#exercises aid ankle

[hueseok]

( 01. ) EASY MONEY, EASY LOVE.

you and namjoon have been married for five years.

despite being strangers who solely exchanged wedding vows to trick his filthy rich family into giving him his inheritance, being part of this scheme is surprisingly easy. he’s out of the country most of the time, you’re being compensated for being a model wife, and there are only a few things you two have to to do in order to keep up with the whole guise of being a happy married couple.

with less than three months to go until you get divorced, namjoon comes back from a business trip and stays with you at your shared house, waiting until d-day with the aim of sending off your odd friendship with a proper farewell. but it’s weird, because just when things are supposed to be easiest—that’s when everything is suddenly becoming complicated, and the two of you realized once again that there really is no such thing as easy money (or easy love).

pairing: namjoon x reader

word count: 3.3k

rating: NC-17

content: fluff, angst, marriage of convenience au, strangers to friends to lovers au, dash of fake dating au, and they were housemates au???? | ft. chaebol!namjoon + travel photographer!namjoon; office worker!reader

warning/s: swearing, mentions of a sickness, mommy issues, unsupportive family, depictions of loneliness / sadness, character death (no major characters though!), mentions of falling of a cliff bc of clumsiness lmao (nobody dies dw)

[ chaptex index. ]

EPISODE 01. the one with the emergency !

you shouldn’t have been too confident. if only you’ve been more humble and less greedy during your hike earlier with your workmates for the bi-annual team building event, you wouldn’t have literally fallen off the side of the cliff and ended up spraining your ankle pretty bad.

what were you thinking, honestly? you’ve never been an active person ever in your life. you hated cardio, you hated sweating, you hated waking up early in the morning to do exercise—yet for some reason, you were pumped for the activity that was scheduled for today. it’s the reason why as you were trudging along the trail with your co-workers, yapping and laughing loudly with a close colleague, you didn’t notice that a particularly huge rock on your way set you off balance and caused you to sway to your right, plummeting over the ridge with a loud yelp.

it’s a good thing that there were paramedics stationed at the base of the mountain where all of you were trekking on, perhaps anticipating for an incident like yours to come along that’ll have them doing their duty. as soon as your team leader used the walkie-talkie given to your group to call them for their help, there were four people with bright orange uniforms aiding you, checking your condition and placing you on a stretcher before carrying you to the monorail where you’ll be transported back down.

haein, your said close colleague, accompanied you as they brought you to the infirmary.

“were you possessed by an athletic ghost?” she asks once the doctor finished treating your sprained ankle, now advising you to get a bit of rest. “what made you think it was smart to walk too fast? you must have been crazy.”

“i must have,” you say, laughing because you rather laugh than complain about the pain that you’re feeling. it’s subsiding at the moment, thankfully, but you can only imagine what the next few days are going to be for you due to the injury. “god, i’m happy though that i didn’t get to roll all the way. if that happened, i would have suffered a greater fall and then i’d be on the news.”

“yeah. you’d be a legend to the company too. we’d make an altar in your cubicle for a good few months.”

“i’d be the story that hiking guides would share to the hikers to scare them into being careful.”

“we’d pay tribute to you at every christmas party. we’d make a slideshow and present that during the whole event.”

“really?”

“of course. i’d be in charge of making the powerpoint even.”

you stare at her, haein staring back, and then the both of you burst out laughing. you’re grateful that she volunteered to be with you when the paramedics declared that they needed to bring you down—although in the back of your head, you do think she’s just being a good friend as an excuse to not walk her way back to the ground with the rest later on after they reach the top and enjoy the magnificent view.

“by the way,” she takes a seat on the chair beside the bed you’re situated in, “someone named kim namjoon is going to pick you up and drive you home.”

the second his name tumbles out of her lips, you’re snapping your head towards her, shocked. “what?”

“when you passed out a bit after the fall, i got your phone and did the thing to make it call your emergency contact. he’s the one who answered.”

“namjoon answered?”

“yup.”

“but i… i don’t remember making him my emergency contact.”

“well, like i said, he’s the one who answered.” she shrugs. “why? is he an ex or something?”

you press your lips together, suddenly panicking at the thought of namjoon arriving here.

there’s nothing wrong with namjoon, really. he’s a pleasing person to have around: genuine, kind, and full of profound thoughts that you can’t help but hang onto every word he says. however, as haein made evident, no one knows about your relationship with him and true nature of it—and you’ve done everything you can in the past year and a half since joining the company to keep it that way, deeming it unnecessary to disclose the fact that kim namjoon is your husband when the both of you aren’t bound to stay married forever.

to you, he’s just a ridiculously rich man who needed to get married for at least five years in order to get the full amount of his inheritance from his grandmother.

to him, you’re just a middle class woman who needed money to pay for her sister’s leukemia treatments, introduced together by a mutual friend who knew that both of you can benefit from each other’s situations.

in other words, your marriage with him isn’t technically real. and it’s why you rather not let anyone in your workplace know that he’s your husband, especially since you’ve managed to keep a low profile about it all these months. you don’t want to give your officemates a reason to gossip about you in the present time or when you divorce namjoon—the latter frankly scheduled to happen in less than three months from now.

****

namjoon arrives an hour later.

you take notice of him immediately while haein’s babbling about the book she recently read, recognizing him as the tall man who enters the small clinic, going to the desk to talk to the staff waiting there. you watch as the latter points to where your bed is, namjoon promptly turning to your direction, your gazes meeting before his eyes focus on your sprained ankle, expression contorting in a mix of confusion and disappointment.

beside you, haein taps your arm, noticing namjoon’s arrival as well. “is that…?”

you swallow hard. “yeah, that’s him.”

“holy shit. he’s hot.”

“don’t—” you grit your teeth. “don’t say that. it’s weird.”

“why? i have eyes—i’m just saying what i see.”

“yeah, but—”

“are you weirded out because he’s a relative? like your brother?” haein cuts you. “wait, you mentioned before that you have a sibling. is that him?”

“he’s not a sibling.”

“then who—”

namjoon stops on the foot of your bed, causing haein to shut up now that he’s within earshot. he’s still staring at your ankle, like it inflated to twice its original size, and you actually don’t know what to say. although you’ve developed a close friendship over the years of this sham marriage, you always seem to restart whenever he returns from a business trip of his—and it’s only been a couple of days since his return to south korea, having just come back from spain for his latest project.

it’s worth mentioning too that you feel strange having an audience like haein around that renders you clueless on how to act.

he lets out a slow whistle, crossing his arms. “and you say i’m clumsy.”

you huff out a chuckle, namjoon grinning that releases the charm of his dimples.

“uh, i’m haein,” your friend stands up from her seat and extends a hand out, obviously enthralled by how handsome he is. “i’m the one who called you using ___’s phone. namjoon, isn’t it?”

namjoon shakes her hand. “oh, yes. it’s nice to meet you.”

“wow. you have a very tight grip.”

“haein,” you scold, slapping her wrist that causes their handshake to cease. if it isn’t apparent enough, haein doesn’t have a filter nor cares enough to stop saying the first thing that comes to her mind. “stop being weird.”

she turns to you. “i’m not being weird. i’m complimenting him.”

“how is commenting how tight his grip is a compliment?” you demand.

“it’s a compliment because i’m making it clear that i find him strong,” she explains, focusing on namjoon again. “sorry. do you feel offended by what i said?”

he appears amused. “not really.”

“see?” haein tells you.

you’re about to quip back a reply when she beats you to it.

“anyways,” she says and namjoon stifles a laugh, “if you don’t mind me asking, how are you and ____ related?”

at the question, you send him a signal with your eyes, asking him not to tell the truth, regardless if that’s wrong of you to do so. one of the things you had to keep in mind upon agreeing with this arrangement is that neither of you should ever deny the marriage whatsoever, a precautionary measure because you two were that paranoid that the news might reach namjoon’s parents.

from the looks of it, despite namjoon understanding where you’re getting at as you give him the most bizarre expressions, he does the opposite (perhaps mainly due to what was explained above), resulting into you hanging your head low, waiting how haein will react at the revelation that will be served on her plate.

“i’m her husband actually,” namjoon says casually. 

haein cackles out loud. “husband?” she repeats. “that’s really funny—you’re a funny guy. but seriously, how do you two know each other?”

he raises an eyebrow. “i’m not joking.”

“sure you are, but this girl right here isn’t married.” she does a show of holding you in an affectionate headlock. “she doesn’t even have a boyfriend.”

“did she tell you that?” he’s teasing, glancing at you for some sort of confirmation.

haein averts her attention to you. 

you look at them, switching from namjoon to haein to namjoon and back to haein. 

“i mean…you never asked, and i never said i was single,” you tell haein, shrugging and acting as nonchalant as ever.

it’s half the truth, ‘cause as far as you’re concerned, you’ve been diligent in always wearing your wedding and engagement ring. you even make it a point not to appear interested in any offers of blind dates or group dates to ever imply that you’re single as well.

she gawks at you, like she’s waiting for you to take back what you said. “are you being for real right now?”

“i am.”

“if this is some elaborate prank—”

“it’s not a prank,” you say. 

there’s silence, and then she practically screams.

“YOU’RE MARRIED?” haein bellows, attracting everybody’s attention inside the infirmary. “we’ve known each other for more than a year and only now do i discover that you’re married?”

before she can berate you and force you to tell her your entire relationship history, namjoon’s asking for your bag and helping you sit up, aiming to lead you to the car waiting outside. haein almost stops him, declaring with conviction that she literally can’t wait until the next office day to get the full scoop, but he kindly reiterates what the ER doctor he spoke with earlier said, insisting that he ought to bring you home as soon as possible so you can get the rest that you need after over exerting your body for today’s hike.

“everything. you need to tell me everything on monday,” she says when namjoon goes out for a minute to deliver your bag first to the vehicle. she’s giddy and jumpy and very hyper about what you can guess is because of her latest discovery. “also, i’m sorry about calling your husband hot earlier. i wouldn’t have done so if i knew.”

you grin, appreciating the fact that she felt the need to apologize for that. “it’s no biggie. you didn’t know.”

“yeah, which you really should apologize about.”

“i’m sorry.” your grin only stretches wider. “i’ll buy you a matcha latte on monday to make up for it.”

her face lights up.

you share your farewells as namjoon returns, namjoon saying goodbye to haein too. she leaves first, remembering that she needs to inform the rest of your co-workers that you’re fine and headed home, and once you and your husband are alone, he takes a good look at you again.

“should i carry you?” he asks.

you blink at him. he may be reliable, but he is also extremely clumsy. “you’re not asking the right questions, joon.”

“wow. you can really be cruel sometimes, you know?” he laughs. “then should i get a wheelchair?”

“no wheelchair please. i think i can walk to the car just fine.” you begin standing up.

“you sure?” he doesn’t even let you answer that, his hand just naturally goes to support your elbow. “you might fall.”

you pause, calculating how many steps it’s going to take until you reach your destination. you’re fine, really; your good foot is perfectly walkable and you’re convinced it can take the burden of not having its pair in ample condition. however, you might need to hold onto namjoon for you not to fall halfway like he already stated, and you’re not really keen on being that close to him no matter how amazing his cologne smells even a few inches away.

“a wheelchair would be ideal,” you say.

namjoon chuckles, nodding and getting it with the assistance of a staff member. 

in minutes, you’re on the passenger seat and he’s climbing on the other side. you don’t expect it but you’re relieved at the thought of coming home earlier than planned. though you’ve conditioned yourself to enjoy this team building and take this time to get into camping, you were horrified when you learned that there wouldn’t be any shower rooms or portable toilets at least at the area that you’re heading at after the hike, this retreat meant to give each one of you the raw camping experience.

come to think of it, perhaps it was your subconscious that prompted you to inflict this accident on yourself in order to avoid shitting on the ground in case your stomach hurts.

“comfortable?” namjoon glances at you. “you can recline the chair if you want to sleep.”

“oh, okay. thanks.” you smile. 

he smiles back, starting the engine. you subtly watch him while he does that, admiring how he seems so adept in driving now compared to when you first met him. you remember his reluctance in the past to drive due to his fear of messing up, yet he managed to drive for approximately two hours in most likely gravelly roads to get where you are.

“thanks too for coming here, joon. i hope i didn’t bother you. honestly, i don’t even remember putting you as my emergency contact,” you sheepishly add.

“no problem, and i think hoseok did,” he says. “i remember him mentioning that i should put you as mine before.”

hoseok is the mutual friend that introduced you both together when namjoon was still trying to find a fake wife to obtain the full amount of his inheritance in five years time. he was aware of namjoon’s ploy and knew that you were in need of money during that year as well—and so putting two and two together, he set up a ‘date slash chemistry test’ between you and namjoon and reckoned that you could be great help to one another regarding your respective needs.

“that makes sense. i just don’t know how he did that without my knowledge.”

“well, nothing’s been impossible for hobi, so…”

you agree with a snort.

“by the way, i should mention this before you doze off,” he abruptly halts as he’s beginning to drive off, “mom’s inviting us to dinner this weekend. she heard that i was back in the country and wanted to see how i am.”

you gradually digest that information. “okay. is everyone going to be there?”

“yes, based on our last conversation.”

“should i be prepared for anything at all?”

he seems to find the inquiry funny. “no. just the usual.”

“meaning i should block off every passive aggressive comment your mom makes about either my choice of clothes and social status, right?”

“pretty much, yeah.”

you let out a groan.

“i’m sorry. i would have declined her request but she wouldn’t stop pestering me about it.”

“god, i just really don’t like your mom, joon.” you say. “or your dad. or your older brother. i don’t like everyone, basically—except your pet dog, hiro. no offense.”

“that’s fine. i don’t like them either.” he shrugs, carrying on driving. “plus, you know i’m on your team. i’d defend your honor to death.”

