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cripplecharacters · 1 year ago

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Write more Deaf characters!

[Large Text: Write more Deaf characters!]

When answering questions about deaf and hard of hearing characters, I have noticed they are overwhelmingly about:

A character who is deaf in one ear or hard of hearing because of an accident

A character who was born deaf and knows sign language, but seems to have 0 connection to the broader Deaf community

This is not the experience of most d/Deaf people! So, here's your primer to Deaf community and culture, and writing a Deaf character, because they are sorely underrepresented.

(Disclaimer: this post was written using viewpoints I, a singular Deaf person in the United States, have encountered. I tried to make this as general as possible to encompass many Deaf views, but it is possible that I have misconstrued something. Do not take this guide as the be-all and end-all of your knowledge on Deaf culture. Keep reading and researching the Deaf community, and explore viewpoints from many different Deaf people of all backgrounds.)

Why do you write Deaf with capital D?

[Large Text: Why do you write Deaf with capital D?]

The term "deaf" with the lowercase d means not being able to hear. The term "Deaf" with an uppercase D refers to the cultural identity formed by deaf people. This identity is difficult to explain but it includes knowing sign language and engaging with other Deaf people.

There are varying opinions within the Deaf community on who is allowed to call themselves culturally Deaf. Some Deaf believe that only those who were born into the Deaf community (whose family is Deaf, who attended a Deaf school, and/or who have sign language as a first language) are allowed to consider themselves culturally Deaf. On the 'flip' side, some Deaf believe that anyone with hearing loss can claim the label. And of course, you can find someone Deaf with any opinion in between.

This is all intracommunity nuance. If your character is born deaf and learns sign language at a young age or as a first language, they are likely culturally Deaf.

Sign Language Use

[Large Text: Sign Language Use]

Sign languages are the language of Deaf communities. (Note that there are many sign languages in different regions, and they are not related in the same way spoken languages are!)

Most sign languages did not originate alongside spoken language, either, so they usually have different grammar than the spoken language in a region. This means that someone whose first language is sign may have difficulty learning even the written version of the spoken language due to the different grammar and translation. For native signers, the spoken language of their area is their second language.

Sign languages are fully developed languages, with grammar and structure. Sign language is not "less" than spoken language, and encouraging sign language does not discourage speech. (Even if it did, that's not a bad thing! Sign languages are still a valid and rich communication form!) Sign languages have slang and expressions/idioms too.

Sign languages typically have a "manual alphabet" otherwise known as "fingerspelling". This is a way to represent words that don't have a sign. Fluent signers very rarely fingerspell; normally fingerspelling is for proper nouns which don't have a name sign.

Name signs are the last big point I want to cover about sign language. A name sign is a way to refer to someone so you don't have to spell their name every time. It's usually related to someone's attributes, like dimples or a specific way of moving. Sign names can only be given by Deaf people who are fluent in sign language.

Deaf Education

[Large Text: Deaf Education]

For a long time, deaf people were considered unable to learn, just because they couldn't hear. And since 1880, for about 100 years and even still today, the prevailing tradition in deaf education was/is oralism--a teaching method based on speech that rejects sign language.

Historically speaking, if deaf children were to receive an education, they would be sent to a Deaf residential school. These still exist, although there are also many Deaf schools that are typical day schools, just for d/Deaf/hoh students.

Deaf children may also attend "mainstream" schools; they might have sign language interpreters and other accessibility accommodations, or they may be forced to rely on lipreading and context, or placed in special education where their needs often still are not met.

Oralism still has lasting effects today. Deaf people have received, and still do receive, worse education than hearing people.

One common problem is language deprivation. Many deaf children grow up without access to sign language. About 90% of deaf people are born to hearing parents; even if hearing parents do send their deaf kids to a Deaf school, they may not learn sign language themselves, so the child must rely on what they can gather of spoken language at home. Sign language is even discouraged by some audiologists and speech professionals, because it "might interfere with speech". But by depriving deaf children of sign language, more often than not, they are being deprived of all language.

People who are born deaf do not learn spoken language naturally, even when provided with aids like hearing aids and cochlear implants. Many deaf kids who learn speech learn it through extensive speech therapy, and often have a "deaf accent" from copying mouth shapes but not being able to hear or process what sounds they are making, which may also include having an atypically pitched voice (e.g., very high-pitched). Lip-reading is inaccurate and the best lip-readers can only follow about 30% of a conversation, and that's by intently watching with no breaks.

It is possible to learn a language at any age. But it is easiest to pick up a new language when one is young. Children who do not learn a first language by around age 5--the age at which they would start school--have more difficulty learning any language, and may have frequent outbursts or trouble expressing emotions as a result of communication difficulties.

Another problem, especially within the Deaf community, is literacy. Spoken languages are often unrelated to the signed language of the same region. Learning to read and write, as a Deaf child, is like learning a whole new separate language, with different grammar and structure than their native language. This is why captions are not a perfect accessibility tool--it is, for many Deaf people, being offered an alternative in their second language, if they have learned to read and write at all.

Deaf Culture Norms

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To hearing people, Deaf conversation can seem very blunt and to the point. This isn't to say Deaf people are inexpressive--quite the opposite: sign languages often use facial expressions as part of the grammar, and there is a lot of expression that can be incorporated into a sign--but there isn't a lot of "talking around" things. You can see part of this culture in name signs, which are usually based off a trait of the person. It's not offensive--it's just how they're recognized!

Another conception is of Deaf people being over expressive, but again, that is just part of sign language grammar. Face and body movements take the place of tone of voice, as well as other grammatical clarifications.

Deaf people talk a lot! It's very hard to end a conversation, because there will always be something else to say or a new person to meet. Hugging and other physical touch are really common greetings.

Tapping people on the shoulder to get their attention is fine. Other ways include flicking the lights or rattling a surface (for vibrations). Eye contact while signing is also important to make known that you are listening. Groups of Deaf people will sit in a circle so everyone can see everyone else. It's rude to talk in a Deaf space. If you are lost in the conversation, you'd ask if you can write or type instead.

Deaf Space also refers to design concepts that are more accessible to deaf people. This includes good lighting, minimal signing-height visual obstacles (e.g., low waist-height shelves), visual indicators instead of bells, open spaces so people can sit in a circle to talk, and automatic doors and wide hallways/passages so it is easier to continue a conversation while walking.

It's also very rude to comment on a Deaf person's voice. Do not mention you're surprised they can speak. Do not call their accent "cute" or "weird" or anything like that. Do not ask them to speak. Do not say their voice sounds really good ("for a deaf person") or that you wouldn't be able to tell they are deaf.

Deaf Views on Deafness

[Large Text: Deaf Views on Deafness]

The Deaf community is incredibly proud of their Deafness. You'll often hear the phrases "hearing loss = deaf gain" or "failing a hearing test" as "passing the deaf test". Continuing the Deaf community and culture is highly valued, and learning sign language is encouraged for everyone.

Many people in the Deaf community dislike cochlear implants as their success is incredibly variable and they require invasive surgery and therapies from a young age. Another big argument against CI is that they are often presented as the only or the first option to hearing parents, who misunderstand CI as a "cure" and then do not give their child access to sign language.

Deaf people also reject any sort of cure for deafness, especially genetic therapies. Many Deaf people do not think of their Deafness as a disability.

(Deaf people will often point out the advantages of Deaf culture and sign language, such as being able to talk over long distances, through windows, and even underwater.)

Most hard of hearing and some deaf people have hearing aids, although it is really an individual choice whether or not to wear them. Many d/Deaf/hoh people are overwhelmed and startled very easily by noise (since they're not used to that much auditory input) and get tinnitus from auditory overstimulation. They may also struggle with auditory processing--locating sounds, interpreting sounds, recognizing and interpreting speech, and other issues.

The Deaf community doesn't have any general complaints about hearing aids, just many prefer not to wear them. Do know that they are an imperfect aid; they just amplify sound, which doesn't improve processing or understanding, and it doesn't make people hearing. Not everyone even benefits from hearing aids--their specific hearing levels may make hearing aids a bad choice of aid.

A big point you'll hear in Deaf spaces is Deaf Can (and Deaf Power). Hearing people have historically treated deafness as a sign of incapability, but Deaf people can do everything hearing people can--except hear.

Myth Busting

[Large Text: Myth Busting]

Myth #1: All Deaf people are completely deaf. This is very far from the truth! Most deaf people have some degree of residual hearing, although this may require very loud sounds and/or at very specific pitches. Plus, there are many culturally Deaf people who are not deaf/hoh at all--CODAs, hearing children born to Deaf parents, are part of the Deaf community.

Myth #2: (Non-speaking) Deaf people do not make noise. Also very far from the truth! First off, Deaf people laugh. Many Deaf people also vocalize without knowing or intending, especially when excited. We can get very loud!

Myth #3: (Speaking) Deaf people talk loudly. While this can be true, often d/Deaf people talk more quietly than expected. This is because with severe to profound levels of deafness, no speaking volume is really going to be audible, so they will often rely on feeling vibrations in their throat to know if they're making noise. Vibrations are detectable at lower volumes than hearing people like to listen to.

Myth #4: Deaf people can't drive. I actually have no idea where this one came from but it's false. Deaf people can absolutely drive, and tend to have a lower rate of accidents and violations than hearing drivers. There is a common trend of treating d/Deaf people like they can't do things unrelated to hearing, but deafness on its own only affects hearing.

Deaf Struggles in the Hearing World

[Large Text: Deaf Struggles in the Hearing World]

A huge problem is just basic accessibility. Many places do not have captions or visual indicators, or rely on hearing (like drive-throughs). Movie open caption screenings are often at awkward times, and caption glasses are hard to find or access and awkward to wear.

Deaf people are also at increased risk of police violence. Police often treat signing as aggression, rather than attempts to communicate. When they yell, talk quickly, or shine a flashlight in Deaf people's faces, it's even harder to understand what is going on. Deaf people are also not often provided with a qualified interpreter and may not understand what is going on or why they were arrested.

Deaf people, specifically those who are mainly kept in the hearing world, have higher rates of drug use and addiction.

Hearing people also treat Deaf people as incapable or lesser. Gallaudet University had only hearing presidents until 1988 after the Deaf President Now protests; then-chair of the board at GU said in a statement that received heavy backlash from the students, "deaf people cannot function in the hearing world".

When writing your Deaf character:

[Large Text: When writing your Deaf Character:]

Were they born to hearing parents or to Deaf parents? (90% of deaf children are born to hearing parents.) Is anyone else in the family d/Deaf?

At what age was their deafness noticed? (It can be at birth, or it can take several years, even for children born deaf.) Is their hearing loss progressive? Is their hearing loss significantly different in each ear?

Were they eligible for cochlear implants? Did they get CI? Did they get hearing aids? (Consider cost as a factor: CI requires the surgery as well as intensive speech therapy; hearing aids are also expensive and can need replacement and refitting.) How well do the aids work for them? Do they have them in one or both ears?

What advice did their family receive from audiologists and speech therapists about sign language and communication, and did their family listen? Did they learn sign language? At what age? Did their parents and family learn sign language? Are they language-deprived? Did they go through speech therapy? What is their speech like? Do they like using their voice?

Did or do they attend Deaf school? Is it residential or day school? If it's residential, did they understand what was happening when they were dropped off? Does the school use sign language or rely on oralism? (Consider time period; most schools now use sign language, but from 1880-about 1980 the predominant method was oralism.)

If they don't attend a Deaf school, what accommodations are they receiving in mainstream setting? Are they in special education? Are they in a Deaf program at a mainstream school? Do they have an interpreter? How much do they understand what is going on in class?

How involved are they in Deaf community and culture? Are their friends and family involved and supportive of the Deaf community? Do they treat deafness like something to cure? Do their friends and family frequently ignore or "forget" that they are deaf?

In general, consider their scenario, what ableism they've faced, and what their Deaf identity is.

Happy writing, and please continue to send in your questions!

Mod Rock

#mod rock #writing guide #writing resources #deaf character #cultural deafness #sign language representation #long post

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wolfythewitch · 11 days ago

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peeks in. hi wolfy, I’ve kinda been lurking in your religion tedtalk tag and this thought just kinda bubbled up,, so here we go discourse time i suppose. ive noticed that it can be kinda hard to tell how many people are educated on what Christianity is / branches of Christianity and the differences between them, while also recognizing that a lot of classic literature and sociological concepts are built on a framework of questioning informed by the development of Christianity over time. like,,, just as an example understanding christian concepts in a purely academic context makes picking apart western literature more accessible in the same way that understanding how Buddhism has affected the development of civilizations in east asia. but there are so many biases involved in teaching christian concepts (as even seen between the different denominations and services you and i might attend). so like,,, where’s the line to tow between informing and indoctrinating? just as like a food for thought thing. im a cradle catholic who’s ebbed and flowed away and back towards my faith, each time attempting to take more autonomy over the things that i believe. but that doesn’t change that as a child, i was thoroughly catechized by a rotating door of catholic sisters, priests, and laymen. I identity closely with my faith and at the same time am intensely critical of it… (if anything the idea that it’s Christians who frustrate other the Christians the most rings incredibly true lol)

Idk i just commend that you open up a dialogue over faith and queerness and what we do with our stances in the world that might seem contrary to what God might possibly want with us, and even if we know we’re loved by God it can be difficult to really believe it sometimes. this is kinda rambly too so. lemme know if there’s anything i can do to make things more. coherent

I think the first thing to examine would probably be the nature of it? Sorry it's like 4am and I haven't slept lol so his might be a bit all over the place. I think indoctrination and information draw the line on intent and consent. I was indoctrinated into Christianity, and arguably am still being forced to remain in it, but as I've grown older I had more autonomy to choose for myself what I believe in and how I see things. When I talk about religion to others, I try to keep it as objective as possible, and mind my language. There are certain dog whistles that come with religious language, especially from conservative/right wing churches. There are also implicit biases that we might have picked up on without realizing. I think that's another thing information is important for, the dissection and dissemination of biases and religiously charged prejudice. Also with this exchange of information comes the openness of it (?). As you've said, there are many important religions that inform nuances within various literatures. That's another thing I've noticed with my church specifically, is they aren't open to discussing other persoectives/beliefs. Indoctrination wants to restrict you instead of inviting you to learn more

#wolfy tedtalks #wolfy religious tedtalks

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ssweeterthanfiction · 2 months ago

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off the record!

summary: a sweet journalist is picked to trail billionaire bachelor Harry Castillo for an article that could change her career…and life.

harry castillo x fem journalist!reader

content warnings for the whole story: age gap (harry is in mid forties, reader is in her late twenties), some angst in later chapters (other than that this is going to be for my fluff girlies)

word count: 4.9k

mood board

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter Two

You woke up to the sound of your alarm blaring at the exact moment you realized you’d barely slept. Not because you were stressed or anxious, but because your mind wouldn’t stop replaying the events of yesterday. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Harry Castillo. The cool precision of his movements, his dry humor, the way his gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary. And, of course, the very real possibility that you might have accidentally made a fool of yourself within the first five minutes of meeting him.

