#calling this trauma sounds so stupid but like
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shybunny · 15 hours ago
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18+ ONLY 💗 werewolf roommate takes care of you when your abuser shows up at a party, plot heavy, hurt/comfort, party antics, giving orders, guided masturbation, control play, dog cock, cute and awkward, confessing feelings, allusions to sexual trauma, alcohol
based on a very sweet request that was kinda personal so i’ll keep it anonymous :)
You and your housemates are throwing a party tonight. It started out as just a small thing, but it always goes like this with these kinds of events, word gets out, people bring their friends, friends of friends, and then suddenly the house is way too crowded and loud. You don’t even know half the people here at this point. You and the werewolf—one of your housemates—are standing together in the corner, holding tight to your plastic cups, trying to get out of the way of all the milling bodies. The werewolf is the biggest person in this room, and even he managed to get swept aside. You always find his large awkward presence comforting in these situations. You wonder if he’s noticed how you always seek him out.
Then the front door opens again, and in through the doorway comes the last person in the world you want to see. Your stomach plunges. Who the hell invited him? You take a second to decide if you’re brave enough to stand your ground, and you decide that the answer is no.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” you say abruptly. You turn and force your way through the crowd, down the hallway and into your room where you slam the door shut. It’s not far enough away. You wish the house had a staircase you could crawl up.
You sit down on the bed and feel your heart pounding uncomfortably with shame and fear. You hate having him here.
There’s a knock at your bedroom door.
“What?” you call out, irritated.
The door opens, and a large furry head pokes itself in. The werewolf steps halfway inside, blocking the half-open door with his large body, and stares at you where you’re sitting on the bed.
“Uh… are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” you say, annoyed and embarrassed.
“Is it that guy who just came in?” he asks.
“Uh…… yeah.” Whatever. You decide to just tell him. “Remember when I told you about that guy, who like… did stuff to me?” You stare down at your fidgeting hands, trying to figure out how to say the rest.
“Yeah…” says the werewolf. “Okay… Stay here.”
Before you can say anything else, he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. You get up and go to the door, cracking it back open just enough to hear him over the noise in the other room, saying, “Hey, you need to leave right now.”
You hear the angry reply—“What, man?”—in that stupid, annoying voice.
“Get the fuck out.”
A medium-sized commotion follows, in which you can hear some of your other housemates getting involved, and for a minute you’re afraid there’s going to be a fight. But it sounds like they manage to get him out the door, spitting angry but leaving nonetheless. You would be lying if you said that this didn’t make you feel extremely happy and smug.
You sit back down heavily on the bed and drain the rest of the contents of your red plastic cup. Your housemate pokes his snout back through the crack you left open in the doorway.
“Hey…” he says, leaning around the door jamb. “He’s gone.”
“I heard,” you say, staring down awkwardly at your fingers again. “Um… thank you.”
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
“No… Yes. But I need another drink first.”
“Okay,” he says, and then disappears again. He’s gone for a few more minutes, during which time you just sit there staring into space and listening to the babble of the ongoing party. When he comes back he’s carrying a whole unopened six pack.
“Those are supposed to be for the party,” you say, laughing.
“Whatever,” he says, tearing the box open in his claws and handing you a beer. He sinks down to the floor next to the bed, making himself comfortable with his own can. It looks very small in his large paws.
You’re working yourself up to say something when there’s another knock at your door, and one of your other housemates pokes their head in.
“Heyyy…” they say, looking back and forth between the two of you, then settling their eyes on your face. “You good in here?”
“Yeah,” you say, embarrassed to be fussed over.
“We kicked that guy out.”
“I know.”
“Should we throw everyone else out too?”
“No no,” you rush to say. “I’m fine, keep having fun, I’ll just be in here.”
They leave to rejoin the party, shutting the door behind them, and then it’s just the two of you again, sitting in awkward silence with the loud hum of voices in the background.
“I know it’s stupid,” you finally say, “but I feel kinda bad for making you guys kick him out.”
“No way,” says the werewolf. “Fuck that guy. It’s your house.”
The two of you spend the rest of the party talking alone in your room. You go through the whole six pack together. You tell him a lot—too much probably—and you’re pretty happy with yourself because you don’t even cry. The noise of the party continues in the background, fading in and out, breaking into occasional cheers and exclamations as a game gets played, until you can hear it finally starting to wind down out there.
There’s something else you want to tell the werewolf. You might as well, since you’re already oversharing. You’re lying on your back in bed now, staring up at the ceiling, so you don’t even have to look him in the face.
“Is this a weird time to tell you that I have a huge crush on you?”
His large shoulders shake as he laughs. “It’s a little weird.”
“You like me too, don’t you,” you accuse him.
“Yeah,” he admits, still laughing.
You don’t think it’s very funny though. All the breath leaves your body in a heavy sigh. “So what do we do now?” you ask him. “I don’t know how to be intimate with you. It’s hard for me to touched… like that.”
“We don’t have to be ‘intimate’ with each other just because we like each other.”
“But don’t you want to?” you demand.
“Well—yeah,” he says, and you can hear him laughing again.
“Me too,” you say, sighing again. “That’s the problem.” You wish you could laugh with him, but you’re starting to regret all this oversharing. This isn’t a very sexy conversation. You’re suddenly worried that you’re scaring him away.
“Okay,” he says. “Here’s my idea.” When he doesn’t say anything else, you lift your head to look at him. He’s lying down on his back on the floor, spreading his long body out across the carpet. He reaches his arms up over his head, so that his large paws are resting near his ears, out of the way.
“I would just lay here like this,” he says, looking up at you, “and you could do whatever you wanted to me. I’d keep my hands to myself, and I’d do whatever you said, and I wouldn’t move at all unless you told me to. And like, maybe it wouldn’t freak you out so much.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, right now?”
“Oh. Well—” He looks a little taken aback by that, but his eyes hold yours shyly. He doesn’t move from his prone position and his paws stay where they are. “Yeah. If you want.”
You stare at each other for several seconds, him looking up at you from where he’s spread out on the floor, and you looking down at him from up on the bed.
“You’ll do whatever I say?” you ask again.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Okay,” you say, laughing. “How do we, uh… how should we start?”
“However you want,” he says seriously.
“Right. Okay… Can you um, take your shirt off?”
He reaches down to grab the hem of his shirt, and then pulls it up over his head, wriggling out of it, tossing it aside and then placing his paws back on either side of his head—awaiting orders.
“Your pants too,” you blurt out, fighting not to laugh. You’re kind of messing with him. You want to see how far he’ll actually go. But he obediently lifts his hips and slides his pants down over his hips, wiggling out of those too and then kicking them off. He puts his paws back up over his head, in a pose that now seems unintentionally seductive. Almost all of his body is on display for you, all of his long limbs and interesting musculature, all of that short messy fur. Your gaze follows his down to his boxers, the only thing he’s still wearing, and to all of the interesting shapes suggested underneath the fabric.
“Those too,” you say.
He hooks his thumbs under the waistband and slowly slides them off, and then he’s completely naked on your bedroom floor. You can see where his thick fur gets a little lighter and sparser over his lower belly and between his legs, where his testicles and his thick sheath are now visible, with the red tip of his cock just starting to poke out.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, but your voice is a little wobbly. You’re feeling a lot of pretty intense things right now, in lots of different places. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” he says, almost smiling.
“Do you want to keep going?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” You take a deep breath. “Can you, uh…” You can’t help laughing. “Can you feel yourself up a little bit?”
“Seriously?” he asks, laughing with you, a little breathlessly.
“Yeah, like… stroke your chest or something. I don’t know, is that too much?”
“No,” he says. “I’ll do it.”
He slides both of his large paws into the fur over his chest awkwardly, unsure. He gives you a helpless look and then you’re both laughing again.
“I’m gonna do it,” he insists, his voice husky, both of you still laughing. He starts to runs his paws through his fur, slowly stroking up and down his chest and stomach, self-conscious at first, but then you think he starts to get into it, and his breath hitches whenever his fingers graze the small nipples running in pairs up his stomach. Between his legs, his alarmingly red cock is starting to slip farther and farther out of its sheath. You feel mesmerized watching him.
“Is this good?” he asks breathlessly.
“Yeah,” you say. Your voice is rough around the edges. “Can you touch your thighs too.”
He laughs, embarrassed but obeying, sliding his large paws down his stomach and onto his legs. His fingers run slowly back and forth through the light fur on his inner thighs, obediently touching only where you’ve asked him to, even though his cock has slid most of the way out by now, long and thick and dripping. He’s almost teasing himself now, since that’s the most he can do, his breath catching as he runs his fingers along the creases between his thighs and pelvis. And the part that’s driving you the most insane is that he’s looking right at you as he does this, his head tilted towards you and his eyes looking right into yours as he waits for your next instructions.
“Do you want to touch yourself?” you ask, almost whispering now.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Do it.”
You watch enraptures as he teases himself through his sheath first, still watching your face, whining a bit, then shutting his eyes and groaning as he slides his fist around his cock, gently stroking around the base. He gets lost in himself for a little bit, and then his stroking fist slows, his eyes blink open and find yours again, breathing heavy as he watches you.
You have to clear your throat before you can speak. “Are you still okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, and he grins hearing how his own voice sounds, how husky he sounds. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“You’re doing great,” you blurt out, and there’s this giddiness in your voice that has you both laughing again. “Me neither,” you clarify. “Do you want to keep going?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, keep, um… stroking it.”
“Okay,” he says, with another snort of laughter. But soon he has himself panting again as he works his fist over his cock, half-lidded eyes looking for yours but then falling shut, losing his focus as he strokes himself, getting himself closer.
“Don’t cum yet though,” you say.
“Fuck,” he says, laughing hoarsely. “I won’t.” His fist slows around his cock, and he whines as he gives it few more long strokes before stopping altogether, panting and staring into your face. You actually feel like you might overheat if you don’t go cool off for a second.
“I wanna go get some water,” you tell him. “Can you wait here?”
“I can wait,” he says.
“Don’t touch yourself while I’m gone.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I won't,” he says, and he makes a show of placing his long arms back up over his head, away from his throbbing red cock.
You slip out of the room, full of nervous energy as you sneak down the hallway to the kitchen. The place is basically empty now, but the evidence of the party is strewn around everywhere in the form of plastic cups, paper plates, pizza crusts, and forgotten jackets. The TV’s still on, and someone is passed out on the couch in front of it. You go into the fridge and pour a glass of water out of the filter. You drink it in one long pull, and then you fill it up again. When you close the fridge door, one of your housemates is standing there, smirking at you from ear to ear. They have clearly guessed what you and the werewolf are getting up to in your bedroom right now.
“Shut up!” you say, even though they didn’t say anything, and you race back to your room, fuming with embarrassment. But once you shut the door behind you, everything outside the room evaporates. There’s still a very large werewolf lying naked and spread out on your floor, with his half-hard cock out and his eyes looking up at you in patient expectation. You feel a twinge of something close to panic. Trying to ignore it, you kneel down next to him and hand him the glass of water. He takes it from your hand, but he doesn’t sit up to drink it.
“You can sit up,” you tell him, embarrassed all over again.
He looks embarrassed too, but he sits up next to you to drink the water. You suddenly feel very small sitting there next to his large body. You really did feel more comfortable with him on his back, that was a good intuition on his part. He thanks you for the water, wiping his muzzle with the back of his hand, and you think with unease about what’s going to happen next. Now that you’ve had a second to clear your head, you don’t think you’re actually ready for this to go any farther. But now that you’ve instigated this, do you have a choice? Will he get mad if you want to stop? Your mind starts spinning itself into anxious circles, but his voice interrupts your thoughts.
“Is it cool if we stop?”
You blink up at him. “Yes of course. Are you okay?”
“Well, yeah, I’m fine…” He looks down at the carpet, looking embarrassed. “It’s not like I’m not, you know, enjoying myself. It’s just that…” He grins sheepishly. “I think we're both pretty drunk.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Do you wanna call it for now and see what we feel like in the morning?”
He looks at you with his big eyes serious, and his warm close presence still feels comforting and safe.
