#so....why do my pain meds help me focus?

[tittyinfinity]

I just realized why ADHD meds don't do anything to me at all

My doctor told me last year that I actually produce TOO much dopamine, but my brain doesn't process it. It like....blocks it off to prevent it from overflowing into my mind? Idk. That's what the lady told me after all those brain scans.

So of course, something that raises your dopamine levels won't do shit if your brain ignores it :/

And my serotonin receptors are straight up dead, so SSRIs have never worked either, even after 7 years of trying every one they have

My brain is literally broken

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[kestisvrse]

you don’t know me

pairing ⋆ spidey!luke castellan x gn!reader au. fluff with a bit of angst. friends to lovers.

synopsis ⋆ spider-man appears at your window for help, and accidentally reveals his identity.

warnings ⋆ blood descriptions, stitching, swearing, stranger danger tbh, bit dramatic(?), kinda rushed i apologize | wc: 2.5k

a/n ⋆ i hate the ending of this so feel free to not read it😭😭

♫ - jackie and wilson by hozier

1:33am

it was hard trying to stay awake at this time, sound of the rain against your window and the soft snores of your roommates made it was easy to focus on closing your tired eyes instead of looking over all the notes scattered on your desk, it seemed nothing could stop you from drifting off to the peaceful place despite the thought of your sore neck in the morning from being slouched over your desk, but three taps against your window made your eyes shoot open.

he regretted it immediately, as he watched your head rise from the desk, but what else could he do? he gripped his side as he watched you mumble to yourself at the sight of spider-man on your fire escape, but you quickly opened the window.

“what the fuck?” you whisper at the sight, the heavy rain began to cover your window sill and floor but you didn’t even notice.

“hi, um i know this must seem very odd..” the superhero in front of you trailed off as you let him in, “shit, i’m bleeding on your carpet.”

“what- oh shit!” you gasp, noticing the giant gash he gripped on his torso, without a second thought you grabbed his hand and dragged him into your private bathroom, pushing him to sit on the toilet as you rummaged in your cupboards, as you pulled out a first-aid kit, you rummaged for supplies, “can i ask why the hell spider-man is bleeding in my bathroom right now?”

“i- i lost a lot of blood, i wouldn’t have been able to make it to my place in time.” he lied, “not to sound creepy but i saw your light on and.. and i needed help.”

“can you take the top half of your suit off?” you ask, washing your hands, as if you hadn’t even acknowledged what he had said. he nods, unzipping the back and removing his arms from the sleeves, letting the suit rest at his waist, his mask still hiding his identity, “this will hurt.” you warn, even though he had definitely experienced worse than a wound being wiped down.

but still he winced, clenching his jaw, as you realized it wasn’t just a cut, he had been stabbed.

“thank god you stumbled across a med-students dorm.” you mumble to yourself, trying to lighten the mood as you get ready to stitch his side together, as he went to laugh at your comment he was interrupted by a groan of pain emitting from his throat.

“i know it hurts, but try to be quiet. if you wake clarisse, my roommate up, she will not make this situation any better.” you say, luke holds back a laugh knowing it was definitely true, he bites down on his lower lip as you stitch him up. luckily it was a shallow cut,.

you worked in silence, occasionally broken up by strewn out swears and winces from the superhero, biting your lip in concentration. as you tied together the final stitch you let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

“okay, the hard part is done.” you informed him, wiping down any excess blood that stained his skin.

“thanks.” he mutters weakly, moving to adjust his posture but immediately freezing as pain shoots up his body.

“stay still.” you say, “i still have to bandage it.” pulling out medical tape and gauze out of your medical bag, he felt as your hands occasionally slipped off the white bandage and touched his stomach. the pain almost subsided as the feeling of your fingertips burned into him. wrapping the bandage around his torso and taping it down you lean back on your knees, letting out a sigh.

he focuses on you as you stand, washing blood off your hands in the sink before cleaning up your supplies, you glance at him catching him staring, as he pretends to admire your bathroom as if he hadn’t been in here before.

“um-“ he clears his throat, “sorry for bleeding on your floor.” he mentioned, guilt evident in his voice.

“s’okay, i didn't like that carpet much anyways.” you say, which was a lie. luke remembered vividly how happy you were to get what you called, ‘the best rug ever’ for your room, his brows furrow.

you lean back against the bathtub, letting out a sigh, he goes to move but you nudge him with your foot, “don’t go just yet, won’t be good to swing on new stitches.” you explained to him, as he leaned back against the back of the toilet.

his breathing was sharp and inconsistent as his stomach stung in pain, his eyes squeezed shut, “the only thing i have for pain is like advil and tylenol. i don’t know if that helps with stab wounds though.” you spoke up, he shakes his head in response.

“i’ll be fine, just- just need to catch my breath.” to which you nodded in response.

“can i get you water?” you suggest, quickly standing as a ‘please’ is heard from under the mask, him suddenly noticing the scratchy and dry feeling of his throat. you rush out the room, tiptoeing into the kitchen to grab water for the superhero, as you return and hand it to him, you spin around so he can remove his mask.

his face was red as he watched you carefully, slipping his mask above his nose to gulp down the glass. scared you’d spin around to discover it was your friend bleeding out in the bathroom.

but you didn’t, as he pulled the mask back down and placed the cup on the counter, is when you turned and returned to your spot on the floor, bringing your knees to your chest.

he begins to shuffle uncomfortably on the toilet, breathing harder as his back slouched and his body tensed. the bandages felt tight on him, as he resisted the urge to rip them off, he was quickly distracted as you kneeled in front of him, placing your hand on his exposed wrist.

tingles shot up his body at the feeling of your skin against his again, it felt so odd, knowing he had hugged and brushed past you so many times but this was different, every touch had him blushing as butterflies flew around his stomach, he didn’t know you felt the same way, but with luke, not spider-man.

“control your breathing, your pulse is out of control.” you breathe, your pointer and middle finger pressed against his wrist feeling his pulse.

he began to focus on your breathing, watching as your chest rose and fell while you seemingly seemed focused on the wall of the bathroom. he quickly matched his breathing with yours, sitting up straight as your hand pulled away from him.

“thank you, for helping me.” he stammered, suddenly self conscious of his voice, how hadn’t you recognized it?

“i mean, what else was i supposed to do? there was a superhero at my window sill.” you scoff in disbelief, “it’s fine, i mean, it’s the least i can do for you keeping me- uh new york, safe.” you clear your throat, staring at your hands that rest atop your knees. “can i ask you something?”

his throat dries, “yeah?”

“i mean- obviously don’t answer if it’s too personal or gives away your identity, but.” you tilt my head, “do you like… live a normal life during the day? or are you always spider-man?” you ask cautiously.

he pauses to think about his answer, narrowing his eyes at you, “oh yeah, i-i do have a normal life during the day.” he confesses, the hand that grasped his stomach moves to scratch the back of his neck.

“cool.” you reply, stopping yourself from question him farther.

“you aren’t asking any questions,” he stated quietly, almost in disbelief. as he spoke, he shifted his attention to your face. “i was expecting some like freaked out reactions. but you’re... you’re really chill about this.”

“you have a secret identity for a reason, i wouldn’t want to ruin that for you. you keep the city safe, and that’s all i need to know.” you shrug in response, staring at the white eyes of his mask.

“i mean it’s so crazy.” you say randomly, causing his head to tilt in confusion, “i’ve thought about it before you know, imagine one of my friends was a masked superhero.” he tenses, knowing that in fact it was true, “like my friend luke, he’s always disappearing at random moments.” his eyes widen but you don’t notice because of the mask, chuckling to yourself at the thought.

“yeah, imagine that.” he murmurs in response, suddenly very sweaty in stress.

“how’re you feeling?” you turn your attention back to him.

“still hurts a lot, but i should go now.” he explains, his hand on the counter to steady himself as he stands, “again, thank you so much.”

you walk to the window, opening it and helping him climb out onto the fire escape, “again” you repeat him, “it’s the least i could do.”

4:56pm

you yawn as you open the door revealing luke castellan, bag swung over his shoulder and hair messy from the wind, he gave you a lopsided smile, “ready to study?”

you shake your head as he enters your apartment, “i was studying all night, barely got sleep.” you respond, leading him to your room.

he just nods his head at you in response, cheeks growing hot, sure you were studying, before his alter ego stumbled through your window.

as he walked into your room, he immediately took notice of the spot of your carpet that had been rolled over, to cover the evidence of the blood stain. his stare lingered there, before quickly collecting himself to sit on your bed.

“i made these flashcards for you last night.” you break the silence, holding up pastel green cards, “ready to be tested, castellan?” you tease, plopping onto the bed and leaning against the headboard as he takes his jacket off.

“oh bless you for those.” he praised, comfortably laying down at the end of your feet.

“just admit i’m your favourite person.” you giggle, he rolls his eyes before encouraging you to begin.

thirty minutes past as you tested him, reaching the end before you would swap over, “alright” you clear your throat, “next- luke?” your gaze drifts up from the card.

“yeah?” he asked, waiting for you to continue.

“you’re bleeding.” you point at his shirt, he looks down to find his blue t-shirt slowly bleed red, dripping down his side. immediately, he reacted by pressing down as hard as he could against the wound, a small whimper escaping his lips in the process.

“what-“ you cut yourself off, to look up into his eyes, eyes widening in the process “no fucking way.”

he tore his attention away from his wound, blood seeping into your bed sheets, “i-“ in a flash you’re up from the bed, cards spilling onto the floor as you yank him up causing him to yelp. he sits down on the toilet as you rummage for the first aid kit, again.

“take off your shirt.” you demanded, and despite the surprise this brought him, he didn’t resist. he removed his shirt almost immediately, revealing the bloody coated bandages.

you stared at his chest, the fact that it was the exact same as spider-mans made you wanna scream, but you held back, removing the bandages and staying quiet to patch him up, too scared to speak.

luke stayed silent, staring at you with sad eyes, praying you would forgive him. he winced every so often at the sting of you restitching some stitches that came loose, and rewrapping his stomach with fresh gauze.

your lips pursed together as you washed your hands, refilling the same cup from last night with water and placing it beside him before walking off into your room. luke quickly tugs hair shirt back on, ignoring the blood stain and the pain that shot up his body at the sudden movement, before going to stand in front of you in your room, “i’m sorry.” he whispers.

“you could have died, and it would have been my fault.” you remarked, “can you imagine? spider-man dies in my bathroom and i take his mask off to reveal my best fucking friend.” you scoffed, tears covering your waterline.

his expression softened, as he nudged your foot with his, “but i didn’t.”

“but you could have!” you yell, shooting up to stand in front of him, “jesus luke, this is what you’ve been doing all year? this is why you disappear all the time?” he stares at his shoes as you rub your forehead.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, a sad expression covering his face, as he blinked rapidly, “i’m sorry for putting you through that. i didn’t mean to worry you.”