Not that you had any regrets about the coffee incident. No, you figured it could have gone worse, he could have yelled, or worse, ignored you completely. But Harry had grinned. Which was somehow worse and better all at once.

As you glanced at the clock, you let out a groan. You were running late again.

Fumbling through your closet, you tried to pick an outfit that didn’t look horrible. You settled on a blouse that wasn’t too fancy, but still polished enough to look like you belonged in the same room as a billionaire. After a few minutes, you were ready, almost. A quick glance in the mirror, makeup on, hair not totally out of control, and you grabbed your things, including the new coffee cup you were going to make sure didn’t end up anywhere near Harry’s suit.

By the time you reached the building, the same sleek lobby greeted you, though this time it seemed a little less intimidating. Maybe it was because you knew where the elevators were, or maybe because you now knew Harry Castillo wasn’t quite the cold, unapproachable mogul you had imagined. Still, he wasn’t exactly the friendliest guy either. No, Harry was something more nuanced, something you weren’t sure you fully understood yet.

The receptionist gave you the same cool assessment as yesterday, but this time, her glance lingered a little longer on the coffee in your hand, as if she were silently checking whether or not you’d make the same mistake again.

“You’re here for Mr. Castillo again?” she asked, her voice flat.

You nodded, offering a polite smile. “Yes. Day two. Should be fun.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, instead directing you toward the elevator with a polite flick of her hand.

As the elevator doors slid closed, you allowed yourself a moment to breathe. Today would be different, you told yourself. You had to approach this with a new energy. Less nervousness. More confidence.

You just hoped Harry wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in your fingers as you checked your phone for the day’s agenda. The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out into the same quiet hallway as yesterday, but today, the energy felt different. Less formal, maybe because you’d already been here once. Or maybe it was because, today, you were expecting Harry to act like—well, a person. Not just a business tycoon.

You didn’t have to wait long.

Harry was standing by the door to the conference room, looking even more effortlessly put together than yesterday. He was wearing a dark gray sweater over a collared shirt, sleeves casually rolled up, and to your surprise, he wasn’t wearing his usual suit jacket. You’d seen the kind of clothes he wore at work, the kind of clothes people expected him to wear. But today, he looked…almost normal. Almost like a person who didn’t run a billion-dollar company. Almost like a person who wasn’t a walking, talking headline.

He looked up as you approached, his dark eyes catching yours for just a second too long. “Morning,” he said, his tone easy and casual, as if you weren’t still playing catch-up after yesterday.

“Morning,” you said, maybe a bit too quickly.

There was a beat of silence, and then Harry glanced over your shoulder, his gaze flicking to your coffee. For a moment, his lips twitched, like he was resisting the urge to say something. Finally, he spoke, deadpan as usual.

“No coffee today?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You chuckled nervously, “Not today. Don’t want to risk dropping it.”

He actually smiled, though it was brief and sharp, just enough to make you second-guess whether you’d imagined it.

“Good choice,” he said, stepping aside to let you into the room. “The coffee here isn’t exactly artisanal.”

You followed him into the conference room, which this time was even more minimal than the day before. No fancy lunches, no elaborate set-ups...just a long table, a few chairs, and, of course, a panoramic view of the city.

He gestured to the chair opposite him. “You can sit. We're just waiting for the others.”

You sat down and opened your notebook, trying to appear as casual as he was. But Harry didn’t immediately start talking about the day’s plans. Instead, he just leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he looked you over, like he was trying to figure you out. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“I noticed something yesterday,” he said, breaking the silence.

You looked up at him. “Oh? What’s that?”

“Usually people in your position are trying to impress me,” he said, his voice softer than before. “But you didn’t. You just…did your job.”

Your stomach flipped. Was that a compliment? Or a subtle jab?

“I don’t believe in trying to impress anyone,” you said. “I just wanted to get through the day without making any more coffee-related disasters.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his lips curling just a little. “That’s one way to look at it.”

You blinked, but before you could respond, the door opened, and the team began to filter in—several men in suits, all nodding politely at Harry before taking their seats around the table. The atmosphere was quiet but efficient, each person settling into their roles without much fanfare.

Harry, as usual, took the lead, his sharp eyes scanning the room as he adjusted the papers in front of him. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he commanded the space, how everyone seemed to fall in line when he spoke. Yet, there was something oddly captivating about how little he tried to project that power—he didn’t yell or demand attention. It was just inherent, in the way he held himself.

For a moment, you let yourself get lost in the smooth cadence of his voice as he discussed the agenda for the meeting. Something about his focus made you want to listen more closely. You scribbled down a few notes, trying to keep up, but there was an unmistakable tension building between you two—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

At one point, Harry glanced over at you, his gaze lingering a moment too long. Then, in the middle of a sentence, he added casually, “If you’re not busy with your notes, you can always ask questions. It’s part of the job.”

You paused, pen hovering over your notepad. Was that an invitation? You hesitated before lifting your eyes to meet his.

“Right. Of course,” you said, mentally scrambling for a question that wasn’t too obvious or too awkward.

You could feel his eyes still on you, but he didn’t push. Instead, he continued with the meeting as if nothing had happened.

It was a strange, silent agreement, this unspoken tension. He wasn’t expecting you to be some sort of sycophant, but he also didn’t seem entirely comfortable with you being too detached, either. You were still an outsider, but for some reason, you could tell he didn’t mind you being there. Not really.

After a few more minutes of strategy and numbers flying over your head, you caught Harry’s eyes again, this time with a small, almost imperceptible smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Alright,” he said, standing up. “Break time. You can come with me to the next site visit, but no coffee. That’s the only rule today.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you stood up. “I can do that.”

The rest of the team began packing up their things as well, heading toward the elevator, but Harry didn’t wait. He turned on his heel, walking briskly ahead. You followed quickly, feeling the distance between you shrink as you caught up with his long strides.

“Don’t fall behind this time,” Harry called over his shoulder without turning back.

“Trying not to,” you called back, amused. “Do you always walk so fast?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze focused ahead as he continued down the hallway. “I do when I’m on a schedule,” he said, glancing at you briefly. “I don’t like wasting time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Must be exhausting.”

He shot you a sidelong look. “Not when you’re used to it.”

The elevator ride was silent, and when the doors opened on the lower floor, Harry immediately stepped out, moving with that same quiet purpose. You caught the slightest hint of a smirk when he glanced back at you as if to check if you were keeping up.

“Keeping up, I see,” he said, the challenge in his voice soft but there nonetheless.

You smiled, determined not to show that his words had an effect on you. “I’m persistent, not reckless.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I’ll give you that.”

The ride to the site was brief, but even in the car, there was something different in the way he carried himself today. The hard edges of his businessman persona were still there, but you were beginning to see the flickers of something else. Something a little more human. As you got out of the car at the site, you noticed Harry seemed more relaxed. He was less rigid in his movements, less sharp in his gaze.

“Do you always go to these places yourself?” you asked, unable to resist the curiosity. “Most CEOs would just send someone else.”

Harry glanced at you, surprised by your question. Then, after a beat, he answered, “I like being involved. I don’t let other people make decisions without me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t trust anyone else?”

He smirked, turning toward the building under construction. “I trust people, just not always with my vision.”

You followed him into the building, a strange thought lingering in your mind....Harry Castillo wasn’t just a businessman, and he definitely wasn’t just a person who would allow someone to follow him around for a week. There was more to him than the sharp suits and stoic looks. But what?

You could feel yourself wanting to find out. Maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

The construction site was loud, the clang of metal and hum of machinery filling the air as you followed Harry into the unfinished building. Despite the noise, there was a certain calm in the way Harry moved through the chaos, his eyes scanning the work, his posture relaxed, but always aware.

You’d expected the site to be a mess, but even amidst the scaffolding and construction dust, everything seemed meticulously organized. There were workmen milling about, pointing at blueprints, and hammering away at various structures. It wasn’t a glamorous place, but you could see the vision behind it—the promise of something sleek and modern rising from the rubble.

“So,” you said, glancing at him, “how often do you actually come to these projects?”

Harry didn’t look back at you immediately, keeping his gaze on a foreman talking to a group of workers. “Usually at least once a week. I don’t like to get too caught up in meetings. I like to see the work with my own eyes.”

You nodded, trying to juggle making observations for your article and keeping up with Harry, who was walking so fast you almost had to break into a jog to catch up. “Do you ever get attached to these projects? I mean, they’re all huge investments, right?”

For the first time since you met him, Harry glanced over at you, his expression unreadable. “I don’t get attached. But I care about the outcome. I want things done the right way.”

You raised your eyebrows. “So no emotional attachment at all?”

“No,” he said, almost too quickly. “Business isn’t about emotions.”

That answer surprised you. You expected Harry to be one of those CEOs who would talk about the “vision” of a project, how much it meant to him personally. Instead, it was all about results, efficiency. You found yourself wanting to dig deeper, but you didn’t want to push too hard.

“So, you just…keep it all business?” you asked cautiously.

Harry stopped walking, turned slightly to face you, and tilted his head. There was something in his expression that made you think he was debating whether or not to let his guard down for a second.

“I think business is more about keeping your emotions in check,” he said, his voice lowering. “The moment you get attached to something, you lose sight of the bigger picture.”

You weren’t sure what to make of that. You could understand the logic—it was a competitive world, after all. But there was still something cold about it.

“Does that work for you?” you asked, the question out before you could think better of it.

He looked at you, his eyes narrowing for just a moment. “It has to,” he replied simply, before turning back to the construction workers who were waving him over.

The brief exchange left a strange feeling in your stomach. You could tell there was more beneath the surface with Harry, something he wasn’t quite ready to reveal. And for some reason, you couldn’t let it go.

As you walked toward the next part of the site, you kept your eyes on the work happening around you. It was impressive, the scale of it all. The kind of project that would change the skyline, something that could really make a difference in the city. Harry’s team seemed to take pride in it, even the laborers working in the heat of the day, sweat beading on their foreheads.

“So, what’s your end goal with this one?” you asked, looking back at Harry. “What’s the long-term vision here? I mean, you’ve already made it pretty clear you’re not in this for the personal satisfaction.”

His gaze flicked over to you, this time with a hint of something like amusement, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s about impact. Making something that lasts.”

“And how does that factor into your company’s values?” You couldn’t resist. You had to ask. The whole point of being here was to get those insights.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You like asking questions, don’t you?”

“I’m a journalist,” you replied with a shrug. “It’s kinda my job.”

“You could always write about something simpler,” he said, his voice lightly teasing. “Like coffee or something.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I don’t think ‘Harry Castillo’s Coffee Adventures’ would make for a very engaging article.”

“No?” He paused, as if genuinely considering it. “Maybe we could add a segment about the best espresso in town. You’d be the perfect candidate for the job.”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but something in the way he said it made you want to lean into the conversation a little more. The atmosphere between you was lighter than before, more casual. The small smile he wore, though barely there, felt a little more genuine.

Before you could think of a comeback, you both arrived at a section of the site that was still under heavy construction. You marveled at the steel beams and the bare concrete floors stretching out in front of you.

“What’s the biggest challenge you’ve faced with this project?” you asked, hoping for a less guarded answer this time.

Harry took a deep breath, looking around the site, his fingers tapping briefly against the side of his jacket. “The scope. The more people involved, the more problems can arise. It’s about managing expectations and keeping everything on track.”

His response was businesslike, but there was something in the way he spoke that suggested he understood the weight of the responsibility, maybe more than he let on. It wasn’t just about the financials—it was about seeing a vision through, no matter what.

“You make it sound easy,” you said, giving him a sidelong glance. “Is it ever?”

He chuckled, a rare sound that seemed to echo across the steel beams. “If it was easy, everyone would do it.”

That answer hung in the air between you, and for the first time, you saw a different side to Harry Castillo. Someone who didn’t just manage business but was deeply involved in it, someone who carried the weight of these decisions like it was a constant companion.

You weren’t sure if you should ask more questions, or if you’d crossed a line into territory he didn’t want to explore. But you were starting to see that maybe, just maybe, Harry Castillo wasn’t quite the person you expected him to be.

You and Harry moved through the construction site, walking past the workers who barely glanced up, absorbed in their tasks. There was a sense of organized chaos, paperwork and blueprints fluttering in the wind, beams being hoisted into place, cranes towering above like silent sentinels.

It was fascinating, in a way, how something as industrial as this could feel like a delicate dance. Every person, every piece of machinery, had its role to play. You could see why Harry had such a hands-on approach to these projects. It wasn’t just about the end result—it was about understanding how everything fit together.

As you passed a group of workers on a scaffolding, you glanced over at Harry. “How did you get into all this?” you asked, unable to resist the curiosity any longer. “I mean, this isn’t exactly a family business, is it?”

He glanced at you, the usual coolness in his expression still there, but this time, there was something else too, something more relaxed, less guarded. “It was always business for me. My father was a lawyer, my mother worked in finance. I spent more time with spreadsheets than toys growing up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like fun.”

He shrugged. “Not exactly. But I learned how to look at numbers in a different way. And somewhere along the way, I realized that I wanted to build things, not just manage them. Construction was an obvious fit.”

“You’re telling me you’ve always been into construction?” you asked, incredulous. “What, you were building Lego skyscrapers as a kid?”

Harry let out a small chuckle at the image. “I was more of a puzzle person. But I guess it’s the same thing, finding pieces and putting them together in a way that makes sense.”

“Interesting,” you said thoughtfully. “So you’re the ‘big picture’ guy, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze wander over the site, the gears in his mind clearly turning. Finally, he said, “I think the big picture is important, but it’s the small details that make or break it.”

That answer, once again, surprised you. It wasn’t what you expected from someone who had built an empire. Most of the time, it seemed like people in Harry’s position liked to talk about grand visions and big dreams, the stuff that made for good headlines. But Harry? He was focusing on the smaller pieces, the things most people would overlook.

“And do you think you’ve mastered those details?” you asked, your voice softer now, more curious.

Harry’s eyes flicked to you, then back to the workers as they moved to set a heavy beam into place. “Mastery is a bit of a stretch. But I’m getting there.”

You watched him for a moment, the way his jaw tightened slightly as he spoke, the subtle signs of tension that he wasn’t quite letting go of. It made you wonder how much of him was still holding something back. What was he really thinking when he wasn’t wearing that sharp, professional mask?

You didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because the foreman called Harry over, waving from the corner of the site. Harry gave you a small nod and walked toward the man, and you were left to trail behind, notebook in hand.