“Yeah,” you say. You look down at your fingers as you take his large paw in your hands. “But I don’t want you to go.”
“Can I sleep here?”
You grin at him. “Carry me to bed?” He grins back and slips his long arms under you and carefully stands, lifting you into the air, both of you laughing. It’s not the first time he’s carried you around like this—he’s very warm, and the touch feels familiar and safe.
He puts you down in bed, but stops to pick his boxers up off the floor and tug them back on before getting into bed beside you. He’s huge, and the two of you barely fit, but you make it work. He loops his long warm arm around your waist, clutching your body close to his, and he falls asleep almost instantly. He must have been more drunk than you realized. You hear his deep rumbling breaths that will eventually turn into snores. Your heart is aching with an overwhelming feeling. You feel perfectly safe. You fall asleep in his arms.
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seeingteacupsindragons · 11 months ago
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So it's 5am and instead of sleeping, I'm thinking about the fact that my birthday is in a week and a half, and I still have no plans or any idea of what to do, and probably everyone thinks I'm a weirdo about this at 31 years old. I kind of am.
So to explain why I'm so Weird about my birthday, let me tell you about the Year No One Came To My Birthday Party.
This sounds like something out a melodramatic teen movie. I know it does! It seems stupid to be upset about it over a decade later. But it encapsulated a lot of issues I've had with my friends at the time, and to be honest? As much as a stupid movie trope it sounds like, it hurt.
I was turning 14. My best friend had told me in advance she would be a couple hours late because she had a school thing. She's the only one excused from this bullshit.
Because an hour and forty-five minutes after people were supposed to show up, none of the like, 5 friends I had to invite had arrived yet, and I was freaking out a lil and kept staring out the window every time I heard a car and had finally retreated to my bedroom to at least be sad in private.
My parents came in and left my room at this point. Dad jokingly asked if I wanted them to go buy me friends. I genuinely do not think he meant that to be hurtful and had no idea what to do about the situation and was trying to alleviate it with humor but. Wrong thing to say! Very wrong thing!
But finally, the phone rang. For me! From one of my friends' houses, said the caller ID. Thank God. She would explain what happened and when she was coming over.
No, actually. It was a different friend, who was over at her house, with a third friend.
What?
She made small talk with me for a bit, while I sat confusedly on the phone trying to figure out how to ask why she was there and not at my house, maybe a ten minute walk away tops.
Huh, she must have forgotten?
Nope!
She asks: How is your party going?
Me: It's not. No one's here.
I remember vividly trying not to cry and sounding very angry because...well I was upset and hurt and trying to actually vocalize words in that state and that was the best I could do.
She was confused. What? What do you mean, the party isn't happening and no one is there?
I don't really remember exactly what I said after that. Basically everyone else who was supposed to be there...was hanging out together, not but not with me. Which would have been fine, but apparently instead of hanging out with me on my birthday, for my birthday party, they decided a phone call from one of them was like. The same? Not hurtful?
She hung up the phone quickly after that.
She did not, however, arrive quickly.
My best friend showed up to the party first.
About forty-five minutes later, the other three finally arrived, by car, at my house to spend my birthday with me.
So like, yeah, forgive me for being Weird about my birthday. Every year I get reminded of this again, and how the one thing I'd like to do is celebrate with people I want to hang out with, and knowing that I cannot expect or rely on that to happen, because I will get hurt.
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struggling-to-find-home · 7 months ago
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My mother: You are a disgrace and made the wrong decision in going to eye surgery for your practicals🤬🤬🤬 what can you even do there🤬🤬🤬
Me, five hours into my second day of practicals, having helped admit 50 fucking patients and individually run a dressing changing (ft meds) station in which I had to individually chase down and administer medicine to like 20 patients: Why did I think this would be the easy department to be in
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likeawolfatthemoon · 1 year ago
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yesterday i had a panic attack at work and sobbed for over an hour at my desk in front of all of my coworkers bc i was frozen to the spot and couldn't like...move myself to a different area at the very least. and i embarrassed the fuck out of myself and now i'm afraid of the new job that i loved 🙃
#i just want to have all the answers and i don't and the more people try to reassure me i'm still just learning the more upset i get!!!!#then i couldnt even come home bc HE was trying to comfort me and tell me the same shit#and its like it doesmt matter that ill eventually get it!!!!!!!! i dont get it RIGHT NOW and right now is what matters if you want me to#start taking incoming calls from clients who want me to explain it TO THEM!!!!#like i understand the basics of our software but i dont understand basic accounting math AT. ALL. which is part of what our software does so#if i get a call about that even if i understand what the software is supposed to do in theory i dont understand the fucking math!!!!!!!#i just look at it and it means NOTHING to me it might as well just be scribbles on a wall#and it doesnt matter to a client if im new and their books are messed up all that matters is that im stupid and cant help them and then i#freeze and therein lies the problem#the expectation is that i 'learn' using real people's real problems as examples and emotionally i cant handle the weight of NOT FIXING#A PROBLEM I'M EXPECTED TO FIX#my trauma response relies heavily on 'if i just fix the problem ill be safe' so when i cant fix it i literally revert to fucking infancy#which makes me great at customer service bc I'll go to any lengths to help you!!!!!!! but i dont feel like i have the tools to do that yet#amd i dont know how to explain that to my boss without making me sound even more useless than he is probably already perceiving me after#what happened yesterday
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sondersil · 2 years ago
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... i was today years old when i finally realized that my propensity to go completely emotionally cold and detached during moments of emotional intensity might actually be a trauma response instead of a sign that i'm some psychopath in disguise.
UGH. man. it's been a rough couple of days. i'd like to go back to being just some silly guy™ now.
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runraerun · 3 months ago
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Steddie Amnesia Ficlet: 2/3
-> Part 1 | Part 3 | AO3
cw: more head trauma/concussed!Steve discussions.
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Steve hears Eddie call after him, but he doesn’t stop—he can’t face it. Not right now, anyway. Not when his eyes are stinging and his heart is pounding in his ears, each pulse more painful than the last. His legs take him to the building he’s supposed to go into, fueled purely by muscle memory. Not brain memory, of course, because nothing up there works properly anymore, apparently.
The Brain Injury Recovery Center.
It’s where Eddie expects him to go. He’ll catch Steve if he goes in, or he’ll wait for Steve by the doors until he comes back out—both options involve facing Eddie after Steve had made a total idiot of himself. Both feel utterly mortifying.
So he ducks into the alleyway beside the familiar brick building instead, just to catch his breath. It takes Steve longer than the average bear to sort out his feelings now, after all. Jesus, who’s he kidding? Everything seems to take him longer.
Steve feels hot tears streak down his cheeks before he angrily scrubs a sleeve over them. Of course Eddie isn’t his boyfriend. Eddie’s funny and cool and he’s in a band and he lights up every damn room he walks into—and Steve… well, maybe Steve was something a few years ago when he was in high school, and maybe he was even something before his accident, but now…
There’s a sharp clapping noise that sounds like thunder. A door slamming, Steve’s brain sluggishly supplies. It’s followed by shouting.
“Steve? Steve!” Eddie calls from somewhere on the street.
Steve’s heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his ass. His face is probably still blotchy and wet, his breathing hasn’t evened out yet and his eyes are still leaking like a goddamn faucet. He’s pathetic.
Can’t let Eddie see him like this…
He ducks behind a metal garbage bin, careful not to let anything but the bottom of his sneakers touch the sticky looking surfaces around him. It stinks, like rot.
“Steve?” Eddie’s voice echoes off of the alleyway walls. Steve claps a hand around his mouth to muffle out any of the pathetic sounds that seem determined to escape from him. So much of his body just does whatever the hell it feels like now. Out of Steve’s control, like everything else.
For a few, tense seconds, there’s silence. Eddie’s listening for him, maybe. Steve shuts his eyes and waits him out.
It feels like an eternity before he hears Eddie’s hurried, retreating footsteps, continuing his shouting for Steve. He sounds almost as panicked as Steve feels. Almost.
Steve gives a noisy, wet sniff and does one final scrub of his face before getting to his feet. He starts walking.
As he goes deeper into the alleyway, he thinks back on all the things he’s been wrong about. The fact that Eddie had some of his band t-shirts mixed in with Steve’s clothes… well, that was because they were both guys who wore about the same size, and Eddie left his shit everywhere. It’s no wonder some of his stuff got mixed into their laundry. And the times Eddie’s driven him places? That’s just… what friends do, Steve supposes. And all those times Eddie made Steve laugh? Made him feel like the center of the universe? Well, that’s just… Eddie. He must make everyone feel that way. It’s like his super power. But it isn’t romantic… It doesn’t mean anything more than Eddie being a magnetic person.
Steve is just so stupid. Painfully so.
He blinks as the sun hits him. He must’ve reached the other side of the alleyway.
Steve cups a hand over his eyes and grimaces. His migraine wasn’t backing down. He sighs. Time to head back.
Steve turns back into the alleyway he’d emerged from, only he’s about halfway through when he realizes the color of the buildings on either side of him are wrong. They’re brown on one side, painted green on the other. That isn’t right…
His heart jackrabbits in his chest, but he keeps walking forward. Maybe he’ll recognize the street once he’s back on the other side.
But when he gets there, it’s as unfamiliar to him as the alleyway. Steve turns, looking up and down the road to see if he could spot Eddie, or his van, or the Center. But there’s nothing.
And when someone shoulder checks him, Steve supposes he was sort of asking for it, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like that. He apologizes, but it’s too late. The person’s already out of range to hear him.
It’s as if everyone else is on fast forward while Steve’s stuck on pause. The world keeps moving along while all he seems to be able to do is watch it go by.
Why would he ever think someone as dynamic and spirited as Eddie would hitch his horse onto Steve’s busted up, barely mobile cart?
Stupid, stupid, stupid…
He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and wills himself not to start blubbering again like a goddamn baby. His life is already one big, painful lesson in humility as it is, he doesn’t need to wallow in it.
Steve keeps walking. Figures he’ll spot something, or someone familiar to him eventually. The pounding in his head’s eased off to a dull ache, at least. Maybe there was something to this exercise and fresh air thing the doctors were always going on about, after all…
The thing is though, Steve doesn’t spot anything familiar. Not even vaguely so, and it’s not until the streetlights turn on that he realizes he’d spent the majority of the day wandering around the streets like some lost dog that managed to slip his leash.
It’s cold too, and all he’s got on is jeans and a polo. It’s October, isn’t it? No wonder he’s got goosebumps all up and down his arms.
Then, he finally spots something familiar; a phone booth. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He’d just call his parents. They’d come pick him up.
He gets the booth and lifts the receiver before he blanks. A quarter. He’d need that. Duh, Harrington. So he hangs up the phone and pats his pockets until he finds a wallet, but all that’s inside of it are a couple of crisp bills. He’d need to break one.
Steve turns, scans the street until he spots a well lit, invitingly warm looking diner. The joint looks so damn cozy that he forgets to make sure the street is clear before he steps out into the middle of it.
Tires screech, harmonizing with the horn that’s blasting at him—Steve flinches, reaching up to cover his head and braces for impact.
To his great relief, the hit never comes. Which, thank fuck. He can’t afford anymore accidents. As it is Robin’s threatened to make him wear a helmet full-time.
Steve doesn’t listen to whatever the person yells at him, he just hurries to get the hell out of his way of the other moving vehicles.
“Smooth, Harrington. Real smooth.” He mutters to himself as he catches his breath.
He pushes the door to the diner open with shaking hands, but it’s blissfully peaceful inside, and he can actually feel his insides unclench as he stands inside of it.
“Sit anywhere, hun, I’ll be right with you.” A woman’s voice tells him. Steve nods and slips into the nearest booth overlooking the street. Watches the cars go by. There’s even a couple of cop cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Steve wonders briefly what sort of emergency they’re rushing off to when the waitress comes to his table.
“What can I get you, handsome?” She asks, cheery and warm like the rest of the diner.
“Uh…” Steve frowns, taking a few seconds to process the question, “nothing. I’m just waiting for my parents to come pick me up.”
The waitress taps the side of the notepad. “Well you gotta order something, hun, or you can’t stay here.”