“you-you’re spider-man.” you gasp out, in disbelief. your hand clutches your chest as tears roll out onto your cheeks. his hand brushes your bicep as you flinch.

“yeah… yeah i am.” he sighs, guiding you to sit back down on your bed, “i wish i hadn’t come here last night but- i wouldn’t have been able to stitch that up myself.” he sighed as you sobbed into your hands.

“you could have died.” you choke out, repeating yourself before falling into his side, almost on instinct he wraps his arm around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. he knew you wouldn’t respond well if he had ever told you, but he hadn’t thought about how you would feel to him almost dying in your bathroom.

“i’m okay. i promise.” he breathed into your hair, but you just shook your head in response, unable to respond as you tried to catch your breath.

“i don’t care if i am fast asleep, if this ever happens again, you come to me luke, i stitch you up.” you begged, looking up to him teary eyed.

his gaze softens looking at you but nodded in response, “okay, i promise.” his hand hovers over you neck, “i didn’t want to put you in danger or worry you. i would have told you. i was also scared you wouldn’t… wouldn’t look at me the same” he whispered.

“you’re still luke castellan, i still will like you no matter what, you just… you scared the shit out of me.” you sputtered out, not thinking about what you were saying to the boy in front of you, his body tensed.

“like me?” he asks, brows furrowed to see if you meant as friends or.. as more. he got his answer as he watched your eyes widen slightly and you began to stutter, “you… you like me?”

“what- no i meant-“ you shake your head so hard he thought it might spin off, and so he took his chance. the hand that hovered over your neck held your face still as he connected his lips with yours.

you found yourself unable to kiss back in shock, he heats up in embarrassment as he began to pull away, which brought you to your senses as you pulled him back down to press a soft kiss against his lips.

he pulled away for air, leaning your foreheads against each other.

“i can’t believe i accused you of being a secret superhero, while infront of you last night.” you mumbled, as he just laughed in response and shook his head.

“i promise to be more safe, just for you.” he said, leaning in to peck your lips.

[nurse-floyd]

Let me set the scene:

It's the Vegas Grand Prix, 2023. Lando has his crash, is high as a bloody kite in the hospital. Lando sees his nurse and I'd convinced he's dead bc 'why else would there be a legit angel?'

This is super short and silly but I absolutely adore this request! Thank you <3

P.S. I also love this and it is possibly one of my favourite photos of him! Boy is high as balls.

The red emergency phone rang, signaling an incoming ambulance, and you answered it with a sigh. "Mercy General Emergency Department," you answered as you clicked your pen and got the handover sheet ready to write down the patient information.

"Male…24…high-speed crash into a wall," you repeated back to dispatch that alerted you to the incoming patient, hating that you’d be spending what was left of your shift dealing with someone’s drunken antics or stupidity that had crashed them into a wall.

"How fast was he going?" you asked, not expecting the answer.

"180."

"Come again? 180mph and he’s still alive?" you repeated, not being able to hide the shock. "Do we need blood? X-Ray? Trauma surgeons and blood on standby? No one has called ahead." You suddenly woke up from the usual lull you felt around this time during your shift, your mind suddenly in full trauma mode.

"No, just precautionary checks. Patient is a Formula One driver and has been cleared by track medics, but they want a second opinion at the hospital and some scans in case."

Then it hit you…you followed F1 and had done for a few years. You’d been following the race on your phone during your breaks and knew Lando had crashed out during turn 14.

"Okay. Thank you, have you got an ETA?"

Dispatch relayed the time of arrival that gave you enough time to announce it over the tannoy and for your team to gather in one of the trauma rooms. You also called in security because you knew the press would be vultures all over this.

With the trauma room ready, you all waited for the arrival of your VIP patient. If you were being truthful, you were a little nervous at meeting one of your celebrity crushes but also knew you needed to keep it professional. What you didn’t expect was the goofy look on Lando’s face as he was wheeled on a stretcher into the room.

As soon as the paramedic crew had handed over and you’d transferred him over to the bed, you began attaching him to monitors and got your list of investigations and tests you’d need to perform from the doctor in charge.

The paramedics had clearly dosed him up with the good meds as he stirred in and out of consciousness, his eyes glassy and the goofy smile still plastered on his face every time his eyes met yours.

You woke him up once again, ready to check his pupils and GCS once more when he was a little more alert than he’d been since he arrived.

"Woah…am I dead?" his voice came out slightly slurred.

"The heart monitor beeping next to you would say otherwise," you laughed in reply.

"Are you sure, because why else would an actual angel be standing in front of me right now?"

You couldn’t help another laugh that escaped your lips as you watched him try to focus on you.

"And that would be the morphine," you fiddled with his IV and checked the fluids running before you input a few more things on his chart.

“I don’t think it is…” he slurred once more, “I know an angel when I see one.”

You were about to reply when you looked up from his chart and saw he’d fallen asleep, his head against his chest. You got up from your seat and adjusted his pillows so his neck wouldn’t be even more painful in the morning.

[crowborn666-writes]

Too lazy to do my usual format atm, needed to spit this out but it’s for those that suffer from debilitating migraines. (I’ve def had my fair share)

Mostly an Any OB Brother x reader, tho there’s def some Mammon and Lucifer favoritism going on.

You could’ve cried even harder at the sound of your door opening, the hallway light ripping through the comforting darkness of your room like a demon’s claws.

“(Y/n)?! Why ya cryin’?”

You loved Mammon, you really did, but the spike of pain through your skull had you sobbing and chanting at him to please shut up.

Mammon immediately shut his yap and took a moment to take in his surroundings. No lights, a very obvious sound preventing spell, the way your arms were contorted to cover your eyes and ears and cradled your skull.

Oh…

Mammon winced at his mistake, quickly and quietly closing the door behind him. He did his best to stay quiet as he walked over to you, gently running a warm hand across your upper back.

“Did ya take any meds for your head yet?”

You manage a weak nod, trembling from the pain. Mammon hummed, pulling back with a soft promise of return.

Momentary light was cast into your room once again, and you tried to settle down once more. A few minutes went by, Mammon returning with something in his arms after having clearly turned off the hallway light.

“Here,” gently, he turned you a bit, “stole some noise canceling headphones from Levi and an eye mask from Asmo.”

He placed the items on you with care, as if afraid you’d shatter right then and there. He lifted one side of the headphones as he spoke again. “You can drop the sound spell ya put up, I’ve let everyone know to stay quiet for ya.”

You nodded, flicking your wrist once and releasing the spell you’d been holding for the better part of three hours.

“I’ll check in on ya later, you focus on resting.” Mammon moved the headphones back in place, rubbing your back for another long moment before slipping from your room.

You knew this migraine would be persistent, only able to sit on the cusp of actual sleep as the brothers checked in on you over the course of the afternoon.

Mammon made sure you had plenty of water, Beel plenty of food, Levi brought you a collection of things to fidget and toy with once you could open your eyes again. Asmo and Satan brought you soothing things to smell (if you wanted them!) like candles or incense. Belphie tried to help you get some actual sleep, but with the migraine and your natural resistance to their magic that proved too difficult a task.

And finally, Lucifer had returned home from a rather stressful meeting with Lord Diavolo. The absolute silence of the house had him freezing in the foyer, and with suspicion he marched straight to your room. Upon the sight of you, sprawled in such an odd position with those headphones and eye mask still on your head, he let out a soft sigh of understanding. He wasn’t able to check his D.D.D. for any updates while at Diavolo’s, the device having been depleted of its battery.

He could hear his brothers moving around the house, most likely doing the chores you usually took up to help out. He stepped into your room, walking up to you and sitting next to your contorted form on the bed. Gently he moved the headphones off your ear, whispering down at you.

“Terrible day?”

“Tell me about it…” you mumbled, voice sounding dry before you carefully sat up, one hand reaching out blindly for the bottle of water on your nightstand.

“Here.” Lucifer stopped you, helping you sit up and getting the bottle for you. “I’ll see if I can find something you can take for that migraine.”

“I think Satan tried looking…” you offer offhandedly, setting the bottle aside before reaching up to take the headphones and eye mask off. They helped, but after having them on for so long they only added an extra ache you didn’t want. “I tried sleeping it off, Belphie even tried putting me to sleep, but that didn’t work either.”

Lucifer hummed, reaching out to rub circles into your temples. “It won’t last forever. Do you want me to stay here with you for a bit?”

“Yeah but… can we go to the living room? My room’s feeling stuffy.”

Lucifer scooped you up without another word, carrying you with ease to the living room. He knew you were actually seeking out the sound of the fireplace, and after getting you comfortable in your favorite spot, got to work lighting the fire.

You found yourself dozing off again, this time pressed into Lucifer’s warm side. One by one, you could tell the other brothers had wandered in, some sitting nearby, Belphie curling up against your back, a blanket being thrown overtop of you both at some point.

By the time everyone had wandered in and settled down, your migraine had vanished completely. But you were far too comfortable to move now.

[f6bron]

pocket healer.

pairing : chamber x gn!reader

notes : established relationship, possessive!chamber and he's jealous, kinda suggestive at the end ?

The mission had gone off without a hitch, but that didn’t mean it was without its casualties. You were busy tending to Deadlock’s injuries, carefully wrapping bandages around her waist. Your focus was on her, making sure your actions didn’t cause any unnecessary pain.

“All is good?” you asked, your voice soft, full of concern.

Deadlock gave you a small smile, nodding. “I’m fine, Y/N. Thanks.”

Meanwhile, from across your view, Chamber was supposed to be participating in a post-mission briefing with Brimstone and Cypher, but his attention had long since wandered. 

He couldn’t stop watching you, the way your hands moved so gently, the way you spoke with such care. Every detail felt like a dagger in his heart, but what infuriated him most was how close you were to Deadlock. 

The way you were treating her so tenderly... it should be him receiving that attention. Not Deadlock. Not anyone else.

Deadlock noticed the intensity of Chamber’s gaze, the way he was glaring at her. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that look from him. She knew he was protective of you, maybe even possessive. She finished adjusting the bandages herself, giving you a knowing look.

“I think the wrappings are all fine, Y/N. I’ll fix the rest of it.” she said, trying to ease the tension she could feel building.

“But I’m not–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Deadlock interrupted, her tone gentle. She then tilted her head towards Chamber. “Though, I think someone else needs your attention.”

You glanced over your shoulder, following her gaze to see Chamber standing a few feet away, watching you intently. You hadn’t even noticed him there, too caught up in your work. He excused himself from the conversation with Brimstone and Cypher as you approached, that familiar cheeky smile tugging at his lips.

This guy...

“I told you to stop glaring at people I talk to.” you scolded, arms crossed over your chest.

“To be exact, mon amour,” Chamber replied smoothly, “Deadlock was flirting with you.”

“No, she wasn’t! I was just helping her with her injuries!—”

“Then, I’m injured too.” Chamber lifted his hand, revealing a bleeding cut, his expression unfazed.

