#everything feels like static and numb

[callunascars]

.

[thebibliosphere]

One of the pitfalls I've been struggling with over the last three years while focusing on recovering from ADHD burnout is trying to find stimuli that are enriching and not just distracting because distracting stimuli might feel like it's keeping me from being bored, but really it's just keeping me numb enough so I don't have to process being bored or any of my emotions.

And that's not great when you're trying to heal trauma.

The problem is, I'm not finding a lot of things enriching at the moment. A lot of the things I've been relying on to keep my brain quiet since 2020 now feel overstimulating and are actively making me agitated rather than numb. Which I suppose is progress? It means I'm processing things and actually aware of them again instead of perceiving everything as background static.

It's just an odd predicament to be in. I don't think I've been this 'aware' of my own brain in a long time and on the one hand, cool. Great. Probably a good thing. On the other, aaaaah. Why is it so noisy in here?

[yumenosakiacademy]

ive been feeling kinda physically feel like shit (breathing feels a bit heavy but i can breathe; tired but its near bedtime so like... Fair Enough; can feel my heartbeat hard in my chest but i WAS rly active 2day n also ate enough sugar 2 kill a man earlier), the front of my chest feels like a numb foot (tv static feeling) n idk if its Coincidence bc i binged candy n walked 7 hrs in a row in a kinda-tight facemask (only taking it off 2 occasionally drink water 2day, which could explain the breathing thing, as my body was used 2 breathing deeply n slower for So Long tht now its finding it hard 2 return back 2 normal) so my body’s pushed 2 my limits n its bc of all those factors, or if ive caught nanas covid...

[fagutt]

h

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Creature Feature.

Yandere: Yandere!Miguel x Reader.

Word Count: 1.3k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Unhealthy Relationships, Manipulation, Mentions of Non-Human Anatomy, Obsessive Behavior, and Rough Sex.

You weren’t sure when you decided the man living in your house and fathering your daughter was not your husband.

It might’ve been last week, when you caught him sitting in his unlit study hours after he’d promised he would come to bed, his eyes glowing vaguely red as he fiddled with a device you didn’t recognize with tools you’d never seen him use, before. It might’ve been two months ago, when Gabi’s teacher called you into a conference to discuss your daughter’s worrying new obsession with spiders and superheroes and the holographic women that, if what she’s been telling her classmates is to be believed, read her bedtime stories when her father wasn’t home. It might’ve been that first night – when he came home from work hours late and doting a black eye, missing the glasses you would never see him wear again and too shell-shocked to do anything more than stand in Gabi’s doorway and let you fuss over him. You’d done everything you should’ve, kissed his cheek and begged him to tell you what happened and pretended to believe him when he said there’d been an accident at the research facility, but it hadn’t felt right, hadn’t felt like it would’ve if you’d been taking care of the man you’d loved for most of your life.

And, when he snapped out of his daze long enough to drag you into his arms and pull you into a kiss more forceful than anything your Miguel would’ve been capable of, you couldn’t help but shudder, but draw back when his hands started to drift lower and he proved to share your husband’s instability, if only that. That was what made the final decision, really. He wasn’t your husband, but it wasn’t as if you couldn’t see a glimmer of something you recognized when you looked at him.

Or, it wasn’t as if you couldn’t normally see a glimmer of something you recognized.

Right now, you knew the man on top of you was a total stranger.

He wasn’t Miguel. He couldn’t have been. Miguel would never hold you so tightly, never dig his fingertips so deeply into your waist, never be so determined to keep you so suffocatingly close to him. His nails would never be so sharp – pointed claws piercing your skin, drawing blood that dripped down your sides and pooled on the sheets beneath you – and he’d never been so massive, either, bulging muscle lining his arms, his defined chest heaving with every ragged breath and strangled moan, both a far cry from the borderline malnourished lab-rat that was the love of your life. His face was malformed, misshapen; curved fangs poking past his parted lips, distorting the shape of his mouth and leaking drops of luminescent venom that fell onto your chest and coated everything they touched with the same numbing, buzzing static. Even his eyes – the eyes you’d always loved, the eyes you would’ve known if nothing else of your husband remained – were gone, drowned out by the shadows cast over his face, the darkness you couldn’t seem to shake when he was around. What little remained was tinted red and bloodshot, pushed miles past the point of remote familiarity. You’d let this stranger, this thing into your home. You’d let him drive your daughter to school, look after her when she was sick.

You hadn’t let him fuck you, but he was fucking you, and you hadn’t been able to stop him.

The sounds he was making were awful, too. Your husband had been adorably shy, prone to biting his tongue and repeating your name over and over and over again, as if the feeling of your cunt milking his cock made it impossible to remember anything else. This Miguel was, in comparison, couldn’t seem to stop making those terrible noises; throaty grunts and airy moans spilling past his lips, only partially muffled by your skin as he buried his face in the curve of your throat. One of his hands fell to your thighs, curling around it and forcing your knee against your chest, making it so he could force himself that much deeper into you, so he could thrust into you with that much more raw strength. You were glad Gabi was staying at a friend’s, tonight. Her room was next to yours, and you would’ve been surprised if there was an apartment in your building that couldn’t hear your headboard beating against the wall, couldn’t make out every pitchy rise and fall of the drawn-out whine choked out of some deep, vulnerable pocket in your chest as he buried those pointed fangs in the crook of your neck.

You felt him force something into you, your vision blurring as the blood seemed to smolder in your veins. Suddenly, the feeling of his pelvic bone catching on your clit was unbearable, your own slick now burning as it dripped down your thighs. It wasn’t a whine you let out, this time, but a sob – ragged and broken, hitched as it emerged from uncooperative lungs and further fractured by the way his chest pressed into yours as he straightened his back, as he drew back just far enough to smile down at you, to let those cruel eyes go soft and half-lidded. “Oh, mi amor…” You didn’t notice you were crying until his hand cupped your face, until his thumb swiped over your cheek and came away wet. “I could fall in love with you all over again.”

Your husband would never say that. Your husband would never imply that there ever could’ve been a world where he wasn’t in love with you, that there ever could’ve been a life he would’ve led that wouldn’t feature you at its center. Your husband would never grow fangs and claws and force himself on you with all the care and tenderness of a rampaging monster. Your husband—

Your husband wasn’t here.

Your husband wasn’t here, and it didn’t seem like he’d ever be coming back.

You curled into yourself, sobbing unabashedly. Miguel (or, whatever the creature on top of you called himself) welcomed your devastation with open arms, leaning back and pulling you onto his lap, bouncing you on his cock as a low, reverberating purr sparked in the base of his throat and filled what little empty space was left in your bedroom. He watched on as you scrambled to wrap your arms around his neck, letting out a breathy laugh as he nuzzled into the dip of your shoulder and went on. “Fucking beautiful,” he groaned, his cock practically throbbing against the walls of your cunt. “I don’t know how I got by without you. I’m never—” A fractured moan, the tips of pointed teeth ghosting over your jugular. “I’m never letting you leave my side again.”

It was a promise, a threat, spoken with enough dedication to send a cold shudder up the length of your spine. You only realized your mouth had fallen open when you heard your own voice, distant and distraught. “Who... who are you?”

Some part of you expected him to devolve, for what was left of his disguise to fall away and reveal rows upon rows of jagged teeth that would tear into your skin, countless eyes that would stare you down like some trapped insect, half a dozen more arms and hands he could use to grab and grope and pull and maim. You expected blood to spill by the bucketful, flesh to melt away like candlewax, rough edges and broken anatomy and all the terrible monstrosities that had to be lingering inside of a creature like him. You expected all the worst things you could possibly imagine, but in the end, what you got was so, so much worse.

His manic grin melted into a softened smile. He pressed another open-mouthed kiss into your throat before pulling away, staring down at you with more love than anything human could’ve spared. “I’m your husband.” And then, again, as he settled so deeply inside of you, you could only pray you’d be able to forget the feeling of him, one day.

“I’m yours.”

[marysfics]

Spinning on Vinyl

''You remind me of a song that I can't seem to skip''

Angst, Happy Ending, Fluff

The apartment feels eerily quiet without her. The kind of quiet that presses in on your chest and makes it hard to breathe. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve been alone here—Alexia has always been traveling for matches, for training camps, for endless commitments that took her far away from this small, shared space. But tonight, it feels different. Heavier.

You glance at the half-empty wine glass sitting beside you on the floor, untouched for a while now. The rich, red liquid doesn’t hold the same allure it did an hour ago when you first poured it, hoping it might numb the ache growing steadily in your chest. But wine can’t drown out everything, and it certainly can’t drown out memories.

In a slow, deliberate motion, you reach over to the vinyl record player resting on the shelf. The same one the two of you had found in some vintage shop on one of those rare days when Alexia wasn’t rushing to the next match or the next media appearance. You remember her smile when she saw it, how she picked it up with delicate hands, her eyes lighting up like a child’s. She had said it reminded her of her childhood, of Sundays spent with her family listening to old records, the music mingling with the smell of her mother’s cooking.

Now, the player feels like a relic of something lost—something you’re trying desperately to hold on to, even as it slips through your fingers. The needle touches the vinyl, and the first crackle fills the room. The static noise that used to sound comforting, like a prelude to something magical, now feels like the space between you and her. Thin, fragile, barely holding it all together.

The music begins, soft and slow, an old song that you both loved. It was the kind of melody that wrapped around you like a blanket, pulling you into each other’s arms without a word. You close your eyes, sinking into the sound, letting it carry you back to a time when everything felt simpler. Back when Alexia was yours—not just in fleeting moments, but truly yours.

The bassline vibrates through the room, echoing in the emptiness, and you can almost hear her voice in your head, low and soft, singing along under her breath as she always did. You smile faintly at the memory of it—the way she used to sing off-key just to make you laugh. She wasn’t a performer, not in that way. She saved her grace for the pitch, but in these quiet moments, she was unguarded, playful, completely at ease.

God, how long has it been since you’ve seen her like that?

Your eyes drift to the framed photos on the wall. There’s one of the two of you, her arm slung around your shoulder, both of you grinning at the camera after one of her games. Her jersey is still drenched in sweat, hair messy from the action, but her eyes—her eyes were on you. You remember the moment clearly. It was the first time she’d kissed you in public, right there in front of the cameras, after she scored the winning goal. She had pulled you close, pressing her lips to your forehead, murmuring something in your ear that made you laugh, but now you can’t remember what she said. Just the feeling it left behind, warm and safe.

But that warmth has faded, replaced by the cold void of her absence.

The vinyl continues to spin, the needle gliding effortlessly through the grooves. Each note feels like a heartbeat, each lyric a whisper of something lost. You don’t even try to stop the memories now—they flood your mind, unrelenting, filling every corner of your thoughts with her.

You can picture her so clearly. The way she used to curl up on the couch after a long day, her legs tucked beneath her, that soft smile on her face as you laid beside her. The smell of her shampoo, something fresh and clean, the way her hair would fall into her eyes when she was too tired to push it back. The sound of her laughter—low, almost raspy, but full of life. You can still hear it, like an echo bouncing off the walls, even though it’s been weeks since you last heard it in person.

God, it’s been weeks.

You glance at your phone again, your thumb hovering over her name. It feels like it’s always been there, waiting for the right moment to press call, or send a message, or do anything that might pull her back to you. But you can’t. You haven’t. The space between your last conversation and now feels too wide, too difficult to cross with just a text.

She’s always somewhere else. Even when she’s here, she’s always got one foot out the door, ready for the next game, the next match, the next chapter of her story that you’re barely a part of anymore. It wasn’t always like this, though. Once, there was balance. There was her, and there was you, and it felt like the two of you existed in this beautiful harmony, like two notes perfectly in sync. Now, it’s as if you’re playing different songs, neither of you willing to change the tune.

The music picks up, the tempo quickening, but it doesn’t bring comfort. If anything, it reminds you how things have been moving too fast. How her career is growing and expanding in every direction, while you feel like you’re standing still, watching from the sidelines.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

You never wanted to be a spectator in her life. You wanted to be a part of it, truly part of it, not just someone she comes home to when the world isn’t watching. But lately, that’s all you’ve been—someone who waits, who watches, who wonders if there’s still space for you in her world.

The song swells, and with it, so does the ache in your chest. You lean your head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, letting the music wash over you. You focus on the rhythm, trying to lose yourself in it, trying to forget the gnawing emptiness that seems to grow with every passing day.

But you can’t forget her. You never could.

The song changes, a softer melody now, and with it comes the familiar pull of nostalgia. You know what’s coming next. This was your song—the one you and Alexia always danced to, barefoot in the kitchen, her hands on your hips, your head resting on her shoulder. The first time she heard it, she’d laughed, pulling you into her arms without hesitation, spinning you around as if no one was watching. You’d laughed, too, feeling weightless, like the rest of the world didn’t exist beyond that moment.

The memory is so vivid, you can almost feel her now. The heat of her body pressed against yours, the way her breath would ghost across your neck as she whispered something silly, something that would make you giggle, even though the moment was already perfect. She’d twirl you around, her fingers never leaving your waist, like you were the only thing tethering her to the ground.

You open your eyes and sigh, the weight of it all pulling you back to reality.

But there’s no Alexia here. Just the music. Just the memories. Just you.

The room fades around you, swallowed up by the growing intensity of the music. The song on the record shifts, and with it comes a memory so vivid it pulls you in before you can stop it. It’s one of the earliest memories you have of her, back when things were new and easy. Back when every look, every touch felt electric, charged with possibility.

It was your first time at one of her games. You remember the nerves—the restless energy in your stomach, unsure of what to expect. Sure, you’d seen Alexia play on TV, heard her name shouted in crowded rooms, but watching her from a distance was nothing compared to being there in person, seeing her live in her element, where she shined brightest.

The stadium was a sea of faces, all of them there for her, but you felt like the only one who mattered. There, in the cold evening air, with your heart beating faster than it should, you found your seat and waited, the anticipation growing with every passing minute.

The moment she stepped onto the pitch, everything else fell away.

Alexia was magnetic. There was no other way to describe it. The way she moved—so effortlessly, so fluid—it was like watching art in motion. Each step was deliberate, each pass precise. It wasn’t just a game to her. It was something deeper, something that coursed through her veins like it was what she was made for. She owned the field, commanding it with a quiet intensity, and you couldn’t take your eyes off her. You didn’t want to.

For the first few minutes, you were just another face in the crowd, just another fan cheering her name. But then it happened. That moment when she looked up, searching the stands, and her eyes found yours.

It was like time stopped.

You froze, breath catching in your throat, heart hammering against your ribs. Alexia smiled—a soft, private smile that didn’t belong to the roaring crowd or the flashing cameras. It was yours, and yours alone. And in that moment, it felt like nothing else mattered. Not the game, not the people, not the pressure that came with being Alexia Putellas. Just her and you, sharing a moment that felt sacred in a sea of chaos.

You could still remember how your chest tightened at the sight of her. The way your pulse quickened as she ran down the field, weaving between defenders, her eyes sharp, focused, a silent determination etched on her face. Every movement was so deliberate, so graceful, like she was painting something only she could see. And every time she touched the ball, it felt like a promise—a promise that she would win, for you, for both of you.

As the game wore on, the energy in the stadium shifted, growing more intense with every passing minute. The crowd’s cheers were deafening, their voices rising with the action on the pitch. But you weren’t focused on the game. You were focused on her.

You could see the exhaustion starting to creep into her movements, the weight of the match bearing down on her. But she didn’t slow down. She pushed harder, her body moving with a fierce determination that was both beautiful and heartbreaking. Because you knew—somewhere deep down—you knew she wasn’t just fighting for the win. She was fighting for you. For this. For the life she was trying to balance between the demands of her career and the fragile, growing thing between you.

Then it happened.

A breakaway.

Alexia darted through the defense, her eyes locked on the goal. The crowd surged around you, their voices a tidal wave of anticipation, but all you could hear was your heartbeat, pounding in your ears as you watched her close in on the moment. It was as if the world had narrowed to just her and the ball, and then—

She struck.

The sound of the ball hitting the back of the net was almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd, but you heard it. You felt it. It was victory—sharp, sweet, and undeniable. The stadium erupted around you, people leaping to their feet, cheering her name. And amidst it all, she turned, her eyes finding yours once again, that same soft smile tugging at her lips.

It was for you. The goal, the smile, the unspoken promise between you—it was all for you.

You stood, your legs trembling slightly from the rush of adrenaline, unable to stop the grin that spread across your face. It was impossible not to be swept up in her energy, in the joy radiating from her like sunlight after a long storm. For a moment, it felt like nothing could touch you. Like you were invincible, riding the high of her victory as if it were your own.

After the game, you lingered by the stadium entrance, waiting for her. The night air was cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the heat that still pulsed in your veins. The minutes stretched on, each one a little heavier than the last, until finally, you saw her.

She emerged from the locker room, still in her kit, her hair damp from the shower, strands falling into her eyes in that careless way you loved so much. Her cheeks were flushed, not from exertion but from the glow of the win, her confidence radiating like a halo around her.

When she spotted you, her face softened, the sharp edges of the competitive athlete melting away. She was just Alexia again. Your Alexia.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice low and a little rough from the match. There was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes, like she was unsure of what came next, even after all that had passed between you during the game. “Did you—?”

“You were amazing,” you cut her off, shaking your head in disbelief. “Like…breathtaking.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, that crooked smile that always made your heart skip a beat. She stepped closer, her hand brushing against yours in that familiar, gentle way that was more intimate than anything else. Her fingers curled around yours, and you squeezed her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin, the slight tremor in her grip from the adrenaline that still hadn’t faded.

