#in response to symptoms that were distressing you too

[abbotjack]

aaahh hi hello! :)

first thing, i just wanted to say how much i love the way you write for jack and robby. you capture their personalities so well! reading your works are an absolute treat. <3

second, would it be possible to request something for robby? he finds out that his wife was in a really bad accident on her way to work, so she's rushed to the hospital and admitted to their icu?

tysm, and keep up the amazing work!

And You Came Back to Me

content/warning : Serious car accident, medical trauma, cardiac arrest, emergency resuscitation, hospitalization/ICU setting, emotional distress, PTSD symptoms, brief combat/military reference, grief response, partner fear, sibling care, recovery from near-death experience. Heavy emotional themes including flashbacks, guilt, and the fragility of healing.

word count : 3,791

a/n ; Wrote this as an exploration of what happens in the quiet after chaos—the weight of routine, the people who stay, and the small ways grief and love show up at once.

He should’ve kissed you longer.

That’s the first thing that slams through Robby’s chest when the officer says your name.

Not doctor. Not sir. Just: “Mr. Robinavitch, your wife’s been in a serious accident.”

It doesn’t register—not fully. Not until the next words hit him like shrapnel:

“She was unconscious at the scene. EMS is transporting her to Allegheny General now.”

And suddenly, time snaps backward—throws him hard against the wall of the morning. Back to the kitchen. To the quiet hum of NPR on the radio. To the faint smell of burnt toast from the toaster—because you always forget about it halfway through brushing your teeth. He’s told you a hundred times to stop using the “max crisp” setting. You always say, “It’s faster.”

Back to the sound of your heels on the tile as you rushed in—already dressed, hair still damp and twisted into that messy bun you always called “professional enough.”

“Shit,” you muttered, digging through your purse. “I’m running late. Can you zip me up?”

He should’ve stopped what he was doing.

Should’ve set down the mug. Turned fully toward you. Looked at you the way he used to—like you were something he still couldn’t quite believe was real.

But he was distracted. Reading the news. Checking an overnight lab update. Half-listening to McKay complain in the group chat about last night’s board decision.

So instead, he reached out automatically. Took hold of the zipper. Pulled it up the back of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before.

A quiet, familiar ritual.

“Thanks, babe,” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a soft smile.

He leaned in, kissed the back of your neck, right where your hair curled against your skin.

“You look beautiful,” he said. Distracted. Sincere, but distracted.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You laughed and turned away to grab your keys.

He should’ve stopped you. Should’ve wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his chin on your shoulder, whispered something dumb and tender and marriage-soft like Don’t go to work. Stay home. Let’s be irresponsible. Should’ve asked about the dream you mumbled in your sleep. Should’ve paid attention when you said, “I might take the highway if traffic’s clear—I’m too late for the long route.”

You hated the highway. Said it made you feel like one wrong move could ruin everything. Said the backroads felt safer—winding, tree-lined, steady. He teased you for it. Called you dramatic. But he always agreed.

Take the long way. What’s ten more minutes if it means peace of mind?

And this morning—God—he hadn’t even thought to remind you.

“You driving in or Ubering?” he asked, eyes still on his phone.

“Driving. Highway if I have to. Don’t yell.”

“Just… text me when you get there.”

“I always do.”

You smiled.

He didn’t look up.

You walked out the door.

Now a stranger is telling him you were rear-ended at 70 miles per hour, spun into a guardrail, crushed on the driver’s side. That EMS pulled you from the wreckage with the jaws of life. That you weren’t responsive. That you lost a lot of blood.

That they���re bringing you in.

To him.

To his ER. His trauma bay. His staff.

And you might not survive the trip.

He should’ve kissed you longer.

He should’ve kissed you like it was the last time.

Because maybe—it was.

He drops the phone in the stairwell.

He’s moving before his mind catches up—down the steps, through the ER corridor, and straight into the trauma bay. The doors slam open so hard they shake on their hinges.

“Where is she?” His voice breaks as it rips out of his throat.

Dana’s the first to reach him. She’s just stepped off the elevator—chart in one hand, coffee in the other.

“She just came in,” she says immediately. “Langdon’s leading. Mateo is on the vent. Santos and Javadi are in the room—”

“Where is she?”

The way he says it this time—it’s not procedural. It’s not about who’s on what. It’s you. There’s a tremor in his voice now, something raw enough to cut through Dana’s usual calm.

She steps in his path.

“Robby,” she says gently—too gently. She never uses that voice. Not with him.

“She coded in the rig.”

He flinches like she slapped him. The hallway tilts.

“They got her back,” Dana rushes to add, because the look in his eyes unravels something in her. “But it’s bad. She’s not—she’s not conscious.”

He doesn’t stop to respond.

Robby just shrugs off Dana’s hand and barrels toward Trauma One, like his body’s moving on instinct—like it never forgot how to find you.

And then he sees you.

You’re nearly lost in the swarm of bodies around you, but he’d know you anywhere—even battered and broken, even with your hair soaked through and clinging to your face in tangled strands. One of your feet is bare. Your dress—that dress, the blue one you joked made you look like a lawyer even though you worked in nonprofit, the one he remembers zipping up hours ago—has been sliced clean down the center. Blood saturates the fabric, blooming across it like ink in water, until there’s barely any blue left at all.

Mateo is squeezing the ambu bag. Javadi’s covered in sweat, glove smeared in something dark. Langdon is barking orders like his throat is full of glass.

Robby freezes in the doorway.

Langdon doesn’t even look at him. Just shouts, “Get him out of here!”

Dana’s behind him again. This time, she doesn’t touch him. Just steps into his line of vision and holds it.

“You know better. Let them work.”

“That’s my wife. That’s Jack’s sister.”

Santos’ voice breaks—just barely. “She’s got internal bleeding. If we can’t stabilize her, we’re opening the chest.”

And there it is.

Robby’s hand slams against the doorframe. He backs away without realizing he’s doing it.

He ends up in Observation 2.

He doesn’t remember walking there. Doesn’t know how long he stands in the dark before someone—maybe Perlah—sets a bottle of water beside him. He doesn’t touch it.

He’s never felt like this before. Like the air is too thick. Like he’s breathing cement.

Jack shows up ten minutes later. Not in scrubs—he’s in a weather-beaten field jacket and dark jeans, the kind of outfit that’s survived its fair share of long nights. There’s rain slicking his shoulders, water dripping from the cuffs like he didn’t bother with an umbrella. Or didn’t care.

“They told me,” Jack says, low.

Robby doesn’t move.

“I came as soon as—”

“She took the fucking highway.”

Jack is quiet.

“She never takes the highway. I—I always tell her to take 51. She hates the on-ramps. Says they make her feel like she’s gonna die. She said it, Jack. She said it.”

Jack nods, slowly, but his posture is all wrong—too still, too rigid. Like he’s holding something in. His jaw is locked, eyes fixed somewhere over Robby’s shoulder like if he looks at him directly, he’ll break.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice rough and frayed. “She told me that too. Said the on-ramps made her feel like the road would disappear underneath her. When we were kids, she’d make me walk the long way to school just to avoid the underpass near 18th. Three extra blocks. Every morning.”

He exhales, sharp and uneven. “She’d hold my sleeve like she thought the wind might carry her off if she let go.”

The pause that follows isn’t empty. It’s full—tight with every year Jack spent being the big brother. Every time he covered for you. Every scraped knee, every school project, every time he stood between you and the door while your parents screamed.

Robby sinks down against the wall. His voice is hollow. “She asked me to zip up her dress this morning.” He swallows hard. “I didn’t even look at her. Not really. I was reading emails. I kissed her neck and said, ‘Text me when you get there.’”

Jack doesn’t answer. Doesn’t offer reassurance or statistics or hope. He just lowers himself to the floor beside Robby, head bowed like he’s praying to no one in particular.

“You love her,” he says, and there’s no bitterness in it. Just something steady. “You take care of her in a way I never could. You know how to make her feel safe when it’s quiet. How to be soft when she won’t ask for it. I’ve spent my whole life guarding her from the world, and now…”

He trails off, staring at the floor.

“You’re the part of her world I trust the most.”

Robby closes his eyes. His shoulders shake, once.

“I don’t know how to be okay if she doesn’t wake up.”

Jack reaches out, sets a hand firm and grounding on Robby’s shoulder—steady, like he’s done for you a hundred times before.

“Then it’s a good thing you won’t have to be,” Jack says. “Because she’s too damn stubborn to leave either of us.”

And for the first time since the call, Robby lets himself breathe.

The updates come like clockwork.

“She’s holding.”

“We’ve got the bleeding under control.”

“She’s going up to the ICU now. Sedated. Ventilated.”

Robby follows the bed upstairs like a shadow. No one stops him. Not even Langdon, who looks like he’s aged ten years in a single shift.

They set you up in 312A.

You’re pale. Still. Your wedding ring sits in a plastic cup on the tray beside your bed.

He takes your hand.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You don’t move.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to your arm. His voice catches.

“Baby, please. Please come back.”

And then—he talks.

About the cat—how she followed you to the door that morning, meowing like she knew something was wrong. How you paused, scooped her up, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “Hold down the fort, okay? Back before dinner.” Then blew her a kiss like you always did, keys already in hand.

About the coffee mug still sitting in the sink. The one with the chipped handle and the faded red lettering from that anniversary trip to Vermont—the kind of mug that never matched anything else but somehow became your favorite. You used it every morning, even when there were clean ones on the shelf. He used to tease you for it. Then he stopped.

About the basket of laundry half-folded on the couch. A pair of your socks tucked inside one of his. Your blouse still soft from the dryer, draped across the armrest like you might come back and finish putting things away. Like you’d walk in and complain that he always left the fitted sheets for you to deal with.

About the dress you pulled from the closet the night before—how you held it up in the mirror and said, “If this still fits, maybe I’ll wear it next weekend. The red one. You like this one.” And how he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you like you’d already won the room.

It’s those things.

The little ones.

The ones that never get written down or photographed.

The pieces of a life you don’t realize you’re building until everything goes quiet.

“You can’t leave me yet,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I haven’t seen you hold our kid yet. I haven’t told you enough times that you saved my life just by saying yes.”

Day Two

He doesn’t sleep.

Javadi comes by. Says nothing. Just looks through the glass and nods. Collins leaves coffee on the table without a word.

He doesn’t leave your side.

Jack shows up again late that night. Sits with him in the dark.

Neither of them speak. Not until Robby, voice shredded and barely audible, says, “I can’t lose her, Jack.”

Jack just nods. “You won’t.”

“I always figured I’d go first,” Jack says quietly, like the words slipped past his guard. “She’s always been the brave one. Ran toward things I would've flinched from. I was the one who hung back—scanned the exits, counted the risks.”

His jaw clenches. He stares at the floor like he’s trying to make sense of it all from the grain of the tile.

“But when I saw her in that trauma bay…” His voice falters, and he has to force the next words out. “Even in combat, I never felt fear like that. Never felt that kind of helpless.”

Robby doesn’t speak at first. Just sits with it, like the silence might soften the blow.

Then, quietly:

“She told me once she felt safest when she was with the two of us. Like the world couldn’t touch her.”

Jack exhales, slow and uneven. His eyes drift toward the bed—toward where you lie, still and silent beneath the tangle of wires and monitors. Still unmoving. Still too quiet.

Like if he looks long enough, maybe something in you will stir. Maybe you’ll meet his gaze and say his name like it means something.

“She better wake up,” he murmurs. “Because she still owes me twenty bucks. And I’m not letting her off the hook just because she got hit by a truck.”

Day Three.

The room is still. Quiet in a way that feels deliberate—like the air itself is holding its breath. Pale morning light creeps in through the ICU blinds, catching on the sharp corners of machines and the softer curve of your shoulder beneath the hospital blanket. Everything hums: the ventilator, the heart monitor, the sound of plastic tubing shifting slightly when you exhale.

Jack arrives before sunrise.

He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t knock. Just moves through the doorway like someone crossing into sacred ground. He sets a cup of black coffee on the counter for Robby—no cream, two sugars, just the way you always made it for him—and then takes the same spot by the wall he’s stood in every day since you were brought in.

Robby hasn’t slept. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes ringed with exhaustion. His hand hasn’t left yours all night.

They don’t talk for a while. Don’t need to. Jack watches you breathe. Robby counts each rise and fall of your chest like he’s tethered to it.

The moment happens quietly.

Just after nine.

Your fingers twitch. Small. Involuntary, maybe—but real.

Robby jolts forward. “Jack.”

Jack is at his side in an instant, already reaching, already watching. “Do it again,” he whispers, knuckles white where they grip the bed rail. “C’mon, kid. Come back to us.”

And then you do.

Your hand tightens around Robby’s. Weak. Barely there. But deliberate.

Robby exhales like he’s been underwater for days. A strangled sound escapes him—half sob, half stunned relief—and he bows his head to your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Jack grips the back of Robby’s chair with one hand, the other dragging down his face. His mouth is tight. His eyes wet. But his voice, when it comes, is steady in the way only older brothers can manage.

“She’s fighting.”

The nurses rush in. Langdon appears within minutes. Orders are called out. Sedation is reduced. The ventilator settings are dialed down. But Robby doesn’t move—not from your side, not from your hand.

The change is slow. But it’s there.

Color returning to your cheeks. Lashes twitching. A soft wrinkle between your brows like you’re dreaming, or hurting, or both.

When your eyes finally open, it’s dusk.

They’re glassy. Unfocused.

But they find him.

“Hey, baby.” His voice cracks. “You with me?”

You can’t speak. Not yet. But your eyes do the work.

Then—your fingers tighten in his again.

Jack moves to your side, each step careful. Measured. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t trust his voice not to crack the quiet wide open.

And for a second, something flickers across your face. Recognition. A tear.

It rolls down your cheek and Robby catches it with a shaking hand.

He kisses your fingers. Your knuckles. Your wrist.

“You came back to me.”

Jack looks at you, jaw tight, throat working. Then he mutters, almost to himself, “Damn right she did.”

He doesn’t say more.

He doesn’t have to.

You’re awake.

And they’re both there.

That’s everything.

Three Weeks Later.

The apartment smells like lavender and laundry detergent. Your favorite blanket is folded over the back of the couch, and someone—probably Jack—restocked the kitchen with your exact tea and oatmeal brand, like muscle memory. There are flowers on the table, half-wilted, and a stack of unopened get-well cards beside them that you haven’t yet had the energy to read.

You’re home. And you’re alive.

But nothing feels normal yet.

You’re thinner than you were. Your ribs ache when you turn too fast, and your hands shake when you try to open pill bottles. But you walk. You breathe on your own. You wake up in your own bed next to Robby instead of tangled in ICU tubing.

And Robby—Robby hasn’t let you out of his sight.

He tries to be subtle. Tries to hover without hovering. You catch the way his hand twitches when you lean down to pick something up. The way he stays awake two hours after you’ve fallen asleep, just to make sure your breathing stays steady.

“I’m not going to break,” you tell him one morning, finding him standing in the hallway just outside the bathroom door.

He doesn’t smile. Just steps forward and cups your cheek like it’s second nature—like his hand was always meant to rest there.

“You did,” he says, voice low and frayed at the edges. “You almost died. And I stood there and watched it happen.”

His thumb brushes against your skin, gentle. Reverent.

“So yeah,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I’m sorry, but I’m gonna be careful with you for a while. You don’t get to scare me like that and expect me to walk away unchanged.”

You don’t argue. Just press your forehead to his and breathe with him.

Jack visits like clockwork. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. He always calls ahead, even though you stopped asking him to. He comes with practical things—groceries, multivitamins, takeout from that one Thai place you craved when nothing else would stay down.

He never makes a scene of it. Just moves through your kitchen like it’s routine. Like you didn’t code in the back of an ambulance while he was somewhere else—driving home, bone-tired and still smelling like antiseptic, unaware that your heart had stopped without him there to catch it.

