#focus so much bloody time on math

[mistress-light]

I'm currently reading: Strengths Finder 2.0. I'm not far into yet, but the first pages were so.... good to read? And true? The fact that most of us spend so much time working on the things we don't excel in? At school or work, instead of spending more time on the things we are good at and becoming even better at that.

[herofics]

Hi. How are you?

I've feel really suicidal lately so i wanted to ask some angst/confort of dadzawa, please.

His daughter attempts to take her life and he arrives home from patrolling just in time beforw it was too late. And maybe the after math

Thanks, i love your writing, it have really help me to cope in multiple times

A/N: I'm good, thanks for asking :D I’m sorry you’re feeling this way anon, I hope this can help even a little bit. I wanted to write this quickly for you, so I'm posting this already. Thank you for liking my writing, it means a lot to me that I can help people cope.

TW: Suicide attempt and blood

Aizawa was home a couple of hours earlier than usual, because he wanted to surprise you with some of your favorite take-out. He entered the house to find all of the lights off and the house eerily quiet. Had you gone out? You always let him know where you were going, even if he was at work, because he had requested you do so. Aizawa felt like something was wrong, there was this pit in his stomach that just kept growing, the closer he got to the door to your room.

He had turned the kitchen light on when he placed the take-out on the table, but the hallway was still only dimly lit as he walked towards your room. He didn’t see what he was stepping in, but he could feel something soaking his socks as he passed the bathroom door. There was light coming from under the door and he heard the water running. It was odd. As he looked closer, he noticed the water was slightly red. His heart jumped into his throat as he tried the door handle. It was locked. Aizawa didn’t hesitate for a moment as he kicked it down.

That’s where he found you, in the tub, bloody water all around you. He quickly turned off the running water and pulled you out of the tub. There were these deep gashes on both your wrists, that were slowly bleeding you dry. You were clammy and incredibly pale compared to your usual skin tone.

“(Name)!? (Name)?! Please answer me” he begged.

You weren’t moving, and he wasn’t even sure if you were breathing. He pulled his phone out and called for medical assistance, as he held you in his arms. He was trying to put pressure on the wounds on your wrists, to hopefully stem the bleeding. The next four minutes, before the paramedics showed up, were the longest of his life. Watching you slip further and further away was terrifying.

When the paramedics came, Aizawa let them do their job. They lifted you on the gurney and one of them kept working on you as they carted you off to the ambulance. Aizawa got a ride in the back of the ambulance, he was just silently praying you would make it. He didn’t know what he would do if you didn’t. Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children.

When the ambulance got to the nearest hospital, you were quickly taken away, and Aizawa was left standing behind the doors that lead to the trauma center. He walked to the lobby and sat down on one of the chairs, leaning his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands. His hair hung around his face as he stared down at the floor. How could he not have noticed how much pain you were in? How did he not see the signs? Surely he should have noticed. You were his kid, and you’d always been close, so how could he not have seen this coming? He’d been so busy with work lately, both his job as a hero and a teacher. Aizawa blamed himself, who else could he blame?

When you woke up, the first thing you felt was confusion. You looked around, but you felt like you couldn’t focus your eyes. You did notice someone in black clothes and with black hair, snoring away in the armchair next to your hospital bed. You looked at your father and you couldn’t help but tear up. This wasn’t supposed to happen, you didn’t want this to happen, you didn’t want to wake up, so how come you were relieved to still be here? How come, just the sight of your father made you feel so guilty.

Aizawa woke up to sobs coming from your bed. Ironically, it was like music to his ears, to hear your voice again, even if you were crying.

“Good morning angel” Aizawa said, as nonchalantly as he could.

He didn’t want you to think he was angry or disappointed, he just wanted to sound like what he truly felt, heartbroken, scared and confused.

“D-da-dad?” you blubbered.

“I’m here” Aizawa said, taking your hand.

“I’m sosry…” you stumbled over your words, and continued sobbing profusely.

“It’s okay angel, it’s okay” Aizawa attempted to assure you.

You just sobbed for a while as your father held your hand. You didn’t understand how he wasn’t angry, surely he must have been disappointed in you for being weak, for giving up.

“I’m-I’m sorry for being weak, I’m so-sorry for… you know” you sniffled.

“You’re not weak, you were in a lot of pain” Aizawa said sincerely. “I’m sorry for not noticing, I’m your father, I should have been able to tell you were suffering”

“I think you not noticing was kind of the point” you joked dryly.

“Even if you were actively hiding your intentions from me, I should have noticed something. I knew you were in pain, but I had no idea how bad it was” Aizawa sighed, squeezing your hand.

“Can we just not talk about it? It’s not your fault and what’s done is done” you yawned.

“We can not talk about it now, but we’re going to have to talk about this eventually” he emphasized the “now”.

“Yeah, I know…” you sighed. “I’m just tired, I wanna go back to sleep” you lied.

You let go of your dad’s hand and turned your back on him as you laid on the bed. You didn’t want to talk about it, and you didn’t know how to either. How could you explain to someone else how you felt, when you didn’t even know yourself.

“I love you angel, sleep well” Aizawa said, as he leaned back in his chair.

He didn’t want to pressure you, but he wanted to understand. He wanted to know why you would do something like this, but he didn’t know if he would understand, no matter what your explanation. He loved you so much. He remembered the first time he’d held you when you had been born, and the time that had almost been the last, not 24 hours earlier. He would never forget either of those times. The first one filled with such joy and the other with such indescribable fear. No child should die before their parents, and he was just happy you were going to be okay. It was going to be a long road, but you were going to be fine, he knew you were strong, no matter what you thought of yourself. You would keep fighting, and he would be there to help you up when you stumbled. He would walk with you, holding your hand through it all.

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 5 - GENTLE

content warnings: mentions of violence, some gore

Torr kneels, frozen-kneed, in the bloody snow – nose running, tears dried, salty, on his face – and he does the maths. It’s simple. It’s obvious; he may not have been able to get the hang of letters in all the handful of temple lessons or backroom schools his parents put him in but he’s good with numbers, and when he looks at it like a logic puzzle there’s only one way this ends. Auntie Jorunn doesn’t have near neighbours. The village, down the road from her farm, is an hour and a half’s walk in clear weather, when everyone’s going quick; likely to be more’n twice that, in the slow-howling choke of snowfall, once Torr has found where Katla and Kyrri and Griss ran to. He has to find them first. Then drag them along the slow walk. Then back – three hours, at least, just to track his siblings down and get them to the village, and however much longer it will take to find a healer who’ll come back with them, and then actually coming back – all the rest of the night, it’d be, and some of tomorrow’s day. Too many hours. Torr takes that number, and he puts it against the way Pappa’s twisting, the way his clothes fall over his ribcage like there’s less bones there than there’s meant to be, weak hands pushing at Torr’s knees, still making sounds that make no sense, not even seeming, now, to quite know he’s there; puts it against Mamma’s breathing, the awful desperate wheeze of it, the way he can’t get her to focus on him; puts it against both of their blood, mingled, in the snow.

It doesn’t add up. Maybe if there was a healer closer by. Maybe if he hadn’t already found both his aunts, quite dead, inside the house, with another body he doesn’t recognise. Maybe if he knew the area better – if they’d been staying in their makeshift cots in Jorunn’s toolshed for longer – if he knew anything about stopping bleeding, or mending breathing, or fixing the shapes of bones. But he’s kneeling in blood in snow with dried tears and probably snot on his face and he doesn’t really know anything. His shirt smells like goat’s piss because he hid in the pen, right back in the corner as they took the goats away, not even breathing. There’s a little, little bit of blood stuck to the shaving knife he hasn’t let go of all night.

He hid in the goat pen. Auntie Jorunn showed him how she looks after the goats, these last couple days; hardy things, long-haired, bleating. She told him about it all, especially the gross bits; especially the slaughter, when it’s time to get meat or when they’re sick and not getting better. She says you do it right, they don’t even know what’s happening. Then you’ve got chevon, or no more sick goats to look after. Can’t afford the feed for the healthy ones, even, sometimes. It’s a bad year. That’s why they’re here, helping, Pappa said (though Torr knows better than to think there’s not something else he wasn’t told); that’s why the bandits came, probably. It’s brigand country here but Jorunn’s never complained about anything like this before. Torr doesn’t know if they came to fight or just to steal; Torr doesn’t think it matters. Jorunn’s started fights about less serious things. The outcome’s the same, either way.

He said it seemed sad, to just cull the sick goats, not even let them die on their own. Jorunn called him a city kid. There’s no sense in senseless suffering, she said. Cut it short. Do it right and they won’t even notice.

He looks at his knees in the blood and the snow and he thinks he gets it, now.

The shaving-knife glints, rust-red, in his hand.

…

Three’s a good number, Torr thinks, for things like this. Once is a mistake. Twice is a coincidence. But three’s a pattern, and Torr doesn’t plan to let it continue. So after they’ve sent three painstakingly scrawled warnings telling Skygna’s dad to back off and stop looking, and they’ve seen Skygna curled up in a ball and kind of crying without tears, sounding like she’s choking on her own tongue, three times, Torr begged some stuff off Quintus and Nurelion in their shop and then stole the stuff he definitely couldn’t afford to ask for, on credit or not, and cobbled something together to handle it.

Skygna’s still scared of him and still not safe, and he’s not going away on his own.

So Torr used what knowledge he’s been able to scrounge in months of occasional gigs with the alchemists, and he’s handling it, more or less. Not as neatly as he’d like; the foul-smelling concoction he dribbled into the man’s sleeping mouth isn’t fast-acting, isn’t subtle. But Torr’s straddling his chest, too, thumbs dug into the pulse-veins on either side of the windpipe, which is hurrying things along. Cleaner than the knife, sort of, and all Torr’s blades are badly blunt. They need a new one. But it was important to get this done first.

The man is writhing, fumbling at Torr’s steady-held hands, face purple, eyes popping. Not as neat as they’d like, but close enough. “Easy,” they say, in the soft tone they use on Griss when she’s fussing; “Shhhhh. Shh. I told you.”

They wait, like that, for it to be done.

…

It can’t always be clean.

Seven months after meeting No-Name, Torr finds her in the city again, but not before one of the night watch does. He doesn’t hear the words that are said, but he doesn’t like the tone, really doesn’t like the way her shoulder in her worn-out jacket is shoved into the brick of the wall. Violence against a little kid is really bloody low. He has a new knife, bartered from the smith he’s done some running work for, after his old one broke. This one’s sharper. Better.

He stabs the guard in the back of the neck, twice, blade glancing off along the side, and from the way the blood spurts – Torr ducks out of the way – and the way he’s more gasping and gulping than screaming, like he can’t get wind into his throat, it seems to work well enough Even if it’s not pretty. Back to the wall, tail aligned flatly with the cracks between the stone, the girl stares. Torr moves in to block her view and tells her he’ll get her somewhere safe for the night.

“You’ll take me back to the docks tomorrow,” she says, staring at their stomach like she can see right through to the blood on the snow behind them, “won’t you?”

“Of course,” Torr says, and he leads her away.

…

Torr goes to Riften and kills an old woman, because he’s asked to.

The pay isn’t good, but it isn’t about the pay yet. He goes with poison again. There’s time for it. And it feels better if there’s not as much blood, because there are children in the house, and they shouldn’t have to see it. There are still handprints on the throat, of course, purplish; but he twitches up the collar of her nightdress, scrawls a note to set on her chest, and they’re barely even noticeable, in the end.

…

When he kills Nilsine Shatter-Shield, it is about the pay.

They’re not happy about it. But even though Torr’s getting better at letters lately they still know numbers best; they’re under no illusions about where their priorities lie, or what anything else in the world is worth in comparison. They left Windhelm so their kids would be secure and cared for; they have a roof over their heads, now, if they want it, and they eat every day, but there still aren’t enough blankets for everyone to sleep comfortably and Katla says they mostly buy hardtack. There’s more to want for them. Torr wants more for them. Torr has more – and he can’t bear to leave them behind.

The more money he gets, the more he sends home, the more this whole foolish endeavour was worth in the first place. When there’s money for soap, for meat, for more blankets and more cushions and an education, if they want it, then it will be enough. But there isn’t, yet. And Nilsine isn’t part of the contract, but she is extra, and Torr will take extra. Torr will take whatever they can get.

They get something from Babette, for this, because they’ve had quite enough of approximating; and because her sister was stabbed. Many times. It was big talk, Torr knows; that was when he got Katla her own good knife, instead of just one of his dull hand-me-downs. For just-in-case. He figures Nilsine’s had her fill of violence; better to do it quiet.

She dies in the inn, Candlehearth; Torr knocks over her drink and insists on getting her a new one. It’s warm, the fire burning behind its grate, music threading through the room’s loud chatter. Better, Torr hopes, than bleeding out in the snow. It’s the least he can do.

…

Torr stops crying right about the time they pick up the knife.

