#mental health hurt/comfort | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jasmines-library · 11 months ago

Note

Hello sugar <3! (im very sorry if theres any spelling errors, english isnt my first language <3)

I would love to request some angst/comfort with the batfam? Maybe with the reader (tw: sa, rape) struggling with some sexual assault/rape issues, something they haven't told the family yet? The reader acting different for weeks, months even, and the whole family being suspicious and noticing their sudden fear of being cornered, touches and certain smells maybe?

its totally fair if you don't feel like it, I just really really love your way of writing the characters, and your writing over all. I swear, i swallowed your whole page in the matter of a few hours, I loved every second!

Kristy, Are You Doing Okay?

Note: My gosh im so sorry this literally took me over a month to get to, but it's here. I'm so glad you like my page and thank you for requesting! (Title name from song)

Warnings: SA, r*pe (non explicit but this fic deals with the aftermath. Please read with caution.), Panic attack of sorts.

Word count: 2.1K

⛤ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛤

Please remember, if you are ever struggling you are not alone. It may be difficult at first but there are many places for you to reach out to, many of which are anonymous and do not need the involement of of name, if you are just needing for someone to talk to. There will always be someone out there to help you. As an alternative, my DM’s are always open for a chat! Remember: You are loved and you are so much stronger than you realise.

⛤

You hadn’t meant to drift away. It sort of just…happened. And it wasn’t even something you were conscious of really. The thoughts were just constantly there and you couldn’t shake the feeling of his hands roaming all over his body; the ghostly touch of his fingers lingering flush against your skin, burning an invisible bruise into your flesh. You tried to shy away from it but it was always there, buried into the front of your mind festering away like an old, unforgotten wound oozing with pus and blood that would only create more problems the longer it was left.

The night it happened was cold and bitter. A shallow fog had cast itself over the city as you staggered back to the manor with makeup running carelessly down your face. You shut yourself away, turning the lock on your door and burying yourself under the covers to try and shy away from the situation. But it never left. It just kept growing, weeding its way back through the open cracks like a stubborn plant that refused to leave no matter how many times you doused it with poison. You didn’t sleep that night. And you didn’t leave your room the day after. In fact the only time anyone saw you that day was when you slunk downstairs in the middle of the night to try and revive the growling of your stomach without having to see anyone when you bumped into Tim who was finally dragging himself up to bed. The interaction was odd. At first he thought that you had just been busy all day and that was why no one had seen you: It wasn't uncommon for one of you to disappear into your room for a few days to catch up on school work or to finally get more than 4 hours of sleep. But something about you was off. You were quiet and lacking that charisma that usually shone from you. You were jumpy too, recoiling as soon as Tim rounded the corner unexpectedly.

When you finally managed to bring yourself out of your room, you were still withdrawn. Instead of donning your normal seat next to Jason at the table, you sat at the end alone pushing your food aimlessly around the plate until someone had finished eating and you took that as a cue to leave. You didn’t mean to leave them in the dark. Really, you didn’t but the thoughts crept into your mind every time they got near. Every hand outstretched sent a shiver crawling down the nape of your neck as if someone was running an ice cold digit along your spine. The thoughts were worse. Intruding. Obnoxious. You felt so…dirty. And your mind seemed to like to make sure you remembered that. You couldn’t help but feel like somehow the whole situation was your fault, which of course it wasn’t, but you were stuck with being guilt ridden; trapped within your walls.

Your skittishness didn’t go unnoticed. The boys tried many times to talk to you or to get you alone, but each time one of them hastily trailed after you as you slunk out of a room you would pick up your pace until they got the hint and stopped dejectedly in the halls. You had just skittered off into another part of the manor when Damian decided he had finally had enough.

He pushed his way back into the library rather frustratedly, stomping his feet so hard against the floor that they continued to pound through the room even as he moved from the polished wood to the carpet amongst the centre of the room. His brothers were still lounging around the room, their legs slung carelessly over the arms of the chairs or folded beneath them as they engrossed themselves in their phones or an ever growing pile of books. They barely even acknowledged that Damian had even returned from his pursuit of use, besides lifting their gaze as he huffed his way back into the room.

“Something is wrong with Y/N.” Damian declared, planting his feet into the carpet in the centre of the room and placing his hands on his hips.

Dick felt as though he could laugh. Damian’s statement was so obvious that you may as well have had a huge, yellow sign above your head that screamed ‘i’m not okay.’ It didn't matter how much effort you put into trying to hide the bags that dropped across your skin, or the way that you couldn’t stand to be in the same room with any of them for too long without your skin crawling, they were prominent amongst your saddened features. “Yeah, No shit.”he said, looking up from his phone that he had been mindlessly scrolling on to distract himself from the feeling that gnawed at his gut.

The room fell into a pregnant silence before Damians angry scoff broke the silence.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” He spat. “You’re not worried?”

Jason pushed himself up onto his forearms and spoke out defensively. “Of course we’re worried… It’s just…”

“What?”

“She won’t let us help her, Dami.” Tim said. “We’ve tried, but each time she’s run.”

“Well then try harder!” He said. It was unusual for the youngest Wayne to react this way when it came to his siblings. But, then again it was unusual for you to shy away like this and although Damian would never admit it, he had a soft spot for you and seeing you hurting like this killed him a little inside.

“Damian.” Dick reprimanded sternly.

He sighed and swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry. I just can’t see them suffering like this anymore.”

There was a general agreement between the four of them. Tim chewed away at his bottom lip as he thought for a moment. “What do you propose we do?”

The whole room seemed to think together as one for a moment.

“We corner them.” Damian said. It might have seemed cruel, but it was the only thing he could think of that would stop you from slipping away again. “If they keep running there’s no way we’re going to be able to help, so we just have to compromise.”

You knew that Jason was behind you. You could hear his careful footsteps, evenly spaced by his long strides as he tried to catch your attention. He was loitering outside of your room, trying to catch you as you left. It surprised you to see him as you peeled open the door. You had flashed him as much of a grin as you could muster up as he greeted you, trying to draw you into a one sided conversation that you were itching to get away from the moment it started. You tried to remind yourself that it was just Jason. That he wasn’t going to hurt you. But your mind still thought it was funny to play cruel tricks on you and soon you were making up a poor excuse and fleeing down the halls.

You didn’t make it far though before you collided with a tall figure marching down the other end of the corridor, who braced his hands on your shoulders. Yelping at the unexpected contact you spun on your heel to turn back the way you came only for your breath to get stuck in your throat when you were met with the red of Jason’s shirt. When you backed up, you collided with the eldest vigilante again. Spinning around frantically, you searched for a way out. There was none.

You were trapped.

The thought consumed you quickly, dragging you down like a ton of bricks tied to your ankles until you were drowning in the thought of being imprisoned again. It was all you could think of. It screamed throughout your mind, pumped in your blood. It was nauseating. You could see the other two approaching and panic set into your already scrambled mind. You weaved, trying desperately to spot an exit but the two vigilantes were much bigger than you and their hefty frames took up most of the corridor.

“No. No no no.” You rambled as your heart rate skyrocketed and your breathing came in sporadic, panicked gasps.

Tim furrowed his brow. He didn’t think you would react like this. He reached out to grasp your forearms to ease your shaking body, but you nearly screamed, yanking your arms away from him and backing up against the wall.

“Don’t touch me!” You stuttered, barely audible between your spiralling state. Fat, hot tears tracked along your face as you sunk to the ground to bury your face within your knees which you clutched to your chest.

The four boys exchanged an anxious glance.

“Y/N…”

“Please…” You gasped. “Stay away from me. I-I can’t anymore… no more. Please.”

“Y/N? What's wrong?” Dick queried. “Talk to us, please. We want to help.”

“No…” You whimpered.

Damian squatted down beside you resting on the balls of his feet before reaching out slowly towards you, ignoring the warning glance that Jason sent his way, and placing it gently on your shoulder.

Flinching, you squeezed your eyes shut. He could feel the way you trembled like a leaf under his touch but he didn’t let go.

“It’s just me Y/N. It’s Dami.”

You registered his words, but you still felt like you were back in that room. You allowed your body to relax just the smallest amount.

“It’s just us, kid. You’re okay.” Dick cooed.

You sniffled. The four of them were crouched around you now.

“You can trust us.”

Your body tensed as you were hit with reminders of that night. The way he had led you away to commit his act of betrayal that would cut deeper than a thousand knives.

“That’s what he said.” You hiccuped.

“Who?” Tim asked tenderly. “Talk to us Y/N.”

You shook your head, biting down on your lip. You didn’t want to bring up the memory stuck in your mind.

“Kid… we can’t help you if we don’t know what’s happening.”

“He- he… took me away from the crowds… He said to trust him- and I thought I could. B-but then he-” Your voice split into an unholy sob.

“Oh..Y/N/N…” Dick said, suddenly understanding.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. I can still feel him. Hear him. Just make it stop please!.” You begged, sobbing into your hands.”

“It’s okay. You’re safe.” He told you, reaching out gently to place a hand on your forearm, you tensed slightly but didn’t pull away. “We’re not going to let anyone hurt you. Ever.”

“We promise.”

You peeled your head away from your arms to reveal your bloodshot, teary eyes. From close up they could see how clearly the ordeal had taken a toll on you. Not just on your body but your mind too.

It took some convincing and a lot of gentle touches of reassurance to get you off of the floor, but the four of them managed to ease you back into your room. They refused to leave you alone after that. Insisting that at least one of them stay by your side at all times until you decided on your own terms that you were ready to take the next step in your recovery and stay the night alone. It was a slow process, but each small milestone made them extremely proud of you. They were there when you awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, crying and shaking, and they were there when you managed to move forwards too. They were there to remind you that recovery isn’t linear, and that it was okay to move backwards. It’s all part of the process. The four of them showed you a different kind of gentleness that you had never seen before, and they tried their hardest to bring a smile to your face everyday. And it was their kindness that began to wash away those feelings. It was them who made you realise that you were loved, strong and would find your way back from the darkness and into the light.

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mediumgayitalian · 8 months ago

Text

At around half past one, Nico gets a Feeling.

He gets feelings a lot. Nothing he can quantify, just something telling him that something is up, somethings wrong. Or something’s about to be. At this point, he’s learned to trust his intuition, based purely on the number of times it has saved his life; a number he’s long since given up counting. (He’s only ignored his gut feelings three times in his life: when Bianca went on her quest, when his father promised not to hurt Percy before the Titan War, and when he went looking for the Doors. He has learned his lesson.)

So when something at the bottom of his stomach tells him to get up, to check things out — he does.

He knows it could be nothing. (The last time he had a Feeling, it turned out that he had placed a book precariously on the edge of his desk, and it had been about to fall. Not exactly world-saving stuff.) But regardless, he steps out of bed, shoves his feet into his shoes, and creeps out of his cabin.

Camp is kind of beautiful at night.

There’s an eerie calmness to it without so many human disasters running about, and the quiet reflects that. All Nico can really hear is the hooting of owls in the distance, the chittering of nocturnal animals and monsters alike, the distant screeches of curfew harpies, and the pleasant crashing of the waves. The air is clean, when he inhales, and he takes the time to hold it in his lungs for a bit, imagining the sweet breath is healing his burned lungs, turning the scar tissue back to something flexible and normal. Whether or not it actually works, he doesn’t know, but it feels nice.