“I wanted you to see this,” she said softly, her eyes searching yours. “I wanted you to understand…this part of me.”

You nodded, unable to find the right words to respond. Because how could you explain to her that you didn’t just understand this part of her—you loved it? You loved all of her, even the parts that scared you, the parts that took her away from you for weeks at a time. You loved the way she poured her soul into her sport, the way she gave everything, even when there was nothing left for herself.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. “So proud.”

Alexia’s hand tightened around yours, her eyes softening with something that looked like relief. “Thank you,” she breathed, her forehead resting gently against yours. “I’m proud of you too.”

You smiled at that, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over you. In that moment, it didn’t matter that the rest of the world was watching her, or that her life was so much bigger than you could ever be. All that mattered was this—her, you, and the quiet understanding that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

But now, sitting here, listening to the vinyl spin, the memory feels bittersweet. Because somewhere along the way, the promise you’d felt that night slipped through your fingers. The connection that had felt so solid, so unbreakable, had started to fray at the edges, pulled thin by the relentless demands of her career, by the endless distance that seemed to grow between you.

And even though you told yourself it would be enough—her love, her smiles, the quiet moments you stole between the chaos—you can’t shake the feeling that something is missing now. That maybe, just maybe, the space between you has become too wide to cross.

The soft hum of the vinyl fades into the background as your thoughts drift, wandering through the memories you’ve been holding onto so tightly. It's strange how the things that once brought you so much comfort—like the music, the photos, the laughter you once shared—now weigh heavy on your chest, like they’re relics of something you can’t quite touch anymore.

It’s been weeks since you last saw Alexia. Weeks of lonely nights spent with your phone in your hand, wondering if you should call, if you should say something—anything—to bridge the ever-widening distance between you. But every time you pull up her name, your thumb hovering over the screen, something stops you.

Maybe it’s fear. Fear that the space between you has grown too vast to close with a simple text. Or maybe it’s the nagging doubt that’s been creeping in lately—the doubt that maybe you’re not enough for her anymore. Not enough to compete with the whirlwind that is her life, her career, her success.

You hate thinking that way. You hate feeling like you’re waiting in the wings of her life, a spectator in a relationship that once made you feel so alive. But you can’t shake the sensation that you’re slowly being left behind, even though you’re desperately trying to hold on.

The apartment feels colder now, as if the memories of her have seeped out of the walls, leaving only emptiness in their wake. You wrap your arms around yourself, pulling the blanket tighter as if that might somehow fill the void she’s left behind. But it doesn’t. It never does.

She’s always on your mind. Even when you’re not actively thinking about her, she lingers in the back of your thoughts like a half-finished melody. You can hear her laugh, see the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, feel the warmth of her hand slipping into yours. But those memories feel so far away now, like they belong to someone else—someone who existed in a time when things were simpler, when you weren’t questioning every unreturned text, every missed call.

You try to tell yourself that it’s just temporary, that this is just a rough patch. After all, Alexia has always had a demanding schedule. It’s part of who she is, part of what makes her so extraordinary. You knew that from the beginning—knew that she would always be pulled in a thousand different directions. But back then, it didn’t feel like a threat. Back then, it felt like you could weather anything, as long as you had each other.

But now… now, it feels different.

The record clicks as the needle reaches the end, the soft static filling the room, pulling you out of your thoughts. You sit up, the sudden silence amplifying the emptiness you’ve been trying to ignore all night. The apartment feels too big without her, too quiet, and the loneliness presses in around you, suffocating.

You reach for your phone again, your hand trembling slightly as you scroll through the messages. Her name is at the top, of course. There are texts from her—short, sweet messages telling you she misses you, that she can’t wait to come home. You read them over and over, hoping that somehow they’ll soothe the ache in your chest. But they’re not enough.

Because you want more than just texts. You want her. You want her here, beside you, her arms wrapped around you, her voice soft in your ear as she tells you about her day. You want the little moments—the mornings spent tangled in the sheets, the evenings spent cooking dinner together, the quiet laughter that filled the spaces between words. You want all of her, not just the parts that she can give when she’s not busy being someone else’s hero.

You sigh, leaning back against the couch, the weight of it all pressing down on you. This isn’t the first time you’ve felt this way, but it’s never been this intense before. The doubt, the longing, the frustration—it’s all building up inside you, threatening to spill over. You don’t know how much longer you can keep it all inside.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, typing out a message you’ve written a hundred times before.

"I miss you."

Three simple words. Words you’ve said to her countless times, but now, they feel heavier than ever. You stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the send button. Part of you hopes that this will be the message that changes things, that maybe she’ll respond with something that will make all of this feel worth it. But another part of you—the part that’s been growing louder and more insistent—wonders if sending this message will only serve to highlight the growing gap between you.

Because as much as you miss her, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe she’s getting used to life without you.

That thought hits you harder than you expect, a cold rush of fear flooding your chest. You’ve been trying so hard to stay positive, to tell yourself that things will get better, that this is just a temporary phase. But the truth is, you don’t know that for sure. You don’t know what’s going through her mind when she’s out there, traveling from one city to the next, surrounded by people who worship her, who don’t see the side of her that you do. The side that’s vulnerable, that’s unsure, that needs someone to ground her.

And that’s the part that scares you the most. Because what if she doesn’t need you anymore?

You close your eyes, willing the tears to stay where they are. You’re not ready to face that possibility. Not yet.

But as the silence stretches on, broken only by the faint crackle of the record player, you start to wonder if maybe this is the beginning of the end. Maybe all those little moments you’ve been holding onto, all those memories you’ve been replaying in your mind, are just that—memories. Moments that belong to the past, not the future.

You stand up slowly, the blanket slipping from your shoulders as you make your way to the window. The city outside is alive, bustling with people, with life, but you feel so far removed from it all. You lean your forehead against the cool glass, staring out at the lights below. It’s strange how the world keeps moving, even when it feels like yours is standing still.

You wonder what Alexia is doing right now. Whether she’s thinking about you, too, or if she’s wrapped up in her world, too busy to notice the growing distance. You want to believe that she misses you as much as you miss her, but the longer this silence stretches between you, the harder it is to hold onto that belief.

Another message from her lights up your phone, and your heart skips a beat. You glance down at the screen, hoping for something more than the usual pleasantries. But it’s just a quick, “Training was tough today. I’ll call you tomorrow, love you.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone as you read the words. Tomorrow. It’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow she’ll call, tomorrow you’ll talk, tomorrow things will be better. But tomorrow never comes, and you’re left here, waiting in the space between promises and reality.

You type out a quick reply—something supportive, something sweet, because that’s what you do. You’ve always been her anchor, her steady ground when everything else is chaos. But right now, you feel like you’re drifting, and you’re not sure how to find your way back.

The music starts again, the same song as before, its familiar melody wrapping around you like a bittersweet embrace. You let the sound wash over you, filling the empty spaces where her voice should be, and for a moment, you allow yourself to sink into the feeling of it all—the longing, the love, the uncertainty.

Because that’s all you have right now.

The city lights blur through the window as you stand there, forehead still pressed against the cold glass, trying to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind. You’ve spent so long in this space—this liminal place between hope and despair—that it’s starting to feel like home. A home you never wanted.

Your phone buzzes in your hand again, but this time, it’s not a message. It’s her.

Alexia.

The name lights up the screen, and for a moment, you just stare at it, heart pounding in your chest. You weren’t expecting her to call tonight—not after the brief message about tomorrow—but here she is, reaching out when you were least prepared.

Your thumb hesitates over the green button. Every muscle in your body feels tense, as if you’re holding your breath, unsure if you’re ready for this conversation. Because deep down, you know it’s not just going to be small talk this time. It can’t be. There’s too much unsaid between you now, too much that’s been left hanging in the silence.

With a shaky breath, you press accept.

“Hey,” you say, your voice coming out softer than you intended, almost fragile.

“Hey,” Alexia replies, and you can hear the weariness in her voice, the strain of a long day clinging to her like an invisible weight. There’s a pause, the quiet stretch of unspoken words filling the space between you, and for a second, you wonder if she can feel the tension too.

“How was training?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light, though it feels like a thin veil over the emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

“Exhausting,” she admits with a sigh, “but that’s not really why I’m calling.”

Your heart skips a beat at her words, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thick. You can hear the seriousness in her tone, the shift that tells you this conversation isn’t going to be easy.

“I’ve been thinking about us,” she continues, her voice quieter now, like she’s testing the waters. “About…everything.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of those words settle over you. This is it. This is the conversation you’ve been avoiding, the one you’ve been dreading but also needing. Because no matter how much you’ve tried to pretend that things are fine, that this is just a rough patch, deep down you know that something has to change. You just don’t know if you’re ready to face what that change might look like.

“Me too,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. You bite your lip, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to find the right words that won’t sound like accusations, like blame. “It’s just… it feels like we’re losing each other, Alexia.”

The words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. It’s the truth you’ve been holding back for so long, the fear that’s been gnawing at you in the quiet moments when she’s not around.

There’s a soft exhale on the other end of the line, and for a moment, you think maybe she didn’t hear you. But then she speaks, and her voice is full of something you didn’t expect: guilt.

“I know,” she says softly, her voice breaking slightly. “I know I haven’t been around as much, and I hate that. I hate that I’ve been making you feel like this, like I’m slipping away.”

You close your eyes, letting her words sink in. There’s something comforting in hearing her acknowledge it, in knowing that you’re not imagining the distance between you. But it doesn’t erase the ache in your chest, the loneliness that’s been gnawing at you for weeks.

“I don’t blame you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to stay composed. “I know how important your career is. I’ve always known. But sometimes it feels like... like I’m just waiting for you to have time for me. And it’s hard, Alexia. It’s really hard.”

“I don’t want you to feel that way,” she whispers, and there’s a heaviness in her voice that makes your heart clench. “I never wanted to make you feel like you’re not important. You are. You’re everything to me. It’s just—” She pauses, searching for the right words, the frustration clear in her tone. “It’s hard to balance everything. The games, the training, the travel… Sometimes I feel like I’m failing you, like I’m failing us.”

Her vulnerability catches you off guard. You can hear the strain in her voice, the cracks in the facade she’s been holding up for so long. She’s always been so strong, so composed, but now, hearing her admit that she’s struggling too, it hits you in a way you didn’t expect.

“I didn’t realize,” you murmur, your heart softening just a little. “I didn’t know it was so hard for you too.”

There’s another pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter, more tentative. “It’s just… I’m scared, you know? Scared that one day you’ll wake up and realize that this—my life, my schedule, everything—is too much for you. That you’ll get tired of waiting for me, tired of not having me around when you need me.”

Her words hit you hard, because they echo the fears that have been swirling in your own mind. But hearing her say it, hearing the raw honesty in her voice, makes you realize that this isn’t just about you. It’s about both of you, trying to navigate a love that’s complicated by the realities of her career and the demands that come with it.

“I’m scared too,” you confess, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m scared that one day, you’ll realize that maybe you don’t need me as much as you used to. That maybe your life is easier without trying to fit me into it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the weight of all the unsaid things pressing down on both of you. But instead of making you feel more distant, it somehow makes you feel closer, like you’re both standing on the same edge, looking down at the same uncertain future.

“I do need you,” she says finally, her voice soft but firm. “I don’t want to do this without you. I don’t want a life where you’re not part of it. But I also know that I haven’t been showing you that. I know that I’ve been letting you down.”

You sit down on the edge of the couch, your heart pounding as her words settle over you. There’s a deep ache in your chest, but it’s mixed with something else now—something warmer, something that feels like hope.

“I miss you,” you say again, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I miss us. I miss what we used to have before everything got so... complicated.”

“I miss you too,” she replies, and there’s a rawness in her voice that makes your throat tighten. “I hate that I’ve been so far away, not just physically, but emotionally. And I don’t know how to fix it overnight, but I want to try. I need to try.”

The honesty in her words cracks something open inside you, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you’re finally on the same page. Like you’re both acknowledging the distance between you, but also agreeing to fight for what you have.

“I don’t need everything to be perfect,” you say softly. “I just need to know that we’re in this together. That I’m not the only one holding on.”

“You’re not,” she promises, and there’s a steadiness in her voice now, a determination that wasn’t there before. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of her words sink in. It’s not a perfect solution, and you know there’s still a long way to go. But it’s a start. A step toward finding each other again, toward rebuilding the connection that’s been fraying at the edges.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice breaking with the weight of everything you’ve been holding back.

“I love you too,” Alexia replies, and this time, the words feel like a promise.

The next few days feel different.

There’s still the same space between you and Alexia—miles of distance, long hours, and time zones that never seem to align—but now, there’s something else. A thread, thin but unbreakable, pulling you closer together with every word exchanged. The tension that once filled the silence between you has eased, replaced by something softer, something that feels like hope.

She calls more often now. The messages come in with regularity—small updates on her day, pictures of sunsets and unfamiliar cities, jokes that make you smile in the quiet of your empty apartment. It’s not perfect. You still miss her, still feel the ache of wanting her beside you. But there’s a comfort in knowing that she’s trying, in knowing that she’s holding on just as tightly as you are.

It’s late one evening, almost midnight, when your phone buzzes again. You’re wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, the low hum of a record spinning in the background, when you see her name flash on the screen. It’s a video call this time.

Your heart flutters as you swipe to accept, the familiar chime of the call connecting filling the room. And then she’s there, her face filling the screen—messy hair, no makeup, her eyes soft with exhaustion but also warmth.

“Hi,” she says, her voice a little crackly through the phone, but it’s enough to make your heart skip.

“Hi,” you whisper back, your lips tugging into a smile. Just seeing her like this—raw, unguarded—makes you feel like the distance between you is shrinking, even if only for a moment.

“I miss your face,” Alexia murmurs, her own smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “It’s not the same seeing you on a screen.”

You chuckle softly, curling deeper into the blanket. “Tell me about it. I’m starting to think I’ve forgotten what you look like in person.”

She lets out a small laugh, but there’s a seriousness in her eyes that lingers. “Not for long, though.”

Your brow furrows, and before you can ask what she means, she shifts slightly, glancing at something off-camera. When she looks back, there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, you know?” she starts, her tone soft but full of intent. “About what you said. About how we’ve been drifting. I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want to keep waiting for ‘tomorrow’ to fix things. I want to make it better now.”

Your heart speeds up, her words sinking in. “Alexia, I—”

“I’m coming home,” she interrupts, her voice steady and sure. “Tomorrow. No more delays, no more excuses. I’ve talked to the team, and I’m taking a break for a few days. I just want to be with you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Wait—tomorrow?”

She nods, a small, almost sheepish smile playing on her lips. “Yeah. I’ll be there by the afternoon. I know it won’t fix everything, but… I miss you. I need to be with you. We can figure the rest out together.”

The rush of emotion that washes over you is overwhelming. For so long, you’ve been holding onto the idea of her coming back, but it always felt like something just out of reach. And now, hearing her say it—hearing her make this promise—it feels real in a way that fills your chest with warmth.

“You’re really coming home?” you whisper, almost afraid to believe it.

“I am,” she says softly. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat, tears prickling at your eyes. “I think I can make room for you.”

Alexia’s smile widens, and there’s a lightness in her expression that you haven’t seen in weeks. “Good. Because I’ve missed your cooking. And I’m pretty sure I left one of my hoodies at your place, and I want it back.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a joy bubbling in your chest that you can’t contain. “I’ll think about it.”

The conversation continues, lighter now, filled with soft laughter and quiet jokes. For the first time in a long time, it feels easy again. The weight of the distance, the uncertainty, all of it starts to melt away as you talk about nothing and everything. The connection between you feels stronger, more tangible, and you hold onto it, refusing to let go.

When the call ends, the apartment feels a little less lonely. You curl up in bed, her promise echoing in your mind, and for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep with a smile on your face.

The apartment feels warm the next day, glowing with a soft light from the fading afternoon sun that streams through the windows. It’s quiet, save for the gentle crackle of the vinyl spinning on the record player in the corner. You’d put it on earlier, a song that holds so many memories between the two of you. The room smells faintly of vanilla and clean linen, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a stillness in the air that brings peace instead of loneliness.

Alexia stands in front of you, her hand in yours, as you both sway softly to the rhythm of the song. You catch her eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she pulls you closer, her other hand settling against the small of your back.

Neither of you says anything. You don’t need to.

There’s a tenderness in the silence between you now, a shared understanding that doesn’t need words. The conversation you’d had—the raw, vulnerable honesty—has left you both feeling lighter, like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. And now, with her here, the familiar melody wrapping around you, everything feels right in a way it hasn’t for so long.

The song playing is slow and melodic, each note weaving through the room like it was made for this moment, for you and her. The kind of song you’d listened to on lazy Sunday mornings, back when time wasn’t something you worried about. Before the distance.

Alexia tightens her hold on you, her body pressing close as her forehead rests against yours. The gentle brush of her skin sends a shiver through you, but not from cold—from the quiet intensity of the moment, the electricity humming between you. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve felt this close to her, not just physically but emotionally.

You close your eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of her—something warm and soft, like home. The vinyl’s soft crackle and the quiet strumming of the guitar fill the air, creating a cocoon around you both.

“I missed this,” Alexia whispers, her breath brushing against your lips, her eyes still closed. “Just being here with you. Like this.”

Your heart swells at her words, and you lean into her, pressing your face into the curve of her neck. “I missed this too,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, the emotions threatening to spill over.

For a while, you just sway like that, foreheads pressed together, hands resting on each other’s bodies. It’s a slow dance, the kind you fall into when time doesn’t matter, when the only thing that exists is the warmth of her touch and the steady rhythm of her breathing. The world outside feels distant, like it can’t reach you here, in this small bubble of peace you’ve found together.

