#tw; allusions to past abuse | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

acid-ixx · 5 months ago

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ch.3: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: allusions to sexual assault, prostitution, and alcohol abuse.

"hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!"

please stop.

"i know that we haven't been talking for quite a long time—"

no, you have never once had a solid conversation with him.

and you wish it stays that way between the two of you.

"—so let's catch up over coffee, yeah? i'll be staying at the manor for a week!"

you don't want to, you don't want to see his face at all, his dismissive eyes. don't want to hear his voice, how it only sings praises for everyone but you.

"(name)??? it says you have seen the messages :( are you asleep? you shouldn't sleep with your phone on, baby bird, that's dangerous!"

he doesn't have the right to scold you, he's not your older brother anymore. and you're not asleep, fuck, you regret not dozing off this afternoon. hell, you're more than awake and aware of the messages he's sending you, eyes scanning over the train of spam that clutters what was once an empty one-sided conversation.

"baby bird? c'mon, i miss you!!!"

lies, lies, lies. all he ever says are lies and you wouldn't fall for it, not anymore.

yet you're simply frozen in shock, seated up in bed as you simply watch dick's messages stack upon each other.

you watch, and wait. it's like you have lost autonomy over your body's actions.

five minutes pass.

your phone rings.

it was the only sound that fills the room other than the wringing in your ears.

it continues ringing, reverberating throughout the room, but all you do is stare, stare until the it ends, for everything to end and for all of this to be a sick hallucination your brain played on you.

there's nothing else you could focus on, your heartbeats spike the longer the call sound continues. you didn't even have the strength to decline the call, let alone move as you fear you might end up pressing the accept button.

so you wait, you wait until it stops.

and once it does cease, your sweaty thumb immediately pressed the block button on dick's profile, even going as far to delete all the past chats you had sent him. then, without moments hesitation, hastily scrolled all the way to the bottom of the list, where their other contacts lay barren of messages.

you have only used enough effort to message dick. that's what probably triggered his sudden intent on spending time with you, no? or was this all for his sick pleasure?

fortunately, all your other contacts with your past family are empty.

it will remain empty.

so you immediately blocked them, all of them. the thumps in your heart are erratic, so much so that you had to remind yourself to breath. through your nose, and out your mouth.

that's it, right? he'll get the message, definitely. that you don't want him to talk to you, to get rid of the false pretenses between the two of you, you don't want to "catch up" over coffee, or over anything.

it's all over, you tell yourself.

'calm down, relax...' you're in the safety of your own apartment, you should feel safe right now, he wouldn't bother you anymore.

not anymore would you be led to believe that they care for you.

— so why is it that you can feel that familiar rise of bile? taste it, even? why is it that your body is shaking so uncontrollably?

what the fuck.

seriously, just what the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

you never take yourself as an overdramatic person, especially not now, at the age of eighteen where you had finally learned to live for yourself, to never yearn what you knew was unattainable. your past tantrums were no more, no more you say but you wish so badly to carve a knife into your very heart.

why is it that now— now that you were out of your comfort zone, out of their empty presences and their overwhelming absences; why is it now that he just suddenly decided to appear? why is it just now that you feel your skin scorching uncomfortably at just a single message.

shit, your heart hurts so much. you want to take the beating organ out of your chest, just to make the pain stop.

your momma always told you, she said it herself that you are a brave child, her pride and joy despite the hellish living conditions you both were subjected to.

why is it so hard to believe her now?

just, why are you so weak?

when your mother hid you inside that closet - one too small for even a malnourished child like you to fit - telling you to hush for her, and that it's just a game of hide and seek with the 'bad guys', to not make a single sound at all or even come out if you hear screaming— you did what you were told, obediently, covering your mouth, trying your hardest to ignore your sore joints and heavy breathing.

"woah, mommy! is this really me?! you always make me look so nice." a young voice squeals, the sound echoing throughout the hollow room.

"yes, it's you, baby. you who are so strong, unlike me. momma will always love you." scarred hand, littered with gashes and soiled bandages run brush through your messy hair as your small form sat on the dirty bathroom sink. your eyes are drifted towards a mirror, checking out the new shirt your mother had bought for you.

"i love you too..."

you never cried that loud when light suddenly hits the cramped interiors of the closet, when you were caught and shoved outside of your hiding space by strange men, your mother nowhere to be found. when you felt the same men ripping your clothes apart, knives branding your skin like a searing hot pan; you never fought back because that's what your mother taught you. even when they pinned you down and injected you with a strange substance, head suddenly numbing and vision darkening; you still woke up alive, no?

... you woke up alive and conscious in a police station, where you had questiomed to the kind officer about your mother's disappearance, where she had bared the news that you would be taken in to a new family; a new home where your father resides in. one way cleaner, way safer she says.

yet for the next 15 years you were neglectef of the love your mother had given you. you were only raised by a butler too busy to fully focus on you. you had compared yourself to your siblings, siblings who had achieved so much in so little time.

and you?

you are only a wayne by name, but a (last name) by heart.

but you are brave, you are strong— you came from the lowest of the low, yet you pushed through and through to be a better person, and look where you are now...!

... just look at yourself now.

your phone lays untouched on the bed sheets. it tempts you, mocks your panicked state, and you want to rip that rectangular piece of metal apart. yet all you do is stare at it, sitting upright as one hands supports your weight. your fingers clench the mattress, it does nothing as your vision darkens from your lack of breathing.

breathing.

oh, breath in, breath out. do what alfred has taught you years ago, the- the one he uses whenever you would run alone in the desolate halls of the manor to alfred's room, just because you were anxious of the monsters in the corner of your eyes, where he would help you return to your senses and play you a lullaby from an old music box right after. the one he uses after you two would watch horror movies and you were too scared of any sounds that engulf your surroundings.

your throat tightens, and you want to vomit out the contents of what you have eaten— but you have to try.

five things you can see.

your eyes, although frozen wide and stinging with tears, darts around the room. everything is darker now, it's cold and you feel so small. your apartment was small. unlike the place you had lived before, it lacks of furniture, of life, of personality. the only things in your tiny apartment were basic necessities, but even food was scarce for someone like you who had juggle working multiple jobs and college just to pay for rent.

you can see your phone, the candy wrappers you had forgotten to throw, the overflowing trash bin, an empty bottle of prescription pills, alfred's gifts on the shelves counts, right? you laugh sarcastically at yourself; even a trashcan has more contents in your shitty apartment.

fuck, your chest throbs, you remind yourself to breath a little deeper.

four things you can feel.

the mattress is too hot for you, sweat already running down your forehead as if you had ran a marathon. you can feel the tears well up your eyes, overflowing with bitterness that you thought you had already buried deep down, and your hands gripping the sheets so uncomfortably tight. the weather is too cold, winter's nearing but the blood pumping through your veins scorches your very being.

that's four, three more to go and you hope this would all be over. you hope that this would all be a dream, a hallucination, anything.

three things you can hear.

does your choked sounds count? or does it need to be anything else? fuck, why doesn't it work as well as when alfred helps you through? you told yourself that you could take on anything in life, but is it all just a lie—?

focus. focus on your surroundings. you can hear your sniffling, heavy intakes of air, and a repeat of the phone ringing with dick's name as the contact.

shit, shit, shit. don't remind yourself of that. move on, just get onto the next thing.

two things you can smell or... taste? you don't remember, why can't you remember? your thoughts keep running back in circles to the messages, that stupid '<3', the way his desperation could be felt through the phone.

it reminds you of yourself.

before you knew it, your fist brought itself to punch your chest.

thump, beat, thump.

every time your heart beats too loudly, you strike your chest as hard as you can, uncaring for the pain it inflicts you, uncaring for the way you beat the air out of yourself. as long as it distracts you from the bile rising up your throat and the unsated nausea from sitting in the same position— it'll be fine if you hurt yourself. you've already done so a million times, no?

... yet nothing works.

why doesn't anything work out in your favor?

please don't do this to me.

your fists eventually stops. everything hurts even worse.

just earlier ago, you were praising yourself for all the progress you had made. how you weren't in need of validation anymore. you try so desperately to erase any inch of evidence that you were a wayne.

it all crashes down, again and again, and again and again.

moments ago, you were laying on your bed, scrolling through social media, making plans to hangout with your small group of friends in college, trying to cling on to the good parts of your past— ignoring the empty chats of what was once family.

but even without them, even if they haven't knew that you pushed them away from your life— they're always seeping their way at the back of your mind.

you truly can not erase your past. no matter how much you shake your head to rid of the thoughts, no matter how much you try to erase any documentations, any

even talking to alfred reminds you of your stupid past. a past that eats you up every time you wake up from the nightmares, wishing that there would be someone, anyone, who would hold your body tight and tell you it's alright. your mother, your father, your brothers and your sisters— they just were never there for you for so many years. and you hate to admit it but; you still cling to the wish that one of them would...

would hug you and kiss all your wounds away. drive away the countless of dreams filled with terror and torture.

you're independent now, but at what cost? what good does it do when you still try your damn hardest to live? when you know it in your soul that you still desire for a semblence of familial love.

and now that you've pushed alfred away, you're truly alone.

alone and stuck in a loop of trying to run away from your past and failing miserably.

and all you can ever do is, well...

you cry.

the tears bursts out of your eyes like a broken faucet.

you cry because that's the only thing you know how to do. you let the waters loose, hands quickly tangling itself on your hair, ripping fragile strands apart. you cry because you've been living a such a life full of lies, of broken promises, a life where you have to constantly walk on eggshells. you cry because you want to turn back and throw away all your progress just to feel the embrace of a family who had never once held you in their arms. you let yourself heave, let your voice wail out to its deepest frustration, uncaring for the thin walls, or the sleeping neighbors next door, or the rumbling of your empty stomach.

you cry, for what seems like hours, unending like the memories of solitary isolation, like the wanting of a love that you could never quite catch. you let your eyes become all puffy and red; red like the gashes you have scratched upon your skin, like the crimson, beaded blood from your bitten lips.

you don't find any strength in yourself to stifle your sobs anymore.

not when you're so, so lonely in this world.

and when your voice dies down, when your hoarse shrieking becomes no more; you simply force yourself to stand, despite the spinning of your vision, the stumble in your steps and the lack of air in your lungs; you run to your bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting adrenaline take its course into your already tired body.

your knees, they buckle after its few wobbly steps. it's sore and lacks the circulation to be properly controlled, but you ignore it in favor of expelling the acidic bile that finally rushes itself up your tongue.

at least you find just one thing to be grateful for— that your knees slipped on the wet tiles and land coincidentally towards the toilet's rim, a loud thud vibrating through the room.

alfred says the best way to cope is to never jar your emotions.

it's painful, everything is so painful that you want to scream; you need to let it all out.

you don't care if your knees were to bruise because you couldn't help it anymore, spilling out the contents of your breakfast onto the toilet bowl. your throat constricts into itself, and all you could do is gag and force every bit of food out of your mouth.

and it tastes so bitter that you cry even more. there were some bits and chunks stuck on the sides of your tongue, you can taste the acid on the back of your throat. you feel the urge to vomit even more but there's no more to expel. all you can do is dry heave, shaking hands finding its way to cover your mouth from gagging anymore.

it's so pungent, so fucking disgusting— but all you do is force yourself to stand once more, to look away from the mess you had created and flush it away.

the tears just wouldn't stop, the throbbing in your heart could never be expelled just as easily as the contents of your stomach.

yet you chose this life, there's no more alfred to assist you on your own personal struggles. there's no more rubs on the pack, pats on the head or a warm meal that greets you every time you drown in your own emotions. it's only you who can solve your own problems. you can't depend on anyone but yourself...

if only life was as easy as it is to flush away unwanted contents from your stomach.

if only you weren't in gotham... if only dick wasn't in...

gotham.

he's in gotham right now.

shit.

shit, shit, shit.

dick is in gotham, and you know he just doesn't give up.

he can track you down, he'll find you, he might hurt you because you blocked him— you know of his temper, of his unadulterated anger; you're scared of that. just what have you done wrong? did you take something that was his? no, no, never.

you've never been in his room before. he knows yours because he had visited once, but you don't know his. you don't even know which hallway leads to it.

oh, fuck.

you stumble towards the bathroom sink, hastily twisting the faucet's valve. cold water immediately rushes down, you cup your two hands together to collect the running water.

you need to get to you bearings, prepare for the absolute worst because you know, you know the power he holds in his arms.

with the amount of times he had spammed you, called you even— there's something he wants from you, and you don't want to entertain whatever he has on his mind.

you splash your face - splotched with tears, snot and drool - clean multiple times, rub your swollen, red eyes, and wipe the bits of vomit on the sides of your mouth. you can still taste the vomit. god, it's disgusting.

so you hastily grabbed your toothbrush, pushing an insanely large amount of toothpaste on the bristles. you scrub your teeth aggressively, feeling the urge to rid of the pungent taste of stomach acid. then you gargle mouthwash, twice, and spit it all out.

your movements are too quick for your own self to catch up, but you have to do this. your brain tells you to follow through whatever it has to do.

follow through instincts, get him out of your mind.

distract yourself from dick and the cryptic messages he had sent, that you had thoroughly deleted but...

it dawns upon you that albeit all your failed attempts at bonding with him— you know nothing about dick beyond the circus incident that had killed his parents and his identity as gotham and bludhaven's vigilante, nightwing.

you know nothing about him...

and you fucking blocked him before you could ask for an explanation.

what does that message mean? what does he want to talk about all of a sudden? a person doesn't just fucking waltz in someone's life after 15 years of absence and exclaims himself as close as your friend, no?

it had been so long since you had last heard him call you baby bird, let alone even read your messages, so why spam you now?

your knuckles grip at the bathroom sink's tiles, it was the only thing that provides you balance, legs too wobbly to support the dizziness. you feel a huge lump on your throat again, but you can't just erase all the efforts you had done to get yourself together.

— but at the same time, it's too hard to ignore the panic that resurfaces on your very mind.

so what do you need exactly?

distraction, something to get your mind off of the current situation? before you run away from gotham—

you need a distraction, anything. even if it's stupid, you'll regret it later, just not now.

cigarettes? no, you don't smoke. alfred will kill you if he finds out and you can never lie to him.

drugs? you'll be shot in the head by nasty criminals scamming naive citizens for half the price before you could even purchase them.

... then what?

you look at yourself in the mirror, puffy eyes glazing with emotions you yourself couldn't comprehend.

'despite everything, it's still you, no?'

if you could describe yourself right now, you would call yourself a mess, a big loser who had let their emotions run free for too long, let themself go way too quickly, gave up too quickly, and believed too naively. you had lost so much yet gained so little. a wayne so stubborn that it was the only thing you could ever relate to your father who had estranged you without knowing it.

there was more negatives than positives, you're aware of it.

but if there's one trait that anyone could generalize off of you, it would be that you're always desperate for something.

anything.

and just one time, you tell yourself. one time and that's it, nothing more, nothing less.

once you done relaxing, you're packing your bags and making a run for it. you'll even cut alfred off of your life once and for all. no matter how much it pains you to do so, it's necessary so you could make a new identity from scratch.

it'll hurt you so deeply.

but that's why you're going to do what you wish you had done back when you were still so young—

you need a drink right now.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, is truly just an empty palace that houses buried memories.

with walls that cover the cries of one lonely child; a child who yearns for the unreciprocated love of their family. it was a cage for a child who stalks the frigid halls without any company, who sleeps in a room too small for their age, who cries for anybody to notice the pain that they had hidden with rose colored tints for so long, who yearns for a warmth that could never be provided in the spaces of harsh, black wallpaper and harsh winters.

it will always be innately lonely, and cold.

yet it's even more sullen now, an atmosphere so empty nobody could pinpoint.

no more was the voice that sings of the butler's splendid cooking. no more was the etching of ballpens on smooth paper on an intricately designed diary that stores all the rants of one's daily life. no more were the strokes on colorful canvases that paint dreams of a different life. no more was the humming of multiple tunes every morning. no more was the presence of the ghost who water the plants every afternoon. no more were the footsteps that thud in the kitchen and the hands that opens the fridge.

and most importantly—

no more were the hushed cries of the kid who resides in the smallest room of the wayne manor.

a house could be described as a building where a unit, moreover a family, lives in; but a home is what represents comfort, a place of belonging and safety.

it was a place encased with deep, historical roots.

but right now, encased in a field of damp grass - wet from heavy rain - and the overwhelming scent of petrichor— the manor is simply a house.

for it could never be complete without the presence of the very lonely child who cries for a love never to be attained.

the wayne manor, in all its worth, would never be the same without (name) wayne, a child who had always belonged, but at the same time, always wronged.

bruce wayne never considered himself the greatest father.

he could be gotham's best detective, the most feared vigilante, or the heavily beloved billionaire who donates millions on hospitals, hosts charity events, and so much more.

he could spend his entire life saving countless of other lives that do not deserve the turmoil of living on edge constantly, attend meetings, plan out his every moves, sit on cushioned seats as he broods over where the all the next criminal hideouts; he could do everything and he'll be damned great at it.

—but he will never be the greatest at being a father.

he had long accepted that fact, embraced it even, facing countless of criticism from both alfred and media alike, but it would never be an excuse to neglect or mistreat any one of his children, just like how it would never be right to just ignore a kid's cry for comfort in the barren halls of a manor.

bruce was never outright cruel towards anyone, every action of his baring significance to his moral code.

which was why bruce feels a pit of neverending regret now.

in all the years that he had spent trying to raise his children, children who, in a way, are trouble. who all differ from each other from ideals, to pasts, to habits, to preferences— he wouldn't lie and say that he never had difficulty helping each and every one of them grow to be who they are now.

living through his decisions are never easy, especially if the outcomes were unpredictable; raising a child, let alone children, could go so many ways.

the lives that he had to juggle, alongside his identity as bruce wayne and as batman, they were all an endeavor that he had chose to balance. he had come so far and stumbled so often. but at least by the end of it, he would be proud to say that he truly will never regret having them by his side when he was at the lowest points of his life.

he had his flaws and his mistakes, he had done irreversible actions that he wishes he could reverse, and most importantly, he had failed each and every one of his children indubitably.

but he really tried.

he tried his best to be there for every single one of them. he was there for dick when he had witnessed the death of his mom and dad, adopting the boy who was overflowing with rage towards the killer of his parents and utilizing his gymnastic skills for good. he was there to pick jason up when he had stolen the batmobile's tires, helping the child unlearn the past abuse he had fallen victim to (and although he had died, then resurrected, and turned cold-blooded towards criminals, murdering without hesitation— he still cares for jason deeply). he was there when tim had lost his parents. there for damian who had only been raised as an assassin since he was born. for cass, for duke, for everyone.

he really tried to be active in their lives, supporting them through their blood, sweat, and tears.

... but he had never tried to be there for you.

his forgotten third child, the biological firstborn, child of a well-known prostitute, (name) (last name), whose identity has long been erased off of the face of the internet; the scandal of a century that took the shared efforts of him and barbara to decimate whatever information the late (or missing?) (last name) has in the underground.

(name), his child he has never once bat an eye on, too preoccupied with tim, aversing his attention away from you to train the other kid; ultimately ignoring the immense trauma you must have dealt with from being raised by a mother targeted by most criminal organizations from extorting their cash. it was sickening for him to think of just how cruel were the conditions the two of you were forced to live through.

it was sickening for bruce to imagine the even lonelier years you had to suffer through after your mother's disappearance— years where your father's presence was elsewhere, years that a child has to suffer through alone without any figure to look up to.

it was your name that he had hesitated to even say, in fear of butchering the pronunciation and earning more of alfred's judgemental looks.

