#maybe break their skin and draw blood if they're fine with that

[the-mighty-nappa]

Off my antidepressants: unhinged sub in heat that needs to be bred On my antidepressants: Top violently in need of dominating their "big bro" and having her way with them. I love the duality of my mistakes :D (always remember to get med refills kids)

[python333]

Hello!! I absolutely adore your 141 platonic fics, I litterlay giggle and kick my feet when you post new storys about it. Especially since they're always gender neutral! Litteraly always check to see if youve posted a new fic, but anways!

I'm a really big sucker for found family mental health fics, especially when I'm experiencing rough times. If your comfortable with it, I was wondering if you could make the 141 catch Reader self harming or maybe just seeing the self harm on their arms accidentally and comforting them. Always love a comforting found family fic on cold nights.

If it's easier, I really love really any of your hurt/comfort type 141 fics with all my soul and eat them up anytime you post them. Especially since there isnt much gn!reader and TF 141 platonic hurt/comfort fics. So if you aren't busy than that's another option I would love to see!!

If your uncomfortable with it then that's fine and you can just ignore this post! Make sure to take care if youself aswell author. You're absolutely amazing! 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

self-slaughter — python333

— — — —

synopsis reader is a medic and is caught harming themselves by the 141 in the medbay!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 6.6k

warnings self-harm [specifically using a scalpel], self-harm scars, dark thoughts [nothing too bad, but thoughts of pulling off your skin and harming yourself], painful wound cleaning [with iodopovidone], 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note hello anon!! i too am a big sucker for found family mental health fics, and completely understand this request, and i will happily write it for you!! a lot of this is based on my own experiences with this, so i hope that's okay and that you enjoy the fic!! as well as this request, i'll use this fic as an excuse to write a few prompts on my bad things happen bingo card, which will be displayed at the end of the fic! the prompt used will be: painful wound cleaning! expect wayyyy more angst after this LMAO. also, if this feels like glorification or anything else inappropriate for a fic like this, then please let me know! since it's mainly based on my own experiences, i assume it wouldn't feel *too* much like that, but still!

It gets kind of old after so long of doing it. 

Almost like it’s a chore—as if stealing glances at your medical equipment, tools meant to save the lives of others, and wishing that it were being used to draw blood from your body was just an inconvenience. You complain about it in your head like you used to about school, like it was nothing more than some homework that was due a minute before midnight. 

Right now, you’re alone in the medical bay. It wasn’t often that you were, typically two bumbling idiots would stumble in every few minutes talking about how they got injured while sparring, but for the past thirty minutes it’s been silent. While you appreciated the break from the constant explanations of why the soldiers you were to tend to had gotten injured, with the silence came very unwanted thoughts. 

And with nobody to focus on came your unwilling lingering stare at the sharp scalpel on the small metal equipment cart that was just a few feet away from where you sat. It didn’t help that you felt oddly guilty today, either. 

Well, the guilt wasn’t odd. You knew where it came from. It just felt odd, considering the cause for it happened a week ago. 

The cause had been on a critical mission last week, where you were responsible for carrying medical supplies and ensuring the team’s well-being and general health. The medical equipment wasn’t particularly expensive or hard to get, but it was still incredibly important. 

However, on that same mission, right towards the end of it, you’d been caught in the midst of an intense gunfight. Distracted by the heavy enemy fire, you dropped the small bag you’d been using to carry the medical supplies, and hadn’t noticed you did until it was too late. By the time you and the others were out and heading back to base, you had just realized you left behind the medical equipment. 

All week, your fellow task force members had reassured you that it was okay and that it wasn’t that big of a deal, considering nobody got hurt. Still, even a week later, you’re hung up on it. Had someone gotten injured, what could you have done? You didn’t have any supplies to help them, so what would you have done then? Just the thought of that possibility makes you shudder. 

The scalpel looks so tempting.

It’s not like you hadn’t used it before—you have the scars to prove you had, ranging from small lines that could be mistaken for cat scratches to tiger-stripe length cuts that make your thighs look as though they’d been mauled by a large animal. As elegantly as you describe them in your head, the visuals of them aren’t nearly as pretty. With the help of that scalpel, a few sharp needles, and some medical scissors, you’d successfully made it look as though a bear had tried to attack you and tear your legs off. 

Ironic, isn’t it? A medic harming themselves? 

Your job is to literally save the lives of others, and here you are, staring at the closest thing you have to a knife in the medbay. It’s become as easy as blinking for you—which is scary, honestly, the way you’ve developed a tolerance for cutting yourself and stapling your skin back together if you’ve cut too long or deep. 

It’s no longer enough to just scrape something sharp across your skin and watch blood bubble up from the broken seams of your flesh, no, now you have to cut even deeper to actually feel anything. You have to feel the scalpel being buried to the hilt in your flesh, and you have to see the way blood spurts out of the self-inflicted wound after you pull out the tool. 

You continue to stare at the scalpel, sure that you look like you’re in some sort of trance right now. 

It looks so tempting. You can remember the last time you used it—three days ago, the longest you’d gone without it in a while. Similar to cigarette-addicts, you often tell yourself that you’re able to stop whenever you’d like—that you’re able to quit at any time. It’s a lie, and you know it, but you still like to pretend that it’s true. 

You’re still staring at the scalpel. 

Its sharpened edge reflects the overhead light, creating a bright glow that strains your eyes when you stare at it for too long. The metal of the handle is worn down from use, even though it’d only been in the medbay for maybe a few months—something nobody had questioned yet, thankfully. The clean blade, replaced just yesterday, had no traces of filth or grime on it, making it even more tempting. 

You blink. You hadn’t noticed the burning of your eyes until you forced them away from the small knife. 

You move your gaze to your lap, where you fiddle with your fingers, gently tugging at a hangnail that’s been lingering on your thumb for the past few minutes. As you pull on it, you feel the sting that it brings, though that sting now feels dull compared to the other things you’ve done to yourself. 

It almost feels like a small pinch compared to the ways you’ve mutilated your thighs on certain nights that didn’t allow you the energy to do anything else, or the ways you’ve carved apologies in the forms of lines into your arms to try and gain forgiveness for your thoughts and temptations. 

You pull the hangnail off completely and watch the miniscule droplets of blood bleed through your flesh and meet your skin and nail. Before you only had the energy to do your job and harm yourself, you would’ve hissed at the sting pulling off the small bit of skin caused you and grabbed a bandaid immediately, but now, all you can think about is how it isn’t enough. 

About how much better you’d feel if you pulled all your skin off. If you could feel every inch of your skin stretched to its limits and torn off of your body, because God knows you deserve it. 

The thought makes you wince. That is… disgusting. Why am I thinking about that? You shake your head in hopes that it would shake away the dark thought, but instead the action makes it rattle inside your brain and break off into tiny bits in pieces, small unwanted thoughts of wounding your flesh rolling around your mind. 

Similarly to Sisyphus and his boulder, you try to push those thoughts out of your mind, your hands starting to curl into tight fists, but you just can’t. Every time you push a thought back, it comes rolling back to the forefront of your mind, the momentum it gets from being pushed back so far only to get rocketed forwards making it even more unbearable to think about. 

The fists your hands have formed become tighter. 

Each thought that gets pushed back only jumps forwards once again, ricocheting around your brain, the effort of trying to ignore them making your ears ring. 

Before you realize it, your gaze snaps back to the scalpel. 

You don’t even notice the blood that begins to spill from your palms from how deeply your nails cut into your skin. 

Every thought tries to be louder than the other, creating an unholy cacophony of sound; a terrifying harmony that only grew louder every second that passed. You stare at the scalpel. It continues to reflect the bright gleam of the overhead light, and it continues to make your eyes strain the more you look at it, but you can’t find it in yourself to be all that bothered about the eyestrain. 

You unclench your fists and stand up, walking the short distance over to the metal medical cart where the scalpel lays, and you grab the handle of it with shaky hands. You look over at the door for a moment, and stay there for another few seconds.

Once you see that nobody’s coming in, you rush yourself to one of the beds, sliding open the curtains in front of it and sliding them back so that they’ll obscure anyone else’s view of you using the scalpel on yourself. 

You sit on the bed and although the scalpel almost slips out of your hand because of the blood from your palms, you manage to keep held in your tight fist, holding it like you would a pencil; tucked under the base of your thumb, and going through the gap between your index and middle finger. 

With your hands still trembling and your breath uneven, as well as a bustling mind that only grew louder as the scalpel in your hand grew closer to the skin of your forearm, you made the first incision. Almost immediately, your mind quieted, and your headache dimmed. 

Quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of a clear head, you lift the scalpel from your skin, not waiting to watch the blood bubble up from your open wound like you usually would, instead opting to make another incision right next to it.

Being a medic, there was nothing you could really do to stop yourself from thinking about how deep each incision was, and how deep you were cutting into your flesh—so while you cut yourself, a train of thought begun. 

Half an inch deep, You push the scalpel deeper, Now a full inch. Should take a month or two to fully heal. Wouldn’t scar. 

The thought of it not scarring should make you happy, or at least, neutral, but instead the thought makes you frown. Some odd hunger that comes from the indefinite pit in your stomach craves evidence for the malice you’ve shown towards your own skin, something that would prove your self-hatred. 

So, you go another half inch deeper. Scarring would be possible, but not as high of a chance as if you went another half inch. With that thought, you go the last half inch. There we go. 

You slide the scalpel blade through your flesh, the blade cutting through it like it would a firm fruit like a pear. It’s easier to cut through skin when the skin is pulled taut, You think, If only I had an extra hand.

You pull out the blade and repeat. You feel less guilty already.

All that worry about fucking up during your last assignment washes away, like the wave of guilt that overcame you earlier receded and pulled back that worry with it, lowering the tide of shame and self-reproach within you. In fact, the tide lowers so much that it almost completely disappears from your mind—like it never existed in the first place.

Reminds me of a tsunami, You repeat your actions with the scalpel, When the tides get low, so low that the ocean floor shows and you could walk where you’d originally have to swim, it’s because a tsunami is building up.

You look down at your work. Your forearm is a bloody mess, crimson red dripping down to your fingers and threatening to drop onto the stark white sheets of the bed you’re sitting on. You sigh tiredly and get up from the bed, putting the end of the scalpel’s handle into your mouth—ignoring the voice in the back of your head that reprimands you for not thinking about bacteria or contamination—and biting down to hold it whilst you slide the curtains in front of the bed to the side, walking out of the small resting area. 

You grab the scalpel and set it onto the metal medical cart by your desk, grabbing the gauze on that same cart, opening the small box it’s kept in with your non-bloody hand. It’s a struggle, but you manage it open, and you shake the roll of gauze out onto the cart. 

In the middle of you attempting to pull the end of the gauze off of the roll so that you could begin to wrap it around the red lines decorating your forearm, you hear loud footsteps walking near the medbay. You freeze in place, the gauze roll in one hand, your eyes burning holes through the door with how intensely you stare at it. 

There’s a knock. Then another. 

The door handle twists. 

You stare at the door, and everything feels like it’s in slow motion for a second. 

The door opens. 

“Hey, dae ye hae any—” Soap walks in, the sergeant taking one look at you before cutting himself off with a confused and immediately worried, “Holy shit, whit happened tae yer arm? Are ye alright?” 

He rushes over to you and takes your bleeding forearm into his hand. You almost immediately rip it away from his grip. 

“Nothing! Everything’s fine! Just an accident,” You lie, holding the blood-covered forearm close to your chest, “I was just about to clean it up.” 

“Dae ye need help wrappin’ it, an cleanin’ it up, or anything?” Soap asks, eyebrows furrowed and his expression beyond worried. 

“Nope,” You insist, “It’s fine. All good here.” 

“... Ye sure?” 

“Uh huh,” You nod your head, “All good. Don’t worry about it.” 

“‘kay then,” Soap tilts his head and crosses his arms, “Whit happened?” 

“Just a little accident with some of the equipment,” You nod down to the bloody scalpel on the medical cart, “That’s all.” 

It must be obvious you’re lying, because Soap sighs and says, “I think we baith ken that that’s a lie.” 

You stay silent for a few moments, before Soap speaks up again, “Ye ken if ye dinnae tell me, I’ll jist jump tae conclusions, richt?”

You take a deep breath before mumbling something under your breath. When Soap’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, you repeat louder, “I used the scalpel. On myself.” 

“Ye whit?” 

“I used the scalpel on myself,” You look away, and rush out, “and I’m really sorry, I just couldn’t help it, it’s not like— like a normal thing or anything, it’s just this once, I swear, and— and—” 

“[c/n], calm down,” Soap quickly uncrosses his arms and sets both hands onto your shoulders, furrowed eyebrows now taking a more concerned shape, “It’s okay.” 

You take a deep breath and look at him, looking at his nose instead of his eyes because you don’t think you could handle eye contact right now, “I’m really sorry.” 

“Why would ye dae that tae yerself?” Soap asks, voice soft and almost pitying, which makes you want to curl up and die. 

You shrug, not wanting to answer verbally. 

“Dae ye— dae the others ken?” Soap questions. 

“No.” 

“I’m—” Soap looks conflicted for a moment, “I hae an assignment… I’ll get Gaz tae help ye, aye? An’ I’ll check in wi’ ye as soon as possible?” 

You hesitate, but end up nodding in agreement, thankful that Soap offered to get Gaz rather than one of the others. The others seemed so oddly scary right now that you don’t even want to think about how they’d react to this whole situation. It’s all gone by so fast—one moment you were sitting on a hospital bed, the next you’re found out by Soap of all people—you’ve barely had time to think about the others. 

“Okay. Okay, okay,” Soap repeats the word under his breath like a mantra, thinking to himself for a second before sighing and looking down at you again, “Jesus, fuck, okay. I’ll go get him, ye stay here, aye?” 

You nod again, this time your vision begins to get more blurred. 

“Ye’re gonnae be okay, okay?” Soap tries to reassure you. You nod once again, sniffling a little bit, making Soap’s gaze soften.

He takes his hands off of your shoulders and gives you one last sad look before turning around and rushing out of the medbay, his thundering footsteps growing quieter as he gets closer to Gaz’s location—most likely his sleeping quarters. 

You wait a moment and when you hear no footsteps, your gaze goes back to the blade. It’s not like it’ll hurt to do a few more. I’ll stop when the others arrive. 

You grab the handle of the blade, and as quickly as you can, akin to an addict scrambling for substance, you slice through the skin of your non-mutilated hand. You make several quick and deep gashes before dropping the scalpel onto the medical cart again, breathing heavy, the cuts this time actually hurting. It felt like fire was running rampant through your nerves, all stemming from the self-induced wounds, and you winced at the new pain. It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to, but still.

When you hear footsteps again, you can tell they aren’t Soap’s. 

The door clicks open and in walks Gaz, already looking very worried—presumably from what Soap told him about your… situation—with another person in tow. Right behind him, Price walks in, expression neutral so far. 

Gaz looks over at you, his eyes widening as he sees the bloody gashes in your forearms. Without a second thought, he rushes over to you, his hand reaching for your forearm. Before you can stop him, he grabs your bloody forearm and pulls it up a bit so that he can look at it closer. You flinch, and Price quickly walks over to you two before Gaz can even utter a single word. 

“Let’s not, okay?” Price’s version of ‘knock it off’, “I’m here, I’ll take care of their… thing. You hand me what I tell you to. Understood?” 

“Yup— Yes, sir. Captain,” Gaz corrects himself quickly, making a slip-up that in any other situation would’ve made you at least chuckle, but all you can do now is stare at the pair as you hold your bloody arms to your chest. 

Price looks back over to you and nods over to one of the many empty curtain-surrounded beds and says, “Go sit over there and wait for a few seconds.” 

You nod, not knowing what else to do or say, and immediately walk over there. It’s the room furthermost to the right, the one that’s also the closest to the door and the one you’d coincidentally gone into to cut yourself. 

You slide the curtains to the side and sit down on the white bed, and just a few seconds later, just as Price said, he walked in as well. He sat next to you, Gaz in tow, the latter carrying a jar of cotton pads and balls as well as a bottle of Betadine.

Betadine—or iodopovidone, whichever name you preferred—was a sort of antiseptic that was generally used for cleaning cuts and wounds. Maybe not ones as deep as yours, but it would still work just as well. 

Despite it not being alcohol-based, or really having any alcohol in it, it still hurts the same as rubbing alcohol would, which you were… definitely not looking forward to.

“Sergeant,” Price takes the jar and bottle of Betadine from Gaz, “Go and grab the skin stapler for me.” 

“Yes, sir,” Gaz nods, walking out of the room once again. Price sets the jar and bottle of Betadine onto the bed beside himself after he leaves.

With you and Price now in the room alone, he turns to you and holds out his hand with his palm faced up for your arm silently. You carefully put your forearm onto his hand, watching as he gently pulls it closer to him, looking a bit closer at it before sighing through his nose and using his free hand to open the jar of cotton pads. 

“How did this happen?” He asks, breaking the silence. 

“Soap didn’t fill you in?”

“No.”

You think about what to tell him for a moment. What’s too straightforward? What’s too vague? How do I not overstep? How do I not sound like I just want attention? 