It’s soaked in blood – the blade, of course, long and curved and whisper-keen, but the hilt, too, is tacky with it; sharp-smelling, metallic, pressing into the creases of their palms. It’s smooth, sticky, even-weighted against their palm. There’s blood streaked on their hand. There’s blood on their hands. There’s blood in the dirt – ash – smoke still lingering in their hair. Smells like smoke. Smells like blood. Smells like badly burned meat, and rot, and Torr – can’t – breathe, but it doesn’t matter because they’ve kind of stopped trying. Their shoulder aches like hell. They hold the knife in their left hand. They press the fingers of their agonising right lightly against skin that doesn’t feel like skin, and Astrid hisses through her teeth. Her eyes are very red in their sockets, globes of roiling blood; her eyelashes are gone. She’s still looking at him. She’s still looking at him. She’s still

The knife is sticky-weighted against his palm.

She’s spoken enough, he thinks. Rasped out her explanations even though it was hurting her, hurting her, persuading him; her torso is a mess of cauterised wounds; his nails are torn and his knuckles bruised, and it’s her blood on the hilt of the knife. It all feels so claustrophobically close and yet so very far away. Torr’s body is here, in the thick of it, but he’s left it behind. Left himself behind. Every breath feels like dying. Astrid is looking at him; the others, somewhere behind, are silent.

“I’m sorry,” says Torr’s mouth. They’re not crying, though streaks of tears have dried, salty, to their face. They are the first they have shed in close to six years. They will be the last. There is blood and bile in their mouth. Astrid’s flesh shifts sickeningly under their light touch. Everything feels like dying.

Astrid smiles at him, then, a horrible stretch of the face; her charred lips crack, blood trickling into her mouth, seeping between her teeth. She curls her arm enough to touch his hand back; one of her ruined fingertips tears at that pressure. It weeps something too clear to be blood. “Thank you,” she grinds out, and closes her eyes.

Her blade is strong, better than any Torr’s used before; which is, by now, no faint praise. He shifts his hold on it mechanically. She’s baring her throat; if he gets the angle right, comes in from the side, he could catch the windpipe and the carotid in one strike. There would be pain, but not for long. The knife would have to be able to cut through the cartilage, of course, but he’s not worried. It’s a good knife. It’s a really good knife.

He does it. It works. She exhales as she dies, brief and choked-off, sounding something like relief; Torr stands, pushes politely past Nazir and Babette, and weaves back through what’s left of the sanctuary to kneel in the dirt next to the decay-stinking coffin and vomit into the rubble where the pond was. It’s dark as gore. He rips half his hair out sawing through it with the bloodstained knife, and tries to pretend he can’t taste it.

…

After everything, the Emperor is easy. He does not scream or cry or make things difficult. He is polite, he makes his request, and then he goes and stands with his face to the wall so he can’t see Torr coming.

Their right arm is still hanging, juddering painfully with every too-quick motion, so they carry the blade in their left, pad up behind him on silent feet. He did not sound afraid. He spoke of inevitability. Now he stands straight-backed, staring down the ship cabin’s lush tapestries, and he is shaking. It will be harder to get a clean angle, if he’s quavering like a little dog. It will ruin all his show of acceptance. Maybe someone else, some other time, would relish in it, but Torr just needs it to be done.

“Calm down,” they say, gruff, voice like blood and smoke and tumbling stone. “I’ll be gentle.”

[penguin--person]

ok how would’ve swap ended

heres my outline for the chapters ill never write, and here you can find a bit of chapter 11! fun! in my own words, under the cut.

we left off with sanyas place being bloodied and filled with a few corpses, dmitry nowhere to be found. chapter 10 ends. chapter 11 starts with yura, with some reflection on what happened and on his feelings, where its revealed dmitry has been taken by the facility. sanya told him this. sergei told her that.

yura and sergei meet up.

basically that. sergei says he and sanya cant stay at their place now, so theyre staying at some hotel for the nearby future, until their flat gets cleaned of all the blood and gore and dead bodies. hes more upset than in canon, because, he could have died! yura should have known better! says math tutoring with sanya is overrr and asks if he still wants to go to the zone. yura says hehe yeah then we get some more reflection. thinks about katya. and. man. ok. tarts cleave made me put some yurima in this, like, internalized homophobia. so this is a sort of yurima fic, the way that yuras like ohh what is this fucking feeling!!! and dima hates yuras guts, but tolerates him bc hes his only source of food and resources.

then the chapter would switch to anya pov. school is ending, her classrooms packing up, when she hears some of her classmates talking about this gorey event. apparently, some runaway mutant killed some people!! this classmate lives in the same complex as the kazarins maybe idk who knows. anyas like woahhh what the hell!!! and when she comes home talks to kt about it. anya exegaterates the gore a lot. katyas uncomfortable. she knows this mutant could be, and is most likely, dmitry. she doesnt reveal her own mutation. anya is in the dark. chapter 11 ends!

chapter 12 is sanya pov, shes very angry at sergei. focus on her grief, sorta. she feels dumb for letting dima get caught. he trusted her, and whatd she do? trust the wrong person. boom. angst ten thousand. of course she doesnt tell sergei that she knew dimas a mutant. hes pissed too, but not at her rlly, hes very detached from the emotional business. the chapter would end like false disposition does.

chapter 13 is the mill. not much changes. nikita still dies, yura still kills.

chapter 14 is strike 3. olya still took the blame. basically goes the same as canon. sanyas probably even more fucked up now, because she not only lost dima, but also nikita, and olya to jail. chapter 13 would have probs been very long, so strike 3 would be shorter.

chapter 15 is! yura talks to sanya. shes like hey what the fuck dude youve been avoiding me ever since nikita died. thats not cool. he ignores her and instead tells her about katya (they already met in the written part, only for a brief moment, but yura remembers). this is sanya pov so we wouldnt get much yura 'objective feelings', but hed be very insistent about blackmailing katya into helping them get dima back. sanya calls him dumb. its dangerous. yura ignores her, says hell do this with or without her. sanya agrees. basically this part of convergence

(ignore titulky,thats just subtitles) sanya is also like. invested in getting dima back. righting her wrong, you know? feels very responsible for his capture.

then, katya pov! shes scared, a bit. what if olya reports her? what if she already has? sure, shes nice, but like. she knows. she said its fine, and katya would like to believe it, but with dima getting captured. shes anxious. so she asks anya to run away with her. anya is hesistant, but kt calls her a chicken, rubs in how much anya complains about it. so she agrees. theyll leave tomorrow.

chapter 16. sanya, for the first time since dimas capture, goes to dimas hiding place. overindulgence in grief is only immature and stuff, but also, maybe she thinks she can find some stuff of his or smth. she umm. well. we get a flashback from dimas pov. its chapter 10. sanya just left him alone with sergei. sergei goes to another room. hes talking to someone. dima is so out of it. then, police busts in - with kt, there was too much, a whole swat team. with dima, there was too little, just your regular cops checking out a disturbance. they manage to shoot dima a time or two, but ultimately, he kills them and runs away. he runs all the way to his hideout. hes so scared. so angry. so upset. its just like comfort zone all over again.

somehow, he makes it to his hideout. theres not many people outside at the time, and those who are arent too keen on confronting an obvious mutant. blue sparks around him. dima thinks Im safe here im okay im safe. his thoughts are so jumbled and incoherent. he doesnt want to die. he either bleeds out or has a stroke and dies.

cut back to sanyas pov. its been at least two weeks since his 'capture'. she smells his rotting corpse before she sees it. she feels terrible. so bad. she cant even burry him. what will she tell yura? why didnt sergei tell her the truth, that he escaped? did he think shed go out looking for him? she would have. could she have saved him? why did it take her so long to go here? why did she let him die? so so much angst and grief. shes had enough.

chapter 17 is convergence. katya and anya are packing up. yura comes there, says anya wasnt responding to his messages and he got worried. this is either katya or anya pov or both. probs katya. he starts talking about dima, and the girls recognize the story. hes talking about how dima was his friend and hed like to get him out of the facility. takes out the cube, asks katya to help him get out. switch to yura pov. katya refuses. wowww what a brat. anyas so so upset with him. he doesnt listen to her, ignores her as much as possible. he talks about olya. mentions shes in custody or smth rn. that he killed a man. if katya doesnt help him, hell report her and olya will be in trouble. he takes out his phone. he doesnt show them the screen. he tried calling sanya, but she just woudlnt pick up. so, he just tells them hes on a call with her, and if they hurt him, shell report them in his place. and olya will be in trouble. he understands that hes being stupid. understands katya is just a kid. understands anya cares for her. understands her mutation could be dangerous. but so whatttt dude.. why are you against this.. you homophonbic?!?!?? you dont want to see yurima 60fps kiss?!?!?!

switch to anya pov. shes so fucking mad and upset and betrayed. hears katya counting to ten repeatedly under her breath. yelling at yura. yura fights with her a bit. he sets his hand on katyas shoulder. she pushes them both away. and just like that she turns into a monster! will somebody show up to save the day?

(drew this earlier this year, like, february/march or smth - i could redraw it better but i dont wanna lol)

chapter 18. yura calls sanya again. she picks up. he tells her its all gone to shit, asks her why she didnt pick up. anya is yelling at him, screaming for him to get out, katyas meat exploded all over olyas plcae, anyas in shambles, trying to get through to katya. shes unsuccesfull. yura basically begs sanya to come over, that its went wrong. sanya is.. well, she seems faraway. like she just saw some shit. no time to think about that tho. sanya, pissed off, because yura now made this girl cry for nothing, comse over and Oh she didnt just cry! awesome! she gets super pissed at yura. shes done. yura asks her to help, what to do. he didnt know this would happen. sanya rlly shouts at him so bad. mentions dimas dead. that she found his body. that it was all for nothing. anya would be yelling t her to get out too, but shes too exhausted. shes just hanging out with katya now. begging her to turn back. she doesnt care that shes a mutant. they can run away right now, just please, turn back, itll be okay, olya will be fine, you just have to turn back, istill love you, please turn back, please dont leave me. yura is. man. he feels like shit. dima is Dead? so he doomed this girl for nothing? doomed his relationship with his sister for nothing? wow. sanyas so pissed off and done with everything she just leaves. yura tries to call sergei. it goes straight to voicemail. what the fuck are they going to do

chapter 19. katya pov. its all fucked up. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 yura touches her shoulder and she explodes.. it fucking hurtssss. anyas so louid it hurts. someone new comes over. it hurts. someone leaves. yura calls someone again. nobody comes. it hurts. anyas crying. it hurts. yura calls somebody else and anyas screaming again. yura tries to drag anya away. shes screaming. it hurts. yura leaves. more people show up after some time. anya screams at them. they take anya away from the flat. they take katya away, too.

chapter 20. epilogue 1. yura and anya life after the incident - like a month maybe. olyas gone. shes stuck at home. sergeis so fucking done with him. anya didnt tell the containment services about yuras outburst, because, he has the recording. maybe if they dont know that olya let katya stay, they'll let her go.. but, they dont. shes in jail. yura hasnt even thanked her. yura is.. hes dealing with the death of dima, nikita, anyas grief too, and sanya. yura and sanya. sanyas pissed at him. he did to his sister what sergei did to her and dima. but hes her rfiend. shes lost so much. she cant lose him too. it sucks. theyre not happy together. yura hasnt said sorry. they dont talk about dima. they try to forget about it all. sanya and sergei. ermmm. not cool.

chapter 21. epilogue 2. sanya and anya. they talk. they hug. the end.

[martyrframing]

no.3 neil hcs

⸺ after living w riko for so long, nathaniel is all anger. he has nothing left other than to focus on exy and he hangs on to that with dear life.

⸺ backliner neil is terrifying and gratifying on the court. terrifying because you have to face an unthinkably fast backliner, smaller than you, but when he strikes, elbows digging into your elbows, you go where he commands. he's not math and numbers, he's intuition and quick reflexes. backliner neil inherited rikos snark and turned it into something far more awful. hes gratifying as an ally though, small but his reputation is basically striker nightmare; just as fast, possibly faster, but arguably far more vicious. in raven black, he looks like a shadow, in fox orange, seeing him coming but unable to do anything about could be more horrifying.

⸺ neil is the one that drags kevin, broken, to palmetto to see his father. they show up at wymacks door with kevin leaning heavily on neil for support and cradling his bloodied hand against his chest. neil is bruised, but he's standing. for a while, neil is his guard dog, half bristling when someone gets near them.

⸺ he’s not close to kevin as everyone thinks he is but he’s all he has at palmetto, so they're always together, even when neil refuses to become one of the monsters, even after he rejects andrew's offer of protection. he doesn't need protect, but neil believes he needs kevin.

⸺ the first year at palmetto, he tries to go back at least 2 times. it takes all of the upperclassmen, 2 bruised bones and wymack to drag him back.

⸺ while kevin agrees to be the assistant coach neil basically does about nothing, but everyone silently agrees: neil is assistant coach #2, whether they like it or not. whether it's official or not.