You sighed, knowing exactly what he was doing. He was trying to sway you with that disarming smile of his, and unfortunately for you, it always worked.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you grumbled, pulling him by the hand to a quieter corner where you could tend to his wound in peace. 

“I told you not to hide things from me, Vincent Fabron.”

Ouch, his eyebrows shot up at the sound of his full name. You only used it when you were really annoyed. He watched silently as you prepared the med kit, your movements quick and efficient.

“Vin…” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” you responded, tilting your head innocently.

“You usually call me Vin…” he pointed out, his pout almost comical.

“That’s not the point.” you huffed, rolling your eyes, but before you could continue, he cut you off.

“I don’t like it when people get touchy with you. Only I can do that.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was being ridiculous, but his puppy eyes made it impossible. 

“Hey now…”

“You can only tend to my injuries, okay, Y/N?” he insisted, his tone leaving little room for disagreement. “The others can go to Sage, but you... you’re mine.”

Chamber tilted his head, his eyes never leaving yours as he waited for your response.

"Chérie?"

You sighed again, defeated. “Okay.”

Chamber’s smile softened, and he leaned in to press a kiss to your lips. It was rare to see him this vulnerable, this possessive, but you knew it was just another way he showed how much he cared. 

His personality always seemed to shift when you were around, going from the suave, confident agent to the affectionate, slightly clingy boyfriend.

As you cleaned his wound, Chamber rested his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. He took in your scent, his comfort in the midst of all the chaos.

“Vin, we’re still in public…” you whispered, your hands trembling slightly as you tried to concentrate on his injury.

“Je m'en fiche (I don’t care),” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing against your neck. “I want to show them what’s mine.”

He looked up at you with those soft brown eyes, his gaze full of adoration. “You’re so pretty…”

You blushed under his stare, feeling your resolve weaken. Chamber’s face nuzzled into your neck, his kisses turning your body to jelly.

“Vin, I can’t focus,” you mumbled, your voice breathy.

Chamber chuckled softly, noticing how flustered you’d become. He loved seeing you like this.

So vulnerable, so irresistibly cute. But he had more in store for you, a plan for when you both returned home.

That night, you and Chamber lay curled up together in your room, his arms and legs wrapped tightly around you like a baby koala. He always found comfort in your space, the room filled with the scent of Trudon candles and the faint hint of your perfume. It was his sanctuary, away from the endless projects and the pressures of his work. 

Here, he could just be with you, and be himself.

Your phone dinged, pulling you out of your sleepy haze. It was a message from Brimstone, another briefing scheduled for the night. You sighed, not in the mood for more discussions.

Chamber peeked at the screen, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not leaving, are you?” he asked, his voice laced with a hint of desperation.

You hesitated, knowing you really should go, but then Chamber tightened his grip, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by your skin. “Just stay here with me, okay?”

His words were so gentle, so pleading, and you could almost see the imaginary puppy ears on his head, trying to charm you. You sighed, knowing you didn’t really have a choice, not with him being so clingy.

Then, Chamber began to nibble on your ear, his lips trailing kisses down your neck. You whimpered, the sensation sending shivers down your spine.

“Hey—”

“Shh,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “Forget about the briefing. I missed you, mon amour.”

And with that, you knew there was no way you’d be leaving his embrace tonight.

masterlist.

[mssorceressupreme]

hello love! Can I please get a minho x medjack!reader where minho gets really hurt out in the Maze and the reader fixes him up, but is yelling at him and fussing over him and he gets mad that she cares so much and is like "why do you care so much dammit?!" And she's like "Because I love you! That's why."

Thanks pokie!

Love your woek btw❤️

oooo yessss the classic heated argument where someone confesses trope 😩🤌🏼 thank you lovee, I’m excited to write this for you 🥰💓

——

Because I Love You

Pairing: Minho x Reader

Summary: Minho returns from his run severely injured, and you, the med-jack on duty tends to his wounds. Unlike treating any other glader, this glader was special to you, arousing a confession during his treatment.

Warnings: mentions of blood and injuries

——

It was late in the afternoon, the sun casting its scorching heat upon the gladers who were hard at work. The glade was a bustling affair and you were no different, treating injured gladers all morning.

You were waiting at the med-Jack hut, organising supplies and preparing for any injuries that might need tending.

Your heart always clenched a little tighter when you thought about Minho out there, facing the dangers of the maze. He was your best friend, you didn’t know what you would’ve done without him by your side. It was him who brought you out of your shell during your first week in the glade, and you truly appreciated him for that.

Just as you were about to take a break, the alarms sounded. The maze doors were closing, and you rushed outside to see Minho stumbling through, supported by Thomas and Newt. Blood dripped from a deep gash on his side, and his face was pale with pain and exhaustion.

“Get him to the hut, now!” You shouted with urgency, heart pounding heavily upon being greeted with that uneasy sight.

They laid Minho on the bed, and you immediately got to work, your hands steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside you.

You tore away the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt to get a better look at the wound. The cut was deep, dangerously close to his ribs.

Minho turned his head, glancing at you while you focused on his body. “Hey.” He smirked. “Will my scar after this look sexy at least?”

“Stop it, this is serious.” You scolded, eyes still focused on tending to his wound.

He let out a sigh of relief, “Just glad it’s you helping me.”

“Hm?” You were so engrossed in treating him that you didn’t catch what Minho said.

“I’m glad you were the one on duty today. Clint and Jeff would not be as gentle as you are.” He complimented, but for some strange reason, you felt your cheeks heat up from his comment.

“Oh, uh, thank you…I think?”

“What? You should be flattered!—Ow!!” He grunted in pain, clutching the sides of the bed.

“Sorry—” you bit your lip, losing slight focus because of the way he was acting. It did not help that he looked so damn handsome, lying on the bed shirtless.

“Stop complimenting me—it’s distracting!”

“Whatever you say greenie.” He teased, he was the first person to call you that and you hated it, but over time, it kind of grew on you. Almost became a special nickname from him, and it only sounded good when he called you greenie. Maybe the reason it only sounded good coming from him, was due to the fact that you might have developed feelings for him but you brushed it off.

“The cut is deeper than I thought…” you muttered to yourself, “Damn it, Minho. What the hell happened out there?”

“I got careless,” his eyes glazed with pain, as he sighed. “Never underestimate grievers.”

“Careless? You could have died!” You snapped, pressing a cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding. “Do you have any idea what that would have done to me? To all of us?!”

“I’m back though, aren’t I?!” He pinched his nose bridge, rubbing circular motions between his brows to relief tension from his head.

“You have to remember that you’re human Minho, not some super glader! You must know when it’s time to come back instead of lounging around with the grievers!” You lecture him, fixing up the last few bits of the bandage on his wound.

“Gosh, it’s like you enjoy running towards danger instead of away from it!” You fumed.

“There was an opening, I had to explore it a bit more!” Minho countered, defending himself.

“Explore it another time then!” You finally finished cleaning his wound up, and bandaging it. You motioned for him to sit up, helping him as he did so.

“It’s my job to find a way out Y/N, you have no idea the weight this job puts in my shoulders!” He was upright now, sitting on the bed with his legs on the ground.

You stood between his legs, cleaning up any dirt on his face from the maze with a wet cloth. “And we love and support you for it.…but you must know when enough is enough! You lost a lot of blood today! What happens if you don’t make it on time one day? How could I live on?!”

“Why do you care so much dammit?!” He shouted back, in frustration and pain, “Why do you always care so much?”

You froze for a moment, your hands trembling as you held the cloth against his forehead. Your eyes met his, and you saw the confusion and anger in his gaze, mirrored by your own turmoil.

“Because I love you, that’s why!” The words burst out of you before you could stop them, your voice shaking with the intensity of your emotions. “I love you Minho. And it scares the hell out of me to see you like this!”

Silence fell between you. Minho’s eyes widened, the anger draining from his face to be replaced by something else—something deeper and more vulnerable.

“You…you love me?” He whispered, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Yes,” you said softly, “I love you, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

He reached up, his hand trembling, and cupped your cheek. The touch was gentle despite his pain, and it felt comforting.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, regret lingering in his voice from his outburst, “I didn’t know.”

You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing as the tension eased off, “Just promise me you’ll be more careful. I can’t lose you, Minho. I can’t.”

“I promise,” he whispered, pulling you down to press a tender, loving kiss to your lips.

The kiss spoke emotions you’ve never told each other, the longing, mutual pining and secret attraction to each other. It was a kiss that spoke the fragility of life in the glade, of the need to hold on to each other in the face of constant danger.

As you pulled back, you saw the determination in his eyes, a promise to fight harder, to survive for you.

“Let’s get you up and back to your hammock to rest.” You returned to your task with renewed focus.

Minho watched as you helped him up, his eyes never leaving your face. His body ached with every movement, he let out some soft grunts but was determined to be resilient.

The pain was still there, but so was something else—a connection that had always been there, but now was stronger than ever.

You put his arm around your shoulder, helping him towards his hammock with slow steady steps as you didn’t want to injure him further.

When you finally reached his hammock, he sat up and you sat beside him, your fingers intertwined with his.

The area was quiet, as the other gladers were still working and busy.

“I love you too,” Minho said, his voice a soft promise. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

[slytherweasley]

Concussion (Oliver Wood x reader)

Warnings: smut, oral male receiving, swearing

Summary: Oliver gets knocked out after being thrown off his broom by a Slytherin. You stay by his side but his concussion makes him irritable. He’s in so much pain you decide to take care of him.

Oliver lays on the hospital bed still knocked out after being thrown off his broom by a Slytherin at todays game. You sit by his side rubbing his scalp trying to soothe him in hope he will awaken. You were frozen in fear as you watched him fall, you couldn’t get up to see if he was okay until others from the crowd assured you he was alive.

Slowly Oliver’s eyes begin to open, his team mates are also here to show support for their captain. He groans in pain and Madam Pomfrey rushes to his aid. Once the team had given him their best wishes she sent them off so he could have some space.

You stayed by his side the whole time, you tried to cheer him up in every way you could think but he was short with you. “Oli, do you want me to go?” You ask softly “No stay” he says holding your hand firmly “i am in a lot of pain so I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings it’s not my intention” “I know, it’s okay” he reaches up slightly but you meet him with a kiss.

Madam Pomfrey releases him from the hospital wing and gives you everything you need as well as instructions on how to take care of him. He refuses to be wheeled in a wheelchair so you put your arm around him and let him lean on you as you walk to his dorm.

Oliver is well liked which is why it wasn’t a surprise that everyone wanted to talk to him but you tried to get him to his dorm as quick and safely as possible. You finally get him there and into bed “thank you darling” he kisses your forehead as you stack pillows behind him.

Once he is comfortable you organise his meds and everything he needs. “Darling?” He asks “Yes, Oli?” “Can you come cuddle? It will help my pain.”