“of course. it’s what makes attending these things tolerable.”

“well, if it makes you feel better, this might be the last family function you’d have to attend.”

you raise your eyebrows, recalling the reason why. “woah, shit, you’re right.”

in less than three months, you’re getting divorced and namjoon’s getting even more money than he already has.

in less than three months, he’s going to share some of the portion of what’s left of his inheritance and it’ll be the last time you’ll receive financial help from him.

it also might be the last time you’ll be with him in general, and though there’s a side of you that’s glad not to be tied down anymore, you can’t say that you’re glad of possibly losing contact with namjoon, having grown fond of his presence in a way.

facing him, you blurt out the first thing that occurs in your mind. “when we get divorced, can i keep my engagement ring?”

namjoon chuckles. “that’s up to you. there’s no reason for me to take it back.”

“but what if you fall in love with a woman someday and think about proposing to her?”

“then i’d buy a new ring.”

“but wouldn’t that be impractical? given that you already have an engagement ring? i mean, this costs so much i could probably buy a lot and a house with it.”

“yeah, but that’s yours. it’d be horrible of me to give her a ring already worn by my first wife.”

“first wife,” you repeat with a dramatic scoff, lips curving upwards regardless. it’s cheesy and tickles your insides. “that trip to spain changed you, joon. you’ve been too flirty since you returned.”

that coaxes out a full laugh from him. “my apologies. it’s a habit at this point.”

“what is?”

“pertaining to you as my wife.” he shrugs. “isn’t it the same for you?”

“pertaining to you as my wife?” you joke.

the dimples make a reappearance. “you know what i mean.”

you think about it. had it been the same for you? there’s not a lot of occasions wherein you have to call namjoon as your husband. your dad isn’t present in your life, your relationship isn’t good with your mother to constantly chat with her, and as for your little sister who was the root cause of why you got married to namjoon…

well, she’s in a better place right now. far better than this crazy and scary world you’re living in.

“i guess,” you say, but your tone isn’t convincing.

“hm, it does seem that way according to what just happened with haein.”

you wince. “sorry about that.”

“don’t be, i understand. i’ve been gone most of the time since you got hired in your new company—and we are separating in a few weeks.”

“time flies really fast, doesn’t it?”

“yep. we used to think that it’ll take forever before the five years are up.”

“true. we kept on suggesting a backup plan if ever we fight and get sick of each other.”

“yet here we are, still happily married.”

“ugh, there you are again!” you accuse and he laughs out loud once more. “are you enjoying cringing me to death?”

namjoon doesn’t answer, a big grin plastered on his face as he continues laughing, groaning eventually when you start slapping his arm because of how it’s obvious that he truly is enjoying this.

“____,” he complains, laughing still, “stop, i’m driving!”

you follow as he says. “you’re the worst.”

“i forgot how easy you are to tease.”

“shut up.”

he snickers, doing a zipping motion against his mouth.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

[makethatelevenrings]

Torture and Trust // S. Riley x f!reader

warnings: waterboarding, reader is physically hit and tortured, reader is threatened with sexual assault in one (1) line, canon-typical violence, swearing

A part two to this but also doesn't need to be read before this. I'm kind of making a little universe in my head but idk. We vibin'.

It was the shock of cold water smashing against your face that woke you up. To be honest, you weren’t really asleep. You had been drifting between the space between consciousness and sleep, lured there from a few nasty hits to the head and exhaustion.

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission before the rest of the team came in to aid the retrieval of an asset. It was a warehouse tucked away in the streets of Tokyo that was apparently the hub of a human trafficking ring. MI5 had tasked the military to dispatch a SpecOps team since British citizens were targeted, something that had you grumbling under your breath because it shouldn’t take someone’s fucking citizenship to determine if they needed help. Explosives would be a bad idea considering how metropolitan the area was, even if it wasn’t very busy in this area. So you and Lieutenant Riley were tasked with figuring out a solid entry point and a tally of guards.

Simon had agreed to split up so he could canvass the west side of the building and see how many guards were stationed while you took the east side. It just so happened that the second-in-command to shithead in charge himself spotted the flash of your rifle scope and the next thing you know, you were strapped to a chair in the middle of the warehouse.

Your chest heaved as you caught your breath and you let out a small laugh as you regarded the two men in front of you. Being in the SAS, you were no secret to torture. Everyone knew that one step of the training was to go through seventy-two hours of pure hell and sleep deprivation to see who broke and who didn’t. This was child’s play compared to that.

“Your swing is getting better,” you said through bloodied teeth. “But that follow through is what we need to work on.”

A hand fisted in the back of your head and shoved your forward, directly into the trough of water they had placed in front of you. Waterboarding was always an interesting exercise. You knew it was coming and had inhaled sharply, focusing your attention on anything but the air slowly leaking from your lungs as he held you in there for maybe a minute. Your thoughts drifted to other things, like the ramen you and Simon split in the safehouse the night before. It had been a few months since he grew comfortable enough with taking the mask off in front of you so now you savored the few moments you saw of his face. He seemed almost tentative without his mask, as though he was aware of how beastly his scars made him look.

You pondered over if he knew just how beautiful he was.

They yanked you back out of the water and you didn’t know what time it was. It was certainly darker than it had been when you were first nabbed from your lookout point. Certainly long enough that Simon was aware of your predicament. So that meant you were running out of time. Two in front of you, three guards behind. Your hands strained against the rope and duct tape mixture that bound your wrists and ankles to the sides of the chairs.

“Who do you work for?” the boss hissed. You blinked up at him innocently through the water that clung to your lashes and shrugged.

“Can’t a girl just chill around here? God forbid women do anything.” You braced yourself for a hit that never came. Instead, he grabbed your jaw and squeezed, forcing your teeth to clack together with a sharp jolt and a bite to your tongue, adding more blood to mix with the cuts already present from the lackluster punches delivered earlier.

“Not with that level of weaponry. Try again.”

“You got me. I’m one of Santa’s elves and he wanted to make sure you were being a good boy this year. I’d hate to let him know that-” Your words were cut off as you were shoved back into the water. Ramen. How many meals had you two shared at this point? He had even started bringing you dinner to your office since he could take his mask off there rather than in the chow hall. You wouldn’t lie, you were starting to get tired. Your lungs burned from the fight to breathe and inhale the water, but you tried to shut off the small part of your brain that sent up signals of panic.

You didn’t need to worry, you reminded yourself. Just hold on a little longer.

“If you don’t start giving me real answers, maybe I’ll let some of our clients get it out of you. They’d love that,” the boss snarled when you were let up for air. Your gut tugged uncomfortably at the implication. It was always something that you had to keep in the back of your mind. Being a woman, military or not, always meant that it was a threat held over your head, simply for existing. It was why you were so eager to destroy their whole operation.

“How about you go fuck yourself?” Gathering up the blood and spit in your mouth, you forced your tongue back and then spat the putrid mix all over his face and the pristine white collar of his shirt. Rage flickered across his face and he stood up straight.

“Get me the pliers. If she won’t talk, we’ll make sure she screams.”

Well, you mused, what was a few less nails and teeth except less maintenance?

As his little goon walked off to whatever evil lair table of doom they had set up, your ears tuned into the silence around you. The typical sounds of the city met your ears, along with…there.

“I’m afraid, boys, that you’re out of time,” you said softly. A smile tugged painfully at your swollen and cut lips but you pushed past the pain. “This has been fun, truly, but I can’t lie and say I’ll miss you.”

The boss’ hand was heavy on the back of your neck as he held you down into the water. Even through the distorted splashes and fuzziness in your mind, you could hear five audible pops. You knew what they saw in their last moments. You knew that the Ghost emerged from the shadows, steps silent despite the fact that he was more muscle than man, and you knew that these men felt fear seconds before a bullet silenced their cruel minds.

He tugged you up out of the water and you inhaled deeply, the sound harsh and grating on your sensitive ears. Blinking the water out of your eyes, you came face to face with a mask that most said elicited a bone deep terror in them.

But not you.

“Right on time,” you panted. He said nothing as he cut the bindings holding you down and inspected the way that they had rubbed some of your skin away, leaving it tender and bleeding. Simon turned to look at the leader of all of this and you realized that he didn’t kill him. The man was dragging himself towards his discarded gun on the ground, blood oozing from his ruined kneecap. Ghost stalked towards him and lifted him up and away from his weapon. He regarded the little weasel coolly and then glanced back at you. You tried to push yourself up and out of the chair but your legs shook under you and instead, you collapsed back against the metal.

“Warehouse is clear,” Soap announced as he, Gaz, and Price entered. “Christ, bonnie, you look like shite.”

“You charmer,” you muttered. Gaz rushed to your side to help you up and you were grateful for your team. Your friends.

“This him?” Price asked as he joined Simon.

“Yeah.” It was the first time he’d spoken since he entered the building. “Keep him alive. I want to be the one to interrogate him.”

If it were anyone else, Price would agree. But seeing the slight tremor in Simon’s hands where he gripped the man’s suit jacket and then looking over to where Gaz was supporting your half-conscious form, he knew that putting Simon alone in a room with the man would result in a very messy clean up.

“We’ll worry about that when we get them back to base,” Price said. “We need to get her to medical.”

Four days into your medical leave and you were growing antsy. Soap and Gaz tried to keep you entertained and Price offered you an opportunity to yell at some cadets, but you were bored. You missed moving your body more than just the walk from your room to your office to the chow hall and back. But the doctor had threatened to strap you to a bed for a week while you let your body get back to normal after, and her words were, “you got your shit rocked. I know you SpecOps bastards think you’re invincible but anyone would need to take a fucking break after being tortured.” So, here you were, sitting in your office and writing up a mission plan for another team because Price knew you were getting twitchy without anything to do.

Two knocks, sharp and perfunctory, caught your attention. You called for whoever it was to enter, but you already knew who it would be. How many times had he laid that same knock upon your door? You once said that he might as well move into your office and he had regarded it for a moment thoughtfully, as if he was genuinely considering it.

“Four days of silence from you. Thought I did something wrong,” you commented lightly as Ghost entered and shut the door behind him. He didn’t take his usual seat, the plush wheelie chair you invested in when you joined the team and realized that he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Simon dropped a tray onto your desk and then stalked away, his shoulders tense and bristling like a scared cat.

A quick glance at the time confirmed that your trap had worked. He always noticed if you missed a meal, usually because you were invested in something you were working on. Everyone had their own quirk or vice and that was yours.

He brought you beef stew over rice, a quintessential British meal that was surprisingly appetizing despite the cook’s minimal care. A shiny red apple sat beside it and, as if he read your thoughts, Simon whirled around and yanked it off of the tray. He extracted a knife from his pocket and started to carve the apple into slices that he dropped onto the tray and then turned around and began to stare at the wall once more. You simply grabbed one of the slices and chewed on it while waiting for him to speak.

“That was stupid,” his rough voice broke the silence. You scoffed and stopped chewing.

“What, getting captured? I didn’t fucking plan on it.”

“No. For not trying to escape.”

A dry, startled laugh escaped you and you scrubbed the heel of your hand over your forehead. “Five men with guns and me with nothing, tied to a chair. Yeah, fair chance of running without a bullet in the back.”

“You didn’t even try.”

“I didn’t have to. I knew you were coming.”

He turned to glare at you from behind that infamous mask and you cocked your head to the side. “That doesn’t scare me, Simon, and you know it. Take the mask off.”

He hesitated and then reached up and yanked it off, revealing the sharp line of his jaw, the scars around his mouth, and those freckles that speckled across his nose and cheeks. You could see him better and, therefore, read him better. His eyes told you he was angry. His tight jaw told you he was scared.

“You can’t just sit there and fucking die because you’re waiting for me, you can’t do that.”

“Why? You’re my teammate. I trust that you would come for me.”

“What if I hadn’t?” You shook your head at his question, at the absurdity of it. Was he hearing himself? Was he that consumed by whatever foolish notion that had somehow worked its way into his head? You pushed away from your desk and stood up so you could cross the floor to stand toe to toe with him. 

“What if what if what if, fuck the what ifs, Simon. You. Wouldn’t. Leave. Me. Behind.” Each word was punctuated with a jab to his chest.

“And what if I had been injured, yeah? What then?” God, he was insufferable.

“You really mean to tell me that you wouldn’t crawl through broken glass to get to one of us.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Would you have this conversation with Soap or Gaz or Price? Then why are you so insistent about it with me? I was doing my job. Are you saying I can’t trust you? Trust my team? Because I can. I do. Don’t start telling me I shouldn’t.”

“You can. For fuck’s sake, you can.”

“You said it yourself, Simon, this job is dangerous and I knew the risks going in so I don’t know why you’re so insistent on thi-“

He tasted like nicotine and mint gum with maybe a hint of gunpowder, something so uniquely him. His lips pressed against yours with surprising gentleness and he cradled your face between his hands like you were the most precious glass figure he’d ever held. You fisted your hands in the lapels of his uniform jacket and sank into his touch. His fingers traced the skin of your cheeks, careful to not irritate the cuts you sustained days prior, and down to cup the back of your neck to draw you closer. A soft whimper escaped you at the sensation of his strong body pressing against yours.

You could easily hold your own in a fight, but the knowledge that this Adonis of a man was by your side through the hell of war was a comfort.

You needed to breathe but it wasn’t the painful reminder like it was when being tortured. His hands slid from your neck to cradling your jaw as you pulled away, settling back down on your heels.

“Don’t make me bury you,” he whispered, his forehead still pressed against yours.

You nodded, too dazed to say anything noteworthy. His thumbs stroked over your jaw and you blinked up at him.