⸺ neil is obedient towards his coaches but hostile towards his teammates. yes much like andrew. does andrew see his mirror in no.3 neil? does he see his demons in the anger neil radiates, in the stone apathy that neil is and kevin isn't quite?

⸺ riko realizes how good of a backliner neil is in october. if the rest of the foxes were up to par, the ravens would've lost that match.

[mothgrudge]

reminiscing

(wow some “official” writing this is surprising)

wip: main family

character(s): nazam “naz” & anzu takuma (mentions of yarrah, mashiro, and mai)

tw(s): deadname mention, eating disorder, suicidal thoughts/ideation, body dysmorphia

a short walk through memory lane from naz’s perspective of life before he and anzu got together. there is a happy ending here we promise 😭💙

general to know: anzu was adopted by red and tsubame takuma when he was in high school from his abusive/neglectful parents—making mai and mashiro his adopted siblings. the story begins when anzu is still with his family and time skips around throughout he and naz’s life.

(also this is in 2nd person! naz is the narrator ‘you’ refers to anzu :3)

We first met in elementary school. First grade.

My older sister dropped me off. You came by yourself.

Both of us sat at the back of the classroom.

During recess you didn’t talk to anyone. You stayed by yourself in the sandbox and I stayed by myself in the classroom, with my book. I didn’t focus on it. I focused on watching you drag your shovel through the sand and stare longingly after the other children playing. You put your head down. So did I.

I think that was where it started.

People left me alone because I was quiet. I was weird. I always scored high on math tests and read computer textbooks I stole from my sister when we weren’t working on class projects. I stared the teacher down until she moved on from asking me to read aloud. She tried asking my parents about the books I read, and my father insisted I didn’t know how to read, it was her job to teach me. She asked me to read a sentence. I didn’t say a word. My father took it as proof. She seemed disappointed in me.

People bothered you because you were quiet. You came to school sometimes with bruises, and created your own through many fights on the playground. The teacher tried to call your parents in, and sometimes I would stall going home to see if they’d show up.

They didn’t.

The first time we spoke was a group project in 5th grade. I’d been watching you for a few years, but I was too shy to talk to you. You didn’t seem like you wanted to be bothered with the project anyway. I resigned myself to doing all the work in your stead, if it meant the teacher would stop pulling you aside to talk about ‘your grades.’ But you looked at me, with a look I’d never really seen before.

“What’s your name?” You asked. I hesitated. “... Naz… ara… Nazara.” I hated my name. “Nazara.” You repeated. I loved it. “Anzu. You ever go by Naz?”

I hadn’t, until you asked. And then that was the only thing I ever let anyone call me.

After the project we didn’t interact much. When I came into class, you’d give me a small quirk of your lips I suspected was a smile, but you always kept your head down and in response so did I. I didn’t smile much— I still don’t— but I always tried to make eye contact when I saw you come in late. You got into more fights, I read more computer books, and moved my interest towards differential equations and physics theorems, all books I stole from Yarrah. There wasn’t really any reason I should’ve understood it, but I did. I hid the books from our teachers. Once, you hid one for me. One of your usual offenders walked by and pushed my book into the middle of the floor during quiet time. I knew it was on purpose. You were getting stronger, he needed others to pick on. It was testing the waters. To see how weak I was. The thump of it on the floor was deafening. Everyone turned to look. Our teacher came over, and frozen, I stared at her. You saw my panic. You kicked the book under the bookshelf and hid it from view.

“What’s going on?” She asked. I said nothing. You said nothing. The bully said nothing. She clicked her tongue, and walked away.

You got into a fight with that bully at recess. I wish I would’ve stepped up to wipe your bloody nose.

💙💙💙💙

Middle school is when things started to change. Not between us. But for me.

We moved that summer to a town a few miles over. I never got to say goodbye. But the thought of never seeing you again made me throw up everything I ate. I did it in secret. No one knew. Yarrah caught me once, but I told her I just wasn’t feeling good. She told me to get more sun. I said I would. But the whole summer I spent glued to our family computer. I used my father’s card to buy myself spare parts, and he never noticed. I finished my first home-built PC by the time the first week of my new school should’ve been.

But turns out my parents never enrolled me. They were out of the country, and I guess they forgot. I took it upon myself to enroll myself at our old neighborhood middle school. Where I thought you would go. It was a walk to get there. Six and a half miles. I woke up at 4am every morning to get there. I walked alone. I didn’t eat. My reward was seeing you that first day I finally came to school, sitting at the back of the classroom, with your hood up and phone in hand. The tight feeling in my chest finally subsided.

“Naz,” You greeted me when I sat in the back desk next to you. “I didn’t know you had this class.”

“My parents enrolled me late.” I whispered. You hummed, understanding.

At lunch I went to the library and took a nap. I dragged myself awake at the bell. This became my routine.

💙💙💙💙

I grew skinnier. My hair began to thin out. I started wearing a beanie to school, and big bulky sweaters to hide my thin arms. I hid out every gym, behind the bleachers so they couldn’t see me. But I got to see you. You were getting taller now, and your shoulders got more broad. There was a day in gym that you all played dodgeball, and seeing you throw, I thought about being in your arms.

I threw up again after class.

We had one group project together in seventh grade, and you greeted me every day when you came to class with a small nod. That was enough, I thought. I made it be. I didn’t feel like I deserved anything more— with how I looked, with how I felt. I hated Nazara more and more with every passing day. The worst of it came on field trip day.

To the aquarium. I forged my parents signature, and I was sure you forged yours too. I sat in the back of the bus, and I thought you would too. I was almost excited. I wasn’t expecting someone to cheerfully call, “Anzu!” when you stepped on the bus.

You looked just as surprised too.

The person who called had pink hair. Their skin was pretty and dark brown. They looked bright and full of life, and their energy was contagious. You couldn’t see anywhere else to sit. You dropped down next to them near the front of the bus.

I stayed alone in the back, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

I don’t remember passing out.

💙💙💙💙

“Nazara. Stop being difficult.” The social worker frowned at me. I stared back at him impassively. “If someone has been neglecting you at home, we need to know that.” I didn’t say anything. After my week long coma after passing out on the bus, the doctors had been trying desperately to get something out of me. They wouldn’t believe me if I told them I did it to myself. I didn’t want to be Nazara. I didn’t want to be anything.

The social worker knew he wasn’t getting through to me. He sighed, and stood up. “Please try to eat at least something today, Nazara.”

He left.

💙💙💙💙

I hope you would become good friends with Mashiro. I hoped you would be happier.

💙💙💙💙

“Your child has fucking anorexia, and all you can care about is your business trip!” I heard Yarrah yelling at my father over the phone. It was a few weeks after I was discharged from the hospital. They diagnosed me, enrolled me in therapy sessions, and had a social worker come by every week to see how I was doing. But the diagnosis didn’t help. It felt like things were better when I ignored it. When I walked six miles to school, when I saw you in class, when I pretended that the budding shapes on my chest and the thinness of my arms weren’t there.

I put my pillow over my face. I wanted to shut everything out.

💙💙💙💙

You came by once. Out of the blue. I don’t think you meant to.

It had been… three years at this point. I should’ve been in 10th grade, with you. My neighborhood was in the same zone as the local high school, I could’ve ridden the bus instead of walking all that way to you. I think it’d been a year since I’d really been outside. I stayed in my room, in my empty house. I took my medicine. I had zoom calls with my therapist. I read computer engineering books. I built PCs, then took them apart. I bought things on Amazon with my dad’s money. I talked on and off with Yarrah. I never answered the door. Ever. I tried once. After I was pulled out of middle school. The postman’s disgusted look was all I needed to never try again.

But I’m not sure what compelled me today.

Maybe I was excited about my package coming, a new motherboard for my latest build. Maybe, I was starting to gain weight again after learning about being transgender. Maybe, for once, I felt good.

Maybe it was fate.

I crossed the darkened hall, I opened the door. I came face to face with a bright, beaming, pink face.

“Hi! My name’s Mashiro Takuma! This is—”

“—Anzu.” You said. You looked awkward, but maybe fond. “We’re helping my sister look for her lost cat. She got out the other day.” Mashiro handed me a flyer, and I studied it carefully. MEDUSA it read in bold letters, with the picture of a sleek, tiny legged black cat. It had big green eyes, that stared up at me from the flyer innocently. “Have you seen her at all?”

“I don’t leave the house much.” I said, shrugging.

“Oh…” Mashiro’s energy wilted. I felt my face pull into a frown. “My sister gets around town a lot, though.” I tried to amend. “When she comes home from work, I’ll ask her.” His beam: restored. You smiled behind him, mouthing ‘thank you.’ I tried to smile back.

“Well, if she’s heard anything, you can contact me here.” Mashiro directed my eyes to the bottom of the flyer where a host of contact numbers were recorded. There was a Red Takuma, Tsubame Takuma, Mashiro Takuma and Anzu. No last name. I nodded slowly. I carefully tucked the flyer under my arm.

“All of her favorite foods and some tips on coaxing her inside are on the back, so if you see her, please, do your best!” Mashiro gave me a cheerful thumbs up, and I laughed. Softly. I couldn’t remember when the last time I laughed was.

“I’ll try.” I promised. And then with a wave, the two of you were off. I held the door open until I saw you all disappear around the bend of the next street, then slowly let the door fall shut. I stared down at the flyer from the safety of my room. I didn’t wait. I called Yarrah. Turns out she had seen the cat. She was friendly, and hiding behind the building she worked at. It was easy enough to take her in.

I didn’t go when she returned Medusa to you all. I was still too scared to face the world.

💙💙💙💙

May. You and Mashiro should be graduating now.

I stared out of the window of Yarrah’s apartment, my head pillowed in far too many cushions. The surgery went well. I was discharged yesterday. I looked down at the bandages and gauze that protected my vulnerably flat chest. Even if everything was sore, and a bit tight, my chest felt light, physically and metaphorically.

“Naz!” Yarrah burst into the room, bringing something warm and good smelling with her. Soup, probably. Maybe curry. She rested it down in front of me, ruffling my hair. “Make sure you finish at least half.”

“I’ll try.” I meant it. “Once this heals up, we’re gonna take you to get your name change, okay?”

“Thank you Ra. … I mean it.”

“I’m your sister.” She shrugged. “It’s what I do.” We already went over the argument a million times that she didn’t have to, I could see the flames in her eyes, ready to pounce if I tried it. I ceded, bowing my head. “Thank you.” I said instead, quietly. She left only a few minutes after. Running down to the store, I think. I closed my eyes. I dreamed of you.

💙💙💙💙

I stopped by a grocery store, just to grab something quick. I had a long stretch of contract requirements I needed to get on tonight, or my boss would have my ass. But I was slowly learning to fuel myself while I did it.

I wasn’t expecting to see you there.

You’d grown. So much. You were two or three heads taller than me, more filled out than before. The hoodie you wore fit snug around your arms, your jeans were tight and fit well. Your eyes were bright; brighter than I ever remembered seeing them when we were young. A pair of blue beats rested around your neck and you had a sleek phone pressed against your ear.

“— tell Mai I’m almost done getting the ingredients.” You were saying. “I can’t find the red velvet cake they want.” I glanced at my basket. The last slice of red velvet cake stared up at me.

Talk to them. My brain said.

I can’t.

“Shiro, don’t you start whining too!” You laughed. That was the first time I really heard your laugh up close and my heart burst.

“Alright, I’ll see you soon. Ja!” You ended the call just as I turned on my heel, leaving the cake next to your basket. Even if that was all I could do… it was enough. It would be enough.

“Oh, hey, you don’t have to do that.” I felt a hand rest on my shoulder; with nails painted black and silver rings adorning it’s long fingers. My heart jackhammered against my chest.

“It’s fine.” I cleared my throat. “I probably wouldn’t finish it anyway.” I racked my brain from what I remembered. “And that’s Mai’s favorite, right?”

“Yeah, but how did you…”

I glanced at you over my shoulder and your words died in your throat.

I smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Naz?”

My heart nearly stopped. I stared at you, wide-eyed. I never… never thought…

Your face lit up in a grin.

“Is that you? Wow, it’s been awhile. How have you been?”

“I… I’ve been…” I searched for words, still trying to shake off my shock. I angled my body to face you completely.

“I’ve been okay— better, than before I guess.” I chuckled, dryly. “You look good though, Anzu.” My tongue felt too big for my mouth. When was the last time I talked this much? To my therapist maybe. “I feel good.” Your voice went soft, warm. My chest bloomed. “I’m so glad.” I said back.

A silence drifted over us, an inevitable one. We never spoke much when we were young, and then I vanished. I wasn’t supposing there was much left to talk about. “I hope they enjoy the cake—“

“Can we meet up sometime?” You said, fast. Your expression was almost panicked, as though you were afraid of something. Of me saying no? Never to you. Ever.

“Sure,” I tried for flippant, but my voice was too fond. “But um.” I gestured vaguely towards myself. “It’s Nazam. Now. Um.” My voice got caught in my throat. I cleared it. “Not Nazara.” I wasn’t sure if you’d catch my meaning. You did. You smiled in relief.

