#i’m mildly unwell

[penumbralwoods]

not sorry for rbing a bunch of bloody gabv1el art it will happen again

[redrobin-detective]

“Hey boss, sorry I can’t come into work today. Yeah, it’s an emergency. I’ve been struggling with a direction for my fic lately — oh, that’s short for FanFiction by the way — and I had a dream last night about it. Well, no I’m not sure I would classify it as a prophetic dream but it gave me some great ideas I’m afraid I’ll forget. Yeah, real great ideas I’m sure my readers will love and give me lots of kudos — you know like a thumbs up on YouTube? So you can see why I need to stay home today and dedicate myself fully to exploring this idea. Oh what’s it about? I’m so glad you asked…”

[asparklethatisblue]

my aunt invited me to have dinner with them after the funeral, and my mother just said that my grandpa invited people she doesn’t know (we live in a different town), like his friends from his town’s anti fascist coalition.

i mean. Based

[mycological-mariner]

Reading Worst Journey while on tour, far from home, sick as a dog, and missing my friends like oh thank god it can always be worse

[danielnelsen]

grandpa just died :/

[autism-disco]

“so how are you feeling” well there are 12 elastic bands stretching in different directions

[elasgottoomuchfreetime]

Sometimes I randomly think about how I somehow tried to improve my mindset in the last few years and then some part of me usually adds girl you‘re only 19 wth which causes me to just stare into space for a bit.

[seeresswritessometimes]

Hi hello, the person I like responded to me sub-optimally once and now my brain has decided they hate me so that’s where we’re at today 🙃

[forzalando]

you were in my dream

request: random playlist shuffle request from @maplesyrupsainz!! maddie - i already told you this but i wrote this because i love you hahaha and maybe i will add carlos back into the list of drivers i write for. tbd. we will see what the people think. i hope you like it, love you lots💛💛 song: you were in my dream by laur elle summary: you have a not-so-friendly dream about your best friend. enough said. pairing: carlos sainz x f!reader wc: 1.5k warnings: cursing, descriptions of steamy makeout, 17+

Carlos was, to put it mildly, very confused.

He had passed you a total of 17 times today while running around for media duties, (yes, he was counting) and each time you turned away from him as if he was a complete and total stranger.

You weren’t in a mood – he could see you chatting with Charles, briefly hugging Oscar, laughing with Lando and Max, all of which, admittedly, left a piercing pain in his chest and a disgusting jealous feeling swirling in his stomach.

After another hour without a word from you, Carlos made his way round to every person he’d seen you speak to that day – hoping that they might have some insight into what was going on.

Lando, of course, smiled as he saw his friend approaching, but soon noticed the frown on his face as he walked closer.

“Is she angry with me?” Carlos exhaled, not even a hello or how are you for his close friend.

“Is who angry with you?”

“Y/N! She has been ignoring me all day – I saw her with you, with Charles, with Oscar, with every person around. But me? It’s like I don’t exist.”

“She didn’t say anything specifically but now that you mention it, she did seem a bit flustered when I asked if she knew where you were.”

“Ay dios, what did I do? I walked her to her room last night after dinner and everything was perfectly fine!”

Meanwhile, you were hiding in the back of the Ferrari garage, a fairly secluded spot that you’d discovered earlier in the day. Successfully? Not at all – it only took Alexandra three minutes to find you sitting in a corner with a Ferrari jacket haphazardly thrown over your frame. She’d tried to coax you out, but only when Leo wiggled his way into your lap did you show any signs of life and break your silence to coo at the perfect little dog.

“There she is,” Alex smiled. “Now, tell me and Leo what you are doing hiding over here all by yourself?”

You groaned and handed Leo over to his Mama, using your now free hands to hide your heating face. “Oh god, I should’ve just stayed at the hotel. I thought I would be fine, this is so embarrassing.”

“Que s'est-il passé? You didn’t seem unwell at dinner last night, did you get sick in your room?”

Alex’s frantic mix of French and English and her worried expression made you feel even more guilty – this was dramatic, so beyond dramatic, but you were in a downward spiral and maybe she was just what you needed to yank yourself out of it.

“No, I…I had a dream,” you muttered. “It’s so stupid, but I don’t know what to do! How to act! I’m genuinely freaking the fuck out, Alex.”

“A nightmare? Are you afraid? Oh, Y/N, that’s not stupid but you’re safe here. Do you want me to go get Carlos? He’ll want to know what’s going on – ”

“NO,” you shouted too forcefully. “No, please don’t go get him, I can’t even look at him right now. You have one dream about your best friend and suddenly you can’t function.”

“You dreamt about Carlos? I don’t understand, what did you – ” Alex’s voice trailed off, a look of realization crossing her face.

“Oh, oh,” she smirked. “Y/N, you naughty girl!”

“It wasn’t even like that, we were just making out on his couch, ok heavily making out on his couch, and I can’t look at him without my stomach flipping or fearing I’m going to start drooling. He’s one of my closest friends, I’ve never thought about him like…that.”

“Oh come on,” she rolled her eyes. “Never? Not once? In three years of friendship?”

“Maybe once or twice,” you mumbled guiltily. “God, what’s wrong with me? I can’t stop thinking about it – his arms, his mouth, everything, it felt so real.”

“Is now a good time to tell you that I think you have feelings for him and you’ve been pushing them down? Because you think he doesn’t feel the same? And this dream is just everything spilling over?”

Your mouth fell open and you scrambled for a retort – anything to say back to her to refute her claims, but all you could do was sigh and shake your head.

“I’m so pathetic,” you grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Mi sol, don’t say such things,” a familiar voice chimed from behind you. Before you could get to your feet to make an excuse and bolt, Carlos plopped down next to you. “Now, no more running away from me, ¿bueno?”

“I’ll find you later,” Alex called out sweetly as she hurried away, Leo’s ears flopping comically as he barked back at you.

The heat of Carlos’s body next to yours made your stomach turn, his arms so close to you, almost as close as they were when they were wrapped around your body, holding you tightly against his chest, heavy breathing in your ear and –

“Y/N? Are you listening?” He nudged his shoulder against yours lightly, ripping the mental image away from you.

“Yes, I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“I want to know why you’ve been avoiding me. Why are you so angry with me?”

Your face fell instantly – guilt creeping in and taking over from the other feelings. “Oh, Carlos, I’m not angry with you. I had a dream and you were in it but it’s unimportant, I was being…ridiculous. I’m sorry, mi querido.”

Carlos brightened at the use of the term of endearment – not uncommon at all between the two of you and a sure sign that everything was fine.

“You don’t have to apologize. If I made you uncomfortable in your dream and you needed space, that is perfectly fine. I just wish I would have known before I panicked.”

“No, no, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, you never could.”

“Well, then what was I doing?”

You swore the garage grew ten degrees hotter – a bead of sweat forming on your neck where hickeys would have been if your dream had been as real as it felt. A heavy swallow and a deep exhale, you looked everywhere but at him, suddenly intensely interested in the spare tires to your right.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his breath hot on your neck, his hand cupping your chin to turn your head gently towards him. “Dime.”

All it took was one quick flicker of your eyes down to his lips for a smirk to spread across his face. Before you could even breathe, his nose was bumping against yours and the closeness of him made your head spin. 

He kissed you so softly, gently, his hand cupping your face and his thumb gently rubbing back and forth. So different from what you’d shared in the depths of your mind the night before but surpassing it exponentially in every conceivable way – dreams would never come close to this, never compare to the reality in front of you.

A shout from somewhere in the garage caused the two of you to jolt apart, the sudden realization of where you were sinking in quickly. 

“How did I compare?” He asked cheekily, rising to his feet and offering a hand to pull you up after him. 

Your head was still spinning - your chest heaving from a fairly innocent kiss, god, you were wrecked. Carlos, however, took your silence as the exact opposite - doubt crept into his mind, worried that he’d read everything wrong and let his own feelings guide his actions. 

His sweet, doe brown eyes searched yours for something, anything, to ease his panic. And then, you smiled - wide, bright, blinding, and lovesick. 

“You were perfect,” you finally answered, a sigh of relief leaving Carlos at the sound of your voice. “But, I would’ve preferred the dream setting. Comfortable couch, no prying eyes, no Ferrari polo, among other things.”

“Other things?” Carlos pressed, a wicked grin on his face.

“Yeah, you told me you loved me,” you whispered.

His lips morphed into a soft smile - gone was the playfulness and tension, replaced by tenderness, adoration, and something saccharine. You felt his fingers brushing against yours and reached out to let him grasp your hand in his, the warmth of his palm grounding you in this moment.

“I can do that,” he admitted bashfully. “But, not here. You deserve more than that. When I’m done we can go back to the hotel, grab dinner, and…talk.”

You smirked, mimicking his tone from before. “Talk?” 

“Among other things.”

The sound of your laughter followed Carlos as he walked towards his team, urging them respectfully to get him through the rest of his day as quickly as possible.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

do you remember that whole storyline thing of reader where she visits injured konig and brought muffins and then was all like “i’m ready to DO IT ;) but you’re unwell….we must wait weeks” and konig is all like 🥲🥲🥲. lmao i loved that!!! is that still gonna be turned into a fic or something or did i hallucinate u saying that..:(

Ooooh no you didn't hallucinate I wrote that like months ago! 😭😭 It's just not on my masterlist because it's more of a lengthy prompt than an actual "fic". I dunno, me trying to curate this blog is awful but here it is if you wish to read it! Pure explicit 18+ mildly coersive smut so 🥲 have fun I guess!!

(For those who don't know wtf is this with muffin girl & König: there was a whole cooking session with Howdy 🤠 anon where virgin!reader wouldn't let yandere!König hit. Just teased the everloving shit out of him and so eventually he broke his back while trying to guide his sexual frustrations to gym equipment and failed a deadlift pr. Reader brought him muffins to cheer him up (aww such a sweetheart) and continued to bully him by saying that she's finally ready to do it but alas, they have to wait until König has recovered ^^ and so the short fic I did is the closing chapter to this crazy intense pining ❤️)

[wanderingwomanwondering]

Today’s buddie obsession brought to you by the s6 cemetery scene. I did a rewatch, now I’m unwell.

Buck noticed that eddie was feeling some type of way at the grave, so he offered comforting words. He tried to care for eddie’s heart but didn’t see that eddie wasn’t at ease (metaphorically he couldn’t breathe in that moment, something more was sitting on his chest!!)

Eddie noticed that buck wasn’t at ease and tried to reassure him that he doesn’t have to be anything but himself but eddie also *eventually* realized in the scene that he’d missed some important feelings that buck had been having about the lightning strike.

Eddie has learned to spot when buck can’t breathe (aka be himself) and buck has learned to spot when eddie’s heart needs a beat (aka emotional support), but then they both (to varying degrees) miss when the other is dealing with something that they think is their strong suit! Eddie missed buck’s deeper heart/feelings about dying and buck missed eddie’s lack of ease/comfort with himself in the cemetery. I read that scene as a lack of ease/comfortability on eddie’s part because he started off being open about his feelings (fear of dying alone) but quickly shifted to focus on buck’s needs. He was metaphorically out of breath…in a cemetery…looking like death. Buck didn’t fully catch that something deeper and important was going on with eddie.

The trauma of buck’s death made their communication in the cemetery difficult, because they both have big unspoken feelings about it and about themselves by extension. As others have said, and I agree, buck and eddie were talking past each other in that moment. But interestingly they were still somehow talking about the same thing.