The song shifts slightly, a new verse playing, and Alexia’s hand slowly slides up your back, her fingers tracing a path up to your shoulder before she gently lifts your chin to meet her gaze. Her eyes are soft, deep brown pools filled with something you haven’t seen in a while—a kind of certainty, a promise that she’s here, and she’s not leaving.

“I’m sorry for everything,” she says, her voice barely a whisper between the notes. “For making you feel like I was slipping away. I never meant to.” Her words are quiet but heavy, carrying the weight of all the moments that had felt so distant, so full of silence.

You shake your head softly, your forehead brushing against hers as you do. “We both made mistakes,” you reply, your voice gentle but firm. “But we’re here now, right? We’re fixing it.”

She nods, a small, grateful smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, we are.”

The music continues to fill the room, the crackling of the vinyl blending with the soft melody of the song. Alexia’s arms wrap around you fully, pulling you against her chest, and you let your hands rest on her waist, fingers lightly tracing the fabric of her shirt.

Her breath slows, and for a moment, you can feel the beat of her heart through her chest, steady and sure, like it’s syncing with the rhythm of the song. There’s something so intimate about this—no grand gestures, no need for words—just the quiet presence of being with each other, of knowing that after everything, after all the distance and the doubts, you’ve both chosen to stay.

As the song winds down, the notes fading into the background, you look up at her, catching her gaze again. There’s a softness there, a vulnerability that mirrors your own, and before you can think twice, you lean in and press your lips to hers. It’s a slow, lingering kiss, full of all the unsaid things that have been building between you for so long. A kiss that speaks of forgiveness, of love, of the quiet promise that you’re not letting go.

When you pull back, Alexia’s smile is small but real, her fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I love you,” she whispers, the words full of warmth and certainty.

“I love you too,” you reply, the weight of the words settling comfortably between you, like they’ve found their rightful place again.

The vinyl spins to a stop, the quiet crackle filling the room as the music fades. But neither of you moves. You stay wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying gently to the rhythm of a song only the two of you can hear. The city outside hums with life, but in this moment, it’s just you and her, dancing in the quiet, letting the world melt away.

Alexia leans her forehead against yours again, her eyes closing as she holds you close. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers softly, the words like a promise.

And as you stand there together, wrapped in each other’s warmth, you know that this is what love is—messy, complicated, sometimes painful, but always worth fighting for. You tighten your hold on her, your fingers brushing her back as you sway gently to the silence.

Right now, in this moment, everything feels like it’s falling into place. And it’s enough.

-

Note: I've been experimenting with a new writing style that uses a lot more words than I typically do. l'd love to know if this is the kind of writing you'd like to see more of in the future.

[impish-baby]

heyo! Request here! Maybe you can do like a hero caretaker with a sidekick? So basically the sidekick is a beginner and gets hurt during battle and the hero becomes super over protective? (Also maybe like a sibling relationship or something?) Sorry if it’s too specific, and you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to! Make sure to drink water, ear so healthy delicious food and gets lots of sleep! Love your work!

-🐠 Anon (can I be 🐠 anon if that cool with you?)

Superheros.. (trigger warnings: heavy violence!! Creepy behavior, gas lighting, drugging)

You don't think the low level villian is recognizable anymore. They don't even look like a person. What was once their face is a bloody pulp, features blurring together in a mess of tissue and broken cartilage. Your mentor is still towering over them, snapping their fingers one by one methodically.

It's terrifying. You idolized Cyrus, looked up to him. He was the one who made you want to start hero work in the first place. This isn't what a hero is. Cyrus is just being cruel now, no sign of the man you've come to think of as a brother as he smirks when the person lying on the ground groans in pain. You should do something. Even if they're a villain, they don't deserve this.

But you can't. Body paralyzed with fear as you stare wide-eyed at the scene playing out before you helplessly. You feel almost numb, static ringing in your ears, the sound of bones crunching still evident until it suddenly silences.

You don't even notice when Cyrus moves, not until he's right in front of you. There's only warmth in his gaze as he smiles at you and only horror in yours. "Aw, I'm sorry, kiddo.." The hero pulls you into his arms, blood from his hands smearing onto your costume. "That must have been scary, huh? Don't worry, they can't hurt you anymore.."

Like he wasn't the one you're scared of?!

Cyrus hums, pulling away only to cup your face with utmost care. "I know, I know, you're a big kid that could've handled it.." He rolls his eyes fondly, paying no mind to your lack of response. "What do you expect me to do? I'm your big brother even when we're in uniform.."

You blink dumbly, unable to utter a word, the shock of everything becoming a crushing weight on your chest. "Let me see the owie, ok?" Cyrus murmurs, guiding you to sit before kneeling in front of you. The injury is barely anything, a cut along your thigh that at most needs to be bandaged-

"Ow.." He hisses with a wince, "that'll need stitches, kiddo.."

What? "I can do them, so you don't have to go to the hospital. I'll bring you home a treat after for being brave!" Cyrus ruffles your hair, dismissing your stuttered protests with a laugh. "Hey, I've been doing this for how long? I've been hurt way more than you, kid. Do you think I can't tell when something is serious or not?"

He.. he does know more than you. He's seen so much more combat, come back home with hundreds of injuries. Cyrus would know. You're lifted into his arms when you don't say anything more, the hero taking flight with you cradled to his chest.

The medicine he offers you once you're set down on your bed is foreign. It doesn't look like ibuprofen or Tylenol, there's not even an identifying mark, they're just blank. "It'll be easier if you're asleep." Cyrus hums, already holding a glass of water to wash the pills down. "You've seen me get stitches just fine, but I've built up a pain tolerance for years. You won't want to be awake, sweetheart."

They taste sickly sweet, the water doing nothing to help wash out the taste. "Good kid.." Cyrus presses a light kiss to your forehead, "You know I love you, right?" The dots lining your vision take over before you can even manage to respond. Cyrus doesn't mind, slipping the power suppressor over your wrist with a content hum.

(a/n: Thank you for being so kind, Anon!! And yes, you can have that tag! I hope this was ok ^^)

[bwskj]

Keeping You Safe…

leon kennedy x reader r18 smut:

synopsis | leon kennedy, a government agent ordered to rescue you, keeps you safe while waiting for the storm to die down in an old abandoned cottage.

tags l backstory, rough, intimacy, cream🥧, soft

word count: 6763

fic is mine alone, no repost~

—— enjoy! ——

The sky is dark and thunder echoes from high above. Hands over your ears, you follow the steps of the agent sent to rescue you, jumping every time he shoots or knifes one of the monsters along the way. Uneasy, you take a look behind you, but thankfully there’s nothing and nobody there.

The sound of static pulls you back ahead of you. Leon is holding a talking device close to one side of his face. “Yea, like I have any other choice. I’ll give you an update when I find one.” There’s a pause while the person on the other end replies. No matter how hard you try to pick out the sound, the wind and rustle of leaves overpower the callers voice. “I’ve been doing this job for years. You don’t have to tell me again… Copy that. Condor one out.”

Though shivering and slightly numb, you muster up some strength to close the small distance between you and Leon. “What’s happening?”, you ask.

“Chopper can’t land because of the incoming storm. We’ve gotta find some place to stay and wait. Come on, just stay close behind for now.”

Your stomach twists when you hear this. How long do you have to endure this?! How long do you have to be afraid? You watch as Leon carefully treads the path, hands gripping around his revolver, ready for any enemy. It surely is going to rain soon, you think, as you look up at the sky which seems even darker now than earlier.

Luckily, as the both of you slowly made your way down the path, there weren’t as many monsters needed to be dealt with. They were mostly alone too so Leon was able to easily sneak up to them and stab them in the throat. An old wooden and stone cottage soon entered your sights, and for a second you feel relief. You’ve been running from monsters for a long while. At least you’ll be able to get some rest.

Leon tells you to stand still, and so you do, arms now wrapped around yourself. You watch as he goes around the house, checking to make sure there weren’t any monsters lurking nearby. When he cleared the property, he went up to the front porch. Once again positioning his handgun, he slowly opens the door to check the inside. The moment Leon’s body vanishes in the house, fear starts to bubble up within you. But it isn’t long until the door opens wider and Leon comes out.

“It’s safe. Come in.” He says, gesturing with a nudge of his head.

You don’t wait a second before you’re making your way up the porch and into the cottage. It’s definitely much warmer in here so you loosen the tight grip you have around yourself. There’s a musty smell to it but it’s probably because of the wet wood. There’s a table, a sofa chair, a chimney, a sink, a bed… everything a human would need to live decently, except there was no more human living in it.

“Make yourself at home,” Leon says, waving over to whatever still exists in the house.

“It’s not your home,” you say.

“Well, finders keepers.”

You sigh, which seems to help warm you up even more. Leon’s making some noises again and when you turn to look, he’s busy rummaging through his things on one of the work benches.

Walking over, you peer from behind him and watch as he starts mixing some ingredients together. “What’s that?” You ask.

“Medicinal herbs,” he replies, “If you mix them they become more potent and effective.”

He stuffs the mixed vials back into storage. Then, he takes some other stuff and starts forging them together. “And that?” You can’t help but ask.

Leon huffs a sigh. You think he might be getting annoyed, but he replies, “I’m making more ammo. In case, they get in here.”

You freeze up and from his peripheral, Leon notices. “And for the journey ahead,” he adds, “Don’t worry. I won’t let them hurt you.”

Unfortunately, his words don’t reassure you. Instead your stomach turns even more, now with a growing guilt. You’re helpless, just a maiden in need of rescuing.

“Do you think, maybe, you can give a me a gun to use?”

“Just keep doing your thing, princess. I don’t want to have to worry about being accidentally shot by the one im protecting.”

You grumble a, ‘im not that stupid’, under your breath but secretly you know Leon’s right to worry about that. And, princess? Really? You’re capable of handling yourself, to some extent. Surely, if only your opponent weren’t flesh eating monsters and cultish mutation-obsessed maniacs.

Leon turns to look at you after setting the ammunition he just made down on the table, “You should go get some rest. I’ll be awake so you can rest easy.”

Your eyes lift to look at his face. You’ve never been directly in front of him like this before. It’s also the first time you ever saw him clearly. You already knew he was a handsome man, just from his build alone, but even his face is good looking. Chiseled jaw, tall nose, and with sharp piercing eyes. Silver, almost overgrown, strands of hair frame the sides, which was probably why you never certainly saw his face. You flinch, spotting the still open gashes and scratches on his face.

“You’re hurt,” you start as your hand reaches up to his face. But Leon grabs your wrist, stopping you from going any further.

“I’m fine. I’ll be healed sooner than you think.” He lets go off your arm, but your limb still hangs in the air. Leon brings his attention around the room, looking for something that you can rest on. Again, you watch as he searches through drawers and cupboards until he finds a soft piece of cloth—for sleeping or for the table, you’re not sure.

“You can lay on these,” he points to some rice bags in the corner, “and use this to keep yourself warm,” he hands you the cloth he found.

“Thanks,” you manage to say. The cloth in your hands doesn’t feel as dusty as you thought it would. It’s probably because it was kept shut in a cupboard. Might be even better to hide in a cupboard forever rather than face those monsters again, you think.

You walk over to the pile of empty rice sacks in the corner of the room. Those look dusty. You look back over at Leon but he’s back to being busy with his stuff again. As you crouch down and plop yourself onto the floor by the bags, you start to feel the exhaustion truly set in. Your feet and legs burned in soreness. Your shoulders drooped and your eyelids grew heavy. You lay on the sacks and you aren’t even able to fully cover yourself with the cloth before you fall into a deep sleep.

——

The monsters are heading towards you. And that powerful man, floating, he’s coming from the opposite way. And what are those? More of them screeching with what looks like tentacles sprouting from their heads.

You run, run as you fast as your legs can take you. But they are feeling sore and your heart can’t seem to catch up. You have to run, but you can’t breathe well. As you stumble, you take one look at your arm which terrifies you even more to your wits end. Your veins are turning a deathly black. It’s the mold.

“yn!”

Quickly, your head turns. “Leon!” You cry out.

Where is he? Where’s Leon? Your head feels like it’s spinning as you try to look around the fog and the hoards of scary things coming your way. His voice calling out to you echoes in every direction. You can’t find him.

Until you do, and he appears almost entirely consumed by the same mold as the one creeping up your arm. And all of a sudden, the monsters aren’t right behind you. They’re charging straight towards Leon, running right past you with a speed so quick that wind almost knocks you over. You know that he can no longer run.

“Wait, no! Leon!” Your cry is louder, clearly ringing in your ears this time, and your eyes snap awake. Breathing fast and heavy, your hands try to reach for your face but somebody else’s beat you to it. Leon is sitting next to you with a grip on your arm with one hand while the other is muffling out the sound of your voice.

“Hey, hey, shh it’s a dream. It’s a dream.” Your eyes twitch around until it finds the surprisingly soft gaze in Leon’s own pair as he holds you and your face in his hands.

As you quiet down, Leon slowly removes his hand from over your mouth. You start to gasp and hiccup, feeling tears welling in your eyes. “Leon…” you say and you throw your arms around his neck because you thought he had died just seconds ago. “You’re here.” You try to sniffle up your tears because you don’t want them to fall and wet Leon’s shirt.

“Of course, I’m here.” Leon says, pushing past his surprise at your sudden action of skinship. His arms which hung awhile in the air in hesitation, begin to softly pat and rub your back in an attempt to console you.

You hiccup some more, burying your face into Leon’s shoulder. There’s no way his shirt isn’t getting a little damp. His big hands rubbing on your back feel nice, and you can already feel your heart rate calming down.

“Don’t you ever think about yourself?” You mumble against him.

“What are you talking about?”

“In my dream… you were going to die. You had no chance. You were dead.”

You feel his chest rise and fall beneath you. “That’s not gonna happen. It’s my job to keep you safe until I get you home. I can’t do that if I’m dead.”

You pull your teary face away from his shoulder, looking straight into his determined eyes. Your heart skips a beat, you think. “You’re going to stay alive for the sake of this mission.”

“Yes, I don’t plan on failing any of my missions.”

You chew on the inside of your lip and stare at him before saying, “Promise you won’t die. Or get fatally injured. Or injured at all.”

Leon frowns, wondering where the hell these words are coming from. “I can’t promise that. What i can promise is that I’m going to get you home, no matter at what cost.”

This time it’s you who frowns. He can’t seem to stop thinking about fulfilling his mission and keeping you safe. But what about him? How is he faring with all these wounds and having to worry about himself and you at the same time?

Leon notices your stare spacing out so he knows you’re thinking about something. Are you still not reassured? “Try to get some more rest. The rain hasn’t stopped,” he says.

It’s only now you notice the strong pitter

patter of rain outside. The wind blows as equally intense. “I can’t,” you say, because you’re scared the nightmare will happen again and you’re scared that when you wake up, the nightmare would have come true while you were sleeping.

You stare at your hand that is resting close to Leon’s chest, now only realizing how close the two of you are. It’s been a while with the both of you like this and Leon’s hand is still on your back. Does he have no intention of pulling away? Suddenly, your heart feels warm, not only because of Leon’s body heat creeping over to you but because he most definitely cares. He’s intent on keeping you safe.

“Thank you, Leon… for doing all this.” You position your head on his chest this time. Before he could open his mouth to tell you that it’s his job, you continue, “I know my father paid you to do this, but still… it must be difficult.”

You feel him breathe deep again. “You’re welcome,” he says, and you smile softly to yourself.

For a while, the both of you sit still and close. The rain continues to pour outside but you both can hear each other’s breathing. It’s so calming you can almost forget the nightmare you just had. You take a large breath in; Leon smells like dirt—the good kind. You watch, hypnotized, as your finger draws small imaginary circles on Leon’s shirt. When falling out of the trance, you shift your head up to check on how Leon is doing.

He isn’t looking at you or particularly anywhere. His expression is the same cold one he usually wears, but he appears less guarded and distressed. The cuts on his face are still open but he’s wiped off the dried blood and dirt surrounding them. He huffs out another deep sigh. You lightly frown before saying, “Are you comfortable like this?”

Leon’s gaze flicks over to you. You realize you’re so close to him you can even notice the slight twitch at the front of his brow.

He clears his throat, takes his hand off your back, and moves you off him. “Rest. I should get back to keeping watch.”

He pushes himself off the floor leaving you on the ground. Not even a few seconds of him away from you and you feel a shiver run through you. “Wait, don’t go!” You say, grabbing onto his leg because that’s the farthest you could reach. “Did you not like it?”

Facing you, he looks at your hand grasping his pant leg and then back to your concerned face. “I need to stay alert for our safety.”

Your eyes fall to the ground, but you don’t let go of him just yet. You look at his pants and catch sight of his pockets. “Can’t you just keep watch while you’re beside me. You have a gun in your pocket anyways.”

“Gun? I don’t have any with me right now. They’re all on the workbench.”

Huh? You think, and your head snaps up to look at him… then down to his pockets. That is not a… gun?

“I’ll just be by the door,” Leon says and he starts to move to step away. You’re clinging on strong, however, and you try again, “No! Just bring a gun with you here and stay here. Please, I still don’t feel safe being by myself.”

“I will only be a few feet away,” Leon states, like that isn’t obvious.

“Still…” you mumble, “you know what i mean.”

Leon sighs for the nth time and gives you a disapproving stare before saying, “You’re really a princess, aren’t you?”

You open your mouth to argue but Leon tugs his leg away (apparently you weren’t holding strong enough), grabs a rifle gun and revolver from the workbench, and tosses it on the floor beside you. In seconds, he’s back on the ground with his back leaned on the wall. “Better?” He says with those sharp eyes again.

