papers. She’s trying to protect herself. “I don’t want to move on. I want to make things right with my wife.” I said firmly. “Ex-wife.” She muttered and once again her words hurt. But I deserved it.

“You’re not my ex-wife. We’re not divorced yet and I don’t plan of letting that happen.” I insist. “If you don’t sign them, I’ll go through the courts if I have to. I have grounds for divorce. You cheated on me. My lawyer said that I can proceed with that alone.” She explained and I realised just how much she had done in a short space of time. “Well, I didn’t cheat, your grounds are gone. So how about you just talk to me for a moment before trying to force through a divorce that neither of us want.” I kind of shouted and I saw her flinch slightly.

“Don’t lie Natasha, you’ve already hurt me enough, please just stop.” She said, her voice cracking. “I’m not lying. I did kiss another woman that night. I was drunk and then as she wanted more, I stopped it. I didn’t sleep with her because even in my drunk ass state, I couldn’t do that to you. You don’t know how much I regret even kissing her, let alone then letting you believe that I cheated on you. Wanda read my mind, she can show you that I’m not lying.” I quickly explain hoping she’ll believe me.

“Then why did you say you did? Did you just want to hurt me?” She asked and I hated my response, but I had to be truthful. “At the time yes. I was angry and I thought the only way I could process everything was in my own stupid way. I was frustrated when you would try to help so I just pushed you away and then lied so I could get you to leave me.” I said shamefully, unable to keep eye contact. I could hear her sniffling and it was killing me knowing I was causing her pain all over again.

I then heard shuffling as she started to get out of bed, pulling off the wires attached to her body. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” I said jumping out of my seat to push her back into the bed. “I can’t stay here right now. My own wife just admitted that she wanted to hurt me. When all I had ever done was try to help her through her grief. I took every harsh word you ever said to me because I knew you were hurting, and you didn’t mean it. It was more important that I was there for you. But that night, I looked in your eyes and I could tell you did mean it. My wife, my Natasha, would never have treated ANYONE like that regardless of what she was going through.” She was crying and she was angry, and she was right.

I fight with her a little to make sure she stays in her bed. I can’t have her hurt herself anymore. “Please just stay here. You’ll make your injuries worse. If you want, I’ll leave and give you space.” I tried to bargain with her. She huffed and dropped back on the bed, giving a slight hiss in pain. “I don’t want space. I want to stop feeling all this pain. I want to stop feeling like the world is slowly falling from underneath me. I can’t do this until you let me move on. So just sign the god damn papers.” She almost yelled.

I did this too her. I caused this pain and turmoil by being selfish. But I wasn’t going to give up on her. “I’m not signing the papers.” I insisted once again. “I made you a promise on our wedding day that I would fight for us through anything. I broke that promise which I will never forgive myself for. But I still plan on living by that promise now. There is no one else like you in this world. You make me feel whole and without you there is just darkness. I let myself get lost in grief and used it as an excuse to act out. I know that you still love me. I also know that you are trying to protect yourself because you think that I’ll just end up hurting you again. So let me make one more promise to you that I will never break. I will never stop loving you and I will never hurt you again. Just please give me one more chance.”

I’m pleading to her through my own tears and every minute of silence is slowly killing me. I’m losing her, I’ve fucked up and I’m going to lose her. “Please, what can I do to get you to give me one more chance.” I begged. She sighed but looked up at me. “Go to therapy. You need to process what happened with Clint before you can commit to our marriage again. You need to help yourself before you can help me.” She said and I nodded along in agreement. “Anything for you. I’ll get myself sorted and I’ll be the best wife that you deserve. But you need to make me a promise.” I said, hoping I wasn’t crossing a line.

She raised and eyebrow at me but encouraged me to carry one. “Stop closing yourself off and going on dangerous missions to deal with your own pain. Wanda won’t cope if she loses you and I need my funny, caring, and loving wife.” I explained and she looked down to her lap, but she eventually nodded.

I sat on the side of her bed and pulled her towards me and placed a kiss on her head. “We’ll get through this. I’ll make everything up to you and we’ll be back to where we were. Ready for the rest of our lives together and maybe starting that family we talked about.” I said hesitantly, hoping she still wanted the same things that I did. “I love you, Tasha.” Those simple words brought warmth to my heart, and I started to sob into our embrace before responding “I love you too my Angel.”

[happyk44]

I think Percy's destructive nature is somewhat of a surprise to Annabeth. Grover and Sally have long since been aware of it.

Sally because she knows Poseidon, he even warned her that his kids inherit his emotional flipflopping, she's seen the ocean at its best and its worst, she knew fully what she was getting into when she became pregnant.

Grover because even if his nature isn't oceanic, he's still a nature deity and has a general understanding of how other natures operate, and he has the empathy link, but even before the empathy link he was able to spot when Percy was resisting the urge to punch someone in the face for saying something rude.

Annabeth knows Percy can be destructive. But she's not aware of the depths to his destruction, to his anger. She's seen when he's at various positive emotional extremes - happiness, tranquility, etc - but not the extremes of his rage and all that accompanies it.

Because Sally taught him to be good, to be kind. She taught him how to relieve himself of his anger, his upset, without hurting anyone. She stressed the importance of not taking his feelings out on other people. That it's not fair to be mean to someone who didn't upset you. And Gabe's abuse made him even more reluctant to become a person who hurts other people and doesn't care.

Ironically befriending Grover made those lessons hard to follow. Grover being bullied frequently just piled on the angry feelings he had to swallow. It would bury the positive emotions, making it even harder to focus on the good things that kept him kind.

Tartarus is the first time Annabeth gets a peak at the lake, instead of the river that flows from it. She's... scared. Not of Percy, but just in general. It's okay to be scared when someone, even someone you love, tortures a goddess and only stops because you asked. She knows Percy would never hurt her.

But she also knows that Percy would hurt others for her.

She doesn't know how to bring it up, but it's clear that the mask he wore before Tartarus is broken and the methods he used to use aren't working anymore. He grits his teeth more. He clenches his fists frequently. Anger, stress, annoyance - they all flit across his face when before she had to study the tension of his shoulders to tell when he was annoyed.

His shoulders are always tense.

She doesn't know what to do. She knows she should tell Sally - Estelle is a baby, babies can be annoying, and while she doubts Percy would hurt his little sister, that doesn't mean the lake won't overflow with the emotions she could cause. She knows she should tell Grover - the two of them have more of an emotional connection, regardless of the empathy link, and he's always been more willing to hash out his emotions with Grover than with her.

She knows it's because she's solution oriented. Sometimes he just wants to say things but she struggles not to analyze the problems and figure out a worthy fix. Percy's also bad at wording his thoughts, and she lacks the patience to let him stumble back and forth and in a circle trying to find the right explanaton.

She knows she should tell them. But she doesn't. It's difficult to ask for help, even on the behalf of other people. She wants to help him herself. Prove she can fix what broke with her in Tartarus. Surely they'd already know anyway - Sally because he lives with her and Grover because of the empathy link. So she keeps her lips shut and watches him carefully. He seems to be getting better with time.

Then weeks later Grover is pulling her away as Sally calls her phone. The world goes hazy. Sounds turn vague, the only clarity being Sally's voice. Grover's eyes are full of tears. His hands shake. Annabeth reaches out and holds them.

Certain words echo in Annabeth's head and encircle everything else Sally says. Tried to kill himself, she'd said. But he's fine. Those words repeat like a broken record. Eventually they overlap until they're nothing but a garbled mess.

It hurts when Sally tells them that she can't divulge Percy's location. It hurts when she admits she's not even sure where Percy is, but that she knows who he's with, that he's safe, that's he's fine. It hurts when she reads off the short note Percy left behind. Her pained laugh at Percy's deliberate handwriting cuts through Annabeth's gut like a knife

Why didn't she do something? Percy is a good person. Kind. Loving. Unending rage towards anything and everything would drive him insane. She should've known that. She should've anticipated it. She should've helped him.

But she was scared. She wanted to pretend everything was normal. Like it had been when the mask was still in tact and his methods worked and she never became worried by the furrow of his brows or the clench of his fists. She was scared, she was a coward.

And now Percy was gone.

[fictionkinfessions]

(Warning for a lot of chara-hate, mentions of self-destructive behaviors (cutting and drug/alcohol use), s×icid×l thoughts, bullying, homphobia/transphobia, emotional neglect, and the Colorbars Incident of 1987 and its aftermath, among other things... idk this shift just has me feeling very ranty ig)

You know, Stephanie? I still don't forgive you. I don't care how good your intentions were. I don't care how much you wanted to help. You fucked up in the most spectacular way possible, and now look at where we've ended up.

I stand by everything I said that day. No, it's not that easy to "just stop" doing what I was doing. You just don't know how to think of anyone except for yourself. Think about where I was in life: I had been relentlessly bullied since I was little, most of it being due to the fact that I had the audacity to exist as an openly-gay gnc transmasc person. Whenever I tried to tell my parents about how much I was suffering, they essentially told me I was overreacting and that I should just shut up and take it. You were my only friend, and when you weren't there, the only things I could do to take my mind off of wanting to fucking die were to cut, drink, and smoke the pain away. Chances are, if you were in that spot, you'd find it pretty tough to "just stop", too.

I don't know how I thought you were different from anybody else. Hell, you were worse. At least everyone else didn't pretend to care about me, then weasel their way into my personal business just to give me some holier-than-thou bullshit lecture about how I was bringing everything onto myself. Nope, that was just you. I'll admit that my coping mechanisms were pretty unhealthy, and I actually wanted to stop, but just acting like it's as easy as just... not doing it? That's a lot more than being naive; that's just being an oblvious fucking prick.

And, well, you can see what happened. After you left, I was so desperate for someone to fill that void that I ended up clinging on to someone who I thought actually understood me, and was just as miserable and fed-up with the world as I was. We worked together to create a little revenge plot on everyone, hijacked that national broadcast, and... you know how the rest of the story goes.

My blood is on your hands. How does that make you feel? If you would've just listened to me, none of this would've happened. You're lucky that I was the only one who died; from what I've heard, everyone who watched the broadcast had a few nasty (but mostly superficial) self-inflicted cuts at worst and a hell of a headache at best, and no one remembered any of it. Could you imagine what I would've done if the brainwashing worked like it was supposed to? That would've been thousands of people dead, and millions more would've been injured and/or traumatized. Remember: there was a lot of stuff that led up to this, and I acknowledge that the broadcast was my decision and therefore my fault, but the final straw was you.

Cry all you want, you asshole. It won't make me forgive you, and it sure as hell won't bring me back from the dead. Cry as much as you'd like, but don't you dare get upset if someone tells you to "just stop". It fucking hurts, doesn't it? Doesn't it sound so insensitive and clueless? They don't know your pain, right? They don't know how hard it is for you to cope with how fucking awful the world is, right???

Cry harder, Stephanie. It's too late for you to do anything else. I can't believe you had the audacity to say you were my friend.

-Kennith Simmons

[dundunny]

Tales of Arise

Yeah, it took me forever to beat it. At some point in my life I was able to finish these games within a month of their release date, but I couldn’t find a PS5 at a reasonable price for the longest, plus it’s harder to have long gaming sessions when you’re an adult. Also the game sucked so bad I really didn’t want to play it. Spoilers alert.

So I need to preface this for anyone who doesn’t know me, but I’m a super hardcore Tales fan. Except for Innocence, I’ve beaten all the mothership titles multiple times. Part of the reason I’m going to be so hard in this review is I know Tales Studio can do better than this.

If I had to describe Arise’s problem in one word, it would be pacing. The first chapter in Calaglia was amazing, and if they were able to expand from that I would be satisfied. I think Arise suffers from the same issue as Final Fantasy XV: It has a solid foundation, but the presentation was awful. The overall plot and usual Tales twist was there, but because we never spent a long time in any area, it felt like rushed and unsatisfactory. Which is hilarious because the characters can’t stop talking, but it’s usually either things the player already has figured out or just empty, vapid conversations.

The best example of bad pacing is probably Law: When you first meet him, he’s brimming with anger for Zephyr because of his abandonment issues. Then literally the next scene with him he’s crying that Zephyr is going to be executed. I need a couple of scenes in between to soften this emotional turnaround.

I had the misfortune of replaying Vesperia concurrently with this, and it just made it emphasized how much better Arise could be. Not that Vesperia didn’t have its own problems, but you can see how much effort the developers tried in sewing the seeds of Alexei’s machinations and plots everywhere in the first half. That’s good planning on their part, which Arise just doesn’t have.

Other than that, I disliked the final bosses. One thing I appreciate about Tales games is you usually understand on some level what the boss is doing. Like in Symphonia Mithos’ solution to racism is to wipe out everyone except one race. Or in Abyss how Van is trying to destroy the world and replace it with clones to end the cycle of prophecy. They’re very extreme but you get where they’re coming from.

Both the Great Astral Spirit and Vholran are... eh. You never have a conversation with the Great Astral Spirit so you don’t have that same emotional connection, and I feel it was just wrong: It’s trying to save Rena but at the same time was responsible for its destruction? Like what’s that about? Vholran is very bland. Dude wants to control everything out of anger for his past. Whatever. There’s no depth to him.

I disliked a good portion of the party too. I wouldn’t say they’re as shallow as Zestiria’s characters, but some were annoying. The older I get, the less patience I have for tsundere shit, so Shionne’s nonsense got old fast. Kirasa pulled the same thing as Law, first hating her brother and then suddenly never shutting up about how amazing he was, and Rinwell was fucking obnoxious, first jumping on Dohalim for not knowing about Dhanan burial practices and then she herself didn’t know later. Really I think only Alphen and Dohalim were the only reasonable people in the whole party.

Sakuraba Matoi continues to do the music and I wish he didn’t. Dude clearly ran out of energy and steam starting the PS2 era. I heard the OST for this is 133 tracks on seven CDs. I don’t know how because I literally can only remember one song from the whole game. Really they should just get Go Shiina on board permanently. It’s a shame because I think the Phantasia and Destiny tracks were on fire, but Sakuraba hasn’t been of that caliber in a long, long time.

I still wouldn’t say it’s the worst Tales out there--I think that goes to Legendia and the developers have to work hard to beat that in shittiness--and there are some really positive parts. For example, this is a very, very visually appealing game. I remember when they first switched to 3D in Xillia instead of fixed-angle camera and I complained how everything either had right angles (in a cave!) or looked exactly the same. With the different environments in every area, you get a really different taste of what they can do. I had to actually stop and take in the beauty when I saw the frozen waterfall under the night sky in Cyslodia. Or the castle looming in the background behind the lakes in Ganath Haros. Or the solarpunk-esque style of Dohalim’s house. They did a great job.

They also had some memorable scenes. Migal turning into liquid and realizing that whole lake was dead people. Or Almeidrea being taken to the town square but then everyone else dying. Or when you find out the truth about Rena and how it’s all just a mirage. Props to them for that.

The battle system is also nicely streamlined. Starting with Graces they’ve been experimenting (well, they did also revamped fighting in Rebirth but that was shitty) and with the basic attack and dodge buttons moved to R1 and R2, it frees up circle, square, etc. for moves without affecting the joystick, i.e. in previous games it would be right + square to pull Demon Fang or whatever. What did really fucking annoy me was the CP part, although toward the end of the game finally I acquired enough that I wasn’t peeing my pants about healing. Also annoying is how the gel now aren’t percentage based. I liked that about Tales over other series because that meant I was still using the same healing items even at the end, but now I’m never touching an apple gel after the first chapter.

Overall I feel Arise was a step back. I still have hope for the next game--Zestiria wasn’t very good but Beseria was amazing--but I’m surprised at how poor this game was considering how long ago the previous installment was. Perhaps the pandemic really messed them up?

Also, was anyone else confused why the Vesper Rift in the postgame dungeon featured Xillia 2? Really weird. I did love how they kept that butterfly puzzle in the Symphony Rift. That was a nice, nostalgic touch.

[ficsnroses]

An Even Exchange II - John Wick x Reader

series summary (oneshots, can be read as stand alone) : you sell your virginity to john wick. part 1

summary : john calls you for the first time after you agree to become his to use, whenever he pleases. 6.1k words.

warnings : smut, consensual sex. rough oral sex [male receiving]. *the lightest* bondage. x f! reader.

notes : hope you enjoy this! rushed through this part a little bit because I’m really excited to write that thing i wanted to write for this in chapter 3...wink. I did edit this at 2:30am after finishing studying, please bear with me if there are mistakes! feedback so so welcome. ily xx 

“When I need you, you come. No questions,

no excuses.”  

.

In the late of the eve, John had called her.

His contract, she’d accepted.

Short, the conversation entailed none more than his quiet words, confident, assured. “I need you tonight.” He’d spoken, rich, beautifully rung off his deep tongue, the sound as smoky as ash in his throat.

Part of her wonders, ponders about this mysterious man. Handsome, built on perfect shape, he’d surely have no trouble finding someone to satisfy his every need. Perhaps, someone who could offer him more than she could.

He’d been the first man she’d slept with; he’d taken her virginity. Surely, he could find someone far more experienced to take care of him.

John’s home is large; extravagant. Crisp white beams and shining glass windows. A large yard, tall built trees generously speckled upon the estate. Surely, John Wick is a lavish man, equipped with more than enough financial security.

He did buy her.

Walking further, the night sky gleams, the moon glows in cold warmth.

Cold warmth.

Bittersweet.

After the night at the hotel, she hadn’t been summoned by John yet. A loch 4 days later, his call had beckoned her in the late hour of the night. The thought of what she was walking into right now bites in her head, gnaws, the ponderings growing with each heavy step.

She wasn’t scared of John; she knew he wouldn’t treat her awfully.

If the night at the Continental had proven anything at all, it was the assuring fact that John would respect her, her boundaries. He’d use her for his every need, yet never without consent.

Something special seems to grow inside John; she’d learned that in a mere three hours spent with his manhood curled between her legs.

John fucked her twice more that evening, only bid goodnight when he’d had to call it a night, sleep dense on his sex satisfied form. A taxi swept her home that evening, dropped her safely in her home, John’s proposition heavy on her mind,

Her answer yes, even heavier.

With each step, the thought of what would be to follow exhausts her, even before arrival. Beneth her feet, the path seems to crumble a little more; distracted, restless, she finds herself unsure of what to expect.

Reading into her own emotions, thoughts, feelings had been tough over the course of the prior four days. Between the sheets, John was a force to not be reckoned with. He’d shown her the fucking stars, left her yearning for more through the entire duration of the evening. Kind, respectful, reserved, his naturally dominant nature only intrigued.

She found herself marvelling more and more about the man with the bolded tattoos, the soft, mocha hair that curtains his dark eyes, the broad scars and firm mauve bruises that littered his skin. She wonders if somewhere under a hard exterior, was something softer.

Wonders, muses, guesses.

His cocoa kissed hair falters in hues; strands lengthy, messier than the night at the Continental. A candle burns in his long, lavish hallway; a flickering flame, steady, stirring. He’d greeted her, a nod of his head, reserved, his demeanour professional.

“Can I get you anything?” He’d asked, voice firm, yet held with that familiar comfort that had drawn her to him nights ago. He was assertive, reserved, yet still,

kind. Had she met him on the glittering streets of busy New York, perhaps ran into him at a heavy trafficked coffee shop, struck up a conversation of how she’d seen his familiar coffee hued hair and mahogany eyes seldom in the secluded walls of the Continental, she’d never assume.