“Was that a one time thing to shut me up or…”

“Fuckin’ insufferable, you are,” he grunted but leaned down to kiss you sweetly. There wasn’t much you could associate with Simon Riley and being sweet, but the tenderness in his touch made you want to hold him and keep him away from the world that had hurt him.

You felt his fingers brush against a nasty bruise on your jaw from a well aimed hit and saw his eyes darken.

“Did you question him already?”

“We’ve got a list of buyers that MI6 and Laswell are confirming right now,” he affirmed. Good. The mission was a success then.

“And how did you get this information?” you asked.

You met the gaze of the Ghost and didn’t flinch. He chuckled low and deep in his chest and tilted your chin up so he could see one of the cuts better.

“I did everything he did to you,” he said fiercely. "But I made sure it was permanent."

You moved your hand up to tangle with the short hair at the base of his neck and pressed your lips against his. Pulling back so just a small gap separated you, you murmured out a single sentence.

"I trusted you would."

[growingstories]

La vie est belle

Thibault, a 35-year-old with a big chest, strong arms embodies the ex-jock look with his abs covered by the good French life. He lives in a quaint French countryside filled with wine farms that have been in his family for four generations. Thibault is a hard worker who has dedicated himself to weightlifting at his home gym and running the farm. However, he struggles with finding a romantic partner as there are no openly gay individuals in his small town, and he despises city life. Thankfully, his mother and his four loving sisters constantly pamper him.

Despite his weightlifting and because of his mother's delicious food he said goodbye to his abs when he returned home after his economics study. Home made pies, foie gras, cheese boards, stews, etc, all made it impossible to live on just chicken and broccoli. Thibault has always harbored an ambition to win prizes for his family's wines. However, the sudden death of his father left him unable to achieve this dream as his father didn’t get the chance to leave him the family’s wine blending secrets. As a means to gather feedback, Thibault starts dining at a restaurant that sells wines from the region and forms a bond with the owners who pamper him with delicious food. Unfortunately, indulging in these culinary delights leads to him gaining some weight. Mainly around his belly.

After a few years of trying out blends Thibault's fortunes change when he becomes the winner of a prestigious regional wine festival. Thrilled with this recognition, he takes his wines to various other festivals and attends big parties and tastings. However, as he immerses himself in this world, Thibault's belly continues to grow alongside his success.

Thibault's wines gain popularity, and upscale restaurants invite him to bring his wines for menu tastings. His mother, concerned about his well-being, packs snacks for him to enjoy during the long drives. These snacks, along with his indulgence in fatty breakfasts to combat hangovers, only contribute to his expanding waistline. Eventually, Thibault finds himself needing to buy a new wardrobe to accommodate his weight gain.

To combat the effects of his overeating, Thibault starts running. However, his fitness journey comes to an abrupt halt when he injures his ankle, rendering him unable to do anything but focus on exercises for his chest and arms. This setback only serves to bulk up these muscles, causing Thibault to outgrow his gym shirts.

His awarded wines give him to write about his passion in the culinary world. As a food and wine critic for a prominent international newspaper, Thibault finds himself in the perfect position to recover from his injury. His mother aids in his recovery by preparing delectable food pairings for his wine tastings, and farmers from the countryside send him their specialties to try. These days are filled with writing and indulging in delicious meals.

Unfortunately, Thibault's mother falls ill and entrusts her daughters with taking care of him. Each night, a different sister cooks for him, ensuring he has big portions of food to fuel his growing business and appetite. As a result, Thibault's belly expands exponentially, making simple tasks such as tying his shoes more challenging and leaving him out of breath quickly.

Due to his expertise in the wine industry, Thibault is appointed as the chairman of a prestigious wine qualification company. This honorable position brings him recognition from farmers who send him gifts, food, and wine. As Thibault visits various towns for his work, he finds himself surrounded by enticing food and never-ending parties, causing his weight to steadily increase.

Thibault's godson Bernard, the son of his closest friends and neighbors, came back from university in the US. The boy turned into a handsome and muscular young man, expresses a desire to work for his godfather. Thibault gladly accepts and tries not to fall in live with the young man. Wanting to keep his beloved godfather happy, Bernard takes charge of cooking their lunches. Bernard had learned to cook big American meals in dorm combining this with French taste. Thibault, trying to hide his crush, started to eat everything in sight. As Thibault becomes a charitable figure, he is invited to various events and wants Bernard to accompany him everywhere.

While Thibault sleeps off the hangovers from wine filled nights Bernard starts his days with a run and picks up breakfast for his godfather. One morning Thibault looked out of the window and sees his godson shirtless sweating and stretching after his run. The sight is amazing, the young man has sculpted abs and a big chest. Amazingly big legs and a round ass. He feels his dick getting hard, but when he looked down he couldn't even see his feet anymore. Bernard caught Thibault staring and waved and holds up a bag of pastries. Thibault is embarrassed. How can he be attracted to his godson, its just wrong he tells himself. Bernard brings up the breakfast to his room, still shirtless. He gives the bag to Thibault and tells him he bought som extra for the long roadtrip. The trip is tense, Thibault didnt dare to speak and ate all the pastries within in the first hour. Bernard thinks his godfather is just hungry and after pumping gas he returns to the car with more food.

This can’t continue Thibault thinks to himself as he looks down to his massive belly sitting in his lap. Looking at his reflexing in the car mirror, he suddenly realized what happened to him, he wekt from fit college jock to grey haired morbidly obese 43 years old single gay wine farmer.

Stay tuned for part 2

[archfeyreveries]

He will not be denied

Raphael had finally claimed the Crown of Karsus, a relic of unimaginable power, though it was not by Tav's hand. Her scornful refusal to aid him in his pursuit still burned deep within him, a slight he would never allow to go unanswered. Tav had dismissed and betrayed him as if he were a mere nuisance—a grave mistake she would soon come to regret. Raphael was not one to be cast aside lightly. By all the seething flames of Hell, he would not be denied. Pairing: Raphael x F!Tav Content: NSFW | BDSM | Humiliation kink | Rough | Dirty talk | Creampie | TW: Kind of non-con Author's note: My first smut on this cursed website and fandom. Hahaha I hope it doesn’t feel too rushed; I aimed as an exercise to keep it concise, wrapping everything up in a short, intense story (three chapters max). Enjoy and I do appreciate feedback. <3

Raphael, ever the cunning manipulator, devised a plan to isolate Tav from her allies. Employing his most potent illusion magic, he crafted a series of convincing visions that preyed upon Tav’s deepest fears and insecurities. Over the course of several days, Tav began to notice subtle but unsettling changes in her companions—whispers behind her back, furtive glances, and unexplained absences that chipped away at her trust.

The final blow came when Tav overheard a conversation, seemingly between her most trusted allies, where they coldly discussed handing her over to Raphael in exchange for their own desires. The illusion was flawless; their voices dripped with deceit and cruel calculation, leaving Tav’s heart shattered and her resolve hardened.

Convinced of their betrayal, Tav felt she had no choice but to confront Raphael on her own terms, hoping to strike a deal or end the threat once and for all. Fueled by anger and despair, she stormed into his lair, determined to face him. But the moment she crossed the threshold, the illusion unraveled, revealing the bitter truth: her companions had never betrayed her—everything had been a lie, a meticulously crafted trap woven by Raphael. And as the horrifying realization dawned, Tav found herself immobilized by chains and bound by blood to the devil.

That was over a week ago.

She struggled against her restraints, her thoughts a maelstrom of self-loathing and fury, until a familiar scent wafted through the chamber—a sickening blend of sulfur, musk, and the sweet tang of cherries. The master of the house had arrived, relishing the sight of Tav bound in chains, savoring every moment of her torment.

"Why the sour mood, my dear little lamb? I see you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament. Perhaps I could offer a remedy?"

Tav glared at the devil, her wrists and ankles bound in thick, cold chains that dug into her flesh, preventing even the slightest movement. She was immobilized, utterly at his mercy—a fact that filled her with equal parts rage and fear.

"You’re the reason I’m in this predicament" she spat, her voice laced with cold contempt.

"How ungracious" Raphael huffed, crossing his arms with a mock pout. "I wasn’t the one who chose to stray from the path. You had every opportunity to make a different choice, and yet here you are—bound, chained, entirely at my mercy. Did you truly believe I needed your help to claim what is rightfully mine? How could you ever be so delightfully foolish?"

Tav’s eyes narrowed, her voice dripping with bitter defiance. "If you're going to kill me, get it over with. I won’t give you the satisfaction of tormenting me."

"Torment you?" Raphael laughed, a deep rumble from his throat, "I'm not going to torment you, dearest. You have the distinct honor of being the first to serve the Archdevil Supreme of this era —body and soul. I chose you, and you shall serve me well."

Raphael stepped closer, his clawed finger tracing along Tav's jawline with deliberate slowness. She shuddered under his touch, but it wasn’t fear that coursed through her—no, it was something far more insidious, a dark anticipation that gnawed at her resolve.

"Do not fret" Raphael murmured, his voice a low, seductive purr. "I’ll be gentle… if you behave. As I said, this is an honor."

He stepped back, his wings fluttering behind him, and his tail swaying lazily as if in rhythm with some infernal melody only he could hear.

"Kneel" he commanded, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

"I will not—" Tav began, but before she could finish, her legs buckled beneath her. She collapsed to the floor, her knees slamming against the cold stone, the chains clinking ominously as her limbs were pulled taut against her sides.

"Do not defy me" Raphael spoke softly, yet his words carried a weight that pressed down on her like a physical force. His hands remained clasped behind his back, a sly grin curling across his lips. "Good girl."

Tav’s eyes blazed with fury and confusion. "What have you done to me?!" she cried out, her voice echoing off the walls.

"I did nothing" Raphael replied, crouching down to meet her gaze, his tail swaying with lazy arrogance. "You did this to yourself. Your actions brought you here, to your knees, where you belong—begging for forgiveness, for mercy." He chuckled, the sound a cruel mockery that cut through her like a blade. "But I am not in the business of mercy."

"I don’t care" Tav hissed, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I will not beg. I will not break. Do whatever you want with me."

Raphael’s eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "Oh, but I will. I will do everything, and more. I will break you, and you will come to love every moment of it. You will be mine. All mine. Mine alone."

With a snap of his fingers, the chains around her ankles vanished, and Tav’s legs moved forward of their own accord.

"Stand. Do not move." Raphael ordered.

Tav rose to her feet, her hands still bound behind her back, her body trembling with a mix of fear, anger, and a growing, unwelcome desire. Raphael stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, and grabbed her hair roughly, his sharp nails digging into her scalp.

"Open your mouth. Wider. Wider" he commanded, his voice low and menacing.

Tav obeyed, her jaw dropping as her lips parted, her tongue visible, wet and trembling. Raphael’s gaze darkened with lust as he licked his lips hungrily. Without warning, he spat on her face, the warm saliva splattering across her mouth and cheek.

Tav recoiled, her nose wrinkling in disgust, but she could do nothing—her body remained frozen in place, her mind reeling from the humiliation and the dark, twisted pleasure that coursed through her veins. His cock twitched with her reaction.

"Now," Raphael murmured, his fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her closer as he gazed down at her with a mixture of amusement and dark desire, "Lick it off your pretty face."

Tav hesitated, her defiance flickering in her eyes like a dying flame, but she could feel her resolve slipping away, crumbling under the weight of his command. Slowly, she extended her tongue, tracing the path of his spit across her flushed cheek, each movement a reluctant act of submission. Her heartbeat quickened, echoing in her ears as her skin burned with humiliation.

Raphael’s chuckle was a low, rumbling purr, his gaze never leaving her face as she continued. "That’s it, my sweet" he whispered, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Savor it"

Tav’s movements became more deliberate, her tongue sweeping across her skin with increasing confidence, lapping up every trace of his saliva. She could feel his eyes on her, drinking in her submission with a hunger that made her pulse race. As she flicked her tongue across her lips, tasting the remnants of his essence, a shiver ran down her spine.

"Good" Raphael purred, his hand releasing her hair to caress her cheek, his touch deceptively gentle. "You learn fast, mouse. Now, let us see how much more you’re willing to do to please me."

CHAPTER 2 >

[fatal-blow]

hi! im wondering if you know how to relax your muscles, i can’t seem to do it by laying down and i don’t think they do it on their own. ive googled this a few times and it said breathe pretty much and that didn’t work out for me. you’re so cool and make me want to go into medicine thank you!