“Nazam.” You repeated. You took my hands in yours. “Nazam. It suits you” I ducked my head, feeling my cheeks begin to flush. I coughed softly. “W-When did you want to meet?”

💙💙💙💙

I traced my fingers across the scatter of tattoos on your arms. The dawn had barely begun to peak over the horizon, and everything in our house was still covered in boxes. The only thing we’d bothered to unpack was maybe a quarter of our room, the bed at the very least so we could have somewhere to sleep. You murmured something, then turned towards me, pulling me tight against your chest.

“You up?” You murmured.

“Unfortunately.” I whispered back. You pressed your lips soft against my head.

“Go back to sleep, clover. We can unpack your precious gadgets tomorrow.”

“I guess I can survive until then.” I chuckled, and your soft, sleep-laden laugh rumbled against my cheek. I traced my fingers over your lips.

“I love you, Anz.” Soft. Even with your eyes closed, you smiled. “I love you too, Naz.”

The hole in my ribs finally closed. I buried into you and let your breathing soothe me back to sleep.

[puhpandas]

R.I.C.E

(3,837 words)

Hadi and Cyril walk in on Greg's Dad grabbing him just a bit too harshly. They help him treat the bruise.

warning for bruises, child abuse, mentions of death and corpses, blood, & decapitation. if u read the book ur probably fine but better safe than sorry

"I think I flunked the test."

Hadi glances over Cyrils hair to look at Greg. "What makes you say that?"

"Because I didnt understand the majority of the questions on the sheet." Greg says, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his hands. "Half of it I didnt even recognize."

Hadi just furrows his brows. "Is it because of..." He trails off.

"Yeah." Greg confirms what Hadi had been thinking. "It's gotten worse, I think. But..." He sighs. "I don't know."

Hadi and Cyril stop on the sidewalk they'd been walking on to get to Greg's house, and Greg instinctively pauses as well.

"Nothing you've tried to help has worked?" Cyril asks.

"No... well, I don't know. I havent really tried anything." Greg says, running the hand that's not holding on to his backpack through his hair.

"You need to try to find something online tonight, dude." Hadi suggests. "Try anything. If it works, it works. If it doesnt, then no harm done."

Greg supposes Hadi's words ring true, but he still frowns.

What is he supposed to do, anyway? He's pretty sure remembering something bad that happened to you is something everybody goes through. Besides, even if he did try to search for a solution online, what is he supposed to search?

'How to stop remembering how an evil dog that loved you too much killed your crush, bit off your uncles finger, and killed his neighbors dog and delivered their corpses to your front door in class so you can focus and stop flunking'

Yeah. It sounds as crazy as he thought it would. Another thing hes sure of is that what he went through wasn't normal. And normal problems don't have normal solutions that you can find on Google.

"I'll try." He says anyway, because at this point, he's willing to try anything.

It's not that he's not smart enough. He's had good grades all of his life. He likes science, and with science comes math, and like his friends and the other kids always like to say, if you actually like math, then you're a nerd. And if you're a nerd, then you're really smart.

It rings true, he guesses. But that's not what's holding him back, anyway. It truly is just that he doesnt know. If you asked him, Greg couldn't tell you what was taught in any of his classes yesterday. Or today, for that matter.

He can't stop seeing visions of the bloody, beige sheet sitting in front of his bathroom door, or the neighbors dogs organs spilling out onto his front porch beneath his eyelids in the middle of class. And with that comes missing every single word said by his teacher as he desperately tries to send the memories away.

It's taking its toll. The fact that it happened at all is already bad enough, the fact that his failure is always plastered against every wall of his mind, pushing through every thought to remind him of the dog, finger, or person he couldn't save...

Kimberly's parents moved away. His neighbor got a new dog. A cute, fluffy brown dog that reminds him too much of him. Uncle Dare still talks about 'The Magic Finger Of Luck', and Greg still desperately tries to shove away the memories before they creep back up on him every time he does.

Hadi and Cyril are the only other people that know, and they try their best to help him, even though they didnt see what he saw.

"Let's go." Cyrils voice rips Greg out of his thoughts. "Let's get to your house so we can help you study."

Greg rubs his eyes again, but he's thankful that his friends are willing to help him get caught up so he doesn't get into even more trouble.

"Okay." He says, and it's not long before they get to Gregs house.

Greg tries not to look down when he steps onto the walkway leading to his front door, and eventually his 'welcome friends' mat, and just uses his keys to unlock the door.

The car in the driveway goes unnoticed as Greg steps into the house, Hadi and Cyril caught up in some hushed discussion behind him, but he pays it no mind, just kicking off his shoes and slinging his backpack off of his shoulder to bring it to his room upstairs.

He gasps harshly when a hand suddenly grabs at him, fingers curling around his forearm tightly.

He tugs on instinct, and he can hear Hadi and Cyril have gone silent behind him.

The hand tugs back. Greg finally forces his head to swivel to see who the culprit is.

His Dad stares back at him, something angry in his eyes with a sneer on his face.

Greg immediately knows what's going on.

His Dad doesn't usually bother him, only when he does something he doesn't like, or... sometimes what he doesn't do.

But Greg was sent to the principal's office today because of how much his once perfect school performance had plummeted in such a short amount of time, and...

Crap. Why did he not realize this sooner?

He glances back to the front door, where Hadi and Cyril hang back, a confused expression on their faces as they duck behind the frame of the doorway.

He almost curses. That's not good. He doesn't want his friends too see this. He doesn't want them to know. Not yet at least.

He would be worried that his Dad would be mad he isn't gracing him with eye contact, but he hasn't respected his Dad enough to look him in the eye in years.

He would be an idiot to not expect this from him by now.

The iron grip on his arm squeezes a bit tighter, and Greg instinctively wraps a hand around the free part of his wrist, a grimace twisting on his face.

"The school called today." His Dad says, confirming exactly what Greg assumed. He looks down at him with slitted eyes, his gaze cold and angry. "They say that you've been slacking in class, son."

Greg doesn't say anything. Just stares at the ground besides his arm. What is he supposed to say, really? 'Sorry, Dad. I've been slacking because I can't stop being haunted by the evil robot dog that killed Kimberly and ate Dare's finger, so I can never pay attention.'

He thinks his Dad would lose even more respect for him, but realistically, Greg knows that isnt possible.

Dad grips his arm even tighter, his nails digging into Greg's skin, and Greg cant bite down the grimace that stretches across his face.

"Nothing to say to that, huh?" His Dad taunts.

Suddenly, Greg's arm is tugged harshly, and he has to try really hard to not stumble and fall to the ground as his Dad yanks him forward.

"I will not have a deadbeat delinquent for a son." Dad whispers harshly into Greg's ear. Greg furrows his brows and tugs on his arm instinctively as his back twinges, but all he gets from it is another tug from a titanium hold.

"You will fix your grades, and your mistakes." His Dad tells him, hes not asking. He's ordering him. Telling Greg what to do so confidently, because he knows Greg will always do what he says, no matter how much it makes Greg bristle for acting like an obedient dog.

(Not a dog. Never a dog.)

His Dads hot breath is harsh on his face, and Greg makes a face when he starts speaking again.

"Maybe then you'll be good for something."

Gregs Dad gives his arm one last agonizing squeeze that almost makes Greg cry out from the pain. He can feel something give, or twist, or something from his Dad's white knuckled grip, but then, he finally releases him, sending Greg stumbling for footing.

It's only after hes gathered purchase that he becomes painfully aware of his arm. Its pulsing, each wave sending an electrifying ache of pain down his forearm, and he can feel some stinging from where his Dads fingernails no doubt broke some skin.

Greg peeks at his Dad through his curtain of blond wavy bangs, and doesn't even bother trying to hide the way he grits his teeth when his Dad is staring at him with the same look Greg is so used to.

Disappointment, indifference, and a third thing Greg could never put his finger on, but he's pretty sure is hatred.

Greg should be used to this by now. He is used to it. The way his Dad has never celebrated anything Greg has ever done, and the way his Dad has always told him he'll never be good enough.

Just like the other times, he scolds himself for the way his chest tightens and hurt stabs at his heart.

He's used to it. Has been for years now.

So why does he still let it get to him?

Hadi and Cyril apparently decided now was the right time to walk in. They step next to Greg, Cyril hovering, not too confident in the same presence as Greg's father, but Hadi puts a steadying hand on Greg's shoulder. Comforting, and in solidarity. Its almost like it tells him I'm on your side.

Nothing like the white knuckled grips of his Dad after he had a bad report card, or he got in trouble with the neighbors, or Greg would watch documentaries a little too loud up in his room and disturb his Dads work.

"Hello, Mr. Smith." Hadi says, his tone cold and accusing. "We just came to help Greg study."

Greg almost bristles at Hadi's confidence, at his bravery, but Greg gets one look at his Dad, who's staring at Hadi and Cyril with something Greg has only seen on his Dads face a few times.

Fear.

His Dads never been caught by anyone but his Mom before.

Hadi and Cyril don't hang around for his Dad to come up with an excuse. For him to try his hardest to erase what Hadi and Cyril weren't supposed to see from their minds. They push Greg up the stairs, and even when they're almost all the way up, where the light doesn't hit, he doesnt need to see. He can feel his friends concerned eyes on his back.

He ignores the familiar twinge in his gut and the ache of his heart as Hadi and Cyril follow him into his room, where he collapses onto his bed as soon as it's in sight.

Theres a stretch of silence after Cyril shuts and locks the door. Nobody says anything, and Greg is thankful. He's not ready for his friends inevitable concerned questions.

He never even wanted them to know up until recently, after... you know. When he stopped wanting to hide things from his friends. It isn't a big deal, really. His Dad is nothing he can't handle, if the fact that he knows how to use makeup to cover bruises and knows how to make them stop hurting is any indication.

But his father already looks at him with pity enough, like he's a small, pathetic bug that will never be enough to achieve greatness. Even though it wouldn't be the same, he doesn't want his friends to look at him the same way.

Theres another beat of silence as Greg just lies on his bed, his good arm slung over his eyes as he wills himself to stop feeling like crap.

The silence is broken by Cyril.

"...You never told us your Dad was..." He trails off.

"Like that." Hadi finishes. Greg finally let's his arm slide off of his face to sit up to face his friends. It's a little difficult with his still throbbing, sore arm, but he manages.

"How long has this been going on? How long have we not known?" Hadi asks, and he moves from his spot in the middle of Greg's room to step up to the bed, looking Greg straight in the eyes. "We could have helped."

Greg doesn't say anything, just heaves out a sigh as his body deflates a bit, but he tenses right back up at Cyrils next words.

"W-We need to tell somebody." He says, brows furrowed and eyes darting to the door like Greg's Dad will suddenly decide to mow it down to murder them all. "I mean... right?"

"No!" Greg springs up, eyes wide as he holds a hand out to Cyril. He doesn't mean to sound so desperate, but he does. "Just... no."

"Why?" Hadi asks, and Greg turns to look at him again. "He hurt you, Greg. And this isn't like last time, where nobody would believe us if we told somebody."

Greg knows exactly what 'last time' Hadi is talking about. Last time, Greg had to lie to the polices face about Kimberly's death, because if he had told the truth, he would surely be somewhere else entirely right now.

He shakes the thoughts away. "No, Hadi. It'll just make things worse."

Hadi doesn't look convinced, just staring at him with almost smothering concern, and Cyril still looks on edge, more scared than Greg himself, even though Greg was the target of his Dads aggression.

"Its nothing I can't handle." Greg insists, offering his friends a smile. "My arm isn't that bad." He holds out the arm in question to show them it's fine, but he can't stop the way his brows pinch when another wave of soreness washes over his arm when the skin stretches.

Hadis eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Your arm!" He exclaims, and dives for Greg's arm so fast hes afraid he'll grab ahold of it like his Dad did, but he slows down at the last second, instead taking it and holding it gingerly in his hands.

Greg's brain takes an embarrassing amount of time to catch up while Hadi rolls up his jacket sleeve, sucking in a harsh breath when the place his Dad grabbed becomes visible.

Greg himself finally takes a look, and he too gasps at the sight.

It's worse than he thought. Theres a nasty, swelled up imprint on his arm in the shape of a hand, fingerprints curled around his forearm like a snake coiled around and squeezed. The area is a nauseating reddish-purple with flecks of blue and green, with the area underneath having red, inflamed, crescent shaped punctures with a small bit of dried blood around the edges.

Greg's mouth twists into a grimace, and although he himself isnt too worried about it, Hadi looks like somebody just died right in front of him.

Cyril squeaks when a door slams below them, muffled and faraway, and Greg can see him slightly relax when they all come to the conclusion that Greg's Dad just left the house.

Hadi startles when he remembers what's really important.

"Come on." He says quietly, because he's mildly horrified or because he wants to be comforting, Greg doesnt know. But he appreciates it all the same. "Let's go fix your arm up."