She’d never guess,

that sex was all he wanted. Something physical, was all he’d engrossed.

She’d gotten comfortable in the silence he’d hold, his persona exclusive. Nonetheless, the most she’d heard out of his gravelly throat were the occasional grunt of pleasure, soft, muffled moans laced with a hoarse undertone emitting the air as he’d be thrusting selfishly on top of her. To his question, she returns. “I’m alright, thank you.”

He nods, as she follows him up the profligate wooden stairs. Something inside her builds, the striking view of his toned back and muscled features tensing when he leads the way. His home is quiet, and much to her surprise, it looks like a home. Flowers in vases, paintings of daisies and sunflower blooms wreathed to tall white walls, crisp and snowy.

Flowers bloom in his home, solace currents.

She’d never thought, that John Wick, lives among pretty flowers, that bloom.

 From behind as she follows up the stairs, he looks towering, strong, defined.  

She stares, and she stares, and she thinks. That the evening would end, with this nerve-wrackingly gorgeous man, nestled, buried between her legs.

        The top of the stairs arrive, and with them, a new found suffocation. 

Shackled with dread, a foreign feeling prevails to the sight, perhaps astonishment, bewilderment. And even through the ice of his reserved, quiet demeanour, she’d swore she’d seen a flicker in his compose. A halt of movement, as he’d glanced their way as well, despite best attempts to avoid.

Pictures scatter scarcely along the crisp white walls; John, and a woman. Photographs of a couple, happily in love, diffuse the walls, in the home of the man who taken her purity not long ago.

Proof of something bigger disperses the walls; stipples the walls where she’d soon offer her body,

to the same man who’d looked smitten in them.

The joints in her neck creak almost glancing their way, her veins course with a poison of something dreadful. Brittle fingers mould along her sides, taking place in frantic burden.

Intrusion; the feeling of being out of place.

This room is smaller, emptier, colder.

A single king bed presents against the wall, center of the room, silk sheets and monumental pillows. John’s back tenses as he paves the way, perhaps a drain of the way her eyes held thick with worry, seeing the sights of the previous hall. His hands fall rested to sturdy sides, breathe collected, expression grim.

She knew less things about John than the amount of hours they’d spent together.

She’d fucked him more times than things she’d known of his personal life.

And with the realization fading in; of John being a stranger, with his own life, his own battles, she wonders. Wonders if this was wrong. If she was breaking a house, fueling the destruction of a home. The thoughts race, the worries set in. Her bones carry a weight that hadn’t been present when she’d entered the lavish home; the grimmer lights of the dimly lit hallway matching those of her weary mind.

A sharp edge cuts. Something cuts, and cuts into her, twisting uneasiness.

“I’m not married.” John’s deep voice interjects her ponder, voice harder than before, and a shiver falls, cascades her spine; and it has nothing to do with the frigid air of bedroom. His attention turns to her, only brief, eyes only finding her face for a mere second or two, before finding more comfort diverted to the hardwood below. “I’m not in a relationship,” He exhales, and she’d swore the lines of his forehead tensed with each syllable. “This…isn’t wrong. Rest assured.” He adds, and the silence that follows her gentle nod of head was near deafening. She’d listened to the erratic, uneven beat of her own heart to his statement, a dense swallow in her throat when his figure advances toward the bed further.

John had probably only communicated a meagre 100 words to her, and she ached to hear more. His broad, tattooed back holds a story she knows not all ears can retain. The whispers are real; the stories had made their way around.

John Wick hadn’t become what he is over the sun bidding goodbye to a dark night.

A man of focus, as greatly as him, is conditioned. Taught, hardened, habituated to kill.

The questions, she knew would remain just those.

Questions,

that John would never entertain. This was a business deal; and to his personal details, she had no right.

For a moment, he stops. His head turns slow, his reserved features hold the weight of a million words, pent up frustrations pleading to be let out. Their eyes meet across the room. She doesn’t understand the look in his eyes. And out of all the things she’d sworn he’d wanted to say,

One stays imminent.

Need. He needs her.

He called her here today because he needs her. Needs a vessel, a gateway to relief.

Her job is to take care of him, sexually. To make him feel good. She stands, observing the way his tall, dark frame reminds her of what was to come. He’d mould their bodies together as one so expertly, so skilfully,

John was all she’d ever tasted; the first, and only man she’d ever let touch her.

And the worst part of it all, was that she was unsure, she could ever let another do the same again.

John’s thrusts would leave her weak, the sex was something holy in its own right, and she, was falling hopelessly addicted with each session. Hopelessly intoxicated by the way he’d make her feel so, so fucking good, when it was her job to satisfy him.

His low, rich voice breaks the secure silence.

“Come here.” John beckons, peeling back the silken sheets of the bed. The week at glance had offered him nothing but dire, bone chilling work. Missions complete, exhaustion prevailed. The usual amber tones held in a tall glass of Bourbon compared none to the waves of relaxation she could provide him.

He’d been craving more. Physical satiation. In dire need of long repose, John found himself unwilling to wind down with anything other than her.

Tonight, he’d find relief inside her. His nirvana would come buried inside her warm, heavenly haven reserved solely, for him.

her buyer.

A heavy inhale cascades his lungs as he watches her, drawing closer. He toys, caressing the light threads of her top between his fingers deliberately, and a pitch black smoke pools his eyes, the weight of his member between the seams of his pants falling heavier, and harder, and thicker by the growing second. “I want this off you.” His smoothly rich voice leaks, and his hand travels, trailing, smoothing over the fabric rested to her figure.

Her throat goes dry. Anticipation builds. He toys with the hem of her blouse as she stares into his eyes; his watching the way her hands peel the textile off her figure. She needs him. Perhaps, more than he needs her.

John sighs, breath heavy, perhaps flustered by the rush of blood to his manhood at the sight of her body; something about the way her curves and dips fall so effortlessly to her frame, the way her long sleeve bodycon dress moulds, seducing each inch of her femininity under the warm bedroom lights.

Captivatingly beautiful. Enough to make any man weak in his knees; an enchantress.

His newly purchased toy.

Watching intently, a captivated John barely bites his lip in amusement, watching the skimpy fabric peel off her frame, revealing delicate lace shielding devourable womanhood. “Mhmm…” John barely sighs, the ring of a rich hum brewing in his throat as his eyes gloss, drink in the supple skin of her hips, the tender swell of her breasts under the lace. His hand travels nonchalantly to his throbbing manhood, palming tenderly with chocolate eyes firm to her body, and she’d swore.

In his head, he’d already undressed her a thousand times. His hands had already roamed, delighted each inch of her skin.

Leisurely, a sturdy hand falls inside John’s pants, his palm wrapping around the weighty shaft of his cock, rising eagerly to the thought

       of what he’d do to her

       tonight.

Pulling out his cock to the sight of her, half bare, awaiting his instruction, he opts for a seat to the Californian king, wanting so desperately to see her in all her glory. “Take it all off.” John affirms, an order she was willing to oblige.

John was the first to see her body fully on display, the first to set gaze to what only she had seen formerly. His prying gaze sends a pool of warmth, shivering goosebumps on her silken skin. Something about the way his gaze alone makes her feel so desired.

He sits, a heavy hand rested to his thigh, the other wrapped loosely around his swollen shaft, stroking, and stroking as his eyes watch, lock to her heavenly frame as she strips for him. Bulging veins throb thick in his dick, sensitive to his fingers touch, delicate to the sight of her unravelling, a gift just for him. “Beautiful…” He whispers, merely under constrained breath to the striking view, gruff toned, yet velvety as he watches her fingers un-clasp dainty bra hooks, allowing the textile to fall off her smooth shoulders so seductively. Her skin shines under warm light, and his hand unknowingly tightens around his base, eyes taut to her skin.

Right now, in this moment, everything he saw in front of him belonged rightfully, only to him. She belongs to him. For him to touch, for him to use as pleased. “Fuck…” A burning John mutters under his breath; a fire rummages inside his belly, the pent up frustration of a load inside him pleading to be released. With a stocky hand still offering tender strokes to his member, his voice gruffs, a deep baritone searing through the silent atmosphere. “Come here,” He punctuates. “On your knees, in front of me.”

Shivers emit down her spine, and her eyes find the floor, unable to connect to his just yet.

John was moral, humane. Yet still, he was her buyer. Surely, he wouldn’t hurt her or make her do anything she didn’t please; as confusing as it may have been, she wasn’t uncomfortable around him.

But she was nervous. Nervous that she wouldn’t do good. Nervous that she’d fall short of what he’d wanted. A sum as great as what John was paying her would break most people.

She finds herself pondering, why he’d chosen her.

“Show me how deep you can go.”

Like a lightening bolt. His voices come in crashes, pounding like a lightening bolt. Something about the way he speaks to her.

The hardwood beneath her feet was cool, she’d known her knees would bruise for him soon. A warmth drills inside, anticipation of what was to come builds, and she thinks. She marvels,

She muses.

Of how her owner would use her tonight. Of what he’d want her to do.

Following suit, she collects herself, kneeling in front of John on the bedroom floor, his menacing cock sprung erect a mere few inches away from her face. John allows it to fall out his palm, opting to caress the ends of his muscle toned white shirt, drawing it over his head, revealing that familiar, beautifully toned torso. Bold tattoos, complimented by fresh, deep purple bruises;

They hadn’t been there the last time they’d fucked.

And she remembers, under the dimly lit lights, the ink that stands bold to his back is a story; that perhaps his lips could dare not hold. She still wonders. She still guesses. She guesses, she guesses.

Tension tightens in his muscles, darkness ripples in his eyes.

John needed her sex badly, direly. The lonely depths of his desolate palm hadn’t sufficed since he’d been reminded of what human connection could do; how holy finishing inside a woman felt, paralleled to grey tissues and empty walls.

“Put those lips on me, sweetheart.” John’s voice illuminates.

Heavy curtains hide what went on inside the dimly lit bedroom. Veiled the way they sin in secret; Hid the way he was slowly creating a realm; one she’d touched not long ago.

One where only her and him were real. Pleasure was all that triumphed, his body the religion, and the alter was her mouth.

With cold hardwood underneath, she sinks to her knees in front of him, studying the way his thick hand holds his member, urging towards her lips; within seconds, she obeys. Lingering his length, she encircles his tip, shallowly taking the thickness into her mouth. Within seconds, every throbbing vein on his cock glides easily through her lips, cascading over her tongue, held by hallow, tightened cheeks. Tightening on her shining tresses, John’s head falls back in pure, unaltered, pleasure. His eyes close, his body tingles, the feel of her wetness swirling, exploring his shaft take over.

And in her mouth, he melts. He melts, and tensions fade.

“Fuck…” John sighs, eyes fluttering shut with each tender bob. She goes slow at first, offering kind, nervous bobs. His teeth grit, the sounds of sloppy slickness current through his ears, building inclination. Slow, steady, his palm trails, encapsulating around her hand as she works his length, bringing it his thick base. “Remember how I showed you, use your hands on what won’t fit.” He instructs, gently encouraging her to jerk his remaining length. She obliges, watching the way his chestnut eyes hold a familierness within them; despite being his, John treats her kindly.

Treats her human.

“That’s it.” He manages, groaning quietly under his breath as he gazes her, on her knees with his cock sheathed in her throat. It had been a while since anyone had taken him this way;

since he’d allowed anyone to take him this way, after... her. 

Hel. 

“Tighter, darling.” He breathes, tightening his grip to her messy hair. “Look up, eyes on me.”

Slowly, steadily, she bobs further, taking more and more, pushing herself. John hired her for him to use, to please himself. Yet she finds herself, pushing her own limits to please him. To be good for him.

With his cock throbbing in her mouth, she wonders; what it was, about the man with the bolded ink, the broad back and toned muscles.

Flattening her tongue over his length, she feels his palm in her hair, guiding gently, up and down, up and down on his painfully erect member, low groans and throaty moans leaving his lips in a delightful hum. As she ventures further, gliding more and more and more of him through her wet haven, choked gasps begin to emit, John’s bulge throbbing relentlessly now, weightier on her tongue. Punctuated by praise, and nonchalant breaths, she feels his spare hand move, planting to her bare breast as she continues to move. Tenderly, softly, his thumb swirls her hardened nipples, massaging, fondling the soft swell of her supple chest in his palm.

No man had ever touched her where John does, with each intimate stroke, each lustful touch, he marks her. Marks her as his.

The sounds of her mouth, they kiss his ears; the sinful, sloppy, wet sounds, the slurps, the vibrations against his cock offer an unholy wish.

He wanted more. He needed more.

With the baritone of his voice searing her ears, his question comes as she continues to move, allowing his tip to hit the back of her throat with slow, stable bobs. With a heavy hand travelling up, planting to the nape of her neck, John signals her, ceasing her devour of his erection. Muscles tensing, she gazes the way his biceps fall beautifully firm, his beard lays perfectly groomed, a darkness rippling in his chocolate orbs. Reaching forward, his warm thumb brushes over her ever so slightly buzzing bottom lip, voice deep, ringing with currents of dominance, assertion. “Do you trust me?”

As if habitually, she feels herself nodding slightly in return. Without thought, without said. She nods, and she stares, and she stares, and she stares, feeling his gaze sink into her. Without a moment to waste, she watches John raise off the mattress, opting for a stance towering over her, leaving her still on her knees, his cock dangerously close to her mouth still, glistening with her wet saliva falling in strings off his shaft. Gazing, she swallows a dense lump, watching the way he takes hold of an intimidatingly large erection, guiding it back to the security of her lips, swirling his head around the plump of her pink stained mouth. With a hand firm to the back of her head, he pushes a conserved amount of his length back into her mouth, his hand that had been holding his cock finding the back of her head, accompanying his other.

His voice flows through the room, heavy, shallow. “If it’s too much, squeeze. I’ll stop.”

And without warning, he sinks deeper, and deeper, and deeper into her throat. Only stopping when he knows she won’t be able to fit more. His hips rock, slow at first, his hands keeping her head situated still in place, slowly beginning to move faster, faster, harder, quicker. Incoherent gags fall her throat as the realization of what he’d begun overtakes her.

John, was fucking her mouth.

Exactly how he pleased,

however, he’d want.

Loosening her jaw, her hands plants firm to his callous, large thighs, feeling each vein, each curve of his dick plummeting across her wet, soaking tongue. Completely at his mercy, the sound of hallow gags and a mouth full of cock impend the room, gasps for breath muffled by his immense size sizzling in her throat as he thrust, and thrusts, channelling his needy pace into the vessel of her mouth. Hot tears char against warmth skin, his thick balls thudding against her chin as eager hips buck impatiently into her mouth, harsh praises and tender approval falling his deep baritone.

“You’re alright, darling.” He allows, warm thumb brushing, wiping away the sear of sweltering tears hot on her cheeks. “I won’t hurt you.” Unchecked tears and muffled moans follow suit, peppering the air as he thrusts, pulsating, throbbing, twitching in her mouth.

Bliss overtakes, John’s each nerve snapping, tingling with blissful warmth. She’s working wonders on his cock, louder, courser moans surface his throat, eyes fluttering in and out of light as his head falls back, diminishing into the feel of her. He shudders, shivering with each dip; the warmth, the tightness unlike anything he’s ever felt before. She, was quite literally, something else. He thinks to himself, he dreams to himself, of how he’d went so long, without someone like her. With each sink, his jaw tightens, goosebumps peppering his skin, chest heaving as she tries her best to hold in stifled gags; his hands eventually moving to cup her soft cheeks on either side as he drills into her mouth, chasing ecstasy,

-until with an abrupt pull, her head yankers back in his grip, silky strings of saliva connecting to his tender length; his cock falling out her mouth still hard. Still filled with need. Feeling a mess, her brows thread in confusion, eyes wet, lips seeping the wet pool of slick he’d created inside. Her skin singes, a char in her eyes from the burn he’d left.

“On the bed.” He eventually ordered, flustered from a rush of his own paradise. His cock aches, his body yearns for the walls that squeezed, nestled around his member nights ago. If there’s one thing John knew, it was exactly that.

His release, needed to come from being inside her. She was far too heavenly to finish elsewhere. She obeys, finding place on the silky bed, supple skin and exposed womanhood making her appear all the more appealing. John’s member twitches to the sight of her; tantalizing, a sex siren, and she didn’t even know. “I want to tie your hands.” John speaks, ravishingly rich. “Do you consent?”

She’d nodded. She wasn’t even aware, when the words swirled inside her head, and when her hazed conduct nodded diligently.

She’d nodded, to be truly, at his mercy. She’d watched him, collect rope from a wooden beside drawer, positioning himself behind her, gently pulling her wrists together. He restrains them, fastening an knot, leaving her brewing with anticipation of what he’d do next.

Excitement, eagerness to be fucked selfishly by him.

“Our contract will be regular.” John adds, towering tall beside the bed. Fishing a condom from the box, he slides it onto his thick manhood, his gaze turning locked to her body spread for his taking in the sea of sheets. “If you’re comfortable taking oral contraception, I’d encourage it.”

The pill. He wants her to get on the pill.

She nods. She nods to all the propositions that spill his lips. She nods, and she nods.

In his nude glory, she observes his body, once again. His, was a body she adored, awaited. Mammoth length, finished with that familiar rosy tip. The thick veins, the sturdy shaft, the dark bush that jungles around, protecting the treasure that was his beautiful cock. She swallows, she gulps in the glory, and her mound tingles when he climbs on the mattress, the weight of his body sinking into the foam. Carefully, feverishly, he peels her bottoms off, a pair of sexy lace underwear matching the bra she’d removed earlier. With thick fingers and a callous hand, he palms her pussy, spreading the nectar that seeped for his taking over needy folds. He spreads her legs open further, palms placed under her gorgeous thighs; opening her up just enough to see a sheen of slick arousal coating her cunt, paired with a salacious sight of her sensitive clit, too.

With his body hovering over her, John takes in the delicious sight of her body underneath him, bound, at his mercy, for his taking. Hard, deeply shaded nipples, satin skin, plump on her chest, her breasts swell so deliciously; he finds it impossible to resist. With his cock sheathed heavy in his hand, John offers himself slow, prepping tugs as his lips trail, sucking, leaving a lone, delicate mark painted into the sensitive skin. She gasps at the pressure, wincing almost, swallowing thickly when she glances between their bodies, gazing the sight of his thickness erect in his hand, preparing to take her.

With two sturdy fingers glossing over her, he gazes the slickness; the moisture gathered between her folds, all for him.

All for him, to sink into. With his hand palming her pussy delicately, his voice interrupts, deeply rich, reminding. “Tell me to stop if you need.” She nods, remembering, of the way he’d said the same the first time he’d used her. John Wick could ruin her, if he wanted.

But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. She wonders where this humility comes from, how it lives in him. Yet, she keeps mum. She wont ask, she won’t intrude. This contact signifies merely, an exchange.

An even exchange; for him to get what he craves, for her to get what she needs.

Without much warning, John’s weight sinks into her entrance, the throbbing veins brushing her sensitive walls, quelling an obscene desperately muffled moan from her mouth, eyes widening, arm coming in rescue to cage in yelps and whimpers that threatened to fall.

The burn. God. God. Why does it hurt so much, at first?