He acts like nothing’s changed. Like you didn’t almost leave him without warning. But the way he watches you when you walk across the room says everything.

“You gonna let me in, or am I just supposed to enjoy the doorframe?” he jokes the first time you’re strong enough to answer it yourself.

“You gonna keep looking at me like I’ve got a ticking clock strapped to my chest?” you fire back.

Jack shrugs. Steps inside. Kisses the top of your head. “You’re still annoying. Good. I was worried.”

That night, you all end up in the living room—curled into Robby’s side on the couch, a blanket tucked around your legs, while Jack settles into the armchair nearby. His prosthetic leans against the side of the chair, balanced carefully where he left it, like it belongs there.

He sits back, one socked foot up, the other leg stretched out and relaxed. Comfortable in a way he rarely lets himself be.

The TV plays some half-watched game on mute, casting flickering light across the room, but no one’s really paying attention. The silence between you feels lived-in, not awkward. Familiar. But still edged with something tender. Like you’re all waiting to exhale at the same time.

The kind of night that feels quiet on purpose.

The kind that says: We’re still here.

“I think I scared you both more than I scared myself,” you murmur, eyes still on the screen.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Jack says, voice low. Honest. Not sharp, not teasing—just stripped down. Like it costs him something to say it out loud.

Robby’s grip around your waist tightens almost instinctively, like he can still feel the echo of that moment—the call, the drive, the trauma bay. His fingers curl against your side, anchoring himself to something warm and alive.

“You don’t get to do that again,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Ever.”

You turn your head then, eyes flicking between them—one sitting too still, the other holding on too tightly. And for the first time all day, you let yourself feel the full shape of what almost happened. What almost broke you.

“I didn’t say this earlier,” Jack says, softer now, voice rough around the edges. “But I meant it. Back at the hospital. You have him. You’re not doing this alone.”

You don’t look at him right away. Just nod, slow, like the words are settling into a place they hadn’t quite reached before. Your eyes sting, but you don’t blink them away.

“I know I’m not,” you murmur.

And you do.

Even on the days it’s hard to feel it.

Healing isn’t linear. Some days you get through without tears, almost like nothing ever happened. Other days, it hits you sideways—over coffee, in the shower, folding laundry—and you’re crying without knowing why.

You haven’t driven yet. Not because you can’t—because you don’t want to.

And everyone understands that.

Robby never asks. He just grabs the keys and opens your door first. Jack doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease—he just takes the driver’s seat without question when it’s his turn.

Even Dana understood. One Saturday, she showed up with oversized sunglasses and a tote bag full of snacks, knocked twice, and said, “Girls’ day. Non-negotiable. Collins is already in the car.”

And sure enough, Collins was in the passenger seat, sipping an iced tea and pretending not to be amused. Dana took the wheel, flipped the radio to something from the nineties, and announced you were starting with pedicures and ending with overpriced appetizers—“and maybe a shoe sale if we’re feeling emotional.”

But tonight, the air is still. Your body is tired, but not heavy. There’s a blanket over your legs, the low hum of the dishwasher in the next room, and two people who never let go—even when you tried to disappear.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t brace for the fall.

[embers-of-the-league]

Tenko Shimura's ‘allergies’ and the implications thereof

I think most people always agreed that Tenko's allergies were - in some form or another - emotion-based.

Back in 235 we get the infamous "it only itches at home line" line.

It's also emphasized again later in the chapter when we see that the itching gets progressively worse after Kotaro yells at Tenko (meaning that it gets worse when Tenko is sad and/or in distress).

Back in the day, I saw a lot of people theorizing that the itch was a sign of Decay and that it was the early stages of the quirk manifesting within Tenko. But given what we know now, about AFO giving Tenko the quirk and especially when he gave Tenko the quirk, I don't think that this is the case.

We can pretty much pinpoint exactly when AFO gave Tenko the Decay quirk.

These two panels are from 235 and 419 - and I firmly believe that these panels take place only minutes apart from each other. This is also clearly the moment that AFO gave Decay over to Tenko, as shown by the small glow of his hand.

Before this point Tenko Shimura was quirkless.

Tenko got his original quirk stolen from him when he was just a baby - meaning that during the time between being an infant and being 5-years-old, Tenko was officially quirkless.

This makes a huge difference if we then look back at his allergies and why they appear.

This panel is from just before AFO takes Tenko's hand and gives him the Decay quirk. Look at his face. This boy already has irritated skin around his eyes (it looks like he's just been scratching at it too).

With the knowledge that Tenko at this point in time still is quirkless, I think it's fair to say that the allergies are not an early symptom of Decay.

It only itches at home.

Because the itching is purely psychosomatic. Because it's a stress-response/anxiety-response to the environment this young boy is forced to come home to every single day.

This boy is 5. He's 5. It's not normal for a 5-year-old to think thoughts anywhere near "does my father hate me?"

Kotaro has already put a fear in this little boy, which doesn't stop or go away as soon as his punishment does. The trauma in this boy is already so big that he thinks about these things in the moments when his dad isn't even actively scolding or punishing him.

It doesn't take a destructive quirk to cause a physical response like itching. All it takes is being constantly afraid of when you're going to be yelled at next, when you're going to be punished next, all by the hands of the parental figure you aren't sure even loves you at all.

It only itches at home.

Especially when the four walls of your house are a prison.

[orellazalonia]

Exactly As You Are

Summary: You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes supports you through the bad days and gently breaks down the walls you’ve built from past abandonment. Despite fears of being a burden, Bucky stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader is chronically ill. Mentions/Depictions of symptoms of said illness. Angst. Hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2.3k+

A/N: This is sort self-indulgent but still an enjoyable read regardless. I left the type of illness ambiguous. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

The first time Bucky saw you, he thought you were just tired.

You were sitting on a bench outside a small, independent bookstore in Brooklyn, a reusable water bottle half-empty beside you, a paperback open in your lap. It was cold out, the kind of sharp October chill that cuts through jackets and settles in bones. But you sat completely still with your shoulders slumped, hands trembling slightly, and breath shallow.

He might not have noticed if not for the way your fingers struggled to hold the book steady.

He didn’t stop. Not at first. He just glanced, like a thousand other people passing by, and kept walking. But two blocks later, something tugged at him soft and persistent, like a memory he couldn’t place. He turned around.

You hadn’t moved from your spot.

By the time he walked back and crouched in front of you, your lips were pale, and your skin had that waxy undertone he recognized from war hospitals and med units. His instincts kicked in, but not the soldier kind, rather the man who’d learned how to read distress in the quietest forms.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low but steady.

You blinked up at him slowly, as if hearing him from underwater. Then you offered a weak, breathless smile and said, “Yeah, just… my body does this sometimes.”

“Does what?”

“Stops.”

He didn’t fully understand what that meant then. But it wasn’t pity that made him sit beside you, not fear or heroism either. It was something else. Familiarity. A kind of haunted recognition.

“Can I call someone for you?” He asked. “Friend? Partner? Family?”

You shook your head. “No one close by. It’ll pass. I just need a minute.”

But your hand was still shaking as you reached for the water. He watched silently, then gently reached over and held the bottle steady so you could drink.

“Thanks,” You murmured.

He nodded. He didn’t press. He simply sat there, beside a stranger who looked like their body was betraying them one breath at a time.

After a long stretch of silence, you spoke again. “You don’t have to wait.”

“Don’t want you to pass out on a sidewalk.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “Romantic.”

He smirked. “I’ve heard worse.”

You turned to look at him then, and something in your expression shifted.

“You’ve had bad days too,” You said.

His breath caught. You weren’t asking. You knew.

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. “Then you get it.”

He didn't reply out loud, but the way his hand hovered hesitant, then steady, offered the only answer you needed.

Eventually, you regained enough energy to stand. He offered his arm, and you took it without flinching at the metal. That surprised him. Most people still tensed.

Inside the bookstore, he bought a copy of the same book you'd been reading before slipping you his number. You noticed, and raised a brow.

“Trying to impress me?”

He shrugged. “Trying to have an excuse to see you again.”

You laughed then. Still tired, still aching, but real. “Well. It worked.”

-

You didn’t start dating right away. There were slow texts. A few coffee shop visits where he learned which chairs were softest for you to sit in for long periods, which days your hands couldn’t hold a cup, and how sometimes you’d go quiet mid-sentence but not from disinterest, just exhaustion.

But Bucky never minded. He’d lived too many years rushing through the world. With you, everything slowed down. And for once, that felt like healing.

On your first date, he had planned it carefully.

Not because he thought you needed to be impressed but because he wanted to show you he was paying attention. That he’d been listening, clocking every tiny detail you never made a big deal about.

So when he asked, “Dinner with me?” and you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because your body was in one of its quiet warning phases, he didn’t try to convince you. He simply offered an alternative.

“I know a rooftop,” He said. “It’s a quiet and private place with a good view. I’ll bring the food.”

You smiled, that same tired-but-warm curve of the lips he was learning to read better each time. “What kind of food?”

“Soft stuff,” He smiled before teasing. “Things that won’t piss off your stomach.”

You laughed, which he counted as a win.

The night of the date, he showed up at your door with a reusable picnic bag over one shoulder and that awkward, lopsided grin of his. You were in your softest clothes, sweatpants and a knit sweater two sizes too big, and your hair wasn’t doing what you wanted it to.

But he looked at you like you were wearing a red carpet gown.

“I like this,” He said simply, and gestured to your entire self. “It’s very you.”

“Exhausted?”

“Real.”

The trip to the rooftop was just a short elevator ride and half a flight of stairs, but halfway up, your legs started to tremble.

You tried to play it off, pausing to “check the sky,” you said. But Bucky had already seen the shift in your breathing, the tremor in your hand as you gripped the railing.

Without a word, he stepped behind you and wrapped an arm gently around your waist, the cool metal of his left hand bracing your spine.

“You okay with help?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded once. He didn’t rush you. Just matched your pace, supporting you the whole way to the roof.

By the time you sat down on the old couch someone had dragged up there years ago, your body was already crashing. You tried to hide it like you always did. But your hands were limp in your lap, your eyes glassy, and your shoulders had that slight slump Bucky was learning to hate.

He knelt beside you.

“Tell me what you need,” He said gently. “No pressure. Just… tell me.”

You wanted to smile. To tell him he didn’t have to stay, or fuss, or worry. But the words stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

“…I don’t want to ruin this.”

His eyes softened. “You’re not.”

“It’s not fair. You finally ask me out and I’m… this.”

“You were always this,” He countered. “And I asked you anyway.”

That made you blink.

He took the blanket from the bag, yes he’d brought one, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then he pulled out a thermos of broth and a soft rice dish you’d once mentioned in passing. No wine. Just herbal tea. No candles. Just the city lights. No pressure to be anything but what you were.

You looked at him and he didn’t flinch from the fog in your eyes or the weakness in your voice. He didn’t reach for the version of you from the good days. He reached for you.

“I don’t need the perfect night,” He told you gently, watching you carefully. “I just need you.”

You let out a slow, aching breath. “What if I never get better?”

He brushed a knuckle down your cheek. “Then I’ll learn every version of ‘bad’ until I can walk you through it with my eyes closed.”

You felt something in your chest unravel.

And when he curled up beside you, careful not to jostle your fragile form and content to just sit in silence; you knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.

It was the beginning of something real.

-

There were days that weren’t as pleasant. Yet time and time again, Bucky insisted on staying. Comforting and reassuring you every step of the way.

One afternoon, the apartment was quiet but not the peaceful kind. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls, thick and tense. The kind that settled in your chest and made it hard to breathe.

You sat on the couch with your knees pulled up, a blanket draped around your shoulders even though it was midafternoon. You should’ve taken your meds earlier, should’ve eaten something by now, should’ve answered the texts piling up on your phone. But your joints ached like they were full of broken glass, your head pounded from hours of tension, and every sound, every thought, felt like it might shatter you.

You didn’t hear Bucky come in. Not at first.

He always moved quietly, even when he wasn’t trying to. It was a habit that never left him. A ghost of another life. He didn’t say anything right away, just took in the picture in front of him. The faraway look in your eyes. The way your hand gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. The way your body curled in, like it was trying to disappear.

He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, not touching you yet, but remaining close.

“Hey,” He greeted gently. “Rough day?”

You nodded, barely. Your throat felt too tight to speak.

Bucky waited. He was good at that, waiting. Letting you come to him on your own time with no pressure or pity. Just quiet, patient presence.

But then the words came tumbling out before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this all the time. With me.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in a kind of slow heartbreak. Like he’d heard this before because he had, and every time it hurt more.

He reached slowly, brushing your hand with his gloved fingers before gently taking it in his.

“Don’t say that,” He spoke quietly.

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But it’s true. You didn’t sign up for this. For all the canceled plans, and the bad days, and the… God, the way I feel like a burden.”

He exhaled, long and steady, and then stood, just enough to sit beside you. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you in with a kind of care that felt deliberate. Solid and unshakeable.

“I know what it feels like to think you’re too much,” He began slowly. “To think you’re broken, that people will get tired, or that you’ll wear them down until they leave.”

You swallowed hard.

“I spent years feeling like that,” He continued. “Even when Steve stayed. Even when Sam stuck by me. It never went away easy. But then I met you.”

His hand found yours again. Held it tighter.

“You taught me that people aren’t burdens. That pain doesn’t make someone less worthy of love. That needing help isn’t weakness.”

You shook your head, voice hoarse. “That’s different. You went through hell. You didn’t choose it.”

“And neither did you.” His voice was low but firm now. “You didn’t ask for this. You fight through more pain in a day than most people even imagine. And you still smile. You still care. You still show up.”

“But this isn’t fair,” Your voice was shaky. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. You could… you could have anyone.”

Bucky went very still.

You turned your head away. “I don’t want you to stay because you feel obligated. I don’t want to trap you in something broken.”

His voice was low, firm as he asked. “You think I stay out of pity?”

“No. I think you’re kind. And maybe you don’t realize yet how permanent this is. How much this takes. I can’t go on missions with you, I can’t run, I can’t even cook without getting dizzy. Some days I can’t even-“

You broke off. Voice cracking.

“I can’t give you a normal life, Bucky. I’m tired all the time. And someday you’re going to wake up and realize I’m more burden than person and I can’t survive that again-“

Your breath caught. You hadn’t meant to say again. But it was out there now.

He didn’t try to shush you. He didn’t give you empty words or say you’re not broken, or you’re still beautiful, or it’s not that bad. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against yours. His voice was raw and honest.

“You think I want a normal life?”

You blinked at him.

“I spent years being turned into someone else’s weapon,” He whispered. “I wake up some nights not knowing what year it is. I have blood on my hands I can’t wash off, and a mind that doesn’t always feel like mine. You think I came here for normal?”

He exhaled shakily. “No, sweetheart. I came here for you. Just you.”

Your chest caved with a soft, helpless sob.

“I don’t want perfect,” He said. “I don’t want easy. I want real. And you… this pain, this fight, all of it; it’s real. You’re still here. You keep going. And if you think for one second I’m walking away because your body’s at war with you…”

His hand slid into yours, careful and steady.

“…then you don’t know me yet. I choose to be here,” He said. “Not out of obligation. Not because I feel sorry for you. But because I love you. All of you. Even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.”

Tears welled up before you could stop them. You hated crying in front of people but with Bucky, it never felt like weakness. It just felt honest, safe.

He pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you like a fortress. “You are not a burden,” He murmured. “You are my home.”

And in the stillness, something inside you began to loosen. Not the pain, no, that stayed. But the guilt, the weight of it all began to lift just a little as you let yourself be held.

For once, it felt okay to just exist. To be loved, even when you didn’t feel lovable.

And Bucky held you like he’d never let you forget it again.

Because he didn’t try to fix you.

He just loved you.

Exactly as you are.

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

all you've got (jj maybank)

Summary: You weren’t supposed to be the one Rafe wanted to make an example of. But standing between him and someone weaker? That’s just who you are. Now, you’re barely standing, barely breathing as you make your way back to the Château—bruised, bloody, and breaking.

