#it was my number one comfort thing and i still remember the texture and how it felt to hold

[sunlightera]

thinking tonight about how when i moved to florida. moving out for the first time to be semi on my own. i ended up losing my baby blanket that i had had for my entire life up to that point bc the abuser i was with forgot it in one of the many moves from place to place he put me through. i called it my heart blanket. there is a very heavy handed poem somewhere in this

[saekkas]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐄

summary: you've been pulling all-nighters and michael kaiser isn't happy about that. good thing he has a trick to lure you into bed with him.

w.c: 1.6k

notes: don't be fooled by the pictures. the only kitty cat in this fic is kaiser <3

the digital clock by your side is silent, no ticking to announce the seconds that are trickling by so quickly. time is slipping through your fingers like sand, and you can only watch, pushing past the grainy texture.

everything is starting to feel like a bubble, wrapped in a haze of focus. the sound of blowing AC is minimal, no more hustle of honking cars, and the world is quiet as your eyes sting from the tablet light, drooping in exhaustion.

all is well. at least, until that bubble breaks.

"how are you still sitting there even after all these hours?"

kaiser pads into the living room, shirtless with only some sweats hung low on his waist. every single one of his steps are confident, as if he's set out on a mission he's determined to complete. he fans himself with a hand, walking over to where you're seated on the living room couch. "are you a zombie? or has my angel finally turned into a mummy?"

there are dark circles under your eyes, generated by the hours upon hours of work you've been putting in. every movement feels sluggish; the tablet in your hand feels heavy, as if something's tugging you and your body to lie down on the comfortable cushioned furniture. lack of sleep and too much caffeine, probably.

you can see the way he's eyeing you, a borderline mix of anger, annoyance, and sleepiness wrapped into a person that is him. you don't know whether to be threatened or intrigued by it.

"come here, baby. let's get you to bed, okay?" kaiser leans in close to you, pressing a kiss on your forehead. "i can't let you work yourself down to the bone. you've got me, remember? my card's for you to use."

his movements are too gentle, too smooth and the way he's smiling so sweetly at you, batting his eyes, makes you wonder what he has planned. when you feel the telltale signs of his fingers around your hand, you glare, pressing the tablet to your chest. kaiser's always been a smooth predator, he knows how to get what he wants.

"you look like a feral raccoon," he laughs, sitting right beside you on the couch. "i have a thing for pandas. not trash pandas."

this time, he leans in to press himself into the crook of your neck, wrapping his arms around your waist as he all but curls into your frame. his shoulders slump and he sighs, happily nuzzling his face into your skin. "you smell lovely, liebling."

"mikka," you sigh as he starts to leave gentle kisses on your skin. he's nothing if not trouble but you won't lie to yourself, his presence always brings comfort even if he does end up distracting you from your work most of the time. "shouldn't you be asleep?"

the digital clock on the desk looks back at you, the gleaming red numbers clear. 12:03 AM. you frown, placing your hand on the crook of his neck, playing with the hair that's found its place there.

"aren't you tired?" his body relaxes, curling more around your frame like a cat does with its mother. you can only chuckle when he tries tugging the tablet out of your hands. "what's gotten into you?"

for one, your lover never goes to bed past 10 PM. it's part of the routine you both have. whenever he's home, you follow his routine down to the t. it starts with breakfast at 8 AM, lunch at 1 PM, dinner at 6 PM, and cuddles sprinkled throughout. then you let him drag you to sleep by 9 PM, snuggling against each other like it's the first time you've both shared a bed.

the pout he's sporting tells you he isn't happy that it didn't happen tonight.

"mikka, go to bed. i'll be with you in just a sec." the words are nothing but a lie and you both know it. if it weren't, he'd be happily drooling with his hands around you in bed by now.

kaiser snorts, his pout turning into a frown. he's displeased and it shows in the way that he's started to tug your tablet harder, determined to get you into bed with him. you can feel him shake against your neck, and you tilt your head, surprised when he leans back with a victorious smile and your tablet in his hand.

"mikka." the threat in your voice is clear as you raise your hand, asking him for the tablet back nicely. "i need that back. give it to me, please."

"you know i can't do that." the pout he shows you is absolutely sweet; one you've seen him use dozens of times to get his way. one you have yet found a way to refuse. "i can't sleep while my fiancée works."

there it is. there's that word again. fiancée. another trick he's been using to get his way. "right, fiancée?" he repeats, tucking his hands under your legs and back to lift you into his arms.

"besides, i'm more important than whatever your working on. after all, i'm your fiancé." he nuzzles his face into yours as he walks, playfully biting your nose with a giggle.

you can only glare when he grins at your flustered expression.

"shuddup. you're so annoying." kaiser smells oddly sweet, a mixture of scents that don't usually linger on him, and as you lean your forehead against his collarbone, he's quick to place you on the bed, hurriedly pinning you under him right after. "mikka!"

"let me see." his tone is a mixture of laughter and whines, and his eyes sparkle brightly, similar to the diamond studded ring that now sits on your finger. he holds your wrists, dragging them away to reveal your face, flushed and all. "there's my pretty."

there's a silence that comes after, one that he fills with a loving gaze and a haughty smirk. he leans down, pressing himself against you, and nuzzles into your neck with his hands wrapped tightly around your waist.

he clearly has a thing for your neck.

the press of his body on yours is heavy but it's something you're used to. kaiser is someone who thrives with physical contact and combined with the summer heat, he's been a menace. he insists on latching onto you like a koala every single day. not that you mind. especially not when he's shirtless like he is now.

"aren't you hot?" you mumble, trailing a finger down his back. you watch as he shivers at the action, goosebumps rising on his skin. "we might both experience heat stroke if we keep cuddling like this."

"yes, i am hot." comes his answer which you snort at. he grins at the sound, lifting his head to look into your eyes. "don't act all coy. i know you love it when my tattoo's on show."

your eyes dart down to his arm at his words, taking in the thorny roses that slither up the skin. they're stark, inky black against his pale arm. you follow their path up to his neck, marveling the rose on his skin that perfectly matches his hair and eyes.

"see," he teases smugly, leaning in to press a kiss on your lips. "you can't resist me."

you blink at that, looking at him with wide eyes.

"what?" a grin makes its way onto his lips as kaiser places his head on your belly, kissing you through your pajamas. "something you wanna ask?"

something is different about him. not in the way he looks, not in the way he behaves but in the way he smells. your eyes narrow before widening in realization. "you're wearing lip gloss?" you prop yourself on your elbows, using a hand to pull him up. "lemme taste."

kaiser grins, smug as he lets you maneuver him all you want. with every peck that's placed on his lips, his grin grows bigger and bigger until he looks like a chesire cat.

"is that why you smell different?" you mumble, tilting your head to press against his lips harder. he responds in kind, wrapping his hands around your waist tighter as if you're going to disappear if he doesn't. "what flavor is that? cherry?"

when he finally lets you pull away, your lips are red and swollen, playfully bitten by the man in front of you. his gaze stays on them, smiling smugly as he nods.

"yeah. after all, i'm the one that gets to pop your-"

there's a groan that comes when you push him off. you giggle, hovering above him from the bed. sprawled on the floor, your big bad fiancé looks nothing like his fierce persona on the field. if anything, he looks like a startled starfish. "that's what you get for being so annoying."

there's a glint in his eye that has you backing up on the bed. seconds later, he's back on his feet, tackling you into the pillows. the sound of laughter fills the room and as you pant, hovering above him, you cradle his face in your hand. your future, your world, your everything.

"i can't wait to marry you," you whisper, one hand trailing hearts on the rose that sits on his neck. "i can't believe you roped me into this."

"i guess i'm just that charming." he laughs, pulling your body down until you're straddling his lap. his hands are gentle as they trail down your thighs in return, squeezing the fat around your hips. "i can't wait either. especially for-"

"one more word and i'm banishing you to the couch."

"will you be on the couch with me? because if you will-"

"mikka."

"yes ma'am."

[penelope-joy]

methods; 5 senses method;

Many shifting methods focus primarily on intense concentration, visualization, and simply believing you are in your Desired Reality (DR). However, they often fall short by telling you to believe without explaining how to actually cultivate that belief—much like mentioning a strange fact without providing the science behind it. Let me break down the method for you, step by step, and explain why it makes more sense than traditional methods

||*. Step 1: small meditations throughout the day

During the day, take a few moments for brief meditations, which can be as short or long as you like. I usually do mine in a quiet place where I won’t be distracted, and they typically last around 2 minutes. Find a comfortable position—whether sitting, standing, or lying down—and begin by focusing on your surroundings.

Observe what you see: What textures do the objects around you have? What colors are they? Is there anything unique about them?

You can ask yourself any questions you find helpful; I usually use these. After observing, turn your attention to your other four senses. Focus on each one and remember the details. Here are some questions to guide your reflection:

||*. Smell

What do you smell? Is the smell nostalgic? Do you know this smell? Can you describe it? Do you like it?

||*. Touch

What are you touching? How does your body feel? What's the surface of the things your touchibg like? Is the surface warm, hot or neutral? Taste (I usually skip this one since I'm not eating anything) What does it taste like? Does it taste good? Do you often taste this?

||*. Hearing

What do you hear? Are there any background noises? Does the soun disturb you? Is it something you hear often? Do you like the sound? Is it relaxing? Are there any people talking? Once you are done, you can move and go on with your day. I will explain more later of why we had to do this, but it helps you realize the difference between your cr and dr, and helps you know when you're surroundings are changing whilst shifting.

||*. Step 2: SUBLIMINALS SUBLIMINALS SUBLIMINALS!

Play a subliminal that matches your DR. When you’re ready to shift, lie on your back, then adjust to the position you would likely wake up in your DR, while remaining on your back. It may seem tricky, but essentially, you want to replicate the position you’d be in if you were already in your DR, just while lying on your back. Begin counting until you experience significant shifting symptoms—this could be up to 50, 100, 300, or any number you choose. Intermingle detaching and identity affirmations with your counting; while regular affirmations can be used, these two are particularly effective for this method. Stay completely still. The subliminal will assist with affirmations and visualization. Lying on your back can enhance vividness in dreams, which is why it’s recommended for shifting. Counting helps you enter the "mind awake, body asleep" state necessary for shifting. Using detaching and identity affirmations will aid in separating from your current reality and embodying your DR self.

||*. Step 3: 5 senses

Now that you’ve finished counting and are experiencing many symptoms, repeat the process from Step One, but focus on elements of your Desired Reality. For example, if your DR is the sandy beaches of Pabu, imagine yourself waking up there.

I see the white sand glistens under the sun, the clear turquoise water teems with colorful fish, and palm trees sway in the breeze, making it look like a scene straight out of a dream. I can smell (what you scripted you would smell in your dr) I can hear the sound of waves gently crashing on the shore mixes with the soft rustle of palm leaves swaying in the breeze, creating a soothing backdrop of natural harmony. I can feel the sand, warm and soft underfoot, like a fine, comforting blanket, while the cool, clear water gently brushes against my skin,.

After completing these steps, you should begin to notice more shifting symptoms and feel your surroundings start to change. Begin using affirmations like "I have shifted" or "I am on the planet of Pabu," and continue repeating these while vividly visualizing your new location. Then, either let yourself drift off to sleep or open your eyes to see if you’ve successfully shifted.

[selfpositiveundertale]

Update

CW: discussion of trauma (the trauma was a bad car accident)

I was able to pay for my dog's vet appointment and her medicine thanks to the person who paypal'd me ❤️❤️❤️ She isn't happy about having to take medicine again but hopefully this will be the last round, it's pretty much just probiotics and something to settle her stomach because the antibiotics really did a number on her tummy.

My hands ache from the crash but it's no worse than the soreness after crocheting for several hours. I can do some crocheting but I find thicker yarn much easier and less painful to work with right now. That said, I got a bunch of chenille yarn a while back and I have some larger plush versions of my Ralsei amogus dolls in the works. The first one is almost done, I just have to assemble and attach the hat. Will post a pic when he's done. I want to have at least 2 each with and without squeakers made and then I might reopen my Etsy shop and list them. They will cost more due to the cost of materials, but I'll probably mostly have dolls made of the chenille yarn for a while, at least until I can work with normal yarn without pain within minutes again. I'm hoping to sell a couple by Tuesday because I have another chiropractic appointment that day I'll need to pay for and my husband doesn't get paid again until Friday.