As you approached the small group of workers discussing logistics, the foreman turned his attention to you for the first time, giving you a nod of acknowledgment. “You’re the journalist, right?”

You smiled and nodded “Yeah, that’s me.”

The foreman chuckled, glancing between you and Harry. “You must have one hell of a story to write. Not many people get to see the boss in action up close like this.”

You shrugged, playing it cool. “Well, we’ll see if I can manage to keep up.”

As you stood there, the conversation between Harry and the foreman seemed to shift to technical details, numbers you didn’t fully understand, but you were trying to catch bits of it. For a moment, you just listened, watching how Harry spoke to the men—no arrogance, no distance, just a straightforward exchange of information. It was fascinating to see him in his element.

When the discussion wound down, Harry turned back to you, his eyes briefly scanning your notebook. “Taking notes?” he asked, his tone still casual but with an edge of curiosity.

“Of course,” you said, jotting something down quickly. “Can’t miss a thing.”

He looked at you for a beat, then said, “You don’t have to write everything down. Just the important stuff.”

You blinked, surprised. “But… that’s the job.”

Harry’s lips curled just slightly. “It’s not always about the facts. Sometimes, it’s about the people. How they make the facts come to life.”

There was something in that statement that stuck with you, something deeper than just business. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was hinting at something more personal. Was he trying to steer you away from the purely factual approach? Or was it just another one of those cryptic remarks Harry was so fond of?

Before you could ask more, he turned and gestured for you to follow. “Come on. I’ll show you the next section.”

The rest of the tour was quieter, less formal. The workers had grown used to you by now, some of them even offering you smiles as you passed by. Harry continued to point out different aspects of the project, but it was clear that he was more focused on the progress than anything else. You found yourself trailing behind him more comfortably now, listening to his explanations and jotting down more questions for later.

The site visit ended with a quick look at the completed floor plans in Harry’s office, a stark contrast to the raw chaos outside. You stood across the table from him, glancing at the paper in front of you as Harry casually adjusted a pen in his hand.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “how do you stay motivated? I mean, this is just one of many projects for you.”

Harry didn’t look up from the plans, but his voice was quieter when he spoke. “Motivation’s easy. The harder part is not burning out.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. He seemed more vulnerable in that moment than he had been all day—almost as if he’d just let down a tiny bit of the wall he’d built around himself.

But before you could ask more, Harry glanced up at you. His eyes were back to their usual coolness. “We’re done here. I’ll have my assistant email you the rest of the details for your article.”

You smiled, still processing everything he’d said. “Thanks. For today.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “You didn’t completely embarrass yourself, so I’ll consider it a win.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving you standing there, notebook in hand and a strange, unfamiliar feeling buzzing in your chest.

As the day wound down, you found yourself back in the lobby of Castillo Capital, the familiar, polished atmosphere settling around you. You had made it through the second day without any disasters, and Harry had been Harry. Unpredictable. Slightly cryptic. More human than you expected.

You glanced at the time on your phone, almost 7:00 PM. A part of you had expected to be sent back to your apartment by now, the day’s work finished. But Harry’s team had clearly anticipated that this would be a longer process. As much as you hated to admit it, you couldn’t help but wonder how many late nights Harry actually spent at the office. How often did this work-life balance get skewed in favor of one side?

Your musings were interrupted by Harry’s voice, smooth but carrying just a hint of exhaustion.

“Ready for dinner?” he asked, appearing next to you in the lobby, his jacket slightly askew but still impeccably styled.

You blinked, a little surprised by the sudden invitation. “Uh, sure. You never mentioned anything about dinner.”

Harry’s lips curled into that same small smile that always made your heart skip a beat. “You didn’t think I was going to work you into the ground without feeding you, did you?”

“Seems like something you’d do,” you joked, raising an eyebrow.

He didn’t respond to that right away. Instead, he turned and walked toward the elevator, and you followed after him, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the otherwise quiet lobby.

The elevator ride was short, but in the silence, you found yourself wondering about Harry’s words earlier that day. It’s not always about the facts. Sometimes, it’s about the people. The statement had been so casual, yet it lingered in your mind. Was he really talking about the project? Or was it something more personal?

When the elevator doors opened, you were surprised to find yourselves in a small but sleek dining room, the soft glow of pendant lights illuminating the space. It was intimate but not overly fancy, an unassuming atmosphere, much like Harry’s approach to the day. No pretensions, no grandeur. Just simplicity and focus.

Harry pulled out a chair for you before sitting down across from you, his eyes scanning the room for a moment before he focused back on you. “Dinner should be quiet. Just a break from the chaos.”

You glanced at the menu, feeling slightly out of place in the pristine setting. “I think ‘quiet’ is a relative term for you.”

He smirked. “It’s quiet when I want it to be.”

You chuckled, setting your napkin on your lap. The waiter appeared a moment later, and Harry ordered something effortlessly elegant, then looked over at you. “What will it be?”

You froze for a second, eyes flicking to the items on the menu. Normally, you’d do something safe, something you could recognize, but suddenly you felt a strange pressure to choose something… fitting. Something that wouldn’t make you look like you’d just walked out of a coffee shop.

You cleared your throat. “I’ll have the… risotto, I guess.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your hesitance. “You guess?”

“Okay, I’m not exactly a gourmet,” you admitted. “I stick to what I know.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a slight grin. “But you should try something new every now and then. You might surprise yourself.”

You found yourself smiling back, a little embarrassed but enjoying the unexpected warmth in his tone. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

The conversation shifted to more neutral territory after that—brief chatter about your respective days, the usual work-related banter that kept things casual. But every now and then, Harry would glance at you, his gaze just a little more thoughtful, like he was trying to figure something out. And, oddly enough, you couldn’t help but feel the same way. Harry Castillo was a puzzle. The more time you spent with him, the more you wanted to solve it.

But for now, you contented yourself with the moment. The conversation was easy enough, the food was surprisingly good, and the quiet between the two of you didn’t feel awkward—just comfortable. In fact, there was a peace to it that you hadn’t expected.

As the meal came to a close, Harry pushed his plate aside and looked across the table at you, his eyes narrowing just a bit. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions today,” he said, his voice steady but with an edge of curiosity.

You smiled slightly, leaning back in your chair. “I’m just doing my job.”

He didn’t respond at first, studying you for a moment, as if weighing your answer. Then, he spoke, his voice softer now.

“I’ve noticed that. You don’t just ask questions to get answers, you’re trying to understand. It’s different.”

You blinked, a little thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. “Is that a compliment?”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Could be.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I’ll take it.”

The small exchange felt significant. Like a line had been drawn between the two of you, one that was a little less professional and a little more human. And that, more than anything else, felt like progress.

As you finished up your meal and prepared to leave, Harry stood up first, offering his hand to you in a surprisingly gentle gesture.

“Tomorrow’s another early one,” he said, his voice returning to its usual cool professionalism. “But for now, I’ll give you a break.”

You took his hand, your fingers brushing briefly against his, and nodded. “I’m looking forward to it.”

As you both stepped out into the cool evening air, the city lights flickering around you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—you were starting to figure Harry out. Or at least, you were beginning to see that there was more to him than the sharp exterior.

And that, in itself, felt like something worth exploring.

A/N: ahhh it's finally out!! i hope you all enjoyed <33

Taglist!!🏷️ @anonymousbambi @possiblyafangirl @mallingcalling-blog @isa942572 @sarahhxx03 @loveisacowboyyy @jxvipike @anoverwhelmingdin @joelmillerpascal @decadent-hag1 @hotforpedro @meetmeatyourworst @15christyxoxo

if you'd like to be included in this taglist lmk in the replies!

#isa’s thoughts #harry castillo #harry castillo x female reader #harry castillo materialists #harry castillo fluff #harry castillo x you #harry castillo fic #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo x reader #materialists #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal

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keepingitformyself · 7 months ago

Text

but i am flesh and blood (and this flesh has needs)

A/N: THE GIRLS ARE BACK!!!!!

synopsis: if it wasn’t for the crash, you wouldn’t have ever known of the quiet thing that bubbled for you inside of lottie matthews. the worst part, you can’t decide if it would’ve been better if you never knew at all.

word count: 5.4k

pairings: lottie matthews x reader

genre: typical lottie matthews as a cannibalistic cult leader behavior.

warnings: cult themes, cannibalism, dark behavior

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

lottie had always been the careful kind. she knew how to mask things well, how to give just enough before pulling away. but the softness she carried around you was constant, ever-present. maybe you never noticed it at the time. to be fair, she did always try to be subtle.

she had this quiet, unspoken thing for you. nothing overtly showy, very casual. it wasn’t ever meant to be obvious.

but she’d ask questions about your favorite things, in a way that felt like she was trying to understand you. she’d laugh at your jokes with a little more enthusiasm, but it was always very below the surface.

lottie would have never done anything about it. maybe. she liked having control over it in the ways she could control it. though she’d wish sometimes for you to see it first. to see her for what she felt. but you never did.

so, if she did like you, you probably wouldn’t have known it. maybe you were just too busy with your own feelings to ever pick it up.

she just always seemed otherworldly to you. you play for the same team, sure. but she was on a completely different status. lottie was rich, gorgeous, popular, and a star athlete….and you were just… you.

even when you knew lottie didn’t care much about those things. that popularity was the last thing on her mind, and that she only ever really cared about was playing some damn good soccer.

so yes, maybe you did have a quiet longing for lottie matthews. maybe it was admiration. maybe you were a little embarrassed about it. but it’s not like you’d ever do anything about it. you were perfectly content in keeping her in the little bubble you created just for her in your head.

the truth is, lottie had always been different with you. in a way that never came off too strong. in a way that was easy to miss.

it was in the way she’d stay up with you on bus rides home from a game out of town. how when you were once stuck in a rainstorm together and your clothes were soaked through, how she pulled you under a bus stop to keep you out of the rain. then how she wordlessly laid her sweater over your shoulders. like she’d give you everything she had without hesitation.

you just never saw it. you weren’t meant to.

and maybe lottie would have never confessed to you had the crash never happened. had you all made it to nationals and made it back home safely. lottie would have probably let it build, what she had for you. maybe she’d try to learn what do with what she felt for you.

maybe, lottie had convinced herself that what she already had with you was enough for her.

but that was before.

that pull she would come to acknowledge, the one that could only ever exist out there. in the wilderness. would be the thing that makes everything slip.

now, everything has changed.

the crash changed everything.

without any structure of your old world, the rules, the fear of what things should be, lottie doesn’t care. because out there, in the wilderness she doesn’t have to be subtle, she doesn’t have to hold back.

because out there, what was stopping her?

pre-crash, you always thought lottie was kind of a strange thing, but it was never in a super off-putting way. maybe more nuanced, as if she had something to hide. she was just too kind, too quiet for the average rich popular athlete at wiskayok. though, you suppose maybe that’s your fault for stereotyping.

but maybe you were right in your speculation.

within the first week in the wilderness she’s constantly wandering off, she sneaks up on you when you’re out scavenging, and sometimes you catch her thinking too hard as if something was in her mind speaking to her.

the team calls her weird, to quit talking if she isn’t gonna say anything helpful. especially taissa, who’s constantly firing down anything lottie has to say or everytime she mentions having a ‘bad feeling.’

and in a way, you do feel really bad, but lottie’s strange comments only make you more scared. you do try, in some way, to reassure lottie that everything is fine. you tell her with a encouraging smile that she’s just stressed and her mind is just making up falsities from having little to no food in her system.

but unbeknownst you, you have no idea of the war that’s been going on in lottie’s head. that she’s frightened over the fact that she only packed enough medication for a weekend. that she’s long since ran out. and that she’s already starting to feel the psychological withdrawal of no longer having anything to ground her.

especially after the incident in the cabin attic. when she banged her head on the glass window, then giggled to herself as she gripped shauna’s arm. whispering something to her about how, “it’s in you already.”

what it is? you don’t really know.

but it fucking scared you.

you see the small change in lottie shortly after she goes to laura lee for help. she seems in a way more tamed, or at least more comfortable with whatever situation she was having.

it doesn’t last very long though.

not after everyone witnesses laura lee’s fatal death in how the planes flames swallowed her whole. the plane in which she planned to get everyone the help they needed with.

a part of you can’t help but think that it all felt sort of like an omen. like a sign.

lottie is awfully quiet that night, everyone sort of is. you find her by the lake in the evening, not having had moved since witnessing laura lee’s brutal ending.

you approach her where she’s sitting with her knees to her chest. her head makes a slight turn to acknowledge you, but she doesn’t say a word.

“…lottie?”

her mouth opens and closes but she never says anything. you figure she’s still in shock, so you wait patiently beside her until she does say something.

“it didn’t want her to leave,” she whispers, you almost don’t hear it.

you turn to her, questioning, “what?”

she finally looks at you, and you see just how scared she is.

“it didn’t want us to leave.” and you really don’t want to, but you believe her.

she exhales, her hands start to tremble, and you don’t even think before you try to reach for her. she clings to you immediately.

in any other context lottie might’ve enjoyed the way your arms circled around her. but all she can think about now is how the one person who was helping her tame this thing inside of her is gone. and how she’s now having to fight it alone.

after that, lottie starts changing in a ways she doesn’t try to hide anymore.

you don’t mind it, not really, but she’s so intense. she’s already intense about everything, but especially about you.

things start slow with her. but she’s very much there. you think you feel her or you feel something. either way it’s slow moving, like a small buzz behind your ear.

she gifts you weird little artifacts she finds, coddles you, makes sure you’re well fed even when she’s not. and even when you tell the others you’re gonna go down to the lake for some fresh air, she’s immediately at her feet suggesting she comes with you.

you don’t know how to tell her no. you don’t want to. especially with the look she gives you. so, you just smile and nod. and it’s not like spending time with lottie is bad. in fact, she’s in such a good mood. and you like lottie in a good mood.

she’s pulling you through the wilderness, leading you both, constantly looking back at you with a smile on her face. and you can’t help but think, that even under such circumstances, lottie is quite ethereal. that she’s still untouchable in a way that makes your chest tighten.

so, you spend a whole afternoon at the lake. you try not to think too much of the effect lottie has on you when she strips down to just her undergarments. quietly exchanging looks with you as she does.

then there’s this moment between you.

you both just float in the middle of the lake, everything is quiet except for the occasional ripple of movement in the water.

then you feel it, feel her stare on you.

you’re looking off into the distance when you catch her eyes, already locked on you. lottie doesn’t look away.

you feel your stomach do a little flip. “what?” you ask, trying to laugh off the awkwardness creeping up your back.

she doesn’t answer. she just keeps looking, a smile growing slow and knowing as she stares. like she’s waiting for something.

you don’t know what to do. you feel the heat creep up to your ears, so you giggle, shaking your head at her. then she laughs too, soft at first until it grows into something that rings through the trees.

then one night, as everyone was busy with their own conversation, and as the fire crackled low, you could feel her eyes on you. the light casting shadows on her face. and in some ways, maybe you still see pieces of her old self showing.

lottie doesn’t say anything for a long moment. then when she does it’s soft, unsure.