JJ sees you first. JJ always sees you first.

"What did they do to you?"His voice is raw, breaking, shaking. His hands hover, torn between rage and gentleness. He wants to go after Rafe, wants to burn everything down, but instead—he stays. He kneels beside you, cleans you up, holds you together when you finally fall apart. based on this request

word count: 5692

trigger warnings: physical violence, bruises, blood, non-consensual restraint (barry holding the reader), trauma response, and emotional distress. Mentions of substance abuse (cocaine use, withdrawal), PTSD-like symptoms, and implied revenge plotting. Reader discretion is advised.

Just another hour and I’d be home, enjoying a Natty Light with the rest of the Pogues. Maybe if I was lucky, we could even take the boat out for a midnight cruise through the marsh. Who was I kidding? JJ would never say no to me, I think to myself as I punch in another drink order for one of the cackling Kooks. The country club was in full swing ahead of the dinner rush and as much as I could really use the money I would get from the wealthy patrons, I couldn’t wait for my shift to end. 

Sarah’s brother and ex-boyfriend had moseyed their way over to the bar, rowdy and loudly shouting about a stellar round of golf – barf. Oh Topper, you’ve bested me on the overly saturated green. Oh well, you know I do my best work on ground that could hydrate the Cut for weeks, Rafe. Ahaha, shall we get a round of caviar to celebrate? God, they made me sick. In an act of self-preservation though, I try to stick to my side of the restaurant, a blur of empty wine glasses and appetizers. 

Tension had been building between the guys ever since Sarah had started dating my brother. Being his twin, I wasn’t looking to get caught up in the drama just for having the same face. I’d nearly made it out alive, nearly finished with a perfect score. 

The sound of glass shattering caught my attention, head snapping up from my POS system. “Are you fucking serious? Do you know who I am?” The voice is menacing, rough. I catch sight of a wired Rafe Cameron with his fingertips wrapped around the collar of a young bus boy, shoving him up against the side panel of the tiki hut bar. The boy’s toes dragged against the pavement, nearly off the ground from the way Rafe held him. The boy looks terrified, feet kicking a little to get his footing. He’s stuttering, glancing around silently begging for life support.

My feet were moving before I could think it over, before I could second guess myself. Inserting yourself into the eldest Cameron’s fights? A death sentence in the making. But we Routledges really loved the thrill of danger. My sneakers squeeze against the wet patio, nearly slipping as I wedged myself between the two boys. Palms splay over the silky texture of Rafe’s golf polo, breaking his icy glare from the small boy. 

I drop my hands with wide intention, causing him to release the kid who plops down onto the ground and stumbles into my back. “You’re making a scene,” I grunt. The glass crunches under my feet and I make a mental note to be sure to change them out before leaving, not wanting to get shards of glass anywhere near the chateau. 

“Baby Routledge, look who's feeling brave today,” Rafe says, staring down at me. He snarls, a deadly look in his eyes as an aimlessly sick smile paints across his face. He takes a few heavy breaths, too shallow to help him calm down. He breathes out through clenched teeth, “Get out of my way.” 

“Walk away from this Rafe,” I shake my head, planting my feet firmly. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, I can feel the bus boy’s fingers tighten against the cheap grit of my uniform. 

“The little shit spilt a glass of Pinot on me,” he steps back a little to show off the red stain on his khakis. “He’s gonna have to pay up.” 

“Then speak to Jason, alright?” I say, nodding toward the door where I know my manager is inside, doing paperwork. “Don’t start a fight with a kid half your size in front of all these fine people.”

Rafe’s expression shifts, twisting in a way that makes a pit form in my gut. It’s like he’s discovered something you don’t know, like he’s first in line with the grim reaper – learning about what takes you out. It makes me nauseous. . And then I notice it. It’s subtle, the way he sniffs – rubs his nose. I can see the red in his eyes, the rapid nodding. He glances around, laughing a little to himself. Topper, to his right, looks unsure as he laughs along. 

Rafe steps forward suddenly, crowding my space as his nose nearly brushes mine. He smells like vodka and sweat, it turns my stomach. “Walk away,” he says, “now.” 

“He’s just a kid Rafe,” I say, unshakable as I square my shoulders. 

“You really wanna do this?” Rafe mutters. He’s close enough that I can see how blown his pupils are. His hands are shaky as they ball up in fists at his sides. He tilts his head, racking over my frame. I can see the way he sizes me up. Even in his presence, the livewire of the privileged Kook Prince – I don’t move. The tension is thick in the air, the world silent around us as everyone watches to see what Rafe does next. To see if I’ll fold. 

“Rafe, I think that’s enough,” Topper’s voice cuts through the tension. 

Rafe shoves the man away, holding his hands up as if he was disgusted that someone would put their hands on him. “You fuckin’ lowlife Pogues…I’ll get both your asses fired,” he smirks, raising a brow as if it’s a threat that scares me. Topper’s got a hand on his shoulder now, holding him in place momentarily until he steps back once, twice in what he thinks is a victory. 

I don’t know what it is; maybe the smug grin on his face, maybe the obnoxious wink he throws my way as if I’m the dirt beneath the giant ass golf course he’d just played a round of nine over. I shouldn’t pick a fight, I should take his backing off as a win. But the entitlement of threatening a job when he’s never even needed to know the worth of a dollar drives me up a mountain and down the other side. 

“That’s fine,” I say, nodding as I keep the bus boy behind me. “Go ahead. I’ll be sure to let Daddy know that your allowance is going into powder…it’s a little too warm for snow this time of the year, don’t you think?”

Topper looks over at me with a look of near horror and surprise, definitely not expecting that. The victorious smirk on Rafe’s face falls, his jaw clenching as his eyes narrow. “You’ll regret that, Baby Routledge…you and your brother, never learning who stays on top,” he threatens, wiping his nose instinctively as he turns, walking away.

“Thank you so much,” a small voice comes from behind me, releasing my shirt. 

“Shuddup,” I say, turning away from the bus boy. “Clean this up, before we both lose our jobs.” I get back to my POS, trying to ignore the tremble in my hands as I punch in the last of my orders. I end up staying two extra hours after Jason catches wind of the confrontation with Rafe, restocking shelves in the kitchen and cleaning all the glassware by hand before it goes out to the bar. I have just enough time to change out my sneakers for my old Birks, a hand-me-down from Kie when she got a new pair for her birthday.

I grab my bag and close my locker, jumping as my boss appears out of nowhere, a sour look plastered on his face. He normally wears a sour look, but this one looks a little extra sour. I’d already forfeited my heavy stack of ones to him, hoping that offering my tips to pay for the broken glassware would grant me some leniency.

“You can thank the Masons for keeping your job,” he spits. “They vouched for you on the way out. But another conflict with a paying customer and you’re out, do I make myself clear?” 

“It won’t happen again, I promise,” I say, shoulders deflated. We’re already struggling to keep the chateau as it is, the last thing I need is to lose my job. 

“See you Monday,” he says, crossing his arms and nodding to the door with a stern glare. 

“Thank you sir,” I say, leaving quickly before he can change his mind. It’s dark out as I start the long walk home. My calves are screaming from the time ducked under the counter collecting glasses, shoulders sore as my adrenaline wears off from the tension with Rafe earlier. Fuckin’ asshole. 

“Spilled Pinot on my 1,000th pair of khakis,” I say to myself mockingly as I cross the dimly lit street of shops on Figure 8. The lights are off, clearly having closed up early to enjoy the beautiful summer evening. Must be nice to afford to close shop early. It’s quiet along the streets and I tug my bag a little tighter over my shoulder, pulling my phone from my pocket and seeing the green lightning bolt on the screen. Dead…damnit. What I would give to see the Twinkie barreling toward me…or the buzz of JJ’s bike ripping up the road. I bet the bastards were already hammered right now, night fishing on the dock without a care in the world. Better have a cold beer waiting for me.

I can see the bridge in the distance, breathing a sigh of relief as the last leg of the walk is in reach. Headlights glare behind me, illuminating the sidewalk. The light washes over me, blinding me as it approaches. The engine revs a little as the tires slow, crawling behind me. I step further on the sidewalk, getting out of the way but no one passes. I can hear the gravel beneath the rubber. 

I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath when the light disappears. I only bother to turn around when the car door sounds open. I see his boat shoes before I see his tall frame, stepping in front of the hood of the suped up truck. Even in the dark, I can see the wild, frantic look in his eye. 

“Let’s not do this again Rafe,” I say, tugging my crochet bag higher over my shoulder. I look over his clothes, trying to defuse the situation before it gets ugly. I wave a hand in his direction. “I see you’ve got yourself a new pair of shorts so…crisis averted. Club soda and salt are great for getting out wine stains.”

“You were real brave back there,” Rafe says, ignoring the white flag I try to throw his way. He wipes his face, wipes his mouth and breathes out sharply. He steps forward toward me, pointing a sharp finger in my direction. “Thinking you’re so clever.”

I watch the way he starts to pass, the way his tongue fumbles over the words flying too fast out of his mouth. Nothing good comes from fighting with someone on a high and so in an act of self-preservation, I turn and try to head to the bridge to give myself some distance or home court advantage. But I hit something hard as my body turns, stumbling back. I feel the strap of my sandal pop from the momentum. 

I catch the glint of a gold tooth, glinting under the flickering lamp post. “Got some’ere to be pretty thin’?” Barry asks, tilting his head at me before glancing over my head. 

I close my eyes, sifting my brain for what JJ had taught me one late night on the beach after everyone had stumbled off to sleep under the stars. What was it? Closed fist…thumb tucked over fingers to avoid breaking it…or maybe it was under fingers? Fuck. Damnit JJ and his gorgeous ocean eyes, distracting me from knowing how to defend myself against coked up Kooks. 

My feet scuff against the pavement, ditching my lovely and fucked sandals in the hopes that my barefeet will help me escape the situation. It’s no use because Barry’s a brick wall, too wide for his own good and he only needs to step to the left a little faster than I would expect of him. His fingers imprint red into my shoulders with a vice grip, turning my struggling form to face a fuming Rafe. My back presses against his sweaty chest and I feel like I’m going to throw up. 

I try not to let the man see me sweat though, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of how helpless I feel. Rafe walks up to me, slowly like a lion circling its prey, like he’s playing with his food before going in for the kill. 

He stretches a hand out, grabbing my jaw with ringed fingers and squeezing so tightly that I’m sure that alone will bruise. “I told you to walk away,” he says, bending down so that he’s eye level with me. 

It’s not a smart move, considering the predicament and my helpless position of two on one. It’s not in my nature as I normally left the fights to my brother and his beautiful best friend but even the smallest creatures fight their way out of entrapment. The spit lands with perfect aim, sliding down his eyelid and settles in his lashes as it slides down his cheek in a glob. He jumps back in surprise and behind me, I can feel Barry shake a little in amusement. 

“Well, gotta give it to ya,” Barry mutters, “ya got balls, kid.” 

Words fall flat on my tongue as Rafe’s palm finds purchase on my cheek. He swings with a full moment, arm cocking back in a blind rage to slap me. The force is so hard that I worry my head could disconnect from my spine. It’s shocking that the gratitude for a drug dealer holding me up finds its way into my system ahead of the burning sting. My vision feels a little hazy as I shake my head, trying to collect my bearings. Rafe is shaking his hand, holding in front of him and hissing from the pain he’s in. Poor baby. 

When his eyes land on me, he waits with anticipation – clearly expecting me to…I don’t know. Break down? Sob out an apology for getting between him and justice over his Ralph Lauren. But the only thing coming out of my mouth is another glob of spit in his direction, this time mixed with the metallic from my tongue and cheek. I must have a death wish…or maybe in the process of trying to remember, I’d summoned the spirit of one Maybank boy. I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice when I say, “That's all you got, you pussy?” 

Everything happens in slow motion after that as I’m ripped from Barry’s grasp. The momentum of tugging me toward him allows the first punch to land with a swift and purposeful crack against my cheekbone. Pain explodes, rattling my teeth. I question if I’ve gone deaf when Rafe’s shouts of fury  are replaced with a high pitched ringing. I don’t even register the sound of my screaming when my back hits the door handle of his truck, the back of my head knocking his mirror inwards toward the cab. 

“Rafe, enough dog,” Barry’s tugging the psychopath back in a rush, staring at me in horror as I crumble to the ground. My face feels warm and puffy, vision blurry as they stare down at me. I blink a few times and every time I try to understand what just happened, my chest tightens making it harder to breathe. Hands find my cheeks, calloused but softer. I flinch regardless, head tugging back so quickly in defense that I bounce it off the side of the truck leaving a dent in the door. 

“Get away from me,” I grunt, trying to stand. 

“Whoa, whoa,” Barry calls, letting me go as he raises his hands in defense. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t mean for–,”

“Barry, we gotta get outta here,” Rafe’s voice is sharp as he steps away from me further, putting more distance between himself and his handy work. 

And then, they’re gone. Leaving me, slumped against Rafe’s stupid truck, pulled over right before the bridge. My body aches when I finally force myself to stand, wanting nothing more than to get to the comfort of the Chateau and never leave again. My hand presses against the dent in the doorway to steady myself, rising up on shaky legs. 

I look down, noting the blood splatters on the rolled cuffs of my work shorts. A wave of dizzying nausea rolls over me, causing me to look up to the sky. I stumble on my feet, hands shaky as I try not to touch my face. 

I don’t know how long it takes me to walk the rest of the way home. It’s late enough that there are no cars on the road, no one to question my fragile state or the blood drying on my bottom lip. It’s a little hard to see out of one eye and I try not to think about how bad I must look when the christmas lights of the chateau appear in the distance. 

My feet seem to move on pure adrenaline, carrying me to the backyard – carrying me to the voices of my family. I can see the silhouette of Kie’s bun glowing from the bonfire, hearing the soft strum of the ukulele as she calls out to the boys for a beer. She seems to be the only person outside, looking up at the sound of twigs crunching beneath my feet. 

When we make eye contact, I try to ignore the way her soul leaves her body at the sight of me. “Oh my god,” she says. Her ukelele falls from her lap as she stands, crossing the yard toward me in concern.

The speed of her pace, sends me stumbling back a little – flinching out of reflex. The action takes her by surprise and then concern, gaze softening as she keeps a safe distance. She turns to the porch, clearly looking for the others. “Jjay, Pope–,” she shouts, causing me to flinch again at the loud noise. 

Worry melts into dread, noticing the way my arms are wrapped exhaustedly around my frame like I’m trying to hold myself together. “Oh my god,” she repeats, looking me over. Her eyes gloss over with tears, clearly trying to hold them in for my sake. 

My stomach drops at the sound of the screen door squealing, the coils screaming at the speed at which its opened. And when Kie turns again, Pope is walking over to see what all the commotion is. 

All I can see is JJ behind him, adjusting his red cap atop his head with a look of curiosity as he glances around his friends. I see the way his eyes focus on my face, see the way his whole body freezes up momentarily at the sight of me. I can’t imagine how bad it is, don’t want to imagine how bad I must look. Swollen, bruised, bleeding and barefoot – it must be bad because JJ is shoving Pope out of the way, nearly taking out a camping chair in the process of getting to my side as fast as humanly possible. 

“What the hell?” his voice is strained, panicked as he brushes past Kie. He enters my bubble without asking, hands reaching for me. He stops himself though, showing enough restraint that his hands hang – hovering. I see him swallow, eyes shifting over my face as if he’s trying to assess the damage and calculate where to touch me that won’t hurt. 

JJ’s no stranger to bodily damage. But it was a strange reversal of role for the two of us and the tremble in his hands was a reminder of that. I’d nursed him back to full health so many times over the years that I knew every inch of his scars, every terrible reminder of his reckless appetite for violence. He must swallow down his ignorance as he reaches out the rest of the way, fingertips dancing so tenderly over my jaw that if it weren’t for the bruising, I wouldn’t have felt it. 