I'm still trying to process what happened. I'm seeing my therapist tomorrow and I will be discussing it with her. This therapist is new to me, my previous one that I had for a few years left the place I'm with and is now working elsewhere. We've only had like 2 sessions but she seems nice. It's just a little frustrating having to break in a new therapist all over again but not really a problem so I'm not worried.

I drove today, to take my dog to the vet. It was scary. I didn't realize how paranoid I would be of other drivers, fully expecting anyone and everyone to whip out in front of me when they're waiting to exit a parking lot to the road or suddenly veer into my lane when they're right beside me and I panicked every time I saw them. It took a lot of self control to not slam on the brakes and to remind myself that other people are not going to do things like that. I have to remember I know how to drive safely and most people are not going to be so reckless as to do the dangerous things my brain is expecting them to do. My anxiety around driving is almost back to where it was while I was still very new at it, terrified to be on the road with other people and having no trust in them and even less trust in myself. I have to build up my confidence again and I have no idea how long it will take.

I have to say, getting hit by one huge trauma all at once sure feels different from the trauma I'm used to, which is the kind that builds up over many years in a toxic and dysfunctional family. It's kind of surreal, I find myself wondering if it was all a dream but then I see the bruises on my legs and feel the ache in my palms and how stiff and sore my body still is even after a chiropractic appointment and see the empty space where I would have parked my vehicle and I have to remember it really happened. I get this weird chill that seeps up the back of my head like cold water in my hair when I remember it. And yeah, I'm grateful I walked away with nothing worse than bruises and stuff my chiropractor fixes literally all the time anyway, but I wish it didn't happen.

It's all such a mess. Right now I'm just trying to focus on keeping myself fed with good food and busy with things that can make some money. I'm making chili tomorrow because it's one of the less expensive things I can make, and also I could use some comfort food after the week I've had. And maybe the familiar routine of cooking the beans will help soothe my brain. I only use dry beans as I can't stand the texture of canned beans. Cooking them isn't difficult or complicated, just time consuming and I think the 2 or 3 hours it'll take to cook them will do me some good.

It's after midnight and I'm exhausted, so I'm gonna try to get some sleep. Goodnight, and stay determined.

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜

[imtotallyokandnormal]

What’s ur headcannons for sally and or Lazari?

Oooo very good question! I am currently working on descriptions for some of the creeps in my au but I can definitely give some Sally headcanons since I know I'm definitely adding her.

Warnings: vague mentions of her death, brief overviews of how it effects her emotionally

Image link: howdy y'all, tell me about your favorite creepypastas!

》☆Sally headcanons!☆《

So Sally is a ghost, which means that on earth she can't manifest a physical form. But at The Manor she can freely shift from incorporeal to corporeal whenever she wants! She loves being able to use this ability to play pranks on the proxies (most pranks are cute but occasionally she does scare the shit out of somebody, she finds it funny).

Sally's a perceptive kid and understands a lot of what people say, despite people thinking otherwise. When people try to talk around certain things, like trying not to swear around her, she's able to fill in the blanks and pick up on what certain things mean. She likes to eavesdrop on conversations around the manor and gossip about the juicy stuff with Ben.

She loves using her time around the manor either learning new things or using her creativity. She likes to learn about a large number of things, but she especially likes learning more scientific things with Ben because he's very understanding with her. As for creative outputs Sally loves drawing, painting, and doing crafts like making little sock dolls. They tend to look a little creepy but she loves them and calls them her kids.

If Sally considers Ben her big brother, then Nina would be her big sister. With how joyful and sweet Nina is, she tends to make her feels safe. Plus she just thinks she's really fun, because Nina would be spontaneous with suggesting various things they could do and she always encourages Sally to pick their activities. Nina is almost the only one in the manor she can convince to dress up with her.

Speaking of, she loves dressing up! Every day you can expect her to be in a cute outfit, whether it's pjs or a whole ensemble. She's a big fan of anything with fun prints or textures, especially ruffles. Her outfits usually have a mismatched quality to them, but they also tend to have a theme, like including cat elements.

As fun loving as she is, Sally's still been through a lot of horrible things and it can be hard for her to remember the circumstances of her death. Sometimes she lashes out at people, not knowing how to handle just how big and enveloping her emotions are. She'll probably refuse to see certain people, unless it's Ben or Nina, since they're the ones she feels safest around.

Sometimes the things that give her comfort on bad days are on the darker side, which is why she especially loves her sock dolls. She gives them features she sees in the proxies, like holes for eyes or cuts in certain places. They help remind her of the people that protect and care for her, the proxies.

[figroth]

Flickers in the Dark

The orange lights flickered unexpectedly in the distance of the abyssal darkness.

Thania observed the first source of light she had encountered in years thoughtfully. What could the meaning of this be? Down in the Abyss there was no light. There was barely anything to be honest, but especially not light. She had learnt to sense her barren and bleak world through other means, so much so that she had almost forgotten what it was like to see. Could she believe her own sight after it'd fallen in such disuse?

Indeed the question of whether she could trust the vision was prevalent in her mind. Her many years of experience in the Abyss had taught her that trust was a sentiment one shouldn't afford to anything.

Once, she remembered, the harrowing cry of a woman echoing through the darkness. She had hurried to the aid of the distressed woman, hoping in the depths of her heart that she might finally have a companion in her empty journeys. At the end of her dash, however, she had met no person, but a bulbous mass of disparate parts. Her first tentative touches had felt a number of faces, distorted in unnatural asymmetrical shapes, undulating in and out as one with the breathing of the beast. As she stepped back, she could hear the unearthly shrieks of people rendered so inhuman in how real they sounded. She had barely escaped the claws that had then swooped in to catch her, and likely add her own face to the amalgamation.

No, there were two very fundamental lessons about living in the Abyss. The first was that despite the general emptiness, in the rare event of encountering something other than yourself, investigating was never worth the danger it put you in. Though Thania did not understand the purposes of the things she met and could never predict their actual nature beforehand, she knew they were never safe. From the pleasant aroma of a flower luring you into a plant that would entrap you and incorporate your living body to its growing vines; to a room of warmth and comfort inviting you to rest your sorrows away, only to sap away all your will and motivation by the time you woke up; everything in this world harboured a threat of some kind or other.

Yet, these orange flickers of light made Thania feel warm just by looking at them. She remembered a time when a flame of not too dissimilar hue would have kept her company through the night, shielding her from the cold of the outside world. She could imagine the small crowded home that surrounded such hearth. She yearned for its warmth. Could these lights possibly be houses of people? What else could create light? She had never seen the creatures of the Abyss do such a thing.

The second lesson of the Abyss was that the cold, lonely life it offered was not living at all when you didn't let even its rare encounters approach you.

"Do you reckon you'll find people over there?" Grinner suddenly appeared with a condescending chuckle.

She ignored him.

"It's almost inspiring how you still believe after all this time. Your optimism is why I like you, though", his mocking grin was perceptible even without having to see him.

Once upon a time, a naive young Thania had allowed herself to feel around his face and body. He had seemed roughly human-shaped, even if the texture wasn't quite right. But most noticeable had been the incredibly wide smile his face was contorted to. It was a smile she could hear in his very voice. That's why she had called him Grinner back then.

Of course, it had been entirely wrong to engage with him. She had once been glad to meet another person she could speak with. Nowadays, she wasn't sure if she should refer to him as a person at all. Her current theory had him be a demon haunting her in an attempt to confuse and mislead her, out of pure appreciation for her suffering. She still feared he might have yet worse intentions, however. Thus, she ignored him.

"Still not much for conversation, I see. You wound my feelings, dearie. In any case, be careful in your foolish little endeavour. We wouldn't want you to die, would we?" his last words were dipped with a pretend concern that induced an ominous feeling in her.

With his part said, she heard Grinner's essence dissolve back into nothingness. She was alone again. Perhaps she wouldn't be for long. Her tormentor didn't seem to think the flickers held anything good in them, and in truthfulness she agreed. But if the demon was right about one thing was that in the core of all her jadedness, she simply wanted to believe in the light again.

After all, although Thania always said she had been alone since the start, in reality she'd met other humans before. It had been mostly in the beginning, right after her home had been taken by the Abyss. She assumed they came from the same place, but she hadn't been able to confirm it, since she didn't recognise anyone she knew. Unfortunately, in most cases the humans were already dead or in irrecoverable states that didn't allow communication when she found them. Horrifying though these instances were, they were invaluable learning experiences that allowed her to survive all this time.

After a while, the humans stopped showing up. Thania was left to deal with the Abyss and its dangers by herself. What happened to her home, she never knew exactly. In her childhood she and her family had lived in a mining colony on a far-off moon of the solar system. It had not been an easy life, but it was all Thania had known and she had been happy. She knew that now at least. But then with no sign or warning, a fog of complete blackness had appeared and consumed the whole moon within it.

Where was she now and where was the moon gone now? She didn't know. Her current whereabouts, the thing she called the Abyss, didn't feel like she was on a planet or in space, or even in the fog that started it all. Sometimes the Abyss didn't even seem to have any corporeal form at all. It was just a Darkness, and she existed in it. Then, sometimes other Things would appear within it.

The fog had taken her entire home. But then, after the initial panic and mayhem, she was alone. She had met some people, but not nearly enough. Where had the rest of them gone? Where had the buildings and towns gone? Where had her family gone? Were they also somewhere in the Abyss to be found? Or had they perhaps been spared from the darkness and she could go back to them, if she only found an exit.

Those questions bothered her whenever she tried to sleep. But they were also what kept her hope alive. What kept her moving after a long series of disappointments.

There was of course something else that motivated her. That inner hunger she always felt that could never be quenched in the bare landscape of the Abyss. An agonising unrelenting hunger that plagued her always. It tormented her, but it kept her alive. It drove her to take risks she wouldn't have otherwise, every time a step closer to death. And yet when she made it out alive, she had what the hunger demanded of her. Perhaps without it she would have given up long ago.

Her belly now again rumbled. She didn't get to eat often. Whatever waited for her at the end of this trip, this was an unmistakable chance to alleviate that hard knot in her stomach.

She looked down at herself, a motion more symbolic than anything else. If she did find people, though, would they be able to accept her as she was now? A wandering creature, twisted by the instincts of survival and the corruption of the dark, who can only think of consuming whatever she can find to satiate her hunger... Was she perhaps also a monster of the Abyss now?

Her clothes were long gone, torn and frayed through time and wear. They wouldn't fit her grown body anyway. Instead now she wore a veil of shadows, fashioned like a cloak. Although no prying eyes could pierce the darkness that enveloped all and no clothing could shield from the coldness permeating everything in the Abyss, she still somehow felt safer or more comfortable with something on rather than otherwise. Perhaps it was an artifact of a life in a more reasonable world.

Would such appearance scare a fellow human? The transformations the Dark had forced upon her. Could they ever be accepted by people? If she ever re-surfaced to the real world, would she be welcome? Would she be able to live there? Or would she be so far gone, the warmth would burn her?

In the Abyss, there was no night and day. The only differentiation of time for Thania was the cycle of necessary movement replaced by the loss of all willingness to think and experience. Then, she would sleep, surrendering herself to the same void that surrounded her from all sides. Once again now, stopped in her tracks by her maddening thoughts, she found a hole to crawl in and lied down hoping the oblivion would claim her and erase all worries.

She had no dreams.

She awakened to the call of her hunger. Though sleep in the Abyss rarely offered enough rest to be considered fulfilling, Thania had at least shed some of her exhaustion, allowing to build up her mental fortitude once again.

The orange lights were still there. Whatever lay there, human, monstrous or otherwise, she would have to face it in the end no matter the outcome. That wouldn't change.