REALLY GOOD QUESTION because relaxation doesnt come naturally to everyone! just like basically everything else, though, its a skill, and you can build it up

so operating under the assumption that you, like me, have chronic tension, you might not even be sure what relaxation feels like. you might not even realize that you dont know what it feels like!!

so first thing id recommend are tense and release exercises. the one that i used (on an app i cant remember the name of) the instructor guides you through tensing and relaxing the body in sections, starting in the feet and working up the body. here, you want to focus on the differences between what tension feels like, and what release feels like. the entire exercise takes about 5 minutes, and depending on what you prefer you can find a video/audio or written instructions

the next thing to keep in mind when practicing relaxation is your posture. positions you normally find comfortable might only be comfortable because you are protecting a tense muscle. for example, folding the legs to the chest is often protective of tense muscle in the back of the thighs. if you try to use relaxation exercises while youre folded up, you might encounter pain or just not make progress because your body isnt in the right position for everything to relax properly.

the best posture for relaxation exercises would be lying flat on your back, legs straight. place your knees and ankles together best you can (if i relax like this, my feet turn outwards, so i like to tuck blankets/pillows against them to keep them straight) and keep your toes pointed upwards, feet at a 90 degree angle. your arms can be lying at your sides, or hands resting on the stomach. properly arranging your lower body is more important than arranging the upper body. overall, you want your posture to be symmetrical, so try not to favour one side over the other. its okay if your posture isnt perfect, it just needs to be better than it usually is.

optionally, if you sit a lot and/or get lower back pain, put a pillow underneath your butt. this will put your hips at a gentle stretch, which will aid low back pain, and help encourage your body, especially your legs, to sit more neutrally.

also optionally, you can try relaxation on a hard surface. it seems counterintuitive, but hard surfaces will sorta force you to even out your posture, because when your weight is distributed unevenly it will hurt. not for everyone, because sometimes your posture is so messed up and your muscles so tight that you just wont be able to get comfy. something to keep in mind though!

next, you need to make sure youre nice and warm. electric blanket, warm shower, heating pad, just make sure youre nice and toasty from head to toe. if you get cold feet and hands, try to get them all warmed up too. the cold will tense you up, so even in day to day life its good practice to keep warm!

additionally, painkillers, muscle relaxants, and topical creams can all be helpful. pain is another factor that will tense you up. even if you dont think youre in pain, it is worth your time to try pain medication before relaxation exercises. i wouldnt take it every time, because its good to compare with and without and use it as a measure of progress.

oh and breathing i guess. this is the one that everyone knows, but its the one that i, personally, found to be the least effective. still, though, slow, deep breaths are proven to relax the body. try to breathe with your stomach; when you breathe with your chest, this strains the scalene muscles in your neck. breathing with your stomach activates the diaphragm, which is much better suited for your deep breathing needs. this is good practice for everyday life, not just relaxation!

and finally, you can do relaxation exercises at any time of the day, but i like to do them right before bed. it might even help you sleep better, too.

thats what i got for how to do it, but dont be surprised if you feel like you dont get results the first few times you try it. it really does take practice! just listen to your body, and chase the sensations that make you feel better--this is the best time to do so, because when you are cozy and warm and in bed and ready to relax, you can safely explore what makes your body feel better without worrying about accidentally hurting yourself.

and this is what relaxation exercises are really about, when you have chronic pain/tension--you are creating an environment where you can feel out the state of your body, in a place and posture where you are theoretically at your most (physically) comfortable. when you return to it again and again over time, it builds a sturdy base from which you can start tracking how your body feels and how it changes over time. kinda like running a little experiment!

[theatrekidenergy]

Being a disabled therian — My experience with dysphoria + a bit of a ramble

I was feeling really dysphoric as a disabled therian about how my theriotype (saarloos wolfdog) is so active typically speaking, and how much I long to be that way. I’m lucky enough where because ice is an alleviating factor in my chronic pain due to fibromyalgia I can still figure skate (which does give me species euphoria) albeit in shorter bursts than before to allow rest and not dislocate anything. Well, I was feeling dysphoric to an extent about how I have to use ankle and knee braces, as well as a cane soon enough which is coming in, and I saw this!

This guy is using a brace to support himself just like I do! I felt so much happier and thought about other things that relate my disability to my alterhumanity. So, I remembered these:

- Canines can also use braces to support themselves.

- Canines, including saarloos wolfdogs, frequently can have joint issues, which is something I also deal with as someone with ehler danlos syndrome.

- Canines with chronic illnesses also need rest periods.

- Soft bedding and ensuring a warm, comfortable environment helps manage pain, akin to how I use ergonomic aids and heating pads.

- With pain management medications and supplements, such as glucosamine and omega-3 fatty acids, are used to manage pain in canines too.

- Hydrotherapy and gentle exercises (like physical therapy) can help maintain muscle strength and joint stability in canines, which I also do.

Anyways, thanks for coming to my ramble session, I just wanted to share. Please reblog with things related to your disability and your theriotype in anyway, I need to see more disabled therians in the community and would love to see your input!!!

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Hii! Same anon as the last question about complex readers. Could you please write some headcanons or a drabble about Noelle with a fem poet around her age who is very loyal to her? As in using terms like “My Lady” or “Princess” to refer to her and crouching by her side almost like a bodyguard if that makes sense. Whether or not the love is reciprocated is up to you ^^

Thanks!

Hello! Thank you for your patience! I don't think I have written that much for Noelle, but I did like this little writing exercise~ ^^ I hope you like it

Pairing: Noelle x f!reader Genre: General/fluff Fanfic type: Oneshot Length: ~0.7k Contains: Noelle gets a little embarrassed and blushes, but aside of that, it's just cutesy feels~

It was a warm, sunny day in Clover with no clouds in the sky, but a few passing breezes did aid tolerate the warmth of the sun. Which made the blades of grass dance around your feet; sway as if it was water in which you were walking. But touched your ankles with feather light touches, almost as if soft kisses onto your skin.

“Would My Lady wish to take a walk around the lake?” You asked while looking towards the path that would turn to your side, and go down a small hill to a clear lake with a sandy beach that would continue far into the lake floor.

Noelle looked at you from the corner of her eyes as a small blush rose t her cheeks.

“You want to write poems there again?” She asked, sounding a little bashful just as she averted her gaze.

“Only if that is what the Princess wishes as well,” you told her with a tone that was as soft as a petal caught in the wind.

“Geez... You can-, you know I have allowed you not to call me that,” she said with an utterance, speaking under her breath with half of a mumble as the blush intensified.

“I know,” you told her, while taking her hand. “But as always, you need to tell it to me one more time,” you said, while bringing her hand to your lips, and pressed a kiss onto the back of it.

“Mmm.... yeah,” she said while still looking away, but not pulling her hand away from your touch.

It still took time to get used to this. Being called a princess and ‘my lady’ in this manner. Because... because. Before it had been only a title. A dry word that was spoken with the stiffness of steel, which sounded so rigid and harsh. But it was her title. Her birthright. Though only a word, to which she had leaned onto for so long, as if a shield.

But... that was not how you said it. That was not how you spoke out the title, the words; how you called her. Because when the words flowed out from your lips, they sounded so soft and gentle, like feathers caught in the wind.

She had never before heard anyone speak in such a manner.

Like she herself was... adored. Appreciated. Dare she even think loved?

“You never answered my question, My Lady,” you spoke while kneeling in front of her, which made her eyes widen in the wake of emotions she didn’t quite know how to process.

“I guess!” She said in haste. “I mean...” she corrected herself with a hushed tone again. “Yeah, I would like that...” she said, without letting go of her hand.

To which you nodded, while getting up, and leading her down the path. As if a guard, armed with words and poetry. Words of comfort to offer.

“You know...” she started while being led along the path.

“Yes, My Lady?” You glanced over your shoulder.

“You should say... what you want to do, too...” she said as the blush still lingered.

“I’m happy as long as you’re happy,” you told her with a gentle smile, but it made her frown.

“But what makes me happy is that you’re happy too,” she insisted, this time harder, but not harsh. It was as if she was putting a period at the end of a sentence, and yet... the period was wrapped in a blanket of care.

That was one of the things that always made you wonder about her, the girl, young woman, known as Noelle Silva. How she could be so soft and caring, and tough and determined at the same time. She was a collection of qualities wrapped in an impossibility.

She was someone of whom you thought you could write poets until the sun would rise from the west, and set into the east.

[corvusspecialartist]

The Beloved Brood Mare (Demon Primarch Corax x Pregnant Reader)

A/N: This is Roboutian Hersey AU Corax. This guy in this Universe is object MENACE to society. He is essentially Bile, but as a free agent and as a primarch and Chaos aligned. In fact, in that canon they are described as one if not the MOST vile traitor legions. (If you are the AU writer... I am 50% sorry for writing this terrible fanfic for your AU) AND on top of that, this author gives A REASON on why Rushal joined the Night Lords.

Read it Here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10578370/18/The-Roboutian-Heresy

TW: implied forced pregnancy, rape

You arise. You are trapped in a gilded cage, for Warp knows how long. Getting up, you almost tripped over the golden chain around your ankle, it was a common occurrence by now. Even since the experiments... you have never truly gotten used to this body. Everything about you has been altered to aid the process of birthing.

You were essentially if the primarch body was female with none of the sterilization that would naturally occur. Like the Marines that guarded your room, you were an abomination. You could almost remember when this transformation happened. Glimpses of the Demon Primarch, an older Marine with many appendages, and a screaming captive Thousand Son...

You remember passing out and waking up in this new form... it was awkward.. but never mind... your "duties" had to continue. Corax occasionally visited, but it was very rare. Often to ask brisk questions in a white lab coat about the progression of the pregnancy, you answered honestly.. for he could tell if you were lying given the nature of his place...

Looking around your room, it was time... you could often get food as much as requested, but just enough to make it so you could survive the process... you looked down at the swollen belly. Around this time, it would be time for "breakfast". You were often fed a random assortment of ingredients... often to see the effect would have on the fetus.

You had often tried to escape from the room, often killing the Spawn Marines that stood guard outside of your room with contemptuously ease. The furthest you had gone was at least a couple of miles within the tower before you were hit with a neutralizing gas.

Every step you took, you felt the pain in your legs. you felt helpless.. you felt your two heartbeats move faster.. you had not really entered your body this much before... for Lord Corax demanded that you have minimum exercise. However, you felt a sharp pang within your belly. It was kicking again.

Maybe the pain was fake, a phantom feeling of the soul imagining how pregnancy felt like.

Maybe the room had some form of shielding to protect the fetus from what laid on the outside.

The resulted in resuscitation of you in a lab table in which your arms and legs were strapped. You could feel the eyes of many Marines all on you. Struggling you cursed and tired to escape, but the equipment held fast. Your eye adjusted to the dark quickly, until you saw him come into the room. You felt your skin upon the laboratory table, cold and unyielding. The overpowering smell of disinfectant, mixed blood and other gore made your stomach turn. You also noticed your legs were in stirrups with your privates facing the audience.

Lord Corax's face was scared from the years from captivity, You could recall memories of you being ordered to soothe him and tend to his scars. His face held a mixture of contentment and disdain. You could hear others whisper in the long dead Kivharian, and lean forward almost if they were excited what were to come next. Corvus gave close and his statue seemed to dawn over you. He approached you and stroked your hair almost as if it was kind gently. He was in front of you, and he held a syringe within his left hand and a forceps in his right hand. As if he were giving a lecture, He gave you an gentle kiss on the forehead.. before starting to explain the process. You felt something cold enter your private.. you tried to struggle and fight but nothing really changed, then a liquid flowed in. You started to scream and fight even more... but the lecture continued on. even after the process had been done.

You shook yourself out of that feeling and sat down... you knew that your tower didn't have windows. But, given the advanced the state of the pregnancy, he would visit. That was something that you dreaded the most. TO try and entertain yourself you started to sing, of course it was old Imperial tunes that you took to heart. At that moment.... the door burst open and Corax appeared.

Immediately you stopped singing...as he moved almost with a slowness, but your mind being unable to process it it he grabbed you by the arm. "Don't even sing that again." He said, his voice still maintaining that softness... he face was a warped tone of anger.. but then softed as he left go of your arm and forcefully sat you down on the bed. It was comfortable sure, but still.. you knew that in your heart of hearts he was only like this because of the forlorn hope that you could produce functioning Marines with working geneseed...

He started to coo as he stroked your belly.. "I hope that this one is a success.... this is your fifth this year. I do hope that this one lives you to expectations..."- you swallowed a bit before trying to move out of range.. but he followed you. "This one.. I tried to do it more scientifically..." He placed his head down.. "And it is growing far past expectations, I should move you... to a more safer place." He started to touch your hair which your bristled. He paused but chuckled. "Though... your womb is really only used for procreation... it does get boring tormenting them." You tried to move away, but he got up and gave you a gentle kiss on the forehead. He left almost as quickly as he came. You shuddered, why you?

[ronearoundblindly]

Eighty-Three Kisses

CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!Reader

an It Had To Be You tale of tender first aid requested by @anika-ann who thought: I'm not sure why but my heart would MELT upon seeing Steve giving Precious some ⛑ (as such, warning for mentions of blood) WC 1.3k

Not your favorite way to wake up…

Roused in the morning dark of New York winter, Steve’s mom calls him bright and early. She is one of only four people who can evade his Do Not Disturb setting, and as much as you enjoy Sarah, you groan in irritation when Steve has to untuck himself from beneath you in the sheets.

But that’s not where it ends.

He takes the call and walks out to his kitchen. His voice only just becomes inaudible when your mother calls.

Chatty. Mom is chatty way too early this morning, and she wants participation in her gossip.

You get it; your parents are pure balls of excitement about their upcoming trip to NYC to see you and officially meet your boyfriend for the first time, but 6:50 in the morning on a day off is not a great moment to get reciprocation of any amount of energy.

It’s not even five in the morning where your mom is. Come on now.

You hold the phone arm’s length away to scream into your pillow before heaving yourself out of bed. Maybe if she hears Steve’s voice in the background, your mom will think you’re busy and need to get off the call? Maybe standing up will help keep your eyelids raised? You’re so tired, you’ll try anything.

As soon as your butt hits the couch cushion though, your eyes shut again, too comfortable, too quickly. You jump up and meander over to the exercise bike, muttering something about the neighbor Mom’s had this same beef with for a decade, but she’s on a roll now. You barely need to interject an “uh-huh” or “yeah.” Your mother just keeps going.

So you sit on the bike, lazily putting one foot on the higher pedal, and you nudge it. Nothing happens.

Steve rustles the coffee beans into the maker and pulls down plates because if he’s awake, he wants breakfast. He’ll go back to sleep if he can, but if he’s conscious, food should happen. That’s the Steve Standard of a morning ritual. He also has very little input for his conversation, mostly humming every so often.

You hear the crack of eggs against the bowl’s rim and yawn, hiding that sound as best you can from your mother.

Your dad is equally grumbly in the background. He chides his wife with you in solidarity.

The pan sizzling acts as white noise countered by the first whiffs of brewing coffee.