Steve wants to stay here. It’s warm and smells fucking amazing, like “pancakes?”
She waitress smirks. “Yeah, we got those. You want a stack?”
“Yeah, please.” Steve smiles back, laughing along with the waitress like he’s in whatever joke that’s currently so amusing to her. “I’m starving.”
“You want some coffee too, to help you sober up, maybe?”
“Oh, I’m not drunk.” He huffs out a little self deprecating laugh, “I wish. No, I—uh, my meds, they’re the kind that you can’t mix with alcohol. Coffee too. Bummer, right? Yeah… But, uh, it is what it is, I guess—so…”
He can feel it. The way his mind so often wanders. He’s lost his train. His track. He frowns, eyes drifting towards the street again, watching the headlights zip by.
“…so just the pancakes then?” The waitress asks, jolting his train back onto its rails. His attention snaps back onto her.
“Yeah, pancakes. Sure.” Steve flashes her what he hopes is a charming smile.
She returns his smile and leaves him be, and he lets himself relax. Props his head up on a fist and watches life go on for everyone else but him.
He gets his pancakes, and some juice too that he doesn’t remember ordering, but hey, that’s nothing new. And damn, the pancakes taste even better than they smell. He needs to remember the name of this place so he can come back with everyone. What did the doctors say? Repeat something in your head over and over until it sticks. Repetition. Repetition, repetition, repetition…
It’s around the time his fork hits an empty plate that one of the police cars stops in front of the diner window, lights on, but the sirens are off now.
Hopper steps out.
Huh. That’s weird. Steve wonders what sort of emergency he’s here for.
When Hopper enters through the glass doors, the bell hung over the entry way rings out pleasantly. An angel getting their wings.
His eyes land on Steve and the older man sighs, shoulders falling. Relief, Steve recognizes. Hopper pulls the radio from his belt and says something into it before stomping over.
Then it clicks.
Oh. Steve’s the emergency.
He feels his face heat up. The handful of other patrons scattered across the diner are all looking at him.
“There you are.” Hopper sighs, gruff and exasperated.
Steve sinks into his seat, just a little. “Shit. I fucked up, didn’t I?”
“Just a little.” Hopper chuckles dryly. He takes off his hat and slips into the booth across from Steve, apparently not in any sort of hurry now that he’s found the runaway dog.
Steve runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic he’s developed. “Sorry.”
“Nah, don’t be sorry. Just strangle Munson for me when you see him next, will ya?” Hopper drops his hat onto the table and waves the waitress down. He orders a coke.
Munson. Eddie.
The memory of how he made a total and utter fool of himself comes rushing back, slamming down onto him like one of those cartoon anvils. Jesus, how did he forget that..?
Suddenly the pancakes aren’t sitting so good in his gut. Feels like he’s gonna ralph.
“Was he freaked out? Eddie, I mean.” Steve asks, cautiously approaching the question. Did Eddie say anything about why…?
“Yeah, him and Robin both. Then the kids found out too—don’t ask me how. I suspect the curly-haired one has an illegal transmitter.” Hopper leans back in the booth as the waitress drops off his coke. He takes the straw out and drinks it right from the glass. Steve waits for him to finish, doesn’t say a word.
When Hopper puts the glass down, Steve just sits and watches the way the drops of condensation run down the cup, distorting around the fingerprints Hopper’s left. “Anyway, they’re all out on their bikes looking for you too.”
Hopper smiles fondly, like it’s something charming and not… pathetic. “You got a lot of people that care about you, kid.
Steve swallows around the lump in his throat, and nods. Tries for a grin, but it’s weak. Probably wouldn’t fool anyone, much less a cop. “Yeah, I’m a real lucky guy.”
Hopper looks like he wants to say something else, but he just takes a breath and nods. Steve’s grateful he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t think he has the energy in him right now to fend off the ‘but look how far you’ve come!’ ‘Your speaking’s gotten so much better!’ ‘It could be a whole heck of a lot worse!’ comments.
“What do you say we get you home? Unless you want dessert? My treat.” Hopper offers with a grin.
“No, I just want to go to sleep,” he says, before remembering his manners, “thanks, though.”
“Alright then.” Hopper glances down at the cleared plate of pancakes and the half finished coke before sliding out of the booth, followed by Steve. He takes out wallet, but Steve beats him to it. He tosses down a few bills, hoping it’s enough. Hopper doesn’t comment, so it must be.
The drive back to his and Robin’s apartment is a solemn one, but it’s strangely peaceful. Hopper’s got the heat on full blast due to Steve’s lack of coat, and the motion of the vehicle along with the darkened sky leaves Steve feeling wrung out in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.
In fact, when they finally arrive, Hopper’s gotta shake his shoulder to wake him up.
“We’re here.” He rumbles out in his gruff baritone.
Steve lifts his head from his folded arm and looks up at the modest building. He wonders how far they live from the pancake diner. If they could walk there, sometime, him and Robin and Eddie.
But then Steve realizes he never got the name of it. He feels his insides sink. Another thing lost to him.
“Thanks, Hop,” Steve gives Hopper a nod and what he’s sure is a tired smile. “I’ll, uh—I’ll try not to run off again.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it.” Hopper says, diplomatically. “Let me walk you in.”
Steve cringes at the idea. He’s grateful for Hop and all he’s done—especially the part about not making him feel like a complete dummy—but he just wants this all to be over and for things to revert back to how they were. And at this point he’s so close he can taste it.
Steve busies his hands by undoing his seat belt. “No, it’s okay, really—“
Hopper looks like he’s about to argue but Robin damn near crashes out through the building’s illuminated front doors. She makes a b-line for Steve, who’s just barely gotten out of the cruiser.
She wraps her arms around him and doesn’t let go. “Steve! Holy shit, you scared me so bad. I’ve been out of my mind!”
Steve’s arms are trapped at an awkward angle, but he reaches around her as best he can, arms like flippers. “I’m okay. Seriously. Look, not even a scratch.”
She doesn’t laugh. Just squeezes him harder. Truthfully, Steve doesn’t know if he’s okay, but it’s what everyone always seems to want to hear from him, so he says it often.
“I’ve already killed Eddie like three times.” Robin murmurs into Steve’s chest, before finally pulling away. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose stuffy, like she’s been crying.
“It’s not his fault, Rob.” Steve’s brows pinch together as he frowns, “is he…”
But when Steve looks up towards their building, he can see Eddie standing in the doorframe, his dark silhouette illuminated by the entry way lights. He’s still as a statue, holding open the door for them, arm extended out into the cold autumn night. Steve’s insides squirm.
“You got him from here, Buckley?” Hopper calls from his cruiser and Robin ducks to meet his eye before giving him a thumbs up. She loops her arm around his waist and they start towards their place—towards Eddie.
Before they reach him, Steve keeps his voice down as he asks, “Can I just go to bed? I don’t—I can’t talk about it right now.”
“Okay.” She nods, “I get it.”
But she doesn’t, not really.
Steve avoids eye contact with Eddie when they finally reach the building, and before he can say anything, Robin interrupts. “He’s going straight to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Eddie says in a small voice. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even follow them back up to their apartment. Maybe Eddie’s even relieved he doesn’t need to confront it tonight. Maybe they won’t ever confront it… maybe he’s hoping Steve’s brain will take care of everything and make him forget. Make it like it never happened. Part of Steve wishes—
No. He doesn’t wish that. His brain’s already functioning at half capacity, he doesn’t want to thank it for fucking up, even if it might make Steve’s life easier.
Whatever Eddie’s expression is, Steve doesn’t look back to find out. He keeps his eyes on his feet, focusing on putting one step ahead of the other.
When they finally arrive at Steve’s matchbox sized bedroom, he doesn’t even bother changing into pajamas, or even out of his jeans for that matter. He just falls into his bed, pulls a pillow over his head and wills himself to let go of the day and surrender to the sweet pull of blissful unconsciousness.
🫣 Oops, I made it worse. But I promise the Eddie and Steve confrontation is in the next part! 🙏 This is tagged angst with a happy ending for a reason.
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wolfertinger666 · 7 months ago
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I'm kinda tired I didn't get any sleep at all, I'm kinda stupid so I apologize if I sound incoherent but I'm just stupid for going back to the website that's the source of all my trauma and have people lie and call me every bad thing under the fucking sun for shit that is either a non issue, a genuine mistake, or something blown out of proportion, TO THE POINT WHERE PEOPLE ARE DISCREDITING ME AS A TRANS MAN(he's only trans to fetishsize trans people) DO YOUR HEAR YOURSELF???? literally nuclear level transphobic take. It makes me angry that people use the excuse of my actions as a teenager to harass the fuck out of me and like I said discredit myself and my identity. it's like I'm not even a living being to these people I'm just a cartoon villain and I'm tired of being quiet about.
the same website that harassed me to the point where I formed delusions over myself and my sense of identity and overall made me highly psychotic and suicidal. I was only 18-19 when this mass harassment callout bullshit on me has been happening. im not a saint either like I said I was an extremely toxic person but to go through these lengths to not only pedojacket me and call me a zoophile over a fucking pokemon with boobs, but to say I'm faking being trans to hurt other trans people makes my blood BOIL. this is not wanting someone to improve and take accountability it's just killing their sense of safety and community over shit that happened years ago which are HALF TRUTHS!!!!
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embbarnes · 4 months ago
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Filthy Fingers.
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summary: You check on Bucky after the mission in Madripoor.
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warnings: Angst | TFATWS!Bucky | PTSD episode | Sexual trauma | Mentions of SA & SH | Slight SH | Vague descriptions of medical procedures | Swearing
a/n: Back on my bullshit with angsty fics. I wish the series had done something more than brushing this scene off as nothing. I have similar trauma with his experiences, so I sort of put my heart into this. I hope you enjoy, he needs a hug. Unedited. ;; wc: 4.4k
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It horrified you, even if you knew about it prior.
After the mission, you searched for Bucky upon returning to the safehouse that Zemo had insisted on using. Bucky had already retreated to the bedroom you both shared, locking himself inside. You knew something was wrong, you knew him better than anyone honestly. He had barely muttered a few words about feeling exhausted before withdrawing from the group. The locked door and his sudden disappearance had you concerned about his well-being, especially considering the shitty mission you had done.
Zemo pushed Bucky to act as the Winter Soldier again, the man took great pride in being his handler and controlling him like a puppet, just as HYDRA had done. He relished in ordering him to attack and heel like a dog, and his cruel comments about using his body, about selling him in exchange for information, made you furious. Sam didn’t quite get the depth of the situation, though he had a good idea, he just didn’t know the extent. He didn’t want to ask.
Bucky’s behavior back at the house seemed unusual, even for someone typically reserved like himself, and you couldn't decide what to do, debating whether to check on him or give him the space he seemed to desperately need.
You also had to fight the urge to break Zemo's jaw.
As deep night fell over the city, a hush descended upon the streets. Sam and Zemo, too, decided to call it a night, bidding their farewells before retiring to their respective rooms. You found yourself alone in the kitchen, the sudden quietness of the house sounded so loud in your ears. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you made the decision to head towards the bedroom. Your footsteps echoed softly in the hallway as you approached the door.
Your knuckles gently rapped against the wooden surface as you announced your presence. The sound seemed to hang in the air for a moment before you slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. You stepped into the dimly lit room, your eyes immediately fell on Bucky. You weren’t surprised that he wasn't asleep; sleep often eluded him, and considering the memories that undoubtedly came back to him after the mission, you didn’t blame him.
He sat on the floor beside the bed, his back pressed against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest. His gaze was fixed intently on the wooden floorboards, tracing the intricate patterns etched into their surface. The silence in the room was heavy and Bucky remained motionless, not even lifting his eyes to acknowledge your entrance.
You closed the door with a gentle click and cautiously made your way towards him, your footsteps barely audible on the floor. As you approached, you lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. "Hey..." You began, your voice barely above a whisper, carefully considering each word as you prepared to navigate this situation.
You took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the tension in your shoulders as you shifted your position, crossing your legs where you had been kneeling. Your eyes never left Bucky's face, searching for any sign of acknowledgment. He remained motionless, his lack of response hanging heavy in the air between you. But his stillness was preferable to a negative reaction. At least he wasn't pushing you away or lashing out in his distress.