“i didn’t think we’d end up here.”

you don’t say anything. not at first. unsure of what she meant. maybe she meant the crash, or maybe something else entirely.

lottie shifts in her seat, her movements slow, deliberate. she wasn’t coming off too strong, not yet. but she was there, just close enough for you to feel the pull. there was something in the way she looked at you. almost predatory, but gentle. like she was waiting for you to take the first step, to invite her in.

“you’ve changed,” you said mostly to yourself, but she heard it.

“have i?” her voice is soft, almost teasing, and yet there’s an edge to it. a low hum. “maybe we all have. or maybe i’m just showing you who i really am.”

her lips twitched, and you could swear she wasn’t smiling. but there was something in the way her gaze lingered on you that made your heart beat a little faster.

and then the events of doomcoming happen.

the thing with travis happens. you, like everyone else was pulled into the madness, the hunger. the wild energy of the moment. the thing that consumed you all.

you’d become something completely different. or you almost did. it scared you in a way, but felt so freeing. like nothing had mattered except the raw, primal need that was in everyone.

you weren’t immune to it at all. not as much as you would’ve like to had been. it wasn’t even about travis in those moments. it was about what everyone had almost done. what you had almost become.

when lottie kisses travis, you don’t know what to think. but you know immediately, that it isn’t some kiss of affection, or lust, or longing. it was something purely primal.

he was just a vessel to whatever she was trying to get a hold of. a conduit. a way to touch that part of herself that was fueled by the hunger and dark energy that has defined her since the crash.

it happens so quickly even then. and even when it happens her gaze finds yours. almost something like an apology, you think. but you know there was something more to it.

but the fear still twisted in your gut. because how does one explain what happened that night? how do you say you all got high on shrooms and nearly ate travis to bits?

in that moment you thank god for natalie disrupting when she did. for fighting shauna off before she cut travis up. before lottie could encourage her.

you don’t know how to face her after that.

not when the power she had over herself and over you was terrifying.

lottie never says anything about the kiss with travis. she doesn’t explain it, doesn’t justify it. instead, she shows you.

she finds you the night after doomcoming. when the night has settled over the cabin, and everyone has mostly gone to bed. you’re sitting in front of the fireplace, you don’t flinch when you feel her sit next to you.

“you’re quiet,” her voice is low, just above a whisper.

“mmm nothing to say.”

you don’t ever look to face her, but you feel her watching you. not just watching, more measuring, knowing.

all she does is hum in reply before she shifts closer to you, until you feel the heat of her body against yours.

she doesn’t need to say anything, because in a way you know. whatever fucked up dynamic has been created between you is enough for you to know.

because the way she’s with you is different.

different in a way you don’t know how to justify, and you know it’s not good, but you also know it’s all you really have.

and you know lottie, maybe not this version of her but you know enough to know that she wouldn’t actually hurt you.

not if she’s coming in to check up on you over some stupid kiss with a guy.

everything comes like a wave when it comes to lottie. it hits you hard, and you never really know what to expect.

two days later, lottie officially confesses to you.

you’re sitting by the porch as you stare off into the trees, quietly thinking of everything you don’t understand. you hear shauna in the distance cutting up rations of the bear-sacrifice. you think things couldn’t be shittier, but at least there’s food to eat.

you don’t hear lottie walk up, but you felt her the moment she stepped outside. like the pull that you can’t explain, the one that has kept you from fully staying away from her. you glance over and see her standing there for a moment before she lowers herself beside you on the porch.

you meet her eyes, and there’s something different in them. not the wild hunger you’ve grown used to, not that primal need you’ve felt too many times to ignore, but something quieter, almost hesitant.

it’s like she’s holding back a part of herself, unsure of how much to give or what exactly she’s trying to say.

she stays silent for a while. it’s like she’s waiting for permission to speak or maybe just a sign to know you’re ready for what she’s about to say.

like she’s trying to make this conversation something that’s real, and not just the aftermath of something that swallowed you whole.

she looks unsure, as if she’s even allowed to feel what she feels, unsure if she should even be able to ask for what she really wants.

if she’s earned the right to be soft with you in this way.

it’s like she’s realized how much she’s messed everything up, but still, desperately wanting, to make it right. to make this, whatever “this” is, something that doesn’t have to be another instinct to survive.

she glances at you again, switching between glancing at the ground and you. you don’t look at her until you hear her speak.

“i never really knew how badly i wanted to know you.” she whispered, her voice dipping lower, softer. she looked off to the side, as if looking at you would make her take back her words and go back inside. “not just know you, but…” her words trailed off but the implication of her words weren’t lost on you.

the following days she lingers near you, always close, always watching. lottie always lingered and watched though, but it felt different now.

there was something intoxicating about it. about her. the tilt of her head, studying you under that gaze of hers. like some divine creature was before her. something to be worshipped.

and then with that hunger in her eyes. raw and overwhelming. it made your breath hitch in your throat, and made you wonder how much of the girl you once knew still remained beneath the one she had become.

you’re conflicted on whether you should let her in or continue to give her a wider berth. but you no longer know where that line even is.

she’s whispering to herself all the time, staring off into the darkness of the wilderness. likes she’s become a vessel to something no one really understands. and it freaks you out. it freaks everyone out.

it doesn’t help that everyone is so hungry. that everyone is so moody because they’re hungry. you feel like your stomach is constantly trying to eat itself. and there’s a point when you find the remaining bones of a rat carcass behind some of the drawers, you almost consider chewing on it.

natalie and travis go out hunting nearly everyday. but their luck remains low when everyone starts to realize the winter is coming, and most animals are starting to go into hibernation.

when jackie dies, you cry. you start to feel yourself unravel. like you’ve just lost another piece of yourself and you don’t know how much more you can take. but when lottie tells you, “it wasn’t meant to be. she was always meant to stay here.” you babble into her shoulder, even if you know it’s wrong, you nod anyway.

you let her hold you as she leads you somewhere into the woods, as she presses her cold fingers into your temple, and you let her murmur something holy into your skin.

then when you get back to the cabin you hold shauna as the aftermath of the death of her best friend settles. you let her grieve for two months.

and then you all decide to eat jackie taylor.

weeks later, you follow lottie out one night. when everyone in the cabin is in a deep sleep, a night where you’re just on the brink of succumbing but never do. you knew lottie was still up, you could feel how her eyes would drift from you and to the window looking outside.

when you hear her quietly sneak out through the door you wait a few moments before following her out.

you shiver as soon as you step out. immediately wrapping your arms around yourself to conserve any warmth.

and you find lottie staring at the sky, the trees, everything. as if something unseen was looking back at her. she hadn’t looked at you yet, but you knew she knew you were there. maybe that was her plan all along? to have you follow her out here.

you walk until you land right next to her, following her eyes to whatever is ahead. and maybe you feel whatever she’s seeing too. maybe you feel the way it’s demanding to be seen. but you’re not sure it’s something you’re entirely afraid of anymore.

“you can feel it too, can’t you?” she says, her voice low. she wasn’t talking about how cold it was outside, she was talking about something else.

“i’ve been feeling it,” she continued, unable to tear her eyes away from whatever is ahead of her. “i don’t know how to stop it.”

and you don’t know why you even say what you say, “you don’t need to stop it.” and you don’t know what you even mean when you say it.

maybe because a part of you felt safe knowing lottie seemed fine with letting it in. that maybe it was okay to give in.

lottie smiled then, but it wasn’t shy, it was a smile that didn’t entirely feel like her. it was too confident, too knowing. her hands brushed against yours, just a touch, but it felt like being lit on fire. and then lottie was closer, a lot closer, her face just inches from yours.

“you don’t have to be afraid of it,” she whispered. “you don’t have to be afraid of me.” and you do believe her, in some messed up way you do.

“i won’t take unless you give.” she whispers against your lips.

you feel her fingertips brushing your jaw slowly. her eyes switching between your lips and your eyes. but there’s something about the way she looks at you, like she already knows the answer, or maybe it’s the fact that you do want this. that in ways you can’t explain, you crave her.

then she kisses you, and you let her.

and it’s soft and slow at first. but lottie feels no hesitation once you’ve already given her the go. her hand slides to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss. and as her lips move against yours you wonder why it took so long for you to let this happen. when it felt this good.

when she pulls away, lottie doesn’t go very far. she presses her forehead against yours, as she stares at you through her eyelashes. her breath hitting your lips as she exhales out. the smile on her face is unmistakable. you kiss her again.

after that lottie realizes you’re more malleable to her influence. more than you’d like to admit. you tell yourself nothing will change. that you won’t lose yourself in the way lottie has.

because it’s scary. it looks unhealthy and not real. like all it is, is some brief relief from how horrible everything is.

but lottie is damn good at persuading you. with her comforting touches, and hushed whispers, the way she looks at you. primal and unabashedly. she tells you things that don’t completely make sense. the whispers of “it” and how it wants you, that it “wants us.” in her words.

then she starts to persuade you, making you choose to follow her path, that “it” shows her things. she doesn’t explicitly say it but you know she means you.

but you feel it too. in a way that’s both frightening yet calming all the same. and you feel it in the way lottie touches you. because everything is so cold, in the middle of nowhere, in the winter. and all you can think of when she holds you is how warm she is. how you don’t mind anything as long as you stay here with her.

and then maybe you do let her in. maybe you do let her consume you. because jesus, you’re so hungry, so desperate, and hanging on to any last bit of hope you can find. and lottie is basically offering that to you with a hand held out.

so you let her. because you need something too. something that doesn’t just feel like some instinct to survive but also something that feels like it’s an escape from the instinct to survive. but maybe they’re the same thing when it comes to lottie. but maybe you don’t care.

sometimes you still feel like yourself though, sometimes you feel that old part of you creep out. you notice it when lottie doesn’t entirely feel like lottie. when she says things, in a way that don’t entirely feel like her. when she acts in ways the old lottie wouldn’t. but you agree. you smile and nod and agree.

because when has she ever been wrong?

because hasn’t she kept you safe?

and when she kisses you, when she pulls you into her arms, you don’t think about wanting to pull away.

you stopped wanting to.

one day you realize you don’t even question her anymore. you don’t even think about what any of it means before you act. before you follow along like some loyal servant.

when she beckons you into the woods to follow her, you listen. you sit with her in the snow, and listen to the trees, the wind, and when she asks, “do you feel it?”

you do.

even if you don’t.

because she does.

and isn’t that enough?

maybe lottie did feel bad. she does. she felt horrible for how much she’s changed you. she convinced herself it’s all been in the name of keeping you safe. because it is. that’s how it was always meant to be. but the thing inside her didn’t stop there.

it was thrilled with how you looked at her. how you believed her. how you believed in her. and lottie, god that’s all lottie has wanted. for you to see her for what she felt.

sometimes when it’s quiet, when the snow has stilled, she’ll look over at you and see glimpses of the girl she’s crushed on since junior year. the girl who thought superstitions were stupid, the girl who humbled natalie when she got too cocky, the girl who she would willingly give her jacket to if it were raining.

she imagines what it would’ve been like to really know that version of you that hasn’t existed in so long. she wonders if or when this whole thing is over if you’d ever get a semblance of your old self back. if you’d ever let her stick around to see it.

by the time lottie asks you something you haven’t thought of in a while, you’re already too deep in.

“do you ever wonder?” her voice quiet, the fire from the chimney crackled in the background. “what would have happened if the plane didn’t crash?”

it’s not meant to be a trick question. she just needs to know if you’ve felt it. if you’ve ever ached for something you never got the chance to have, like she has.

and the hard truth is, you haven’t in months. because it’s been so long, and thinking of anything outside this place hurts you.

so you say, “i think i used to.” as you stare off into the space as if there was some distant memory being shown to you. then you turn to look at her, “do you?”

it surprises you when she says she does, “i do.” lottie nods. “but then i stop. i realize it wouldn’t change anything by thinking about it.”

“what do you hope would be different?” you ask her. you’re sitting close, the way you always do now. knees brushing, hands only inches apart.

lottie shrugs, and reaches for your hand to rub. a quiet telling of how she truly doesn’t know what a softer version of all of this would be like. if it would even happen. “i would just hope this...that we would’ve found each other either way.”

her fingers lace through yours, her grip gentle. “maybe it would’ve been different,” she continues, “softer, easier…but you’d still be you. and i’d still be me.”

it’s not supposed to be a demand. the way lottie says it. just a thing she feels. a truth given freely. a hope that maybe there’s a version of you both where your luck could have been kinder. where you both weren’t something carved out by the wilderness, something that wasn’t forged out of desperation and survival. another version of you where it could have been a choice.

lottie watches you, she feels the weight of your hand in hers, the heat of you beside her. she has you now, that’s enough right?

but lottie wonders, she wonders of a life where the plane had landed safely, went to nationals, won or lost, then came home.

a life where she could have courted you the way you deserved, where you’d kiss her drunkenly at parties. where the only thing you had to worry about was high school graduation and how you’d make it work if you were gonna do long distance.

something that could have unraveled naturally, soft, innocent. through stolen glances and shy confessions, rather than in the existence of blood and fear.

she looks at you again, then laughs, then you look at her. she finds it all ironic, that she’s silently grieving a life that won’t even happen.

lottie wont tell you why she laughed. you don’t deserve that. she doesn’t want to make you sad. it’s not fair. not when it’s something that isn’t real. this is real.

her hands find your face. they’re surprisingly warm, you find yourself thinking.

“i love you,” she says instead. it’s the first time she’s said it. your mouth opens slightly. lottie knows immediately what it looks like. like something built from hunger and fear. in desperation.

but it’s not.

she continues before you can start, “i love you not because i have to.” her voice is steady. “not because you keep me sane.”

her thumbs brush over your cheekbones, tracing the shape of you, like she’s trying to memorize you by touch.