You feel a blush heat up your cheeks. You didn’t think he’d actually give in… and without much argument. You stayed sitting upright, however. You aren’t sure if you could just resume the position the both of you were in earlier. Leon’s squinting out the window on the opposite end of the room. He sure is keeping watch.

Then a shiver runs up your body again. It must be the rain making the air so cold. You take your makeshift blanket and put it around yourself, eyeing Leon as he grabs his weapons and starts pulling some levers and fitting pieces of metal in.

With him busy, you keep on looking. At first, you were locked on the sight of his arms, a vein peeking out whenever he exerts a certain amount of force. But then your eyes wander and it lingers at the thing you saw in his pants. That isn’t a gun, you remind yourself, and you feel a little bit of warmth wave over you for a second. It’s huge… or is it because he’s wearing tight pants. Something faintly pulses inside you and you bite on your cheek, knowing what it means.

You shiver again. The cold isn’t being fought off. You press your hands together, trying to eliminate the chill in your fingers.

Leon, noticing this, says, “Are you okay?” There he goes being concerned again.

“Yea, just…” your words trail off as Leon puts down his weapons and reaches for your arm under the cloth. His fingers run up and down your arm as he inspects for any sign of mold. You blush as his fingertips tingle on your skin. His hands are quite big too, probably almost twice as big as yours.

He looks up at your face. “Do you feel sick? You’re face is red,” his hand moves to check the temperature on your face. It’s warm alright. He takes your chin and moves your head up and around.

“What are you doing?” You say, finding it a bit too hard to keep a calm composure.

“Just checking,” He says.

He won’t seem to stop pushing your face in different directions, checking on and behind your neck, so you grab to stop his arm.

Something twitches on his face in what seems like surprise. “You’re cold,” he says, and he in turn takes your hand off his arm. He encloses both your hands around his, and almost immediately it warms your fingers up.

How is he so warm? He doesn’t even have a jacket on. “Don’t want you getting hypothermia,” he says, and you feel like scoffing. Great, another way you could die.

Just as he says this, you shiver for the third time, and you wonder if he noticed. Even if he did, he doesn’t say anything and sits still holding your hands in his. A shiver for the fourth time comes by, then, all of a sudden, Leon lets go, and he puts his arm around you to pull you close to him.

“Leon!” You exclaim in surprise.

“Just stay still if you want to warm up,” he says. With one hand wrapped around you rubbing heat, he fixes your blanket, making sure it’s covering you well, over your head, shoulders, and half your face. When he’s done, you’re snuggled up under the cloth and in Leon’s arms. For the first time in a while, you’re so comfortable.

Like this, you feel even more grateful for Leon. It’s like every part of you is warm now: your heart, your face, and your body. Leon’s still soothing you when he asks, “How is this?”

“Better,” you mumble into the cloth hovering over your mouth.

Leon sighs, and you think it sounds like one of relief. This would be the perfect time to fall asleep again, but for some reason your eyes won’t stay closed. Looking off in front of you, your sight is directed towards the floor, and how conveniently (lol) at Leon’s crotch. Is it just you or did it grow even bigger?

After a while more of staring, you come to the assumption that he is… hard. No man just exists with that big of a…

Leon clears his throat, causing u to jolt a little. You shift your head to look up at him. You seem to be looking up at him a lot of the time. The blanket on your head falls out of place.

You make eye contact, but you can’t tell what Leon is thinking. The both of you hold your gaze until it’s been too long and a tension snaps you both out of it. Your eyes fall back down, and you think… maybe, if he would like…

“Leon,” you say, and your hand thats all warmed up peeks out of the cover of your blanket. It hovers lightly somewhere on Leon’s chest. ��Could I, maybe, show you how thankful I am?” Your finger lands on his chest, and slowly, cautiously, you start tracing a random path down his torso. His stomach softly rises and falls.

You don’t dare to look up to see Leon’s reaction just yet. But surely he knows what you mean, right? And you know he can stop you if he doesn’t want this.

“Show me?” You hear his voice, low, almost like he’s hesitant to speak.

You get to the end of his shirt, your fingers lightly picking at his belt. The bulge in his pants is only inches away from your touch. Your heart beat is speeding up with every second that passes in which Leon hasn’t pushed you away.

Mustering up courage, you pull your face up to meet his eyes again. Leon is staring back, and you try desperately to tell him what you mean with your own. You notice Leon shift his jaw, exhaling a breath through parted lips. You bite down on your lower lip as you start to feel that pulse again. He still isn’t moving away.

It’s now or never. You push yourself up with the hand on Leon’s belt, and it doesn’t take more than a second for you to lean in and put your lips on his. Your nerves freaking out at what you just did almost makes you yourself pull away but then Leon presses his mouth willingly onto yours and kisses you back.

He’s found a hold on your lower back as the two of you are kissing, the pulse inside growing stronger when you sense Leon’s obvious desire for your lips. His breaths in between every kiss is causing an electric feeling to run across your skin. It’s exciting you more that it really should. Well, this all shouldn’t be happening in the first place, but how can you stop yourself now.

Like Leon magically heard your thoughts, he pulls himself away. You guess it’s because he’s thinking exactly about that. “This,” his chest rises and falls quick as he tries to catch his breath, “We shouldn’t be… your father is not going to like this—“

“Of course he won’t,” you quickly say, “But why would we even tell him.” You don’t want to make it out to be but you’re desperate to feel him again.

“You’re my client.” He says with a frown. Who is he trying to convince?

“No, my dad is your client,” You reply, “I’m… I’m the one you’re trying to keep safe.” You go to hold his face in your hands, meanwhile his stare is still unsure, so you say, “And I need you to make me feel safe… right now.”

You can feel his hand scratching lightly on your back. With the way he was kissing you, he must want this as much as you do.

“You feel unsafe,” he asks but it sounds like a statement.

“Very…” you almost whisper as you slowly lean back in. His hand on your back squeezes you lightly. “So kiss me”

There’s a spark in his eyes before he does, closing the gap in between both your lips. This time his kiss is stronger, as if he doesn’t wish to think about anything else anymore. He pulls you in even closer and his hands feeling you up brings a good shiver up your spine. As the both of you move to respond to one another’s lips, the blanket becomes a bother so Leon rips it away. Your skin is now only separated with the cloth of your fitted blouse.

You try to push yourself closer because he tastes exceptionally good and you want more. When you start to get up on your knees, still kissing him and playing with the hair at the back of his nape, you feel Leon hooking an arm below your thigh to lift you over and on his lap.

“Leon,” you gasp because you’re sitting on him, and you can feel his rock hard dick beneath you.

“Don’t worry,” Leon says as he starts to move his kisses to and under your jawline, “I’ll keep you safe.”

You can’t help but lean your head back so Leon can kiss you even more. Your fingers are intertwined with his silver locks just above his nape. You can’t stop either from starting to shift against him, especially when Leon’s teeth grazes your skin. He knows what he’s doing, you think as you feel yourself flush in warmth, because as aggressive as he was from the start, his touch on you is also gentle and careful.

Leon’s hand slips under the back of your blouse, inching towards the clasp of your bra. It rests on top of it and you anticipate it to come loose, but it doesn’t and you look down at Leon, though all you see is hair.

Thinking he’s wary, you tell him, “You can… take it off.”

That’s all Leon needs to hear and he unclasps your bra with a tug and flick. Cool air seeps onto the skin under your shirt and you don’t even have time to gasp before Leon’s got hold of your breast.

“Ah, Leon,” you say, because Leon’s big hand feels warm and perfect on your cool chest. He squeezes and his mouth on your neck kisses you like he has to make sure he’s got every spot.

You can’t hold back any longer and your intently moving your hips against his big boner. There’s a low growl from Leon and you feel the vibrations of the sound on your skin. He grabs you from behind your neck and puts his lips back on your mouth. When he caresses the surrounding skin around your nipple, a louder moan accidentally slips from your lips. With your mouth opening, Leon takes advantage, trying to kiss deeper and on your tongue.

Noticing that you particularly liked that, Leon continues to play with the center of your breast. You’re breaths grew more ragged the gentler he touched you. When your lips disconnect to take a moment to breathe, you can’t take any more of Leon’s shallow teasing.

Grabbing onto Leon’s wrist under your shirt, you push his hand onto your chest, your nipple sitting in between his 2 longest fingers. “More,” you breath out.

You gasp as Leon listens, touching you there more purposely. Your back straightens as you try to push your chest closer to his hand while your clothed cunt still rubs on his erection. With eyes closed, pleasure courses through your whole body and you can already feel yourself dripping wet in your pants. You want to get them off.

You open your eyes, and look at Leon. His gaze is locked on you while you breathe heavily and rock back and forth on him. Somehow, him looking at you like this made you feel even better, and even when you close your mouth, you can barely stop the moans from sounding out.

“Ha..” Leon exhales, his hand that found it’s way to your waist squeezes the side of your stomach. You only notice now how his own breathing is rough too. He’s definitely feeling good.

“Leon,” you call his name again because just saying it alone feels amazing.

“yn.” hearing your name in that breathy voice of his makes your stomach flip. You feel Leon put pressure on your waist, likely trying to bring you closer to his dick. This is enough to drive you crazy.

“Leon, I can’t,” you say, “I need…” you don’t know how to say it.

“What yn?” Leon lightly puts his face in your neck again. You feel him breathe you in.

“I… I need you inside me,” hearing yourself actually say it out loud felt insane.

Leon exhales, “Take this off?” He runs his finger in between the rim of your pants and your soft tummy skin.

“Mm,” you move to work quickly with your zipper but you can’t get the button out. Leon helps you with that and you kneel up a bit to get your pants off.

“Is it cold?” Leon says as you sit back down, his big hands running over your exposed thighs.

“No, it’s okay.” You kiss him before he could worry even more.

Leon gladly reciprocates, trying to get his tongue in your mouth again. Leon’s hand on your thigh moves it’s way to your front. He softly circles your clit over your wet panties and you moan, feeling more of your juice spill out.

You grind, this time seeking more pleasure from his hand. “More,” you whisper on his lips.

Leon scoffs as he pulls away to look at you. “Needy, princess.” Surprised, you’re about to say something in retort, but then he slips his hand down your panties and his fingers start touching your bare pussy, and you forget what you want to say.

“You’re so wet,” Leon says under his breath. At this point, you think you might actually go crazy. Your moans start to sound more like needy whimpers the more Leon lingers only outside your pussy lips. You push your cunt down onto his hand and he knows you can’t wait any longer.

Leon is immediately able to put two fingers in. You gasp as it shoots right at your g spot. “Ah fuck,” you let out as Leon starts moving his fingers in a circle inside you. Gripping onto his broad shoulders, you steady yourself as he then pulls his fingers out before pushing it up inside you again. As he finger fucks you like this, you can’t control your moans, and you’re quite out of it that you don’t realize Leon focused on your lewd expressions and subtly rubbing himself outside his pants with his free hand.

The longer he fucks you the more you feel your muscles relaxing, and soon, even clenching against his fingers didn’t make you feel as filled up as you like. Your g spot feels good with every thrust of his fingers but you know you need more.

“Leon,” you ride on his fingers and go to kiss his neck this time. “It’s not enough,” you mumble, because you might be starting to feel shy.

“I need you… inside me,” your hand feels behind you until it meets his hand which has been palming his own boner. The cloth on this part is damp from precum.

Leon, alarmed, pulls you off his neck to look at you. “I… don’t have contraception.”

“I don’t care,” you say, and it’s mostly true. How do you tell him it’s even better for you when it’s raw and pounding inside you? How do you tell him you might be fine with risking it just to know how it feels to have his hard and big dick filling you up.

“This isn’t…” Leon starts, and you know he’s trying so hard to hold back.

“Please,” you say, giving him your most persuasive pair of eyes as you start softly palming his hard on in his pants, “Please fuck me.”

“You always get what you want, don’t you.”

You shyly look away because he’s right, being a daughter of a high official, you’re used to things going your way. You’re not that surprised when Leon starts unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants. You blush as you watch him do so underneath you, flushed as red and as excited.

“I’m going to fuck you then since you want it so bad,” he says and he lifts your body up with one hand, surprising you with how easily he does so, before slipping your panty to the side and positioning his raw cock right at your entrance.

You don’t have time to say anything as he helps you fit his cock inside. You can only gasp and shake when you realize the size and length of what was about to fuck you.

“Fuck,” Leon moans and you say “shit” as well because how the hell does it feel like there’s three fingers inside you. When you push down and his dick hits the end of your pussy, you exclaim and Leon has to put his hand over your mouth again.

“Quiet,” Leon shudders, “They might hear us.”

Suddenly, you remember the reality you are in. You’re not fucking Leon in a safe place. You were just running from mutated monsters hours ago. What would happen if one of them came in here while this was happening? Your heart rate speeds up at the thought, but you can’t keep it there as you get distracted every time Leon’s dick hits deep inside you again.

You continue this slow and steady pace of riding his cock. Just a bit more up and downs and you know you’ll get used to it. You breathe shakily as his thick member stimulates the nerves on your walls.

“You’re squeezing tight,” Leon exhales.

“N-no,” you stutter, “you’re just big.”

“Are you okay?” He asks in between heavy breaths, sweeping a strand of hair away from your face.

You nod, “I’m okay. It… It feels good, Leon.”

Just like you thought, it’s starting to become easier along the way, and before you know it, you were heading towards bouncing up and down his dick. As much as you try to keep your moans down, it was difficult since Leon is filling you even better than you thought he would. Every time you think he’s hit the deepest part, the next stroke goes even deeper. Though after a while, your pace starts to slow down. The position you are in is starting to bother you.

“Leon.”

“Do you need help?” he asks. Can he actually read your mind? You give him a nod and he grabs you by your waist again. “Lean on me,” he tells you. You lean forward wrapping your arms around his neck before kissing him softly.

Leon starts moving on his own, pushing his whole length into you. At first its slow, and you can keep most of your voice down. But he’s gradually speeding up, making sure to not leave any feeling of emptiness in your cunt while also directly hitting your gspot. It must be the position you two are in. The lack of rubber between your parts made Leon’s movements feel smooth and hot. Is this what heaven feels like?

“Fuck fuck fuck,” you mutter under your breath as he fucks you hard while squeezing and spreading your ass apart. It’s so good you can feel your eyes rolling back. It’s so much better than when you ride it on your own. Leon accompanies your moans with soft grunts and sharp exhales of air.

As you feel your muscles clench on his dick, you know you’re going to cum soon. Leon lifts up your shirt and puts his head under, finding your nipple and sucking on it. Caught off guard, you quickly cover your mouth with your own hand, muffling out the sound of a lewd moan.

“Fuck, Leon, I’m gonna cum,” you say in a loud whisper. Picturing in your mind how Leon’s dick pounding inside you would look like pushes you even more to the edge of an orgasm.

Hearing this Leon sucks and kisses on you harder, one hand going under to play with your other breast before going down to press below your stomach. Seconds later, you’re moaning messily into the palm of your hand when you orgasm all over Leon’s lap. As your legs quiver, you grab on tightly to Leon, the pleasure overwhelming you.

“Ha… Leon,” you say. Leon’s face appears from under your shirt, lips a little swollen and hair ruffled up. In what seems like a blink of an eye, Leon picks you up again, this time off his dick. He grabs both your arms with one hand and turns you around, before knocking you over to lay on your hands and knees.

“Hey! L-Leon!” You exclaim, as he pulls your panties down and shoves his cock back inside. “Ah!” You throw an arm over your mouth to shut yourself up.

“That’s right. Be a good girl and stay quiet.” Leon says, looming over you with every new thrust. “I’m not done.”

Just like that, pleasure shoots up through your cunt again. So good you can somehow feel it in your stomach. Your cum made fucking even easier and you can hear the slap of his skin and the clang of his belt against you. ‘Fuckk, Leon’ you drawl against your arm, saliva heavily wetting it.

Leon groans as he grabs on to the back of your neck. At this point, you’re not even sure if he remembers he’s fucking a person. But even if it’s for his own pleasure, you feel like your mind is in a haze. Dizziness passes by the harder he fucks you and you don’t even remember how many times you’ve come in the past 3 minutes. As far as you know, he hasn’t even slept. How does he still have this much energy?! In the back of your mind there’s an intrusive hought that thinks maybe you shouldn’t care anymore. Fuck those monsters. All you want is to let yourself freely express how good you feel.

“Fuck.. ah,” Leons voice is bordering on whimpering. You can feel him getting close by how hot it feels inside your pussy. “Shit.”

“Leon, nghmm… cum inside, please inside..” you’re a mumbling mess.

Leon unsure of what he heard, pulls you up from the floor by a big tug on your hair. He presses your back onto his chest and holds you as he slows his pace a bit.

“What did you say? You want me to cum inside?” Leon says right next to your ear. “Is that what you want? Is that why you were so desperate to be fucked raw? You don’t care what daddy will think, don’t you. You don’t mind if I cum inside and get you pregnant?”

Leon’s sudden and harsh attitude is so unexpected it turns you on drastically and you feel like cumming again. “I-I never…,” he squeezes your breast again as he kisses your shoulder.

Father will understand, you faintly think.

“Yes, Leon, please cum inside. Fill me up. I need it so bad.”

Leon turns you over for another time and lays your back on the floor. He interlocks his fingers with yours and pins your hand down by your head leaning in to kiss you again. You don’t think you’ll ever get sick of this.

