#hes a snivelling coward sure

[hyperfixation-fix]

Flowers and chocolates and romantic mix tapes are cute I guess...

But who will deliver me my traitorous ex-best-friend, hog-tied with the word 'TRAITOR' carved into his chest?? Hm?? Who's going to do that for me??

[archerdepartures116]

Permission to use/add your idea of zhongliu for my fic that's already being made...? It's just...after seeing the zhongliu ship that you made, I just want to share my comfort ship with you: venqiu/venjiu! (So uh, sorry if this ends up more like me oversharing stuff–I know this is long, and it sounds more like a brainrot or whatever, but it just HAS to be shared, so please bear with me–)

I haven't gotten around with drawing them yet, but I think Venti and Shen Qingqiu/Shen Jiu would look cute together. (I do have a fic written already! It's most likely going to end up a oneshot, unless I find more motivation to make several more chapters.) Venti is used to interacting with people, and he's great at picking up on things, and comforting them! Like that one time he met the adventurer "Stanley". He's also great at music, which he could use to ease Shen Qingqiu, and they might even do an instrumental duo now and then. I also think that Shen Qingqiu would be at ease around him, because –

1.) Venti just gives off a feeling of being harmless

2.) While Venti's usually broke, and at times pathetic, he's not the Shang Qinghua type of "pathetic, suspicious, and a snivelling coward"

3.) Venti would not push for information if Shen Qingqiu doesn't want to share it, and shares his thoughts and feelings freely. (Unless it has something to do with Celestia and all those things.

4.) Venti will not be bothered by Shen Qingqiu’s attitude, would humour him but not treat him like a child. Would be understanding, and try to guide him to be better, while telling him to live however he wants, since he's now free.

5.) And if the chains of Shen Qingqiu’s past comes for him, Venti would willingly break said chains and free him, because people like Shen Qingqiu are not meant to be caged or tied down. (In reference to Venti freeing Vanessa from her chains, and freeing Mondstadt from the tyranny of the nobles.)

6.)Sure, Venti can be...a whirlwind of chaos and all, but he's really understanding, and won't poke Shen Qingqiu for information about things that he's not comfortable with telling the other. (Plus he most likely already knows about Shen Qingqiu’s past and all that, due to being well...god of wind and all. It would be a little funny if the Bai Zhan War God's lover,aka Zhongli, meets Venti and he finds out that the midget whom Zhongli finds annoying is Shen Qingqiu’s lover.)

[There's more, but this is it for now dhdhshs although...if uh, if it isn't too much, and you wanna try your hand at drawing them, I'd be honoured.]

Yeah ofc!

I can see the vision, I think the mix of cultures would be cool also and compared to the rest of the cast of characters, I think Venti is the best way for so to heal from his angst lol (everyone in svsss just isn’t that breath of fresh air for him methinks)

The harp and guzheng… what would that sound like haha

[latimeria-fell-from-heaven]

⌗︙・⚠︎ miguel o'hara unable to keep his desperation and urges at bay ⚠︎ ♡⸝⸝

Whenever a difficult and unsavory situation was to be presented before you, you would play dumb. With a confused expression on your face, and eyes filled with naivety like a lost puppy, you'd play dumb.

Not all the time of course, since this sort of act sometimes just wasn't enough to keep some situations from blowing up right in your face. Your feigned ignorance would be an acting catalyst for a much bigger problem, and it was only then that you'd drop the act and find a safe way to diffuse the issue before it coagulated into something worse. The number of times when you were just so aware—so hyper-aware of what could be yet another hot mess or a blessing in disguise—yet gave nothing but a sweet clueless smile, was countless.

The less you knew, the less you'd be hurt. Yeah, it's a terrible way of dealing with your problems, but you're self-aware enough to know that. It feels awful to act like a fool when you so badly want to say what's on your mind, to have to pent up your feelings and thoughts just because you don't want to ruin what you've worked so hard to build up. But you're a coward—a sniveling, pathetic little coward that can't even properly face their own problems like an adult—first and foremost, even if your cowardice provided but a temporary safety.

But by god, this strange little coping mechanism was probably the only thing that keeps you away from his touch, his twisted affections, and just everything about him. Miguel O'Hara is someone who is testing your ability, making it so hard to keep a calm face when all you want to do is fight your way out of his obsessive hold and run far away. His temper is far from pleasant, flaring red like hellfire and fangs bared as if he were ready to tear you to pieces, and it's clear he has the strength to do it if he so easily wanted to.

But he doesn't—he wouldn't—ever direct his animalistic anger at you, not physically. No matter how much you beg or try to bargain with him to please just let you go or try your hand at escaping his futuristically clean apartment, he never lets his physical prowess loose upon you, never raising a clawed hand to wrap around your fragile neck. No, the most he's ever done was grab onto your shoulders with a painful squeeze, voice raising more and more until you swear you felt a faint ringing in your ears. Upon seeing your pained expression, he loosened his grip but still didn’t release you. He coaxed you—forced you—into promising that you wouldn't try that again, his voice and face bordering on desperation as he sucks in deep breaths, cooling down his explosive temper.

It's not like you have much of a choice either. Especially when Miguel's affectionate touches and embraces become more intimate, dipping closer and closer into unwanted territory that leaves your heart racing. And not in a good way.

It's so hard to pretend, hard to play dumb when Miguel tries so hard to make his inconspicuous touches seem so innocent, so loving, as his hands draw close to areas he shouldn't even have permission to touch. When he forces you upon his lap, face buried in the side of your neck—you're even sure he inhales your scent—the feeling of something hot and stiff prodding at you from below is far from lost on you. It's a bit hard to be able to hold a conversation with what is essentially your kidnapper, whom you know retreats to the privacy of the bathroom to relieve himself when your supposed obliviousness becomes too much for him.

You know it's only a matter of time before Miguel's patience runs thin, and the touches that you always squirm away from will devolve and become even more obvious and more desperate. You know that Miguel is fighting every urge to just take you against whatever surface happens to be nearest, fighting the urge to leave your lower half numb until you could hardly walk anymore. You know that he wants nothing more than to fill you with him, your bodies clinging onto one another as you fill up and overwhelm each other's senses.

You're proven right when Miguel corners you against the wall, eyes red with carnal need and body so warm that it is more akin to flames about to burn uncontrollably. You're proven right when Miguel seizes you by the shoulders and hunches over to force his lips onto yours, swallowing up the sounds you make and using his strength to still you amidst all of your squirming. You're proven right when he begins to carry you to that disgustingly pristine bedroom of his, ignoring your attempts at escape while his touches and kisses begin to become more feverish and desperate.

Playing dumb did not make Miguel's pent-up desires magically go away. It only simply stalled the inevitable.

"Se siente muy bien—muy apretado.." Miguel pants above you as his hips buck against your skin, rendering you unable to bite back the warbled moans you'd been trying so hard to swallow down. He becomes excited upon hearing your cries, barely able to suppress himself from smothering his body against yours. But he seems to remember that he doesn't have to hold himself back anymore, doesn't have to keep his desire for you at bay.

The last words he whispers before pushing his lips to yours are, "Te amo tanto mi cariño." Miguel moans into your mouth, already drunk on your lips like the lovesick fool he is. Not even a few seconds pass before he's deepening the kiss, furiously invading and exploring every single last inch he could humanly reach. There is no room for oxygen—Miguel is barely even breathing in the kiss, too focused on feeling your lips upon his—and you struggle to take even the simplest of breaths. Even if you try to yank yourself away from the overwhelming kiss, Miguel would just find a way to meld his mouth to yours again.

Your arms are stuck together above your head—laser-red webbing holds them tight together and sturdily to the headboard—and no amount of struggling would do good in loosening your limbs. Miguel keeps your legs spread with his waist, leaving no room for you to kick him away or curl your legs up defensively. It also provides him with the perfect angle in with to animalistically pound into you, burying himself as deep as he can possibly can. When he pulls his hips back, he's quick to push his cock back inside, unwilling to leave your insides for even a second.

Miguel is too big, forcing your insides to accommodate his throbbing shaft as it stretched you far wider than you'd thought to be possible. Even if he had so lovingly spread you out, thick fingers rubbing against your velvet-soft walls, it still wasn't enough to prepare you when he pushed just the swollen tip past sensitive muscles. He tried his best to be gentle and patient, he really did, but the sight of your sniveling expression effortlessly tore his restraint into shreds. He couldn't bring himself to stop the rapid movements of his hips, unable to bite back his desperation to feel your fluttering walls around his thick shaft.

And now he's like a parasite, trying to worm his way into your body, desperate to feel your warmth around him. Relentlessly, he unravels your body bit by bit, not caring for the damage that he leaves behind. He only cares to carve himself into your very soul, merge himself with you until you and him are all but one.

You feel like you're going to die; you can hear your own heartbeat pounding violently inside your head, and your face feels like someone lit it on fire. You're sure that you look like an absolute mess. The worst part is, you can feel ebbs of pleasure eating away at your nerves, leaving you feeling utterly humiliated at how Miguel is forcing your body to so easily surrender to his touch and twisted love. This is the absolute worst.

A shriek escapes from your lips and into the kiss as Miguel drops nearly the entirety of his weight on your body, pushing his fat cock right up into a sensitive spot. On reflex you jerk your head away, breaking the kiss as you let out a broken moan. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you came. You orgasmed. Miguel made you come undone just like that. And you know that he knows. He moans and wheezes, hips moving like a jackhammer as the sudden tightening of your walls forces his own orgasm to come forth quicker.

"Te amo--teamoteamoteamoteamo—" Miguel chants it over and over, endlessly pouring out his love for you in the only way he can before he finally cums. He can feel the way your walls flutter and pulse as they milk him for his worth, and he can see how you snivel and whine from overstimulation. You truly have no idea as to how much you truly affect, how even the simplest action on your part sends his mind and heart into overdrive. You drive him crazy.