Eddie was talking about his fear of dying alone. Earlier in the episode he was with Chris at Shannon’s grave and Marie said what she said before she died so it makes sense that eddie would be thinking about these things. What feels (mildly) extra is how clearly he wore the weight of those feelings during the scene??? It only starts to make sense because eddie was literally standing next to the person who’s recent death has been weighing on him the most. The actual person who he lost and couldn’t imagine his life without. But that person is talking about another LI, feeling seen by that LI and feeling unable to see himself…or eddie’s emotional turmoil.

Buck was talking about dying alone too but in a more roundabout way. He was exploring the power of feeling seen and understood. While standing next to the man who spent years in a marriage where he wasn’t seen by his partner or by himself. While standing next to eddie as the embodiment of the kind of living death that sets in when a person feels entirely unseen in a way they want to be seen! Buck talked about natalia with hope and awe because he felt seen by her which made him feel alive and energized. Meanwhile eddie looks like he’s dying during their entire conversation! He looks pale, distressed, he’s drowning in his clothes, he’s saying words but barely talking about himself, he’s deferring to buck because buck is the only breathing person complete with a heartbeat in that scene!! Buck being lost/misguided aside, he’s still feeling like he’s on the right path and grateful to be alive to explore it, but eddie doesn’t seem to come to life or catch a second wind at any point in the conversation.

Then we have the grave itself. Marie Ellis is the woman whose grave all of this happened at. The name Marie is a variant of Mary and can mean many things. One of the popular meanings, “beloved”, stood out to me. I think what eddie buried in that cemetery was his hope for a romantic relationship with buck 🫣 Shannon’s been gone for years and eddie seems to have peace on that front, if his conversations with chris are any indication. Tía Pepa encouraged him to date and he was relieved when Vanessa said she wasn’t ready to date . In my brain all of the above makes eddie’s glow-down in 615 all the more pointed! He was in mourning, burying his hope for something with buck and trying to accept that he’d need to find a different path to romantic love.

The second name meaning for Marie that jumped out at me was “bitterness”. That one seems relevant to the way the scene played out. Before eddie understood buck’s feelings, frankly he seemed annoyed. He was frustrated that buck was dating natalia. He used the excuse of her being from a call but buck’s s2 gf, Ali, was from a call and eddie didn’t have any objections to that. Taylor was technically from a call and eddie said nothing about that (even though we KNOW he didn’t like her). Eddie was either reading history and cautioning buck against falling victim to his old pattern and/or he was full-on fishing for a reason to discourage buck from dating natalia specifically.

Tbh I know it’s a long shot but I think eddie knows that he has or is developing feelings for buck and he was finally starting to admit that (to himself at least) then buck fell into natalia’s arms. I think it was a double whammy for eddie that buck felt truly seen by her after just five minutes; I can’t get over how shook eddie looked after buck said that!! It wasn’t until after buck revealed that he felt seen and didn’t know how to be with everyone else and that he didn’t feel like he was the same person after the lightning strike that eddie accepted it and resigned himself to the idea that he doesn’t have a chance with buck. Hence eddie’s constant parade of mournful glances between the distance, buck and marie’s grave!! Bonus points to the writers because Marie also has meanings connected to the sea, and water was a constant theme in s6.

Hopefully I’m not completely delulu. I’m sure I missed stuff and there’s always more to say but damn that cemetery scene had a lot going on!!

[seventh-district]

I Don't Care If You're Contagious

He reaches beneath his jacket again, this time retrieving his gun from its concealed holster. He points it skyward, finger thankfully off the trigger, tapping the end of the barrel a few times against his temple. You note the edge of unhinged pride in his voice. “He’d never met me though.”

The few remaining shreds of your sanity beg you not to find the display endearing. They lose in the face of your love for him.

Smiling, you shake your head, trying to reprimand him still. “You’re reckless, Matthew. Utterly reckless.”

“C’mon, poppet…” He lowers the gun to rest on the table, pointing away from you. “You can still hear my heartbeat, can’t you?”

You nod.

“Did you ever hear it stop?”

You shake your head.

“Then there you have it. I’m just fine.”

His idea of reassurance could use a little work.

When he comes home bloody and drained from a job you regret missing out on, you and Matt both find comfort in one another, unorthodox though it may be.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat - Minors DNI

Pairing: Matt x Reader

Word Count: 11,154

Contains: [spoilers for The Malenkee Saga (Jimち ASMR)] [not canon compliant] [SH / NSSI] [Reader's gender isn't specified but they're kinda implied to be fem] [blood] [blood consumption] [blood play] [comfort] [consensual, but not safe or sane] [descriptions of food and eating] [domestic? maybe?] [gun] [first kisses] [implied murder/death] [implied SA & violence] [needle play] [pet names] [praise] [PTSD] [scars] [traumatic memories/flashback] [unnatural abilities] [you and Matt are both criminals, mentally unwell, and so, so in love with each other 🖤]

Note: This fic is a sequel to this one, and while it isn't required reading, I'd recommend that you do if you want to have the full context going into this one.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy and fiction, and should be regarded as such. I don't condone replicating the acts depicted. If you're interested in this sort of play, please educate yourself, take the appropriate precautions, and use the correct tools.

The delicate scent of freshly chopped vegetables simmered in broth fills your small kitchen. Taking it in with a deep breath as you slowly stir the pot, you smile, content in the peaceful moment. Bringing the ladle to your lips, you blow away the rising steam with a few unhurried breaths.

Once it’s a tolerable temperature, you sample your work, and hum a quiet note. It’s… on the bland side, to put it mildly. If this pot were for you alone, you’d be reaching for the spice cabinet post haste. It isn’t, though, and you don’t even find yourself lamenting that fact, given the company you’re soon to be sharing it with.

When you’d first begun attempting to feed Matt, you started with something you considered quite basic and mild. A simple bowl of oatmeal. Forgone were any of your more extravagant toppings and mix-ins, you were sticking to the bare minimum. Oats, water and milk. A pinch of salt, a small spoonful of sugar, and just a dusting of cinnamon. It doesn’t get much more basic, (or flavorless…), than that.

Or so you thought.

The memories of his favorite cuisine must've fallen too far into the back of your mind. Mixed in and tucked away with all the other parts of your past you’d rather not dwell on, the taste, or lack thereof, of his signature “soup” was hardly the worst of them.

It was hardly the best either.

Rather unremarkable aside from the bizarre circumstances of its initial presentation, it wasn’t the taste that you found so off-putting. It was the texture. Clumps of bread that’d grown far past soggy, nearly turning to sludge amidst the watery broth, it was just… unpleasant.

You could never wrap your head around Matt’s apparent genuine enjoyment of the dish. In the beginning, before you knew him better, you’d thought he might just be fucking with you. Surely no sane person could like it at all, let alone name it their favorite. But therein laid the error in your reasoning. You weren’t dealing with a sane man at all.

When you once questioned him on it, he gave you a vague yet sincere answer. “Oh, it’s an old family recipe.” The words had rolled off his tongue with ease, and your brow furrowed. He rarely spoke of any family, hell, you weren’t sure he ever really had one. When you pressed further though, his answer quickly fell apart. When required to actually try and recall any detail as to this supposed family, he drew a blank.

It wasn’t that surprising, in all honesty. It didn’t make you doubt him much, either. Even less so nowadays, with your approximate knowledge of just how old his idea of “old” is. The mind can only recall so much, can only reach so far back before everything starts to fade.

Sometimes you mourn the amount of his memory, his history, that’s been lost to the unrelenting passage of time.

Sometimes you wonder who he’d be mourning, if their memory still lived within him.

You blink, and pull your eyes back into focus.

You stir the pot on the stove before you.

Best to keep yourself grounded in the here and now, you suppose.

Regardless of Matt’s supposed love of that awful soup of his, you weren’t too keen on it yourself. You’d been far too afraid to tell him so the first few times he fed it to you, and you were hardly in a position to decline. But time passed as it always does and you gradually turned from his captive into his companion. You learned that you needn’t fear a disagreement so trivial. Eventually you brought it up, letting him down slowly so as to not insult his… family’s cooking.

He took it far better than you’d feared, only seeming a bit… saddened, that you’d exaggerated your initial assessment of the dish. You weren’t sure if his sadness stemmed from your newfound dislike of his soup, or from the reminder of your initial fear of him. You never asked.

You couldn’t imagine that eating nothing but bread and water could be good for him, but then again he’s shown great enough feats of survival that you suspect he may not even need food at all. The black scars on your wrist suggest that you may now share that trait too, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost your taste. You still crave food, and if the two of you are going to be eating together, you’d like it to be something you both can enjoy.

That’s how you found yourself presenting him with an innocent bowl of oatmeal, figuring it wasn’t that far of a step away from his preferences.

You quickly gathered that you’d underestimated his palate’s sensitivities.

You’d tried not to stare as he pulled the bottom of his mask up, the sight still relatively rare to you then. With bated breath, you watched him take a tentative bite of the benign breakfast food. To his credit, he didn’t cringe, or gag, or any other outrageous reaction you’d feared. He just… frowned. And your heart sank a little. Had you used too much water? Not enough milk? Too much salt? Not enough sugar?

Your inner worries were soon quieted as he politely questioned you, holding another spoonful up in front of him. “Why is it… spicy?”

It took everything in you not to laugh, both from pure surprise, and at the meme he was unknowingly quoting. “I… is it? It’s spicy to you…?”

He took in a second thoughtful bite, and nodded. “Yeah… kind of? It’s a little thick… and has this… I don’t know.” He brought his hand up to cup his exposed jawline in thought. “It’s… hmm… no, not dirt, oh what’s the word… earthy! Like… spicy… wood, or something.” You bite back a smile at his explanation, and catch how he mirrors yours when his eyes land on you. “I… I think I quite like the sweetness of it though.”

You quickly gathered that he was awfully sensitive to- well, just about every flavor, the more intense ones especially so. And his baseline for “intense” was adorably low. It made enough sense you supposed, given you’d no idea how long he’d been eating that same flavorless glop of his. It did raise a brief question in your mind though, the answer which you’d silently searched for when you were next alone.

A brief search in your phone’s browser shut down your fleeting line of thought that perhaps he’d never been accustomed to such flavors. It seemed quite the opposite, in fact, given that apparently Britain had taken over the cinnamon trade during the 1800’s. So, it was unlikely that the spice, and similar others, weren’t available to him in some capacity then. Well, if your attempts at surmising his origins were correct, that is. It didn’t seem to be considered a rare commodity by those times either.

Shaking the tangling web of thoughts from your mind, you dismissed it in the same way you’d learned to treat his many other anomalies. Perhaps he’d lived in… unique circumstances even then. Perhaps the true extent of his “old family recipe” has simply been lost to time, leaving him with memory of nothing but the utter basic ingredients. Perhaps your rough calculation of his true age was incorrect. The variety of reasons were plentiful, multiplying, and eventually, overwhelming to your tired mind.

Best to not dwell.

You were appreciative of his continued willingness to try your offerings, having not been too badly put off by his first impression of your “spicy” oatmeal. You began modifying your simple recipes, removing more and more flavor until you were left with the tamest possible versions of them. He came to enjoy your oatmeal, once you’d upped the water and forgone the cinnamon. He’d quite enjoyed your vegetable soup, too, once you parted ways with your beloved garlic and onions.

It wasn’t a hard sacrifice to make, in all honesty, because the satisfaction of finding something, anything else he liked to eat, far outweighed the loss. Besides, the omissions only applied to the initial recipe. Nothing stopped you from seasoning your own serving after the fact, which you often did. One would think you were eating Carolina Reapers with the way his eyes widened at the sight of you seasoning your food.