She made her way towards them once again. Although the Abyss had no definite shape or form, it did sometimes assume a particular, more corporeal state. Often Thania found her feet walking upon what felt like hard rocky terrain. Other times, it was as if she was in a murky bog, her legs submerging themselves into invisible mud and water. And yet other times, even more structure appeared in her way, like stony trees, pillars made of tar and even rivers of ambiguous substances defying the notion of gravity and flowing in any direction they saw fit.

This time the darkness melted into a liquid form and Thania found herself having to swim through a lake. It was not her favourite state. The touch of the water, if it could even be called that, made her yet colder. She pushed on despite it. The faster she swam, the sooner she'd be out of the lake.

Whilst at first, her head remained above the surface, letting buoyancy keep her afloat, suddenly all the enveloping darkness was liquid, pressing from all sides. In a panic, she tried to swim upwards, but no end to the water appeared. She'd closed her mouth as soon as the change occurred, so nothing had gotten in, but as a result she hadn't gotten a good breath in. She didn't have long.

Taking a moment to calm herself, she stopped and looked at her target, the only visible thing in so long. The Abyss was playing tricks on her, but the lights were surely there and approaching. She could try go back, but it wasn't certain the Abyss would change back. The lights were true and material, though, no matter what the Dark shaped itself into. That was her only hope.

She dove straight for the orange dots, now blurring through the pain-induced tears. She didn't even know if oxygen existed in the Abyss, yet her lungs longed for it nonetheless. They begged her to open her mouth, ignorant that what lay outside was not air. They pressure built up far quicker than she had hoped. She couldn't stand this. She was getting closer, but her instincts fought her.

She opened her mouth.

The darkness flowed quickly into her mouth and down her neck, filling her up inside with the most dreadful stuffy solidified sense of drowning. It reached the capacity of her lungs and then overflowed, spreading to her entire being. A single scream escaped, short in duration, muffled, and eventually swallowed by the void.

The next instant that she could be certain she was conscious, Thania was on solid ground -solid enough at least- with no sign of the lake that had been drowning her, for how long she couldn't tell.

She greedily breathed in and out, partly to calm herself, but also to make up for all the breaths she just skipped. The essence that had invaded her seemed to be gone and any lingering taste was probably her imagination. However, she didn't trust that it wasn't hiding somewhere within her with some insidious purpose. The fear of that would be something more to worry about in her lone moments of sleep, but in the moment she couldn't do anything about it, so she tried to repress it.

She felt around her body, from her limbs to her chest to her belly, to make sure everything was still in place, then she got up. The lights were closer than ever, fairly bigger than before and easier to distinguish. Without any other landmarks, it was hard to estimate distances, but she felt she was almost there.

As she continued on her way, the ground started to turn uphill. Eventually, after some searching she found a swirling path that appeared to climb up a hill or mountain. The lights proved to be higher than her current level, so the path seemed to be a promising way of reaching them.

As she went around the hill, the flickers came in and out of sight, as if something was hiding them, but now Thania could see they weren't quite round, but had a more elongated squarish shape. The excitement caused by this almost made her turn around and run away, for fear of the disappointment being wrong would cause.

"Don't do this to me now", she inadvertently mumbled to herself in a croaky voice.

The remaining climb was some of the hardest exercise she'd gotten in a long time. Other than running away from dangers, the empty Abyss didn't often offer much physical challenge. Now, the clear path up the hill seemed to stop and instead the way up was through steep jagged cliffs. Yet, the lights were just above, tantalisingly close and yet out of reach. Thania put in her all, making her way up, blindly searching for stable footing.

She was faintly reminded of climbing a much less steep slope in the dark during the exploration of an abandoned mine, back home. Was she with her friends then, venturing into dangerous passages out of curiosity despite warning; or had her father brought her there to familiarise her with the mines that she might also have worked in some day? She couldn't remember. Her memories of her old life seemed so far now, so faded. Lost almost, as if taken by the all-consuming Darkness.

A sharp feeling grasped her gut. Her memories of the old world were one of the few things she had, one of her precious treasures. Without realising it, it had escaped like sand in her hands. Was forgetfulness and nothingness all that awaited her? If she had lost what once was, could she perhaps ever make memories to replace the ones that were gone? A warm life with warm people. Could she possibly ever have something so nice?

A monstrosity of many eyes and enormous size stared at her and seemed to almost silently reply "No". Archs of almost human size, emitting orange light, with a cross separating them in four parts dotted the gooey flesh of the monster. By all accounts they should have been windows. And yet they were just another trick of the Abyss meant to deceive her. The window-shaped eyes of the vaguely spherical mass of overlapping disproportionately small arms turned to look at her. A maw covering about half of the creature opened in anticipation, revealing its inner dark depths. The two chicken-like legs supporting its weight dubiously, slowly started to move towards her.

Thania wasn't sure if this was worse than the creatures she imagined when she couldn't see the horrors of the Abyss visually. It didn't matter in this moment, however, as instead of a fearful scream, hoarse laughter escaped her mouth. Of course. What else did she expect? She felt horrible, yet she could only laugh.

But something else stirred within her at the same time. Looking down, below her cloak, in the light of the beast's eyes, she could for the first time see the gem that had embedded itself in her stomach. It opened up to reveal the mouth she knew was there, demanding flesh to quench its hunger.

Many might have wondered, had they heard Thania's tale, how she managed to survive this long in the Abyss, escaping its touch and its horrible traps. The simple answer is she didn't. Since the very beginning, the taint of the Abyss had accompanied her.

When the fog came, unimaginable beasts had emerged from it. Some had been satisfied hunting for food. Others had simply killed, seemingly for its own sake. Some few had committed unthinkable horrors on the unfortunate victims of her home. As for Thania, before she could escape one of the small ones had bitten her leg. What happened next was always a blur, but the creature had managed to enter her body and somehow merge with it. She could still feel it inside her, attached to her heart, its tendrils reaching within her, sapping any warmth she could produce.

Its thirst for life, its search for sustenance had always followed her. It was what had made her eat the the detached claw of a face-stealing monster. What had convinced her to accept the fruit of a tree growing out of a man. It was what gave her power and what had helped her survive.

It was what would have her fight the many-eyed monstrosity charging at her right now. And the survivor's hunger will be sated.

If only for a moment.

[limeade-l3sbian]

i know i joke about my weird food choices but as i'm sure you've noticed, many of them are hella processed and junky. and i consider myself a genuine reason that parents need to expand their children's palettes beyond nuggets and pizza. i'm more than aware as someone who grew up poor that this is pretty hard for "lower class" families to do and we don't all have access to these things, as was my situation a lot.

i remember reading this tweet that said some people's idea of parenting is just giving their kids nuggets and sitting them in front of the television. and that was my childhood. my mom didn't know how to cook and for a number of reasons, didn't care to learn. so it was frozen dinners, pizza, and a lot of processed stuff that i came to see as a comfort during hard times. my palette never expanded, and for the rare moments that i was told to eat something else, it was a genuine struggle that no one pressured me to do. i'm african american, so i have no "cultural" foods in the more traditional sense. soul food is delicious but not the most healthy.

i didn't start regularly drinking water until i was in high school, and even then, i had to force it. because all my mom and dad gave me was crystal light and soda!

so in my twenties, i have to fight through issues with food texture and teaching myself to try new things. now i love water lmao but still struggle with the food bit.

for the love of god, teach your kids to try new things so they don't panic when they don't see chicken tenders on the menu at a restaurant.

[doeblossom]

May we see your pony form, Darling? Is it Earth, Unicorn, Pegasus, or other?

click to see their full details! if you can't tell, i've always been unicorn biased. more info about them is below the cut!! but i've really had so many ponysonas, it's bonkers.

pony prime is called "the original" since she was the first oc i ever made. i couldn't decide between being a unicorn or a pegasus, so i just picked both! i knew that having an alicorn oc was considered "cringey," but i justified it due to being native hawaiian and being related to the former bloodline (but honestly it's not as big of a deal as i thought it was then). i also liked the color turquoise at the time, and couldn't come up with a hair or eye color, so i just picked my own.

pony number 2 was a modified version of the original. chopped off her wings, changed her hair color and made it more show-style big-poofy-curl, and added accessories. i was leaning more into liking purple along with turquoise, and started going through a FNAF phase, which brought about the bowtie. it phased out in later drawings of sketche, but i figured it deserved a spot here. another important note: i drew all of my ponies with the same body type, and was still having a hard time drawing/accepting my own, so all of the ponies up until the most recent are thin.

here's a more literal case of FNAF phase. wisp isha was literally a ponified version of my FNAF insert, wisp the wolf. she was also the first ponysona to have a cutie mark, with a red cross symbol and wrench (she performed repairs on the other bots). originally her second name was "urufu," which was the word that google gave me for "wolf" in japanese. it's just "wolf" written out in japanese kanji. i don''t remember where i got isha from, though.

inky emerald didn't even really have a name! i was experimenting with my ponysona, and tried a ponysona making challenge, which spit this girl out. things like species and hair length were determined by your date of birth, of course. she's called "inky emerald" because she has ink covering her legs and hooves, which you can't really see due to the frame. around this time, i had a few other place holder ponysonas, but they all culminated into inky.

snow blossom was one of my favorites when i made her, but as her name implies, she is as pale as the snow itself. and as much as i'll joke about being "reflective" online, i'm actually not this pale haha. anyways, this is where i started leavning more towards a flowery theme and using green in my designs. i think i drew her a couple of times, but after that, she faded into the background and i stepped back from drawing ponies for a long while.

lilac was my return to ponies after about a year and a half of not touching them. it feels like the break was longer, but it wasn't. couldn't get rid of ponies in my brain if i tried ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. lilac willow was a direct redesign of sketche wolf. she was the second pony to have a cutie mark, which was a half-drawn flower. i aws experimenting a lot with how i wanted to draw ponies, so her design was one of the furthest from the MLP style. she looked nothing like me, though; the curls were much more relaxed, she was extremely thin, no glasses... but her design was fun. i may try incorporating her into the main blog at some point, but just in the background.

hmmmmm, i think i recognize this one.... nope. jk. this design was made when i decided to make a blog about lumerde. i wanted to incorporate my NOW favorite colors, green, pink, and yellow, and almost accidentally made fluttershy... but i think the result was fine. she's also chubby, like i am irl! i know i talk about my weight a lot but i'm trying to be more comfortable and confident about it.

and then, our current narrator herself! well, myself, i suppose. i really like this redesign and the new hair texture, and i hope this design communicates everything about how i look properly. i originally tried avoiding putting too many fur marks on my characters since the show rarely did that, but heck, it's barely even attached to the show anymore.

this feels like a lineage. but in a fun way!