He makes some space for you and you get into bed with him and try to adjust the pillows but he hits his head on the bed post “fuck” he yells “shit, baby I’m so sorry” you gently rub his head “stop. Just stop” he yells. “I’m sorry, I failed at everything” you mumble “I know you’re trying to help and you’re doing a great job, it’s just these pain meds are only doing so much.”

He pulls you into a hug “you didn’t fail at this, you could never fail at comforting me.” Something about the way he assured you created a solution to help him feel better.

You let go of the hug “I promise I won’t fuck this up” you say “fuck what up?” He asks as you lift his shirt up halfway pressing kisses down his stomach. Your fingers slide into his pants and start to palm him over his underwear “fuck darling” he groans as you feel him getting hard underneath your touch.

Your hand slip underneath his underwear as you begin to jerk him off slowly “feels good” he assures you “I love it when you touch me like this.”

You stop jerking him off to get rid of his pants and underwear letting his dick free. Your spit on his dick letting your saliva run down the base down to his balls “Oh darling, you are going to be the death of me.”

Your lips wrap around the head and you start sucking and swirling your tongue around the head tasting his precum and letting out a moan. Slowly you begin moving further down until your nose hits his mound. Oliver’s moans become louder and needier which makes you incredibly wet but you focus solely on Oliver.

Your hands massage his balls, he goes wild every time you pay attention to his balls. “Fuck darling, that’s it.” You start to move faster on his dick your eyes start to water and drool goes down your chin, you can hear the sounds coming from the back of your throat that Oliver is obsessed with.

“So good for me darling, I’m so close” this prompts you to do everything you can to keep going. “Fuck, I’m really close, you got to pull out if you don’t want me cumming down your throat” he warns but that’s what you want.

“Ah so good darling” he says as he cums in your mouth. You swallow and gently remove your mouth from his dick. “Thank you” he kisses your forehead “so much better than pain meds, do you need me to repay you?” He asks as you help him out his boxers on “No, it’s about you my love, I’ll manage as long as you are okay.”

You lay down carefully beside him facing him with your lips almost touching, he wraps his arms around you. “I don’t deserve you” he mumbles against your lips “yes you do” you close your eyes and lazily kiss him.

[cy-cyborg]

I assume this is an autism thing, but why is it so hard for people to understand pain is not the biggest problem for me when medical issues come up, sensation and sensory overwhelm is.

Possibly tmi but im at the point where i dont really care anymore lol, right now I'm dealing with a really bad, chronic uti that just will not go away, no matter what anyone does, and this thing has been making my life a living hell for the last month or so. It's not painful, or well, it is, but that's not the most unpleasant effect I need help with. It's the sensations it brings. The tactile sensation of being incontinent, of feeling like I'm busting 24/7 - so much so it's stopping me from being able to sleep most nights - the fact that both these things are so ever-present that I can't concentrate on anything else. I can't do the things I enjoy like writing and drawing because my brain can not filter it out enough to focus, and it's my body, so I can't escape it like I could with an unpleasant sound or smell.

But everyone I've spoken to about it is under the impression that the pain is what needs managing, the pain is whats causing me to be so upset and not be able to concentrate or sleep, even when i say, point-blank, thats not the case. My doctor, the emergency staff who first diagnosed it (i was instructed to go there due to concerns about my kidneys), my mum and dad, my sister, even my partner, initially, though he understands now. But I've told every single one of these people that it's not pain, it's the sensory overload thats causing the problems, and they just... don't get it. Ive tried being as blunt as I can (and considering i have no energy to mask, ive been very blunt), and it just, doesn't seem to compute with anyone. My doctor is trying to help, but his only solution is pain meds until the antibiotics runs their course, which don't help because it's not pain (and yes, i tried it anyway). The emergency doctors did the same. My mum and dad keep suggesting pain management skills they were taught when I was a kid, mum is also suggesting things that make things like the burning part of UTIs less painful, my sister doesn't really have any advice but she keeps asking me about my pain too when she checks in. I appreciate the attempts and all

But it's not pain.

The only one who did get it right away was my psychologist, but she's not the kind of doctor that can really help with this, outside of giving me suggestions for coping mechanisms and how to redirect stimming/meltdowns to be less destructive or harmful. Which is great and I did need that, but I'd really like to not be having the meltdowns in the first place.

This isn't the first time this has been an issue either, but it has been the worst/longest time. I just don't know how to get it across to people that the pain is not my main problem. I know how to manage pain and make it less intense/more bearable (my whole lower body is covered in skin grafts and I've had several amputations, I have a lot of experience with it), but just because it's not pain doesn't mean its not debilitating and seriously impacting my quality of life. And because it just won't go away (i highly suspect it has become antibiotic resistant), I have no idea when this will all end, which makes it all the more worse.

[stealingyourbones]

Hey Bones, I saw your thing about a Bat family member becoming a ghost and it reminded me of a very heart breaking au a friend and I came up with a while back that I don't remember if I submitted or not. Either way, be prepared to have your heart broken.

Tim is dead. He's been dead for a while actually. But No one seems to have noticed. He looks and feels just as solid as he did before he died, even if he's got a lower body temperature and doesn't seem to get hurt on patrol beyond bumps and bruises. Never anything that would land him in med Bay, never anything that would make his family check on him.

No one has noticed the way he doesn't eat anymore, or the fact he doesn't sleep. He's extended his patrol hours and cut back on time at Wayne Enterprises. He's pretty sure not even Alfred noticed. He knows the Kryptonians aren't worried about him not having a heart beat and they have no reason to tell anyone. They know he has a special device that can hide him from their senses and tests it on Kon a lot to make him focus on spacial awareness beyond his hearing. He used it a lot before he died. They just think he hasn't turned it off in a while.

Tim remembers how he died. Not fully, but there are pieces. He remembers he was fighting someone on a bridge and he didn't call for back up because he thought he could handle it. He doesn't remember who he thought he could handle. He remembers something stinging his arm. A bug? No a bug couldn't bite through Kevlar, it was a needle. Then everything started going dark and he was stumbling back. His back hit something hard and he tiped over it. He thought he could land on the other side. He remembers wondering why his suit felt so damp and heavy as the world went black around him.

Tim's body is still at the bottom of the bay where it will likely stay forever with so, so many other bodies. It makes Tim wonder, why him? Why not everyone else who ended up down there? Why not everyone who has died in Gothem? Did he come back like Jason did, is it something to do with being a vigilante? Tim checks his own pulse again while he's alone. Yep. Still dead. He continues on his patrol and tries to shove those thoughts away.

So what if Tim's dead? He's still here and he still has work to do. His family is full of detectives. If they can't figure out that something as important as death has happened to one of their own? Well then Tim thinks they need to pay more attention. He ignores the pain that curls in the back of his mind at that thought.

It's been 6 months. Why hasn't anyone noticed? Tim can't help but wonder if they ever will.

Howdy its me @bonebrokebuddy answering. I'm Twone's (twin bones) twin who is helping answer asks because this fucker has like, over 100 of them in her ask box and I help her with making prompt ideas frequently so she trusts me to not horribly fuck up her account.

This is my first answer for her I've written because I had my screen on low brightness and on darkmode, so your profile jump scared the shit out of me when I scrolled past it. Therefore im answering this one first.

Anywho, from my chronic inability to write angst here goes: Tim died, came back and none of the Bats seemed to care. So what? It's not like his best friends hadn't done the same thing. And he was tired and sick of the Bats thinking his entire life revolved around them.

So he packed up his bags and headed to Kansas.

The Bats might not be worried but neither was Kon or Bart. They're actually thrilled after getting over their initial grief that Tim now has also personally experienced death and came back. The funeral was a rather small, breif, and quiet afar. Kon made sure to help locate Tim's corpse and Bart helped with the eulogy (surprisingly heartfelt and moved them all to tears.)

Sure, they're sad that Tim died but he's right in front of them, it's a little more difficult to morn when you've been laughing at said dead guy who got stuck halfway through phasing out of the wall. And now Tim can keep track with them!

Kon is a little pissed that Tim can now go intangible and escape his TTK so he can't take away Tim's coffee anymore. But it's kinda worth it. The first time he took Rob on his favorite flight path, he's never wanted anything else than to hear Tim's breathless laugh and see his frighteningly perfect smile again. They now often go on flights together, high above the clouds with no-one else but them for thousands of miles around. (it almost felt like a date)

Bart knew this would happen one day. He was from the future, of course he knew that Tim Drake, formerly Red Robin, died at age 19 and changed his alias to The Grey Ghost. It doesn't mean that Bart doesn't morn the passing of his friend. Tim means a lot to him and the brief guilt that he did not stop Tim's death also quickly passes. He can finally show Tim that hiding space in the walls that no one else can get to without phasing through the wall! One other thing. Bart is unsure if Kon has noticed yet, which he knows Kon isn't the most observant of the old young justice crew but he has to have noticed it by now. Ever since Tim left Gotham he's developed an insane appetite despite claiming that he didn't need to eat while in Gotham and also being dead so why does he need to eat? (Unknown to Bart, Kansas doesn't have as much ambient ectoplasm as Gotham and Tim is starting to experience the withdraw symptoms. If the trio don't realize how to fix Tim's worsening symptoms soon, Tim might actually die for good this time.)

[jinx-s-things]

She loves you Pt.2

Warnings: violence, Blood, manipulation, gaslighting

This was loosely based on misery, pt.1 is here

You looked at her in total disbelief, so many emotions and thoughts ran through your head. “W-why?” You stuttered, you could hear Amber chuckling silently. It made your stomach drop she leans in to caresses your face, Her hands felt as cold as ice.

You completely froze not knowing what to do. She was looking straight at you not once blinking, you were looking around the cold and colourless room. You look back “Tell me why I’m here now!” Amber sighed, “I brought you here because I need you, The first time I ever met you I knew that you were mine. So I had this plan where I hid that letter in your bag and it worked” she laughs moving away from you.

“You’re Fucking insane! I thought we were friends… oh my god this is so fucked up.”

All you could do was cry, you hoped it was all just a nightmare and you would wake up soon. Amber could never do this she was your best friend since like forever.

“How long have you have you had this plan?” You ask. She walks back over to you holding something behind her back.

“About a few months ago, I have followed you home everyday and you never even noticed” she smiled. You got a chill down your spine.

_

It’s been a few weeks and you’re still locked in this room But after a while Amber started letting you leave the room. You haven’t any alone time to think about what’s happened, Amber’s been with you constantly even as far as to sleep in the same room. She keeps you on high alert you never know what mood she’s going to be in.

Some days she praises you with compliments and gifts like she’s trying to win you over but then the next full of rage calling you all the names.

It’s been awhile since you thought of days and the time. Heck it could even be a different year by now. Just lying on the bed looking at the ceiling u hear a crash, you got scared it’s one of Ambers rage days. As Amber burst through the door “this is taking too long” just as she’s saying that you notice a hammer in her hand. You try to move but stumbled, The next minute you feel the worst pain in your arm then the next arm, you hear a crack. The pain is so bad, you pass out.