“if we had never crashed, if we were just—” she exhales, shaking her head, “if things were normal, it wouldn’t have changed anything. i still would’ve loved you. you have to know that.”

and lottie probably sounds insane. (what’s new?) maybe it’s naive, maybe even delusional. but somehow, it’s the one thing that has felt real to her, the one thing that feels certain.

because it isn’t like she hasn’t thought it over a million times in her head. she’s imagined a version where she had told you earlier, where the plane still would have crashed. the only difference is that maybe she would have had a little more time to be with you in a way that was just yours.

but the wilderness…the wilderness would have still bound you together, would have still tangled you up in something inescapable. it was merely the thing that ensured you were fated.

so if the plane hadn’t crashed? if the choice had been there? if she had gotten to love you the way you both deserved?

of course, it still would have happened.

because if it was meant to be in this version, in a life shaped by tragedy, then why wouldn’t it be meant to be in one where things were soft? where things were right?

before lottie could muster up the courage to tell you any of this, before she could even move, before you can even say you love her back. there’s a crackling sound heard, a sharp heat felt amongst the cold.

first there’s the smell of smoke.

then someone screams.

lottie and you both turn, the cabin is burning.

flames consume the walls, swallowing the only place that has kept them alive, the last place that has ever felt like a shelter to them, a home. everything is too quick for them to comprehend. too fast for them to even mourn the fact that the cabin was burning.

but you’re next to her. alive. breathing. and when lottie turns to you she waits for the devastation to hit, but it never does. at least not in the way she expects.

maybe the cabin was never going to last forever. maybe nothing ever does. maybe the only thing that really matters is what remains once everything else is gone.

and what remains is you.

lottie reaches for you, her hand wrapped in yours grounding her in the only thing that has felt real. the only thing that still exists in this moment, untouched by fire and ruin.

in the middle of the chaos, in the middle of the freezing cold, while everyone watches in horror as the flames completely swallow the cabin, you finally say it.

“i love you.”

it’s quiet, but certain. like it’s been your truth waiting to be spoken. lottie’s breath catches.

it shouldn’t matter. it felt selfish that this was the only thing lottie seemed to care about in the moment, but she didn’t care. even if their world was quite literally going up in flames. but it does. god, it does.

lottie exhales, squeezing your hand in hers as she brings her forehead to yours. despite every fucked up thing happening around them, you both manage to muster up a smile.

“i love you, too.”

and maybe one day when everything is better, when the wilderness isn’t something that weighs on you. when hunger is the last thing on your mind, maybe she’d tell you all about it. about the life she imagined, the one that could have been. the happier ending, with a choice.

but not tonight.

tonight the only thing that matters is making it through another night.

and then one more, and then another. until the spring comes.

#lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets

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22ayla21 · 5 months ago

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A lion resembling a cute kitten.

Who knew that Amphoreus's most formidable warrior feared... TICKLES?!

Mydei. The very name sounded like a legend, whispered with reverence. The strongest warrior of the era, a demigod of strife, the last prince of his land. His strength was feared, his resolve commanded respect, a single glance from him was enough to quell the arrogance of the proudest. A legend of battlefields, whose shadow once fell upon an entire kingdom.

But for her… he was completely different.

She remembered their first meeting off the battlefield, without armor or sword. He sat with a spoon and a bowl, with barely any vanilla cream visible at the bottom. Focused, serious, with a dark strand of hair falling across his forehead, he was whisking something with such absorption that he didn't even notice her arrival. The sweet scent of caramel and vanilla filled the air.

"Cooking?" she asked, barely suppressing a smile. He looked up, slightly surprised, but not at all embarrassed.

"Of course. Sweet things are an art. They require patience and precision. Almost like a battle, only without the blood. And much tastier."

From that day on, she knew a different side of him. It turned out he adored berries in honey and could spend hours discussing the nuances of soufflé and mousse textures. He helped children, fixed their toys, and taught them how to fight. He knew how to soothe a crying toddler and told stories that even adults would listen to with rapt attention.

He was a caring brother, a loyal friend, but still… there was always some mystery about him. Until one day.

They were training. She unexpectedly made a grab, her hand sliding across his ribs—and then something strange happened. The great warrior, the demigod, the prince, the victor, the terror of the battlefields… suddenly twitched, let out a short, almost stifled giggle, and immediately jumped back.

"What was that?" she blinked in astonishment.

His face showed horror mixed with irritation and… a blush on his cheeks?

"You… are afraid of being tickled?"

He turned away as if it were the most terrible secret in the world.

"It… doesn't matter."

"No, this is…" she couldn't hold back her laughter, "amazing!"

And at that moment, the picture in her head was finally complete: this formidable lion, whose roar made armies tremble, was actually a sweet, fluffy kitten hiding his vulnerability behind steel armor. And she loved him for it.

From then on, she would occasionally "accidentally" touch his sides, neck, or back. And each time, he would flinch, grumble, and try to maintain a serious expression. And she would just laugh quietly and mentally call him her kitten. Secretly. Only when they were alone.

Over time, it became their little game. Even after the wedding. Even years later, when their house was filled with children's laughter, and Mydei stood at the stove with their youngest daughter in his arms while their eldest son waited for his pancakes, he was still the same: mighty, formidable, incredible… and still just as sensitive to tickles.

And every time she looked at him—at this great and yet so endearing man—she felt the same feeling in her heart as from the taste of sweet cream, from the aroma of hot cocoa: coziness, tenderness, love.

Love for her lion. For her kitten. For her Mydei.

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #mydei x reader #mydei #mydeimos #hsr mydei

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zeropro · 2 months ago

Text

Q&A Corner: Autobot Base

Wanted to try and clear some of my inbox before moving on to the next phase of the story. (long post warning)

It's gotta be Bumblebee, tho he and Wheeljack are chill. The Dinobots trust everyone inherently because they are the strongest and also a little stupid.

Jazz is like, just as cautious as Red Alert, but instead of getting anxious and paranoid he stays cool and relaxed about it. He's keeping just as close an eye on the Decepticons roaming the base as anyone, you just wouldn't know it if you didn't know Jazz. And everyone knows Jazz.

I get a lot of asks about random characters, and I cant really draw all of them, but I like the idea that Cosmos is chilling at some amusement park. Kinda like in EarthSpark, but like consensually haha. I bet he's great with kids.

They're divorced. Ratchet didn't approve of his malpractice and Pharma didnt approve of his personality.

No one will ever find out what happened between Starscream and Cryak if Starscream has any say in it. And he won't refuse a spark exam, it just gives him anxiety and he has a hard time with them. He'll do it but he might have to hold someone's hand.

I don't think it hurts to roll around in vehicle mode, but it's possible it hurts when transforming. Bumblebee can join the chronic pain gang.

Probably my fault, not my best writing if I have to be honest. The dialogue in that comic didn't quite get across what I wanted, I cringe a lot when I look back on it lmao;;; (Also yes best not to touch him or stand too close)

Well Bee is the Autobot leader and Starscream thinks himself the Decepticon leader, so it makes sense they'd work together. Prowl, Jazz, and Red Alert def notice something else going on there and are torn between wishing Bee would be just a little less trusting of the war criminal and hoping this is doing some good for Starscream.

I actually love when fics explore this. I don't think the Autobots are perfect or anything, I'm sure there is still animosity there for sure, but the leadership doesn't rely on fear to maintain power and I think the contrast wouldnt be lost on Starscream. If nothing else it puts into stark contrast just how far Megatron has fallen (heh heh).

Yeah Megatron isnt doing great after coming back online. I think the coneheads left specifically because he started taking it out on them in lieu of Starscream. I don't think anyone wants to be there anymore but it can be really hard to leave. Soundwave is still loyal, he can sense the nuance of what's going on inside Megatron and it makes it hard to turn his back on one of the most important people in his life.

I'm certainly going to try (it's a canon event!)

That would be so very cute, but it wouldn't happen haha.

Of course he misses them, but he's a big boy, he wont cry (maybe in his sleep).

They didn't know he was there. Fireflight got lost and they kinda just stumbled across Thundercracker's house while out looking for him and started bothering him.

I think we all could use a break and a nap mayhaps...

They barely know each other, like coworkers that work on different floors of the same office building.

I'm sure he knows there's a difference. Probably doesnt realize they're cats and not, idk, a bear or something. He didn't really pay attention to Earth creature taxonomy until very recently.

Sunstreaker doesnt feel bad about it because I dont think he had full intention of killing an unarmed incapacitated mech. He was more using intimidation to keep Skywarp from warping out and attacking him, he totally woulda killed him at that point, or at least tried to. Skywarp doesnt hold it against him tho, it was war, it happens, he prolly woulda killed him back if given the chance.

Skywarp also hasn't seen or spoken to Thundercracker since then. Skywarp was really really mad when Thundercracker originally defected from the Decepticons, and he doesn't really understand why Thundercracker wont talk to them. It's complicated. He also just hasn't really thought about going to see him. Keep in mind they've been with the Autobots for a little over a year, so not a very long time.

It's fun how many people were worried for Swindle. I can at least say he didn't really deserve it this time. Man's out here thriving under capitalism but Megatron needs his combiners.

Soundwave is of average size, Megatron is just huge! Soundwave and Starscream are the same size.

They didn't lose Soundwave, they know where he is. They can go visit him any time. And no one has to take care of them, they're full grown adults haha. Honestly, the Autobots are used to them spying on them in their walls, they're probably just like "at least they're running around out in the open where we can see them now."

I think the only other notable one is Defensor. I don't have any plans to include Defensor.

No thanks, that's weird. :P

Stay tuned!

#transformers #long post #q&a

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guilty-pleasures21 · 11 months ago

Note

My friend and I were talking about Jason and she said it would be cool if Jason's S/O got along with Bruce, but I honestly don't see that happening?

I can't imagine being in a relationship with Jason and at the same time thinking Bruce is a nice guy after all

What do you think?

Oh my god! I’m so excited for this! I decided to respond in the form of a story 😉.

Bruce Wayne

Warnings: brief references to loss and trauma.

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

It took nine months for him to finally let you in enough for you to start falling in love with him.

You’d first met Jason in the library; specifically the literature section. He’d been standing by one of the shelves, quietly flipping through a copy of Jane Austen’s Emma. He’d had the build of a stereotypical jock, so you’d honestly been a little surprised to see him focusing so intently on the British classic. But those were just your own biases, so you’d quickly tossed them aside in favour of returning to your search. Halloween was coming up, which always put you in the mood for one of your favourite classics: Dracula. It was short and the unconventional style of writing was always a little jarring at first, but you absolutely loved reading about how the characters puzzled through the mystery. You’d knelt down, searching the shelf where the novel should have been sitting according to the alphabetical filing system. But it hadn’t been there. You’d frowned and tsked in irritation, then quickly snuck a glance at the man standing behind you. You’d barely caught him raising an eyebrow at you over the top of his book before he’d quickly lowered his gaze, acting as if he hadn’t even noticed you there. You’d turned back to the shelves and stood up, checking to see if someone had accidentally misplaced the book after picking it up for a quick read … There! On the top shelf! You’d stretched onto your toes, reaching for the spine, but your fingers had barely grazed the edge of the shelf.

“Need some help?” You’d turned to find the man’s attention fully focused on you now, his startling green eyes studying you intently. He’d lowered his book, allowing you a glimpse of his rugged features, his wide lips and his crooked nose that looked like it had been broken and reset a few times already. He’d raised an eyebrow at you and you’d realised suddenly that you’d been staring.

“Oh!” you’d gasped, embarrassed by your own actions. “Uh, thank you!”

You’d stepped aside, giving him the space to get the book for you, and you couldn’t help but notice how big he was - tall and strong and broad. He’d grabbed the book with ease and rolled his eyes at the title before handing it over to you.

“Excuse me?” you’d said, frowning up at him whilst cuddling the book protectively to your chest. He’d given you a once-over in response, taking in your small form, so fragile compared to him, then he’d gone back to his side of the shelf, his expression unimpressed.

“Nothing,” he’d drawled, opening up his book again. But the amount of sarcasm contained in that single word had only caused your anger to bubble even more.

“What’s wrong with Dracula?” you’d asked, a hundred different retorts coming to mind immediately. Your heart had thudded with anticipation as the adrenaline had raced through your system, your defences instinctively locking into place to shield you from whatever hatred might have been about to spew from his mouth.

“It’s a little cliche, isn’t it?” he’d suggested, picking up his book again. “Halloween … vampires … You in a book club or something, princess?”

He’d flashed you a little smirk, his expression more teasing than unkind, but the condescending nickname had raked over your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “At least his characters are more nuanced! And he develops more of a plot in these few pages than Jane Austen does in any of her hundred novels! It’s not just the same old story of two extremely unlikeable characters falling in love over and over again under a different title!”

Jason had flinched at your outburst, taken aback by your sudden vehemence. He’d told you later that he didn’t usually let people off so easily, but he hadn’t been able to get mad in the face of your adorableness. You’d rolled your eyes at his admission, but smiled anyway as you’d curled up into his side. It had taken about a year after meeting him before you’d finally realised the real reason he hadn’t shot back at you - the reason he’d just given you an amused smirk and asked if you’d read all of Jane Austen’s ‘hundred’ novels.

Because he’d seen in you that same instinct - that same fear - to always be on your guard, to always be prepared for someone to attack you and know that no one would come to your defence but you.

And that was how you’d first become friends with Jason Peter Todd.

It took three months after you’d admitted your feelings for him to yourself before you’d realised that he was never going to be the first one to make a move.

You’d been sitting on his sofa, watching a movie at his place as was your weekly Friday night ritual. You’d never been able to get into Jane Austen’s books, but you’d always loved the movie versions of her stories. Jason had been sitting beside you, legs spread apart, one elbow on the armrest, his hand propping his head up as he’d focused on the movie. You’d inched closer to him at a cautious pace, slowly closing the distance between the two of you.

“What are you doing?” Jason had asked finally, nothing ever escaping his notice. His tone was amused - as it always was when he was with you - but it did nothing to ease the churning of your stomach as you’d gathered up your courage. You’d kept your attention fixed on the television, watching as Alicia Silverstone sat in the exact same position as you, puzzling over how to express her true feelings to Paul Rudd beside her.

“I like you.” A blanket of tension had smothered the room at your confession, the only sounds coming from the movie that neither of you were paying attention to anymore. Finally, unable to take it any longer, you’d paused the movie and turned to Jason, your brows furrowed in irritation. “Well?”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt in terror. Of course you would be the only person to confess your feelings and then get mad when the other person didn’t respond. But he had that same instinct too: to take your fear and twist it into anger - to defend yourself even before the other person could think to attack.

He’d turned away from you, his leg starting to shake as he’d processed your words. He couldn’t- You couldn’t. You couldn’t like him! Not like that! You were his friend and … he couldn’t afford to f*ck up the best thing had ever happened to him in his life! Even if he’d been finding it more and more difficult to stop his gaze from lingering on your soft curves and your full lips and imagining what you would feel like pressed up against him with absolutely nothing in between your bod- No! No. It was a horrible idea.

He’d turned to face you, wanting to list out all the reasons he wasn’t good for you. But you’d known him for too long now and you knew by the defeated slump of his shoulders exactly what was going to come out of his mouth.