[wank127]

sorry in advance if i’m spamming your notifications /gen!

i just remembered that denki existed and i’m craving [neurodivergent] headcanons and your blog kinda has a lot of good reblogs n posts of that so-

you’re not spamming at all, in fact i didn’t even see this till now since i don’t normally get any asks ! (thanks for the ask btw <3) i hope you enjoy !!

neurodivergent denki headcannons !

disclaimer: i, myself, am currently in the process of getting diagnosed with adhd/autism/whatever it is (i’m not self diagnosing but i did get 8/10 on an autism assessment given to me by a doctor so that must say something) so this is a wee bit of me projecting. my intentions for this post are not to offend anyone in the nd community nor spread any miss information. please correct me if i make any mistakes ! and apologies for it being so long i’m still trying to figure out the ‘read more’ thing !! now ! onto the head cannons !!

he has MAJOR sensory issues and issues with bad textures

his main ones are foods that are a mix between solid or liquid, like a soup that’s meant to be smooth but isn’t or like very wet bread, anything sticky and that one inside of a hoodie feel, like the one wear it’s like fleece but it feels like plastic and somehow creamy and just BLUGNXJSK y’know?

he has that not right kind of thing(iykyk) where he has to say a word/phrase again till it feels right, or touch the desk again, or hit the back of foot again to make it right

it gets really frustrating sometimes

he surprisingly likes velvet, fun to play with, cool to drag your finger around on

he has very bad memory problems

like really bad

they cause him to breakdown every time he has a test cause everything he tried to study was just,, gone,, no where to be found

he opens up to present mic about it and he’s a big help, gives him extra time for testing, helps him with study techniques, gives him more reminders, etc etc

mic and him are like that student-english teacher duo

(no bc they’re the same person just different sizes please)

he struggles with reading a lot too, he knows there’s words but his brain just won’t recognize what they are

word soup

his main special interests/hyperfixations are old english literature, true crime/psychology/criminal stuff, literally anything to do with art and physics(electricity stuff)

he has other ones like cars and how to annoy bakugo to the brink of tears

his most common stims are happy flappy hands, putting his hand into a thumbs up and squeezing, rocking back and forth and swinging his legs about

his like calm down stim is humming, having some form of pressure(weighted blanket !!) and rocking a little bit

he gets overwhelmed by questions a lot

like if he’s not prepared to answer one and he gets asked TWO he’ll just go ‘nope’

he’s nonverbal sometimes, especially when he gets overwhelmed

he zones out and daydreams for like,,, 70% of the day

his favorite texture for food is something like mash potatoes, like a doughy texture, one that just sits right in the mouth

(potato waffles are his go to food (british thing but they’re so good))

just enough chew but not too much, not too wet not too dry

speaking of dry food,, he hates it. dry biscuits(cookies) are a no go if he doesn’t have a bunch of water/juice with him, he also just doesn’t like hot drinks

he’s god fuckinh amazing at art, like painting, drawing, sketching, everything

he’s so good at it

he ‘doodles’ in all of his school work and books, most of the time it’s of aizawa or present mic (or,, *cough*his crush*cough*) and they’re super accurate

when he goes to sleep he has to have a small tea light candle lit, his over the ear headphones on and playing asmr and a hoodie (comfort hoodie, gifted to him by kiri) with the hood up and pressure on his feet(like just his blanket covering them is fine)

no other set up is allowed

he uses fidget (simple dimple pop) and sensory toys

they got taken away from him in class one time, he almost cried it was so sad

RAGE

so much rage

god

when he was younger he used to scream bloody murder when he had to put on sunscreen (same boo)

refused to wear it until his parents got him a spray on sunscreen (it was just like an oil/water based sunscreen that just,, wasn’t sticky, it was perfect) he still uses it to this day

he loves music, so much

it’s so cool

so many playlists

has like ten different ones that he made just for long car drives

like all the sounds and noises just make his brain so happy

he likes bo burnham cause he has very good lyrics and sounds that make him wanna share them with everyone so they can be happy too (especially ‘sexting’ , ‘oh bo’,’ words words words’, ’rant’, the kanye one, ‘we think we know you’, ‘channel 5 news: the musical’ and ‘bezos’ 1&2)

(omg channel 5 news is so good)

his number is 5

he’s kinda scared to do good in school bc his rank in class will go up and what if it lands on an ugly number??

he’s quite unintentionally restrictive with his food

he just forgets to eat or that he’s hungry

he’s working on it tho dw !

his accents are like typical british/english, australian and southern american

pop out at random times

like he’ll ask present mic to repeat the page number as a southern bell little lady

had a vocal stim that was opra singing “milly rock pick it up”

lil jon vocal stim

(YEAH)

his room is very messy and cluttered from all the failed hobbies and things he just forgot about

expect him to cook but DO NOT expect him to clean up afterwards

like iida will walk into the dorm kitchen in the morning and find this huge mess thinking someone broke in

and kiri is like: oh ig denki was hungry i wonder if he has leftovers

okay i think i’m gonna end this one here lol it’s getting kinda long ! i hope you liked it ! <3

[bitchassbucky]

Ｂａｃｋ Ｔｏ Ｙｏｕ (Ｓａｍ Ｗｉｌｓｏｎ ｘ Ｆ!Ｒｅａｄｅｒ)

📎Word Count: 1.5k

📎Warning/s: some heckin’ words. Bucky’s in this, he’s a bit annoying (affectionately) <3 MINORS DNI.

📎A/N: omg my first Sam fic! i wanna thank my boo @babyboibucky for enabling me hsakjdhak ily! this is for you, bee!

📎Masterlist || Ask || AFTERDARK

📎 Follow the story: Back To You, Dimples, Inked

“Are you even listening to me?” Bucky says, annoyed that Sam has been looking down on his phone, remotely giving attention to their conversation.

Sam grins, fingers dancing over the keyboard on the screen, “Yeah, yeah. Something about motel rooms—or beds.”

“I said that they gave us two beds in one room,” the former spots their door number, quickly walking to it. The tactical bag swinging over his cybernetic arm freely.

The night was warm, the air blew the ocean mist towards the town. The parking lot is empty save for a black sedan that’s already been through a lot. They chose to stay low instead of getting a room at a decent hotel close by–something about them not likening the crowd.

Once inside, both men cleared the room in 30 seconds flat. The window opens out, the door stays closed and locked. The TV has to be on but kept on low volume. The beds are made, it’s clean; beats the flat beds on the plane.

Sam throws his bag over to the bed closest to the window, calling dibs. “Hey, you got headphones?” He asks.

“No,” Bucky answers, settling his things below the foot of the bed, “why?” He catches Sam again smiling giddily over something, “what you got a girl there or something?” 

“It’s none of your business,” Sam retorts, quirking his eyebrow upwards, “well? Do you have headphones?”

“If you listened to me, you would’ve heard me say ‘no.’”

Bucky should’ve had brought headphones. Sam has been droning on and on with a ‘friend’ over on a video call.

Not that he’s eavesdropping and nosy but he saw how Sam lit up when a voice came in from his phone.

“Hey, Sammy! I finally get to see your face.” You say, your voice crackling over Sam’s speakers, “am I on speaker right now?”

Sam smiles, focusing on your background and seeing pictures and posters plastered on the wall, “oh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot my earphones somewhere.”

“What? Old man Barnes rubbing off on you?” You laugh, your glasses reflecting your laptop’s screen. Your joke sending Sam into a laughing fit.

“You know he’s in the room, right?” Sam clarifies as he turns the camera to Bucky, much to the former’s dismay. But despite himself, Bucky waves to the camera.

“Heard a lot about you, Barnes! Hope you’re ready for frequent bathroom trips from this one.”

Sam faces you again, a mischievous glint shining in his eyes, “Shut up or I’m gonna drop the call.”

You quickly send him an emoji via text, Sam rolling his eyes as you giggle. “Anyway, since you can’t join in on the fun, you’ll be my audience tonight.”

Sam gives you a confused look, a hint of crease appearing between his brows. “Tonight? What’s tonight?”

A fake gasp and an overdramatic show of hurt had him chuckling, “You already forgot the karaoke night you promised me, didn’t you?”

He grins apologetically and looks at the camera, as if looking into your eyes, “I’m sorry. Been busy these past few weeks.”

You smile softly, the imagery giving Sam a burst of butterflies in his tummy, “it’s okay. I was just being dramatic. I got that from you, you know.”

You are not a good singer. But you confidently belt out the highest of notes like one. Complete with hand gestures, you hold out the last note of the song.

“Thank you,” you bow down to your imaginary crowd off-camera, “I’ll be here all night.”

“On god, please don’t,” Sam interjects with a tender smile and soft eyes.

“Sammy!” Your eyes glazing over your screen, a deep pang of homesickness hitting you, “I missed this. I missed you.”

He nods, his lips pressed tightly as he tries to find the words to respond, “I missed you too, bub.” 

A soft note of a love song sounds over your speaker, traveling to his, “you love this song.”

Sam nods, reminiscing the moments he had with you during college. The one time you almost kissed—where are these memories and feelings coming from?! “Yeah, and---”

The doorbell rings on your end. Your eyes glinting as you stand up. Food delivery!

“Hold that thought, Sammy. My food’s here,” you say, your voice faint as you’re practically halfway through the door.

“She is a god-awful singer,” Bucky expresses, “but you love her, don’t you?”

“What?” Sam quickly taps a button on his screen—stupid Bucky and his stupid mouth. He covers his phone’s mouthpiece as if that could help, “shut the hell up.”

Sam’s changed demeanor confirms Bucky’s growing suspicion, “so you do love her!”

The latter glances at the empty screen, hoping you didn’t hear anything. Or maybe, he does?

The only sign of life from your end is the sound of various utensils cluttering and a metal bowl falling to the floor, making both men wince at the sudden noise.

Sam lowers the volume of his phone, facing Bucky from their respective beds.

“Shit,” Sam exclaims, running a hand over his handsome face, “maybe I do.”

This time, he finally lets himself go through the memories you made together before he left for the military.

The coffee dates, the late-night calls, the breakfast hangouts, the study sessions. You light up even the most boring of things. The texture of your skin, the sound of your laugh, the twinkle in your eyes bring Sam into a warm place.

You make him feel enough. You see him through and through.

Oh shit, he is in love with you.

Bucky just looks at him, boring holes in his face, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “You really just realized, just now?” Sam’s not sure if it’s a rhetorical question.

“The way you talk about her. The way you talk to her. You see her and the things she like everywhere we go and you realize it just now?” So, it is a rhetorical question.

The revelation leaves Sam amused but unable to form words, “I… Do–I do love her. I’m in love with my best friend.”

A silent beat drops in the room—save for the faint hello? coming from Sam’s phone.

Ah, fuck.

Bucky put on his jacket planning to head out (to the motel’s ice machine) to give you two privacy. He bids Sam good luck and you a good night before walking towards the door.

As soon as the door shuts, Sam increases the volume on his phone again.

“Sam?” You call out, “I can’t see you, your cam’s off.”

In panic, he realizes that he tapped the wrong button—maybe Old Man Barnes had rubbed off on him.

You smile and sat up a little bit straighter when his face lights up your screen again.

“So… how much did you hear about the whole thing?” Sam wants to tread carefully around the subject, the first time he feels uncomfortable opening up to you.

He fully expects you to dismiss the topic, turn in for the night, and leave him lamenting about his feelings. And he’s somehow okay with it.

“Kinda, everything.” You confess, there’s nothing holding you back now, “I, you know-- I’m glad you got ‘round it. Even if it took you years.”

Another pin drops inside Sam’s head, “what do you mean?”

“Look, I confessed to you before we graduated but you never acknowledged it. So, I never brought it up again.” Even miles apart, Sam’s presence was around you. The bracelet he gave you during junior year, his favorite mug you borrowed from him, a ton of his shirts and hoodies that he gave to you before moving out after graduation. 

“You confessed to me? When?” Sam racks his brain for the smallest of details, for the quietest of whispers.

“I wrote you a letter. Remember? I slipped it under your door after finals week.”

After all these years, Sam never quite found out who wrote him that letter, “you never signed it.”

Sam didn’t expect you to laugh, to double over such a serious conversation, “dude, I did, I signed it. Why would I send you a deep proclamation of love without signing it?”

“It was written on pink paper, right? I still have it. You wanna bet that you don’t have your name on it?”

Your eyes widen in embarrassment, heat creeping up your cheeks, “oh my god, are you serious? I didn’t sign it?”

Sam laughs softly, his eyes crinkling the same way. There are lines decorating his eyes but he was still your Sam.

“No, ma’am.” He declares, the air somehow lighter now, “if you did, I would’ve said something.”

A hum escapes your lips, curling into a gentle smile, “good to know.”

The comfortable silence envelops the room, years of yearning and pining finally coming to end.

“Hey, after this mission - I was thinking if you want to go out. Catch up and you know, finally, talk in person.” Sam asks, there’s still a tiny voice inside his head not believing the talk that had transpired.

“I’d love that, Sam.”

The sentiment crashes and closes in on itself as Bucky barges into the room, holding a bucket of ice in one hand and a pack of beer in the other, “congratulations, idiots.”

[angstsfordays]

Beautiful Pain (1)

Chapter One- A post-Blip world

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

Summary: Post-Blip, you started to feel lost when most of the Avengers team are gone. Coping with your loss, you still find hope in the connection with your remaining friends. However, it is not easy as everyone is trying to figure their lives after the Blip.