Not sure how long you’ve been out for when you woke, you were hazy and then it all came flooding back including the pain. Focusing your eyes you force yourself to look down, what a mess. You see both arms plaster cast in slings, on one you notice there’s something carved. You try to focus but your still a bit woozy, you see a heart has Been carved in with a message next to it you move your head slightly to see it said ‘love you always Amber xxx.’

“Ah you’re awake finally” Amber burst through the door with some pain medication. You’re a bit weary but you’re so desperate for pain relief. She gives you the pain meds.

“Why the hell did you do that!” You scream,

Amber chuckles and calmly leans in. “I did it for us baby” you couldn’t help but get lost in her deep brown eyes.I have a surprise for you. She presented you with a heart shaped velvet box, She slowly opens it to reveal a beautiful necklace with half of a human looking heart pendant. You notice Amber is wearing the other half

“Look they have our blood inside them, now a piece of me will always be with you.”

It’s been 4 weeks of Amber doing everything for you as your arms regain their strength. As the weeks go on you start to feel a deep devotion. Amber has been planning this thing you don’t know anything about but she said she’ll tell you when she’s finished. You were quite nervous for what she could she be planning still you trust Amber.

As you were stretching your arms, Amber came in looking excited. “It’s nearly time, your arms are getting strong.”

“Please give me a clue” you say

“Stop asking I’ll tell you when I finish the masks” masks? You say to yourself. You feel your eyes begin to droop and slowly fall asleep.

When you awake Amber’s in the room with almost giddy with excitement. “I finally worked out my plan” she announced you were a bit disoriented but you were eager to know what the plan was. “I’ll get you some breakfast first” Amber walks out the room but she came within minutes. She let you enjoy your breakfast. Then she began to explain, once she was done you stared in shock. She handed you the mask, slowly you took it and looked back up at her.

“You in?” She said then smirked you thought for a moment and replied. “Yes”

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 28

PREVIOUS

FF does not like being on pain medication.

Everything feels floaty and it is so hard to focus on anything around him.

He’s almost glad that his Gran has given him something to focus on that something being helping her sell her lie to the Foxes that she only knows Polish. Coach Wymack must know but the man is a steel trap and FF finds himself envying his Gran that HER secret keeper is Coach Wymack.

“Smithy! My sweet beautiful idiot!” Nicky cries when Gran gives Wymack the OK for them to come back in. FF finds himself on the receiving end of 2 forehead kisses and a kiss to each of his cheeks from Nicky. “Next time you see a crazy mafia hitman looking to kidnap me you just grab me and RUN.” He orders pointedly, “No more cool guy shit where you take ‘em out in the weird sex alley.” He runs his fingers through FF’s hair and…

Yeah it’s okay that Nicky is the one that knows.

Nicky is so nice.

“What about Aaron?” FF asks.

“If Romero could grab Aaron when he is in whacky inflatable tube mode then I don’t think he’d be taken out by you and Andrew.” Nicky says with a watery smile.

“Hey.” Aaron’s voice is offended.

“Learn to dance at a club already. We’ve been going for years.” Nicky shoots back but never takes his eyes off of FF’s face.

“I dance just fine. I’m better than Kevin.” Aaron argues.

“Hey.” Kevin’s voice is offended.

“You are better than Kevin, but that’s not a real standard of good.” Nicky dismisses, “Regardless, next time grab me and I’ll grab Aaron and the three of us can hide literally anywhere other than the weird sex alley. We could go to the back room with Roland or, if it means you not ending up in the hospital with a stab wound, I would even tolerate hiding down in the straight swingers club in the basement.” Nicky says.

He sees Andrew and Captain Neil tense off to the side.

Oh, that’s right.

Oh fun another lie for him to focus on instead of feeling floaty. Gran always talked about the virtue of telling the truth but the only thing set free would be Nicky in a club that he’s not supposed to know about.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you Nicky.” FF says instead.

Nicky laughs and kisses his cheek one more time. “You’re my favorite family member now. Sorry Aaron, you’ve made me endure the horrors of a heterosexual relationship for too long.” Nicky says stroking  FF’s face as he looks up to where FF assumes Aaron is.

“Hey.” Aaron says in the exact same way he said earlier.

“Andrew-“ Nicky starts but is cut off.

“I don’t care.”

“That’s the spirit.” Nicky says, “Neil-“

“Nicky, I also don’t care.”

“At least you have one another to support each other.”

“Wait, what about me?” Kevin asks.

“You won’t even LEARN the family language Kevin, you were NEVER in the running for my favorite.” Nicky dismisses and doesn’t bother to turn back to the  “So Smithy is my favorite family member now with Aras coming in second.”

Two things strike FF in the wake of family conversation.

First, when in the world did Kevin get here? Why is he here? Is he going to ask the doctors to run tests on FF to figure out stealth mode?

Second, Nicky just used his Gran’s nickname. The nickname that causes FF no small amount of embarrassment. It was a youthful indiscretion! He had thought he understood Lithuanian quite well! He had wanted to impress his Great Gran and his Gran with his knowledge.

“You’re looking pale Smith, do you need more pain medication?” Captain Neil asks.

“No, I’m fine.” He is pretty sure that pain meds can’t numb the psychological pain of his friends hearing about his youthful mistakes and he doesn’t care how bad his stomach is going to hurt he wants to only take the absolute minimum amount of pain meds required to get through this so he can stop floating.

Having friends nearby makes it so much easier.

Conversations go on with him and around him. He’s tired still from everything and when a nurse comes in to try and give him more pain medication he declines. All present in the room except Gran try to convince him to take it but he declines all but the most minor amount to take the edge off.

He finally realizes that Kevin had not been with them and asks why the hell he’s here. He gets an answer that makes him reconsider being on any pain medication at all because it doesn’t really make any sense. Why in the world is Kevin telling him not to trust the nutritionist?

Neil lets him know that the FBI are going to be coming around at some point to talk to him. He says that Agent Browning is a dick but generally fine and that there will be a local agent Iruma Matsumoto stopping by before him, probably today. He looks right at Andrew and says “Yeah, I’ll talk with them about how Romero stabbed me.” Andrew lets out an amused puff of laughter that makes FF feel like he might be doing alright at this friendship thing.

He apologizes to Andrew that he can’t make the pie today and gets a flick to his ear.

He finds out that he slept through all of Saturday and that it is Sunday morning. Finds out that his Gran and Wymack had stayed over at the Columbia house last night and that Wymack has him excused from his classes this week. He also finds out that Nicky has given his grandma a key to the house in Columbia so she could stay there while she’s visiting him.

He apologizes to Nicky for messing up the clothes he’d let him borrow and earns another flick to the ear from Nicky.

Wymack hands him a new phone that Nicky has apparently set up for him. His lip quirks up slightly when he sees that Nicky registered it as ’Smithy’s phone’. Neil shows him some stuff since he has the same phone model but Andrew rolls his eyes.

“You’ve barely figured out how to set anything on your phone Junkie. You still haven’t even set a screen lock.” He says as he pulls Neil back from FF’s space.

“I’ve figured out how to change the notification ping.” Neil argues but lets himself be pulled away and if Andrew keeps his arm around Neil afterwards? No one comments on that.

He translates things for his Gran when it seems important for her to be able to respond to and helps Nicky with some pronunciations.

He falls asleep a couple times and wakes up to his friends and teammates in all sorts of different configurations. Nicky gets him some good sugar-free Jell-O from the nurses while Aaron smacks Kevin upside the head when Kevin complains that it’s not good for him and not part of the diet he’s making to get FF back on the Court ASAP. “He’s gotta be on a clear liquid diet for 24 hours after his surgery.” Aaron hisses.

“Why does it have to be clear? I can put it in a blender but it won’t be clear.” Kevin grumbles.

“He’s not going to be on puree’d food for at least two weeks idiot.” Aaron smacks his head again.

“Stop that.”

He hears from Wymack the other Freshman Dealer won’t be returning and that Sheena is now their only Dealer and she does not do defense well. Kevin’s disapproval for the Jell-O cups only grows stronger in light of this news. His grumbling only stops when Gran looks at him and says “Maybe someone should help you pull that stick out of your ass young man.” In her nicest most grandmotherly voice.

When Kevin turns to FF for a translation Nicky beats him to it, “She said a handsome young man like you shouldn’t ruin your face with worries.” He says without a hint that he’s lying.

Kevin preens at the grandmotherly approval of his looks and FF gets to know that he, Nicky and his grandma all have lying in common.

Eventually it’s lunch time and the natural hunger of college athlete boys trumps anything else. Kevin won’t eat anything at the cafeteria since he doesn’t trust the nutritionist so they agree to head out of the hospital to grab food. He’s more tired than hungry so he tells his Gran to go with them. She pats his face and promises she’ll be back with some clear soup for him per the Doctor’s order and despite Kevin’s grumbling that he could make a clear protein shake.

His Gran kisses his forehead and tells him that she’ll be back soon and that he should rest as much as he can.

***

FF can’t sleep.

He tried.

He really did.

But without the noise of everyone else his mind keeps going back to the last time he was in a hospital. He closes his eyes and he can see Gran’s pale face when she tells him that his dad didn’t make it and the tears when she tells him neither-

He can’t sleep.

So he gets up against medical advice and decides to go on a walk. He’s not been connected to any of the monitoring equipment since he had first woken up, just the IV keeping him hydrated. FF decides he wants to get his dad’s leather back because it would make him feel better. The leather jacket has weight that would keep his feet strictly on the ground and it’s something his Gran had given to him when he went off to college so that he could keep his dad close. He could call a nurse but it feels like he shouldn’t distract them with something as stupid as getting him his dad’s jacket so he doesn’t have a panic attack.

So he lets himself slip into the background and heads towards the nurse station. He thinks that might be where they’re holding his belongings. It’s a good first stop if nothing else.

He can’t help but notice a strange number of men in suits but figures that maybe they’re just there to talk to people who seem to have gotten caught up in some sort of mass casualty incident.

He makes it to the nurse station and when a whole 5 minutes goes by without a single nurse clocking that he exists he considers speaking up until he sees a nurse bagging up some clothes, slapping on a label, and heading away.

It’s nice when things work out for him.

Another suit wearing man comes up and a different nurse sees him there immediately and comes up, “What can I help you with?” She asks.

“I’m looking for someone with the last name Smith, he has a stab wound?” The man asks.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” The nurse responds with exasperation but FF is already almost out of earshot when he hears it because he’s following the nurse with the bag.

He follows her down the hallway and she thankfully takes an elevator instead of going down the stairs because FF doesn’t know how he would have gotten his IV stand down with him.

FF walks in with her and he watches her slump as the doors slide close. Relaxing like most people do when they think they’re alone. Her shoulders go straight back when the elevator opens again and he follows after her.