“Don’t!” you’d exclaimed, jumping to your knees and clamping your hands over his mouth before he could speak. His eyes had widened in surprise at your sudden movements and you’d removed your hands from his mouth, satisfied that you’d startled him enough for him to not argue with you. “I don’t want a list of bullshit reasons about why you think you’re not good enough to be in a relationship or how you think it’s going to mess up our friendship or whatever else nonsense you’ve somehow convinced yourself of over the past few years.”

You’d rearranged yourself on his lap then, swinging your leg over both of his and sliding your arms around his neck as you’d laid your head on his shoulder.

“I love you, Jace,” you’d continued softly, running your fingers through his hair. “We can take it slow - we have the rest of our lives, after all - but I want to make this work. I want us … I want you. I just want you, for the rest of our lives.”

You’d sat there in silence for a while, letting him digest your words. And slowly, his heartbeat had slowed and his muscles had relaxed until finally, he’d let his arms come loosely around your waist. “I don’t-”

He’d cut himself off as his voice had cracked with emotion, and he’d tightened his grip on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You’d continued to brush his hair gently, keeping your breathing steady and allowing your weight on top of him to keep him grounded. You’d seen him have panic attacks before and though he’d told you a little bit about what had caused them, he still hadn’t gone into much detail about it. All you knew was that he’d gotten beat up by a bad guy as a kid. He’d seemed horribly uncomfortable even telling you that much, so you’d never pushed him for more information. You were too good to him.

“I love you, Jay,” you’d repeated, holding him close to you, trying to physically transfer your love for him from your body into his. Eventually, you’d sat back and moved your hand to his cheek instead. You’d studied his features carefully: his thick eyebrows, his moss-coloured eyes, the tiny scar that cut into the corner of his upper lip … “We can … take it slow …”

And then you were kissing, your lips brushing each other’s softly as your tongues explored one another’s mouths. You’d let him take the lead, stepping back after being the one who’d made the first move, and soon, your kisses had turned heated: his hands squeezing every curve they ran over, your fingers sneaking beneath his shirt to glide over his hard muscles, your hips moving against one another’s as you'd both started getting excited. Eventually, he’d lifted you up and walked you backwards to his bedroom, your lips never leaving the other’s as you’d pulled each other's clothes off along the way.

And that had been the best night of your entire life, no thanks to Jason Peter Todd.

It took another six months after that for him to tell you the whole story of what had happened.

He’d sat on your sofa, leg shaking vigorously, teeth buried in his lower lip as he’d waited for you to say something. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d finally told you the whole story: the day he’d gone to the warehouse, the thrashing he’d gotten from The Joker, the trauma of having his soul forced back into his body … and then having the only person who’d saved him from the streets - who’d promised him that there was something in him worth saving - turn around and tell him that no, there really wasn’t anything in him worth saving after all. Now you understood why he found it so hard to let himself be loved by you - to believe that anyone could ever find something in him worth loving.

“Oh, Jay.” You’d wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close to you and murmuring into his hair over and over again that you loved him, you loved him, you loved him. You loved his righteous anger and his concerned protectiveness and his unwavering sense of justice. For you, there wasn’t any part of him that wasn’t worth loving - that wasn’t worth saving. Over and over and over again. Maybe you hadn’t been there to save him then, but you were there to save him now. As many times as he needed someone to.

Finally, he took you to meet his family.

You clasp the man’s hand, fixing him with a wary expression as you shake it. “Mr Wayne.”

“Please, call me Bruce,” he insists, fixing you with the same smile he’d probably been trained to wear as a child. You let out a noncommittal hum as your hand falls back to your side and you don’t miss the minute flicker in his expression in response to your cold demeanour. But he brushes it aside and glances over at Jason in question, waiting.

He’d told him a few days ago that he was planning to ask his girlfriend to come over for Thanksgiving. The rest of the family had already met you - mostly by stalking Jason and constructing elaborate situations in which they’d ‘casually’ ‘bump into’ both of you on the street or a café somewhere - and they’d all been delighted by his sweet little girlfriend who, at times, seemed to have even worse of a temper than him, but who also appeared to love him more than anything else in the world. Bruce’s heart had swelled at the thought of someone giving his son all the love he deserved - all the love he himself had failed so miserably at giving him - and he’d barely managed to keep a lid on his excitement when Jason had finally mentioned bringing you over. But he’d follow his son’s lead and do only as he said.

Jason shakes his head slightly, telling Bruce not to take it too personally, then he guides you to the kitchen, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. Bruce waits for the rest of his kids to follow, then finally, he joins you all at the dining table.

The atmosphere is lively, everyone laughing and joking and sarcastically listing all the things they’re thankful for. You join in the fun, easily fitting in with the rest of his family, but there’s a moment when you pause - when your gaze lands on Bruce and you find yourself taking a moment to study his expression.

He hadn’t said much the entire meal, but he’d watched his family with an expression of tenderness - of disbelief - his lips curled into a soft smile as he’d surveyed his loved ones celebrating this day of thanks together. And it struck you: the familiarity of that look.

Because how many times had you seen it on Jason? Jason, who would watch you with that same tenderness on his face whenever you did something to make him believe that maybe, just maybe, he really was worth loving. From something as simple as calling him cute when he was annoyed with someone for deviating from his mission plan to the bigger stuff like surprising him with a tray of brownies you'd made from scratch because you knew they were his favourite. He'd spent so long being convinced that he wasn't worth loving that he still couldn't quite believe it whenever you made space for him in your life. And now here was Bruce, giving the large, boisterous family he’d so carefully cultivated the exact same look.

The moment continues to linger in your mind as you all settle down to watch a movie, Jason's siblings arranging themselves across the various forms of furniture scattered around the room while you cuddle up with him on a loveseat by the sofa. The night soon turns into a game of who can stay awake the longest as one by one Jason's family begins dozing off, their satisfying meal coaxing them into a state of sleepiness. You yourself find it hard to keep your eyes open when you're wrapped up in your boyfriend's big, strong arms, all snuggled up against his broad chest. Eventually, Bruce forces everyone up and to their beds, making sure they're all safely tucked in before retiring to his own bedroom.

You lie with Jason in his bed, tickling his scalp in the way that always makes him drowsy, even when he's finding it difficult to sleep.

“What?” he asks finally, sensing that you're still awake. You narrow your eyes in thought, combing through all the information Jason has ever shared with you.

“How old was Bruce when his parents died?” You knew the story, of course - Bruce Wayne had lost his parents in a mugging incident when he'd been just a child - but you hadn't grown up in Gotham, so you weren't too sure about the details of the case.

“Hmm, I think he was eight,” Jason supplies, doing his best to stay focused despite your soothing touch. “Why?”

Eight?! That must have been horrible! “And did he … have a lot of other family to take care of him?”

He was rich - obscenely so - and he had a house big enough to rival the President's! So of course he must have had some wealthy aunt or uncle who'd taken him in after his parents died.

“No,” Jason mumbles, starting to lose the battle against sleep. “He just had Alfred.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest, hurting on behalf of the little boy who'd had to grow up almost completely alone, no parents, no siblings, no one at all who understood his circumstances and gave him a reason to keep living.

“But … How did he keep living? In spite of it all?”

Jason hums softly, not quite registering the question as he splays his limbs out across you. “I don't know. How do any of us?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat and resolve to forget about it. For now, at least.

You wake up earlier than Jason the next morning - a rare feat, especially considering that it's almost noon - and head to the kitchen to get some coffee after taking a shower. You're surprised to find Bruce already doing the exact same thing, but he greets you with a welcoming smile.

“Need any help?” he asks, giving you enough space to stand in front of the machine. You study the various buttons and knobs, trying to see if you can puzzle it out yourself. But in the end, you decide that it's probably better to just let him handle it.

“Um, yes, please!” you agree sheepishly, stepping aside and letting him take over. “Can I just have a latte?”

He gets to work making you your coffee, then invites you to join him in the garden outside. You clutch your cup tightly, refusing to make it so easy for him to get into your good graces, but you join him anyway, intrigued to find out more about this man who had forsaken your precious Jason when he'd been just a child. You sit in silence for an uncomfortably long amount of time, refusing to start the conversation first. So Bruce begins.

“My kids have told me that they think you’re really good for Jason,” he tells you softly, gazing out at his beautifully staged garden. He turns to you and his gaze bounces between your face and the table as he continues speaking. “I’m glad … I’m glad that he’s finally found someone … who makes it easier.”

He chose his words carefully, unsure of how much you knew about Jason’s life, so you decided to enlighten him. “He told me … everything.”

Bruce lifts his head and fixes you with a surprised - and wary - look.

“I know … about his parents and Red Hood and … and The Joker.” Your voice grows soft at the last part, your heart aching at the memory of everything he’d told you. You slide your gaze over to Bruce, who’s lowered his head at the revelation that Jason really had told you everything. You narrow your eyes at the look of shame on his face and the rage begins to take over you. “I know … what you did after he came back - or, really, what you didn’t do. Were your morals so important that you couldn’t … Didn’t you think …”

You clench your fists, trying to find the words to convey your emotions. Finally, you push yourself out of your seat, your features hard with the same righteous anger that Jason always wore. “I love Jason! I think he’s the most wonderful, sweetest, most caring human being I have ever known in my life! He deserves the world and everything more! And you …”

You dig your nails into your palms then force yourself to take a deep breath, letting the anger pass through you.

“I agree.” He says it so quietly that you almost miss it. Then he holds your gaze and repeats the words. “I agree with you. Jason deserves everything he never thought … he was good enough for.”

He clasps his hands together, fidgeting with his fingers as he tries to figure out how to continue. “I …”

I was wrong? I did my best? I’d do it differently if I could go back in time and fix it? The excuses leaped to the tip of his tongue, but they were all lies. Jason Todd had always been Jason Todd, and it didn’t matter how many times he ran over the millions of different scenarios in his mind: the two of them would have always ended up in the same stalemate in the end. Because Bruce Wayne had always been Bruce Wayne too.

Bruce sits back and returns his gaze to his garden, serene and calm and the opposite of everything his life had ever been. “Is he still going to therapy?”

You grit your teeth, irritated by the sudden change of topic. But you’ve loved Jason Todd everyday for almost two years now: you knew how to look for the subtle shifts in his expression, the small ticks and habits that gave away his emotions when he was working so hard to hide them. So you don’t miss the tightness of Bruce’s jaw and the tension in his biceps and the minute shifting of his shoes as he probably wriggled his toes in them.

“Yes,” you sigh, sitting back down again. “He’s doing a lot better.”

“Good.” Bruce nods slowly. “Good. And his … Has he had any attacks recently?”

He turns to you, his eyes overflowing with concern, and the final remnants of your anger leave you. “He’s had a few, but they’ve been getting less over time. And he’s gotten better at dealing with them.”

Bruce nods again. “I’ve heard about this … tapping technique? Apparently it can help with anxiety if you tap certain places on your body? I can send you a few links if you think it might help him?”

And suddenly, he’s not Bruce Wayne, the untouchable billionaire with the practised smile, nor is he Batman, the sour vigilante who thinks he knows better than everyone. He was Bruce Wayne, the little boy who’d lost the most important people in his life and been forced to learn how to grow up without them. The little boy who fought so desperately every single night to make sure that no one else would ever have to go through the same things he had. The little boy who still couldn’t figure out why no one had thought that he was worth saving. Just like Jason Todd.

And now you understand. Bruce Wayne had never forsaken Jason Todd. He’d never abandoned him or chosen anyone else over his precious second son. He just hadn’t known how to save the little boy who’d been forced to grow up on his own, who fought every single night to make sure no other child suffered the same fate as him, who had never been able to figure out why he hadn’t been worth saving. He hadn’t known how to save himself.

“That’d be great,” you tell Bruce, giving him a warm smile. His lips curl at the ends in response and he sits back again, lighter now that you seemed to have forgiven him. “And Bruce? Thank you for saving Jason.”

Bruce lets out a self-deprecating chuckle and shakes his head in disagreement. “I didn’t-”

“You did,” you tell him, firm in your conviction now. “You saved that little boy from a rough life on the streets. You helped him live again after he came back. You gave me the Jason Todd that I know and love today. So if you think that there’s anything I’ve done to save him, it’s only because you saved him enough first for him to get to me.”

Bruce stares at you for a minute, his expression unreadable. Then finally, he smiles. “You know, I guess my kids were right about you after all.”

And that was why you and Bruce got along so well, you would think to yourself any time Jason would ask you about it. Because Bruce Wayne had always been Bruce Wayne, but he’d done the best he could to make sure that Jason Todd always stayed Jason Todd; that no matter how hard the world shoved him to the ground, no matter how strongly he believed there was nothing in him worth loving, the world needed Jason Todd. The world needed someone who would do the right thing, even when it was difficult - especially when it was difficult. You smile and ruffle Jason’s hair.

“Because Bruce Wayne has always been Bruce Wayne,” you tell him in response. Jason rolls his eyes at your usual vague answer, but his lips curl at the ends like they always do. He lies down, resting his head on your lap, and you stroke his hair softly as the two of you continue watching your movie.

So yeah! Those are my thoughts 🤔😋.

#jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood smut #red hood fanfiction #red hood #jason todd x oc #jason todd fic #red hood fic #dc x y/n #dc x you #dc x reader #dc smut #dc fanfic

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liedownquisition · 2 months ago

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Just to be clear let's make a little reminder:

Jason Todd had never claimed that he was Pit Mad, nor attempted to explain, excuse, or blame any of his actions in it. He would, in fact, be rather offended by the notion that he wasn't fully in control and making his own decisions* *If you choose to do fanon pit madness in your own fics/ect, this post isn't about you. This is about the prospect of him lying and claiming it's an excuse when "other people didn't have that issue".

Batman Annual #25

This is Jason, not displaying any signs of the typical direct-from-emerging Pit Madness symptoms.

Lost Days #3 - Jason openly admitting to killing a guy, and general thoughts therein. A lot more nuanced than Pit Madness would generally leave you the facilities to think about.

Batman (1940) #641 - I wasn't 100% on if this actually fits the vibe but idk. Him forcing Bruce to say it feels like he's making a strong claim.

Batman (1940) #650 - Also may not fully fit the vibe but I promise you it makes sense if you were in my head. it's about taking ownership for your actions but not letting them consume you.

Even in runs like RHATO when he repeatedly says things like "I never said I was proud of it" and looking back on his past actions with disgust and remorse while... continuing to kill people sometimes, he still never acted nor spoke as though the Pit affected him enough to influence his actions. And, at the very least, he never said it to anyone else.

And if he did, those panels would be everywhere, especially given how popular the concept is! The fans of it would have proof!