I hate the pity in his eyes as I flinch from his touch. 

“What did they do to you?”  he says.

I step backwards, running from his warmth. It’s too gentle, too kind and the contrast from the hands that had last claimed my skin is too sudden. It makes me want to vomit. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are,” JJ says, gasping out. “Who did this? Tell me who did this to you.” 

A silence falls over the yard as I look away from his pleading eyes. I’m not sure why I hold the culprit so close to the chest. It’s not that I want to protect Rafe, quite the opposite frankly. JJ Maybank had always been a knight in boardshorts, saving me from the smallest of disasters. Even though my brother had always staked his claim of best friend on JJ – the wild boy had made it clear that I’d always hold his heart in a way my brother simply wasn’t capable of. 

While he and John B would steal Playboy magazines from Luke in our pre-pubescent years, he’d also braid wildflowers from the field into my hair. When he and John B would get drunk on the beach after long, sunny days of surfing, he’d still lay with his head in my lap asking me to read him poetry from a new book I’d gotten. And when we were old enough to start going to parties, JJ still found a way to appear by my side the minute I was getting unwanted attention. Pope had once narrated a long and lengthy lecture while John B and JJ were a ways away, wrestling on the lawn, about how it had to do with JJ’s ventromedial prefrontal cortex. 

“It’s really that he recognizes how much you are a safe space and you calm his amygdala which triggers his–,”

“Pope, it’s love,” Kie groans, shaking her head at the boy. “He’s in love with you, god.” JJ had looked over in that moment, struggling in a headlock but still finding the ability to grin in my direction and send me a wink. I’d always hoped one of us had acted on it by this point, found the strength to bypass my brother’s cockblocking and heavy stares as he looked us over on nights where he felt we were too close, too handsy for his liking. 

I think that’s why I avoided giving up the information now as JJ demanded names. Even though he wasn’t entirely mine, I couldn’t lose him further. He’d kill Rafe without hesitation. He’d go to jail for trying. So I shake my head, lips tight as I refuse to let anything slip. His touch is cool against my cheek and I find myself leaning in, warming up to the gentle touch. JJ huffs, not in annoyance but in desperation. 

“Please,” he whispers, stepping closer and licking his bottom lip in desperation. I can feel his breath on my lips, lost and swimming in the ocean of his eyes. “Let me fix this.”

I press my lips together tightly, afraid I’ll spill on a pure technicality from distraction of how beautiful he is. But the action causes the dried blood to crack on my lip, splitting open. My cheeks flush in embarrassment as I feel a dribble of blood seep out and run along my skin. “Fuck,” I grunt, stepping away from lip to cover my mouth and whip gingerly at it. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, collecting me into his side and helping me inside the house. It’s stifling inside, the AC in the living room broken. I’m annoyed at myself suddenly, remembering that my tips were meant to go toward replacing it. Pope rushes past us to the bathroom and I can hear him rummaging around for the first aid kit. JJ’s hands slide along my hips, lifting me with ease onto the counter. He cups my face again, moving it around slowly to examine the damage better in the light of the kitchen. He opens his mouth to say something else when the door squeaks open again. 

I can’t help but jump as the screen door slams against the frame, shaking slightly. I wanted to bury my face into JJ’s neck until I healed, hide from the world and never leave his side. Because there was only potentially one thing worse than JJ’s face when he saw me and that was my brother’s. 

Sarah sees me first, a loud gasp escaping her as she stops in the doorway. My neck starts to hurt again as my brother takes in how close JJ is, tucked between my legs with a hand on my face. It looks compromising. It is compromising and because of that, it takes a minute to register what’s happened. 

His face drops, fists clench. “Who?”

It’s silent for too long, only broken by Pope’s nearly cheerful “found it” and his footsteps trotting back into the kitchen. I turn away from my brother, only to be burned by the intensity of JJ’s gaze in front of me. The lack of escape feels less stifling, less suffocating this time. 

My voice is smaller than I want it to be when I finally say what they want to hear. “Ra–,” I have to clear my throat, his name dying on my tongue. I can see the veins in his arms, the blacks of his pupils, my blood on his forearm. “Rafe.” 

And the second it leaves my mouth, JJ’s hands go with it. He’s leaving my form, peeling himself off of me in a matter of seconds. His focus turns to my brother, matching looks of revenge and deep seeded hatred. “We’re going, right now,” JJ grunts, walking over to the kitchen table and reaching for something I can’t see. The click gives me a good idea, panic settling in my bones at the fear of losing either of them to a Kook…to Rafe. 

John B says nothing, only nodding stiffly and letting go of Sarah’s hand. 

My body hurts as I slide from the countertop, feet sore as they slap along the tile to follow after them. I muster up enough strength to duck beneath JJ’s arm, weave around Sarah and John B in the doorway just enough to block their way. “You can’t.”

The two look at me, conflicted as I hold myself up in the doorway. They breath out my name, glancing at each other. I can see the heat radiating from their pores, unable to stop the tension from settling into their muscles like an itch they have to scratch.

It’s John B who tries to persuade me but I can’t look at anyone but JJ who's looking anywhere but at me. He knows, we both know, that the minute he looks at me – it’s all over. That I can plead, beg with one semi-serious pout and he’s putty in my hands. That’s how I know how serious he is about using that gun, avoiding my gaze like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do on this Earth because he doesn’t want to be stopped. He wants to put his hands on someone, wants to make sure to make an example of the man who thought he could get away with hurting me. 

“Move,” JJ finally says, grinding his teeth. The word cuts through John B’s reasoning, stopping him in his tracks. 

I shake my head, refusing. “I–can’t,” I gasp out, hearing the thumping of my heartbeat in my ears as the panic spills over and hot tears start to stream down my face. My shoulders shake as I tuck my head, trying to control my breathing, trying to stay strong so that I can convince them not to leave me. The stress is too much and my legs give out, knees buckling underneath me. 

But JJ’s there to catch me, just like he always does. He safely brings me to the ground, scooping me into his arms as loud sobs wrack through me uncontrollably. The emotions, the pain all become too much and the dam breaks. He holds tightly onto me like he’s afraid that if he lets go, I’ll never recover and I can hear his soft cooes over my wailing as he murmurs “I got you, I’m right here.” 

I don’t know how long we sit there on the floor of the porch when JJ finally rises to his feet, causing my throat to tighten and a fresh wave of tears to come pouring out. “I’m right here Sweets, I’m not going to kill anyone tonight – I promise,” he says. “I just want to get you cleaned up.” 

JJ helps me to my room in the back of the chateau and pushes the door open. A chill passes through the doorway from the only working AC unit running overtime. He scoots me along to the bathroom, sitting me on the toilet seat and sitting along the tub to turn the water on. It's quiet as one of his hands rest on my thigh, circling patterns along the skin while the other dances under the faucet to check the temperature. 

When he’s satisfied, he stands for a moment with rosy cheeks. “I can give you some privacy while you –,” he nods to the tub. 

“Don’t leave,” I whisper, standing slowly. I turn a little to peel off my work uniform when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’m horrified at the flash of myself, closing my eyes and squeezing them shut. My hands come up, covering my eyes and rubbing in an attempt to erase the image from my brain. “Oh my god.” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” JJ’s hands slide over mine, pulling them away so that I don’t hurt myself. He towers over me, blocking my view to the mirror. “Don’t look, okay? Just…close your eyes, I’ll help.”

I nod, keeping my eyes tightly closed as I imagine his sweet face, caring eyes watching me for any signs of discomfort. My breath hitches a little as he undoes the button to my shorts, sliding them off my hips and helping me step out of both garments. His hands skim along the tender skin on my back, my shoulders as he unhooked my bra. My eyes flutter open, breathing in his gentle nature as he watches my face with intention. I feel like I can’t breathe in his presence. 

He helps me into the warm water before turning off the faucet, soaking in the comfortable silence of the moment as I let it soothe my aching body. Exhaustion overtakes me and I can’t help but relax a little, gaze heavy as I lean against the wall. “Hey, I know you’re exhausted – let’s just get you cleaned up and then get you to bed, okay?” 

I look up at him, realizing he’s not just saying he knows because he’s being a good friend or that he’s sympathetic to see me covered in blood and bruises as a result of a man’s wrath. JJ knows because JJ’s been me and the thought makes me want to cry again. I can’t do anything, don’t have the energy to do anything but watch as he kneels beside the tub, peeling off his boots and socks and rolls up the sleeves off his shirt before grabbing the wash cloth and dipping it in the water. 

He’s cautious as he cleans my face and my shoulders, careful as he wipes the blood from above my knees. The water turns a ting of murky red as he drags the soft cloth along each of my fingertips, using his own nail to gently scratch the remnants of my attack from my cuticles. 

The room is quiet while he works to bring me back to myself, bring me back to him. And each time I flinch, he stops and tells me a pointless fun fact about fish in the marsh. He waits until I smile before starting his work again. And when I sniffle, my nose scrunching in pain from a tender spot – he kisses at the spot until I can breathe again. There’s no words, they aren’t needed. Each drag of the washcloth, each brush of the lips is the most tender whisper of love I’ve ever experienced. 

When the dirty water goes cold and he’s satisfied with his work, he disappears only for a minute to get the biggest and fluffiest towel – Sarah’s – from the laundry machine. He instructs me to stand and wraps me in the warm, cozy towel to dry me off. He helps me pull on a pair of pajamas, his tee shirt and sweats, letting me steady myself against his shoulder while he pulls on a pair of warm socks. 

When we shuffle back into my cool room, I clutch his hand and stare wide-eyed as he pulls the blankets back so that I can crawl in. “Stay?” 

“I’m not going anywhere unless you give me the word,” JJ promises, pressing a kiss to my forehead. 

I nod, satisfied as I crawl into bed and slide over to make space for him. He peels off his clothes, down to his boxers and climbs in beside me. He flicks off the lamp, encasing us in darkness and turns to pull me against his chest. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he breathes, almost more to himself than to me. I nod, squeezing his hand.

want to show some love or make a request? send it here <3 I love comments, it helps me know what you think!

[sharkwidow]

They Come Back to You | BlackHill x Teen Reader

Summary:Maria Hill and Natasha Romanoff, in the middle of a mission, abandon their task to return home where their daughter is experiencing a sensory overload.

Content warning:Sensory overload, emotional distress, mention of unintentional self-harm.

Words count: 2,400

The world was too much.

Too much light, even if the lights were off.

Too much sound, even in silence.

Too much touch, even when you were alone.

Your hands were trembling, and you’d lost count of how many times you had scratched your skin. Pain was the only thing grounding you in reality. You didn’t know if seconds or hours had passed, but you couldn’t escape the unbearable feeling. The discomfort, the noise, the chaos inside your mind… all mixed into a tangle of desperation. Every attempt to breathe was a titanic effort.

You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to speak. You didn’t want to think.

You just wanted them to be there.

But they weren’t.

Miles away, in the dark corridors of an underground bunker, silence reigned. The sound of their footsteps echoed faintly, as if the air was thick. Maria Hill walked with firm steps, weapon ready, gaze focused—like a soldier trained for precision. Natasha Romanoff followed closely, as always, observing every detail, ready for anything. There was no room for error, not in their line of work.

“Three marked on the ground floor,” Natasha murmured as she activated thermal imaging. Her voice was calm, controlled, but with the tension of a high-risk mission.

“Cut access in two minutes. We grab the intel and get out,” Hill replied calmly. Straightforward, direct, efficient. The voice of a leader used to pressure.

But suddenly, a beep interrupted the rhythm of the mission. It wasn’t an alert, nor a threat. It was a private channel. One only they could receive.

They both stopped at once, the immediate change in their posture made it clear:

The mission had been interrupted.

“It’s her,” Natasha said, her tone soft but unwavering. She lowered her weapon without hesitation—a gesture full of unshakable determination.

Maria raised her wrist and activated the link with FRIDAY, already knowing what it meant.

“Location.”

“Bedroom. Elevated heart rate. Irregular breathing. Repetitive movements. Visible scratching. Matches sensory overload symptoms.”

Natasha was already moving. There was no fear in her face, only the tense calm of knowing they had little time.

“Is she alone?” she asked, her tone more urgent, though still composed.

“Yes,” FRIDAY confirmed. A simple answer, but enough to know there was no help nearby.

Silence.

One second.

Two.

“Abort mission,” Maria said, without hesitation, as if it was the clearest decision she’d ever made.

“Hill?” Fury jumped in through the open channel. “Tell me I didn’t just hear that. You’re aborting at a critical point?”

“I am.” Maria didn’t flinch. She knew what she was doing.

“And why the hell—?”

“Because our daughter is having a sensory overload, alone at home,” Natasha cut in, her voice firm but tinged with concern.

Fury exhaled on the other end. The sound of his breath crackled through the line.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to let a child’s emotional breakdown jeopardize the whole op.” His tone was incredulous.

“I’m telling you, crystal clear,” Maria replied, leaving no room for doubt. “If you think I’m staying in this damn bunker knowing she’s alone, scratching her arms, unable to breathe—then you don’t know me at all.”

“Hill, you were the agent who never failed.” Fury tried appealing to her loyalty.

“And I won’t fail today. But there are priorities you just don’t understand.” Maria’s voice was firm, almost sharp. Her gaze had hardened, and Natasha saw it. She knew this wasn’t negotiable.

A brief silence. Then Fury’s response came, dry and resigned:

“Do what you have to do. But this will have consequences.”

“Whatever,” Natasha muttered, already in the Quinjet, as the doors closed with a metallic hiss.

The air buzzed in your ears. Everything was still too much.

Your tears were gone, but the shaking remained. The red marks on your arms stung. You wanted to stop feeling, but everything was still too intense. Too loud. Too present.

And then—you heard it.

Faint at first, like a familiar roar, an unmistakable presence:

The Quinjet.

Your body reacted before your mind did. You curled up tighter, pressing yourself against the wall, hands covering your ears, as if blocking the sound could shut everything out. You didn’t know if it was real or just your mind playing tricks, but for the first time in hours, you felt something other than pain:

Hope.

The muffled roar of the Quinjet landing.

The sound of hurried footsteps.

The door swinging open in haste.

And then—contact.

Strong, warm, firm—but only in the most comforting way.

Natasha embraced you from behind, covering you completely with her presence. Her hands gently held yours, stopping you from harming yourself further. She didn’t use force—only the calming presence you so desperately needed. She rocked you slowly, breathing steadily, as if her peace could somehow transfer to you.

“We’re here now, маленький,” Natasha whispered, the Russian word soft on her tongue, holding you a little tighter without forcing, as if making sure you wouldn’t hurt yourself anymore. Her words were gentle but firm—the kind of comfort only a mother could give.

Maria knelt in front of you. Her eyes focused on your arms, on the scratched skin. Her face darkened briefly with concern, but then she looked to Natasha with steely resolve. Without a word, she lifted a damp towel and began cleaning your wounds gently, doing her best to be soft. Her touch was firm—not just to heal the skin, but as if she were trying to mend something much deeper.

She looked into your eyes, and though her expression was serious, there was a softness there. You didn’t need words. Just their presence made you feel safer than ever.

“Are you feeling better?” Maria asked without looking away from your wounds, but her voice was filled with protective warmth.

You stayed silent, but the pressure in your chest began to ease. Calm, finally, was finding you.

Natasha, still with a hand on your shoulder, hugged you a little tighter, as if she wanted to wrap you entirely in the safety of her presence.

The silence that had once been unbearable was now your refuge.

They were there.

You were the priority.

And nothing—and no one—could take that away from you.

[lunar-wandering]

anyways as i mentioned earlier here is my absolutely nuts 'analysis' of Boboiboy having autism, and how each of the seven elementals kinda showcase a heightened version of an autism symptom-

so we're gonna go down in order (of manifestation for the elements)-

Boboiboy himself- he's just got the vibe, y'know? But also; it's been established he had no friends prior to moving in with his grandfather, which, y'know, is quite strange for a "normal" kid his age. He also tends to look at the people around him to know how to react in certain social situations (usually the person he looks to is Gopal which. Isn't always the best choice). Also the strong sense of justice is obvious (including that he goes so far as to help villains as well). (Yes this can be an autism symptom).