Having a long history with Bucky ever since you both saved each other from Hydra, you were still glad you had Bucky after all this time. However, as you try to give Bucky space to find himself after being pardoned for his past, you start to wonder if you should ever cross the line of friendship before it’s too late.

That thought might have to be put on hold though, when you, Sam and Bucky find yourselves having to deal with threats that continue to rise in a post-blip world.

Chapter synopsis: Post-Blip, you find yourself more alone than ever as old friends are forever gone. You and Bucky struggle with finding life's purpose while trying to move on.

Warnings: Angst. A lot of guilt and self-blaming. Spoiler for ep 1 if you haven't seen it!

Word count: 2.4k

Notes: Here's the first chapter of the series! Check out the prologue if you have not done so! It gives you an insight into the OC's background and history with Bucky before TFATWS.

Hope you enjoy this read!

Opening up a tag list for the first time since I have gotten a request! Message or comment to let me know!

Leave a like, reblog or comment to let me know what you think! 🥰

Previous: Prologue | Next: Chapter Two |

-------------------------//---------------------------

Present-day

Bucky felt his heart stopped for a moment when he realised what he was about to do to the terrified man from his dreams. Before he could imagine the next scene, his eyes flew wide open and he immediately sat up.

Assessing his surroundings to see that the television was still on, he realised he was home and have woken up from a nightmare. Even though Hydra’s brainwashing has been removed, the memories from his dark past continued to plague him.

The summer blanket you got for him pooled around his waist, his right hand reached out to give it a soft squeeze. The soft texture of the fabric comforted him emotionally as he sat on the cold hard floor. As he regained steady breathing, he looked around to see that it was still the early hours of the night.

He reached out for his flip phone- the one you couldn’t believe he insisted to buy over a regular smartphone. Pressing the buttons, he went to his inbox to see an unread message from you. Bucky contemplated opening it but decided to continue when he decided he wanted to hear from you.

Ever since the blip occurred, the days and weeks seemed to be a blur. Sooner than he realised, six months had just passed like that.

When Steve decided to go back to the past for good, all three of you including Sam were at a sudden loss. Bucky was disappointed but not surprised at Steve’s decision. Sam wanted the best for Steve and showed his support.

However, you were the most affected out of the group. He knew that despite putting a brave front, you were struggling with the loss of your friends in a short span of time. After all, you had spent a good amount of time with the Avengers and had a developed a close relationship with most of the team.

Bucky remembered how you immediately slumped to the floor when you heard the news about Natasha. You were at a loss of words before you started to break down when Steve went to comfort you. You always regarded Natasha as an older sister so her death hit you hard.

He recalled how you held back your tears at Tony’s funeral as you did not want to further bring down the atmosphere when Pepper and Morgan were there. He remembered how Tony was like an annoying but endearing older brother.

When Steve was disappeared from his spot, you didn’t think much of it thinking he would return in a matter of seconds after returning the stones. However, when all three of you looked to see an ageing Steve, you were the first to run up to him. Despite the astonishing expression that painted your face, you reached out to hold Steve’s hands to check if he was real.

Steve’s decision to pass Sam the shield was no surprise to Bucky. Even though Bucky found Sam irritating at times, Bucky knew he was a good man.

While you chose to accept Steve’s choice, it started to sink into your mind that the people once closest to you were gone or getting further. Bucky remembered how you were reluctant to let Steve walk away and Steve let you hold onto him longer.

You and Bucky decided to not let each other be alone that night. You two figured that at least you had each other and you wanted to cherish that.

-------------------—---//----------------------------

Moving forward, Sam had decided to find work with the U.S air force. Sam checked in on Bucky from time to time but Bucky contemplated to respond. After being pardoned for his past, Bucky found himself compensated but he still felt like a prisoner.

He was required to attend court-mandated therapy sessions to make sure he was doing well. You know that it was just a way for the government to have him under surveillance and in check.

He might be the oldest prisoner of war but he was still a super soldier and one with a vibranium arm. Bucky knew he was still deemed as dangerous in their eyes.

When you and Bucky discussed how to move forward, he confided that he wanted to make amends and you showed your support. When he asked about you, you seemed hesitant and a little lost for an answer.

The Avengers are gone. There was no more S.H.I.E.L.D.

Who were you now? What are you fighting for? What is going to be your purpose moving forward? These were all the questions swimming in your head.

You were reluctant to tell Bucky yet but a government official had paid you a visit while you were waiting for Bucky to finish his therapy session.

You were offered a position in a task force to maintain global security in light of a post-blip world. Given your abilities, you were viewed as an invaluable asset. However, you knew better than to take their words for it.

Revealing your hesitance, the official took a harder approach and laid out the truth. You were viewed as a potential threat if you were to not co-operate with the government. You are an unsupervised enhanced individual that is roaming freely. They do not want to allow that in the event that you were to do anything out of your own jurisdiction.

It was the Sokovia Accords all over again, you thought. The official added that you no longer had the Avengers team to fall back on. His words only added to the ache in your heart as you were reminded of your lost friends.

Additionally, he let off that Wanda had been involved in an event that caused the government to review their management of enhanced individuals in the country. Wanda was out of their reach but you were still around. They knew that you have been sticking by Bucky and thus decided to come for you.

Remembering Steve's words from the times of the civil war between the Avengers, you were not able to let yourself trust any words that the official said.

You didn’t want to let yourself be controlled especially by the government whom you knew had hidden agendas that they would not reveal to you. Their words of praises of how you would be a great addition made you felt like you would be nothing more than a tool in their master plans.

“What if I refuse?” You spoke to the official. The official's eyes hardened and his jaw clenched.

“Then Ms L/N, we will have to view you as a threat to national and global security.” You scoffed at his words when you stared dead into his eyes.

“You forgot that I was one of the many to help fight Thanos and brought the world back. This is how you decided to treat me after giving my service to this country? To this world?” You shot back in distaste.

You turned your back on the guy and walked off without giving him a chance to answer.

--------------------------//--------------------------

Hey Buck, I managed to find Wanda and decided to accompany her for a bit. She needs someone now.

I will let you know when I am back.

Don’t miss me too much ok! ;)

Bucky couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face at your last sentence. He missed you but he knew that you had things to attend to. He understood how much you valued your remaining friends. Wanda, being one of them.

-----------------—-----//---------------------———

Bucky sighed when he realised that he was not going to get away easy with today’s therapy session. Dr Raynor was really trying to push his buttons and even took out her darn notebook again.

That ticked Bucky off the most and he reluctantly gave in. He began to share about how he crossed another name on his list of amends. Dr Raynor then gave her opinion about how even making amends wasn’t able to help with his nightmares.

Bucky continued to deny that he had any at all but he knew Dr Raynor was not convinced. Glimpsing down briefly with an unconvinced look, Dr Raynor looked back up to Bucky.

“Look. One day, you’re gonna have to open up and understand that some people really do want to help you and that they can be trusted.”

“I trust people.” Not all but maybe just one. Only one person came to his immediate thought.

“Yeah, give me your phone.” Dr Raynor put aside her notebook before reaching over to take Bucky’s phone from him. As she searched up his contact list, she remarked that there wasn’t even ten numbers in it.

“Oh, and you’ve been ignoring the texts from Sam. Look, you gotta nurture friendships.” She spoke before noting that she was the only person Bucky called all week and how sad it was.

Dr Raynor was going to continue before she stopped herself. She opened up the chat with your name and read your last message to Bucky.

“What about Y/N?”

“What about her?” Bucky retorted.

“Seems like she’s someone you are close to?” Dr Raynor tried to imply something.

“She’s a friend,” Bucky answered firmly. Dr Raynor gave Bucky a glance before probing further. “I’ve seen her around before when she accompanied you at the beginning of your session. She seems nice.”

“She is,” Bucky answered curtly once more before deciding to shoot back, knowing his therapist was trying to probe more than he was willing to share. “What are you insinuating, doc?”

“Nothing. I am glad you at least have one friend. But you need to make more connections with other people.” Dr Raynor tried explaining. Bucky drifted off in his thoughts for a moment, thinking about how he didn’t need more people. He was fine with just you but he didn’t want to let on more than he wanted to.

He didn’t feel the need to explain about his relationship with you when you knew you two were solid. Bucky sighed internally when his therapist asked him what he wanted. Bucky thought of the calm and peace he had in Wakanda, his mind replaying the moments of you and him living a carefree life on the farm.

When he was told that he was finally free, he questioned “to do what?”. Was he ever truly free? The memories from his past, the long list of amends he had in his notebook. Could he ever truly be free from the guilt that constantly plagues him?

As Bucky made his way back to his apartment, he spotted his neighbour, Yori arguing with another neighbour, Unique over the trash. He reassured that he could take care of Yori to this Unique fellow before catching up with the grumbling old man in the alley.

Bucky convinced him that he would give a treat at their usual sushi place and that managed to pacify Yori’s mood.

-------------—-----——//---------------------——

When they were at Izzy’s, Yori mentioned how no one made it past 90 years in the obituary of the newspaper. The familiar waitress came up to the two and remarked if they were feeling adventurous since they did not order the usual.

Giving him a slight smirk, Yori suggested that Bucky should ask her out. Bucky immediately shook his head and gave Yori a bewildered look like he was crazy.

“Why not? Are you seeing that pretty friend of yours that always come to visit?” Bucky knew Yori was referring to you and immediately tried to refute the notion.

“Y/N’s just a friend.”

“Could have convinced me otherwise. You two seem really close.” Yori scoffed at Bucky’s statement.

“Such a pity. If I were 50 years younger, I would have made a move already.” Bucky chuckled at how Yori, despite being a grumpy senior most of the times, actually tried to make a witty joke. He silently agreed that you were indeed a catch and how it was crazy you have not been with anyone.

Well then again, you have always been with him all this while. Of course, as a friend, Bucky tried to convince himself that there was no way he would have a shot with you. You were too good for him and you definitely deserved someone better.

Even though he tried to convince himself, Bucky does not know what to do if you had managed to find someone and will eventually leave him to be on his own. He shook himself out of his inner thoughts and before he knew it, Yori spoke to the waitress.

“He would like to take you out on a date.” Bucky’s eyes shot wide open when he realised what Yori had actually done. Bucky tried to apologise on behalf of Yori for his bizarre behaviour but the waitress did not seem to mind. In fact, she was game and agreed.

After she went off to attend to other customers, Bucky shook his head and couldn’t believe Yori actually became his wingman. Yori then suddenly went silent for a moment. Bucky was nervous before hearing how Yori spoke of his beloved son who had passed away due to an incident.

Bucky listened intently with the guilt gnawing in his gut, his heart heavy with all of the weight of the world.

------———------------//------------------------—

Bucky convinced himself to go on the date with Leah. He decided to give himself the chance to make more connections as Dr Raynor had advised. The date was going well in fact. Leah seemed like a great gal but Bucky felt himself holding back.

There were just too many secrets he was holding in. What would she think if she knew who he really was? Would she even want to be in the same room as him then?

While he tried the whole online dating thing (much to your masked disappointment and amusement), he was not convinced if he could really make a romantic connection with anyone. Who was he kidding? Could he ever?

When the topic of conversation turned to Yori, the overwhelming sensation started to descend onto Bucky’s consciousness. Before he could stop, he immediately tapped out. Giving a pathetic excuse, Bucky rushed back to Yori’s apartment and had the urge to tell him the truth.

However, when he saw the altar that Yori had dedicated to his son, Bucky withdrew himself. He did not want to lose a friend in Yori even though he was dying to say the truth.

Bucky pretended to come up with an excuse to a confused Yori by paying his half of lunch before stalking off. When Bucky returned to his place, he opened up his notebook and stared at Yori’s name.

What was he to do?

A ring on his phone averted his intense thoughts and he reached for his phone.

Hey Buck, I am done on my side.

Would be back soon!

Can’t wait to see you again, missed you!