You never considered yourself to be much of a genuine spice lover, you just liked some flavor in your food. It became a lighthearted joke between you both. He continually balked at the sight of your heavy-handed garlic powder pour, and you gently poked fun at him over his bland taste. Watching him contentedly eat his watery oats, you once playfully remarked as much, affection lacing your quiet words as they crossed the kitchen table. “Matthew, you’ve got to be the whitest man I know.”

You doubted he’d get the reference, which only made his honest response infinitely funnier in retrospect. In the moment, though, it just made you a bit sad. “…You know other men…”

It wasn’t a question, nothing more than a quiet, trailing statement with a jealous undertone. He seemed saddened by such a reminder, and you quickly felt the urge to remove the frown settling on his lips. Rising from your seat and closing the space between you, your hand found his shoulder as you bent down to his level. After planting a long kiss on his temple, you reassured him softly. “None of them have ever held a candle to the ways in which I know you.”

You recall the feeling of his muscles relaxing beneath your touch, and you smile.

Using the edge of your ladle, you gently press it down and part a soft carrot slice in two. Nodding to yourself and giving the pot one last stir, you reach out and return the range’s dial back to its vertical off position. It’s then, in the otherwise quiet room, that Matt’s heartbeat grows noticeably louder in your ears.

It took a little while to adapt to at first, this new constant pulse in the background of your mind. When he first explained it to you, you’d had a fleeting fear that it would grow to annoy you, but you’re relieved to have found that to be far from the case. It’s comforting, above all else. A soft, constant reminder that he’s still alive, and still with you, even when he isn’t physically with you. And like any constant sound, you grew accustomed to it. Before you knew it you found it fairly easy to let slip from your focus when you so desired, and just as easy to tune back into when you wished.

Even when you weren’t paying specific attention to it though, it was always unmistakable when he first came home. Its volume being based upon your proximity, the steady beat always made itself re-known when he drew close. He was an otherwise quiet man, the many years spent in his particular occupation lending him an innate degree of stealth that he carried with him everywhere. He could never sneak up on you again, though. Such was the price he paid for giving you his heart, and he’s never seemed to mind.

So it wasn’t the silent unlocking of your door, nor was it his silent footsteps through the short hall that told you he was home. It was the steady thump of his heartbeat, catching your attention as it grew louder.

Smiling, you turn away from the stove to face the doorway just in time to greet him as he’s rounding the corner. “Welcome ho-…-ome…” The disheveled sight of him then causes your face to fall. You falter for a moment as his exhausted voice greets you in turn, making his way to the kitchen table and pulling out a chair. Reaching a hand inside his jacket, he pulls out a thick wad of cash, dropping it on the table with little fanfare as you make your way over to him.

The heavy scent of iron lingers on him, and your hands hover for a moment before gently landing on his upper arms. Catching his gaze, you question him in urgent concern. “What- what happened? Are you okay?”

He pulls his gloves off, tossing them onto the table next. “Of course I am, doll…” His unconvincing statement is punctuated by a quiet groan as he lowers himself into the chair. Your hands slip away from his arms, and when you register a cold wetness on the left, your breath hitches. Your eyes flick down to assess your palm at the same time as his preemptive reassurance hits your ears. “It’s not mine.”

The blood that soaked his jacket tints your hand a shade of red, not black, and you release your breath.

Reaching for a hand towel and wiping it away without a care, you resist the urge to put your hands on him again. You want to feel, want to search his pitch black clothes for any patch of blood that might not be red, but you refrain. You don’t ever want to overwhelm him.

Turning behind you and pulling your own chair near, you release his name in a shaky breath. “Matt…” You have to ask. “Did it… go south?”

His elbows thunk lightly against the table as he props them there, leaning forward. “Only…” He sighs. “Only a little bit.” He eyes the cash on the table. “I still got the job done.”

You follow his gaze, and frown. Reaching out, you lift one end of the stack with your thumb, watching the hundreds flicker past as you riffle through them. Pulling your hand back and crossing your arms, you voice your doubt. “Was it worth it? I don’t ever want you taking a job for the sake of the-”

“This wasn’t about the payment.” He gently cuts you off, shaking his head slowly. “That’s not why I took this job.”

“Was it… personal, then?”

“…Not quite.” His gaze drifts up from the table to stare out the small window above the sink. “It was… a moral thing, I guess. If I’d passed on it, there was a risk of it becoming personal. But- even if there wasn’t… I’m not the type to let a man like that walk.”

You question him gently. “…Like what?”

He glances at you for a moment, hesitating on his words. “He… had a reputation. Real big, strong, the cocky type. Liked throwing his weight around, starting fights…” Matt laughs. “He was so overconfident in himself, that- word was- he never even carried a gun. Thought that his sheer strength, “street smarts”, whatever, would be enough to carry him through anything.”

You roll your eyes at the notion. “Sounds like a real prick, yeah. But still, that’s not enough to get a bounty put on himself… right?”

You can’t see the way the edge of Matt’s lips tug up in the slightest smile at your words. It fades fast regardless though as he continues talking around the dark truth of the matter.

“Fist fights weren’t the only way he liked to… throw his weight around. He also had a penchant for targeting people that he knew couldn’t stand a chance at fighting back. He… enjoyed taking things that didn’t belong to him.”

The dark, disgusted edge that Matt’s voice has taken tells you that he’s not talking about material possessions. Your stomach drops. “…Oh.”

“Yeah.” His gaze locks onto the table. “There are… certain lines that you just don’t cross. He quite enjoyed crossing them. I quite enjoy killing those who do. So, no. It wasn’t about the money, doll.”

You uncross your arms, taking a deep breath. The metallic sting of the low-life’s remains wafts off of Matt and hits the back of your throat. The two of you sit in thoughtful silence for a few moments, and you come to a conclusion. “I wish you’d have let me come with you.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “Like I said this morning, love, it was too dangerous-”

“Don’t you know how much I’d have loved to get in on a job like that?”

He breathes. In, and out. “I… do. I do. But I couldn’t risk it. Not this time.”

To his credit, he was often quite lenient with your requests. As much as he’d sometimes like to keep you here, safe, tied to the bedpost to never leave again and subject yourself to the cruel, dangerous world outside… he doesn’t. He’s come to recognize the strength that resides within you. He knows you can hold your own. He usually does let you accompany him on these jobs. He can even admit that you two make an excellent team.

That’s why you didn’t argue this morning when he insisted that he handle this one alone. The both of you have come very far. If he has reasons for wanting to work alone sometimes, you’ll step aside. But seeing him now, looking so worn down… knowing the type of revenge you missed out on, even if it wasn’t yours to take… it’s hard to stomach that you could only sit back and wait.

Your silence doesn’t sit well with him, so he continues to explain. “I know you can hold your own. As much as I hate to see you have to do it, I know. I know. But against a man like that, if there existed even the smallest chance that we could be overpowered and you could be subjected to… him.” He shakes his head, resolute. “No. I won’t ever risk that. I couldn’t live with myself if he’d so much as laid a finger on you.”

His eyes meet yours, and to your surprise, they’re almost pleading.

You hold his gaze for a moment before responding, letting the air’s tension ease. “…I get it.” You sigh, but it’s mostly one of acceptance. “But Gods, Matt, you look like you could collapse. How big of a fight did he put up, anyways?”

The old wooden chair creaks beneath him as he leans back, giving it his full exhausted weight. “He was a good fighter, I’ll admit. Strong too.” He reaches beneath his jacket again, this time retrieving his gun from its concealed holster. He points it skyward, finger thankfully off the trigger, tapping the end of the barrel a few times against his temple. You note the edge of unhinged pride in his voice. “He’d never met me though.”

The few remaining shreds of your sanity beg you not to find the display endearing. They lose in the face of your love for him.

Smiling, you shake your head, trying to reprimand him still. “You’re reckless, Matthew. Utterly reckless.”

“C’mon, poppet…” He lowers the gun to rest on the table, pointing away from you. “You can still hear my heartbeat, can’t you?”

You nod.

“Did you ever hear it stop?”

You shake your head.

“Then there you have it. I’m just fine.”

His idea of reassurance could use a little work.

“Are you though? For- for all I know he could’ve hurt you fifty different ways, you healed on the way home, and I’ll be none the wiser! It’s not like I can just strip you and look for myself, I have to take your word for it!”

He’s grateful for the mask hiding the way his cheeks flush at your sudden mention of stripping him. He tilts his head to the side, searching for a more convincing answer.

The way his head moves causes the fabric of his mask to stretch out across his cheek. Not much, but enough. Just enough for your worried gaze to catch the tear in the fabric and the way it pulls apart, exposing a sliver of skin beneath.

You bolt up, leaning in close to him before he can even understand what you’re staring at. His wide-eyed gaze flicks toward you, but he doesn’t pull back. “…What is it?”

You reach a cautious hand out, giving him time to stop you, and he doesn’t. Pinching the material of his mask between your finger and thumb, you wince when you feel that it isn’t dry. Gently pulling down, you part the fabric far enough to get a better look beneath. “You have a tear in your-”

You can’t see much through the hole without tearing it wider, but the smeared black stain on the otherwise pale skin of his cheek causes you to falter. “…It’s not a tear.”

You pull your gaze away to look into his eyes. “It’s a cut.”

Recollection seems to hit him at your words, and he raises a hand to meet yours, his fingertips blindly assessing the area. When he pulls them away they’re tinted black.

Sheepish laughter escapes him as you release your hold on his mask, your frown deeper than ever.

“What can I say? He, eh… he brought a knife to a gun fight.”

You don’t laugh. “He cut through your mask. He hurt you.”

At your tone, Matt scrambles to do damage control. “It was barely a scratch! You- you know- one thing about big guys like him? They’re not all that nimble- or- or- agile like me. He hardly even landed any hits on me!”

Your eyes widen. “‘Hardly’? Are there more!?”

He shakes his head, hands held out in a placating gesture. “No! I- I mean- I don’t think so! It’s… kinda hard to tell… y’know? I was so caught up in the moment, it’s… easy to miss something as small as the sting of a blade.”

You stare at him, mouth agape for a moment in incredulous silence. You eventually close it, bringing your palms up to drag them down your cheeks in exasperation.

You suppose for a man who’s been shot as many times as he has, the pain of a cut would hardly even register by comparison.

His name comes out as a whine this time. “Matthew…”

“I’m sorry, love…” You can’t read much of his expression, but he sounds guilty.

You force yourself to take a calming breath.

“…No, no… it’s not your fault that he hurt you.” You could argue that it’s his fault for taking the job alone in the first place, but that’s hardly fair of you to say. Not when you know how much of his motivation was to keep you safe.

“You… don’t have to show me, if he hurt you elsewhere. Not if it isn’t vital. But please, at least let me help somehow. I can- I can wash those clothes for you.” Your gaze roams across the cut in his mask. “And I can mend that hole.”

“You don’t have to do any of that, doll, I-”

“I want to.” You cut him off with conviction. “I’ve- I’ve got food for you too… if you want it…” You add, gesturing to the pot on the stove with less conviction.

His gaze lingers on you as your tense shoulders fall, and his own tired muscles relax in response. Thoughtfully, he slowly begins to shrug off his jacket. “Yeah… yeah. Okay. I’d like that.”

You stand, coming around to lift the fabric from his shoulders. His voice grows soft. “…Thank you.”