I also don't think Pit Madness is a thing in n52??? It MIGHT not be a thing in Prime earth at all? (<- unsure, there are arcs I haven't read that I need to confirm this with. It is difficult to prove a lack.)

People who have speculated Jason was Pit Mad:

Ra's al Ghul

Talia

Maybe that guy she was sleeping with in Lost Days?

Lost Days #2

People who I would not be surprised if they tried to claim Jason was driven insane by the Pit given some comments I've found in other comics (not directed at Jason specifically):

Bruce

Potentially Barbara

Batman #619 - I am not digging up/posting the speculation about Joker before they put him in the Pit in Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #144. I'm not reading nor looking at that comic again any time soon if I don't have to.

Birds of Prey (1999) #34 - Barbara was there when Dinah was submerged, and all info wrt Pit Madness is from what SHE has already, but she admits to not being sure because Ra's guards the info about the Pits as jealously as he is able to. Which leads to...

Birds of Prey (1999) #35 - ...her suspecting it could have extended effects. Arguably Dinah is able to disprove this, however the phrase "depends on the person" is a pretty operable notion here.

Fans ascribing Pit Madness to Jason's actions are not Jason, the character, using Pit Madness as an excuse.

Barbara was there for Dinah's submerging, but her info on the Pits is wishy-washy. Dinah's info about the Pits is mostly whatever info Barbara has and the lived experience of it happening Once (also she's a meta and it noticeably is a different kind of madness for her compared to other instances that I have documented before, which may be theorized to be influenced by the fact that she IS one, & Jason is not). It is likely the same info that Bruce has about them, though he'd have more first-hand experience and that could shape his opinions thusly.

Anyways, if fanon Pit Madness was a thing, fun time reminder that per canon, it is apparently treatable via anti-psychotics! And the Bats are, uh, Aware of this lol.

Robin (1993) #91 - Listen I just think this is really funny.

#Mashing Meta Bones with Axel #Jason Todd #I'm not tagging the other characters tbh #This is a bit belated I'm sure a lot of people know why I wrote it tho lol #I do see this discussion happen rather frequently though which is somewhat partly why I wrote my previous Pit meta #I will continue to be a Lazarus Pit truth-teller (with Nuance)

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lauufeydottir · 3 months ago

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This Is Side One, Flip Me Over

[part one | part two | part three | part four]

You're ignoring Walker. John craves your attention. He gets it the only way he knows how, by picking a loosing battle in front of the entire team. But after a mission gone horribly wrong, he realizes his feelings towards you aren't as nuanced as he's been telling himself to believe.

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]

john walker x fem!reader

words: 6k

cw: canon typical violence, swearing, graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, temporary character death, panic attacks/PTSD, implied suicidal ideation, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, the idiots are falling in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)

a/n: sorry for using fall out boy lyrics for fic titles it will happen again. i hope I have everything in this properly tagged, but if Ive missed something feel free to let me know! the next part will likely be the last.

dead on arrival - fall out boy

For the next week, you stalk about The Watchtower like nothing ever happened between you and Walker. Like you didn’t goad him into a real fight. Like he hadn’t pressed you into the floor and kissed you senseless with his hand gripping your throat.

As if you haven’t been letting your fingers slip under your waistband every night since to the way his touch set off a hunger in you. You might have been the one who cut it off, but you couldn’t stop thinking about that day in the gym. It’s a complete disappointment that your neck goes through all the stages of bruising to healed in just a matter of hours, the mottled blues and yellows disappearing before your eyes in the mirror.

You’ve never played dirty like that in a fight before. You liked it, a lot, but you like beating Walker a lot more. The betrayed look he gives you every time you’re in the same room only fuels the fantasies running through your mind, the unbidden attraction for him taking up most of your time. But you’d die before admitting to such a thing, and since death is off the table for you, you keep your mouth shut. You stop antagonizing him. No longer watch his every move so you can correct his stance or the way he balances his weight. It’s strange, but still obvious enough that the rest of the team notices immediately. Even Alexei seems far too pleased when he points out the peace between you, like it’s some sort of victory.

And John seethes. The way you’d walked away from him, completely unbothered, when just moments before you were cementing yourself into every last contour of his being. And he could have forgiven that alone, but it was the way you’d been ignoring him ever since that’s been keeping him up at night. He gets his fill however he can, trying to push your buttons, watching you during meetings, sitting next to you at dinner, as if anything he could do might make a difference. Anything to get you to look at him again, even if its with your usual disdain.

At night, in bed alone, he can’t stop his mind from wandering to places he knows he shouldn’t be going. The moans that you’d let slip, how your body melted against his. The way you see through him so effortlessly. He’s never been so infatuated with anyone like this before. He feels out of control and embarrassed, even if he’s the only one who knows.

You can feel his eyes locked on you during meetings, mission briefings, training, and team bonding, his gaze rivaling even Bucky’s stare. He watches your every move like he’s a predator stalking its prey— but you both know that reality is the other way around, that you have all the power. Every so often, you’ll acknowledge Walker with an unimpressed glare, just to see the desperation in his stance. Always so obvious, your mutation picks up on the way his pulse jumps once he finally has your attention, even if just for a moment.

But John always needed more.

All the New Avengers are packed together in the briefing room, going over the details of a mission they were all shipping out on today. It was an all-hands-on-deck type of situation— Valentina had insisted because of good publicity— but also because it was Hydra. John has been antsy throughout the entire meeting so far, all his effort put into hiding the way he can’t keep his attention off of you. He’s missed most of the details Bucky and Yelena have discussed, only providing half-hearted murmurs of agreement here and there. And then, Bucky announces you’ll be the one to run point.

He has no idea why it’s the thing to finally set him off. Maybe because it’s more of you paving the way for him to follow, maybe it was just another hit to his already fragile ego. But it snaps him back into focus, placing his hands on the tabletop with just a little too much enthusiasm. Sometimes, he still forgets his strength. Across the table, there’s a restrained excitement on your face. It’s not uncommon for you to lead the action during missions— after Bucky, you do have the most combat experience— but getting the first crack at the enemy is always a thrill. Especially when that target is a rumored bunker of Hydra holdouts.

But John mistakes your excitement for haughtiness, your confidence making his blood boil. He can’t help it. He wants to put you in your place, to show you that he’s just as strong, important, and heroic. That he’s worth your time. And so, when the chance presents itself, he takes it. The words are out of his mouth before he can even consider shutting up.

“You sure you’ll be able to control yourself, Red?”

His comment was bold enough for everyone in the room to freeze, landing like a slap to the face. There’s a moment of tense silence, Yelena and Ava share worried glances, Alexei’s brow furrowing in confusion. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, already knowing exactly what Walker is insinuating. And you turn to face him, eyes narrowing as you stare daggers at him, any hint of your previous excitement long gone.

“Excuse me?” you ask, tone sharp and dangerous.

John keeps his gaze steady on you in return, even though his stomach feels like it’s tied in knots over the cold way you regard him. "You heard me." He’s doing this on purpose; they both know it. He knows he’s pushing your buttons, pushing your limits, and he’s enjoying every second of it, even though he knows he should stop. "You sure you’re gonna be able to control yourself this time? Or are you gonna go off the rails and make a mess of the place?" he clarifies, leaning back in his chair with a forced air of nonchalance.

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your anger climbing. You don’t want to derail the meeting by getting into it with him in front of everyone— mostly because you fear you won’t be able to hide your reactions if things get as tense as they did last time.

“I really have no qualms about slaughtering nazis,” you reply, voice steady. “But maybe you should be worried about your own lack of restraint.”

He chuckles lowly, and though his bravado is faltering, he just pushes harder. "Just seems like you have a knack for flipping out in situations involving Hydra.” John shrugs, face turned into a grimace. “Just want to be sure that the rest of us will stay safe.” From you.

It’s left unsaid, and he knows he’s crossed every last line as soon as he feels a thrum he can’t explain rush through his body, his blood going static for a split second, until the sensation fades, leaving him numb in comparison. His initial reaction is that of betrayal, that you’d just used your powers on him— something that you are vehemently against outside of the context of wound clotting— but he can’t, not when he’s well aware of how much he’s fucking up and continuing to do so. It’s a silent threat, a reminder of what you could do if you wanted to like he’s implying.

“Guys—“ Yelena tries to interrupt but is quickly silenced by a gesture from Bucky. He knows trying to defend you will only make things worse, and the last thing they need before a mission is anyone else getting involved in this spat.

Your hands are clenched into tight fists, knuckles white, fighting with all you might to keep yourself from lunging across the table and taking a chunk out of his face. He’s damn lucky you only prodded at his blood instead of pulling it from his body quart by quart.

Instead, you swallow thickly, voice tight with rage, but a saccharine smile on your lips. "Watch your mouth, John." You’re using his first name again, something you’ve only done when you were underneath him on the training mat. His breath catches in his throat at the sound of his name on your lips, making his mind go to places he doesn’t want it to be going. But he’s stubborn and foolishly determined to get a rise out of you. Any kind of reaction, even just a single inkling of weakness, anything that could knock you off that pedestal he’s unintentionally put you on.

“Or what, Red?" John uses the nickname like a weapon.

A dangerous glint shines in your eyes that doesn’t match your grin as you rise from your seat, leaning across the table, your shoulders squared like a viper preparing to strike.

“Alright, fine. You wanna talk about it? Then let’s fucking talk about it,” you spit, your focus honed on him. As a group, you’ve done a lot of work since the day you all experienced The Void, letting go and accepting the things you all saw that day, understanding the guilt. It came easier to some than others, but you’d always known why that memory was chosen for you, you’ve just never had the guts to admit it. "The shame room you saw, Walker, wasn’t conjured because I feel guilt because of the massacre," you start, your voice low and measured as you bite the confession out. "I feel guilty because I enjoyed it."

The rest of the team know enough about your background to piece together just what you’re referring to, but they had no clue he’d ended up in your room by some cruel twist of fate. To you, it felt like an admittance of weakness that you leaned on him in that moment. And to him, the way you’ve held him at arms length ever since was digging a hole deeper and deeper in his soul.

Your words were the truth. Same as you’d called him out in the gym. They were set apart from the others, even if they were all trying to be better, you still craved the bloodshed, and so did he. At the end of the day, you were the most alike out of any of the team. Bucky hates the fight, even if it’s the only thing he knows. Yelena and Ava regret the pain that they’ve caused in their pursuits of cures and perceived justice. All of them have made active efforts to mend the peace that they’d shattered. Bucky crossing off the final name in his book, Yelena joining The Barton’s and Kate Bishop for family gatherings, Ava keeping in touch with the Pym-Van Dyne-Lang clan.

But you and Walker prefer to dig the knife in deeper, all under the guise of trying. You lied about your past to play superhero with the first iteration of The Avengers. You were never trying to own up to your mistakes like Natasha; you wanted to make them disappear. You should have died that day on Vormir, not her and not Clint, but you weren’t even capable of offering them that. and when The Avengers went away, you went right back to your old ways by running to Valentina for work. You actively refused to grow even if you did your best to change.

John took the serum, knowing it was more likely to go wrong than right just to feel deserving of the shoes the government groomed him to fill. Told himself over and over again while thrashing on the floor in some hotel bathroom in Europe that he can’t remember, the substance burning through him, the pain so excruciating he’d almost hoped it would kill him. He never truly regretted playing judge, jury, and executioner in Latvia to avenge Lemar, lying to his family about the person responsible, all to deflect from his own inadequacy.

He knows you’re telling the truth, just by the look in your eyes. And the worst part is, he understands it. You understand each other. What it’s like to enjoy the violence, to thrive on it. It isn’t a side of himself he’s proud of lately. But hearing you say it out loud, hearing you admit that same feeling. It stirred something him. Things he's been trying to ignore since The Void. And the last thing he expected you to do was to admit to it in front of the entire team. After all this time, you’ve finally rendered him speechless. No followup insults, no quips ready to fire. Just his jaw hanging open and the team’s suffocating silence.

And it makes his feelings for you even more difficult to rationalize as only lust.

His eyes flicker across the room, taking in the equally stunned looks from the rest of the team. The tension in the room is thick, and he can feel Bucky’s livid gaze boring into the side of his head. John’s fingers drum against the table, his mind racing as he tries to think of a way to dig himself out of the mess he’s made this time.

You turn to look at him, the look in your eye almost feral in the way you’re homed in on him. He’s about to open his mouth, to say something, anything to salvage the situation, but you beat him to it. "Are you done? Have you gotten your fill of trying to rile me up?”

"Yeah," he mutters. "I think I’ve had enough."

The rest of the briefing goes by without further incident, though the tension that settled over the room doesn’t dissipate and follows them onto the quinjet. But now, it’s John who’s avoiding your eye. The flight isn’t long, the advanced tech in the ship cutting hours off the trip to Bucharest. You’re endlessly grateful for modernism and all the disposable income Valentina has, because it’s less than half of the standard time that you have to be trapped in this hunk of metal with him.

————-

The mission itself is a blur, but John finds himself at your six more than a few times. He’s distracted, not just by the stunt he’d pulled earlier, but by the way you move in your tactical suit, just as ruthless as you were with him in the gym. He had an awful feeling in his gut, and it isn’t just his guilty conscience. He watches your every move, his instinct to protect welling up in the back of his mind, even if you might be the last person in the world who needs any.

And ultimately, it’s his distraction that gets you hurt.

You’re fighting your way through a labyrinth of corridors, taking down Hydra loyalists left and right. You’ve been fighting with your usual grace and precision, taking down opponents with ease. The rest of the team had split off into pairs— Bucky with Ava, and Yelena with Alexei— leaving you with Walker, who’s been… off. There’s not a trace of his usual intensity, his attacks sloppier than you’ve ever seen from him.

You’re picking up as much of his slack as you can without going overboard, his implication from earlier still echoing in your thoughts. You loathe the idea that you’d hurt any of the team�� even him— accidentally or not. The control you have over your mutation is precise, but you’ve already taken a few deliberate hits; one gunshot to the shoulder, another through your thigh, and a knife to the ribs. It’s the price you willingly pay for access to your greatest weapon in a pinch, but it’s leaving you drained, your senses struggling to keep up as you push the limits of your healing factor and your pain tolerance.

It happens far too quickly. You spot a soldier coming up on Walker from behind while he’s taking far too long to deal with another, and you jump in without hesitation. He may be acting like a complete moron, but if he gets killed here, then you won’t be able to give him shit for it later. And you really should have seen it coming, but neither of you notice until a man with a stature twice the size of yours who’s obviously enhanced is already slamming you from the side. John turns just in time to see you fly across the room from the force, where your back collides with the wall, head bashing against the reinforced concrete with a sickening crack.

Your body is limp before it even hits the floor.