Bucky clutched his phone tighter and brought it close to his heart. He started counting down the hours till he could welcome you back in his arms.

-------------———----//------------------------——

[siriushxney]

* . CAT EARS !

pairing — nihachu x reader

rating — fluff

wordcount — 891

warnings — n/a

note ! — fluffy, cute, goodness with the queen herself

when niki streamed, you tended to avoid invading them — not wanting to have many people's attention shift onto you, when they should be focused on the host herself. but when she asked you to join her, who could say no.

seated to her side, you conversed and joked with the viewers to the best of your ability— still not the most comfortable on camera.

“what is the weirdest food combination you’ve ever had… I don’t know, I need to think about that,” niki scratched her head slightly as she pondered ont he question.

“marshmallows and ketchup — and before you ask how or why, let me just say that it was for money.”

niki laughed loudly at your confession, “of course it was for money — i’d be concerned if you did it for nothing.” she turned her chair slightly so she could face you, her knee knocking into your own. “so… what did it taste like?”

you thought back to when it had happened — a night with a few drinks passed around and someone who had recently got paid and was ready to blow some of it. while you couldn’t remember the exact taste, you could remember the texture as if it was yesterday.

“picture eating a normal marshmallow, but like, add a touch of battery acid — the ketchup burned my tongue-“

“ketchup isn’t hot-“

“I know that… but it and the marshmallow together was just,” you shuddered at the thought of it. “let's just say I didn’t do any more food combos that night.”

a small ding brought your attention back to the screen, a dono drawing attention to the sun goal meter at the top of niki’s screen — the number was slightly over the one that was pre set sub goal.

“oh, we hit the sub goal!” niki smiled as she spoke. she pushed herself away from her desk and hurried out of the room for a moment, leaving you awkwardly sitting as you awaited her return.

niki hurried back in, a small bag clutched in her hands and an mischievous glint in her eyes. you watched as she set the bag down onto the desk, the sound of a soft thump and ringing of a bell following.

“what the hell is in the bag,” you went to reach for it slowly, but niki grabbed your hand quickly and pushed it back to your chest.

“no, no! I want it to be a surprise!” she pulled a small piece of fabric from her sweater pocket, moving to stand behind you. “can I blindfold you for a moment?”

as soon as you gave her the green light, your vision went black, no longer able to see the setup and rapidly moving and excited chat as she carefully wrapped and tied the blindfold over your eyes.

while niki had remained awfully quiet during the ordeal, you could hear soft giggles and sighs just over the sound of bells and the bag crumpling.

“you’re going to be adorable…” as she spoke her hands lifted a section of your hair, and slid something that you could only describe as a hair clip onto it, securing it with a satisfying click — the other side with a repeated action.

the realization hit you fast, “oh I know what the hell is on my head now-“

“shh! just wait for me to get mine on!” two clicks followed soon after her words, the soft sounds of the electronic voice reading out compliments to the both of you.

with a tug to the knot on the back of your head, the blindfold fell, revealing the sight to you — niki with a large grin on her face as she played with the bells attached to her pink andwhite cat ears, and you, slightly shocked at the image of yourself with black, white, and pink cat warts adorning your head.

niki turned to you, he large grin melting into a more genuine and heartfelt expression. with a slow and gentle hand, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your face, “you make a pretty cute cat person.”

you felt your cheeks warm at her compliment, your attention solely on her and her lovely words. “you’re too nice to me — and let me tell you,” you brought your own hand up to intertwine with her own, bringing it to your lips and placing a kiss on the back of her hand. “you make a down right gorgeous cat-girl.”

‘otp with cat ears on? i’ve gone to heaven!’

‘I love them, but god am I jealous’

‘I’m- they’re beautiful<3’

the comments flooded in, in tidal waves — all of them going ignored as you and niki’s eyes stayed trained on one another. niki’s eyes bouncing between your eyes and the fluffy ears that sat upon your head — quick hands shot up and covered her face, “it’s too cute, I can’t handle it.”

“and you think I can? niki, now I need to start a petition to get you to wear them daily!”

even though the chat called you simps, they all could see the unspoken love the two of you shared.

and they all couldn’t deny that the two of you in cat ears, was the best thing to happen to the community in the past few weeks.

[roach-works]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

[aizawaskittenwhore]

𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕡 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕠𝕟 𝕨𝕒𝕤𝕙 𝕕𝕒𝕪

≛ ft shota aizawa, ejiiro kirishima, katsuki bakugo and izuku midoriya with a black!reader.

≛genre: fluff

≛warnings: light swearing, izuku and kiri being adorable supportive boyfriends

≛a/n: honestly i’m procrastinating on chapter three, so have some soft wash day hcs with our 1-a bbys and our fav sleep deprived teacher🥺

aizawa:

having long hair himself, he’s well prepared and has virtually anything you might need

but he understands that your hair textures are so different

so he does his homework on black hair and how to take care of it

we love a s/o who educates THEMSELVES

and when wash day comes around, this man is more than ready to help

need a denman brush? he’s got it. curl smoothie? duh. growth oil? hair masks? heat protectant? rat tail combs? of course. diffuser? baby have you SEEN his hair, mans owns too many blow dryer accessories it’s almost embarrassing.

he’s patient during the detangling process, letting you take the lead

he knows how bothersome it can be to have people try to help when you’ve got a set way of doing things

so he lets you do what you have the energy to, and he does the rest

he’s so gentle, and kisses your forehead as an apology when he hits a particularly painful snag

he’s quick too, making short work of the process and decreasing it by a solid 20 minutes, which if you know the pain of wash day, it means a LOT.

he’s not a super romantic person, but he does his best to make washing your hair a relaxing experience

he’ll lower the lights, and run you a hot bath, coaxing you between his legs, sitting on the edge of the tub while he massages the shampoo into your hair slowly

his nails are blunt for obvious reasons, but he makes an effort to scratch as much as possible, and his heart flutters just a bit with how at peace you look

he focuses on the roots as that’s the only place that needs such attention and rinses with cold water to seal up your cuticles

he’d help you towel off and will sacrifice one of his comfier long sleeve shirts to help you dry your hair, since you mentioned towels add frizz and remove moisture.

he’s so good with the LOC method, applying just enough oil to seal, but not weigh your curls down too much.

always delicate with your ends

he lets you work the parts you can reach, and for places like the back of your head, he takes over, working the leave in conditioner in with ease

shota can two strand twist tf out some damn hair no i don’t take criticism

he’s also obsessed with the way your hair shrinks, though he’d never admit it

so much length compressed into gorgeous coils, he wonders how the hell does hair just...defy gravity🧍🏾‍♀️

all in all, wash days are the highlight of his day, plus it gives him an excuse to whip out the matching bonnets he gets for y’all every time he goes on a beauty supply run

katsuki:

surprisingly enough, he’s another patient one

but this is both in part to him having done his research due to his thick hair, and he’s had black girlfriends in the past

so wash day ain’t nothin new to him, when you come to him the next morning dreading what the day had in store, he’d already whipped out the box holding your shared hair supplies, towel and brush at the ready.

he can be a little overzealous when it comes to brushing out your curls, having grown up on the “you just tenderheaded” bullshit

but he makes sure to never actually hurt you, or tug too hard

he’s also a firm believer in finger detangling, opting to use the brush for your ends, and going over the section with his fingers to get out any lingering kinks

will trim what needs to be trimmed, to him length is not worth retaining if it’s split half to death💀

once detangling’s done, he’ll breeze through the shampoo section

which brings us to his favorite part: deep conditioning

he’s partial to Uncle Funky’s Daughter’s products, combining their Heal & Renew deep conditioner with the Midnite Train leave in to get you allllll the way together.

this, plus a hot oil treatment will have you ready to marry this mf on the spot🧎🏾‍♀️

he knows your hair is a huge source of pride for you, so he does his part to help keep it voluminous and defined whenever he can

does give unsolicited advice (criticism)

but knows when to pull back, knowing that nobody knows what’s best like you do

still won’t keep him from getting pissed at you for not having had a trim in 4 months tho 🤷🏾‍♀️

his strength is cornrows, he keeps a perfect grip that isn’t so tight it’ll snatch your damn edges out but tight enough to last you a while

you always find a way to con him into braiding your hair down before you do an install. how? he don’t know

he loves you, that’s how.

wash days with katsuki are so frustrating, but the both of you wouldn’t give them up even if the world depended on it.

kirishima:

i can’t think of a more supportive (yet clueless) bf

but that doesn’t mean he’s not ready to learn!

it starts when he asked you if you wanted to go out saturday, and you said you couldn’t cause you had to wash your hair

he was like ?????

let’s just go after????

and so you had to break it down to him that your hair requires a lot of attention and care that you NEED a whole day to tend to it, not just wash

he nods, face lighting up as he proposes that he just come over and help

you’re a little hesitant, as you don’t just let anybody play around in ya hair like that

but he says he’s really intrigued and he wants to learn, so you agree

he mostly just watches, not wanting to mess up your flow, but participates on some of the easier parts, like working the curling cream into your locks

he’s also really good with massaging your head while you wash, his fingers nearly putting you to sleep

his sectioning needs a little work, but it’s nothing practice can’t fix

although you really gotta catch him up on what certain things actually mean

mf nearly had a heart attack when you said the words “hot oil treatment” and spazzed thinking you was about to put ya head in some damn chicken grease🕳🤸🏾‍♀️

over time though, he gets better at things like flexi rods, and even learns to do how to do crochets (my heart just MELTED)

he even takes some pointers and gets better at taking better care of his own hair. between hero work, hittin the gym, hanging with you and having “bro time” his hair is the last thing on his mind

plus it’s dyed, so he should be taking better care of it anyway🙄

wash days with kiri are so fun tho, and you’ve even made a habit of spiderman kissing whenever you’re upside down and scrunching your curls🥺🤎

izuku:

asks!!! so!!! many!!! questions!!!

honestly is just happy to be there

wants to know what everything is, what it does, if you like it, etc.

also takes notes on what you do and how you do it so he’ll remember for the future 🥺

he’s so nervous when you ask him if he wants to help

he doesn’t wanna mess it up, your hair’s so pretty 🥺🥺

he has curly hair too, but it’s much easier to manage, so he’s wayyy outta his depth

you help him through each step though, and with some time he gets more and more comfortable

shampoo is his favorite part cause he gets to try and make your hair do different shapes (the number one hero is secretly a big ass baby...who knew)

he’s another one that’s amazed by the way your hair can shrink

he knows your hair’s pretty long, you got a blowout one time and you swear he had a mini stroke for a good five mins with the way he just....froze

he fell even more in love with your hair that day

so to see it so short just wows him

if you’ve got really short 4c type hair, he wants you to go green with him so y’all can match🧚🏾

gets really good at protective styles (especially box braids)

cause at heart he’s a hero and wants to protect everything he loves from harm

yes, that includes protecting your curls from split ends and keeping em fresh.

thanks so much for reading! let me know if you guys want more of these, and feel free to throw me a like or a reblog if you enjoyed! mwah!

[thewatercolours]

Bitter Cold

A little gift ficlet for @goddessoftechnology, respectfully imagined from their Frostburn AU, where Graham has been under an ice curse for years. Angst with a trifle of hope at the end.

His mind feels like a stained-glass window. Strict black bands of cold metal divide every part of him. No overlaps – all neat, defined, compartmentalized. All the light that gets through the stained-glass is strange and altered.

He’s not confident he remembers most colours anymore, even setting the window metaphor aside. He still has a grasp on green, and maybe gold, which helps him imagine yellow by extension. The rest have gone murky in his memory, replaced by the hazy greys and ice-blues that his eyes perceive. A year or two ago he could still remember the feel, if not the look, of most colours. With time, those have failed too.

It doesn’t bother him anymore.

---

“Your two traveling companions from your knighthood days are downstairs, Sire. They know about what’s happened and they say it doesn’t make a whit of difference so far as they’re concerned. They’d like to see you.”