Leon’s thrusts speed up back to his usual pace. He’s panting and groaning in between kisses. Eventually, his pleasure intensifies to a point that he cant even properly kiss you anymore. You cup his face with your free hand and look up at the sight of Leon’s flustered and pleasure filled expression.

“Gonna cum,” he says and he presses down on your stomach again. You gasp as whats left of another orgasm flows through you. You make sure to keep your eyes open to watch Leon as he finishes. When he does, his body jerks and he lets out a couple more short moans. You let out one of your own which merges into a sigh as you feel his member twitch inside yours and a warm liquid settles.

Leon slowly pulls himself out and plops down on the floor. He’s catching his breath. Meanwhile, you lay on the ground in a euphoric state, staring off at the ceiling as you feel his ejaculation drip out of you.

All you hear is soft rain from outside when static suddenly enters the air. “Hello, condor one, are you there? I repeat, condor one, do you hear me.”

Leons head flings towards the workbench. Scrambling to his feet and almost losing his balance, he tries to stuff his dick back into his pants before grabbing the talking device that was speaking.

“Yes, I’m here,” he says with a clear of his throat.

“Where have you been?! I’ve been trying to contact you for 30 minutes now!” The caller’s voice is so angry you can hear her from where you’re laying. “Please tell me you still have Blue Lily.”

“Yes, she’s here. We just… had a little trouble, but we’re fine,” the volume of the callers voice fades out, “and i’m fine, thanks for asking by the way,” he continues with a sarcastic tone.

“Okay, got it. We’ll be there as soon as possible… alright! 10 minutes… 7… Condor one out.”

A beep sounds and Leon puts the device down. “Come on, princess. I know you’re tired but aftercare has got to wait. We’ve got to get you out of here.”

——

a/n: thank u for reading! im still getting better at r18 fics so leave ur comments/criticisms <33

[alleiwentcrazy]

The point is, Steve can’t hear.

A person can get hit in the head only so many times before it takes effect and does permanent damage. Steve’s incessant claims that being in the front row when the fight breaks down does nothing to him, that he’s safe and alright as long as everyone else is, mean very little in the face of cold, evident facts.

His hearing isn’t intact. It takes him a while to adjust to this reality, but with the help of his friends, he eventually does. Thanks to Nancy’s fierce bullying of the government guys who come to Hawkins to assess the situation and cook up some half-assed excuse for everything that’s happened, Steve now has a small army of well-paid doctors that really seem to be eager to help. He also gets state-of-the-art hearing aids that, well—they work, but Steve’s range of possibilities is still quite narrow. Let a few people into the room, let them speak simultaneously and all he can hear is static, rustles and crackling.

But he’s pliant. He listens when Robin tells him they have to get in the car and hit the road to get to his appointment on time. He lets her help with inserting the aids properly on the days he’s just too impatient and too bugged about how they feel and look to even care if they help him hear. He’s not dismissing her enthusiasm when she starts learning sign language before he even gets a chance to discuss it as his option.

He’s doing a lot of things for her, even if they’re supposed to be important to him first. To be honest, these days it’s mostly doing things for Robin that keeps him going. He would have gone completely numb ages ago if it weren’t for her and her unique ways of picking up the severed pieces whenever he crumbles.

He’s also doing it for Dustin. If Robin is his twin sister, Dustin is the little brother he’s never had. And Dustin… It’s just been too rough on him. It’s been rough on everyone; how could it not be if the only thing they seem to be able to do is wait? Wait for the lab guys to figure out a way to end this. Wait for the panic to cease. Wait for Max to wake up.

Wait for the grief to pass.

They wait and wait, but it never stops—on the contrary, it brings fresh, equally unwanted feelings. They’re always there, lurking behind the corner like a kitten that wants to launch itself at an unsuspecting owner – only with them, there won’t be any playtime involved. Steve recognizes this feeling. It’s the same feeling he’d had in that Winnebago when he was dropping off Max, Lucas and Erica at Creel’s doorstep. An awful anticipation of doom waiting to happen.

He doesn’t like it. He’d like to find a way to do something about it, but he can’t seem to get to the core of it.

Maybe that’s why he thinks he’s hearing things when he really can’t be hearing them.

At first, Steve writes it off as him being paranoid. It happens only when he’s home by himself, so it’s the only logical explanation – he takes off his aids, he gets too attentive about his surroundings, right? He thinks he hears something, but it’s only his tired mind playing tricks on him.

Especially because what he hears are mostly usual, non threatening things. The sound of water running in the bathroom (he goes inside, everything is dry and quiet). The sound of kitchen drawers being opened (he goes to the kitchen, the cabinets are exactly the way he left them). The sound of cutlery being dropped on the floor (but he hasn’t even taken anything out in the first place).

He even gets used to it. Things happen, his brain is weird. It’s confusing, sure, but hasn’t he seen worse things? He definitely has.

But it doesn’t keep him away from sleeping with his bat perched on the side of the bed. If he sleeps at all, if a sudden sound of breaking glass doesn’t keep him awake until his morning shift with Robin, when he can finally leave this goddamn house and take his mind off of things.

Steve tries to ignore it. He really tries, but the point is—Steve can’t hear things like running water in the bathroom when his aids are off. Hell, he only makes it out if he focuses on it when they’re in, so why the heck can he hear it so well? Why are the sounds multiplying?

It goes on for weeks. He avoids the topic for as long as possible, trying to shoo away the obvious similarities between his house and the house that made him hate spiders and cringe at fireplaces not too long ago.

It gets a little too real on just some random Tuesday, when his kitchen positively explodes with sounds the second he gets the hearing aids off. Cabinet doors slam left and right, mugs fall to the floor and shatter, forks and spoons seem to be getting thrown around like ragdolls—but Steve sees nothing. He hears it, he hears it so loudly it hurts, the cacophony of noises he’s never even heard before, but his eyes register no proof of it. He curls down on the floor, expecting sharp glass pieces to cut his skin, but nothing happens. Nothing’s here.

He still covers his head, tucked away in the furthest corner of the kitchen, waiting for it to just stop, to leave him alone—

Steve doesn’t know how long it takes, but when it’s finally done, his knees are shaky and his breathing is ragged. He snatches his aids and takes off, straight to Robin’s house. He doesn’t even lock the door, a thing his parents would kill him for if they knew.

It’s the first time he explains everything to her. It would be hard not to, because she sees right through him. His panicked, restless eyes are enough indication of things not being right.

“Maybe, uh—I think I’ve read something about hearing loss and auditory hallucinations? That they happen, sometimes, especially if the loss of hearing is sudden?” she says, already flipping through her notebook where she keeps all Steve-related stuff and pacing around the room with enough force to make a hole in the carpet.

Steve’s not convinced. “It seems pretty real to me,” he mumbles and frowns. “But that’s the point of it, right?”

Robin shrugs. He notices that she has a small set of wrinkles around her eyes. Steve looks at them for a second in total disbelief. They already have some worry wrinkles, and they’re not even well into their twenties.

He’s gonna lose all his precious hair in a span of months if this doesn’t stop.

*

They decide to bring it up during his next appointment, still hoping that it’ll maybe go away on its own. Robin tries to make him get a consult straight away (what if it is rabies after all, Steve, like a really really really weird, belated presentation of rabies?), but he waves it off. The option of hallucinations doesn’t soothe his nerves, but as long as it’s not a chiming clock, he can avoid confronting it for a while longer.

It doesn’t go away, though. Steve can’t quite pinpoint it, but it almost feels like—well, it obviously doesn’t feel like it’s real enough to be real. But there’s something that accompanies the sounds, the lack of evidence, the missing of this ominous feeling that Creel’s house inflicted on him.

The sounds—it feels like they bear a presence. Steve’s still scared and gets spooked by them whenever they happen, but he’s no longer truly afraid of them.

Some of them are even comforting. The sound of his pillow being fluffed up before he gets to bed, the sound of pen scratching on paper whenever he leaves his journal open on the desk, the whooshing sound of a lighter being opened and closed – they all make this eerie place his parents have left him a little less empty.

He rarely lets himself think about it that way. He may be a little kooky, but admitting that he’s lonely enough to find hallucinations comforting would be way too much to handle at the moment.

So Steve can’t hear, but he learns to accept the fact that, apparently, sometimes he can. He doesn’t know how it works—to be quite honest he doesn’t know a lot about experiencing hearing loss at all, despite now being hard of hearing himself—but it just makes its place in his life.

He thinks about it a lot, but he tries not to overthink it too hard. It just happens. Things fall to the floor in his house, curtains get torn, the fridge gets opened frequently. He just can’t see it. His mind hears it, but his eyes don’t get the memo. He lives for longer than a week. It’s probably a good sign; nothing’s going to make his bones snap in two now, probably. Hopefully.

Things change suddenly.

Steve tries to spend as much time with Dustin as possible. Between work, his appointments and Robin, Dustin, Max and the kids are his top priority. He doesn’t think he would be able to function if he let himself take a breath and step down from his piled up responsibilities that he chose to take on himself. They keep him together. They keep him going.

Besides, Mrs. Henderson gets really worried. Sometimes it’s just better for Dustin to stay with Steve, and Steve is more than happy to be with him, even though it seems that Dustin doesn’t really like his cold house either.

It’s one of Dustin’s quiet days. He gets them, sometimes—Steve knows that trying to get him to talk on one of those days is a lost cause, and his ears are killing him. He was in such a hurry this morning he didn’t take the time to put the aids in properly. Work was overflowing with people, too, so now his temples are throbbing from trying to pick up the chatter from the static. Seriously, how is it possible that people still spend so much time watching movies in the face of almost-apocalypse, Steve doesn’t know.

“Would you mind if I took my aids off for a while?”

“Go ahead,” Dustin mumbles, bending over his new book.

Something flips inside Steve’s chest. He knows it’s not supposed to be like that, it’s unlike Dustin to be so… not himself. But what can Steve do? He can’t make him talk. He can just wait, nothing else.

He gets up to leave his aids on the counter and pour himself some coffee. He should probably start making dinner soon, but he decides to take a few peaceful sips first.

It’s weird. To sit with Dustin Henderson, of all people, without a single word. Steve glances at him every once and again, but Dustin either ignores him or genuinely forgets that he’s there.

Steve’s so deep in his thoughts about Dustin, he doesn’t even look to the side when a sudden sound of kitchen chair toppling over cuts through the silence. His eyes are trained on the kid.

Who flinches. And frowns. Steve can swear that he fights the urge to look around.

Each and every chair Steve keeps in the kitchen is standing where he placed them in the morning after breakfast. Nothing real has happened. But Steve heard it. And, apparently, Dustin did too.

Steve’s brain is working overtime for the rest of the evening, and he desperately tries not to show any of it. He’s jumping into conclusions. It was an accident; dumb luck. It’s nothing. He’s working himself up, nonsensically.

But it doesn’t feel like it’s nothing. It was only one chair, one sound, but the feeling that accompanied it was strong. Too strong to be nothing.

He waits to drop Dustin off at home like he’s on pins and needles, fumbling with his fingers and keys and pacing around. Maybe it’s better that it’s one of Dustin’s quiet days, he mostly gets away with it, getting only a few side glances.

When gets back home, it’s late, but he’s buzzing with anticipation nonetheless. He can finally do something. He discards his aids haphazardly, not nearly as carefully as he should, and starts running around the house. The house his parents built is huge—but the kitchen turns out to be quite small when he’s finally done with arraying at least a dozen lamps there. He has to raid three of his father's garages to get enough extension cords.

When he turns them on all at once, he has to take a step back and shut his eyes, because it’s too much light.

Just the right thing he needs.

His heart is beating so fast he can almost feel it ramming against his ribs. That’s about how far he’d thought this plan through.

“Come on,” he says and clears his throat, trying to gauge how his voice may really sound now. He repeats himself, hoping that it’s louder this time.

Nothing happens for a while, but he knows he’s close. The feeling is here. The presence that hasn’t left him in months. It’s here.

Steve walks around the kitchen, moves the lamps a little, shakes some of them. His hands are clammy and it feels like he’s chewed through his cheek at this point, but he can wait. He’s waited for a long time. He can wait a while longer.

When the microwave beeps, he stops breathing for a second.

Until it beeps again. And again.

“Oh god,” he breathes. He doesn’t know if he speaks clearly or not, he doesn’t even care. “Come on, show me that it’s you. Come on, come on—”

The lamp furthest to the left starts blinking, slowly at first. Then the one next to it, then another one, and another one, like someone’s walking around and making them flicker one by one.

They’re blinking so much one of the bulbs goes out. Steve doesn’t hear it hiss, so he knows it went out here, now. He knows it’s real.

“Oh god,” his hand goes to his mouth. His eyes are weirdly itchy. “Oh god, is it really you, Eddie?”

The lamp directly in front of Steve goes wild. When he reaches out, it’s almost like he can touch the presence that’s here with him.

And it’s Eddie. Eddie’s here with him.

[sunlightmurdock]

Operation Apollo | 3.0 | Jake Seresin x Reader

previous chapter | epilogue | masterlist

Synopsis: After a threat is made against her life, the President’s grown up daughter gets her security tripled. Her long term detail is about to retire and needs replacing, only — she isn’t the easiest to work with. Ex-Navy and current Secret Service, Jake Seresin is devoted to being the best at everything he does. He isn’t going to let a bratty little girl cost him this job.

Warnings: age gap, power imbalance, enemies to lovers, danger and angst, manipulation, sucky parents, grief and manipulation, lying, distressing themes throughout but especially towards the end of the chapter. Graphic violence, dangerous situations, inaccurate injuries, major character death revenge, wc: 3.8k

There’s no rush to open your eyes. The ache and throb, and painful dryness of your lips brings you no respite from the way things had been before you had fallen asleep. Blacked out. Whatever you want to call it— it hadn’t helped. 

Your nose wrinkles at something offensive. Sterile and sharp smelling. Wrinkling it comes with a crunch, and sharp pain. There’s a dry feeling in your nostrils where old blood still sits. 

The smell is chemical, antiseptic. It’s so strong smelling through all of that blood and pain that it forces your eyes open. That’s worse. That hurts more. Fluorescents above you. You’re left with no choice but to squeeze them shut again— and the sudden realization that you’re not where you were before, at all.

There’s no hard, painful metal chair holding your weight. The burden of being held now falls to something much softer, so soft that it feels like you’re sinking into it like sand. It doesn’t hurt much less. 

Your legs hurt, a prickling static feeling. Your ass hurts from however long you were sitting there like that. Your back hurts, a numb and stiff feeling. You attempt to turn your head and your neck reminds you suddenly not to overlook it— a gasp tears from your mouth and makes your lungs burn almost as much as your bruised throat.

Two voices say your name at once. A chair scrapes across the ground, two sets of shoes hit the floor. People are coming. The gasp, despite your burning throat’s protests, becomes a choked whimper. 

“Don’t— Don’t touch her,” Allen. You’re dreaming again, just like you had been when you heard Jake’s voice. “Maybe we should get the doctor.” 

You try once again. The bright, blinding white stuns your sore, unadjusted eyes. You squint through it, determined as ever. Allen’s weathered face steadies and becomes more clear. His mouth hangs open, watching your bruised face start to move with recognition.

“Stay still, sweetheart, don’t move.” He’s speaking to you. He lifts his hand and reaches. His fingers extend towards you and your skin comes alive, buzzing with electricity like you’re being shocked as you tear back from his extended palm.

He winces as you cough out a choked cry, doubling over in pain from the sudden movement. 

“Doctor Owens?— Doctor Owens!” Your mother. Her voice is further away, growing in urgency. She’s barely recovered herself. She shouldn’t have come.

The monitor beside your bed beeps wildly as your heart rate kicks into another spike, and footfall echoes in the hall as people rush for your room. So many shoes hitting the ground at once that you can’t place how many of them there could possibly be.

“Don’t.” It comes out choked and horse, but loud. “Don’t touch me. Allen. Don’t— I don’t want—“

“Calm down, it’s alright,” He tries, he really tries. The footfall grows closer and you thrash as Allen’s fingers graze the curve of your shoulder. You’re just hurting yourself more. “Stop. Try to stay still, alright? — You’re — Stop. Stop!”

There’s nothing peaceful about the way you’re sent back to sleep, thrashing and crying and screaming as your IV is adjusted and filled. With everything that you’ve been through, they had warned your loved ones that recovery was going to be far from linear.

Over the course of the next two days, you wake three more times and are put back to sleep in a similar fashion. With your stitches and recovering internal injuries, they need you to be still. For now, every time you have opened your eyes has been another fight that your body just isn’t ready to take.

The fourth time comes easier than the rest. Your broken nose has started to heal by now. Under the hospital gown, your ribs are black and blue. Your lungs have stopped making that rattling sound when you inhale deeply now. Still, everything hurts.

The fluorescent lights are off. The curtains are open, the television is on. You blink heavily, your chest aches as you breathe in. 

Allen looks up at the soft rattle of your first breath in. His brows furrowed slightly, green eyes widening as he watches your eyelids blink heavily. 

“Hey…” He whispers cautiously, like he’s afraid to spook you. Your gaze settles on him, the fuzziness of the picture dissipating with each heavy blink. His face is sullen, tired. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s just me. It’s just us, you’re okay.”

Just us. The idea is more comforting than anything you’ve heard in a long time. It’s not really just the two of you, but Allen keeps that to himself. You don’t need to know the amount of security posted around this building.

You want to answer him, but your throat is dry and hoarse when you try to speak. Allen sits forwards, grabbing the underside of the chair with his good hand and pulling it closer.

“It’s alright.” His voice voice croaks. It’s not alright, but you will be. He hopes you’ll understand, when it’s time for you to learn how it all went down. 