The electrifying sensation of John’s cock burying into her overtakes; the searing burn of the stretch he leaves behind unmatchable, soliciting sinful whines from her body below. With her eyes falling shut, and her walls clenching around him, the sounds of John’s haste picking up fills the room, his hips eagerly pounding her tight, delicate pussy seconds in. John’s lust filled, dilated eyes gaze down, his hands holding her hips secure in place as lewd moans caged by her arm over her face barely whimper; his cock pulsing inside her cushy walls, grinding against that oh so tender spot between her legs. With his fingers threatening to paint bruises into her skin from his delicate hold, she feels John’s grip on her waist tighten, rapt with desire. Sucking in a sharp breath, his hips pick up pace, groaning quietly to the feel of her pussy, and he thinks-

Her pussy was made just for him; perfectly mould for him, to indulge in.

Her breasts bounce beautifully, her body jerks with each volatile thrust, his need cultivates further. The sounds of his balls smacking against her womanhood send him further, the symphony of her stifling yelps and imprisoned whimpers begging to be heard by his ears as he works her. “You...” John breathes, hips snapping relentlessly, animalistic into her as he grips her tight. “You don’t have to stay quiet.” He clears, confirming. Although this was an exchange for him to receive mind blowing sex which he so desperately needed, he didn’t mind her enjoying herself. In fact, he preferred it. He wanted it. Her moans of pleasure would confirm; that she was alright.

That this was alright.

With a nod of her head, Y/N removes her arm from the cusp of her face, eyes fluttering shut, only opening scarcely when John’s pace never slows. Panting above her, John rolls his hips aggressively, biting his lip to the sight of her unravelling underneath him, and she trembles.

With her eyes closed, she finds herself lost. Lost in the feel of John fucking her so deliciously, so intoxicatingly, the perfect amount of pain and pleasure. The pleasure that pushes her over, the pain of his godly size that only intensifies it. Her back arches, legs practically falling limbless. Sweat trails down their backs, and they release shuddering breathes.

The sound of skin assaulting skin fills the room, and when her nimble fingers crave to sink into his skin, the pressure builds further, anticipation darkening within her. The pleasure is so intense, she practically screams, beautifully frustrated, begging, pleading for her tied up hands to be free only to clench onto John. She felt herself, craving to hold onto John. A mixture of their juices coat her thighs, John’s member glistening under the lights from the sheen of her arousal. The smell of sex floods around them, the heat shared between their bodies sending a turmoil erupt. Her toes curl, and each nerve inside John builds and builds, on the brink of release; he feels silky drops of pre cum spill inside the barrier of the condom between them, he only wished it could add to the heaven of wetness she’d made, just for him. Squirming underneath him, she practically whines from the force, yelps, moans, tightens her cunt around him tightly as he continues to rummage into her body, allowing those familiar, boiling hot tears to warm up her cheeks from the sheer heaven he’s channeling into her. “John…” She gasps, desperately attempting to gather her choked breaths. Her voice breaks, and she inhales a shuddering draw of air. “Oh…John!”

He feels himself slam into her harder, and harder, melting inside her. It had been far too long since a woman screamed his name. Far too long since he’d had the pleasure of sharing release with someone. He swallowed every noise to leave her lips greedily, and she shuddered against the burning feel of him drilling into her heat, over and over, and over, and over. Enticing whispers of praise for her body fall off his lips, as if flowers to her ears. 

She’d never had anyone before John; the whispers of him voicing his pleasure from her only sent her further into oblivion. She feels herself growing tender, more tender by the second, the pressure building inside her core preparing for a release she knew would show her the stars; John had done the same only nights ago when they’d first exchanged service. He shudders, shivers, groans in his deliciously deep, bass heavy voice; feeling her squeeze around him harder when she screams his name a final time, her orgasm washing over in waves of cloudy, beautiful bliss.

His chest heaves, rhythmically, lust drunk and buried deep inside her, he huffs, pants above her, chasing his release, when it builds just to the brim, finally, desperately pulling himself out of her soaking cunt, the dainty condom harshly peeled off his dangerously firm, mighty cock, discarded hastily to the bin below.

Bringing his hand to jerk, tugging his harshly erect, tender cock, he watches her, flustered, skin sticking with sweat, cheeks warmed with after sex bliss. A euphoria has washed over her form, a paradise they’d created together; and he warns. He warns quick, before chasing his own. “Open your mouth, sweetheart.” He breathes through shuddering inhales, still jerking his sensitive bulge, watching her oblige, understanding exactly what he wanted.

He’d ripped off his condom tonight, before cumming. And suddenly, she realizes why.

John Wick, wanted to finish on her face.

With her mouth open, she anticipates. Another first added to her list of firsts when it came to her sex life. Another first, that came with John. John Wick; the mysterious, reserved John, who she knew next to nothing about. John Wick, the man she knew she’d have many more sexual firsts with.

And with his cock spilling release, she feels him inch closer to her face, unloading milky ropes of slick, glossy hot cum over her features; a considerable amount layering the insides of her mouth.

His cum, all over her mouth. Her face, tainted with his seed. Her hands, tied by his desire. Her body aches fiercely, her pussy remembers the force he’d channeled into her, and pleads for more. With his cum painted to her face, she feels for the first time.

She is his. She is his.

With a final grunt, John falls beside her on the bed, catching his own breath, and she sighs briefly, still flustered, at the feeling of lightness in her chest; vision growing fuzzy. Her head turns to the gray ceiling above, panting blissfully, stuck in the euphoria he built around her.

This world John was creating, this realm they both would exchange, was becoming something beautifully intoxicating. Something she wanted more now than, before. Turning her head slight, she’d barely noticed the shift of weight off the bed to her side as he’d untied her, his sharp, regal profile distant now as he grabs spare towels from the bedside. Laboured breaths calm immediately, easily smoothing out into an even rhythm.

Even the sound of his breath, flowing,

Sends a shiver flutter inside her.

Slowly, gently, he hands one to her, his naked form still in full grandeur as his buttery voice speaks, snapping her out of oblivion. “You’re alright?”

She only nods, connecting her gaze to him as she sits up, elbows base on the bed as she holds her weight up. Nude, the familiar blush of being completely naked in front of him brings a warmth to her cheeks, and she shies, crossing her legs closed, wiping her face of what he’d left behind.

John watches. He watches, and drinks her in. He’d gone so long without sex, without real touch.

But now, he had her. He had her service. He watches the way she swallows a lump in her throat, vapour dotted across her skin from their exertion.

She was gorgeous; beautiful, not that he had any right to think that. He’d only had right to her service. Her amazing, mind blowing service. The same service, that had kept him up nights prior, lost in reveries of the way she’d made him feel.

Unlike anything that could be moulded into coherent words. A goddess in her own right.  

He finds himself, far more relaxed, relieved than he’d been before she’d accepted his request for her to come. In the moment, relieved, sex gratified, John thinks to himself. Thinks of how lucky he would be from now on, to have her

whenever

He craved. His proposition had been spontaneous; a mere proposal after their first meeting; his sex clouded and intensely satisfied mind propelling him to offer. Now, after hearing her approval, her willingness for their exchange being a regular occurrence bound by contract, John electrifies.

He thrills, he rouses. His cock pulses to the mere sight of her in his guest room bed, beautifully crafted. His pensive gaze soaks into her; nude, jaded, the beauty of her splendour.

The beauty of her body. The sinful sight of her holy, delectable body. His eyes move to her pussy, glistening with product of what he’d made gush from her; a symbol of what was his. Her pussy, belonged to him-

for the duration of the contract, for as long as he owned right to her service.

He glides a shirt over his torso, a pair of grey boxers to accompany. The thought of a crisp pour of amber bourbon kissing his tongue sounds divine; a post sex drink to level nerves. Calm, collected, he gazes intently the way her sex smitten body positions, the trance dying down, her haze still thick, her skin vulnerable to prying eyes.

“I want you in the shower.” John speaks, rhythm of his tone reverted back to the reserved, assertive tenor. “Have yourself ready, please. I’ll be back in 15 minutes.”

        He’d be back for more. He wanted her, more.

Brittle fingers.

Insignificant, little, brittle fingers.

They’d begged to reach for him, pleaded to touch him the entire time he fucked her mindlessly.

Something fitted across his expression when he’d turned to face her briefly, eyes flickering down, and up absently. Something wrote in his features; something she wanted more and more each time their bodies became one.

        He, was her first.

        And she, wanted him, to be her last.

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

[ogravensimp]

this one is for@mistkissedmoon a lil more Dad!Constantine with a ft. from Jason Blood and John would be so terrible at taking care of ppl but still like really care, so I hope I captured that feeling in this

“This was your big emergency?”

Jason Blood gave a blank stare to the British man across from him.

He didn’t usually just drop everything to attend to someone; especially if that person was John Constantine, but ever since the exorcist decided to take care of the Gem of Scath he proposed it would be a good idea for John to keep him on speed dial.

He didn’t actually expect John to use said number.

Constantine was a demon expert in his own right. Jason believed that he was right to assume that the only reason his help would be sought after was only if the apocalypse had begun.

He felt a nerve in his temple twitch in annoyance (and, ashamedly in disappointment).

It's just that when John rang him and pressed for him to come to the House of Mystery, he had simply been expecting more...destruction. Maybe some blood and fire raining from the sky, the earth itself cracking open to release eldritch horrors of all kinds or even complete ripping of the fabrics of reality.

Anything along those lines would have justified his presence being required, but instead, he was met with-

“achoo!”

Jason looked down at the small form below him.

The spawn of evil incarnate was smaller than he thought it would be. If one ignored the glowing red gem wedged into its forehead, it could easily fool for another harmless 7-year old girl.

Especially as it laid half-dazed in its bed, staring up at the ceiling in a lucid trance. With only half its face poking out from under their star themed blanket, it sniffled pitifully due to the snot dripping out its flushed nose.

The room was perfectly mid-temperature, but the child has so drenched in sweat that even the towel on top of its forehead had over-soaked but yet it still shivered as if it was below -0 degrees.

Was the level of the child’s symptoms extreme? Yes.

Was it worth calling him for? Definitely not.

The daughter of Trigon was sick, yes, but it was obviously just the flu.

“That’s what I‘ve been saying.”

Jason turned to the source of the voice—a young woman stood in the doorway and held a tray of what seemed to be cups and bowls.

John had introduced her as Zed and he had just assumed they were in a relationship— to focused on the assumed threat to try to examine their personal lives.

Maybe he should’ve guessed this excursion would be a waste of time by Zed’s expressions. When he arrived she had shot him nothing but apologetic looks. At first, Jason believed the worst laid behind the doors he was led to but as he now knows, that was not the case.

“That idiot thinks it’s some paranormal curse,”, Zed huffed as she sent a glare at the blond man who began to try and defend himself.

“It's been weeks and she's still under the weather. You think Beelzebub gets the bloody sniffles?!”

“But a child of her age would! Especially one who reads in the tub and doesn't dry her hair before going outside in August,” Zed rolled her eyes as she spoke as if the answer was obvious—and they were, "maybe if you stopped treating her as the destroyer of worlds and instead as a 7-year-old, you won't have wasted the poor guys time."

Jason couldn't help but internally agree with her words.

John continued his defence, "All I'm saying is when I got a cold, I just carried on with my day maybe a bit foggy up there but hardly half-dead like Blackbird over 'ere."

Another eye roll from Zed was the only reply.

Approaching them, she extended the tray towards Jason. He gave a look at the cup of tea and noticed it seemed to be next to another 'sweat towel' in a bowl, he cringed a little before rejecting the offer.

Zed just shrugged before dropping the tray onto a side table and drinking the cup herself. Taking a seat at the edge of the bed, her gaze was soft as she stared down at the child, her hands ran through the child short dark tresses in a comforting manner.

Jason studied how she gently cupped the back of the Gem of Scath’s head and raised it, picking up a cup of water from the side and bringing it to the demon’s mouth and it drank with obedience.

The more Jason watched, the less he could even continue to refer to this child as a demon.

Etrigan was a demon—looked like one too.

How could he use the same term he'd use to describe the bastard in him, to describe this tiny looking thing before him? And though he could sense the hellish magic pouring out of her, for now, she was harmless.

"Alright, summon him out."

John's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He gave him a perplexed look before asking, "Excuse me?"

"Etrigan. Your demon buddy," the way John looked and spoke, you could tell he saw no issue with his request, "Just wanna confirm from a primary source whether if this is something worse or natural way of life."

Jason was flabbergasted, 'was this why he was called?!'

John sighed.

Actually looking peeved by Jason's confusion.

To the side, he heard Zed's chuckle as she began to switch the towels on the girls head, "told you he wouldn't do it."

"Oh bog off," John retorted back before turning back to him and placing a hand on Jason's shoulder, "Listen, it's either you or I visit ol' Luci and I'm simply not really...eager to have that encounter. So do me a favour here, and just bloody say the rhyme."

Jason looked at the hand on his shoulder like it was a parasite before smacking it off. Taking a breath to compose himself, he turned to the exorcist, " I assure you, there is nothing Etrigan can assist you with that I cannot also offer."

"A huge fuck-off sword?"

Jason glared, "Let me see the child," he spat—obviously ignoring the previous statement.

John put his hands up in surrender before indicating with a turn of his head to the child who had actually risen during their conversation and was now sitting upright—well, slouched and she was staring half-lidded at the wall with the only sign she was awake being her harsh breaths.

He bent down as to be in her level of sight and stuck his hand out, "Hello, my name is Jason Blood, you must be..." "Raven." "-yes, thank you, Zed. They tell me you are a bit under the weather?"

Jason realized halfway that he never learnt the girl's name and had simply just been referring to her as the Gem of Scath. He felt a tinge of guilt for his rudeness, but the dazed stare the girl gave him was confirmation that she was barely conscious enough to even notice.

He also realized it was ridiculous to try to shake a child's hand and was bout to retract it when he felt a pair of smaller ones latch onto his fingers.

Looking up he met a sleepy pair of amethyst eyes trying to focus on him, "N-n-nwot sick...jus-jhwust..uh sleepy and...cwold," with a voice that was softer than a whisper, plus the slurring of her words due to the fever, she was basically incomprehensible.

He was going to try and retract his hand again when he felt something soft come in contact with it. He looked down to see that she had placed her face in the palm of it and wrapped around it like a snake.

With a single muttering of, "...warm...like hellfire", she fell asleep with his hand still under her.

He looked at Constantine.

Not really sure what to do, but the con-man only grinned before giving him a tap on the back, "Good lad Jason, put her to sleep. Even I couldn't do that, let alone Etrigan. Guess I'll leave it to you."

And with that, Zed and John stood up and began to exit the room.

Jason was still in shock to even speak; so before he realized what they were doing, they already switched off the lights and closed the door with a soft click.

He simply stared into the darkness, the only illumination being the moon and stars outside.

Sighing, looked down at the fiend holding his hand prisoner and contemplated yanking her off. She was small. it would incredibly easy to flick her away and then he could simply depart home...but then he felt a squeeze.

As if the girl sensed his thoughts, she clung harder onto his limb like it was a lifeline.

She looked truly at peace right now; her harsh breaths were now nothing but puffs and she was less...sweaty. Demon spawn or not, the girl was no more vulnerable than a newborn fawn at the moment. Jason just didn't have the heart to disturb her peace for his own gain.

Another sigh could be heard in the silent room.

'Maybe an hour longer won't hurt but after that, never accept a favour for John Constantine again.'

hope you like it, feels weird writing characters that aren't just raven and my other faves, hope I didn't make anyone ooc

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

My Brother

Summary: When Inko is fifteen she is handed a picture of her and a blonde boy. She asks who it is. "Your brother. Your parents gave him up because he was Quirkless." Inko spends the next part of her life looking for her brother, only for her son to pull him into her house one day, announcing he found Uncle Toshinori. 

On AO3

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  When Inko was fifteen, her aunt pulled her to the side and handed her a photo. The photo featured her as a little baby, green hair showing above her head, dressed in a little jumper with a pacifier in her mouth. She’s being held awkwardly by a blond boy with big blue eyes, a big grin across his face.

  “Who’s this?” She asked her aunt, curious.

  “Your brother.” Her aunt told her.

 “What?” Inko asked. She looked at the photo again. “Is… what happened?” She asked her aunt, clutching it in her hand.

  “Your parents waited for his Quirk. He didn’t have one.” Her aunt told her, blunt. Her aunt’s hands were threaded together, clutching each other. “They didn’t like that.”

  “... but they work with Quirkless Discrimination agencies. They donate money to…” Inko began but her mind began clicking, thinking.

  Her father’s slight sneer when talking about Quirkless people when they were home, just the family. Her mother’s muttering about donating money being a pain.

  “... they’re pretending.” She whispered. Her aunt nodded.

  “They are. Its status, it’s trendy. Pretending you aren’t a bigot.” Her aunt shrugged. Inko didn’t want to believe. She gave the photo back anyway when her aunt asked her.

 She had to talk to them.

 -0-

  “YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A BUNCH OF LIARS!” She screamed at her father. “He was my brother-“

  “He was useless to us!” Her father snapped. “Quirkless- worth nothing in the long run. Your useless Quirk at least makes you a viable bride-“

  “GO TO HELL!” She screamed and ran up to her room.

  “Calm down, she’ll understand. He wasn’t worth it.”

  Screw that. She grabbed her cell phone and called her aunt.

  “Auntie, can you bring your truck?”

  “Of course.”

  It didn’t take long for Inko to pack up what she needed. She ignored the knocking of her mother when it happened and she waited.

  Her aunt showed up.

  “Haruka! Why are you here?” She heard from downstairs and came down, carrying a few bags.

  “The rest are upstairs. I refuse to be in a house of hypocrites.” Her parents didn’t like it, yelling she was overreacting.

  Her threat to tell everyone the truth about her brother had them letting her go.

  Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe. She thought so the moment she got in her aunt’s big grey truck, the one she used to deliver things. She looked to the front door where her parents were glaring at her aunt who stood with her arms crossed.

  Her tall aunt, blonde hair hanging down her back, like her brother’s, Inko’s father. She was tall, tough. Inko looked up to her. Ever since she was a little kid and her aunt had thrown her father into a wall when he’d dared hit Inko.

  “You treat your kid right or I’ll hurt you.” She’d threatened.

  Inko blinked, mind going to many incidents in her life where her aunt had stepped in to stop them from hurting Inko. Where her aunt had told her to not listen to her mother who picked at her appearance, where her aunt had snuck her food when her mother forced her into a diet. Where her aunt had given her money and helped her open a bank account her parents had no control over and had fought with her parents who tried to demand she give them the information.  

  Sitting in the truck, she realized that maybe… the fact they would do that, lie like that… that was the final straw.

 -0-

  Living with her aunt was different. Inko found herself smiling more. Her aunt had a sense of humour that encouraged loud laughter. She never made Inko do anything she didn’t want and even let her drop out of some clubs that her parents had made her go to.

  Inko found herself happy for the first time in a long time as she and her aunt tried to find out how to find her brother.

  It was hard though. The files weren’t kept and her parents had given up all custody and signed multiple forms. As well, it had been fourteen years back.

  Then her aunt got sick. Very sick.

  “Cancer,” the doctors told her. “Pancreatic- most likely from all the chemicals she transported over the years.”