Under the light of the brightly shining new moon and billions of stars, he starts his patrol. Around his own cabin first — there’s nothing, as he expected, the warning doesn’t seem overwhelming like threats tend to be — and then he makes his way around the circuit, checking behind gardens and shrines and inside braziers. He hums quietly as he walks, something preppy and bright the Apollo kids have been hollering for days, and waves to Lady Hestia, sword heavy at his waist.

“Come sit,” she calls, patting the seat next to her.

Nico does.

“Haven’t seen you out at night in a while.”

He hums, toneless this time, leaning back on his hands and mirroring her gaze at the sky.

“Been sleeping, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

He smiles, knowing that she means it. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she picks up his sword, sliding it from his belt loop, and uses it to stoke the flames. She doesn’t seem afraid of it, or wary. To her it’s just a stick of metal. It’s nice.

“You have you been, my Lady?”

She pokes at the embers a few more times, scooping a few to balance at the tip of the blade for a while. It glows with the heat, and he knows he’ll have to sharpen it tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind. Maybe he can do it while Will is in the archery range. It’ll give him an excuse to be at the armoury at the same time, anyway.

“I’ve been well.” She breathes deeply, small smile pulling at her face. “It’s calmer, and more people wave to me. I like it.”

“Good.”

She dismisses him a few minutes later, sending him off with a promise to chat again soon. She doesn’t need to worry about him promising — he makes a point to sit with her at least once a week — but it’s nice to know someone wants his company, so he appreciates it. He leaves with a wave, walking towards the eastern half of the cabins.

Nothing’s amiss. He can hear campers snoring, and see the odd reading light. Malcolm catches his eye as he walks past the Athena cabin and winks, sending a cheeky salute when he sees the sword held loosely in his hands. So far, everything seems fine. He’s beginning to think the Feeling might have simply been about Lady Hestia, so he decides to do one last check around the Big House and then head back.

Of course, that’s where the issue is.

The infirmary lights are always on. They’re dimmer in the night, more of a glow than anything, but there’s an extra brightness streaming out from the windows, and when Nico peeks inside, he sees Will, standing with his back turned at the nurse’s station.

He takes a moment to check his strength, making sure he has the energy for it — dinner last night was pho and he had three bowls, he most definitely does — and sinks into the shadows by the door. He materializes back in the little alcove by the bandage & wraps cabinet, lurking silently while he blinks the dizziness away.

The first thing he registers is soft singing.

He’s facing Will, now, and can see the glow coming from his hands, enveloping a bowl of some kind. He has both hands coated in some dusky pink substance, massaging and gently pounding it against the sides of the bowl, working it through with great care. As his voice gets higher, the glow gets brighter, fading as he dips lower. He sings something about hills and meadows and the breeze, about wing-song, about the sound of flower stems bending in the wind. For a while Nico stands, listening to the melodious ancient Greek, swaying with every pitch and hold. It’s captivating.

Will is almost haunting when he heals.

There’s a divinity in him — in all of them — but he glows when he sings. Not just his hands, and sometimes his head if he puts enough power in his words, but there’s an almost shimmer to the air around him, a shining warp. His skin gets clearer, and his hair goes more metallic, almost, like spun gold rather than blonde. His freckles make his skin into an inverse replica of the night sky, dark specks surrounded by bright empty between them. His long fingers pluck through bright strands of light like a harpist strums their chords; lightly, carefully, skillfully; like a braider weaves their hair. There’s an undeniable age to his magic, a practice that’s visibly replicated millions of times over thousands of years, as if every healer who has come before him links their arms with his, breathes their strength in his lungs. Sometimes, when he does something truly unbelievable, amazingly beyond reason, he flickers — his orange camp shirt fades into a white chiton, or long robes, or a white coat, or a blue tunic. Watching him heal is like watching the sunrise — breathtaking and unique, every time, but powerful in its cyclic archaism.

It takes Nico a long time to realise Will is swaying.

Snapped out of his trance, he begins to notice Will’s long, slow blinks, the unsteady way he stands, the weight he has leaned on the counter. Even his face looks plainly exhausted under the glow, face pillow-creased and eyes bruised, hair mussed, limbs leaden. Footsteps as silent as he can manage, Nico creeps over to the schedule posted by the door, scanning through the scrawled pen ink.

He curses quietly. Will is not supposed to be awake.

There are really only three people who can work the infirmary to its fully capacity, barring Chiron. Kayla, Austin, and Will are the only ones who can magically heal, as much as the volunteers are imperative, so when the camp is in full swing one of them must be stationed at all times. That’s how Will sets it up. A bit of a waste of time, he acknowledges, but Nico knows he has memorized every time a camper who should have been saved. He carries far too much guilt to ever let it happen again, as inconvenient as his rules may be.

Night shift, though, is a need-be basis. If the infirmary is as empty as it is right now, then there truly is no need to keep one of the three of them awake outside their circadian rhythm, staring at nothing. Instead, they take shifts in the on-call room — asleep, but prepared should anything go wrong, should a monster chase a new camper at an odd hour. It’s Will’s turn for on-call. It’s two in the morning. He should be asleep.

And, yet.

Nico recognizes the look in his eyes. There’s a — frailty, to them, a deep-seated, animalistic fear, one he recognises from the hours after his own night terrors. A single-minded panic that cannot be unseated in any logical way, cannot be comforted with any gentle hands.

Nico handles his fear with slashing swords and bruised knuckles. Will, he knows, handles his fear with obsessive, endless preparation.

Knowing full well nothing is going to drag him away from his focus bar actual cardiac arrest, Nico walks right by him. Will doesn’t move. He settles behind him in the old, creaky leather office chair, curling his legs under him and resting his head on the soft arm. He watches Will, watches the almost machine-like movement to his kneading arms, and falls back asleep to his humming.

———

“…Nico?”

He wakes up warm and a little cramped, in the same position he fell asleep. Sun is streaming on from the many issues, blocked from burning his eyes by Will’s hunched frame, facing towards him now, hands and shoulders shaking with equal violence.

“What time is it?”

His voice is croaky and wrecked from hours of singing. Nico is willing to bet his throat is burned as badly as his hands, cooked from non-stop, sun-borne glowing. The divinity that had emanated from him before has abandoned him and he looks young, lost.

“Early,” Nico says softly. He unfolds himself from the chair, stretching slightly — gods, he is going to ache today — and wraps a slow, careful hand around Will’s wrists. “Probably around six, if I have to guess.”

“I don’t remember waking up.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s okay.”

His breathing is heavy, laboured.

“I don’t —”

Nico squeezes gently. “It’s okay, Will.”

Will swallows and says nothing.

“Come on.”

Carefully, letting Will’s stiff joints set the pace, Nico guides him out of the infirmary. The sun shines brighter as soon as he steps outside, but he doesn’t seem to notice bar a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch at the change in lighting. Nico switches from holding his wrists to laying a hand on the small of his back, half-worried he’s going to fall over.

Luckily, he makes it to the Apollo Cabin upright, although the stairs take them a while. The hinges of the old screen door creak as Nico pushes it open, and he sees both Kayla and Austin, up and dressed, jump.

“…Will?” Kayla asks softly, eyebrows creased in concern. She walks over to him when he doesn’t answer, frozen still, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Will leans — almost hesitantly — into the touch. The same blankness from before clouds his eyes, although this time there’s less of the fear.

“Hey.” Nico walks over to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to meet his eyes. In the minutes it takes, he hears Austin pad over, standing opposite to Kayla, hands clenching and unclenching like he can’t decide what to do with them. “You think you can sleep?”

Will doesn’t answer verbally, but drifts after a moment to his bed. Nico follows, helping him out of his shoes and shirt. After a beat of hesitation, Austin hurries over, turning down Will’s sheets and helping him crawl in. Soft guitar music begins to play, and when Nico looks over Kayla is fiddling with the CD player, turning the dials carefully. Without much fanfare, Will’s eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows to something deep and even. His twitching fingers still.

“I don’t think today’s an activity day,” Nico murmurs. “I checked up on him a while after midnight; he’d been at it for hours. He didn’t stop ‘til sunrise.”

Kayla rubs harshly at her eyes. “Fuck.”

“He’ll be okay,” Austin whispers. He runs a gentle knuckle over Will’s forehead, then turns his careful, imploring gaze to Nico. “You kept an eye on him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Nico inclines his head. “Had a feeling.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Kayla admits. “He was —” She trails off, staring at something in the left half of the cabin — the empty half. “He was like this after the Titan War, too. I think he spoke maybe two words for the entirety of September.”

Nico almost can’t imagine it. The very thought of it makes something twinge in his chest, clench in his stomach.

“We’ll figure it out.” He nods, to convince himself as much as Kayla and Austin, who look to him with way more trust than he deserves. “We won’t let it — it won’t get that bad. We’ll help, and if we can’t figure it out we’ll get help. It won’t be as hard as last time.”

It won’t be as hard as last time because there won’t be twelve shrouds, Nico doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Both Kayla and Austin nod, looking at their sleeping brother with firm resolution.

“This time, we’ll be there.”

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ellesthots · 2 months ago

Text

Fateful Beginnings

XXXIII. “night light”

parts: previous / next

plot: not a week after the publishing of your interview, Bruce’s vulnerability is exploited when someone enacts revenge.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, physical assault (threats/guns (in mouth/pointed at head)), description of injury (blood/mild gore), hurt/comfort, angst, fluff (<3)

words: 8.1k

a/n: hi lovelies !! i’m so excited to hear what you think about this chapter 🤭 we got the angst, we got some FLUFF finally !! AGHHH i love them

Why did he say that?

It took a few turns and back alleys for Bruce to lose the paparazzi, but soon enough he was driving on the road of the fight. The thighs of his pants were damp from rubbing his hands on them to dry; he needed to check the side-effect list of his meds. His body felt alight with tension and activation, and all he could think about on a haunting loop was: from the bottom of my heart. He didn’t say things like that. Why did he say that?

Now that he was further from the trigger, and not yet at the scene, he tried to dehaze the memory of what it felt like to sit across from you. If he could pin himself to that moment, investigate those feelings… he was drawing a blank. He focused in on the apprehension, the hesitation that stopped him from saying goodbye, or even good riddance. It wasn’t often he couldn’t drudge up any possibilities. He shoved his foot on the gas, frustrated.

The sun had fully abandoned the sky, and the moon was shrouded in clouds. The dim street lamps didn’t do much, so he double-clicked the headlights, thankful for the apparent lack of other drivers to render sightless with his ultra-brights. Seemed like no one had been to the complex yet; at the entryway, a small pile of decaying vomit engraved itself below the side railing. Some specks of blood could be seen on the steps—his eyes narrowed. He hadn’t felt a cut on your head. Maybe Miller’s?

His nagging thoughts fell by the wayside as he noted no one around the apartment complex. He slid the car down an alleyway across the street, cutting the lights as he turned off the motor and unbuckled his seatbelt. That familiar tingle came back into him like a breath of life. The feeling of adventure, the feeling of duty, of purpose. It wasn’t the longest he’d kept from this, and he took a forceful inhale as he recalled the period after the flooding. All the blood that had been in the street, the bodies, the animals, the glass scattered everywhere… he’d drifted around in the weeks following, and he always heard someone scream from a cut. Every walk. The sound of the city’s sobs hadn’t left his mind for months.