Eventually, you settle on, “I was— … I saw the uh… scalpel, and I just… decided to use it a little bit. On myself.” Definitely not the best you can do, but what else could you say? ‘Oh, I cut myself with a scalpel because I felt guilty and if I didn’t I probably would’ve had a panic attack or a mental breakdown’?

“…” Price pauses for a moment, eyes twitching for a split second before he continues his movements to grab a cotton pad and questions you, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“You know what I’m asking, [c/n].” 

He’s asking why you did it. There’s not one simple answer you could give him—sure, you could tell him that you felt guilty and it was a bad habit that you’ve told yourself you could stop but never tried to, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth.

You can’t fully express or dictate why you do it, you just do. It’s like when you cut slits into bread before baking it. Without those slits, the bread would crack and split at the seams on its own, but with them, the splitting and expanding of the dough is controlled. 

Except, with you, it’s like you’re cutting yourself before the tension building inside of you makes you burst at the seams. Taking a blade to your skin has given you a sense of control—maybe that’s why it’s so addicting, You think, it’s the only way I’ve been able to control my feelings. 

But you can’t just say all of that. Well, you could, but did you want to? Fuck no. 

Instead, you opt for shrugging, which doesn’t satisfy Price one bit. 

“I could see you thinking about it,” He sighs, “I know you at least have some sort of real answer.” 

Well, fuck. “It’s a long answer.” 

“I never said it couldn’t be.”

He doesn’t move to grab the Betadine at all, instead waiting for you to talk. 

You purse your lips and think for another moment before finally talking again, “I was feeling really guilty and tense, and I guess it just got too much, so I just kind of… had to. Like I felt like I was gonna fuckin’… I dunno, have a nervous breakdown or something. And honestly, it’s a really stupid reason, because the thing that I’m feeling guilty about happened like a week ago, but still—I’ve been feeling really guilty about it. It—It’s not like I can’t stop, if I tried I could, I swe—swear, and I just— it’s been really easy to just— you know? I— honestly, it’s not that big of a deal—” 

“Hey, hey—” Price brings a hand to your shoulder and softens his voice, “It’s okay. I understand.” 

“I ju—st… I’m sorry, I—” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Price reassures you, quickly bringing that same hand up to cup your jaw, “You’re okay. You don’t have to say sorry.” 

“But I—” 

“Shh.” You hadn’t even noticed how frantic your breathing had gotten during your small word vomit. And to just make things worse, there’d been tears gathering at your water line, well on their way to spilling over and creating tear tracks down your cheeks. 

You can’t help but let go of all the tension in your shoulders the moment Price starts gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over your cheek. The moment he does that, it’s practically game over for you. 

Those tears spill out from the corners of your eyes and you can already feel your next breath get caught in your throat, leaving you to just let Price gently guide your head to lean forwards against his chest, letting out small hiccups and trying desperately to hold back the sobs you want to let out.

It all happened so fast, you don’t even know how you got here. One moment you were doing a good job of somewhat keeping your guard up, the next your resolve was crumbled completely by the gentle and oddly caring touch of Price’s hand.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, then someone walks in while you’re burying your head further into Price’s chest—Ghost. You can tell it’s him by the way he walks. He has long strides, he never drags his feet, and the moment he slides the curtains to the side to see you, his footsteps stop. They start up again a moment later, and he sits by your side, opposite of where Price is sitting—to your right instead of your left. 

Gaz must’ve let him in while he was looking for the stapler, You think, sniffling against Price’s chest. Normally, you would’ve felt some sort of shame by now, but given the current situation, you didn’t find much room to give a shit. 

You feel Price’s head move up slightly, and judging by the way he occasionally nods and sometimes moves his hands a bit, you can only assume that he’s having some sort of nonverbal conversation with Ghost right now. This conversation goes on for about a few minutes longer before you’ve managed to control your breathing a bit more. 

Price can tell, and he asks just for confirmation, “Is it alright if I clean your cuts now?” 

You nod and sniffle once before taking your head off of Price’s chest, looking down at your lap, simply holding out one of your blood-crusted arms to him. You can see Ghost stiffen up behind you almost immediately at the sight of it. 

Price grabs a cotton pad from the jar he was handed earlier, as well as the bottle of iodopovidone, and soaks the cotton pad with said iodopovidone. Once it’s soaked with the antiseptic solution, he hesitates before pressing it to your bloody arms. 

Almost immediately, you inhale a sharp breath and feel tears stinging your eyes again. 

“It’s okay,” Price tries to calm you down, seeing the tears forming in your eyes again, “You’re okay.” 

You sniffle and shift on the bed, trying to blink away tears that threaten to spill over your water line. Ghost, sitting by your side, puts a gloved hand over your shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your shoulder. His eyes twitch as you bite the inside of your cheek to muffle another sob while Price presses another Betadine-infused cotton pad to your self-induced wounds, and although you can barely see him, out of the corner of your eye, you still catch the glint of new tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he watches you. 

Gaz slips back through the curtains in front of the bed, this time with Soap in tow, and hands a skin stapler to Price. Seeing the skin stapler, something you used fairly often—often enough that the others knew how it worked and how to use it—automatically made your stomach turn.

“Told ye I’d come back for ye,” Soap murmurs, kneeling down to get about eye-level with you. You huff out the smallest laugh at his words and he gives you a small smile that makes you want to go lock yourself in a room with a scalpel and repeat what you’d done earlier all over again, his empathetic expression paining you more than taking a blade to your arm.

As a matter of fact, the expressions that you wish were pity coming from everyone around you hurts more than anything you could’ve ever done to yourself. Their concern was so unexpected—not that you don’t think they care, but you never thought they cared this much. You didn’t think that, if caught in the act, you would receive empathetic looks and solemn smiles, rather thinking that you would receive reprimanding. That you’d be punished for punishing yourself. 

Price thanks Gaz silently with the curt nod of his head before turning back to you with a solemn expression that in all honesty makes you more guilty and disappointed with yourself than before. He holds the skin stapler like he would a hot glue gun, looking down at the open wounds in front of him, and holds your forearm closer to him so he can see the edges of the cuts better. 

"Keep your arm like that," He murmurs, to which you respond with a nod and stiffening your arm so that it stays in the air where Price positioned it. He uses his now free hand to gently pull the edges of the cut you'd made closer together, aligning them the best he can before pressing the metal staple dispenser to the cut and pushing down on the trigger, stapling the two edges together with a click. 

He holds it down for an extra second before releasing and pulling the stapler away from your skin, and although the process only took around three seconds, you'd never get used to the feeling of getting your skin stapled. You make a small, pained noise that has Soap wincing as well--as though he can feel it too--and Price looking more solemn than earlier. 

“Finished with this one,” Price mutters as you swallow down another sob, holding his calloused-but-soft hand out for you to put your other forearm in. You do just that, nearly breaking into a fit of new sobs at the small ‘thank you’ Price utters. 

You watch Price soak another cotton pad with iodopovidone with his free hand and suck in a deep breath as he presses it to your forearm, the originally white cotton pad almost immediately going red. Tears spill over your waterline and roll down your cheeks as he continues to clean and disinfect your wounds, and before you can move your free hand to wipe them away, Ghost does so for you, his rough gloved hand swiping below your eyes quickly. 

You mumble a small 'thank you' that's barely even audible, sniffling as you can’t help but lean forward the tiniest bit into Ghost’s hand as it lingers on your cheek. He pauses, keeping it there for a second, before bringing that same hand up to the crown of your head and pushing gently on it to urge you to lean your head back. You do so, the back of your head quickly making contact with his Adam’s apple and the top of your head becoming tucked underneath his chin. 

His hand goes back down to your shoulder and continues its ministrations of rubbing small circles into said shoulder, bringing you intermittent moments of comfort throughout the painful wound cleaning you had to endure. 

Soap keeps a comforting hand on your knee as he’s kneeled down in front of you, his thumb occasionally copying Ghost’s, but otherwise remaining still on your knee, careful not to force you through too many different sensations at once. 

Gaz watches you from by the curtain, seeming not to do and looking completely lost. He stands there for another moment, watching the others, seeing what they’re doing for a second, before giving Ghost a ‘one moment’ signal by holding up his index finger and stepping out of the curtain-surrounded area.

Right after he does, another painful sting shoots up your nerves from your forearm, and you make the mistake of looking down at it. 

Wounds that only fifteen minutes ago had brought you to a calmer state of mind and were nothing more than incisions made by the scalpel you’d used to cut other people for entirely different reasons now almost hurt to look at. Once you could’ve compared them to marks left by wild animals, and you could’ve described them as though they were trophies, but now, as you stare down at them being cleaned by your own captain, they look nothing like the sort. 

They don’t look like any of the pretty descriptions you’d given them. They don’t look like cat scratches you’d gotten in an accident, or like something you would get out of a fight with a bear—they don’t make you look strong and brave like you thought they did. 

They look like tally marks. Sanguineous, gruesome tally marks, made by you, like you’d been counting down the days—or seconds, minutes, hours—until you’d had enough. Until you’d had enough of just carving your skin with medical equipment, and needed something more. Craved something more. 

Price must notice you staring down at the wounds, because he pauses in his movements to clean them for a moment, the sudden stopping of the stinging sensation the iodopovidone-soaked cotton making you shiver. You look up at him, and see him already looking down at you, concerned. 

“You’re thinking about something,” He points out softly, “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” 

You hesitate and look back down at your arm that Price had stopped cleaning, before mumbling, “Just thinking about how these are gonna scar.” It’s not entirely a lie, but not entirely the truth either. 

Price tilts his head to the side a bit, questioningly, “Do you know how they’re gonna scar?” 

“Well, when you work in the medical field for a bit, it gets easier to tell.”

You can tell he wants to ask how they’re gonna scar, so you decide to just say, “They’re all about one-and-a-half to two inches deep, so they’ll heal fully and then scar in a few months. Once they do, they’ll be visible, but not too prominent. The scarring tissue will stick above the skin a little bit, and it’ll make it look a little bit puffy.” 

“Alright,” Price hums, tone neutral, “So they’ll be… visible.” 

He sounds disgusted, A voice in the forefront of your mind insists, while one from the back of your mind tries to tell you, You have no way of knowing that, just see where the conversation goes. He has no reason to be disgusted with you.

“Yeah.” 

“Okay then,” Price sets the cotton pad down and grabs the skin stapler he’d been using earlier, “And it’ll take a few months to heal, you said?” 

“Several months, yeah.” Price considers this for a moment, pausing in his movements to hold the stapler to your skin. 

“Do you think you’ll need any help re-wrapping the bandages while they heal?” He inquires, resuming his movements after asking the question. 

“…” You think for a moment, Will you?, and after a few seconds, hesitantly, you reply, “… Yeah.” 

“M’kay,” Price hums softly, neutrally. “And would you want me to be the one who does it?” 

You think for another few minutes. Preferably, you’d be doing them yourself, but you didn’t trust yourself enough for that—so getting one of them to do it for you is your next best option. You wouldn’t mind if it was Price doing it, but at the same time, you wouldn’t mind if Ghost, Gaz, or Soap did it either. 

“It doesn’t matter,” You settle on, before tacking on, “As long as it’s one of you four.” 

“Us ‘four’ being… ?” 

“You, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz.” 

“Got it,” Price nods. You see Soap smile softly out of the corner of your eye before he quickly stops, trying to purse his lips into a line. He’s probably thinking that he shouldn’t be happy about that, You think, almost amused. You feel Ghost’s thumb stutter on your shoulder as well, before it starts back up normally. 

Your words affect them more than you thought they would. 

Breaking your train of thought, Price staples your skin with a muted click, making you wince. 

It’s silent for a few more moments before Gaz finally comes back, now out of breath and carrying a bar of chocolate. He hands you the chocolate bar and says, panting, “I almost had to spar someone for that. Why do you have to like the chocolate one of the other fuckin’ Lieutenants do?” 

You take the chocolate bar with your free hand gingerly and blink at it for a few moments before setting it down next to you. 

“Nobody told you to get it,” You shrug, before tacking on, “Thank you, though.” 

“Uh-huh, yeah, totally, hey so uh—” He looks at Soap and jabs his thumb towards where the door would be behind the curtains, “We’re both needed somewhere else. Again. They said they forgot something… again.” 

“Worst fucking timing ever,” Soap grumbles, before clearing his throat and standing up, looking down at you, “Right, I’ll check in on ye later, and help ye wi’ anything ye need me tae, aye? I’ll come wi’ mair chocolate than Gaz did, ‘cause I’m better than him.” 

“Got it,” You smile up at him, making him grin back and pat you on the shoulder Ghost’s hand isn’t occupying, before heading out with Gaz. 

Then, you’re left with Ghost and Price. 

“I should get going too,” Ghost mutters, slowly taking his hand off of your shoulder and gently pushing your head back off of his chest, almost regrettably. 

“M’kay,” You watch as he gets up and hesitates, looking like he’s about to give you a hug, before he decides to instead give you a simple head nod and head out the same way the two other operators did. 

And then, it was just you and Price.

It’s silent for a bit, until Price speaks up.

“You think a lot,” Price comments, finishing up the last staple. 

“Does that surprise you?” 

“A little bit, yeah.” 

You pause for a moment before sighing through your nose, “It’s nothing. Just the same stuff I was thinking about before.” 

“Wanna give me some more detail than that?” 

“Not really, no,” You admit, letting your hand fall into your lap as Price lets go of it, “But I have a feeling you’re gonna want me to tell you.” 

“I do.” 

“It’s just something stupid, like earlier—” 

“That wasn’t stupid, [c/n], that was you hurting.” 

“I— I know. It’s just that this is actually stupid.” 

“Well, tell me what it is, and I’ll be the judge of that.” 

You think about how to phrase it in simple terms for a moment, before finally speaking, “I used to think that the scars sort of… symbolized how I was able to control myself and my emotions, and that made me feel…” You can’t think of any synonyms to make the simple words you want to say sound less childish, so you’re forced to say, “… brave. And strong. I just— I thought it showed that I was good at controlling my emotions and stuff, for some reason. But now I’m questioning all of that.” 

“You’re very brave,” Price reassures you, and God, it sounds like he’s reassuring a child, “And you’re so strong. But this… this isn’t how you show that. This—cutting yourself—doesn’t make you either of those things. It doesn’t show that you’re either of those things. It shows that you need help.” 

“But you just said that I was strong.” 

“I did.” 

“… Aren’t you contradicting yourself?”

“How would I be contradicting myself?” Price asks. 

“You said that me— me… harming myself shows that I need help.” 

“It does,” Price hums, and at your confused expression, he continues, “You needing help doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. Needing help and being strong aren’t connected like that.” 

You open your mouth to argue but you close it, not knowing what to say. Price sees this and smiles knowingly, simply grabbing your hand to squeeze it once before getting up. 

“I’ll check in on you later, okay? I need to get some stuff done, but as soon as I can, I’ll be back to keep you company. Or I’ll send someone else over—whichever you prefer.” 

“M’kay,” You mumble, squeezing Price’s hand back before letting go. “You can do whatever. I don’t mind either one.” 

“Sounds good.” Price pauses for a moment before leaning down and giving you a quick hug, and then beginning to slip past the curtains blocking any outsider's view of the bed you were sat on.

Before he can leave, you quickly say, "Thank you. For the wound-cleaning-thing."

He pauses at the curtain for a second, before smiling and replying, "You're welcome."

for those curious, the bthb card so far:

[tunastime]

Recovery One

Washington undergoes experimental surgery: installing Project Freelancer's AI program into his head. Epsilon tries to break his way out of Washington's skull. Washington deals with the symptoms of a thing that wants nothing but to escape.

aeuhmmm so I got a little silly with the freelancers again and decided to write something about what wash and epsilon might've gone through before it was extracted for obvious reasons. this is chapter one! tagged this pretty heavily on ao3 but tw for blood, injury, medical procedures, emotional hurt/comfort, and trauma. (3238 words) (read it on ao3!)

The walls of the Mother of Invention seem colder tonight. It's like Washington's body is a heat source, and the hard beds of Recovery One are the sink, drawing every last shred of warmth from where his flimsy surgical clothes meet cloth. He can feel the handful of sensors stuck to his skin, along the inside of his left wrist, keeping careful track of his heart rate, his oxygen, and his blood pressure. The base of his skull is still aching, a thrum that settles equally in the channel of his spine. 

Cold, shivering, curled pathetically on that hard mattress, Washington is trying to sleep. He's twitchy, stomach twisted into rough knots, and every time he shuts his eyes the spinning of the world only gets worse. The gravity on Invention is generated by a massive column of constantly pulsing electricity, but if Wash were to step foot onto the ground below him, he's certain he'd float upward far too quickly. Or fall face down. One of those would definitely happen. 

He tries to breathe through the wave of nausea that passes. It's all a byproduct of the chip in his skull. The voice is quiet for now. They're fighting to use the same body—his body, with all its human joints and mostly untorn muscles and surficial bruises and just a handful of really broken bones. It hurts like something electric shudders just under the first few layers of skin, or like someone took his nerves and ran them through the shredder. He kind of feels like the paper in the shredder, or the shredder itself. Or maybe the paper when it’s half in the shredder and half out. When's the last time he held a piece of paper? Did people still shred paper? He breathes again.