(name) wayne.

not even a face can be associated with you, not your voice, your hobbies, nothing.

he couldn't recall a memory where he had taken you to a fancy gala, or one-on-one father-child dates, or any occasions that requires bonding with each other.

he wasn't the man who welcomed you through the doors of the manor, nor was he the father who should've picked you up at the police station.

bruce wayne knows nothing of his third child.

if alfred hadn't confronted him about your terrible living conditions as of now, living in debt whilst trying to push through college, then how long would he have ignored your presence inside the manor? how long would the years pass without him acknowledging any important milestones that you would reach?

until your untimely demise perhaps?

he couldn't even remember a time he had at least given you a gift during christmas or new year or any time of the day.

not even the name of your elementary and high school, or your college university. he doesn't know of your friends, your teachers or what subject you excel in.

you had already graduated highschool, and he wasn't even there for your ceremony. he wasn't there to walk you up the stage, wasn't there to shield you from the thousands of photographers who would've attended should they know that a wayne would attend, wasn't there to offer you a pat on the shoulders for a job well done.

then who had to walk you up the stage?

"alfred..." he stops walking, clearing his throat as alfred turns back at bruce, offering a raised eyebrow at the sudden pause and bruce's rigid pose.

"yes, master?"

"when... (name) graduated," he hesitated on saying your name again, catching on alfred's sudden squint of the eyes. "who walked them up the stage?"

he hopes you didn't have to go up there alone, that a teacher at least accompanied you or—

"i was the one who attended in your stead, master bruce." the butler replies without hesitation, as if it was a normal occurrence. he sighs again, too tired to scold bruce's surprise for absolutely dismissing all the important dates that include you and instead turns back to continue on his treck to guiding bruce to your room.

alfred's look of condescension makes him sink deeper into the void of regret. for being unable to

fuck, how many important events had bruce missed? from school plays, to parent-teacher conferences, to talent shows— was there ever a "bring your father to school" day?

oh... he really hopes there wasn't.

his hands find itself scratching his head, fingers tangling itself onto his hair in hopes of providing distraction— but his thoughts all circulate towards you, a faceless entity, an itch that he could never reach unless he sees you for himself.

the further he walks through frigid halls, the smaller the space seems to get.

how many birthdays had he missed?

when even is your birthday?

you are eighteen now, five when you were taken in which means... almost fourteen years of missed birthdays...

he didn't even give you a single gift card out of pity. not even money for allowance, or a birthday cake.

bruce was never there for you, and he has a feeling that that may have been one of the reasons of you moving out.

he needs to make up for it at least, once he contacts you he'll apologize for everything—

but first, he needs to see the state of your room. to at least have a first impression of you, of what your life was in the manor; any clues that pertains to just who his child is, as humiliating as that sounds for a father.

which was why he didn't hesitate to let alfred lead him straight to your room, albeit the shame he feels for not even knowing where his own child's room is located.

back when he had taken damian in, it was him who introduced the boy to his own room, whom had promptly thrown a tantrum and demanded someplace bigger before ultimately accepting his fate.

... how would you have reacted to your own? he wishes to at least picture your face, probably opposite to damian's, as you get to live in an entirely different space from what you're used to.

would you be pleased? would you look at him with sparkling eyes and thank him? or would you maintain a neutral stance? an overwhelmed one?

he really wants to see you, your expressions, just a sliver of your presence.

but nothing comes up in his mind. not the length or color of your hair, not your height, not anything. he could picture a vague imagery of your mother, but not you.

it makes him wonder; does any of your siblings know what you look like? were you at least any closer to them that you are to him?

he hates just how much desperately the darkness in the pit of his chest is crawling in need to hasten his steps towards wherever your room was.

the rain outside had already ceased, but a newer thunderstorm was brewing inside bruce's heart.

he needs to see you.

as he walks behind alfred through the halls of the manor, he had just noticed how barren the other side of the manor truly is.

cob webs and dust particles litter through the corners of the untouched furniture, the wallpaper peeling off itself and revealing untreated mold and even more cocoons of baby spiders that would soon crawl out, and even most of the ceramic vases they had passed by houses no flowers, instead being covered in a thin sheen of dust.

it was obvious just how neglected this corner of the house is.

just like you.

alfred was always meticulous in his duty as a butler, but bruce had advised the old man to leave unexplored parts of the manor be, seeing as how nobody would stroll by; and to only clean it whenever he would host an expensive gala in the manor with spare rooms as guest rooms.

it made bruce wonder if these halls are the path that leads directly to your room, which it actually does, and he feels even more guilty at just how... different your living condition is compared to your siblings.

it was no wonder why the butler would always excuse himself early, seemingly always making a treck towards a forgotten chamber that he rarely visited.

he'll make a note of relocating you to a room closer than his if you ever were to decide to come visit during holidays or vacations.

... alfred said it had been six or seven months since you had left, just how many occasions have he missed?

counting only fills the dread in his the growing hole of the pit of his heart.

yeah... he will get you a new room, one preferably closer to his; just so he could greet you every morning by knocking on your door and at least escorting you to the kitchen for breakfast. he'll try to make small talk, invite you over and... bond with you.

that'll be a good habit he could incorporate into his daily life.

a small part of him wishes you wouldn't look at him in disdain if he had to forcibly visit your apartment.

he swears it's in all the good of his heard; he just needs to check for himself if you were doing okay.

as him and alfred nearly arrives at your bedroom, the two had already noticed the light peaking from outside the doors and what seems to be two voices ensuing an argument.

even alfred, who had ceased his steps, looked surprised at the presence of the people who seemed to be there before them.

bruce doesn't even hesitate jogging towards the room, unaware of alfred's immediate shift to a calculating gaze, as bruce immediately opens polished, mahogany doors, inviting himself in.

... it smells of bleach and fabric refresher.

his heart clenches at the implication.

"father...? why are you here?" damian's voice cuts through the tension, bruce merely dismisses youngest child as his eyes takes in the space, ignoring how the other presence in the room - dick, with wide, feral eyes - quips about an ongoing "family" reunion.

bruce analyzes every detail, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

small... your room is way too small, and lacks of any design or life whatsoever. a tiny bed is shoved in the corner, the closet too miniscule to even contain clothes for someone your age (just where do you store them, then?), the windows barely welcome any ventilation nor sunlight, even your bedside table was too small to be considered one; the lampshade on top of it could be easily toppled over by a single sway of a hand.

everything is clean, too clean and orderly.

his eyebrows furrow at its state. even a model's walk-in closet is significantly bigger than the cramped space he calls your bedroom.

no proper ventilation, not even any space is provided for... your hobbies. hobbies that he wasn't even aware of.

is this how you had been living for almost eighteen years of your life?

how do you live like this?

just how much has he neglected you?

"bruce...?" it was dick's voice that he had now registered. it sounds out of breath, way too abnormally distraught and out of character.

he slowly looks at dick, equally befuddled at the presence of his eldest and youngest sons.

he seems disheveled, stressed even. the athlete's blue eyes were wide and dilated, seemingly unfocused as his stance was rigid. he was breathing too deep, hand clenching his phone too tight, veins popping through muscles, and he holds a... notebook in the other, this time like it was a delicate piece or artifact.

"... why are you here?" dick tries to cover his current state with an awkward laugh, but he could never hide the furrow of his brows, the flickering in his eyes, nor the anxious stomping of the his feet. sweat runs down dick's forehead; it looks like he's been inside the room the longest.

and dick refuses to get out of it. he won't, not until he finds out just why were you pushing him always all of a sudden.

he's afraid of forgetting his baby bird once more and neglecting your needs. if you were just as self-depracating as he is then... just how well would you be coping all by yourself?

does bruce share the same intentions as him? he doesn't know, his thoughts all leading to a path of thinking about, well, you.

you and your wide eyes looking at him like he was the world.

"i'm just here to visit... (name)'s room." bruce replies, a deep tremor in his parched throat, threading even further into the cramped space as his eyes seem to lock into the multitudes of messily stacked notebooks in the center of the bed.

they were all captioned '(name)'s diary', each having different fonts for every notebook and a date plastered on the very bottom.

"and you both are...?" he stares at them, demanding an answer as he sits on your too small bed (—it creaks, he hates that it does so he promises to get you a new one, a bigger one even, with enough space to fit in at least four people just as you deserve), picking up one of the diaries in his hand; it sports messy calligraphy and peeling stickers, reminiscent of just how old it was.

the hold he has on the diary is delicate as he flips through the first page the same way the eldest child had done. the papers were stained gray from the lead of the pencil, doodles littering every page, from flowers to animals and even faces that bruce couldn't recognize.

at least it provides the void in his heart food for thought, taking in every small detail about you and your hobbies.

you like documenting your life through diaries, that was the first thing he noted about you. the entries all date far from back when you were five or younger, the earlier pages highlighting, well, you and your mother's life. though the handwriting wasn't all that eligible, bruce finds himself becoming fond of the common topics you often rant about from "momma's burnt stack of pancakes" (paired with a drawing on the side, colored with dried markers and glitter gel pens), to the fairytales your mother loves to read you.

as much as it was entertaining for him to read through your mind, it's sad how aged the papers were and how some pages were crumpled to the point some contents were incomprehensible.

he'll get you even more high quality ones, rather than the cheap paper the one he's currently holding has. and he'll buy you designer pens, or do you prefer the more functional ones? would you like fountain pens or glass dip ones just to enjoy the experience?

bruce notices a pattern of the pen's strokes, an array of thinner lines were preferred in most of your entries compared to the thick pencils you sometimes force yourself to use, as there was an entry you had mentioned where if you use thicker lines then you'll run out of pages quicker, and "my mom doesn't have enough money to buy me one right now."

even the doodles in pencil had prefered line widths. finer quality for even finer details, thicker lines to emphasize and exaggerate your art on the side of the papers.

would you prefer mechanical or charcoal pencils? charcoal is messy and smudges, bruce knows as he sees small drawings of a tiny sprite that point towards a smeared sketch of a flower, a look of disdain on its furrowed brows.

he couldn't contain the upward quirk of his lips, blocking out dick's shadow that seems to get closer to bruce.

unfortunately, there were no ballpens of your preference on your bedside table for him to take for himself. he'll find out himself sooner enough though; what materials you like to utilize for your diaries and sketches. hell, it seems you like using a mix of normal and puffy stickers alongside a mix medium to obtain different colors.

journaling supplies, you'll find a lot of them in your arsenal soon.

he'll make sure of that once he finds out where you live.

he looks at damian flipping through what seems to be one of your sketchbooks.

art is, undoubtedly, one of your hobbies too— that's the second thing he notes, picking up what seems to be your second diary right after he flips through the first one, wasting no time to learn more about you.

this time, your second diary talks about your early life into the gotham manor. your anxious yet earger energy to meet your father, how the dick grayson (presumably your idol, with how you mention him as the) is now your brother, and how you almost got lost just wondering in the manor; they all highlight your innocence and curiousity about the world. you write so effortlessly, unafraid of writing down what you truly feel.

though you barely mention the incident regarding your mother, you have stated multiple times about how you miss her beautiful smile and her captivating laughter.

he's grateful that you're fond of writing diaries, exposing bruce to the deeper, more personal parts of your life. he doesn't need to pinpoint any lies or truth. all your secrets, your endeavors, your dreams and your passions are buried deep into the crevices of your diaries, etched in thousands of words and drawings that tell bruce just who you are.

and truly, you are his child.

bruce craves to know more about you in person the more he reads through your entries.

fortunately, it wasn't only him that feels an intense need to take you in, as the presence of his eldest cuts him off of the his train of thoughts.

"y'know, before you forget we're even here, bruce," dick quips with a fond smile as he looks at his bruce's unkempt state, taking a seat next to his father who seems to be in his own world just like damian. the bed creaks against their weight, both cringing at the sound before bruce returns to his own world of... analyzing you, just like he did hours ago.

but he knows that his father knows how to multitask, so he doesn't hesitate to answer.

"i'm also here for (name), i promised to take them out for dinner month's ago." that seems to actually catch bruce's attention, as he looks up from reading your second diary, gazing at dick as if to urge him to continue.

dick proceeds with a sigh, a smitten smile plastered on his face as he recalls the only memory he has of you.

"(name) really has a knack for writing and all, right? i love them for it. when i first met them, they were just so adorable. my baby bird tried to ask me for an autograph!" dick couldn't help himself from yapping, chuckling lightly as he remembers the deathly grip you had on alfred's cuffs, how you were hiding behind the butler's legs and looked at dick so enamored. he couldn't contain his unhinged smile, the goosebumps on his skin made shivers ripple throughout his entire body.

bruce (and even damian, who had all his attention on your sketches) had listened in on his monologue.

"i was the one who helped lead them to their room," he continued confidently, tapping his phone with his fingers, "they clung really close to me when we climbed up the steps, even tried to hide under my jacket..."

looking back, dick wishes he had carried you up the steps. thing was, you were incredibly small back then, and the manor's staircase is particularly hard to transverse through when ascending, so you must've felt exhausted and leaned onto him for support. your tiny legs must've been sore once you two had arrived by your room.

oh, he should've noticed. dick swears he won't make that mistake again once he gets you back in his arms, he promises to carry you the moment you even show the slightest bit of fatigue.

he swears he will, and he'll make sure to spoil you rotten with all the affection you deserve.

oh, dick really wants to see his baby bird again.

"yeah, that's, uh, the only time we had only ever talked." he admits shamefully, opening his phone for what seems like the thousandth time, looking at your profile over and over again, one that had him blocked.

he bites his lips, nibbling his skin in anticipation, in hopes that in the good of your heart that you just, unblock him.

it was just so unbelievable, despite you having all the reasons to push them away from your life, he just doesn't want to accept it. doesn't want to think of the worst outcome; of you hating him.

his baby bird blocked him and he just couldn't comprehend the amount of hurt he's feeling right now. what's wrong with checking up on his baby sibling? on someone he hasn't talked to for a long time already?

scrolling up through your previous messages fills him with both dread, and another emotion he doesn't want to admit— the slightest bit of pride he feels that you chose him over everybody else. you chose dick grayson as your idol, as someone to look up to and eagerly wanted as your older brother.

he was the favorite.

yet he feels terrible at the same time for taking it for granted, for forgetting your his own younger sibling. and bruce? bruce feels terrible just looking at how much your disappearance - an existence he didn't even know existed not until a few hours ago - impacted the atmosphere of the house.

is your absence the reason why the manor had felt too empty, then...?

even alfred seemed to sulk more often, always having his phone around and... talking to someone?

does alfred know where you are? or at least maintain communication with you?

it seems like the family was equally keen to find out just who you were.

whilst the two engross themselves in their own personal matters, damian continues to stand near the middle where the light hits the brightest, analyzing all the pages of your sketchbook. the youngest couldn't even afford to miss a single detail, green eyes mulling over the poses of your human sketches; the anatomy, the composition. all the progress, the mistakes, the erasures... his mind seems to eat up every drawing as if it was a piece of art hung in a museum.

which it should've been— but he wouldn't even let worthless critiques lay their eyes on any one of your sketches. they wouldn't understand you as much as he does.

it's his to look upon, nobody else could understand the meaning of your art, the meaning of his older sibling's art.

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day. he was unable to ignore the glare you sent him, how he felt a pang in his heart after — the older sibling who he ridiculed endlessly in front of his best friend, whose actions he criticized without end; who had started to avoid him like the plague after all of his incessant bullying.

his older sibling who he had used as a punching bag for all his negative emotions, who he was incredibly jealous of, who he felt the need to fight, to compete with, all for the sake of grabbing your attention without seeming frail in his intentions.

his weak and incapable older sibling, who he knew hated him with all their gut.

the unwanted and undeserved treatment he had subjected you to was gruesome.

it was just exactly like your drawings... gruesome and brutal, to say the least. as if it was a medium of releasing all your unparalleled anger. charcoal strokes violently covers the entirety of your pages, it was unpredictable where the lines meet and end, whenever there is color, they blotch each other without harmony, all the subjects of your art either human or anything else within your vicinity.

if someone else with inexperienced, undeserving eyes were to witness your sketches, they would not understand and dare say, criticize your art pieces for being too contemporary, for letting your emotions run free through cheap quality paper without any ounce of care for the rips and tears of the pages.

but damian likes it... he likes the rawness of your pieces, likes it when you incidentally find a way to express tragedy, grief, and all the antagonistic traits a human could bare. he likes just how all thr subjects you paint were muddled with dull colors, sometimes too vibrant, sometimes too neon, sometimes a mix of all— your hectic personality bleeds through the pages.

you should've... shared your talents with him. albeit the jealousy he feels towards you, the sense of competitiveness— a small part of him admits his desire to bond with his only blood sibling... he doesn't even know why he treated you like trash, yet felt so incredibly heartbroken whenever you would retaliate with a blank, soulless stare.

he doesn't know why he felt so compelled to melt into your embrace, despite never once being physically close to you. your warmth always emanates off of your body; he hates that he wanted your validation, your praise and your attention.

he'll apologize to you sooner, damian will drag you back even if he has to, he needs to, actually.

needs to get you to forgive him, to look at him fondly, and to love him without bounds. he's on his path to redemption, he acknowledges his wrongs, all the wrongs he had done to you, he couldn't list it all out but he knows just much it affected your views on him.

damian knows he should've dismissed your reactions— he was raised by assassins for gods sake! he should not be so perceptive of every micro expression of yours, but the connection he feels towards his blood sibling is stronger than any bond, a bond that he himself chose to sever and came to regret afterwards.

he remembers one specific expression of yours after he had criticized your anger issues when he had heard news of you being transferred into another school. it was a glare that lacked any fight or bite, you had long since given up on him and allowed him him harass you whenever he felt like so. but that day was the same day you had snapped, nearly choking on his

he told himself to ignore it, that you were merely throwing a tantrum (despite how hypocritical he seemed)

yet he didn't expect to be overcome with regret.

with hurt.

with empathy at the tears that welled on your eyes.

damian doesn't want to admit it but, that was one of the first times he had hesitated to retaliate with an even crueler comeback to your glare. he wanted to so badly run to you and bond with you and your unadulterated anger, to comfort you and provide you the affection you had so desperately needed— but in the bitterness and the jealousy of his heart, he had forced himself to leave you be; a decision even until now he regrets because... you had no longer seen him as a younger brother, let alone treat him as one, as he desired to.

after that incident, you tend to avoid him more and more, not even eating in the same room as him, let alone ditching whatever you were doing in favor of keeping to yourself.

he should've held himself back from hurting his older sibling, the one who, despite doning no skills or talent in combat whatsoever, who knew that he was more of a threat than a younger brother; was brave enough to approach him with a tray of alfred's baked cookies and a hesitant yet welcoming grin.

and yet he had replied with a sword to your neck and an insult to your origin, calling you a bastard child; the product of a whore and his father's terrible decisions.

he had simply watched as you had left the hallway with a knick on your neck and a wobble on your steps, nearly dropping the tray of untouched goods due to the inconsolable shivers you must've felt.

you hate him, no? he could see it in your eyes, no matter how defeated it may be, there was always a tinge of resentment towards him that he knows he couldn't undo.

you hate him, you must've hated him so much and he hates that. hates how he wants to throw a rampage over the fact that you would never consider him as a younger brother.

... if things were different, if he had never let his emotions and his past dictate his actions, would you love him?

for the first time in quite a while, he had felt tender longing and desire, his hands caressing the pages of your sketchbook as if it could bring you back to the manor.

for the first time in a while, damian allows himself to want, to dream about a fantasy where you would cherish him, allow him to melt on your chest whenever he feels the pressure of the world getting to him, let him sulk about his deepest darkest insecurities as you would run your fingers through his hair and tell him it's all alright.

for the first time in so long, he would openly admit the immense regret he feels, wishing for an opportunity to turn back time, to never unsheath his sword towards you and to never open his mouth to allow vile words to spew out of it.

time passes by oh-so quickly when you are left alone with only your thoughts to accompany you.

it had been quite awhile since the trio were left pondering about your very existence, alfred noted, watching the three scramble about through their minds. they had seemed to have forgotten the very butler who had been observing every single one of their actions.

alfred had waited so long for this moment to come, for them to realize just how crucial you are to the family, how you are the very final jigsaw puzzle the complete the picture perfect definition of a home, how much they need you if they wish to maintain even the slightest bit of sanity.

it was only right that he decides to place the final nail in the coffin.

after all, this was all to get you back to your safety, to where you rightfully belong.