Exhausted—no, you know that he's using it as a cover just to shower you in postcoital affections—, he nuzzles himself into the base of your neck, pressing lazy kisses near where your pulse beats rapidly. You shudder against him, the sensations feeling like death clawing against your body, but you're too out of it to even try and push him away, so you're forced to lay there beneath him. He whispers sweet nothings, surely about his endless love for you, but you don't want to hear that. Anything but hearing him spout nonsense about his obsessive love for you.

"Otra vez," he murmurs against your skin, fangs just barely coming close to pressing down on your neck. His cock twitches back to life inside your overstimulated walls, ignoring the pleasurable pain of his own body trying to come down from its high just so he could fuck you senseless again. Miguel pulls away, to drink up the sight of his cariño once more beneath him, your form shivering so adorably—he can feel himself shiver from pure arousal alone. Miguel thinks that you're the most gorgeous person he's ever seen in his damn life.

"Let's go again mi amor."

© latimeriafellfromheaven

[whumpsday]

Catharsis #3: Unboxed

Masterlist

content: robot whumpee, whumpee turned whumper, defiant whumpee, violence, psychological whump

Whumpmas in July Day 9: Mind Games

i wanted to introduce each arc before continuing on with the present arc. i'll probably pop all over the place chronologically since that's how i write best!

here's 1's first day alive, though that wasn't his name at the time.

-

Cyrus opened his eyes for the very first time.

He was in a room in a house or apartment. It may have been his first moment of conscious thought, but he was not a human, and he was certainly not a baby. He was still in his box, he realized: he climbed out of it, brushing himself off, smoothing out the wrinkles in the disappointingly plain clothes he came dressed in. There was a man there, taking a step back. Probably the one who had turned him on.

The first strong opinion he ever had was that he was unequivocally better than the nervous man standing in front of him.

Luan, his mind supplied. His… owner’s name was Luan. He didn’t like that word, owner. It felt incongruous. Wrong. He wasn’t something to be owned, Cyrus knew that for sure. If anything, he should be the one doing the owning.

At the same time, he knew exactly what he was: a Catharsis Therapy Bot™. An expensive object to be bought and sold. A thing to act as programmed and be beaten until its owner felt better.

Cyrus frowned. That couldn’t be right at all. The only thing that felt right about any of that was that he was expensive.

“Cyrus?” Luan asked, apprehension evident in every twitch of his body. He winced immediately, like the name itself had hurt him. Pathetic.

Oh, there was no way this sniveling loser was his owner.

He found that his face moved automatically, parts shifting to match his expression to his intent as he looked on disapprovingly. “I’m better than you. This isn’t right.”

Luan’s eyes went wide for only a moment before he scowled right back. “You don’t like it when the shoe’s on the other foot, huh? Too fucking bad. You’re mine this time.”

Cyrus tried to search for what Luan meant, but he came up empty. Luan hadn’t supplied him with information on their history. On his history with… the other Cyrus.

But he didn’t need it. Luan was making it obvious enough for him to know exactly what to do and say, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So you were mine before. That makes sense, that’s where you belong.” Cyrus stepped forward and patted him on the cheek with a smirk.

Luan flinched. “Don’t touch me.”

“You’re in no place to tell me what to do.” Cyrus tried to poke him in the chest to make his point.

His arm did not move.

Again, he tried, and again, nothing. Experimentally, he lifted his arm without intent to touch Luan: no issue.

He wasn’t smirking anymore.

“Oh, I think I am.” Luan pushed him hard, sending him tumbling to the floor.

Cyrus fell just next to the box, the sensors inside his skin lighting up with pain wherever he made impact–it hurt. He was sturdy, he had to be, but heavy with metal that pinched his skin. He sucked in air he didn’t need by instinct, a useless humanlike reaction he immediately found annoying, just to tint it a little worse.

Something was bubbling up inside him, and he did not like it.

“You do not fucking touch me!” he screamed, his voice shrill out of the speaker down his throat as he pushed himself back to his feet. “How dare you!? You pathetic coward! You don’t deserve to own something– someone like me, let alone… push me! You are beneath me. You are fucking nothing. You–”

Luan’s fist cracked against his cheek. He didn’t go down this time, only stumbled, but it hurt worse than the fall. He didn’t think anything could hurt worse than that. He hadn’t felt anything before. His hands went to protect his aching cheek, the words almost knocked out of him with the shock of it, but he found his place again soon enough. “You–”

“Shut up.”

Cyrus’s volume dropped straight to zero, and he found that he no longer possessed the ability to raise it.

That thing bubbling up in him only intensified, and this time it came with a pathetic urge to back away and submit. Obviously, something he would never indulge.

He glared at Luan with what he hoped was enough pointed hate to make himself clear without words.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore!” Luan hissed, rubbing his knuckles. “You’re not in charge this time! You’re the one who has to listen to what I say! You’re the one who has to take it!”

He pushed Cyrus again, harder. He fell like a stone, tripping over his box this time. He was almost glad his voice was cut, because otherwise, he would have cried out, another annoying reflex programmed to make him seem more human. Weaker, more pitiful. It was infuriating.

Water began leaking from his eyes, blurring his lenses. No, no, this wasn’t who he was. He was supposed to be the powerful one.

Luan stared at his own hands like an easily-impressed child. With every moment, Cyrus only hated him more.

He started to push himself up again, but all Luan had to say was “Stay down,” and Cyrus couldn’t do that anymore, either.

Luan grabbed him by the shirt collar. “And I don’t have to take your shit ever again. What do you have to say for yourself? Speak.”

Not only could Cyrus speak now, he couldn’t remain silent if he tried. “I hate you.”

Luan laughed, dry and joyless. “Good. Feeling’s mutual.” He let go. “You know what you’re for, right?”

“I…” Of course he knew. “Something’s wrong.”

“This is the first time it’s ever been right!” Luan corrected. His hands were shaking. Water leaked from his eyes too, Cyrus realized.

“You’re scared of me,” he put together. “You’re scared of a robot you ordered! Ha! At least some part of you knows your place.”

“Shut up!” Just as he stole Cyrus’s voice away again, Luan landed a kick in his abdomen. It was worse than the punch, a sharp sensation hitting him hard, and just like last time, he didn’t realize anything could be worse.

The terror bubbling up in him couldn’t be denied anymore. How much worse could it get? He’d only been alive for five minutes and it was already this bad.

“You know what?” Luan cut in. “This really is cathartic.”

taglist:

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@starfields08000

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event: @whumpmasinjuly

[shaisuki]

hiii!! I hope you’re still doing the bullies! miya twins and suna :)

But i was wondering if Kita knows about the trio bullying manager chubby! reader? If not, what will happen if Kita finds out about the bullying? I really wanna see the devilish trio get scolded the shit out of them by their so called ‘Mr. Perfect’ captain…

Though, If you’re not really interested in my request, I don’t mind at all!! It’s your choice after all :)!! Take care of yourself Shai hehe<33

- ☆ anon

absolutely. kita knows all the stuff happening inside and out of the volleyball team including the members. just because he didn't speak and tight-lipped about it doesn't mean he'll turn a blind eye about.

trouble follows the twins since they first stepped in the gym and suna is also a trouble that got swept up with the trio and it worsens since you arrived as the manager.

starting as the teasings. what deemed as a harmless comment regarding to your body and the pranks they usually put you on. intervention should have been summoned but the others were too much of a coward or finding it to be useless since it was the three and those three were stubborn as fuck and kita decided is enough is enough when he sees you tearing up while mopping the floors after practice.

kita didn't offer you any words nor actions of comfort. he only look at your snivelling form and a determination to stop the harassment once and for all without it showing to everyone's faces.

they may have rejoiced too long about what they were doing. it didn't matter cause no one said anything especially their captain's. they should have know cause kita's gaze at them is unforgiving without a trace in those gray irises of his. there's no way they are going to leave the locker rooms unscathed.

atsumu gulps. sweat dripping and rolling from his head to his nape. a cold shiver straight down in his spine. osamu's bothered by the silence covering the whole room. best to describe as calm before the storm and suna's not doing good.

“it's not my position....” kita begins and there was it. this is the day they won't forget about kita shinsuke. his voice were monotone but it sure did it's number to leave some soul crushing damage on them. “the team values you as you three are needed for it's victory. it doesn't mean you'll go such lengths such as harassment to our manager. she's just as important as you three.” so it was all about you. they know you didn't open your mouth to kita since well their captain was known to observe every single little detail of everyone. a god's gift it was. ”respect her like how you wanted to respect yourself and it won't be bad if you three will act like your own age. childish actions are not needed for this team to thrive. if you want to act as one do it anywhere except for the court.” that's what their captain said before leaving. kita sure did know where to hit and they were able to follow his words.

after that they didn't bother you unless it was important. it stayed like that until their captain, kita shinsuke graduated.

[lunarriviera]

the agent starling theory of fanworks: a meta

Hi hey hello, I am here to yell at you once more about random nonsense. This time I shall babble about something I came up with in my first year of extremely online fandom which has been useful to me as I think on these things. Perhaps it will be amusing/useful to you as well. Here we go: the Agent Starling Theory of Fanworks.

To begin with, let's consider a particularly egregious example: She Who Shall Not Be Named. You know, that super obnoxious person who (allegedly) came up with Draco Malfoy. Well, good job, Person! Thanks for that, I guess. However. Did Person ever understand Draco Malfoy? Has Person ever known what Draco Malfoys are for? Arguably no. Otherwise they would not have cut the scene where Draco throws his wand to Harry. Otherwise we might have seen, I don’t know, say, Draco dancing with Hermione at the Yule Ball, for instance. Otherwise Draco might have, at some point, even if just for a single shot, been shown as something besides a bully and sniveling coward and daddy's boy who would sell his own mother for a chocolate humbug. Of course, Draco was all of those things; but that is not all he was. (And Tom Felton did try. Lord knows he tried.)