He's under a 24 hour watch. Twenty four hours of this. He screws his eyes shut and the ship around him swings back and forth on a pendulum. He digs his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and tries to breathe through it. The stars start to fade after a moment of breaths through his teeth. North used to joke about how anxious Theta made him—that swing of artificial fear through his nervous system, how he had to breathe through the waves of adrenaline to keep himself level. Little spikes happened now and then, making a purely perfunctory condition ten times worse, but North seemed to nurture himself until the feeling gave way to something productive. 

Wash isn’t having that much luck. 

It wasn’t something easy to pin down. He wasn’t just anxious, or sad, or angry. He wasn’t happy, or disgusted, or a middle combination of the emotions he knew how to regulate. It felt like a swirl of everything, of nothing, completely out of his grasp. The AI—Epsilon—was having a field day as he tore open the synapses of Wash’s standing memory and tried to make room. And Wash was fighting back. The lines had already begun to blur and Wash could only assume the after-effects were due to that unalignment, that unmeshed surface. Epsilon needed a blank slate. It was the only thing Wash wasn’t able to offer.

When he breathes again, his stomach turns violently. He lurches, hands grasping at the cool bedside, swallowing hard. His hands shake as they hold onto the smooth surface below him. Okay, fine—eyes open. Another breath out of his teeth. He can taste sour in the back of his mouth. 

The world is foggy when he opens his eyes again. He drags himself up slowly as his head continues to spin like a wobbly top. The top sheet comes with him, wrapped over his shoulders as he drags himself into the bathroom. There’s a moment where he wobbles, stepping forward for the first time, socked foot firmly set on the floor. He can’t even think—the quiet that was there seems to settle into a background of whispers he can’t make out. He speaks out loud to himself, trying to get a word into his crowded brain, or to force himself to step forward.

“I need a drink, that’s it,” he says, in a voice he’s not sure is entirely his own anymore. He swallows again. Anything to get the taste out of his mouth. He can hear that echo of a voice bounce around inside his skull as he drags himself forward uneasily.

“Please,” Wash manages to garble out. “I can’t… I can’t help you.”

He manages to stumble to the doorway of the bathroom, sheet left crumpled at his feet as he braces hard on the edge of the sink. His breaths come fast and hard as he stands upright, fingers white-knuckled where they grip the countertop. The world tilts, and he feels his body slump into the wall  beside him. The white light of the room does little to obscure the sheen of sweat on his face, or the way his hands shake as he tries to turn on the faucet. He cups his hands. The water is cold on his flushed and feverish skin. He presses his cool, damp palms to his eyes and drinks from his hands. Washington breathes. The world seems to settle as the cool air hits his skin. He’s not seeing double for now.

The moment of reprieve is short-lived. His stomach folds over itself, rolling a cold, then hot wave across his skin as he doubles over the sink. The voice inside his head is slamming against the walls of his skull like it could break through. He can’t understand the words, how they crush and morph together against the new spike of pain behind his eyes, but it sounds like screaming. Something scared, and horrified, and desperate, pleading. But maybe that’s him. 

He gags. The rest of his dinner comes up in the sink. He coughs, trying to swallow it back down, nose stinging. He heaves in a breath. His eyes water and he doesn’t stop them from dripping off his cheeks. 

Breathing heavily, Wash drags his hand over his face. It comes back damp, still shaking. He can taste iron in the back of his throat. When he looks in the mirror, eyes dark and sunken, it’s like he can barely recognize the face looking back at him. Wash shuts his eyes tightly. He holds to the edges of the sink, breath shuddering and whistling as he inhales. More tears fall; fear, grief, nothing actually his. 

“I can’t—” he says, he sobs, as the voice—Epsilon—pleads. Pleads for him to make space, to be something other than he is, to let him out, to let him go. “They won’t—” 

Across the room, there’s a quiet knock on the door. He jolts, eyes darting to the closed door. Another knock. Wash brings up a shaky hand, wiping the tears from his chin. He rinses off what he can from his hands, pulling tissues to dry his face. He can still taste the film of bile in the back of his mouth. Washington steadies, blinking his eyes fully open.

“Wash, it’s North. Came to check up on you.”

North. Oh. Wash shudders as he laughs, just a little. Sure. He leans back from the sink, lowering himself gingerly to the floor to grab the sheet. As he steps carefully to the bedside, he replaces the sheet and begs that he finds his sense of composure before he opens the door.

“Coming,” he manages, voice wavering.

He makes his way around the bed, hand braced slightly on the wall as he steps over. The door slides open as he stand in the doorway.

North is standing in his pajamas, a concerned sort of pull to his face. He smiles a little when Wash opens the door, but Wash is too busy staring at his own socked feet and North’s boots to really notice. North’s voice is soft when he speaks. It reminds Wash of the one time South blacked out during dive training and North wouldn’t leave her side.

“How’s it goin’, buddy?” North says gently.

“Best day of my life,” Wash jokes, laughing weakly. North huffs out a laugh, folding his arms.

“I know they’ve got you under watch, so you’re in good hands,” he says, inclining his head. “How’s the headache? The tingling? Anything blurry?”

Wash takes a second, sighing and shutting his eyes. It’s funny that North would say that, isn’t it. He gets the shuddering feeling of something not his own as he stands propped against the wall, trying to hold himself up.

“Still painful,” he manages, pressing his hands to his eyes. “Everything’s blurry.”

“Yeesh—” North says, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “You’re taking it slow though, right?”

Wash nods.

“I’m trying to,” he says. “Best I can given the circumstances. It’s hard to sleep with all the…” He waves his hand around listlessly around his head, as if trying to get his point across. The voice. The emotions. Whatever chugged through his memory and forced itself in. It was an almost-physical, painful sensation. North nods knowingly. Wash doubts that he knows much at all.

“I’m sorry, Wash,” North says, his concern sincere. “It’ll get better with time, though. You’ll have a few days to settle in before the Director sends you out on missions, I’m sure.”

Wash nods again. It’s the most he can really do. His head feels like it’s full of soup gone sour.

“Right,” he says slowly, the words thickening in his mouth to a paste. “Right, I hope so.”

North smiles. He can tell, all of a sudden, as he does every time North summons Theta to the front, how right he was for his AI, how much the nurturing nature he so eagerly kept hidden blossomed when it was needed, when it would be properly appreciated. That smile alone settles a warm swirl through Wash’s chest, trickling into his lungs and his heart. The same happens when North reaches out, cupping his shoulder with his broad palm and squeezing, just enough to feel the heat of his hand. He jostles Washington slightly as he does. Wash manages a smile, huffing out through his nose, his eyes falling shut again as he lets the comfort of touch sink in for just a moment. As North draws his hand away and Wash straightens, North says:

“Alright, I’ll let you get back to resting, okay Wash?”

Wash hums in response.

“You let me know if you need anything. We’re all just down a floor—I’m sure York and I wouldn’t mind stopping in.”

Wash sighs, finally pushing himself to a stand, away from the wall. He doesn’t say anything, but a creeping realization settles in the pit of his stomach, right next to the warmth that used to pervade his joints. He swallows. Instead of feeling nothing, he feels burning in the back of his throat, up his nose. He nods regardless.

“Good deal, buddy,” North smiles. He nods, just a curt bob of his head. “Alright, I’ll be seein’ you.”

“I—” And all of a sudden, the feelings pervading, the ones not his own, rear their head. He swallows roughly, trying to make out a sentence. He mumbles out his next words, vision blurring. “Please don’t—”

“Wash?” North asks, startling, the twinge of concern now laid thick in his words. Wash startles too, blinking hard. What was happening to him? He shakes his head, turning it from North for a moment as he wills himself back to the present. He isn’t leaving, North lives here. He won’t just abandon him. But he can still feel the weight of the word goodbye. The weight of see you soon.

“Sorry, I’m just…” Wash shudders out a sigh, trying to find a viable excuse. “I’m on edge I guess. Don’t worry about it.”

North’s eyes widen.

“Wash, your nose—” he says, moving forward to help him. Wash takes an instinctive step back, cupping his hand around his chin. He can feel the warm dribble of blood now, the taste of iron in the back of his mouth. He shakes his head as he keeps North at arm’s length, turning to fetch tissue from the bathroom. 

“It’s fine,” he croaks out, fumbling for the sink. He runs his hands under the warming water, tipping his head forward. Blood drips into the sink but his eyes are screwed shut too tight to see it. Wash can barely hear North’s voice above the running water, but he hears the door to his room slide shut. Reaching for the tissue, Wash swabs gingerly at his nose, still tasting the metallic tang on his teeth. As he turns back to the room, North is hovering at his bedside, concern written across his whole face. Wash watches his jaw work, his upturned eyes wide and searching Wash’s expression. Washington shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says again, barely a sound at all. He jams part of the tissue up his nose, swallowing back whatever was left in his mouth. North gestures to the glass of water still half empty at Wash’s bedside. Wash sits, his legs giving out beneath him, and he drinks.

North takes his time getting to the space in front of him, circling the end of the Recovery Bay bed like Wash were an injured animal about to bite him. Luckily for him, Washington feels far too heavy to move any of his limbs, as if all the energy had been siphoned out of him and into the air, leaving it charged and staticky. He couldn’t find the strength to bite even if he tried. He smooths his hand over the pant leg of his hospital clothes in calculated movements. The scratchy fabric is so thin he can almost feel his body heat through it. Or lack thereof. 

“I don’t know how fine it is, Wash,” North says, folding his arms. He leans against the arm of the chair across from Wash, not exactly sitting, but not really standing. “I certainly wasn’t getting nosebleeds like that with Theta.”

“Well,” Wash manages hoarsely, shutting his eyes tight again. “With all due respect, Theta was a little more… stable.”

“Epsilon’s unstable?” North asks. Wash flinches. He can feel that paper shredder sensation again as he shrinks back. “Wash?”

“It’s okay,” Wash mumbles. “It’s just—side effects.”

North’s face grows taut and stern. When Wash flicks his eyes up to read his face he’s met with a strong set to North’s jaw. North shakes his head, sounding unconvinced.

“It’s not supposed to be this bad,” he says. He drums his fingers against his arm.

Wash sighs. The sound is curt when it leaves his chest. It’s all the energy he has left to expel before it dissolves into an empty hollow in his chest.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Washington,” North starts, leaning off the chair and moving toward the bedside. Wash curls further over his lap, as if trying to move away from whatever suggestion North could have for him. It’s not something so easy to fix. It’s just. It’s just—

“It—” Wash takes a long, laborious breath in. He feels something very small break inside his chest as he breathes out, his exhale shuddering. His vision goes blurry in the few feet in front of him, from knees to floor, that he can see. “I don’t—”

“Hey…” North soothes. He lowers himself to Washington’s side, hand coming to cup his shoulder. Wash leans, half intentional and half not, into the touch as North squeezes his arm.

“The memories aren’t mine,” Washington babbles, unintelligible to anyone but himself. “I don’t want them in my head.”

“I know,” North placates regardless. And for a moment, it feels like he means it. It doesn’t really matter if he does or doesn’t. The arms that come around him are strong and warm and solid and friendly as Wash makes contact with the hollow of North’s shoulder. He doesn’t mean to collide and fall so easily, but the arms around him hold on, and hold firm, and he begins to think through the haze of memories not his own that he really didn’t have much say in the matter. North draws him in regardless and Wash sinks himself into his side. He cries and no sound escapes him. He squeezes his eyes shut. Faintly, he can hear North whistle out a breath, through the shff of fabric as he slowly and gently drags his palm over the line of Washington’s shoulders.

“I just need it to stop,” Washington chokes out. It doesn’t matter who’s speaking. The relentless tug of war continues on in his head, even if he can’t hear it, even if it won’t really surface. It doesn’t matter who wants their memories back. It just matters that his body feels like he’s been electrically shocked: drained, shaken out, and hurting.

“Breathe, Wash,” North soothes. Washington does as he’s told, the air scratchy in his throat. He shudders out the breath, trying to keep each stable and even. North doesn’t say anything for a while. He lets Wash breathe and lean into his shoulder, and the silence gives Wash a moment of reprieve as his mind goes quiet. He just focuses on breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth. North leans just slightly back into him, cheek resting on the top of his head. 

Wash blinks his eyes open. He stares into the middle distance with his vision still blurry, and North’s weight against him keeps him, rather than whatever threatens to invade his memory further, grounded. Wash makes an unintelligible sound as North sighs.

“Great, Wash,” North says lightly. “Doing great.”

“Well, I feel like shit,” Wash manages, almost amused.

North hums softly in agreement, but doesn’t really respond. His hold around Wash grows a little tighter, though, firmer around his shoulder and forearm as Wash sags. His eyes shut again as his breaths remain even, face pressed to North’s shoulder. He’s a bit too large for them to properly fit together, even as they sit side by side on the bed. He lets go of a long breath as the rush of previous anxiety, the new bubbling fear, and exhaustion slip out all at once. In their wake is a pit of nothing, absent of emotion, in his stomach. Tired lingers instead in the same space, around that nothing. He can feel his body grow heavy against North and he has half the mind to mention how tired he actually is. But North hasn’t moved, regardless if he’s noticed or not, and the hand on his shoulderblade, and the head resting against his, remains. The world goes blissfully soft for a moment, his body heavy and his mind quiet. It’s only when he blinks his eyes open again that he realizes he’s lying down. North is gone.

He squints at the room around him, lifting his head slightly. He’s on his back with the sheet draped over him, comfortable against the pillows. For once, his body and head don’t ache, and whatever voice that might be screaming is silent. When he lifts himself further, the room spins, tipping violently this way and that. Wash lets himself back down. For now, he decides that the comfort he has is better taken than lost, and he shuts his eyes.

The world goes muted and grey around him. His body sinks to the mattress.

He has a feeling he won’t wake again for some time.

[silvercap]

OOOOOH OOH OOH!!!! 'Up walking around when they're sick and should be in bed' please! ;u;

Alright ;) (Prompts)

Leon's too hot. He can feel his body burning as he groans and thrashes into awareness against sweat-soaked sheets, breaths ragged and short as he pants for air. His entire body feels like it's been dipped in ice water, chills drawing goosebumps to the surface of his skin despite how nauseatingly warm the rest of him is. His underwear clings to him with a layer of uncomfortably warm dampness beneath the thin bedsheet, a lukewarm cloth on his forehead offering the same miserably tepid attempt at relief. Leon groans, flinching when it spikes the headache crawling around the base of his skull.

It takes a moment to recognize the bedroom around him as his own, all soft mattress and the lamp he liked at the thrift store, the fan overhead twirling lazily in the stagnant air. He makes himself sit up, blinking away spots. He could really use a glass of water right now, and maybe the fan could be turned up. He's not sure where the fancy remote is, though, Piers probably has it somewhere on his side of the room---which is much too far away for Leon to want to crawl over there. He sighs heavily.

It's harder to walk than he remembers it being, knees trembling as he staggers upright with a mighty push away from the bed and tries to remember how to breathe evenly. The change in posture makes known the ice cubes bobbing through the liquid fire in his blood, a shiver running down his spine and tingling in his toes. Leon moans pathetically, colliding with the doorframe to the room for support. Not too far left to the kitchen, now, but it feels like he's already walked miles. He steadies himself for a moment, then pushes on, sweat beading on his forehead.

He's almost to the end of the hallway when a figure appears at the corner, Leon's muscles going weak as he jolts in surprise. His hands are shaking, vision slightly blurry, and the cry of shock and horror that meets his ears makes him flinch. Did he do something wrong? A split-second later, Piers is pulling him into a hug, broad shoulders the perfect place for Leon to rest his sweaty forehead on as he gasps for air and shudders convulsively.

"Leon, baby," Piers murmurs, voice pitched low and soft like he's trying not to frighten him despite the evident concern curling the edges of his tone. "You should not be out of bed!"

Leon scowls. "Why not? 's fine, I'm thirsty," he says, the effort of speaking enough to make his head spin. His voice doesn't quite sound right, either, too breathy and distantly dazed to belong to him. He grunts, a wave of lightheadedness buckling his knees. Piers catches him tightly with arms around his back and a muttered curse, a faint whimper of distress breaking through Leon's control. Why does he feel so awful?

Why can't he seem to stand upright?

"Shh," Piers soothes, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Leon's head. His lips are warm, and Leon craves the contact, pressing closer as he tries and fails to regain his footing. Someone guides his arm around a pair of strong shoulders, a sudden shift in position leaving Leon to figure out where Piers went. He's not thinking straight, he recognizes distantly, but eventually he comes to the conclusion that Piers is the one holding him up with another arm around his waist as he limps back towards the bedroom.

"Let's get you back to bed," he hums, Leon's eyelids fluttering shut to the sweet tune of his voice. "You need your rest."

[obsidiancreates]

You Can't Crawl (Let Yourself Stop Trying)

(Major character death, undead, body horror, zombie-esque, tragedy, sad ending.)