Stubble coats his jaw and his hair is longer than he usually ever lets it grow, salt and pepper all the way through. Your fingers twitch and your arm aches as you force it slowly upward, reaching for him. Allen grazes the tips of his fingers over yours. He slides his hand slowly into your palm, and watches your eyes fill with sudden tears.

“What… happened?” You whimper.

“I’ll tell you everything once you’re feeling a little better,” He whispers, thinking back to the strict orders from your mother not to upset you. He lowers his mouth just slightly and presses his lips to your knuckles, squeezing your hand tight. “You scared the shit out of me for a second, there.”

A burning sensation behind your eyes makes you wrinkle your nose, your bottom lip trembling as your chest flares with heat. There’s real fear in his eyes. He shouldn’t even be here, he’s supposed to be retired — there’s no money in this for him.

And yet, he’s the only person at your bedside.

He’s holding your hand, and holding your gaze firmly. Letting you think it’s all okay. Your throat hurts as you swallow softly. 

There’s a news broadcast on the television to Allen’s right. The skyline buzzes, alight behind him. It plays on as he opens his mouth to speak again, he seems to have forgotten that it’s playing.

“Following the events of Thursday evening, we have received word that due to complications, a second surgery would be necessary — which is underway as we speak,” The reporter explains solemnly. She and her co-anchor are both wearing black. “The nation’s thoughts are with you, Mr. President.”

You blink at the fuzzy television screen. The picture they used of your father is from your kindergarten graduation. He’s younger there, his hair dark rather than they grey it has been growing into more recently — he’s got an arm around you, and he’s grinning proudly.

“Shit.” Allen breathes out, sitting up suddenly straight.

 The news broadcast is gone with an abrupt beat. Allen drops the remote down onto the side and scrubs a hand along his salt-and-pepper stubbled jaw, studying the ground.

Your lips flatten into a firm line, your muscles screaming as you lift your head from the pillow. 

Your gaze hardens. “Is he alive?”

Allen swallows. He gives you a small, serious nod. “Yeah. He’s upstairs, in surgery.”

The tone of his voice makes your chest ache. Serious in a way Allen rarely is.

Creeping into his office in your pyjamas. Scolding him for all the times he missed you teddy-bear tea parties. Sitting with him on the swing set in the backyard of the first house you remember. All the times you had told him you hated him as a teenager. How strongly you had meant it the last time.

Your gaze flickers back to the blank television screen, losing yourself in its sudden darkness. 

“How?” You croak out.

Allen hesitates. He presses his lips together and shakes his head softly. “I’ll explain everything when you’re feeling better.”

You turn your head, blinking heavily as you look around the sprawling hospital room. Your parents really spared no expense. Well, your mom— you guess. 

“Jake?” You ask.

“He’s here,” Allen nods solemnly. “He’s sleeping.”

And you can’t see him. It wouldn’t be good for you to see him, not until you’re feeling better.

“Is he—?”

“He’s going to be fine,” Allen sounds sure, and not in a sugar-coated way. He sounds more positive than he had about your father. “You should rest. He comes to see you in the mornings.”

Being on a ward himself, Jake’s been getting on the nurses’ nerves around here, trying to break the rules so he can wander out and see you for as long as possible. His shoulder is just about fine now, he can almost roll it back the way he used to. The doctor says an injury like his doesn’t heal that fast, but Jake has always been ahead of the curve.

He has spread his time between your room on the fourteenth floor, and where the President has been falling in and out of being classed as critical on the fifteenth with little regard for the fact he’s recovering from a surgery on his shoulder himself. With you breathing, he couldn’t care less about being hit himself.

If the bullet hadn’t caught his shoulder, it would have torn through your father’s lungs and killed him right then and there.

You shoot a quick glance toward the darkened hallway. Allen sighs.

“No.”

“I want to know what happened.” You don’t. Not really. You want to pull these foreign covers up over your head and hide and cry your eyes out, scream this whole place down. There’s no easy way to say it, and really, no one knows how you’ll handle it.

You close your eyes for a moment and wait. 

Somehow, you’re safe — you’ll be okay. Jake’s okay. Your father won’t make it through the week. You don’t remember a thing. None of it makes sense.

Jake remembers every detail. He sits awake too, not in his own room but in the hallway of the twelfth floor — as close as he can get to the operating room without being put on his ass by a serviceman. 

In the mornings that he’s able to visit you, Jake likes to talk to you. You’ve been out of the woods for a while now, everyone knows that it’s just a waiting game until you’re stable enough to be awake. Really awake. On the Monday just passed, you had opened your eyes for a few seconds and just blinked at him.

Brows drawn together all stern, your lips pursed, your eyelashes fluttering. He never thought he would be so grateful to see you frowning at him.

He has heard about the past few days. The panic and stress. He has made a strong case for himself to be allowed to be there, but the people who make the calls won’t budge. It’s just not the right time. 

That’s not true. It’s his punishment. 

It’s his punishment, for not being the one in that operating room with his chest cracked open and twelve surgeons fighting to keep his heart beating.

Having spent most of his adult life working in environments where he was the expendable one, Jake had heard a lot of stories. He had heard, most frequently, that time always slows down in the moments that matter.

Not that day. It had been a blur. He had walked into that exchange with certainty; you would be leaving there with him. 

To an extent, he had been expecting Elias to be bluffing. No man on the planet couldn’t be bought — Jake had been expecting a bidding war, and he knew your father had the right amount of money to make this go away.

It hadn’t been that at all.

His stomach twists when he thinks about how they had paraded you before them. The look on Matthew’s face as he studied the dried blood in your hair, and the fresh blood trickling from your temple.

They had hurt you to prove a point. Almost killed you, to send a message. It was too far gone to be about the money.

Jake knows that he isn’t responsible for this, he isn’t the one that put your father in this situation. He’s the only reason that those surgeons are even trying right now — if he hadn’t been there, you’d both be dead. 

He’ll never not be there again.

Jake sits there through the surgery. On the floor with his elbows on his knees, his head rested back against the wall, he sits there for six hours. It should have taken six hours.

At a little after seven, Jake is startled awake by an orderly rushing past him with a rattling metal cart. He checks his watch, which is now settled on the wrong wrist due to his sling, and clumsily pushes himself up from the ground.

“Hey, buddy,” Jake strains, sighing at the ache through his side and clearing his throat as he finds his footing. “How’s he looking?”

The twenty-something year old in scrubs whips around to look at Jake, his eyes wide with heavy blue marks under them. He looks like he’s been up even longer than Jake has.

“You’re the bodyguard.” The kid seems to realize, blinking as his rattling cart comes to a stop. He glances back in the direction of the theater, then at Jake. “Uh… I don’t know. It’s going to be a while before they can say, I guess.”

A muscle in Jake’s jaw ticks. At seven, Jake walks to your hospital room and usually starts to bug whoever is in charge of watching you until they let him visit early.

He glances towards the operating room, and then back at the orderly. This could take hours, something urgent could happen in the next few minutes. He hesitates.

Then, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his sweats. Jake takes it from his pocket and glances quickly down at the screen, with every intention of answering the kid in front of him.

She’s awake. Asking for you too. 

And Jake’s mind is made up. He can’t wait a second longer. His heart feels like it’s in his mouth by the time he’s pushing open the door to your hospital room.

He has seen the bruises fade from blue to yellow, and the IV lines and monitors all around you every day for almost a week. It does nothing to prepare him for the sight of all of those things once you’re awake and staring at him.

“Honey…” His breath catches in his throat, his brows drawing together.

The comprehensive list of your injuries is still typed up at the foot of the bed. Jake could list them off by heart, by now. Fractured eye-socket. Broken ring and middle finger on your right hand. Soft tissue damage to your left foot. Extreme bruising to the abdomen. The fracture in your rib. Every single one of those god-damned bruises.

Your right eye had been swollen shut that first day. Now, it’s wide open. The bruise is yellowed and sore looking, your eyes filled with fear. 

“Jake.” Your voice cracks and your breathing hitches.

It doesn’t matter that Allen is standing right there, sitting back against the window ledge with his arms folded over his chest. Jake couldn’t care less that your mother is watching him like a hawk. 

She has been every single time he has visited.

The security guard steps out of the way as Jake charges forwards. He takes slow, long strides. He’s trying so hard to remember what you’ve been through, and remind himself to be slow with you, but every fibre of his being wants to pull you close and never let you go again.

He stops at the side of your bed and hesitates, just for a split-second. His eyes scan across your face, searching for doubt or fear. As he makes his decision, you make yours too.

 He leans forwards swiftly as you ball your not-injured hand into his shirt, his fingers curling gently around the nape of your neck and pulling you against him.

The room falls silent. Your nose fills with his smell, your cheek presses firmly into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. His thumb strokes at your skin.

For all you care, the other people in the room could have disappeared from the second that Jake touched you. He holds you close, silently. He doesn’t know how much you know yet, whether it’s all or nothing, and he doesn’t care. For now, you’re okay, and you’re with him.

It takes a moment before you notice that he’s only got one arm around you.

Jake watches as you pull back, searching for answers and landing on the blue sling resting around his shoulder, covering his right arm.

“I’m fine,” He assures you instantly, already shaking his head as his palm moves to cup your jaw. He holds your gaze, certain. “I’m fine. It’s superficial. We’re okay.”

Superficial. Allen bites his tongue, but can’t help but disagree. That bullet tore through ligament and bone, and Jake is lucky to be recovering so well. It was far from superficial— the surgery had taken all night. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks, weak sounding and trembling. You drop your head forwards to rest against his unbandaged shoulder. “This is all my fault. This is all my fault, you shouldn’t ever have even met—“

“Stop.” Jake whispers, turning his face towards yours and trying to coax you back to look at him. He closes his eyes, pressing his mouth to your temple. “It’s over now. I’m never going to let anything happen to you again. It’s over.” 

Your mother watches. There’s a cautious, nagging feeling that tugs at her that she really doesn’t know you at all. There isn’t much that feels familiar about watching you with him — she wouldn’t have a clue how to calm you the way that he does.

“I want to go home.” You whisper, balling your hands tighter into his t-shirt. If he didn’t know any better, he’d guess that you’re trying to pull him right into your hospital bed with you.

“Yeah, a couple more days, honey,” Jake nods his head. He’s been speaking with your doctor. Once they’re certain that you’re stable enough, you’re free to go. “We’ll get you back to the house.”

“No.” You rush out, so fast that it almost makes you hiccup. It’s then that your head turns, your eyes wide and searching as you look around the room. Just as quickly, before you’ve even met the gaze of Allen or your mother, you bury your face into the crook of his neck and squeeze your eyes shut. Just quiet enough for Jake to hear, you whimper softly. “I don’t want to go back there. I want to go with you.”

Jake feels your mother’s gaze burning into his back, and knows what she must be thinking. She’s about to lose her husband and she thinks that Jake’s going to take you too.

“With me?” He murmurs, stroking a hand over your hair. Your mother has been taking pride in maintaining it — she has cared for you in so many quiet ways recently. Jake will tell you all about it, another time.

“Could — maybe we could see your mom again?” It feels ridiculous to ask, and from the second that the words leave your mouth, you’re already worrying about the kind of danger you could be putting them in.

But for Jake, it makes his heart catch with sudden relief.

“Yeah,” He hums. “Yeah, we can do that.”

He perches on the edge of your bed, draping his good arm around your shoulders. Your mother watches as you curl against him, closing your eyes and finally unballing your fists.

The room falls quiet, and stays that way. 

Allen lets the two of you have the peace and quiet. Your mother, simply, has little to say. 

An hour later, a little after eight, there’s a commotion in the hallway. Jake watches the bustle between the security guards silently, a heavy feeling settling in his gut as he braces for what is coming. 

He feels you perk up at his side as their voices grow more hushed, trying to peek over him.

He turns his face towards your hair and kisses the top of your head softly, wrapping his arm tighter around you. “It’s alright.”

He pities the poor guy who opens the door to the room, forced to meet your mother’s gaze with a sullen expression. He clears his throat weakly, hands tucked behind his back. “Ma’am.”

Your mother isn’t a dumb woman. She doesn’t need it explained to her. The doctors had explained the risks, and explained that he might not make it. Her husband is dead.

…

[crystaleclipse10]

A look into the Ninja's powers

Welcome to my analysis of the powers of each of the 6 main Ninja. How each power feels and its source for each Elemental Master, and how it reflects in their personalities. This has headcanons and canon explanation. Hopefully it all makes sense

Cole: Cole’s power comes from deep within the ground. He can feel the power of the earth in his guts, strong and steady. It’s grounding. It’s constant. The earth is always somewhere below him. No matter where he is, somewhere there’s earth—whether it’s deep within a mountain, everywhere; or leagues under the sea; or so far beneath the sky it is practically invisible—it will never not be there. It’s reliable. Yet it takes different forms: dirt, rocks, magma, sand; it’s all part of the ground, versatile. It’s protective; it encases and preserves ancient ruins and fossils, it gives shelter to those seeking refuge. It connects all living things—it reaches every part of the world. It cannot be forced to move, but it can be guided. It is the foundation of everything.

“You've never been farther underground. Never been more surrounded by the very thing that powers you. The Skull Sorcerer thought he was burying you, but what if he was actually bringing you closer to the earth? To the source of your elemental power?” “So what do I do? Try to connect with the earth?” “Perhaps. Or perhaps you just have to stop worrying so much and let the earth connect with you.”

Zane: Zane can sense his ice powers in his mind. It can exist in the coldest of climates, and when it melts, turns into something just as powerful; it is not wasted. It carves its way through anything—glaciers. The rivers of ice creep forward slowly but surely, taking everything in its path. It’s steady and cold, but its bite can be unrelenting. Frostbite, hypothermia—just as cold as ice is. And icicles, especially when shot as a projectile, are like daggers; sharp and dangerous. But it can numb pain. It tames something burning hot into something pleasantly warm. It is hard and strong, but it can crack—and if that happens, it can be made whole again with a little time. It is reliable and quiet. It can create a protective barrier. It’s there when it needs to be.

“This isn’t about numbers…it’s about family.” “He’s protecting us.” “I am a Nindroid, and Ninja never quit. Go Ninja, go!”

Jay: Lightning. He can feel it buzzing on his skin and nerves, able to be condensed and controlled. Pure energy, electricity. It’s volatile and dangerous. But it can be essential to life. It’s everywhere—thunderstorms, static, neurons firing in the brain. If it wasn’t for electricity, the brain would cease to function and life couldn’t exist. It’s quick—blink and it’s gone, just a thread of light that comes and goes. But its impact is remembered. A thunderous boom, a scar of soot, sometimes even a blaze set in its wake. Its glow is practically too bright to look at; a source of light for even the darkest of caves. Just one spark can start a fire or illuminate a building. It’s a source of power—for vehicles, technology, buildings. Even though it is not always visible, lightning and electricity are all around, ready to be called upon.

“Control the power inside you. When you feel a surge welling up, harness it.”

Kai: Kai’s power over fire comes from the breath—air is fuel for fire, and controlled breathing can control the blaze. It is not a matter of force—though hot anger can stoke fire—but harnessing the buzzing potential in the air. Fire can be destructive; a wildfire is chaotic, unyielding, and intense, burning everything in its path. But it can be life-giving, too. It’s cozy. It provides warmth on the coldest of nights. It can cook food, boil water, ward off frost. It is the essence of the sun—the largest blaze that allows life to exist. It burns with passion and ferocity, but if it loses strength, there will always be an ember remaining. Almost nothing can beat back a big, hot fire. It can be a weapon or a defense; it hurts to touch, and no one without immunity would dare go near. Without fire, life could not be sustained.

“I just wish I still had my powers. I was Master of Fire. I could've made a new fire like—like...like this.” “Oh, do not worry, Kai. Elemental Power comes from within, like courage. Sometimes it wanes, sometimes it waxes, but it cannot be stolen.”

Nya: The power of water flows through her veins. Water is ever-changing and powerful. Even the strongest rocks erode under the power of water. It’s relentless. It can defeat ghosts because it is always changing and shifting, while ghosts are stuck trying to be one thing and refuse to change. It cleanses and heals. The first thing to do for something dirty is to wash it with water. And it’s part of blood, something vital for people to live. It’s restless. The ocean never stays still; it does not like to be contained. The tides are as constant as they are powerful. The entire ocean moves with the tides; the constant in and out of so much water shapes the coasts. Rivers bend and flow around obstacles; no matter what is in the way, it will eventually reach the ocean—the largest body of water filled with plants and animals. Water supports life and creates ecosystems. It’s the heart of the wild.

“Jay, the ocean's good for much more than food. As we go deeper, I can feel its elemental power growing. It's almost overwhelming.”

Lloyd: Perhaps the most vague but also the most powerful element is Lloyd’s. Is it Power? Creation? Energy? Life? Lloyd is connected to the Source Dragon of Life, not Energy. Whatever the case, it comes from his heart. If it is Life, that is where it is strongest—the beating of a heart shows life in a living being; it is impossible to live without a heart. It’s everywhere—inside Lloyd, in his comrades, his students, his masters, nature around him. His love for the world is his true self and makes his heart powerful. His goodness gives him strength. His drive to save the world fuels his passion. Life is inside of him, but it can also be taken away. It can heal, but also hurt. When it is taken away, overused, or corrupted, it leaves him weakened and sick. But it can save his life in a fight—and it has. It is a combination of the core elements of Creation: Lightning, Ice, Fire, and Earth—LIFE (thank you @secretlyharumi for helping me realize this!). They can be utilized individually, but also combined into something potent and beautiful. Without life, nothing would exist. It is the thread of the universe, stitching together things similar and different; big and small.