A car drove past, then backed up. Bruce sat forward in his seat, his jaw locking tight as he soaked in the environment. Black Chevy truck, 832KZY license. Dent in the left flank by the brake light. Dusty. Faded paint. The driver was a petite woman with olive skin and mid-length dark hair. Bangs. She looked down at something to her right with annoyance. After some lurching, she grinned, and the car sped off. He relaxed. Stick shift issues. That year’s model was notoriously difficult.

As he reclined in his seat just so, the weight of speaking in front of the crowd thudded into him. His insides felt hollow, scooped out; his eyes stung like staring straight at the sun on a blazing summer day. He’d have to watch back the footage, even though the thought skinned him alive. It was necessary to study how he came off, find areas to tweak, improve. He slumped further into the seat. He would’ve much rather had a gun to his head. At least then he’d feel less lost. Less drained. Might even jolt some rage-fueled energy into him.

He was disappointed there wasn’t more to sink his teeth into; he longed to investigate. The cut-and-dry never did much for him. He lived to find the detail everyone else overlooked; to forge a bond between two things no one thought could be connected. God, even imagining doing that brought a rush… the pulsing throb of electrum whispered behind the past week’s curtains.

He redirected himself, pulling out a small journal from the glovebox. He clicked the pen.

Electrum. John Doe. Gordon. Investigate.

More thoughts came to him. Every other word he paused, flitting his eyes up to check for changes.

Hady, Grange, March. Research.

Bella Reál. Investigate.

He put it back in the glovebox and readjusted in his seat. Early on he’d tried to carry everything all at once, following the natural direction of his thoughts as if it were logical to rely on intuition alone. It was distracting. Inefficient. One thing at a time.

After a paltry fifteen minute stakeout, Alfred lit up his phone. Bruce hated how worrying he was lately, but what he hated more was he had good reason to. As severe the desire to ignore the man’s calls was, he knew he couldn’t keep him waiting… he grit his teeth. Under the present circumstances. While it wasn’t rare for him to daydream about time machines, he’d never before wanted to jump forward in time. He kept his eyes trained to the building, but there was no movement. “Yeah?”

“Did you see Y/N leave the meeting?”

You’d done precisely what Bruce had instructed, save your addition of turning off the lamp. Even after minutes spent gasping air into your lungs, waiting for an Uber to arrive, pretending that conversation with him had just been a figment of your imagination, you still struggled to catch your breath walking through the foyer.

Half of it was nerves about him going out again so soon, and the other was a sensation you couldn’t pin down, but it had you sweating and shaking. Fear? Anxiety? Sadness? Tension! More than anything, you’d felt tense. Bruce was intimidating, especially so when he held a metaphorical pair of scissors. And when they were aimed at you.

Mar had answered your third phone call as you walked down the city hall steps, berating you for interrupting their ‘jam session’. Faint guitar chords were heard in the background, the acoustics isolated and muffled. It sounded like a house party. She dismissed your concern about staying away, finally conceding and telling you she’d avoid it for a few weeks. “And to think I was practicing all my trivia skills for nothing.”

You should’ve realized by the beanie pulled nearly covering his eyes, but your usual vigilance had been halved as you came down from your interaction with Bruce. Sliding into the seat had you wincing at the pain in your thigh; you berated yourself for not bringing Tylenol with you. It’d been shockingly effective; you’d barely felt your injury on the walk here.

The drive was normal for the first half, so much so that you relaxed against the window and stared blankly at the people milling the main street, speed blurring them like ants. As the streets wound toward your apartment complex, you thought about how you could’ve feigned innocence, inputting the destination as the area of the fight. “Get a ride?” You’d tell him, when he glared at you and questioned your arrival. “I thought you meant here!” It was embarrassing roleplaying conversations with him, so you rid yourself of the thought. You’d feel it all in the morning and think about what to do next when your head was less scrambled.

The driver took a sharp left, cutting the lights as he pulled into an alley. You realized a second too late to reach for the door, ready to drop, roll and run. He’d child-locked it, and by the time you manually unclicked the lock, he pointed a gun at your head. The beanie slipped higher, and you could see clearly it was Miller. No other thoughts formed as the reality of having death pointed at your skull set in.

“Try to leave and I’ll blow your brains out.” He had two black eyes and a smushed nose. His lip was busted open and you swore he was missing a tooth. The rest of him was covered in thick industrial clothing. Bruce had effective punches. He hadn’t been on the guy more than a few seconds. Even Bruce began to slip away as you felt the cold metal jam into your temple. He pressed it harder and harder with every word he spoke. “Who the fuck was that guy?”

The dizzying adrenaline made the blood leave your body and rush into your head; he pressed right on a nerve that coaxed out every last bit of sting and throb from your concussion. You could barely focus on what he was saying. Breathe. Breathe. Your body stilled outside of your heartbeat and wincing eyelids.

“I’m not gonna ask again, bitch. Who the fuck was the guy last night?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know,”

“Bullshit. Call him.”

You stared back at him, unable to move. He stuck the barrel of the gun into your mouth, slacked open with debilitating fear. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. You slapped around for your phone that had fallen at your side, unable to look down or move your face even an inch.

“Show me your call log.”

You strained your eyes to look down, fumbling with your apps, accidentally opening the likes of Old Navy and Target, tears threatening to slip with each passing second. You held it up to him, hands almost too shaky for the screen to be legible. ‘Alfred’ was listed for an eleven minute call at 11:49pm Wednesday. “It’s my, my stepdad,”

“Call him.” He pressed it and held it out to you, clacking the tip of the gun against your front teeth. You swallowed, thinking death only seconds or minutes in the horizon. He picked up on the third ring. Not long enough for you to plan much. Or at all. The man was deadly serious, his eyes a frenzied mess of bleary red as he jostled the gun against the roof of your mouth.

“What’s going on, Miss?”

The man withdrew the barrel just enough for you to speak unencumbered. You rushed the words to refuse him time to say something that would give him away. “Hey Dad.” You let out a small sigh. “I just wanted to call to see how the cats were doing.” You paused, then hurried more out with a hollow laugh. The man narrowed his eyes, cocking the gun. “Probably lost on the upper floors of the house. Or stealing some soup, you know how they love it.”

You were saying too much. If the roles were reversed, you’d think you were speaking in code. A predetermined plan. A keyword to let people know things were not alright.

Alfred chuckled on the other end. “I think Camelot is nestled on my bed. Everything go well at the meeting? After your call last night, I’ve been worried.” His tone was conversational, but concerned. You wanted to fucking bawl, reach out to him and wrap him in a tight, tight hug, mutter a thousand thanks. It felt like there was an ocean between the both of you. He’d fucking caught on.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You stuttered forward. “And just more boring election stuff. Not much to go off of.” It was fucking incredible you could speak. You were starting to regain some more of your breathing. The clouds were beginning to lift. The environment slowly moving back into focus. Even with him however many miles away, you knew he’d be looking out for you, and do his best to help.

Alfred sighed, a light but impatient one. He rustled something in the background that sounded like metal on metal. “Well, hurry back. I’ll bring over some lasagna later. I have your locale, but… the streets are dangerous at night. I worry. Your screams were terrible.”

Maybe not as subtle as you would have liked, but you knew what he was trying to do, and you trusted him more than yourself in this moment. He muttered something. “The ricotta… Jane, I told you we needed the automated mixer.” He let out another sigh. “Call me when you get back, sweets. I’ve got to put some muscle into this.”

Alfred ended the call. You tried not to have it feel like the beginning of the end. If it took Bruce, or Batman, or the police longer than it took for him to shoot you in the head…

He drew closer to you, hucking spit onto you before he spoke. It slid down the sides of your nose. “Who was the guy?”

It was difficult to speak. “I don’t know,”

“YOU KNOW!” He jammed the gun further into your mouth, and you kept your mouth wide as you felt a small chipping.

The words were swallowed against the thickness of the gun. “I don’t, I just screamed and then he came and, then the, police,” He pressed the gun to your uvula and you gagged. It was humiliating, and your blood boiled when you saw him grin at it.

He spit in your face again, this time just below your eye, and pressed the gun until it scraped the back of your throat. Tears sprung to your eyes and poured down your cheeks in reflex. He ripped the gun out of your mouth, keeping it focused at your sternum. He cursed and slammed a fist against his seat. He began muttering, his eyes ablaze. “No one has ever fought me like that, no one but...” He punched the center console, sending a part of the plastic flying in front of the passenger seat. “Immediately booked, too. Only happens with him.”

Oh. You opened your mouth to speak but he shouted at you instead. “You’re gonna help me, or you’re fucking dead.”

He taunted you by shoving the gun toward you. You considered making a break for it, but figured you wouldn’t get far before all you saw was black. How the fuck did Bruce face this every night? Even if his suit was bulletproof? You stared back at him while he laid out his plan, starting to wonder if Bruce was actually a masochist.

“I know you got that Wayne guy in your pocket.”

It was whiplash having them mentioned so close to each other, and made you paranoid the man was reading your mind. You began to shake your head but he cocked the gun again, grazing the trigger. “You’re gonna leave, and you’re gonna get him on our side.”

“I don’t—”

“If you alert anyone to this shit, I’ll hunt you down and kill you with my bare fucking hands.”

“I only did an interv—”

“That’s more than anyone else fucking gets.” He bared his teeth in a snarl. “You’re gonna get him to give me his best fuckin lawyers. And get me back in school, full fucking ride.”

You didn’t have a response queued, which seemed to escalate him. He lunged, grabbing you by the throat with his left hand. He smelled like cigarettes, booze, and Drops. That familiar citrus scent; the type that made you afraid to put it in your eyes. The type of acidic smell that made you wonder how every Drophead hadn’t yet lost their vision. Some did. His hands were rough and dirty as his fingers closed on your larynx.

“That’s the only money I fucking get; I’ll get life before going back to Pointe.” He sniffed, adjusting his posture. His arm strength was faltering. You wondered if you could disarm him yourself… knock his left arm into his right before he pulled the trigger... “If he gets wind of this little deal, I’m ending you.”

Crown Pointe. A neighborhood absolutely decimated by the flood, and more or less abandoned by the local government. It was entirely written off, as the highest percentage of the houseless and impoverished population lived there. You didn’t know too much about Gotham’s ecosystem, but you did know that they didn’t give a fuck about Pointe. You nodded. “Okay.” It came out in a croak. “I won’t tell.” It was surreal feeling a wash of relaxation pour over you, but you understood it was either being held like this, or looking down the barrel of something that could kill you before you’d even realize what was happening.

He released his grip and you sputtered. “You have until the thirteenth to kill it. I’ll kill you and your friend.” His gun was lowered, but still pointed to you, like he’d forgotten he was holding a powerful, terrifying weapon. His gaze focused above you and his glare set. He spun in his seat and floored it before you even realized what was happening; the alley was long and straight, but thin. As the bricks around you blurred, you thought about what had the highest survival rate—staying in the car, or jumping?

The speed of the car made you stay inside; you even thought about buckling your seatbelt as you noticed the end creep closer and closer; a giant brick wall with a hard ninety-degree turn. Miller kept looking in his rearview mirror, each time nearly slamming the car into the side of the tight alley.

The wall was a football field away. Your hand shot for the seatbelt as Miller realized he needed to brake, squealing tires skidding, slipping on the concrete. Pure instinct, nothing more, made your call; you jammed open the door as far as it could, sparks flying off of it as it slammed against the brick, and tossed yourself out ass-first.