"I know this is stupid, and it's probably the last thing you want to hear right now, but..." You paused, weighing your words carefully before continuing, "Do you want to talk about what's going on? About what happened?" The question left your lips in a gentle, non-pressuring tone, leaving the decision entirely up to him. You sat there patiently, ready to listen if he chose to open up, or to simply provide a comforting presence if he preferred silence.
Bucky remained silent initially, his gaze fixed intently on the floor. He drew in a shaky, uneven breath, his eyes noticeably bloodshot and surrounded by dark, heavy circles. It was obvious that he had been struggling with sleep, but you knew that even a small amount of rest would be beneficial compared to none at all, especially dealing with the Flag Smashers and all the bullshit you were both thrown into again.
"Why don't you try to lie down and get some rest? I'll stay right here with you," you suggested gently, your voice filled with concern as you waited patiently for any sort of reaction from him. After a moment of hesitation, you added, "I know you might not feel like sleeping right now, but we have so much shit we have to do tomorrow.” You mumbled, “A few hours, at least.”
Hoping to appeal to his practical nature, you attempted to persuade him to sleep by emphasizing the logical reasons for doing so. However, your efforts seemed to fall on deaf ears as Bucky remained unresponsive. You sighed, your arm stretched up to reach for the blanket that lay haphazardly across the bed, intending to cover him and provide some comfort if he wasn’t going to sleep. Just as your fingers brushed against the soft fabric, Bucky's voice stopped you in your tracks.
"I felt it," he murmured, his words so faint that you had to strain to hear them, the pain and vulnerability in his tone made your heart stutter.
You turned to look at him, your hand still grasping the edge of the blanket, and you settled back down fully on the seat. Your eyes met his, searching for understanding as you softly inquired, "Felt what?"
"Hands," he muttered, his gaze flickered momentarily before meeting yours again. "I felt... hands. On me. They weren't his," Bucky spoke slowly but with a certainty that sent a chill down your spine. He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, "Not Zemo's hands, but I would have preferred if he didn't touch me at all during the damn interrogation." His words trailed off, hanging heavy in the air between you.
You watched as his brow furrowed deeply, his eyes growing distant as he seemed to retreat into the labyrinth of his thoughts. A maze he still couldn’t get through, he’d always be lost, stumbling upon memories randomly and losing others he had a grip on. The silence stretched on, filled with unspoken memories and the weight of past trauma.
You nodded, remaining silent for a moment as you processed the situation. The anger bubbled within you, fueled by Bucky's own emotions. Zemo's arrogant behavior had struck a nerve, his deliberate attempts to provoke Bucky were infuriating. The man was more than just an asshole in your eyes and words; he was a calculated manipulator, intent on unraveling all the progress Bucky had made.
His creepy obsession had drawn tension between the group. Zemo had persistently tried to breach Bucky's defenses, attempting to draw out the Winter Soldier persona that lay dormant within him. His tactics were cruel and precise, aimed at undoing years of healing and dragging Bucky back into the darkness of his past.
What made it so much worse was Zemo's obvious familiarity with the red book - that cursed tome that held so many of Bucky's painful secrets. You were certain Zemo had pored over every page, absorbing all the horrific details it contained. The book was a comprehensive record of Bucky's torment: control words that could strip away his free will in an instant, precise actions that would render him a puppet, and graphic descriptions of the punishments HYDRA inflicted whenever Bucky showed the slightest hint of disobedience or failure. The thought of Zemo possessing this knowledge, wielding it like a weapon against Bucky, made your blood boil.
"Bucky..." you began, your voice soft and laden with emotion. You paused, searching for the right words to convey the depth of your empathy. "I'm so... sorry. I can't even begin to imagine how difficult this is for you. It's just…not fair…that you have to endure all of this. You never asked to be pushed into this shit again." There was clear frustration in your voice with a mix of anger at the circumstances and deep concern for Bucky's well-being.
Your mind drifted to the apartment you shared with Bucky, while he wasn't always at his best there either, it was a vast improvement compared to situations like this. The space was familiar. He was surrounded by sights and sounds he knew, Bucky found a measure of peace inside the walls, mostly because you were there with him. He still struggled with his demons, but within the safety of your home, he could face them without the added pressure of external threats or responsibilities that weren't rightfully his to bear.
But it seemed that no matter what, the outside world was determined to drag him back into conflict.
In your apartment, there were no manipulative villains, no reminders of his painful past, no hidden ulterior motives to hurt him, just the warmth of your presence and the promise of a better future than past. He had you, and you were always there with him, helping him navigate through the storm that always threatened to pull him down again.
"M'used to it," he mumbled weakly, his voice devoid of emotion, carrying the weight of resignation and defeat. The words fell from his lips like heavy stones of the burdens he had borne. "I've had worse than simply being traded away for sexual favors."
"Yeah, but you shouldn't just be used to it," you countered, "You didn't deserve anything they put you through. I don't care what justifications they gave or what they forced you to do. You, Bucky Barnes, are a good person. You, at your core, are pure and untainted. You are the one in control now. Not the soldier they created, not HYDRA with their manipulation, not anyone else. It's all you."
Your eyes locked onto his, your gaze gentle yet unyielding, radiating unwavering belief in him as you tried so desperately to let him see how much faith you had in him. "You've already won over their programming, Bucky. You've reclaimed yourself."
"Then why won't his memories go away?" Bucky croaked out, his voice cracking under the weight of suppressed emotion. "I want nothing more than to...to forget. It's...it's so hard, doll," his voice wavered, the floodgates of emotion threatening to burst open despite him trying his damnedest to keep it all in. "Why can't I forget the bad, and why can't I remember the good?"
Bucky sounded completely worn down, his voice cracking with heavy emotion as he spoke. He couldn't bring himself to raise his head, feeling an overwhelming sense of shame and self-loathing washing over him. The weight of his perceived inadequacy pressed down on him, making him feel incredibly pathetic and foolish.
Your support through numerous similar episodes didn’t shake off the intense feelings of guilt and self-deprecation that consumed him during these moments. It was as if he viewed himself as nothing more than a heavy burden, a complex problem that you were obligated to solve time and time again. Even a glued vase is still cracked and much weaker than an untouched one.
No amount of reassurance or comfort seemed capable of mending his fractured psyche. He’s still broken, no matter what you do to help.
In his mind, he was irreparable, his former self having been long gone. Hell, he's not even whole. The prosthetic arm, the threatening object that he despised with every fiber of his being. Vivid, haunting memories flooded his consciousness as he recalled the moment HYDRA had finally attached the mechanical limb.
The sensation was overwhelmingly unpleasant - the arm felt unnaturally cold against his skin, its heavy weight throwing off his balance and coordination. In his disoriented state, he could feel the lifeless metal appendage hanging limply at his side, dragging him down both physically and mentally. The phantom sensations of drills and saws assaulted his senses, causing him to relive the trauma of the procedure.
Wide awake.
He was desperate to rid himself of the foreign object, so he clawed frantically at the point where metal met flesh, feeling the cold, unyielding surface beneath his fingertips. The memory of being forcibly restrained to prevent him from damaging the prosthetic flashed through his mind, the clinical indifference of his captors etched permanently behind his eyelids. It was clear to him that their sole concern lay with preserving the integrity of the mechanical marvel they had created, with no regard for the man to whom it was attached.
He was nothing more than a vessel for their prized creation - the arm was their priority, not the broken soldier who bore it.
Then their hands came.
Never-ending hands on his body, everywhere.
They always came when he couldn't fight back.
Teasing, pinching, groping, twisting, penetrating.
Make it stop.
Make it stop.
Make it -
Bucky's loud thoughts were abruptly interrupted as you reached out and gently grasped his flesh hand, your voice filled with concern as you spoke, "Bucky, hey, hey, stop... It's alright, you're safe now, it’s just you and me." The urgency in your tone was notable, yet you managed to keep it soft and reassuring.
His brow furrowed deeply, a mix of confusion and realization crossing his features as he slowly turned his gaze from you to his hand, which you now held firmly in your own, having pulled it away from his body. A searing hot sensation radiated from his scar, and with a sinking feeling, he realized what he had been doing.
He had been scratching at the old wound, hard. Clawing, digging, as if trying to remove something from his skin. His arm, the metal - titanium, vibranium - did it matter?
"It's okay, you're fine," you whispered gently, your voice acting like a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. Your hands worked carefully but firmly to keep his own from returning to where he had been clawing. Your thumb gently rubbed circles on his inner wrist in an attempt to keep his mind grounded. You were always scared during these moments, worried for his well-being as the rooted fear threatened to overwhelm you.
But you pushed it down, maintaining a calm and composed demeanor for his sake. Your voice remained steady as you continued to comfort him, "It's okay... you're doing so good, Buck Buck..." The silly name slipped out naturally, reminding him of where he was and who he was with. You always called him Buck Buck instead of just saying Buck once, you knew that endearment made him think of Steve. And he didn’t like doing that with Steve being gone.
"Breathe," you gently instructed him, guiding him to take slow, deep breaths as the memories and vicious flashbacks gradually began to subside. "You're doing great, just like that. Keep focusing on your breaths." You continued to offer words of encouragement and carefully guide him through the breathing exercises, your voice soft yet steady. His eyes, now rimmed with red, glistened with moisture, the strain of the moment evident in his features.
Delicate streams of tears traced paths down his cheeks, tiny rivers carrying his pain and guiding it out of him. The sight tugged at your heart, but you remained a pillar of support and strength for him to lean on.
"Make it stop," he rasped out to you, his voice thick with desperation and fear. "Make it stop," Bucky repeated, his body instinctively moving towards you as if seeking shelter from an invisible storm. "They're on me," he added, his words barely above a whisper, laced with a haunting mixture of panic and pleading.
You immediately wrapped your arms around him the second his body touched yours, enveloping him in a protective embrace. You would always wait for him to make the first move closer, respecting his space and not wanting to inadvertently exacerbate his episodes. Your touch was gentle yet firm, grounding him in the present moment.
"No one is touching you but me, baby," you assured him, your voice steady and filled with warmth. "And I'm not doing any of those awful things. I would never. You're safe here with me, Bucky. We're getting through this, you’re doing so good. Just focus on me and taking those breaths okay?"
Bucky remained pressed against you, his body tense and trembling as he desperately attempted to hide himself inside your smaller body. His hand darted up to his shoulder, fingers curled as if to claw at something unseen. Then his hand quickly moved to his neck, desperately grasping and pulling at an invisible entity.
The frantic movements sent a chill down your spine as you watched him struggle against phantoms of his past, it never ceased to horrify you to see him react to the glimpses he was shown again from HYDRA. You tried not to let your imagination run wild, but the implications were clear and it only made you feel even worse seeing him play it out.
You felt helpless.
All you could really do during these episodes was be there for him.
Holding him close, enveloping him in a gentle embrace that provided a sense of security and reassurance, something so simple yet so luxurious in his life. Your touch was carefully calibrated, always mindful of his boundaries and sensitivities, ensuring that every contact communicated safety and understanding. You learned what he liked, disliked, what made things better and worse. You would soothe him with those very tender caresses, running your fingers through his hair or tracing calming patterns on his back, grounding him in the present moment.
Bucky really liked when you rubbed his back.
You would speak words of encouragement, your phrases were carefully chosen so they’d break through all the rampant thoughts flooding his mind. You reminded him of his resilience and progress. You whispered affirmations of his worth, validate his feelings, and reassure him of your presence and support throughout the episode.
“It’s not real, Bucky. No one is here, no one is touching you. It’s just me. You are safe.”
The efforts you put into comforting him so tenderly often felt mediocre or not enough, you always felt like nothing was ever working or meant a thing. But for Bucky, they were his lifeline, you helped him more than you could possibly fathom. Having endured these episodes alone for so long, the contrast of facing them with your loving support made them significantly easier, more manageable.
You held him for a while, gently cradling his body against your own. Most of the time, he just needed this physical connection to be brought back to reality, to feel grounded and secure again. Your arms enveloped him in a protective embrace, creating a cocoon of warmth and comfort. Sometimes you’d wrap him in a blanket, but you didn’t think Bucky was going to let you move to grab one.