—"it seems like the family has finally taken notice of young master (name)'s disappearance...?" alfred buts in by the door, a single eyebrow raised, crossed arms, an all-knowing look that just screams 'i told you so'.

he continues once he had their complete attention, "i would like to say that i am heavily disappointed in how it took more than a decade and a half for all of you to find out about their existence. if it wasn't for the long months of their absence and even a personal sermon towards master bruce about their financial struggles, they would've long been gone. well... they would be gone soon if they are unable to pay this month's rent for their apartment."

his tone was sullen as he nitpicks every single one of their reactions, a mixture of confusion, shame and regret a commonality between the three.

"(name) is in financial debt?" it was damian who asked first with furrowed brows and wide eyes, unbelieving of what alfred had just stated. "but father wires money to all of his children, right?

the youngest turns back to his father's seated form, expecting a nod of some sorts, but all bruce had was a tense jaw and a solid stare. it speaks of volumes, all damian could do was shut his mouth, looking back at alfred with a pout.

alfred expected this reaction. it was truly unfortunate how the family would never know just how important you were in their life.

yet all he could do was press on, further their guilt and desperation.

"young master damian, i am aware of bruce's willingness towards providing for his children, but (name), like you, had adopted your father's stubbornness to accept any financial aid on their part..."

the silence was defeaning now, tension so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. fortunately, the people alfred were with are trained combatants, formidle not only through fights but with words.

it was a shame they had never used their brains to connect the dots with just how sullen the manor was the moment you were gone.

"how do we...?" this time it was dick who talked, albeit hesitantly. "bruce could at least send a few thousands to them, then? or i could do it, you could just give us their location and—"

"unfortunately, there is nothing i could do about it, master dick," alfred interrupts dick's sudden onslaught, "for even i do not have master (name)'s address. they refuse even the slightest bit of a clue, hence why i have confronted master bruce about it."

it was like a needle had dropped on the floor, an intense, numbing feeling everyone present was subjected to feel.

... what?

it was dick who had reacted first, springing up from his seated position as he stared at alfred's defeated eyes incredulously.

"are you serious, alfred? (name) could be anywhere in gotham right now? unprotected, unsafe, and in debt?"

a long, defeated sigh was what he had merely received from the alfred.

"yes, master dick, you hear exactly what i say."

"but the world outside is too dangerous for (name)! we can't just let them loose in a street filled with criminals who can take advantage of their innocence!"

"they're eighteen, dick." all of a sudden, it was damian who cuts back with a roll of his eyes, "i'm sure they can survive on their own."

"yeah right, and have you even read their latest diary, or are you just gonna pretend like you aren't going to keep their sketchbooks all for yourself, huh?" dick retaliates with clenched teeth, letting himself be swayed by his own emotions. "or... you're planning to track their location without us so you can get a reservation to visit them first?"

"calm down, dick—" bruce stands, immediately holding dick back, gripping the athlete's tense shoulders.

"why should i, bruce?! (name) can be anywhere, we— i can't afford to bide time on anything but them!" he glared back at his father, slammimg his fist onto your bedroom walls without hesitation. cracks immediately formed on the chipped wallpaper, a testament to dick's strength; you'll be relocated to another room, a better one anyways and they'll... they'll turn this one into a bigger atelier for you.

dick just needs to let his anger out, yeah... unfortunately, his father seems to think otherwise.

bruce retaliates with a snarl, "we need a solid plan, dick. we can't just randomly search where they are—"

"look, if none of you are willing to help, then fine, i'll track (name) all by myself—"

"— i've never mentioned not coming, grayson." damian cuts him off with a glare, possessively holding all your sketchbook in one hand. "i'll be the one spending time with them first."

"yeah, right... and you, bruce? you coming with or no?"

defeated, bruce replies, "... you already know the answer, dick."

"of course, dad. glad to know we're on the same team after all," dick lets out an airy laugh, returning to his old demeanor. but bruce could easily pinpoint the sharp edge to his giggles, how calculated it is and how it's all merely a cover up to hide the unbearable itch to get you into his arms.

not like bruce could help it too, feeling the same way dick does— all he wants to do is see you for himself after all.

"then call the others into the batcave, now. tell them it's a priority mission, don't let them say otherwise, and don't settle on any excuses."

bruce is so grateful that he had his hands on your diaries, that he was given the grace to read through your entries and embrace even the slightest clue about you.

although there was no face to associate with your name, no photograph nor portrait— he at least has an idea of your personality, of what you like and prefer; something that bruce would hold dear, something that feeds the growing urge to find you.

find you to not only correct his mistakes, to make up for all the lost time, but to also get closer to you. to bond with his child, the one he should've focused on all those years ago. the one who, despite showing disinterest to vigilantism, chose to not fall deep into the pits of resentment, of committing heinous acts— you had chosen to run away from them without any intentions of badmouthing your own family even after the years of neglect.

his child, (name) wayne.

you were a symbol of what he had strived to cherish, to protect. it was your innocence through these pages, your eagerness to the world despite its cruelty, that relays the message to bruce that he should've centered his attention on both you and tim instead of just tim.

maybe then the dispair he had felt after jason's death would've been less devastating, maybe then you'd act as his source of light in the darkness he had choose to brood in. maybe then he wouldn't have acted so rash, so impulsive and tense.

after all, you had lost your mother too early, and your father was just somebody you can watch through the television and read through the newspaper.

and you? you were forced to take the short end of the stick, without any familial attention nor emotional support whatsoever— a substantial failure on bruce's part. you didn't deserve anything you were subjected to, didn't deserve to know what pain and despair felt like.

bruce should've been the father who had to shoulder all your burden. he should've been there for you as he was there for all your other siblings.

he should've been the man who would kiss your wounds away whenever you go out to the park with him to play. he should've been the man who would sit on the crowded bleachers to watch you perform on a talent show. he was supposed to be the father who would hold you close to your chest as you cry about your first heartbreak, about your overdue projects, about the bullies in the school.

but he wasn't that father for you. and now, you seek love and attention from people who weren't even family. because they had failed you, he had failed you.

there was so much things about you that he doesn't know of, so much he had missed out on. his absence was a constant in your life; what would you have felt if he suddenly barged in on it then? especially now that you've moved out on the presumption of neglect?

but could he help it if he does?

could bruce help it if he was already concocting a way to bring you back? alfred had explicitly told him that you were living off of debt

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,100+ words. no beta we just die. undertale reference. this is my least favorite chapter LMAO, despite it's length i had to waste blood sweat and tears for this and i hate it so much. anways guys pls comment or send as ask if u like this and what's good abt it bec this chapter literally made me question my ability as a write 😭 erm im gonna take a break after this and mostly answer asks bec istg my energy is so drained. also is it jst me or does everyone default the reader as female ^^' it's jst weird for me bec i always write them as gn/male. oh and if anyone is wondering, yes i am gonna add the batgirls too bec they r family !! the entire family (universe) is obsessed with u !! also yall i cant add anymore to the taglist, tumblr won't allow me.

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

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newbornwhumperfly · 1 year ago

Text

goddddddd…they’ve all come so far? edrissa admitting something so raw, both her actions and the truth of her most ugly impulses. that was…sharp and aching to read 😭

and sam’s compassion fatigue here is so goddamn real?? the way they’re a little checked-out but still welling with that eternal sense of insight and compassion. just…your trauma-writing cuts deep here with sam cause they’ve always extended the most chances and to hear them say “you tried to kill gavin twice and you still believe people can’t change”??? god 😩😩😩

i loved seeing them like this. this hurt me, athena.

Honor Bound 6 - 23

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, Honor Bound 5, and the prequel Vera.

Masterlist

AO3

Contents: past attempted murder, past implied noncon, conversation about improving as a person, mis-naming, past hallucinations, Sam being very low on patience

“T-twice,” Edrissa murmured, her voice thin as a string. “I’ve tried to kill him… twice.”

Sam swiped tears from their eyes, their giggles finally dying down. “Twice,” they managed, their stomach sore from laughing. “You’ve tried to kill Gavin twice, and he hasn’t laid a hand on you, and you still think people can’t change.” They chuckled, unable to stop themself.

Edrissa shot them a dirty look. “You don’t—”

Sam held up a hand to stop her. “If you tried to kill me twice, Edrissa, I’d have a problem with you. Why didn’t…? Does anyone else know about the other time?”

Edrissa’s eyes searched Sam’s for a long moment before she answered, “No.”

Sam sighed and pulled their hand through their hair. “When?”

A long silence drew out between them. Edrissa scooped up another bite of pie and avoided Sam’s gaze.

Sam chewed their lip. “Edrissa,” they said quietly, trying to duck into her eyeline. “Is it that people don’t change? Or you don’t?”

Edrissa’s eyes snapped up to meet Sam’s, fire momentarily flaring behind the ice. “O-of course I’ve changed,” she snarled, stumbling over the words. “Sir changed me.”

“But nothing else can change you?” Sam challenged. Their shoulders stooped with sudden, bone-deep exhaustion. The door beckoned to them again. “You can’t change for the better? Our relationship didn’t change you?”

Sam watched as the fire died in Edrissa’s eyes. “That’s not fair,” she murmured. Tears glittered on her lashes.

“None of this is,” Sam retorted. The words came out softer than they meant them, though.

Edrissa drew in a deep breath, held it, let it out. She leaned her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. The silence drew out so long between them that Sam thought she probably wasn’t going to speak again.

Finally, she said, “No telling Isaac.”

“I won’t,” Sam said gently. “You know I won’t.”

Edrissa heaved a sigh, but didn’t lift her head. “In June,” she said. “Back in June. That was… the first one.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

Edrissa’s golden hair flew around her as her head snapped up. “Of course, I’m serious, Sam,” she said through her teeth.

“So,” Sam said. They nodded as they thought. “For… what, for two months, Gavin lived with you, after you tried to kill him? Even though you tried to kill him? And he never told… anyone?”

“I don’t think so,” Edrissa whimpered. Her hands curled into fists on the table. “I never… I mean, Isaac never… came after me for it, so…”

“Shit,” Sam breathed. They couldn’t help the huff of laughter that came next, and avoided Edrissa’s glare. “So… how did you do it?”

Edrissa cringed and stared at the table. “I…” She screwed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I, um… well, I waited until everyone in the house was either gone or, um, asleep.”

Sam’s eyes widened. This probably happened while I was asleep in that house, and I had absolutely no idea. Gavin never let on at all.

Edrissa cleared her throat. “I stole a knife from the kitchen and I, um, lured him to the barn.”

“H-how did you lure him to the barn?” Sam asked, a pit growing in their stomach.

“I…” Edrissa’s cheeks flared with a blush of what Sam hoped was shame. “I said I needed help getting something down off a high shelf.”

Relief crashed through Sam, guilt right on its heels. Relief that the lure had been something so innocent, and guilt for considering, even for a moment, that it could have been anything else.

Edrissa continued. “S-so then I… well, I made sure he had his back to me, then I took him down with the moves that Vera showed me. That’s why I learned them. So that I could… could kill him, when I was ready.” Edrissa lifted her chin, but couldn’t seem to meet Sam’s gaze. “I h-held a knife to his throat.”

Sam’s own throat tightened. “But you couldn’t do it?”

“I tried to,” Edrissa said, the words tight with tears. “I really did. I broke the skin. I told him to stop me, or I was going to kill him. But he just kept saying that’s not who he was anymore, and that his name is… is Gavin Uriah, now.”

“It is Gavin Uriah,” Sam said defensively.

Edrissa waved the comment away. “I know, I know. But… I kept trying to make him stop me. Hurt me. I kept telling him that I was going to do it, I kept on… trying to make myself do it. But I… I couldn’t.”

“And neither would he.”

Edrissa slowly closed her mouth and raised her eyes to look at Sam. Her gaze was softer than they had seen it since they’d walked in.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

Sam’s mouth twisted in a half smile. “Maybe that’s what healing looks like,” they said carefully. “Two idiots who’ve been hurt by the syndicates refusing to kill each other in a barn.” They sucked in a breath and bit their lip, waiting for her response.

For a single, delicate moment, neither moved or breathed.

Then, Edrissa let out a broken laugh and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Okay,” she snorted. “I’ll give you that one. I was sort of being an idiot.”

Sam let out a breath of relief. “I think we’re all entitled to those moments every now and then. This is a crazy world.”

Edrissa cackled. “Everyone is entitled to exactly one attempt on Gavin Stormbeck’s life.”

Sam let out a huff. “Gavin Uriah, Edrissa, come on…”

She sobered quickly. “I know. I’m sorry.” The corner of her mouth pulled into a smile. “Besides, I’m over my quota.”

“That’s okay, so are Isaac and Vera,” Sam said gently. “They’re both at two as well, I think. Although, I don’t know if Vera was intending to kill Gavin when she blew up his compound. So, I don’t know if that one counts.”

Edrissa snickered and took another bite of the pie. Sam scooped up their own bite, contemplating it silently. They set their fork down and wet their lips.

“What made you stop this time?” they said, voice low.

Edrissa’s smile fell as she swallowed hard. Her gaze fell. She tucked her hands into her lap and stared at the table in front of her. “I… don’t know,” she said stiffy.

Sam peered at her, trying to catch her gaze with theirs. Her eyes stayed fixed on the rough woodgrain in front of her as if her own survival lay in keeping them there.

“Edrissa?” Sam murmured, ducking lower, trying to catch her gaze. She lowered her eyes into her lap, letting her hair fall in curtains on either side of her face. Sam tapped their fingertips on the table and leaned back. They blew out a slow breath. “Are we done talking?”

Edrissa’s head shot up. There were tears glistening in her eyes and a shameful flush coloring her cheeks and neck. She pressed her lips together and leaned back in her own chair, mirroring Sam’s posture. Her arms folded stiffly across her chest.

More than the hurt at her closed-off expression and the loneliness at the distance between them, Sam hated the resentment that prickled through them like feeling coming back into a limb. It ate at their insides and their throbbing heart and they were just so damned tired of it. They pushed their chair back and nodded.

“Okay,” they murmured. “Thanks for the pie, Edrissa. I’ll see you around.”

Edrissa’s pale arm shot across the table as if to hold them there. “Wait,” she breathed.

Sam waited. For a breath.

Then, Edrissa said, “I… I d-didn’t stop.”

Sam blinked. “Um… what?”

The tears in Edrissa’s eyes spilled over and she dashed them away. “I didn’t stop,” she whispered, leaning forward as if horrified that anyone else might hear her confession.

“But… Gavin’s—”

“Alive because Isaac stopped me,” Edrissa breathed, and pressed her face into her hands.

Sam stared at her, mouth open. “So… you were… about to—”

“Yes.” The word was a sob. Sam glanced around the store, but they didn’t see anyone inside, not even Meredith. “I was going to do it. I had his wrists tied, I had him in the bathtub, I had the knife to his throat, and… and I was going to do it. I did it, he was bleeding. But then Vera… Vera called Gavin’s name outside the door and I, I knew I was caught.”

The air Sam breathed felt icy in their chest, their blood cold in their veins. “But…” They forced themself to take a deep breath. “But… Edrissa… if you knew you were caught… you could have just done it anyway. Why didn’t you?”

She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“You thought Isaac was going to kill you. I saw your face, you were… terrified, Edrissa.”

She raised her eyes to theirs. Her lashes were stuck together, her cheeks red and blotchy. They saw, for perhaps the first time, how truly exhausted she looked. They wondered if they had ever seen her truly well-rested or happy – or if that would have ever been possible for her, living under the same roof as Isaac and Gavin. They leaned forward and carefully took her hand in theirs. She watched them with wide eyes, as if ready to bolt if they moved too quickly.

Sam stroked the back of her hand with their thumb as they said, “Edrissa, if you thought Isaac was going to kill you anyway… what stopped you from going through with it?” They searched her eyes with their own, silently begging her for the truth. Begging her to tell them something that would let them know Gavin wasn’t still in danger.

Do I need to tell Isaac about this?

Will Isaac let her survive this?

They knew without having to think about it that he wouldn’t – but they also knew they would at least give her enough warning to run from his fury.

They were about to release her hand, get up, and walk away when she parted her lips. Quietly, so quietly they almost couldn’t hear her, she said, “H-he protected me.”

Sam blanched. “Who? Did what?”

“G-Gavin,” Edrissa said, shaking. “Gavin did. Protected me. When…” She shuddered and forced her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her chest. “When Isaac was about to break the door down, Gavin, he, um… he called out and… told him not to. Again and again. Even though he was…” She shrugged jerkily. “He was… struggling. He was seeing things, I think.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up.

Edrissa chewed her lip. “He kept calling me, um, th-the mayor. And telling me things that his parents did to him when he was, um, a kid.”

“Oh, no,” Sam breathed. Suspicion crept into their mind. “You didn’t… give him anything…?”

“No,” Edrissa said distractedly. “No. But then he… right before Isaac came in, Gavin said…” She blinked more tears out of her eyes, and they ran down her cheeks. “‘Get behind me.’”

Sam sucked in a breath through their teeth. “So he definitely knew that Isaac might—”

“Of course, he knew,” Edrissa whimpered. “It’s why he didn’t say anything the first time, either. He promised he wouldn’t. And he… didn’t. He never told. Or I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Sam met Edrissa’s gaze and pressed their mouth into a line. No, probably not.

“He begged me.” Edrissa dissolved into messy sobs. “H-he begged me. Over and over. To let him live. So he could see his… his family again. You and, and the rest.”

Each heartbeat was an ache, and Sam felt sick with it. Their eyes smarted and their throat grew tight.

Edrissa pressed her hand to her lips and spoke in muffled whimpers. “I c-couldn’t… do it after that. I thought I was ready, but… I couldn’t. Not after hearing him… sound like that. Not after hearing what happened to him. Not after… what he said to Isaac. Before, in the barn, it was a truce. But two days ago? He… s-saved my life. And I could have killed him anyway.” Her voice faded away into nothing, leaving only stunned silence between them.

Sam felt their pulse in their ears. Their right fingers ached. Slowly, they drew in a deep inhale, and slowly, they let it out. Again, in. Again, out. They hoped Edrissa would follow suit. She sniffled and wiped her nose on a napkin.

“Sounds like we’re all having kind of a hard week,” Sam said carefully.

Edrissa let out a weak laugh and nodded. “Yeah,” she grumbled.

Even more carefully, Sam said, “Also sounds like you probably won’t be trying to murder Gavin again…?”

Edrissa shook her head. “No,” she said. “I think I’m done with that.”

Sam leaned back in their seat, not willing to push the topic any further. They nodded once and glanced around the store. Meredith seemed to have somehow chased all her customers away, both current and potential, while they were having this conversation. The place was completely empty and had been for some time. Sam’s lips quirked as they looked at Edrissa again.

“So… what else here is good?” they said.

“I’ve tried their tea, and it’s okay,” Edrissa said, wiping her nose again. “I think I’ll have to hook Meredith up with my connections in Burmingham so we can at least increase the variety.” She sighed.

“Your connections,” Sam said with a breathy, nearly-silent laugh. Relief fluttered in their chest – the air was escaping too quickly with each breath out and they couldn’t pull in enough air with each breath in. Edrissa offered an unsure smile.

“I have those,” she said as she jutted out her chin. “I’m just like the rest of you.”

Sam bit their lip and returned her gaze. Her smile widened and her cheeks flushed as they did, and they couldn’t look away fast enough. In that momentary glance, they could see the hope blossoming in her eyes, the fondness that had once made Sam’s heart swell to bursting with longing. Now, it only made their stomach sour to realize her feelings were still there, despite everything that had happened.

Despite everything she had done.

Their throat worked. They scooped up another bite of pie. “Fair enough,” they said, and ate the bite quickly.