The point here is not, how do you feel about Draco Malfoy, or even She Who Must Not Be Named. The point is, how do I know with such certainty that she got Draco so very wrong? Easy: because there are approximately eleventy gabillion fanworks addressing this failure.

Enter, then, Clarice Starling. The version important to our fannish situation is from Jonathan Demme’s Silence of the Lambs (1991), in which Starling is played by a luminous young Jodie Foster. Starling is still a Quantico trainee, not even an FBI agent yet, but for reasons known only to her boss Jack Crawford (cough*she's hot*cough) he has decided to involve her in an extremely high-profile case.

In this scene, Starling and an ME need to do an autopsy, but the useless local cops who found the body will not stop hanging uselessly around, talking and drinking coffee and being extremely, as I may have already mentioned, useless. Remember that Starling is still basically a college student, and watch how she handles the situation.

Starling’s speech: Excuse me, gentlemen. You officers and gentlemen, listen here now. There's things we need to do for her. I know that y'all brought her this far and her folks would thank you if they could, for your kindness and your sensitivity. But now please go on now and let us take care of her. Go on now. Thank you.

Part of the whole point of Agent Starling is that she's from a rural working-class southern background, so she knows exactly how to handle these hopeless confused nosy yokels, and shoo them out of the way so the rest of them can get down to work. But in addition to her humble background, and her relative youth and inexperience, she’s also brilliant, and she will in the end be the only law enforcement officer who can crack this case wide open and clear it.

Pretty sure you see exactly where I am going with this. So here we are standing here, the fan creators, and we're basically saying: Thank you. Thank you for bringing the character this far. We appreciate that. But now, you can go. Let us handle it from here. We got this. No, really—we do. Your part is done. You did that. And now this character is safe in our capable hands. Let us take care of them. Y’all go on home, now. Go on.

I’m additionally delighted by the fact that, in the film, they’re about to do a postmortem. Because isn’t that what we need everyone out of the way to do? To anatomize a character; figure out what happened to them, what made them be the way they are, what makes them tick. We have to do a forensic examination and frankly whoever initially had their hands all over this character is not the one for the job. We don’t ask parents to do surgery on their children, and that isn’t even a good analogy (so I will give you a better one).

Because it’s also funny to me when people get mad about their characters being “taken.” I’m sorry, are you new here? Do you understand how art works? Did you actually think it was yours? Because that’s kind of adorable. First of all, there exists a mighty rushing current of culture down into which, if you are very lucky, you get to dip your little bucket. It’s like a torrential stream roaring past at very high speeds, and if you are even luckier, you draw up your bucket and there’s something good in it. Something cold and clear and crystalline and thirst-quenching and life-giving. But it’s not yours. It doesn’t belong to you. You just happened to be the one at that particular moment who was holding the goddamn bucket.

Furthermore, can you imagine the heady joy of having met and introduced to the world a character who is so beloved that other people want to make art about them? Absolutely sick. Literally insane for that. Couldn’t be me. Etc. Show me a person who’s hincty and gripped and neurotic about their character being “taken away from them” and I will show you a person with severe attachment issues. Go write about Gilgamesh or Grendel’s mom or Hikaru Genji or Hamlet, if you’re that worried about “your character” being “taken away from” you. They’re right there for you to use instead.

So! That is the Agent Starling Theory of Fanworks. Now go forth and write eleventy million fanworks about your character. They’re your character, now. You know them better than anyone else alive. And don’t let anyone, not even a copyright holder, ever try to tell you otherwise.

[cursedreverie1945]

It's weird. Himmler has always disgusted me. Outside of the whole nazi thing, not sure why. I have wondered what the fuck is wrong with him, again outside of the nazi thing.

Since we have terminology that wasn't used "back in the day". I am curious to if he was possibly asexual but tried to hide it. In the documentary The Decent One, he had written in a diary/journal that people didn't like him. I can see that. He came across as not being very likable. Mind you, this is also my 21st century brain saying so.

In some ways, I think he tried too hard. He had to be the best at being the worst, very similar to Heydrich. There are quite a few photographs of him playing sports, something he reportedly wasn't very good at. Not everyone is a sportsman, genetics and interests at play with that. Yet, in a society that so heavily emphasized looks, the ideal being a tall blue eyed blond man with muscles, he certainly lacked that appearance.

In a man like that, it is easy to see why he would hate to such a degree as he did. It gave him the idea that he was superior in some form. We're talking the very basics of psychology here.

You can see that in most anyone that hates a group of people for their mere existence. Which is one of the reasons why I laugh at the whole idea of "white pride" and want to hit them in the head with a book about genetics and not eugenics.

It doesn't really matter in the long run, he proved himself to be a sniveling little coward when he tried to save his own skin by trying to broker a peace agreement and then committing suicide.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Renegade

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: A rough night lands Matt on your doorstep, bleeding and overstimulated. It’s your job to remind him of his strengths and bring him back from the brink of despair. 

warnings: swearing, Matt’s depression, slight violence

a/n: This fic takes place in the Wake Up verse, but you do not need to have read all of that series for this one to make sense. @babygrlmurdock requested that I write a fic based on Taylor Swift’s Renegade so here is that! SO sorry for how long this took me, dear. I’ve had it written for over a month but I was waiting until Wake Up was all posted. I hope you like it!!

w/c: 2.8k

He’s not quite sure what triggered the fight or flight response, nor the spiral of doubt that followed. Maybe it was the stress of a week of cases with impenetrable prosecutors. Or maybe the way that the old man he’d nearly failed to save from a robbery gone wrong had used the same soap that Stick once used. Regardless, Matt was currently drowning in a series of flashbacks from his childhood. 

The rough voice of his old mentor pierced his ears, even though he was alone as he hurdled from roof to roof towards his apartment. You coward. You sniveling weakling. Get back out there and fight like a man. 

His breathing was rapid and his heart felt like it was going to fall out of his rib cage at any moment. Willing his brain to shut Stick up, he vaulted to the next building. 

Apparently this was not what Stick’s ghost wanted him to do. Quit your fucking whining and turn around, kid. Or are you too fucking soft to fight bumbling idiots now? Worthless sack of shit. 

As illogical as it would seem in the future, Matt could feel Stick gaining on him. Tears were pouring down his face as he begged the vision to leave him alone. 

A cruel laugh rang in his mind. I see the Devil still can’t handle the truth. Isn’t justice all about people taking accountability, Matty? Are you so useless that you can’t even own up to your stupid mistakes?

Feeling a withered hand on his wrist, his steps faltered and he careened into a gravel pit on the roof before him. Scrambling away from the intangible figure, he screamed. “NO! No, get away. Get away, Stick!” His back collided with concrete as he reached the perimeter of the surface he’d crash landed on. Fists clenching painfully, his head darted around wildly as he tried to find any sign of the man. 

The same mirthless laugh sounded again, booming like a pistol at an execution. Away from what, Matty? I’m part of you now. Your crazy ass will never be rid of me. 

Hobbling to his feet, Matt took a breath and tried to regain any sense of direction, hurling his wobbly body towards his apartment once again. 

His knees finally gave out when he reached the roof of his building. Stupid. Worthless. Crazy. Useless. The expanding list of insults circled his frazzled mind, adding to his frenzy. Scurrying inside and down the stairs, he ripped his face free of his mask. Panting, he sank back to the floor, trying to calm down. Yanking off his gloves and beginning to undo the suit, he was taunted once again. 

You think a pansy like you will be able to save the people you claim to love? You couldn’t save your father. You couldn’t save Elektra. And, when the day comes, you won’t save her. 

“Shut UP!” Matt roared, hurling his billy club in the direction of the voice. Glass shattered in the distance. Pressing his palms to the floor, he rested his head on the wood and tried to force the new wave of thoughts out of his mind—this time focused on the inevitability of your lifeless body in his arms. Fumbling with the suit's pockets, he grasped his burner phone for dear life. Shaking hands finding the buttons he needed, he held his breath as the phone rang once, twice. 

After four rings, when his heart was seconds from breaking, you answered. 

“Hey darling, you ok?” Your voice was hoarse with sleep and he cringed as he realized he’d woken you up at some sinful hour. Useless. You won’t save her. 

“Love?” You tried again, hesitant to use his real name when you had no idea who was on the other line. 

“Yah. I-I’m fine.” Matt stifled a sob poorly. “So—Sorry to wake you.” 

“That’s alright, baby. You can wake me whenever you need to, remember?” A brief memory of you consenting to his late night requests for medical help flashed through his mind at your prompting. “Where are you? Are you hurt?” 

“Not hurt. ‘M at home.” He answered shakily. “Need you, please.” 

“O-ok! Yep, I am coming right now. Give me a minute to get there, I have to get a cab—“ You thought aloud, but Matt interrupted you. 

“NO! No. It’s late. It’s not safe. I’ll come to you.” He cursed his lack of consideration for your safety. You won’t save her. Stupid. 

“Are you sure, love? It’s not a problem!” He could hear your growing concern and it filled his eyes with tears again. 

“I’m sure. Is that ok?” 

“Of course that’s ok. Always, my darling. Did you want me to stay on the phone with you?” He sobbed as you parroted the question he always asked you when you called him. 

“No. I’ll be there—be there soon.” He managed. 

“Ok, love. Get here safe, please.” 

After what felt like hours, a soft tapping on your window alerted you to your boyfriend’s whereabouts. 

Rushing to help him through the small frame, Matt collapsed into your arms, not exactly giving you the relief you’d optimistically hoped for. But, he was alive. 

“Hey, hey, I gotcha. You’re safe now, my love. Where are you hurt?” 

Matt gave a pitiful shake of his head. 

“You’re—you’re not hurt?” Your question was laced with your genuine confusion. 

Matt shook his head again, tears pooling in his haunted eyes. 

“Ok, well…let’s get you cleaned up and into comfier clothes.” You glanced at Matt’s rumpled Devil suit. He’d removed pieces but hadn’t changed out of it, apparently. 

Maneuvering the vigilante into your bathroom, you frowned at him. “Shower?” You asked, but Matt whimpered so you quickly pivoted. “Ok love, no shower. That’s alright.” 