Slowly, deliberately, you moved your hands up and down his back just how he liked. Your fingertips tracing intricate, soothing patterns across the fabric of his shirt, random shapes and swirls, sometimes a letter or number that he’d weakly repeat into your chest. The repetitive motion seemed to have a calming effect on both of you, a silent reassurance that everything would be alright.
As you continued to hold him, your gaze wandered towards the window. Through the thin, gauzy curtains that hung there, you could make out the blurry silhouette of the city in the distance. The lights twinkled like earthbound stars, their glow softened and diffused by the cloudy barrier between you and the outside world. It created an almost dreamlike atmosphere in the room, emphasizing the intimate bubble you two had created. It reminded you of home.
Still whirling from the events that led to this moment, your mind gradually began to quiet. Bucky appeared to be much more relaxed, no longer breathing heavy and shaking as terribly during his attack.
"You okay?" You inquired softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The darkness of the room cast a deep, night blue hue, partially dulling the angry red blotches that you knew still marred Bucky's face from your sight. Bucky’s sweet, rosy nose glistened from his recent emotional turmoil.
He turned his face fully into your chest, burrowing against you as he sniffled. Amusement colored your voice as you gently teased, "Are you wiping your snot on me?" Your tone remained cautiously gentle, not wanting to upset the fragile calm that had settled over him.
Bucky's response came muffled against your chest, a small chuckle that vibrated through you. His voice was barely audible and tinged with a hint of sheepishness. "Maybe..." he admitted as he pulled back and finally looked you in the eye.
You rolled your eyes, casting a concerned glance back at him as you gently used your thumbs to caress his cheeks. The tender gesture was comforting for him. "Are you okay?" You repeated. You wanted—no, needed—to hear the truth directly from him, to gauge his emotional state beyond the façade he often presented.
Bucky instinctively leaned into your touch, finding solace in the warmth of your hands against his skin. His eyes fluttered closed slowly, almost involuntarily, as he drew in a deep, shaky breath. The contrast between your warm, caring touch and his own clammy cheeks made him shiver. He allowed himself to be vulnerable with you, to absorb the comfort you offered.
"Yeah... I'm..." Bucky started, his voice barely above a whisper. He paused, reconsidering his words. "I'm fine." Another pause. "I mean, no, I'm not but... you know. I'm good." The contradiction in his statement was painfully apparent. He cleared his throat, as if trying to dislodge the emotions threatening to spill out verbally, and slowly opened his eyes again.
They met yours, a swirl of conflicting emotions evident in their depths. It was a typical answer from him, a reflexive response born from decades of forced conditioning and denial of feeling. You had expected it, of course, knowing his tendency to downplay his struggles, but that didn't make it any less concerning.
"Well, it's late. Maybe we should try to get some sleep?" Your lips softly kissed his forehead, tenderly giving him some affection. As you pulled back, you looked into his eyes and reassured him, "If you say you're alright, then I believe you. I trust your judgment, and I want you to know that I'm always here for you, whenever you feel ready to talk about it. There's no pressure, no rush. And in the meantime, I'm more than happy to simply be here, to be your comfort, your support... your pillow, if that's what you need."
"You're too good to me, doll... you really shouldn't have to deal with all this," he said softly, his voice tinged with a mixture of gratitude and guilt. He rubbed his nose a little with the back of his hand, a nervous habit he'd developed over the years. "You've got more than enough on your plate already. Your own struggles, your own dreams to chase. You don't need my baggage weighing you down too."
"Hey, now. I won't hear any of that," you insisted, your brows furrowing slightly in concern. Your voice was firm but warm, you understood why he felt the way he did, but you didn’t like it. "I love you, sweetheart. That means I love every part of you - the good, the bad, and everything in between. Taking care of you, making sure you're okay... it's not some burden I'm shouldering. It's not something I'm just 'dealing with' because I have to."
You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours. "I'm here, by your side, because that's exactly where I want to be. Because you deserve love, support, and care. And because giving you those things brings me joy. It's as simple as that."
You squeezed his hand softly, your eyes meeting his with a look of pure, unconditional love. "So please, don't ever think you're too much or that you're burdening me. You're not. You're the person I choose, every single day. And I want to be here for you, through thick and thin."
"I love you too, doll... I don't know what I'd do without you," Bucky replied quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He was still avoiding your gaze, but you didn't mind. Vulnerability was difficult for him and you appreciated his honesty even in his discomfort.
"Let's get comfortable, we need to rest for whatever shit is going on tomorrow," you said softly, your voice filled with care and concern, yet a small bite for this ridiculousness of the mission. You were still annoyed you and Bucky had been dragged into this mess.
You began to shuffle the comforter and blankets on the floor, creating a cozy nest beside the bed. Bucky's brow furrowed as he watched you meticulously prep the area, his eyes following your every move with curiosity and confusion.
"You're not planning on sleeping on the floor with me, are you?" he questioned, his voice tinged with disbelief as he observed you fluffing the pillows to ensure maximum comfort. The idea seemed to both perplex and touch him deeply. You had before, of course, at home. But he always insisted you go back to bed after his nightmares died down and he could fall asleep on his own. He didn't like the idea of you sleeping on the hardwood floors with him at night, especially when you could have the bed all to yourself.
"Of course I am," you replied without hesitation, your voice firm but gentle. "You think I'm gonna just let you sleep by yourself after this? Nope, that's not happening. I'm gonna be right by your side, supporting you through this. That's a promise, Bucky, and I intend to keep it." Your words were filled with determination and unwavering loyalty, leaving no room for doubt about your commitment to him.
He let out a deep, resigned sigh, fully aware that you wouldn't budge from your decision, despite the presence of a perfectly comfortable bed in the room. You'd pick sleeping on the floor with him over the warmth and softness of the bed any day. Bucky inched closer and settled into the makeshift sleeping area you had prepared.
Once situated, he gently pulled you towards him, enveloping you in a tender embrace. No words were exchanged, but he carefully repositioned himself, shuffling down slightly to rest his head against your chest, seeking comfort in your presence.
He wanted to be held tonight, and that was perfectly fine with you.
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Thank you for reading. -em🌿
Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Cover images from Pinterest
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cutebat · 6 months ago
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You know what, fuck it. I'm going to write my own neglectful yandere batfamily cause everyone else is doing it, but I'm going to do it in a different way.
Yandere Batfam x Neglected, but Defiant Reader
Prologue (Diary Entry)
Warning(s): Mentions of yandere themes, neglect, emotional abuse, mentions of physical abuse, forcing to drop out, attempted guilt tripping, reader is just venting out her feelings
(I made this in the reader's POV to make the whole 'diary entry' thing more sense.)
~~~~~
July 22, 2024
It's funny when someone tells their story.
Only to be told back that it's unrealistic.
Almost as if they're afraid to believe it's real...
Oh, God, that sounded dark.
~~~~~
For everyone who doesn't know,
Bruce is a billionaire who's also a shitty dad
Dick is a dick, like actually
Jason uses his trauma to let all his frustrations on me
Tim is a delusional bitch
Cass was okay until she knocked me to the ground
Damian is just a thing who you want to burn to ashes
Alfred... I guess is just Alfred
~~~~~
I was basically raised as what people would call a 'black sheep'. Kind of like... actually, I don't need to explain all that.
Basically, I was adopted by the infamous Bruce Wayne when I was ten for whatever reason. After the first day of living with him and the family and giving me the new role of Batgirl, everyone just pretended as if I didn't exist.
I tried to interact with every one of them and all I got were "sorry, can't talk right now" and "can you shut up".
Like, WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO TO THEM?!
Is it because I'm prettier than all of them and had barely any trauma in my past? Seriously, why are people so jealous about these kinds of things?
Bruce really signed all that paperwork for nothing.
Of course, my little ten year old brain would think that if I tried to impress all of them with what I could do, maybe I could gain their attention.
So by the time I was twelve with my ten year old mindset goal in my head, I did nine different after school activities, won over fifteen awards for my achievements, and went out to patrol at least six nights a week.
And none of that worked! Those fuckers wouldn't even spare me a glance!
~~~~~
After a while, you don't see a point in trying your best.
I dropped out of most of the clubs I regret joining, I just laid back in my classes, and most of all...
I quit being Batgirl.
I didn't want to, but like I said, where's the point in that?
So with that, I just gave up on everything and just... stopped trying.
~~~~~
But then one year all of that almost changed?
For the first time ever, I found myself suddenly really pretty, and after a month I entered eighth grade, I was suddenly asked out by one guy, then two, and all the way up to ten!
It was like really cool!
The popular girls became my best friends, more guys would ask me out, and the teachers started pointing out that I was their favorite student, even the ones who weren't my teachers.
It felt like I was on top of everything. That I was special. The world is revolving around me.
Finally, I was in a place to build a great reputation.
And then life was like FUCK THAT!
~~~~~
After the first semester of eighth grade, Bruce was weirdly in my room and he said wanted to have a 'talk' with me.
So, during this talk, he was basically talking about the last three years of me being neglected by him and his family. To be honest, I forgot everything he told me, but honestly, I don't really care.
He also told the others about all this and now they suddenly feel bad which I don't give a shit about. But, I knew he was doing all this to guilt trip me, which was honestly so stupid.
Now, after he dropped that bomb, he told me that I had to drop out of school to do some "bonding time" with the others along with him and the people who actually cared about me didn't really matter at all!
I JUST GOT SETTLED IN!
All I said was "FUCK YOU" and just stormed out of my room with the only thing that I took was my diary that I had for quite a while that I never used before.
~~~~~
So, yeah. I'm currently in the attic, venting my feelings all out on this stupid glitter diary with a random pen that I found on the ground.
But whatever.
It doesn't matter.
Nothing matters...
My life is just a game.
A sick, hopeless game.
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houseofwolvess · 2 years ago
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urgh. everything feels gross
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wife-of-all-dilfs · 1 year ago
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flower therapy | f. odair
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masterlist
summary: after being rescued from the capitol’s torturous clutches, your boyfriend, finnick odair, assists you with recovering from haunting memories and ptsd.
pairing: finnick odair x reader
warnings: finnick being major boyfriend material, soft reader, mentions of torture, ptsd, panic attack, hurt/comfort, fluff
notes: the way i lowkey triggered myself into a panic attack while writing this?? i’m okay now though 😀
word count: 1.3k
Post-traumatic stress mental rehabilitation. That is what the psychiatric doctors of District Thirteen suggested after you were rescued from being captured and tortured in the Capitol. Their methods sounded daunting and all too familiar—sterile white rooms, memory flash cards, persistent strangers who would force you to relive your trauma so you could 'work through it'.
Finnick did not like the sound of that one bit. So, he offered an alternative.
Post-traumatic stress mental rehabilitation. The label was a mouthful. Finnick preferred to call it "flower therapy". Twice a week, you and Finnick were authorised to spend two hours above ground where you would sit in a nearby meadow, make daisy chains, and occasionally open up about what happened in the Capitol.
You liked to call it "the power of flowers". Stupid, but saying it always formed a little smile on your face and there was no harm in simple joy considering the cruelties you had endured. Most of the time, you were silent and would lie in Finnick's arms while making flower crowns. He was always patient; he understood you needed time. Day after day, he proved his unconditional love, and you thanked the universe for blessing you with such an incredible man.
"Oh no," you whispered.
"What is it?"
You dangled your broken daisy chain in front of you and Finnick.
"Oh no," he echoed.
Your back rested against his chest and his arms enveloped your body as he held his own effortlessly crafted yellow chain in your lap. Apparently, years of weaving fishing nets creates a master of making daisy chains.
"Here," he said, positioning his own flower crown on your head. "Beautiful."
Smiling, you turned your head to face him. "I'm going to tell everyone I made it."
The flowers sat like a golden halo atop your head, beaming just as bright as the smile Finnick had bloomed at the sight of you. Beauty was everything that you were; not just outwardly, but within the confines of your mind too. Flowers and sunlight were interwoven with your soul, making up the essence of who you were—loving and warm-hearted. One of the many reasons Finnick had fallen in love with you.