“I’m already the Golden Ninja. How much more power do I need?” “You’ve only scratched the surface! You have the potential to move mountains. Power of the First Spinjitzu Master!”

I like the idea the Ninja's personalities and powers are mixed

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk

[luxaofhesperides]

Ghostlight prompt: Danny and Duke being childhood friends, but Danny tells Duke the moment the accident happens and such cause he trusts him, only for Danny to go radio silent when giw decide to block the town communications in senior year.

So Duke-does he tell Danny he's Signal or not? Up to you-gets worried the longer no contact goes by.

Maybe the away game thing seen in other posts where the sports team still does away games and Danny gets enough good will with star or dash maybe and they send a message to Duke that's some coded phrase and Duke knows shits going down?

(yourlocalcorviddad, it's a side blog so didn't want to send from main sorry)

Danny is not someone who is on his mind a lot, these days. It’s to be expected, considering how distance and their double lives eat up all the time they have to talk. Really, it’s a miracle that they were able to speak enough to learn about their own individual vigilante work, especially with Duke bouncing around foster homes for a good portion of that time. 

They haven’t spoke in months but that’s normal for them.

Duke thinks he can be forgiven for not knowing something was wrong. He still won’t forgive himself for it.

“Danny’s gone?” he repeats, feeling numb. There’s static ringing in his ears, his entire world hollowing out.

The guy in front of him looks grim, unable to meet Duke’s eyes. Did he introduce himself? Duke can’t remember, can’t keep his spiraling thoughts straight in his head. “He’s gone. His entire family is gone and we haven’t been able to call for help because… well…”

“It’s those guys, right? The ones in white?”

“You know about them?”

“Danny told me. Danny told me a lot about what he did in Amity Park.”

The guy lets out a slow, relieved breath. “Good, then I don’t have to explain. Sorry, it’s just that it’s not something we talk about, especially out in the open. After the last few months, things got really bad. We know the GIW took the Fentons, but we can’t find out how or why and they’ve got us on a tight lockdown.”

“Then how did you get out?” Duke asks. Another arguably more important question pops into his mind a second later. “Actually, how do you know about Danny and… you know. The other things.”

The grimness on the guy’s expression fades away some beneath the sudden shame and embarrassment. “Oh, that. Well, I dunno how much he told you about his, like, daily life, but, um. I’m Dash. Baxter. I bullied him?”

Dash. 

Dash. That’s a name he recognizes. 

Danny’s complained about Dash a lot in the past. Since they were in middle school, really. Duke would always get mad on Danny’s behalf about how terribly he’s being treated, how no one would stop such obvious bullying. And every time, Danny would laugh it off and say in that soft voice of his, It’s alright, Duke, really. Having you care is more than enough for me.

It never stopped the bullying, though, but the way Danny talked about Dash changed when they both entered high school. He was still annoyed about everything Dash did, but there were less insults about him, less venting about every little thing that pissed Danny off about him, as if he just didn’t care anymore.

And there is, of course, the most memorable time Danny called Duke about Dash over the summer.

Hey, Danny, Duke had began, only to be cut off by Danny yelling, I kissed Dash?! Or he kissed me?! What am I supposed to do now!

And Duke, despite the jealousy he felt at hearing that Danny and Dash kissed, laughed so hard he cried while Danny yelled at him to be helpful. 

There wasn’t any discussion on Dash since, beyond a comment here and there about a funny fanboying thing Dash had said about Phantom. The focus of their conversations shifted towards how hard it was to be heroes or vigilantes, quiet reassurances that they’re both doing the best they can, tips traded about best ways to patch themselves up and get through the night. Sometimes, it felt like Danny was the only person in the world to really know Duke; all his pain and promises, his dreams, everything he was Before and who he became in the After.

He’s missed Danny, but the last message Danny sent him told him that things were getting rough in Amity Park, and to not call or contact him until he reached out first.

So Duke trusted in Danny and focused his attention in Gotham, putting his all into becoming a better hero, someone people can rely on. 

He thinks that maybe he should have fallen into the Bats’ bad habits of invading privacy to make sure Danny’s okay. 

Too late for that now, though.

“I know you,” Duke says after a long moment. “He talked about you sometimes. Come with me, we have a lot to discuss.”

Dash looks appropriately nervous, but he doesn’t argue. 

It’s a tense, quiet walk to the library where Barbara works. She’s stationed at the front desk when he arrives and greets him with a smile, eyes flicking towards Dash in question.

“Hey, Babs, got a private study room open?”

Her gaze sharpens and Duke can’t help the feeling of relief that flows through him, knowing that Oracle is ready to look out for him. “Let me check,” she says, turning towards the computer to click around a few pages. “Study room 8 is open.”

That’s the study room with a working lock and soundproofing. It also has cameras and a mic inside, but all the other study rooms have one too, just for safety purposes. Things could always go terribly wrong when people are locked together in a small room, and having video and audio evidence of what happened has assisted in more than a few cases. 

He leads them up to the second floor, past the students studying and the group of young children in the back corner of the library listening intently to a read aloud. 

The only occupied study rooms are those up front, closer to the stairs. The back rooms are empty and quiet, the perfect place for a little impromptu interrogation.

“So,” Duke says as he closes the door to study room 8 behind them. Dash sits down as if this is just a casual conversation, but the way his foot taps against the floor betrays his nerves. “Danny’s gone. And somehow, that lead you to me.”

Dash glance around, then leans closer to drop his voice into a harsh whisper. “The Guys In White got some insane upgrades a few months ago and forced every citizen of Amity Park into a surveillance state. The entire Fenton family is gone, but we all know it’s really because they want Danny.”

“Explain the situation in Amity Park some more.”

“Well. It’s like this: we didn’t take them seriously, so they upped their moves and got us trapped. No one goes in or out of Amity Park without good, verifiable reason. We have a curfew and we can be randomly stopped and searched for ectoplasm or exposure to ghosts. Most of the ghosts have left, but a few of the stronger ones hang around to cause trouble to get the GIW off our backs for a bit.”

“So how did you end up in Gotham?”

“I was invited to tour the college. And since outsiders were expecting me, the GIW let me go. But there’s definitely some that tailed me to Gotham, but I can’t find them at all. Even talking to you now is a huge risk for me.”

Which means they don’t have much time to talk before someone comes looking for Dash. His words, paired with everything Duke’s heard from Danny, paint a deeply unpleasant picture in his mind. “Are you going to be in trouble?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. It’s Danny we’re all worried about. He told me before he got caught that if anything happened to him, I should find you. Tucker helped us narrow down where exactly you are and sent you that text to get you to where we met.”

“What do you think I can do?”

“I don’t know,” Dash admits. “But Danny trusts you, and he needs your help.”

Duke was never going to say no to this request to begin with, but damn if those words don’t make him want to run to Amity Park without waiting for anyone else.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’ll help rescue him and bring down the GIW. You should go now, before they get too suspicious.”

“What are you planning?”

“I got a couple of friends who are good at destroying government property. Trust me, you’ll see what we’re up, we’re pretty noticeable if we’re pissed off enough.”

“Don’t take too long then,” Dash says, standing up, “I expect a good show from you. See you around, man.”

And with that, Dash pats Duke’s shoulder and leaves the study room. Duke doesn’t follow after him.  He’s got a rescue to start planning, and the less time he wastes, the better.

In the end, it’s pretty simple. It’s not a hard mission at all when the time comes for them to act, but the amount of data they gather and have to shift through is daunting. But that’s more Tim and Barbara’s forte, so he trusts them to handle it. 

Together with Red Robin, Spoiler, and Black Bat, they hit Amity Park hard and fast. 

One night was spent learning the lay of the land and every station and lab set up by the GIW. The second night was spent burning it all down and tossing open cages full of green blob ghosts and a few transparent, weakly glowing human ghosts. Stronger ghosts, glowing brightly, joined them in a few places with battle cries and maniacal laughter.

They split up and took down all the bases and patrol stations on their own, sweeping through the city like vengeful shadows. 

By dawn, the GIW were in shambles, without any bases or equipment, and rounded up for arrest. 

Cass was the one to find Danny and his family; his parents were forced to create weapons for the GIW under threat of Danny and Jazz’s torture. Danny was locked up like an animal and studied. Jazz had restraints on, including a muzzle, and a bloodthirsty rage in her eyes. Apparently, she had put up the most fight and, while being studied for repeated exposure to ectoplasm and radiation, started biting people.

The Fentons are big names in this conflict. Tim makes the executive decision to burn one of his out-of-state safehouses so they can hide and recover in peace, then promptly moves them into it as soon as the EMTs give them the all clear. They’re gone by the time the sun is rising over the horizon, and the curious Amity Parkers that have gathered behind the blockade of police cars have to be reassured that the Fentons have been taken away for their protection, not for further abuses. Even then, tensions are high and the locals are clearly prepared to start rioting now that they have a chance to fight back.

As vigilantes, they’re not meant to interact with cops much. Perhaps it’s simply their experiences in Gotham that keep them at a distance, disappearing into the neighborhood the moment attention shifts off of them. Either way, Duke is hurrying out of Amity Park with the rest of the team on his heels, eager to return to Gotham and follow up on their own leads to make sure the GIW is properly gutted and dismantled. 

Duke heads off for the Hatch as soon as they reach Gotham, hoping to shed the suit and finally be able to call Danny. The guilt of not noticing how bad things had gotten rolls through his stomach, and more than that, he’s missed hearing Danny’s voice. 

The first few calls go straight to voicemail. Duke leaves a quick message asking Danny to let him know how he’s doing as soon as he can talk. 

Then he goes for a shower and to change into civilian clothes, prepared to make his way to Wayne Manor to let Bruce know how everything went. And hopefully distract him from his Disappointed Father/Leader Lecture about taking on missions behind his back, as if Duke can’t handle himself. And also because Bruce has no leg to stand on when it comes to this. He’s fully prepared to throw that entire lecture back into his face at a moment’s notice.

The post-mission exhaustion is hitting him hard and fast. Duke has to brace himself against the wall once he’s out of the shower, resisting the urge to just lie on the floor and sleep there until he starts feeling more human. 

Somehow, he gets himself into some sweatpants and a plain shirt, pulls on a pair of mismatched socks, and begins gathering his things so he can get to the Batcave. 

He’s in no state to be driving. Maybe someone would be willing to take him there?

Just as he reaches for his phone to thumb through his contacts and see who he can bother, it buzzes in his hand. Duke blames the way he jumps on his exhaustion, then blinks his tired eyes to squint at the name that pops up onto the screen.

Danny.

All at once, his exhaustion fades away. A rush of adrenaline runs through him as he scrambles to accept the call, already pacing around the room so he doesn’t fall asleep. 

“Hello?”

There’s a moment of silence, then the exhale of a breath that turns to static over the call. “Duke,” Danny’s tired voice says. “Duke…”

“You doing okay? I couldn’t get to you before you and your family had to leave and go into hiding, but I’ve been worried about you, man.”

“I’m good. We’re all fine, now. Fentons are strong, you know? We’ll bounce back in no time.”

From what he’s heard about Danny’s family, that’s most definitely true. He’s seen the pictures of walls Jack Fenton has burst through with his body. It’ still hard to believe that no one in the family is a meta, outside of Danny.

“You need anything? I can get it to you, just say the word. Anything at all.”

Danny hums, then asks with a playful note in his voice, “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“I need you. How fast can you come meet me? I’ll even pay for express delivery.”

Duke laughs, so relieved at hearing the lightness return to Danny’s voice that he feels weak in the knees. “It’ll be at least two days. I gotta sleep and debrief with Batman before I can see you. It’s gonna take some time to get out of Gotham again.”

“Maybe I can go to you, instead,” Danny suggests. “Fly over and be there is less than an hour.”

“Are you in any shape to be flying right now?”

“I’m fine! Already healing and everything,” Danny insists.

“It might be dangerous if any rogue GIW agents go after you.”

“Well,” Danny says, “That’s why I need to get to my knight in shining armor sooner rather than later, right?”

Duke bites his lip to fight back a smile, blinking his eyes forcefully to keep them from closing under the heavy weight of exhaustion. “Does that make you a damsel in distress?”

“I mean, I did need rescuing, so I guess? I’m not much of a damsel, but I could put on a pretty dress for you. It’ll be like playing pretend when we were kids.”

“Oh, man, I kinda miss those poofy dresses. I think I could still rock on, put it on top of the armor when I go out for patrol.”

Danny snickers. “Signal: the most well dressed vigilante in Gotham.”

“That’s me, baby!”

The last of the agonizing fear that’s choked him since he first talked to Dash finally melts away. Danny’s fine now. Everything’s okay; the GIW are done for and there’s plenty of people willing to look out for the Fentons. This will never happen again.

“Hey,” Danny says, voice suddenly turing more serious. “Send me your location. I wasn’t joking when I said I could fly over to you. And before you say anything! I do need it; Jazz and my parents are smothering me and I just need to get away from everything and pretend all of this never happened.”

The admission softens Duke, makes him shove away everything that tells him this is a bad idea, that Danny needs more rest first, that having Danny fly over alone and without warning any of the Bats fills Duke with anxiety. 

He does miss Danny. More than he can put into words.

“Yeah, okay,” he says at last. “Come meet me, Danny.”

He texts Danny the location of the Hatch before common sense tells him to be more careful with his base of operations. Not that it matters, anyways; if there’s anyone in the world he trusts with everything, it’s Danny. 

Then he sends the Bats a quick text saying he’s crashing in the Hatch and to not bother him until the sun is fully up two days from now. Oracle gives him a thumbs up emoji, which is a good guarantee that she will personally see to it that no non-emergency messages interrupt his rest and recovery time.

Duke has no idea how long it will take Danny to get to the Hatch, so he putters around, cleaning up the space and straightening it out in an attempt to keep busy enough that he doesn’t crash. Travel really takes it out of him. It’s one of the cons of being born and raised in Gotham: he doesn’t have the stamina to travel outside of it, especially when they were there and back in less than three days.

Thank god for Tim’s many motorcycles and his tendency to see the speed limit as a weak suggestion that can be ignored while on a mission.

Ultimately, the call of sleep is too strong to resist. 

One moment, Duke is sorting through files on the Hatch’s computer, and the next moment, he’s face down on a bed with his face shoved into a pillow. 

Blearly, he manages to pull his phone out of his pocket and send Danny a typo-ridden text that hopefully gets across the message of might be asleep so just come in, don’t wait for me to answer the door.

He’s out like a light as soon as it sends. The last thing Duke registers is his phone dropping out of his hand and falling against the mattress with a little bounce.

When he begins to wake up, something’s changed. As much as he wants to go back to sleep, awareness comes back to him slowly and Duke forces himself to claw his way out of unconsciousness to figure out what, exactly, is bothering him so much. Until he figures out what’s changed in the room, he won’t be able to sleep because he’ll be worried about someone breaking in.

His mind comes back online long before his body does. It’s only when he tries to move that Duke realizes he’s no longer alone on the bed; there’s someone wrapped up in his arms, body temperature a little too cool to be a normal human.

Blinking open his eyes, Duke looks down at the head of messy black hair and feels Danny’s soft breath ghost across his chest. 

“Danny?” he manages to say, voice rough with sleep. 

Danny hums and doesn’t move.

“Hey, look up. Let me see if you’re really alright.”

“Mmm, no,” Danny mumbles, burrowing his face into Duke’s chest some more. “‘m sleepy.”

A good argument. Duke is also sleepy. 

“Fine,” he says, “Check in the morning, then. G’night, Danny.”

“Night, Duke. Thanks for saving me.”

He tightens his grip on Danny, contentment burning warm in his chest. “Always, Danny. I’ll always save you.”

That’s why he’s a hero, after all. To save others, to reach a hand out to everyone the way he needed when he was younger. To keep the people he loves safe. To make sure Danny always finds a way back to him. 

This is what makes all the pain of this lifestyle worth it.

Danny makes everything worth it.

(@yourlocalcorviddad tagging to make sure you see this!)

[lovebugism]

ooooo what abt for blurbcember being alone on Christmas Eve w Steve x reader & once one of them realizes they are alone when they called they speed over and spend the night together, maybe confess some feelings too👀

hope you like it!! — you call steve when you end up alone on christmas eve and he comes over without thinking twice, 'cause that's what best friends are for, right? (friends in love, hurt/comfort, 1.4k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Just a moment ago, Steve Harrington was on his couch. He had an arm around his girlfriend and a scruffy cheek on her hair as they watched A Christmas Story for the third time that evening. His dad was snoring over it from his spot on the recliner while mom watched on from the kitchen, where she’d just popped in another batch of cookies. 

Everything smelled like vanilla. Like home and the holiday season.

Then the phone rang. His mother picked it up, hiding her wine-drunk slurs as she answered. It was for him, of course, because it was you. “Feel like spending Christmas Eve getting drunk with me, Harrington?” you’d ask through the static of the receiver.

It’s like he blinked and he was in your childhood bedroom, splitting a bottle of your dad’s expensive liquor with you in your twin-sized bed.

The too-big house down the street was dark and empty, with you abandoned inside of it. The entire mansion was horribly clean — too clean — like no one actually lived there. The only Christmas decoration in the whole place was the tiny Christmas tree on your dresser. It basks the two of you in a golden hue while you laugh together in similar colors.

“So your parents just… left you here?” Steve presses, lying on his side at the edge of your mattress, propping his weight on his elbow.

You nod and take a swig from the glass bottle. Your lips shine with the amber liquid until you swipe your tongue against your buzzing bottom lip. “Holiday party at the Carmichael’s. No kids allowed,” you answer. You manage to smile as you say it — ‘cause you haven’t been a kid for a while — but it’s still slightly forced. 