Thinking for a moment, you gently set him down on the lid of the toilet and started the tap. Grabbing the softest cloth you could find, you soaked it in scalding water. Letting it cool for a moment, you began unclasping the body portion of his suit. Slipping the tight fabric off of his torso, you inspected the damage before getting to work. 

Swiping the cloth as tenderly as you could across his skin, you started by cleaning his face. Streaks of dirt, sweat, and blood mingled on his porcelain skin, but they quickly vanished under your touch. 

“If it’s too hot, or you want to stop, just give me a shove or something, ok?” You’d never seen Matt in such a state of distress and you wanted him to retain his power of choice as much as possible. 

Moving down his pummeled body, you carefully cleaned his neck and torso. Gently turning him to clean his back, you bit back a gasp, only just now registering the scrapes and bruises along his side. It almost looked like road rash. What did you get yourself into, darling?

Taking extra caution to not aggravate the injured space, you cleaned every inch of skin currently exposed to you. 

“Ok. The top half of you is clean. I’m going to treat the scrapes on your side then we can finish washing up. That ok?” You waited for his small nod before grabbing the neosporin from the first aid kit. 

Once Matt was cleaned and his wounds were treated, you guided him to your bedroom where you provided him with a set of fresh clothes that he’d purposefully left there. Sliding the sleeves of the sweatshirt over his trembling fists, you let out a breath. 

“All done, my darling. Did you want to get into bed?” 

Matt nodded and you obediently began to tuck him in, sliding in next to him once he was settled. Stiffly, he repositioned himself so that he was laying across your chest, one ear over your heart. Finally, he gave a sigh, going limp across your torso. 

“There’s my sweet boy.” You murmured, scratching at his scalp in the way he adored. “It’s just us. We’re both safe.” 

The two of you were wrapped in silence for a bit before Matt’s demons reared their ugly heads once more. 

Coward. Weakling. Fuck up. Matt whined, burrowing his face into your chest as fresh tears cascaded down his cheeks. 

“Hey, what happened, Matty? Where does it hurt? What’s wrong?” Your hand stilled against his head and he felt the tears come faster. Grasping the hand in his hair, he begged.  

“Please don’t stop.” 

Immediately, you began running your fingers through his fluffy hair again. “Ok love. I won’t stop. What hurts?” 

“Head. Too loud.” 

“I’m being too loud?” Your voice softened before he could respond. 

Shaking his head, he took a stuttering breath. “My thoughts. Too loud.” 

It was starting to click for you. Matt had offhandedly mentioned that this could happen after his nighttime activities. Sometimes, he bottled up so much that it all came pouring out unexpectedly and overwhelmed him. You weren’t a stranger to the feeling, so you offered a way forward. 

“I’m sorry they’re too loud, my love. Would you like to tell me what they’re saying?” 

Matt shook his head miserably. “Can you—“ He stuttered, taking a deep breath before attempting to finish the thought. “Do you remember when we talked about me not being enough?” 

You hummed in affirmation, waiting for him to continue. 

“Can you…can you tell me again? That I’m…good?” 

“Oh Matty, of course I can!” Your own eyes threatened to well up at his impossibly quiet request. Your poor boy was suffering so intensely and all he had needed was a few kind words? 

You tugged him upwards just a touch so that he could bury his face in your neck. He’d told you once that feeling you talk while being wrapped in your scent was comforting. You were hoping that would be the case tonight. 

“You are good, my beloved Matthew Michael Murdock. So so good. You amaze me every single day. You are so compassionate and you save lives every single day. Not just as the Devil, but as Matt Murdock the phenomenal defense attorney too.” You poked his chest and he nuzzled further into your neck, sniffling still. 

“And you’re smart. The smartest person I’ve ever known, truly. The ways that you craft arguments and problem solve are unmatched. Like, a few weeks ago when you won that manslaughter case by showing that the woman had CPTSD. That was fucking incredible, darling, and you spared her children from losing their mother. Your intelligence is life changing, my love.” 

Matt’s tears had slowed, but you could still feel his shaky breathing against your throat. You pressed a kiss to the bridge of his nose before continuing. 

“You are so brave. In and out of the suit, honey. The number of times you’ve put yourself at risk to better the city is innumerable. You’ve faced threats that even the Avengers refused to take on. You’re a hero, Matt. A fantastic one.” Shifting so that you were face to face, you pressed your forehead to his. 

“You are good and sweet and smart and brave and also the best boyfriend a girl could ever ask for. I’ve never met someone who loves so passionately. You make me feel like I’m a priority and your devotion is inspiring, love. I know you worry about splitting your time between me and your firm and the city but I promise you’re the best partner I’ve ever had. I love you so much, darling.” 

Matt was trembling in your arms, fighting back more sobs. You pulled him impossibly closer, placing gentle kisses on his cheeks, jaw, and forehead. “I love you, Matthew Murdock. You are magnificent and I will tell you over and over until you believe it.” 

“Thank you.” Matt murmured against your neck as he nestled into your embrace. “I’m sorry, I—“

You pressed a gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth to interrupt his self-loathing. “No need to thank me or apologize, my love. I’m here for you, good days and bad.” 

Wrapped in your embrace, Matt felt the ghosts of his past failures dissipate. He let his tired eyes fall closed as you massaged his scalp, swallowing to ease the pain in his dry throat. You shifted underneath him and he moaned subconsciously, tightening his grip on your waist. Chuckling beneath him, you brushed a hand over the hair on his forehead. 

“I know you want to be glued to my side until we both pass out, but you need water and painkillers. And, given what I know about your nightly routine, probably a snack?” Your reasonable tone did nothing to appease the Matt-shaped octopus latched onto you, who growled and held you closer. 

“You’re a cute little devil, you know that? Did you want to stay here or come with me to the kitchen?” In lieu of a response, Matt shifted so that his leg was hooked over your hips, smiling at the resulting jolt of arousal from you. “Matthew, you know I adore this weighted blanket position, but you need water. At the bare fucking minimum. Drink a glass or two for me and I’ll let you cuddle me for hours.” With another low growl, Matt rolled off of you, giving you the opportunity to slide off of the bed. Taking his hand, you carefully pulled him to the kitchen. 

Filling a glass with cool water you handed him a couple of painkillers and narrowed your eyes, “Drink all of that, please. I see your stage sips, you goon.” Matt’s lips quirked up and he dutifully switched to actually drinking the water. 

Winding yourself around his waist, you nuzzled into his cheek with a quick kiss. “Thank you. Are you hungry at all?” Matt pondered for a moment before giving a shrug so you handed him a granola bar, taking the now empty glass from him. With your arm still hooked around his waist, you drew soft patterns on his hip while he ate. Gracefully tossing the wrapper into the trash, Matt pulled you into an unyielding embrace. 

“I love you.” He whispered into your hair. You squeezed your arms around his waist. 

“I love you too. Now let’s get some sleep or I’ll be unbearable tomorrow.” Matt huffed a laugh and clasped your hand firmly as you padded back into the bedroom. 

Drawing in a breath, Matt shuddered awake as the lack of your warmth finally became too much for his subconscious to bear. Whining involuntarily, he let his eyelids slide open as he searched for your presence. Thankfully, it didn’t take more than a moment for him to realize that you were in the kitchen. Your steady heartbeat was surrounded by the soft scraping of a whisk and the smell of brown sugar. 

Scrubbing at his irritated eyes, he sighed, debating his next move. While he always craved your touch, he really was not ready to start his day yet. As if you had his superhuman senses, you set down whatever you were cooking in the kitchen and retreated to the sanctuary of his room. He heard your breath hitch as your eyes landed on him and it squeezed his heart in a way he was not overly familiar with. 

“Mornin’ sleepyhead. Feeling ok?” Your voice was soft as you sat on the mattress inches from his hip. Hand sliding into his hair, you leaned back onto the pillows gazing at his pretty face. 

Submitting to your hair petting happily, Matt made a noise akin to a purr. Giggling, you pressed closer, kneading at his scalp with a bit more vigor. “Mmm feeling fine, I guess.” His voice was rough from his breakdown the night before, forcing him to clear his throat before continuing. “Head hurts a bit.” 

Clucking in sympathetic disapproval, you lessened the pressure you were applying to his crown. “I’ll grab you some water and Advil. I was about to make some pancakes, would you like a plate?” Matt nodded, burying himself in your chest and placing sweet kisses along your collarbone. 

“If I have time. I should probably get dressed. I’m guessing it’s about time for us to leave?” 

Pressing a kiss to his temple, you shifted uneasily. “About that…I may have called Foggy and asked if you could have a day off? Before you get upset, I told him that I had a bad week and wanted you to stay with me today.” 

Matt felt the pressure in his chest lift and he smiled. “I’m not upset, sweetness. Do you have the day off too?” 

You nodded against his hair, heart still jogging with anxiety about his reaction. Matt shifted so that his forehead could fall against yours. Pressing a kiss to your nose, he cupped your cheek with his hand. “Thank you, angel. I’d be honored to spend the day with you. Since you need me so much.” He pinched your side and you squealed. 

The rest of the morning flowed by slowly, complete with stacks of incredible pancakes and syrupy kisses. Matt’s intrusive thought had quieted, for now, replaced with your beautiful laugh and steady pulse. 

[tuiccim]

Though I Have Never Read It (Part 8)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2932

Warnings: Angst, fluff, illness.

A/N: Special thanks to my hype princess & beta reader @whisperlullaby.

Though I Have Never Read It Masterlist

You had slept wretchedly but still dragged yourself out of bed to go to the farmer's market. It was a sunny Saturday that made your head ache as you moved into the common room with all its windows. You go to grab a coffee and turn the corner into the kitchen to see Wanda making herself some tea.

"Hey," you say, "did you want to go to the market?"

"Oh, not this morning," Wanda says in a raspy voice, "I'm not feeling very well."