He would forever want to remain in your garden, tending to and protecting every petal that blossomed.
His thumb swiped affectionately across your cheek. "Of course you are, you thief," he murmured, grinning. "You owe me."
Your stomach flooded with butterflies and you leaned in, tenderly kissing him with soft pink lips. Finnick cupped your cheek, stroking the baby hairs of your hairline with his fingers as he smiled against your mouth. Even your lips tasted like sweet nectar to him.
After you pulled away, you settled back into his embrace, sinking into those arms that shielded you from any and all harm.
"Okay, I suppose you're forgiven," Finnick said, the smile present in his voice.
You toyed with his fingers while wearing a glowing smile of your own, his arms lovingly wrapped around your body. Oh, you loved him so endlessly.
As the sun began to lower, a mixture of orange and pink clouds blanketed the sky. The trees surrounding the meadow cast large shadows throughout the area, making it appear much darker than it really was. A subtle shift in the once tranquil atmosphere rippled through the meadow, happiness now becoming a distant and unreachable feeling.
The broken daisy chain crumpled in your hands no longer shined in the sun like a beautiful mess. It instead looked tangled. Chaotic. Darkened by the dimming light and transformed into something sinister that resurfaced haunting memories of the Capitol—twisted IV tubes filled with unknown substances, chains that removed layers of skin, decaying white roses that covered the floor of your cell.
Heaviness clutched at your heart, suffocating you from within.
Finnick sensed the sudden shift, loosening his hold around you as he whispered, "What's wrong?"
"I—I don't know," you stammered, the air thinning around you.
The wilting daisies started to taint your hands with darkness, creeping slowly up your arms and causing them to tremble. Finnick, who noticed your fixation on the daisy chain, gently took the flowers from your grasp and set them aside.
It was too late; the panic had already set in.
He turned your body to the side in his lap, forcing you to face him. Your eyes flickered with worry. No amount of pain could compare to the heartbreak he felt seeing you like this.
"Hey. Hey, look at me," he urged, his tone soothing. "Breathe with me, alright? In..." He inhaled deeply through his nose. "And out."
But it was no use. Air was caged within your lungs, burning like fiery hot whirlwinds inside your chest. It was all you could do to force rapid shallow breaths out of your mouth.
"No, no!" A tear fell from your eye as you fervently shook your head. "Finn, I ca—I can't."
"Yes, you can, baby," he said, pushing aside the hair that obscured your vision. His eyes searched the area, looking for anything that could help distract your frantic mind. That is when he spotted a small flock of birds perched on one of the tree branches, instantly recognising their black feathers and sharp beaks. "Look. See those birds? They're mockingjays."
Finnick pointed up at the tree, gaining your attention which then shifted to the birds that were gawking down at you with curious tilting heads. Mockingjays. Katniss. Rebellion. Hope. You focused all your attention on the little black birds and listened to Finnick's reassuring voice.
"They'll repeat any tune you make," he continued, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Can you do that for me? Try and whistle something for them?"
Attempting to control your ragged breathing, you jerkily nodded. Songs from the world before the war overtook your mind. At first, it was overwhelming as your mind scrambled for a suitable melody, fuelling your panicked state. But then you heard something familiar and focused on the familiar tune, one that was from your childhood.
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleep, my little baby,
When you wake you shall have,
All the pretty little horses.
It was a lullaby your mother sang whenever you were upset. Seemed fitting considering the situation. You managed to whistle the first few notes, albeit a little wobbly of course, hardly noticing the air that was starting to flow more freely into your lungs.
"That's it, sweet girl."
Once the mockingjays began echoing the song throughout the forest—far more beautifully than your broken whistles—you continued the melody until the end. When you finished, the birds continued to repeat the tune, singing your mother's lullaby over and over in the trees of District Thirteen.
Whilst sat cradled in Finnick's embrace, you quietly hummed along as he stroked soft patterns on your arm. Darkness and pain were long forgotten now. Your body no longer trembled with fear nor did your breathing. Memories of the Capitol's brutality were locked away and hidden in the back of your mind, diligently guarded by the man whose arms you lay in.
Golden beams filtered through the tree trunks; the sun was now lowered enough to let the warm light in, illuminating both you and Finnick. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, wrapping you up even tighter in his arms now that he was certain the worst had passed.
You clutched onto his arm and blew out a final stabilising breath, finding comfort in the strength and protection he held. The side of your head rested against his chest, the beats of his heart harmonising like a drum with the mockingjays' song.
You wanted to apologise but knew his response would be dismissive. You wanted to tell him how deeply you loved and appreciated him but knew your words would fail you.
So, you remained silent.
"You're safe," Finnick whispered into your hair. "Right here, right now. I promise."
Right here, right now, you repeated in your mind. In Finnick's arms, you were safe. You were loved.
tags: @tayrae515
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cowpants147 · 9 days ago
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I neeedddd more Foxes on TikTok content! Them doing their own versions of trending videos and challenges like the "dress up as something that starts with your first initial challeneg"
Allison, looking ethereal dressed like a literal Greek God, glammed to the heavens: I'm Allison, I'm dressed as Aphrodite and it's the onw year anniversary of my boyfriends death so I better be the drunkest tonight.
Renee, wearing a real leather F1 jacket/jumpsuit that Allison for some reason has in her closet with a blow up steering wheel in her hand: I'm Renee, I'm a race car driver and I think Nicky might be the drunkest.
Andrew, dressed exactly the same as normal but has a stethoscope around his neck and a piece of paper saying "Aaron" duct taped to his chest just stares into the camera for 30 seconds until it's obvious Allison will not be leaving without an answer: when Kevin starts puking I'm leaving.
Once everyone has given their answer the video enda with a pic of Nicky and Kevin passed out in a bathtub together.
Or the Trauma Dump Candy salad video which goes off the rails immediately and PSU makes them take down 3 hours after posting
"Hiiiiiii, I'm Nicky and I'm a gay teenage father of two and I brought Nerd Cluster Gummies"
"I'm Aaron and instead of going to rehab my evil doppelganger locked me in a bathroom w a blanket and a weeks worth of canned food and I brought Reeces"
"I'm Allison and my parents didn't even yell at my brother when he got expelled from boarding school for having coke in his room but I got kicked out of the house when I showed up to my deb ball with a black eye and a busted lip after playing (and winning) an exy game. They didn't even ask if I was OK. And I brought cherry flavoured Twizzlers"
"I'm Neil ans whenever I burn something while cooking I have a panic attack cause I start to think about burning my mother dead body in a ditch on the beach and I brought ... Andrew what are these called? Oh, I brought sour patch kids"
"I'm Kevin, I grew up in a cult and I brought raisins" except he's body tackled by a blonde blur before he gets a chance to dump the raisins into the bowl.
Them posting stupid shit to popular sounds:
Aaron, sat on the couch, study notes laid out around him, energy drink cans littering the place: I want to sit back and enjoy my my evening when all of a sudden ...
Camera flashes across the room to Neil just minding his own business: ... I hear this aggravating, grating voice
***
The "My Shalya" sound over clips of Neil absolutely violating people.
***
Zoom up of Kevin in full Queen Day sttess mode on the sidelines of practice with the sound "yes I'm a drama queen, but it's not by choice" playing over it and when it gets the "it's genetic" part the video zooms out to show Wymaxk next to him with the exact hand on hip, stressed look on his face
***
Renee doing the "actually I do cuss a little" sound while she's getting her gear on to spar with Andrew and when it reaches the "probably fuck" portion of the audio the clip switches to her taking Andrew downnnn. And then there's a beat drop just cause.
***
Another edit of Neil but with the "am I the drama? I don't think I'm drama" sound.
***
Upperclassmen scrolling through news articles or flipping through sports news channels rhag are reporting on them while miming along to "is this fucking play about us"
***
Some teammates, probably upperclasmen, definitely Nicky also miming along to "I'm sorry, not everybody fits in the bad bitch genre, it's a genre, not everybody fits on the he roster" while dressed in full exy uniform, with the caption "when you're coach only recruits the most traumatised bitches"
And forcing teammates to do "day in the life" "what i eat in a day as a member of the most fucked up exy team" and "ootd" videos.
Andrew (bribed with alcohol, ice cream and ten dollars) does a What I Eat in a Day as depressed mother of 3 whose forced to play stickball. There's no sound, its just the picture carousel style w block letters next to pics of his food:
Breakfast is a massive mug of hot chocolate with half a can of squirty cream and marshmallows.
Breakfast 2 is a big bowl of whatever sugary flavour cereal that's overflowing w E Numbers and almost illegal food dye you guys have in the US.
Snack 1 is a chocolate bar.
Lunch is a slice of pizza, fries and then there's a hand forcing salad onto his plate. Andrew adds a note to this pic saying "I'm allergic to green, Kevin's trying to kill me"
Snack 2 is a an energy drink and a cigarette
Dinner is a pint of ice cream
Midnight snack is just a pic of Neil which Andrew thinks is an obvious coming out without coming out vibe but everyone is immediately worried about Neil's safety and there endals up being a Reddit thread about Andrew being a cannibal.
Then they post a follow up video of Kevin reacting to this and he just watches on in despair saying "no. no. Andrew you have a nutritionist!"
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suksatoru · 3 months ago
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001. CARNATIONS.
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Touya did not like to be touched.
That was one of the first things you learned from your colleagues' mistakes. You were now the seventh doctor to try and understand the layers of the former villain known as Dabi.
The news outlets had failed miserably in catching the alluring hues of his cerulean gaze. That was the first thing you concluded when you first met him.
As his psychiatrist, your job was simple. To understand Touya’s emotional trauma and help him live the rest of his life to the fullest. He was an absolute wreck. That was all anyone would call him—a mess who didn't deserve a second chance at life. Yet here he was.
His family had more than enough money to put him into a good institution, one where he could possibly recover from the terrible life he once led. It's quiet. The hospital's sterile environment is both making his skin crawl and oddly comforting. The gentle hum of the machines hooked up to his body and the bandages wrapped around every inch of skin did nothing to lessen the unease he felt when he heard the familiar telltale sign of a new doctor coming into his room.
The door rattled quietly, the sound of keys clinking together on the other side doesn't even stir him anymore. He hears slow footsteps entering through the hallway, your voice following them as you call out his name questioningly to confirm you're in the right room.
The way you say his name so softly sounds like you're calling out to an angel, and Touya wants to tear the words from your throat the moment he hears them.
He doesn't respond. When you approach him, he's staring at the wall in front of him.
He's sitting up, eyes barely open after it being only an hour out of one of many surgeries he would have to go through. He lays limp and utterly powerless in this stupid hospital bed—one of the strongest villains in the world was reduced to this now. Touya wonders if he's ever felt more pathetic, and no—he has never felt quite this low before.
"I'm Y/n, Touya."
You're smiling. That's the first thing he notices when his eyes finally move to where you sat on the stool beside his bed. All the doctors before you were the same, mildly disgusted but putting up a front nonetheless to try and deal with him. He thinks you're a little insane for looking at him with such a tender look in your eyes—and if he had the strength, he would tell you to leave.
"I'm your new doctor, Touya. I know you've gone through quite a few before me, but I hope you and I are able to get along!"
You shift in your seat with a nervous smile when he just stares. His half lidded eyes don't even bother to look anywhere else as he slowly takes in every detail of your face. Half of your hair is pulled back to reveal soft and full cheeks—your eyes crinkle as you lean forward with a soft smile.
"Unfortunately, you're kind of stuck with me. You've gone through the entire rotation of the best psychiatrists we have here—but that's ok! I understand you've been through a lot, so you and I are going to take this journey together, ok?"
Touya wants to cry. He wants to rip his hair out and slice his throat open because everything hurts and on top of all this misery, he has a pounding headache. He musters up the strength to talk. His voice is hoarse from not speaking for weeks, raspy with an undertone of something so terribly mean that you can't help but lean back in your seat with wide eyes when the words leave his scarred lips.
"Get out."
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CARNATIONS MASTERLIST.