The first part of your body to hit was your left thigh, leaving you screeching on the impact. The second was your back, knocking the wind entirely out of you. You had the good sense to tuck your hands behind your head, and you felt the knuckles skid against the rough, chunky street. Almost in unison, you heard a petrifying, deafening crash of metal crunching. You laid there gasping at the sky, your vision swirling, heart racing, leg throbbing, hands numb.

The dark sky above only made you more dizzy, giving you nothing to concentrate on and cling to. You heard footsteps further back from whence you came, and the sound of a car door wrenching open. You sat up on your elbows, forcing yourself back up. Your body felt battered and bruised, your left leg now bordering on unusable, but you managed to get up to your knees. You panted at the ground until you caught Bruce’s cologne run past. He wasn’t in the suit. No!

You reached out and grabbed his ankle, shouting weakly for him to stop. He shook you off but you yelled louder, lunging forward, scraping your elbows as you barely caught his calf with both hands. You heard more creaking, and suddenly Bruce’s face was inches from yours, dropped to a squat. His cheeks were flushed and his breath was hard and full against your sweaty, spit-sodden cheeks. His brow furrowed, his mouth curled down into an exasperated scowl. “What are you doing?!”

You glanced above him to the left, noticing Miller jump face-first out of the car, bolting down the turn in the alley. Bruce turned to look with you, but felt the tightening of your hands around him when he tried to move forward. Your fingernails dug into his skin, even through his pant leg. “Stop, don’t.”

“He’s gonna get away—”

“STAY!”

This was the first time you’d yelled at him, and it was like scolding a dog. You didn’t have time to feel bad yet, letting your arms limp and lying flat on your stomach. Disgusting, wet, smelly ground. You caught the rest of your breath, staring intently at his feet. You could hear him scowling, groaning and mumbling.

You took a few beats to catch your breath and orient to your surroundings. It took a few minutes to catch yourself, bring your chest back to a normal percussion. Took half as long for your eyes to unblur, but they kept darting across the ground, and the first few bricks along the sides of the alley.

“Let’s go,” Bruce grabbed your wrist and tried to help you up, but you weren’t ready yet. Your head swirled, the pain was just beginning to surpass the adrenaline…

“Let’s go.” He pulled harder, his voice cracking. You yelped, your knee skidding on the upheaval. You slammed back down on all fours, tears springing to your eyes. You couldn’t see him, but you could see his feet pacing. Tight, muffled sounds came from above you. You dry-heaved against the cement, nothing spurring but hot bile that soured you, furthering more pitiful attempts at retching. Your arms shook and fingers scraped the jagged ground as you tried to sit up on your own again.

Every time he saw you in an alleyway, he wanted to jump off a cliff; seeing you unable to stand, gasping, sputtering against the ground in one threatened to kill him. His cheeks got hot, the world got wobbly, and his legs felt like jello. He probably looked like an asshole, but the flashbacks were ripping at him, his feet unable to be stilled. If you were anyone else he might’ve just ran. Phoned Gordon. Maybe if it were anyone else he wouldn’t have panicked, though, and he didn’t want to interrogate that.

You held out your arms for him to help you up. He took a deep breath and knelt down, focusing on the mechanics of the moment. He held the brunt of your weight, and you stumbled like that to his car on the street, your left leg a mess of pain, your head rapidly catching up. You gasped into the back seat as your thigh scraped against the leather. He shut the door gently, but quickly.

He drove you around until you were on the outskirts of town, and pulled over beside a throng of trees, the gravel loud under the tires as he parked. He turned to look at you from the driver’s seat and you flinched, glancing down at where the gun had been. Without fanfare, he got out and sidled in beside you in the backseat. It hurt to turn your head, but you did enough to at least see some of his body in your vision.

“What happened?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but he pummeled more questions your way. “Why’d you get in the car with him?” “Couldn’t you tell it was him?” “What was he doing?” “What did he want?”

You held a feeble hand out to him before moving it to your temple. Gently, you set your head against the leather seat, needing a moment to gather yourself. Your blood was still pumping like you were sprinting fifty miles, everything, everything wildly unstable. By some miracle Bruce obliged and stopped talking.

You didn’t know if it had been ten seconds or ten minutes by the time you opened your eyes again and started to speak, and you kept an arm outstretched to keep his interrogations at bay. “He wants the charges dropped.” You swallowed hard, trying to think of anything else besides the pain in your head and leg—or how bad the chip might be. Your voice was dry and scratchy. “Wanted me to use your connection. For lawyers. Retract our statements.” You took another breather, heard him draw in a breath to speak, and shoved the rest out before he could. “I stopped you going after him.” Another gulp, a wince. You’d never been more desperate for sweet, sweet Tylenol… “Because he also.” It was impossible to speak. You let your head fall back in failure. He needs to know this. “He knows whoever fought him last night was Batman. Felt it. Same fighting. Feeling. Booking.” Your lashes fluttered open with a rush of pain in a circle around your skull.

Bruce didn’t know how to respond; he didn’t want you to have to speak more without medication, so he instead faced the back seat, head spinning. You spoke anyway, confirming a fear he’d had since the day his parents died in that alley, a fear that had been poked, prodded, and split entirely open seeing Alfred in the hospital. “Said if you got wind of it, he’d kill me. And Mar.”

You bolted up, startling him. “Mar!”

He sat up and shook his head at you. “I’ll watch her. I’m taking you back to my place.”

You did not want to go there, but your brain was slow to think of anything, slow to form words, and by the time he shut the driver’s door and started for Wayne Tower, you realized he was right. His house was a fortress of safety. Wasn’t like he could be in two places at once.

As the trees thinned out and gravel turned to road, he told you to lay back as flat as you could. He’d be going through the front entry, which had ramped up security now. He muttered something about reporters lingering on the grounds after the interview, and you struggled to focus on it. Being horizontal in a moving car was nauseating when you weren’t in body-buzzing misery, but it was excruciating now. If you had the strength to sit up again, you would’ve. Fuck the paparazzi.

Bruce’s mind was a mess.

Not even one week since the interview’s release and you’d been held at gunpoint over him.

It was hellish attempting to concentrate on the road. It would be hard to convince you to leave Gotham, but it had to be done. Another conversation with you, and one he would ensure didn’t go awry. He swore he felt his teeth splitting against each other as he mulled over how to bring it up, and when. Not now. Tomorrow. You needed to recuperate, and he needed to find Miller.

Once in his garage, you scooted yourself up by fumes of sheer will so Bruce didn’t have to help you out. Forcing each foot in front of the other as he pushed the door open to the foyer, where Alfred stood, holding his glasses in his hands. Bruce walked ahead of you and gestured for Alfred to step into the kitchen for a minute. You supported yourself against the doorframe, taking out your phone to message Mar.

The screen assaulted you, peppering your vision with black spots and squiggly lines.

The guy from last night got released on bail, and he held me at gunpoint trying to get information out of me. I was able to escape, but I’m worried he’ll come after you. Stay inside, officers will be watching the area to see if he tries to come after you.

Her location showed she was at home; apparently, the ‘jam session’ was being held at her place; you looked up to remind Bruce to leave, but he was already gone, Alfred walking toward you with a lukewarm smile. He handed over a glass of water and the same little white pill, both of which you took with a desperate gulp. “Miss. So glad you’re alright. Bruce informed me about what happened. Do you know the address of your friend?”

You told him, and he texted it to him. A strange, temporary thrill flit through you thinking that he was just a few levels below, suiting up. So fucking weird. So fucking wild. Alfred helped you up the stairs, escorting you to the same room as last Spring. “Our housekeeper keeps things tidy, so you shouldn’t be left wanting. I’ll grab fresh clothing.”

Standing in the room again was one of the most disorienting experiences of your life. Everything was the same, as if you had left it yesterday. Almost as if he hadn’t left, Alfred reappeared in the doorway, holding a pair of black sweatpants and matching tee. Before he left, he asked if you wanted anything to eat, or any company. “These events can be traumatizing.”

You declined it all, wanting desperately to both be alone and be smothered by someone else, but confused enough by it you chose solitude. You thanked him, grabbed the clothes, and exchanged a solemn look. After an encouraging nod, he left, letting you know the same standards were in place; if you wanted anything from the kitchen, or to visit in his study, you were free to.

You slunk out of your dress and threw it into the corner, hastily pulling on the outfit you were desperate to forget was likely Bruce’s. The feat was easily won, though it was tight in some places, loose in others, and entirely too tall—because your nose was too blocked with snot you couldn’t smell anything.

The next two hours passed in a montage. Sitting on the side of the bed in a blurry haze. Every time you looked at your phone was like a knife to the chest recalling your dad’s text in June, which led to the room with the doctor, which led to the wheelchair, which led to the trial, which, which… your brain was numb to pain at this point.

Your limbs moved in slow-motion when they did adjust to laying. Mar had texted you that she was okay, and she’d heeded your warning. She’d asked if you were okay, and you’d said you were safe. She didn’t comment past that, only giving occasional check-ins to let you know she hadn’t been captured. At one point you’d texted Alfred through a mess of tears, asking him if he’d heard any updates from Bruce. He responded immediately, explaining that his suit was active and on Mar’s street. You let your head hit the pillow hard after that, which reminded you of the clack of the gun against your teeth and its pressure against your head.

Your head ached. Jabbed. Punctured. Shouted to be witnessed. You chose not to do anything about it. You took a selfie on your phone to check on your tooth, and noticed a noticeable tick on an incisor. Your cheeks were crunchy with dried spit, and you bolted to the bathroom as fast as your hobbling leg would allow. You scrubbed your face in the sink, taking the soap bar and shredding it against your skin to erase the attack.

In the mirror you noticed the bleeding crusties along your knuckles and the rippled shreds of skin hanging off your elbows. You plucked the shreds off carefully, giving your arms and hands a thorough wash. The skinning was artificial. No gravel lodged anywhere. You felt the wear on your body and slumped back to the room, landing hard against the pillow.

You woke up with a scream.

The gun’s muzzle had penetrated your skin, digging deep into your flesh, making hot, wet blood stream down your face in a thick river. You’d tried to scream, but blood had erupted from your esophagus, mixing with the vomit curdling your stomach. It felt like you sat there like that forever, screaming and gurgling and writhing before he’d pulled the trigger.

Apparently it’d been a dream.

A knock on your door made you jump, another yelp escaping.

“Can I come in?”

Bruce. You shouted a yes, or at least something similar, as you tried to catch your breath. It felt so impossibly real, every sensation filling you still, like your head was still dripping, your mouth was still full…

He opened the door, fiddling with the button on his pants. He was shirtless, his torso and hair dripping wet from what appeared to be him fresh out of the shower. His eyes were wide, searching around the room before landing on you trembling in bed. He noticed Alfred brought you the outfit he’d set out for himself—no wonder he couldn’t find it. The sight of you in it made him anxious.

“What happened?”

You thought you mumbled “Nightmare” but you weren’t sure. Sniffled, soft cries filled the space between the both of you. You were staring down at your hands fiddling with the top sheet, rubbing along the seam.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, then shook your head, his question propelling barely-quelled sobs out of you.

Bruce didn’t know what to do. At all. He figured all he could do was offer logistical support. “Need more Tylenol?”