He follows her to a door that she unlocks and proceeds to enter and FF sees a room full of the same bags with belongs all tagged with a last name and a room number. “Christ, why are there so many fucking Smiths in here right now?” She grumbles but takes him straight to the S section and he sees his own ‘Smith’ and room number.

He grabs it and heads out the door before the nurse and heads into the elevator.

His phone pings with a text message. He opens it and sees a text from an unknown number.

“Come to the Cafeteria. - IM”

FF stares at his phone for a few minutes before the initials click.

Iruma Matsumoto, the local FBI agent who was coming to talk to him today according to Captain Neil. It’s weird to be texted like this but this is the first time he’s ever had to talk to the FBI. Maybe it’s normal? He doesn’t really want to bother Captain Neil about what getting interrogated by the FBI is like since Captain Neil is out at lunch.

He decides to go to the Cafeteria.

FF follows the directory in the elevator and then the arrows that point him towards the cafeteria. He takes a moment to pull his dad’s jacket out and it does help him feel better. He realizes the McDonald’s toy is still in his pocket and thinks that he really should probably turn that over to Agent Matsumoto.

When he gets to the cafeteria he sees even more of those guys in suits and then he sees a well dressed Japanese man sitting by himself at a table. FF has a moment where he thinks ‘Wow that FBI agent sure does look like a member of the Yakuza.’ Before he squashes it because ‘OMG that’s such a fucking racist thing to think. Thoughts from the abyss are the worst and Agent Matsumoto is probably a perfectly nice guy.’

He takes a seat in front of the man who is surrounded by two other of the men in black he’s seen. Oh that guy was probably looking for him to bring him here so they could have the talk.

None of the men seem to notice him and FF realizes that he’s still in stealth mode. He sets the bag with the rest of his clothes to the side and clears his throat.

Three sets of eyes are on him immediately and FF breathes through the anxiety as the two men at either side of Agent Matsumoto seem to reach for something at their holsters.

“Captain Neil said you wanted to talk to me.” He says.

Captain Matsumoto raises a hand and the two men on either side of him return to an at ease position.

***

Ichirou Moriyama could admit to himself that he had been startled when a young man seemingly appeared out of nowhere in front of him without any warning. He sees a bulge in the man’s pocket that says that he’s armed and he could have done anything before bringing attention to himself. He had men throughout the hospital and no one has spotted Wesninski or any of his cohorts but they had their eyes peeled for the uninvolved civilian who had taken out Jackson on his own and had assisted Wesninski’s guard dog in taking out Romero.

Interesting.

Ichirou clasps his hands together in over the cafeteria table.

“Yes, let’s talk.” He agrees.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

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The  requests to be added to the tag list keep being spread out across a few  different areas. If I missed you please just ask again in the replies I  promise I just missed you.

As stated before if you’re up here and I spelled it right but you didn’t get a notification there might be  something switched around in your settings that won’t let me tag you properly?

If you didn’t get notified on the last part it’s probably because I used tumblr mobile to post and our most beloved garbage fire site just didn’t like that.

[httpvomitello]

In your rottmnt x fem-reader villain can we get a part 2 where we save their lives and when they ask why y/n is standing there and says ‘I don't know why I saved you I-I just did OK!’ I feel a lack it would be funny

Hello, hello! I hope you like it ~ ♡♡♡♡

I received another request similar to this one, so I decided to combine the two!

* * * *

A New Dynamic *⁠.⁠✧

The warehouse was pure chaos. Metal clashed, shadows flickered, and Leo’s focus was locked on the fight in front of him. His katanas were a blur, blocking and slicing through Foot soldiers, teleporting right after making another one of his jokes.

He barely noticed the blur of movement from his side until it was almost too late. A Foot soldier had slipped through his defenses, their blade aimed right for his shell. Leo tensed, ready to dodge, but before he could—

CLANG!

The attack was blocked, the weapon sent flying. And standing there, right between Leo and the enemy, was you.

“Y/N?!” Leo’s eyes widened.

The Foot soldier didn’t back down, lunging again. You deflected the blow, but their blade caught your side, cutting deep. You stumbled, clutching your side as crimson spread across your fingers.

“Y/N!” Leo was at your side in an instant, catching you before you hit the ground. “Why the hell would you—?”

You winced, glaring at him through the pain. “I just did, alright??!” you snapped, your voice shaky but defiant.

Leo stared at you, completely thrown. You were hurt, bleeding, but still trying to play it cool. Typical.

“Y/N, you’re bleeding,” he said, his voice softer now, more serious. “We need to get you out of here.”

You scoffed, though it came out more like a wheeze. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, sure,” Leo muttered, already lifting you into his arms. “Worse than bleeding out in a Foot Clan ambush?”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, letting your head rest against his shoulder as he carried you to safety.

The sewer tunnels blurred past as Leo rushed you back to the lair. You could feel his muscles tense with every step, his grip on you firm but careful.

When you finally arrived, Leo called out, his voice echoing through the space. “Donnie! Get in here, now!”

Donnie appeared in seconds, his eyes narrowing when he saw you. “What the—what happened?”

“She helped me,” Leo said, gently setting you down on the med table. “But she got hit. It’s bad.”

Donnie didn’t waste time, grabbing his med kit. “Only you can make Leo act even more like an idiot...,” he muttered, disinfecting the wound. “You go from stealing our tech to saving my brother? What’s next, joining our book club?”

“Don’t get used to it,” you mumbled, wincing as he stitched you up.

Leo stood nearby, arms crossed, watching every movement with laser focus. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said finally, his tone unreadable.

You shot him a look. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Leo’s expression softened just a little. “I mean it. Why’d you do it?”

You hesitated, your eyes darting away. “I don’t know,” you muttered. “I saw you in trouble, and I just... couldn’t let you get hurt, okay? Don’t read too much into it.”

Leo was quiet for a moment, then smiled. “Well, I owe you one. And for what it’s worth... thanks.”

The Foot Clan had set a trap in one of the city’s most rundown warehouses, and Raph was fighting, swinging his heavy fists with precision. But even the strongest can get caught off guard, and this time, Raph was running on fumes.

The last thing he expected was to see you, his not so rival, the one he’d tangled with so many times, leap into the fray.

“Y/N?” He barely had time to react as you slashed through one of the Foot soldiers trying to take him down. But that didn’t stop the enemy from retaliating. In the chaos, one soldier got a lucky strike, and you yelped as the blade cut across your arm.

“Damnit!” Raph grunted, his heart skipping a beat. “Y/N, what the hell are you doing?”

You ignored him, your face contorting in pain, but you didn’t falter. You gripped your weapon tighter, slicing through the next soldier without hesitation. But the wound in your arm was spreading blood fast, and Raph could see it wasn’t just a scratch.

“Y/N, you’re hurt!” he shouted, his voice full of concern. But before you could respond, another soldier aimed their blade right at Raph’s exposed side.

In a blur of movement, you leapt between them, pushing him out of the way just in time. The blade hit your side this time, and you staggered back with a sharp gasp.

“Damn it,” Raph muttered, pushing through his shock. “We need to get you out of here now.”

You, ever the stubborn pain in the ass, shook your head. “I’m fine, Raph,” you snapped, though your voice had an unsteady tremor to it. “It’s just a scratch, relax.”

“Just a scratch?” Raph growled, clearly not buying it. “You’re bleeding out right here, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t die ‘cause of your stupid pride.”

Without another word, he scooped you up, your bleeding side pressing against his shell as he carried you. You didn’t protest, but you muttered under your breath, trying to play it off.

“I don’t know why I’m saving your shell,” you mumbled, but your voice was softer than usual. “You’re gonna owe me big time for this, you know that?”

Raph grunted in response, but he was too focused on getting you to safety. “Just... Keep quiet and let me save your life, alright?”

When Raph barged into the lair with you in his arms, Donnie was already rushing to meet them, his sharp eyes instantly catching the bloodstain on your side.

“What happened?” Donnie asked, though he wasn’t looking at Raph—he was focused entirely on you.

“I think she saved my life,” Raph muttered, setting you down carefully on one of the tables. You winced as you laid back, looking up at Donnie.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you mumbled, but it was clear you weren’t putting up the usual tough act now that you were hurt.

Donnie rolled his eyes, though he was clearly concerned. “You never do, do you?” he said, working quickly to clean and dress the wound. “But the fact remains that you’re here, and you need stitches.”

You sighed, looking at the ceiling. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Meanwhile, Raph stood by, his arms crossed, but there was something in his eyes that was typical in his family. Worry. Concern. Maybe even guilt.

You caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Raph shifted uncomfortably. “Why’d you do it?” he asked, his voice low. “You didn’t have to save me. You could’ve just let me get sliced up.”

You met his gaze, your expression unreadable for a moment. Then, you shrugged. “I don’t know, Raph. I just... couldn’t watch you go down like that, alright? You’re... kind of a pain, but you don’t deserve to get your ass handed to you.”

Raph smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m a pain?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice still steady, but there was a hint of softness in it that you weren’t used to showing. “But you're not that bad. So I did it. And that’s that.”

Raph didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at you for a long beat, and for the first time, there wasn’t a flicker of anger in his gaze—only gratitude.

“Thanks,” he finally muttered, his voice a little rougher than usual. “I owe you one.”

You glanced at him, rolling your eyes, but there was no denying the warmth in your chest. “Don’t go getting soft on me, Raph.”

He chuckled, but it was a softer sound than you were used to hearing from him. “I’m not. I just don’t like owing people.”

“Well, I’m not taking your money, so don’t even think about it,” you shot back, the corner of your mouth curling up into a smirk.

The night had started like any other. You and Donnie were out in the city, doing your usual thing—him, geeking out over new tech, and you, causing a little chaos just for the fun of it. But tonight, things went wrong.

The Foot Clan had found you. Or maybe you had found them—it wasn’t exactly clear. All you knew was that you were cornered, and that didn’t happen to you often.

Donnie had been watching from a distance, but when he saw you get overwhelmed by a group of Foot soldiers, panic surged through him. He wasn’t about to let you get hurt.

So, he dove in, all but crashing into the fight, his bo staff whirling through the air, knocking soldiers down with ease. You managed to get two soldiers away from him, preventing them from hurting Donnie, but it wasn’t enough to stop what happened next. You were too far from him, your back to a wall, the soldiers closing in on you.

And that’s when the worst happened. A Foot soldier’s blade scraped across your side, and you went down, your breath catching as the pain hit you. Donnie’s heart dropped.

“Y/N!” he shouted, pushing his way through the chaos to get to you.

He reached you in seconds, kneeling down next to you. “Hey! Look at me!” His voice was frantic, his hands hovering above your wound, unsure of what to do.

You groaned, struggling to sit up. “It’s fine,” you mumbled, your voice shaky but trying to stay tough. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Just a scratch?!” Donnie nearly yelled, his tone a mix of frustration and genuine worry. “Y/N, you’re bleeding out!”