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck , @whumps-the-word , @justplainwhump , @finder-of-rings , @inky-whump , @orchidscript , @inkyinsanity , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pretty-face-breaker , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal

#how dare youuuuuu. (affectionate) 😩#honor bound #allusions to past noncon #allusions to past abuse #emotional whump #past hallucinations #deadnaming tw #(technically? just tagging to be safe!)#allusions to attempted murder #crying #fear #guilt #edrissa #sam vasterling #gavin uriah

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honest-moth-of-silver-grove · 1 year ago

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Hi thank u for opening asks! Can I request headcanons for the male companions (and or gortash Raphael and the emperor) having a mute s/o either because they can’t talk or they’re very shy

A/N: Here ya go! Managed to get everyone to stay mostly in character. Please be warned there are hints of nsfw for each character, although nothing graphic in nature. And that the entries for Gortash and Raphael describe abusive relationships, so heed the trigger warnings below.

🔇 Mute!Reader HC x BG3 Males: 🔇

TW: Domestic Abuse & Vaguely NSFW Content

(Abuse and Manipulation for the Gortash & Raphael ones. Also allusions to sex throughout each entry.)

Astarion:

He’s suspicious of you at first. Even more so that you don’t talk. But if you prove you’re not a threat in other ways, he doesn’t actually mind it all that much. He talks to you about the same. A good amount of what he says is either posturing or complaining- and that doesn't change just because you can’t talk back. If anything, he complains even more, knowing you wont tell him to shove off like the others. He greatly enjoys how dramatic he gets to be around you. He’ll lean against a city wall and dramatically lay the back of his hand over his face: ‘I tell you Darling, it’s like these people don’t notice me at all!’ You blink at his outburst, your expression unchanged, clearly unamused.

Still says lots of witty comments under his breath, and subtly looks over at you to see if you’ve smirked or blushed in response. Gets really good at reading all the little reactions you make. He makes a mental catalog of every half smirk, every eye twitch, every shoulder shrug, so that he knows how you feel about something he or another has said.

Appreciates the fact that you’re unlikely to repeat anything he says to you, which makes him feel all the safer confiding in you about his condition and his past, knowing you can’t go sounding the alarm.

Ends up going on tangents or rants about the others while you just sit there and kind of grimace, empathetically. He knows it can get annoying to just have to listen, but he’s extremely grateful for the outlet. Cazador certainly never cared what he was feeling. Nor did any of his ‘siblings’. But with you, he can bitch about his day only to turn around and find you still there, listening intently.

Becomes a lot touchier. Like a lot. He switches from checking to verbal confirmation to physical confirmation. Takes your hand, or pulls you close, squeezes your shoulder- those sorts of things.

Personally takes it as a challenge to see how loud he can get you to be when you’re intimate together ;)

Gale:

Doesn’t notice immediately lol. He’s too busy being overjoyed at the fact you don’t interrupt his long winded, pun-filled speeches to even consider it’s due to a disability or something similar on your part. He just thinks you’re the most wonderful listener. And of course, this makes him fall head over heels for you lol.

Once he does get it, he just sort of goes, ‘Oh.’ And lets that sit in the air. (He’s a bit awkward around you for a while, unsure of how to apologize, so you’d probably need to approach him and make your forgiveness known.)

Once that misunderstanding is over, he immediately becomes occupied with finding spells to help you talk. If that’s something you want, you appreciate the effort, and let him know you’re in no rush. If that’s something you’re not interested in, you tell him as much. He’s a little disappointed and taken off guard. He explains he’s always used magic to solve his problems. You raise your brow and give him a look that says ‘And that’s been working well for you, has it?’ He relents after that.

The two of you get really good at reading each other’s faces. And Gale takes it upon himself to talk less as well, even though you explain he doesn’t have to. He insists, saying he wants to understand what your life is like. He lasts like two days lol.

Becomes mostly competent at understanding what you’re saying either via sign or body language, but occasionally Tera has to translate for you. Thank the gods for tressyms.

Wyll:

Is momentarily taken aback, embarrassed by his concern he was being rude to you before, assuming you could talk to him but were choosing not to. Apologizes, profusely, for the misunderstanding on his part.

Learns to communicate with you through other means, be it writing, or by whatever the Faerun equivalent of sign language is. He’s not the best at it, but he tries really hard to learn. Picks up basic phrases like greetings, and moods. Does request that you slow down if you’re fluent, to give his brain time to catch up.

Doesn’t let anyone in the group make petty or passive aggressive comments while giving them a look or chewing them out. He’s very serious about it. The next time Astarion says something off the cuff, Wyll responds with, ‘Well, Astarion, I’d assume you of all people would be used to it being quiet. Having only the other rats of Baldurs Gate as friends for years.’ He’ll go for the jugular- he doesn't give af! No one gets to make you feel bad about it.

Considers going to Shadowheart or Halsin, or even Gale and asking them if there’s something they can do to help you/your condition, but that’s only with your blessing of course. He wants to help you, but doesn’t want to overstep.

Comes to appreciate how honest you are in your other reactions- your eyes and your body language. Wyll is used to being deceived- by demons, humans, and the like- so he thinks it’s so special he can read you like a book. Whether you’re strolling through Baldur’s Gate, or enjoying your marital bed, it matters greatly to him how you truly feel and think. He’s glad he’s able to share your truth with him.

Halsin:

Catches on fairly quickly, although he doesn’t bring it up to you directly. He figures you will bring it up when you are ready to discuss it, and in the meantime, he would not want to pry. Listens intently when you tell him by checking in with your facial expression as he reads your writing.

Tries to find ways to help you with what you can do. Suggests maybe enchanting a feather pen and scroll or some chalk and a small board to write out what you’re thinking so others can understand how it is you feel in real time. He offers his druid magic to do whatever you need. Hell, he even considers mentoring you to see if you feel nature’s calling. If you were a druid, perhaps you could develop a relationship with an animal companion, say a bird, or an awakened rat, or a giant eagle and get them to speak for you.

Similar to Wyll, Halsin will try to learn sign language if that’s something you speak. However he isn’t the most adept at it. He’s very used to spellcasting, which requires at least one free hand, often his dominant hand. So he tries learning sign with his nondominant hand, but that makes it all the more difficult. He knows the alphabet, but that’s about it. You will have to slowly spell out your sentences word by word in order for him to get the gist.

Makes sure you’re either safely hidden away at camp, or stay within his sight during a battle. He knows you cannot cry out for help, so he wants to make sure he can keep an eye on you throughout any conflict.

Loves just being close to you. Swears he can hear the intention of your heart when the two of you are so close. He wants to assure you, your difference doesn’t make him love you any less. If anything, he is impressed with how much you continue to adapt to and overcome. He’ll say, ‘You need not speak for me to know your voice, my heart. One look in your eyes, and I know, it is an internal melody so beautiful, all of nature could not compare.’ He’ll place soft touches to your skin and face, and check your reaction before progressing any further. He thinks being intimate with you is the best way to express your emotions as a couple. After all, sex is the most ancient language of all.

Minsc:

He doesn’t get it until Boo points it out to him lol. And even after being told, he still forgets from time to time.

Minsc loves to talk. Well brag. And boast. And speak in the third-person. So he’s not thrown off by you having to refer to yourself with body language or with possessive pronouns in Common writings.

He will ask you lots of questions, all throughout the day. Some are obvious and others are seemingly random, and difficult to explain with your words limited to being written down as fast as you can before Minsc’s mind wanders and changes the subject. It’s a workout for your wrists honestly.

He will loudly announce that you’re mute every time you meet new people. ‘This is (Y/N), my dear love, she cannot speak. So (Y/N) will write her answers for Boo. And Boo will tell me. Then Minsc may tell you.’ You keep trying to tell him, the system doesn’t need Boo and him to interpret for you, especially if you’re already recording your answers in Common for others to read.

He will never let you apologize for not being able to speak. He refuses to see it as a problem. ‘Minsc speaks loud enough for both of us, no?’ He thinks you’re the most wonderful person around. He could have his pick of the crop, and yet he chose you. Trust him, you’re the person he wants to be with more than anything.

Gortash:

Actually kind of prefers lovers who don’t talk back, lol. He’s a very insecure man when it comes to his character. He’s cunning and wise, but clawed his way out of hell (quite literally) and the self-critical voice in his head never silences. So he’s oddly comforted that you can’t demean his temperament.

He won’t try to fix it, nor will he allow you to try and change it in any sort of way. He doesn’t want you to go babbling on about his plans or how he is behind closed doors. That information cannot be getting out. So no, you will not be allowed any magic or spells to help you communicate.

He will open up to you on occasion in private. The longer you’re together, the more safe he feels like confiding in you. If you feign sympathy, or if you are in fact sympathetic to his backstory, he’ll feel something akin to love for you. It’s not quite love. It’s much more logical, more calculating and pragmatic than that. But it’s about as close as you’d get with him.

Likes how you have little to no choice other than to stay at his side and listen to him intently. He loves watching all your little apprehensive reactions when beckons you closer and pulls you into his lap. How your pulse races, how your breath quickens, he knows how his proximity makes you feel, even if you can’t open your mouth to speak the words. Besides, he’s very sure your mouth will be good for, let’s just say, other things.

He will allow you to write him little notes here and there, but only in his office, and only when no one else is around. He’s rather paranoid that way. But he’s also rather pleased how it means you must keep seeking him out during his working hours. He’s under no false impression that he's the kindest lover. But you can’t leave him. You need him. He’s the only one who’s allowed to understand you. And he intends to keep it that way.

Raphael:

Like Gortash, Raphael feels a sort of sick satisfaction over the fact you can’t talk back to him. But then on the other hand, he feels a sort of sick disappointment that he can’t torture you into making all those sweet pathetic noises for him. So it’s 50/50 with him.

He will consider giving you a voice via deviant magic if it means he can hear you beg. It drives him absolutely wild, and he refuses to go completely without it. Takes said voice away if you venture too far into brat territory, or you directly insult him. It’s a privilege for you to even look upon him, how dare you use the gift he gave you against him?

Has Harleep babysit you when he isn’t there. You can’t exactly call for help, and Raphael’s house isn’t safe for you to be wandering about unsupervised.

Enjoys the look of pure frustration on your face when you try learning to write in Infernal, only to fail miserably. He thinks you’re adorable all revved up. He will read the notes you write in Common, he just doesn’t always respond to them. Despite his refusal to acknowledge most of them, you can tell he understands them, based on how large that vein on his forehead gets lol.

He will let you choose whether or not to have a voice during certain moments of pleasure; well, mostly pleasure. He loves the little gasps and moans you make, it fuels his lust for you even more. Then again, he doesn’t need to hear the sweet cries of your pretty voice to know whether he’s on the right track. ‘I can sense your heartbeat, little mouse,’ he'll whisper to you. Your body reveals to Raphael all there is to know, whether you want it to or not.

The Emperor:

It literally doesn’t matter. Dude’s telepathic lol.

Wishes you’d become an illithid so you’d be telepathic too. Almost doesn’t take no for an answer on that one.

Ultimately ends up relishing in the fact he alone can understand you- your wants, your needs, your dreams, and hopes. It makes him feel all the more powerful.

Will give you the play-by-play about the Nether Brain and the Chosen Three because he’s been dying to tell someone, and he knows you can’t go running in the streets telling everyone and ruining his hopes of manipulation. Mainly because you don’t talk but also because he’s not letting you leave his realm lol, no way in hell.

If you really don’t feel at home here, ‘You could always,’ he’ll suggest coyly, ‘Become one of us.’ You don’t even have to shake your head to tell him ‘no’. Your facial expression does all the talking for that one.

#bg3 x reader #baldurs gate x reader #bg3 imagine #astarion x reader #gortash x reader #gale x reader #wyll x reader #halsin x reader #bg3 raphael x reader #the emperor x reader #minsc x reader #baldurs gate imagine #baldurs gate 3 x reader #baldurs gate 3 imagine #hc #bg3

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chocolate-floof · 4 months ago

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Fuck it, short homelander fic

Tw: canon typical violence, homelander, stalking detailed description of injuries. Allusion the child abuse and neglect (blink and you'll miss it) Sfw

Clicking send you finally finished the report for the day. Seeing the time on your phone, you had to do a double take to make sure you saw correctly. You had been here for nearly 12 hours, thanklessly working the night shift, despite also taking the mid-day shift. Working in media crisis management for the seven can be hard work especially when the member you have to deal with is the homelander. Deciding to use this time to your advantage, you walk around the darkened corporate hallways, mapping the building out internally, unaware of the prying eyes watching your every move.

"What is she still doing here?" He questioned to himself. Sometimes homelander gets bored and lonely, so he decides to watch the occasional Vought employees and how they run their "normal" lives that he definitely doesn't want, it's not stalking they should be glad their holding his attention! But their was something... Strange about you. He could never quite figure out what it was that made you feel so... Different compared to the rest. Maybe it was how much you work, often forgetting to take care of your bodily needs, maybe it's how interact with people, like your trying your best to make everyone happy. Or perhaps it has something to do with how often you flinch when people touch you. Whatever it is, for the past week he's been stuck on watching YOU. He watches you pack your things into your purse and head out. Clutching your purse closer to you as you weave and make your way down the city streets and through alleyways with seemingly no care for yourself.

He hears a scream, from a nearby alleyway he hears a woman scream in terror "I don't have it ,please!" She yells, the sharp shift in volume stinging his ears. He ignores it, trying surveil you but the panic continues. With a small irritated sigh he looks over, and lasers into the man's heart, chest now and open cavity he tries to scream and fails. He tries to put his hand were his heart once was, attempting to pant before blackened thick visceral starts spilling from his agape mouth and he falls to the ground, gurgling on his own blood. The woman looks up spotting homelander before running away without a word. "Not even a fucking thank you." He quietly says to himself before turning to follow your flowery scent. Making it to your small one bedroom apartment he watches from the roof of a near by building as you make yourself dinner. Your seemingly having a rice dish tonight, chickpea curry. The smell wafts from your open balcony door and he wants to fly closer to see if he can get more of it. He wonders if you'd ever cook for him. If you'd ever pet his head the way you pet your cat, like it's the most valuable and lovely thing you have. He wonders if you have the the same infatuation with his life as he does yours. People wanted him dead, his son seems to hate him and he's started aging abruptly. It felt like his life was falling apart, as the noise of everyday became louder, more urgent, suffocating. But when he watches you his thoughts quiet down. It MUST be because your life is so much more boring than his, because theirs no way he'd be stuck on a simple mud person he hasn't even spoken to once. No it's not because he wonders if you'd watch him too. Not because he wonders if you smile at him like that. Not because he wondered if the syrupy sound you make as you say "I love you so much" to the small mammal curled in your lap would ever be directed at him. He didn't wonder about you, no that preposterous. He just wished you'd be less oblivious, and less alluring.

#homelander x reader the boys #homelander #homelander x reader #probably not gonna do this again foreal but my brain wont shut up.#here yall go i guess.

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luke-o-lophus · 1 year ago

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In Your Image, In My Eye

Marc Spector x Reader (Minors DNI)

TW: Allusions to child abuse and neglect, and to past eating disorders (nothing descriptive), body image issues, very minor talk of food controls, mentions of sexual activities and some innuendos

Prompt by @apollo-enthusiast: Imagine settling down with the moon boys, just living a calm and stable life without khonshu to bother you. You bake and cook a lot, and are really good at it. As a result, Marc gains a bit of weight and now has a little tummy. You catch him judging himself in the mirror one day, maybe fighting over it with steven and jake, maybe they're feeling the same way, and find out he's feeling insecure about it and needs some love

Word count: 1541

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"For the thousandth time, Steven, we have the same body."

Marc sounds exasperated. He looks exasperated. Just out of shower and towel wrapped low on his hips, he usually doesn't spend this long in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom. But today, Steven got his attention. "You still look handsome", he'd muttered. And refused to budge when Marc pointed out the obvious.

"You don't get it. I've got this...ugh", Steven hides his face in their shared headspace. "This thing. I have a..a pooch belly."

Marc mentally groans and pinches his forehead. "Steven I can assure you we're doing fine", he grunts.

"Are we though Marc, are we?" Steven throws up his hands. "Look at this." He incredulously points to his midsection. Marc tilts his head with a raised eyebrow. Steven's fashion in the mindspace is similar to when he's fronting. All Marc can see is the body swimming in a shirt three or four sizes too large, in a pattern that hurts his eyes.

"Steven I literally can't see anything", he sighs and turns to remove his towel and start getting dressed. That's when he sees it. A soft..chunky roll in his belly as he bends to pick up his t-shirt. He slowly turns back to the mirror, shirt in hand, and pokes his finger in his belly. Nearly two segments of the finger sink in easily, and the flesh springs back as he removes his hand. Marc's never seen anything like it on his own body.

Here's the thing. Marc Spector in the past has never really eaten. He's consumed food in order to sustain. In the army and as a merc, he had standard rations and a standard body type he had to maintain. And before that, he had always been a skinny kid. It's no secret he wasn't exactly nurtured at home. And he's even starved himself to points where Jake has had to step in to take care of the body. Until quite recently, actually. Until he met you. Or rather, three months into meeting you.

You'd brought a tupperware of chocolate cupcakes to your fifth date. You were meeting after nearly a month, a month of thinking Marc is going to ghost you. That day Marc came bearing a harrowed guilty face, and you came bearing cupcakes. Who does that? Marc wondered as he bit into one. And almost forgot to chew. It already tasted so, so good he stared at you with wide eyes. You giggled bashfully, a shy finger wiping away ganache from the side of his lip. Later that night those same lips had devoured you over and over until all the tension of the month prior was forgotten.

It had never even occurred to Marc it is possible for the body to gain some stomach fat. And it damn well had never crossed his mind, that would be what's bothering him when he looks at his reflection. But here he is. He can almost hear Jake groaning somewhere in the depths of the mindspace. A groan of "Here we go again".

They moved into your apartment a month later. Steven still kept his, and turned it into a library slash workspace for them. Your place was home. With your warmly lit study, kitchen that always smelled good, the eclectic wooden chandelier in the living room, and the twelve pillows on your queen bed: it was a better home than marc had ever seen himself living in. And then there was you. Who had given him so much love, so much grace, so much understanding. Because of him, you had moved away the large full body mirror to your study the day before he had moved in. The men liked having mirrors around, mirrors made it easier to communicate, but just...smaller ones. It took Marc a long time to be able to look at all the scars and marks on the body without feeling sick in his stomach. The day he asked if you could move the mirror to the bedroom to make dressing up easy, you'd hugged him and kissed him silly. And later baked a batch of apple tarts as a treat.

"Maaarc what's taking you long?" your call sounds impatient. He can hear faint muttering coming closer and your head appears in the doorway. Marc's instinct is to quickly cover his torso with the t-shirt in his hand, almost letting loose an embarrassing squeak.

"You haven't dressed? We gotta do a grocery run quick or we'll get very late for lunch!" you whine with your hands on your hips.

"I don't want lunch", Marc mumbles and you pause in the midst of your woeful rant of delayed lunches.

"What..why? Is your stomach upset? I told you that fish tasted funky, Marc, I swear.." you immediately start fussing over him, coming close and checking his forehead for a temperature.

"No..no...I'm fine. Just ... not hungry" he shakes his head away.

You were familiar with Marc's 'not hungry'. It could mean a lot of things, but very rarely the fact that he actually wasn't hungry.

"Everything alright, bubba?" you ask, hand moving down to caress his cheek. Marc sighs and smiles wryly,"Yeah..yeah don't worry. It's just...it's silly..."

You raise your brows in question, egging him to go on. "It's just...I have this thing.." he rubs his neck and moves the tshirt from his torso slowly, as if revealing the deepest darkest secrets. You blink owlishly at the display, then back up at him. "Honey...uh..I'm sorry but....what am I..looking at?" you ask.

"This!", Marc almost whines, poking indignantly at his belly. You look just as lost, helplessly staring. "Does it..hurt there or something?" you offer with concern.