Halilintar (Thunderstorm). hear me out. Halilintar manifested due to overstimulation. I mean obviously the phobia of balloons is a huge factor here- but being in distress due to loud sounds is exactly one of the things that causes overstimulation for autistic people (could contribute to why he has this fear in the first place). One of the ways people might react to overstimulation is by becoming irrationally angry. Basically what I'm saying is that Halilintar spends most of his time on the edge of a meltdown-

Taufan (Cyclone). autistic joy. listen LISTEN. it's DIFFERENT from other people's joy, okay? a lot of autistic people experience emotions very intensely, it can full out take over you. also as far as i remember (it's been a while) he was the only one who had such an intense reaction to the mood changing potion- sure, the other people who had it were locked in one emotion, but none of them went as wild as he did- because he felt it a lot more intensely.

Gempa (Earthquake). i will admit, i struggled for a moment with Gempa- but honestly i think it's because he is, in my opinion, the one who's the most similar to OG Boboiboy. other than the heightened need to protect, which likely includes the sense of justice, I think Gempa is the one who masks the most out of all the elements. This is also why he seems to be the most neutral element.

Blaze and Ice. I'm doing these two together, because technically, their origin points are from the same thing: Burnout. It's just two very different responses to it. On the one side, Blaze is trying to, ironically enough considering the name, prevent burnout, by relieving stress (by doing things in the middle of night while no-one is looking and there's no pressure of social interaction). When there is too much stress, he falls into an overstimulated state similar to Halilintar's. On the other side, Ice represents the more depressed side of burnout- aka what happens after you actually burn out. It's why he's tired all the time.

Duri (Thorn). Okay so technically Thorn first manifested in battle but we're ignoring that. His tier 1 manifestation, as we all know, was mainly most definitely because Boboiboy got a concussion- but! Here's the thing; I don't think the concussion is why Thorn acts the way he does (though it's probably a part of it). I think, Thorn is just unmasked. The others all mask on some level, but Thorn just, doesn't. He doesn't really care how others might perceive him if he does 'childish' things or says things that no-one else understands because they didn't make the same connections he did, and he certainly doesn't care that deadpan telling someone their outfit is terrible might hurt their feelings, it doesn't even occur to him. He doesn't mask at all.

Solar. Again, technically manifested during battle. However once again we are ignoring that. It was established that the manifest condition for Solar (as Light), was for the elemental master (Boboiboy) to "expand their knowledge", and "read more". And, well, I know Boboiboy specifically read a bunch of science and history books and stuff, but honestly I don't think it really would've mattered what he chose to use to expand his knowledge, because Solar's main autistic trait is special interest. Because Boboiboy mainly focused on science and stuff, that became Solar's special interest, hence why he rambles off about formulas and stuff, and why he likes doing experiments. He hyperfixates on that stuff.

now. i could do the fusions... but honestly i haven't thought about the fusions enough to draw conclusions, so we're sticking with this

[fearfulfertility]

CONFIDENTIAL STUDY

DRC, Postpartum Command, Post-Mortem Operations Unit

To: Assistant Director [REDACTED], Logistics & Infrastructure Division

From: Chief Operating Officer [REDACTED], Postpartum Command

Date: [REDACTED]

Subject: Psychological Breakdowns in High-Fetal Load Surrogates

Executive Summary

This study examines the psychological and cognitive deterioration of a surrogate experiencing extreme labor conditions while carrying sexdecuplets (16 fetuses). The research has covered 27 surrogates, but the nature of this report will focus on one test subject. This study documents his mental and neurological state from the moment of admission to the delivery room, through active labor, and culminating in the final delivery before expiration.

The study aims to provide insight into neurological thresholds, behavioral responses, and autonomical responses during high-intensity, multi-fetal labor to refine management techniques and ensure optimal output.

Study Subject

Surrogate ID: S139-432-P

Gestation: 33 Days

Fetal Load: Sexdecuplets (16)

Abdominal Circumference: 97 inches (221 cm)

Pre-Pregnancy Weight: 175 lbs (79 kg)

Final Pregnancy Weight: 393 lbs (178.2 kg)

Total Weight Gain: 218 lbs (98.8 kg)

Subject Condition: Fully incapacitated due to fetal mass. Pre-labor distress symptoms are present. Standard pre-labor sedative protocols were withheld for observational accuracy.

Observational Timeline

Phase I: Admission to Delivery Ward

Upon arrival, the subject displayed signs of severe psychological distress, including:

Erratic speech patterns alternating between coherent sentences and fragmented, repetitive phrases.

Significant pre-labor anxiety, expressing an overwhelming sense of bodily invasion due to fetal movement.

Tactile self-stimulation, pressing his hands against the sides of his abdomen to counteract the uncontrollable shifting inside him.

Upon initial examination, the subject displayed progressive physiological indicators of sexual arousal, including cutaneous flushing, elevated heart rate, and increased muscular tension within the lower extremities and pelvic region. Notably, there was a visible increase in penile tumescence, consistent with [REDACTED] of the [REDACTED] to [REDACTED] activation.

Despite repeated attempts at verbal engagement, the subject exhibited a progressive loss of focus, appearing detached from reality at multiple points.

----------------

Subject Transcripts:

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Hello, 432-P. How do you feel?"

Surrogate S139-432-P:

(Takes shallow breaths) "I… I can't—there's no room left. They won't stop shifting. My belly's so tight I can feel everything…"

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Are you experiencing sharp pain or just pressure?"

Surrogate S139-432-P:

"Both. It's like they're pushing against each other—against me. I can't think. My head feels… light."

(The subject's heart rate is elevated. Pelvic musculature visibly tensing. Medical observation notes a progressive onset of sexual arousal, consistent with heightened autonomic stimulation.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Do you feel any unusual sensitivity in your lower abdomen or pelvic region?"

Surrogate S139-432-P:

(Shifts uncomfortably) "I… yeah. It's—" (Pauses, biting his lip) "It's weird. Everything's tight, but it's… hot. I can feel… pressure building."

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Clarify 'pressure.' Are you experiencing involuntary responses beyond uterine contractions?"

Surrogate S139-432-P:

(Avoids eye contact) "It's just… too much."

(The subject's respiration becomes uneven, and body temperature rises. Doppler imaging confirms rhythmic involuntary contractions of the pelvic musculature.)

----------------

Phase II: Early Labor (0 to 4 cm dilation)

At labor onset, the subject entered a state of heightened sensory overload, demonstrated by:

Rapid shallow breathing and uncontrolled moaning between contractions.

Involuntary trembling due to full abdominal engagement from fetal positioning.

Difficulty recognizing medical staff or following basic instructions.

Neurologically, the subject exhibited heightened sensory responsiveness, particularly to tactile and [REDACTED] stimuli. This corresponded with involuntary contraction of the perineal musculature, rhythmic pelvic oscillations, and [REDACTED], suggestive of a pre-orgasmic neuromuscular state.

Despite brief moments of lucidity, the subject displayed severe dissociation without responding to external stimuli. The subject's language deteriorated significantly at this stage, reducing to fragmented, single-word phrases or nonverbal sounds.

----------------

Subject Transcripts:

(Labor has begun. The subject's body reacts involuntarily, and fetal repositioning causes sharp abdominal ripples. He is placed on his hands and knees due to extreme abdominal circumference preventing safe supine positioning.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Your contractions have started. Describe what you're feeling."

Surrogate S139-432-P:

(Panting) "S-stretching… so much stretching. They're pushing down… my hips—" (Groans, shivering)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Are you still aware of your surroundings?"

Surrogate S139-432-P:

(Eyes fluttering) "Fuzzy… it's hard to…" (Stops mid-sentence, body trembling)

(Contractions intensify. The subject exhibits a heightened physical response. Palpation confirms involuntary pelvic thrusts synchronized with contractions, indicative of autonomic overstimulation. Penile tumescence sustained beyond expected labor onset.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Your body is displaying signs of extreme sensory overload. Are you consciously aware of these reactions?"

Surrogate S139-432-P:

(Shakily) "I c-can't stop it. My body—" (Gasps sharply, convulses slightly)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Your heart rate is elevated. Is the stimulation pleasurable, painful, or both?"

Surrogate S139-432-P:

(Whimpering) "I-I don't know. Both? It's—oh, oh God—"

(Subject is unresponsive to further verbal engagement. Neurological examination indicates progressive of coherent cognitive processing as contractions continue.)

----------------

Phase III: Transition Phase (4 to 10 cm dilation)

By 8 cm dilation, the subject exhibited mental distress, marked by:

Loss of verbal coherence reduced communication to instinctual moans, panting, and intermittent wails.

Inability to register pain or respond to medical personnel beyond pushing and contractions.

Uncontrolled bodily spasms require physical restraint to prevent injury.

As observed, the subject experienced sustained autonomic arousal, culminating in multiple ejaculatory episodes corresponding to abdominal contractions. Each instance followed the three-phase process of abdominal contraction, pre-ejaculate emission, and semen expulsion. This was likely due to overstimulation of the prostate gland, in addition to [REDACTED] and [REDACTED]. Concomitant rhythmic contractions of the [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] muscles facilitated repeated semen expulsion, increasing in intensity with each subsequent abdominal contraction.

Observational Notes:

At 9 cm dilation, the subject's pupils were fully dilated and unresponsive to light.

Heart rate exceeded [REDACTED] BPM, signaling extreme neurological distress.

The subject exhibited complete sensory overload and could not differentiate between external contact and internal stimuli.

An intense flush response was noted across the subject's body, particularly along the chest and throat, consistent with extreme sympathetic nervous system activation.

----------------

Subject Transcripts:

(At 8 cm dilation, the subject's body quakes uncontrollably, and vocalization is reduced to whimpers and groans.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Can you still understand me?"

Surrogate S139-432-P:

(No response. Eyes unfocused, lips parted, shallow moans escaping between contractions.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Please take a look at me. Do you recognize where you are?"

(The subject makes a weak, high-pitched whine but does not answer.)

(At this stage, the subject experiences multiple ejaculatory responses synchronized with contractions. Neuromuscular responses confirm autonomic hyperstimulation.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Your body is undergoing sustained autonomic discharge. Are you consciously aware of these expulsions?"

(The subject's eyes roll back, muscles spasming. Contractions intensify, leading to increased pelvic convulsions. He does not respond verbally.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"He's too far gone. Proceeding to extraction phase."

(The medical team prepares for delivery as the subject remains semi-conscious.)

----------------

Phase IV: Birth & Total Neurological Collapse

As fetal delivery commenced, the subject entered final cognitive failure, displaying:

Mouth slightly open, slack-jawed expression.

Eyes unfocused, rolling back, or remaining glassy.

Involuntary convulsions with each fetal extraction.

Notably, the subject's ejaculatory episodes appeared to have significantly increased as birth commenced, but seminal release decreased. The subject began to experience anejaculatory orgasm, which refers to the experience of orgasm without the expulsion of seminal fluid (a dry orgasm). This led to multiple episodes of orgasmic sensations without seminal emissions in response to sustained autonomic stimulation. 

Due to persistent stimulation, refractory periods were notably brief, with subsequent episodes of renewed autonomic engagement and repeated anejaculatory episodes. The subject remained in a heightened physiological arousal throughout the birthing period.

----------------

Subject Transcripts:

(As the first fetus crowns, the subject's vocalizations become louder. Convulsions increase in frequency. Refractory ejaculation occurs multiple times but decreases in seminal volume.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"The first is emerging. Can you hear me?"

(Subject makes an unintelligible sound, mouth slack, body twitching involuntarily. He does not register external stimuli.)

(With each birth, the subject's body shudders violently, correlating with continued neuromuscular spasms. Anejaculatory orgasms continue unabated, despite systemic exhaustion.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Final cognitive function scan—"

(No pupil response. The subject's breathing is shallow and irregular.)

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Subject is exhibiting classic indicators of neurological collapse. Post-birth expiration estimated within [REDACTED] minutes."

(With the final birth, the subject's entire body relaxes completely. Residual post-mortem [REDACTED] were noted. No further voluntary or involuntary movement was detected.)

----------------

Final Analysis

Key Observation: Once the first fetus was crowned, the subject lost all remaining traces of self-awareness, responding only to basic physiological impulses (gasping, twitching, and [REDACTED] vocalizations).

At complete fetal extraction, the subject exhibited:

Total mental collapse, unable to comprehend surroundings or actions performed on his body.

Faint vocalizations gradually reduced to weak, breathy exhalations.

Cessation of voluntary movement within [REDACTED] minutes post-delivery.

All vitals ceased within [REDACTED] minutes of the last birth.

Post-mortem assessments confirmed that the subject had lost higher brain function well before expiration, indicating that neurological death occurred before physical death.

----------------

Subject Transcripts:

Dr. [REDACTED]:

"Final condition of Subject S139-432-P: Full neurological and physiological expiration confirmed. MRI is consistent with total cognitive breakdown. Arousal remained sustained until final moments, indicating that sensory overload contributed to complete psychological surrender."

(End of Transcript.)

----------------

Follow-Ups

Total Cognitive Failure Occurs Well Before Physical Expiration

By final birth, the surrogate exhibited no rational thought capacity, indicating that pre-delivery neurological death is standard.

Fetal Load Directly Impacts Psychological Breakdown Speed

Subject carrying 16 fetuses entered psychological collapse earlier than prior 10-14 fetal studies, confirming a linear relationship between fetal count and cognitive decline.

Pain and Sensory Overload Expedite Compliance

The observed phenomena are consistent with autonomic hyperstimulation and neuromuscular overactivation, leading to multiple reflexive ejaculations secondary to heightened sensory input. 

The subject's physiological response suggests a reduced inhibitory threshold, likely exacerbated by prolonged autonomic excitation, sustained tactile input, and excessive intra-abdominal pressure. 

Future Research

Extend testing to surrogates carrying 18+ fetuses to confirm if breakdown patterns accelerate at higher thresholds.

----------------

Sending...

Sending...

Sending...

Read...

----------------

To: Chief Operating Officer [REDACTED], Postpartum Command

From: Director [REDACTED], DRC

Date: [REDACTED]

Subject: RE: Psychological Breakdowns in High-Fetal Load Surrogates

Dr. [REDACTED],

You are approved to expand your testing to include surrogates carrying 18+ fetuses to validate acceleration patterns of cognitive and neurological breakdown at extreme fetal loads.

Effective immediately, proceed to Paternity Compound 118 (Houston, Texas, FEMA Zone 6), which currently houses three viable test subjects for the next phase of research:

S118-193-R – 23 days pregnant with octodecuplets (18)

S118-265-S – 25 days pregnant with novemdecuplets (19)

S118-332-T – 19 days pregnant with septendecuplets (17)

These surrogates are currently in late-stage gestation and should be closely monitored. Ensure full documentation of all neurological and physiological deterioration markers, with video recordings being of particular interest to other research teams.

Proceed with testing as soon as medically feasible. Submit findings with complete observational data for review upon conclusion. Further approvals for even higher fetal loads will be contingent on your results.

Director [REDACTED]

----------------

Click Here to return to DRC Report Archives

[gentleaffirmations]

there's this thing been rummaging around for a very long time.

i am severely mentally ill, autistic and been through a lot of trauma. throughout my whole life i've been told that i am just overthinking/catastrophising/being dramatic ever since i was a child. even one time my mom blamed me for "my negativity" and now these terms like "overthinking" piss me off so much to the point that it triggers actual meltdowns and now i actually believe that these terms are ableist and should never be used ever again especially if it's used clinically. i tried to talk to someone else about it but then i got shut off and got accused of disallowing people who have anxiety/ocd/ptsd to have the word they need to describe their symptoms, even though i have OCD myself and it never helped me and just made everything worse. it might be 'helpful' to some people but i'm not one of them. these words were used against me and i just don’t want to live in a world where their use is normalized or unquestioned. i don’t trust these words to be used safely even in clinical settings.