Shawn got a call from Jack a week ago. Gus said not to go. Shawn was still mad about Bouchard's treasure, anyway. And Shawn agreed it was probably a bad idea, but... that's his Uncle. He had to go make sure the guy didn't get killed.

When he leaves he doesn't really let anyone know when he'll be back, just because it slips his mind. He remembered to tell them he's leaving, though, so that's Something. More than Henry got in 1995

And then, one week after Shawn’s leaving.. someone breaks into Henry's house. He wakes up to a masked figure about to kill him, and a stench in the air. They bolt when they see Henry is awake.

The next night, someone breaks into Gus's house.

Then Jules.

Then Lassie. Someone is targeting them. 

Everyone goes nuts because, well, the last time this happened it was Yin

But there's no leads. No demands. Nothing. Just a masked figure who... reeks. It's the reason they all woke up.

A decaying, rotting stench.

Of course they reached out to Shawn as soon as it became clear there was a pattern- which is to say, after Gus.

The phone went to voicemail. They got a text, though. To Gus's phone. All it said was "It'll be fine buddy."

Weird, and uncharacteristic. They called the police department where he was headed to see if anything had been reported matching the break-ins, or anything happened to Shawn that the local police had to get involved in. Negative on both. 

Maybe he's just busy? 

But too busy... for Gus? 

It doesn't seem possible.

And then Jules. "It'll be fine." Lassie. "It'll be fine." 

Someone has Shawn's phone. They have no doubts.

Someone might have Shawn.

That figure is following them. Only at night. Jules notices it first. In the distance. Very Micheal Meyers-esque.

One day Jules gets a call. Middle of the day, in the busy precinct. She answers. 

"I'm not alone, right?" 

Jules drops her pen. "Shawn?" 

His voice is ragged, rough, cracking. His breathing haggard, like each breath has to be dragged in and forced out just to make the words come out of his mouth. "You guys are here for me? Right? I'm not alone?" 

"N-no, Shawn, you- oh my god, Shawn, where are you?!" 

"You'll come with me?" 

"Yes, yes anywhere, anywhere ever just- just tell me where, Shawn!"

Lassie is there, waving McNab over, The Chief is rushing over, they're trying to trace the call. Shawn lets out a wheezed laugh that turns into a racking, wet cough. "Promise?" 

"Shawn-" 

"Love you." 

The call ends. The figure is in Jules's house again that night. She expected as much. Why else would Shawn be given the phone? Whoever is doing this has him drugged, hurt, delirious. This was a power move, but they're not stupid. Lassie hiding in the closet with his gun. Gus wormed his way into this, because when they find out where Shawn is Gus has to be the one to make sure Shawn is okay, ASAP.

Jules gets ready for bed and lays down. 

The figure is so... quiet, as it comes into the bedroom. Quiet, and careful... but so, so rancid. Gus, hiding in the bathroom, has to swallow his vomit. Lassie himself can barely stand it.

The figure, as quiet as it is, doesn't move well. It's... slow. It's steps are careful, precise, experienced in this kind of thing, but heavy.

It draws a rattling, wet breath. There's a... flapping, sound. Like wet meat. Like... like the breath is disturbing something that shouldn't be disturbed.

It crouches down by her bedside. Reaches for her hair...

Lassie bursts out of the closet. "FREEZE!" 

Jules sits up, her own gun in her hand, hidden under the sheets before! 

Gus peeks out of the bathroom.

The figure barely reacts. It looks at Jules. It's eyes are- 

She almost drops the gun.

Milky white. It’s eyeballs are milky white. The skin visible through the mask eye holes is mottled, discolored. There's strands of greasy and blood-clumped brown hair poking the eyeballs. The figure doesn't even blink. But worse… "STEP AWAY FROM HER!" Lassie puts his finger on the trigger. 

"Carlton, wait-!" The figure puts a hand on Jules's face and the glove is wet and sticky and smells like death- Lassie shoots.

The bullet rips through the figure's shoulder.

It. 

Doesn't. 

React. It's not fresh blood that splatters across Jules's bed. It still has it's hand on Jules's face. She swallows, both to steel her nerves and to fight the rising vomit from the awful, awful stench and idea taking hold.

She gently lifts the mask off. Pieces of skin lift away with the fabric.

But not enough to obscure who it is.

He has blood around his mouth. Dried, and wet. Thick brown-black sludge that was also once blood dribbles out from his slackly-parted lips. With the bits of skin also come hair, clumps of it stuck to the inside of the overhead mask by more than just blood.

Gus collapses over by the bathroom. Just... down. Not unconscious, but oh, how he wishes he was. 

Lassie throws up. 

Jules reaches closer. 

And cups Shawn's face despite the feeling of sticky decaying skin clinging to her fingers.

"You won't leave me alone," he gurgles out. "You promised." 

"Shawn..." Her voice breaks. His hand, rotting inside it's glove, moves to wipe tears off her cheek. "We can't follow you here," she whispers. Shawn's eyes meet hers. "I need you guys." Each breath is forced, and this close Jules sees a strange movement in his chest- like it's hollow around his ribs. 

The flapping sound. 

Whatever skin is left in his torso being sucked in and out of a chest cavity that shouldn't be drawing breath anymore. 

Jules nods, pressing her lips together to try and stop the sobs that want to overtake her. "I know." It comes out a gasp. "But you don't want to kill us." 

His vacant, whited-out eyes leave hers for a second. Fix somewhere over her shoulder. "I... don't."

"We can find who did this," she says, each word broken by a sob. 

Shawn blinks. Tries to. Parts of his eyelids are missing.

"Jack... got caught. Tried to get us both out of it, and... they didn't... bite." 

He gurgles out a laugh. "I did. ... After." 

Lassie is sitting against the back of Jules's closet, shellshocked. Gus is still on the floor in her bathroom. Shawn is still kneeling by her bedside. She tries to rub his cheek, comfort him, but the skin slides around loosely under her touch. "So they're gone?" 

He nods. Slowly. She can hears pops and cracks as he does. He's stiffer than he was moments ago. 

"Shawn." She sucks in a breath despite the tang to the air from Shawn's cor- Shawn. "We love you. And... and we'll see you again. Okay? We'll all bother some new psychic together." 

Shawn's mouth... moves a little. Almost a smile. Not quite, but... close enough. "Love you." He has to strain to get the words out. "All... of you." 

"... We know. We love you too." He pulls his hand away from her face. It leaves behind things she'd rather not think about, the consequences of decay. 

And he lays down. 

And rigor mortis sets in. Later, when Shawn's body is collected, a story is spun that's more believable, and they've all gotten together and just... sobbed,... They do investigate. They find Jack. He's wasted out of his mind, wearing bloodstained clothes, sitting outside a shelter in the same city Shawn went to meet him in.

They get a story out of him.

He made too many of the wrong people partners again. Went after something old, and very storied- he won't say what. But there was a fight over it. Shawn tried to handle the situation. 

Shawn got killed, with whatever they'd been looking for. 

Shawn got buried. 

Shawn got back up.

He won't say what happened after that. Just that he ran as soon as he could make his body move again.

They never find whatever was used to kill Shawn, or where it had happened. Shawn gets cremated, not buried. 

They give Henry most of the ashes, keep a vial each. They told Henry the fake story. He wouldn't believe the real one.

They're never sure, though, if the figure they see standing in corners or across the street is a good sign or not. 

Shawn could be watching over them. Just waiting. 

... They hope, he's just waiting.

[solarsa1nt]

𐚁֙࿐ FAILURES

geto suguru x fem!reader

Tags — fluff & angst , hurt/comfort , implied child abuse , panic attacks , established geto/reader

Notes — none

Her pen hits the desk rhythmically, teeth chewing anxiously on the inside of her bottom lip as E/C eyes flicker between the teacher's desk and the worksheet infront of her.

She should be focusing on the project, she really should, but...

The teacher's eyebrows knit together, shaking their head faintly as they scribble something on whoever's test they were grading.

Y/N tries to squint her eyes— praying to be able to make out whoever's name was written on the paper only for the teacher to pick it up and put it on the top of the nearby pile before Y/N manages to make out the letters.

That was the last one. Y/N realizes, watching the fix up the stack of papers; evening it out.

Her teeth clench down on the part of her lip that was between them, a metallic taste pouring into her mouth as Y/N grimaces— disgusted by the flavor of her blood.

Her tongue spreads over the injury in an attempt to soothe the pain, it eventually swelling down after a moment or two.

"—And that will be all for today." The teacher announces, Y/N startling as she looks up with haste.

"It's your lunch break, so feel free to spend time looking over your test to see what you need to work on." The teacher advises tiredly, knowing fully well that not a single person will do that.

As the group of students file out of the room, Y/N watches with growing worry pooling in her gut as the teacher gives out every paper except the one at the top of the stack.

"Y/N, you can always take up tutoring, I know some—" The teacher tries to advise as she holds out the test paper to Y/N.

"No, it's... it's fine. I'll make sure to study harder next time." Y/N tries to offer a smile; but the fact she felt like she was on the verge of tears likely bled through judging by the pitying look the teacher gives her.

"You can always come to me if you need anything, alright?" The teacher attempts to comfort.

"Mhm. I should—" Y/N looks out the door, turning her head away as tears prickle in the corner of her eyes. "I should get going now, thanks!"

Y/N rushes out the door before the teacher could get another word in, turning down into a nearby hallway as she slows her pace into a walk.

Y/N breathes in and out shakily, leaning her back against the cold wall behind her, knees finally giving out as she sinks to the floor.

Y/N inhales sharply, eyes blown wide in shock as she brings her knees to her chest; crossing her arms atop them and burying her head in them.

They're going to be so mad.

The realization washes over Y/N like an ice-cold bucket of water— nails digging into her skin deep enough to draw blood but Y/N pay's no mind to that; unable to focus on anything other than how upset they're going to be.

What... What if they take her out of this school? What if they don't let her hang out with her friends at all anymore? What if—

"—/N, Y/N." A familiar voice calls, Y/N flinching as she looks up, blinking away the tears fogging her vision to see—

"Su... Suguru?" Y/N questions, forgoing any honorifics as she looks up at her upperclassman and lover.

"Aren't— Aren't you s'posed to be hanging out with Gojo-senpai and... and Ieiri-senpai?" Y/N mumbles, watching with confused E/C eyes as Suguru moves to take a seat next to her rather than continuing to stand over her like he was moments earlier.

"You're much more important than that." Suguru says matter-of-factly, and maybe if it were any other day; under different circumstances, Y/N would've blushed and told him to cut it out with the sappy stuff.

Y/N couldn't bring herself to even open her mouth, allowing the words to hang in the air with no refutal; although the way a frown settles on her face made her disagreement all too apparent.

Y/N brings her knees closer to her chest, looking down at the ground infront of her in shame— knowing her previous state was probably pathetic.

Really? Breaking down like that in public? Y/N thinks in utter humiliation— remembering the painful feeling of her lungs constricting in her chest; labored breaths not allowing her to get air properly.

"Y/N," Suguru's concerned voice forces Y/N to look up again, tear-stained eyes meeting worried purple ones.

Y/N mentally winces at the sight of her lover wasting time being so concerned over her of all people.

"I'm sorry for wasting your time, I'm... good, now." Y/N tries to give a placating smile towards Suguru but it's only returned with an unimpressed look, him not believing her for even a second.

Y/N frowns slightly at the look— wanting him to stop concerning himself with looking over her; she's nearly an adult, she can do it herself.

"Suguru, I'm fine, I just.." Y/N hesitates, tearing her gaze away.

What if he could help? A traitorous voice in her head whispers. What if you allowed yourself this one time to just—

"Can you hold me?" Y/N blurts out the question before she can spiral back into a hole of doubt.

A look of surprise crosses Suguru's face, unused to seeing her be so upfront about her wants and requests.

Silence answers her for a moment as Y/N recoils, "Of... of course you don't have to, sorry, that was—"

"Of course." Suguru cuts her off, hand wrapping around her wrist as he drags her closer— halting her previous actions of slowly inching away.

Against her will, Y/N's body melts into his hold, her form draped against his chest with her head against his shoulder, his hands wrapping around her waist.

"You're cold." Y/N notices, immediately contradicting her words as she burries herself deeper in her boyfriend's hold— seeking out his touch.

"Oh?" Suguru hums, curious to her behavior as he tightens his hold around her in a grounding way.

"Good cold." Y/N clarifies, "Like... like snow, snow is soft and feels nice..."

"Do I feel nice to you, then?" Suguru inquires, glancing down at the girl in his hold with a fond look.

"Was that an innuendo?" Y/N's eyes flicker up to meet her boyfriend's amused gaze.

Y/N huffs, wrapping her arms around his torso tighter as she buries her face into the soft coldness of the Jujutsu High uniform— savoring the moment as a content silence falls over them.

© 𝓢OLARSAINT 2024 ─── all of my works belong me alone! do not copy, steal, plagiarize, or spread any of my works in any other social media platform. these have only been reloaded on my own accounts on ao3 and wattpad

[wh-da-backup]

Lyric Dump posted sept 2010

bits of paper:

she walks like hell down the hallway, naked she wonders why they stare but doesn't care, she'd rather die than be repaired -----

he likes gore and she likes sugar they make the perfect dying team

I liked his words so I learned his side I like her words now I wanna learn her side

kiss me sugar breath breathe me candy death

the new Mr. Popular and his gangrene bride ---

the twisted phoenix of her mental ashes

you ask me why I feel so down, I finally tell you now look what I've done I've made both of us frown

but things are always better in our minds ---

you need her like a hole in your head watch out man it's a package deal

see the names she'll give you both yeah it's all in your head ----

I'd spend my evenings and stare at that shiny dumb failure of a child who never says a word and thinks she's a poet. how cute. ----

play their subtle obsession

lady love is out to get me

surgery under Anastasia ---

I don't care how you see it- these are my children

and I live for them and I comfort them I would kill for them I would die for them ----

love, could you be human oh could I? we're shiny silver trash machines

we've been programmed by airwaves

we've been programmed by wires spoken by liars

we've been designed, we've been designed is this alright? ----

they're lovers made of glass and lovers made of sound

catching a butterfly is not quite the same as catching a train --- Drive Me, Crazy

5th wheel's for you break the 4th wall and your bones and everything else

drive me, crazy, i wanna crash ---

i want my life back gonna have to take it ---

I was named after you but we're not the same I just can't take it just can't take the blame

the children are always afraid ---

she can have my blood I don't mind go infect the human race with mine

I'll scratch all night ----

gaping pores in teenage skin it's true i let a lot of stuff in ok ok ok

I'm fine I'm great I grin but it's true I keep my anger held in ok ok

and I fear it's a sin the state of mind that I'm in can I forgive my disaster created in turn I hope I won't have to burn in something clearer than blame like the face I've inflamed in the mirror ok --- Stupid Hair

I want you out of my face I want you lying on the floor instead I want you out of my life get away from me get off my head

I'd like to cut you up you're gonna die die die I wanna change you up dye dye dye ---

chosen one, I chose myself ---

can I borrow your self cause I don't like mine anytime anyplace anymore anyway

overreact like I do when you yell

I hang out with burners, maybe I'm one too we all got a price to pay ---

I need some brain bleach keep on thinking those razor blade thoughts ---

the man who likes to visit winter flashing lights and bubble eyes always draws his psychic lines ----

he lives his life in contempt for heaven

I have chosen to be undecided

once you've got it all figured out it's too late

setting fire to a world where nothing burns ---- Walking

coop us up all day we sweat and we stink

waiting for summer no cold to protect us from

at least we come in pairs sorrow to those who lose that friend

walk on me all day never hear your thanks hey man just set us free

just want to walk on the earth God made feel it on our soles ----

well I've got an identity and if you want to know then pay attention to the lyrics when i play these songs for you

well I've got a personality and if you'd like to know then pay attention to the lyrics when i play these songs for you

well I've got your reality and if you think you know then pay attention to the lyrics when i play a song for you ----

I think too much try to suppress it back I'm obsessed and ashamed and my confidence lacks ----

takes one to know one you are what you eat ----

a few hurtful words and we argued in bitter doesn't take much for a fire to start well she burned down the house and everything in it I told Heaven and Hell take good care of my guitars and write helpful critiques of my art ---

we'd stargaze at the empty ceiling ----

I'm thinking I'd like to be haunted tonight no need to thank me I'm frightened in return I'm thinking I'd like to be haunted tonight setting fire to a world where nothing burns. ---

that hour of your life that you gave repeatedly

you're my favorite plastic but you're not one bit of help

I know how I'm yours that my teeth absorb stains

I'm making up my list and so I guess I'll throw you in

reclining in a clean and quiet room ---

it's not damage it's this damn age we're living in blocked the flow of everything ---

and even if I had a gun I doubt I would shoot anyone I like /I'm fine

a fellow asked if i'm on drugs I don't need that to pull this off I'm fine

I've made myself disposable as a friend I've made myself unattractive so who am I to complain about it? my social capacity consists of a one-sided conversation between myself and a unanimous awkward silence (ding dong ding the witch is dead at 27) and so the universe gets its comeuppance ---- (cleverbot responses)

it's not funny your smile

so that's where his brain went

he was hard to read

I think you dislike cheese ---

facial constellations from scars I read the future in my stars I thought, I could be so pretty by pretending to be beautiful but I choose not to ---