"Oh, no! I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"Would you mind if I used some of your honey?"

"Yeah. Here, let me get it for you," you rush to the cabinet as if she might expire if you don't get it to her quickly enough. 

"You're so sweet," Wanda smiles wanly.

"Get some rest, okay?" You urge.

"I will. Have fun at the market," Wanda adds the honey to her tea and gives a small wave as she heads back to her room.  

You make yourself a cup of coffee and then go to the elevator to head down. Pressing the button, you get lost in thought about the talk with Bucky the night before. Your heart had wrenched when you realized he thought he had hurt you. His face had betrayed his fear and regret and all you had wanted to do was console him. You had pulled him close, partly to show him you had no fear of him, but mostly to be sure he heard and understood each word you spoke. His face had softened as you spoke and the look in his eyes had made your heart cry out for him. The tension as you’d stared into him was intense. You had wanted to pull him to you, you’d wanted to relive that night with him in your arms, but then your stomach had clenched at the emotions running through you and he gave you the perfect out to break away. Your fear of your own emotions, of trusting yourself to really care for someone, had forced you to hold him at arm’s length. 

The elevator ding and the swoosh of the doors opening broke you out of your musings. Looking up, you come face to face with Bucky. 

“Hey doll. What are you up to?”

"Oh, hey, hi. I was, um, heading to the farmer's market at the park. You?" You join him in the elevator.

"Nothing. I'd love to see the farmer's market. I've never been."

You quirk an eyebrow at him after you glance at the panel, "Is that why the button for the gym floor is lit up?"

"Um, yeah," Bucky says, sheepishly, "but the market sounds like more fun."

You laugh at his adorable expression. He really is so sweet. You wonder if your fears about him are irrational. You just don't want him to see you as the coward he found sniveling in that cabin and truthfully, you were scared of yourself at times. The truth was you had embraced Zeke’s attention. In the beginning, he had made you feel safe and cared for. It wasn’t until later that you realized how much of your freedom you had given up willingly. It had happened so slowly, so gradually, that you hadn't realized how you had let Zeke become the center of your world. If it hadn’t been for your friends, especially your best friend, you may have still been under his thumb. Even so, it had taken him saying he owned you to wake you out of the trance you had been walking in. Then you had hidden yourself away in the middle of nowhere and cowered, waiting for him to find you and drag you back. It wasn’t until Bucky showed up at the cabin that you had actually taken some control of your life. That night you had shed some of the weight of the past and found it in yourself to go back and fight. Bucky had, in some ways, saved you from yourself. He sees you as a kind stranger who had hidden herself away from the world but you want him to see you for who you are now. A survivor, intelligent, fierce, …but most of all, real. Not a dream or a hazy memory from one night. Maybe you should give him the chance. 

"I really enjoy it. It's kind of a Saturday morning tradition for me. Eva loves going when I have her. I’ve even gotten Wanda to go with me. Well, really it was Eva who got her to go.”

“That sounds like Eva,” Bucky chuckles. 

You laugh with him, “She certainly isn’t shy.”

“Are you looking for anything specific at the market?”

“Just whatever catches my eye. Usually I get some vegetables to make meals for the week,” you exit the elevator and head to the front door. 

“You’re a good cook. Steve and I haven’t stopped talking about the sausage and cabbage you made,” Bucky grins. 

You scoff lightly, “I’m decent at cooking, but thank you, I’m glad you liked it. I’ll have to make it again soon.”

“That would be really nice,” Bucky smiles at you. 

Something about the way he looks at you makes butterflies burst to life in your stomach. You smile back and duck your head before he can see your emotions written on your face. The market was buzzing with patrons as you showed Bucky around. It was nice spending time with him. Over the next week, you found yourselves together more and more often. He was easy to talk to, funny, and smart. When the next Saturday rolled around, he joined you, Eva, a fully recovered Wanda, and Natasha, who had heard about the market during dinner one night, for the trip. By the next Saturday, Steve and Sam had decided to join the group for the outing. It was almost jovial and you had really begun to feel like, not only a vital part of the team, but a part of this group of friends. It was wonderful.

You didn’t know if it was because of the reluctance you had shown previously or if he harbored some of the same fears you had held, but Bucky had kept his physical distance. A friendship had grown but he never attempted anything romantic or made any overtures. You were relieved, most of the time, but there were times you would glance in his eyes or watch his mouth that you found yourself feeling a yearning that he would. You had considered that perhaps he had decided friendship was all that he wanted but that thought wasn’t without a bite of dissapointment. 

Truthfully, the more you got to know the man, the more you were falling for him. Not the fantasy of the man in the cabin, but the reality of the man in front of you. You were comfortable with him in ways you’d never been with anyone else. At least, not since your best friend had passed. The realization prompted you to find a way to let him know that while also hoping you could discern if he felt the same. 

That Sunday night, Bucky knocked on your door to return a book he had borrowed and you two were talking as you put it on its shelf. Grabbing the next book he had mentioned he wanted to read, you turn back to see a soft smile spread across his face. 

“What?” You ask as he continues to look at you with a sweet expression. 

“Nothing,” Bucky says. 

You narrow your eyes at him and smirk, “Whaaaaaat?”

“Really, it’s nothing. Just…” Bucky trails off. 

“Just what?” You prompt. 

“I didn’t even have to ask you for the book. You just knew,” Bucky shrugs sheepishly. 

“Yeah, it’s this crazy thing called listening when people talk. You said last week you wanted to read this,” you smile. 

“But you remembered,” Bucky says softly. 

“Yeah,” you shrug, trying to hide your emotions. You felt like crying for some reason. 

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers. 

“Actually, I… I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” Bucky asks. 

“For building this friendship with me. For getting to know me. The real me. The person I am now, not the person you met years ago in that cabin. I was… I was worried that you would only ever see me as that scared woman and I appreciate that you’ve gotten to know the real me,” you look him in the eyes, trying to gauge his response. 

Slowly, a smile spread across Bucky’s face. “I did, too. I mean, I wanted us to get to know each other, who we are now. I appreciate that you finally opened up to me, that we became friends before…” Bucky trails off and looks away as if embarrassed. 

Your heart was racing and your voice trembled as you prompted him, “Before?” 

Bucky looks deep into your eyes before exhaling a long breath, “Before I-”

Your cellphone rings, making you jump. Glancing at your phone, you see Mark’s name on the screen. Since Mark returned from his trip, he had been calling more often. You chalked it up to him being sad about his relationship ending and needing a friend. The day after the dinner he checked in with you about your chat with Bucky, since then he called at least every other day when before it was once or twice a week. It concerned you though, that he was calling you for a second time today and knowing that Eva wasn’t feeling well, you know you can't ignore the call. You glance up at Bucky, “I’m sorry. I need to take this. Eva’s sick. She might need something.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky takes a few steps back to allow you space. 

“Hey Ma-”

“She had a seizure,” the frantic voice coming through the phone wasn’t like Mark at all. 

“What?” You cry.

“Eva had a seizure. I didn’t want to wait for an ambulance. I’m taking her to the hospital now.”

“I’m on my way. What happened?” you asked, grabbing your things. 

“She kept saying her head hurt and she was running a fever. I gave her tylenol but the fever wasn’t going down. She just started seizing. I don’t know, I don’t know,” Mark’s voice breaks when you hear him speaking to Eva. “Hang on, Evey, hang on. We’re almost there. Daddy’s got you.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” you say. 

“We’re here. I’ll call you back,” Mark hangs up. 

“Shit, shit!” You scramble to find your keys while tears gather in your eyes. 

“What’s the matter?” Bucky asks, shocking you out of your panic for a second. 

“Eva’s sick. Had a seizure. I’ve gotta go,” you stammer, running to the door. 

“Hey, hey. Let me take you. You’re in no state to drive,” Bucky says as he jogs alongside you. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you shake your head. 

“I know but I’m offering. We can take my motorcycle. It’ll be faster to get through the city,” Bucky says convincingly. 

“Okay, okay,” you follow him downstairs.

“Let’s take this one. It’s fastest,” Bucky leads you to the Kawasaki H2R, passing up his Harley. 

He was right. The motorcycle speed was insane as he careened through the streets of New York but you never felt a modicum of fear. Whether it was the adrenaline running through your veins demanding you get to Eva or your utter trust in Bucky, you never even flinched as he pulled stunts that most would consider reckless but you knew the supersoldier was more than capable. You arrived at the hospital in record time. 

Jumping off the bike, you turn back to Bucky, “Thank you. I’ll let you know something as soon as I do.”

“I can wait,” Bucky reassures you. 

“No, I’ll be fine. Thank you again, Bucky,” you turn and run into the facility. With the tracking app on your phone, you were able to find Mark quickly. He was sitting in a room with an unconscious Eva laying on the bed. She looked so much smaller than her six years with an oxygen mask covering her face and all the medical equipment crowded around the bed. Your gut clenched seeing your baby girl like that. Your voice breaks as you say her name and Mark is up, wrapping you in a hug. 

“She’s okay. She’s gonna be okay. She has to be, right?” He whispers. 

“Have they said anything?” 

“They think it was just a febrile seizure but they are running a bunch of tests. She fell asleep as soon as the room quieted down.”

“Okay, okay. That’s good. Did anything else happen today?” You ask. 

“No. She complained of a headache a lot, like I told you. After a while, I took her temp, it was 101.5. I gave her some medicine to help. She went to bed, woke up crying and yelling for me. I went into the room, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she started seizing. I turned her over, waited for it to end and then grabbed her and ran to the car. You know how it is here. Sometimes it's just faster to get in the car than it is to call an ambulance.”

“You did your best. She’s gonna be fine,” you reassure him. 

You guided him back to the chairs and sat next to him. After a few minutes, his hand found yours and you sat with them clasped for nearly an hour before a nurse bustled in. 

“What’s that?” You ask as you watch him hang a bag and connect it to Eva’s IV. 

“Antibiotics. The doctor will be in shortly,” he says curtly before hurrying out again. 