“Of course, I’m listening,” you rush out, leaning forward on the handlebars and mock-bashing your head.

Steve must have turned to watch you because you hear his deep chuckle from across the room.

Absently, you step onto the pedal, thinking it will start rotating as you press down. You don’t realize how high Steve has turned up the resistance until it’s too late. You stand with your full weight on the tiny, shifting pad, and your foot slips right off when the mechanism caves.

Off-balance and crash-landing on your foot, your ankle tweaks out harshly, and the hard plastic grooves for friction scrape all along your bare calf. It hurts like hell but happens so fast that you hardly make a sound aside from hissing.

The phone drops out of your hand as you untangle yourself from the bike and trip down to the floor.

“Honey?” Steve clearly hasn’t seen until “shit” and you hear the pan torn off the burner and his own phone tossed to the counter. “Precious, you okay? What—“

Thin gashes are already red and bleeding all up your leg. The pain is such a tense sting that you can’t manage much else other than biting your tongue and clutching at the wound, but Steve peels your fingers away, ripping the kitchen towel from over his shoulder to apply pressure.

“It’s fine,” you still hiss. “I’m fine, Steve.”

His huge palm and fingers splay across the fabric, his other hand guiding your over to replace them after he coos, “I know. I’m just gonna clean it up. I’ll be right back. Can you hold this? Just there. Good girl. Ok.”

He jumps up and thunders to the bathroom.

“Sweetheart, what’s going on? Hello?”

You look up to where your phone dangles in the water bottle holder by the bike’s handles, but you can’t reach it without harsh sensations shooting around your foot and leg.

“I’m fine, Mom,” you yell toward the phone. “I just fell. I’ll call you back later.”

There’s an incoherent fuss, your dad’s voice joins what sounds like muttering but is more likely a heated argument on the other end, and then the screen lights when the call disconnects.

Steve returns with a little box and a white bottle.

“Ok, precious--" he leans to kiss your knee "--you ready? This part is gonna hurt.”

You pull back the stained towel, lip lodged between your teeth, and Steve soaks a cotton ball. He bares his teeth when you react to the bite of alcohol.

The excess drips down to the mat.

“I know, honey. You’re doing so good though. Just a little more." He tries to move the foot. "Can you—“

“OW!” Like a shot, your ankle cries all the way up to your hip. “Sorry,” you say through threatening tears, “I landed on it wrong.”

Steve’s hand cradles the joint, keeping it still even as he lowers to kiss there, too, his blue eyes worried. “Okay, I’ll get ice for that, but first, we cover this.” He wipes gently at the deepest gash by your Achilles tendon before ripping open a packet of antibacterial ointment. “Just another minute, alright? You’re doing great.”

His rough morning voice and soothing tenor nudge your heart rate back in the right direction.

At least the medication doesn’t hurt. Between treatment and bandaging, he lifts your wrist to his lips and plants a double tap of encouragement.

"So good," he rumbles.

Steve carefully unfolds and layers some gauze across the whole area and carefully tapes the edges. On instinct, you bend your knee to get yourself up, but the tape pops right off when you flex.

“Uh-uh, precious. You’re not doing anything until we get some ice on that.”

You think he means to leave you sitting on the ground, but Steve pivots to a squatting position, tucks his arms beneath your knees and around your waist, and lifts you straight into the air, kissing your cheek for good measure.

Well…all that gym equipment’s been good for something…

He carries you all the way back to the bed, kissing your forehead to force you to relax backward and excusing himself to the kitchen again. A few drawers open and shut. There’s a racket of ice clattering into a bag.

Another light scuttering noise.

“Ma, I gotta go. Yeah, I love ya. Okay, bye.” He rounds the doorway again, compress and coffee at the ready.

Steve wraps a fresh towel over your skin before arranging the ice to lay just right, covering as much curve as possible without too much pressure. By the time he’s satisfied, he’s created a majestic-looking nest of sheets and blanket around your foot.

You chuckle as you blow across the hot liquid in your toasty mug.

This is his near-military precision and focus again, except this time, you are the mission.

Finally, his equally warm gaze meets yours, dawn breaking outside the wall of windows surrounding the corner room.

“Want your phone back?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. “They can wait.”

Everything still aches, the dull throb seeming miles away when Steve grips your thigh before straightening.

“You know, precious, if you wanted breakfast in bed, you could have just asked.”

You shrug, a little embarrassed but very appreciative. This certainly hasn’t been your favorite way to wake up, but it’s not the worst either. Plus, the morning has just begun.

“Sometimes the only thing that gets your attention is a crisis, Captain.”

from this game of "Comfort My Characters"

Thank you for asking!

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rach2602 @patzammit @royalwritersoftheuniverses @supraveng @1950schick @yiiiikesmish

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[dendrite-blues]

Lock In, Friends. We're the Resistance Now.

Things in the American left wing have been pretty gloomy this week. Lots of retrospectives, lots of “I told you so,” lots of doomy predictions.

I share the feeling. I understand it. It’s gutting to experience such a decisive defeat from a party who claims that caring for people is too expensive, but "there's no price tag” on harming them. We would have to sociopaths to not be upset about that.

However, I think we need to be mindful of how our emotions frame our reality.

I don’t think it’s particularly wise for us to invest too much energy into the news cycle. It only serves to exhaust and demoralize people by overwhelming them with a tsunami of problems. The sum total of the threats feels insurmountable, and so we throw up our hands and accept that the end is nigh.

I understand the camp of people who are willing to sit back and accept the suffering as long as the Y’all Qaeda suffers too.

We all feel frustrated and resentful, because in the course of fighting for freedom, leftists and liberals inevitably end up fighting for the rights of people who do not appreciate it, will not help defend it from future infringement, and are actively voting against it. And that fucking sucks.

But throwing up our hands and watching the world burn does mean that we will burn too, and I don’t know about you, but I like my flesh un-scorched.

Therefore, before all else, we must be willing to block out the noise. We must stop giving our attention to a mass media who are cosigning our destruction, and focus our attention on tangible, achievable, local action. We must ask ourselves, “What cause truly matters do me? What cause do I care for more than my comfort or safety?”

Some people will answer, “None,” and that’s okay. They would be poor allies anyhow. We let them go in peace.

For the rest of us, the people who care even in foul weather and terrible odds, we must gather ourselves around the campfires of those heartfelt causes. We must make close bonds with our true allies, and devise plans for how we can draw a line in the sand of our values and say, “No more. You will not take away our healthcare/our mutual aid/our ability to protest and exercise free speech/our right to exist and love who we do.”

It will feel alien to those of use who are accustomed to paying attention to everything. It will feel like we are letting our neighbors and their causes down. But we are not, we are actually helping them a great deal by ensuring that our campfire does not spread uncontained about the woods.

[Read and subscribe on Substack]

or continue reading below.

Because we are focusing on our fire, they can ignore it and invest that extra energy the spent watching our fire to defend their fire better. And we, likewise, can pay less attention to them and trust that they will handle it.

Which leads quite nicely into my second point with this letter; in our ongoing fight for freedom, the preservation of hope and our spirit must be the absolute first priority.

They have been working tirelessly for nearly a decade to break our spirits and push us into apathy. They are closer to succeeding now than they have been for a long time. The antidote to this psychic damage is psychic healing. We must take care of our own.

If you are holding a door closed against an intruder, you won’t last long with a broken ankle. You won’t be able to plant your feet if your socks are sweaty and the soles of your shoes have no traction. You would also fair much better with a friend who is also pushing.

People in our lives are hurting, and so we have to help them heal.

It sounds daunting when we’re all feeling so tired and wrung-out, when we feel deep in our hearts that this country deserves to go to the dogs. We think, “how could I possible support someone else when I’m barely staying on my feet already?”

There is some truth to that. That’s why I’m moving to a blue state. That’s why I’m cutting off people who I don’t think I can reach.

Put your gas mask on before assisting others. It’s common sense.

But at the same time, don’t take it for granted that helping drains you of energy.

Certain people are quite draining, and certain types of help can require a lot of energy, but we don’t have to do that kind of help all the time.

When you are feeling worn out, a hug can be a revolutionary act. A night of karaoke with friends. A cup of tea, an empowering conversation, one-line text message welfare checks—these are revolutionary acts, because they keep people motivated. They remind them that life continues even under oppression.

We lost the election, but the battle for our souls is still being fought. The legislature doesn’t determine how our movement goes forward. No candidates or conventions dictate how we gather and speak and coordinate.

Are we headed to another civil rights movement, where signs and song and massive, multi-cultural coalitions stand together and tell the government where they can stick it?

Or are we headed for a slow, self-defeating whimper that rolls effortlessly into an interminable era of rigged elections, single-party politics, and dissidents being disappeared from the streets in broad daylight?

Donald Trump doesn’t get to choose, and neither does Elon Musk.

We don't control the game or the rules, but we do get to decide if we're even going to try and win or if we'll just forfeit at the start.

It’s in our hands.

And we will absolutely surrender that choice if we give too much quarter to grief and anger. We will kneecap our own chances for freedom if we neglect our collective well-being and give our energy to the vampires on both sides of the punditry.

I believe the thought leaders on the left are well-meaning. I believe our bickering and pontificating flow naturally from our identities as intellectuals and humanitarians, and I think it’s important for us to have those conversations. But we need to have them at the right time, and we need to have them after we’ve patched up our wounded and put on fresh socks and tied our shoelaces good and tight.

We need to take care of our own and give them little bits of love to cling to, to remember the world we’re fighting for—a world where everyone is equal, everyone is whole, everyone is cared for and sheltered and connected to a community.

We have to give people a taste of the world they deserve, and it’s not even that hard to do because it turns out that when we make a space of healing for our community, that space heals us too.

In the face of oppression, survival is an act of rebellion. Gather your people close and ask them how you can help. When they tell you, take their answer seriously and do what you can to improve their situation. When you need support, don’t be proud. Go to your people and tell them.

Human beings are categorically shitty at imagining better times when their thoughts are steeped in depression and despair. In order to have any chance of a better future, we need good, hopeful ideas. Therefore, now and in the future, our first impulse should always be to care for our people. Nothing good can happen until our minds are free of our demons.

So go out today and find yourself some peace. Find relief, or get as close as you can. And when you’ve had enough relief to feel angry, to feel fired up and pissed off and impatient to take on the Horrors, channel that feeling into giving someone you love peace and relief.

And for fuck’s sake, turn off your phone notifications. You don’t need that shit activating your amygdala 24 hours a day. Check once in the evening so you’re informed, and then run far away. You’ll better off, and you’ll have more energy to improve the world around you.

The enemy is apathy. Don’t be an easy mark.

Let's all get our heads straight, and find the dim spark within us that still hungers for a better future.

The Horrors persist, but so do we.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

Den

[crybaby-bkg]

Physical therapist AU that popped up into my mind yesterday and I can’t stop thinking about them!!!!

Bakugou as the physical therapist that most people are kind of scared of. He doesn’t get that many clients, only because his methods are a little harsh and his words are a little mean, but it’s only because he wants the best for you and your body. He focuses solely on your upper body and arms, for when you have pains or surgeries. He’s such an ass, likes to pick up 20 pound weights and show you how to do your exercise, tuts at you when you complain that your two pound weights are too heavy. But on the days when he really sees you struggling, his voice is a lot kinder, and he’ll give you the one pound weights when he sees your arms shaking a little. But the next appointment, you won’t be able to slack off!

Kiri as the lower body and legs physical therapist in the studio. He’s all cheery and bright when he sees you, is a little imposing with the eye contact whenever he explains each and every muscle in your calf and how it aids you and why it hurts when you run without warming up first. He’s just so big, doesn’t realize his size when he climbs up on the tables with you so that he can bend and twist your leg every which way to show you how it should feel. You hate to disappoint him, watch that bottom lip puff out when you admit that you haven’t done your exercises the way you were supposed to. He must hang out with Bakugou too much, because he goes just a little harder on you those days.

Deku who focuses on the whole body. He’s much like Kiri, with his big green eyes staring holes into your soul as he over explains where the soreness in your flank comes from. His hands are big and soft when they guide you into the right position he wants to put you in, his voice soft. Always whispers a drawn out ‘goooood job’ whenever you can do something he’s instructed you without any hiccups. He turns beet red whenever he realizes how his hands have found themselves in a compromising position on your body, just gets so caught up in guiding you, and it’s the most adorable thing ever.

Denki as the therapist who focuses solely on hands. He’s amazing with his fingers, all long and slender and pretty. He talks your head off when you come in after surgery on your pinky and middle finger, and you can’t help but find it endearing. He shows you how to do your exercises and routines, all pretty smiles and golden eyes that you can’t help but admire with a sweet sigh when you stare at him. He also buys his own lotion to massage into your hands, and coos about how soft they are and how good they smell after, embarrassing you whenever he holds your wrists up for other passersby’s to smell.

Shinsou works primarily with feet and ankles, and he’s damn good at it. He always has a bored little look on his face, and you’re scared he might be too rough, but he’s the complete opposite. Asks you intermittently, does this hurt? is the pain right here? should I add more pressure? And he doesn’t huff when you complain about his hands being too rough. He does give you a stern talking to though when he doesn’t see any progression because you haven’t been keeping up with at home maintenance. But on those days, he also offers up heat with the electro therapy treatment, because he knows you prefer it over the ice.

Todoroki as the additional chiropractor there???? His monotonous voice gives no indication when he’s going to basically separate your spine from your flesh, but you can always see his little hint of a smile when you scream a little. And delinquent turned front desk worker Dabi???? who only works there because his annoying brother got him job, but he doesn’t mind it because he gets to flirt with the patients before they’re whisked off to the back.

[tree-obsession]

HSR and Scars+other physical trauma marks HCs

I haven't seen anyone do this yet, but lmk plz if someone has!