It's been a few weeks since I've seen her as I've been away

wore a dress like an eyeris so blue like her eyes

she would blink to me in skies and I'd read them and sigh

I would read them and cry

painting stripes on my shirt

does it hurt to be from here

I do

in a car to be so far away far away

painting stripe on my shirt and I'm drowning in acidic paint I am blatantly lost to be so far away far away ---

stop touching your face

stain me with absence

turn the knives to forgiveness

peel myself from the floor ----

I'm not dirt

I get hurt

I don't bleed oil ---

another sunrise I'm already on my way nature's dying because now we start first

I'm sorry that I hit your head ---

we dug this grave to keep us alive for a little bit longer now hell seeps in through the walls along with the groundwater

wrote a letter home to you so a part of my can leave this place my love

breathing is bleeding nowhere to go but down breathing is bleeding nowhere to go but blind

together as parts of this great war machine but as souls we're alone ---

I wish this day had never been born wish i'd stabbed a knife in the womb of sunrise when I couldn't quite sleep from the dark in my eyes and now hours later the knife is meant for me

I don't wanna tell you you'll worry, you'll hurt I don't think I'm in danger and you'd think it's a joke a nauseating plea for attention you'd gag til you choke

nothing went down but a whole lot of staring i stared at the knives, the liquor, the pills, it all seemed so easy it all seemed so easy ----

songbook:

you're a wannabe wannabe and famous for that you know there's gotta be a catch catch catch hack don't look down on me just cause i'm a wreck you know there always gotta be a catch catch catch retch ---

girls in the schoolyard blabbing secrets they were told not to repeat by their parents ten years later walking around in the cold less cloth than skin they don't even have the dignity to be embarrassed

a girl died back in '93 and was buried are you really that gullible? paranoid about viruses you could be carrying are you that irresponsible? ---

mind. scent. way to pass your judgement interesting prop, hence why i'm still alive...

and you smell like chemicals you smell like chemicals you smell like chemicals ---

I never suffered teenage angst til now be careful what you wish for I never thought my heart would break be careful what you wish for I'm always eager for an eye be careful what you wish for I'm always dreaming half-deranged be careful what you wish for

sleep comes on four screeching wheels eyes are closed by dull iron lies sleep appears long-awaited ghost hello my friend where would you like to go? --- We Are

I think you lied to me before you left them lying on the floor there's now a key that locks the door built by the lies that tie the score they scar me more

and there's a way that we talk and there's a way that we breathe and there's a way that we are

you say that nobody will you say that nobody can just look outside where we are ---

there's a hole a mile wide it's in my soul it's in my pride from lies... rusted scalpels that they are

all that needles to is stitch frail threads on an open wound

you fill it all ----

drive me drive me i just want you to derive me round and round again until i am renowned state it state it just shut your mouth and stay sedated overrated don't overreact like they did

you're handling eyes now so set your pins and needles down (your sole important everything) ----

my arm laid out my gaze is wistful blood is gold i've got a bottomless wrist full what's it doing keeping me alive? we're such a waste together wish i could give it all away and that way i'd be good for something ---- Sharks

be careful when you find the one whose eyes could be your 2-inch ocean

look out look out look out seeing sharks

be the dagger of my eye ----

walk through the market avoiding the stares trying to plug up the hole in a china doll's chest

they threw us all in a prison cell we gathered our wax limbs and sat up the best we could

I on my side and you lying next to me our faces met close enough

we fell in love in a prison cell I'll lie here beside you and hold you until we die and our wax limbs will fall to the floor

holding you close only time will tell the others talk nervously don't say a word

our wax heads rolled off and I knew that the dream it had gone

[foibles-fables]

physically unable to stop thinking about talanah pressing a kiss to aloy’s wound while recovering from a fight. i am feral

EDIT: cleaned up and archived to AO3!

One last tug, and the bandage wrap is fixed tight.

"There. Done," Talanah says from behind her. "I think you'll survive."

Even though Aloy can't see her face, she knows Talanah is smiling. A small one, from the way her voice drops low over the last word as she says it, glimmers like the first point of light in the evening sky. A smirk, curved warm. Aloy's been able to picture this one for longer than she'd admit. She pictures it now, too, before she responds.

"Can't say I was worried." Her voice isn't as bitter as the berry she just finished chewing and forced down, but there's an edge to it. Not especially in the mood for playing along. Yes—she knows she'll be fine. The wound is a foolish one in a foolish place. It was a good clean kill, but a failed escape—a mistimed dodge after puncturing a Longleg's concussion sac, and a particularly sharp piece of the ensuing shrapnel slicing heavy along the inside of her shoulder blade, just above the line of her breastband. It's deep, sure, and right after she took the hit she bled like a stuck boar. But it never really hurt. It stung, maybe. Stung a lot, all salty-skin heat—until Talanah soothed away the sweat and blood with palmfuls of water from her own canteen.

Even with the task complete, Talanah stays behind her, kneeling close, hands settling easily where Aloy's thighs crease into her sitting hips. Aloy doesn't look back. She keeps her eyes fixed on the smoldering remnants of someone else's campfire and sighs as thoroughly as she can, ribs constricted by the linen wrapped at an awkward angle around her opposite shoulder. Every slow-down is a frustration, especially when the slow-down is nothing more than a sting. The healing herbs packed under the bandage burn against the wound. Means they're working. Drawing out what could make it all worse.

"Someone's sullen," Talanah murmurs, steady and smooth, breath caressing the bare and wiped-clean skin of Aloy's back. It's a sunburnt feeling—blistering warmness and grave risk, all at once—to be known like this, too. Known with only a sound.

So Aloy admits, gravel in her tone, "Stupid mistake."

When she goes to break away, to stand and dress and fume and carry on, Talanah halts her by moving closer.

"Hey. Stop." It's hard not to abide when her voice is like this, soft and hard at once, a slow command wrapped in silk. Pliable, but still something to lean on. To rest against, when she can. When she wants. "You heal quick."

Before Aloy can argue further, Talanah presses her lips gently over where the wound would be. The feeling of it is muted by the dressing, strange and half-numb and somewhere else, but it rattles sweet up Aloy's spine all the same. Knowing holds here, too—she can sense Talanah’s smile, the way her mouth is set, just like she can sense the way Talanah's sweat-damp hair is stuck to the back of her neck.

"Talanah," Aloy says, heat creeping to her cheeks as Talanah's arms encircle her waist more fully, fingertips light and reverent, "you don't—have to do that."

Talanah laughs. Raspy, tender, close to Aloy's ear. Enough to make her shiver and pull her lower lip between her teeth.

"Come on, Thrush." Her lips roam to Aloy's naked shoulder, press, and then to the sensitive angle where her jaw meets her throat. "You really think I only feel like kissing you because you're injured?"

Her mouth again. This time, on Aloy's, drawing out what makes it all worse. The bitter taste fades into something better, something bright.

[discow1tch]

Mutual Attraction

Summary: You run into the redheaded Green Lantern in the watchtowers infirmary after you both get injured in a fight and things get weirdly flirty

Warnings/tags: sexual tension, partial nudity, flirting, reader-insert

Notes: Look, I have terrible taste in men. I know this. Please try not to judge me too hard for wanting to fuck the worst green lantern.

Also, I'm not entirely sure where this is set. It's sort of loosely based on a combination of comics and cartoons. I'm really enamored with the version of him in YJ and the way Pat Gleason draws him in GLC.

You can also read this fic on AO3

"I'm fine," you insist but Dr. Mid-Nite is having none of it. He practically pushes you into the med bay.

"You hit your head. A professional needs to look you over."

Seeing as he is a professional you should probably listen to him.

"Yeah, alright."

The room is already occupied by one of the Green Lanterns - the redheaded one - sitting on the exam table and Mr. Terrific who is looking him over. The Lantern is a hot fucking mess. His hair is stuck to his head with sweat and there's blood spatter all across the knuckles of his gloves and the side of his face. It's hard to tell if it's his or someone else's. They both pause to look over at your intrusion. You give them a hesitant wave. Dr. Mid-Nite breaks the silence.

"Oh, good. You're already assessing the injured. When you're done with him can you check her for a concussion?"

Mr. Terrific sighs like he's being asked a monumental favor.

"Sure."

"Thank you. She hit her head pretty hard out there today. Better safe than sorry."

"Of course."

And then Dr. Mid-Nite is gone, leaving you to stand awkwardly in the doorway.

"I'm just getting my shoulder put back together. These things don't usually take long, right, doc?" Green Lantern says.

"I'm relocating the joint," Mr. Terrific corrects, "but yes, it should be just a few minutes. Feel free to take a seat."

"Kay." You locate a hard plastic chair by the door to wait on and pull out your phone.

 Ah. Of course. No service on The Watchtower. And no wi-fi.

"Alright, GL, suit off. I need to get a look at that shoulder."

You drag your eyes away from your screen to watch. You've always wondered how the suits work. You've been told that they're ring constructs but they're way more convincingly real than anything else you've seen the lanterns make. You can see all the creases in the fabric and everything.

"You got it, Doc." Green Lantern says as he pulls off his ring. You watch in amazement as the suit disappears in a whoosh of air and shimmer of light back into the ring leaving him in street clothes.

He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt with some sort of sports logo on it. It's all very normal except for the dried blood still spattered across his skin. You can even see the line in it across his neck where his GL uniform was sitting. You're wondering how it all fits under the suit and why none of it is wrinkled when he reaches back behind his head with his good arm to pull his shirt off in one fluid motion.

Your eyes go wide.

Ginger Lantern is built and has been spending some time in the sun if the freckles across his shoulders are anything to go by. There are faint tan lines around his biceps and collar. A not insignificant amount of hair covers his chest and trails down to the waistband of his jeans. You've never really talked to any of the lanterns but now you're thinking maybe you should.

You're jolted back to reality when Mr. Terrific speaks.

"This shouldn't be painful. Just sit still for a moment," he says as he works the lanterns joint back into place. You drag your eyes away from Green Lanterns chest only for your eyes to catch his. He tilts his head back just the slightest and gives you a cocky grin.

Oh no.

You can feel heat creeping across your face and neck. You dart your eyes away back to your phone. There's no use pretending that didn't happen but you try. The next minute stretches into eternity as you wallow in your embarrassment and pretend to be checking your email.

"There you go. That should do it."

From the corner of your eye you watch ginger lantern rotate his arm experimentally a few times.

"Thanks. The ring should be able to do the rest of the healing on its own." he says as he stands up and grabs his shirt. You steadfastly glue your eyes to your phone as he dresses but it doesn't stop your imagination from running free. It's not weird to fantasize about a strangers abs, right?

Mr. Terrific calls out your name and you practically jump out of your skin.

"Yes?"

"You're up next." he says with a tilt of his head towards the exam table before stepping across the room to look through a storage closet.

"Oh. Yeah."

Green Lantern reaches the door just as you're standing up. He stops with the door open and his hand on the outside doorknob.

"I saw how you were looking at me. You ever wanna do more than window shop just let me know."

You blink dumbly as his words sink in. He gives you a self assured smirk and then he's leaving. You stare at the door as it closes behind him.

That man is going to be the death of you.

[stay-outta-my-blood-circle]

maybe 1, 26, and 25 w either og or rz michael? preferably fem reader, but gn is totally fine too! tysm you’re an amazing writer, stay hydrated!!

Thanks! 💛

Kinktober 2021, Day 8 🔞 | dom me / size difference / knifeplay

A large palm remains pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned to the table while you struggle - at least until he gets annoyed, and that hand slides up your back to the nape of your neck, where his grip tightens. One squeeze is enough to quell any further movement; you fall still with a whimper. His hands are so big that his fingers almost wrap all the way around and meet under your chin.

He slides another fraction of an inch deeper, and you have to take a deep breath to resist the urge to squirm again. He's going so slow - it's unusual for him, and you know you should let yourself enjoy the change of pace, especially considering his size. You suppose he's gotten you subconsciously trained to expect it fast and rough, though; as a result, you feel desperate and impatient, your body aching for him to fill you up and use you until you're sore and shaking.

You can't help it - you try again to rock backwards and force him deeper. This time, your impudence is met by a sharp edge pressing against your thigh. It's startling, and painful, and even though it doesn't break skin, you freeze with a gasp.

He waits a full minute - to punish you, presumably - before moving again, sinking inside you just a little at a time. The knife starts to trail up, over your hip, and then along your spine. The cold metal of the blade leaves goosebumps in its wake, and the soft sound of it scraping over your skin almost makes you moan.

By the time the knife reaches the back of your neck, just under where his hand still resides, he finally bottoms out. At the same moment, he nicks you with the point.

Your gasp terminates in a little cry and you writhe in his grasp, unable to move much at all - his control of your body is exquisitely absolute. Judging by the way he twitches inside you, he must like the way your muscles clench around him as you react to the pain. You're not surprised when he moves the steel edge a bit lower and cuts you again.

He continues this way for a few minutes - finding new places to place shallow cuts and basking in your minute, reactionary movements - until he grows impatient and starts moving his hips. A slow drag as he pulls almost completely out, a slow glide as he pushes back in... over and over on repeat as the knife trails and scrapes over your skin, biting in here and there to draw little gasps, quiet cries, thin rivulets of blood. You can feel them running warm down your sides and pooling under you on the table surface.

The sight and the feel of you get to be too much for him, apparently - he never was known for self-control - and he suddenly ramps up, thrusting hard, deep, and fast. Your hands clutch and scrabble for the table edge, feeling unsteady; the piece of furniture is rocking so violently now, two of its legs lifting from the floor with each snap of his hips, that you wouldn't be surprised if it toppled over.

The knife clatters to the floor as he drops it in favor of digging large fingers into your hip, using his grip there and on your neck to yank you back to meet his sharp thrusts - the resulting collisions are so powerful and jolting that you worry he'll fracture your pelvis.

You come screaming (you've been screaming for a while now, you think - your throat is starting to feel raw), but he just keeps going, pounding through your aftershocks, ignoring your coarse pleas and overstimulated writhing.

In the small fraction of your brain that isn't mush, you wonder how many new bruises you'll have by the time he's finished; the back of your neck, your hip, and the tops of your thighs where they're pressing against the table, for sure - and that's not including all the shallow cuts and streams of dried blood you'll have to clean up.

Maybe he'll be nice and carry you to the bath after he finally comes.

[shorkbrian]

THIS ISNT A REQUEST its just me. LOOSING my mind over the Levi Ackerman stuff you write. like?????Levi injuring/hurting his s/o to make sure they dont go anywhere is so fbsjsja and accurate. I can physically SEE the way his hands would move to their knee and theyd be nervous but not sure just yet. Then he'd mention the expidition next week and just like that they'd know excatly what hes about to do.

Commander Erwin knowing but not doing anything about it because hell if humanities strongest solidier is gonna do that shit hes not gonna stop it. They're just gonna have to shh and be quiet. agsshsjsna I love that youd exposed me to this lmao

kashfaskak big Brian time omg

(What To Expect - no NSFW, bone breaking)

You’d get called to his office, hands sweaty and maybe shaking a bit as you open the door.

Levi’s standing at the window, looking out as he thought about who-knows-what, but he turns when you enter, indicating for you to sit.

He starts talking to you, menial conversation that is flavorless and dry, not filled with his common veiled threats or dark confessions of all the things he wants to subject you to.

Levi steps around behind you, hands falling heavy on your shoulders, and you both pretend not to see the violent flinch that the movement draws from you. Levi knows you’re afraid of him, but that works in his favor. 

You aren’t sure what he wants from you yet, maybe a blowjob? But he’s still talking, small hands beginning to knead at the muscles of your shoulders, finding the knots, the sore muscles and digging into them painfully. 

Long moments pass of Levi’s low voice filling your ear, his fingers pushing down hard into your muscles, making you wince and struggle to not move away from his touch.

But it hurts.

When he finally lets up on the painful massage you breathe a sigh of relief. The relief is short lived as he moves to your side, trailing his fingers down your arm to your hand, tracing over the tendons there with a foreboding sense of finality.

“Levi sir?” You question as he falls silent, the man intently studying your hand. He rubs his thumb over the callouses lining your fingers, the callouses that all cadets gain from operating the omni-directional mobility gear. Levi himself has similar callouses, although his are deeper and far rougher, his experience and expertise evident in the scars and weathered skin on his hands.

He lifts one of your hands as he studies it, bringing it closer to his face. You let him, just as you always do. Levi is not to be disobeyed. Maybe he’s in the mood for a hand job today?

“The upcoming expedition is going to be.... difficult.”

Your blood runs ice cold, filling your body with frost and snow. You feel like you can’t move. This can't be going anywhere good.

“I’m expecting there to be heavy losses.” The man continues, moving your fingers, bending them. “It’s a shitty fool’s errand, trying to drive back the titans that far from the wall.”