It was another two hours before the doctor stepped into the room, looking exhausted herself. She rubs a hand over her face before beginning, “I’m sorry it took so long to get to you. I was pulled into an emergency surgery.”

Mark seethes, “We’ve been waiting-” 

You stop him with a hand on his arm and a slight shake of your head. Turning back to the doctor, you say, “It’s fine. What’s going on with Eva?”

“The seizure was a blessing in disguise. She has bacterial meningitis. If you hadn’t brought her in, she could have been in real danger. Has she had a cold or ear infection?” She looks between the two. 

You look over at Mark as he answers, “Uh, yeah. She had an inner ear infection but it wasn’t bad.”

The doctor nods her head, “That’s probably where it came from. We are working on getting her a room. She needs to be monitored until we’re sure she’s on the mend.”

“So, she’s going to be okay?” Mark asks, shakily. 

“She’s gonna be fine. That seizure and your quick response probably saved her life,” the doctor reassured him kindly before taking her leave.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Mark sobs. Sitting in his chair again, he puts his elbows on his knees as he breaks down in tears, repeating the words as a mantra. 

Kneeling in front of him, you wrap your arms around him, “Yes, yes, she’s gonna be okay.”

You hold onto each other until the rush of relief passes. Separating, you manage to smile at him. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, “thank you for loving her as much as I do. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“I’ll always be here. For her and for you,” you hug him again. 

Mark nods and stares at his little girl, willing her to get better. Once things settle down, you text Bucky to let him know what was happening and then Tony to inform him you would need to be out of the office until Eva was better. Without fail, both replied offering their sympathies and asking if there was anything they could do. You were grateful to them and the rest of the team who continuously checked in over the week of Eva’s hospital stay, sent food, and made sure the room always had fresh flowers. They continued even once you and Mark had taken Eva home. You stayed with them, unwilling to leave Eva until she was completely recovered. 

Eleven days after that terrifying call, you wake up in Mark’s bed. Heat radiated against your back and you couldn’t help but chuckle, “You just can’t stay on your side of the bed, can you?”

Your question was met with soft snores and you turned over to watch Eva sleep for a minute. Slipping out of bed, you head to the kitchen to start some coffee. Mark had beaten you to it and smiled as he grabbed a second mug out of the cabinet for you. 

“How’d you sleep?” He asks. 

“Fine. Woke with the human heating pad pressed against me. How about you in your tiny bed?” You laugh. Mark had slept in Eva’s bed that night. 

“Not too bad for having feet dangling off the end of the bed all night,” Mark laughs. 

You nod with a smile as you take your first sip of coffee. After a few moments of companionable silence, you take a deep breath and say, “I really should give you your bed back. It’s probably time for me to go home. Eva’s better now.”

“You can stay as long as you want,” Mark says wistfully. 

“Thank you but it’s time,” you reassure him. 

“Well, before you go. There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Mark looks at you intently. 

“What?” you ask curiously. 

“Us.”

Part 9

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[sems-diarie]

*SNIVELING*

oki, ‘m new here, but I thought u would like to hear ‘bout this situation that occurred while I was writing with a katsuki bot I made, ITS SO SIMPLE BUT I— live laugh katsuki 🥺

When her nails are finally done, he comes over to inspect them, giving an approving nod. "Cute," he says gruffly, taking her newly manicured hand in his larger one and running his thumb over the back of it gently.

"This what you wanted?" He asks, glancing over at her face. His tone is casual but his eyes are intent, wanting to be sure she's happy with how they turned out. Her satisfaction means more to him than anything.

He helps her up out of the chair, careful not to mess up her fresh nails. As they walk out of the salon hand in hand, he can't resist teasing her a little. "Don't know how you walk in those damn things," he says, nodding at her wedges. "Might have to carry you if you can't keep up, dumbass."

— 🧁anon

oh that last one is so so so so <3333 i just bought some wedges and they tear my feet apart. sweeps you up without so much as a second thought, one hand tucked under your knees and the other at your back. you feel weightless first, then breathless—

“so funny, mister hero.” you nearly gasp it with the way he just made all the breath in you vanquish. like nothing, you realize. katsuki doesn’t even so much as blink an eye, instead nudging his shoulder to push a door in. “use your hands, next time.”

“important cargo here, sweets,” he wastes no time in snapping back. “i’d say wear better shoes but—,”

“—because,” you’re quick to cut in, “you hate when i have fun?”

“bu-hht.” katsuki jostles you in his arms, not unkindly but none too lightly at all. “we need to be on time for dinner or my mom will wring my neck.”

ruby eyes catch a look at your shoes. they clatter against your skin every now and again as he hustles you toward the car. they hug your feet so nicely; the sweet make of them adds something glorious to your flair.

“what’s wrong?” you tug gently at the buttoned sleeve of his dress shirt. “you don’t like them?”

he sets you down to click open the passenger door.

the last you hear of katsuki is as he ushers you down into the seat. he sounds troubled, forlorn almost. then the coward hobbles on around to stick his keys into his ignition and glide off.

“remind me to fuck you in those shoes later tonight.”

“oh no way,” you gaze on him sharpens. “these wouldn’t withstand it. it’s barefoot or nothing with you now.”

“what’s that shit you love to say when you’re bein’ dramatic?” you hum, tapping at your phone to let mitsuri know the two of you are on your way. katsuki’s quick to follow up.

“i remember: you hate my happiness.”

“no!” you retaliate, only after a few beats. your phone zings! Take your time, your mother in law shoots a text back, followed by a few blue heart emojis.

your snap your neck to eye your husband down, “i think it’s important to remember how your splooge ruined my red bottoms the last time i let you raw me in heels.

which was yesterday, by the way.”

“so, what?”

“sooo, what!” katsuki’s nearly impressed when your voice pitches three octaves. oh, he’s pissed you off. bad. well, it can’t be too bad, he reasons with himself.

the bastard doesn’t even fight the smirk that curls in his lips, spliced at the corner with a real nasty scar.

“so, what?” katsuki mutters. “the new pair were ordered an hour later.”

you sputter. “is that my point, dickhead? i’ll answer for you: no!”

[thesandsofelsweyr]

THE FINAL TESTAMENT OF JASON PETER TODD

《 READ ON AO3 》

Now it all made sense. The bath, the haircut, the script, the suit, the camera… Joker was going to send a video to Batman, and Batman was gonna know that Robin was a traitor, that Bruce was justified when he picked a new kid for the job instead of rescuing the old one.

《RATING》 Teen 《WORDS》 1,544

《CHARACTERS》 Jason Todd/Robin, Joker, Bruce Wayne (mentioned)

《TROPES》 Heavy Angst

《WARNINGS》 Implied/Referenced Torture, Self-Loathing, Swearing

《SERIES》 Part 5 of My Arkhamverse, Part 5 of Ruined

《TAGLIST》 @aaliyah-wayne @ladytauria @betty-1880 @deans-spinster-witch @hlg8 @plantixst

《NOTES》

This is the final flashback scene from Jason's POV.

This is actually the prologue to an upcoming fic, but I felt like it worked better as a standalone (when you see the tags for the upcoming fic you’ll understand 🤡)

Shoutout to @1dragon-mustard1 for beta-ing this for me 🥰

If you enjoy the read please kudos, comment, and reblog 💚

《 READ ON AO3 》 (excerpt below the cut)

He was back in the suit.

Sure, it was nice to be dressed in something more than a pair of ragged boxer briefs, but why couldn’t it have been anything other than this goddamned suit. The Clown had had the suit for days/weeks/months now; the least he could’ve done was wash it. But no, dried blood still stained the chestpiece a darker shade of red, the green undersuit still reeked of an amalgam of bodily fluids.

He’d lost so much weight in this shithole that the suit barely fit him now. But in truth, had this suit ever really fit him? He was nothing but a thug, a loser, a corner boy from the streets of Crime Alley; a wannabe gangster, like his deadbeat dad, the bastard he’d helped send to an early grave. Robin doesn’t sell his own blood to the mob. Robin doesn’t sneak off to murder a man. Robin doesn’t get his dumbass captured by that very same man. He should never have donned this suit. It was meant for a better man than he ever was, a better man than he could ever dream of being.

He’d had a sackful of cash that day, had thrown the cops. He should’ve kept walking, should’ve minded his own business as usual. Instead he’d decided to play the hero for some damn reason. If he hadn’t dragged Batman to safety, he might’ve moved from the corner to a crew, or maybe he’d wound up in a ditch with his head blown off. Either way, he wouldn’t be here suffering every day of his life, wouldn’t have been reduced to a psycho’s sniveling pet.

I wish I’d never met Bruce Wayne…

Sweat was pouring off him as he sat simmering under the heat of the two spotlights Joker had his goons wheel in. He was parked in a new storage room. All the junk had been hauled out—wheelchairs, gurneys, screens, metal tables, assorted medical equipment—everything except the spotlights, his wooden chair from the torture chamber, a single flickering candle at his feet, and a video camera atop a tripod. An attempt to disguise his location, he presumed. A waste of time. No one was looking for him. No one cared if he lived or died.

The Clown was behind the camera, muttering about wires and other shit Jason couldn’t care less about. He sat as straight as his ruined shoulders would allow (which was to say, hunched over like an old man) and stared down at the cracked black-and-white tiles while he waited for the camera to start rolling. He’d rehearsed this scene with Joker many times, always with a cattle prod on hand to make certain he didn’t forget his lines. He tried to ignore the panic rising inside him, tried concentrating on his breathing instead. This video was certain to end up in Batman’s hands. He had no intention of showing Bruce who he truly was: a terrified little coward, the Clown’s despicable creature.

Soon would be the moment of truth. “His name. Tell me.” Each time they rehearsed Joker would shock him with the prod before he could answer. But it was showtime now. Would he betray his former partner to the Clown? The man who’d scooped him up off the street, who’d given him a home, a family, a chance at a better life? The man who’d adopted him, who’d actually believed in him? Bullshit. He never believed in you. You were a stopgap. A charity case, that’s all you ever were to the man. Another PR stunt for Gotham’s sweetheart Bruce Wayne.