Minor spoilers for main plot

Arlan- scars in a lot of places, implied that he could fight as a child and was poor, canonically has a prosthetic arm (at least I think, but works as hc too) and scars on his arm and nose at least. likely has more, esp on arms since using a greatsword doesnt give great defensibility and his moveset involves cutting HP(judging by the animation, using electricity, so electricity scars too? are those called lichtenberg scars?). he's short, and again the childhood implications mean he was probably malnourished.

Asta- probably minor things from working with untested equipment, and has likely burned her hands with her own powers- but, since she's a noble, she's likely expected to be neat, so idk. I like the burn idea tho.

Bailu- she's a healer, so I think what she does get she can get rid of too. But maybe her dragon tail has unhealed bits from failed assassination attempts, or smth?

Blade- canonically has scars basically everywhere. literally got tortured for a really long time, had home planet destroyed as a child and likely didn't get out unscathed (we NEED to talk abt that more), was a forge worker (burns) and did fight on occasion as Yingxing, and then was on the run for about 1000 years or something, and canonically died even more during that time. also has a skillset that involves cutting his own hp. likely doesn't have to eat, but he's unhealthily skinny because of it anyway. chronic pain. somebody give this guy a hug please.

Bronya- she's a soldier, so callouses, blade scars, bullet scars, emergency first-aid scars, and probably desensitized to cold more than the average human bc belobog. really high disregard for pain that concerns seele on a regular basis.

Clara- her. her feet. are they ok. but also some scars from working with mechs and being in the cold, but svarog made sure nothing too major happened while she was in his care. before, though... likely got beat up for being a "pushover" (im crying plz).

dan heng-... chain scars. we NEED to talk about the fact he spent most of his life chained up in prison with guards and people who hated him (minus jing yuan). probably none of the guards would have stopped some of the more violent ones from getting physical- how else would he tear his clothes that much? probably wasn't fed enough or allowed to exercise much. and the chains- listen, i know we joke about the light cone a lot(honestly why was that specifically made into the light cone) but that was really how he lived for a long time. the desc even said he "writhed" and "gasped for breath". he definitely has huge scars from rubbing skin raw around his wrists, ankles, stomach, and maybe his neck? his arms are definitely majorly scarred over and stuff from this, and probably his ankles+legs too. also his eyesight is probably shit from the dark, unless Vidyadhara magic somehow helped that.

bonus: there is a fic on ao3 called "you're looking into their eyes (and find you're looking into your own)" by robyndoesntlikeyou that deals with dan heng having scars that i only found after drafting this post. plz rec any more fics you have on this...

Fu Xuan- i really don't know for her. probably small ones that wouldn't have scarred, but she saw them as unimportant and didn't treat them...

Gepard- similar to Bronya, but maybe not as many since he's a shielder, but more of the lack of cold sensitivity? he's on the front lines lots

Guinaifen- burn scars on forearm and hands. probably can't feel much on her hands too. idk her lore but she's a street performer, so probably not always enough money for food.

Herta- we basically know nothing about her! seriously, she's so mysterious, and her character stories are vague about her past. i can't think of anything, but maybe there were some more dangerous experiments?

Himeko- considering she rebuilt the Astral Express, there were probably dangerous components involved there somewhere... and her backstory still seems pretty mysterious

Hook- diggertron probs caused burns, and life in the underground is dangerous- plus, moles could apparently go to the fight club? which seems like an issue

Jing Yuan- he's a general- lots of war scars. and probs lighting burns because he summons that entire lightning lord/chronic pain.

Jingliu- she definitely has a lot- i'm pretty sure she's the oldest of the hcq, and also got mara-struck/ fought in wars and was on the run and exiled for a long while. canonically constantly in pain due to mara. also really, really needs a hug, except the only person she would probs let hug her is baiheng, who is dead! and also she isolated herself and tortured yingxing/blade. hcq enjoyers are in literally so much pain.

Kafka- would have a lot of callouses, but idk about where scars would be. she would probs cover them up to avoid drawing attention (as she is an assassin), but idrk where exactly. she seems really sneaky, and considering she has no fear there's no reason for her to hesitate in battle. maybe scars on arms from electricity or stray bullets?

Luka- canon that he has scars from wrestling and stuff.

luocha- again, he would probably just heal whatever scars he did get. i really don't know for him, sry ):.

lynx- most calloused hands ever and even more of a weird cold tolerance than others because she's an explorer. probably just doesn't have feeling in some places. and there are probs scars somewhere from when she ran into fragmentum beasts but she's also a healer so...

march 7th- from careless accidents, sure- dropping glasses and stuff, maybe from a few close fights. but her body was wiped like her memories, plus she's a shielder and archer, which is code for not in the thick of the fight and not taking much damage herself, although she has been careless a few times. also, bowstring burns.

natasha- again, she would heal it. but has chronic pain from lugging around that heavy gun and due to age- i think she's in 50s? she's a respected person, and raised seele in the orphanage, but i dont think there's an official age.

pela- cold resistance. maybe some scars from mechanical accidents? and also there were likely some attacks right after she was born since so many of her mother's coworkers were killed.

Qingque- she's clumsy, so accident scars- breaking glass, falling down too many stairs, etc.

sampo- cold res! and probably some close calls since he's such a rat and has enemies, so most scars are on his stomach.

seele- again, growing up in the underworld was tough, so fighting rings + orphanage scraps + street fights, plus some malnourishment since she often gave her food to smaller kids and ran all the errands. was always a fight-first person, but cares a lot and so would protect automatically. has scars all over- many knife ones, some bullet or burns, and electric ones from fixing up mechs.

serval- electric ones from when she was just starting to fight with the guitar. do i need to keep saying cold resistance for the Jarilo-vi ppl?

Silver Wolf- definitely got some, but can aether hacking erase them? either way i doubt she would actually care enough to try unless she was really bored. but also has terrible eyesight, even by punklorde standards. idrk where her scars would be, so spread out mby?

sushang- spent her entire life training and canonically is brawns over brains, so probs more than a few. also her sword is heavy so she probs had some accidents. mostly on her arms and stomach.

tingyun- probs some from people blowing up amicassador ships, since they want to interrupt peace talks and things- but she's fast and experienced.

topaz- had bad lungs, but had a surgery after getting promoted to fix them. some burns on her hands and her sense of smell is a bit screwed up, so numby is often her compass for that (i love numby SO MUCH)

trailblazer- massive scar from getting stabbed through. none from before game started, since apparently they're a puppet. i think they would heal faster, but messily because of that, so a bunch of smaller scars on their torso, face and forearms.

welt- lots and lots from soldier time, especially from debris and the honkai energy probably has some kind of physical drawback. hands are a bit screwed up too, and gets a lot of chronic pain.

yanqing- what the heck is his family history? will it become relevant later? kind of curious how that may affect these hcs, but hands are super calloused and while he often doesn't retain major injuries, he'll only care for them if jing yuan tells him to, so a bunch of smaller scars just from that. mostly on his arms and hands and neck (ppl probs try to stab there often...)

yukong- so many- was huge in the war, so lots of bullet scars and maybe even some that were previously mara-infected and made worse. hearing is shot, uses hearing aids in her fox ears. a bit irrelevant but she is totally awesome.

[alexandraisyes]

Hey guys when a child tells you that they're in pain you don't tell them to walk it off.

This is coming from someone who was just about to start sobbing from his chronic hip injury they got in the behavioral health hospital when she was 15 where the doctors told him to "walk it off".

And continued to say that for the next two months.

And then when he got home her parents told her the same thing and told her to stop being dramatic.

For eight months.

Finally, when it got to the point that they literally couldn't walk more than half a mile a day without their hip buckling and giving out and them being in so much pain they would start crying at random - then they took her in to get checked out.

We had to go and get an X-ray, and the X-ray showed that I (yeah the hypothetic kid was me, shocker) had damaged and scarred tendons and ligaments in my hip. We went to a physical therapist, but there wasn't much they could do. "Oh just exercise", isn't good advice when I had already been getting in an hour of good exercise every day. Everyone has told me I need to exercise for years, it doesn't help. My injury is getting worse the older I get, and I'm only 19. It interferes with my work, and with my life.

I need to see a doctor, I can't afford that. I don't have insurance. I can't get a job with benefits because I can't work with my hip like this. The strain has leeched down to my knees and my ankles over the years, and when I sprained my ankle last year it only sped up the process. I didn't get any treatment for the ankle other than ice, and my dad didn't let me rest it. I didn't have any mobility aids either.

So fucking please. If your kid tells you there's something wrong, listen. What kid is going to lie about a hip injury for 8 months?

[mania-sama]

with every line, a comedy

Pale White Horse - The Oh Hellos

➼ 05 - his translucent skin made me shiver deep within my bones ❧ Information (Summary, Tags, Chapters) ❧ Previous Chapter ❧ Next Chapter ❧ Word Count: 5,705 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own

Cyno was the first one to greet the two in the morning. There wasn’t a clock in the living room, but the windows showed the moon sitting on the horizon. Great. He forgot Cyno was even more punctual than Alhaitham. There wasn’t any way he was going to be allowed to stroll in late to work.

Alhaitham had been in and out for most of the night. The hearing aids coupled with previous events had kept his thoughts running, irritating him to the point that he considered it would be better if he just took them off. But of course, he didn’t. Not when he could hear Kaveh’s uneven breathing a few feet away from him at all times.

As for Kaveh’s night, the Scribe was well aware that there wasn’t a chance that he’d gotten back to sleep. If he had, they’d probably be dealing with a broken splint and a rush to Bimarstan or the student hospital against Kaveh’s will.

Tighnari soon came down afterward and examined Kaveh’s ankle. Although overall pleased that it hadn’t worsened, he insisted on them seeing a doctor together as soon as possible. Alhaitham noticed Kaveh acted overall neutral to the subject. Overcompensating — pretending his panic attack had never happened in the first place, that he had to consider if he’d trust even his oldest friend with the care of his body.

Breakfast was served by Cyno, who was easily the best cook out of the four. Collei joined them the moment plates were set on the table. Alhaitham had never been particularly close with her, but that didn’t mean they disliked each other. In fact, they’d shared conversations about the types of books they enjoyed. Though the attempt at reading one of her books, and conversely her attempt at reading one of his, went rather poorly, he recognized the merit in her choices of material.

Her demeanor was entirely different from the last time he’d seen her. Collei was a shy and soft-spoken child but wasn’t particularly skittish or weak-willed. Even if she didn’t want to do something, she pushed her way through since she understood the importance of why it had to be done. That consisted of eating, exercising, studying, interacting with others, and more. Alhaitham saw a bit of himself in her, especially in the interaction department.

The girl that sat down at the table next to Kaveh was tired. Dark circles hung like heavy weights from her red-edged violet eyes, and her posture was tense and rigid as if she felt the urge to flee at any given moment. Eye contact was held for only half a second before she went to toy with her food. She was quiet and clearly watching them from behind her eyelashes.

The meal wasn’t silent, but it was quiet in a way that let everyone recover from the night previous. Any conversations they had lacked any real substance, aside from when Tighnari asked about Alhaitham’s dreams again, to which he politely responded for Tighnari to describe his.

Collei ate very little of her food, though she tried to put more down every time either Cyno or Tighnari requested that she eat a little more. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kaveh struggling just the same, even if he was better at hiding it. Alhaitham was certain he was the only one that noticed how Kaveh would swallow twice, lick his lips, and take extra time in preparing the next bite. His eyes would glance at the Scribe’s plate before looking back at his own, seeing how much progress he should be making in comparison to Alhaitham’s slow speed.

The coffee was more bitter than Alhaitham preferred. He watched the sunrise from the window in the dining room, and he had the foreboding feeling that it was going to be a weary day.

And yet, he left before Cyno did. Tighnari accompanied him to the door, and he anticipated what he was going to say before the Forest Watcher opened his mouth.

Lips drawn into a frown, he warned, “Don’t talk about my sex life again until you can figure out yours.”

Alhaitham leveled him a blank stare, leaving the held-open door without a word. Before he could step out of earshot, however, Tighnari’s voice called after him. “I mean it, Alhaitham.” 

The Scribe didn’t grant him a response. On his walk to his house, his hearing aids were held firmly in his hands, deaf to the world and forcing his mind to focus on anything else.

—

Throughout the years that Alhaitham knew Kaveh, he’d noticed one intriguing peculiarity about Kaveh:

He was a strangely private person.

It didn’t seem that way at first. Really, Kaveh didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut most of the time. When they’d first met, Kaveh had sat with Alhaitham and talked his way through the entire lunch and barely stopped enough to eat his meal. He revealed everything there was to seemingly know about him; he was raised by two scholars, he was a student of the Kshahrewar Darshan, a master of trigonometry, loved soup and anything cute, and was generally obnoxious.

He told people so much that they didn’t feel the need to look deeper. They would think, after one conversation, that there wasn’t anything more to know about him. He’d already supposedly spilled their entire life story to them, so why would they try to find out more?

It had worked on Alhaitham for about one day. After that, he began picking up on the qualities that Kaveh didn’t expect people to see, notice or comment on. He expected that his hard-looking shield would deter everyone away from actually hitting it. That way, they wouldn’t find out just how brittle the metal actually was.

Kaveh wasn’t private around Alhaitham much anymore. It was hard to be with the Scribe’s perceptibility and how often they were around each other. Aside from the nightmare situation, Kaveh had given up on hiding. He let every part of his life and personality bare their ugly teeth in the containment of their home.

However, there was one aspect of himself that he’d never revealed to Alhaitham. And for his part, Alhaitham had never cared to push on the subject. He didn’t need to see Kaveh’s bare body. Even if there were days where he found himself picking apart Kaveh’s clothes, imagining what may lay underneath, he’d never brought it up before.