Greg just nods. He's gonna have to fix it up at some point, anyway. And probably cover it up with some of his Mom's makeup before school tomorrow, but if helping Greg bandage his arm is what makes his friends feel better, Greg isnt going to complain.

Hadi doesn't let go of his loose grip on Greg's wrist, just below his bruise, instead, he just leads him to the door, unlocking it with a soft click.

"We have to ice it, first." Greg says, and he tries to ignore the heat on his face when Hadi doesn't let go even when they're out the door. "There's some zip-locks in the drawer we can put some ice in."

Hadi and Cyril both look a little sad at the fact that Greg knows the steps, but they nod nonetheless.

"Okay." Hadi pauses. "I'll go get that, and you go sit in your room while Cyril finds some bandages."

Cyril nods at the task given to him (Not a task. Never a task.), while Greg sputters.

"My legs arent the thing that's bruised, you know." Greg says. "And I still have a good arm."

"You're hurt." Is all Hadi says, pausing at the mouth of the stairs while Cyril heads down to find bandages. "Just let us help you, dude."

Greg bites the inside of his cheek, but relents. "Okay."

Hadi smiles at him before heading downstairs, and Greg averts his eyes before he can stare for too long.

He heads back to his room and waits on his bed, resting his arm on a throw pillow, and he's only been waiting for a few minutes when Hadi and Cyril come back through the door.

Hadi shuts the door behind him when they both enter the room, Cyril setting down a roll of bandages next to the throw pillow. Hadi walks over to where Greg is sitting on the bed and holds the ice pack over Greg's arm, hovering.

"You ready?" Hadi asks him.

Greg's shoulders loosen a bit at Hadis soft words, even though he didnt realize he was tense at all. "Ready."

Hadi doesn't beat around the bush any longer. He sets the ice pack on the nasty, purple area on Greg's arm and holds it there.

Greg would be lying if he said he didnt wince at the pain that was sent through his arm like an electric current at the ice packs pressure, but he bites down any other sign of being uncomfortable, and when Hadi and Cyril look at him with concern, he just smiles for them.

He doesn't want them to worry. He really is alright, after all.

"So... how long do we keep it on for?" Cyril asks.

"Twenty minutes on and off." Greg says. "That's what Google says."

Hadi and Cyril just make that sad face again, and Greg resists the urge to comment on it.

They're just worried. He has no reason to get angry at them for that. He can ignore his self pity, he just want to appreciate that his friends care this much.

The forty minutes go by fast, the only buffer being taking the ice pack off after twenty. Its been silent most of the time. They're all just... thinking, he supposes. Nobodys really in the mood to joke around after what had happened.

"I'm going to get rid of this." Cyril says, holding up the homemade ice pack that's just a bag of lukewarm water at this point. "I'll be right back."

Greg and Hadi both nod, both knowing that Cyril is just using the ice pack as an excuse so he doesnt need to be there for when the bruise is uncovered for the world to see.

He's always been a bit squeamish.

Cyril heads downstairs, and this time, Hadi doesn't ask. He just waits for Greg to offer his arm out and begins bandaging.

Theres a stretch of silence as Greg just watches Hadi hold Greg's arm delicately, like its porcelain glass, and wrap it with the fresh white bandages. But eventually, the silence is broken.

"Why do you not want to tell anybody?" Hadi asks out of the blue. Greg startles, glancing up at Hadi when he pauses bandaging for a moment. "Your Dad. He hurt you."

"I know." Greg says, staring at his lap. "It wouldn't solve anything."

"How?" Hadi asks incredulously. He continues bandaging, and when he wraps a little too harshly, at Greg's wince, his eyes soften and he takes a deep breath, slowing down. "I mean... people could help you."

"You're helping me. And Cyril." Greg smiles, but it's gone as quick as it came. "It would be more trouble than it's worth. I can handle a few bruises," He gestures to his arm with his good hand. "And..."

He trails off. Hadi slows down with wrapping, just looking at him questioningly. "What kind of trouble?"

"...Money." Greg says simply. "And my Mom. If my Dad were to be separated from us, well... he's our main source of income, and me and my Mom would probably have to move, and that means leaving you guys."

Hadi is silent, just tucking the end of the bandage underneath the surface layer to hold the bandage in place.

"Its too many things that would go wrong." Greg says, flexing his newly bandaged forearm, then letting it drop.

"...I dont know if I could stand being away from you guys." Greg confesses, staring at his lap with furrowed brows and playing with the hem of his jacket. "I mean... after what happened with Kimberly, and-- and--"

"I get it." Hadi interrupts, and Greg is silently thankful. He doesn't look up to meet Hadi's eyes, not until Hadi takes the hand of his injured arm and laces their fingers together.

Greg whips his head up so fast it could be equal to the speed of light, and Hadi laughs at him.

"I won't tell." Hadi promises, finally meeting Greg's eyes. They're a deep, almost royal blue, not too different from Greg's own, and he has to fight to not look away. "I promise. I'll tell Cyril too."

Greg can feel a weight be taken off of his shoulders when a burden he didn't even realise he was carrying is lifted away. "Thank you."

Hadi doesn't speak for a moment, just staring at Greg's comforter, but then, he shifts, and Greg is immediately made hyper aware again of his own hand interlocked with Hadis.

"But you have to promise you'll let us help. Dont hide from us," Hadi says, squeezing Greg's hand to make him look him in the eye. "okay?"

"Okay." Greg promises. And he really means it, too. It's nice to finally not have to hide things from his friends anymore. Especially after... him, Greg doesn't want him and his friends to be strangers towards eachother.

They went through that together. They were his only allies. Even if Greg was really the only one truly involved, that just makes his friends sticking by him that much more meaningful.

He doesn't want to hide things from them anymore. Maybe this wasn't exactly the way Greg wanted them to find out about his Dad, but it's done now, and Hadi and Cyril had done everything they could to make him feel safe and comfortable.

Hadi is still staring at him, and when Greg catches a glimpse of his face, partially obscured by his mop of wavy blond hair in his mirror, he can see pink dusting his cheeks.

Cyril suddenly peeks into the room from the doorway.

"...Are you done yet?" Cyril asks. He seems to have come to the conclusion that neither Greg nor Hadi were fooled by his excuses and gives up with the charade.

Hadi slips his hand out of Greg's, but it's okay. They both just look at eachother and laugh.

Cyril steps into the room and says something, but Greg doesn't hear it.

He'll be fine. He has Hadi and Cyril.

He'll be okay.

ao3 link

[editoress]

Nesta/Lucien - 1. “Who did this to you?” and because I've been feeling Soft about them lately, Riven/Eravin - 22. “Would you feel more comfortable talking about it if I turned around?”

It was so like Nesta—not only to walk in on Lucien while he was bloodied and barely standing, despite the fact that only Tam knew he was back, but also to stand in the doorway and eye him critically, as if by being wounded he somehow didn't live up to her expectations. As far as Lucien could tell, Nesta's cutting glares had never been limited by mortality, and so they hadn't been changed whatsoever by her transformation.

"If you need something from me," he advised, "don't."

For once, Nesta didn't snap back, only continued to study him sourly. Lucien duly turned his back to her and tossed his torn, bloody shirt into a corner. Tam had healed him, but Lucien hadn't let him go too far with it. Just far enough so that when he pulled on a clean shirt, he probably wouldn't get any more blood on it. At least if he did, it would only be his.

"Who did this to you?" Nesta asked sharply.

Lucien faced her again, surprised and too tired not to be wary. Nesta watched him expectantly for an answer. After a gauging moment, Lucien gave her a thin, mocking smile. "Who knew you were so tender-hearted?" he said. "No need to worry over me. I handled it."

She raised an eyebrow. "It looks like you handled it badly." She continued loudly, trampling over his indignation, "And that's not what I asked."

"He's dead," Lucien retorted. "So to your real question: he's neither a threat to you nor a reason to call on your powers. Satisfied?"

A strange look crossed Nesta's face. Her eyes widened and her lips parted for an instant, and then her expression flattened to something guarded and grim. She stood ramrod straight and too still. Unexpectedly, Lucien knew that look from his own experience. He was very familiar with masking hurt because you couldn't afford to show it. "Do not presume to know what I'm thinking," she bit out stiffly.

Nesta liked to call him a bastard. She didn't now, but for the first time, Lucien felt he entirely deserved it.

She spun on her heel and stalked away, leaving him a fool standing alone in his chambers. But even in dire need of rest, Lucien didn't like lingering in foolishness. So he went to the doorway and called after her. "Nesta."

She stopped but did not face him. Lucien told her seriously, "Vengeance is a dangerous game here. Bad enough to face your own battles. Getting involved in anyone else's only brings trouble." She did look at him then, cautiously, and he gave her a flicker of a real smile. "I'd rather you focus that temper on your own enemies."

Nesta did not return his smile in the slightest. But he wondered whether she was teasing of all things when she replied evenly, "I have enough temper to go around."

*

Riven had done the math and come up with a significant time gap between the end of the war and the beginning of Eravin's and Delethil's friendship. What Eravin didn't bring up about his life—which was most of it—Del would usually fill in for her, but so much was still a mystery. That had chafed even during their years as friends, but Riven had respected Eravin's sense of privacy. Now that they were together, she wanted to share as much as possible; she wanted to know him.

But on the span of years she was curious about now, he would only say, "Just worked." And he said it in such a miserable tone that she knew he felt something about it all.

"Ya didn't... do anything else?" Riven prompted.

"No," he grunted shortly.

"Who did ya spend time with before Del?"

"Nobody."

He had an iron grip on a matter-of-fact façade, but Riven had felt alone for too long to believe that there was nothing more to say. So after a pause, she asked gently, "Was it hard?"

Eravin's scowl deepened, and then she was watching him withdraw into himself. Riven stepped closer, like she could physically follow him. "It was hard for me," she offered. "Growin' up with no real friends, feelin' like no one wanted ta be around me but not knowin' why. Tell me, Erry."

"Fine, it was shite!" he barked. He waved one hand sharply. "That's all there is to it. Alright? There was—just—" He made a noise of frustration. And he wasn't looking at her; he never did, when he was trying to talk about his own emotions. It was always muttering, fumbled words, and staring at the floor.

But Riven wanted to hear him out nonetheless. Instead of pushing him, she asked, "Would you feel more comfortable talking about it if I turned around?"

That startled him into looking at her. "Eh?"

She started to turn, so that he could feel less watched, less judged. But to her surprise, Eravin caught her arm. "Nah, don't... don't go," he grumbled. He was wearing a grim kind of frown, but it wasn't directed at Riven. She could tell, because his hand on her arm was gentle. "I'll get it out."

Riven smiled and took his hand in both of hers. It was one of the developments she most enjoyed, Erry's big, calloused hand holding hers. "I'm not going anywhere."

It took a long time for Eravin, hesitant and still half embarrassed, to tell her everything, but Riven didn't mind. She was listening.

[sillypinkboy]

James

Charcters: James Beverley (Overdrive)

Word count: 1008

Notes: This counts an aside for the au... something that has happened, but it's not as important to the story. Aka I'm branching out guys woo

Tag: Bloody Rings

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

A man sits on hardwood floors with his hair pinned back. It's dark in the room, silence broken by soft mutters and the occasional whimper. Movement catches the edges of a flashlight between teeth. hands run over wires with a practiced precision - every moment treated akin to that of dismantling a highly explosive bomb. Silence keeps falling from him as he falls in and out of focus. It's getting late and thoughts are slowing - James struggles to pick if it's from exhaustion or him just needing a break, but still he pushes forward.

The quick math he had become so accustomed to started to become just numbers that bunched together to mean nothing - was he supposed to carry that one? He huffs, eyes falling on what had become the fixation of the evening.

Little robots sat unmoving, the wires were pulled out, which gave the weird impression of small black bugs being disemboweled. Staring at it all made his head spin, which wasn't very common on these sorts of projects. He just needed a minute to break - hands instinctively move to grab his phone, to see what the time is.

It had been used for scrap parts. James curses, tossing it against the floor with a thud. The smooth screen causes it to slide and he makes a mental note to either get a new phone or see if they sell motherboards in the local tech shop. The cities were always unfamiliar, it would always be a shot in the dark on what they carried.

There's plenty of ways to check the time, of course. The other three still had working phones - it was important to the jobs. There should be a clock on the hotel's make-shift kitchen, too. He freezes when trying to move.

He worries about his little creations - they weren't very big. A few hundred could fit in a coin purse, which he notes he'll need to find a better storage for them. Nanobots - that's what he was calling them. The end goal was to have an easy way to customize his bike - something he could control with just a touch. Unfortunately, they were sort of useless in their current state.

They're too delicate to just toss around with wires so exposed - he could try to push everything back into place. He'd have to make a mental note that they were loosely thrown back together, though. It'd take a few more hours to get them even something close to working again. The alloy was causing problems - he's curious if he should change it out. It could have also been the most recent wires... he had ran out of copper, zinc seemed like a good replacement, but alas.