  Pancreatic. Even in the 23 century, it was impossible to cure. Medical research in cancer and other such diseases had tapered off when Quirks became a thing. More focus was on that for a good fifty years or so. Then after that more focus was on other sorts of diseases brought around by Quirks or researching how to help people affected by Quirks.

  “I’m not dying until you’re old enough to be an adult.” Her aunt grunted when Inko asked her how she was feeling. “Eighteen kiddo.” She bared her teeth. “Gotta hold on.”

  Inko was eighteen and just finally finished high school when her aunt died. Her aunt had been living at home still, stubborn and refusing to go to hospice.

  Inko came home after a night out after graduating high school to find her dead.

  The funeral was a hard affair, her parents at least respectful enough to not start anything until after when they tried to get her to move back in with them.

  “I was already accepted into university and will be living in the dorms. As well I told them you are not allowed to ever call and change anything about my classes or living arrangements.”

  They were so mad and she got a call from the dorm manager who told her that they’d had several calls from them within a week. Each time demanding she not be allowed to room there or threatening them.

  None worked. Inko ended up cutting off contact with some help from a friend she made in a study group, Midoriya Hisashi. He was so handsome and kind. He also understood her struggles.

  “I grew up in the foster system for a good portion of my life. I got adopted at fourteen and… they weren’t good. Obsessed with the idea of being my parents, burning things I had of my biological parents. They were the sort of abusers who were kind, the ones you don’t realize are hurting you.”

  It was like Inko and her own. She didn’t know their controlling behaviours, their actions were abuse.

  Not until her aunt and her brother.

  Soon after a few heart to hearts, they started dating, something that her roommate Mitsuki loved.

  “He’s freaking handsome, you go girl!”

  When Inko graduated with a degree in culinary arts, Hisashi proposed while heading to law school.

  They got married the summer after. During that time though they discovered that Hisashi’s adopted parents died. Inko made the choice to try and let her own parents back into her life because she saw how much it hurt him.

  “He’s so nice honey-“ Her mother said when they got in, stopping at seeing one of the photos in their apartment. Her and her brother.

  Inko kept an eye on her mother after that, right up to the time she caught the woman trying to take it down.

  “Stop it!”

  “He’s not your brother he’s some      thing-    “ Inko didn’t let her say another word and shoved her out.

  She didn’t talk to them again.

  “Please don’t regret it,” Hisashi told her.

  “I won’t,” Inko told him.

  She continued to look for her brother, her husband helping. But it was hard. Harder, even more, when she became pregnant at age 28, just when Hisashi was finishing law school. They took a break, Inko going on maternity leave from the bakery she was working at.

  She gave birth to a perfect little boy she loved dearly. Hisashi loved him too, even as his work became demanding. Being part of a hero’s legal team was hard after all. Especially a destructive one like the Empire who could cause earthquakes by accident.

  Mitsuki already had a son named Katskii herself and the two hoped their sons would become friends, and it looked like they would though Inko worried. Katsuki was a headstrong little boy who seemed to love bossing others around. He was sometimes mean to Izuku and his meanness was cruel in ways she knew could cause problems.

  Mitsuki at least also saw it. But her own parenting didn’t work well.

  “My parents used to slap me around,” she told Inko blankly. “My dad once held my head underwater for a minute because I pissed him off. I… I try you know? But… where’s the line?”

  “My parents controlled every aspect of my life. They would force me on diest when I was already too thin, would go through my emails and phone. My dad hit me too, but my aunt… she stepped in each time.” Inko told her back. They both knew already, but it was nice to talk about.

  When her son, Izuku, was four though she sat in a doctor’s office and heard the worst discussion of Quirklessness in her life.

  “That test hasn’t been allowed to diagnose Quirklessness for twenty-years!” she shouted at the doctor. “Blood test, now!” The doctor was pissed and refused so she stomped out with her son, making sure each parent in the waiting room knew the doctor was using outdated medical information before rescheduling an appointment with a different doctor.

  Inko was darkly pleased that Dr. Tsubasa ended up being reprimanded and forced to take more classes. There was some issue with his grandson but his parents dealt with that.

  Yet, when the blood tests came back, Izuku was diagnosed as Quirkless.

  “He has no Quirk himself, though we believe any child he has with a Quirked individual will have a much more powerful Quirk than their other parent.” the doctor said. He was nicer at least. Izuku was so fragile, so small about this as they went home. He watched his favourite hero video, Inko watching from the door to the office.

  “...Mama, can I be a hero too?” little Izuku said. Inko felt like breaking down. She didn’t think so. Izuku was so small, so little. And she had never heard about a Quirkless hero. But then she thought of her brother.

  “I don’t know sweetie,” she finally admitted. She walked up to him and knelt down, hugging him. “But… I think you can do your best.” It wasn’t enough and she knew it but she also knew too well the Quirkless statistics.

  That was the first night she told Izuku about her brother. She showed him the picture and explained.

  “I won’t be like my parents,” she promised him. And she wouldn’t. Hisashi promised as well, and the two worked hard to make sure he was happy.

  Inko did eventually go back to work when Izuku was five, hoping and praying her son would be okay.

  She knew he was lying when he came home with ruined clothes and claimed it was all accidents. She knew he was lying when he tried to claim he was okay. But she couldn’t do anything. Not without actual proof.

  She hoped Katsuki was helping her son.

  She had a terrible feeling he wasn’t.

 -0-

  Inko and Hisashi began talking about opening a cafe when Izuku was six. The little boy was all for it, offering ideas and his own thoughts. They were happy. Inko still looked for her brother but she had accepted it might never happen. Izuku dreamed of being a hero. Hisashi was doing well at work.

  And then…

  Empire accidentally destroyed his own agency. Lost control.

  Hisashi didn’t make it.

  The large payout from the agency plus the Hero Public Safety Commission was enough for Inko to not have to work for years if they were careful.

  It didn’t fix a single thing.

  Inko would admit she lost herself for a year, completely unable to think or do anything. She wandered her apartment blankly.

  It took her son hiding a broken wrist from her to snap her out of it. She was horrified and she marched into the school to scream at them. She listed exactly what she knew about anti-Quirkless Discrimination laws, and what she could do to them.

  Izuku stopped being hurt that bad. But emotional abuse from his peers and teachers was harder to figure out.

  Inko began to work on the cafe again, as well as she began helping out at rallies on anti-Quirkist ideas. Inko also made sure Izuku knew he could go to her no matter what, but also tried not to be her parents. She tried not to butt in at any time and let him live his own life.

  As he got older she wondered if she should try more. If her hands-off approach was as bad as her own parent’s actions to her.

  But she was terrified. She didn’t want to be them.

  Inko watched as her son got older, as he got more secretive and worried. She tried to get him into programs but each time she was refused. Or they would let him go but then stop, saying he kept having people come and harass him.

  “Then why is it his fault?” she asked them. They shrugged.

  It was just easier to get rid of him than others. Izuku got very quiet after that and stopped wanting to do extra things.

  She worried and worried and she would look at the photo of her brother. She wondered if the worry she had would be for him as well. If she had grown up with an older brother who was hated, who had to fight to be respected by anyone.

  She was pretty sure she’d be more of a mess.

 She also imagined though, a tall man coming in to help with Izuku. Who would help fight against the school. Who would be with her through the death of Hizashi.

  She often stared at the photograph of her and her brother, wondering what if.

  The cafe she started had a copy of the photograph and any person making any Quirkist comments was thrown out in seconds. She provided a safe space for everyone, and she found that by doing so she got a lot of customers from people who struggled to find a place in society.

  It attracted other attention to, including a man she was fairly certain was an underground hero who came in with a black jumpsuit, getting the darkest coffee. He was a nice enough man though, and Inko found herself enjoying conversations with him. Mostly about cats or his loud friend she wanted to tell him was hitting on him.

  When a loud man came in asking for the ‘regular coffee order’ for the jumpsuit guy she stared him down.

  “Ask him out, we’re all done with his pining.” The man spluttered. “He talks about you nonstop. I don’t know his name, he pays with cash. He has mentioned you though enough I can recognize you on site. Ask him out please.”

  Shuichi, one of the cafe workers snorted. “We’re all done. Please just date him already.” The lizard-like teen continued to work while the blonde spluttered but did leave with the regular coffee and an order for himself.

  A week later both showed up, holding hands.

  “Yay! The pinning is over!” Shuichi said from where he was trying to help Izuku with math, his angry mutters about how the teachers were purposely fudging his grades making Inko plan another trip to the school to threaten them.

  “Yay!” Izuku laughed, the nine-year-old grinning at the nasty look he got. “You don’t scare me. I saw you sneak a cat in here in your scarf.”

  Inko found herself laughing harder than ever that night, and the two- Shouta and Hizashi- became friends of the family.

  As time continued to tick by, even with moments like the one where she made friends with the two she kept worrying. As Izuku got more and more nervous about school, as she saw scars he kept claiming she was mistaken about. As Mitsuki began whispering her worries over her son and how the school seemed to not worry over his anger or his attitude, as they seemed to ignore it.

  She tried to talk to him but didn’t know what to do. She felt lost.

  Then, he was fourteen and came home with a smile on his face and a spark in his eyes. He spoke happily and told her of his plan to start working out soon. She smiled and told him she was proud. It was March, nearing the end of his second year of middle school and she was happy he was happy.

  A week into his spring vacation, he opened the door to the apartment holding the hand of a tall blonde man. She frowned.

  “Izuku?” she asked him before she got a good look at the man. Her eyes widened at seeing that face.

  “Mom… I found uncle Toshinori.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0- 

Is Shuichi who you think it is? Yes. Originally I was like: this is just an AU where it just so happens All Might is Inko’s brother but then my brain went: okay but- so Spinner is good in this AU as he managed to find a job with Inko and is the older brother figure to Izuku.

Hope you guys liked this! Next part would be a One Shot from All Might's perspective then we actually get the story-story from Izuku's!

[buckysgoldenheart]

Trust Me

Henry Cavill x reader

Summary: You’ve gone back to the same manipulate ex enough times that you’ve lost count, but Henry decides he won’t let you do it again.

Words: 1673

Notes/Warnings: Fluff, Angst, sexual tension (sort of), mention of manipulative relationships (but doesn’t go into detail), cursing.

Sacrificing yourself for someone who does not deserve it, throwing yourself on a wooden spike for them, despite how it may sound, is the easiest thing in the world, and when you fail to see the damage it inflicts because your denial is just that strong, you can die one hundred times over and not even notice.

But your denial has gradually weakened. You have started to notice that maybe you’ve killed yourself too many times for someone who does not deserve your love. Though newfound awareness does not erase the poor choices or the pain, and certainly not the fear of dragging that pain with you wherever you go.

“Sweetheart,” Henry says as he kneels in front of where you’re sitting on the couch, both of your hands gripped tightly in his. “You’ve got to stop.”

You can see him. You can see his worried lips, and his concerned, blue gaze, and his dark eyebrows pinched at the middle, and yet, you’re not positive he is with you. He is touching you and still, you’re praying he’s not a hallucination, because he feels very real and you like it just a little too much. You’ve always liked it just a little too much.

But then you remember the way Henry’s smile slipped the second you opened the door, and it provides sudden reassurance that he is really, solidly in front of you. As he had scanned your body up and down, his own not even past the threshold yet, the expression on his face couldn’t seem to decide between devastation or absolute outrage, and you hadn’t even said a word. That was all you needed to understand that you look as terrible as you feel. Not because of the man you happily gave up, but because of the aching anxiety he left lingering around you long after he was gone. Now, here you are, here Henry is, and you don’t want to dump those damaged feelings on him when he is the last to deserve it.

He touches your cheek, and the sensation of rough fingertips grazing along your skin tugs at the strands of your attention.

“All he ever does is break you, but you can’t keep breaking, Love. I can’t stand it any longer. I won’t let you go back to him ever again.”

You want to tell him not to worry, that you won’t go back, that you’ve finally learned from your mistakes, but you figure it changes nothing. Crumbled, broken, ripped apart one time or a hundred, it makes no difference. No matter how many times you fix yourself, you’ll never be enough. Even if repaired, a thing that has been shattered to bits retains little of its original value, does it not?

“You’re worth so much, and you deserve better than him. You deserve to be loved and taken care of.”

Holding your tongue is not easy. You itch to disagree, but it will only serve to intensify his argument. He’s said it all before, and when he saw you and realized that while he’d been away, you spent those months being manipulated by your ex for the umpteenth time, you were well prepared for him to say it again.

“Fuck,” Henry says. “I wish you’d just let me do it.”

Your eyes focus a little harder on his and you swallow.

“You know how much I want to,” He continues as he tucks a strand of messy hair behind your ear. “You’re not going to drag me down like you think you will, Sweetheart. I know that’s what keeps you from saying yes, but I promise you, the worst you could do is make me deliriously happy.”

“You don’t know that,” You finally speak, your voice hoarse as it passes through your dry, cracked lips.

Something like relief flashes in Henry’s eyes at your break in silence. “Yes, I do,” He says determinedly. “And I won’t drag you down, either. More than that, I won’t hurt you.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Have I ever hurt you?” He asks.

You don’t even have to think on it. He hadn’t. Not in all the years of your friendship had he done anything other than brighten your mood, but good people do painful things every day. If others have to suffer at the hands of those they love most, what hope might you both have of escaping the same fate if things evolved past platonic.

Your thoughts begin drifting to a darker place, but they are sharply yanked back to the surface when Henry leans up and softly presses his lips to your own. You still completely as a large hand shifts to the back of your neck and holds you close. And damn it, this is exactly what you were trying to avoid. You’ve always known that if he ever kissed you, that would be it. Game over. Now he has, and the longer your lips remain weaved with his, the harder it becomes to remember the reasons why you’ve never given yourself to him before. He has always wanted you; He made that abundantly clear. You are the one who has held back.

He pulls away before you begin to react to his kiss, then gives you one last peck and meets your eyes as they slowly open.

“I’m sorry,” He says, and your eyebrows rise slightly before settling back into neutrality. “I shouldn’t have—that wasn’t fair of me.”

Your gaze follows his body as he moves to sit beside you on the couch. He runs a hand through his hair before he covers his face with them both, braces his elbows on his knees, and groans into the cave of his palms.

You want to get closer to him, but he’s speaking again, and it makes you pause. “Oh, God, that was so selfish,” He says, more to himself than to you. “You’re going through shit, and I just--

He raises his head to look at you when your touch reaches his bicep, but then you push him down against the back of the couch and swing a leg over his thighs to straddle him.

He looks hesitant; his eyes wide, seemingly unconvinced your body is on top of his despite the friction of your hips or the way you cautiously trace the curve of his neck with your nails. His hands rise and his fingers twitch, and you know he wants to touch you, but won’t until you clearly show him that you want it too. So when you lean down and kiss him, he wastes no time firmly encasing you in his arms, moaning so deep you feel the vibration against your breasts.

Henry is different. His kisses follow your lead even when it’s obvious he wants to dominate you, make you his completely. His touch shows a respect you’ve never had the luxury of experiencing. There’s no room for anything between you. You’re connected; holding and feeling and seeing one another without restraint, with chests cracked open and hearts bare.

But then, what are hearts other than big, red, pumping targets practically calling for a sharp dagger to pierce their center. A tear slips down your cheek and you quickly separate your lips to wipe it away before Henry can see, but he beats you to it. His thumb slides along your cheekbone, smoothing the salty liquid into your skin.

“I…Henry, I don’t want to lose you,” You near whisper, sniffling. “If we hurt each other—"

“Sweetheart.” Henry trails an affectionate hand over your shoulder and down your arm, settling finally on your thigh. His fingers squeeze your flesh. “We won’t.”

You seal your eyelids and more tears fall that Henry gets rid of.

“You think us together would be a risk, but it’s not. It’s a sure thing, Love. As long as you want me, I will forever want you, and nothing can change that. You could scream at me until your lungs collapse, and I would still be in love with you.”

“I would never scream at you,” You mumble, bypassing his confession of love and trying your best to ignore the way every flowing, beating, humming part of your body freezes entirely.

“No,” He chuckles. “You wouldn’t. You would never yell or slap at me or say anything to break my heart. You don’t have a cruel bone in your beautiful body, so why do you assume we will be destructive to one another?” Henry’s thumb and index finger grip your chin and lift until your eyes can only meet his. “I am so in love with you, Y/N.”

“You keep saying that,” You mutter.

“Because it’s the truth.” He smiles. “God damn, is it the truth. You have no idea.”

You shift your hips and Henry lightly groans, his arm wrapping around you tighter. You blush when you realize what you’ve done.

With a smile, he pecks your lips to chase away the shy, guilty look on your face. “Just try this with me,” He says and gives you another quick kiss. “Trust me. I’ll take care of you. Be with me and I will prove it to you. I’ll prove how much I love you.”

You take in a shaky breath as he puts his palms to your cheeks and tilts your head until your foreheads meet. Your heart beats hard. Hard enough that you’re surprised each thump isn’t visibly pushing the left side of your chest outward. Your body has never worked this hard to prove a point to your brain. It tells you, you want this and it won’t let you convince yourself otherwise.

Pulling back, you smile down at him and run a finger over his bottom lip. “I trust you,” You say.

“So…”

“So…let’s try.”

tags: @dugan365 @moonlightimagination @pietrotheavenger @marvel-fanfiction @hawkeyeharrington @dani-si @wintersoldier98 @then-there-was-me-emily @prxttybirdz @xceafh @jazzwoman897 @fandoms-who @meganwinchester1999 @ufffg @debra77 @rebelliouscat​ @anise-d-castle6​ @projectxhappiness​ @notmyfault404​ @jjamesbbarness​ @guera31​ @sophiatomlinson23​ @thisismysecrethappyplace​ @hiddles-rose​ @mywinterwolf​ @picapicapicassobaby​ @genius2050​ @lokilvrr​ @sunshine-seven @missjayi @agniavateira​ @tumblnewby @forthebrokenheartedthings​ @summersong69​ @starlite13​ @mstgsmy​ @purplelove75​ @defffcc​ @the-soot-sprite​

[llendrinall]

I’m slowly but surely falling in love with Percy of the Endrina universe.

Good! Let’s talk a bit more about Percy then.

· He is strongly a middle child. Wedged between the successful brothers and the fun ones. He wants some recognition, dammit, and is heartbroken when he realizes he will never get it.

· He suffers a double process of parentification. On the one hand, as in most large families, there is that expectation that he will check on his younger siblings. Doubly so because he is the responsible one, more than Bill and Charlie.

· On the other hand, I think Percy realizes pretty early that his parents aren’t good with money or navigating the social system, so he takes upon himself to compensate those gaps. He sees the family careening straight to disaster and, honestly, he is not wrong. Arthur puts the family in a very dangerous position. When Percy writes to Ron during the fifth year, it’s a clumsy but honest attempt to have Ron save himself.

· He likes Charlie and Ron best. He admires that Charlie managed a clean exit of the family. I won’t say that Charlie hates the family, but he is not coming a lot for Christmas, is he? Percy admires that Charlie managed to make a life to his taste despite societal and family pressure. For this reason, he is also the closest to Charlie. I’m not sure he is Charlie’s favorite, but he is the one Charlie confides in.

· Percy likes Ron because he is the other middle child. He sees Ron struggling for attention, recognition and identity, just like him.