But it was while he was sitting in his office, trying to work through the thick stack of post-meeting documents, that he was struck by the fact that he’d never seen Kaveh’s naked stomach before, nor his thighs.

He wouldn’t know if dark freckle marks were dotting his skin like glittering constellations. Kaveh could have birthmarks of any shape. He was likely pale, paler than the rest of his skin. Would it be smooth from underexposure, or rough from constantly rubbing against his clothes? There could be blemishes, prominent abs on his stomach, or sharp muscle lines stretching across his thighs.

He’d thought about it before. It had kept him awake at night, wondering what he may never get to learn, and how he could go about finding out without driving Kaveh away from him. Because, of course, Kaveh wouldn’t expose himself for Alhaitham's pleasure and curiosity.

Alhaitham had never before contemplated the matter the way he was now.

Scars of Kaveh’s past could be littering uncharted skin. And the shape of those scars, whether they be burnt, large, jagged, narrow, or straight, could be a clear indicator of stories Kaveh left untold about his childhood. They could be the answers to the incessant questions Alhaitham had on childhood surgeries, torture, and escapes.

And there may be nothing there at all. There could be nothing to indicate trauma, nothing to show for physical abuse. Kaveh wouldn’t be hiding anything underneath, but rather keeping what’s there away from other people.

Alhaitham recalled the taut rope, sobbing, and incoherent words, and felt a little nauseated. The paper in front of him blurred out of focus for half a second. It was worse knowing that Kaveh might be afraid of what Alhaitham would do if he ever saw what he kept hidden.

“I hope this isn’t a bad time, my Scribe,” a young voice called, and Alhaitham’s vision cleared immediately. He focused on the Archon and the slight glow she always emanated. He wondered if she was aware of it, the way that people couldn’t help but notice her presence.

The Acting Grand Sage carefully set his pen down on top of the document, a little too aware of the organ working in his chest. “Not at all. What do you need?”

She walked up to his desk with heavy feet. Her eyes were open and imploring as if she could read every emotion on his face. Alhaitham had always been told that he was impossible to read — his facial expressions rarely differed. Kaveh had once said that his eyes would go from narrow to narrower, and that would sometimes be the only indication that his emotions had flipped.

“Kaveh isn’t afraid of you,” she blurted. Immediately, her hands went up and shook them. “I wasn’t trying to read your mind! I… I do it subconsciously. Looking into people’s heads, especially Dendro Vision holders, is like breathing for me. I sincerely apologize.”

“There’s no need,” Alhaitham forgave, and really, the only reason he did was the knowledge she provided and the ease that knowledge set aside. His stomach was still coiled with the theories left untested, but at least one tight knot was set free.

The Archon nodded, though her fingers twisted together in front of her chest uncontrollably. “I didn’t come here to tell you that, anyway. I want to inform you that I’ve found the reason why I can’t help Kaveh directly.” She paused, giving time for Alhaitham to fully prepare for what she was going to say. That, and her voice was uncharacteristically tight. It appeared that it caused her great discomfort to speak aloud. “He blames me for what happened to him.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Alhaitham refuted. His mind was already piecing together the route Kusanli took to come to that conclusion. “He loves his Vision more than he loves himself most days, and he holds you in extremely high regard. I don’t see how he could blame you for something you couldn’t have taken part in.”

Then there was the matter of Collei. Alhaitham had already compared and contrasted them; Collei had even mentioned before that she had screamed for the gods to help her, angry at them for allowing her to be tormented in the first place. Out of the two Dendro wielders, it would be Collei that should be blocking Kusanali out.

“He blames me like how I read minds; it's subconscious. What happened to him occurred in Sumeru, and he thinks he survived it all alone, without any help from me or anyone else,” she mourned. “I hear the prayers he sends in his dreams. I’m not helping him there, either. And that Vision… when he looks at it, he is only reminded of all the times I’ve failed him.”

Alhaitham sat with fighting words on the tip of his tongue, ready to come back to Kaveh’s defense. Even though Alhaitham largely disagreed with his viewpoints, he knew how much Kaveh loved her. He believed that his dedication had finally been recognized by their Archon herself. 

But, he couldn’t deny that her conclusion seemed correct. It was an undeniable fact that Kaveh had unattached his Vision during the night, and hadn’t bothered to reattach it that morning at Cyno’s house before Alhaitham left. Collei, on the other hand, had her's safely pinned to her sides as most Vision wielders preferred. 

“He doesn't attribute a lot of the blame to me,” she continued. “His reservations are mainly held in other places, but it’s enough to block me out. The reason why this doesn’t apply to Collei,” and she looked a little sheepish as she said those words. It was clear she was still reading his mind. “Is that she has already remembered most of her time in treatment before the nightmares started. She’s had time to heal and realize that the only person she can put her anger to is the one that hurt her, not the ones that couldn’t help her.”

Alhaitham finished for her. “Kaveh hasn’t had that time to adjust.”

The Archon shook her head, her shoulders tense and eyes downcast to the floor. “I would apologize to him in person, but doing that would be the equivalent of putting a roof over a young sapling. Its growth would be stunted and deformed, twisting in order to get around the roof and towards the sun.”

In other words, Kaveh wouldn’t heal properly. “There’s more,” Alhaitham prompted.

“... Yes. I’m honestly a little ashamed,” she admitted. Her body rocked side to side. “It’s not just Kaveh, but Sumeru as a whole. My people have been suffering for the past five hundred years, and there is little I can do to help or change that fact. I feel like a tiny fish in a wide, storming sea, trying to make a ripple among raging waves. Apologizing now wouldn’t even make so much as a sound.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m certain you didn’t come here to gain sympathy from me.”

“No,” she said, and a small smile appeared on her face. “I’m saying this because I want to thank you for all the work you’ve done for me and Sumeru. I know you don’t enjoy being the Acting Grand Sage but If you hadn’t offered to hold the base, the Akademiya would have crumbled by now. You’ve done an amazing job so far.”

Alhaitham stared at the young Archon, unsure of what to do with the praise. People didn’t often acknowledge the work Alhaitham did — they seemed to think his ego was already inflated enough. It was foreign. The last person to congratulate him on a “job well done” was his grandmother, who had long been buried.

Noticing his silence, Kusanali carried on with, “And I want to express my gratitude in more than just words. The issue is that I don’t know what would suffice. My Scribe,” she said with her hands spread wide open, “what would you like from me?”

His first instinct was to bite out “a new Grand Sage,” but he knew that it simply wasn’t feasible. Kusanali had made it his responsibility to pick the next Grand Sage, and so far he hadn’t been able to find a suitable heir to the title. He hadn’t had the time, and all of the candidates were less than exemplary. His second desire was equally as unattainable. Kaveh’s nightmares were far out of Kusanali’s hands.

Why did he care enough about Kaveh to give this divine opportunity to him?

He shut down the line of thought before it could spread. He could think about it later when his Archon couldn’t read just how confused he truly was when he had the time to fall to the same frustrating conclusion he always came to.

Alhaitham didn’t need anything. He supposed the window needed to be replaced, but he already made time to fix that issue at a later date. He wanted to wake up later than six in the morning, but that couldn’t happen until there was someone to take his place in the grand chair he sat on. His life was cozy and complete; other than his occupation and Kaveh, there was nothing he wanted.

“Your dreams,” Kusanali said, interrupting Alhaitham’s vigorous search for a request. He looked at her curiously. “How do you feel about them?”

He couldn’t remember his first dream, but that didn’t surprise him. His research on the topic showed that recalling dreams, especially after an extended period of time after they originally occurred, was exceptionally hard. Unless the dream caused an extreme emotion or was vivid enough, most people go their whole lives with only being able to remember a handful of their dreams.

However, he could recall his second and third dreams relatively well. In his second dream, his house was burning down, and he went down with it in search of his roommate still trapped inside. A few of the details blurred at the edges. His third dream, a ship capsizing with Kaveh as a drowning prisoner underneath, still exceedingly clear in his mind’s eye. His heartfelt desperation to release Kaveh was as vivid as it was real in the waking world. When Alhaitham analyzed it, he wondered why he hadn’t dreamt of either his Vision or Kaveh’s.

Dreaming, as he’d learned, is a way for the brain to process information. He didn’t mind that he was having them based on that fact, but Kusanali wasn’t asking for his opinion on the objective truth of his dreams. She wanted to hear what he felt.

If she’d asked Kaveh the same question, he would’ve said that his dreams made him feel fear and out of control of his life. Alhaitham knew this because he’d observed Kaveh react to his dreams and mask his emotions in an effort to regain authority over his own mind.

“I don’t hate them,” he started. “I’m aware of their value in processing information. That doesn’t mean I appreciate what their contents are. During the day, I watch Kaveh suffer. Then at night, I relive it all over again. I can’t escape his pain or mine.”

Even in his office, far away from the architectural work Kaveh was laboring over, his mind persisted in reminding him of all that his roommate wasn’t telling him, all that he was dealing with alone in his own head. He never truthfully ceased reflecting on Kaveh and his situation, and Archons-forbid if Tighnari’s incessant voice echoed in his thoughts one more time Alhaitham might have to go the rest of the day without his hearing aids. It wasn’t like he cared to hear anyone’s voices anyway.

When he slept, it was a respite from the day he had. Since upholding the title of Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham had craved that solace even more. Now, his dreams prevented him from receiving that break.

Lesser Lord Kusanali put a hand on her chin and stared thoughtfully at the desk in front of him. “Thank you for telling me, Alhaitham. Even if it’s just for one night, I’ll see what I can do for you and your dreams.”

Alhaitham nodded to her. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No. Please, continue your work and I will continue mine. We are making Sumeru better every day.” She smiled and winked at him. Instead of walking to the elevator, she blinked out of his sight. The only indicator that she had even been in the room was the faint green outline of the body that permeated the air. 

Now that he reflected on it, she hadn’t come in through the elevator, either.

Blinking away the reflection, he returned to the document on his desk. Kusanali had cleared his head and ebbed away his growing anxiety and overstimulation. Sifting through papers wasn’t fun regardless, but it was easier to do when he wasn’t focused on Kaveh. Instead, he thought of his dreams and how Kusanali intended on influencing them. The logistics played in the background of his mind as he approved another paper.

—

Alhaitham hated being the Acting Grand Sage of the Akademiya. It was exhausting, hard work that was incredibly boring at the same time. He had chosen to be the Scribe of the Akademiya for a reason; it was easy work that rarely took up much time during his day. The title of Acting Grand Sage guaranteed the exact opposite.

Worst of all, the meeting he had scheduled later that day to further the process of choosing the next Grand Sage since two of the sages were ill with the flu. The virus had been spreading through the Akademiya during finals week, and the students that had all caught it from their weakened immune systems due to stress had spread it to their mentors.

Of course they spread it to their mentors. Alhaitham used a sparing prayer to Kusanali, silently asking her to protect Kaveh from the illness. Not because he was worried Kaveh wouldn’t make it, but because he would spread it to Alhaitham. There were few things that Alhaitham despised more than being sick.

As he walked to his house, he eyed the Matra tailing him. Then he spotted the ones lurking further up the street, finding himself disappointed that Cyno hadn’t been lying.

Cyno had dropped by his office soon after Kusanali left. The visit wasn’t overall unexpected; if he was in the city, he would make the personal trip to drop off the reports and case files that Alhaitham had to analyze and approve. The General Mahamatra acted first on reports, but they did wind their way to the Grand Sage for a second opinion. If he wanted to have a case halted or pursued, he had the authority to override the General Mahamatra’s decision.

Alhaitham knew that Cyno would do what he believed to be righteous no matter what the Grand Sage thought, so he didn’t even bother to correct his decision. The most he would do was read the first passage of the report in the instance that it was intriguing.

When Cyno had delivered the papers, he warned Alhaitham that he, Kaveh, and their shared house would be on surveillance for the next week. The General Mahamatra then showed him the report that he’d filled out. Kaveh and Tighnari’s names had been listed as the correspondents.

“We’re going to snuff out the criminals as soon as possible,” Cyno had said, his eyes narrowed and unamused. “But if they manage to catch wind of this before we get to them, Kaveh could be targeted, and you by extension. I’m keeping you both safe this way.”

Alhaitham had carefully held the paperclipped stack in his hands, flipping through the pages until he landed upon a blueprint and a sketch. They looked just like the ones that Kaveh was working on for his commission. The one that had needed it to be finished as soon as possible, and even paying extra for maximum efficiency.

Before the Acting Grand Sage could open his mouth, Cyno had said, “I advise you to talk to Kaveh about this. He wasn’t taking it well when he gave me the report. Tighnari and I convinced him not to drink, but it’s been a few hours. I don’t know how well our advice stuck.”

Alhaitham was fully expecting to open his door to either two situations:

One. Bottles strewn across the living room with the architectural drawings ripped up in a pile. Kaveh would be drunk out of conscious thought, mumbling his woes into Alhaitham’s ear.

Two. The papers would be intact, but Kaveh wouldn’t be home. He’d be at the tavern, drinking his sorrows where Alhaitham couldn’t see his pitiful state.

With a Matra staring coldly at his back from across the street, he prepared himself for either scenario. The blanket that had been re-tied over the empty window slot moved with the door. Alhaitham tugged it behind him as quickly as he could, not wanting the Matra to see the scene inside.

Kaveh was home.

There weren’t any empty bottles. There weren’t any bottles at all. The living room was spotless clean of any dust, dirt, and architectural sketches. The book that Alhaitham had left open after he’d departed that morning had been closed and tucked into its proper place. A distinct smell of cooked meat and roasted vegetables drifted through the house.

The Light of Kshahrewar sat hunched over on the center couch, a paper clenched in his hands. He didn’t react to Alhaitham’s entrance. 