Marc doesn't look convinced so you prod a little further, asking if that's something that feels uncomfortable or just...looks different to him. "I..I've always been skinny...before the army and the...Khonshu." he sighs, head hanging. "Didn't really have someone cooking me a three course meal every time."

"No...I'm...I have...this..." he bends over to a side and pinches his tummy roll between his fingers. You stare at that for a few moments before it clicks. "Oh honey", you call with adoration, gently prying away those fingers and kissing the tips. "But your tummy looks so nice. So healthy. You look so nice and healthy"

You take a cautious pause at that, almost hurt for a moment. Marc catches onto it quick, and stumbles directly into an apology. "No..no...that came out wrong. I love that you cook, I love everything you make, I'm so grateful. You're..., baby..please..."

It always breaks your heart when Marc apologizes, because of the way he does it. He says sorry for a simple slip of tongue as if you'd be packing your bags and running off before he had a chance to finish his sentence. So you smile at him, a cheeky little smile.

"You like my cakes?" you ask him innocently, a playful glint in your eye.

"Huh? Of course I do...yeah? The...the one you made on my birthday, and...and.."

"No no no...", you stop him, moving closer. "I mean, do you like my cakes" You give your butt a playful wiggle. Marc stops in his tracks, then groans at that awful joke. "Babe!" he groans. You giggle and wrap your arms around him. Your head nestled in the crook of his neck with practiced ease, you mumble softly,"You look great. If you feel healthy, and enjoy what you're eating....you're good. Okay?" You pause a bit then sigh. "I...I can't see you starve yourself again, bubba. It...hurts to see you like that." You still remember when Marc had showed up on your fifth date with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, looking like he's missed half his meals the past month. It's an image you can't get out of your head: him standing with a small souvenir clutched so tight in his palm the packaging was ruined, looking all shades of tired and starved.

Marc stays quiet, but he holds on to you tight, kisses the top of your head. "What's for lunch?" he mumbles meekly after a while. You pull back and smile wide, eyes shining, and continue your grocery run rant. From the increasing price of eggs to the doubtful durability of milk, this new meatball hack you want to try, and a vegan substitute idea you'd just gotten. You follow Marc around the room as he gets dressed, talking a mile a minute. He takes a last glance at the mirror and rakes back his curls, then swiftly pulls you closer. You squeak and hold him on instinct, and he laughs softly while nuzzling the side of your face. "So...remind me the plan. We...are getting groceries, making lunch, so...after eating.." He pauses but you can hear the laugh in his voice. The laugh and the shyness.

"What, Spector?" you tease. "What do you want after lunch?"

"Well maybe you....you can show me how good you think I look?" he says hopefully. You turn around to kiss him, nodding excitedly. "Deal", you whisper, before pulling back and giggling. "I thought you're about to ask me to have you for dessert"

Marc facepalms with another groan.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector #steven grant #moon knight #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #luke shares #luke fic recs

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propheticbride · 3 months ago

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The Bounty Hunter and The Raider

𐙚 In which a chance encounter with a figure from your past, brings new feelings out of you.

𐙚 Raider!Joel x Reader x Darkish!Arthur Morgan (tw: allusions to reader being abused, allusions to abuse from past, 'problematic' age gap; joel is 52 reader is 22, tiny allusion to reader being forced against her will to stay with joel)

When Joel had begged you to go on a small hunting trip, you truly didn't want to leave the cabin. But after bottles of nail polish, the promise of your favorite meat, and Joel going down on you for at least an hour...you caved. You had watched him hunt deer, and a few bunnies before pouting about wanting to go home.

When you arrived back at the cabins lining the outside of Jackson, you couldn't believe your eyes.

You look hesitant, almost worried. “Arthur? Is that you?”

Arthur's facial expression grows weary upon hearing your voice. “Darling? That you?”

It had been at least three years since you had seen Arthur…since you had left in the middle of the night and Joel had found you half dead, begging for your life. “I can't believe it's you.”

Arthur looks you up and down, surprised to see how much weaker you are now than what you used to be. Your hair is duller, eyes tired, and bruises decorating your visible skin.

“I think I could say the same to you, darlin'. You look like you got hit by a train.” Arthur clears his throat.

Joel had barely now noticed the broad man speaking to you, anger flashing his face.

“And you are?” he demands, taking your side. Joel feels a protectiveness, something he hasn't felt since you first came around Jackson. Now everyone knows you're Joel’s girl.

Arthur immediately looks Joel up and down, almost sizing him up. He raises an eyebrow before going back to talking to you, “Who's the fella behind you?”

“Oh. This is my boyfriend.” you say in a friendly tone. “Joel this is Arthur, Arthur this is Joel.”

Joel nods at Arthur, making sure to step closer to you. He refuses to take his eyes off Arthur. “Nice to meet you.”

Arthur laughs a little at Joel’s possessive performance. “Likewise…you two seem close.”

Joel huffs, picking up on Arthur’s almost mocking tone. “Yeah. Been together for…bout’ three years now right baby?”

“Yes.” you nod. “Joel saved my life actually.”

Joel wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “Damn right I did.”

Arthur’s amused at Joel’s behavior. Amused at how clingy he is with you. It reminded him of himself, only when you were younger and in his care.

He smirks, “Seems like yall are attached to each’other.”

“I haven't seen you in so long…” you remember how you left him. Nearly 2 a.m, making sure he was asleep before gathering your things silently and booking it. “What even brings you to Jackson?”

Arthur shrugs nonchalantly, “Some bountys on some raiders. Passed Jackson, it seemed like a quiet place to rest.”

“You going to be long then?” Joel asks with a direct stare to the other man.

Arthur notices Joel’s grip on you tightening, your face forming a little frown at it. He holds back another smirk, and shrugs again, “Might be. Why, got s problem with it old man?”

Joel’s face turns into a scowl, eyebrows furrowing at the comment. “Nah. Jus’ was wonderin’ when you’re leavin’. Jacksons a quiet place for a reason.”

You giggle, “Tommy and Maria won’t mind an extra mouth to feed.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “I know he won't, and that ain't what I’m worried bout’.”

Arthur’s smile grows as he visibly notes Joel’s growing agitation towards him. “Then what are you worried about?”

Possessiveness becomes present in Joel’s tone, “Nothing…nevermind. It don't matter anyhow.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow at the older man. “You seem a little on edge there.”

“We just got back from hunting!” you speak up, wanting to diffuse the situation. “We're both hungry and exhausteid. That's all.”

“Oh really?”

Joel’s eye twitches slightly, but keeps his comments to himself.

“Joel?” you turn to him. “Do you wanna go tell Tommy we have an extra guest tonight?”

Joel sighs, he takes a moment before nodding at you. “Yeah…yeah I’m goin’.”

Joel gives Arthur another glare, before he walks off with the animals to go find his brother.

Arthur watches as Joel leaves, a smirk still decorated on his face. He turns back to you, his demeanor turning softer. “Seems like your new fella has a bit of a temper problem princess.”

“He's just not friendly towards new people. Especially when it comes to me.” you reply.

“That so?”

“He's…lost a lot. Besides his brother, and a distant daughter who won't speak to him…I’m all he has.” you admit, your gaze falling to the ground.

Arthur cocks an eyebrow. Curiosity pours into him. “He lost a lot? What sorta loss are we talkin?”

“His daughter…from the old world. And before me he lost his lover.” you sigh at the mention of Tess, still not sure where your feelings stand.

Arthur’s smirk faded fast. “Damn. Can't imagine losin’ my family like that. And his lover too?”

You tense up at the mention of Tess again, something Arthur noticed almost immediately.

“He seems…pretty attached to you.” he points out.

“Yeah he is. When I left you that night, it wasn't long until some raiders came along and nearly took me as a sex slave. Beat me nearly to death to break me in. I barely escaped, and when I did…I must’ve gone days without food or water before Joel found me hunting with Tommy.” you explain in a meek voice.

Arthur’s eyes widen as he listens to you. He begins to tense up himself, a hint of anger in his eyes. “He found ya, out there all alone? Weak as a newborn baby?”

You nod. “Head basically bashed in, barley could see my face from all of the blood. My arm never really recovered properly…so-” you mock his tone from earlier “I’m looking a little rough.”

Arthur chuckles a little, “Rough looking is an understatement princess”

“You don't have to be rude.” you’re not sure why you’re taking his teasing so personal.

He scoffs, “Ain't being rude. Just saying what's obvious.”

There's a silence between you two, you both simply just glancing at once another.

Arthur clears his throat, “So…why did you leave that night? Never figured that out.”

“Why do you care?”

“Just wonderin. You had your own room, I took care of you…” Arthur shakes his head.

“I just had to leave…okay?” you sigh. “I don't wanna talk about it.”

“Darling-”

So you're staying for dinner?” you reassure.

Arthur nods just as Joel’s footsteps could be heard, “Alright my love, made Tommy aware of the extra company.”

“I’ll stay for dinner, since arrangements have been made.” Arthur replies.

“When do you think you'll take off?” Joel asks, no longer caring about being kind.

“Not sure. Why? Plannin’ on runnin’ me out of town?” Arthur cocks his head.

“Like I said, Jacksons a quiet town. Don't need no bounty hunter causin’ issue.” Joel has an annoyed smile on his face.

“Joel.” you warn.

Joel looks over at you, his eyes softening when they meet yours. “What?”

“Please be civil. You know how Tommy can get.” you remind him.

“I am being civil.” Joel assures.

✮⋆˙

The table is set the way Tommy specifically likes. An extra plate set out for Arthur, who now looks around Joel’s sprawling cabin from where he's seated. Whoever owned it prior to the world going to shit, definitely had money. Something Joel may not not have, but he carried the only currency that mattered in the new world: power and strength.

“So…you plannin’’ on stayin’ in Jackson for a while?” Tommy asks, taking a bite of the venison.

Arthur looks back to that man, who is much easier on the eyes than his rougher older brother. “Oh…I honestly don’t know. I never stay in one place too long. But, Jackson seems like a cute peaceful community, a real set up yall have built here. I might stick around for a bit.”

“What’s a bit mean?” Joel asks, chewing his food with a glare directed again, at Arthur.

Tommy sighs, realizing the look on Joel’s face means absolutely no good, he attempts to chime in, “I-”

“You should take Arthur hunting.” you say with an innocent smile.

Joel’s face scrunches at your suggestion, even more of an annoyed look painting his face. “And why in the hell would that be a good idea?”

Arthur speaks up before you’re able to respond, “Sounds like a great idea.”

Tommy only giggles.

“Because now you are both the biggest and toughest in Jackson, both could bring home serious food…maybe more venison.” you smile at him. Venison was by far you’re favorite, growing tired of the duck and chicken you had to endure.

“No way in hell darling, you think that man can hunt like me?” Joel feels a pang of jealousy towards your suggestion.

“Joel.” your smile falls. “Just take him hunting with you.”

“Dammit, all right, fine. I’ll go hunting with em’ just stop poutin’ at me like that.” Joel shakes his head.

“Good, I want more venison.” you smile to yourself again, eating what's left on your plate.

Joel gives you an eye roll, though he cannot help but crack a smile at your excited attitude towards more of your favorite meat. “You really love it don't you?”

“Well, I mean it is pretty tasty. So…I’d say the excitement is warranted.” Arthur is quick to defend you, not knowing Joel is only joking as venison is a way to spoil you from the duck and chicken you usually consume.

Joel immediately scowls at Arthur’s comment, and glances at him. “It's not ‘pretty tasty’. I hunt the best damn venison ya’ ever tasted.”

Tommy only snorts at his brother’s words, grinning at how easy it is to simply rile the older one. “Sure bud, real good venison.”

“Tommy you loved it at Christmas, Maria asked for the recipe.” you shook your head playfully at him.

“Okay okay…you got me you’re right.” Tommy chuckles. “I guess he did do a good time that time, didn't he?”

Arthur feels almost out of place at this dinner. You, Tommy and Joel are all connected. Love is between the three of you. Romantic, platonic along with familial.

“Decent job?” Joel sounds offended, “Decent job my ass, that was the best damn venison you ever have tasted. You said it yourself.”

Tommy throws his hands up in mock defense, still finding it hilarious to mess with Joel. “Alright…it was delicious venison. Happy now, cowboy?”

Arthur smiles, “Cowboy huh? Ain't he a little too old to be a cowboy?”

“Please stop bullying Joel, you guys are hurting my feelings.” you fake pout.

Tommy and Arthur both chuckle, knowing why you’re siding with Joel.

“Oh come on, we’re just givin’ Joel a hard time. He's the one who can't accept that he’s old and rusting now.” Tommy smiles at you.

“Yeah. Maybe he oughta go to bed early tonight so he gets all his rest in.” Arthur adds.

Joel only looks between the two men, annoyance painted on his face.

“Oh yeah Joel, wanna get your old bones bed early tonight?” Tommy snarks playfully.

Arthur laughs at Tommy playing along with him. “Yeah, can't be havin’ ya ol’ back giving out on ya now.”

“Don't worry, my love.” you assure Joel. “I’ll sleep early with you.”

Joel grins, “You gonna sleep with me, huh?”

“Don't get jealous there, Joel. No need to growl like a dog.” Tommy tells his brother.

“Yeah, she ain't going nowhere old man.” Arthur jokes.

You frown, “Be nice to him.”

Tommy puts his hand up, surrendering to you. “Alright fine I’ll stop.”

Arthur, on the other hand, does not want to stop. It’s almost like a small power trip he's having over Joel.

“Yeah, guess we should leave the big ol’ cowboy alone for the night. He gets cranky close to his bedtime I see.”

You immediately stand up, “I invited you to dinner because I missed you. You're still the cruel jerk I ditched in the middle of the night. Now you can't stop being mean to the man I love. I'm going to sleep, goodnight to all of you.” You leave them at the table and beeline upstairs to you and Joel’s shared bedroom.

Joel sighs, also standing up. “You happy now bastard?” Not waiting for his reply, he immediately heads up after you.

Tommy, feeling the tension clears his throat. “I bet my wife is missing me, I’m gonna get on headed out. Was great meetin’ you.”

Tommy grabs his coat and heads for the door, leaving Arthur alone at the kitchen table, somewhat confused.

✮⋆˙

Joel walks through the hallway, heading straight to the master bedroom you both shared. His mind is suddenly filled with worry as he freezes before fully touching the doorknob. He knew you were sensitive, much too sensitive.

He takes a deep breath, and proceeds to knock on the door.

“Go away.”

“It's me baby.” Joel says.

He hears your soft footsteps, then the door opens. You had changed into your nighty, eyes red from crying.

“You okay baby?” he asks.

“You don't get it. He's…always has been like that.” you shake your head.

“Like what?”

“He…he would be so mean to me, picking out stuff he didn't like. Telling me I was weak for how I thought. That I wouldn't survive this world.” you were visibly upset, something that hurt Joel.

Joel nods, taking in your words. The hard part was that Arthur was correct. If you didn't have someone protecting you, you'd be dead.

“You chased after me.” you bring him back.

“I did baby. You were upset. Had to make sure you were okay.” he reassures you. “But if you wanna be alone…”

You immediately move to pull him into the room, kissing him and reaching for his belt buckle. “Wanna be alone with you.”

Joel lets you guide him onto the bed, “Yeah sweetheart? You want me all to yourself?”

You straddle him, “Yeah daddy. Needed you since Arthur showed up.”

Joel sighs at the mention of the bounty hunter. Jealousy blooming. “I’m gonna take care of you…sweetheart you're mine.”

“Please do.” you beg as he switches you over, now hovering you.

The neediness in your voice turns him on much more. “Don't worry baby girl, I’m going to make sure to take real good care of you. Make sure you never think of Arthur again.”

He grips your thighs tightly, as his hard on aligns with your soaked through panties. You mewl at the contact.

“Feels good Joel.”

“You? You like how your feelin’? You feelin’ better?” The sight of you squirming is enough to drive him wild. But the fact that Arthur is possibly downstairs listening to you, drives him even more insane.

Joel tugs at the edge of your nightgown, and begins to pull it over your head. You now lay bare for him, Joel taking in your completely naked form. He hasn't been harder in his life than he is now, he's sure.

Arthur knows better. He definitely does. He's able to sneak upstairs, following the sounds of your moaning. He couldn't believe his ears. He slowly tiptoes to the door, but completely halts when your voice speaks up.

“You said you'd do anything for me right?”

Joel’s voice answers after, “Yeah, baby girl. You know I’d do anything for you, darlin’. Anything you asked of me.”

The silence is sharp. Before you speak again. “I want you to kiss Arthur.”

#joel miller x reader #the last of us #the last of us smut #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption #dark!joel miller #dark!joel miller x reader #kinda dark!arthur idkkk

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lucky-bishova-42 · 8 months ago

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Kate Headcannons

(in the Malen’kiy Yastreb universe)

TW: allusions to child abuse

Kate and Eleanor were never close. They never really bonded, even before Derek Bishop passed away; things turned ugly two months after he passed. Eleanor blamed Kate for his death and basically forced Kate to become her housekeeper to make up for it: doing all the cleaning, the laundry, making meals, etc.

Kate still feels obligated to clean the apartment when Natasha and Wanda are working long days, despite being told multiple times that she doesn’t need to

Kate has ADHD

Even though Natasha and Wanda are together, Kate was a little nervous about admitting to them she had a crush on America because Eleanor almost kicked her out when Kate told her she was a lesbian

Kate’s favorite days are spent snuggled between Natasha and Wanda just relaxing

There is still a lot about Kate’s past (specifically with Eleanor) that she hasn’t told Natasha about, and she isn’t quite ready to yet

Kate starts looking for engagement rings, for Natasha to give to Wanda, three months after they started dating; she really does hope they thank her in their wedding vows

She still flinches sometimes when she is overwhelmed and overstimulated and Natasha or Wanda moves too fast, her subconscious still not getting the fact that she is truly safe with them

Kate had been calling Natasha ‘mama’ in her head since around Mother’s Day before she started calling her that all the time (she doesn’t remember calling her that when she was sick)

Kate likes to quietly read with Wanda in her favorite spot under the big oak tree on days were she feels too overwhelmed

On really bad days, Kate likes to rest her head on Natasha’s chest so she can hear her heartbeat

Kate is, and will always be, a cuddler

Dr. Cho believes Kate is slightly touch deprived given the way her and Eleanor were never close

No matter how bad Kate is panicking, Natasha’s calm voice, soft touch, and steady heartbeat always help start to calm her down

Natasha trains Kate in self defense in between archery seasons

Natasha, despite being very encouraging, is dreading the day Kate fully takes on the Hawkeye mantle

Natasha basically ‘adopted’ Kate after she met Eleanor for the first time and could see something was wrong

Kate is currently teaching herself Russian, but isn’t telling Wanda or Natasha as a surprise

Sometimes Wanda has to remind herself that Kate and Natasha are not biologically related when Kate makes Natasha’s signature face or says something in an eerily similar way to how Natasha does

There are probably more I am forgetting but these are them for now :) (these were mostly kate, nat, and wanda centered but what else is new lol)

#kate bishop #mama spider #nat is kate’s mama #wanda is kate’s mom #mama nat #mom wanda #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #malen’kiy yastreb #wandanat #wanda x natasha

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lexluvswriting · 6 months ago

Text

ꔫ L'autunno.

ꔫ Ch: 4 [last page] [next page]

-> Pairing: Eris x ballet dancer!fem!reader.

-> (CW): x fem!reader (she/her), slow-burn, rivals to lovers, tinkle of angst on occasion, fluff, non-specified identity Summer Court!reader, regarding canon ACOTAR time: after defeat of Hybern. things get get cheeky... teehee.

-> (TW): Allusions to domestic violence/abuse (L.O.A + Beron), eris has trauma flashbacks, sexual tension? maybe? someone read it and tell me pls. eris practically pining for reader but simultaneously pissing her off, reader x eris finally kiss, raahh!!