You want to snatch your hand away, but his grip is becoming increasingly tighter, one of his hands circling around your wrist to hold you fast. There’s an inkling in the back of your brain that whatever is going to happen will hurt. Levi’s going to hurt you.

“I’m ready to serve the regiment in whatever way necessary Sir.” You whisper, watching Levi play with your hand as if it were a toy that he didn’t understand.

The man nodded his head slowly, before his eyes flicked to yours. “That’s what makes you such a fine cadet. The best, actually. Always willing to do whatever your leaders command...”

What was he getting at?

“Sir? Is something wrong?” The silence is stifling, you have to ask. Maybe he just wanted to talk, maybe he just wanted to caution you about getting rest or tell you to train more. Maybe he’d act like a normal captain, and treat you like a normal cadet.

Levi sighed heavily, before the hand caressing your own stilled. “If I ordered you to stay behind, I know you’d feel guilty. Your comrades would wonder why you’re getting special treatment, the other officers would bitch and moan like whiny little piss babies about how I’m showing weakness. There’s no way for me to ensure your safety.”

The words he spoke were true.

“It’s alright Sir, I can take care of myself. I don’t need protection.”

Your hand was crushed in a painfully tight grip, Levi leaning over your chair. 

“You’re so naive. You’d get killed before you could step outside the wall.” He spoke quietly, grey eyes boring into your own, insistent.

He was scaring you.

Not knowing how to respond, you stayed silent, trying to shrink back in your chair, away from the heavy presence of your captain. The man clicked his tongue, before straightening again.

His eyes moved from your face to your hand, where he paused, before taking a closer look.

“Ah, but my finest cadet can’t go over the wall with such an injury. Stupid brat, should’ve gone to the med unit.”

What was he talking about? What injury?

You voiced your confused thoughts, and Levi grimaced, lips drawn in a thin line, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Your fucking hand, it’s broken. You broke it trying to get in some extra training with your ODM gear, didn’t you?”

“Sir, I don’t understa-”

Blinding pain lanced up your arm, and you doubled over in your chair, trying to pull your crushed hand out of Levi’s grip as you cried out.

The man kept a straight face, although a part of him felt sorrow for your pain. But it was necessary.

Another deft move with his fingers, and one of your fingers snapped like a twig, the sharp crack resounding in the room above your pained whimpers.

“Sir!?!” You cried, Levi finally allowing you to wrench your hand out of his grip, clutch the mangled extremity to your chest.

He’d broken your hand.

Levi had shattered the fine bones across the back in a terrifying display of strength, before cleanly breaking on of your fingers.

“A pity, I could’ve used you on the expedition. Too bad your shitty hand is broken.” His voice was flat as he stepped away from you, rounding his desk to sit in his chair with finality. “You should get it looked at, otherwise it’ll heal weird and you’ll be an ugly cripple.” 

You felt like screaming, anger welling up inside.

A knock on the door startled you, Levi uttering a soft “come in” before you could say or do anything.

Commander Erwin stepped inside, blue eyes flitting between you, Captain Levi, and your broken hand. There was a moment of stillness in the room.

You couldn’t let Captain Levi get away with such flagrant abuse.

“Commander Erwin! Captain Levi broke my hand.” You explained, rising to your feet.

Bushy blonde eyebrows raised slightly, but Erwin didn’t seem surprised. No, he seemed... disappointed?

“It appears so. Go get it set and bandaged Cadet, you’re relieved of duty at this time.”

You couldn’t believe your ears.

Commander Erwin believed you, he just didn’t care.

It seem that Captain Levi was allowed free reign

[theheadgirl]

31 Days of Fear, hosted by @hp-fearfest

Day 1: Body Snatchers (read on AO3 here)

The coat is scratchy, and the long knit scarf itches unbearably against her skin. She imagines scratching at it, just scratching and scratching until it feels better. She wonders how much scratching it would take to puncture the delicate skin, rip it off entirely. Maybe then she'd finally stop feeling so clumsy, finally stop feeling so weighed down. These bodies are so large and fumbling - every step feels like she ought to bring the whole street down.

Nearly there? she asks the other person inside her head.

Silence.

I know you can hear me, she continues. It's in your best interest to cooperate. 

Fuck you, Audrey spits back. I'll never cooperate with you.

Hmmm. She pauses for a moment, then takes her own hand and starts bending the index finger back as far as she can. She doesn't feel the pain, but she can hear Audrey whimpering. You know I don't feel any of that.

Fuck you.

Oh, two fingers, then?

She shifts her grip, takes her middle finger, too. 

No! No. Don't break my fingers. Fine. We're not far.

She smiles. See? It's so much easier when you cooperate. 

As she continues down the sidewalk, large, puffy white flakes start to come down from the iron-grey sky. One lands on the cuff of her sleeve, and she stops, taking a moment to examine it. A tiny crystalline structure of frozen water, already starting to melt. 

Earth is horrible. Grey and cold, now there's stuff coming from the sky, too. The sooner it's a burning husk, the better.

That's it, Audrey says, a block or so later. They're in the heart of downtown London now, surrounded by people and skyscrapers. The red phone booth. That's the guest entrance. Employee entrance is in the alley next to it.

How do I get in?

You don't. You told me to get you to the Ministry, not to get you in.

She glances both ways before stepping into the alley that Audrey had indicated housed the employee entrance. Although she won't feel it, it's still best if she doesn't attract undue attention. She turns to one of the brick walls, curls the still-sore fingers of her hand into a fist, then drives it into the wall as hard as she can. Again, again, again, until the knuckles are a bloody mess and Audrey is screaming inside of her head. 

I can keep going, she says. You have two hands. And feet. And you're so… breakable. 

She draws her hand back for another punch, and before she can make contact, she hears:

The end of the alleyway. The bricks shaped like a sunburst. 

She looks over, spots a pattern in the brickwork that does look like a spiraling sun. She walks over to it.

You'll need my wand. A pause, a hitching breath. It's in my purse.

You're learning! She opens the soft brown bag hanging from her shoulder, carelessly wiping blood from her knuckles along the blue lining. She doesn't recognize any of the Earth items in it, and she pushes them aside, seeking out her goal. There is a long, thin, elaborately carved piece of wood amongst the detritus in her handbag, with a pretty, highly-polished blue stone in the handle. She can guess that that's the wand. When she pulls it out, she can feel the hum of power.

Tap my wand against the brick in the middle. 

She does, and the sunburst, for a moment, suffuses the alleyway with a warm gold light. The bricks within the sunburst remain glowing, and fold backwards to reveal a door. She pulls the wand back, and steps forward.

"Audrey Weasley, Magical Law Enforcement," a cool female voice says. "Welcome."

The door swings open. A wicked smile that looks very out of place on Audrey's face crosses it, and she goes inside.

[ejlovespie]

I Know You

(Part 1 of 2)

Fandom: Supernatural - Author: EJ (@ejlovespie)

Summary: The reader thinks she was stabbed by the man she loves and left to die alone.   

Reader’s Request: Can you pleaaase write a dean x reader angst+fluff+near death one shot where they have feelings for each other but they're too insecure to say anything about it, and then one day the reader is in a motel room alone waiting for dean and Sam to come back from somewhere, and suddenly shapeshifter dean comes in and stabs her multiple times and leaves her bleeding on the floor until real Dean and Sam come back.

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 2672

Warnings: Graphic Violence/Near Death/Fear/Angst/Insecurity/Eventual Fluff***GRAPHIC details of being stabbed and assaulted. Do NOT read if violence and descriptions of assault (sexual comments and being thrown onto a bed) are a trigger for you. ***

A/N: Thank you for the request Anon!! This one was tough to write but I really hope you enjoy it. I am SO SORRY it took so long. Any feedback is greatly appreciated and any mistakes are mine. Also, I broke this up into 2 parts because it was getting very long. Thank you for reading! :) 

Reader’s POV

The loud knock on the motel room door made your heart skip a beat. Sam and Dean had left a few hours ago to talk to a witness and left you in your room to do research. Excitement at seeing Dean made your heart beat faster and a smile spread across your face. Jumping up from the desk chair, you quickly grabbed the bottle of perfume you had left on the dresser. Spritzing the air, you floated through the flowery scent before reaching the door. Taking a deep breath, you turned the knob. 

Dean stood there, leaning against the doorframe. He was dressed in tight jeans, boots, a t-shirt, and a jacket. For a second, you noticed the necklace he always wore around his neck was missing. Before you could ask about it, your eyes went to his, causing the smile on your face to fall. His eyes were so dark they looked black. Taking a step back, your heart started beating faster in fear. Dean was sneering at you in a way you had never seen before; it was almost...demonic. Instinct told you this man wasn’t the one you knew and loved and full on panic gripped you when you saw the tip of a knife poking out of his jacket sleeve. For a moment, time stood still before speeding up too fast.

Taking another, larger step back into your room, you tried slamming the door but Dean lunged at you. He simultaneously grabbed your wrists and trapped you in a tight embrace while kicking the door shut with his boot. An ugly growl escaped from his throat before he violently flung you onto the small bed. He quickly turned to lock the door and bolt the chain before whirling around to face you again. His eyes lit up when he saw you pull a gun from the bedside drawer. Shock and hurt made your voice shake when you asked, “Dean, why are you doing this? What’s the matter with you?” A smile you had never seen before took over his face then. It was too wide, manic even, and full of malicious intent. “I’m giving you what you wanted, you little whore. I’m finally going to stick it in you.” 

Faster than you thought was possible, he lunged at you again. The gun was torn from your hands and tossed across the room before Dean’s heavy weight was thrown on top of you. You gasped when his knee landed in between your thighs. You could feel every inch of his large body crushing you and you gasped for breath. You fought him, trying to push him off, slapping him everywhere you could before he pinned both of your wrists in one big hand. Tears pricked your eyes when he leaned in and inhaled a spot on your neck where your perfume clung to your skin. When you tried to kick out, his knee came up fast making you cry out in pain and shock. You had never been kneed so hard in your most sensitive area. You whimpered and twisted away in disgust when Dean’s tongue darted out to lick your exposed cleavage. 

“Dean, stop!” The tears you were fighting spilled over when he bit your neck hard enough to draw blood. You screamed as he pulled the knife out and plunged it into your stomach. You stared into his eyes, glowing with lust and hatred as he pulled the knife out and continued to stab you repeatedly. Agony had you begging and pleading for him to stop, to get help, but he didn’t listen. After what seemed like an eternity, your vision started to fade as red hot pain turned into numbness. Soon after you lost consciousness, the shapeshifter changed and slipped out of the room, leaving you to die.  

Dean’s POV

They were held up with their interview. What should have taken forty five minutes turned into two hours of waiting for their guy to show up. Deciding to come back tomorrow, Dean had dropped Sam off at the library and headed back to the motel. He hated leaving Y/N alone for so long. He wondered if she was hungry..and if she missed him like he missed her. Maybe they could go and grab some food at the diner they passed coming in. Pulling into the parking lot, anxiety had Dean lunging out of the impala when he saw Y/N’s room’s door was ajar. Her car was parked right out front so he knew she hadn’t left. His gut twisted as he ran across the parking lot only to sink when he saw her. She was laying still on the bed, drenched in her own blood. Darting to her, he checked the pulse in her neck and silently thanked God when he felt a tiny beat. Briefly, he thought about calling 911 and waiting for an ambulance but he was afraid she wouldn’t make it. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up her lifeless body as gently as possible and ran out of the room. Laying limp in his arms, Dean swiped hair out of Y/N’s face before kissing her cheek.  

“Hang tight for me baby. I’m going to get you help. You're going to be fine.”  

Dean carefully placed her in the backseat before whipping the car out of the lot and driving as fast as possible to the hospital. The drive and the events that came after were a blur. A mixture of emotions threatened to break Dean as he pushed down any and every thought that wasn’t related to Y/N pulling through and being okay. She was going to be fine. She was strong, so damn strong. She would fight and live to tell him the name of the son of a bitch that hurt her. He would make this right. Although he didn’t remember calling, Sam showed up and barraged him with a dozen questions. 

“Dean! What happened? Where is Y/N? Is she okay? Has the doctor come out yet?”

In a haze, Dean tried to think back and remember. He was sitting in the waiting room but they had rushed Y/N into emergency surgery as soon as he stumbled into the lobby with her in his arms. Looking at his watch, he realized that had been hours ago. 

“I don’t know anything Sammy. I pulled up to the motel and her door was open. When I went inside...she was on the bed. I..I didn’t look at the room or anything; I just grabbed her and drove straight here. Nobody has come out yet.” 

Dropping back down in the chair, he buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t stop seeing her. Couldn’t stop reliving that moment where he thought she was dead. His beautiful, smart, brave Y/N, soaked in blood and paler than the sheets she had been laying on. Gritting his teeth, he silently vowed to find the son of a bitch that did this to her and make him suffer. He didn’t hear Sam sit down beside him or pay attention to anything else in the waiting room. He just sat, fearful and angry and prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in. 

Hours later, a doctor stepped out and called for ‘Trisha Randalphs family.’ Sam and Dean both jumped up at the sound of one of Y/N’s aliases and ran over to the doctor. With a serious expression he asked, “Are you Trisha’s family?” Dean rushed out, “I’m her husband.” At the time as Sam, who said, “I’m her brother.” Looking tired, the doctor introduced himself and explained how ‘Trisha’ was currently stable but had very serious wounds. The surgery she underwent was lengthy and she fought hard for her life. Dean lost focus after that. Y/N was alive and that was all he needed to know. The doctor had gone on about details of the surgery and how she was in an induced coma for the time being. At some point, the doctor walked away and Dean headed for the exit, Sam hot on his heels. 

“Dean! Where are you going?”

Without answering, they walked quickly out of the hospital and headed for the impala. When they reached the car and they both saw the back seat covered in Y/N’s dry blood, Dean’s chest tightened. He breathed in and out of his nose before slamming a fist down on the hood of the car. Rage was the only emotion Dean felt as he threw the door open and sped off towards the motel again. Fortunately, the motel was rundown and didn’t have a very attentive maintenance person. The room was exactly how Dean left it. Beside him, Sam made a sound in his throat. Forcing himself to focus and not imagine Y/N here, Dean looked around the small space for clues. He noticed a bottle of perfume on the dresser and picked it up for a moment before setting it back down. He wanted to uncap it and smell her but didn’t want his brother to see him do it. 

“Dean, over here.” 

Sam was crouched on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Dean walked over to see him poking at a familiar pile of goo. Dean knelt down next to him and grimaced. Knowing it was a shifter who mutilated his girl was helpful but he also knew how tricky they were to find after they had shifted. They looked around a bit longer before collecting Y/N’s things and heading back to the hospital. 

-

They were there for several days before Y/N finally woke up. Sam had gone back and forth from the motel and the hospital but Dean had stayed with Y/N the whole time. Once the doctor’s had informed them she could wake up at any time, Dean knew he had to stay and be there for when she opened her eyes. They called Bobby for some help so he and Sam were working the case and trying to find the shifter. When Y/N woke up, Dean was sitting by her bed, holding her hand in his larger one. When she finally came to and turned to face him, Dean’s relief and happiness immediately changed to anxiety. When she looked at him, fear filled her eyes. To Dean’s surprise, she tugged her hand away and started gasping for breath. A nurse ran in, shoving past him, to check on Y/N. She was gasping and yelling, “No! Please! Stop!” The nurse, an older woman, tried calming her with soothing words while she administered something into her IV bag. A few seconds later, Y/N was limp again. 

Panicked, Dean demanded, “What did you give her?!” The nurse gave him a sad smile before saying, “It’s just a sedative to keep her calm until her wounds are healed. You’re the husband right? Just give her some time. She has gone through a very traumatic experience.” She patted his cheek before stepping out of the room again. Dean fell back into the chair and grabbing Y/N’s hand, brought her fingers to his lips. Feeling lost and scared he kissed her skin and begged her to be okay.

They were there for a week longer than planned. Sam and Bobby had finished up the case and were now fully hunting the shifter. The problem was the trail went cold. Other than the few clues they had already looked into, the only person that could bring more information to the table was Y/N. Unfortunately, the few times she had woken, she had taken one look at Dean and broken down so bad she had to be sedated. Eventually, Sam had been there instead of Dean, suggesting to his brother that he go take a shower. Y/N had woken and smiled when she saw Sam. 

“Hey, there she is. How do you feel?”

Holding out a cup of water, Sam helped Y/N take a sip through the straw before sitting back down. 

In a cracked voice she responded, “I feel like my insides were ripped out and then shoved back inside of me...but somehow i’m alive.” A tear slipped down her cheek when she continued, “Sam..I remember everything. I don’t know how and I wish I didn’t but I do..Dean..but not Dean..attacked me. It looked just like him but I know it wasn’t him.” 

Sam stared at her for a minute while he processed the new information. “It was a shifter. We found it’s..skin, on the floor in your room. It definitely wasn’t Dean, he was with me and you know he would never do this to you.” More tears were streaming down her face as she closed her eyes and nodded. “I know. I can’t help it though. When I look at his face..I see that monster. It was..awful Sam.” Her voice broke saying the last sentence and Sam reached out to hold her hand as she sobbed.