Graham’s tone is measured and collected. “Number One, it was an extremely kind thought. And more than kind of them to make the journey. But.” One of those final, leftover embers in his heart glows deep down, just for the span of a breath, melting a tiny, painful hole in his lung. “I can’t.”  It extinguishes. “Please let them know I remember them well, and wish I could see them. Give them our best hospitality until they want to leave, please.”

Number One stiffens. “And that’s all the answer they’re to get?”

Graham sinks into his chair in the corner and leans on his elbows, massaging his temples wearily. “I can write them a letter if it’s more suitable.”

“They could get a letter from you anywhere,” says Number One sternly. “They crossed mountains to be in the same room with you. They are one staircase’s walk away.”

“You and I know it’s not possible.”

The guard folds his arms in that this-is-the-absolute-limit fashion of his. “At the literal level, it is entirely possible, Sire.” He seems to catch himself, and lets the arms drop to his sides. He adds, a little more gently,  “If it’s easier, I could ask them to speak with you through a curtain to begin with, or to wait a few hours till you’ve had time to prepare –“

Graham raises his head. “At the literal level,” he interrupts, slowly and quietly, yet somehow much more forcefully than even he’d expected, “I am not even the same man they knew. Not physically, not mentally. And really? A curtain? Do you think I’m worried about how I look?”

Number One’s voice softens further. “They’ve come so far.”

“Sunk cost fallacy.”

“I can only imagine how disappointed they’ll be.”

Graham lets his gaze drop to the carpet, where the momentary damp of his footprints is already evaporating. “If I could stop that disappointment, I would. But there’s not a thing I can do. Please offer them my sincere apologies, and give them anything they like.” He held up a hand to halt further protest, and waved a respectful hand in dismissal, perfectly to protocol.

---

Graham is not much use after dusk. As cool of night sets in, it’s like a fine snow falls over his mind, and mounds over everything that was hard and distinct while the sun was up. Everything turns hazy inside his head. It’s worse in autumn than summer, and wore in winter than autumn. On a winter’s night, thinking and talking are like battling through a thigh-deep snow drift. He can do it, but it takes everything out of him. The guards have learned to wait till morning, and let him sit quietly by the fire with his hands folded, considering very little.

He retires to bed as early as he can these days, to huddle under a stack of comforters, which are evidently soft given the way they interact with his body. He can feel them, but touch is so different now. More about making out shapes, and solids, than about textures. A simple brush with the finger gives little sensation. He has to push and prod and trace things.

Before all this, there had been nights when he couldn’t sleep. At least he thinks there were. When his stomach would twist itself in knots in anticipation of the morning, or where a wild yet plausible theory had occurred to him – one that might save the kingdom - and turned somersaults in his head till morning.

Now sleep comes more easily that anything. All he need do is lie down and close his eyes, let his breathing slow. His muscles set and solidify. Often there are popping sounds like air escaping a frozen over lake. The snow in mind freezes midair, and ice spiderwebs through whatever was left awake. The guards have told him he’s entirely unresponsive within a minute.

Waking up in the morning never stops being like smashing the veneer of ice on the wash basin in winter. Something hard must shatter every time. Something that can’t quite mend, by night or by day. What can’t heal must simply harden further the following night. One day his thinks his body will try to wake, and the ice will be too thick.

---

“Number One,” he says, staring blankly at the wall of the little parlour they’ve made for him in a discreet, otherwise unfrequented part of the castle. They’ve given him his favourite seat, a velvet comfy chair from his office, but he finds it easier these days to keep a straight back and his chin up, rather than snuggling into its depths the way he once did. “What do we think of someone who only does right because they know they have to? I mean, if their heart’s never in it?”

Number One looks up from his boot sharpening set. He pauses before answering. “We call them dutiful, because they don’t swerve from the right course no matter how they feel about it.”

Graham nods, reaching without looking for the mug of cocoa on the stand by his side. His fingers clank against the handle, and the heat melts some wet fingerprints onto the glaze, but melting never diminishes him. “We call them insincere, Number One,” he says.

He expects the embers to flare a little, as they did yesterday when he was imagining this conversation out. But they don’t He might as well be discussing the weather for all this topic, which seemed important yesterday, means to him.

Number One’s voice sounds tired. “I’ve never met anyone so sincere as you, Sire.”

Graham keeps starting out the window at the grimy spring scene before him, all the colour of cloud-cover. “I heard a story,” he says, “about how we all have a little triangle inside our hearts with sharpened points, that always points true and never moves. If we do wrong, then we feel the pricks of the corners of the triangle. But every time we do, the edges can dull a little. If you dull them so far that you no longer feel their prick, well, in effect you’ve got no conscience.”

Number One puts his whetstone back in its box and pulls up a chair by Graham’s side. “You didn’t do that.”

“No, but I no longer have a conscience, do I?” Graham says evenly. “I know right and wrong by reason, but even if I thought about setting the town on fire, or pushing my friends off a wall, I wouldn’t feel a single twinge.”

“But even the fact you are using those situations as examples shows you do have a conscience – you know they are wrong.” Number hesitates a moment, then reaches for a cup and the cocoa pot. “We all trust you completely. One doesn’t have to feel good to do good.”

“And one doesn’t have to feel anything to do evil.” Graham sips mechanically, and assumed the cocoa is traveling down his throat. On a careless day, he might not even notice if he’d missed and spilled it down his front. “Every day I’m dulling a little more. I know – or think I know – what is right, at this moment. But If it all goes on wearing away. Well, I could be capable of anything.”

Shouldn’t there be some note of horror – of fear – in his voice? He can still feel fear. He feels it often. It’s a cold emotion – no wonder it’s the last to go. Shouldn’t he be feeling it now? Is that slipping away too?

“I am a monster, Number One.”

He might as well be saying “I am feeling a bit tired, Number One,” for all the care in his voice.

---

There’s a woman down in the courtyard. A young woman with mud-spattered boots, flinging her riding cloak out of the way as she dismounts her palfrey. She ignores the guard who tries to give her a hand. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t notice him. She seems to be scanning the spires and rooves of the castle, darting her glance about as though she were looking for a falcon’s return.

Then she spots him. Their eyes lock.

What? He’d thought he was standing far enough in the shadow of the balcony above his own that he could look down without being seen himself. She must have sharp eyes. He yanks at his hood, pulling it closer about his face, and makes to turn tail.

But she calls out.

“I take it you’re the king I’m looking for. Just stay where you are, please, King Graham – I’ve got news for your ears only. No, stop right there. Honestly now – you must be five stories up. I’m scarcely going to bite you at this distance. See here, what I’ve got to say could be dreadfully important for Daventry – and I am given to understand you do care about Daventry. At least let me come up, and we can navigate it from there.”

Oh, zards.

Credit where it's due to @captmickey, for the tiny Three Adventurers (@threeadventurers) cameo.

[agerefandom]

The Doctor’s Office

Fandom: Twilight

Characters: cg!Carlisle Cullen, regressor!reader (gender-neutral), brief appearances of OCs

Words: 3,600

Summary: You’ve always had trouble with doctor appointments. The stress proves to be too much, and you regress at the doctor’s office. Luckily, Dr. Cullen seems to be sympathetic and caring.

Warnings: Lots of medical anxiety and imagery, needles/shots, anxiety regression, unplanned public regression, panic attacks.

You’ve never liked going to the doctor. The medical smell of the office, the paper on the weird squishy bench, the impersonal poking and prodding of the annual check-up. When you were a child, you would cry all the way there.

Now you’re an adult, and you have to drive yourself. Your hands are tense on the wheel and you can feel the anxiety pounding at your ribs. You wish you’d outgrown your fear of doctor’s appointments, but there are still some things that get the panicked toddler in your head screaming.

You take one hand off the steering wheel, reaching blindly towards the passenger seat while keeping your eyes on the road ahead. The rough texture of your backpack meets your fingers, and you relax. You’ve brought a little comfort bag: your favourite stuffie, a snack for afterwards, and your headphones in the front pocket. You have music, you have a fidget toy in your pocket, and you are going to survive this.

You pull into the little parking lot, feeling very brave. This is Forks, and the doctor’s office is small like everything else. It’s your first time here, which doesn’t help your nerves: you’re new in town, and while you could drive to Seattle and go to one of the larger offices, the longer drive would just make it easier for you to chicken out on the way.

Your coworkers had recommended Dr. Cullen, and you’d taken their advice. It took a little longer to get an appointment because Dr. Cullen works three days a week in Seattle, but you were happy for the appointment to be as far away as possible.

Unfortunately, the future always became the present, and now you’re just sitting in the car and delaying the inevitable.

With a sigh, you grab your comfort bag and make for the front door. The smell hits you as soon as you get inside: clean and sharp with disinfectant.

You clutch the straps of your backpack and approach the front desk, trying for a smile when the secretary looks up. She’s a kind looking woman who matches the voice you’d heard on the phone. Looks like she probably has photos of her kids in her wallet. “Hello dear, do you have an appointment?”

“I do. With Dr. Cullen, at 2 o’clock?” You give your name and health card when required, receiving a stack of paperwork in return. 

The woman gives you a pen and a smile, then gestures to the empty sitting area. “Go take a seat, fill out your forms, and I’ll let Carlisle know you’ve arrived.” She bustles off down the hall, leaving you in a silent room.

You immediately put on your headphones, blocking out the quiet with your favourite playlist to calm down. There are clipboards on the tables, and you snag one to fill out the paperwork. Most of this is familiar by now, but there are plenty of account numbers you have to look up on your phone. Eventually, the stack is finished, and you glance up to see the secretary returned while you were busy with papers and music. She’s tapping away at the computer, and you approach her timidly with your paperwork.

She jumps a little when she sees you standing in front of her, but quickly smiles and accepts the stack of paperwork. “Thank you very much!” She points at the hallway to her right. “You can go on to the room at the end of the hall, with the door open. Carlisle will be with you in just a few minutes.”

“Thanks.” You collect your bag from the seating area, half-tempted to hug it to your chest and get some comfort from the stuffie hidden inside, but instead you swing it onto your back and trudge down the hallway, one hand finding the fidget cube in your pocket and playing with the switches to distract you from your rising anxiety.

The room is empty: you put your bag carefully on the ground and hop up onto the examination table. The crinkle of the wax paper fills you with dread: you bring the cube out of your pocket and keep yourself busy with it, turning it over and over in your hands.

The silence stretches, but you don’t want to put your headphones on and miss the doctor coming in. The clicking of the buttons on your fidget cube are too loud in the room. Every time you shift, the paper crinkles underneath you. You try not to look at the diagrams on the wall, the medical instruments and cotton balls beside the computer on the desk.

“Ah, my two o’clock!” an unfamiliar voice says from the door. You glance up, startled by the lack of footsteps to announce the new person.

The person standing in the doorway is presumably Dr. Cullen, and you understand why your coworkers had been giggling about him now. The man looks like a fashion model, not a doctor for a little town like Forks. He smiles, and it’s like you can hear the little ‘ding’ sound effect as his teeth shine at you.

“That’s me,” you manage.

He retrieves a clipboard from under his arm and reads out your name, glancing up to check that it’s correct. You nod, and he walks forward to offer his hand.

“Dr. Carlisle Cullen,” he says. His handshake is perfect, cool and firm around your hand, which you’re suddenly aware is a little bit sweaty. “It’s good to meet you.”

“You too.” He’s even more striking up close, you can’t even pick the features that stand out because they’re all perfect. His eyes are a hypnotizing colour, almost golden. You avert your gaze, self-conscious in the presence of his perfectly pressed white coat and flawless hair.

“So, I see you haven’t had a general check-up in a few years,” Doctor Cullen says, finally retreating and flipping a page over on his clipboard. You immediately clasp your hands on your lap, resisting the urge to kick your legs back and forth. “New to Forks?”

“Yes, just moved.” You scored a nice apartment: living prices are good out here, with the significant commute to most cities. You have a few more boxes to unpack, but you’re not fussed about finishing. “It’s a nice town.”

“One of my favourite places I’ve lived.” Dr. Cullen sounds genuinely fond of the town, not just making small-talk as he boots up the computer and puts your file on the desk. “Have you been to the diner on Maple Street yet?”