Steve can see right through it.

“Still,” he insists with a furrow to his brow as he takes the bottle from you. “That’s really shitty.”

“Well, my parents are basically the king and queen of being shitty, so…”

Steve scoffs an emotionless laugh and raises the whiskey to his lips. The thing glugs when he tips it back. He takes a small sip, just enough to coat his tongue, because he knows he’ll have to go back home eventually. He licks at his shining rosy lips, just to feel how numb they are. 

“Your parents are shitty, and mine are… total fakes,” he concludes with a lopsided, sorrowful grin.

“Drunk enough to vent yet?” you tease, smiling down at him with your cheek tilted to your shoulder.

“No— I mean, there’s… there’s nothing to vent about, you know? They’re just, like, putting on happy faces for everyone at the party like they weren’t totally falling apart two days ago. Now it’s just like… nothing ever happened.”

You figure by “nothing to vent about,” he means that there’s a world of shit to vent about but that he doesn’t really feel like getting into any of it. You don’t blame him. He’s not the one who called his best friend on the very brink of falling apart, anyway.

“Is that what you were doing when I called?”

He nods, blinking slow and smiling soft. “Thanks for saving me, by the way.”

“Bet you’re missing loads of fun right now, Harrington.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs and passes the whiskey off to you. “Right now, my dad’s passed out in his Laz-E-Boy, and my mom’s watching the same Christmas movie over and over and over again.”

The visual makes you laugh.

Steve laughs because you are.

“Yeah. I mean, Nancy’s into it, I guess, but that’s just because she’s way too nice to—”

“Nancy’s there?” you blurt before you mean to, gaping with a shock you couldn’t hide if you wanted to. You thought he might’ve been as lonely as you were. You figured that’s why he dropped everything for you without thinking twice.

Your confusion makes his face screw up. He’s too oblivious to understand. “…Yeah?”

“You said you weren’t doing anything important!”

“It wasn’t important!” he exclaims, right before realizing how insensitive he sounds. He cowers, as though Nancy could somehow hear an entire block away. “Well— Not that she isn’t important— It’s just that—”

He stammers hopelessly. ‘Cause he doesn’t know how to say “you’re more important to me” without sounding like a total douchebag.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he settles on, suddenly shy about the whole thing. His eyes fall to your comforter because it’s easier than meeting your eyes. His fidgeting hands pluck at the tiny pills of cotton.

“Steve…” you whisper in an airy sigh because you don’t know what else to say.

He can’t tell if that’s good or bad, but his name sounds like honey spilling from your lips, anyway.

“Her brother’s there, though! And all his little shithead friends— so it isn’t like she’s totally alone,” he assures you in a single breath. You can’t tell if he’s saying it more for him or for you. “Plus, you said you were here by yourself, so I… I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone.”

“And they say chivalry’s dead,” you tease despite the distinct warmth swirling in your chest.

Steve flashes you a crooked grin to hide his similarly hidden feelings. “Well, whoever said that has never met me. Obviously.”

“You should really go back home, though,” you tell him. It’s not like you want him to leave. You’d rather him be here all the time. You’d rather it always be Steve and never anybody else. But it can’t be like that. It can’t ever be that way.

“What? No!” Steve shouts with his face screwed up in offense. The lights from your Christmas tree leave harsh shadows on his chiseled features, making them that much sharper. 

“Your girlfriend’s there, Steve. And all of your friends—”

“Not you, though. And you’re, like, the most important friend I have.”

“Steve,” you groan.

“I’m serious,” he insists, even though he’s laughing at your dramatics. “I’d much rather be here with you than pretending to be happy with everyone else.”

Your chest aches — a dull, hot, and empty ache. It’s like his words are a knife, and he’s just pierced your sternum with it. “You’re not happy?” you ask him in a fragile, broken whisper.

“I mean, I am, I’m just…” he trails off when he can’t find the words to say. He sighs and lays back completely, relaxing for the first time all night beside the warmth of you. His honey eyes concentrate on the shadows on your ceiling until he’s brave enough to speak.

“I don’t know… I love Nancy and everything— you know that. But… I never felt like I had to stop pretending around her, you know? It’s like I’m still trying to impress her. All the time. And with you, it’s just like…” 

He loses the words again. Your relationship is much harder for him to describe. The way he feels about you can’t be put into words. He’s not sure that there’s any that even come close. 

“I don’t know— It’s just easier,” he concludes with a heavy sigh. “Don’t read into that too much, alright? I’m just tipsy.”

He’s only had a couple sips of alcohol. He’s not even close to being tipsy. He’s content, at best, but you’re probably more to blame than the whiskey.

You know all of this, too, but decide not to press it too much.

“Noted,” you nod, huffing as you lie on your back beside him. His fuzzy Christmas sweater scratches you when it rubs against the skin of your shoulder. You can smell his deep, woodsy cologne and the hot chocolate on his breath. You shouldn’t get as lost in it as you do.

You wonder if he ever has the same problem with you — if the smell of your perfume, or your hair, or your strawberry lipgloss drives him crazy — or if it’s all in your head.

It might be better kept up there, either way. 

Saying anything out loud might change things too much.

“But, you know, just for the record or whatever,” you start in a gentle whisper and with a teasing glint in your eye. 

Steve’s already smiling when he turns to look at you. He falters slightly when he realizes how close you are — enough to feel your whiskey-coated breath fan against his chin. He doesn’t know why it makes his heart race. 

“I’m glad I make it easier on you,” you confess, so suddenly soft, as your sparkling eyes flit between both of his. “‘Cause being with you is easier for me, too.”

Steve’s rosy lips curl into a quiet smile. 

His chest sparkles with a foreign emotion, and he isn’t completely sure why. Your words feel almost like a proclamation of love, but maybe he shouldn’t read into any of it too much. Not how gentle your words sound or how you’re looking at him right now. 

You’re just tipsy, after all.

[buggythedyke]

Appetite | Nico Robin

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pairing: vampire!nico robin x fem!reader

genre: smut (minors dni)

wc: 2.5k

cw: vampirism, blood drinking, predator/prey dynamic (in a dream sequence), mention of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism, fingering, cunnilingus, blood play, scent kink, Robin and Reader are both freaky

a/n: happy halloween lesbians. I also cross post to ao3.

•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•○•

“You can't run from me,” Robin's voice booms through the forest, bouncing off the tree trunks surrounding you as you run. You have seen the look on her face; your wife has been reduced to nothing more than a hungry animal. You can't hear how far behind you she is, whether that's because the snapping of twigs and crunching of leaves caused by your own footsteps is drowning out the noise or, the more terrifying option, she's not actually running.

You're so close to the edge of the forest, close to freedom. Hopefully, people will be on the road, and you will get help.

Unfortunately, fate is not so kind to you. The taste of safety fizzles on your tongue as your shoe gets caught on a rock, and you lose your balance completely. You hear the flapping of wings and don't even have time to think before Robin's whole body weight is on you. You open your eyes to see your wife's face, though something about her is off.

She buries her nose in the crook of your neck. Her vampiric grip holds you in place; you can't escape now. “Your blood smells divine. I need to taste it”

You know how she feels about your scent. It was one of the things that drew her to you, but she promised she would never lose control and hurt you. You wonder if you could beg to appeal to that human part of your wife or if the woman you know has been lost for good.

“Please, baby, be good to me. You promised you'd never hurt me,” you whimper. You don't get a verbal response. Instead, Robin licks from your shoulder and up your neck to your jaw.

“You never have a problem with me hurting anyone else. I promise it won't kill you. I'm just hungry, baby. Don't you want to feed me?” The voice comes from Robin's mouth, but it has a static edge like the vocal cords have been fried, and it's nothing like Robin's. The monster isn't wrong; you always turn a blind eye when Robin has to feed, and her feeding has only killed a handful of times. Most of the time, people get dizzy for a few days, endure a rough hangover, and then a week later, they're good to go. You suppose you are being a hypocrite, maybe a taste of your own medicine is worth it.

“Okay”, you whisper, and a primal growl tears through the vampire's teeth. Her hands slide from your wrists to your own, interlocking your fingers. Her teeth sink into your neck before you can even fathom what's happening. You feel the sharp sting of both top and bottom fangs then a fuzzy warmth spreads through the area until eventually it goes numb and you feel nothing at all.

As soon as your eyes close, they're open again. You look around and realise you're in your bedroom, with your wife sound asleep next to you. She shifts beside you when you wake, and you turn in time to see her open her eyes. For a second, there's a flash of something primal, then the warmth seeps in, and she looks like the woman you married years ago.

“Is everything ok, dear?” she asks, hand reaching to caress your cheek. She's cold to the touch, a side effect of vampirism, but you can feel her intentions through the pads of her fingers. You're a little shocked by how needy you're feeling, especially after such a graphic nightmare. Your panties are uncomfortably wet and you're aching to be touched.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” you say, shuffling closer to Robin. “Just had an odd dream, that's all. Nothing to worry about”

You pull her into a kiss and readjust so you're straddling her. It's desperate and frantic, so much so that one of her fangs accidentally nicks your bottom lip. The scratch makes you whine as you pull back from the kiss. You can feel your skin warming as embarrassment rises like bile in the back of your throat. Your dream wasn't as much of a nightmare as you initially thought. She slides a hand between your legs, and you groan, dropping your head to her shoulder.

“Must've been one hell of a dream” she teases. “You're fucking soaked.”

You're horny beyond words, so you nod, moaning as she works her fingers between your legs. You're so close to cumming until a harsh screeching fills your ears. Never before have you felt so victimised by an inanimate object. Robin reaches her unoccupied hand to her nightstand and turns off her alarm clock. She pulls her other hand from your pyjama bottoms and licks her fingers clean.

“I'm sorry baby, I have an important meeting today. I'll make it up to you later. Why don't you put on something pretty for me later?” she suggests, sitting up with you still in her lap. She kisses your shoulder affectionately, encouraging you to move from her lap so she can get ready for work. She can't go out in the sun, but she's gotta help you pay for rent somehow, so she put the credentials she got when she was ‘human’ to good use and became an archaeology consultant for a museum. She works mostly from home, so you get to see her work.

With a huff, you get up, allowing her to get out of bed. You go through your regular morning routine with her. Once your faces are washed and your teeth are brushed, she sits between your legs and hands you a hairbrush. You started brushing her hair as soon as you moved in. You brush in silence, enjoying the Intimacy of the act. You can tell the repetitive action calms her. Once she's dressed, she goes to her office, and you stay behind in the bedroom, examining your morning.

Your dream gnaws at your chest all morning as you get started on your half of the chores. You can't accept that you were so worked up over the idea of your wife feeding from you. You try to tell yourself it's just the visual appeal of her fangs. Fangs are inherently sexy to look at, especially on a woman that exudes the control and power that Robin does. Her fangs are probably strong enough to take a chunk out of you, and you're so deeply in love with her, you'd probably let her. It's not cannibalism because you're, technically, no longer the same species. Your own sick train of thought turns your stomach. You stop vacuuming and sit down on your sofa hiding your head in your hands.

“What do I do?” you whisper to yourself. After five minutes of muttering under your breath and glaring at your coffee table, you can still feel the echo of her teeth. It's an all-consuming thought. It's a strange mix of guilt, disgust and pure eroticism.

You did marry a vampire so there must've been some interest in her monster side from the beginning. You've always been an adrenaline junkie. Maybe you just need to get this one sick desire out of your system, and you'll go back to normal. You know Robin is running out of her blood bags, so she's going to have to feed from humans until she can order more. You try to push the image of the soulless creature out of your mind and remind yourself of your unwavering trust in your wife. Robin has done nothing but love you and care for you the entire time you've known each other. She wouldn't take enough blood to kill you. no matter how good it tastes to her.

When her lunch break comes around and she's all done with her meeting, you approach her office, clad in lingerie with your makeup and hair done, ready to flush whatever sickness you have from your system. You've researched vampire feeding; you know what tastes good to them, you know the side effects on humans and you know it's going to hurt. Strangely, the thought doesn't deter you; the closer you get to the office, the more excited you are.

You knock on the door to Robin's office, waiting for her permission to enter. You take one last deep breath, accepting your fate, and enter the room.

“Lunch delivery” you sing, as she looks up from her laptop. Her jaw drops as she sees how you look.

“What did I do to deserve all this?” she asks, putting her laptop in the desk drawer and pushing the large chair back so you can straddle her. “I guess we can pick up where we left off this morning,” she says, leaning in to kiss you.

“I wanted to ask if I can do something for you, " you say, cradling her face in your hands. She nods, listening to you. “You're almost out of blood bags. I wondered if…I could be your blood bag,” You say, tilting your head and baring your neck to her.

“You want me to drink from you?” she says, voice unsure. She's never drunk from someone she loves. “It'll hurt you”

“I know. I know it will. I want it to,” You whimper out, guiding one of her hands to your panties. She's still apprehensive, but you see her expression faltering, her vampiric side pushing forward. “That's what I dreamed about last night; that's what got me this soaked.” You say, moaning as her fingers rub your sensitive clit.

“Are you sure you want me to bite you?”

“Positive. I'm not scared of your fangs. They're fucking sexy”

“If it's too much, we're stopping”, she insists, waiting for you to agree before letting you pull her back into a kiss. She moves your panties to the side and slips two fingers inside of you. She trails her lips down your neck, stopping at the base where she presses her nose and takes a whiff, inhaling your scent. On your first date, she told you she could hear your nervous heart frantically pumping blood around your body, it had freaked you out at first but you've grown used to her vampire senses. “You smell delicious. So sweet,” she hums, returning her lips to yours and moving her fingers inside you. She fingers you with precision as she presses her thumb to your clit. She plays with your clit as her fingers skillfully pleasure you.

“I'm gonna cum” you moan, and Robin nods, pulling away from the kiss and positioning her head at the junction of your neck and shoulder. She takes a deep breath, waiting for you to be on the edge of your orgasm before finally sinking her four fangs into your soft awaiting skin. The pain throbbing in your neck sends shockwaves through your body, sending you barrelling face-first into your orgasm. You practically scream out Robin's name as you soak her hand and wrist. You gush as she suckles the wound. The throbbing eases into a numb feeling comparable to pins and needles. She doesn't take a long drink. It's not enough to sustain her until her next order arrives and you're not dizzy yet. You're not experiencing any side effects. She probably only took a few drops.

“Not enough, need a juicier spot,” Robin says, voice dazed as if she's the one who's been drunk from. She licks over the bite mark, letting her natural healing abilities seal the wounds. She pulls her fingers from your pussy, and licks them clean. She hadn't even noticed you squirting at first, so focused on the heavenly taste of your blood. The sight of your juices mixing with your blood has you whimpering on top of her. She lifts you up, planting you on her desk and laying you down. She pulls your panties completely off.

“The thigh is the second best place to drink after the neck. The blood tastes better, in my opinion, but there's more fat in the way of the vessels.” She says, more to herself than you. “I'll make you feel good first”, she promises, using her hands to pull your thighs apart.

She leans in, suckling your clit into her mouth, smiling against you as you moan for her. Your hands shoot down to grab her hair.

“Fuck, baby, it feels so fucking good” You moan and she flicks her tongue at your clit. She all but makes out with your clit. She's sloppy and more enthusiastic than usual, it's a big change from her usual demeanour in bed. She's a fiend, determined to devour every piece of you she can. She's like a venomous snake; the poison in her fangs is spreading through your veins, and you're paralysed to her and her will. Except, you know she's not venomous, there is no poison, you're just a woman who's walked willingly into a monster's grasp. Robin has completely consumed you.

Her tongue works you up absurdly quickly. Leaving you shaking, whimpering and clawing at her desk as she slurps up every drop of cum you have to offer. Your taste floods her tongue as she moans and whimpers against you. It's only now that you realise she's been touching herself.

“Let me taste you before you taste me again”, you beg. Robin obliges immediately, pressing her fingers to your lips. You accept them into your mouth Immediately, sucking them clean of all of Robin's juices. “You taste so good,” you say as she pulls her fingers free from your mouth.

“Oh sweet girl, nothing could ever compare to your taste”, and you know she's not talking about cum. She puts her hand back down her trousers, using your spit as extra lube to play with her sensitive clit while she drinks from you. This is turning her on as much as it is you. She softly moans as she grazes her fangs over your inner thigh.

Robin finally sinks her teeth into you, and both of you groan in pleasure. Your left leg kicks outward at the shock as your right leg stays still in your wife's grip. She takes a much longer drink from this wound, making herself cum as the taste of your blood floods her mouth. The sharp pain is more intense than the first bite but it fades into a throbbing ache much quicker. It's an oddly satisfying feeling, like pressing on a bruise or massaging a sore muscle.

You're exhausted, drained of blood and have had two orgasms. She's done with her drink, but she doesn't seal your wound right away. You want to ask what she's doing but can barely even form a sentence. You try and focus on feeling her hands. She's collecting the blood from your wound on her fingers. You're able to lift your head enough to watch her draw out her initials on your stomach. It's the last thing you see, her name marked on your skin in blood, before your eyes close. You feel her tongue finally seal the wound. You hear her reach for something from the drawer.

“I'm going to clean you up and get you bandages. You just rest for me, my perfect little treat”

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I'm on ao3 here! thank you so much for reading!!

[bojanus]

Feel free to ignore if you're not looking for advice but doing these wrist exercises 2-3 times a day actually changed my life:

Even when my wrist is actively hurting, this provides pretty immediate release/pain reduction and has been helpful long-term

god gives his carpelest tunnels to his limp wristedest soldiers