W/C: 3.5k

╰┈➤ Lex's note: UHM... guys... please ignore that i last posted in April or something... double degrees are not for the weak 😔✊OOH! ALSO: you two share a kiss- :O -and reader likes it >:D did I pull an all-nighter for this chapter, AND almost finish up to chapter six in one night? ... yes. do i also have an important exam in 5 hours? ... also yes. i couldn't help myself- I missed writing, okay?! anyway, pls pls pls, don't be afraid to comment & let me know what you liked, disliked or loved!!

You had both sat on the ledge of the ampitheatre, taking in the peaceful quiet, enjoying the nature that surrounded you both before you huffed softly at how ‘casual’ the setting was. A pretty patterned rug was laid out to be sat on, with porcelain cups, dishes, and all sorts of rich, fancy-fae delicacies: tea cakes of different shapes, flavours and colours; neatly cut sandwiches with different pastes, spices and fillings.

“Where’s your little throne?”

You nodded, not waiting for him before picking a sandwich to take a bite of- your stomach fluttering when you didn’t taste poison, but rather a delightful taste combination. He grinned slyly and clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment as he poured you and himself tea that smelt like bergamot and honey.

“Would have been too big for my servants to winnow, I’m afraid.”

His tone was airy and snobbish- as if he had read your mind, thus playing along to the tune of your harsh assumptions- so you rolled your eyes, food pushed into the side of your mouth to mumble out, “Figured you would have used some of them as footstools and makeshift seats instead.”

Eris huffed, before thinking over the weight of your snark which drew a chuckle that dissolved into a soft laugh of disbelief. You ignored the way the sound made your insides flutter- or perhaps that was just organ failure. He looked at you incredulously, shaking his auburn covered head as he filled your plate, then his.

“Is that what you truly think of me?”

You continued to chew, your face expressive enough to fill the silence, which made him chuckle more.

“I certainly have underestimated you, little swan,” You grumbled at the ‘feigned’ endearment, but it didn’t deter him, “You are not merely a pretty face at all. You also possess a delightful, deadly fire. Now, whether it makes you stupidly brave, or bravely stupid, I’m not sure. Even worse, I’m not sure if that intrigues me, or irritates me.” He hummed, and it seemed to stoke ‘said fire’ within you- your own pride being stroked, so you gave him a bemused half-smirk,

“Why not both?”

He raised an eyebrow at your rather coy tone, and you almost thought you liked that ‘slightly startled, slightly intrigued’ look he wore, before you remembered what he was- who he was- and looked away disinterestedly. But you knew him; or at least, knew he was trained in the arts of charming females as if it was as easy as breathing. Something in your gut told you he liked those that played ‘hard-to-get’ and the feelings that festered and stewed made you confused. Again, as if he was reading your mind, he answered accordingly:

“Almost sounds like you’re flirting with me, darling.” His serve. So the match starts.

A scoff, accompanied by a simple shake of your head. “Spare me. Just how exactly have you made it this far in life, lordling?” A simple hit back into his court.

“Is that admiration I hear?” A lazy return.

“You wish it was.” Shaking your head as you sipped the sweet, citrusy tea he poured. A back-hand swing with a bit of force.

“I do, actually. If it means you’ll stop being so shrewd.” Parried back wonderfully, much to your dismay.

“Is this how you usually find ladies to court? By acting like an arse.” You ask flatly, and he pauses. Victory.

You smirk, glancing down at the tea cup, before the silence goes on for too long. Your lips tug into a frown, but you don’t look up. Is he angry? Something tugs at your stomach, then your chest, and you finally look back up at him, only to catch him staring at you with an expression you didn’t recognise. You straightened- almost angry at yourself for feeling nervous. But you didn’t know him. Didn’t know his moods, his temperaments. Didn’t know what he did in his spare time.

The lordling seemed to sense your fidgeting and looked away; out towards the view of the sprawling Autumn colours that dotted the trees on the horizon.

“... So… what brought you to the Autumn Court?”

You blinked up at him, raising an eyebrow, before remembering you had told him you weren’t from here.

“Apparently, as a baby, I was dropped off at an orphanage near the place I live now, with some sort of Summer Court emblem and a scarf. However, I’ve got no ties, no leads to any family that I know of, and I haven’t sought them out either.” He watched you as you spoke, and before you could comment or add more, he beat you to it.

“How miserable.”

You flinched before stilling, blinking repeatedly at him. How… miserable?

Disbelief contorted your face as you looked at him like he had grown three heads. Did he just-?

Eris simply watched you, tilting his head slightly, his russet eyes meeting yours in a stare that wasn’t hostile; rather, it was him trying to figure you out like some sort of puzzle. However, his random response had caught you off guard, making you chuckle softly, before you covered your mouth quickly, only to hold your head in your hands as you began to genuinely laugh.

“Have I misspoke?”

You laughed more at his polite yet confused tone, shaking your head as you tried to control yourself, only to laugh more, which spurred a few chuckles from the male sitting across from you.

“Hold on- I only meant it in the sense that-”

“No, no!” You forced out as you gasped for air, trying to reign in your amusement as you watched him watch you again, with him seeming oddly… content with how you laughed at him.

“I… I get it. Honestly, Eris- Sorry… ‘Lord’ Eris-” He rolled his eyes, waving a hand as you continued,

“How in the Cauldron did you make it this far in life?” You chuckled again, while he flashed a strangely sweet, cheeky smile. It was almost endearing. Almost.

“Would you believe me if I said ‘through uncanny wit and dazzling charm?’” His dryness made you snicker, before a small smile grew on your face. He hummed as you did so, looking down at his hand while you caught yourself staring again; both of you sitting in the silence as you briefly self-reflected. Why was he being funny? Why could he make you laugh simply… simply by being himself?Why was it so easy to get lost in staring at him? You continued to watch him- not knowing how intensely your eyes twinkled, nor the way it made his blood heat in a way that surprised him. Yet, he caught you, finally.

“[Y/N] darling, if you keep staring at me like that, it might put ideas in my head.” He mused, and you jerked your head away instantly, hearing him snicker as you rolled your eyes.

“Why won’t you let yourself enjoy today, little swan?” He teased, but your response wasn’t as light.

“If I do, it will mean that I am as easy, and as useless as all the others that you manage to bewitch. I simply won’t let that happen.” You replied hollowly, a small part of you not even believing your own answer. Eris sucked his tooth, watching you with a nod as if you had said something truly confounding, before he clicked his tongue and stood up.

“Alright. Let’s walk.” Eris nodded at you, before offering a hand with a sly smile, waiting for you to move. You blinked up at him, raising an eyebrow before deciding to take his hand- unlike the carriage, where he practically lifted you like it was nothing- pulling yourself up.

What the hell would a walk do?

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

“Tell me honestly, swan. Why do you dislike me- not my family- but me, so heavily?” Eris encouraged the dancer to speak freely as you both walked down the hill. He noticed the way your eyes avoided his, instead mapping out all the different shades of brown, orange and red leaves. He watched you shrug, and internally pulled at his hair. What had you so reserved?

He wanted to say something- taunt you, tease you, even trick you into speaking- but when you hesitated, looking at the ground for an answer that wouldn’t be so easily given, he shut up immediately. It was only when you tried to avoid the question that something triggered within him to reach for and grab your arm; grabbing gently, merely to pull you back to where he had stopped walking.

“Hey-” You had snapped, baring your teeth before pulling your arm away, the action making his heart race as you did so. How wonderful- when your eyes gleamed the way they did. Did you even know how beautiful you looked? When you looked at him like you wanted to throttle him? Or, what about when you had laughed so freely before, and his brain had completely blanked?

Eris sighed wistfully, determined to crack the nut that was your eccentric, explosive enigma of a mind.

“When you do things like that- acting like you just have some claim on me- I don’t like it.So when you do it often, or other things I don’t like, it makes it easier to dislike you.” You spoke succinctly, and he couldn’t argue with that. At least you answered him. Yet Eris watched you anyway, hoping you’d continue. When he stayed silent, he realised his staring made you nervous as you wiped your hands on your dress, delicate hands grabbing at the fabric to fidget as you pushed yourself to answer his initial question.

He willed his expression to be neutral as you began to speak- the words spilling from your lip like a fast flowing river. But his restraint was in vain- before he knew it, he was absolutely entranced by your thoughts and ideas. The way you spoke about your studies- the passion, the assertiveness you carried as you listed the criticisms your ‘surrogate mother Ordelia’ had helped you draft in an assignment; an ‘unsent response’ to his father’s unfair increase of land tax, and the random raids or ‘removals’ that always seemed to happen towards the end of the day, targeting certain fae of non-native identities. He had to remind himself to meet with this fae. She sounded like quite the female.

You had told Eris about the families that were getting displaced- how people were terrified to leave their homes because of these new restrictions- and his brain spun like a spinning top. You dared compare Beron’s treatment to the tyrant of a female that had held Prythian hostage for almost fifty years prior, and his nostrils flared, but he stayed silent. Did you realise what you were saying? How brave, how brilliant- how possibly stupid it was? Being so bold saying these ideas so freely? He almost felt liberated from the confines of his own mind- where, for too long, he had been too afraid to dare bring light to these thoughts of his own.

Eris didn’t dare stop you, so you continued, even scolding Eris himself on his ‘petty blackmail’ of your ballet instructor- he decided there and then that he wanted you to criticise and chastise him like that all the time- advocating for the old studio, and the children who used it to escape poverty in their own villages, in their own homes. Unbeknownst to you, the heir seemed to fall more and more in love with every word you said. He figured it would probably be his demise if he were to compliment you on your ideas- you seemed to treat anything he said as a callous taunt, or cruel mockery. But the heir couldn’t help himself as he exhaled softly.

“Brilliant.”

He nodded, watching you intensely, before shaking his head with a scoff, looking away.

“Ballerinas are doing politics now,” And you’re somehow doing them in the way he had always dreamed of, “What a world we live in.” He would have happily sung your praises from the treetops. He was prepared to present your ideas- your works to his father and call him out on his tirade. So why was it that, when he looked back at you, you looked up at him with a mixture of hurt and disappointment?

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

“You weren’t listening to a single word, were you?” The disappointment in your voice was almost laughable. You felt bitterness coat your tongue like film as you observed the heir. There it was. That feigned incredulity, the false intrigue and interest. In his eyes, like so many other males, all you’d ever be recognised as was just a pretty little ballerina. A pretty female, with pretty eyes, hips for child-rearing, and a figure that was easy on the eyes.

“[Y/N]... You- you have just recited every single measure I have ever wanted to implement.” He had stopped walking to watch your disappointment manifest, and he shook his head again, reaching for you before hesitating as you whipped back to glare at him. Well… at least he listened to one thing.

“I don’t need your pity, lordling.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”

“Oh, boohoo!” You snapped, glaring up at the heir, “I know what you see in me- what your ‘expectations’ are. You want me to sit still and be pretty while I have to be subjected to this- this stupid ball with all these rich, ignorant nobles who-”

“Who couldn’t give a damn about the people who starve right outside their doors, right?” He finished your sentence- he cut you off, and you paused.

“Are you mocking me?”

“No, [Y/N]. I know what you’re thinking. I’ve thought the exact same- down to the letter, every damned day.” He grabbed you, and your eyes narrowed, ready to warn him off you when he interjected again.

“Just- listen.” He snapped, and your mouth shut, even as you glared daggers up at him, “Do you know how exhausting it is, having to carry the burdens of that bastard?” Your eyes widened.

Was this real? Where the Hell had this come from? You opened your mouth, but he put his hand over it,

“Just wait before you spit in my face, stubborn thing.” He hissed, before continuing,

“We are… The Vanserra family… it is not glorious, and- and luxurious, and absolutely ignorant.” He was hardly fluent, hesitating and restarting the sentence. It felt wrong, unnerving. This was not the pompous, cocky, ‘typical’ arrogant noble who had half of the Autumn Court’s female population vying for him. This wasn’t the smug, dominant asshole who had watched you dance, and snidely spoke to you in the hallway of your ballet studio.

No.

This was the male- the son- who had snarled at you in the carriage when you tried to slander the Lady of the Autumn Court. There- you saw it again- that vulnerability, that hollowness that hid behind his eyes every time he stood next to his father; whether it was during royal festivals or important ceremonies. The oldest Vanserra son had gone- gotten trapped in a memory; somewhere dark, somewhere hostile and hurtful. So you decided there and then, regardless of the dislike you held for him, that you’d hold him and wait.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

Sounds of fists landing hits, a cacophony of muffled crashing and banging came from behind the closed door that Eris waited at tearfully- willing his child self to march in there and defend his mother, only to be completely stuck; paralysed by fear.

Warmth came from somewhere, somewhere distant, and there was the dull echo of a voice that made his chest tighten.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

You watched him grow distant, his eyes losing their usual gleam- not that you cared to notice, as you’d easily deny. Something made your hands move on their own, pulling his hand off your mouth so you could grab them in yours, watching him with emotions that made your stomach knot and shrivel.

“Eris?”

You called again, and he jerked- the abrupt movement making you flinch while the heir exhaled shakily. As he looked back down at you, he saw the way you held his hands, initiating contact. When he moved, you followed his gaze, unsure why you were still holding onto him. You did that, all of your own accord. You did it, yet you weren’t sure why.

Eris swallowed thickly- you even watched the way his throat bobbed, before his hands slowly, shakily cupped your face. Your eyes never left him; you didn’t move to push him away either. What had he seen? Where had he gone?

“[Y/N] [L/N].” Your heart jerked as he murmured your name- the timbre of his voice low, soul-wrenching as his russet irises bore into yours.

“I want you to meet my father. I want-... I want you to meet him, and tell him exactly what you told me.”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head,

“No- Not on your life-”

“Please.”

Again, his lips had come close to yours, like they had in the carriage, and you felt yourself go deathly still.

“Eris?”

“Please, [Y/N].”

“Eris-”

“You’re brilliant.” The male breathed, his eyes scanning you quickly, almost anxiously, like he was afraid your attention would shift away from him. You were brilliant? He thought… he thought you were brilliant. You swallowed, eyes fluttering as you looked up at him, stare never breaking. Looking into his eyes, being so close, it felt like you were staring down at a body of water at the bottom of a cliff. Was it shallow? Were there hidden rocks- jagged, hungry for bones to shatter? Was this what leaps of faith were?

“You don’t… you don’t care.” You shook your head stubbornly, resisting the pull.

“You- You are the most brilliant fae I know-” His serve, again.

“You’ve barely known me!” A hard knockback from yourself; the ball was in his court.

“I’ve never known anyone with a mind like yours, [Y/N].” A powerful hit back into your court.

“No.” You barely hit it back in his court, so close to crumbling.

“[Y/N]-” He fumbled.

“I’m not going to make a fool of myself in front of your father, Eris. What power do I hold?” A harsh serve to start the match.

“The knowledge you carry- the way you see the world- the way you solve problems that noblemen in my father’s court have been stuck on for years-” Your eyes widened at his words- you fumbled the hit.

“Eris- No- No! It is not my responsibility to fix your father’s inadequacies!” You snapped, pushing away gently as you looked away, your mind racing. You needed to go. Your heart- your stomach- Hell, you were even feeling the slightest bit aroused! You needed to go- needed to get away to think-

His hands grabbed you again, cupping your face and tilting your head up ever-so-gently, as if he thought you were made of porcelain.

“[Y/N].” Your mind blanked when you heard the way he pleaded- pleaded!

Well… if he said your name like that…

“Eris-” Your hands reached up to his- whether to hold, or to push away, you weren’t sure yet. The Vanserra male barely gave you a chance to decide before he sealed the gap between your lips, his eyes shutting while yours widened in shock, before promptly shutting them tight.

He was kissing you. Eris Vanserra was kissing you. He thought you were brilliant, he thought you were

The kiss was… It was…

You didn’t even know. It certainly felt like he was holding back- like he was trying to be a gentleman, and a small part of you appreciated the attempt as you moved your lips against his ever-so-slightly. His tongue didn’t swipe for your lip hungrily; his teeth didn’t tug at your bottom lip; nor did his hands move from where they held your face. Your body felt like it was on fire- a primal, lonely part of your brain urging him to lead, to do something. But he pulled away after the ‘virginal’ kiss, breathing heavily, as if it pained him to pull away- to hold himself back.

You stared up at him dumbly, eyes glittering in the autumn sun as you both stared at each other in something of shock and awe. Why did it feel like your heart was caving in when he kissed you? Why did it feel like the stars had aligned when he pressed his lips against yours so gently- so out of character for him?

“What was that?” You muttered, still shell-shocked, while he turned away, almost as if he was unwell. He shook his head- ignoring your question.

“Eris?” You urged, pulling on his arm impatiently before he turned back to face you, his voice a low murmur.

“[Y/N]... I want you to meet my father.”

╰┈➤ Lex's note 2: OH GOD. okay. OKAY, I DID IT. i did it! it's done! i have posted a chapter again!! (hopefully) i can get back to my usual posting schedule!! i have 3 more exams: 12/06, 13/06 & 15/06 so i will be a lil preoccupied for at least ten days <3 again, TYSM FOR READING IF YOU MADE IT THIS FAR!! <3 <3 also!! the two Loki requests are also currently being drafted as we speak!! thanks for waiting so long everyone!!

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gothidecorem · 1 year ago

Text

Not Alone

A Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x reader comfort one shot

1362 words

A/N: I’ve been dealing with waaayyyy too much the past few days and needed to get my emotions out somehow. The way I see it: big bad horrible Navy man dies, I need sweet ray of sunshine Navy man to swoop in. I used the gif of his dress whites because besides the fact that he’s adorable in them, the only time we see him in his blues is…

I also included the scrapbook pics I mentioned at the end of the story.

TW: mentions of abuse, allusions to sexual abuse, generational trauma, grief. Most of the story is under the cut.

About face

“He will truly be missed”

Present arms

“Your grandfather was a great man”

…military honors…

“He sure loved to be in the cockpit of a P30”

Fire

It was all starting to become too much. The pavilion was feeling 100 times smaller with each passing second. Everyone had something nice to say about him which made you wonder if you had fallen into an alternate reality. In your reality, he was none of these things. He was a horrible man.

“He was a father who cared deeply, and could be strict at times.” You mean when he threw your mother to the floor in front of her siblings? When he would… No, bite your tongue, now’s not the time.

“He showed up to all of the boys’ football games, when he could.” Of course you were hearing this second hand but as far as you knew, he didn’t show up for jack shit. Maybe he went to your cousins’ games but otherwise he was too self-centered.

Hearing all of these things massively contradicted everything you had known about the man. It contradicted all of the trauma he caused for your mom and aunt. If anything, this man should have won an Oscar for how well he hid all of the smarmy shit he’s done in his life. One of your cousins was beside himself because he didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t have a relationship with the man either and he didn’t know how to process it. But with him being 13 years younger and not quite old enough to learn all of the family trauma, you try your best to console him but feel like you fell flat when he needed you.

The entire situation was suffocating and you needed some air. Finding a spot on the far side of one of the cremation walls, you collapse. Just needing to somehow catch your breath. Taking in your surroundings to ground yourself; counting the trees, counting the birds, closing your eyes and pretending you just don’t exist for a few moments. That was, until you felt a hand on your shoulder. Looking up, your eyes locked onto another set that were all too familiar.

“I was wondering where you ran off to.” Tom said, sitting down next to you.

“Careful, don’t mess up your uniform.” You say, wiping away some tears.

“I’m more worried about you right now.” He says, giving you a look. Having known Ice as long as you have, he knows most of the story about why you don’t have a relationship with your grandfather. You could even see him trying not to make a face during the ceremony.

“Aside from the lies and finding my pictures in his photo album yesterday, I’m-“

“I’m sorry, you what?” the world seemed to slow when you heard the tone change in his voice from concern to anger.

“My pictures. He had pictures of me from when I was 3, 6, and 7 or 8 in his scrapbook. I couldn’t even explain the feelings that have been swirling around in my head since then.” Other than the fact it made you want to vomit.