“I haven’t.” You don’t like going out alone, and you haven’t really made any friends yet. There are a few coworkers that you want to talk to more, but you’re not at the level where you can ask them out for coffee yet. “It’s good?”

“The best,” Dr. Cullen assures you.

“Have you… lived many places?” You watch his fingers move across the keyboard, somehow entranced. Even his nails are perfect, each one buffed to a shine. He must get manicures.

“I’m a big fan of travel,” the doctor admits. “I’ve visited almost every country in the world.”

“Wow.” Doctors make a lot of money, you remember. No way someone could travel that much without being rich. He doesn’t look that old, either, maybe thirty? Young for a doctor, anyways. “And Forks is your favourite? Really?” It’s a nice town, with the forests stretching around it, but it’s not exactly the height of culture.

“I was fond of Italy.” Dr. Cullen seems to have contented himself with the computer, and turns back to you. “St. Petersburg is lovely as well, but Forks feels like home to me.” He takes a pair of gloves from the box on the desk, and you watch him slip them on. You’d been busy with the conversation, enough that you’d almost forgotten that you were here for a check-up, but the sight of those latex gloves reminds you.

The small talk falls away, and Dr. Cullen asks you all the usual questions: any problems, how are you feeling, are you taking any medication. You answer them carefully, and he nods and takes the occasional note. When you mention trouble sleeping, he asks if that’s something you want to look into. You shake your head: it’s probably linked to your anxiety, and it’s never bad enough to affect you in the long-term. He doesn’t ask, just accepts the head shake and moves on smoothly.

The physical exam is as nerve-wracking as ever, gloved fingers pressing on your shoulder, keeping you still as he listens to your heart, to your breathing. He must be able to hear your heart racing with anxiety, but he doesn’t comment, moving through the procedures with professional swiftness.

“All seems well,” he declares at last. “You are behind on your vaccinations, however. I’d recommend a flu shot and the updated HBV vaccine, at least. There are a few more that can wait for next year, but flu season in Forks usually takes out the whole town.”

“Uh…” Oh, please no. Shots are not something you’re good at. “Okay, yeah.”

“They’re both covered by your current insurance,” Dr. Cullen adds, clearly sensing your apprehension.

“Cool.” You manage to nod, a jerky movement. “Sorry. I’m just bad at shots.”

“No worries.” Dr. Cullen smiles, and you find yourself feeling oddly reassured by the sincerity of his response. “I promise they’ll be quick. Count to ten, and they’ll both be done.”

“Promise?”

It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, the nervous question of a child who has been lied to too many times.

“Pinky promise,” Carlisle assures you without batting an eye. “Just give me a moment to get ready.” He steps to the desk and starts moving things around. You look away, not wanting to see the needles as he prepares them.

“So, where did you move from?” the doctor asks conversationally. You answer automatically, your mind still running to catch up with the idea that you’re going to willingly get a flu shot. You’ve never gotten one before, why did you let him talk you into this? 

He asks about your move to Forks, and you tell him that it was fine. You tell him about the hiking trails that wind through the forest just behind your apartment building, and he asks how often you go walking.

Soon enough, the two of you are chatting about your favourite parks in the US, and it almost takes you by surprise when he rolls a table over to you. There’s a tray on it, with two needles that you quickly look away from.

It’s too late, though, you’ve already seen them. You don’t want to think about it. You almost wish your parents still came to your doctor’s appointments, at least you would have a hand to hold.

“Deep breaths,” Carlisle tells you, his voice soothing. “Remember, just count to ten and they’ll both be done.”

“Okay.” You close your eyes, and try to ignore the wet cotton-ball rubbing against your arm. “One… two…” The sharp sting makes you draw in your breath sharply, the fingers of your free arm clutching at the lip of the table you’re sitting on. “Three. Four. Five…” Pain again, this time drawing tears to your eyes. “Six… seven…”

“All done.” There’s light pressure on your shoulder, careful wiping. “Only seven seconds, there we are.” You open your eyes and see Carlisle pressing a cotton ball to your shoulder, his expression calm and focused. “No more pain,” he assures you.

But the tears are spilling down your cheeks, and the toddler inside your chest is furious that you allowed that to happen, and you can’t stand up to that anger. You need your stuffies. You need to be home with a blanket. You need a snack and a good cry and a bottle of warm milk.

“M’sorry,” you manage. He’ll notice the tears at some point. “M’bad at pain. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry.” Carlisle lifts the cotton ball from your arm, and you can see the blood soaked into it. You hear yourself give an involuntary squeak, shutting your eyes again. “You’re alright,” Carlisle soothes. “I’ll get you a band-aid and something to drink.”

“Okay.” You sniffle and wipe the tears from your face, wincing at the ache in your left arm. “Sorry.”

“All fine. More common than you’d expect. Do you want a boring band-aid or a Disney princess? I’m afraid we’re all out of Spider-Man.”

You giggle a little at the question: it’s a silly thing to ask an adult. “Princess,” you say. Why not.

“There we are.” You feel his gloves on your arm again, applying the bandage with gentle professionalism. “All covered up.”

“T’nk you,” you say, and resist the urge to put your thumb in your mouth. Can’t do that at a doctor’s office. Too many germs.

“My penance for causing you pain,” says Carlisle in a very serious voice, which makes you laugh again. You didn’t know this doctor was so funny. “Now, would you like apple juice or orange juice?”

“A’ple!” You’d prefer a bottle of milk, but a sippy cup of juice is good too. You rub your eyes free of tears and open them again, just in time to see Carlisle stepping back in from the hallway carrying a box of juice. Did he go and get it in the second you were rubbing your eyes?

You blink away the mystery and make grabby hands at the juicebox, remembering a second too late that he’s your doctor and not your caregiver, and you can’t just make grabby hands at the things you want.

“Sorry!” You drop your hands to your sides, a wave of embarrassment pushing back your regression for a moment. You’re too tired to be fully an adult, the pain keeping you uncomfortably between two headspaces for a moment. “Sorry.”

“Still no need to be sorry. Hydration is important.” Carlisle puts the straw in for you and passes you the juice-box, which you sip eagerly. The sweet juice makes your head feel less stuffy from crying, and it helps with the pain too. Obviously, this is magic doctor juice. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

You shake your head, but your eyes fall on your backpack across the room. It would be so nice to hug your stuffie right now. It would be soft and big in your arms and you would feel so comfy, even if you’re still sitting on the horrible crinkly paper.

“Do you want something from your backpack?” Carlisle asks, following your eyes. “I can bring it to you.”

You hesitate. Some of your online friends said they brought stuffies to their doctor appointments. Would it be weird? Would he refuse to see you again? He’s so nice and he got you juice and you don’t want him to be mean to you.

You’re so busy worrying that you don’t notice that you’ve already raised a hand towards the backpack until Carlisle is obligingly putting it beside you. By then, the decision is already reached: you pull out your stuffie and cradle it in your arms, hiding your face in the fuzz.

“What a wonderful idea,” Carlisle’s voice comes from above you, still all kind and soothing. “Bringing a companion to the doctor’s office to tell you how brave you’ve been.”

“Mm-hmm.” Now that your friend is in your arms, you worry so much less. And Carlisle is still being nice, so it must not bother him.

“Alright.” Carlisle’s voice sounds serious: you glance up to see him standing in front of you, one hand outstretched. He’s not wearing gloves anymore.

You hesitantly put your hand in his, expecting him to pull you to your feet and maybe even usher you out the door, but instead he just holds your hand gently, leaning down to be at eye-level with you. “I have another appointment in five minutes, but I don’t want you driving right now. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a smile. “You stay in here for as long as you need, and I’ll check in after my next appointment. You can go onto the big chair, if you like, but don’t touch anything on the desk or the walls.” You nod mutely. He’s leaving you here alone?

Although, you suppose you’re not here alone now that your stuffie is here.

“If you feel good enough to leave before I get back, that’s okay, but make sure to tell Steph at the front desk on your way out so I don’t worry. Otherwise, I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Okay, Doctor,” you mumble into your stuffie.

“Call me Carlisle,” he smiles, and he looks back at you twice as he leaves the room.

Alone in the office, you shift uncomfortably, some of your anxiety coming back. But he said that you could go in the big rolling chair, so you skip off the doctor’s table and into the office chair in front of the computer. It’s huge and squishy and it rolls a bit when you sit down.

That’s where you stay, rolling yourself around and chatting to your stuffie, eventually pulling out your phone to play some music with your headphones. You know that you have to go sometime, but every time you think about going outside, you feel yourself start to panic. You’ll be seen! You’ll have to pretend to be big! You can’t do that. So you spin in the chair and hum along to favourite songs, and eventually inspect your arm to see what band-aid Carlisle gave you. It’s Princess Jasmine, which makes you happy.

All too soon, there’s a knock on the door, and Carlisle steps back in.

“Hello,” he greets you warmly.

“Hi.” His presence jolts you out of your regression, and the panic rises fast. You just regressed in a public space, and no matter how nice this doctor was about it, you were definitely acting weird. He forbade you from driving, for god’s sake. He probably thought you were high or something, maybe he even called the police…

“Oh, deep breaths. It’s alright.” Carlisle takes two steps forward and drops to his knees in front of your chair. The gesture catches you off-guard, almost startling you out of your gathering panic attack. “No one is angry. You aren’t in trouble.”

“Promise?” you manage, an echo of your earlier plea.

“Pinky promise.” This time, Carlisle holds up one hand, his pinky extended. You hook your finger into his, and he squeezes gently. “There we go.”

“I’m so sorry.” The panic and regression have both receded, leaving you exhausted and slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t expect that to happen. I get anxious at medical appointments, but that was worse than usual.”

“You’re in a new town, and I imagine you’re still exhausted from moving. It was very brave of you to come,” Carlisle tells you, and you can’t detect an ounce of sarcasm or judgement in his voice. “And you’re always welcome to bring a friend.” He hovers a hand over the stuffed animal beside you, just shy of touching it. You tug it a little closer, defensive, and he obediently withdraws.

“Thank you.” You want to hide your face in the stuffie again, but you’re not regressed anymore, and you do need to get home. If only to climb into bed and try to forget any of this happened. “I should, um.”

“Of course, I imagine you have things to do.” Carlisle gets to his feet, dusts off his knees where he had been kneeling on the floor. “I am truly sorry this appointment was so hard on you, but I’m happy that you came.”

You don’t have a response to that, so you focus on repacking your bag and swinging it over the shoulder that isn’t aching. Just as you’re turning for the door, Carlisle speaks again.

“I have five adopted children.” You stop and look over your shoulder at him, confused by the statement. “Most of them come from traumatic backgrounds,” Carlisle adds, resting his hand on the back of the chair you just vacated. “Age regression isn’t unfamiliar to me, as a response to emotional distress or physical pain. Many people experience it.” Oh god, he knows. You can feel your ears heating up from embarrassment. “It’s also an experience that can make people feel isolated, or ashamed. If you wanted to meet one of my daughters, I’ve found community can be beneficial. Of course, I don’t want to put pressure on you, but I thought it could be a positive experience. For both of you.”

He’s a good doctor and a good dad? That’s too much for one person, surely.

“I’ll. Um. I’ll think about it,” you manage. Carlisle smiles and nods, looking satisfied with that answer.

“Drive safe,” he tells you. “And put some ice on your arm tomorrow if it bothers you.”

“Thanks.” And you flee the building, barely managing a friendly nod to the secretary as you push the door open and emerge into the cloudy day. If there’s one thing Forks isn’t known for, it’s the good weather.

You dump your backpack into the passenger seat and take a second to just breathe. Okay. That was a lot. You really do feel like hiding in your room for the next century, but… Carlisle was really nice about it all. And apparently, he’s a caregiver to a regressor in his house? Or even more than one? You’ve never met a regressor in person before, despite being relatively active in the online community. It could be… interesting?

You drive back to your apartment, your eyes on the road and your mind on the offer that Carlisle made.