You gave him a look that said you weren’t going to listen to his freak-out, but the way your lips trembled told him you were starting to feel the full weight of the injury.

“Hang on, I’ve got you,” Donnie said quickly, scooping you up and cradling you in his arms. He ignored the protests you threw at him, already making his way out of the battle zone, his heart racing. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

He didn’t even waste time explaining—he just rushed over to one of the medical tables, laying you down as gently as possible.

“Donnie, it’s not that bad,” you said weakly, though it was clear you weren’t exactly believing your own words.

“Y/N, don’t make me slap you,” Donnie muttered, pulling out his med kit with shaky hands. He was trying to remain calm, but it was hard. Seeing you hurt—seeing you like this—was something he couldn’t handle.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself before looking down at you. “You’re an idiot for getting yourself into this situation.”

You smirked weakly, despite the pain. “Yeah, well, you’re an idiot for rushing in to save me.”

Donnie’s face softened, and for a moment, he looked at you as if he was about to say something else, something more heartfelt. But instead, he focused on the task at hand, carefully cleaning your wound.

“You saved me,” Donnie said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “You really didn’t have to, but you did.”

You tilted your head, trying to meet his gaze despite how much your head was spinning. “I don’t know why I did,” you admitted with a sigh. “I just... couldn’t watch you get hurt.”

Donnie froze, his hands still for a moment as he processed your words. He’d known you were an unpredictable force, but this? This was something new. Something genuine.

“You’re saying you... care?” Donnie asked, his voice betraying the disbelief he felt.

You gave a pained smile. “I don’t know. I think I might, okay?”

Donnie blinked, clearly caught off guard, but the look on his face softened. He took a breath, trying to hide the relief that was slowly spreading through him. “Well, thanks,” he said softly. “I guess I’m not used to seeing you... Trying to save me.”

“You’re welcome, geek,” you teased, even though your voice was softer now, a little more sincere than you’d intended. “But don’t get all sappy on me.”

Donnie chuckled, though it was a strained sound, as he worked on bandaging you up. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, though his smile didn’t quite hide the relief in his eyes.

You and Mikey were always a bit of a chaotic duo. He had this carefree, fun-loving attitude, while you were more... well, unpredictable, to say the least. Despite the fact that you were usually on opposite sides of the law, Mikey’s energy always seemed to drag you into his adventures—whether you liked it or not.

Tonight, though, things were different. You had been running solo for a while, causing your usual trouble, when you’d gotten into it with a group of Foot soldiers. Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue for you. You could handle yourself. But this time, they’d caught you off guard.

You were cornered, surrounded by blades and weapons, when Mikey showed up—grinning, as usual, with his nunchucks in hand, ready to save the day. But as he dove into the fight, you took a wrong step, and a blade caught you across the shoulder.

“Shit,” you muttered, clutching the injury as the pain surged through you. You didn’t have time to dwell on it because Mikey was already there, knocking out the nearest Foot soldier.

“Mikey, get out of here!” you snapped, trying to keep your balance. You weren’t going to show him weakness.

But Mikey wasn’t listening. He dropped to his knees beside you, his grin quickly falling into a concerned frown. “No way, dude. I’m not leaving you behind.”

You rolled your eyes, even though you could feel the blood staining your shirt. “I didn’t ask for your help, Mikey. Get back to your brothers before you get yourself hurt.”

“Like hell I’m leaving!” Mikey replied, his voice full of determination. “I’m not gonna just let you get hurt.”

And just like that, Mikey scooped you up with surprising ease, carrying you toward safety. You didn’t have the strength to protest this time. You just let him do it, even though you were clearly irritated by the situation.

“Dude, this is so not cool,” you grumbled, lying back on the medical table as Donnie worked to patch you up.

Mikey sat beside you, clearly not understanding why you were so upset. “I don’t get it. You’re hurt, and I’m saving your shell, what’s the problem?”

You gave him a sharp look, your lips pressed tightly together. “I didn’t need saving, Mikey. I can handle myself.”

Mikey cocked his head, looking at you like you were speaking another language. “Yeah, but you were not handling yourself. You were about to get sliced up by some Foot soldiers!”

“Exactly my point,” you shot back, wincing as Donnie cleaned the wound. “I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ve survived this long on my own.”

Mikey’s expression softened, and his voice grew quieter. “Yeah, but that’s not all there is to it. You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”

You turned your head to the side, trying to hide the sudden wave of emotion that hit you. Mikey’s words were simple, but they struck something deep inside you. You had always prided yourself on being independent, doing things your own way, but...

You couldn’t deny that Mikey’s sincerity was getting to you.

“You’ve got a weird way of showing you care, Mikey,” you muttered.

He grinned widely, not missing a beat. “Well, you’re lucky I’m weird, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Donnie finished up with your wound, stepping back to give you some space. “You’re all patched up, but you’re going to need to take it easy for a while. That said... DON'T TRY TO STEAL ANYTHING ELSE FOR NOW!.”

You let out a dramatic groan. “Yeah, yeah, Donnie. I hear you.”

Mikey nudged you with his elbow, still grinning. “You’re welcome, by the way. I’m pretty sure you’d be toast without me.”

You shot him a glare, but your voice wasn’t as harsh as usual. “I didn’t ask for your help, Mikey.”

Mikey just shrugged. “Yeah, well, too bad. You got it anyway. And I’m glad I was there. You know why?”

You frowned, looking at him cautiously. “Why?”

“Because,” Mikey said, smiling again, “you’re my friend. I care about you. And I’m not gonna let you get hurt if I can stop it.”

For once, you didn’t have a snarky retort. You just looked at him, feeling something strange bloom inside your chest. It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t dependence. It was just... genuine care.

You sighed, still trying to hide the softness in your voice. “I guess you’re not so bad, Mikey.”

He smirked, obviously pleased with himself. “I know. It’s part of my charm.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, even as you fought the growing warmth in your chest. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Mikey’s grin only widened, and he gave you a playful pat on the shoulder. “Just remember that I saved your shell, and you owe me big time, alright?”

You raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, sure, Mikey. But don’t expect me to make it a habit.”

He winked at you. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[andhumanslovedstories]

hello this is kind of heavy and no pressure at all to answer. and apologies because im sure you must have answered this before. but do you go through like a pain management flow chart for your patients and if so what are some of the steps? my dad is having some medical issues and i want to be able to help him manage his pain as much as i can. thank you and enjoy wasteland!

I work in a hospital setting so my pain management care plan is part of an interdisciplinary team in that setting. It's relatively easy for me to get, say, IV pain meds for a patient with extreme breakthrough pain. I don't know how well my approach would translate outside of that setting, I'm not palliative care trained, and I don't personally deal with chronic or acute pain (which is why I'm answering this publicly so other people can chime in), but in broad strokes:

First: Define pain. What type of pain is it? Muscle pain? Indigestion? Neuropathy? Surgical site? Stiffness from lack of movement? Is part of the pain also the fear of the pain? Sometimes when pain has been bad for a long time, or even has been bad in a short-term but very notable way, the idea of hurting that bad again is traumatizing. That fear of pain can, unfortunately, make you focus more on the pain you're feeling because now it's not just the physical sensation of pain, it's also the psychological impact of it.

Then, how does the pain affect you? Is it stopping you from sleeping? Is it stopping you from eating? Is it making you short-tempered or depressed? Does it make it difficult to focus on things? Does it make you nauseated? Anxious? Isolated? Do you feel like you need to hide it from those who care about you?

Everything pain is and affects is a place where you can intervene. Some of these interventions will be very small and would, if they were the only intervention, feel completely inadequate. Pain relief is rarely "you do one thing and you're done." You're addressing pain on multiple fronts, and sometimes that doesn't mean your focus isn't just the reduction of pain but the restoration of what pain has taken away. It's possible the worst part of pain for you isn't the pain itself but, for example, the immobility it causes. Are there different ways you can learn to move? Can you get a grabber? Can you get a shower chair? Can you find physical therapy exercises that help you regain strength or stop you from deconditioning to the degree you're able? What mobility aids might restore movement to you?

And if returning mobility is not possible at this time or ever, how can you modify your environment to support you? Can you figure out what bothers you the most about that immobility and mitigate that? If it's annoying that not being able to leave bed makes you bored, what can be within arm's reach? If it's frustrating that being too painful to move means you feel isolated from other people, can you make wherever you are more central? If pain makes having your bed on the second floor unfeasible, can you move your bed to the first floor? How can you adapt the environment around you?

I'd encourage movement too, to the degree it is possible. Being in the same position HURTS. If it feels good to stretch but you can't do it by yourself, can someone help you with range of motion? (You can look up "passive range of motion" to get an idea of how to do that.) This doesn't need to be exercising, just exploring the joy of moving your body. Related to movement is physical touch. I love lotions and medicated creams for pain patients because you can turn them into massages. Just be careful with pressure and be open about what hurts and what feels good. At the most gentle end of the spectrum is something called the M Technique which isn't even massage, it's like guided gentle touch. Give the body something else to feel.

Different medications work better with different types of pain. This part is hard to talk about in general because of the specificity of some pain med regiments. Tylenol is great, but be cautious with how much you are taking (acetaminophen overdoses are no joke) and remember that there's a point where more tylenol doesn't mean more pain relief. Opioids are great, but they can be very dangerous and aren't well-indicated for a lot of types of chronic pain. Even if opioids work best, I'd encourage you to be working on pain reduction on multiple fronts, as opioids are so controlled, it is easy to lose access to them. If opioids give you enough pain relief to do physical therapy, then make sure to do that physical therapy. Medications are amazing and I love them and I give out PRNs like crazy, but similarly to how I can't just take my depression meds and stop being depressed, pain medication works best in conjunction with other strategies. Those other strategies though can literally be something like "tramadol takes away the pain enough I can focus on something, and what I want to do with that focus is to watch a movie I've been meaning to rewatch for a while now but haven't had the spoons for." Sometimes all you will want to do when you get pain meds is sleep because you can't when you're hurting. Sleep is wonderful; how can you arrange your sleeping place and habits to make sleeping even more of a delight?

And if you find a medication that works, use it consistently. It is always easy to keep pain level than it is to address a pain spike. Don't wait until symptoms are at their worst to address them. Figure out what it feels like when your symptoms are ramping up, and intervene early.

Sometimes medications that aren't explicitly for pain can still help. If anxiety makes pain worse, consider an anxiety medication. If coughing hurts, can you get a numbing spray from your throat to make it less sensitive so you cough less?