The vulnerable peculiarity of the situation spurred a laugh as you sniffed up more tears, your voice muffled from your stuffed nose. “It’s like I’m a toddler.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He had no idea what a toddler acted like. He waited, awkwardly, for your sniffing to pause, and spoke. “Miller’s been booked.” You looked up to him, interest piqued.

“Found him walking around your friend’s neighborhood. Watched Gordon take him in. He had an unregistered weapon on him too. He’ll be in there a while.” He hoped it would be some consolation, because you looked like you needed it. He forced himself not to think about what else you might need; thinking about you was starting to feel like holding his breath.

You sighed, your shoulders dropping a few inches. He looked away, too much relief filling him seeing it. “Thanks.”

He nodded, then turned to leave. “If you need anything, just shout.”

You nodded in response, and the door had almost shut when you spoke, tentative. The question not only gnawed at you now, it had been one of the first things you’d thought about with a fucking gun to your skull. “How do you do it?”

He did not want to go back in… He propped the door open and sidled halfway. “Do what?”

“Get shot at every night, it’s fucking horrifying.” More heat sprung to your face, and you pressed your palms to your eyes to force them back.

Admittedly, he’d forgotten how affecting those experiences could be. Even two decades later he couldn’t think too specifically back to Crime Alley or he’d succumb to panic. He stepped the rest of the way in, ashamed that he’d been subtly trying to slip away and ignore you.

You peered at him with a tear-streaked face and he averted his eyes, goosebumps prickling his skin. He swallowed back a lump that’d found its way to his throat. “Already happened, so. Not much to lose I guess.”

He wasn’t looking at you, but you couldn’t stop looking at him. Why did he think so low of himself? Why didn’t he think his life was worth protecting? That night he’d talked about feeling like he’d died with his parents, and suddenly his ghostlike demeanor made a lot of sense. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” You’d caught your breath by this point, the haunting images falling back the longer he hung around. “I know you probably hate to hear it, but I am.”

You weren’t surprised when he deflected it. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

You wiped the pool of tears in the troughs of your cheeks. “It’s not even close.”

That struck a nerve. Few things had been more exasperating to him growing up than having every person’s problems minimized while he was around. “Sorry, Bruce, I mean, it’s nothing compared to what you went through.” “I shouldn’t be talking.” “What do I have to complain about?” Somehow, his words blurted out harsher and gentler than intended. “You’re allowed to be hurt by it.”

His face was contorted into a grimace. You didn’t know what else to do, the vibe entirely shifted, so you just sat, and nodded. When he turned to leave again, anxiety barreled into you like a truck. “Can you turn on the light?”

Tick. You squinted to adjust, the monsters creeping back into the closet.

“If you want anything, don’t hesitate.” He shut the door.

Your dreams had been shitty, but they hadn’t been horrifying.

It was four in the morning when you woke up next, officially well past needing another dose. Forgetting Bruce had essentially offered on-call service, you padded your way out to the stairwell, and jumped with his shadow already at the foot of the stairs. “I told you to shout if you need anything.”

He had a shirt on now, something you were grateful for. “I wanted more meds, thought I might want a walk.”

“How’s your leg?” His voice echoed in the foyer as he walked to the kitchen. He returned in a similar fashion as Alfred, but faster. You’d only made it down a few steps. As he walked to hand you them, you saw the bags under his eyes, creeping in under the moonlight. How every blink looked intentional and forced, designed to keep him standing and conscious. His shoulders were pulled forward, ragged with exhaustion.

You didn’t want to trouble him, scooping the pill out of his hand and grabbing the glass. “Hurts.” You drank it, popped it, and walked slowly back to your sleeping quarters. “Thanks.”

Except… standing in the doorway made you pathetically sad. Gazing at the big, empty room that wasn’t yours in the big, empty tower. Every anxious, miserable thought crowded closer. Your body ached, your spirit was absolutely obliterated. You’d almost died today. I almost DIED today.

More than anything, you wanted to be held. And you didn’t hear his footsteps leaving.

You squeezed your eyes shut until you saw stars, as if it would make it easier. “Can I have a hug?” The request was needy, breathy, feeble. You couldn’t muster a shit to give as the abyss circled you. It was silent.

Bruce froze. He wanted to deny you; after all, what good was a hug if it was hollow? If he was to force you out in the morning, planning ways to convince you to never, ever come back?

You looked over your shoulder, a slow, shakey glance dripping with sorrow. His lashes fluttered as his lips pressed into a thin line. He set the glass on the ground, and his body finished walking up the steps before he nodded. “Sure.” Your eyes focused on the floor as you stepped toward each other, as if looking him in the eye would scare you both off.

When you fell into him it didn’t feel hollow. He felt so full of empathy he could burst, his arms moving instinctually around your back like he’d hugged you a thousand times. His face naturally settled into concern, his chest caving in ever so slightly to welcome yours. You whimpered at the collision of your bodies. In dissent to his earlier apprehension, he pulled you closer, deepening the hug he realized you both so desperately needed.

Falling into his arms was easy. Wrapping your arms around his back was easier. Wailing into his shirt while you clumped fists of it around his back felt as simple as breathing; without beckoning, instinctual, like hot sand lapping up its first wave. The release fell out of you, and you didn’t even register you could be too loud, too much, or too rough. He was as sturdy as the oak tree in his backyard, and just as unyielding—except for now, as his strong hands wrapped around your back and squeezed.

Time paused and the world stopped turning as you were gifted a portal for your pain to fall into. A river to erode the rocks piled in your stomach. You clutched him, your chin tucked into your chest, soaking his shirt until it clung to your cheeks. You bawled until you were coughing, until you felt rugburn on your palm from fisting the cotton so tightly. When you started to shake, he hugged you tighter.

You finally managed to croak out a word, but your mind was undecided between ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’. “Th-orry.”

You shriek-laughed and cried some more, feeling a gentle rumble from his chest. The humor was quickly lost as you sunk into the sadness again, beginning to hiccup as your cries intensified. Time evaded you as you stood there sniffing, hiccuping, and crying, with your eyes squeezed shut, for what simultaneously felt like five seconds and twenty years.

As your sobs quieted, and your hiccups intensified, you were forced to right yourself, unlatching your hands from around him and wiping your eyes, peeling your skin off his soaked clothes. Your head throbbed. You needed more water, a shower, to sleep, you needed to do anything besides what you were currently doing. He didn’t want this.

You cleared your gummy throat and moved further back to fully wipe your cheeks, tucking your chin under the collar of your shirt—his shirt—to soak up the water. You felt how hot and puffy your face was, the tired sting of your strained eyes. Bruce must not have slept for two days at this rate; what the hell were you doing? I’m just making things worse on him again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No conscious thought brought your eyes up to his, only shock at hearing him sound so gentle. His tone was soothing. His face matched it, which sent a jolt through your system remembering, seeing this was BRUCE. You stepped back, embarrassed tears threatening to overwhelm you. “I’m sorry.” You shook your head, realization sinking in staring at his wrinkled, soaked shirt that you’d just bawled—

“I don’t mind.” He gestured toward the kitchen down the steps, turning his body with it like he’d already made up his mind. You didn’t know it, but the embrace had temporarily quelled his inhibitions, replacing them with a profound desire to help. At least for tonight, he wanted to sit with you as long as you’d let him. Hear every bit of the pain that kept you from turning off the light. “Let’s talk.”

Your cheeks heated, intimidated by his new tenderness. “You’ve been awake so long,”

“Is that a no?”

You sighed, your shoulders rising high and dropping low in a huff. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

You wanted to cry again. He’d been so obviously weary. “Yes, you are.”

“I can wait.”

“I can wait. My problems will still be here in the morning.”

He hesitated, but obliged. He asked if you wanted more water before he went up, and you let him. He handed it off to you without fanfare, like this was your nightly routine. “Shout if you want anything.”

You walked up the stairway above his floor, and walked into the barren bedroom. You took a sip of the chilled water, feeling the weightiness of the glass, and turned off the light.

After a few minutes of stirring, you couldn’t ignore going to the bathroom. Padding out of your room turned into sneaking to check on Bruce’s door, which was half open. It hadn’t been that way in Spring. Your heart caught on the thought he’d done it so he wouldn’t miss if you yelled.

You’d been correct in your estimation of his fatigue; that, or he was the fastest sleeper you’d ever known. He was fully conked on his bed, facing the door, his mouth slacked ever so slightly open, the deep rise and fall of his—bare—chest matching his gentle snores. He was on his right side, his left arm half slung over. Your eyes followed down to his shirt abandoned on the ground beside the bed. Even in the low light you could see darker patches from where you’d filled the fibers with your tears.

You forced your feet toward the bathroom, struck with self-consciousness at having spied on him. The marble was cool on the soles of your feet, still not used to walking barefoot on floors with no give. You sat in the small hallway bathroom, the toilet seat frigid against your flushed skin.

You stared absently at the wooden door. The shiny golden handle. The unmoving glint of the static overhead lighting against it. The total silence was unsettling. Both of your apartments in Gotham had ample noise pollution being downtown. Back at home, there was a small littering of the occasional car passing through, a coyote, or Walter licking himself.

This silence was empty. Your mind didn’t waste a second filling it.

You wanted another hug from him. Your heartbeat quickened thinking about it. You moved your focus to the floor, the downward movement bringing Bruce to your nose. You lifted your shirt to bury your nose in it, bringing more depth to the smell. It was ambery and warm. In addition to whatever fragrant detergent he used, he used some sort of masculine body wash.

For a minute you sat there basking in it. Feeling held, wanted, and seen, without shying away. Letting your body relax into its intuitive trust in him. Taking a full, lung-satisfying breath into his comfort. The comfort of being held by him. The comfort of him being alive. The space he’d made for you. Even venturing into the what-if of what he might have said, how he might have looked at you, if you’d poured your grief in front of him.

But it was short-lived. With greater force than your appreciation swept in a current of shame. He didn’t want your tears. He probably thought he had to take them. Had to humor you. Had to make sure you were okay after the lie.

You walked back to your room still in a slurry of painful, self-flagellating emotion. You’d have to clarify in the morning. Tell him it was because of your mom, and the stuff online, and your ex-friends, and the gun shoved in your mouth. The attack. The threats. But you couldn’t very well leave out his attempt, could you? Would it make it seem like you didn’t care about him?

A thought dawned on you before you went to sleep, spurred by the flashback sensation of the gun on your temples. I could’ve just done my paper on the club shooting. Then none of this pain would’ve happened. To either of us. You wanted to curl up and die.

Distracted by the mystery of Batman and the reclusiveness of Bruce Wayne. Forcing his hand. Denting the doors of his life breaking in. Shattering all the glass inside, stealing the valuables. It was pathetic. You were pathetic. A pathetic, annoying, disgusting liar sitting in this room for the second time, of your own doing, of your own mistakes, your own fucked priorities and selfish interests.

But it was a lie that was keeping him alive.

After an hour of tossing and turning, fighting the harassment you flung at yourself with reckless abandon, you forced yourself to get up. You remembered something you learned in therapy when you were younger, something to stop these anxious, ruminating thoughts, to help the room feel less like you were drowning in it. Get an orange. Pay attention to it. Peel it slowly. Focus on the texture in your mouth. The zing. The juiciness in its crunch.

Opening up his fridge, you realized they didn’t have much outside of veggies, protein shakes, and meat. Absolutely not wanting to cook, and being put off by the grainy texture of past protein supplements, you opted for a stray apple in the back of the fridge. It was a bit bruised. You didn’t mind.