“Do you know how he got them?”

“No. Neither mom nor I know how because she sure as shit didn’t send them to him. He even had a newspaper clipping from my grandparent’s anniversary announcement. I mean, I get at one point they were in laws but it doesn’t make it any less disturbing.”

“On the bright side, it’s all over. You don’t have to worry about running into him anymore, having to hide your daughter from him anymore, it’s done.” He says, standing up. After brushing his uniform off, he offers you a hand, helping you up from the ground. “Speaking of which, where is she?”

“She’s off, running around with the cousins.” As soon as you say that, the 4 kiddos came racing around the corner.

“What’s eating at you?” Tom asks, looking down at you noticing the far off look on your face again.

“The same question that’s been playing over and over again in my mind since I was about her age…” you say, pointing at your daughter.

“You’re not disposable. I promise. You’re worth more than you realize.”

“It definitely doesn’t seem that way. My grandfather used & abused my mother and treated her like scum therefore I didn’t have a grandfather. My dad thought that life was better 3 hours away and he finally had sons instead of a daughter, so I’m more or less an afterthought. My ex thought making up some whack job story about how he was kidnapped by men with guns was the proper way to get out of the relationship instead of talking to me about what was going on in his head. Both of them also deciding their relationships with my daughter wasn’t important either. No one ever stays, they always leave.” At this point you were on the verge of tears and holding them back was about to not be an option. Before you could even muster another thought, a strong set of arms pulled you in tight.

“Look at me.” Tom said, pulling an arm away so he could lift your chin up to look at him. “You are not responsible for any of their actions. None of that is your fault. You can’t blame yourself for them not knowing what they had and lost. Not everyone leaves. I’m still here for you and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You say that, but the other shoe is always waiting to drop.” Before you could say anything else, your full name was flying from his mouth.

“I’m. Not. Going. Anywhere.” He emphasized every word. At this time, Ron rounded the corner.

“Hey, I was wondering where you two ran off to.” He said, then noticing the tight squeeze Ice currently had you in. He gave you both a knowing look.

“And besides being stuck with me, you’re stuck with this one as well.” Tom said, smirking.

“I’m like glitter. Just when you think I’m gone, POOF, there I am.” That garnered a giggle from you.

“I love you both, I truly do.” You say, side hugging the both of them.

“One of us, maybe a bit more than the other.” Tom joked, placing a kiss on your cheek. Ron scoffed, playfully.

“I can’t believe you’d question my love for her. I’d protect her like she was my own-” Tom, living up to his callsign, shot Ron an icy glare. Ron, living up to his, tipped his hat and slid his way out of the conversation.

“Is this your way of asking me out, Kazansky?” You ask, playfully, but blushing at the same time.

“Not the time or place, darling. But, if you’d be up for it, maybe I’ll officially ask when we’re out of here.”

“While I enjoy the thought, there’s a little someone you might need to get permission from first.”

“TOM!” you hear your little girl yell at the top of her lungs, just now realizing he was here. She ran over and practically jumped into his arms.

“Hey kiddo! You probably didn’t recognize me in full uniform, did ya?” he asks as she grabs his hat and places it on her head.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.” You say, as he readjusts your daughter to sit better on his hip and using his other arm to wrap it around your waist.

“Mom, I’m starving.” Your 5 year old says.

“Since it’s a long drive home, yes, we can stop and get food.”

“Sounds like you’re taking me up on that offer.” Tom whispers in your ear.

“Zip it, Kazansky.” You say playfully, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“GET A ROOM!” You hear Slider yell across the parking lot. Whipping your head around to say something, you look back and see that Maverick & Goose have already taken care of it for you, simultaneously smacking him in the stomach.

You didn’t know what the future held, which terrified you. But in the present? You had your daughter, you had Ice, you had your friends, and that’s all that mattered.

The scrapbook pics I found:

It’s been a couple days and the feeling still makes me massively uneasy. But, as stated, he’s gone. I don’t have to worry about him anymore.

#tom kazansky x reader #tom kazansky fic #val kilmer #iceman #iceman x reader #top gun #top gun 1986 #gothic writes

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coffeemakerwriter · 7 months ago

Text

GhostSoap playlist

TW’s: suicide, SA, death, depression, grief, abuse mentions, heavy angst with little to no fluff, may be ooc!! Heavy on soaps death!! Please proceed with caution and let me know if I miss any tags!

A/N: I prefer light and fluffy stuff for ghost and soap but :)) I thought this would be fun! I don’t really have any angsty headcanons for them but I kinda just wrote out my thoughts for this :) this is probs super out of character but that’s okay!

Wc: 1k woords!

Reckless driving by Lizzy mcalpaine and Ben Kessler:

I don’t exactly know why this fits, but it makes sense to me in a way, I think in the way that ghost and soap are both reckless, but ghost is reckless in the way he doesn’t care if he died, but I think in a way, he doesn’t want to take soap with him, and I think that’s frustrate soap, that ghost is so willing to risk his life for him that he’d go as far as to kill himself if it was needed. As long as it keeps soap alive.

The Gold - Phobe Bridgers version:

I think of this in the way after the soap's death ghost is different, ‘I don’t think I love you anymore, that gold mine changed you’? That feels like after Soap's death ghost someone says how different he is, closed off, ‘I don’t wanna be me anymore’ could be ghost agonizing on how he feels because of ghosts death and feels guilty about how he’s been acting since and fears it’s damaging his remaining relationships.

Cherry wine - live by Hozier:

Soap to ghost is a spitfire, loud and wild, hard to contain, harsh barks of laughter and his eyes light up at an ability to fight, but he loves when he’s calm too. “Her fight and fury is fiery Oh but she loves Like sleep to the freezing

Sweet and right and merciful I'm all but washed In the tide of her breathing” can be how soft soap is with ghost, how sweet he can be regardless of his bright and fiery personality. He would love him regardless if he was soft or harsh.

Born to die by Lana del rey:

Regardless of whatever timeline you look at, both of them are born to die, never actually destined to be together forever. Either they both die or one is ripped away. Neither get a happy ending.

Johnny boy by Twenty One pilots:

‘Get up Johnny boy’ can be ghost begging soap to get up, getting more and more distraught as he repeats it, the sickening realization that his pride and joy isn’t getting up, because his pride and joy is dead. ‘I will carry all your names, and I will carry all your shame’ can be ghost vowing in some way that even after his death he will make sure he means something, that his death didn’t go in vain and even with his faults and mistakes he will make sure Johnny will be carried on.

Army dreamers by Kate bush:

The entire song can be played on the fact that soap's body is being brought home, that his coffin is being home to his mother and sisters, how they wish he had chosen something else to do instead of being a soldier, an army dreamer. How he died so young, and how he’ll never make it past his 20’s. But even then, he’ll always be his mammy’s hero.

Not strong enough by boygenius:

I think this kinda deals with more so, ghosts grief with soaps death, how he feels empty and doesn’t know why he is the way he is after he dies. ‘Do you see us getting scraped off the pavement?’ Could be in allusion to the fact he thought about killing himself after soap's death, that in some way he felt like it was his fault soap died. And maybe the emptiness he feels going home to shared space, knowing that soap won’t be there anymore, knowing that he’s alone now. Knowing that he’s never coming home.

I bet on losing dogs by mitski

Ghost holding soaps body, cradling his head in his lap, his baby, he’s watching him die, holding his cold, lifeless body. He knew he wasn’t gonna live, how do you survive something like that? That’s a bet you can’t win. He knew he wouldn’t survive, so all he can do is hold him in his last moments and offer comfort in his last moments. Because either way he’s watching him die.

Savior complex by Phobe bridgers:

I think soap wants to help ghost get better, offer him a place of comfort, save him, but ghost isn’t all that open about things. Not his childhood, not roba, and sure as hell not his family. But soap wants to be there for him, show me yours show you mine? He’s willing to be vulnerable with him if only he’d be vulnerable too, soap thinks he will be, with time at least.

Sarah by Alex g:

I don’t really know how to explain this one either, just the fact I feel like ghost would feel like he’s in a dream, constantly seeing Johnny, seeing his face, hearing his voice, running to him, only for him to be woken up just before he can reach him. I feel like ghost would wait for him like a dog, despite knowing he’s gone, he’s not coming back, he still waits. Or atleast waits till he can join him.

All for us by labyrinth:

I feel like Johnny and ghost would do anything for eachother, they love each other so much that they would die for the other. They would risk their careers for each other if it came down to it. Genuinely I think they’d kill for the other if they had to, without a thought.

Feel better by Penelope Scott:

I think ghost found comfort in his unwellness after soap's death, a routine maybe, I think ghost agonized over it not only becaUse of just how close they were in general but because someone had actually loved him, loved him despite his flaws, his issues, despite everything they loved him. I think in a way, he thinks he’s incapable of being loved. But soap disproved that, and the fact that he loved him despite everything made it hurt even more.

Funeral by Phobe bridgers:

Imagine ghost talking at soap's funeral, going to the funeral of someone he cared so deeply about that he didn’t think would die so soon. Imagine him having to talk to his mother, comfort her and tell her how much her son meant to him. And how sometimes he wakes up from nightmares of johnny's death, only weeks after it happened, and how he just has this deep feeling of sadness and emptiness and he can’t help but wonder if it’ll always be like this.

I love you so by the Walter’s:

Imagine ghost seeing soap in a dream, begging soap to stay only for him to tell him he needs to let go, but he’s not ready to yet. He doesn’t want to let him go, he doesn’t want to forget him. He loves him. Why does he want him to forget? He doesn’t want to forget his smile, or the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. He doesn’t want to forget any of it.

Freaks by Surf Curse:

I feel like ghost dreams about soap a lot after his death. And everytime he dreams of him he hopes he doesn’t wake up, either because he wants to stay with him just a little longer or because he hopes somehow he’ll die in his sleep, so he can finally be at peace.

We’ll never have sex by leith ross:

I feel like ghost has a fear of sexual intimacy or at least some anxiety around it. And he’s afraid that soap will want to initiate that sort of stuff with him, and he’s worried that soap will leave him when he finds out that he doesn’t like sex all that much, or that can make him uncomfortable at times. He's in therapy for sure, but that doesn’t make it completely go away. But I think Johnny would be understanding, willing to listen to him when he explains how sometimes it makes him uncomfortable. I don’t think Johnny would do anything to make ghost uncomfortable on purpose. I do think he’d make sure ghost is comfortable with anything sexual.

Mr. Loverman by Ricky Montgomery:

I think this is just mainly ghost missing Johnny, maybe drinking too much one night, agonizing on how much he misses him, what he could’ve done differently, and if he got there sooner, could he have saved him? Would he be sitting here beside him instead of in an urn?

Like real people do by Hozier:

I think this is just them learning to love, being soft with each other, about how they met, I don’t think soap would ask very many questions about ghosts' childhood, I think he’d figure out pretty early on that it wasn’t a good one. I think he’d let him speak about it when he was ready, when he felt safe to do so. I think in a way he’d feel a sad bitterness when he sees ghost exhibit behaviors he learned from his childhood, like walking quietly, doing things to please him when he got upset, things to make him happy. I think that’s when Johnny would connect the dots, that he didn’t have a good childhood. I think regardless of that though, Johnny would treat him with the care he deserves, and I think ghost would do the same too.

Nothings new by Rio Romeo:

I think ghost would settle in this emptiness that he felt like he could never get out of, this never ending feeling that nothing will ever change, that he will always feel empty now that soap is dead.

Sunlight by Hozier:

I think soap and ghost do make eachother happy, that they work well together as a couple, that they have boundaries that are good and they communicate well. Soap his ghosts sunlight and he’d die on that hill. Soap means everything to ghost and soap is the same way with him. I feel like they make eachother better as people and learn to better themselves for the other. Because they WANT to make their relationship work.

J’s lullaby (darlin’ I’d wait for you) by Delaney Bailey:

I think in a way, ghost will always wait for soap to come back, he’s always gonna hope for him to come through their front door after a deployment, and curl himself into his side and rest their for the rest of the night. Logically he knows that won’t happen, but he’d give anything for it to. Because he’d do anything for his Johnny.

22 notes · View notes

acid-ixx · 1 month ago

Text

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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hopefulatrocity · 5 months ago

Text

From The Ashes-Chapter 13

Notes: So, long time no post. I'm truly sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I've had some bad bouts of depression pop up and also had a switch of hyperfixations. This chap is actually one I had already written up, I just didn't post until now. I'm hoping this will motivate me to start writing again. Lots of misunderstandings between Daryl and Pheonyx going on right now. It won't last for long though, Pheonyx is very direct but they need to work through this before they can confront each other.

TW/CW: smoking, talks of past drug/alcohol abuse, past child abuse, allusions to past sexual assault, scars from abuse, animal death(possum and woodchuck), gore, blood, body insecurity, depictions of a walker,

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Dividers by: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations

Prev Masterlist

In his 39 years of life, Daryl was more than familiar with the concept of losing time. He had his first sip of alcohol when he was 11 and 13 when he first got blackout drunk. Alcohol was something that had always been a constant in his life, although not as much in the recent years. After a while, his forms of escapism were molded by Merle’s. When he first started following his older brother around, he was immediately introduced to a world of doing and dealing drugs. For years, he’d watched his father shoot up and snort shit on a regular basis. So the idea of getting high was something he avoided for as long as possible. But his brother had a way of getting into his head and making him do things he wouldn’t typically do. It wasn’t long before he was dabbling in various illicit substances. Mostly weed, but he tried almost everything else. His limits being fentanyl and smack. He’d seen too many good people fall into those traps and he couldn’t bring himself to fully destroy his body, no matter how much he hated himself. Daryl was aware of his family’s inclination for addiction, his mother being an alcoholic, his dad being both an alcoholic and a drug addict. Because of that, he refused to allow himself to follow fully in his family’s footsteps. Despite his urges to do more, get high more, he held his ground. Which ultimately led to a knock out fight between him and Merle. The older Dixon had goaded Daryl, calling him a pussy and asked Daryl if he thought he was better than him. But Daryl knew the anger his brother was spewing wasn’t pointed directly at him. It was a manifestation of Merle’s internal demons, ones that hated that he couldn’t cope without some sort of substance coursing through his bloodstream. So, he let his brother lay into him a few times before he ended the fight. One well-placed right hook and his inebriated sibling was laid out on the stained carpet of the trailer they were renting.

After that fight, he cut back on the hard drugs, sticking mainly with weed and alcohol as his vices. Lots of alcohol. Looking back, he could admit that he’d avoided one addiction by picking up another one, but in his mind, being a drunk was a better option. A slower death, riddled with lost time and moments of fleeting happiness and contentment. The walk back to his tent after seeing the scars that covered Pheonyx’s back, was probably the first amount of lost time that didn’t result from some sort of vice. All he knew was the feeling of shock, the itch to run, and suddenly his ass was planted on the grass in front of his tent.

Shaking hands patted his pockets, searching for the packet of cigarettes that Pheonyx had given him earlier in the day. He pulled them out, fingers almost numb, and pulled a lighter from his other pocket. Placing one of the smokes between his lips, he flicked the lighter four times before his tingling fingers finally managed to get a flame to stick. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled deeply and allowed the smoke to permeate his lungs. It had been almost a week since his last hit of nicotine and the rush of it pulsing through his veins helped to calm his frazzled nerves. Hands still shaking with the remnants of haunted memories personified, Daryl ran trembling fingers through his short hair.

The only words going through his mind were four lettered words and one resounding question: How? How did Pheonyx get those scars? Was this all a mistake? Did Daryl misinterpret the long lines and rounded imperfections? Was it the product of some freak accident and not what he had assumed? If it wasn’t an accident, who would have done it? The scars were old, the coloring of the ones not covered in ink were a big indicator. They were most likely from childhood. If it wasn't an accident, like his gut was telling him, then who could have done it? Was it Pheonyx's stepdad, Hershel? No. Daryl didn’t think so. While Pheonyx had seemed uncomfortable earlier when his stepdad was around, it seemed to be more about the old man and his stupid beliefs on the walkers sentience. There wasn’t any fear in those fern green eyes. Not like the kind his own eyes held for his Pa. It could have been Pheonyx’s mom but he only seemed sad when he mentioned her death earlier. There wasn’t any relief to be found in his words. Briefly, Daryl wondered why he cared so much. They were scars, similar to his own, but they were on someone he had known for less than 24 hours. Why did it matter?

Taking another deep drag from the quickly burning cigarette, Daryl knew the answer was complicated. He’d only known the other man for a short time, but there was something there. A spark of something. Something he was unfamiliar with. Something that scared the shit out of him. So even if he had only known Pheonyx for a day or even just 5 minutes, he felt like he would still care. He wanted to know who had hurt the younger man. Maybe just so he would have somewhere to direct his anger. Because he was angry. Pissed. Furious. And every synonym in between. Those scars had him seeing images of his own past but also images of a tiny Pheonyx, being broken in the way he had been all those years ago. Was that why he had panicked earlier when Daryl asked about his gender?

“Fuck!”, Daryl cursed, dropping the cigarette nub to the ground. Instinctively he pulled the side of his index finger to his mouth, soothing the small burn with his cool saliva. He’d been so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed it burning down right to the filter, where his dirty fingers were clenching the little stick tightly. The slight wound wasn’t really painful, more of a shock to his already frazzled brain. Shaking his head in frustration at his foggy mind, he used the heel of his boot to put out the tiny stub, red embers fading into the grass, and unzipped the tent behind him. He crawled into the small space, barely remembering to turn around and zip the polyester flap closed. Before he flopped down onto his sleeping bag, he made sure to place his bow within reaching distance.

In the span of less than half an hour, Daryl went from being wide awake to dog tired. The scratchy pillow under his head suddenly felt like a pile of cashmere. His eyes felt heavy and he covered them by flinging his arm over his face.

He was so lost in a haze of sleep, he didn’t even notice the shuffling outside his tent, followed by the slow unzipping of the entryway.

Pheonyx fucked up. Really fucked up.

When he’d first walked out into the woods, he fell into a familiar rhythm. There was no trouble. Just the whispering of the trees and the resounding answers of wind chimes in every direction. With his bow raised, he walked with purpose, keeping his ears open for the sounds of nocturnal critters. It wasn’t long before one of his arrows was piercing through the night air and impaling a possum through the eye. Leaves crunching under his feet, Pheonyx walked towards his kill and knelt down next to the small animal’s body. This was one of the worst parts of his nights. He had to find fresh meat to bait his traps. The windchimes worked wonders to draw in the shadows to the stakes of his traps, but it usually wasn’t enough to entice the creatures to push themselves deep onto the spikes. That’s why he needed the meat as a final nail in their proverbial coffin. The shadows prefer fresh, breathing meat but if no other options were around, they would indulge on already butchered flesh. 1-2 days dead at most. A few weeks after the world fell, Pheonyx had found the body of a woodchuck, killed by a long forgotten bear trap closing on its foot. He’d taken the bear trap but left the body(after recalling Kismet to stop him from rolling in the dead animal), with full intentions to come back the next day and give it a proper burial. Instead, the next day, he stumbled on the walking corpse of his high school English teacher chowing down on the slightly decomposed body. This knowledge had helped him complete the plans for protecting his home. He had originally thought about rigging up small cages to the trees to house small animals as bait for the shadows. But the idea of putting an innocent creature in a box and emotionally torturing it just didn’t sit well in his stomach. Killing them still made him feel horrible, but at least it didn't prolong their suffering.

When prepping kills to eat, a hunter would normally slit an animal’s throat to allow the blood to drain from the body. Pheonyx didn’t do that now. The blood was what drew in the shadows. He picked up the animal, gently petted its soft creamy fur, and sent an internal thank you to its soul. Opting to leave the arrow in, to prevent anymore blood loss from the small body, he slung his bow over his shoulder. One would be enough for at least 5 traps, so he wanted his other hand–the one not holding the dead animal–to be free if he needed to grab his cutlass. Most nights, he would spend 8 hours clearing and checking each trap in the woods, but he didn’t have the time or energy to do that. His ultimate plan was to hit the ones, about half of them, that were closest to the farm, on the right side of the creek. Sophia seemed to be sticking to the left side of the water, which meant he would be able to check some of the others during the search the next day. He wouldn’t be able to check all of them, doing so would put them off course and be detrimental to finding the girl. But some were better than none.