The balls of his hands dig into his eye sockets as he groans. Why must he make things more complicated for himself? The flashlight is moved, the end damp with saliva. He whips it against his shirt, shining the beam closer to what might as well be his children with how much he cares for them.

He sweeps them closer together, making sure no pieces would be in walking path. One of the magazines Geroge had bought was quickly snatched. It takes four fluid steps, and the technology is whipped up onto the paper.

Footsteps are too careful as he makes it back to the desk and places the page down. It was an unspoken rule to not touch his project, even if it was in the way. It was one of the few ways to get James to snap at you - each learned from experience.

Those practiced steps make their way to the door. Quietly, the racer laces his boots. He had come to a roadblock - the easiest way to push back something such as this, was a good drive.

He slips on his leather jacket - It matches the other ones loosely on a chair. One was missing - he just assumes some fell asleep in it. Wouldn't be the first time, of course. The room key is safely stored in his pocket, something he zips as soon as he steps out. The lights in the hall were the dim emergency lights he had become so accustomed to.

Everything in the hall echoes, but there's a muffled quality to it - James can't stand how slow the walk seems to feel. He hums to himself as he heads down.

It's a bit chilly outside, he buries himself in his leather jacket. He mutters a "thank god" at seeing his helmet still hanging on the bike - the habit was a bad one to have, but he couldn't seem to break it. This one was his favorite. It was a dark blue with a motherboard design, smoke covered a lot of it, but it was still clear. A gift from the youngest - he runs fingers over the pattern before pulling the helmet on. He sits on the bike, listening to the bike hum back to life, the exhaust is visible in the cold. The metallic paint of the bike catches the street light, making it glow almost purple.

He is gentle as he pulls out of the parking spot, but the moment he hits the road the engine is revved. It wouldn't be as fun without the others, but the feeling of aluminum under his bare hands makes his heart skip a beat.

This is what he needed.

Streetlights zip by as he pushes forward. The bike is an extension of himself and he knows it. It’s a sense of freedom - every corner is quick and traced, leaning makes him change directions. The bots would have been a great boost to speed - His current bike only got to ninety. The wind rushing by him was heaven. This is what it must feel like to fly.

A smile held strong against his face, it laid hidden from anyone that saw.

Nothing had to be complicated here - he just had to know his path. There’s no math, no feelings. Just freedom.

With his boys, it was family.

That’s what made everything worth it.

[kiss-my-freckle]

NOTE: Lily placed her grandmother's vase being broken a year before their Thanksgiving when Giuseppe's money was stolen. I'm doing math over here to figure out some of their storylines. Thanksgiving was 1851. Stefan died at 17 in 1864. Damon is 7 years older than Stefan. Lily said Damon was around 10 when he broke the vase.

When something isn't confirmed one way or the other, I pull details together and try to come up with a likely scenario. Such is the case with the vase Lily speaks about in the 7th season. Lily introduces the story of her grandmother's vase. It's because Damon was around ten that Stefan would've been around three.

"Do you remember when you broke my grandmother's vase? You were young. Ten, maybe. You denied it, even when your father made you cut a switch from the yard. Even when he beat you with it until you were bloody. Still, you denied it vehemently. Hmmm. You were sitting there, playing with your little toy soldiers, bloody and bruised, so I switched tactics. And, the next morning, when you woke, your room was bare - no toy soldiers. No toys at all. And you cried, and cried. Admitted everything."

Damon and Stefan have a conversation when Caroline gets taken. They come to understand exactly what Lily is doing. So long as they are at war with each other, they won't stop her. What Damon refers to as their wonder twin powers when they actually join forces. This is made obvious every time a new enemy comes in. Katherine, Isobel, and Klaus had that in common... wanting the Salvatores warring against each other.

"She has all of our toys. Stefan, whenever I did anything wrong as a kid, she took my toys. But she also took yours. All of them. And you'd cry like a little baby. I'd do anything - anything she wanted to shut you up."

Elena and Caroline are placed in toy context, along with their house and their town. She took Damon's toy Elena and Stefan's toy Caroline. So, what would make Lily return Stefan's toy. Some truth written in his journal. Caroline's line of dialogue sounds a lot like the Grinch. The one who takes toys from Whoville, but ends up returning them when his heart grows three sizes.

"I don't know what made your heart grow four sizes today, but thanks."

There's also the issue as to why Damon would refuse to admit a fault. Why he would take a beating rather than admit he broke the vase. So we get to Stefan's journal, to some unspoken truth Lily read that made her heart grow four sizes. Lily asks Caroline about one's ability to heal after the loss of a mother. Curious enough, Stefan was trying to buy flowers for her while she was dying. Something he discusses with both Caroline and Valerie. While he was ten when his mother passed, I still find it curious because Stefan didn't go after those flowers himself. His father sent him to buy them. Even more as Lily brought up Liz's death, and Caroline was doing the same as Stefan... buying flowers for her mother while she was dying. So much focus to buying flowers coupled with the breaking of this vase, which flowers are meant for.

When Damon spoke to Stefan about Lily taking their toys, he said whenever he did anything wrong as a kid, not that the vase was one of his wrongs. We're also given the flashback of Thanksgiving, a time when Damon took a beating for Stefan. Yet, while taking the beating, actually admitted to stealing the money when he didn't. Stefan would've been around 4, and Damon would've been around 11. That Thanksgiving would've taken place a year after the vase was broken, with the only difference being that while Damon takes the abuse, he's shifting from not taking the blame for the broken vase, but taking the blame for stealing the money.

I've only come up with two scenarios.

Scenario One:

Why did Damon switch from not taking blame to taking blame. Lily decided to punish Stefan too. When you have a mother switching tactics, you have a brother switching tactics. If Lily would take Stefan's toys too, reasonable to believe Giuseppe would beat Stefan too. Stefan broke the vase. So, Damon went from admitting to something Stefan did - to taking a beating for Stefan.

Scenario Two:

Damon broke the vase, but the rebel in him would just as soon take a beating for a broken vase rather than admit he broke it, and denied he did simply because Lily wanted him to admit it.

[runnning-outof-time]

Sleep-Talking | Arthur Shelby x Reader

Request: yes by anonymous

Pairing: Arthur Shelby x reader

Summary: Arthur has trouble expressing his feelings for (Y/N)...while he's awake at least.

Warnings: oh just Arthur being Arthur...and maybe slight season 3 and 4 spoilers

Word Count: 2532

A/N: I hope you don’t mind that I chose to go with Arthur for this one, anon ... I felt that the prompt you included really went well with him. Enjoy! :)

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in stories similar to this one!

———

"How long has it been?" (Y/N)'s friend asked as they both ate their lunch.

"Has what been?" (Y/N) responded with a question of her own, her eyebrows furrowed slightly because her friend gave no prerequisites to her ask.

"How long have you and Arthur been together?" her friend then elaborated, a quizzical look on her face.

"I believe it'll be..." she paused to make sure that she had her math right, "seven months next week actually," she then finished her statement with a smile.

A smile formed on her face anytime Arthur was mentioned. He was a sweet man, one who certainly had his faults, and he was very kind to her. He showered her with physical affection and always made sure that she was safe and protected.

"Seven months?!" her friend repeated in a shocked manner, her eyes wide now, "seven months with this bloody guy and there's yet to be talk of engagement?"

(Y/N) scoffed slightly at the statement, "you say it like I'm supposed to be on some sort of timeline with him," she pointed out while trying to laugh it off. Still, she couldn't stop the uneasy feeling that was creeping its way into her stomach. Was she supposed to be engaged already?

"There kind of is a timeline for it, (Y/N)," her friend stayed serious. (Y/N) only scoffed again.

"If there is, I've never heard of it," she went back to brushing it off again.

The other woman still looked rather concerned though. "He really hasn't brought anything up?" she queried. (Y/N) shook her head. "There's been no talks of marriage?" Another head shake. "No discussion of future plans?" And another. By this time, her friend's eyes were so wide that they were about to fall out of their sockets. "Have you spoken about your relationship with him at all, (Y/N)?" she asked incredulously.

"Of course we have!" (Y/N) was quick to defend herself. Her friend wasn't having it though, and the look she was sporting made it clear. "I mean who doesn't?" she tried to hold steadfast on her stance, but her friend was not cracking. So finally she let out a long sigh, "ok we really don't talk about stuff like that together," she admitted, pouting slightly like a child that had to confess what they did wrong.

Now her friend looked confused. "You don't?" she questioned, like she was checking to make sure she heard correct.

(Y/N) shook her head with a slight frown. "No...we don't," she affirmed.

Within seconds, her friend was asking questions. "Well then what kind of stuff do you talk about together?" was the one that (Y/N) decided to focus on.

"We talk about our lives, and the fact that we enjoy being with each other and spending time with each other. I let him know how much I love him, and what I feel for him, but Arthur...he's not the best at expressing those types of things," she tried to explain, hoping her friend would comprehend her rambling.

The other woman nodded along with what she was hearing. She then pursed her lips together as she thought about what she'd say next. "You should talk to him about it," she finally said then, her abrupt piece of advice making (Y/N)'s jaw go slack.

"Just out of nowhere?" she asked, shocked by her friend's sudden suggestion.

"Why not?" her friend shrugged.

"Because it'll be out of nowhere," she repeated her previous answer with a new emphasis placed on the final word, "and plus...Arthur'll be so confused as to why I'm bringing stuff like that up all of a sudden."

"You have a right to talk about it, you know. You're able to ask questions about the future because it's yours just as much as it is his," her friend pointed out, her statement making (Y/N) think for a moment.

"Maybe I'll bring it up to him," (Y/N) finally agreed with the other woman after a few quiet moments. Her friend grinned upon hearing that her thoughts had been listened to. "Can we please talk about something else now?" (Y/N) then asked, wanting desperately to change the topic of discussion. Her friend agreed, and the women began talking about which plants were coming into season and what they would be planting in their home gardens.

——

(Y/N) was sitting in the front room when the door to the house opened later that evening. "(Y/N)?" she heard Arthur call out for her as his footsteps sounded off the hardwood flooring.

"In the front room!" she called back, a smile forming on her face as she heard his footsteps approaching.

"There you are," Arthur grinned when his eyes fell onto her. (Y/N) smiled as she stood up to walk over to the archway and meet him halfway. She wrapped her hands around his midriff and hugged him before pulling back to peck his lips. "How are you, love?" he asked with a smile once they'd pulled away.

"I'm well," she answered, "you?"

"Just dandy...better now that I'm home with you," he responded, his sweet words making her cheeks heat up.

"I'm happy to hear that," she told him, then taking his hand so that she could lead him to the couch she was once sitting on, "come sit with me."

"Something wrong?" he asked once they were sitting. (Y/N) had her hands in her lap and she was looking at them rather than at him. It made him worry that there was something on her mind, or that something had happened.

"Not necessarily wrong..." (Y/N) started off, pausing for a moment. Her words made Arthur's brows furrow in confusion. "I wanted to talk to you...about us," she continued, finally looking up at him then.

Arthur's heart jumped to his throat as he took in what she said. His eyes widened slightly at the possibilities now swirling through his head. Was she breaking up with him? "Ok, uh..."

"I'm not breaking up with you!" (Y/N) blurted out with wide eyes as she realized how he could have taken her previous statement. She certainly said it in a way that brought those types of thoughts to mind. She took relief when she saw Arthur exhale the breath that he had sucked in to prepare himself for her parting words. "I just wanted to talk about our relationship...you know, we've been together for almost seven months now."

"I do know," Arthur nodded his head with a slight smile on his face. The fact that he'd managed to keep a woman as amazing as (Y/N) for as long as he had surprised him daily.

She'd come into his life when he needed her the most. He'd just been released from prison, where he was seconds away from being hanged for one of his many crimes...a crime that his own brother had essentially put him there for. He was pretty much lost after that. With his entire family indifferent and not speaking to each other, he wasn't sure where to go or what to do. Then he met (Y/N) at the end of a church gathering that he attended — one of the few things that he still held onto from his previous life after Linda left during his time in prison. (Y/N) was sweet, a woman who seemed to bring the light with her everywhere she went. So it surprised Arthur when she agreed to go to eat with him for brunch after church one day. Seven months later, the fact that she hadn't left him still surprised him.

"I couldn't help but wonder...why do we never talk about our future together?" she then posed the question that had been in her mind since her friend stuck it there earlier in the day. "Why don't you ever let me know how you feel about me?"

"We've talked about our future, haven't we?" Arthur's statement sounded more like a question, "I've told you that I want you in it."

"What about feelings?" (Y/N) called attention to the second part of her statement.

Arthur sucked in and exhaled a deep breath, looking away from (Y/N) briefly as he thought of how to say his answer. "I...I'm no good at expressing feelings, (Y/N). I never have been, and it's not only to you. I just...I can't think of the words to say," he tried his best to explain to her, unable to stop himself from feeling guilty for leaving her without some of his thoughts on her. He loved her deeply, but it was hard for him to say. He made sure to show her through his actions and whatnot, but he couldn't help but feel bad that he wasn't giving her this verbal confirmation that she seemingly needed.