· Percy dislikes Ginny. He still loves her and would do anything for her, but he doesn’t like her. Part of it is that they are extremely different in opposing and conflicting ways. Where Percy is nerdy, introverted and controlled, Ginny is outgoing and unrestrained. Percy can admire her boldness while not wanting to be near it.

· The other part is that a lot of Ron being unacknowledged is derived from the favoritism towards Ginny. It’s not Ginny’s fault and I think she struggles against being The Girl. But still, Percy resents her for it. Worst of all, he is aware of it and wishes he could love Ginny better.

· He is left handed. He learned to write with his right hand because that’s how Molly taught him. Same in school. He was told to grab his wand with your right hand, young man, and it wasn’t until Flitwick realized he is left-handed that he began to use his left. As a result, he can write with both hands, but uses different hands for spells. Right one for simple everyday spells and left one for the advanced ones.

· Harry Potter is the first person to realize Percy is constantly switching wand hands. He thinks it’s very neat.

· Percy could cast a corporeal patronus on his NEWTS but didn’t because he is embarrassed by its form. Whatever it is (and it will change from story to story) it’s an animal with negative connotations, like a shark or a snake.

· He has self-destructive tendencies that manifest in the wildest possible way. Percy is way beyond drugs and unprotected sex and comfortably planted in Faraday terrain. (Faraday tested his famous cage by putting himself inside of it and repeatedly striking it with high-voltage electric charges. That’s a man who is very certain of his math work).

· He has saved more lives than he has taken.

· He was right to question Dumbledore. Sure, Voldemort had come back, that part was true. But Percy was right to question Dumbledore.

· By all means he and Oliver shouldn’t work, but both of them have the intuition that the wizarding world is bananas and that’s what they like about each other. They may not question everything, but they don’t necessarily accept things blindly.

· He likes Harry. He is bothered by many of Harry’s quirks, but he likes him and feels very protective of him.

· Thank Merlin he is awkward and book-oriented because if he were a bit more charismatic and had fallen with the wrong crowd of sycophants he would have started his own Grey Lord path (not dark, that’s not Percy) and he would be much harder to stop.

· He is horrified at the treatment of goblins in wizarding society but doesn’t know how to help.

Ah, Percy. He is so tired. I just want him to rest and eat his own body weight in interesting foreign foods and gelattos, which reminds me I should pick up that WIP and have him eat some pistachio gelatto.

[mylordshesacactus]

A Writer’s Guide To Hurricanes, I Guess

I realized with a bit of chagrin that, while I’ve spent years bitching about how it drives me up the wall that nobody (in fandom or, in fact, mainstream media) has a goddamn clue how hurricanes work and yet insists on portraying them anyway...I’ve never actually tried to help by explaining what they’re actually like.

So, here’s a genuine, non-sarcastic, good-faith attempt by a Floridian to help you guys who might want to write this stuff at some point understand it, just a little.

So here we go, chronologically in terms of the storm’s progress.

The storm itself is the least of it.

This is the thing non-hurricane places don’t....get.

You can see a hurricane coming. You can watch it. You have, in fact, no choice. I need to reiterate this.

You have no choice but to sit there and watch a hurricane coming.

I’ve actually talked a lot in another post about what that feels like, and why hurricane parties are a thing. But try to imagine what that feels. Just...try. You have to sit there, for about a week, watching the wrath of God bear down on you.

You watch it come and you hope the path changes. You hope it veers off back into the Atlantic, of course, but you also--you hope it hits somewhere else. You know wherever it goes people will die and you hope it goes somewhere else. And you feel kinda bad about it; but you also don't because these are just facts, this is a fact of hurricanes, they will go somewhere and people will die in that place and all of us hope it goes Somewhere Else and if it does, we know that the people Somewhere Else are praying frantically that it gets back on course and hits us instead and we understand.

(And when it does change course, when it doesn’t hit you, you almost feel....cheated? Because you spent so much time and energy preparing and fearing and coming to terms and accepting and bracing and then it--doesn’t happen.

And the guilt of praying it would go Somewhere Else is nothing compared to being disgusted with yourself for actually feeling disappointed that you were spared the apocalypse this time.)

The wind is different.

If you listen to weather reports on hurricanes you’ve absolutely heard the phrasing “sustained winds of X miles per hour with gusts up to Y” without really thinking about what that means.

Now, of course everyone’s been in windy conditions. It’s hard to put a finger on exactly how the hurricane is....different, so I’m just going to describe what it’s like.

The wind always comes from one direction. There’s no being “knocked this way and that” or whatever; the wind comes from the direction the wind is coming from. Always.

(If you’re near where the center of the storm passes, this direction will slowly change as your position relative to the eye changes. But it changes over a matter of hours--like the angle of the sun.)

The wind is a constant, unrelenting force. There’s no....there’s no dips in the wind. It never lessens, it only spikes and then returns to baseline. In a normal windstorm, no, it’s not that the wind ever stops blowing, but...there’s an ebb and a flow. A hurricane is a wind tunnel in which every so often someone revs the engine and there’s a few seconds of higher wind, but it never drops below where it’s set.

(The wind will snake under plywood and storm shutters; it will rip them clean off, if you haven’t screwed them in properly. Screws, not nails. The wind makes deadly projectiles of anything not fastened down. Plywood and storm shutters can be broken, by anything travelling fast enough. It is standard procedure, if you have lawn furniture or anything else not secured that doesn’t float, to carefully lower that furniture into a pool--if you have one. It will stay untouched, and won’t be flung through your neighbors’ plywood.)

This is why hurricanes take down so many trees, why they do so much structural damage. Buildings in hurricane zones are built to withstand high wind, and most trees in these areas can survive high wind too or they wouldn’t have survived so long. But there’s only so much that nature and engineering can do about sustained high winds, without a moment’s rest, for hours, unending, no respite...

In landfall footage--ie, the stuff you see on the news--you likely see this effect in the palm trees-watch how instead of tossing, they’re just bent. It never lets up. In the instances where a bent tree violent bounces back before bending again, trust me--that’s not a letup in the wind speed. That’s the tree having been bent too far, and springing back from the sheer pressure on its internal structure. That’s the tree being stronger than the wind--for now

It’s mostly not like the TV reports.

There’s a reason I referred to “landfall footage” above. News broadcasts, for a lot of reasons, focus on the storm at its worst. The highest storm surge, the highest winds, the most brutal damage, occurs where the eye wall first crosses from being over water to being over land.

(Remember--by the time a storm “makes landfall,” everything for miles around has been experiencing the storm for hours already. “Landfall” is when the EYE of the storm first hits land, not when the storm “arrives”.)

But hurricanes are...vast. Look up satellite footage of hurricanes. Really look at it. Look at how much sheer area they cover.

Most places do not experience landfall-level disaster. That’s why, when people evacuate--well, when residents evacuate, the tourists and recent transplants tend to panic harder--you’re basically always evacuating to someplace that will still have vanished under that mass of swirling clouds. Evacuation sites are still inside the hurricane, but wind speed, storm surge, etc--everything drops dramatically even a few miles from the eye.

On a related note, the eye itself rapidly starts shedding power the moment it’s no longer over open water. Generally, the simple act of making landfall instantly drops a hurricane at least one category in severity. Hurricanes are eldritch gods; they rise from the sea and from the sea they take their power. Cut off from it, they starve.

Do not think for a moment that just because you’re “only” experiencing Cat 1 winds that this storm can’t kill your ass dead. Do not underestimate what the death throes of a dying god can do.

Storm surge isn’t high waves, and it isn’t rain.

Storm surge is the actual sea level rising. The entire ocean being dragged onto land by the power of the storm.

Particularly wet and slow hurricanes might--rarely--drop enough rain to cause flooding. However, that’s unusual; most places here can handle heavy rain. The rain isn’t the problem.

(Slow hurricanes are killers on another level. It’s everything I’ve already said about the unrelenting brutality of the wind, coupled with the fact that--as, again, the vast majority of the storm has been raging for hours by the time it “makes landfall”, and hurricanes draw power from the Eye being over the water--it now has hours upon hours of fully-fuelled destruction before it begins to weaken by being cut off from warm water. It doesn’t weaken, it just....keeps going. And the storm surge is present that entire time.)

I’m just gonna direct you to this NOAA diagram on how storm surge works.

The northeast quadrant is the strongest.

This isn’t a proper subheading it’s just something I rarely see people not from Florida acknowledge. 

No matter where the storm is coming from or what angle it hits at--the northeast quadrant is the killer. You do everything in your power to avoid being caught northeast of the storm.

In hurricane-prone areas, the threat is felt year-round.

All the major intersections? Our stoplights aren’t hung on wires from wooden poles--those blow down too easily. They’re bolted to thick metal pipes, “hurricane-proof”. Major roadways that are above floodlines are labelled as evacuation routes.

Things like that.

Hurricanes make their presence known long before the disaster begins.

You start to get “hurricane weather” days--days--before it hits. The sun is out, the weather is fine except for a...

Well, a constant, low-level breeze, with much less variation in angle and direction than usual, fewer gusts, but still primarily a natural breeze. And then you go outside and you look up at that cheerful blue sky and it’s already there.

They’re called cloud bands. You look up and the entire sky is just fluffy white clouds, racing at speed in one direction...

(The breeze, in those early few days, is light. Present, but light. The clouds are always, always racing as if before a gale. There’s a pervasive, eerie wrongness about this, looking up--the clouds moving much, much faster than the wind that should be driving them.)

A hurricane is not a thunderstorm.

This is the cardinal sin and the clearest, most common misconception. Hurricanes are not thunderstorms. In fact it’s actually very rare to have lightning or hear any thunder at all during a hurricane, compared to an average summer storm in hurricane-prone areas.

People often portray hurricanes as basically....the worst storm they can remember, but bigger, and badder, and worse. Hurricanes aren’t just big and intense, they’re....different. They’re something different.

Hurricanes are...quiet.

Except that they’re not.

You know when people talk about the wind howling? Think of the most intense storm you’ve ever sat through. Think about the sound of the wind.The way it whistles through leaves. Hold that experience in your head.

Now forget it. This is different.

Hurricanes don’t sound like that. Hurricanes are....

The sound a hurricane makes is a howl, yes. It makes palm fronds and grass steps and leaves whistle like a rapier scraped against a sheathe, yes. But you barely notice those shallow details, because the sound a hurricane makes is below that, stronger, more powerful.

Hurricanes moan.

Hurricanes are the entire world around you slowly and steadily fraying at the seams, and it moans, low and deep, agonized and hungry, and it never stops. Never. Not until it’s over.

Hurricanes are a world ending.

The storm passes, and the hurricane has only begun.

Do you think people stock up as heavily as they do, with generators and nonperishables and such, for--what, for a few hours of wind and rain, however alive?

No.

Because once the tempest is past, now you have to...exist.

You will not have power. If you were in a very, very lightly-affected area, you might have cell service. Most of your neighbors have evacuated. Many roads can’t be used because they’re washed out, or there are trees or power lines down across them.

It’s very common to lose water pressure. Common practice in hurricane-prone areas is to fill your bathtub with water before the storm--so that, when you lose water pressure, you can use a bucket to flush your toilet. Because those conditions, assuming you’re in an area that can be repaired and not rebuilt, can take weeks.

Weeks without running water, a flushable toilet. That gets grim fast. You brace for the storm. You prepare for what follows.

A hurricane is an eldritch abomination.

Hurricanes are alive.

Hurricanes are Old Gods.

Sitting through a hurricane is not like sitting through a bad storm or like sitting through a tornado, which is fast and unstoppable but then it’s over like it never existed save for the destruction left behind.

In order to get a clearer understanding of just how much the universe is vast, how much it does not, cannot, even notice you enough to want you dead because you are so small it would not comprehend you as possessing an existence if it tried--you would have to go to space.

And while the world moans around you and something out there, alive, growls at a frequency you can’t hear but you feel--you don’t cuddle for warmth during a hurricane. You just don’t.

You keep the generator running outside in the lee of the house where it won’t kill you all with gas fumes, connected via wires that snake around through a cracked door somewhere it won’t get blown open. You make sure it doesn’t run out of fuel, that it doesn’t get water blown into anything important. You use it to power a TV first--to keep the weather report on. You power lights second, if it’s a decent one. You can’t afford one powerful enough to run your refrigerator; you ate the ice cream before this started.

You play games. We’re human; it’s what we do. We play games in the face of our own helplessness. But while you play, you listen. You can’t not.

It’s always there. The world creaks on its hinges. You feel the edges threatening to dissolve. If you sit for a moment and are quiet, that ever-present moan is there, something ancient and powerful on a scale outside your comprehension. There is no cozy comfort of being bunkered down safe against the storm, not here.

There is no “safe” against this. You sit still and quiet and bear witness.

And when the sun rises in the aftermath, you’re surprised to find the world--even a wrecked and altered world--still exists. It shouldn’t. You were there when it ended.

And--and I cannot emphasize this enough--there’s no fucking thunder.

[trashmenofmarvel]

Branded - Chapter 47

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You try to adjust to your new life, but it doesn't go well.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart​ . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

Chapter Warnings: Angst, mild body horror

AO3

Bucky pulled you into his arms, and that’s where you stayed for the next several days. He only released you for bathroom breaks, and the first night when he tried to get you to sleep in his bed while he took the couch.

After he woke up to you crawling under his blanket to lie on top of him, Bucky gave up on trying to separate during sleep. You were thankful for that, because the night times were the worst. You held Bucky tight, that bone-deep fear of freezing in the night never quite going away even with your new fur.

Your features did not look any less jarring when you looked at them through the mirror rather than a flowing stream. You were less disturbing than a character in Cats, but only because you looked meaner. With sharp needle teeth and retractable claws, you were so careful of them around Bucky, even with his healing abilities. The bite you’d given him had already vanished, but your guilt was still very much present.

On good days, you could tolerate visitors. It was usually Wong who came, though sometimes it would be other wizards you didn’t recognize. They examined you only enough to determine that your time in the demon realm wasn’t going to kill you, as far as they could tell, but they had no idea if your demonic changes were permanent or temporary.

On good days, you would sit in one of the clock faces and soak up the sun, looking out at the sun-covered city and marveling at the lights at night.

On good days, Bucky was able to touch you. Everything about your body made you self-conscious and twitchy, but he was gentle and kind. Never angry or frustrated at your slow progress. He, above everyone else, understood how much patience was needed while you recovered from your time in the demon realm, not to mention the new changes to your body.

Bad days… Bad days were hard. They involved hiding, usually under the bed or up in the top floor among the rafters. Bucky was worried you’d fall, but once he saw how swift and graceful you were running along the beams, he stopped looking like he was on the verge of a heart attack.

On bad days, Bucky couldn’t touch you at all, and it was a blessing he didn’t have to. The bond was permanently disconnected, and you no longer had to be feed him or be fed upon. Bucky still had to obtain the energy that kept the demon part of him alive, but he supplemented with the potions the wizards gave him. You could smell the foul concoction even from across the loft, and it set your fur puffed up and on edge.

On bad days, you couldn’t tolerate Steve being anywhere in the loft. He’d come to visit after his recovery, and you were relieved to know there was no permanent damage from the Winter Soldier’s brutality. But when the demon side of you reared its head around Steve, he couldn’t stay. That part of you saw him as a threat, as competition, the prize being Bucky himself. It made you feel sick for hours afterwards, but Bucky was always patient and understanding.

On those days, the bad ones, the part of you that wasn’t entirely human had a stronger hold than the rest of you, and it treated everyone but Bucky like a hostile enemy. Those days were the worst, for both of you. Bucky couldn’t get close enough to offer you any comfort, and you couldn’t ask for it. You missed him so much it physically hurt, but when he approached, your body acted on instincts you didn’t understand, and you couldn’t stop yourself from running and hiding.

On a good day when you could be approached, Strange and Wong visited to conduct a round of new tests. Unlike the previous ones where nothing of interest had happened, it seemed that every instrument that touched you now either lit up like Times Square, or it simply exploded in their hands.

So much for being a magical dead battery.

Strange explained your “condition” and you tried to focus as best you could, still unable to talk and ask questions, even though you could technically write them down. Bucky asked plenty, keeping an eye on you in case you reacted unpredictably as you sometimes did. You were still a little too feral for Bucky to leave alone for long, a fact that was deeply shameful but you couldn’t do anything about. You prayed this wasn’t your new normal.

According to Strange, you were actually very gifted with magic, and all his previous tests had been wrong. Something to do with you suppressing your magic in your childhood—you didn’t really understand most of what he said—but he did know why you looked the way you did. In order to survive the harsh conditions of the demon realm, you’d absorbed some of the natural energy of the planet in order to “adapt.” Essentially, you’d become a pseudo-demon.

Strange was unsure if the changes were permanent, because this type of magic was incredibly advanced and should have been well beyond what a novice like you could achieve.

Bucky was handling the news better than you were, even though you becoming a demon had to be his worst nightmare. So when he looked at you as if he was scared you might break or vanish, you ignored the wizards in the room and melded yourself to Bucky’s side.

He didn’t move for a moment, but before you could pull away, Bucky put a hand around your shoulders and petted your hair. You sighed and melted into him further. He was as warm and solid as he always was, his earthy scent creating a familiar tingle in your stomach—

“Ahem.”

You looked up, blinking, having forgotten all about the wizards. Wong was giving you a frown that reminded you of a scolding schoolteacher, while Strange was trying to suppress an amused look.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Strange said as he stood from the couch. Wong followed him to the middle of the room where there was enough room to create a portal back to the Sanctum.

Strange’s innuendo was wasted; as soon as the wizards departed, that glimpse of your old self vanished, and you were back to hiding under the bed. You heard Bucky’s heavy sigh, but he didn’t say anything. He never did. He simply waited with saintly patience for you to eventually come out.

It didn’t hit you, how hard all of this was for him, until later that night.

You’d just woken from a nap to find the lights left off, the room dark and the snowy city glittering outside the clock face windows. You crawled out from under the bed and glanced around, ears perked when you couldn’t find Bucky in his usual spots. He wasn’t in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or in his study.

You craned your head back to look at the staircase spiraling around the elevator shaft, leading to the empty belfry. It was the last place to look.

Walking on your hands and feet, crouched over like an animal, you ascended the staircase on near-silent footsteps. The temperature dropped with each twist of the stairs, and you shivered despite your fur, still getting used to the late winter chill.

Pausing on the staircase, you peeked your head above the landing and froze at the sight of the bent figure. Wings draped along his back, his tail curled around his feet, Bucky sat on his haunches while staring at something in his hands.

It took you a minute to place the object, and when you remembered, it hit you like a train.

Bucky was holding an old, scruffy, stripped grey tabby. The animus. The thing that had bound you to him, and the last time he’d held it in his hands you’d nearly gone out of your mind with desire.

And now you felt… no different than you had before. The bond was gone, and the toy was just a toy.

Your ears folded back, your chest aching so deeply you could hardly breathe. Bucky didn’t appear any happier. Moonlight poured in front the old windows above his head, painting a lonely, melancholy picture.

Bucky pulled the toy against his chest, shoulders slumping forward, and he took a shaking breath. You froze, listening intently, and crushing guilt washed over you when his breathing hitched again.

Bucky was silently crying.

Your descent down the stairs would have felt like fleeing if you hadn’t been completely numb with horror. You had done this to Bucky. You’d driven him to hide his pain, only releasing it when he thought you wouldn’t know.