-

With soup in your stomachs, Matt’s freshly washed clothes tumbling in the dryer, and himself currently in the shower, you release a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you set a freshly rinsed bowl in the drying rack. Retrieving the nearby hand towel from the counter, you admire what you can see of the sunset from your kitchen window, sifting through the thoughts and emotions cluttering your mind.

Matt’s order of operations this evening were strange, but hardly anything about him isn’t, so you don’t think about it too hard. Whatever compelled him to eat before his shower makes no sense to you. But hey, everybody’s got their preferences, you suppose.

Thankfully, his mask and jacket seemed to be the only two things that had any significant amount of blood on them. He let you take them off, what with you so eager to get them in the wash and rid your kitchen of the metallic scent. You imagined his shirt and pants didn’t come out completely unscathed, but with his penchant for an all-black wardrobe, it was hard to tell. You weren’t about to have him strip right then when it seemed all he wanted to do was take a nap right there at the table. It was fine, the rest could go in the wash later.

Returning from the washroom to the kitchen, the sight of him smiling at you, politely requesting soup with blood still smeared across his cheek gave you pause. When you questioned him on it, he blinked at you with tired eyes, stating that your cooking would give him the strength to go shower afterwards. You figured he was mostly saying that in an attempt to lift your spirits, surely he wasn’t that hungry. Nevertheless, it made you smile.

Pulling your mind from the past and your gaze from the purple-orange sky, you drape your towel over the oven door’s handle. With the kitchen back in order, you close the curtains, kill the lights, and make your way to the dryer.

You interrupt the machine and pull the dry mask from the drum before shutting the door and allowing the remaining larger, thicker, still-damp fabrics to finish out the cycle.

You flatten the balaclava in your hands as you make your way to the bedroom. Matt’s humming escapes from the crack beneath the bathroom door, along with the sound of running water as he continues his shower. Thoughtfully running your thumb over the slit across the mask’s left cheek, you stop at your dresser. Pilfering through the top drawer for your little sewing kit, you decide to make good on your offer to mend the hole.

Clicking on your bedside lamp, you kick your slippers off and settle atop the sheets, laying your supplies out in front of you. Analyzing the fabric, you pick out what you’ll need. It’s a pretty clean cut.

You push aside the quiet question of how sharp the man’s knife had been.

Should be easy enough to mend it close to new with some tight, careful stitching.

You push aside the quiet question of if any part of Matt might’ve needed stitching.

Cutting a length of black thread, you ready the needle, and set to your quiet work.

You shake your head at the prior thought, finding that it won’t leave you be. There’s never any need for stitches when it comes to Matt. The same likely holds true for you now as well. You both heal too quickly for that to be necessary.

You find yourself wishing that’d been the case for you back when you had a knife stuck in your gut, countless safety pins pushed through your skin, and a maniac cornering you, intent on bleeding you out the hard way.

“Death by a thousand cuts.” He’d told you.

Long as you may live, you don’t think you’ll ever forget it.

You try not to dwell on those memories, but it’s hard not to lament what could’ve happened. How differently things could’ve gone if you’d had the power that you possess today. How you’d have pulled that blade from your stomach without fear and shoved it through his throat so fast he wouldn’t have seen it coming. How you’d have torn that hideous white mask off of his face just to watch the shock and pain contort his features as you twisted the blade.

You watch the needle push through the fabric in your hands in a rhythmic, repetitive motion, your body on autopilot as your mind lingers in the past.

Maybe if Matt hadn’t had to show up and save you that day, things could’ve gone differently. Maybe the two of you wouldn’t have had to part ways afterward. Maybe your next meeting wouldn’t have been handcuffed together in an unfamiliar room.

Who knows. It’s a waste of time to wish you could change the past. And if things hadn’t gone the way they did, maybe you’d have never seen him again at all. Maybe there’s a reason for everything happening exactly how it did. Who knows.

An unknown force suddenly jostles you and you yelp, startled out of your thoughts. You immediately hear Matt apologize, and you turn, quickly gathering that the “unknown force” was nothing more than him, plopping down on the bed next to you. You open your mouth to respond, but you’re interrupted when you go to move your hand and an instinctive hiss of pain comes out of you instead.

Looking down, your eyes widen at the sight of your sewing needle, pierced straight through the pad of your left index finger.

“Oh, no!” Comes Matt’s shocked voice from beside you after his gaze follows yours. “Ohhh, no, no, no. Did I make you do that?”

You assume your fingers must’ve slipped when he startled you, but you aren’t about to blame him. You struggle to find your words as you stare at the tiny impalement. “It’s… it’s fine, honey, I was just… zoned out. Didn’t even notice that you’d left the bathroom…”

You gather Matt’s mask in your free hand, unable to put it down given that it’s still attached to the thread, attached to the needle, attached to you. Pinning the fabric between your wrist and your chest, you twist your body and hold your hand out under the lamp to your left. The thread attaching you to the mask grows taut, tugging lightly at your new piercing, and you feel your mind slipping.

You don’t feel yourself in your bed anymore, and you don’t see your nightstand in front of you. You feel yourself pinned to a wall, and you see that awful man pushing another pin through your skin. He’s rough and careless, pressing them deep to catch on more than just skin, tugging them back up to fasten them and make sure this hurts as much as possible.

Tears well up in your eyes as you feel someone take hold of your wrist. You instinctively pull away, and their soft grip tightens.

You hear that awful, wet, sputtering voice in your mind, muttering its nonsense, growing louder, angrier. You try to make sense of its repetitions. You shut your eyes tight and all you can see is blood. All you can hear is the blood spilling from his lips… his tongue. Tongue. That’s right. Someone cut out his tongue. Who? Was it you? Have you forgotten that too? Is this your punishment for such a crime? But- no- why would you do that? Did you do that? Did you do that? Do you deserve this? What did you do to deserve this?

What did you do?

What did you do?

What did you do, child?

Matthew’s voice cuts through the noise at last, shouting your name.

When you open your eyes, you meet his through a watery gaze.

He lowers his voice, but his heavy, serious tone remains as he begins to ground you.

“It’s over. He’s dead. He’s dead, and gone, and never coming back, and you didn’t do anything. You never did anything to deserve that. Not any of it.”

You’re tempted to close your eyes, wanting his voice to be the only thing you can perceive, but he stops you. “Ah-ah-ah- no, no, poppet, stay with me. Want you to keep your eyes on me, okay?”

You nod, raising your free hand to wipe at your eyes. He keeps one hand around your other wrist, holding your injury steady as he tugs at the collar of his bathrobe. He then reaches for your free hand with his, and you hardly have time to be confused before he’s slipping it beneath the thick fabric of his robe, bringing your hand to rest on his bare chest. The bold move shocks you halfway out of your mind’s haze, and for a brief, blissful moment all you can focus on is how warm he is.

Guiding your hand, he settles it directly over the part of his chest where you’d planted his last two hearts. “Do you feel that?”

The steady twin thumping against your palm aligns with the rhythm of his pulse in your mind. You nod. He rests his hand atop yours, a silent invitation to keep it there.

“Good. Focus on that for me, okay? Focus on that while we breathe. Just follow my lead, I know you can do this.”

He patiently guides you through a few long minutes of breathing, until you’re able to match his measured breaths. As soon as you feel able, you try to apologize. “I’m so sorry, Matt, I don’t know what came over me, I just-”

He gently hushes you. “Pumpkin, c’mon, none of that. You don’t have anything to apologize for, okay? Just breathe. In…” You copy him again. “Aaand out…” You manage to let your shoulders drop on the exhale this time, and he smiles. “Good. There we go.” His hand slowly leaves his chest, and you wordlessly slip yours out of his robe, not wanting to overstay your welcome.

You risk another glance at your injury, and to your relief it doesn’t make your head swim this time. Matt still tries to distract you from it, leaning in to break your line of sight. “You don’t have to worry about that, doll, I’ll take care of it-”

You nod, but still cut him off by tugging your hand closer for a better look. “You can- I’ll- I’ll let you, I just… wanna see.”

He allows it, his careful grip on your wrist remaining. “See what?”

You turn your hand under the light. “How deep it is.” Your stomach turns a bit as you stare, but you’re relieved to find that it’s not that bad. The needle simply slipped through the soft pad of your fingertip, not hitting anything else. You feel silly for caring, what with your body’s capabilities, the risk from something like this is as trivial as a paper cut. You suppose you just haven’t gotten used to living in a more resilient body. All of your old fears still linger, unnecessary as they may be.

Regardless, you look away as you allow him to take your hand back. “…Okay, Doc, have at me.”

Matthew chuckles. “Me? A doctor? Goodness, what is this world coming to…”

Attempting to keep the mood light, he playfully considers your minor injury as he steadies your upturned hand on his knee. “Now, this is a pretty cool piercing, I’ll admit. But it’s also a pretty inconvenient one, isn’t it. So as- uh- oh, what do the kids say these days… hardcore as it looks, I’m gonna need to remove this, alright?”

You nod, laughing beneath your breath, and he finds himself satisfied with the small smile he manages to bring out of you.

“I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can, yeah? Want me to count you down?”

You close your eyes, shaking your head. “Nah, it’s fine. In your own time.”

“Alright, love. Deep breath in for me?”

You inhale, and one short, mildly uncomfortable moment later, you’re freed from the painful intrusion.

“There we go.” You open your eyes as he takes the needle with its attached thread and balaclava out of your hold. Playful as ever, he scolds the offending object as he sets it aside. “Bad needle, bad! No one hurts my poppet, not even you.” He shakes his head, and you huff a laugh at his commitment to the bit.

As sweet as your partner is being, your focus still shifts to your sore finger, held in your own lap now. You watch two little beads of black blood form on both ends of the puncture wound. They swell, and slowly begin to roll down your finger as Matt returns to kneel in front of you.

A half-baked thought occurs, and you act on it immediately. Holding your finger out to him in offering, you feel a sense of déjà vu, recalling the first time you made an offering like this. His eyes widen at the sudden presentation, and far be it from him to presume, he questions you.

“Would you… like me to go grab a bandage for that, dear? It should… stop bleeding on its own very soon, but, I don’t mind if you-”

You shake your head. “That’s not necessary. I, uh… I’m offering.”

His brows raise. “Offering?”

“Y-yeah. A taste. If you want it.”

His tongue briefly pokes out to wet his lips, a minuscule movement, but you catch it. “Are- are you sure? You were just pretty upset, I don’t want to make anything worse…”

You nudge your hand closer, an odd sense of desperation fueling you. “I’m sure.”

Conflicted but clearly craving it, he brings your finger to his lips carefully. You take in a breath, nodding. Painfully slow, ready to stop himself at any second, he finally tastes you, and you exhale involuntarily. When he pulls away, there are already two little dots, tiny twin scars adorning both sides of your finger.

Damn, you sure do heal fast.

Why does that disappoint you?

You catch him eyeing the twin trails running down the length of your digit, and you encourage him to do what he likely considers too obscene. “Go ahead, if you’d like, love.”

His unsure gaze flicks between you and the remaining blood on your finger several times, before eventually giving in when you don’t waver. His tongue peeks out again, chasing the trails down the length of your finger, and his cheeks are burning red when he pulls away.

You feel lightheaded at the sight, in the best way possible. Sighing out a breathy “There you go…”, you take your hand back, admiring the pinprick scars.

“Thank you… you, uh, certainly didn’t have to offer that…” Matt’s appreciation goes in one ear and out the other as you quickly find yourself in the grips of a brand new idea. A newly born desire.

A stupid one? Maybe.

A dangerous one? Perhaps.

A weird one? Certainly.

You turn and pitch it to him before you can think any better of it.