“Kaveh?” Alhaitham called, making his way over to his roommate. The only indication that Kaveh had heard him was a small bob in his throat as he swallowed.

When he reached his side, the Scribe didn’t pick up on any trace of scents of alcohol. His clothes were unmussed, his hair pinned back in his usual style, and his skin glistened like he’d taken a long, hot water bath. A proper splint covered his foot and ankle, meaning he’d made it to the doctor and back just fine.

His ruby eyes were blank and unseeing. The paper in his palms was crinkled from constant pressure, and the ink had been smeared in various places. It was otherwise free of variant marks and stains. It did not tremble or move in Kaveh’s grip. The architect was as still as a statue carved by his own hands.

Alhaitham sat beside his roommate on the couch slowly. He recognized this routine now. If he tried to say anything more, the results would be static and unchanging. Perhaps he wouldn’t make it worse, but he certainly wouldn’t achieve any progress.

He could violently pull Kaveh from the couch. It could startle him into the present, or he could be an emotionless doll. Under Alhaitham’s hands, he would allow himself to be pushed in any direction or touched in any way without a reaction at all. Alhaitham could tear the sketch to pieces, light his blond hair on fire, rip the earrings from his skin, and Kaveh wouldn’t make a sound.

The Scribe laid his hands on his lap and stared forward, letting himself drown in the static feedback from his hearing aids. Normally, everything had sound. The air moving, Kaveh’s breath, their house creaking — the only time he could ever escape it was when he took off his hearing aids. Now, it seemed like the world had sewn its mouth shut.

Silence was Alhaitham’s comfort. It was his blanket. He had lived without sound until his grandmother had fitted him with a pair of hearing aids. He hadn’t worn them often, then; he hadn’t cared to. It was only after he’d been a year into studying at the Akademiya that he’d crafted his own pair of hearing aids, ones that reverberated sound back to his eardrums as though he’d been born listening to the city’s bustle and the scholars’ debates.

His hearing aids weren’t made for the convenience of others. If someone wanted to converse with him, they’d find a way to do it. They’d learn sign language like they would any other ancient language they had to study in order to graduate, or they’d write what they wanted to say. Alhaitham had developed a keen eye for reading lips and understanding the words being spoken. He didn’t make them for the convenience of himself. He didn’t have any issues with his perpetually deaf world, and the occasional rough sound the old hearing aids provided.

He’d made them because, for the first time, he wanted to clearly hear someone’s voice other than his grandmother’s.

He had met Kaveh a year into his higher education career.

In the presence of Kaveh, silence was disturbing. He wore his hearing aids around his roommate for a reason. They were not meant to ring with static alone.

“They told me it was a ranch.”

Kaveh’s voice was not quiet. It was not choked. It was entirely blank, void of any of the depression, fury, or regret that Alhaitham associated with the architect. It matched his posture, the living room, his cleaned body, the scent of cooked food permeating the air, his dull ruby eyes.

“I had known they were lying. It looks nothing like a ranch.”

His voice was nothing at all.

“My first draft certainly looked like one. We talked about the modifications, and though I argued with them, I couldn’t pass up the mora they were offering. They knew what they were talking about, exactly what they wanted. If they wanted a terrible ranch, then that’s what they were getting,” Kaveh continued. His gaze was in the present, but not exactly focused on the sketch. “Cyno has already told you about this, hasn’t he?”

That was the first indicator that he’d acknowledged and recognized Alhaitham’s presence. Just because he’d been talking didn’t mean he’d known exactly who he’d been talking to. But the use of Cyno’s name showed that Kaveh was acutely aware of his surroundings, no matter how absent he had been before.

Alhaitham’s voice was toneless when he said, “Very little. I skimmed the first paragraph of the report; I want to hear the rest from you.”

His hearing aids rang with silence as he waited patiently for a response.

“The plan includes bedrooms, bathrooms, and a kitchen. At first glance it seems normal, but then you take into consideration everything you’d need in a house in general, not to mention a ranch house, and it certainly doesn’t meet the standards. Then there’s the fact that it’s in the center of the ranch, where the animals are roaming all around, and there aren’t any sheltered areas designed for animals themselves,” he monotonously explained. “But I’d explained all of the problems to them already. They didn’t care. This was the way they wanted it.”

For the first time since Alhaitham got there, Kaveh moved. It wasn’t much — he changed his grip on the paper so he had one free hand while the other prevented the paper from flopping at the edges. Kaveh lightly traced the outline of a fence on the sketch with his pointer finger. Alhaitham followed the finger intently, his attention flicking back and forth between the sketch and the architect’s face.

“It was the f…” His voice cut out, failing on the word he’d intended to say. He blinked, possibly for the first time in a while, and took a moment to regain his speech. “Fence. Ranches require specific types of fences for a list of reasons I won’t bore you with. There can be leniency for people as uneducated as the commissioners, but a palisade is obviously out of the cards for a ranch. The perimeter also wasn’t long enough for any type of ranch animal, nor the area big enough to provide enough space.”

Alhaitham had come to that conclusion on his own. He hadn’t asked Kaveh to explain it because he didn’t understand the logistics, he did it under the assumption that it would help Kaveh process the information and begin healing from it.

Looking at him then, Alhaitham realized that the issue ran deeper than he had originally thought.

“It’s meant to keep people, ” Kaveh started, and then choked on his own sentence. He let the sketch flutter softly from his hands onto the ground in front of him. His eyes were scrunched up together and his teeth were bared in a half-snarl. The usual shine that came with unshed tears was absent from his gutted face. “It’s meant to keep people in. Meant to harvest their organs and throw them out once they are emptied of anything to sell.”

When Kaveh stood, he staggered, tripping over his splint and hitting the edge of the table. The sketch crinkled and tore under Kaveh’s weight. Alhaitham stood up with him, reaching out to steady him before he fell. What he received for his efforts was a hand wildly swatting him away and a strangely level voice that said, “I don’t need your help.” Those ruby eyes, the ones that Alhaitham could never get enough of — the way they were so unique, their color descending from a deep crimson to a dusted pink, always so expressive of frustration and excitement — met Alhaitham’s with a glaring intensity. “I have never asked for it.”

And his nose was flared, and his hands were balled into fists, and he was favoring both legs as he roughly pushed past Alhaitham. His bedroom door slammed, rattling the vase settled by a set of books on the shelf beside the center couch. The sound reverberated into Alhaitham’s hearing aids, and they reminded the Scribe just how sensitive they were with an ear-piercing screech.

Fresh dust settled in the newly-cleaned house. The aroma of cooked meat and roasted vegetables filled the space where the smell of Kaveh’s shampooed hair had once been. Light streamed in from where the blanket had come slightly undone. The ever-present sound of silence wrapped around Alhaitham like the Grim Reaper’s skeleton hand.

Alhaitham tied the blanket back over the empty space where the window should be. He checked the kitchen to see a plate carefully preserved for him. It had meat and vegetables and a glass of water on the side. His footsteps were light and even as he brought the food to the dinner table. He kept his mouth closed and chewed slow as he ate alone. His mind was blank as he tried to think.

Lesser Lord Kusanali’s words bounced around in his head, reminding him constantly of their weight. It made him want to plunge his steak knife into a carotid artery. It gave him urges, not thoughts, not plans, not ideas. Only the strong urge to do something incredibly and uncharacteristically impulsive. Alhaitham prided himself on the fact that he did not do anything without consideration beforehand, and that he didn’t have compulsions since they were entirely illogical, reckless, and without cause.

Alhaitham wanted to flip the dinner table. He wanted to choke on his food. He wanted to cradle Kaveh’s head and beg to see his stomach and thighs. He wanted to shake his Archon’s little body and scream in her face. 

Alhaitham did not act on his urges. Instead, he tossed his hearing aids onto the wooden table, took a deep breath, and ate the rest of his food in the complete, utterly deaf world he belonged to.

He wanted to be able to think, but the dead silence in his head was infinitely better than the uncontrollable voices scraping his brain like a dog that’s been trapped in a cage for days, making his hands shake and his heart burst. Having real thoughts would have to come later, when he calmed down and could open his mouth for anything other than eating.

[novankenn]

Altered Destiny (v1-1)

{Table of Contents}

Jaune was tired. Tired of being the last and the weakest. Fed up on needing to depend on his team and his friends to keep him safe when they were on training missions. He just felt useless, and despite all the help his team and friends, especially Pyrrha, were giving him… the gap just wasn’t closing.

It was a risky idea, but he had to test himself. Force himself to step up and prove to himself that he belonged at Beacon. Giving his team an excuse of feeling unwell, he bailed on their planned trip to Vale. He detoured on the way back to the dorm, straight to the locker rooms, and gathered his weapon and armor. He was going to repeat the task for initiation… solo.

It turned out it had been a horrendously terrible idea. Activating the launch pad was a simple application of physics on a pad that had a bad latch, and he was airborne. As he sped towards the canopy of the Emerald Forest, he replied his planned landing strategy. He and Pyrrha had discussed options at length, and he chose to use a similar method as she did at the beginning of the school year.

Deploying his shield, he compacted his body, putting the most of his bulk behind it, he gritted his teeth and braced for impact. The arm thick tree top was snapped off easily, sounding like a gunshot, and sending the few natural birds in the area to take to wing. The second top he impacted was only slightly thicker, as was the third one he sheared off. Each one slowing his descent by fractions. 

Trouble was encountered when Jaune crashed through a thigh thick trunk, that bled his momentum to almost a crawl, and before he could react he impacted a second trunk, and bounced off. There was enough bounce in the tree to throw him backwards into the trunk he had just crashed through. The impact jarred him, and knocked the air from his lungs. Which further complicated the situation as instead of continuing in an arcing trajectory, he was now falling straight down.

The thinner branches gave way easily to his mass… the thicker ones not so much. Each impact jolted and disoriented him, stealing the breath from his lungs, while also causing him to tumble between hits. Slamming into the protruding roots of the trees that just played ping-pong with his body was a shock. One that robbed him of any breath and his voice.

The pain that radiated from his chest, his arm and his leg told him, that he had messed up. Struggling to take a deep breath, Jaune knew; thanks to being forced to take part in innumerable first aid, and search and rescue courses and exercises, be had at a minimum bruised his ribs. Though the sharp pain that had ripped through his chest when he landed on the uneven ground helped him pretty much discard that thought.

Even moving caused him pain, confirming what he thought. He had broken some ribs, and considering the burning pain in his ankle and right shoulder, he knew he had messed them up too. Gingerly reaching about with his still functioning left arm, he located his scroll and activated it. Firstly, he tapped the SOS icon. Causing his scroll to that second ping Beacon with his exact location and that he was in need of help.

After that, he checked his aura reading. He was barely still in the green. He derided himself for being so stupid, and once again needing someone to save him. His aura took a beating, but if he had been better prepared… IF he just trained harder, maybe he could have used his aura more effectively to prevent the injuries he was now suffering from. He coughed, sending a blazing pain through his chest.

/=====/

So I decided to rewrite Altered Destiny, to make it flow better, and attempt to actual not necessarily follow a traditional out line, but to stick to two pages of notes/theme I wrote for it. I hope you all enjoy.

[bitegore]

I’ve been wanting to get a cane for a good while now, but something in the back of my mind just feels weird about it in a way I can’t quite kill off. I have broad pectus excavatum, which compresses my heart and lungs to a certain degree. This affects my tolerance for exercise and makes me exhausted from simple things like getting up and using stairs. Doctors say that my heart isn’t compressed enough to have a tangible effect on my day-to-day life, but I still feel like it does. And my sister gets on my case for even speculating about having a disability that I haven’t been diagnosed with because she fried herself on Reddit r/fakedisability discourse and thinks I’m doing it for attention, so I don’t even know what her reaction would be to getting a cane. I guess I just don’t feel disabled enough for a mobility aid, even though intellectually I know that I can do whatever I want forever… I’m worried its some form of internalized ableism that I’ll have to unpack, lol. Idk, can you relate? Do you need to get a cane from a medical professional?

-

Ah, I can't say I relate - my issues are very, very different - but I know for a fact you can get a cane in places like Walgreens and CVS (and if you're outside the US, likely at other pharmacy type convenience stores as well). You'll have to pay out of pocket for them and they're not custom-made for your issues, but my mom bought one from CVS when I was a kid and it helped her out when she had issues with her ankles. So that's one issue down.

I would say to ignore your sister + if she can't mind her fucking business you can always lie and say a doctor or some other medical professional or w/e told you you could get it if you thought it'd be helpful. But I really don't think her response should be... idk, relevant? Like you said, she's fried her brain on r/fakedisability and anything she says is going to be unhelpful and stupid.

"Disabled enough for a mobility aid" is. How do I put this. There is no such thing as 'disabled enough' for a mobility aid to Society, the message is always that you can try harder unless you literally cannot move at all and if you have even the slightest amount of mobility you shouldn't use a mobility aid at all. So it's a losing game no matter what. Instead I figure if you think it'll help you, get a cheap cane and find out how to adjust it to fit you, see if it'll help, and if it doesn't help then like idk see if you can give it to someone who'll need it. You'll never know if you don't try and you'll never satisfy the question if you don't find out, I figure. If you don't have the funds for it then that's irrelevant but a bunch of these are like, $25, that seems about reasonable to me.

I don't think I'm really the guy to ask about this, but like, idk I am on the "do whatever you want forever" train and it sounds like this is something you at least want to try. So I think you should try it. And if it works out then you should probably look into getting a real deal cane that is actually suited for you and won't hurt your hands or wrists, because I know that can be an issue with the cheaper canes, but then you'll be able to have an easier time with walking and stuff, and if it doesn't work out then you know it's not what you need.