(Y/N) sent a sort of a sad smile in response to his statement. "It can't be that hard to do, Arthur, can it?" she asked softly, wanting to hopefully get more information on why he was so hesitant to speak his mind.

Arthur sighed again. "My family doesn't really talk about feelings. We just say our piece and get on with it. It's tough for me to let go of that way of thinking around you, but I'll try to do so more in the future since you'd want me to," he told her, hoping that his decision to try more would be enough for her tonight. The smile that formed on her face upon hearing his words gave him the confirmation that he needed.

"That's all I can ask for, Arthur, thank you," she said with a smile as she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I love you," she told him, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes.

This could have been the perfect time for him to start trying, but he didn't. Instead he smiled and pressed a kiss to her lips, instead letting his actions speak for him once more. (Y/N) couldn't stop the slight feeling of sadness that arose at his response, but she didn't comment on it. She knew that he wouldn't change his ways right away just because he said he would. So she accepted what he gave to her and left it there.

—

Not long after their discussion, Arthur and (Y/N) made their way to bed. It was quiet as they both changed out of their day clothes in exchange for what they'd be sleeping in. The quiet remained until they were both under the covers and the lights had been turned off.

"Goodnight, Arthur," (Y/N)'s words came out in a whisper.

"Goodnight, love," Arthur responded, turning his head to press a kiss to her temple before exhaling a sigh.

Nothing else was said as the two fell asleep. And while Arthur slept soundly, (Y/N) couldn't seem to keep her eyes shut for long. Soon enough she was awake again, feeling like she'd had a full night's rest when in reality she'd only maybe been sleeping an hour. So she laid there and thought about what had happened that day, her mind getting stuck on the conversation she had with Arthur. She hoped that he meant what he said about wanting her to be in his future and that he wasn't just saying that little bit to appease her and get her mind off of the topic. She stayed in her thoughts until the very man she was thinking about started talking.

"I don't think I could picture my life without you now, (Y/N)..." Arthur spoke. His voice was soft but his words were clear.

"Arthur?" (Y/N) questioned, turning on her side slightly to look at him. She was met with the surprise that he was still sleeping.

"You've changed my life for the better in so many ways. I couldn't possibly think of letting you go," he continued.

(Y/N) couldn't stop the smile from forming on her face. She'd never heard Arthur talk in his sleep before. But then again, she was hardly awake during the night, so if he did, she wouldn't know. She wanted to wake him up and tell him that he was sleep-talking, but at the same time, she wanted to let him be and see what else he'd say. So she chose the latter.

"I love you, (Y/N). Would you do the honor of marrying me?"

This statement made her eyes widen. Did he just ask her to marry him in his sleep? It certainly sounded like it. She held her breath and waited for what he would say next, but nothing came. He was finished talking. After waiting a good bit of time to see if he'd say anything more and hearing nothing, (Y/N) rolled back onto her side and closed her eyes. She couldn't help but replay what he'd said in her mind and just thinking of it allowed her to finally go back to sleep.

—

The next morning, (Y/N) flipped on her side to see that Arthur was just starting to wake up. She watched him as he stretched his arms out and let out a groan as one of his bones cracked.

"Mornin', love," he greeted her once he saw that she was also awake, "how'd you sleep?" he asked then.

"Beautifully," she answered, remembering what she'd heard during the night, "you?" she then flipped the question on him.

"I slept alright," he nodded slightly, "had some pretty crazy dreams though," he added, scratching his forehead after he spoke.

“Oh really?” she raised her eyebrows slightly in intrigue at his words.

“Yeah,” he answered with a slight laugh.

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?” she then asked him after a few moments of silence had passed.

Arthur turned to look at her with furrowed eyebrows after he heard what she said. “I do?” he questioned, showing her that he obviously didn’t know that he did.

“You do,” she affirmed, nodding slightly, “I heard you talking last night...thought that you were awake and wanted to have a conversation but when I turned around, you were sleeping,” she explained the reason behind her random question.

“Huh,” Arthur laughed to himself at the idea. He never would have thought that he talked in his sleep, but then again...who ever thinks that they would? “What was I sayin’?” he asked her then, a grin on his face.

(Y/N) smiled at the words that he’d told her last night and then weighed out whether or not she wanted to tell him them. “I don’t remember,” she finally said, hoping that her expression wouldn’t tell him otherwise.

Luckily, he didn’t comment on it. “Next time I do it, you’ll have to remember what I say so that you can tell me,” he told her and she nodded.

“I’ll make sure to remember every word,” she promised him, knowing that it’d be easy to do so if it was anything along the lines of what he was saying the night before.

———

Tagged: @alreadybroken-ts @magicalxdaydream @the-anxious-youth @look-at-the-soul @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @easilyobessedbutflighty @shelbydelrey @december16-1991 @onlydeadcells @peakyswritings @watercolorskyy @just-a-blackhole @strayrockette

MASTERLIST

[valiantpapertale]

My fucking Thursday Folder!!!

Let me bring home my goddamn Thursday Folder!!!!!!!]

I swear its not intentional

[lovelybunn]

ㅤㅤ𝖬𝖠𝖨𝖭 𝖳𝖧𝖱𝖤𝖤 𝖶𝖨𝖳𝖧 𝖢𝖧𝖨𝖫𝖣!𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖤𝖱!

warning(s): swearing

author's note: idk what motivated me to do this but here it is.

ㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝖱𝖤𝖣 𝖦𝖴𝖸;

"you want uppies? alright, here we go... three, two, one– wheee!"

the real dad of the group. red is so good with kids, he intuitively knows exactly what they need before the whining even starts.

also, the best homemade snacks ever! cheez-its? no problem. gummy bears? healthy and delicious! no need to worry if the baby's getting enough vitamins, red's got it all covered.

red will place this three to four foot tall creature in his lap or literally on the ground in front of his chair and sit there for hours consuming television. it's so bad that yellow and/or duck have to drag them away for him and the child to actually do something productive.

he rubs off so much that this kid will become a mini red guy, not even joking.

ㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝖣𝖴𝖢𝖪 𝖦𝖴𝖸;

"ugh, what do you want? i'm trying to read the newspaper. hey! oh no— bloody hell, the small ones screaming again!"

duck hates children, and this kid's no exception. well, maybe just a little, cuz his heart melts when hearing lil baby giggles

duck is not the person to go to for help on any kind of homework, one bc he doesn't know basic math, and two bc he will gaslight the child till they're bawling their ever loving eyes out (yellow had experienced this first hand)

BEDTIME STORIES WITH DUCK! no but fr this dude will keep on rambling and rambling about stuff where the kid doesn't know what half of the words even mean, but in less than ten minutes, guess what? *snoreeeeeeeeee*

kids will become errand-boys for this duck, if he is busy with his clipboard, he will ask them to count each individual tile on the kitchen floor to check his list. (the plus side is they're learning their numbers!)

ㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝖸𝖤𝖫𝖫𝖮𝖶 𝖦𝖴𝖸;

"heh-heh, the little one's looking at me all funny!"

yellow's basically a 24/7 playmate; he may be 38, but he has the mind of a five year old, so hanging out with kids is no problem or struggle for him.

the only downside to being a playmate is the fact his literal battery is very low and runs out very quickly.

and he loves learning with you! this is the only time yellow is mentally capable of handling talking inanimate objects, only bc it doesn't scare the child at all, it just makes it more fun for them.

toys, toys, and more toysss! he has so many fidgets that all are always in use, like fr this boy cannot focus without them in his hands 24/7. the good thing is that he knows how to share and its entertaining to see littles playing around with his things.

[sharkinlovewithadolphin]

rinharu, 14 or 20?? (:

I’ll take the “or”, and raise you an “and” <3 Thank you so much! :D Prompt List #5 14. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” 20. “I love you, but I need you to go away because you’re really bloody distracting and I have to pass this test tomorrow.” (I took the liberty un-britishize the second one by removing “bloody” jdnkg) Proofread by @illbebuyingallofthoseflowers ❤

~*~ Rin had been studying hard for his upcoming math test. He knew, logically speaking, that he would be able to pass it with ease, but he couldn’t help but worry about it no matter what. And his worries only grew, as time kept passing by in a flinch, and with only a day left to finish up on all of his reading, plus all of his other assignments for other classes, he truly began to feel the pressure. Haru had been fully understanding and supportive at first, telling him to relax and trying to convince him not to worry, but the care quickly seemed to turn into boredom, and with boredom came Haru’s playful side, which usually meant that Rin was about to fall victim to whatever was on Haru’s mind, which could then only mean Rin’s plans of being a good student were likely about to be thrown out the window. It started small. Haru would walk around the room a bit aimlessly, meanwhile Rin could feel his lingering gaze on him. Almost like a hunter seizing down its prey. It would be amusing, if the timing wasn’t so terrible. Then Haru would ask Rin when he was done, and give a disappointed sound when the answer was a simple I don’t know, but it will take a while. Then he would disappear into their bedroom, while leaving the door wide open, and make purposefully loud noises to gain Rin’s attention, just so Rin would eventually look up - which he did, of course, he was prone to curiosity when it came to Haru, after all. Upon looking up, Rin spotted Haru through their closet mirror from his position on the couch. Haru undressed slowly, before changing into a pair of cotton shorts and one of Rin’s tank tops. Blushing and officially knowing exactly what Haru was up to, Rin mentally slapped himself and looked back down at his laptop, trying his very best to focus on his task, or at least pretend to. Haru, clearly defeated, walked back out into the living room again after a while, likely having been waiting for Rin to go join him and then giving up when it didn’t seem to happen. He stepped over to the couch and sat down with his back against the armrest, in front of Rin. Rin was leaning against the other armrest with his laptop in his lap and his legs stretched out on the couch. He was trying his best to keep reading, even as Haru put his feet lap on either side of his laptop and wiggled his toes, obviously being purposefully annoying. Rin lost all sense of concentration, though, and not because of the toe-wiggling, but because Haru stopped wiggling his toes and instead moved his feet away, as he then started to press a toe into Rin’s thigh, underneath the laptop, and slowly moved it in circles. He kept on going as if testing Rin’s limits. Rin sighed loudly, and looked up from his laptop to look at Haru. “What?” Haru asked innocently, with a not-so-innocent smile. “You know… you’re being a bit of a tease right now,” Rin pointed out, patiently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Haru’s smile turned devilishly playful. “Oh, really?” Rin smiled daringly, closed his laptop and put it down on top of their coffee table. He alluringly signaled for Haru to come closer with two slow movements back and forth of his index and middle finger pressed together, palm turned towards himself. Haru did as silently commanded and seductively crawled over Rin on all fours, before sitting down in his lap and putting his arms around his neck. Rin placed his hands on the sides of Haru’s waist. With a knee on either side of Rin, Haru lifted himself off of Rin’s lap, gaining a bit of height and making Rin lean his head backwards to look up at him. Rin leaned closer and placed a quick, smiling kiss on Haru’s lips, then pulled back away ever so slightly, as if he wanted Haru to chase another kiss, which he secretly did want, but that wasn’t the intention. Logically, at least. “I love you, but I need you to go away now, because you’re really distracting and I have to pass this test tomorrow,” Rin said, his voice low and his still-smiling lips barely centimeters from Haru’s. “You’re being so responsible,” Haru stated, sitting back down again. “And boring.” Rin laughed. “You’re saying I should fail my test because you’re horny?” “It’s a valid excuse,” Haru argued and smiled amusedly. “Besides, you won’t fail.” “I’m glad you have so much faith in me.” “One of us has to since you seem to refuse to,” Haru remarked, and though he sounded playful still, Rin could tell Haru was serious. They had had the discussion before after all, about Haru wanting Rin to be more confident in his academic abilities. “I don’t refuse anything. I’m just… cautious. Just in case. Who knows, right?” “Me. I know,” Haru said, voice assuring. “You’ll pass it, get top grades and then I’ll tell you I told you so, and you will roll your eyes at me and then still continue to dismiss your skills for whatever comes next.” “Our own little ritual, right?” Rin teased. “Doesn’t have to be, if you would believe in yourself a bit more,” Haru pointed out. “Well, if I don’t study, I might not come home with top grades and then you won’t be able to say I told you so, and I can’t take that pleasure away from you.” “I can find other pleasures you can give me instead,” Haru smirked with a suggestively raised eyebrow, and Rin would probably have turned beet red by then if he hadn’t expected that reponse the very second he had unintentionally let the word pleasure slip out from his lips in that given situation. “You’re on a roll today, huh?” Rin sarcastically joked. He playfully grabbed Haru’s ass with both hands, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go and patting the sides of Haru’s thighs a couple of times, motioning for him to get up. “Now, go. Shoo shoo. I gotta finish this before I can grace you with my undivided attention.” “Fine,” Haru sighed in defeat. He got up, leaving Rin to it, and sat back down on the other end of the couch for a bit, pouting to himself before giving up and instead playing a muted game on his nintendo. Then, after an hour or two, he got up again and went grocery shopping alone, since Rin still wasn’t finished. He ended up cooking Rin’s favorite for dinner, brought it on a plate for him, and allowed him to continue studying while eating, occasionally talking about an issue he had with something or trying to discuss a thing that didn’t make sense to him in the text he was reading. Haru didn’t feel like much of an active help, but it did seem to help Rin to just talk about it, so Haru still tried to convince himself he was somewhat useful. Haru eventually went to bed and read a manga, waiting for Rin to finally finish and come join him. He winded up falling asleep while waiting, though, and Rin got the utmost pleasure of tugging him in. Rin leaned over Haru to leave a goodnight kiss at his temple, careful not to stir him awake. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” Rin muttered quietly, voice full of affection, adoring amusement and something not unlike yearning. The powerful effect the man before him had on him, should probably worry him a little. But worry was the last thing he felt, watching Haru peacefully asleep. Rin moved away after some time of just quietly standing and watching Haru, to go get ready for bed himself, too, and once done, he snuggled up underneath the covers next to Haru, cuddling up behind him and pulling him close before drifting off to sleep as well.