“Can we do that again?”

He blinks a few times. “…Pardon?”

You reach for your sewing kit. “Can we…” You fish out a pin-filled cushion and present it to him. “…Do that again?”

You imagine the gears in his brain stuttering and shifting as his face cycles through several different expressions. “You want… to do that… again? All of it?”

You nod, a slightly less than subtle smile on your face. “Uhuh!”

“You want to pierce yourself again? On purpose this time? Because I- I promise you there’s easier ways to draw blood-”

“It’s not that different from a cut.” You interject. “And I… certainly don’t have to be the one to do it, but I can be… if you… don’t… want to.” Your voice is barely audible by the time you get the full sentence out.

“You want me to do it?” He reaches up, placing his palm on your forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” His question is mixed with disbelieving laughter, and the sound is contagious.

Now laughing too, you nod, pulling his hand away and taking it in yours. “Matt, I’m high on endorphins right now, I’m better than okay.” You squeeze his hand. “And I’d quite like to make this last.”

What remains of your rationality pipes up, reminding you that perhaps he doesn’t want to. You sober up a bit at the thought.  “That- that is… only if you want to.”

He shakes his head. “No, I- wait that’s- that’s not a no! I mean- it’s not a yes either- at least- not yet! I…” He sighs. “I just… don’t want to bring up bad memories again.”

You alleviate his concern with admittedly shady logic at best. “We can make new ones! Re… I don’t know… re-route the association.”

He frowns, clearly skeptical.

“I promise you, Matthew, I wouldn’t do this if I thought it would upset me.”

You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

“How can you know that it won’t?”

“I… can’t. Not for sure.” You place the pin cushion gingerly on your knee, and you crack a smile. “Not unless we try.”

He considers you for a long moment, and you release your eager hold on his hand,  reiterating your prior point.

“It’s really okay if you don’t want to.”

He takes the cushion in one hand and slowly pulls a random pin out with the other. He asks you a very serious question.

“Will you tell me to stop, the moment you don’t like it anymore?”

Surprise paints your features. “Of course.”

He sets the cushion aside. “You’re sure you’d rather I be the one to do it?”

Your breathing picks up. “I’m sure.”

He notices, because of course he does, and he smiles, voice regaining a playful edge. “Well then… what kind of doctor would I be to leave a patient in need?”

You hate to admit the effect such a silly statement has on you, but from the way he’s watching you like a hawk… you probably don’t need to admit anything.

You ask one more time. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? Don’t let me pressure you…”

He toys with the tiny, sharp instrument, rolling it between his fingers.

“I’d be lying if I said the idea of this doesn’t… entice me.” He gently pokes at one of his own fingers, testing the waters. “And having you put this level of trust in me?” He meets your gaze. “It’s nothing short of an honor.”

“Then…” You feel heat rising to your own cheeks, and flex your fingers before offering him your left hand. “Please?”

He takes it in his, and pauses with a question. “Are you sure this is where you want it? Other areas would likely be… less sensitive. L-less painful, I mean. They… might also bleed less though…”

You nod. “Yes. I want it all, pain included.”

He smirks, running his thumb along the length of your middle finger. “You’re a little crazy, you know that?”

You pout playfully. “Only a little? …Gotta step up my game then…”

He shakes his head, laughing beneath his breath. Focus returning to your hand, he requests your preference. “Through the fingertip, like the first one?”

A rush of excitement tightens your chest. “Yeah, uh… the middle one, this time, please.”

He holds the appendage steady, readying the pin. “So polite…” He glances up at you. “A countdown this time, or no?”

You shake your head. “No… uh, again, in your own time.”

He picks up on the slight nervous edge in your voice. “You don’t have to watch, love.”

You consider it, and close your eyes. “Just… for this first one.”

You feel the tiniest point of pressure against the pad of your finger.

“No second thoughts yet?”

Your lips curl up at the edges.

“None.”

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he mentions it. “Breathe for me, doll.”

You obey.

“In…”

Your lungs fill.

“Out…”

You breathe out, slow at first, and then hard, as you feel the thin metal pierce through your sensitive skin. Your free hand grips the bedsheets and a sudden heat washes over you. Matt’s calm voice is quick to fill your ears.

“Good, good. There you go, you’re okay.”

You open your eyes and sure enough, he’s mirrored the first injury. Not too deep, just enough to hurt, and draw blood when removed.

His thumb rubs distracting circles into your palm. “How are you feeling now?”

Your shaky breath turns into quiet laughter, and you feel a little unhinged as you look him in the eye. “Good… really good.”

Relief softens his features, and warms his smile. “Good. You did very well.”

Your cheeks heat from the praise, the feeling mixing deliciously with the slight throb of pain. “You-” You take in a breath. “You can take it out now.”

He shifts slightly in his position beneath you. “You sure? I’m in no rush, doll, we can take our time with this.”

“I know, I know… but I want it to bleed.” You unfurl your right hand from the sheets, reaching out to rest it on his left shoulder. “Besides, I hate to make you wait for your reward.”

His brows raise. “Reward?”

“You didn’t think I’d have you pierce me just to keep the blood all to myself, did you?” You grin. “It’d be an awful waste.”

“That’s…” His own breath grows slightly heavier, and you revel in it. “…Very generous of you, love.”

He takes the end of the pin between his fingertips, careful not to tug on it. His eyes ask for permission, and you grant it with a nod. You don’t close your eyes this time. You do squeeze his shoulder, though.

Slowly, gently, he pulls the pin back, and you watch in rapt fascination as it moves through your skin. Your breath hitches the slightest bit when it slides fully out, and comfort spills from Matthew’s lips. “Sh-sh-shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay… it’s out now.” The mixture of comfort, pain, and praise that he’s giving you is enough to make you dizzy. You love it. Maybe too much. A brief thought passes that you may never get enough.

It fades when he looks up at you, and you see the restrained desire in his eyes. It mixes with surprise. “Oh-oh! I didn’t know you were watching that time…”

You raise a brow. “Is that okay?”

A beat passes, and he laughs, soft and breathy. “Of course. Of course it is.”

Blood is already beading at your fingertip, so you raise it up in offering. “You’re really good at this.”

He eyes your fresh little wounds and a faint sense of satisfaction blooms deep within him. “…Am I?”

His eyes close as he takes the tip of your finger between his lips, and you bite back an embarrassing noise when you feel him apply light suction. “S- shit- you sure are...”

Your lidded eyes graze across his features, and they catch on the new scar adorning his cheek. They remain there even after he’s released your finger, and as you allow that hand to fall to your lap, you reach out to him with the other. He doesn’t pull away when you cup his cheek, but he does comment after a quick breath to collect himself. “Like I said earlier… ‘s just a scratch.”

You gently brush over the raised line with your thumb, a pout turning your lips down. “Scratches don’t leave scars…”

He cups a hand over yours, blinking slowly. “I’m okay, truly.” Tongue poking out from between his wet lips again, he smiles. “Feeling better than okay right now, thanks to you.”

You look from his scar, to his eyes, and back to his scar a few times as an urge blooms within you. It’s a familiar one, often fought back, and re-emerging with renewed intensity every time.

You let it win tonight.

Leaning down toward him, giving him ample time to stop you, you move to press a kiss to his cheek. He makes no attempt to object.

His breath catches, almost imperceptible if you weren’t so close, as your lips meet his freshly scarred skin. You linger for a moment that feels like forever, before pulling away. When your eyes open and meet once more, the room feels warmer.

…Maybe it’s just you.

His eyes flutter closed again as he leans into your touch, still cupping his cheek. His other hand finds yours, joining it on your lap.

As the two of you bask in your respective little highs, you feel uncharacteristically bold. So when a question arises, you don’t dismiss it as you’ve done in the past.

“Matthew?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever think about kissing me?”

His eyes blink open.

“I… do kiss you?”

You smile at the innocent confusion.

“Not… not like I just did. Not on my cheek, or my forehead, or my hand…”

Your thumb brushes past the corner of his mouth.

“On my lips.”

His eyes widen.

“…Oh.”

You didn’t think his face could grow much warmer, but it does.

“I… well…” He seems reluctant to answer, and you wonder what’s holding him back.

“It’s okay if you don’t, love. I just… wonder, sometimes.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, seeming to come to a quiet conclusion. “…I do, though.” His words suddenly have a desperate edge to them. “I have, and I do. But… I feel like I shouldn’t.”

Your head tilts to the side. “Shouldn’t think about it?”

“N-” He falters. “…Yes… that’s… part of it. I do feel like I shouldn’t sometimes. I don’t ever want to push that sort of affection on you. I- I’d be okay if we never… went there. Honestly. Just… having you- the honor of calling you mine. That’s more than enough for me.”

Your eyes threaten to water from the effort of containing your emotions. “That means a lot to me, you know? That you don’t want to push me. But… I’d like to put that inner conflict of yours at ease. Because I think about it too.”

“You do?” There’s genuine disbelief in his voice.

You nod. “I sure do. Ha… honestly, I fear it’s a bit… obvious, sometimes.”

He shrugs, shaking his head slowly. “I mean… I never want to assume. I’m not always the best at reading people…”

“Well, what if I make it clear, hm?” You lock in on his gaze. “I want to kiss you too, Matthew.”

Flustered by the direct confession, he trips over his words. “I- ahaha- well, wow. Uhm- I mean, you see…”

Your voice is soft. “What is it, love?”

“I’m…” He closes his eyes. “Afraid.”

You first try the lighthearted method of easing his fears. “I promise I won’t bite…”

In spite of his apparent inner conflict, he laughs. “Not, uh, not of that… but thank you. It’s, eh…”

“You can be candid with me, honey.”

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to… get you sick.”

You blink. “Do you… feel a cold coming on, or…?”

You move your hand up to feel his forehead, but right now he’s flushed all over, so… oh. Oh, maybe you’ve been misinterpreting that.

Mirroring your earlier exchange, he pulls your hand down with a small smile. “No… not that kind of sick. I mean…” He toys with your fingers as he finds his words. “Sometimes I feel like there’s something inside me. Something dangerous. Something bad. I’m afraid of passing it to you.”

You glance at your wrist, and its slowly growing collection of black lines. “Honey… I think that whatever lives within you is already in me too.” You tap a few times on your chest, right over both of your hearts. “You know?”

“Yeah… I do.” His gaze lingers on your chest, but you can sense that it’s innocent. Honestly, it’s almost like he’s looking more through you than at you. From his next words, you can tell that his mind’s a little far away. “Still, though… I fear that there’s more. Something worse. Something that wouldn’t serve you. I… I don’t know what it is.”

You mull his words over, and come to a rational conclusion. Well. As rational as you’re capable of being in your current state.

You reach out to place a finger beneath his chin, your thumb dangerously close to his lower lip. It doesn’t take much more than that to bring him back into the here and now with you. “Even so. I’m not scared. I wouldn’t be here with you today if I was afraid of taking risks.”

His lips part slightly as you pause, but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“If you really don’t want to, I will not pressure you. I won’t bring this up again unless you do. But regardless- I need you to know this, Matthew.”

For once, he’s the one holding his breath.

“I don’t care if you’re sick. I don’t care if it’s contagious. Hell, I’d kiss you even if you were dead.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips again. A subconscious thing, you figure.

Satisfied that you’ve made your stance clear, you move to release your gentle hold on his chin.

His hand flies up to stop you.

“Please.”

You freeze.

“Please… what?”

His tone is full of quiet desperation.

“Kiss me. Please. I want it too, I do, I do.”