You don’t move, and suddenly he’s back in Latvia, the sound Lemar’s skull made when it collided with the stone pillar ringing in his ears, and his vision becomes more and more hazy with every second you don’t move, heartbeat climbing dangerously as he realizes he can’t hear yours.

You’re supposed to move, it’s what you do, getting back up after you’ve been knocked down. He’d seen you take a bad hit before, on many occasions. But your breath isn’t supposed to cease; your pulse isn’t meant to flatline. The blood isn’t so jarring with the way you always seem to be covered in someones, but it’s not supposed to flow from your body without your metaphysical command, pooling under your head and soaking into your hair. You were always saying you couldn’t die, with countless corroborations from others who’d seen you rise from the most lethal hits. But you’d never mentioned if you could come back once you had already died.

John had let his fear and boundless rage control him once before, and he’s about to let it consume him again. You were right, you were always right.

It’s like muscle memory takes over as he conflates Lemar’s final moments with the sight of you motionless on the floor. John moves without ever deciding to, acting on pure instinct. His need for vengeance is intrinsic, ramming his shield into the agent you’d been handling and knocking him out on contact. His stare is a million miles away as he goes for the one who did this next, tackling and inning him against the wall so hard it starts to splinter. The soldier struggles against John’s hold, but even his sheer bulk is no match for the prime serum in his veins. The crack of bone and splitting of flesh under his fists feels far away, his eyes locked on your prone body, still unmoving, still slack. His heartbeat pounding in his ears only serves to remind him of the lack of yours, his chest unbearably tight as the rage starts to suffocate him, and the soldier goes limp under his hands.

The second he lets the unconscious body thump to the ground he’s screaming into his comms, your name coming out as a frantic cry as he begs whoever on the team is listening to get over here now.

It’s Bucky who responds, far too calmly for John’s liking.

“Copy that, backup on the way.”

John doesn’t respond. He can’t, not as his shield clatters to the ground and he’s scrambling over to you. Every last synapse in his body feels caustic, your absence of life sending a violent wave of nausea through him. You’re supposed to be back by now. He’s seen you walk away from a shot through the heart, bomb blasts that carried so much shrapnel he couldn’t tell where the debris ended and you began, falls from eight stories high. He grabs onto your chin, forcing your drooping head from side to side as if it might bring you back.

You’re supposed to get up. He needs you to get up because if you don’t and everything is left like this, then he’s damned, and maybe he should just follow your lead and—

“Walker. Hey, Walker.” John registers the words, but it feels like he’s underwater. “Snap out of it.” He thinks he’s shaking as the voice slowly pierces through the fog over him. It takes him a few more seconds to realize it’s Bucky, vibranium hand on his shoulder, jostling him, trying to get his attention. It’s like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him, trying to clear the panic from his mind as he mumbles about how you’re not moving.

“No pulse,” he rasps. “Why isn’t there a pulse?”

At first, Bucky only seems mildly concerned, but not scared, not like John. Then, he crouches down next to you, ignoring your blood smeared across the floor, flesh fingers pressing under your jaw to verify what John is implying. Out of everyone, Bucky has fought alongside you the longest. He’s seen the way your healing factor worked, seen you take a knife to the chest without so much as flinching, only to be screaming obscenities onto a pillow as your skin stitched itself back together— but always alive.

Then his face drops. He’d never seen you come back from death before.

The flight back to The Watchtower feels like an eternity. It’s bad enough when the team has to get you— or your body, they still aren’t sure— back to the quinjet. There are still Hydra stragglers, so while John lifts you into his arms, the rest of them flank him, weapons at the ready. You’re lighter than he’d expected, getting colder by the minute. He tries not to think about just how much of your blood is left seeping into the cracks on the concrete floor of the bunker, or how much is weaving itself into the seams of his suit, like even now, somehow, you’re still here, forcing yourself into the threads of his existence.

The New Avengers get back onto the jet with no further issues, the bunker left in shambles. Bucky and Ava jump into action as soon as John manages to get you lying on a bench, and he’s starting to believe that it’s less you and more corpse. The two work fast to get a transfusion set up, even if no one knows if it’ll make a difference. To his knowledge, Bucky is certain this is the longest you’ve ever been down, but they have to try.

The jet is eerily silent, the gravity of the situation settling over everyone. They’ve all been injured before, but they’d always gotten up eventually. The Thunderbolts haven’t lost one of their own, and none of them ever really imagined that it could be you. The only sounds in the hull are the low flatline of the monitor you’re hooked up to, the subtle sniffle Ava is trying to hide, and the occasional murmur from Alexei that you’ll be fine— you have to be.

Meanwhile, John’s boots are hollowing out a path into the floor, pacing up and down the aisle, checking your vitals constantly, like somehow, they’re going to change, that the next time he looks the flat line on the screen will have suddenly spiked and everything will be fine. But three hours into the flight and there’s still not a single sign of life. John keeps telling himself he’s only so wound up about it because of what he’s gone through before, that it has nothing to do with it being you lying there lifeless. Your taunt from last week echoes in his head, ‘—You can’t actually kill me. But you can find out how it feels to.’ In the end, you got what you wanted, because now he knows, and he hates the feeling. He stopped believing in a God a long time ago, but right now, he’s begging him for anything.

The quinjet is about thirty minutes out from the tower when it happens. a single beep from the machine monitoring your vitals, so out of left field that everyone thinks they’ve imagined it. Bucky hands the controls to Yelena and jumps out of the pilot’s seat, hot on John’s heels as they rush over. There’s still only a flat line on the monitor, your blood oxygen still zero. They watch with bated breath, John’s chest tight, and it’s been so long that he’s about to take another lap around the jet when it happens again.

Beep.

The line on the monitor jumps, the point spiking to the top of the graph before flattening again.

John waits until it finally happens again, quicker this time, to release the tension he’s been holding since the moment you went down.

Then once more. Two beats back-to-back, slow, but steadily climbing as your chest expands just a fraction. It’s a cruel sort of torture, having to wait and watch as your vital signs sluggishly come back to life. John is still on high alert, taking minor comfort in your heartbeat but watching, waiting for a twitch of fingers, a flutter of lashes. You’re paler than normal, the warmth from your skin is still absent, lips still tinged with the faintest hint of blue. There's still blood soaking your tactical suit, dried and matted into your hair. The rise and fall of your chest is so shallow, your body likely in an excruciating amount of pain, your healing factor working overtime between the physical trauma and the exhaustion. But it feels like the entire team takes a collective exhale, Bucky being the first to break the silence, his gaze flickering over to Walker.

“Thank God,” he sighs, the relief in his voice palpable. “She should pull through. It’ll just take some time.”

———-

Back at The Watchtower, John deliberately makes himself scarce as soon as the jet touches down. He can’t keep waiting, watching, pacing the halls of the medbay while the rest of the team looks at him strangely. This morning seems so far away, the way he’d picked another fight with you just to be sick with anxiety over you now. Bucky is the only one who might understand why, he was there in Latvia, but the rest of them act like he’s the one who got his head bashed in.

He disappears to the training room to pass the time, putting all this violent energy clamoring to get out to good use. He’s at the punching bag for so long he loses track of the time, the day, destroying several in the process. He stays until his knuckles are raw, until his muscles ache, and it helps, kind of. It takes his mind off of you— the sound of your skull cracking, the blood he scrubbed from his hands, how insubstantial your body felt in his arms— at least for a little while. But ultimately, he can’t get the sensations out of his head. It was too close, too close— the unbridled anger and helplessness that’s been hanging over him since Lemar’s death rearing its ugly head. He's still shaking when he drags himself back to his room after a scalding shower, the clock on his nightstand telling him he’d locked himself away for almost eight hours.

Fuck. He’s down bad, isn’t he?

John stumbles to his bed, collapsing onto it face first, sinking into the too soft and overpriced bedding that Valentina chose for the suites. And despite his utter exhaustion, he just keeps tossing and turning, replaying the mission in his head over and over and over and—

And then, there’s a quiet knock on his door.

He groans and rolls over, intending to ignore whoever it was. Probably Bucky, here to tear into him about all the shit he’d pulled today— yesterday at this point— or maybe Bob, who’s the only person who would go out of his way to see if he’s okay, but John doesn’t feel like he deserves his concern right now.

But the knock comes again, louder this time, and then your voice calls from the other side. “I know you’re awake, I can hear your blood pressure rising through the damn roof.”

He’s on his feet in an instant.

You stand—if you can even really call it that— in the hallway, all of your weight resting against the doorframe for support. Your eyes glassy, face still a little pale, but tinged with a subtle flush now that your blood has replenished itself. You felt like you’d been hit by a truck— or like you suffered a severe compound skull fracture, shattered spinal cord, severe exsanguination, and then came back from the dead— But you’re standing. Standing and alive.

John is silent for a long moment, his wide eyes skimming over you, like he’s surprised to see you in the flesh. You’re in your pajamas, an oversized shirt with the logo for Child’s Play on the front, Chucky’s mutilated face a little too ironic given the state of your own head, and flannel shorts just barely peeking out from the hem. You’re all cleaned up from the blood and gore of the mission, but you still look rough, and you feel even worse. Depending on how he looked at it, it was either a miracle you were alive, or you were some sort of freak of nature. Definitely both.

“I’m not a ghost, Walker,” you rasp, voice still rough from disuse.

“Red, what the hell are you doing here?” he probes, the words coming out strangled. His first instinct is to reach for you, to make sure you’re really here and not just in his head, but he remembers himself, remembers what the two of you are and keeps his hands to himself.

You smile, the gesture looking more like a grimace than anything else. “Thought you’d be awake. Figured I’d come check on you.” You try to stand up a bit straighter, but the pain flares up in your ribcage, and even though you try to play it off, John can see it clearly in your eyes. “Buck said you were having a rough time. It didn’t take me long to realize why.” You were there on the day that Lemar died in Latvia. You didn’t really know the man, disliked him on the principle of being involved in desecration of Steve’s memory. But you’d still tried to get his heart beating again, to no avail, as John ran off for his revenge. You’ve always wondered if the real reason he always hated you wasn’t because of the fight that ensued, but your failure that day.

John releases a long sigh, the guilt from Latvia and the mission today mixing and settling heavily on his chest. “Yea, well— I guess you would,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. He tries to change the subject as quickly as he can. “You shouldn’t be up, you know. You look like hell.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Wow, John, you’re a real flatterer, huh?” You sway on your feet, your mirth taking more energy than it should, your equilibrium still off. “But I’m alive. I wanted you to see that.”

John looks you over once more, your tired eyes, the mottled bruising around your collarbone, the visible effort it’s taking you to get just a shallow breath in. Just over twelve hours ago, you were dead, the memory of your corpse haunting him for just as long.

The relief hits him hard, almost taking his breath away.

He knows you’re stubborn, a fighter down to the bone. But seeing you like this, standing there in front of him despite the excruciating pain just to ease his? It made him ache in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

You feel pathetically weak. He’s never seen you so strong.

He huffed a wry laugh as you start to sway again, finally letting himself reach out to stabilize you, calloused fingertips settling against your freshly healed skin. "You look like you’re about to drop. Let me get you to bed, please." For a moment, you consider saying no, brushing him off. You told yourself the last thing you wanted was gentleness from him, but a part of you was starting to doubt that notion. But your body decides for you as the room starts to spin, and he’s quick to react, holding you with one arm firmly around your waist. "Hey— hey, I gotcha," he mutters softly, careful not to put any pressure on her healing body.

Silently, you allow him to shuffle you down the hall to your room, leaning into him instinctively, too exhausted to fight it.

John nudges your door open and helps you hobble to bed, holding an arm out for you to lower yourself onto the mattress. You try to bite back a wince as you settle among the pile of pillows Bucky and Ava arranged for you, still unable to comfortably rest your head back. He catches it anyway, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers over you. His fingers tremble as they brush against your skin, the realization that you’re alive finally fully settling over him.

Despite your exhaustion, you still notice the misty look in his eyes as he watches your every move carefully. You reach up, gently wrapping a hand around his wrist, holding onto him with more strength than you realized you had right now. His breath catches in his throat— he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve your mercy. But for all the serum running through his veins, he’s not strong enough to pull away.

“I was distracted…” he trails off, voice tight.

“Yeah,” you acknowledge gently. “Yeah, you were.” It isn’t with judgement, just a simple observation. It surprises both of them. You know you could throw his comments from the briefing in his face. You could say ‘I told you so’. You could tell him off and never speak to him again outside of what was strictly necessary. But you can see it for what it is— an apology without words. He might be too prideful to give a simple ‘sorry’, but he felt it, and would for a long time, that this incident is already burrowing deep down into his chest and solidifying itself as one of his most dreaded fears.

"You...died,” he bites out, an anguished whisper. “I saw you go down. You stopped breathing. There was so much blood.”

You frown, your expression turning sorrowful at the mention of your death.

"Yeah," you agree softly. "I did." You know the look in his eyes, know it all too well. The sort of far away feeling you get when you replay your mistakes over and over again in your head. "But I’m here, John," you reassure him. "I’m alive. I’m right here. Can’t get rid of me that easily." As if to prove your point, you take his hand in yours, forcing him to rest his palm over your beating heart, your fingers interlaced.

The steady thrum of your pulse beats against his palm, the rhythmic thump a tangible reminder that you’re still here. John’s wide-eyed stare is locked on your intertwined hands, too afraid to look into your eyes and to see what he would find there.

"I don’t want to get rid of you,” he admits, his voice small and full of guilt. "I just...” he trails off, trying to find the words to express the things he’s feeling, the rage, fear, and shame that’s gnawing at him from the inside out. "You scare me.”

You blink at him, dumbfounded. You expected him to scoff at the notion, to try to deflect. Not for him to offer you a piece of himself that, admittedly, before the events of the last twelve hours, you would have used against him.

"I scare you?"

"You scare the hell out of me," John follows with a sharp sigh, his frown deepening as he looks at you like you have all the answers to the muddled mess of his mind. "I saw you go down and it was...” Like Latvia all over again. “I saw red. That Hydra soldier, I— why aren’t you pissed at me?”

Your expression turns serious, considering his question carefully before answering. “Because I understand.” Your voice a whisper, but your gaze held his, unflinching. It’s simple, but carries the weight of everything between you that neither is ready to confront just yet. You take a labored breath, chest rising and falling beneath his palm.

John doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t want to be so transparent, so easily understood by you out of everyone. So, he stays quiet, keeping a vigil at your bedside, thumb running over your shirt in comforting circles. After a few minutes, your eyes start to droop, the exhaustion catching up quickly. His heartbeat evens out to match the steady rhythm under his palm.

He stays at your side until he’s certain you’re finally asleep, and then a few hours longer. Watching your bruises fade, your breathing strengthen, just to silence his demons.

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