I hear how hurt you are and how important and sensitive this topic is to you. Thank you for trusting this with me. I hope that I can answer it with the gentleness that you need. Please know that I'm just another traumatized and (probably) autistic person. My answer might not be right, or what you need.

I can relate so much to your experiences. My mom and my maternal aunts used to accuse me of "overthinking" and criticize me for "negativity" all the time when I was growing up and that had a really awful impact on me. "You're overthinking" was used to shut down my very real fears, needs, and trauma responses. So I understand what you mean when you say that this word was used against you and weaponized to the point of being triggering.

It sounds like you do recognize that the word is useful for other people, but it is still so emotionally loaded and triggering for you that it doesn't matter. That makes sense. That is completely understandable. This word was used to hurt you terribly and you don't trust that it won't be used to hurt you or other people. To you, it is weapon-shaped.

What I think we need to keep in mind is that everyone has the right to name and label their own internal mental experiences. People have the right to name their own experiences as overthinking, and to work with therapists in a clinical setting who help them identify their experiences as overthinking. It makes sense that this causes you distress.

You've been hurt by this and it's a trigger. It is okay to avoid triggers when they are too intense and we don't have the current capacity to deal with them. So it is reasonable for you to dip out of conversations about overthinking, or to block that word on social media, or to ask people who are close to you not to use it (especially in reference to you). And any therapist or clinician you're working with should respect the trauma you've been through and modify their language to avoid triggering you.

Your trigger is valid and your feelings about it are completely valid, but your expectation that everyone stop using the word is unreasonable. These two things are true: It is a normal word that is used in normal ways AND it was a word that was used to hurt you terribly.

[witchezandwonderz]

To Hear Her Laugh Again

Pairing: Ivar x Reader Word Count: 4K Master List Prompt List (Requests are open) Ivar's wife was once the life and soul of the party, but when something awful happens to her, Ivar does anything he can to hear her laughter once again. TW: Sexual violence, SA (implied), torture, PTSD, trauma symptoms, revenge violence, graphic violence, captivity, abuse aftermath, emotional distress, mental health deterioration, vomiting, threats of violence, torture instruments. Tagged list: (If you want to be added or removed, please let me know.) @leftoverp1zza @somebody6468 @cheesesandwichsanto @diorpar @tessakate @miksmom-blog @whitedarkmoonflower @imagines-halfpai @thenameswinter99 @oddsnendsfanfics @ivarlover

Ivar had always adored the sound of his wife's laughter- sharp, reckless, echoing like the gods themselves were amused. She had never feared him, never bowed her head like the others. Even when he had snapped at his own kin, she had smirked in that maddening way of hers, as if daring him to do something foolish. And gods, how he loved her for it. Had loved her for it.

But now, she stared at the fire as if it burned inside her. Silent. Hollow.

Her wrists still bore the marks- raw, red, angry- and though the healers spoke of her astounding survival, no one dared mention what had been taken from her. They had found her barely breathing in a filthy tent outside the enemy's camp, her body broken, her mind somewhere far from Kattegat, and seemingly even further from Ivar.

Ivar had gutted three men that night. Not because they were responsible, but because he needed something to bleed.

Now, his brothers found him pacing the hall like a caged animal. Hvitserk said nothing at first, just watched the twitch in Ivar's jaw.

"She won’t laugh," Ivar said at last, voice cracked and low. "She always laughed, Hvitserk. Even when I said the worst things. Even when I was cruel."

"She will again," Hvitserk offered carefully in the hopes of giving Ivar a sense of, well, hope. Instead, Ivar glanced at him with glistening eyes, and then looked back to the floor beneath him.

"Come on Ivar, she will return to herself, but for now she must heal," Hvitserk reasoned, "remember the first time you heard her laugh?"

Ivar smiled at the memory; The hall was roaring that night, all attendees too drunk to know their own names.

She stood near the fire with two other women, laughter on her lips, eyes alive with mischief. Ubbe spotted her first- of course he did. She was loud and wild and beautiful in a way that demanded to be noticed. He elbowed Hvitserk, and with that easy grin of his, swaggered over with the confidence of a man who expected no one to say no.

Ivar came along at the back, using his arms to crawl along the floor with practised ease, half-hoping the floorboards would collapse beneath him and swallow him whole. He had no interest in Ubbe’s chasing, only in the absurd brightness of her laugh. It cut through the din like a blade. Sharp. Reckless.

"You there," Ubbe said, flashing his smile as he stepped into her circle. "What's your name?"

She gave him a long, slow look and then pointed at him, "you there! That depends. Who’s asking?"

"Ubbe Ragnarsson."

"Ah." She sipped from her cup. "So no one important then." She flashed a grin, before sipping from her cup again.

Her friends howled with laughter. Even Hvitserk gave a bark of amusement, while Ubbe clutched his chest dramatically.

Wounded but undeterred, Ubbe grinned. "You are quick. I like that. I want you."

The moment was thick with the hush that followed those words-somewhere between a challenge and a boast.

She tilted her head. "Do you?"

He stepped closer. "I do. Come back with me. You could be warm all winter."

She looked over Ubbe’s shoulder then- straight at Ivar, who was lingering just outside the circle. He stood stiffly, ready to scoff or sneer or leave altogether.

But she said, clear as the moonlight on snow:

"Ubbe, you could never handle a woman like me. I am still waiting for Ivar to realise that I am the love of his life," she smiled at Ivar, "now that is a man who can handle me." She looked him up and down with hunger in her eyes.

For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Even the gods might have paused to listen.

Ubbe blinked, speechless for once, and Hvitserk let out a shocked snort that turned into a wheezing laugh. Ivar was not usually one for attention, especially in favour of one of his brothers.

Ivar could only stare at her- this woman who had just dared to claim him like a warrior might claim a blade. She did not look away, did not smirk apologetically. She held his gaze like a challenge, like she was daring him to rise to her level.

"I can't decide if you are insane," Ivar said at last, "or just very drunk."

She took a step toward him, her smile spreading wider. "More insane than drunk, but I always know what I want."

A laugh broke from his lips- short, surprised, real. It startled them both.

She beamed. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"That sound. I have just made Ivar the Boneless laugh. I should get a reward for that."

"You want a reward?" Ivar arched an eyebrow.

She leaned in, playful and bold. "You could always marry me. It’d be the polite thing to do," she smiled and leaned in closer, "but in all honesty, I would let you do whatever you wanted to me."

Ubbe stood wide eyed, he could not believe what was happening.

Ubbe blinked, his jaw tightening as his pride caught up with him. "You must be joking," he muttered, loud enough to gather the attention of nearby ears. "No sane woman would choose him over me."

She turned slowly, her smile sharpening. "Joking?" she echoed. "Oh no, sweet Ubbe. Jokes require timing. Precision. A bit of wit." She leaned close to him, mock-conspiratorial. "You would be great at a joke if you just stopped talking before the punchline."

Gasps and stifled laughter rippled around them.

Ubbe bristled. "You think you are clever-"

"I know I am," she cut in sweetly, then looked him up and down with a faux-critical eye. "But it is not your fault. You were born with all the charm of a damp log. Handsome, yes, but tragically one-brained. Only a one-brained man would measure the intelligence of a woman depending on who she is fond of, and I am just not fond of you, I am fond of your brother that you have spent years mocking, get over it." She shrugged simply.

Even Hvitserk choked on his ale, sputtering into a full belly laugh. Ubbe looked mortified.

Ivar- who had never seen anyone humiliate one of his brothers on purpose and live- stared at her like she was madness given form.

Then he started to laugh.

Not the small, bitter kind he gave in court. Not the mocking laugh that followed bloodshed. A real one. Deep, aching, helpless. He threw his head back, hands pressed to his ribs as if the sound had torn free against his will.

She just smiled at him, eyes gleaming. "There it is again. You laugh like someone who forgot they could."

Still laughing, Ivar dragged himself closer. "And you talk like someone who was sent by the gods to cause trouble."

"Oh, I was," she whispered, crouching beside him. "But only for you."

They laughed again- louder now, like they were the only two who understood the joke of it all.

She then leant down close to his face, and ghosted a kiss on his jaw- not a proper kiss, but enough to make Ivar's heart leap out of his chest.

Back in the present, Ivar blinked, the memory still clinging to him like frost. Across the room, she sat unmoving by the fire- her eyes dull, her body hunched in on itself like a fortress fallen from within.

Hvitserk, however, sat holding the bottom of his stomach as he erupted in fits of laughter from the memory. Ivar's eyes flashed from him to his wife.

In that moment he felt his heart break within his chest, the same way that it had shattered every day since he had found her in that tent a month prior.

"Oh, my baby." He whispered to himself as he stared at her.

Ivar rose slowly, each step heavy as if the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. He moved toward her, careful not to startle the fragile silence that wrapped around her like a shroud. Scared of frightening her with a slight noise.

"Do you hear me?" he asked softly, kneeling beside her by the fire. His voice trembled, rough and low. "My love?"

Her eyes flickered briefly, like a candle struggling against the wind, but no words came.

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I am here. I am not going anywhere."

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, her fingers curled around his- clumsy, hesitant- but unmistakably hers.

"I... love you so much" she whispered, voice barely more than a breath, eyes shining with tears. "Please do not give up on me."

The words struck Ivar like a blow and a balm all at once. He clutched her hand tighter, desperate.

"I will never give up on you my goddess," he whispered, his whole body facing her, despite hers facing the fire, "you will become yourself again, I know you will." He pleaded, seemingly trying to convince her of that, yet, really it was to convince himself.

"Hvitserk and I were just talking about when I first met you," he paused, no reaction, "it made me then remember when I first told you I loved you, do you remember?"

She nodded slightly, her eyes still studying the embers within the fire.

Ivar began to recount the memory...

It was a harsh day; the gods ensured that the winds were so strong, the army were debating setting sail. Yet Ivar's wife was so determined to join Ivar and his men on the raid that she did not care about the weather, or the winds, or the gods for that matter- all she knew was that she was a fantastic shield maiden, and could not understand why her soon to be husband would not allow her to go.

Ivar’s voice softened, the memory weaving around him like a warm cloak against the cold day.

"The wind tore through the sails like a wild beast," he began, eyes distant. "The men argued, some said it was madness to sail. But you-you stood firm. You would not be left behind. You said the gods fear the bold, and that we were no cowards."

He smiled faintly, the memory alive in his heart. "I tried to stop you. I told you it was too dangerous, that you should wait here, but you just laughed." His eyes glistened. "You laughed and said, ‘I am not a woman to cower while my husband fights. I fight beside him, or not at all.'"

She squeezed his hand.

Ivar swallowed, continuing. "That day, before the sails even caught the wind, I told you- I said, 'I love you, not just for your fire, but for the way you never bow.'"

He looked into her eyes now, searching for a spark.

"And you smiled, that same wild smile, and jumped on top of me and screamed that you loved me too, and everyone stared at us like we were mad." He laughed.

Her fingers tightened around his, and for a moment, the hollow shell seemed to flicker with life.

"I believe in you," he whispered. "We will find you again, love. I swear it on my life."

Unexpectantly, she turned to face him with tired eyes, leant forward gently and placed a slow, gentle, lingering kiss on his lips before pulling away slightly, "I am here Ivar, I am just a bit beaten and broken, but I will be myself again soon."

Ivar had to do everything in his power to stop himself from over reacting- he did not want to frighten her, but he did not realise how much what she had said meant to him.

Ivar does not know what exactly happened to her; he just knows that she was tortured, but knew of no details. She was terrified of him learning these details- specifically one. She was taken advantage of in a way that no woman ever should.

He knew this deep down, but could not admit it to himself.

He had to know, though. At some point, he had to know.

It began with the way she flinched in her sleep.

At first, Ivar had thought it was just the wounds- phantom pain, a nightmare, a memory pressing too close. But every night she whimpered into the furs, hands clenched in fists, lips moving in pleas he could not make out. And when he tried to soothe her, to whisper her name- she would jolt awake, eyes wild, breath ragged, as if he were the one hurting her.

She never said what had been done.

But she did not need to.

Part of him knew.

Ivar began to notice the silences- the sudden stops when women entered the room, the quick glances between healers when they thought he wasn't looking. The way his wife wouldn't let anyone touch her except him- and even then, only barely.

He asked Hvitserk.

Hvitserk shook his head. "Don’t," he warned. "You don’t want to know what they did in that camp. You don’t want that in your head."

But Ivar already knew.

And that’s what made it worse.

It took him days to find her- the other woman they had rescued from that same wretched place. She was younger, barely grown. Her arms were thin, eyes sunken and dark. She sat by the edge of the fields, plucking weeds with a mindless rhythm.

Ivar approached like one might approach a wounded animal- carefully, slowly, knowing full well she had every reason to bite.

"Can I speak with you?" he asked, voice low.

She did not look up, instead continuing plucking weeds from the earth. "You’re the crippled king. The one who burned them all."

He said nothing.

After a long silence, she added, "I should thank you. But I don't know how. The men you killed... They weren’t even the worst of them."

Ivar's jaw tensed. "She won’t speak to me. She flinches. She wakes up screaming. I need to know what happened. Please."

The girl finally looked at him. Her eyes were far too old for her face.

"You really want to know?"

"I need to."

Her gaze softened- not with pity, but something closer to dread. "Then you need to hear it without screaming."

"I won't scream."

"No. But you will break. It is worse than you could ever imagine." She stood. "They liked her. She was wild- and wild things, they enjoy breaking them more. She fought, even after days without water. She cursed them to their faces. It made them... worse."

Ivar couldn't breathe.

"They passed her around like meat. Some were paid to make her suffer. She never gave them what they wanted- not really. So they just kept going." She refused to look at him as she spoke, yet continued, "At first, it was like she was pretending that they were you, then when she no longer could, she would spend the whole time describing what you would do to them when you found her..." She peered up, "it took them hundreds of times to break her fully."

He turned his face away, tears pooling in his eyes.

"It was worse than what happened to me," the girl whispered. "Because she was proud. And they hate pride in women more than anything else."

Ivar's hands trembled. His mouth opened, but no sound came.

The girl stepped closer. "They tried to take everything from her. And now... she is just trying to find the pieces again."

And then Ivar turned aside and emptied his stomach into the dirt.

He knew deep down that they would have taken advantage of her, but not in this horrific way.

Ivar sat in the dirt for a long time after the girl walked away.

The vomit stung his throat, but it was nothing compared to the fire behind his eyes. He had known. Gods, he had known. But hearing it aloud- that they liked breaking her, that they paid for it, that she tried to survive by pretending it was him- shattered something inside him beyond repair.

By nightfall, he had the names.

Every one of them.

There were nine in total. Some already captured after the raid. Others tracked down by his scouts in the following days, dragged from holes like rats in the dark. They were chained and beaten and thrown into the old barn outside the keep- no one had dared question Ivar when he gave the orders.

But he did not touch them. Not yet.

This wasn’t for him.

This was for her.

She sat curled on the furs, watching the fire again when he returned. He moved slowly, as always, his gait silent. He lowered himself to his knees before her and placed his hand gently over hers.

"I need to tell you something," he said.

Her eyes flicked toward him- tired, wary.

"I know what they did." His voice cracked. "I asked. I shouldn't have, but I did. I had to know. And I… I do."

She flinched but did not pull away, instead, she used both of her hands to cup his face, looking at him with glossy eyes.

"I want to offer you something. Something they would never let you have." He reached into the satchel beside him and unfolded a cloth roll across her lap. Inside was a selection of weapons- daggers, axes, curved blades, even a thin-handled sword.

Her breath hitched.

"They are here," he said. "All of them. Bound. Chained. Hurt, but not dead."

Still no words from her.