When you shut the fridge, the freezer popped slightly open. Instead of just shutting it, you peeked inside—more meat, and a tub of Breyer’s. The apple fell out of your hand and you felt wobbly. More memories flooded your veins already primed to panic. Just one week ago. Hospital. Lingering. On autopilot you shut the freezer, swooped the apple and brought it to the sink to rinse. The water was freezing on your hands. You hoped Bruce wasn’t a light sleeper. You didn’t want to subject him to you again.

The apple was surprisingly crisp, save a few spongy parts. You ate it as you walked up the stairs—one bite per step. You shut your eyes and let your senses guide you, zooming in and slowing down. The tang of the apple. The crunch on the first bite. The coolness of the marble steps. The height and slickness of the railing as it skimmed your palm. Crunch. Step.

You made it back to your room calmer than you left it. The apple was nearly eaten to the core, and you discarded it in the trashcan by the side table. You slipped into bed methodically—left leg, slowly, carefully, then the right. First cover, then comforter, then head to pillow. Eyes closed. Slow, deep, gentle breathing. The only thing you had to do right now was sleep. The only task you had to do was let your body relax. Everything else could wait until morning.

Bruce Wayne could wait until the morning.

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pleaktale · 4 months ago

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aahh hello! i hope you're well ^^

ive been having a bit of a rough time personally, if you're comfortable with it could you write ekko (or hobie honestly i love them both) just. comforting a reader having issues with self worth/abandonment problems?

if not that's totally okay :0

I love this request so much AHHH!! Thank you anon, I hope this can bring some comfort to you, made it real sweet just in case <3 (chose Ekko because I was so excited to write something about him!!) Word count: 1.1k Warnings: Reader has low self steem, fear of abandonment, questionings Tags: Ekko x best friend!gn!Reader, hurt/comfort, Ekko being the best leader ever, fluff, tw self worth issues, tw death talks?, mention of Y/N once, Reader is described as shorter than Ekko, Reader and Ekko are adults in the Firelights Enjoy ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

Cleaning at the Firelights base was usually your thing, let it be dusting off the shelves of the small library, or organizing once again the plants around the area with the kids, you never really went out for the battles. You couldn’t for a couple of reasons, the number one being Ekko’s protective self scared of anything happening to you.

So you accepted your obligations at the place you now call home. It wasn’t bad, you always chatted with others, helped out with the food, took care of the children when needed, it was pretty much a peaceful life despite the moments you had to help out mending your people from the battles.

But something still gnawed at your soul. A feeling you tried to keep to yourself because it wasn’t really worth discussing it with others, they had bigger problems, right?

That may be true in a certain point of view, but Ekko could see right through you. Being friends for so long can give you that kind of power over the other. So his eyes kept glancing at you while you dusted off the new books he brought from the last patrol, noticing the tension on your shoulders.

“You’re not talkin’ today,” Ekko pointed out, taking a subtle glance at you before turning the page of the book he took to flip out. His voice echoing in the quiet place did have you opening your eyes a little more, pulling you out the train of thoughts you were currently drowning into.

“I thought you were reading,” you reply back, placing the book back on the shelf and turning to face him, his expression of “spill it” making your shoulders slump. “What now? Can’t have a quieter day any more?”

Ekko chuckles, watching you go back to your task, “Not when I’m here.” His boots clank into the hardwood floor as he walks towards you, taking the book from your hands and placing it at the higher shelf which you rolled your eyes at.

“You can’t keep doing this just because I’m the only other adult you’re taller than,” you huff out, which he smirks at before glancing back down at you, hands by his sides but gingerly making their way to yours. “Yes, I can. Now come on, I know the quiet you.”

You sigh, looking down at the book in your hands, a copy of a fairy tale. “It’s just…” your eyes try to avoid his, but a single glance and your courage is out of your lungs. “Sorry, I– I shouldn’t bother you with dumb things.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ekko called out, pulling you back by the arm gently as you tried to sneak away from him, his caring eyes over you, “who said anything 'bout it being dumb? I asked you, not the other way around.”

You stare at him, big eyes trying to make sense of what he’s saying. Yes, it did make sense, but how can you change your mind in such a short time after thinking like this your whole life?

“Am I enough here, Ekko?” you ask quietly, eyes fluttering down, away from him. The question fell out of your lips like a fishbone being ripped out from your throat, but his warm hands in your arms brought you back to reality.

“You are more than enough, Y/N,” his fingers slid down until they reached your hand, intertwining with your fingers. “Why do you ask that?” he breathed out the question, not really understanding where did you come from with it, you were one of his foundations, being by his side since childhood. Even after everything that happened to your lives.

“It’s just that-” you stop yourself, gathering your thoughts before you become a rambling mess of unresolved feelings. You breathe in, and let it out, just like Ekko taught you before. “I’m just here, you know? Dusting off shelves, tending crops, looking out for the kids and so on… You do so much out there, risking your life, providing for us, what if one day you just-” you take your breath once again, fingers tightening around his. “What I do… Is this really enough?”

Ekko stares at you with wide eyes. How could you not see all that you do like he does?

“You could be at your house, reading books and baking cakes,” he starts, eyes softening as he gives a squeeze back to your hand, “it’d still be more than enough, alright?” You look back up at him, eyes glossy with the tears prickling the corner of your eyes, Ekko was quick to wipe them with his thumb. The act pulls out a small smile from you.

“And there’s not gonna be ‘one day that I just-’, understand?” he continues, your heart clenching inside your ribcage at the mere thought of it happening. Ekko pulls you in, hugging your form, a hand gliding through your hair. “Either it be me leaving, me dying, me turning into a purple rat,” you laugh into his chest at the thought of him as a rat, which he smiled proudly of his accomplishment.

“You’re enough,” he says and you hold in your tears, hugging him tighter, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

You take a shaky breath in, untangling yourself from his arms just enough to see his face, his hands already on the works to get the tear stains out of your face. His mocking pout makes you chortle, “Thank you,” you say it in a small voice, leaning into his palm.

Ekko gives you a quick kiss to the forehead, looking back at you. “I’m just bringin’ you back to reality, what you do here is fundamental for all of us. If you don’t tend the crops, if you don’t look out for the kids, me and the others wouldn’t be able to be patrolling while worrying about those things. You are fundamental.”

More tears stream down your face, but they’re quite happy now, his words bringing comfort to your worrying heart. “If you keep this up I’ll cry until night time and no one’s gonna get dinner,” you joke, a cracking chuckle leaving your lips which Ekko found endearing.

“Okay, enough of emotional words, I want your food,” he jokes back, wiping the remnants of your tears from your face. “But you understand, yeah? We’re on the same page here,” Ekko asks, leaning his forehead to yours and staring at your eyes with raised eyebrows, making you laugh at the view.

“I do.” Ekko makes a small commemoration with one hand, whispering ‘yessss’ to himself. You lean back laughing, thankful for having him in your life.

Maybe Ekko was right. There’s no such thing as not being enough. You are enough for something or someone, maybe even fundamental, you just can’t know sometimes. So you shove Ekko’s words into the depths of your mind, making roots out of it. Taking his hand in yours, you both head to the farm to grab things for dinner.

Maybe that’s enough of a life, too.

your honor I love him (•ᴖ•｡) hope you liked it, until next time <3

divider credits goes to @/cafekitsune

#bleak's writing #request done #ekko x reader #ekko x you #ekko x gn!reader #arcane x reader #arcane x y/n #ekko x y/n #ekko arcane #ekko #ekko league of legends #fanfic #drabble #hurt/comfort #tw mental health #arcane fanfic

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zee-rambles · 7 months ago

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———-

Hard Work

First I Prev I Next

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underoospeterparker · 1 year ago

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hi!! was wondering if i could request peter parker hurt/comfort with gender neutral reader where she gets rlly overwhelmed and dissociates and he knows that they tend to zone out and helps them through it??

tried to make this as accurate as possible, but do let me know if it isn't!

As your friends begin discussing something about the upcoming dance at school, you realised you were starting to zone out.

Your skin started to tingle and some of the small hairs on your arms sticking up, a warning you didn't acknowledge. You felt detached from your body, as if you were watching yourself move and squirm from afar.

It was scary. Your dissociative episodes always were. You didn't know what it started from, or rather when, but only that you had them every once in a while, when you were feeling overwhelmed. And sometimes socialising, even with your closest friends, did get slightly overwhelming, especially added on to your desperate need to please everyone, to make them like you.

You can't decide if what you're experiencing right now, if the situation you're in, is real or not. A few seconds ago, you were enjoying yourself, laughing, even. But now, everything feels surreal, like you aren't really here. Murmuring something about feeling hot, you get up from the sofa, leaving the warmth of Peter's arms.

You sunk down to the floor after closing the door of the bedroom. It felt almost as if you were drowning, deep into unknown waters, and you couldn't reach for a breath, no matter how hard you tried.

Before you knew it, your boyfriend was crouching in front of you, aware of what was going on. He took your hand, a small comfort in your worst nightmares. "It's okay," you watched him mouth, without comprehending it, "You're okay."

You took a deep inhale, air finally filling your lungs. You took in as much of it as you could, gasping until you collapsed against Peter's chest, who wrapped his arms around you.

"Come back," he murmured, breath tickling your hair. "I'm right here."

"Are you real?" you asked softly, voice trembling.

Peter's felt his heart twinge, as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Of course I am, sweetheart."

You sighed, burrowing your head into his sweater even more. "Thank you. For everything," you added.

"You don't ever have to thank me," he whispered, giving you a reassuring smile. "It's what I'm here for."

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unpublishediary · 3 months ago

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Hello!! I just stumbled across your work and I really enjoyed your Percy Jackson piece!! Would you consider writing a Percy Jackson x reader where while they are aboard the Argo II they get in a fight with monsters and the reader gets hurt but is very scared to be a bother and thinks she can handle it herself so she hides her injury from Percy. Percy finds out somehow and takes care of her. I think it would be super cute! No worries if you decide not to do it though! Thank you so much!!!

Why didn’t you tell me? (percy Jackson hurt/comfort) part 1

part one ✵ part two-> (coming soon)

✵ synopsis: after a fight on the Argo II, reader tries to hide their injury but Percy is determined to find out what’s wrong.

✵ interest: percy jackson (HOO)

✵ warnings: mentions of blood, pain, loss of appetite, isolation, loss of consciousness, and leo.

MASTERLIST <- & request info

After another attack on the Argo II you stumbled into your room, every step sending jolts of pain radiating through your side. Your breaths were shallow, each inhale feeling like a needle piercing your ribs.

You pressed your back against the door as you closed it, desperately trying to steady yourself. The wound throbbed relentlessly, an ache that seemed to consume every other feeling making your vision blur. You winced as you reached for the first aid kit on your desk, fingers trembling uncontrollably.

Just as you fumbled with the kit, trying to focus through the haze of pain, a sudden, sharp knock sounded at the door. The sound was like a hammer striking an already bruised nerve, making you freeze, caught between the urge to tend to your injury and the need to answer. Each second felt like an eternity as you struggled to suppress the groan threatening to escape your lips. Your heartpounded from both the pain and pressure to answer who was at the door without them worrying.