Your breath grows shallow.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

You allow your hand to slide until it’s cupping the back of his jaw, and you lean down slowly. He rises to meet you halfway, you both close your eyes, and together, you give in.

It’s desperate and clumsy, trembling breaths and shaky hands. Your uneven positioning doesn’t lend itself well to the action, and your shared inexperience makes itself quietly known.

But it’s passionate, it’s intimate, vulnerable, and honest.

It’s far from perfect. It’s real.

Neither of you would change a single thing.

Breaking apart, you both descend into fits of quiet giggles. Eyes still closed and foreheads pressed together, you lean into each other, catching your breath.

When you’re calm enough to speak, you pull back, squeezing his hands in yours. “You’re so warm…”

He laces his fingers between yours. “You’re so soft…”

He shifts in his half-kneeling stance at the bed beside you, and it suddenly hits you. “Gods, how long have I kept you like this?”

The sudden question pulls him halfway out of his post-kiss daze. “Like what?”

You laugh, embarrassed. “On the floor in front of me! I’ve been so caught up in… in- in you, I didn’t even think about it, I…”

He shakes his head, tone completely unbothered. “It’s alright, doll! Really, it’s…” He stares up at you for a moment, and exhales. “It’s far from a bad position to be in.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Even so, you can’t be comfortable. C’mon, we’re getting you back in this bed with me properly.”

You move to encourage him to stand, and he puts his hands down on the edge of the bed to support himself. Only, instead of standing, he flinches with a quiet “Ow!” When he pulls his hand back, you’re mortified to see the pin he’d used on you earlier sticking out of his palm.

“Oh, fuck- Matt- here- let me see.” You reach for his wrist, and he lets you take it.

You sigh in relief once you hold it in the light. It’s not buried to the hilt, just about halfway. It hasn’t pierced through his hand completely, but the sight still makes you cringe. Guilt is quick to wash over you. “Matt, I’m so sorry, this is my fault.”

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “It’s okay, poppet. It hardly even hurt, just took me by surprise more than anything.”

You throw him a skeptical look, and he doubles down. “Honest! And anyways, it’s not your fault that I left it lying on the bed.”

You frown. “I distracted you…”

He shrugs. “I’d say it was well worth it, given the type of distraction.”

Shaking your head, you cradle his hand in yours. “I’m still sorry.” Looking at him with worried eyes, you make an offer. “I can take it out, if you want me to. Or- or you can! I mean- whatever you’re comfortable with…”

He nods, his smile soft. “You can do it, doll. You won’t hurt me.”

The confidence- (or is it trust?)- in his words surprises you. It shouldn’t, you suppose, given that this is nothing compared to the whole heart-transplant-thing. He wasn’t quite conscious for that, though…

Still, you don’t take the job lightly. Carefully steadying his hand, you reach to grasp the end of the pin. “Do you want me to count?”

He mirrors your words from earlier. “No, it’s okay. In your own time.”

You hold the pin steady, and pull. Not too fast, not too slow, you try to mirror how he did it for you, and it’s out in no time. He doesn't even flinch. You frown at the offending object as you place it on your bedside table with purpose. “Bad pin, bad.”

Chuckling, he flexes his hand in your hold. “It’s really alright, you know? I’m not upset.”

Your focus returns to his palm, watching blood bead up out of the tiny hole. Apparently deciding to continue acting out your prior exchange in reverse, he offers it up to you. “That’s yours, if you’d like.”

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “…I’ve hardly earned it.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not something to be earned. I’m giving it willingly. You’re welcome to any part of me… whenever you want it.” He catches your downcast gaze. “Always.”

Flustered by his sincerity, you try to let go of the guilt nagging at you. Focusing on the blood collecting in his palm, you recall the taste from last time.

You crave it.

Leaning down, you kitten-lick at the tiny puddle. Once you catch a taste, though, you’re quick to lave your tongue over it in earnest. He watches you closely.

Shutting your eyes, you savor his offering, but it’s quick work nonetheless, his injury healing as fast as yours had.

Once his hand is cleaned, you thank him, feeling fire on your cheeks.

“Hmm. I feel like I should be the one thanking you.” He remarks while moving to stand. Surely his knees are killing him, but he voices no complaint. He’s far more content than you’d seen him all day, actually.

He stretches with a yawn before falling into step and making his way around the bed to rejoin you. He combs his fingers through his half-damp hair, feathering it out. You watch in quiet admiration as it drapes across his shoulders.

The man has nicer hair than you do, you think to yourself for the millionth time since knowing him. Not in true jealousy, of course, but it has always surprised you. In your early meetings, you’d only ever seen a hint of it, peeking out from beneath the neck of his mask. He keeps it tied back and tucked away when he’s working, so it wasn’t until the two of you had some genuine alone-time together that you’d been graced with a proper view of it.

Milk-chocolate brown, silky-smooth, and pin-straight. He had the type of hair you’d once envied, seemingly effortless to care for. He never had to do much to make it look nice. But of course, he’d always brush it off when you said so. Seeming almost flustered, he was often unsure of what to do with your compliments, especially in the beginning. You did your best to lay them on easy.

The bed shifts once again beneath his weight, and this time you don’t flinch at all. Sitting back against the headboard, he shuffles up beside you. You lean into him as the mattress dips and he stretches out his left arm, wrapping it around you.

“Comfy?” He asks.

“Mmmhm.” You hum.

Reaching out for his hand, you pull it toward you. You love his hands, and he knows it. Luckily, he’s never seemed bothered by your penchant for hanging onto them. Quite the opposite, if you were to guess. You aren’t oblivious to his possessive nature, after all.

Idly manipulating his fingers, you quietly admire them for the thousandth time. You’ve made yourself quite familiar with every scar, callus, and crease on these strong hands. With one thought as to all that they’re capable of, it still baffles you how gently he handles you. He always has.

That doesn’t mean it’s never hurt. Sometimes pain is necessary. Or, at the very least, it’s unavoidable. But he was always gentle about it. Injuring you, bandaging you, feeding you, caring for you… hell, even that time he prepared to kill you, he was gentle about it.

You can hurt someone gently.

You can pleasure someone roughly.

…There may be a few wires crossed in your brain. You laugh to yourself softly.

“What’s funny, love?”

You shake your head before resting it on his shoulder. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just thinking.”

Even when he was scared, or angry, his gentle touch never faltered.

You sometimes wonder if it was fear, or rage, that caused his hands to tremble after your encounter with Mr. T. Was it fear of losing you? Was it anger at what the man had done? Honestly, it could’ve simply been the adrenaline rush of having just finally killed the man.

…Regardless. It wasn’t lost on you how hard he tried to keep himself composed, diligently removing pin, after pin, after pin.

That’s the only part of that awful memory that you don’t mind.

Well, that, and the confession of his feelings for you. That was certainly a highlight too.

Manually curling his fingers one by one into his palm, you run your thumb over the symbol of Venus, tattooed on his middle finger. Every time you see it, you hear his voice in your mind, answering your inquiry as to its meaning.

“Because I’m a feminist.” He’d stated matter-of-factly.

You pull his hand up further, and plant a kiss on the reminder inked into his skin.

He turns his head, planting one on the crown of your head in turn.

Using your thumb to push his fingers back out, you frown at the sight of the new scar on his palm. It’s a tiny thing, honestly. Unnoticeable unless you’re looking for it.

You huff, and plant another kiss there anyways.

Matt breathes his laughter into your hair.

“Y’know, I’d been planning on piercing myself anyways, and offering you my blood in turn. That little accident with the pin really just cut out half the work for me.”

Your eyes widen and you lean away to turn and look at him directly. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean- you were so generous with me today… it only felt fair.”

“I wasn’t expecting… you… you didn’t have to do that.”

His hand comes to life, turning the tables and beginning to gently play with yours.

“Okay… okay, I’ll admit.” His thumb taps thoughtfully over the black dots adorning your fingertips. “Fairness wasn’t the only motivating factor.”

The undercurrent of suggestion in his tone sparks your interest. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He thoughtfully hums.

“Well, if you had further plans, I certainly never meant to interrupt.”

He considers it, softly pinching your fingers between his own. “Well. You did seem to imply earlier that you wanted more than one piercing. I’m still very willing to help.”

At the prospect, you grow a little bold. “Would you be willing to let me return the favor? You shouldn’t be doing all the work.”

He smiles, playful. “Haven’t had your fill of me yet, hm?”

You reach out to your nightstand, retrieving the pin once more. “I don’t think I could ever get enough, love.”

-

The two of you settle in, taking a few turns carefully piercing one another and nursing the blood. You keep the focus on your hands, for tonight, at least.

At one point, his palm brushes across the stub where your left pinky once was, and a shiver runs down your spine. His voice slips out, low and apologetic. “Sorry, poppet.”

“It’s alright… ‘s just sensitive sometimes.” You’re willing to move past the moment, but he lingers on it.

“I really never wanted to do that.”

“I know. I… it could’ve been a lot worse.”

Pain and regret seeps into his voice.

“It shouldn’t have happened at all. But they… didn’t give me much choice.”

You recall the hammer he held that night, and how he set it aside instead of turning it on you.

“You bent the rules as far as you could without breaking them. I know that.”

“I told you how I went back and made them pay in the end, right?”

You nod, but still, you question him, wanting to hear it again.

“They suffered?”

His left arm tightens around you.

“Absolutely.”

You relax against him, nodding in approval.

“Very good.”

He holds his own left pinky out for you, and you pierce it slowly.

-

When you’re both comfortably high off of one another, you will yourself to move one final time to set the pin safely aside.

As you curl back into Matt’s side, you notice his latest wound, still smeared with a small amount of congealing, black blood. Bringing it to your lips without hesitation, you mumble to yourself. “Getting sloppy with my work… shame on me.”

After cleaning up the mess and kissing it better one final time, you let your head fall back against the pillows. Matt regards you with lidded eyes and a soft laugh, reaching down to cup your cheek. You question him with a soft sound, and his voice is low when he answers you.

“You’ve still got my blood on your lips.”

Having lost your brain-to-mouth filter several piercings ago, you pose a bold solution.

“How about you help me clean it off then?”

You hear his heart pick up its pace at the invitation.

“Oh, I’d love to.”

Bringing his lips to meet yours for the second time tonight, you both melt into the kiss. It’s slow, and lazy, neither of you in a hurry to pull away. Even through your shared haze, when his hand finds the back of your neck and his fingertips press softly into the muscles there, it sends a jolt of pleasure through you that makes your head spin.

He pulls away to keep from laughing into the kiss. “Sorry, love. Didn’t know that would… affect you so strongly.”

Your tired eyes flutter open, and you speak between heavy breaths. “Don’t be.” You snake your hand around the back of his neck, and pull him down into you once again.

-

When you’ve both exhausted your air and energy, you roll over, wrapping yourself around him. As you lay there, head on his chest in the cozy, quiet room, a distant thought occurs to you.

“…Damn.”

“…Hmm?” His questioning hum reverberates in your ear.

“I never got the rest of the laundry out of the dryer.”

He huffs a laugh, pulling you in close.

“What’s so bad about that? The machine turns itself off.”

“Yeah, but… the laundry will get wrinkled…”

You trail off, and after a moment of thought, you both come to a decision together, voicing it aloud in sync.

“Ah, fuck it.”

Tiredly giggling at the jinx, the two of you give up the fight against sleep.

In the dark, beneath the sheets, your hands find each other, and you lace your sore fingers together, squeezing gently.