Tail between your legs, literally and mentally, you crawled into the bathroom and shut the door. Hesitating, you turned on the lights and rose to your feet to unwillingly look in the mirror. You’d tried to avoid it as much as you could, only catching glimpses in the window and reflective surfaces.

You looked the same as you had in the demon realm. Grey-blue fur, cat-like ears and tail, curled horns, and slitted eyes. Only now did you realize something so ridiculously obvious: you looked a lot like Monster.

You shut your eyes and tried to push the thought of your hobgoblin out of your mind. No one could find him, not at your apartment and not at the Sanctum, and you couldn’t bear the thought you’d never see him again. Strange critter or not, he was family, and you couldn’t imagine losing him on top of everything else.

Gazing back at your reflection, tail twitching behind you, you concentrated. You had no idea what you were doing and that was obvious when after several minutes, nothing happened. You gripped the sink, nails scratching against the metal as you tried harder. You were not going to live out the rest of your life as a goddamn animal.

Try as you might, nothing continued to happen, and you sagged against the sink in defeat. You couldn’t live like this, half-wild and unpredictable. Bucky was a patient as he could be, and it occurred to you he would continue to try to help you no matter the cost to himself. That’s just how he was, selfless to the point of self-destructive.

That, more than anything, got you moving. Thinking of Bucky and what Strange had told you earlier that day, you came up with an idea. It was asking too much of Bucky, but if it worked, maybe he’d be able to forgive you.

Bucky found you sitting cross-legged on the bed when he came down the stairs. His brows rose, clearly not expecting you to be waiting for him, and his gaze dropped to the notepad and marker in your hands. On good days, you could communicate with writing. In a twist of irony, it was the same pad and marker you’d used to talk to him when the heigore had torn up your vocal cords and the sorcerers had silenced you to recover.

As soon as he appeared on the staircase you started scribbling, and as he approached, you scooted over and patted the covers next to you. When Bucky sat, a couple feet from you with careful movements, you held up the pad. He read it.

“You need… a favor from me?”

You nodded, wrote again, and underlined it twice.

“A big favor.”

You nodded again, sharp nails curling around the pad as you tried to quell your nerves.

“Okay.” He eyed you carefully. “What kind of favor?”

You couldn’t blame Bucky for his cautiousness. Besides communicating the bare minimum to him, this was the first time you’d held any kind of conversation since he’d rescued you from a very literal Hell. Guilt continued to twist up your insides, but you pressed onward.

The next words you wrote took far longer than it should have, considering there were only two. You stared at them for a moment, your fur slowly puffing up. Bucky was watching, his expression growing more concerned by the second.

“Hey, you can tell me, whatever it is,” Bucky said. He moved a little closer, and you flinched. His expression was immediately regretful, but it wasn’t what he thought at all.

Before you lost your nerve, you held up the pad and quickly looked away.

Bucky didn’t repeat the words you’d scrawled on the paper. Instead, he gave out a croaked, “What?”

You pulled back the pad and stared down at the words you’d written.

Fuck me.

Next Chapter

[doyelikehaggis]

Twelve Days of Rarepairs: Scydia/McMartin | Scott McCall x Lydia Martin (Teen Wolf)

Requested by @wonderdoves & anonymous

"This place is…"

Scott can't even think of a word. He just gazes ahead of them in wonder and awe. For miles, all he can see is snow. A thick white blanket of it covering the entire path ahead, the roads, the cobblestoned buildings, the trees—god, even the trees feel like something out of a fairytale, with long, twisting branches that have a dusting of snow themselves. And it's still going, trying to make them part of the scenery, too.

"You'd think you'd never seen snow before," Lydia teases. 

"I haven't—not like this! California's snow is nothing compared to this." 

Lydia just smiles, a certain fondness in her eyes. She squints up at the sky, her nose wrinkling slightly, their suitcases dragging along through the snow behind them as they continue their way from the ferry port. Something else that Scott is admittedly still in amazement over; he'd never actually been on a ferry before. 

It's just a good thing that the snow stopped long enough for them to actually reach Ireland, or else they'd have still been holed up in their cabin, stuck somewhere in the middle of the sea. Not the worst scenario he can think of, to be fair. But he's glad, nonetheless, because this is so much better. 

"I don't know," Lydia says. "I think I prefer the warm winters. I'm just hoping that Gran and Nana make their hot chocolate like they used to when I was younger, I'm telling you, it's the best thing ever."

Scott smiles, finally looking at Lydia as they come to a stop outside a two-storey, cobbled house with a gate around the garden. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, her nose a pale pink. Snowflakes have clung to her green hat, along the shoulders of her matching green coat, and to her eyelashes. There's a gleam of pure excitement and joy beneath them as she stares at the house. 

When she takes a deep breath, it returns like a puff of smoke. Scott gently squeezes her hand and holds it up in his own, bringing her gloved knuckles to his lips.

"You look nervous," he tells her softly. 

"A little," Lydia says, nodding. "Only because I haven't been here since I was… nine? And there's so much to tell them. I mean, I know my mom filled them in on pretty much everything, but still."

Scott nods as well, saying, "I know. It's a lot. But it'll be okay."

"Yeah, of course," Lydia agrees. Her smile seems a little more confident as she gives another nod.

They walk through the gate, into the garden that Scott's now seeing is teeming with things; empty plant pots, kids toys, an overturned bicycle. Even the stones of the house are more interesting than he had initially realized, with bright murals painted across the whole front of the house. 

As soon as they enter the house, the door closing behind them, they're hit with unexplainable warmth. And the shouting and giggling of kids that whiz past them, nearly knocking them off their feet. 

"I forgot how loud it gets here," Lydia says, but she's laughing. Scott can see it in her eyes as she looks around the entrance hall, beautifully decorated with lengths of tinsel, and handcrafted baubles hanging from the ceiling. 

Framed pictures line the walls up the stairs as far as he can. The closest one, hanging by the bottom of the stairs, has a familiar little girl, giving her biggest smile to the camera beside a young woman with a striking resemblance. 

"Is this you?" Scott asks, his smile wide. 

Lydia looks at the photo. "Oh god, yeah. I think that was when I was, like… six? I came up here every Christmas and New Year before my parents divorced. That's my gran."

"You look like her," Scott tells her, and he can hear the joyful skip of heart, hear it in her proud little hum of agreement. 

"Well, maybe without some of the grey hair," a voice says from behind them. 

They both turn around, and Lydia's face lights up. She's already squealing and dropping her suitcase and Scott's hand. 

"Gran!" Lydia practically flies at her, hugging her tightly. 

Her gran laughs, caught by surprise but only for a second, wrapping her up in her arms. "I've missed you too, Ariel!" 

"Haven't heard that name in a while," someone else says, with a distinctively more Irish accent, but still holding the same fond, overjoyed tone.

Scott looks at the woman who appears at their side from the room behind Lydia and her gran. He recognizes her instantly from all the photos. 

Maddy places a hand on Lorraine's shoulder as she and Lydia pull apart. Lydia looks on the verge of tears as she buries herself into Maddy's open embrace as well for a second, both laughing now. 

"And you…" Lorraine looks over Scott with a smile and a gleam in her eyes. A certain kind of knowing. "... You're Scott McCall."

Scott returns her smile and nods. "I am. I've heard a lot about you, Mrs. Martin."

"Yeah, I know a thing or two about you as well," Lorraine tells him, and he knows. 

He knows she isn't just talking about him and Lydia being together, but about everything. The deadpool. She knew who he was and what he was going to be before he even hit ten. 

For a moment, his worries from the ferry come back. Not all supernatural creatures are a fan of each other, and with the destruction that werewolves have a history of causing, banshees can't be that fond of them. And especially with everything that's happened to Lydia. 

But then her smile grows and she says, "I'm glad to finally meet you! And, please, call me Lorraine. This is my wife, Maddy."

"So, this is the little wolf that got your heart, huh?" Maddy jokes to Lydia, an arm around her shoulders. 

Lydia looks at Scott. She bites her bottom lip through her smile, and her eyes are saying everything. 

She nods and softly says, "Yeah. He is."

"Then you're more than welcome here," Lorraine says.

Relief starts to lift the weight off of Scott's shoulders and chest. The warm, welcoming atmosphere is hard to resist, and he's already feeling at home. 

-

Lydia was right. The hot chocolate is one of the best things he's ever had. Creamy and overflowing with marshmallows with a candy cane to stir it around. Not to mention the plate of cookies. He has never had a gingerbread man that tastes this good.

It's already dark outside, the sun having set an hour or two after they arrived. They already changed into warmer, more comfortable clothes, and settled in front of the fireplace in the living room to get rid of the chill from the snow. Lorraine and Maddy insisted. Didn't want them getting sick, and ignoring their protests about not being able to actually get sick.

"Your cousins don't look like they're having a good time," Scott comments quietly, watching the half-asleep couple sitting in the corner. 

"They have five kids, all under the age of ten," Lydia replies. "I think the only thing they can feel right now is exhausted."

Scott snorts. He looks around the room. He's met nearly everyone on this side of the family by now. Every cousin, second cousin, aunts, uncles. The kids that Lorraine and Maddy took in have been especially eager to meet him. 

His attention is drawn back to the little boy sitting cross-legged in front of him. He's only nine.

Scott wasn't expecting it when Lorraine and Maddy told him that around ten years ago, another banshee had found them. She was only nineteen and had no one and no idea what was going on with her. They took her in, Lorraine helped her. And from then, it's like their home was its own supernatural beacon, but for kids who had nowhere else to go. 

Sean, the little boy currently sneaking another gingerbread man from the plate, is a werewolf. His family, his pack, were hunted down when he was four. Lorraine felt it coming. She and Maddy found Sean. 

There's a little yelp and Sean clutches his hand. Scott catches a glimpse of tiny claws where nails should be. 

"Can I…?" he asks, holding out a hand. 

Sean hesitates, but he glances at Lydia, who smiles and nods encouragingly, then back at Scott. He slowly gives him his hand, palm up. 

"I don't know how to control it…" Sean mutters, looking down sheepishly. 

Scott inspects where the small trickle of blood is coming from. Three little lines where his claws accidentally caught his skin in passing. 

Shaking his head, Scott speaks gently, and draws on the pain in Sean's hand. "It's okay. You're still learning."

"Yeah, it's actually harder for born wolves," Lydia chimes in, nodding convincingly when Sean lifts his eyes to her with curiosity. "You'd think it was the other way around, but one of our friends—he was born a werewolf."

"And he didn't learn until he was sixteen," Scott tells him. "It just takes time."

"And knowing what keeps you grounded," Lydia adds. "Your anchor."

Sean looks at Scott. "Do you have an anchor?"

Scott nods. "I do. I had to learn to let me be my own anchor, but when that doesn't work for me, I focus on all the people I love. My mom, my best friend, my pack." 

He glances at Lydia only to find her already gazing at him with the softest smile, her cheek leaning against her shoulder. She places a kiss to his shoulder, her hand resting on her arm for a second.

"You just need to find something that makes you feel more in control," Scott finishes, turning back to Sean. "Even if it's an emotion."

Sean nods slowly. His expression is one of deep thought, trying to work to figure out what his own anchor could be. 

"Now, you should go clean this up," Scott says. "Just run it under warm water with some soap, okay? It might sting a little, but just ask Lorraine or Maddy if they have any antibiotic cream, and then put a bandage on it."

"Are you a doctor?" Sean asks.

"No," Scott can't help but grin as he says, "I'm just a vet."

That answer only seems to confuse Sean. But he gets up and hurries off to go do what Scott instructed. 

When Scott turns back, Lydia's still watching him. She has this look on her face, a thoughtful glaze in her eyes and a certain kind of smile that he can't read. 

Chuckling, Scott asks, "What is it?"

She lets a beat pass. She shakes her head, takes a slow breath in, then looks over at the window instead.

"It's still snowing. Do you wanna sit in the garden? There's a nice bench out back."

Scott's eyebrows furrow a little, but he stands with her, following her to the back door from the kitchen. Stepping outside is like what he'd imagine stepping into a walk-in freezer would feel like. 

But the cold biting at his skin is unimportant. The awe hits him all over again as he takes in the sight of the garden, feeling like he just stepped into a fairytale instead. Everywhere he looks, everything is white and sparkling. From the entire ground, to the gazebo at the end of the garden. 

Somehow, in amidst it all, there are flowers. Whole roses and everything, snow dusting across their dark red petals. 

"This is…" Scott breathes out, his eyes wide, "... I don't even know what this is. This place doesn't feel real."

Lydia laughs gently. She wraps her arms around her and nods, looking around as the snow falls around them. 

"Yeah, it does feel kind of… magical."

"We could actually make a snowman," Scott continues. "Or have a real snowball fight. Are snow angels things that people actually do?"

Lydia's eyebrows are raised when he looks back at her, and she's shaking her head. But she's got a smile that stretches to the corners of her eyes and he can feel emotions radiating off of her.

"You are so dorky." She moves closer, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck. "And I love you."

Scott smiles. His voice is soft and giving away all of the fondness he feels for her when he says, "And I love you."

She leans in, her head tilting. Her lips are soft against his. He pulls her a little closer, his arms wrapping around her waist. The cold and even the snow is easier to ignore.

Lydia pulls back, her hands lingering on his shoulders. Scott doesn't let go at all. 

"I'm really glad you're here with me," Lydia tells him. "And my whole family now loves you, so that's a nice bonus. I think you even made a friend."

Scott grins, shrugging. "Your family is great, and I am… beyond relieved that they like me. And, I think with Sean, it's a werewolf thing."

"Oh, no." Lydia shakes her head firmly. "Maybe that's a small part of it, the whole Alpha thing and all, but all of the kids in there love you."

They pull apart. Lydia sits down on the bench. Scott follows, and can't help but start piling the snow from the arm of the bench into a ball in his hand. 

"You were amazing with Sean," Lydia comments, glancing at him. She's doing the same thing with the snow on her side. 

Scott shrugs again. "I just told him the same as I told Liam. And Alec. It's how I wish I could have been introduced to all of this. With someone reassuring me that it would be okay."

Lydia nods in a shared understanding. Neither of their starts in the supernatural word were exactly pleasant or comforting. Scott's only sorry that Lydia was brought into it the way she was. 

She rests a hand on top of his, curling her fingers beneath his palm. She squeezes gently. 

He knows that she can tell what he's thinking. Sometimes he worries that banshees have the ability to read minds as well. But the look she gives him and her hand there with his draws his thoughts away from the past. Everything is okay. It's better than okay. 

"It's amazing what your gran and nana have done, though," Scott says. "Taking in supernatural kids who have nowhere else to go."

"Yeah, it's like a little foster home, but… for werewolves, banshees, and everything else," Lydia jokes, but her smile is sincere. "It's a really good thing they're doing. The kids are so happy here."

"I can see why," Scott says, gazing back out across the garden. The snow has the sky practically glowing, in no way looking like it's dark enough to be night. 

There's a slight pressure against his hand from Lydia's fingers, moving slowly. 

"Do you… do you think that's something you'd ever want to do?" Lydia asks, careful with her words.

Scott looks back at her. She's watching him again, with curious eyes. His heart drops many beats.

"Wait, are you—?" he starts to ask, but Lydia's eyes widen and she quickly shakes her head.

"No!" she hastens to answer. "No, I'm not! I just meant… you know, in general, is it—is it something that you can see for the future? Not necessarily the foster home part, but… you know."

She chews her bottom lip. Scott takes it in, letting the question process. After a moment, a smile curves the corners of his mouth up.

"Imagine, the first werewolf-banshee hybrid," he says.

"That can't have been done before," Lydia agrees, a laugh to her voice. "I wonder if one side would skip them, or if we'd be creating a whole new species."

Scott actually does laugh now, and Lydia joins him. His stomach is buzzing with butterflies or bees, he can't tell. 

When they both go quiet, Scott slowly nods. He lifts his eyes to meet Lydia's.

"I like the sound of that," he says softly. "Whether it be a werewolf-banshee hybrid, or even an orphaned werewolf with nobody else… yeah. It's something I see for the future."

Lydia takes in a deep breath. She presses her lips together as her smile threatens to take over her entire face. She just nods, and breathes out slowly.

"Good to know," she says. "I do too, for the record."

"Okay, that's great," Scott says, grinning from ear to ear. 

Lydia hums in agreement. Then the ball of snow that she'd been forming hits him square in the chest. 

It's safe to say that it is freezing. The snow instantly seeps through his Christmas jumper, melting into his skin. He gasps while Lydia laughs behind her hands, hee eyes wide.

"You said you wanted a snowball fight…" she reminds him. 

Scott nods. "You're absolutely right. I did."

The ball of snow in his own hand hits Lydia. She gasps, snow sticking to her jumper as well now. 

"Oh my god, so cold!" she exclaims. "Why is that so cold?!" 

"Because it's real snow," Scott says, his excitement quickly returning. 

Lydia looks at him, her eyes narrowing. A familiar, competitive smirk forms on both their faces. 

"Game on," she says. 

Next second, they're trying to dodge out of the other's way, snowballs flying across the garden. There are gasps and shouts and laughter when they successfully land a shot. 

Maybe it's a little unfair that Scott taps into his heightened abilities to move faster. But the advantage doesn't stop Lydia from managing to sneak up on him and tackle him into the snow. It's so deep that they sink a few inches into it, laughing until their sides and faces ache, and neither of them actually win, both claiming they did. But they end up just lying there in the freezing snow, curled into each other, staring up at the night sky. 

[askthekuvaqbrothers]

It's all Fun and Games

(TW: Injury)

“I’m heading to work now.”

Hermes adjusted his coat, feeling a collision with his leg the moment he reached for the door.

“Don’t go!”

Holding in a small sigh, he knelt down and ran a hand through his son’s green hair.

“It will only be for a little while Cletus. Just be patient.”

“Then take me with you!”

“I’m going to work. It’s not a safe place for children.”

“I’ll be good! I’ll sit still!”

Hermes sighed, “You know if I take you, then the other two will want to come too.”

Cletus frowned, not at all pleased with what he was hearing, and frowned harder when his brothers came up behind him, Rufus prying at his arm.

“Come back, we can’t play Junk Knights and Orbit Pixies with only two!”

Hermes smiled, “See? You’ve obviously got a game going on. Time will fly while you’re playing, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Argus joined in, pulling Cletus’ other arm, and successfully dislodging him from their father’s leg. Unimpeded, Hermes now took his chance to leave.

“Be good.”

The door clunked shut. Pulling from his brothers grasp, Cletus considered wailing on the door and crying for Hermes to come back, but the man’s long strides probably meant he was already far from the door, and crying was just grotty and exhausting. Besides, Rufus was already grabbing at him again.

“Back to you position pixie! I was just about to battle to the death against the evil Controller.”

“Yeah, you know it’s my favourite part.” Argus grinned, punching a fist into his palm.

“I don’t wanna. Let’s… play something else.”

Rufus pouted, crossing his arms, “Like what? It’s gotta be more fun than Junk Knights.”

“What about…” Cletus looked around the house, then to the door, before a devilish smirk grew, “Hide and Seek?”

“Lame!”

“-But we play it outside.”

Rufus’ eyes lit up, but Argus put his hands on his hips.

“We’re not allowed outside without Dad.”