Dean watched his brother and Y/N from the hallway. He heard their conversation and the familiar rage rose up again. The shapeshifter had attacked her while wearing his face. No wonder she had been terrified each time she saw him..That thought made the rage and constant fear he had been burying turn into pain. Would they ever get past this? Would Y/N ever be able to look at him without seeing her attacker? Marching out of the hospital, he dialed Bobby’s phone number. He was going to find this thing and make it pay.

To Be Continued. 

-

Tags: 

@akshi8278

@wellfuckmyexistence 

@beabutterfly987

@deandaydreaming

@slamminmine

@deandreamernp​

@the-white-shadow-of-hydra  

@lyarr24

@the-mystery-spot

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

COSMIC - S3:E3; Chapter Three, The Case Of The Missing Lifeguard - [Pt. 5]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

𝘌𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘉𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘋&𝘋. 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘙𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦.

⚠️: Castle Byers scene. Meaning lots of angst, self destructive thinking, and misguided self punishing

📝: Started making it... had a break down [fr tho]... ¯\_( ツ)_/¯ bon appetite! 👩‍🍳 [edit: told ya 💀]

🔑: underlined and bold means they're talking in Russian

||𝟑𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

Warm rain spits from the angry blanket of clouds, falling through the sky and drenching Mike and Lucas to the bone despite their rain gear. Mud splashed up onto their ankles and drenching their socks as their bikes skid up the Byers driveway. Without a thought, they throw their bikes into the ground before racing up onto Will's porch.

It had taken far longer than they cared to admit to decide to go and find Will. To make things right.

Mike was realizing far too late just how right Will was. He didn't even recognize himself anymore. El had become such an important piece of his life, but he hadnt realized until now just how much he let his feelings screw up all the wonderful things he had in his life to begin with. He missed how things used to be. With the party. With Y/n.

With Will.

All the anger he feels towards himself is channeled into his fist banging on Will's front door.

"Will!" He cries. "Will, I'm sorry, man, alright? I was being a total asshole. I've been a total asshole. Please, can you just come outside and we'll talk?"

No answer but the thundering clouds rolling over their heads. He pounds on the door again.

"Will!"

Lucas hurries to the window, cupping his palms against the glass and peering inside. He knocks on the window, doing his best to peer around the curtains and furniture obscuring his sight.

"Hey, Will! Come on, man! We're sorry!" He knocks again, growing nervous. "Will!"

||𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋'𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

'Sorry, man. Curfew,'

'For the last time, Will! No!'

-'What, so I should be locked up all day, too?'

-'Maybe!'

Huffing, I throw the wrinkling comic book into the old mattress. Nothing was working. Nothing was enough to distract me. I was too angry.

I looked down at the withered cover of the comic book I had just thrown, my chest sinking further. Dustin's X-MEN 134, he gave it to me after that night at the hospital.

Thinking about it now, I can't even remember the last time all seven of us hung out as a party. I don't count Dustin's welcome home. Mike and El couldn't be bothered to pretend to care, and Lucas and Max kept ganging up on Dustin. Dustin was understandably upset and not wanting anything to do with us, leaving just me and Y/n. And now, not even her.

How did everything get so messed up?

What was I doing wrong?

I looked around the walls of Castle Byers, a lump forming in my throat. Everywhere I looked, I was painfully reminded of the truth.

My friends don't want me anymore.

I keep telling myself that's bullshit, but the more I do the more it feels like a lie.

They're moving on without me.

Friends don't just forget you, I reasoned. They don't just abandon you.

Then why were they doing just that?

Maybe they weren't my real friends. Friend's don't do what they did.

Everything hurts. I've been telling myself I'm fine, that I'm overreacting but I don't think I am anymore. I'm just tired. I'm tried of feeling like this. I'm tired of being pushed aside, especially when I need them most.

They didn't use to be like this, I tell myself. But somehow that just hurts more.

I had people that cared about me, who were willing to risk their lives to save me. Twice.

And now they don't give me a second thought.

I was shaking now, but I don't think it's from the rain. The storm had finally reached me, seeping through the walls and dampening my clothes and hair.

Another painful realization hits me; Castle Byers looked just like it had the night I built it with Jonathan.

Even though this night was so much like the night Castle Byers was constructed, it couldn't feel more different. More unfamiliar.

My teary eyes find my first D&D manual, propped up against the wooden walls, soaked and forgotten like me. I'm painfully reminded of the night all this started.

I remember it as clear as if it were yesterday, and yet it feels light-years away.

'Something is coming. Something hungry for blood.'

《•••》

"What is it?" I ask, edging further off my seat.

This time it's Dustin who cuts in, "What if it's the Demogorgon?"

Oh, great, I think, throwing myself back in my seat with an anxious huff. We're not ready to face a Demogorgon!

Beside me, Y/n draws in an equally anxious breath.

"Oh, Jesus, we're so screwed if it's the Demogorgon." Dustin rambles on.

"It's not the Demogorgon." Lucas says, assuring us all.

《•••》

My eyes trail to one of my favorite drawings; Will The Wise and Y/C/N. The one I had made when Y/n was first constructing her character. The one that hung in my room for so long, always cheering me up. The one that gave my mom the idea to help me communicate my now memories.

The one that Y/n always threatened to steal for her room as often and as recently as her last visit. The memory of her warm touch lingering on my cheeks burned as bright as the blush raging over me that night so long ago.

'Wait a minute... Did you guys hear that?'

《•••》

The anticipated silence in the basement left by Mike grew louder as he leaned in.

"Boom..." His voice grows louder. "Boom," Louder.

"BOOM!" Mike bellows, slamming his hands against the flat surface, rattling the table and all its contents.

The sudden noise was enough to make me and my friends jump, as was the sudden hand grabbing for my own.

All the more startled, I look down to see Y/n's hand grasping my arm like a lifeline. I feel my skin flush, my cheeks surely reddened as I catch her eye. She looked flustered, smiling a small smile before retracting her hand and returning to the game, unknowingly leaving me in a dizzying blush.

•••

"Will, your action!"

"Fireball!" I cry, throwing the dice to the board with a satisfying rattle.

"FOURTEEN!"

My friends erupt into cheers, all around me as we celebrate together.

"BOOM!"

"Direct hit!" Mike cries, beaming proudly at me across the table. "Will the Wise's fireball hits the Thessalhydra!"

Our excited shouts fill the basement, each and every one of us victorious. My smile can't get any wider when I feel Y/n's hands grip my shoulder and begin shaking me excitedly. We both laugh, feeling on top of the world with our cheering friends by our side.

《•••》

Pained, I look away only to find the proof right in front of my eyes. My three favorite pictures; all of them, my friends and me — happy — staring back up at me.

Our photo from the science fair, encased in the popsicle frame Mike had made bearing all of our characters' names along the side. I brought it here, I brought all my favorite pictures here, to Castle Byers — to my safe place — cause that's where I knew I would need their comfort the most.

But as I look at them now, all I feel is bitterness and pain. I'm reminded of just how much everything has changed.

The science fair was a reminder of the good thing I had before that night. Before everything started.

Y/n and me, at the Snow Ball. My arm wrapped around her, the two of us grinning nervously. It wasn't just the night Y/n and I had first kissed, it was also the first night I felt like the Party had gotten bigger. All of us, Max and El included had been happy. Everyone was laughing and getting along, the happiest we had ever been — the strongest. But now I see it was really the beginning of the end.

It had been coming for so long and I didn't even see it.

And Halloween. Last Halloween, everything had been perfect. For just one. Single. Stupid. Moment.

Shakily, I pick up the photo Jonathan had taken of all of us in our costumes. We were all smiling.

We were all happy.

'Who you gonna call?'

《•••》

I beam as I see my friends pulling up, looking just as excited as I felt.

"Ghostbusters!" I finish, watching as they look me over, happily surprised.

"Hey, Spengler!"

"Egon! Looking sharp!" Y/n grinned, pulling me into a quick hug.

"Janine!" I beam. "Venkman!"

《•••》

As I look at it now, my eyes and throat stinging as Mike's voice echoes louder than ever in my mind.

'I mean, what did you think, really?'

What was I thinking?

'That we were just gonna sit in my basement all day, playing games for the rest of our lives?'

How could I have been so naive?

'it's not my fault you can't move on!'

How could I have been so... so...

"Stupid." I tell myself, my voice splitting in my throat. "So stupid!"

My hands trembling violently with rage and my own sobs, I tear the photo in two.

I was stupid. Stupid to believe I was as big of a priority to them as they were to me.

I rip the drawing off the walls, tearing it to pieces.

Stupid to ever think they'd still cared about me.

I rip and tear and crumple up every meaningful piece of them in an act of defiance.

They won't care. I think bitterly. They won't miss these, they probably won't even notice. Not like I would have.

I grab my bat.

How could I be so fucking stupid?!

Why was I hanging on to all this stuff anyway? Why was I clinging so tightly to something that was already gone?

Because I've been stupid. I'm just some stupid kid that won't grow up.

I storm out of the tent.

I'm just some stupid kid who can't grow up. They made that perfectly clear.

I stand in the pouring rain now, heart thundering in my chest as I stare at the piece of my childhood I couldn't let go of.

So. Stupid.

And I start swinging.

I swing and I swing, with an anger and frustration I've never felt so intensely until now. It's been building my whole life and I didn't realize it. Every swing is simultaneously the best and the worst I've ever felt. Every slur I've heard from my dad, from Troy, is channeled into the bat. Every ounce of frustration and fear I felt since I came back from the Upside Down that nobody understood. Every laugh, every jeer, every single moment I've felt alone is channeled into the destruction of the one place on this earth I ever felt safe.

But it holds up and in the back of my mind, I hear Jonathan again.

'And it took so long cause you were so bad at hammering'

And I start kicking, and I start ripping the walls apart until it's a crumpled heap and I stop.

The sight of Castle Byers in ruins breaks me even harder.

I didn't want it gone, but I did it anyway. That part of me that was angry at myself, told me to keep going. Cause that's what I deserved for believing things could stay the same even though deep down I knew that wasn't true.

I finally stop when I see the castle in ruins.

Exhausted, I collapse to the ground beside the wreckage.

As I sob, stewing in the pain and overwhelming grief I felt I was drowning in, the rain pours heavily over me, soaking me to the bone.

Just as it had the night it had been built.

And now, Castle Byers was gone.

||𝟑𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

When blue meets yellow in the west.

8:41 pm. It was almost time.

The yellow and blue clock hands were illuminated by a flash of lightning, streaking through the mall's skylight. Starcourt had long since closed, and the real activity was just beginning.

Stationed at the loading docks near the back, standing under the worst storm Hawkins had seen in years were two guards. They watched through the downpour as the scheduled truck backed its way under the concrete cover.

And perched on the roof, just out of sight sat Dustin, Steve, and Robin, scouting from under their rain slickers.

"Look for Imperial Panda and Kauffman Shoes," she reminds them.

Steve wipes away at the rain dripping into his eyes, squinting even further to get a clear picture Dustin already has.

A man in a bright yellow raincoat emerges from a hidden side door, a trolley cart full of packages marked with a familiar insignia.

"They're with that whistling guy!" Dustin says suddenly, motioning out from behind the only pair of binoculars.

"What do you think's in there?" Steve wonders, eyeing the Lynx logo on the back of their many yellow jackets.

"Guns? Bombs?"

"Chemical weapons?" Robin tries.

"Whatever it is," Dustin says, now cautiously studying the heavily armed guards. He had to admit to himself, they really weren't trying very hard not to be obvious. "they're armed to the teeth."

"Great," comes Steve's sarcastic voice, once again rubbing at his eyes, silently wishing he had brought a coat with a hood. "That's great."

A soft clink that would have been obnoxiously loud had it not been for the noise of the storm brings their attention to another guard. Having pressed a glowing button on a small control panel, two large metal doors swung open to reveal another room.

"Hey!" Robin says, squinting through the rain as she tries to get a glimpse without the binoculars. "What's in there?"

"It's just more boxes,"

"Let me check it out," Steve says, grabbing for the binoculars.

Huffing, Dustin fought to keep his grip on the binoculars. "No, I'm still looking!"

"Lemme see it!"

"Hang on!"

Steve's grip had loosened with the slick of rain, sending the binoculars knocking into the cement. The issue had already been forgotten when they saw the guards' attention had been stolen. Simultaneously, the three of them dove to the ground in a panic.

The guards began to pace, grip on their firearms tightening as they gaze out into the night. Seeing nothing but empty roofs and angry skies above them, they unknowingly miss the trio huddled against the roof wall.

Just out of sight to the right of Dustin, Steve and Robin sat panting as they try to calm their racing hearts. Way too close a call. And neither of them had realized what they had done until their eyes landed on their entertained hands. Just as quickly as they notice, they break apart, embarrassed.

Down below, the guards were now on high alert. One of them, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, stalked into the rain with his eyes deadset on an open spot on the roof. He was certain he heard the noise come from that direction.

"Stay here!" He orders to the other. "Watch the door!"

Reluctantly, his partner complies and inches back towards the doors.

When he finally reaches the top of the stairwell, he hesitates only a moment before he throws the roof door open, gun cocked.

But he was met only with steady claps of thunder and an empty roof.

Had he been wrong?

Or had he just missed whoever had been here?

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Clothes drenched, their shoes sloshing underneath their feet like sponges, Steve, Robin, and Dustin slip out from the shadows and make their way throughout the back halls behind the scenes of Starcourt.

"Well, I think we sound your Russians," Robin quips.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Black Trans Travel Fund:

For The Gworls:

"The Black Trans Travel Fund is a grassroots, Black Trans led Collective, providing Black Transgender Women with financial and material resources needed to remove barriers to self-determining and accessing safer travel options"

Trans Women Of Color Collective Fund

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Founded by a Black transgender woman and a Black nonbinary person, For The Gworls raises money to help provide funds for rent and gender affirming surgeries for Black transgender people across the country."

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[kookicat]

The Price of Peace

He gives in, in the end, to the doc's increasingly worried questions, coupled with concerned looks from the team and lets the man drive him to the hospital. Maybe he’s more blasé about injuries than the rest of the team, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He knows his body well enough to know when to worry, and while he’s pretty sure there’s no need now, he’s no longer responsible for just himself. He has a team who relies on him now, and that’s enough motivation to accept the offer. 

Nate herds Hardison and Parker back to the hotel and Eliot expects Sophie to go with them, but she follows him to the doctor's truck. His zip through hoodie is in her hands and she offers it to him, because the night air is taking on a chill and his skin and hair is still damp from the exertion. He slips it on, keeps his eyes averted from her as he eases his left arm into the sleeve, biting back a curse because moving hurts. It’s been a while since he did any real wrestling and the muscles in his back and thighs are letting him know they’re not happy about it. 

The doc unlocks the truck doors and climbs into the driver's seat, cell phone in hand as he makes quiet arrangements. Eliot tucks himself in the back seat next to Sophie with a groan he can't quite stifle. There's a nasty throb starting in his left shoulder and his left eye has started to swell closed. The gloves have worked to mostly protect his hands but his knees and elbows are already sore. It's nothing that he hasn't been through before, but he's not used to anyone looking out for him, more used to retreating to that week's safehouse and bunkering down until the worst injuries heal and he can take his next job. Having a team to care about -for- him is new, and he'd be lying to himself if he said he's totally comfortable with it. 

Sophie wordlessly hands him an instant ice pack and he presses it to his cheek, leaning back against the seat and letting his good eye close. His head aches, a sharper pain wrapping around his cheekbone and down through his jaw. The ibuprofen he'd swallowed back in the gym aren't doing anything but making him feel vaguely sick. The truck is chilly despite the hoodie and the ice pack isn't helping. He shivers once, a quick quake working through his body.

"Here," Sophie says quietly and shakes out one of her giant scarfs so it mostly covers him. The silk is cool on his skin at first but it warms quickly. It smells like Sophie- jasmine and musk and some hint of spice that he’s never quite figured out. It helps, blocking some of the cold sir and he feels himself relax, just a little, which helps his tight muscles. 

He has to swallow twice before he can answer and even then, his voice isn't quite as steady as he would have liked. "Thanks." He forces his good eye open and rolls his head so he can look at her. 

It's just dark enough to hide the expression on her face, but he thinks that she's frowning. "We could have found another way, you know," she says, softly. "No-one would have thought less of you." 

Something in his jaw clicks when he starts to speak. "How long would that have taken? We did the right thing." He shifts, fingers clenching under the scarf as his battered ribs join in the chorus of hurts playing on his body. "The Howorths are safe now, and Rucker can't try the same trick on anyone else." 

"Damn hard," the doctor says, "watching you taking that battering. Never seen anyone do that before." The doctor glances at them in the mirror, then turns his eyes back to the road. 

"It's what he does," Sophie says, with a tone in her voice Eliot can't quite figure out, because he’s exhausted and hurting and still feels vaguely sick. There's reluctant admiration in it, coupled with worry, because they all know there's only so much damage a body can take before something breaks beyond repair. 