A/N: If you'd like to read my thoughts in regards to the process of writing this fic, as well as the musical inspiration behind it, you can find all of that over here, in the end-notes on Ao3! Header Image Sources: x - x - x (they're from Pinterest again, i know i know don't yell at me) My playlist and pin board for Matt. Lastly, of course, here's the link to The Malenkee Saga, and here's a link to Matt's videos if you're just looking for him.

[hazel-of-sodor]

Day 10-Duty-Bound

Day 10-Flora

Other Stories

Other Days

Charles Hatt stepped down from Clarabel into grass that nearly reached the doors of the coaches in places, the mine’s abandoned equipment looking for all the world like monsters of a lost world beneath the vines covering them.

The rails creaked but held under Cassandra's weight, the engine staring ahead at the shed at the end of the mine sidings.

“I assume this is where you've hidden an engine?” He asked as he helped Amanda and Barbara down from the coach, Stephen and Bridget, clambering down eagerly by themselves.

“Five of them,” Cassandra said solemnly. 

“Your father wanted to be here for this,” Stephen looked back to see his Mother climbing down from Annie, her face usually serious. “But someone had to distract the other railway while you came, and he was best for the job.”

Charles snorted, his liaison with the Other Railway had looked panicked when he informed them his father would be covering for him while he took a day's vacation with his family.

“I’m sorry.” Cassandra said suddenly.

Charles turned to the tank engine, confused, “Whatever for?”

She looked back, meeting his gaze, “for lying to you.”

“I don't understand.”

“You will when you open the shed.”

His mother placed a hand on his shoulder, “She didn't lie to hurt you, but to protect others.”

He glanced back towards his mother, then back to Cassandra, “why do I have the feeling I won't like what I find.” He asked cautiously.

“You’ll like what you find,” the tank engine promised, “but you may not like me very much after.”

“Or me.” Barbara added before he could reply. He glanced back toward his sister in confusion.

“I helped hide them,” she said, as if that was supposed to explain anything.

His mother looked back at her sister with a frown, “I wasn't aware of that.”

Barbara looked defiant, “I fired Thomas that night, as Johnathan was unwell.”

Charles looked towards the shed in uncertainty, did he want to know something that was already causing this much trouble within his family?

His wife, bless her, knew him well enough to answer. She took his hand, “You won't be able to rest until you know.”

He nodded, “you're right as alway dear.”

He squared his shoulders, he was the Fat Controller of the North Western Railway. The Other Railway had not beaten him, neither would this. He strode forward and opened the shed door slowly but with purpose. 

It took for a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in the shed, but when he did, his knees nearly gave out.

“Charles!” Amanda cried, but he was already scrambling forward.

“Hello to you too little brother,’ Toryreck rumbled happily. Elsbridge, Callan, and Glynn also greeting him.

Alive! They were Alive!

His siblings were ali…

A sudden realization broke over him like a tidal wave of icey water, chilling him to the bone.

He turned slowly, “you knew.” He said.

“You knew and let me think they were dead!?!?” He was unable to keep his voice from rising into a shout.

“You're mother only found out a few weeks ago,” Cassandra said mildly, “we’ve been trying to get you here ever since.”

She then sighed softly, “but yes, we knew.”

Charles grit his teeth against the hot ball of anger in his stomach. 

‘A man who lets his anger control him is a fool. Don't be a fool as I have been far too many times.’ His fathers words came to him and he forced himself to breathe deeply, before responding.

“Why.” He snapped. “Why would you let me think they were dead?” A part of him noted he still had work to do on controlling his temper.

“Because they are not the only ones,” Cassandra, no Caomhnóir, said. “If it had just been them, I would have told you that day…”

“But they had been hiding engines for years at that point,” Barbara said. “Revealing them risked revealing them all.”

“They were our siblings!,” Charles glared at his sister, “and you let me believe they were dead!”

“When was I supposed to tell you?” Barbara demanded, “By the time you returned they had been hidden for over a year and it was clear you would become the new Fat Controller. Sodor couldn’t risk having you compromised in any way, or the Other Railway would take over.”

“Then why now?” He asked, “I’m Controller for the North Western Railway, it's more of a risk now then ever.”

His sister smirked, “because you said railway, not region.” 

He fell quiet at the accusation, his sister smirked at him.

“You know what we're up against. The Other Railway has ordered all steam engines scrapped. Sodor will stand the gap. The Lady demands it.”

Charles understood what she wasn’t saying, “I was gonna find out no matter what.”

“And they would come for you no matter what.” His sister finished

“I couldn’t justify keeping this from you any longer.” Cassandra spoke up.

Charles sighed, suddenly exhausted, aware his job had become not only more difficult, but far more important. He laid a hand on Toryreck’s bufferbeam and glanced over to Cassandra, trying to gather his thoughts.

“When father told me about you being Caomhnóir,” he began, “I thought that being the Lady’s Champion meant dealing with the occasional ghost engine, not saving the steam engine from extinction.”

Cassandra blushed. “In my defense,” she said, “your father told me that if a Lady asked for something within your abilities, it would be very rude to refuse them without good reason.”

“It was one of the times I was mad at him wasn't it,” his mother asked dryly.

“I didn't ask…but most likely.”

Charles sighed, there was nothing for it. He had a job to do, and Hatts didn't back down from their duty.

He looked up at the tank engine, “alright little sister, what do you need from me?”

A/N: Hello Loves! As the summary says, this takes place between chapters 3 and 4 of 'A Life Well Lived.' If this feels familar to you, its because we saw his father react to the same reveal. Love Y'all!

[youremyheaven]

I had a weird experience with a moon woman. Tell me why this moon woman I know thinks she can relate to my disability just because she has PCOS… totally different situations. Whenever I talk to her about my disability, she minimizes my experience. PCOS is challenging too, but it’s not comparable in terms of how it impacts daily life. She doesn’t seem to know how to comfort someone either. She has a moon dk. I’m always receptive when it comes to her issues with PCOS, but she turns into a blank page whenever I mention my disability. Her reactions are just so weird. And don’t even get me started on how they’re the #1 copycat offenders.

unfortunately this is just how it is. Moon girlies (when Lunar influence is manifested in an unhealthy way) have absolutely no personality of their own and just pick up on whatever the person next to them is going through, the good, the bad and the ugly 😭😭😭when i was younger I had an Ashlesha Sun friend who was super mentally unwell (hallucinating and stuff) and my Rohini Moon friend straight up started pretending to be mentally unwell as well 💀💀for literally no reason

its mildly funny but super concerning how Moon girls cannot discriminate between the good, bad and ugly. theyll IMITATE ANYTHING. theyre malleable to a fault. you can mould them to be anybody. theyre soooo easily influenced tho 🤧🤧

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse part 9

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve. Sorry I haven't updated this here in forever...

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 Part 8 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3

Preview: “Stevie?” spluttered Eddie, mildly winded.  “Eddie-babes!” Steve hung with his arms looped around Eddie’s neck. He was in full-on hooker mode—hot-pants, mesh vest, eyeliner wonky, and mascara everywhere. There was a faint pinkish bruise across his left cheekbone, and his breath reeked of booze. “What the heck happened?” asked Eddie. “Nothing bad… good… whatever. Oh man! You’re really bailing on me, huh?” Peeping over Eddie’s shoulder, Steve had noticed the packed cases and bulging garbage sacks. His dopey lopsided smirk was ridiculously cute, though it didn’t reach his glazed eyes. “Okay. One for the road. Fuck meeeeeeee.”

....

Chapter 9: promotion (trigger warnings for past abuse, trauma.)

“You shifty punk-ass son-of-a-bitch.” Kline blocked Steve’s path along the narrow backstairs corridor. “I knew you were playing me.”

Steve queued his answer behind a yawn. “Yeah, my breakfast shift was a bust. I’m sorry, and yeah, you’re not gonna pay me for today, but… Jesus, I wasn’t playing hooky for no reason. You wanted me to puke all over the waffles?”

Steve had, in fact, been slinking off somewhere quiet to get over the general yuck of being unwell. He should’ve tried harder to avoid Kline. He was simply too through with it all to think that far ahead, let alone conjure any ninja skills.

It grew obvious Kline wasn’t gonna let him pass without a shoving match.

“You want something else?” 

“Let me think,” drawled Kline. “That’ll be a big fat YES.” Steve couldn’t stopper his groan. Godchester had wasted little time putting his ‘order’ in. “A word in your shell-like ear?”

“Say wha—"

Kline grabbed Steve’s arm. Steve was still so shaky that he let himself be dragged into a walk-in cleaner’s closet. Kline kicked the door shut, releasing Steve with a shove.

“You dirty little hustler.” Kline switched on a buzzing strip-light. “One call to the police precinct and I can have your ass tossed in jail.”

Yeah, it’s always the ass. I guess the rest of me goes straight in the dumpster.

“So, I’m fired?” Steve balled his fists. His limbs felt as liquidy as a Robin Buckley fondue disaster, but if this douchebag was gonna try something… “Say it! I’m fired, right?”

“Hell, no. You keep your lousy job—I mean, who are we trying to fool here? You’re the most popular bellhop we ever had. Let’s call this a promotion, Casanova.” Kline beamed, flicked his dumb floppy fringe. “You got a date tonight. 8pm. I’ll confirm the room number later.”

“Oh.” The dull inevitability of it all trickled through Steve. He addressed a mop. “How much you getting for me?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to peddle your sweet butt for.”

Steve forced his chin up and glared with everything he’d got left. He knew roughly what he’d been ‘worth’—up to five hundred dollars a night. Perhaps more. Kline would’ve demanded top whack out of Godchester.

“If it’s a promotion, don’t I get a pay-rise? A cut?”

“Hah! Not likely. I know you’ve been whoring for that freak in the penthouse.” He jabbed Steve’s chest with his forefinger. “You owe me a cut, son.”

“Or what? Jesus, I… I…” Steve swatted Kline’s hand away, his glare fading and his panic ratcheting up. Kline was breaking the law, too, pimping Steve out like this. He broke the law regularly, sending Deirdre’s girls up on room service. Still, it would be Steve’s word again his, and Steve’s voice would be as lost as a fart in a tornado…

…but this wasn’t Eddie that he was expected to spread his legs for. It wasn’t even some unknown John.

It was Godchester.

Steve swallowed fresh bile. “Go to hell. I’m not doing it.”

“You playing hardball, Harrington? I mean, it’s a cute look, but–”

“I said NO.” Kline grinned harder than ever, teeth gleaming yellow. Then he struck Steve. “Ow! Jesus!”

It’d been a wet-fish slap, but it stung, and the shock of it set Steve reeling. Kline grabbed him by the collar, slammed him back against the shelves. If he hadn’t felt so goddamn peaky, Steve would’ve handed the slick sucker his ass. Today, Steve’s dizziness alone started robbing him of his breath.

Oh God, oh God.

“See my aforesaid statement about throwing your ass in jail.” Kline’s breath stank of Irish coffee and something really gross. “Pretty boy like you—that’s gonna be a jolly few months. Oh, and I don’t think the sob stories about your wretched asthma are gonna wash there. Like with me, they just won’t care.” 

Steve curled his lip. ONE TIME he’d shown this lowlife his inhaler, claiming he’d lost it, and only to cover for why he was really outside Eddie’s suite. Other than that, he’d never spun Kline, or anybody, a sob story.

“That sicko Brit wants you in uniform,” Kline was saying. “Fancies you as some poncy, overgrown schoolboy. Oh, and…”

He whipped out a pair of handcuffs and dangled them so close that Steve’s eyes crossed. They sure weren’t the furry ‘fun’ kind. In fact, they resembled proper police ones. The sort that bruised when you struggled.