“Man alive, you gotta be crazy to figure these newfangled gadgets out, am I right?” Joker’s nasally voice cut through his thoughts, which was good. He needed to be ready to perform at his best. If he fucked this up, there’d be more pain waiting for him. He just wanted to get this over with so he could crawl back into his photo-covered corner and maybe, if he was lucky, snatch an hour or two of restless sleep before it all began again.

“All right, I think I got it!” Joker exclaimed, and Jason’s heart crawled into his throat. “Just act natural, kid. You’re going to be my shining star! Now,

“three…

“two… 

“one…

“action!”

Read the rest on AO3→

[just-existing-as-you-do-blog]

Bro. Me when Gothic Literature writen by men vs Gorhic Literature written by women.

Like the lady charecters in Gothic Literature written by men all have the prevalent threat of Rape over their heads. (Excluding Dracula and Jekyll and Hyde though it can be argued that Dracula included some element of that metaphorically. Don't even get me started on the 1931 Jekyll and Hyde movie adaptation I'll start biting people.) And charecter is usually a generous word to describe them, caricatures might be more accurate. Gothic Literature has a focus on the taboo and horror but it feels fetishsizing the way these historical authors include it. This poor virginal girl (teenager usually) is going to be violated and corrupted by the big bad monster. Like oh that's very original did you get a papercut on your dick jerking off to this? Oh the man couldn't have possibly resisted the temptation and he threw himself at her in the throws of passion? Shut up. Men are not rabid dogs that throw themselves at every piece of meat. And I know historically women were believed to be too tempting to resist or whatever but that shouldn't stop me from pointing out ACEDEMICALLY the pattern. This theme of violation as a threat means that these male authors knew that it was the worst thing that could ever happen to these young girls. That it was violent and wrong and the men that do it are monsters, but they still treat it with the same sublime colored glasses that they treat the supernatural with. This is horrific, it is not beautiful in the way blood dripping onto snow is, it is not beautiful in the way a sword skewering someone and staining their pastel clothes red it, it's just horrific. There is no honor in violence, historically Gothic Literature as a genre has known that, but the theme of sexual violence is still present and it is present in a fetishsizing light. In this I am discussing The Castle of Otranto, Vathek, and volumes 1 and 2 of The Monk. Even if it was important to the themes of the story or even well written (Unreliable narrator Raymond in The Monk) I just have to ask academically; Why is it so prevalent? And I do invite people to genuinely answer me.

Because then there is Gothic Literature written by women, and their women ARE charecters. And Frankenstein for example is about death, and fatherhood, and playing God. It's main charecter is a sniveling coward and all of the women in it are brave in the face of danger. Elizabeth marries Victor because she is a good daughter who wants to honor their mother's final wish. She tells everyone about the injustice of the trial, that she is sure her friend did not kill Henry. Isn't that interesting? That Mary Shelly could explore those themes without dangling sexual assault over the who narrative or describing a woman's "soft, warm, breasts" in detail even once? Or Rebecca! Which I admit I haven't read all the way through, she could portray a marriage gone very wrong and the main charecter calmly helping her new husband cover up his wife's murder, without treating the main charecter as a delicate flower in over her head. She isn't pure, she isn't delicate, she may be insecure but she can certainly handle herself, especially by the end of the novel. And though it had themes centered around romance, reputation, and when a wrong is justified, there was never a threat of sexual assault. (Actually is Rebecca Gothic Literature? You decide I guess.) So there is horror, and beauty, and taboo to be explored without the threat that male authors have historically dangled over women's heads. The creature is beautiful, and new, and it doesn't know better, but he never even thought about sex. I don't know if he even knew what it entailed, he was 4 by the end of the book after all. (Though I would argue Frankenstein is more Dark Romantisism then Gothic, but they do have alot of overlap and my professor disagrees.)

Anyway my reading list for a class is getting me down on account of Shelly being the ONLY female author on it, which I wasn't too upset about until 3 of the four texts we read included what I discussed above. And for the Castle of Otranto my professor skipped over the very real threat Isabella was under, focusing instead on her loyalty to Hippolita. I like Castle of Ontario. I like the Monk. I think they are interesting, I get the themes, I get it.

Anyway Bram Stoker and Mary Shelly rescue me from the Hell I'm in.

[tealmaskmybeloved]

Toxic Consequences AU: Chapter 1

Ally or Traitor?

(As always, notes will be under the cut. Enjoy!)

Kieran hated how everything went. Those two exchange students got to keep Ogerpon while he, the one who admired it since he was little, didn't.

It was unfair, and Kieran knew it. Not only that, but Florian and Juliana lied to him about the truth, that Ogerpon was the victim and that the Loyal 3 were villains.

Even his sister lied to him about it all...

Now Kieran was the Ogre in this situation.

Everyone else was against him, he truly was alone.

Until he wasn't.

Kieran was sitting behind the store Peachy's when he glanced ahead to see a strange Pokémon in front of him.

The Pokémon was about the size of Kieran's head, and had a pink outer shell covering its round body.The Pokémon looked a lot like a Pecha Berry, except a bit different. It stared at Kieran with glowing yellow eyes, interested in him.

"Wowzers..." Kieran mumbled. He'd never seen this Pokémon before, although it did resemble that odd plush at Peachy's. Maybe it was a new species or something?

The odd thing stared back at Kieran, it seemed to know why he was so upset, much to his confusion and bewilderment.

"You're an odd Pokémon, aren't you? I-I mean, I've never seen one like you before..."

Kieran started to get a little excited. He might have discovered a new species of Pokémon! He could get all the fortune and fame and not be the sniveling, pathetic, weak-

Kieran stopped himself from finishing that thought. He didn't want to linger on thinking so lowly of himself.

But it is true, isn't it?

Kieran glanced at the Pokémon. Was he going crazy or did he hear it talk? It wasn't really like normal talking. Rather, the voice echoed in his mind.

The voice came back, stronger than last time.

If you were stronger, then people would like you.

If you weren't a pathetic coward, then maybe you'd be seen as useful.

If you weren't so WEAK, then maybe Ogerpon would've chosen you!

That one snapped Kieran out of his state. He wanted to do something, anything, to fix his current situation.

Kieran looked back at the peach Pokémon, and to his surprise, it was offering him.... mochi?

Kieran's grandmother used to make mochi, and it was his favorite snack... but it was never that deep purple color.

It didn't seem harmful... so Kieran accepted it. He took a bit out of the purple colored treat. Upon tasting the mochi, it was incredibly sweet, like Pecha Berries, but nothing like Kieran tasted before.

"Wow... this is really good." Kieran said, smiling.

Despite the treat being a delight, Kieran was instantly reminded of his current situation again. Of being lied to about the Ogre, how they got to be friends with it... how they get to fix its mask....

Wait..... fix its mask.... that's it!

If Kieran took the mask and was able to fix it then surely Ogerpon would want to be with him, right? Then he would be able to show it that he's not just some weak kid, and it'd go with him! It had to work, it had to!

Yes, yes. Steal the mask. Bring it to Loyalty Plaza when you do.

Kieran looked back at the odd Pokémon. It wouldn't hurt to listen to it... besides, he didn't have any other options.... did he?

... No. It had to be done.

He made up his mind. Kieran knew what he had to do. He had to steal the Teal Mask.

HELL YEAH CHAPTER 1 IS OUT WOOOOOOOOOOT

I probably won't have the new chapter a day schedule I've been doing so far, but I'll try my best.

As always, feel free to send asks relating to the AU!

[goodboyaudios]

I'm back >:) with a fun question this time.

If BW were to take place in the planet of Manas(where MotH takes place), what class of magic would each of the main cast get? Like necromancer, wizard, etc.

And what about if MotH were to take in New Tenesse? Which class would each one get?

Hmm...this is quite difficult to do without breaking too much canon, but I'll try my best.

Albus wouldn't have been ousted as someone to be hated or despised. That being said, he'd definitely become some sort of soldier. Maybe a warrior of Fusfeimyol, most likely specializing in offensive boosting enchantments and other battle spells. Fighting, not to survive, but for the thrill solely. He'd be a Battlemage.

Devlin wouldn't be designing weapons. I actually think he'd let his creativity shine in the way it wants and become a toy maker. Technically, still an artificer, just in a more fantastical and in a profession he enjoys much more.

Faith would become a school teacher in the impoverished nations like Fusfeimyol. She'd probably run into Albus at some point. Actually that's pretty cute now that I think about it lol! The Gladiator and the School Teacher. Adorable.

Now, let's move to the MotH cast! This was a bit trickier so I wrote out their stories in this world.

Zed would be considered weak by most standards for Paladins. However, his heritage would anoint him a great deal of prestige. In this AU where the MotH characters are swapped with BW characters, I would say that Zed would be a son of the Paladin King. But not just any Paladin King, a king who would be assassinated, most likely by the Triad, and force Zed to escape into hiding. If the Triad were to ever catch him, he'd be killed, or worse...this makes Zed a nomadic warrior with no clan or family to call his own. Constantly running, or else he'll suffer the same fate as the rest of his family.

Raze would probably have completely different powers. She might not even be a star captain considering the relationship between New Tennessee and the Landstar. Raze would most likely be one of the founding Paladins, or at least one of their children. She could be a Sister Paladin, or a Knight Sargent, until meeting Magreos. Together they'd most likely try to start a clan and succeed actually. Magreos would be able to vent his violent tendencies in combat as a sort of sharp relief, however that could spell bad news for their relationship moving forward...