It's not something he wants to think about, at least not while he's battered and bleeding. He closes his eyes again, leaning back against the seat, and lets himself doze, just a little, knowing it's a risk but doing it anyway. Trust has to start somewhere, and this is that place. 

--

"Eliot," Sophie calls softly as they pull into the hospital parking lot. He's quiet and still on the seat next to her, enough to worry her if it wasn't for the steady rise and fall of his chest. There’s a little blood on the corner of his lip, more caked in his hairline and the sight of it makes something fierce clench in her chest. We should have found another way, she thinks, even though she knows it would have taken too long, left the family they were trying to protect defenceless. As much as she hates it, he’d been right. 

He blinks awake, muscles in his jaw clenching as the pain hits again, sending measured breaths through his teeth until he gets it back under control. "Fuck," he breathes, fingers flexing in a way that makes her want to take his hand. He catches something in her expression and smiles, softly. “I’m okay,” he says and hands the scarf back to her. 

“Eliot, you’re bleeding,” Sophie replies, and hears the doctor chuckle dryly at her tone. He is though, a slow trickle threading through his hair. His face is lined with pain and she hadn't missed the slight shake in his hands when he passed the scarf back. 

He shakes his head, lost for words, and twists to open the truck door, bracing himself as he swings his legs out. Moving is a bad idea, because the slow, sluggish nausea that’s been plaguing him suddenly becomes much more acute, and he has to close his eyes, leaning back against the truck until the worst of it passes and he can breathe again. 

Cool fingers find his wrist, and he startles a little, twitching his arm away. “Sorry,” Sophie says, and reaches for his arm again. “May I try something?” 

He squints at her, then nods, once, and regrets it as a galaxy of stars filters through his brain. It’s all part and parcel of a concussion, and while he’s lived through it before, he’s not too thrilled to be living through it now. 

She presses her fingers against his wrist, feeling for the right spot, knowing she's found it when some of the tension in his jaw fades. "I learned this on a cruise. The ship had some wonderful art I was going to relocate, but we got hit by a tropical storm and I spent three days throwing up until one of the stewards took pity on me."

It helps, as does her warmth as she leans against the truck, close but not quite touching him. "Let me tell you, when he showed me this, I wanted to kiss him and kick him at the same time."

He huffs a quiet laugh at that and starts walking, gently disengaging her fingers. They follow the doc towards the hospital doors and Eliot wonders why in hell he let himself be talked into this. He has no love for hospitals, has spent more time than he'd like inside of them, and he already can't wait to be walking back out of this one. 

It's a handsome redbrick building, newer than he'd expected. The doc leads them straight into the ER and points to an open bay, where there’s already a nurse waiting. Eliot stops, thinking about walking back out to the truck, going back to the hotel and sleeping for at least twelve hours. A quick glance at Sophie’s face dissuades him of that idea; she’s frowning, clearly worried, and her eyes keep darting from the blooming bruise on his cheekbone to the still oozing cut on his hairline. 

“Eliot?” she says, and the frown deepens. “What’s the matter?” Her hand drifts to his elbow and he draws in a soft breath because the contact hurts. He's pretty sure that come the morning, he's going to be covered in nasty dark bruises. 

“Nothing,” he says, and resigns himself to god knows how much poking and prodding, taking a seat on the bed, idly rubbing his thumb over one aching knee. “Can we get this over with?” he asks the nurse, with the best smile he can muster and sighs. 

----

He walks out again four hours later, after enough scans and xrays to make him feel like he's glowing, a bag of prescription meds dangling from one hand, a pretty good buzz running through his veins and ten stitches in the cut in his scalp. All he wants is to find a vaguely horizontal place to occupy and sleep for at least eight hours. His limbs feel like they're made from lead, heavy and stiff and vaguely achy. His back aches too, each step jarring through him like he's in a car with a blown suspension. His left shoulder is taped, supporting a torn muscle, and he's starting to wish he'd accepted the offer of a sling. 

Sophie is sitting in the waiting area, silk scarf wrapped around her. She looks exhausted and he pauses, feeling a wave of fondness wash over him at the sight. She has nasty oily coffee from the ancient vending machine and she offers him the cup when he walks up to her. 

The smell makes his stomach roll and he shakes his head. "I'm good, thanks," he says, voice just a little hoarse, and thinks about sitting down. He's pretty sure he won't get back up any time soon if he does so he rests his hip on the row of chairs instead. 

He can see the question in her eyes just waiting to escape, and while she's not frowning any more he's got to know her well enough to know that she's still worried. "I'm fine. Nothing major," he says, carefully avoiding mentioning the hairline fracture in his cheekbone. "Worst of it is a couple of broken ribs and a damned concussion." 

She presses her lips together, a mix of anger and concern drawing her brows into a frown. "Just a couple of broken ribs," she mutters and shakes her head. 

"Soph," he says, fighting back a yawn. She looks up at the nickname, head tilting just a bit. "I'm fine. I've lived through worse. It'll suck for a couple weeks, that's all." He keeps his tone gentle, knows the anger in her is coming from a place of worry, knows she's probably blaming herself, because he knows for damn sure that's what he'd be doing if their positions were reversed. He'll tell Nate everything in the morning, because you don't hide injuries from your commanding officer, but Sophie doesn't need to know everything. It's just more weight to bear and God knows they're all already carrying enough. 

The doc breaks the moment by ambling over, Eliot's chart tucked under his arm. He offers it to the other man. "Figured you wouldn't want a record of your visit leaving here," he says and pulls his keys out of his pocket. "Can I interest anyone in a lift back to their hotel?" 

----

The gentle motion of the truck is soothing and he leans on the door, bruised temple resting against the cool glass and lets his mind drift. His eyes don't want to focus, turning the passing street lights into a pleasing blur. He's not sure if it's the concussion, the exhaustion, the drugs, or a combination of all three but he's content to just watch the darkened streets go by. He blinks heavy a couple of times, realising that he's dozing again and they're almost back at the hotel.

          The doc swings the truck into the parking lot and drives up to the door, pulling to a gentle stop. Eliot knows he should thank the man but he can't find the energy and settles for an exhausted nod as he opens the door and practically falls out of the vehicle. He desperately needs sleep, preferably before the painkillers start to wear off. 

         Sophie waves the doc goodbye and comes to stand at Eliot's side, one hand raised like she wants to help but isn't sure how. He digs deep, trawling reserves of energy he rarely ever uses, and forces his legs to move. They stumble into the waiting lift and he leans against the wall with his good shoulder, all the words he wants to say jumbled on his tongue. 

         She reads something of it in his expression and nods, once; message received and understood. 

        The lift stops and they walk out. He expects Sophie to head to the girls' room but she doesn't, pulling out a key card and leading the way to the third room they'd hired, the one Hardison had dubbed the control centre. "The doc said someone should keep an eye on you tonight. He listed a few gruesome ways in which you could come to peril," she says dryly and pushes the door open. "Besides, Parker snores. I hope you don't." 

       "No one has ever complained," he says and limps into the room, heading to the recliner, glad he's got running shoes on that he can just toe off unlike his usual boots. He's pretty sure he's going to have enough trouble getting up in the morning and the bed just seems like tempting fate. "I'm fine here," he tells her and eases down into the soft leather, tapping the button to raise the leg support. It takes him a second to get vaguely comfortable but he's honestly so exhausted that he's not sure comfort is really going to matter. 

       Sophie shakes a blanket out over him, watching him fight to keep his eyes open. There's something oddly endearing about it that makes her smile. "Go to sleep," she says softly and with a sigh, he does. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907364/chapters/70920525 part two is posted here too. 😊

[daiseukiis]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 ┊ 01 ┊ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐚𝐭 ┊ 03

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀"DOES HE HAVE A DEATH WISH?" kiyara wonders, annoyed at the current predicament.

"won't gojo-sensei be fine? isn't he the strongest shaman?" itadori soon catches up to fushiguro and kiyara who had a head start, kugisaki running right behind the two of them. the two were still confused, what was wrong?

an exasperated sigh leaves the pale blonde's lips, "god, he's not even here but i can already feel that man's ego growing." rolling her eyes they all took a turn towards the school, breaths escaping their bodies in patterns to keep their heart running and going.

kiyara knew this feeling. usually her hitches and feelings towards a certain thing were never wrong so far, why would it suddenly be wrong now?

"that's not what we're worried about." fushiguro explains them, but their confusion increased more than it needed to be. he glanced at them and groaned, 'of course they wouldn't know.'

"it's the two strongest jujutsu sorcerers possibly wiping the school off the map." the blonde says.

there was a pause between all four, the two staring at her back with wide eyes and disbelief. "w-wait... are you implying mizuki-sensei is as strong as him?"

"she can definitely put him at bay."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"fuck." fushiguro breathes out.

there stood all four students witnessing that most of their school buildings wer wrapped in black like mistー shadows. at first their response was that they were under attack, but that thought was dismissed when their eyes fell to the two teachers on the ground in front of them.

one female had flowing chocolate hair, strands which touched the ground as she laid atop their sensei's waist. pure annoyance was written all over her facial as amethyst eyes focus on her target. the strength of her body tries oh so hard to make the dagger in her two hands break through gojo's infinity, but to no avail.

the shaman on his back on the ground had his signature smirk gracing his lips, he was mocking her. anyone could see that her efforts to break his jujutsushiki was entertaining him, and he knew for a fact barely any to none could beat him, and she was no exception even after multiple spars and fights.

it was either a draw or her utter defeat.

"tch, strong bastard." she groans, throwing the dagger away after struggling to stab the snow haired male. the dagger faded into black and disappeared under her shadow. standing up from the mounted position she prompted a hand on her hip.

"still feisty, yusa." gojo smirks at her, yet a tick mark pops above her head and standing up after mizuki.

"please, for the love of the gods leave me alone." she looks at gojo's blindfold, hoping in some unearthly means he would actually listen to her for once in his life. but the teasing she earned right after was not it. "awh~ but your reactions are too cute! it's hard not to."

a straight was thrusted right at gojo's face, one he was able to tilt his head far enough to dodge. attempting to hit her with his right fist towards the stomach, mizuki spun into a round house kick and caught his arm after it extended out whilst her foot was stopped an inch before it landed on his head.

"she's... cool." itadori and kugisaki couldn't help but stare in awe.

"she's second to best from gojo-sensei, but the strongest female jujutsu sorcerer." kiyara glances back to her two companions that were new to the school, smiling at them as they both showed their excitement. "and she's going to be our sensei?!"

"yeah, amazing right?" the smile she gave was bright, kiyara couldn't be any prouder to see others admire her aunt after all the hardships and struggles she's been through.

"i'm just glad that they didn't destroy half the school like last time." fushiguro comments as the two behind him freeze up upon hearing his words. kiyara gives a light chuckle, "we don't talk about it..."

mizuki let go of gojo's arm as she plants her foot back down to the ground, her black coat fell to her calves as it slightly taps her knee high combat boots. black pants and top designed in the same way as almost every other sorcerer, she sighs.

"the new ichinen?" mizuki looks their direction, one click of her heel and the black mist that engulfed the area started to retreat back into her shadow. gojo gave a grin, his hand out gesturing for her to approach the four.

'the shadows disappeared!' itadori and kugisaki's mouths fell as they got starstruck by the simple gesture which unraveled everything.

"yusa, meet kugisaki nobara and itadori yuji." the said two straigthen up when the tall shaman inspected the two, "ryoumen sukuna's host, huh? reminds me of someone."

"right? i thought so too! too bad she's overseas right now." gojo slings his arm around mizuki's  shoulder as his chin rests on her collarbone behind her figure, grinning from ear to ear as a thumbs up was shown to the students. she grimaces at his actions, mizuki slaps his hand as a way to tell him to get his heavyass off her.

"who?" they chorus.

"you guys also don't know?!" itadori and kugisaki point at kiyara and fushiguro who flinch at tne sudden upbringing, yelling back at their classmates and pointing at their teachers in resort. "how would we? they never tell us anything!"

"right," mizuki breaks up their yelling fest, right hand planting on gojo's face and pushs it away from hers. the male lets out a string of complaints, which she continues to ignore and successfully pushes his body off hers. her hand lands on her hip and shifts her body to one leg causing her to accentuate her curves.

"where's my daughter?" she demands.

"mimi-chan's right here!" kugisaki takes a step to the side and gestures to the girl behind her. or so, was supposed to be there. their eyes look at the empty space that she introduced, gojo and mizuki furrow their brows as a question mark appears above their heads.

'we left her at kuidaore!' thunder struck behind the three of them, jaws dropping to the ground the moment they realize she was not even on sight. their skin went pale and blood turned cold, the gloomy aura ungulfs the teens as different worse case scenarios play in their mind.

"ah, there you are my little flower." gojo stands in front nomari who stood a few meters away from the group, his hands wrapping around her waist and bringing her up into his arms.

'how did she get there?!' itadori exclaims in his mind, shocked to see the child in perfect condition at her spot. kugisaki let out a small sigh of relief, hand over her chest and quickly smiled so mizuki wouldn't see that it was a mistake, 'yikes... that was close.'

'wait, so she walked here by herself..?' fushiguro ponders making kiyara groan and facepalm softly, 'we're such idiots.'

"hands off her sato. geez, you'll make her stupid." mizuki walks over to the two, her arms out to take her daughter back but gojo only pouts and swerves her, "heey, that's so mean yusa!"

itadori watches with his classmates on how the trio interacts, mizuki being continously annoyed by gojo as nomari kept the expression of her wondering exactly why she was stuck in their quarrel. yet something didn't add up to him, "mizuki-sensei actually looks really young... how old is she?"

in the next second the pinkett was powerfully punched in the face, kicked and screamed at by kugisaki that held a fist at itadori who laid on the ground with a bump on his head. "you idiot! how inconsiderate! you don't ask a lady her age! this is why you don't have a girlfriend!"

"i'm just curious!" he defends.

"it's still rude y'know!?" kugisaki screams.

'good thing i never asked...' fushiguro continues to keep quiet, watching the fuss go one beside kiyara who was just tired at this point. other than the fact she returned overseas from a mission, bombarded with new people and hadn't taken a nap just yet to replenish her dying sleeping schedule. listen, she just wants her bed and food at this point.

"do you know, kiyara?" itadori asks her, popping the girl out of her small break down. kugisaki in the background continued to yell at him for prolonging the situation and asking other alternatives which she thought was still rude concerning that it was about private information about a woman.

"sorry, but i don't. i just thought it wasn't my business." kiyara scratches the nape of her neck, a hand out in apology to the boy. 'well, it was more to the fact that she always looked like she never wanted to talk about it...'

"almost sixteen."

"what?"

"yusa was almost sixteen when she had mari." gojo answers their questions, all eyes turning to focus on their white haired teacher that stuffs his hands into his pockets.

it took a while for them to register what he said, staring at gojo's figure to make sure if he said ant words about joking they would only get mad at him, but it never came. their lashes blink thrice, processing his words as the shock from it barely passed over them.

"that's really... young." kugisaki still couldn't recover from the disbelief, but fushiguro was the first to question gojo on his words. "what do you mean almost?"

"is that because they're both december babies?" kiyara adds on, taking a step forward filled with curiosity. she knew close to nothing about her aunt when it came to her younger days, she never said anything about it which led her to believe that it was a topic one she should never ask about. but now, maybe, just maybe, gojo had the answers to her questions.

"her early high school years is what you could say were the darkest points of her life," he starts, but his attention was nowhere near his students. his gaze fell to where mizuki and nomari were, watching the child hand her mother sweets she bought at the cafe and the smile that would light up the world as she embraced her loving girl.

"did you know the woman right there was known as the disgrace of the mizuki clan? until one day she showed up being as a special grade sorcerer and crashed the main estate, it was really a sight."

"gojo-san, you're sounding like a simp." kiyara snorts.

"i'm not a simp. but you might want to check with yourself if you're not one for, you know." quickly snapping back at her, he smirks and gestures his head with a little nod to the boy that stood beside kiyara.

his words made her cheeks flush, knowing full well he cracked a code he should have not to begin with. "go away!" her arms flung to push the older man from her group, but the blush that tinted her face remained pigmented and prominent. it only got worst when he chuckled, ears being coated by the same pink.

"no can do! i'm your awesome sensei, remember?" gojo gloats as his hands stop kiyara's effortless advances to push him out of the group circle.

the three students stand there lost in the conversation, 'they seem close...'

"can you stop picking on my niece, sato?" mizuki puts a hand on the sensei's shoulder, he grins and stops his movements as kiyara mirrors him, letting out a small huff. nomari shifts over to gojo who notices it and picks her up into his arms once more.

"anyways, get ready for tomorrow." mizuki hands nomari the bag of sweets she had, the child taking out and showing daifuku to gojo. he grins widely and lets her feed him the dessert as the others blink at the interaction but decide to ignore it.

"do we have a mission?" fusiguro asks. mizuki sighs, crossing her arms over her chest and stares at all four students.

"a high grade one."

tags ; @to-move-on-means-to-grow @dearsukuna @sukun4s

notes ; these are probs gonna be all qued bc im lazy

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