Like I didn’t already know how tonight was gonna go down.

“One of Deirdre’s girls left them.” Kline hooked them in Steve’s pocket. “Gotta get one of the receptionists to source a wicker cane for your hot date, too. Lordy, the things I do in the line of duty.”

He released Steve’s shirt and was gone.

Steve bumped down the shelves onto his haunches. The strip-light hummed through his veins, and it felt like something sharp caught in his throat. His brain refused to have a coherent thought, let alone make any kind of decision. Eventually, he thudded the side of his fist to his thigh. The cuffs fell out of his pocket with a clatter, as did his inhaler.

He stared down at them both.

Eddie. He’d planned to go and see Eddie. What if Eddie was really through with him? 

God, I can’t… I won’t… I can’t think about it right now. But I can’t go to jail. I can’t… I won’t… I can’t.

He used his inhaler, pocketed it with the handcuffs. Feeling calmer, he slowly got up and brushed his crumpled uniform down. Then he went back to the restroom to rinse the chalky taste of his overused meds from his mouth.

After that, he kept doing… stuff. He simply couldn’t keep his scattered mind on what any of it was.

…

Eddie paced around the penthouse, pep-talking himself to the verge of frenzy. “You can do this. C’mon, Munson. Grow a pair already.”

1pm passed. 2pm passed.

He had to be out by 4 o’clock. Another guest wanted to check in that evening. At this point, he was randomly dumping his stuff into garbage sacks. There was no way he was fitting all his hoarded crap into his sticker-covered suitcases.

He wasted twenty minutes searching for Jimi Hendrix’s probably-fake guitar case, which he randomly located beneath the baby grand. Then he sat down on the stool. He dumped his arms then his face onto the keys with a truly un-metal plink.

Joke was, he really did hate this dump. 

Everything he’d said to Steve about it was true—it stood for all the ex-frat-boy-corporate-forced-conformity he despised. Henderson was sending a ride over to whisk him straight to the apartment he shared with Suzie in Pasadena. Eddie wanted out.

He still had no clue how he was gonna get to that ride.

It involved walking through a busy hotel lobby, trying not to go completely cuckoo, stepping into the street, and…

…oh God, Steve! He owed Steve at least six-hundred dollars, and he’d no longer gotten a dime to his name. Steve needed that cash for meds. To goddamn live. Eddie got that. For that reason alone, he would’ve forgiven Steve even if he had faked everything between them.

Yet, deep down, he honestly couldn’t accept that Steve didn’t feel… Heck, at least some the goddamn feels which were currently gouging Eddie’s heart out with a spoon. The thought of everything ending in such a car-wreck fashion, let alone of never seeing Steve again?

It hurt so bad that a keening sound leaked from Eddie’s clenched teeth.

He had to find him.

Eddie sniffled, de-hunched his back, and then his jaw dropped . On top of the piano, he spied some rolling papers and some Gamja.

“Obi-waccy-baccy kenobi,” he said to the plastic pouch, “yoooooou are my only hope.”

He’d gotten the reefer between his lips and the lighter poised in his hands, when he hesitated. Memories gushed back of Steve sitting at the piano, serenading him:

“I don't have much money, but boy if I did

I'd buy a big house where we both could live—"

Oh, the kickass irony. Eddie might’ve pulled that one off, before he’d pissed his fortune away. And Steve had been a goddamn revolution for Eddie. When he arrived, Eddie couldn’t even listen to music he loved without ripping his hair out. Last night, thanks to Steve, Eddie had teetered on the brink of packing his trunks and leaving this dump on his own terms. It’d been Steve who’d been triggered by that Queen song, something to do with his parents, and then…

Eddie placed his joint down on his lap.

Okay, Munson. Showtime. Do what you were gonna do before Henderson blasted you with a double six. You blaze out into that hotel, clear-headed, and you find him. No need to be a hero. Baby steps. Just tell him… tell him…

Tell him what exactly?

Eddie heard a distant banging. In an adjoining part of the suite, somebody thudded on the main doors.

Eddie jumped up. His joint unravelled and his weed scattered everywhere. While he’d resolved not to smoke the damn thing, he sobbed a little. Plus, it was still only 2.23 pm, and surely hotels this snazzy didn’t send bailiffs? Besides, Dustin had settled the bill.

The bashing got louder. “Eddieeeee!”

Steve!

Eddie’s every trouble—even his terror of the big bad world—was briefly forgotten. He sprinted to the doors, yanked them wide. Steve’s fist was raised for another thump, and he tumbled forward into Eddie with a thud.

“Stevie?” spluttered Eddie, mildly winded. 

“Eddie-babes!” Steve hung with his arms looped around Eddie’s neck. He was in full-on hooker mode—hot-pants, mesh vest, eyeliner wonky, and mascara everywhere. There was a faint pinkish bruise across his left cheekbone, and his breath reeked of booze.

“What the heck happened?” asked Eddie.

“Nothing bad… good… whatever. Oh man! You’re really bailing on me, huh?” Peeping over Eddie’s shoulder, Steve had noticed the packed cases and bulging garbage sacks. His dopey lopsided smirk was ridiculously cute, though it didn’t reach his glazed eyes. “Okay. One for the road. Fuck meeeeeeee.”

“Tempting. Let’s put that on a backburner.” Eddie awkwardly manoeuvred Steve farther into the suite, grunting at the effort. Steve giggled. “I wanna grovel a bit, honey.”

“What the fuuuuuck for?” Steve unwound himself from Eddie, flinging his arms about dramatically. “I lied to you, Eddie, and I’m NOT SORRY. I’m a bad, baaaaaad boy.” He pirouetted about then crashed to his bare knees, landing among Eddie’s sketches. Which Eddie had still not tidied away. Fortunately, the chambermaid had picked up the broken pieces of vase—doubtless, it had been added to Dustin’s list of charges.

“Hey, this is new.” Steve picked up one of Eddie’s flesh-eating plant monsters. “Blood and violence? You dig that, huh? You wanna punish me? Bring it on, oh Skeletor Dungeon Lord!”

“Oh God! Yesterday, I was being an idiot, okay? You know I’m not into nasty shit.” Eddie offered Steve a hand to help him up. Steve ignored it and levered himself up unsteadily.  “Look, it was a crit hit when I found you in the restroom like that, a lot to take in. I don’t want us to take a break. I still wanna help you, if you’ll let me, but I gotta ’fess up—”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” announced Steve. He didn’t seem to have listened to a word of Eddie’s attempts to make nice. He had, however, spied an overturned trash can. And the half-dozen scrunched-up approximations of himself, one of which he now grabbed and pitched furiously across the room. “You’re throwing me away? Screw you. SCREW YOU!”

“Honestly. I’m not. It was a shitty likeness, that’s all, and… Christ, you’re totally wasted. Please calm down. Please?”

As Eddie tented his hands in prayer, Steve hurled another curveball. He looped his arms around the fake marble pillar and cuffed his wrists together with what looked like true-blue police-issue handcuffs.

“Gimme your worst!” screamed Steve. “Blood and violence, huh? I can take it. Hurt me, big boy, come on. Fuck me raw. Hurt me… hurt me… hurt me.”

“Stevie, I—” Very gently, he placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve twitched him off then started whispering again:

“Don’t… D-don’t touch me… Don’t. Go away… go away. Please… please… please.”

“I will never hurt you. I promise.” Eddie hurried around the pillar. Steve stared straight through him like he wasn’t there, his breaths shuddering unevenly. Eddie didn’t think he was having an asthma attack. It seemed more like some kind of panic attack. Jesus, Eddie knew about those, though right now, he was dead set on keeping his head together. He still had no clue what to do. He couldn’t even comfort Steve through fear of triggering something worse.

“Uuuuuh, where’s the keys to the handcuffs?”

No response. Not a flicker.

“Steve? Just to be super-safe. Where’s your inhaler?” Tears trickled from Steve’s unseeing eyes. The last remaining color syphoned from his cheeks. Eddie clawed his hair: “Inhaler, Steve. Did you bring it? Do you need it?”

Steve’s knees buckled and he slithered floorward, still loosely hugging the pillar.

“Holy shit! Okay, try and look at me. Steve?” Eddie crouched in front of Steve, waved his hand near Steve’s nose. “I don’t like this, Stevie. Do you need a doctor? I’ll pay, you don’t need to worry about a thing, okay? I’ll take care of everything.”

I’ll pay with the strips Henderson’s gonna tear off my ass.

When somebody else knocked loudly on the doors, Eddie jumped to his feet. Steve didn’t blink.

“Steve? STEVE!” yelled a female voice from outside. Then, “Let me in, you loaded bastard! I got a rolling pin here, and I swear to God—I’m gonna batter this door in and your face is gonna be next.”

...

Part 10 on tumblr

Part 10 on AO3 (tumblr link coming soon)

Thank you for reading. Likes, reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[emetogirl]

Hello, this is the same anon from before (the one who just told her gf about her emeto kink). You can call me Emi.

I have an update. In an ironic twist of fate, my gf got sick with some kind of stomach bug right after I told her about my kink.

She was at work that day, but asked me if I could come pick her up and help her walk home. She felt super dizzy, kept getting heat flashes and felt on the verge of throwing up. My gf is typically very independent and hates admitting when she's unwell, so I knew she had to be pretty damn sick to ask for help like that. She seemed a bit shakey but otherwise okay when we started walking, but in the middle of it we had to pause because she got super faint. She was sweating a lot, super pale and had this very far off look in her eyes like she was about to pass out or throw up. We ended up back at home without incident and I spent the entire evening doting on her. She couldn't really stand for long so I just set her up on the couch with some rehydration drinks and a cool cloth.

Before I continue, I'd like to rewind a bit to provide some more context: When we were discussing my kink the night before, I told her that the main appeal was the idea of her taking care of me when I'm sick and helping me puke if I can't do it on my own. And then a more spicy scenario if she was open to it would be her (consensually) forcing me to puke even if I didn't have to. For me it's always been self directed. I'm slightly emetophobic otherwise and get panicky if people around me puke.

So imagine my surprise when I ended up getting turned on from taking care of her while she was sick. I didn't say anything in the moment because I just wanted to help her feel better but I came clean after she had recovered a bit and was able to eat. I apologized as I didn't want her to feel like I enjoyed her being miserable and assured her that I really did want her to feel better.

To my relief she wasn't upset; just mildly amused. I explained that because she's the dominant one in the relationship, there was something kind of hot about seeing her so weak and vulnerable. And being trusted to nurse her back to health is both sexy and quite touching given how stubborn she can be about receiving care.

And then she did something that really surprised me. When she felt a bit better, she began teasing me and trying to figure out how to push my buttons and turn me on. She began recounting in great detail what it felt like when she was throwing up, and asking me things like "oh, did you like it when my whole body heaved while I was puking? You liked seeing me kneeling on the floor with my eyes watering?" And then she even started making like fake puking sounds just to get a rise out of me.

Shes still recovering but we've already started fooling around with it a little bit. She's experimented by putting her fingers in my mouth and rubbing the back of my throat until I start gagging.

I warned her that I actually have a pretty tough stomach and that she wouldn't actually be able to make me puke unless I was already sick. She just smirked at me and said "sweetie, I can absolutely make you throw up. I have my ways. Just wait and see." So I'm very much looking forward to that once she's fully recovered 😫💦

OHMYGOD!!!! You guys have a STELLAR relationship. I’m so happy you are able to share this with each other. Thanks so much for this incredible story!