“Yes, but he always takes ages with work, so as long as we’re back before him, he’ll never know.”

“Yes! Let’s gooo!”

Rufus ran straight to the window in the kitchen, being the only one that opened to let out the smoke that came with Hermes’ cooking. It required him to scramble up the cooking furnace, and once he was on top and at the windowsill, he paused to offer a hand.

“Hurry up! I already have a perfect hiding place!”

Argus stepped up, accepting the hand, and allowed himself to be pulled higher. As the space on the furnace became cramped, Rufus slipped out the window and Argus in turned helped pull Cletus (and the plush toy he never let go of) up. Once they’d cleared the fall, the three made their way to the centre of town, standing by one of Gizmo’s emergency call stations.

“Right! Since you wanted to change the game, Cletus, you’re the seeker.”

“Okay. I’ll close my eyes and count to a hundred then.”

The green haired boy adjusted Poisonous into the crook of his arm, then turned and began counting.

“One, two, three, four…”

With a grin Rufus sprinted off, vanishing into the warren of a town, Argus swiftly following after. When the sound of their steps on the metal walkways went silent, Cletus stopped counting.

“Finally.” He brought Poisonous to eye level, “Now, what should we do now that we have some peace and quiet?”

The plushie’s crooked eyes stared off.

“Impeccable idea. Perhaps we could even go for refreshments.”

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

It must have been almost half an hour later when Argus found Cletus lounging in the shade, absently patting his plush toy. He looked up, and tried to feign surprise when he spotted the glare.

“Oh, you found me?”

“I believe you were supposed to be the seeker.”

“Is that so? I must have misheard…”

“How long were you going to sit here?”

“Don’t know, how long were you hiding?”

Argus sighed, the one that made it known he was not in the mood to play along with Cletus’ game. The green haired boy pouted in turn.

“Well I caught on to your alternate game, but Rufus is still hiding.”

“…Can’t we just wait until Dad is back? He’ll come looking for us anyway.”

He looked up to where he could just make out the entrance to the mines. Argus followed his gaze and paused, thinking.

“I suppose that wouldn’t hurt. He can only ground us.”

Cletus relaxed, scooting over enough that Argus could have some shade too. Another hour passed by before they finally caught sight of Hermes striding out into the open, where the two chose to wave him down. When their father caught sight of them, he was clearly disappointed, until something else crept into his expression.

“Boys, what are you doing here? Where is your brother?!”

Cletus rolled his eyes, “Don’t worry, he’s probably still hiding from our hide-and-seek game.”

“How long ago was this?!” Hermes was quickly starting to panic, Rufus being the one he knew shouldn’t be left on his own, “We need to find him.”

“Sure, I guess so.” Argus stood, dusting himself off, “If we shout that he’s won he might come out?”

Cletus reluctantly stood as well, following his father and brother as they began calling out. Rufus not coming home honestly sounded like a good deal to him; no more being hit in his sleep, no more grubby fingers going through his stuff, more peace and quiet. Sure, Argus may start demanding more of him, but it wasn’t the worst trade off.

Another 30 minutes and there was still no sign of their red-haired sibling. There was also no signs of fire and/or explosive destruction, which was both a good and a bad sign according to Hermes. Good, in that they weren’t having to deal with a destroyed town, but bad in the question of what Rufus was up to instead.

“Maybe he fell asleep?”

“Maybe he fell in a hole. Maybe it’s a really deep hole, and we’ll never see him again.”

Hermes ignored Cletus’ comment, which cause the boy to frown. He didn’t understand what the big deal was, it was just Rufus. He’d heard people say that Hermes couldn’t handle three sons, so surely it would be better if he just had two now. They should just accept he was gone and go home. The sun was right above them now and the whole mountain the town was on had begun to boil, heat waves rising off every metal sheet used in its foundation, and Cletus could feel his pale skin begin to tingle-

“Found him!”

Argus was standing on a small mound, looking down into a ditch that wasn’t visible from just the normal paths. A large piece of metal on the edge of it was also free of rust, leaving it blindingly shiny and the prefect distractor. Hermes scrambled through the scrap to reach the hiding spot, dropping down to pick up the missing boy. As he re-emerged, Cletus felt his skin crawl.

Rufus’ skin looked almost the same colour as his hair, and in places it had clearly begun to blister. The idiot had been sitting in the sun the entire time, with both the sun beating down on him and the giant reflector next time him, and he hadn’t thought to move. As he was being jostled, said fool managed to crack open an eye.

“…n’fair, -in’t say Dad could help…”

To where he promptly went limp. With a semi-strangled noise, Hermes began to move back to town, giving a brief command to the other boys to follow as they beelined for Gizmo’s clinic.

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

“Heat stroke, and a nasty lot of sunburn. You know, there’s a wonderful thing called ‘common sense’…”

Hermes bowed his head further, ready to accept the usual lecture, but all he got was a sigh from the town’s medic as he returned to his desk.

“I’ve applied some salve to the burns, which will need to be re-applied regularly. I would like to say he’ll be bedridden for several days, but considering who we’re dealing with here, I suggest you enforce bed rest and make sure he doesn’t rub off the salve as it needs to set in. No running about, no going outside, no excessive play. And make sure he stays hydrated.”

Gizmo looked to the two healthy brothers, where while Argus nodded solemnly, Cletus’ gaze remained on the floor. There wasn’t any blame being passed about for why they were outside in the first place yet, but all Hermes had to do was ask and Argus would tell, and Cletus would find himself without dinner for the next week.

‘Stupid Rufus.’

Hermes thanked Gizmo, collected Rufus, and quietly told the other boys to follow. The whole trip home was in silence, and it was eating Cletus up inside. Even when they were inside, Argus watching over Rufus on the bed, Gizmo didn’t say anything, simply lighting the stove and beginning dinner. Cletus sat himself at the table, distractedly plucking at Poisonous’ threads, running over the many possible punishments that could be unjustly given to him. It wasn’t his fault Rufus was an idiot with no self-preservation, if he’d just hidden somewhere normal and safe then they’d all get off with just a grounding but no, he had to get himself hurt and make it a big deal and all the blame would fall on poor little Cletus for just wanting some peace and quiet-

“Are you not hungry?”

Cletus jumped, completely unaware time had passed to the point that dinner was in front of him, Argus and Hermes seated beside him.

“I-I…”

He didn’t understand why their father hadn’t asked yet. In fact, he only felt more confused when a hand rested on his head, soothingly running through his hair.

“It’s alright, I know it was kind of scary to see, but Rufus will be fine.”

This was wrong. That wasn’t his hang-up at all. Sure his own skin crawled at the sight of him now, but that wasn’t the issue. Was he really not going to ask why they were outside of the house, where he always told them not to be?

He stared into his bowl, before suddenly pushing away from the table.

“Are… are you not going to ask?”

Hermes tilted his head, “Ask?”

“W-why we were outside, why we hadn’t listened to you?” Cletus trembled, a confused jumble of emotions swirling within.

Argus eyed him, “…He wants to know why you haven’t punished us yet.”

“Punish-? Oh. Oh boys.”

Hermes carefully moved to kneel by Cletus, pulling him into a hug, before he offered an arm out for Argus to join. With two sons in his embrace, he let out a breath.

“Yes, I am disappointed you ignored my rules, and that it had led to injury, but more than that, I’m just thankful you’re all still here. I never thought I’d have a time in my life to be a father, but after everything, I now can’t imagine myself without you three.”

He squeezed them both tightly.

“I just hope that this world will last for you…”

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

“OW! DAAAAD!”

“Cletus, don’t poke you brother.”

“But he’s trying to lick the salve again! This is the only way to stop him.”

Cletus turned back to Rufus, only to see his brothers tongue going once again for the back of his hand, so he yanked at his bright red ear.

“OW!”

Now with a dollop on his finger, Cletus sniffed at the medicinal mixture, almost daring to taste it himself.

“It doesn’t even smell that nice.”

“It smells like a plant I bit once!”

There were many things Cletus could have questioned, but he didn’t get the chance as Argus came into the house.

“Gizmo said this should help.”

Hermes accepted what Argus handed him, and after turning it over in hand, he realised how it worked. With a reluctant sigh, he knelt before Rufus, and swiftly wrapped what was essentially a plastic cone around his neck. The boy squirmed, not coordinated enough to dislodge the device, before he accepted fate.

Neither of his brothers could resist laughing at the sight.

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

Bonus: The scribble that inspired this

[willadisastercry]

Keith relapsing and not being able to stop once he starts...

tw: in depth depiction of acting on self harm ideations/urges, scars, relapsing, becoming ill from blood loss, someone discovering a person after they relapse, rationalizing their self harm because the alternative is suicide, contradicting oneself and later very much deciding they would rather be unalived, panic attack symptoms, reopening a wound, allusion to surgery (stitches)

Keith’s coping skills are admittedly not his strong suit, neither are his self destructive tendencies that either have him isolating himself from the team or sacrificing himself for them. Believe it or not though, those weren’t even the worst of his bad habits. He hadn’t seriously been addicted in years, just here and then relapses. But he’d been looking at his scars a lot lately and wanting to make more, cut deeper. He hadn’t hurt himself while they’d been in space but was having more and more moments that he wanted to. And then when he finally concedes he sort of loses himself in it, not realizing what he’s doing and how far he’s pushing it until he’s on the verge of passing out.

(((( Please, please, please read the trigger warnings and proceed with caution before reading this. I vividly describe Keith’s internal struggle as he relapses from third person pov where he then passes out and is found by someone... if anything even remotely regarding self harming or someone discovering a person who has is sensitive to you I HIGHLY RECOMMEND YOU DONT READ )))) Also it’s just very emotionally heavy so that is something to consider too!!!!!!

Part 1 / Part 2

He isn’t sure what it was that made him want to again.

The stark change in environment definitely didn’t help. Neither did the pressure of being the universe’s only hope. But he mainly attributed it to the lingering depression that he figured he was now just supposed to ignore.

Maybe it was none of it.

Or maybe it was all of it.

He just knew that the decision didn’t come after a particularly rough day or week. It didn’t come with tears or a surplus of emotions. It came when he thought he couldn’t possibly feel number.

The weight of his entire body on top of his legs as he walked to the showers didn’t convince him he was standing. The heat of the steaming water burned for only a moment and when it ran cold it didn’t shock him for much longer.

His vision tunneled as his gaze bore into the tiles in front of him, a soft static clouding it and making the bright lights of the communal bathroom appear to dim.

This happened occasionally, that he didn’t feel much of anything. Definitely not happy, but also not sad or frustrated or angry. Painfully neutral. Agonizingly numb. Like he was trudging through a thick fog and everything was too dull to feel strongly about so he was desperate to simply feel anything.

That’s why when he wrapped the towel around his waist and the rough fabric brushed against his thighs, he shuddered at being reminded of what was beneath, the sensitivity tempting him like an itch he needed to scratch.

He knew he shouldn’t do it here, that it was too risky. But his heart clenched and sunk at the thought of how empty he felt, devoid of all feeling except the urge to do something that might take away the awful nothing.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to help himself this time as he moved robotically across the washroom, his eyes still unfocused as he dug the razor he shaves with out of his toiletry bag. He had it disassembled in seconds and stood over the counter, mesmerized at how the blades glinted in his hand.

“Shit...” he breathed as he set them down.

He went to the pile of clothes he brought to change into and shrugged on his boxers, dropping the towel on the bench with the rest of his stuff before shrugging on his sweatshirt.

He stared at the old marks on his legs as he stepped through his gym shorts. They were mostly thin and pink, some white, some raised and a darker red. Most of them parallel to each other and only a few straying from the otherwise neat arrangement.

His heart lapped expectantly his chest. The desire felt more like a compulsion now, like nothing else would possibly help the way picking up the razor would. He knew it was his disordered mind making him think so irrationally, but in that moment he couldn’t see a reason to believe otherwise.

He walked back to the sinks and pulled several paper towels from the dispenser before picking the razor back up.

“Shit...” he whispered again.

It wasn’t that he was actively trying to stay clean but for one reason or another he had managed to be for a while. And then, however fleetingly, something in him recognized that he was breaking. That he was betraying a sort of progress he hadn’t intended to make by turning back to his worst habit, one that seemed more like an actual addiction when he really thought about it.

But it was better than the alternative. This was always better than the alternative.

(willa here-NO ITS NOT!)

His hands start moving in a way he knew all too well, tucking the leg of his shorts up and bringing the razor down with a steady hand.

He started in a sort of empty spot on his left thigh, a familiar ripple of nerve endings sparking in odd places, down his leg to his toes and up his back to his shoulder blade as he dared the blade deeper with each line.

With his other hand he caught the blood as it dripped with paper towels, occasionally pressing them against the wounds and noting how the harsh lights lit the bloody papers up when he held them a certain way.

It still shocked him how easy it was for him to do this, how desperate he was for more. More blood, more adrenaline, more lines on his skin.

He shuddered again, the hair on his legs perking up at how cold he was.

He stared down at the mess that was now his thigh, a pleasant hum running through his body as his breathing picked up now that his brain was making the connection that his body was hurting.

That was a start, but ne wanted to feel the rush. The dizzying malaise he usually got from going deeper but he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d be able to get all the way to the infirmary with the state of his thigh already and retrieve the right supplies to take care of himself after he did more damage to it.

So he steeled himself and pushed the waistband of his underwear down on his right hip, holding his sweatshirt up under his arm. The skin there was taught and smooth, he’d cut there before but nothing more than a few thin white lines remained. It had hurt more doing it on there, he had to press harder and it stung worse, whatever he managed also took longer to heel because it’d constantly open back up.

But he didn’t care anymore. He wanted to feel the pain even after it was over, wanted something there that he could aggravate to remind him he was still a person for when he felt like he wasn’t.

And so he pressed the razor down. The bloody towel from before falling to the ground as he took a new one to his hip. Red began coating his leg in thin trails, a small puddle of it gathering at his foot but he couldn’t find the energy to bother with the mess at that moment.

Because, fuck.

It hurt just like he knew it would and he breathed out a heavy breath. His legs were beginning to feel heavier, like he’d been floating and was coming back to the ground, slowly getting reacquainted with the weight of his body.

As soon as he started on his hip he sort of knew he’d fucked up because the high came so quickly, his mind traveling somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t see himself ever stopping.

The deepest gashes on his leg throbbed and bled freely as he fixated on the opening skin of his hip, the lines becoming rushed and sporadic as the only thing on his mind became producing as much of that feeling as possible.

He only stopped when he went so deep his eyes literally watered and had him clamping the towel over the wound before he saw the blood well from it because he knew if he did he’d have wanted to see more of that much pink.

“Fuck, fuck...” he managed through gasps.

His breathing was becoming ragged, his body light and his mind quiet. The high was intoxicating, the adrenaline rush more intense than the ones he got from battle. He struggled to analyze how that was even possible as it grew harder and harder to form a coherent thought through the haze.

He knew he should get cleaned up. That if he felt like doing more he could later, but he just really needed to not be openly bleeding with a razor in his hand the next time someone needed to pee. So he tried to blink through the blur and really look at the condition of his leg.

Blood dripped in several continuous streams that met around his ankle and pooled at his feet, the main bleeders deep enough to elicit a small spark of fear in his gut.

“Well that’s not good.”

He almost laughed but turned the sink on instead, splashing water onto his leg and watching the red dissipate until the majority of it had flowed through the drain in the floor.

Moving around made his head swim so he figured he should probably take care of the bleeding sitting down. He threw the dismantled razor back into his bag and scanned the sink area for blood before dazedly leaning against the wall to glance back down at his leg.

The sight of his thigh was almost as mesmerizing as the glinting metal of the blades. It stung and pulsed as blood both beaded and gushed from several cuts still, his side faring the same although the pressure from the waistband of his shorts holding a quickly dampening bunch of paper towels to the wounds was almost worse. Both pains made his heart lurch pleasantly somehow. He felt so mentally at ease despite his body sort freaking out over the blood he was still very much losing.

Keith couldn’t tell why he was shaking but decided the answer wasn’t good as he pressed more towels to his thigh, focusing on keeping as steady a pressure as he could muster so they’d clot and he could go back to his room.

But soon his head started to swim without him moving at all, the tiles shifting before his eyes in a nauseating swirl as he lowered himself to the ground more carefully than he cared to. The bunch of towels he’s holding limply in his hand were soaked through and he didn’t think he could get back up for more without passing out.

He breathed a heavy sigh and resolved that he would just put pressure on his leg until it stopped bleeding and he felt less dizzy.

It was eerily peaceful as he sat there while his body buzzed and his skin burned. It’s the most present he’d been with himself in weeks and it made him sad how this is what it took to feel like that.

To feel anything at all.

He registered briefly that he could cry if he considered it any longer, so he just pressed harder on his thigh and drew his elbow in closer to his hip.

Time felt weird after that.

There were moments he remembered feeling incredibly alert as his heart pounded and his head pulsed angrily. Others where the darkness boardering his vision encroached dangerously, at times succeeding where he’d jolt up after slumping forward like when he’d caught himself nodding off in class at the garrison.

Keith didn’t know he’d closed his eyes again until they were shooting open but this time at the whoosh of the door to the bathroom. He tried to get up but moving hurt and made him feel even more floaty and so he settled back down with a small whimper.

“Keith? Is that you?”

It was Lance.

Of all people, of course it was Lance.

He wasn’t sure wether to be relieved or not, because it could’ve been someone worse like Hunk or Pidge or... Shiro, but it was also Lance.

“We’ve been looking every—Keith...?”

The way his voice broke when he rounded the corner and took in what must have been a sight almost broke Keith as well, but he was riding a disorienting high after doing what he did and couldn’t find the energy to feel more than the faintest twinge of shame.

“Wait, woah, what the fuck dude... what-what did you do?”

Lance stood frozen for a moment. Eyes wide as his mind wrapped itself around what he was seeing. And then his demeanor shifted entirely as he strode toward Keith’s prone form.

He knelt in front of his sprawled legs and studied the saturated towels that lay over his thigh and the small pool of blood beneath him.

“I... I fucked up...”

Keith’s chest ploomed with anxiety as he said those words, the weight of them hanging on his tongue as his mind processed just how unfortunate it was that he’d been found like this. Lance’s brows wrinkled at that statement until he looked at his other thigh and saw scars, old scars.

“Oh... shit, dude.”

Keith’s lazy eyes met Lance’s worried ones for a moment, each boy waiting for the other to push one way or another. He was fairly certain he’d be more embarrassed if he didn’t feel so heavy.

It was Lance who finally caved and broke the silence and it’d be a lie to say Keith wasn’t relieved.

“Can I-can I help you?” his voice was as gentle as Keith recalled ever hearing it.

“I get it if you want nothing to do with me right now, I probably wouldn’t either, but you seem a bit out of it... so is that okay? I could get Shiro if you want—”

“No! Don’t get Shiro. There’s n-no reason to worry hi-him about this, m’fine.”

Keith mentally cursed himself for not being able to get out a full sentence without stuttering. But his entire body was trembling now, the pleasant buzz slipping farther and farther away as the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong made itself more apparent.

Which made sense.

The bleeding hadn’t let up much and he’d seen a good amount of blood disappear down the drain. This was probably worse than his hazey mind was letting him perceive it to be which was evident in the way his eyes had started to flutter shut again.