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a/n; anddd our journey begins! :)
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honeybeedrabble · 1 year ago
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Kinktober Day 13: Size - Tutor!Miguel x AFAB!Reader 🎃
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can you tell i hate my math class this sem ?? :D
CW: unspecified age gap (reader is in college miguel is in grad school), trauma inducing stats vocabulary, piv (unprotected don’t be stupid), creampie (don’t be stupid), mean miguel, harsh grabbing, fingering (kinda), finger sucking, general size difference.
18+ MDNI
It was getting late, you and your roommates Machi and Gale having dinner with you. You huffed, slumping in the chair you sat on.
“This is such bullshit, I’ve been stuck on this problem for like half an hour already. Nothing’s clicking.” You pushed your dinner aside and looked at Gale for reassurance. She tilted her head at you with a raised brow.
“Girl, you know damn well I’m not getting it either. Just call it quits for tonight, it's not due for another two days.” She said, sipping a chilled can of coke. 
“Oh, come on. Neither of us are understanding this shit. I mean, this symbol looks like a backwards three! I miss when math used to just have numbers,” you complained, squinting at the statistics homework in front of you.
“That looks ridiculous,” Machi laughed. “Never have I been more glad to be an arts major.” She said, getting up to put her dish away. 
“If it bothers you that much, why don’t you just visit the tutoring lab? I think they’re still open.” Gale said, grabbing your dish and following Machi to the sink. 
“Really?” You asked, checking your watch. 8 pm. 
“Hey, we pay thousands of dollars in tuition, okay? If they can’t stay open or help when students need it what's the point in taking all that money from us?” Gale shrugged. You sighed, standing up from your chair. 
“Well, I guess I better get moving if I want to make it to the tutoring center before 10. Let me know if you guys need anything while I’m out.” You grabbed your keys and left the apartment after grabbing your bag and slipping your shoes back on. 
_____________________________________________________
You arrived at the building, glass doors sliding open as you walked through them, the cold air conditioning giving you goosebumps. You walked over to the sign in sheet, looking through available tutors for the next hour or so. 
“Crap…” You sighed, looking through the sheets. It seemed like you needed an appointment before hand, at least electronically. 
There was the sound of laughter down the hall, you turned your head towards the sound. There was a much larger man along with a guy who seemed about your age. You recognized the shorter individual from your statistics class. 
“Well, I’m glad we could get your problem figured out.” The tall man said, a big hand patting the younger guy's back heavily. 
“Yeah, it only took us all night.” More laughter. 
“Hey, if its due in two days all night is nothing.” The tall, tanned man said. He was massive, you could practically see his muscles bulging underneath his white buttoned shirt. His chocolate hair slicked back, a few strands messily framing his face. You were in a trance when his almost red eyes met yours. You felt your face flush. 
“U-Uh, Hey! You’re in my statistics class arent you?” You asked the shorter guy, desperately avoiding the older mans gaze. The shorter guy said your name questioningly, you nodded. 
“Yeah, thats me.” You said, clutching your bag tighter. “So… you got help with the homework?” You asked, motioning to the taller man.
“Oh yeah, this is Miguel.” He said, patting Miguels back. 
“Hi, nice to meet you.” You said, grabbing his large hand and shaking it. You felt your palms become sweatier, his hand practically enveloping yours. “I didn’t see your name under the statistics sign up sheet.” You said, voice almost trembling. 
“Well as a grad student my major is scientific research so that's why I’m not under statistics.” He said, a slight smirk across his face, his grip on your hand becoming tighter. 
“O-oh,” you said softly. 
“But I use statistics in almost everything I do, so I can help out with any problems you’ve got if you need it.” 
“Miguel’s not a bad tutor, it only took us so long to finish cause I haven’t shown up to class in weeks.” Your classmate laughed. “I’ve got to get out of here but thanks for your help, man.” He waved before walking out the sliding doors into the dark night. 
You and Miguel turned to each other, you suddenly felt very nervous. 
“So… Would you… tutor me?” You asked, rubbing your arms for warmth. 
“Well, it's not quite 10 yet and I don’t have any other sign-ups, so why not?” He shrugged, walking down the hall with you following after him. 
You two walked down the hall, reaching a small study room at the end of it. 
“This is the room I reserved for the night, so don’t worry about anyone coming in here super late and trying to steal it from us.” He said, opening it up for you to walk through. 
You walked into the room, a table with a few chairs in the center with a whiteboard behind it. It seemed fine to you as you walked in, sitting down on a chair, slightly taken aback when it rolled underneath your weight. You looked down and noticed wheels at the feet of the chair. You looked up again when you heard the door shut, Miguel locking it behind him. 
_______________________________________________
“And that's why your z score is going to be 20.99. Does that make sense?” He asked. You were fucked. 
The whole time you were supposed to be paying attention you were completely distracted by his being. He sat next to you, his large frame practically caging you in between him and the desk. He was everywhere, and if you weren’t staring directly at the paper, you were scared you were going to faint. You nodded, eyes looking down at the problem, refusing to tear away from the mathematical mess you made. 
“Yeah…”
“Then tell me how you got it.” He said, deep voice rumbling in his big chest. 
“Well, first you uh…” You circled a random number in the world problem then looked up at him with helpless eyes. He raised a brow. 
“You start with the standard deviation?” He asked, clearly unamused. 
“Well… You definitely use it somewhere…” You said half joking. Miguel was still unamused. He sighed deeply, throwing his head into his hand. 
“I’ll explain it one more time, okay?” He said, grabbing the pencil from your hand. His hand brushed against yours and held your pencil as if it were a toothpick to him. “So, we’ve identified the mew, right?” He asked, underlining the foreign symbol. 
“Yeah…” You said, asking yourself what the fuck is a mew? 
You were determined to stay focused but that man made it difficult. You turned to look at him while his eyes were fixed onto the paper, scribbling out equations and typing into your calculator- which he also made look puny in his grasp. You watched him as he spoke, the way his soft lips moved as he talked, revealing sharp canines every now and then between words. You felt your face flush, entranced by his presence. You eyed his large shoulders, following them down to his massive arms. You looked back up at his face, admiring his features while he was so deep in thought. He looked down at you.
“So now we just divide and… hey?” he said almost harshly. “Are you paying attention?” He asked in a snarky tone. You felt your face drop. 
“I… um…”
“Distracted again?” He tossed the pencil onto the surface of the table, muscular arms crossing as he almost glared at you. 
“I’m sorry.” You felt exhausted, covering your face with your hands in defeat. You felt like crying. 
“Maybe if you weren’t so focused on undressing me with your eyes and more focused on these problems, you’d understand this shit by now.” He grunted. You stilled, face buried deep into your palms before you peered at him through between your fingertips. 
“W…What?” You asked, looking at his almost red eyes. 
“I said what I said.” Miguel's voice was low, he grabbed your seat and pulled it towards him, the wheels moving you with ease. You felt your core tighten, as your face continued to burn hot, regardless of the air conditioning. 
Miguel's eyes practically violated you, staring deep past your own and into your soul before looking you up and down, clearly enjoying how you cowered. 
“That pretty little head not used to thinking this hard?” he asked low in your ear. You shuddered, hairs on the back of your neck standing at attention. “Pathetic.”
He grabbed your waist with his large hands, daring to crush you between his palms. He slowly stood up from his chair, face inches away from yours. You took that as invitation enough and crashed your lips into his, those soft lips felt even better than you imagined, a whimper escaping your lips as his grip increased. He pulled you off of the chair and slammed you onto the table, papers flying and pens scattering around you. You let out a grunt as the air escaped your lungs from the impact. 
“I’m taking time out of my night to try and teach you this shit and you can't even meet me halfway and try to learn it?” He huffs yanking down your frumpy sweats to your ankles. You kicked them off, laying on the table in your tight shirt and panties. 
“I-I’m sorry, you're just so-” he cut you off with two thick fingers plunging into your mouth, you gagged when they hit the back of your throat. He smirked, watching you drag your tongue around the knuckles of his fingers. 
“That ought to shut you up.” He ran a finger from his other hand to your clothed cunt, you moaned around his thick digits when he caressed your clit. Your hips moved on their own accord, grinding against his large hand. “Would you look at that? I didn’t know they accepted whores into this school.” Miguel hummed, voice smooth like honey and deep like an ocean. 
His single finger moved to where your pussy and thigh met, yanking aside your black cotton panties to reveal your wet cunt, which clenched around nothing at the sudden cold air. 
“Jesus… I bet you were thinking about this all night, huh?” Miguel teased, the calloused tip of his finger just barely grazing along your seeping hole, spreading the warm slick higher and higher up your folds until he could smear it along your sensitive bud, eliciting another moan from behind his drooly fingers. 
“Needy, aren’t we?” Miguel withdrew his fingers from your mouth while his other hand unzipped his dress pants, the metal of his belt buckle clanking together as he pulled it out of its loops. The belt hit the floor with a small thud and with his drool-soaked fingers he freed his massive cock and ran the slippery fingers up and down his shaft. 
Miguel tore your underwear off of you, as if it was like taking a sticker off a piece of fruit. You felt yourself drip down your thighs, unsure whether or not it was okay to touch yourself while watching this Greek god of a man pleasure himself with your spit, watching your tense cunt beg him to stuff it. 
“Like what you see?” He asked, slipping his finger into his mouth and moaning long and deep when he tasted your sweet slick on his tongue. You nodded vigorously, grabbing one of your tits to entice him even further. “Why don’t you take that off while we’re ahead?” 
You quickly tossed off your shirt and bra, completely naked on the desk. Miguel softly laughed, watching how nicely you obeyed him. 
“You're too easy, y’know that?” With a few more pumps to his shaft, he harshly grabbed one of your thighs and spread your legs even further, admiring your wet pussy. 
The moan you two let out when he put his cock inside of you could've been heard by the whole building if it hadn't been well past 10 pm and everyone had gone for the day. His girthy member dared to split you in half, the sheer size of him was far too much to handle, especially all at one. We watched with pleasure as your breathy moans turned into agonized whimpers the further he drove into you. When he had finally gone balls deep inside of you, there was an obvious cock bulge deep inside of you as he stretched out your pussy wonderfully. 
“M-Miguel…” You sighed, a bead of sweat rolling down your temple. 
“Oh, so this can keep your attention but me slaving away on your homework can’t?” He smugly asked, pulling out before slamming into you with a grunt. You wailed, scratching the hard surface of the desk underneath you, crumpling stray pieces of scratch paper into your palm while arching your back. 
Miguel started at a rough pace, making room out of your tight pussy for his intimidating cock, juices slicking the shaft of his member, and sounds of your wet pussy gushing paired with the creaking of the table filled the room, moans, and mewls adding to euphonious music of your fucking. 
“So fucking tight… so fucking tiny… I bet I could fold you like a pretzel,” He said amusingly, grabbing the backs of your thighs and pushing the fronts of them against your chest. You cried out loud, new depth being explored by his commanding dick while he used you for his pleasure. 
With his massive hands, he spread his fingers out, his thumbs on the backs of your thighs and his four fingers on the small of your back, grabbing onto you so he could bring you up and down on his deep thrusts. 
You were seeing stars at this point, scared your arousal would drip onto your homework papers and soil all the progress you’ve made. But it didn’t matter anymore when you threw your head back onto the table and shook in his hands, pussy clenching around his meaty cock and milking him for his own cum. 
“Ngh- What did I say? Easy…” He moaned, thrusting inside of you a few more times before he shot a huge load inside of your tiny pussy, cum leaking out between where your sexes met and rolling down your asscheeks. 
You lay there on the table, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Miguel watched entranced as your shared cum leaked out of you, finger fucking it back inside of you, wondering if it he could stuff it all back in. He quickly realized your overstimulated cunt couldn’t take it as tears welled in your eyes. 
“Sorry,” He said, removing his fingers. “Now uh… where were we?” He picked up the page of work, then his face dropped, looking at the splotch of cum that had spilled out on accident. 
“On second thoughts… you might want to turn this in online.”
Tag List: @fuckmachine42069 @pasdasin @alien-girl-violet
Next: Cloning - Kakashi x Reader
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certaimromance · 7 months ago
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𝜗𝜚 So Long, Quantico.