“Hey,” A voice from outside yelled along with a knock, their tone was friendly and casual, but you didn’t even know who it was, the voice lost to you from the searing pain. “We’re having a quick meeting.” The words cut through your mind fog, pushing you to act despite the burning pain.

You clenched your teeth, forcing yourself to rise from the door you’d been leaning against. Every motion increasing the pain, making it feel like your side was on fire.

You tried to steady your breathing but each inhale was a struggle. The thought of delaying the meeting, appearing suspicious, or making excuses gave you a sense of anxiety. The last thing you wanted was to seem like you needed attention when everyone was already worried about so many other things.

You took a deep breath, forcing a casual tone. “I’ll be right out!” you called back, quickly pulling on a hoodie to cover up the injury. The way it concealed any signs of blood made you satisfied enough to walk to the door.

As you walked into the dining area, Percy’s sharp eyes immediately noticed something was off. He watched you intently as his gaze flicked between your face, your bulky hoodie, and your slightly unbalanced walk. It was clear there was something wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

Once you sat next to him, he leaned over from his seat, his face creased with concern as he whispered in your ear, “are you alright?”

You managed a reassuring smile, though the effort felt strained. “I’m fine,” you insisted, trying to sound more convincing than you felt. “tired.”

Despite your attempt to downplay it, Percy’s narrowed gaze lingered, worry evident in the crease of his brow. He was unconvinced by your casual response, eyes searching yours for any hint of what was really going on with you.

You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, adding to the ache in your side. You hoped that your forced demeanor was enough to reassure him, even as the pain continued to grow. All you had to do was make it past this meeting.

As the discussion about the rise in attacks on the Argo II began, the voices around you melted into a distant hum. Your focus narrowed, consumed by your effort to manage the sting on your side. The throbbing intensified with each passing minute, fighting for your full attention.

At one point, someone placed a plate in front you, but your efforts were absorbed in subtly pushing the food around on your plate, a distraction that helped maintain your composure.

The last thing you wanted was to draw attention or add to the stress of the situation. Your desire to avoid worrying everyone drove you to push through the pain.

Percy’s concern deepened as he observed the way you were acting. He was worried about how detached you seemed from the conversation, your responses were short and it seemed like your attention was elsewhere.

Thought the meeting his gaze frequently shifted back to you, brow furrowed in confusion. Each time he looked your way, it was like he was trying to read between the lines. Percy tried to convey a silent plea for you to open up, but you continued to do your best to mask your discomfort, hoping that your effort to remain natural would keep him from questioning you again.

But unable to ignore his concern any longer, Percy leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, earnest whisper. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His eyes did a once over, watching the way you were breathing, “you’re in pain.” It was only a guess but his eyes searched yours, concern evident in the way he leaned in. His concern made it increasingly difficult to keep your pain hidden.

His statement snapped you back into reality, forcing a smile as you whispered back. “Percy, I’m just tired, it’s nothing.” you insisted, but all he could do was grimace, he didn’t fully believe what you told him, but he left it alone not wanting to bother you further.

Minutes later, as Leo suddenly made an abrupt gesture—in an attempt to illustrate a point—the table suddenly jolted, causing the edge of the table to bump into your side where your injury was concealed.

The sudden, sharp impact sent a jolt of pain through your side, more intense than before. You tried your best to suppress a gasp, but the pain was almost unbearable.

Your face went pale, wincing at the the overwhelming sensation. You quickly looked up, hoping no one noticed the sudden reaction, where you struggled to steady your breathing. The talking around you suddenly stops, making your anxiety heighten in just a couple seconds. Everyone looked at you, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern.

Percy’s head snapped in your direction, “What? What’s wrong?” he demanded, his concern now fully evident. He quickly stood up to move closer to you. “What happened?

You winced, struggling to maintain a calm composure despite the pain. “It’s nothing,” you snapped, immediately feeling a pang of regret.

Your expression softened seeing the hurt in your eyes, and your voice became as gentle as you could. “Just a bump. I’m fine.” You tried to reassure him, but the strain in your voice betrayed you.

Percy’s gaze remained fixed on you. He wasn’t convinced by your response. “Let me see,” he insisted, reaching out to check if you’re alright.

You hesitated, eyes darting around to take in the group’s reaction. “No, I just need to go lay down.”

With a forced, apologetic smile, you made your way out, hoping to finally wrap your side and give the group the space to focus on their discussion without extra distractions.

As you made your way down the hallway, the pain in your side became overwhelming, each step feeling like a stabbing jolt. Despite your best efforts to stay upright, your knees started to buckle.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, walls blurring and swaying as the pain intensified. Clutching the wall for support, your breaths came in ragged gasps as you tried to push through before the pain made you pass out.

And before you could fully collapse, you felt a strong pair of arms catch you. Percy’s face appeared in your line of sight, his expression filled with deep concern. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?” he asked urgently. His grip was firm and reassuring as he supported you, helping you avoid hitting the floor. His eyes search yours with worry as he steadied you.

You were barely conscious, with your vision dimming around the edges. “My side” you managed to whisper weakly. The pain became nearly unbearable as you struggled to breathe.

Percy carefully lowered you to the ground, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m going to lift the hood,” he warned as his voice came out gentle but firm. He noticed the blood seeping through the thick fabric as you stood to leave and was grateful he decided to follow you. “When did this happen?” His tone was steady, though it was clear he’s trying to stay calm.

You didn’t answer, instead letting out a sound of pain as he peeled back the hood. Percy’s expression tightened as he revealed your injury, his focus entirely on you. He knew kneeling down beside you on the ground wasn’t what you needed. “I’m going to pick you up,” he said trying to stay soothing but he was really freaking out.

As he carefully lifted you, your side protested. “I’m sorry,” Percy muttered, clearly distressed by the pain he was causing. His grip was gentle but resolute as he hurried to the infirmary, “Just a few more seconds.”

As soon as you’re set down, Percy quickly sorted through the first aid supplies, his movements becoming more precise and urgent than ever.

Before the cloth could touch the blood, he paused. “This will sting,” he warned softly, his voice filled with reassurance. Then gently begins to wipe away the blood, his concentration evident in the furrow of his brow. Despite the tears forming in your eyes and sounds of protest, he worked swiftly and carefully, doing his best.

Somewhere in the middle of him focusing on the wound, you lost consciousness, your body succumbing to the pain and exhaustion. As you slipped away, the last thought that crossed your mind is a concern about bothering everyone further. The room faded into darkness as Percy and the others, who’ve just filed in, rushed to see what was going on, their voices becoming distant murmurs as you fell unconscious.

Part Two (coming soon)

MASTERLIST

follow for more like this !!

response: thank you so muchh, I love that you were my first request!! I decided to make this into two parts so the other will be published soon.

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stardust-and-snickerdoodles · 4 months ago

Text

and i'll find strength in pain

fandom: Bones (TV)

pairing: Lance Sweets & Reader

summary: You were the victim of a violent attack a few weeks ago. Agent Booth has been a comfort for you, but he's out of his depth. He suggests you visit Dr. Sweets to talk about what happened to you.

tags/warnings: rape aftermath/recovery (implied), sh, anxiety, panic attacks, dissociation, emotional hurt/comfort, therapy

word count: 3334

a/n: this one's for all the people who are still thinking about lance sweets 10 years later and who, to this day, refuse to watch ep 10x1. if i don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist

There’s a plaque on the door. It reads 2475, DR. LANCE SWEETS, Clinical Psychologist. You practically have the words memorized. You’ve been standing here for nearly five minutes, working up the courage to knock. Every time you raise your fist to do so, it trembles so violently that you drop it again. Agent Booth’s words ring in your ears from when he dropped you off:

Look for office 2475. Sweets will be able to help you.

Sweets will be able to help you.

Can anyone really help you though?

It’s been 2 weeks since the attack, and the five men who cornered you in that alley still haven’t been found. Your skin still prickles with the phantom of their touch. Every time you close your eyes, you see their sneering faces, their bulging eyes. You can’t walk home from work anymore. You can’t even drive past the alley without having to pull over and take 10 deep breaths, counting in for 3, out for 3.

How could anyone, anyone, help you with that?

Agent Booth has been kind so far. He’s not on your case, since it’s technically the state’s responsibility, but he’s the one who found you that night. He’s the one who drove you to the hospital while you were unconscious, stayed until you were awake. He wasn’t even deterred when you scrambled away from him, the sight of another man’s face leaving you panicking. He sat calmly and reassured you that you were safe and left his phone number on a napkin on your bedside table, along with a scrawled note, reading:

Call if you need anything. I can help you file a case.

You’d taken him up on the offer, calling the next day. He helped you make a report with the state, sat with you while you described your attackers to the forensic sketch artist. Although he’s not the most equipped to handle your moments of panic, never quite sure what to do, he still sits with you and talks you through it. Eventually, though, he must have realized he was out of his depth, because he referred you here.

To a psychologist.

For whatever reason, it’s ingrained in your mind that seeing a psychologist means you’re broken. You don’t want to think that way, but it’s hard not to. After what you went through, it’s easy to believe such things about yourself. Broken. Impure. Damaged.

You shake yourself out of your thoughts and suck in a deep breath. You wonder if Dr. Sweets knows you’re standing out here. The embarrassment of that thought is finally what allows you to work up the courage to knock. Three quiet taps on the door.

“Come in,” a voice responds.

You open the door slowly and peek around the edge. “Are you… Dr. Sweets?”

The man looks up from his desk. You’re taken aback by how young he is. Surely this isn’t the FBI psychologist? He’s so… well, young. Still, it’s better than some middle-aged man, someone like the men who attacked you-

You shake yourself and step inside as he responds. “That would be me.” His smile is gentle and reassuring. “Are you Y/N?”

You nod, stopping just inside the door. You’re unsure of where to go – there’s a couch and a chair facing it, but there’s also a chair in front of his desk where he sits… Which one? Where do you go? You stand awkwardly, waiting for some sort of direction.

Dr. Sweets stands, smoothing out his suit jacket. “Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the couch.

A swell of gratitude washes over you at his clear instruction. You seat yourself gingerly on the edge of the cushion, locking your hands together in front of you. Dr. Sweets takes the chair across from you, crossing one leg over the other. He observes you for a moment, eyes searching, and you shrink into yourself a bit. It feels exposing to be in front of him, like he can see all your secrets without you saying anything. Your eyes roam the room and the walls, trying to find something to distract yourself.

“How are you?” Sweets asks gently.

You swallow thickly and look down at your hands. “Fine… Agent Booth said I should talk to you.”

He nods. “Yes, he gave me a quick briefing on your situation. Is it alright if I ask you some questions?”

You avert your eyes, looking to the walls again. There’s a large window on the one to your right, but the blinds are closed. You wish he would open them so you could look somewhere else besides his probing eyes. “I guess so.” Your voice is shaky. You clear your throat to try to hide it.

Sweets, meanwhile, has been carefully taking in your body language and movement. He’d heard you hesitating outside the door, heard your soft pacing footsteps and rapid breathing. Since you walked in the door, he’s realized that he needs to take a gentle, soft approach with you. He doesn’t want to push you too far. From what Booth told him, the assault is still fresh in your memory. “First of all, I just want to say that you’re very brave for coming here. I know it can be scary to talk about these things and I’m very proud of you for taking this step. You’re safe here, and you’re totally in control. If you ever want to stop, or you don’t want to talk about something, you just say the word, alright?”