"You do not have to," Ivar said carefully. "But if you want to, if you want to make them feel something before they die- if you want to hurt them the way they hurt you- I will make sure you have all the time in the world."

Much to his surprise, and delight, she responded immediately.

"I will need more weapons, show me where they are."

He rose, offering his hand. She didn’t need it- but she took it anyway, and he held it with reverence, as though cradling a flame he had thought extinguished.

He led her through the corridor, silent save for the faint sound of wind slipping under the doors. Down past the armory, beyond the training yard- until they reached a hidden door behind the forge. He opened it.

Inside was a smaller weapons cache- his private collection. Blades from every land he had ever raided. Strange, cruel things.

She stepped into the room, eyes scanning each weapon. Her fingers brushed over obsidian knives, war axes, serrated hooks.

She paused at a short-handled hammer.

"This," she said. "This is for the big one."

Ivar didn't ask which one. He didn’t need to.

She returned to the barn that night.

Not at dawn. Not in fury. She waited until the cold set in, until the silence outside thickened into a hush that held the world still.

They heard her boots before they saw her.

She made no effort to hide them.

The first man whimpered. Tried to beg. His mouth was sewn shut.

She crouched beside him.

"This won't do." She shook her head before placing one hand on the top of his head and the other on his chin, wasting no time before pulling as hard as she could so that his mouth cracked open. He screamed in pain.

"I need it open so I can hear your screams,"

She saw Ivar shuffling towards the door and called his name.

"You stay, please."

Ivar nodded and stopped walking, instead leaning against the wall and watching the sight before him.

She turned her attentions back to the man, "I never once screamed though did I? When you had me tied up, when you spent hours violating me."

The man stared at her, with wide eyes and crimson dripping from his mouth.

"Speak!" She demanded before slicing one of his fingers off.

"I am sorry." He stated, she cackled in return.

"You are sorry? You are sorry?" She turned to Ivar, "he is sorry!"

Ivar felt anger rising within him, for he knew that all nine men in front of him had touched and violated his woman in a way that he could never imagine possible. So he did not react, instead calming himself and reminding himself that this is her revenge, not his.

As much as he wanted it to be his.

"There is only one thing that will even slightly avenge me..." She said, the freshly sharpened blade gripped tightly in her hand. She glided the blade over his body- almost like a tease. She got to the crotch of his trousers, before violently slicing them to shreds- his intimate areas now exposed.

She laughed.

Ivar could not believe it, she actually laughed.

"My love, look at how tiny." She called to Ivar, who in turn could not stop himself from catching her infectious laughter; whether it was fake or not.

"What is the saying? An eye for an eye? How about a violation for a violation?" And with that, she plunged her blade into the tip of his penis.

He writhed against his restraints, a sound ripped from his throat- not quite human, not quite beast. His body convulsed, his eyes rolled back, and blood burst forth in an ugly, pulsing stream.

She didn't flinch. She pressed harder, and started hacking at it. Even Ivar nearly turned away.

"Awwwwww, does it hurt?" She hissed.

She twisted the blade.

The man was sobbing now- screaming, bleeding from between his legs, completely broken.

Ivar, standing back in the shadows, didn't blink. His fists were clenched, but his expression was unreadable. He had given her the weapons. The space. The time.

This was hers.

She leaned in close to the man's face. "You remember every second of what you did. And now you’ll remember every second of how it ended."

She withdrew the blade slowly, letting the gore drip in thick ropes onto the straw. Then she stood, wiped the blade on his shirt without ceremony, and turned to the next prisoner.

"No breaks, and keep him alive, I want them to watch one another," she said to Ivar. "Bring me the one with the crooked nose."

She spent hours torturing the men. Hours.

She personalised each one depending on what they had done to her.

She was now on the ninth, the worst. Words cannot quite explain what she did to that one, but just know that it involved many weapons, many instruments. And just know that this one truly got a taste of his own medicine.

After the torture, she put all of the men into a circle, occasionally slapping them awake if they passed out from the pain.

One by one, she buried her dagger into their chest and twisted.

Once she was finished, she looked at Ivar with wide eyes, and let out a ripple of laughter. Laughter so loud that it echoed throughout the entire hall.

She collapsed onto the floor, still laughing and closed her eyes.

Relieved. She felt complete and utter relief.

She lay on the straw in a tangle of crimson-flecked hair, shoulders shaking with that fierce, unashamed laughter- half-triumph, half-release- as the final echoes faded into the rafters. For a heartbeat, Ivar thought she had slipped into madness. Then her eyes found his, clear as winter sky.

"It is finished," she breathed.

Ivar moved to her side, lowering himself until their foreheads touched. He could feel the hammering of her pulse; she could feel the tremor in his hands.

"You did what they could never do," he whispered. "You took back everything."

She exhaled a long, ragged breath that seemed to empty the months of torment from her lungs. Her fingers, still slick, brushed his cheek. "Help me up, my love."

He lifted her carefully. Together they walked, slow but steady, through the circle of broken men to the barn doors. The night air was cold and bracing; a thousand stars glittered above the thatch like watchful gods.

"Fire," she said.

Hvitserk waited outside with torches and oil. No words were exchanged- there were none left that mattered. Ivar passed her the torch; she tossed it into the straw. Flames leapt greedily, swallowing the horror inside with a roar that felt almost merciful.

Hvitserk peered into the barn, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping at the sight before him. He glanced at her, and gave her a soft smile, one which she returned.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, faces warmed by the blaze. Villagers gathered at a distance, silent, heads bowed- not in judgement, but in grim understanding. The barn timbers cracked; sparks wheeled upward like a flock of ravens set free.

When the roof finally collapsed in a shower of embers, she laughed again- softer now, edged with tears- and it sounded more like the woman Ivar had first heard in a crowded hall so long ago.

He turned to her. "Our enemies will speak of this night."

"Let them," she replied, wiping soot from her cheek. "They will know what happens when they try to break what is ours."

Ivar brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Come home."

She nodded, leaning into him as they walked back towards the longhouse. Each step left a dark, drying print in the snow, but the weight on their shoulders was lighter than it had been in months.

[sysmedsaresexist]

so here's our thing, as a traumagenic system, right. for the longest time we thought we *couldn't* be plural because we "were not traumatized" and we only ever heard about DID-style, traumatized-at-5 systems. thing is, our trauma was just under lock and key of a lot of trauma-locked memories. we're completely pro-endo, because relying on diagnostic criteria helps *no one.*

Hey, Mod Quill here.

For a very, very long time, I was convinced I had DID without trauma. I was firmly pro-endo because I didn't have any trauma, so the DID community didn't welcome me. I wasn't like those other systems; I didn't have trauma, I wasn't upset, I never remembered fighting with my parts! Moreover, the endogenic community welcomed me with open arms, telling me over, and over... and over... and over... just how not traumatized I was.

Even after I started to realize I was in an active abuse situation. Even after I started noticing my symptoms more and more. Even after anti-endos had patiently and kindly (I know, insane to think about) explained that I likely just didn't remember my trauma before, and that what I described as clear and blatant symptoms were equally clear and blatant trauma responses.

I was, essentially, kicked out of pro-endo communities, way back when, because I was too traumatized, and too confrontational when people told me all the reasons I couldn't be traumatized -- such as "too rich," "too white," and "but your parents loved you." That last one was almost constant.

And you know what's remarkable?

Trauma is not part of the diagnostic criteria for DID. Is it a requirement? Yes! But it IS NOT part of the criteria.

You know what is?

Alteration of identity, causing marked issues with sense of self, and affecting many aspects of life (like social relationships, cognition, agency, etc)

Amnesia in some regard (inconsistent with normal forgetfulness)

Distress OR Dysfunction (and thank FUCK Mod Dude explained what dysfunction means, if it's hurdles in your path that you've learned to get over, guess what, neurotypicals don't have those at all)

I experienced all of these. Therefore, I have DID.

And therefore, controversially, many endogenic systems have DID. By the diagnostic criteria. If they experience these three things, that's disordered, babey! It doesn't fucking matter what their trauma history is.

The thing is, I have not known any systems personally who do have these things... without also having trauma. And that's because of many, many different things, but the fact of the matter is, in DID, the alters are a trauma response, not just an additional "thing that normally happens" to systems. And I say this as a DID system with mixed-origins.

Knowing this diagnostic criteria helped me so much. It helped me get the help I fucking needed. It helped me understand the hell was happening to me, and why it was so much worse around my (what I later learned were) abusers.

I'm sorry to say this, but comments like yours are one of many, many reasons why I'm no longer comfortable using pro-endo as a label. Too often, in the effort to support endogenic systems, DID systems and what is helpful for many of us gets... discarded. And that's not right.

I'm not saying what you went through was right either. And it sucks that you couldn't find anyone to relate to, or who could give you the proper information you needed. But the fact is, the diagnostic criteria of the DSM-5 is not to blame for that, and saying it "helps no one" is offensive to those of us who would have died without a diagnosis.

The thing to blame for not having the proper information is people spreading misinfo about DID, people spreading misinfo about systemhood in general, and a lack of role models within the community as it is.

We, as systems, need to be more and more vocal about different presentations of systemhood -- especially since the concept of systemhood is now kind of getting more and more public eye on it. And at the end of the day, it doesn't fucking matter if people are traumatized or not! It doesn't matter if people are pro-endo, anti-endo, or not fucking with syscourse. It doesn't matter if people are diagnosed, self-diagnosed, medically recognized, or not fucking with labels. It doesn't matter if someone is ACTUALLY a system or not!

What matters is getting the help we need. What matters is people getting the diagnosis they need, if that's even something they need. What matters is seeing people with life-long trauma disorders learn to thrive and heal and recover, regardless of what recovery might be for them.

Pro-endo doesn't mean discarding the DSM. Or at least, I highly doubt those who use that label mean it that way. And maybe you didn't either, and I'm sorry to have gone off so long. It's just...

I've seen too much anti-medicalism from pro-endos to trust it anymore, especially as someone who has had to deal with... a lot of ableism about my origins.

Good luck out there -- and I hope you get what you need as well. I hope we all do.

[angstics]

On rewatch, max seemed to be going through a certain kind of Nightmare during “gay week” that Must be attributed to a turbulent episode of internalized homophobia.

My textual evidence is: his confusion / discomfort over being referred to as “daddy”, his almost panicked reaction to avery talking about the threeway (he mentions “the pact” three different times while tristan is open to it… max seems very embarrassed and wary), of course the awkwardness with tristan. There’s also a general air of coldness from him the whole episode. He smiles a few times, but there is a Noticeable Pitch Drop in his voice. Like it’s wild to watch Any other episode then this. Jj flowers

He is going THRU some shit. And im not sure why? He liked the threeway (“wonderful”), he has 0 awkwardness with avery (smiles at her, no tension with her), he doesn’t particularly Fight for avery (doesnt ask her to choose). The tristan fight is the symptom of something big. I guess from their sexual encounter to the quiet to the awkwardness to the throuple suggestion to the tension to the professional fight to the increased tension eased by cap to the apology and relationship breakdown. then he smiles at them.

I feel like. You can see when the tension became intense. Right when avery brings It Up. Then max gets jealous? I feel like. That isnt the appropriate response OR response time. Also during the initial talk, he KEPT trying to shut it down. Thats actually the only thing he says. He doesnt sound jealous. He sounds ashamed. Like i said, embarrassed. Over what? Sharing a girl? Would he have felt this awkward if he slept with her then later she slept with tristan? No. You know how i know. Because he didnt really do anything when tristan and avery kissed and he saw. Afair. And you know what.???? It couldn’t even have been he was ashamed of doing weird sex because hed ALREADY done a threeway. And he called it BAD because they were more into each other. YOU KNOW WHAT HE CALLED THIS AVERY TRISTAN THREEWAY? WONDERFUL!!!

The distressing part was that it was good for everyone. Two people Werent more into each other than with a third. Uh oh! There’s no third he realizes!!! The angry embarrassed ashamed part has to be from the total enjoyment he had. Which necessitates sexual pleasure from whatever Tristan was doing, and seeing Avery & Tristan together. Ergo. #InternailzedHomophobia

Theres a billion more things to talk about. Like the vagueness of Tristan’s sexuality, all the IMPLICATIONS throughout the show in terms of max’s sexuality, the episode’s marked separation btwn Gay People and max & tristan. The theme of “too much” and what that means in a tv show ABOUT indulgence. Ummm!!!!

[escapingrealtiylovinginsanity]

Will Halstead: Roommate Part 2  

This series is going to be really light and playful. 

Will looked at the boxes piled in the living room and was already regretting his decision to let you live with him and that was before you walked in holding a leash. A leash connected to a huge hairy white dog. “No,” You looked up at him with no shame, “Absolutely not.” 

“Will, you already agreed.” 

“Yeah, reluctantly and under distress.” You rolled your eyes at his melodramatic words. “And that was before I knew you had a small horse. Which you didn’t mention.” 

“Well, I thought if you knew, you would be...more hesitant to agree to me moving in.” 

“I would have told you no.”  

You shrugged smiling guiltily at him, “Yeah or that.” Will scrubbed his hands down his face shaking his head. “Oh, come on Halstead. It’s not like she will even be your responsibility. She is completely housetrained and doesn’t chew anything.” He eyed her wearily as she started sniffing his new tennis shoes. “You have to at least like dogs, you're not a monster.”  

Will had begrudgingly agreed to let you and your miniature horse stay. “But I’m not taking care of her. And she’s not allowed in my room or on the couch.” You had nodded, giving him your assurances. You were trying to be as agreeable as possible. You didn’t want to make waves. This was your only option for housing.  

It had to work. 

You didn’t like the thought of locking your dog up while you were out of the house. You knew she was a good girl. She wouldn’t chew or break anything. You couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t jump on the furniture so you were stuck. It made your stomach churn with guilt and forced you to move her water and food bowls into your room. 

You stuck to the new routine the next week, trying to make up for locking her up in your room with extra walks. If that meant dragging yourself out after dark. Things started to change gradually. You are so consumed with how busy you are that you barely notice it.  

First, it's little. Will letting her out of your room when you are gone- “I didn’t want to listen to her whine.” Will sneaked her scraps of food when he was cooking or he couldn’t finish. You had noticed white hair on the couch and started compulsively vacuuming in hopes that Will wouldn’t notice. Shooing her off whenever she jumped on. It was stressful and a pain in the ass but you managed. Will seemed to be over his irritation with his unwanted visitor. 

At least you had thought so. 

You were searching the apartment in a panic and looking for your precious ball of fur. You had been gone too long and had rushed home to take her on a potty break. You felt guilty about how busy you were. She had been lethargic and you usually found her asleep on your bed when you got home. Now she was gone. 

The front door opens and you swing around to see a fluff of white fur calmly entering, tongue hangout and to the side. An exhausted but happy dog. Will trailed behind her leash clipped to his waist. He was glistening in sweat from his run. “Hey, what are you doing?”  

You slump in relief feeling your exhaustion return tenfold. “I was looking for her!” He looks down at the dog for a moment and back at you. His expression is like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.  

“Oh, right-well we went for a jog.” 

“You went for a jog,” You echo blankly, “With my dog- that you hate...” It takes longer than it should for your sluggish brain to process the new information. “Wait- I knew it! You don’t hate her.” He scoffs undoing the leash from her harness. 

“I tolerate her.” He corrects flatly but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays him. You smile even bigger catching him in his lie. 

“Aw, Will- you big softie. How long have you been taking her on runs?” The exhaustion would explain her lethargic-like symptoms. Then another thought occurred to you as you followed him into the kitchen. “You're the one who’s been letting her on the couch, aren’t you?” 

“A few weeks, and I don’t let her- she just does it.”  

“But you don’t make her get off.” You shake your head laughing, “And I have been cleaning that damn couch every day.” Will meets your gaze across the bar top. “Just admit you like her Will.” 

Will sighs heavily, “I don’t hate her.”        