“-eith! This not really the time to take a nap,” Lance urged grimly, his bottom lip already raw from where he was worrying at it.

“Hm?”

“I was just saying how I think you need a refresher on the definition of ‘fine’ but if you really don’t want me to get Shiro, I won’t. I am going to get a first aid kit though, don’t uh-don’t go anywhere.”

“Ha, don’t think you need to worry about that,” Keith assured as he closed his eyes once more and let the warm buzz under his skin be the only thing at the forefront of his mind once he heard the door close after Lance.

It was only when the other boy was shaking his shoulder that he opened them again. He wasn’t sure why he kept falling asleep. He was certain he wasn’t like bleeding out or anything but his body felt so heavy and weak that keeping his eyes open was a chore.

It was probably a mix of things, he hadn’t slept much at all that week and had trained twice that day, barely eating before the group session in the morning and not having much after his individual spar either.

He’d also hurt himself worse than he’d like to acknowledge in that moment, so he kept his gaze focused anywhere other than down after the other boy roused him.

“Some of these are pretty bad,” Lance noted as he took away the towels on his leg and pressed thick squares of gauze against the deepest, pouring some clear solution on another sterile pad before bringing it down on the lesser wounds.

He was strangely calm for stumbling across something so jarring, somehow mustering the strength to not objectively freak out just yet and do what needed to be done first.

“Sorry, probably stings...” he offered when he saw Keith’s face twitch up.

He only hummed in response. He was really tired still and didn’t see the point in wasting his energy talking.

Lance peaked under the quickly saturating squares and frowned, sitting back on his heels with an exasperated sigh, using the middle of his arm to wipe the sweat on his forehead because his hands were too bloody.

“Keith...”

He decided that this was the demeanor he must have saved for when he had to be a protective older brother, his tone stern but soft, eyes large and serious.

“...some of these need stitches. I really do get you not wanting me to tell anyone but—“

“Glue,” Keith huffed, his mouth feeling like it was stuffed with gauze like the gashes on his leg.

“Heh?!”

“Ya, know? Like super glue...”

Lance gulped down the lump in his throat that was threatening to break his composure.

“Did I hear that right? You want me to-to glue them shut?”

If he didn’t look mortified Keith would’ve thought the bewildered scrunch to his face was sort of adorable.

“Course not... I would. M’just a little dizzy but I can do it, you don’t have to...” Keith assured as he moved to sit up more, wincing when the cuts on his hip pulled and gushed, his new position revealing the small puddle that had been gathering at his side.

“Keith, shit! Oh god, what the hell is that from—let me see,” Lance ordered as Keith’s hands moved to his sweatshirt, but they were stiff now and not working right.

Lance bypassed his useless hands that were still covered in dried blood and pulled his sweatshirt up enough to see smears of red trailing up his side and back from just below his boxers.

“Can I—uh, can I move this?” he asked worriedly, the edge to his voice softening.

The urge to tell Keith he shouldn’t hurt himself like this for whatever reason he did, because no reason he’d give would be good enough, passed as quickly as it arrived. It was replaced by a more pressing worry over what was beneath the alarmingly darker patch on what should be payne’s grey boxers shorts.

Keith breathed shakily and nodded, squirming when the other boy released the tension on the elastic to slide the blood soaked towels out, the wounds pulsing with vengeance as the pressure was lifted. Lance drew Keith’s eyes to his own once more.

“Gonna move this down a bit further where it’ll stay...”

“Kay,” Keith whispered, his glassy eyes fluttering shut as he leaned his head against the wall.

Lance fought to stifle his shock at the sight that was his hip as he uncovered the even worse mess and pressed gauze to it.

The wounds were... different. They were all different directions and of varying severities. Some were just scratches, but some showed so much pink Lance had to repeat to himself multiple times that it was just tissue and not bone.

He didn’t even know how to go about cleaning these wounds. They were so wide. The skin so tight that when cut it stretched apart so much more.

“Keith...”

Lance stated his name as more of a concession, his firm voice finally losing it’s assurance. He didn’t even have to finish for Keith to know what he meant.

“Can you bring the med kit closer?” he asked casually, his eyes lidded now.

Lance slid it within arms reach and Keith rummaged through it for a minute before pulling out a large bottle of more clear liquid.

“It’s wound wash, not harsh like straight up disinfectant but it needs some of that too... press down hard after I get everything cleaned out, okay?”

He waited a beat for Lance to nod, his face had paled considerably and Keith couldn’t blame him. This was so fucked. All of it. He had to work to push the guilt building in his stomach down over how he’d put this impossibly traumatic experience on him, no emotional preparation, just the shock of finding one of his best friend’s like this.

He almost relished in the seering pain that followed the cold liquid as he flushed the wounds on his side, humming in approval when Lance quickly covered the area and pushed down forcefully. Both boys took in heaving breaths, the tension in the air taught with anxiety and sadness and guilt.

“Hey...” Keith deadpanned, the levity in his voice almost scary until it shifted into something more admonishing for being so ridiculous. “I’m-shit, I’m so sorry you had to—“

“Don’t. Whatever you’re about to apologize for, don’t.”

Lance was serious again. His gaze fixed on the rapidly reddening gauze underneath his hands.

“No, I have to. It’s not fair of me... that you have to do this,” Keith managed before he had to take a second to let the blood rush dissipate, blinking rapidly as the rumbling in his eardrums died down.

Lance laughed breathily once he saw what had stopped his unnecessary apology.

“Hmm, I’ll compromise. You can save it for when you feel less like shit, but you have to shut up for now or I will go and get Shiro—ah, that’s what I thought.”

Keith grumbled lowly as he pressed his fingers on either side of his forehead, the headache that he thought was dulling back in full force.

“Okay, so I don’t know what you mean about super glue...” Lance said as he shuffled through the contents of the kit.

“Do alteans even have something like that?”

“Yep... blue glass, rubber stopper...”

“Gonna put a pin in why you just know that off the top of your head alongside all the other things we’ll be discussing later and—oh jeez, this stuff smells vile!”

“Breathe through your mouth then. Hand it to me I’m gonna hold it closed,” Keith ordered, his words slow and overly emphasized as he tried to make the way he would occasionally slur less noticeable.

His hands still trembled as they clamped the sides of one of the deepest gashes on his leg together, but it was only when he switched his grip to receive the stopper that his strength wavered. Blood seeped through his now weak hold on the wound and prevented the glue from adhering correctly.

“Oh, fuck...” Keith groaned as he wiped away the goo before it could get into the wound, not really getting there in time and hissing when it burned a new sort of fire into the sliced flesh.

“Just let me do it—“

“No, I got it.“

“Keith...”

“I can do it—“

“Keith.”

Lance pulled his shaking hands into his and searched his bleary eyes, willing his distant gaze to focus on him for just a second.

“Let me do it.”

Keith cursed himself silently for not being able to summon tears any other time than now, unsteady hands holding his own skin together as one of his best friends sealed it shut.

They were silent for a while, Lance working diligently as he kept an eye on the rapidly deteriorating boy. It wasn’t as bad as he imagined, his initial disdain probably for how nonchalantly Keith had suggested it, like he’d done it plenty of times and it was nothing.

Because it wasn’t nothing. And it broke Lance’s heart each time they moved to another uncloseable wound, their hands working together to keep it shut until the glue hardened.

They repeated this process dozens of times until his leg and his side glistened unevenly under the puckering glaze. By the end of it Keith could barely keep his eyes open, his body buzzing visibly now, breaths rushed and shallow.

“Looks like the bleeding has pretty much stopped... I’m gonna, uh, bandage it up now. Hang with me for like 5 more minutes and then we’ll figure out how to get you to your room...” Lance offered as he tapped Keith on his knee to get him to lift his leg.

It took him a minute to make sense of his words but he didn’t give resistance when the other boy propped his leg up against his own to get a stretchy wrap around the thick layer of gauze he’d placed on top. He’d applied a layer of medicated salve that would both numb the area slightly and make sure it didn’t get infected.

His hip would be a tad trickier.

“I think it would be easier if you laid down...” Lance suggested and placed his hand on his shoulder to guide him as he moved, his head coming to rest in folded arms, hip presented more accessibly than before.

He’d have probably been more embarrassed to be so exposed if it wasn’t Lance and his entire ass cheek practically being out was the least of his sources of shame and regret in that moment. Not regret for what happened, it would’ve regardless, regret for having been so stupid to get caught.

Keith’s consciousness wavered again, his mind falling into a void of bliss as his thoughts tapered out until the burning on his side brought him back with a slight start.

Lance apologized as he cleaned the area again, gently scrubbing at the dried blood around the wounds and on his stomach. He applied the same medicine and packed the gauze on top of the glue that binded them together precariously but taped the edges down instead, going around and overlapping the first set of strips to ensure it’d stay before pulling his shorts over it. Keith was trembling so heavily once he was done that Lance thought he could almost hear his teeth chattering.

“I’m gonna go pack up your stuff. I’ll be right back.”

Keith murmured something unintelligible into his arms in response and brought his legs up to his chest, the cold tile beneath him not helping his inability to stop shaking. The sting of the wounds on his body even as they stretched was duller now, only a difference in the normal heat of his skin reminded him they were there.

He felt like he was bone dry of all energy and wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers on his bed and sleep for a thousand years. His mind wanted to spiral and process what had just happened but the fog that addled it prevailed and made concentrating too hard, too painful. He was surprised he hadn’t fully nodded off before Lance was shaking him again.

“I’ve got your stuff. Don’t be a tool about this and give me your hands,” he ordered as he held out his own, Keith’s towel thrown over his shoulder and his toiletries packed up in his shower bag with his dirty clothes.

Keith moved his feet under him and reached for Lance’s wrists who used the grip to pull him up slowly, watching as the deep set grimace on his face gave away just how bad he was feeling. The orientation made him a whole new type of woozy.

Lance watched as the color in Keith’s face drained but before he could react he was stumbling try to stay upright.

“Fuck,” he breathed unevenly as Lance’s hands were suddenly on his back and pulling him close as soon as his legs buckled.

“I’ll be okay in a minute... just—“

“Dizzy?”

The laugh that escaped Lance’s lips was dry.

Keith nodded into his shoulder, his grip on Lance’s arm tightening as he fought the vertigo making him want to lose what little was actually in his stomach.

“K-kay, we can go...”

Lance held Keith by the shoulders as he stepped away from him to come around on his other side, picking up his arm and slinging it around his shoulder.

They made their way slowly, Keith’s legs were weak and though he was terrified someone would approach them before they made it to his room, willing them to go any faster would have been dangerous.

So he pushed through, ignoring just how lightheaded he was until Lance was shifting his weight to reach the keypad, the door of his room whooshing open as his legs turned to jelly and wobbled dangerously, unable to bear being left to support his own weight.

“Shit, Keith...” Lance yelped as he struggled to get a hold on him before he went down.

Lance shushed Keith as he tried to apologize again for twisting his hands up in Lance’s t-shirt as they took an experimental step forward only to waver again. The firm arm around his middle was all that kept him standing this time.

“I’ve gotcha—no, it’s happening. Don’t bother fighting it.”

Without another moment of consideration Lance was tossing Keith’s things to the side then hoisting him up and over his shoulder on his better side with his hands carefully placed behind the crook of his knees, completely tuning out the weak protests as he gently deposited his now very flustered friend onto his bed.

“That was... unnecessary...”

“Don’t care. How do you feel?” Lance asked seriously, his features set like stone as he sat at the end of the bed and searched his friend’s face for any sign of further discomfort.

“What do you mean?” Keith’s voice was quiet, hesitant.

“You almost passed out again, do you need water?”

“Lance—“

“Food’s probably a good idea, it’ll get you’re energy back up since you missed dinner. I could go run and grab something—“

“Lance, stop!”

Keith’s entire body seemed to still for the first time in forever as he visibly tensed, his eyes wide with indigo and fear.

“Stop what...?”

“Acting like—“

“Like what? That I care if you’re okay?!”

Lance’s voice took on a bite of hurt that made Keith’s skin crawl.

“Because of course I do! I can’t just not care because you don’t want anyone to give a shit about what happens to you.”

“I’m sorry that you’re contractually obligated to give a shit...” Keith’s tone was flat and emotionless.

“...but you shouldn’t.”

“Why?! I care about you even if you don’t want me to, neither of us can help that but—fuck. You hurt yourself tonight, Keith! And I know it’s not the first time but you still did and that deserves to fucking matter to you too.”

Keith’s eyes were burning holes into his floor with how intently he stared anywhere other than Lance’s face.

“Look we don’t have to get into all of that right now, I just need to make sure you’re physically okay at least. So, please answer my question honestly. How do you feel?”

The room spun as he fought tears back once more, not breaking his eye contact with the ground when he answered.

“Shitty.”

“Okay, what brand of shitty are we dealing with? Still dizzy?”

Keith thought for a moment and nodded, his eyes now stuck in an unbreakable gaze as he stared. Dissociating was easier than being fully present for a conversation regarding how he felt, even if it was only about how he felt physically, he was still woefully uncomfortable.

“Okay, what else? Does your head hurt? Yeah? Do you think Coran’s advil stuff would help...? Kay, i’ll try and dig some up. Anything else extremely pressing before I go? On a scale of 1-10 how much do you think you might pass out before I get back, 1 being very unlikely and 10 most likely...”

Keith’s eyes lidded as he tried to blink back to reality, they met Lance’s for a second before he looked at his hands that he couldn’t really feel now with how much they tingled, pricks from phantom pins and needles the only thing that convinced him they were still there.

“Mmhn, dunno... I feel really weird.”

That seemed to snap Lance right back into emergency caregiving mode as he moved closer to Keith and examined his still palid face, eyeing the sheen of sweat coating with a wary frown.

“Lay down. No, on your side in case you yak—well, no not that you will, just in case.”

Lance had to ammend his statement when he saw the worry spread across Keith’s face, his hand dropping to smooth the tension out of the shoulder drawn nearly up to his ear for a second.

“You’re okay.”

The assurance seemed to be more for Lance than Keith in that moment but both boys seemed in desperate need of hearing it out loud.

“I’ll be back soon.”

And with that Lance was leaving him again, dimming the lights before he did to ease the strain on his eyes and the pressure behind them.

Even when he pressed his eyes closed he couldn’t escape the sensation that he was spinning, the room tilting as he rocked back and forth in attempt to calm himself down and replace the phantom feeling with actuality. The rocking was hard to maintain though with how tense his muscles were as they spasmed, his breathing becoming more labored as he struggled.

Keith soon found himself on the cusp of crying yet again as he tried to keep himself awake. It wasn’t that it was hard, but a familiar anxiety was taking root, one similar to how he’d have trouble falling asleep when he was restless at night. Except he wasn’t supposed to sleep now, he desperately wanted to though.

He wanted to sleep to forget but also knew that Lance would worry and wake him up again. But even though he wasn’t trying to fall asleep, the mounting frustration of not being able to relax and stop trembling pushed him over the edge of everything, leaving him with no choice other than to give in to the tears that he’d been withholding.

The tremors that racked his body once he did were born from hysterical sobs. He was so tired. He just wanted to be asleep already, but the kind of sleep he just happened to continue forever. Not that he wanted to die, it was simpler than that. He just couldn’t stand to be him and sleeping would make it easier.

A gnawing itch seemed to spread across his body then, one that made him want to crawl out of his own skin. He wanted so desperately to not be there when Lance got back. Wanted to evaporate like he’d never even been there in the first place.

Soon he lost the ability to supress it at all.

He was fairly certain he was wailing then, his back arching and chest pumping as he tried to gasp between cries, the latter only making him more disoriented as he fought his rapidly dulling senses. It was like he’d been possessed, his body ridding the emotion he’d been subconsciously repressing any way it could despite what he did in effort to stop it.

The lights turned back on without warning and his eyes clenched tighter as he cried out even louder. Each breath he took closer and closer to a wheeze, the tears not stopping even though he’d blown well through his energy reserves.

“-ith! Keith, Keith! What’s wrong, what’s happening?!”

He couldn’t make out who the voice belonged to after he made the connection that it was not Lance, but he couldn’t open his eyes to check with the lights still on.

“Shhhh, c’mon you’re okay. Breathe, bud.”

The person’s hands were on his shoulders as his body worked mercilessly, shuddering and hitching with each breath. He could barely hear their assurances over the ringing in his ears and the sounds of his chest working.

“You’re alright, I’m here—“

But Keith heard the door when it whooshed opened this time.

“Wha-Shiro...? Oh, fuck.”

Ugh.

No, no, no...

That was decidedly the worst thing he thought could happen while he tried to regain his composure, Shiro hearing him and finding him like this.

He needed to get away from his hands as they tried to soothe him, he didn’t want to be soothed, he wanted to disappear. He writhed on the bed and he fought to turn himself onto his back, hands grasping at his chest as his breathing became more ragged when he did, kicking his leg over and curling onto his other side to try and alleviate it.

The scream that tore from his throat was a shrill one as he opened several of the wounds on his hip. He could distantly hear Shiro agonizing over not knowing what the fuck was happening when Lance cursed.

“You idiot! Shit. Crap. On your stomach bud, come on...” Lance ordered as he yanked Keith’s legs away from his chest and pushed his hips so that he rolled over.

“Lance,” Shiro breathed cautiously. “I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t, like I really can’t. It’s not my, uh, place but he also didn’t exactly tell me either so it’s not like I could if I wanted to. He’s okay, though! Well, relatively, I guess.”

Lance actually winced at the death glare Shiro gave him when he finished.

“Alright! I went to get him water and something to eat but he was fine when I left, I think he’s a little overwhelmed is all. Had a pretty bad headache before,” Lance added as he moved over to the switch and turned the lights down once again.

“Okay, but this is more than just being overwhelmed, Lance. He sounded like he was having a nightmare but he’s not even alseep...” Shiro pressed, retracting his hand from where he tried to rub the middle of Keith’s back when he shrunk under the touch, whimpering lightly and stuttering breathily into the pillow he’d shoved his face into.

Lance eyed his side with concern when Shiro looked back to Keith’s trembling frame. His heart hurt. The kid was practically his brother and he couldn’t tell him what had happened. He wasn’t sure Keith would ever speak to him again if he did.

“You’re right, but you’re gonna have to press him yourself because I would enjoy keeping all of my digits.”

“Lance, I swear. I will be the one removing your digits if you don’t tell me what the hell—wait, Lance is that-is that blood?”

“Mierda. Keith... ugh. I’m sorry, man,” Lance ushered and reached for his friend’s hand when Shiro forwent all courtesies as he roughly pulled him over onto his other side, hands searching wildly.

The sounds Keith made once he knew what was happening threatened to bring Lance to a similar state. His expression pleading as clumsy hands fell onto Shiro’s with desperation.

“N-no, n-n-no, don’t. Don’t—Lance! Lance, p-please. T-tell-tell him n-tell h-him not t—”

But it was too late, there was no stopping Shiro as he hiked up his sweatshirt and stared for a moment before spotting the hint of white tape peaking out from below where his underwear rose up. Lance scratched his head nervously while he watched Shiro peel the edges of the bloodied bandage up.

“Oh...”

No one spoke while Shiro processed what he was seeing, the only sounds were Keith’s pitiful cries as he covered his eyes in the crook of his arm, clamping the other over his mouth to try and quiet his sobs.

“I thought you’d stopped, Keith...”