I don't know how useful this is to you and your family. Hopefully it's at least something to think about. Think about palliative care (which is about the management of symptoms of illnesses rather than the treatment of illnesses) as not just taking away bad sensations but restoring good ones. You can't always get someone to a place with no pain. But what can you do to enhance life in the presence of that pain? There is a psychological aspect to pain, it's a parasite that drains you and makes you feel like you are nothing but a body that hurts and won't stop hurting. I want to make clear, I'm not saying pain is only in your mind. Bone mets and nerve pain exist whether you're cheerful about it or not. But pain doesn't have to mean suffering, it doesn't have to take away the things that make you you. Address pain through medication and therapies, but also remember that protecting, promoting, and prioritizing the parts of yourself that you most value and give you the most joy will help give your life so much substance that pain can't rob it all. You aren't doing one big thing. You are doing a thousand small things that make life easier, better, more suited to yourself and your abilities, and more aligned with the parts of life that you that give your life meaning.

(And a note in particular for being the family member of someone in pain--ultimately, they are going through this alone. It is their body. What can you make smoother for them? How can you protect their dignity and their privacy without making them feel abandoned or alone? How can you make it so your reaction to their pain is not part of their burden? Like for the six hundred other hypothetical questions in this endless post, the answers will be highly personal and will take time to figure out. Be patient and calm.)

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

You’ve hit such a big milestone! I’m so happy for you! For the event, can I have Rex with Song of the Ancients? It can be the Devola version, Popola version, or a version that combines the two (you can find that one on YouTube, idk if it’s on Spotify and had to be edited to combine them while keeping the soft tone).

Hello Anon!

First off thank you for requesting: Song of the Ancients.

This was a tricky one. Mainly because it was song in a language I didn't know, so I didn't have lyrics to help. So I went based on the feel of the song, more than anything else. I did try to research the song a little. I hope you like my interpretation of this.

Love oo and thank you for such an awesome request.

Song of the Ancients

Warnings: Angst, arguing, following S4E12, slavery, torture, putting on a brave face, walking away, hurt, apologies, lack of communication, deceiving of emotions, kissing, I think that's all of it, if I miss anything please let me know.

Main Master List   | Star Wars Jukebox Roulette |   AO3 Link

There were always things Rex couldn’t predict as to how things would progress in his life, but the one thing he always thought he could count on being there was you. And now … now he was at a loss. Of all the ways he could’ve expected your friendship to progress, the last thing he expected had been this. How did things end up here?

You’d been friends since the start of the war; always been by his side. Had he taken it for granted? Maybe he shouldn’t have been so cavalier about your emotions. Yet, hadn’t you promised to always be there, so why weren’t you here now?

After all, didn’t you both agree not to focus on what each of you were feeling? Didn’t you both agree to remain friends regardless of what happened? So then why weren’t you here? Why did things become such a mess? 

You looked at Rex’s injuries as he sat in med surrounded by his brothers. They were all laughing and joking, downplaying what he’d been through. It was bad enough he’d been undercover and out of contact while he was on Zygerria, and it was even worse when you had learned they had been discovered, but now … after all the pain he went through, what they all went through, here he was acting like it was no big deal. 

“Could everyone excuse us for a minute?” You did your best to keep your cool, you gritted your teeth as you saw his brothers trudge out of the med cubicle he was in, as soon as they all left you initiated the privacy screens, turning to look at him. 

“Enough with the bravado, tell me honestly, how are you?”

“Really, mesh’la, I’m fine.”

“Damn it Rex! You’re not fine!” You finally lost it. “Look at you! There’s …” you started to point out all of his bruises and scars, but before you could your bottom lip trembled. He was on a slave planet having to suffer torture at the hands of those vile beings, and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.

Rex could see the turmoil you were going through, he’d been trying to put on a brave face for you, trying to do his best not to react to the pain and the trauma he suffered. However, seeing you like this falling apart, made him realize that wasn’t the way to handle things. 

He gently reached over and pulled you in, hugging you, as he rested his head against your chest, “I’m sorry.” He pulled back looking into your eyes, his eyes saying more than his mouth ever could, “I really am fine, though.”

You shook your head pulling back, “Is that all you have to say? I’m fine? Just because we might be deceiving ourselves about what we feel, doesn’t mean you should be deciding your own body doesn’t need medical attention simply because you’re denying what you should be feeling.”

“That’s not it.”

“Isn’t it? Rex you have a scar on your neck from where the collar binder sat, you have electrical burns from the collar. There’s cuts, scars, scrapes, you have an open cut on your arm, and you’re telling me that’s nothing?”

“Sweetheart…”

“Don’t! Don’t Sweetheart me!” You shook your head frustrated to no end with this man, “If this is how you look after yourself, if this is how little you care about yourself … then I have to ask how much, do you really care about me!”

You walked away and hadn’t spoken to him since then, now a month later he was standing in front of your quarters trying his best to gather the courage to knock on your door. 

He closed his eyes and reached out, gently knocking. On the one hand he hoped you were there, on the other he hoped you weren’t so he didn’t have to deal with your anger. 

You were shocked when you opened the door, “Rex? What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry.”

Maybe it was the fact you hadn’t seen or talked to him in so long but you moved out of his way, allowing him inside. “About?”

Rex let out a sigh as he turned to face you, “About everything. I … I’ve been an idiot.”

“To say the least.”

“But you haven’t exactly been easy to deal with either.”

You nodded rubbing your forehead, “I know. I’m sorry too. It’s just…” you let out a sigh, as you looked into his eyes, “Do you know how freaked out I was when I saw you come off the gunship? To see you so injured, to see how you were mistreated, and then to see you act like it didn’t matter!” You shook your head, as you moved over and sat on the desk in your room, well more like leaning on it. “It made me upset and worried that you weren’t taking anything seriously. That you couldn’t care less about what happened to you, and in turn didn’t care how it made me feel.”

He was stunned and silenced by your statement, to think that you felt he didn’t care about you because he was simply trying to put on a brave face. 

“I’m sorry. I …” he came over and sat beside you on the desk, “I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of everything, of you looking at me differently, of the pain I was in, the things I saw, to feel completely and utterly helpless in that situation. Of all of it. I was afraid the moment I admitted what I was feeling was pain and trauma, I wouldn’t be able to have the strength to keep moving forward.”

You let out a sigh, feeling stupid, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve yelled at you. I … I was so angry seeing how little you cared about your injuries … I’m sorry.” You rested your head against his shoulder, “Do you forgive me for walking away from you?”

“As long as you forgive me for not being able to tell you the truth.” He gently rested his cheek on the crown of your head.

You smiled as you intertwined your fingers, “Of course.”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “I’ll always forgive you.”

“Maybe we should stop putting off the inevitable.”

Rex smiled as he shifted his arm around your waist and pulled you into his side, “I’m game if you are.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him, nodding slightly as your eyes drifted to his lips, your own opening slightly as your breathing quickened. Rex didn’t hesitate as he pressed his lips against yours. 

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[fic-tion-wri-ter]

"Pain"

Ricky Potts x Misha Bachynskyi

Bad Pain Day

Ride The Cyclone

SFW

Ricky knew he would get a bad pain day soon. One hadn't happened for a bit, so he knew it was bound to happen. He just really didn't want it to happen today, so of course it does. He wakes up and immediately feels his legs seize with pain. Like a heartbeat, the pain comes and fades away. He sets his hand on his knee like it will make it go away. Like he can use his hand to ease the pain. Eventually, he just gives in. He squeezes his eyes shut. It hurt so bad he wants to cry.

"My star, are you okay?", Misha sets a hand on Ricky's head.

Ricky shakes his head no. He forgot Misha was even at his house. He often sneaks in when he can't sleep. That must've been what happened last night. Ricky winces when his focus is brought back to the growing pain in his legs. Misha can tell he's hurting bad.

"Hey, what hurts? I'm gonna go get your meds to help. Show me what hurts Ricky," Misha sits up and brings Ricky up with him.

Ricky points to his leg. Misha nods and stands up. Before he left, Ricky spotted a wet spot on his shirt. Was he crying? Ugh, he didn't want to cry because then he would be babied. His least favorite thing is being babied. Misha rushes back in, holding up a picture on his phone.

"I took picture, show me which ones," Misha turns his phone to Ricky.

There's a whole section of the medicine cabinet just for Ricky. And the bottles were even color coded because apparently he can't read? Sometimes, he hated how much his parents babied him. But right now, he was so grateful for the colored bottles. Because Misha, even though he tries, is not a photographer. Ricky pointed at a few bottles. Purple (for his ADHD), Light Green (his usual joint medication), and Red (his emergency pain meds). Misha rushes back, holding the bottles in his arms. He's more panicked than Ricky is about this.

"So I give you one each of normal meds. What about this one?", Misha holds up the red bottle.

Ricky is in so much pain that he doesn't even want to sign. He holds up one finger. Misha nods and hands Ricky his meds. He's grateful that Misha is helping him. Ricky easily swallows the pills and then lays back down. Misha lays next to him, facing him.

"Oh my poor star, it hurts. Doesn't it? I can tell, come," Misha holds his arms out for Ricky.

Ricky accepts the invitation and buries his face in the boys chest. He feels a puddle under his face but doesn't care. He needs to try and cry the pain away. After what feels like hours of crying, he looks up. Misha is fast asleep. But he's still holding Ricky. Ricky likes the pressure of someone holding him. It grounds him. Ricky smiles and tries to forget about the pain in his legs for just a minute to admire Misha. He looks so peaceful like this.

"I love you." Ricky sloppily signs between him and Misha.

Ricky drifts off to sleep soon after.

——————————————————————

"Rick, Ricky, Rickster wake up," Misha is tapping Ricky's face so he doesn't hurt the boy more.

Ricky blinks a few times and opens his eyes. Misha's still lying with him on the bed. He's so comfortable around him. But he feels sleepy still. He wants to curl back up in the bigger guys arms and fall asleep. Why is he waking him up?

"What?", Ricky signs, slightly grumpy that he was woken up.

"Your parents will be home soon," Misha frowns and pushes the boys' curls back.

Ricky rolls his eyes. He knows if he's still asleep when they get home, it'll result in an immediate hospital visit. He sits up, and the pain in his legs has faded but still lingers. He feels like he's gonna collapse because of how tired he feels.

"Do not worry, I have already put meds away," Misha sits up with the boy.

Ricky sighs and finds his AAC tablet on the bed.

"Have to go home," Ricky presses the buttons.

"I know because I might get dragged to the hospital because you're terribly contagious," Misha rolls his eyes. He knows that his Ricky is not delicate.

The whole Ricky is fragile and contagious act pisses him off. Ricky is his own person. He is confident and strong and so much better than they think he is. He wishes his parents didn't baby him so much. But he doesn't mind it from Mischa sometimes. Misha is standing up now, packing his bag up.

"Kiss bye," Ricky reaches for Misha.

"I know. I didn't forget," Misha presses a kiss to Ricky's lips.

"Bye, bye. I love you," Ricky smiles.

"I love you more. Text me if you need anything," Misha slowly leaves, trying to find his way through the cat army outside of Ricky's door.

He will be back later to sleep again here. It is much safer than his place at home. Ricky grabs his phone and opens YouTube to watch Misha's videos. It's a good distraction from the fading pain.