You nod, mostly subconsciously. His words feel empty, although there’s a sincerity too them. You just can’t bring yourself to believe him yet.

Sweets sees through you right away. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Do you believe that you’re safe here?”

Your response comes out as barely a whisper. “No…”

He nods gently. “Can you tell me why?”

You look down at your hands again, twisting them around the opposite wrists. The movement is soothing, grounding. “I don’t… feel safe anywhere. It’s too new. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like I’m back there…” You close your eyes briefly, but snap them open again when disturbing images fill your head. “I can’t escape it. Everyone is someone who could hurt me…” You drift off as you realize how much you’re giving away. These are the things you’ve kept close to your chest; it feels wrong to be saying them to a stranger.

Sweets can tell immediately when you start to become more uncomfortable. He eyes your hands, watching your fidgeting. He takes a moment to think before speaking again. He must tread carefully; he can’t risk you shutting down before he’s even gotten a chance to talk to you. “How about we stick to yes/no questions for now? Would that be easier?”

You shrug, twisting your hands a bit more roughly as the images continue to plague you. “Sure.”

“Are you aware of your surroundings at all times? Always… looking for danger?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah…”

Sweets keeps his voice gentle and quiet, but his mind is racing. The psychologist in him is searching for coping mechanisms, for things to say that might help; the human in him is fighting the desire to reach out and just comfort you. “Do you experience nightmares? Bad dreams?”

You nod again, eyes flicking back to the closed window. “Yes.”

“Do you ever have panic attacks? Moments of overwhelming fear or anxiety?”

You look up at the ceiling, twisting your hands harder. It begins to burn, but the feeling is good. It keeps you in the here and now. “I don’t know… maybe.”

Sweets watches where your eyes move, sees how you avoid eye contact at all costs. His own eyes dart to your wrists. Your fidgeting has grown more aggressive. He can see where your skin is becoming red and irritated. He frowns slightly. “Can I see your wrists?”

Your movements suddenly still and you shake your head. Shame floods your face.

Sweets notices the quick change in your demeanor. “Okay, we don’t have to look at them. Does the twisting help?”

You nod. “It… feels good. Calming.”

Sweets nods and files this information away for later. He’s going to help you find some healthier coping mechanisms – you can’t keep hurting yourself to stay grounded. “I get that. Do you want a stress ball or something? Something so you’re not hurting yourself?” He can already predict your answer, but it’s worth a shot.

You shake your head and grip your hands on your wrists. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Sweets leans back in his chair again. He wants to ask you about the assault, but you’re still so closed off. “Do you want some water? Maybe something else to drink, or eat?” He stands to retrieve a bottle for himself, hoping that it will make you feel more comfortable if he does it first.

Still, you shake your head. “I’m okay… do you have more questions?” You eyes drift to the door.

The young psychologist instantly notices your desire to leave and heads back to his seat, water in hand. He wants you to stay, wants you to start talking about this instead of bottling it up. “Couple more. Is that okay?”

You settle back onto the couch, hunching a bit to try and make yourself smaller. “Yeah…”

“You’re doing great,” Sweets offers you a reassuring smile although you’re not looking at him. “Can we talk about the attack?”

You hesitate, images flashing through your mind, before nodding. This is what you’re here for isn’t it? You can’t leave now. “What… what do you want to know?”

Sweets observes your closed-off posture, the hunch of your shoulders. This is going to take a while. He adjusts in his chair, trying to get comfortable while still staying professional. He speaks gently. “What were you doing before the attack?”

“Working,” you murmur. “I walked home.”

“Were you alone?”

You hum in affirmation, nodding your head. It had been so dark… The streetlight near the alley was out, you were walking through a shaded part of the sidewalk when they grabbed you…

Sweets watches as your eyes go glassy. He recognizes the beginning signs of dissociation and immediately works to pull you out of it, switching gears. “Where do you work?”

You shake yourself lightly and stare at the wall again. Your eyes settle on a divot in the paint, a spot where it’s been chipped away by a nail or something. “Newspaper… I’m a journalist.”

He nods and tilts his head at you, feeling a swell of pity. This really did a number on you. Booth described it to him, but he hadn’t gone into all the details… Clearly it was horrific if it’s causing you to be this dissociated and anxious. “That’s cool. Did you always want to be a journalist?”

For the first time, you meet his eyes. This topic is safe. These are things you can discuss. He offers you another reassuring smile as you shake your head. “I… wanted to be an astronaut. But my eyesight isn’t good enough.”

Sweets laughs lightly at the answer and you can’t help but crack your own small grin. His laugh is comforting, nothing at all like the men who attacked you… You shiver and refocus on his voice. “There’s a reason there aren’t many astronauts. Those requirements are very restrictive.” Sweets clears his throat and adjusts himself in his chair. You steel yourself, waiting for his next question. His distraction technique was effective, but now he has to get back to business. “So, you were walking home from work alone. What happened next?”

You swallow thickly and look back at the divot in the wall. Your hands go back to your wrists, feeling the warmth where you’ve managed to irritate your skin already. “I was walking by an alley… There were five men coming toward me. I was about to cross the street…” You suddenly are back in that moment, thinking the thoughts you were then. Your keys were clutched in one hand. Your other hand was shoved in your purse, gripping a small bottle of pepper spray. Your jaw was clenched, heart racing as you realized the danger you were in.

Sweets clears his throat to get your attention and you shake yourself out of your reverie. “You were about to cross the street. What then?”

“Um, they… they were quicker than me. They grabbed me and dragged me into the alley…” Your eyes go blank again. The divot in the wall seems to grow, a spec of grey that overtakes your vision. The world around you goes hazy. Sweets’s voice is a muffled background noise. Vaguely, you register the feeling of tears brimming in your eyes, of your hands twisting roughly against your wrists. The pain feels good, but it’s not enough.

Sweets watches closely, expecting you to continue, but then he notices the blank look on your face. You’ve gone completely still, save for your twisting hands. He observes you as you go pale, barely blinking. You’re completely shut down. “Y/N? Can you hear me?” He keeps his voice soft, gentle, trying not to scare you. He doesn’t know how far gone you are yet. He watches as your body begins to tremble, as your hands speed up in their motions. Your nails begin to catch against your skin, making harsh red lines across your wrists. Sweets knows he has to break you out of this, has to bring you back down to reality.

He stands slowly, walking around the coffee table to crouch in front of the couch where you sit. “Y/N. Listen to my voice. You’re safe here. You’re in my office at the FBI Headquarters. I’m Dr. Sweets, we’re here talking together. You’re safe, you’re not in danger anymore.” He keeps his voice level and soothing. He wants to reach out and touch you, but doesn’t want to jolt you. His eyes go back to your wrists, noticing how aggressively you’re scratching yourself. If you don’t come out of this soon, he will have to stop you from hurting yourself.

“Darling, listen to me.” The affectionate name slips out before he can stop himself. “Look at me if you can. You’re right here. You’re sitting on the couch in my office. You’re safe, I promise.” His words seem to be having no effect. If anything, your motions are becoming more frantic, your eyes more distant. Sweets sucks in a deep breath, hating what he has to do now.

He reaches out slowly to grip your wrists, wrenching them apart. You flinch at the touch, the first reaction he’s seen. He hates that it seems to be causing you more anguish, but you were near to drawing blood. He holds your wrists firmly, continuing to speak. “Listen, Y/N. I can’t let you hurt yourself. But you’re safe. Once you’re back with me, I’ll let you go, but you need to listen to me. You’re safe here. You’re not in any danger.” His voice breaks slightly on the words. He’s dealt with dissociation and panic attacks before, of course, but knowing the circumstances of yours makes it so much harder.

The wavering in his voice is what finally draws you back to reality. You blink slowly, and the divot on the wall shrinks back to where it belongs. Sweets’s voice becomes clearer, and you realize the firm grip on your wrists is his, not your attackers’. A choked sob forces itself from your throat as you look down at your joined hands. Suddenly your breaths come in gasps as you realize how deprived of oxygen you are.

Sweets loosens his grip a bit, realizing that you’re back with him. “There, shh. I have you.” He rubs soothing circles on your wrists, subtly reaching for your pulse with two fingers. It’s rapid, but steady. “You’re safe, I’ve got you. Deep breaths now.” He does some exaggerated breaths, trying to meet your gaze. You still stare at his hands on your own, but it’s not with glassy eyes. He lets out his own quiet sigh of relief.

You try to school your breathing, mimicking his slow breaths. Eventually, with his soft words and gentle coaching, you manage to soothe yourself.

Sweets finally relinquishes his hold on your hands, staying crouched in front of you. “There we are. Keep taking those deep breaths.”

You meet his eyes unsteadily. “I’m sorry,” the words come out quiet and broken.

Sweets shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s perfectly reasonable to have such a reaction.”

You clasp your hands together in your lap, staring at the red lines that now adorn your wrists. You’ve never irritated your skin so much, and you feel embarrassed to have done so in front of this psychologist.

He tries to meet your gaze, attempting to draw your eyes from the injuries. “Let’s take a break, yeah? We can try again another day.” He offers you a small smile.

You nod. “I think… that would best.” You feel shaky and off-balance from the panic attack.

Sweets stands, being careful not to tower over you. He heads back to the fridge, retrieving a water bottle for you and a small packet of crackers. He sets them on the couch next to you before returning to his chair. He makes a point not to look at you, not wanting you to feel cornered or judged.

You take a slow sip from the water, all of a sudden feeling parched. You’re not sure what to say, not sure if you should leave now, or if you should stay. When you’re done drinking, you set the bottle down again and look at your lap.

Sweets clears his throat quietly and leans forward again. “Feel free to hang out here as long as you need. If you want to keep talking, I’m just going to be at my desk, okay?”

You nod, grateful that he won’t be staring at you. You don’t feel quite steady enough to get up and drive home yet, so you settle back into the couch, taking slow sips from the water and nibbling on small bits of cracker. Sweets taps away on his computer, occasionally glancing up at you to make sure you’re okay.

The panic attack left you feeling exhausted, and you’re trying hard not to fall asleep, but the couch is very comfortable, and you somehow feel safe here. Your head keeps lolling to the side and you have to shake yourself to stay awake. Sweets looks up and catches this at one point. He smiles to himself and calls to you gently. “Rest. It’s okay; you’re safe. Do you want a blanket?”

You fidget with your hands again, stifling a yawn. You’re too tired to even try to protest, so you nod your head. He stands and retrieves a fluffy blanket from a nearby closet, handing it to you. You thank him and wrap it around yourself, settling more comfortably into the couch as he walks back to the desk.

The next time Sweets looks up, you’re curled up on your side on the couch, breathing deeply with your eyes closed. He smiles again, feeling honored that you feel safe enough in his presence to sleep. He shoots a quick text to Booth letting him know that you’re ready to be picked up. Booth of course wants to know how the session went, but Sweets leaves him on read. You can tell him yourself, if you feel comfortable enough to do so.

Although Sweets didn’t manage to get you to open up as much as he’d have liked, he truly didn’t expect to. You’ve been through hell, and it’s going to take a long time to walk out of that. Still, he feels he’s made progress. You trust him, even if it’s just a small amount.

He has a feeling he’ll be seeing you again very soon.

#imagine #imagines #oneshot #x reader #writing #fiction #bones #lance sweets #lance sweets x reader #lance sweets x you #angst #hurt/comfort #therapy #mental health #healing #panic attack #dissociation

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