[mutipede]

Rambling about a couple of subjects I've been thinking about recently due to stuff

I still sort of can't believe I had friends induce psychosis for fun. And in retrospect it was happening for longer than I realized, since... psychosis sort of has the tendency to make it difficult to determine that is what's happening. But I was reacting "weird" to things and exhibiting some pretty obvious signs of distress and then when I did realize what was happening and communicated that it was what was happening, then suddenly it became (or felt like it became, I don't know, I am frustratingly prone to defending people who hurt me because "maybe they didn't mean to") - "You can't be psychotic because (now) you know it's happening, and 'if you're crazy you don't know you're crazy', and you're just making excuses, and I have problems and mental illness and shit too y'know" - talking shit through with me or having any amount of patience or fuckin...

I guess they had already determined I wasn't worth being friends with, so you don't bother spending the effort on communication or conflict resolution with someone you don't want to talk to anymore, anyways, so.

But the way people react to psychotic people is. Frustrating. Like an expectation of perfect awareness of and responsibility for actions when that is inherently a thing that fluctuates. While at the same time personally BEING aware of that fluctuation and that in itself causing distress because "I NEED to be responsible for my actions at all times and I NEED to be aware of the effect that I have on others and I NEED to never make anyone uncomfortable or experience a negative emotion because otherwise they WILL want to kill me and would be correct and justified in that desire" like.. <-that is some symptom of something or another, and the two feed off each other and make themselves worse

But also the frustration of also not having any idea how to react to someone who is having an episode or

Fuck to be honest I don't know how to react to anyone at any time and also "people exhibiting distressing mental health symptoms aren't inherently dangerous" is true but also personally feeling like "yeah but EVERYONE is dangerous and unpredictable and terrifying"

All of this adding up to - it is not possible for me to examine every potentially symptomatic thing I post on my own blog and determine whether it aligns with a correct objective reality and attempting to do so is actively harmful for me - and in contrast, probably the most helpful thing for my mental health has been feeling comfortable just writing shit about what I'm thinking or experiencing, turning off the part of my brain that goes "oh shit I can't post that that's [cringe/too personal/too weird/insane]" and posting it anyways and finding that others have had similar experiences, or are willing to try and understand and be supportive and chill about it even if they haven't

And overall I think you (general "you" directed at anyone and everyone) just gotta block people

It's not personal, it's not inherently negative, it's not something you're only allowed to do to assholes and spam bots - I wish muting were an option but it currently isn't so just block people. My blocklist is full of people who post gifsets for TV shows I'm not interested in, people who post mainly political stuff whether I agree with it or not, OPs from posts reblogged by mutuals and people who post stuff in tags I follow that I think "I'd rather not look at that" for literally any tiny reason - I've got nothing against any of them and hope they are also having a chill good time using this website but if I'd rather not see their posts and don't anticipate them ever having any interest in any of mine I just block 'em

And if you don't want to see someone's stuff and they're deactivated, or you see them in reblogs because blocking someone only makes posts not show up if they're the OP - you CAN also go in and add usernames to the "filtered post content" section in "content you see" and I highly recommend doing this I don't think enough people know about this

All the talk about how it's a complicated situation with valid reasonings on both sides and debating about coming up with tags people can blacklist that others are expected to both use AND determine when they SHOULD use all feels kinda unnecessary when we're all just existing on the same website and effective tools for not seeing things you don't want to see already exist

[hoverboards-and-dragons]

Quick question does Michael have some sort of separation Anxiety?

Because in one reblog you mentioned that pre fall he would send a distress signal when he can't see anybody

In another you mentioned he now has panic attacks when he doesn't know where his sword is

Plus, his sleeping habits.

It started as just separation Anxiety, that was always apart of him.

Michael was a child soldier for all intends and purposes, his most base intention is to protects what is God's. All of his siblings had their own thing going on, the Godfam is Michael's thing.

But Michael was born with a sword into a world that didn't know violence, he had prey animal instincts before predators existed. Always on the look out for a danger that refused to appear and so that tension could never be resolved.

He's the closest to their Father, and by that I mean he was purposefully built more mentally and emotionally reliant on Him than his siblings or most other angels, 'his strings are pulled tighter' so to speak. This was for his role as executioner, if Michael dissented there wasn't another angel that could enforce punishment and God is really trying to avoid doing it Himself. And so his bond with his twin wouldn't be enough to drag him down with Lucifer.

Michael is,,, not really a full person on his own, and he certainly doesn't feel like one.

He's always struggled with nightmares, although not as tangibly. Someone going missing no matter how hard he looked or getting stuck somewhere and being unable to escape. Nothing awful but little leaks that Michael was meant for a cruelty that hadn't yet arrived.

Pre-fall this was manageable, Lucifer's brashness was a good balance for Michael, and more importantly took some of the responsibility off him as an elder brother but also specifically his older brother, who he didn't need to be unshakably strong for.

They were always an heir and the spare dynamic, they co-ruled heaven but it was a 51-49 power split and Michael is still wrestling with feelings of inadequacy given how culturally important ingrained purpose is in Heaven. Debasement to this Rightful place that was never his.

What was I saying? Right.

Post-fall it's a full manifestation of PTSD, if it can still be called separation Anxiety its a symptom. Because now he's lost a brother, and evil has seeped past the defences, and all that quiet itching buzzing under his skin has real function and justification.

Although he is more comfortable doing things alone now that he's older, not "distress signal when he can't see anybody" freaking out, that could be the release of that tension now that the threat is finally present and manageable and not hiding behind every corner. Or could just be a refusal to show vulnerability.

He's scared of losing his family, he's scared of failing his duty and being discarded, he has an emptiness in him where Lucifer was ripped out that he's constantly trying to fill with anything else. If anything goes wrong it's on him, as the oldest and as their potential executioner.

It's definitely intertwined with his autism, his sword's a comfort object, familiarity is safety, interruptions are dangers. As he loses sources of stability he becomes more reliant on the ones left. He's at this point the most traditionally religious of the brothers.

He doesn't have a sense of self outside what he can offer others. So he avoids finding out what hes like away from people in case he doesn't like what he finds. He takes a lot after his Dad.

Michael is ultimately a very shy kid who liked the shadows forced violently out of shell too early by a leadership position he didn't want and doesn't like.

Yes, he has very intense separation Anxiety.

[eitoaotsuki]

The worst thing about bpd is you almost never know if you should trust your own emotions. Am I experiencing a Normal amount of sadness in response to this? Am I experiencing an Okay amount of anger in response to this? Is it okay to cry right now? Should I be experiencing This Emotion instead of That Emotion? Is this emotional response appropriate or do I look/sound crazy/manipulative? Would a non-bpd feel this intensely upset in response to this, or is the intensity of this distress a bpd symptom?

When you can't trust your own emotions you can't trust your own judgement. This person hurt me, should I stop talking to them forever or is that Too Much? Does the Punishment suit the Crime? You might ask a non-bpd person what they would do if they were in your shoes, but theres plenty of non-bpd people who honestly aren't good at making these judgements either!! Theres plenty of non-bpd people who are so emotionally unintelligent that they basically are just as incapable as you of understanding What They Feel. It sucks.

A bpd person will be lucky to find someone they can place their faith in to help them observe and decide if their feelings and actions are appropriate. Most of my family have problems like mine so I've realized I can't turn to them for this specific thing. They can and will tell me I should feel evil and guilty if my emotions/actions are Inappropriate which is Unhelpful. I can, however, depend on the most mellow, level-headed person I know; my girlfriend, whom I'm very grateful for. A good therapist is probably another good option for other bpds.

Disclaimer, *I'm* not a therapist and I dont claim to have any real education or knowledge about bpd or emotional unstability or whatever else, I just wanted to talk about maybe the most important realization I've made as someone with borderline and has had to deal with borderline family for my entire life.

[marvelousbutterfly]

Who turned the temperature hotter? ('Cause I'm burnin' up)

Read on ao3

Peter being asleep when he’d usually go on patrol was odd enough, but his shivering form was what really made her concerned. He didn’t even stir as she felt for his temperature, and she couldn’t help but wince in sympathy at his warm skin. Or in which sickness and sensory issues don't mix.

Peter felt like shit. It started with a headache around the second period, so mild he couldn’t pinpoint it at first, but then it progressed throughout the day. Navigating the school hallways got harder and harder as the hours went by, his tired limbs protesting every move. Looking in the bathroom mirror after having splashed some water on his face, Peter noticed he - thankfully - didn’t look that bad, only a bit paler than usual. Still, his friends noticed something was up, if their worried glances were anything to go by.

At lunch, he laid his head on his arms, relieved by the cold surface of the cafeteria table.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” asked Ned.

Peter only grunted in response, not even looking up at the boy.

“Seriously, I’m taking you to the nurse” said MJ, “This has been going on for too long now.”

“‘M fine, just a headache” the boy retorted, trying to dodge her hand reaching for his face.

“And a fever” she retorted after feeling his temperature.

And she was right, but that didn’t stop Peter from being stubborn enough to endure the rest of the school day. It was a Monday, for Thor’s sake, he wasn’t about to start his week by missing chemistry class. His fever didn’t quite agree with his decision, though, as it only got worse. By the time he got home, all he could do was curl up on the couch and sleep.

______________________________________________________________

That’s how May found him hours later, coming back from her shift at the hospital. Peter being asleep when he’d usually go on patrol was odd enough, but his shivering form was what really made her concerned. He didn’t even stir as she felt for his temperature, and she couldn’t help but wince in sympathy at his warm skin.

She gathered everything she needed before gently squeezing the boy’s shoulder.

“Peter, baby,” she said quietly, “can you wake up for me?”

Peter groaned but complied, opening his eyes and looking at his aunt in confusion as he took in her concerned gaze.

“May?”

“Hi, honey. You have a fever. Can you sit up for me?” she asked, motioning for the medication on the coffee table.

The boy complied, but she couldn’t help but notice how he could barely hold himself upright, leaning heavily on the cushions. She handed him the medication created for his metabolism and he took it with no complaints, desperate to get rid of whatever was causing him to feel this bad.

The thing is, for Peter, getting sick was more than feeling icky and under the weather. Each symptom could easily trigger his sensory issues, not to mention how frustrating it was to not fully be able to determine what exactly were those symptoms. 

So for the next couple of hours, Peter whined in distress about the feeling of his feverish sweat all over him. And by the pont his stomach could no longer hold onto the crackers he had finally been able to eat at May’s insistence, a meltdown was inevitable. A very slow, agonizingly lethargic and painful meltdown. May tried her best to calm him down, but his high fever wasn’t helping with his ability to process her words, so all she could do was let him ride it out, and feel her heart break in the process.

He curled up on his bed under his weighted blanket, one hand by his mouth as he bit his knuckles - May had tried to get him to use one of his chewables, but Peter only gagged at the texture.

With a sigh, frustrated that the medication clearly wasn’t working, May pulled out her phone.

“Tony, I need your help.”

______________________________________________________________

Peter arrived at the Tower’s medbay with a 103 degree fever, an empty stomach and an aching body. After the doctors got him set up with an IV line and a quiet room, Tony finally got in.

“Hey buddy” he said quietly, closing the door behind him as he entered the room. “Not feeling too hot, huh?”

“I’m getting sick of this,” he deadpanned. “Pun intended.”

Tony snorted, sitting next to the hospital bed.

“The doctors got you some nice medication, it will help soon,” he reassured the boy and himself. “Do you need anything?”

“I need to not feel gross and sticky anymore” was Peter’s response, and Tony could see he was fighting the urge to scratch at his arms, which were already littered with scratch marks from minutes before.

“I’m sorry, underoos. Wish I could help with that.”

He could see the energy draining out of the kid, so he attempted to reassure him and lighten up the mood.

“Well, you heard the doc, though. Soon we’ll have the test results. Once we figure out what’s going on, we can make you feel better in no time” he assured. “In the meantime, we can watch any Star Wars movie you want to. I’ll grab the remote.”

“Great, ‘cause the force is definitely not with me at the moment.”

______________________________________________________________

And it wasn’t, indeed. Halfway through the movie, Peter had his second meltdown of the day, just as sluggish as the last one.

Tony cleaned the boy’s sweat with a smooth and cold cloth, knowing that the sensation of sweat all over his body was one of the aggravators of Peter’s current state. It  wasn’t an easy task, though, as Peter’s head kept going back and forth to slam into the thin mattress, pillow already forgotten on the floor where it had fallen minutes before. Tony winced in sympathy.

He didn’t even know how the kid had the energy to do that, as all his movements have been slow, his body having no strength to spare. His eyes were glazed over in a feverish haze and all he could do was whine and grunt to express his frustration.

“You gotta keep that there, buddy,” Tony said patiently, prying the boy’s hand away from the IV still in his arm, providing him with much needed fever reducers. He worried about how sluggish the kid’s movements were, though, as it had taken him about 5 attempts to finally reach the offending object.

Peter cried in frustration, moving his other arm so he could bite down into his fingers, head still banging onto the mattress below him.

“Stop stop stop, make it stop” he sobbed weakly, and Tony’s heart sank.

“I wish I could, kiddo” he lamented, “just a few more minutes and we’ll figure out what’s going on.”

“No more minutes, I can't,” the boy hiccuped.

Despite his pleas, it took 10 more minutes until Peter’s body finally lost all its energy, and he fell asleep with tear tracks still on his face. It only took 5 minutes after that for the doctors to come back with answers.

______________________________________________________________

“Pesticides?” asked May incredulously.

“I’m afraid so,” confirmed the tall brunette doctor. “We found traces of ethyl chloride in Mr. Parker’s system, along with other common components of pesticides. My team did some research and we got the information that his school has used such products over the weekend, and Mr. Parker must have had a reaction to its remnants, as his system is very sensitive to it.”

Tony and May looked at each other, not sure how to react. She was the first to break the silence, turning to the doctor once again.

“So what is our next step?” 

“Well, from the latest exam, it seems that Peter’s metabolism and his healing abilities have already taken care of the substance itself, but it took a strain on his body. The fever and vomiting were probably caused by his body trying to expel whatever was affecting him, so what’s left for us to do now is treat those symptoms. We’re keeping him on fluids and fever reducers still, as well as medication for his stomach. The ideal is that he’s able to eat tonight, or we’ll have to take some more drastic measures due to his fast metabolism.”

The lack of food and dehydration were indeed big concerns, Tony knew that. The boy was already so weak he could barely sit up on his own, and he’s seen firsthand what a couple days with not enough food did to his metabolism.

The doctor reassured them that, despite the concerns about his food intake, Peter was on the track to a speedy recovery. Tony and May thanked her, finally exhaling in relief as they at last knew what was wrong.

May returned to Peter’s room where he was still deeply asleep after his meltdown, and Tony decided to make himself useful by cooking him some soup, a recipe his mother used to make when he was ill.

The kid did manage to eat about five spoonfuls of the broth before pushing the bowl in Tony’s hands away from him, turning his head the other way.

“You have to eat, kiddo.”

“No more” he cried weakly in response, hands shaking, “please.”

“Okay, we can try again later” Tony gave in.

‘Later’ turned out to be early afternoon of the next day, as Peter slept all throughout the night. It was a relief, as he didn’t have to go through any more meltdowns during that time. Overnight, his fever finally broke, and May was quick to help clean the sweat it caused, hoping to avoid any more distress for her nephew.

The doctors kept him in observation for the day, only letting him go upstairs to the living room once he had managed to eat half a bowl of soup. Their orders were that he get more rest and drink water to avoid getting dehydrated once again.

Ned and MJ visited him after school, and although Peter was quiet and would doze off from time to time mid-conversation, they stayed with him until he actually fell asleep.

May sipped on her tea in the corner of the room as she watched the two teens whisper their goodbyes to their sleeping friend. Between them, herself, and the man currently asleep on the smaller couch while holding a 3D model of an ethyl chloride molecule he was converting into a stim toy, Peter had a good support system. They would be okay.