[singtotheskiies]

dried blood on smooth skin // five hargreeves x reader

summary: five hargreeves really needs patching up—in more ways than one.

words: 1655

warnings: brief language, descriptions of blood, otherwise just that sweet touch-starved fluff we all crave

a/n: i’m a klaus kinda girl, but this is me working through why i find five so goddamn attractive

✖️✖️✖️

Normally, when Five Hargreeves blinks into your room, it’s because he wants to escape from the stifling presence of his father or because you’ve begged for his help with your math homework (the man has no right being so smart). He always manages to sneak out on your birthday and bring you a donut from Griddy’s and something you value even more—his companionship, even if only for a few minutes. Sometimes, you tell him he should be more careful—his father has eyes all over the house; he must suspect that something’s going on. Five always dismisses your protests, telling you not to worry about it—he’s got it under control.

He comes to you because you’re a constant for him, a sense of normalcy. Whenever he needs an escape from the constant hierarchy and trauma of his house (which is often), he can come to you and relish in your laughter and friendship and caring aura. Of course, he’s never said all of this to you outright, but you understand anyway. You know Five well enough to know that underneath all his bluster and know-it-all attitude, he appreciates you—the only person he can really call his friend.

Today is different, though. When the blue flash of light materializes in your bedroom, you jump, dropping your book to the ground. “Christ, Five, didn’t we talk about—“ You trail off as you see the state he’s in. His clothes are torn and disheveled, something he would normally never allow. The parts of his face not covered in blood are stark white, matching his knuckles as they clench up at his sides. God, there’s blood everywhere. Is it his? There’s so much—there’s no way his body could produce that much, right?—and it’s thick and clotted onto his normally pristine skin and suit, concentrated especially on a spot on his right side. You notice he’s barely moved in the several seconds you’ve been gaping at him, merely swaying side to side weakly.

“What the fuck happened?” you begin, but are cut off by his knees buckling. You catch him just in time, guiding him to your desk chair before he can ruin your carpet.

“Mission—gone wr-wrong,” he pants, barely able to get the words out.

“Why didn’t you stay with your siblings? They know how to handle this st—“

“I don’t want their help.” He cuts you off, managing to instill an incredible amount of venom in his words as they stutter past his gritted teeth. “Their fault.”

“Okay, well, why didn’t you jump to a hospital, or your mom, or someone who could actually help!? Jesus, Five, you could—“

“I—I did come to someone who can help. It would be really—nice—if you started,” he breathes, brow drawn tight in pain. Sweat and dried blood mix together in the furrows of his dusky skin, and something about that sight kicks you into action.

“Okay, I need to get this jacket off you. Can you lift your arms?” He grunts in what you take to be an affirmative response, and you manage to wrestle the piece of clothing off him without jarring him too much. You’re left with the sight of blood pouring out of him, staining the weave of his bright white dress shirt, and you tighten your jaw as realization sets in. “Uh, Five? I need to—um—take your shirt off,” you almost whisper, trying to ignore the rising flush in your cheeks. He barely summons a weak nod, and you take that as your go-ahead.

Hands shaking, you start at his neck, working your way down. With each button unfastened, more and more tanned, smooth skin becomes visible. After what seems like an eternity, you reach the last button, sliding your hands back up to his shoulders to ease his sleeves off. You take in the expanse of freckled, smooth skin now exposed to the air. You wonder how he hasn’t got more scars on missions—every inch and plane of skin you can see is soft-looking and somehow catches the light as he breathes in and out laboriously. But then your eyes land on the bullet wound spilling blood onto his side and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “Shit,” you curse. “I’ll be right back.”

You run into your bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit you have for emergencies. Your breath is coming quickly—you know that every second is crucial to Five’s wellbeing. Coming back into the room, you grab gauze and disinfectant. “This is gonna sting,” you warn, and he merely rests his head back onto your desk, clenching his jaw.

There’s far too much blood to wipe off completely, so you focus on cleaning the area around the wound quickly. You can’t see the bullet, and a quick question to Five confirms that it’s not lodged inside—just scraped up against some things and went on its way. You grab a few gauze pads, placing them securely against his torso with medical tape. The softness of his skin makes your heart soar and drop simultaneously, but you push the thought out of your head. You need to get him feeling better.

Once the gauze is on, you focus on cleaning up the rest of his bloodied torso. After a few minutes, Five feels the strength to sit up and take ginger sips of the water bottle you’ve offered him. The water seems to do him some good, and you sit back from cleaning his skin for a moment, relieved at the sight of some light returning to his eyes.

“Better?” you ask, sliding his shirt back on gently. He merely nods in response, lips pursed in a half-smile. His dimple is covered in sticky dried blood, and that sets you on your next mission.

“I’m gonna clean up your face, okay? You don’t want anything getting in your eyes or mouth,” you say. Five tries to protest, but you cut him off. “If you came to me for help, then you’re going to sit there and get it,” you say sternly.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Guess I brought it upon myself.” You shoot him a look and get busy.

There’s quite a bit of blood at his hairline, and you clean up the series of cuts there. His normally perfect, shiny hair is sweaty and slightly matted in spots. Before you can stop yourself, you bring a cool hand to his forehead and sweep some of the dark strands off his forehead. He makes a soft noise in response, green eyes fluttering halfway closed in relief. Your heart clenches at the sound. You take in the weary and touch-starved boy before you, all dusky skin and stirring limbs. Bending closer, you press a feather-soft, lingering kiss to his hairline before you can think better of it. His eyes shoot back open and he regards you with a look so intense you can barely decipher what’s going on.

“Okay?” you ask in a whisper.

“Please—“ he mumbles hoarsely. “Don’t—don’t stop.” Your brows draw together in both pity and overwhelming affection, and you begin to softly clean up another cut on his cheek. After the blood is soaked up by the disinfectant, you place your lips on the small wound. You give the same treatment to a spot on his chin, then to a bruise under his eye, and then to his dimple—the dimple that’s tugged at your heart every single time he’s smiled at you in the past. As your lips leave the freckled spot, you meet his eyes again.

His lids are hooded, tired. They barely close when he blinks, his eyelashes dipping down to brush the freckled apples of his cheeks. His eyes, though, are less drowsy and more intense. They regard you with something akin to both sorrow and want. You blush under their gaze, wanting to look away from their intensity but finding yourself unable to. Your hand reaches up, your middle three fingers tracing an impossibly soft line from the shell of his ear to the corner of his lips. Your fingertips pause, hovering just over where the tip of his mouth is curving into the smallest of smiles. Five’s hand comes slowly up to meet yours, his fingers enveloping yours splayed over his cheek. He breathes in, once, and the look in his eyes breathes with him. Then, the space between you is filled and your mind is narrowed down to two things: the overlapping of your fingers and lips.

He’s soft, and so so warm—almost feverish, but it just adds to the potency of every tiny movement. His mouth is both quiet and everywhere, filling up the backs of your closed eyes. You change the angle slightly, nosing his cheek as you reconnect your mouths with gentle hunger. He smiles softly, and you pull away a fraction to kiss at his dimple as it imprints itself on his cheek. His hands come up on either side of your head, softly combing through your hair before stilling at your jaw. He rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel his eyelashes brush against your cheeks as he kisses the bridge of your nose. His lips are lingering and filled with so much love it makes you want to cry.

“Thanks for patching me up,” he whispers, voice husky due to the quiet volume.

“If that’s what’s waiting for me every time you get hurt, I’d almost tell you to get in trouble more often,” you manage.

“We’ll see about that,” he says, and you straighten his unbuttoned collar before going in again. He moans this time, soft and low, and you smirk at his exhalation.

“That good, huh?” you quip. He grimaces, indicating where you’ve accidentally pressed on the bloody gauze. Giggling an apology, you reposition yourself so that your hands are around his strong, wiry arms.

“Guess I’ll have to take another look at that,” you say.

“If you must.”

And his eyes regain their roguish light.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Good evening! If you're still taking blurb requests, could we get #20 with Reader bandaging/stitching up Rex's wounds? Thank you! ❤

bandaging/stitching up an injury

A/N: Little reminder that I am not taking requests right now. This is just be clearing out my inbox and reducing my anxiety. Can be seen as the same reader from this fic.

Warning: Mentions of Blood

Word Count: 827

This was bad. This was really bad.

Rex fell to his knees, tearing off his helmet in an effort to gain air. He didn't dare look down. He knew exactly what he'd see. The last thing he needed was to pass out.

Jesse was yelling for a medic. Orders were being given. Vaguely he felt himself being laid down on his back and his armor being pulled away.

"I can't leave you alone for ten minutes, can I?"

Rex shook his head, his eyes coming back into focus to see you leaning over him.

Your hair was a mess. Dust covered your uniform and there was blood trailing down your cheek.

He focused in, on the blood realizing just how deep and fresh the cut was.

"You're hurt," he said. He moved to sit and and immediately regretted it. Burning hot pain shot down his torso. The next mistake he made was looking down.

Just as he suspected. A long metal shard metal protruded from his side. The end was still burning hot from the explosion.

Two hands pushed him back down. He didn't resist.

"Priorities, Captain," you said.

He let out a huff of air. He couldn't argue with you.

He was surprised how much it didn't hurt. There was a throbbing, certainly, but not real pain. If he was doing the math right, he had about an hour before he would really start to feel it.

"Jesse, hold his shoulders," you ordered.

A different pair of hands replaced your smaller, softer ones.

"There are better ways to get my attention, you know," you said, dryly.

If he hadn't lost so much blood, Rex imagined he'd be blushing.

"I don't do it on purpose," he grumbled.

"Could have fooled me."

Rex rolled his eyes. The process made he catch sight of blood, his blood. He felt dizzy again.

"Hey, hey, don't do that," you said, taking his chin in your hand and forcing him to look at you. "Eyes forward, captain."

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

He couldn't see what you were grabbing from your bag, before you were once again leaning over him.

"Captain, what's your favorite color?"

"Wha-- AH!"

Tearing pain shot threw him as he felt the shard be ripped from his body. He was suddenly grateful for his brother's hands being the one to hold him down. He would have thrown you off in a second.

He barely had time to recover as a different pain ignited around the wound. It wasn't ripping, but focused and hot.

He was not going to pass out. There was still a battle going on. He wouldn't be left helpless while you ran around a war zone armed with only a medic bag. He knew Jesse wouldn't let anything happen, but he couldn't take that chance. He just needed to stay awake.

A cooling sensation replaced the burning. Risking another look, he saw your hands covered in blood, pressing a bacta patch to his skin.

"Evac is on its way," you said. You then pulled off your bloody gloves before once again rummaging through your bag. "This will keep you stable until I can get you properly examined. In the meantime, I'm going to give you a mild sedative to deal with the pain. Trust me, you won't want to feel the flight out of here."

"Don't!" Rex snapped. The corners of his vision were already growing blurry. He wasn't sure if it was the pain or spite keeping him awake, either way he clung to it.

It was all for nought as he felt a small prick against his neck.

"You'll thank me later," you said. "Jesse, stay with him and make sure he gets to the evac ship."

You moved to leave. Panic struck him.

In a flash, he took hold of your wrist keeping you in place.

"Captain--"

"Stay," he said. "You--"

"Have a job to do," you said, bluntly. "There are more wounded here than just you."

Rex grimaced. You were right, as always.

"Take Jesse with you," he insisted. "I'll be fine."

"If I can say something, sir," Jesse said. "I think you need my help more."

Rex was ready to spit back something about "disobeying a superior officer", when you stepped in.

"Fives already has it covered."

He let out a huff of frustration. You really did have an answer for everything.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you leaned closer. Your face was now the only thing in focus; cuts, dirt and all. Maybe it was the sedative talking, but stars, you were something.

"Get some rest, Rex," you said, gently. "And when you wake up, I'll be right there. Promise."

He nodded. His vision was going as his eye lids became heavy.

He felt you squeeze his hand before you pulled away. And with you the last of his consciousness slipped away.

You would keep your promise. You always did.