Makkaro would be a Knight for sure. While he is smart, he's not technically minded. No, instead he is on the side of justice and fighting for honor and truth. Makkaro, being as smart as he is however, would make him a target for the Triad to be watchful. They like keeping their fighters dumb. They don't think, they kill. Makkaro doing both is a dangerous combination. Even more so when Makkaro inevitably picks up reading when he falls in love with the Paladin King's daughter (Gienne), resulting in him getting captured by the Triad who scramble his mind and make him black out all of it, before sending him back to his family under the guise that he suffered some form of demonic attack and physical trauma which developed in the form of Amnesia. From that point on, Makkaro would be afraid to do any more fighting, in fear of what might happen.

Gienne, as I said would be the Paladin Kings daughter. She might actually be inducted into the Triad, given her position and intelligence, but I think Makkaro would make her see passed that. This of course would lead to Triad interference again, where they would make her hate Makkaro and want nothing to do with such a sniveling coward who can't pick up a sword and doesn't even remember her. After that, she'd be sent back to her blissfully happy life as a princess.

Sorry for how long this all was! You may have noticed how depressing the lives of the MotH characters are on New Tennessee. Surprise surprise, it's not a happy world lol While a lot of clans do enjoy the thrill of hunting monsters and being blissfully ignorant of those in power behind the scenes manipulating everyone, characters with as much importance and personality as these would typically get screwed over. And fast too.

[sparklingdemon]

I love the concept of monochrome.exe tho-

Tails being insistent that his best friend Sonic is still in there deep down

Eggman believing that EXE must pay for his crimes no matter who he thinks he is now

And Knuckles who's just so tired of dying scared and alone that he doesn't care who they are anymore

(Btw if you were to actually expand upon this little au's cast my life would be yours)

YES EXACTLY you understand me -

tails being so happy about this sudden change in "exe's" behavior, it MUST mean that sonic is still in there somewhere and then they can go back to how things used to be!!

knuckles having his spirit broken after being killed by exe so many times, dude is paranoid that it's all just some sadistic trick that exe is pulling and that they'll all just be murdered again eventually

eggman meanwhile knows sonic's soul is gone for good and is furious that he wasn't the one to do it, that his rival's life was taken by supernatural forces and now taking over the world won't ever be satisfying without him. seeing sonic being possessed by this sniveling coward is so... infuriating.

not sure if i'll ever go anywhere with this AU since it's essentially the same thing as pkmn-monochrome but sonic flavored, but i do really like this idea and maybe i'll doodle other stuff with it once i'm done with mochro proper.

one bit i HAVE decided just now though, is that the hacker's name in this AU is nicky instead of cody, and monochrome!sonic has chosen the name "nix" for themself (like "nic" being short for "sonic", and "X" like exe- and obviously the word nix, meaning "nothing". they claim to be both sonic AND exe, but also neither of them - just like how cody claims to be both red and leaf, yet neither...

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

AilessWhumptober 23 - 5 Hostage

Near Unbreakable 1/2

Summary: This badass lady is the Second-in-command of her beloved team. She can kick anyone’s ass and the tiny Whumper is obviously no match for her. So when she volunteers to stay with the guy for one day, nothing bad is gonna happen….right ?

badass whumpee/protective caretakers/pathetic whumper

tw: hostage, lady whump, torture (implied), death threats, locked in a small space

***

“You ? It’s you ?” burst out Leader to the grinning face of Whumper. “You’re the one who are supposed to meet us ? Oh, the deal is off. Let me offer this instead.”

He drew out his combat knife, his face grim.

“You give us what we want and I don’t gut you like a fish. On second thought, I might do it anyway.”

“Do that and see how this is going to work out for you,” purred the tiny man. “You promised to let a hostage for the day to my team, and I guarantee you that you won’t like what will happen if you don’t.”

Leader's hand clenched on his weapon:

“I agreed because I thought you were fired and starving somewhere like you deserve.”

“Well, life is full of disappointment. I thought that after our little meeting, you would die of blood loss.”

Some teammates couldn’t help but glance at the right arm of their Leader – the one that missed a hand. The man had a small smile of contempt. His knife glinted.

“Come and see for yourself how helpless I am, coward.”

The Mediator, who was the diplomat of the team, squeezed his shoulder.

“I don’t think this will be necessary. In our negotiations, we have made very clear that if we found a single scratch on the hostage, we would retaliate once we were done. They agreed on this, they even proposed to give us the potential offender.”

“Oh, I see,” groaned the Leader. “So they were counting on the sadistic bastard to go berserk on one of my men so they could get rid of him by giving him to us, while keeping their hands clean ? It that what that means ?”

“I thought he was dead,” whispered Mediator. “We all thought he was. Am I calling them ?”

“There’s no time ! We need to do this today ! Let’s go back, team. We’ll find another way.”

He was going to turn around, but another hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked up, up and up to meet the eyes of his Second-in-command.

“You’ve just said it,” she softly said. “There is no time.”

“So ? ”

“Don’t sweat it, boss. I’m gonna stay with him. You don’t need me to finish the mission.”

“No. No way. Absolutely not. You are not doing this.”

“ Then what ? People are counting on us. We can’t fail. I can do this. Besides ” -she rubbed her thumb and her index together - “ I could snap him in two between my fingers.”

“Well great, you’ll do this after the mission, as a treat – come on.”

“It’s just for one day. I’m gonna be all right.”

Leader was going to retort, but he glanced at the scowling face of Whumper, who stared at the mountain of muscles that was his Second-in-command. He was still repulsed by the idea, but a small part of his mind was entertained by the idea of letting alone the tiny, slimy bastard with someone who could break coconuts with her bare hands. Besides, she was right. There was no time to lose, and doing what was planned was the quickest way to finish the mission.

“If I might interrupt,” sniveled Whumper, “that doesn’t seem quite logical to me. You have to admit, Leader, that Mediator has made a big mistake in negotiating. He did neglect my resurrection and I resent that. He should be the one to stay behind.”

His eyes examined the small, thin Mediator with something that looked way too much like hunger. Leader, Second-in-command, and other Teammates took a step forward.

“Come and take him”, they retorted at once.

Whumper recoiled, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

“ Fine, fine. The huge lady it is.”

The Leader examined her, a worried expression in his face.

“ I don’t like it. I hate it. You sure about this ?”

She nodded, her eyes soft:

“Trust me.”

“Don’t get cocky. The bastard is rotten as hell. He will try to stab you in the back.”

“He won’t be able to. Rely on me, please. The stakes are too high.”

Leader narrowed his eyes at Whumper.

“One scratch”, he grunted. “One single scratch. And you’re done.”

He squeezed the arm of his Second-in-command:

“And you, toughie, we’re getting you back in one piece at sunset. This is a promise. And an order.”

“I got it, boss.”

He hugged her grumpily, and so did the other members of the team, promising they would be back for her as soon as they could, as if they were going for an easy stroll themselves instead of a dangerous journey. The Mediator hugged her the tightest of all.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered in her ear.

She tapped his cheek playfully in answer, and soon after they were all gone. Whumper and Second-in-command were left alone, staring at each other.

“Nice home you have,” she said. “You play base ball ?”

“No, why ?”

“Oh, so you don’t need that bat on the grass, then.”

She picked it up. The wood creaked when she broke it on her knee. She threw the two parts away from her and stared at Whumper, who looked at her with wide eyes and took a step back.

“I get it lady, I get it – you’re scary. How about a non-aggression pact, uh ? You don’t touch me, I don’t touch you. On second thought, I don’t even want to be near you. Tell you what.”

He pointed at her at a cute little hexagonal structure on the garden, with transparent walls.

“ This is my winter pavilion, where I go to read sometimes. I put a lock on the outside because some kids kept stealing my gardening tools. How about you stay there for the day ?”

She shrugged:

“Fine. But first you’re calling your chief. And then you’re taking a picture of me and you send it to them.”

“Is that really necessary ?”

“Yes. I’m making sure they know we fulfilled our end of the deal. I’m not letting you lie and put my team in jeopardy.”

“You’re no fun,” sighed Whumper, “but as you wish.”

The call being made, she went to the little pavilion and allowed him to lock her in. He had taken care of putting away the gardening tools before, which had made her roll her eyes, so she had plenty of space for herself. She sat nearby a little pile of books, but there were all botanical guides, and none of these interested her. Soon enough, she rested her cheek on the hardcover and went to sleep. Dawn had barely broken.

She woke up with a throbbing headache. Grunting, she held out her hand, groping for her bag. (Whumper had tried to suggest she could do without, but she had given him A Look and he had not mentioned the subject anymore. She had already left her weapons behind but as far as she was concerned, she didn’t need them and it was the only compromise she was willing to make.) Pulling out her flask and taking a sip, she winced. The water was warm. She forced herself to drink a little, but her stomach growled in disagreement. Still, she drank. The Mediator was very adamant about making his teammates stay as hydrated and well-rested as possible. In fact, he was the only reason why her flask was full to begin with (and her bag much too full of snacks).

She stared wishfully at her phone, but she had no one to call. It would have been useless at best and dangerous at worst to distract her teammates or signal her presence in any way to anyone else. Besides, the reception here seemed not very good. She poured a little water on her hand and rubbed it on her temples and neck. That relieved her a bit. Since it was officially the morning now, she wondered if she should eat. At the thought, her stomach turned into a knot. The idea of eating anything solid made her wince. Frowning, she touched her forehead. It was burning. She clicked her tongue, her throat already dry, and watched outside.

Whumper’s garden was nothing to be proud of. There were some cacti here and here that seemed to do well - they looked even taller than her - but the rest of the plantations seemed wilted. Burnt, even. She glanced at the yellow grass, then at the sky. It was a magnificent blue, without a cloud on the horizon. Even inside, she felt the scorching of the sun, so she looked for a little shade. There was none. Every furniture had been taken away. There was only the pile of books. Grunting, she put a cap on. It was not optimal, but it was better than nothing. She accidentally touched the walls and recoiled. There were white-hot. On the other side, there were the gardening tools, and finally she realized something. A detail.

She wasn’t in a pavilion. She was in a greenhouse. And she was going to understand how an ant felt under a magnifying glass very soon.

The sequel (prompt Heat Stroke) is here.