Prison Reid x Fem!reader
Read part two here!
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Summary: Your best friend asks you for a favor and you must defend the innocence of the man you were in love with, the same man for whom you left the FBI and moved to another country years ago.
Words: 1,6k.
Warnings & Tags: mentions of murder, trauma, death, jail. angst without happy ending. miscommunication. right person, wrong time. reid's time in jail. spoilers for season 13 and all the ones before that. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: First of all I want to thank you for all the support in my first post because the truth is that I didn't expect (if you haven't read it yet, I already have my masterlist). I still can't believe I reached 1000 notes, it makes me very happy.
And secondly, I apologize in advance for this, but I love drama and being a little cliche sometimes. I promise to write a nice, comfortable, less dramatic Spencer story in the future (I hope so) but ttpd is my everything lately.
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The constant pounding of your right leg against the table was beginning to make you desperate and to dwarf the room. You didn't know what to do to stop and think for a few seconds, you had even lost count of all the times you had tried to fix your already perfect and ironed clothes that you had spent hours choosing and modeling in front of your hotel mirror.
It felt like hours had passed since you arrived at the prison, though it was probably only a few minutes. Part of you wanted to run out of there and avoid a dangerous reunion at all costs. The other part was anchored to the chair and would not move until you found a way to get Spencer out of there and fulfill the favor Emily had asked of you.
You couldn't let your best friend down, especially when her job could be in jeopardy if Reid was still in prison. You wanted to make sure she was okay, and repay her for all the favors she had done for you during the years you had lived together in London. Without her, you probably would not have survived or become the successful and respected lawyer you were now. She helped you heal when you needed it, now it was your turn to help.
Before you could think, grab your things and maybe even leave the room to catch your breath, a guard abruptly opened the door. Your eyes immediately fell on the handcuffed man the guard had practically thrown into the chair in front of you.
You blinked several times, trying to process that you were actually standing in front of him. He looked so different from the way you remembered him from the occasional picture Prentiss showed you. The years hadn't gone by for nothing, you knew that, but Spencer looked like someone else. It was more than the messy hair, the beard, or the numerous bruises on his face that made you wince. It was that his eyes no longer sparkled, and he himself looked dull.
The guard came out after warning them that they only had fifteen minutes, and the cameras pointed directly at you two.
“Hey.” That was all you could say, biting your inner cheek at how stupid it sounded.
At first he didn't react and hardly seemed to breathe. His expression was like seeing a ghost, and you couldn't blame him after so many years of not hearing from you. You knew you looked different from the last time you saw each other because you had tried too hard to look like someone else. You wore your hair shorter and a different color, even the way you dressed was other. You looked more serious and grown up.
“What are you doing here?” He asked dryly after scanning you with his eyes for a few seconds.
You froze when you heard him speak and his voice, once music to your ears, was like a kick in the stomach.
“I came to help. I thought Emily told you...”
“She told me that she wanted to call you but I told her not to.” Spencer cut you off before you could continue speaking. “That you weren't going to help me.”
You frowned as your brain processed those words.
“Why not? You...you are my friend.” You said, trying to hide the tremor in your voice.
He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, trying to look away from you because it hurt. You could feel the tension multiply, making it almost impossible to breathe in the small room.
“Friends don't stop talking for six years and pretend the other doesn't exist.”
Oh, that had hurt.
It was true that you had disappeared from his life six years ago, and you had not made the slightest effort to return, even leaving the country with the excuse of looking for a better future. But you had your hidden reasons, you wanted to forget Spencer Reid and your intensely ridiculous and unrequited love.
From the first time you heard him talk about statistics and smile at you like a child, realizing that you listened to him like no one else, you fell madly in love with him for years. Always hoping that one day he would stop thinking of you as his friend and realize how much he deserved to be loved and that you would be happy to do so, that you could give him the whole world without hesitation if he asked you to.
At first you thought he wasn't that interested in love, that he was too smart and focused to lose his mind like you did for him. However, then you saw him several times interested and pining for other girls: the movie actress, JJ, the girl at the bar and Maeve...she was very different and painful for you.
You couldn't stand his strong love for her, at least not being so close to him and having to play the role of the best friend who always listened to him repeat how wonderful she was. Knowing that he could fall in love with someone he didn't even know personally instead of you, whom he saw every day and had known for years, changed you and made you run away to save your heart.
You got a new job far from the United States, thanks to Agent Hotchner and his glowing letter of recommendation. And so you went back to being an ordinary lawyer, no longer chasing serial killers or a boy genius who never loved you as you would have liked.
“Spence, I...” You tried to speak softly, almost having the urge to take his hand to make the situation better, but you didn't. “I'm sorry.”
He was obviously tense, he wouldn't even look you in the eye and you could swear his eyes were a little crystallized. He barely glanced at you for a second before speaking again.
“You don't have to say it if it's not true.”
“It's true.”
You stopped yourself for a second, sighing and centering yourself again.
“But I'm here for the case, to help you with that...and I'm sorry for everything that happened to you.” You said more calmly and with an almost sweet tone.
You both knew it was more than just the prison issue and the current situation. It was a sorry for Maeve's death, Alex, Morgan and Hotch's resignation, his mother's problems, Cat's damn appearance, and most of all for not being there to support him in all.
“You should have called and said so.” He finally responded after letting out a snort and tensing his jaw more.
“Yeah...I should have.” You admitted, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.
You thought silence would take over the room again, but instead he spoke again.
“You can go now.”
“I'm not going anywhere unless you're free.” You pointed out with determination.
“You don't have a problem with go before.” He said in the same indifferent tone that was beginning to irritate you.
You should have frozen, kept quiet and focused on the case to get him out of there. But you couldn't do that and act professional when your insides were burning with the memory of the past.
“Don't give me that, you know why I did.” You blurt out, frowning and instinctively pushing the chair away from the table that separates you from him.
“You never said anything to me.” He replied, running a hand through his hair in frustration before speaking again. “You just disappeared like everyone else I've ever loved because you got bored with me.”
“You know I left for the opposite reason, because I...” You tried to say, but your voice cracked and your hands shook in an awkward attempt to touch his. “I loved you the way that you were and...”
The sudden sound of the door opening made you gasp and immediately shut up. The presence of a grim-faced guard made you realize it was all over, and you pulled your hand away from Spencer's again.
“Time's up.” The guard reported and you signaled him to have at least more minutes.
Fortunately, the guard nodded and gave you only five more minutes. You looked at your client again, trying to get into the professional role and discuss his case, but he seemed to be in another world after your half sentences.
There was no room in Reid's mind for your words, after feeling guilty for so long for not doing enough to be a good friend to you, for scaring you away with his problems, for not being one you wanted to keep over time and return his calls. But now, did you really say what you thought? Did you really love and care for him?
Everything was tearing his word apart in that moment.
“You won't have to see me if you don't want to, but I'll get you out of here soon, Spencer. I swear.” You promised and you could see in his face the surprise at your honest tone.
Maybe he expected a different attitude from you, maybe he thought you were still so obsessed with him that you would insist on seeing him and kill yourself to make him laugh again. But you had matured, or so you thought. You were no longer the young woman who hugged him every time he felt far away and was content to be the one who was left over. Now, you were the brave woman who left the ship before it sank completely.
As you watched the guard check the handcuffs and lift Spencer out of the seat to take him away, something inside you reacted. You called out his name before you could react and quickly had his desperate eyes on you.
“You don't have to worry about the past...I'm over you.” You said confidently before nodding goodbye and walking out with one less burden.
He remained anchored to the ground, trying to process your words with his racing mind as he watched you leave him again.
You...you had been in love with him?
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tinkaaabutt · 2 months ago
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Blue hair—Jinx
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Synopsis for Blue hair:
Jinx has always felt like two people trapped in one body—the ghost of Powder lingering beneath the chaos of who she’s become. One night, in the quiet of her workshop, she turns to cutting her iconic blue hair in an attempt to sever ties with the past she can’t escape. When you walk in, you find her mid-breakdown, scissors in hand and surrounded by shattered remnants of herself.
Through raw vulnerability, shared confessions, and careful understanding, you help Jinx confront the pain she’s been burying and the pieces of her identity she’s been trying to destroy. Together, you begin the difficult journey of acceptance and rebuilding, one strand at a time.
A story of hurt, healing, and learning to hold the broken pieces without cutting yourself in the process.
trigger warning- self h@rm themes, mental health struggles , trauma references, emotional vulnerability,
Inspired by “Blue Hair” by TV Girl
The door to her workshop was cracked open, and even from the hallway, you could hear the erratic clinking of metal and the hiss of frustration. Jinx always worked late—her projects were endless—but something about tonight felt different. Wrong.
When you pushed the door open, the first thing you noticed was the mess. Not the usual clutter of tools and blueprints, but chaos—shards of broken glass scattered like jagged confessions, overturned boxes spilling bolts and screws across the floor. And there, sitting in the middle of it all, was Jinx.
Her long blue braids hung loose around her, tangled and frayed. A pair of scissors rested in her hand, their blade trembling as her knuckles whitened around the handle.
“Jinx?” you called softly.
Her head snapped up, and for a moment, her wide eyes were pure panic. She looked at you like you’d caught her mid-crime, like you weren’t supposed to see her like this.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharp but fragile, like glass about to shatter.
You stepped inside, careful not to disturb the broken pieces on the ground. “I was looking for you.”
“Well, you found me,” she said, her tone bitter. “Now go.”
You didn’t. Instead, you crouched down in front of her, your eyes flicking between the scissors in her hand and the uneven chunks missing from her hair. “Jinx… what’s going on?”
She laughed, a sound so hollow it made your chest ache. “What’s going on?” she repeated mockingly. “What does it look like? I’m reinventing myself.”
“By cutting your hair?”
“Why not?” she snapped, her grip on the scissors tightening. “It’s stupid, right? But maybe if I chop enough of it off, I’ll stop feeling like—” She cut herself off, her voice cracking.
“Like what?” you pressed gently.
“Like her.”
The word hung heavy in the air, and you didn’t need to ask who she meant. Powder. The girl she used to be, the girl who haunted her every thought.
Jinx dropped the scissors, her hands flying to her head as she tugged at the remaining strands of her hair. “She’s still in there,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I can feel her. Crying, messing everything up. She won’t shut up, no matter what I do.”
You reached out, your hand hesitating before brushing against hers. “Jinx, stop. Please.”
Her hands stilled, but her chest heaved like she was fighting to keep the storm inside her from spilling out. “I thought if I cut it, I’d feel… different. Less like her. Less like—” She broke off, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Less like you’re falling apart,” you finished for her.
Her eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. For a moment, she looked so small, so scared. “How do you know?”
“Because I’ve felt it too,” you admitted, your voice soft. “That need to do something, anything, to make the pain feel… real. To make it stop eating you alive from the inside out.”
Jinx stared at you, her usual bravado stripped away. “Did it work?”
You shook your head. “Not the way I thought it would.”
The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of her machines in the background. You reached for the scissors on the floor, setting them aside before gently taking her hands in yours. Her fingers were cold, her grip weak.
“It doesn’t matter how short you cut your hair, Jinx,” you said softly. “You can’t erase her. But maybe… you don’t have to.”
Her brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re not just Powder or Jinx. You’re both. You’re all the pieces, even the broken ones.”
She shook her head, pulling her hands away. “I can’t be her. I can’t.”
“You don’t have to be,” you said. “But you don’t have to destroy her, either.”
Jinx let out a shaky breath, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said, your voice steady. “I’m here. For every piece of you, Jinx. The messy ones, the sharp ones, all of it.”
Her gaze softened, and for the first time, her walls seemed to crack. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” she said, a weak attempt at humor.
“I do,” you replied, your dimples showing as you smiled gently. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Jinx’s lips quirked up, just barely, before she looked down at the strands of blue scattered around her. “Guess I really screwed this up, huh?”
You laughed lightly. “Yeah, but we’ll fix it. Together.”
And as you reached for a brush, guiding her to sit still while you worked to even out the jagged edges, Jinx let herself lean into your presence. For the first time in a long while, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she could stop running from the pieces of herself and start putting them back together.
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