So far, he’d been lucky. The amount of shadows that wound up in the traps was manageable for one person running on little sleep and high levels of stress. Pheonyx wasn’t dumb. He knew that eventually he would crash emotionally or get hurt. He needed help and Rick’s group was a beacon of hope for him in regards to his family’s safety. Not only were they experienced with the dead, but they also were motivated to stay and protect the haven of the farm.

It was that train of thought that ultimately led to Pheonyx’s fuck up. His body moved on muscle memory to check the first four traps. While his body was working on protecting his family, his mind was back at the farm, back in the stables. As he was pulling off the rotted flesh from the trees, tossing it into the burn pit and replacing it with a chunk of the dead possum, his mind kept flashing back to the paleness of Daryl’s skin and the look on his face before he ran away. Pheonyx’s internal demons reared up, their raspy voices grating across his ear drums.

He’s disgusted by you.

You’re so weak and broken.

Why didn’t you fight back?

Why would he want you?

Shaking his head, Pheonyx tried to pull himself from the darkness. If he allowed himself, he could easily fall back into old habits. Self-destructive ones. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he dabbled in drugs and drank way too much in the past. Sometimes it was easier to find solace in the bottom of a bottle than to actually face his problems. If it wasn’t substances, his mind had its own ways of destroying itself. Constant self-berating and internal insults could make him physically ill sometimes. The end of the world wasn’t the time to be getting drunk or allowing his internal demons to claw the walls inside his body until the blood seeps from open wounds.

Pheonyx finished refreshing the fifth trap, stabbing the leg of the possum onto the railroad spike that was already impaled into the old oak. He had tossed the head of the possum, the last piece of the animal’s body, to the side near his bow and quiver. Looking at his hands, he saw clotted blood soaked his fingers and stained his fingernails, the red color turning more brown as it dried in the evening air. Copper fragrance permeated his nostrils and he suppressed the gag from crawling up his throat. Pheonyx went to wipe his hands on the back of his jeans, as they needed to be washed anyways, but stopped when his hands met a soft fabric hanging from his back pocket.

Pulling out the red rag, he noted the walker blood from earlier had dried and stained the cherry colored fabric. He could already see the possum blood soaking into the area where his fingers were. It blended more seamlessly than the black sludge from the shadow. Something about the idea of letting the threadbare cloth get even more dirty didn’t sit right with him, so he wiped one hand on the back of his jeans and then the other, moving the rag to the other hand in between. Although he didn’t want to admit it, he knew the rise of sentimentality surrounding the simple object was due to who it had belonged to originally. But the ultimate question was why? Why did he care about Daryl Dixon or what he thought? Growing up, he'd cared what everyone thought about him, ashamed of not fitting into their boxes and trying so hard to himself small enough to fit in them. After he came out, he’d learned to think less about it, and to follow his heart as opposed to chasing after the elusive judgements that people bestowed on him. That night had derailed him severely from his progress in those regards, but moving away had helped him become more independent when it came to freeing himself from the binds of society’s rigid standards. So, why Daryl Dixon? What about the older man made him want his acceptance so much? It wasn’t even really acceptance, Pheonyx wanted him. There had been flirting in the past. Brief glances of possible futures with girls and some guys, plenty of people he could have opened his heart to, to fall in love with, but he never had the urge to. Until him.

That was where he messed up. While he was lost in his head, hand still rubbing the softened red rag, it snuck up on him.

He smelled the shadow before he saw it. The scent of decay from the walking corpses was even more distinct than that of a dead animal or even a normal dead human. It was that sickly, rancid smell that filled his lungs. From experience, no amount of coughing or gagging could clear it away. Dark miasma coated his inner nostrils and flowed down the back of his throat, like the nasty cough medicine his mom would make him take when he was sick as a kid. Fear and adrenaline began to pulse through his veins and Pheonyx whirled around just as the sound of hissing and groaning reached his ears.

The shadow was much too close to him, he could practically feel the fetid air escaping its lungs as it raised its hands to grab at his shoulders. Pheonyx barely had a second to sidestep the gnarled fingers, gray flesh hanging from under its fingernails. If he hadn’t moved, the monster would have pushed him directly into the spikes of his own trap.

Heart slamming against his chest, Pheonyx grappled at his waist for the handle of his cutlass, but the shadow turned around. Instinctively, he took another step back and felt the air come out from under him as his foot slipped on a loose stone. He fell back onto the damp forest floor, a sharp pain ripping through his ribs, causing his lungs to constrict and his eyes to water from the pain.

Before his senses could come back to him, the spongy weight of the decaying corpse fell directly on top of Pheonyx. Gasping loudly, not only for air but out of shock, he pushed against the shadow’s skinny collarbone with his right hand. His fingers practically melted into the mushy flesh, and black blood trickled between his digits and down onto his shirt. Midnight stained teeth snapped in front of his face and he had to breathe only from his mouth to avoid the rancid scent of blood and pus coming from the orifice. He pushed hard against the creature’s shoulder but despite its putrefying muscles, it was still incredibly strong. The hunger and need for flesh intensifying its strength. With his left hand, Pheonyx tried to search along his waist for the handle of his hunting knife, but he couldn’t reach it on the other side of his body. The walker’s hands dug into his own chest, trying desperately to gain any purchase. He threw his arm out, searching along the forest floor for any sort of weapon. Just as the tips of his fingers brushed against something soft, the hold that Pheonyx had on the shadow’s collar bone slipped. His fingers slid into soggy flesh and more black blood poured from the area his nails just slipped into, dripping onto his neck and chin. The texture of the decaying flesh was like chunky mud against his hand. This slip gave the creature all the leverage it needed to lean down and clamp its teeth into the sharp bone where Pheonyx’s shoulder met his neck.

Letting out a cry of pain, Pheonyx grasped onto the furry object that his fingers brushed against and used a burst of strength to push the heavy body up, breaking the seal its mouth had on his body. Teeth snapped in his face, barely missing the tip of his nose, and Pheonyx instinctively shoved the unknown object into its muzzle. Now in his sight, he could see that the object in question was the possum head that he had tossed aside earlier. The monster’s teeth tore into the skull, crushing the bone with inhuman strength, causing fresh, red blood to pour onto Pheonyx’s face. Smacking and sucking noises as it chewed were sickening. The smell of copper filled his nose and the metallic zing of the fluid flooded his mouth.

The distraction of the meat in the shadow’s mouth was enough for Pheonyx to gain the energy to push it back with one hand and reach around his body with the other hand to grab his hunting knife. The familiar textured hilt felt like heaven on his tired fingers. Pulling out the sharp blade, he pushed the chewing creature back and raised the knife up, bringing the weapon down into its skull. The soft bone caved under the pressure of his stab and more black sludge trickled down onto his already coated hand.

Frantic movements ceasing, the shadow went slack against Pheonyx’s body and the partially macerated possum head fell directly onto his face. Suppressing the retch that his brain finally sent the signal for, Pheonyx shoved the body off of him, inhaling the fresh air deeply. There was still a remnant of decay in the air, and the lingering scent of copper from the blood that coated his body, but it was better than the acrid smell of the creature’s mouth inches from his face.

Pheonyx laid there for a moment, his side and shoulder throbbing in tune to his still accelerated heart rate. That was the closest encounter he had ever had with a shadow that didn’t involve one of his traps. The closest he had been to death in almost 5 years. And he still could die. The pain in his shoulder was a reminder of that. He turned his head to look at the area, his hands beginning to shake as he thought of what happened when his brother and mother were bitten. The pain of watching them slowly die was excruciating. He wouldn’t put that on his family. If he was bitten, he would take the hunting knife from the monster’s head and push it into own skull before he allowed his sisters to see him slip from the world.

In the darkness of the night, he couldn’t see much on his denim jacket besides blood. Black and red blood was splattered all across the chest like a morbid Jackson Pollock painting. He grabbed the fabric near his neck and pulled down to see a perfect black outline of the shadow’s teeth imprinted into the thick material. Each tooth mark a testament to how close he came to becoming one of the walking dead. While it didn’t look like it had torn through the jacket, he had to be sure. He pushed his hand under the collar of his t-shirt and used his fingers to prod the painful area. There was pain but he didn’t feel any scratches or broken skin.

Pheonyx let out a deep breath of relief. He got up slowly, careful not to jostle his side, and began to gather his stuff. The few minutes before let him know that he wasn’t in the right state to be out. A flash of red on the ground next to the walker’s body stopped him mid step. He bent down to retrieve Daryl’s bandana he dropped when the creature attacked him. The cloth had been dirty before, a mixture of oil stains and blood. Now it was coated with more of the latter. At some point during the struggle, it must have gotten caught on a root or rock because there was a large tear through the center, nearly splitting the square in half. Red threads hung limply from the perforation and Pheonyx couldn’t help but feel a bit saddened. The shadow hadn’t gotten him but it did break something important. A normal person would have simply tossed the bandana, but Pheonyx had never been normal. His feelings about Daryl might have been full of confusion, and some anger from his earlier actions, but he couldn’t find it in him to part with the cloth that had seen better days. Maybe he saw a bit of himself in the insignificant object. Torn and stained by past events but there was still some life left in the old bones of thread. He gently folded the bandana and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He had an idea of what to do with it but that would have to be done later.

Weapons in hand, and in sheaths, he began the trek back home. It was slower going due to the pain in his side and just general tiredness. The adrenaline had faded and now he needed to sleep. But a shower was needed first.

By the time he made it to the farm, Pheonyx guessed it was around two in the morning, based on the position of the moon. He stopped briefly into the stable to drop his weapons off near his pallet. The horses were all asleep. Baker did wake when Pheonyx dropped his bow and quiver onto the ground. The old horse gave a snort that roughly translated to “Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep.” before flicking his tail and turning the other way.

Grabbing some clean clothes from his bag, Pheonyx headed out of the stables towards the farm house. The yellow aura from the moon hit the old glass windows, reflecting the luminescence like a lighthouse, sending a beacon to let him know the way home.

Carefully, Pheonyx walked across the porch and slowly opened the door, wincing a small bit when it let out a loud squeak. He really needed to fix that. The journey through the living room and up the stairs was filled with more squeaks and winces. Each sound a memory of Shawn or Maggie getting caught sneaking out in the middle of the night. Pheonyx never had that problem. He didn’t have any reason to be sneaking out like his siblings did. Friends and dating were not part of his teenage years. He could barely handle his own internal problems, adding anyone else to the mix just seemed like a recipe for disaster.

The sounds of Hershel and Maggie snoring greeted him at the top of the steps. And yes. Maggie snored. No matter how much she denied it, she was louder than a New York construction site. Pheonyx made his way into the bathroom, making sure to avoid the third floorboard after the stairs because it was the loudest, and carefully shut the door. He flipped the lock and reached to turn on the bright camping lantern that was resting on the white countertop. While the Greene farm did have a generator, they only ran it for a few hours each morning and evening. Just enough to keep the fridge cold, to make meals, and to take hot showers. Taking his showers in the early hours before the generator was on, meant that Pheonyx wasn’t benefiting from the last reason. Luckily, with the Georgia heat being prevalent even through the night, the showers were bordering on lukewarm rather than cold. The pristine bathroom glowed for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light.

Unbuttoning his jeans mechanically, Pheonyx’s thoughts trailed back to his fuck up earlier. This wasn’t the old world. He couldn’t afford to lose himself like that. He needed to have his whole focus on this farm. On his family. Protecting them and making sure they didn’t have to deal with the darker side of this world. The one that had always existed but had fully unmasked itself when the dead began to walk. His boots were heavy on his feet and the relief of feeling the cool air on his sweat soaked socks ripped a small groan from his mouth. Tossing the socks into the hamper by the toilet, he hooked his thumb under the waistline of his jeans and boxers and pushed them down, his blood crusted fingers brushing against the thick hair on his legs. Kicking the bundle of clothing by the door (he couldn’t have his sisters or Patricia cleaning out walker blood from his clothes), he pulled his arms out of his jacket and took a moment to run his thumb over the black bite mark imprinted into the thick material. Again, he was reminded of how close to dying he had come. If he hadn’t been wearing the jacket, he would be a shell walking in the woods. Probably would be caught up in one of his own traps before the morning sun made its way over the horizon. Before he pitched the jacket to the side, he pulled out the dirty and torn bandana and set it onto the sink for safe keeping. He reached over his head to tug the collar of his shirt–the band logo on the front was completely disfigured by the carnage on it– over his head. The stretch of his skin over his ribs hurt, but it wasn’t as sharp as it had been earlier. The threadbare fabric stuck to his skin, the blood still wet in spots. Tossing the shirt onto the pile with his jeans and boxers, he reluctantly looked in the mirror to take stock of the damage to his body.

The first thing that stood out was the large black bruise on his shoulder, bisecting the snake that trailed up his shoulder and over his neck. He gently prodded the skin, leaning into the mirror, to make sure there weren't any perforations. Even the slightest cut by a shadow’s teeth was a death sentence. Despite the deep pain, the skin was unbroken. If he hadn’t lost his faith so long ago, he might have believed it was a miracle as opposed to pure luck. The bruise covered a good portion of his shoulder, but with the right shirt choice, he could easily cover it. He knew if Maggie saw it, she would freak out. And he wanted to avoid upsetting his sister as much as possible.

His hands roved down to his ribs and probed the darkened skin over the quote inked into the skin there. The bruise wasn’t as prominent as the one on his shoulder and thankfully didn’t seem to penetrate too deep, a superficial bruise. Nor did it seem like one of his ribs was broken. Another stroke of good fortune it seemed. At this point he was just jacking off luck. Eventually it would all come to an explosive deadly end but for now he could just be happy that it was just an awkward metaphorical handjob.

Pheonyx turned the water on and listened to the soothing sound of it beating down onto the shower floor. He ducked his head and body under the flow, letting the individual drops massage his back. The scarred skin was a myriad of sensations. Some scars were completely numb, others tingled, and a select few made any sensation painful. His doctor said it was due to varying degrees of nerve damage. Aside from pain medication and experimental treatments, there wasn’t much to be done. So, he simply learned to deal with the feeling. 20 years later and his dad was still getting his lashes in it seemed. Pheonyx grabbed the bar of soap on the shelf by his knees and began to scrub his skin.

Blood and dirt swirled around his feet, the lukewarm water and cheap soap baptizing him from the day's sins. He washed his hair using Maggie’s shampoo and conditioner. The products made his hair softer than the cheap products he brought with him from his apartment so he allowed himself the small indulgence of stealing some of his sibling’s stuff. Maggie often stole his flannels and hoodies, so it was only fair.

As the water ran clear and his skin metaphorically sighed from the feeling of being cleaned, he took a moment to just indulge in the simplicity and luxury of the water trickling down his arms, legs, and chest. It was a small reprieve from the outside world. Just a small one. After a few seconds, he pushed the wet hair off his face and shut the water off. Cool air immediately made goosebumps appear on his arms.

Because the water had been room temperature, the mirror wasn’t fogged and he was greeted by his own reflection in the glass. Grabbing a towel from the rack, he began to dry off. Scrubbing at his hair with the towel, his eyes fell down to the red bandana sitting on the edge of the sink. Shadows casting onto the stained fabric from the lantern in the corner. Tossing the now damp towel into the hamper, Pheonyx used one hand to run through his hair, smoothing the spiky mess, and the other to grab the cloth. He plugged the sink and filled it with a small bit of water from the faucet, enough to begin cleaning the bandana.

It took a while but he was able to get most of the blood stains out of the red fabric. Or at least enough of it to be able to blend in with the already red dye. Unplugging the drain and wringing out the water, he laid it onto the edge of the sink to dry while he got dressed. He slipped into the clean boxers and jeans that he brought. Sitting on the toilet, he slipped on a pair of clean socks and pulled his worn boots back onto his still aching feet.

“Fuck,” Pheonyx said as he picked up the shirt he brought. He thought he grabbed a t-shirt, which would hide the bruise on his shoulder, but he had accidentally taken one of his gray undershirts, the straps of which would cover only a quarter of the baseball sized bruise.

It’s 3AM. No one is awake right now. I’ll be fine, Pheonyx thought while slipping the clean tank over his head.

Within 3 minutes he was eating those words. As he walked downstairs, dirty clothes in hand and the red rag tucked into the belt loop on his side, he slammed into someone walking out of the kitchen. Instinctively, Pheonyx dropped the items in his hands and reached for the hunting knife at his side. The knife that he had left in the stable.

“I’m so sorry, Pheonyx.”, a whispered familiar voice eased the tension in his muscles and he backed up to get a better look in the dark at the person. Straight brown hair and brown eyes glittered in the moonlight that poked through the windows behind him. Lori. He let out a breath of relief and smiled softly at her.

The corners of her lips lifted, attempting to smile back, before her eyes darted to his shoulder, drawn to the dark contusion that was peeking from behind the strip of his tank top. Concern filled her gaze as she looked at him, “What happened? Do I need to get Hershel?”

Pheonyx hurried to reassure her, almost rambling with the need to not worry her. “I’m okay. I swear. I messed up and had a run in with a walker. But I was wearing a jacket, so it’s just bruised. It didn’t break the skin.”, he kept his voice low, not wanting to wake anyone in the house. “I go out at night to make sure the woods are cleared of the dead.”

Lori’s lips turned down in a concerned frown.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to worry my sisters. And Hershel is already mad at me for putting up the traps in the woods. This would just set him off even more.”

Sighing, she placed her hands on her hips but nodded. “I won’t tell them, but you can’t keep doing this. Going out alone? In the middle of the night? You’re going to get hurt. Or killed.”

He knew that. Those were constant worries that floated around in his mind. But to hear them out loud made his chest hurt. “I know. I just- I have to protect them.”

Lori didn’t even need to ask who Pheonyx was referring to. Rick and she had talked about the man in front of her. Her husband told her all about the traps in the woods(she had seen them for herself the day before but Rick explained how Pheonyx used them to protect the farm), and also how the other Greenes seemed to be in a separate world. One where the dead were simply people who had the sniffles. Pheonyx had taken up the helm of family protector. At the Quarry, all the men had taken on the task of protecting the camp. Making schedules for watches and runs. And even with 10 men working hard to protect the rest of the group, they had been attacked and decimated by the dead. The Greene son was taking on an almost impossible job. A job that one man couldn’t possibly handle alone. Not for much longer anyway. Even in the darkness of the room, the moon being her only source of light, she could see the bags under his eyes. His shoulders were slumped and he just seemed exhausted.

“You have. And you protected my son too. Now it’s our turn to help you.”, she reached out and took his calloused hand, not noticing the subtle flinch at the contact of her skin. “Rick and the other men are going to be doing some chores around the farm, but we’ll talk to them about making a schedule for checking the woods too.”

Pheonyx didn’t know how to respond. One part of him was entirely focused on her hand touching his and how it made his skin crawl from unfamiliarity. The other part was resigned, yet still relieved, to accept help from the strangers on the property. Instead of a verbal response, he opted to nod and slowly pull his hand from hers, as not to offend her.

Lori smiled at him and glanced at the bundle of dirty clothes that he still held in his other hand. “Carol and I are going to work on laundry tomorrow, your family’s and ours. I can take those for you and make sure to wash them before your sisters or Hershel sees.”

The older woman held her hand out to take the clothes from him and Pheonyx handed them over readily. That was another thing off his list to worry about and he could physically feel the weight on his shoulders lifting a small bit. He whispered his thanks to her and they bid each other good night afterwards.

The warm fingers of night air threaded through Pheonyx’s still damp locks, both cooling and heating his skin. He could feel the slight breeze rustling the rag hanging off his waistband as he made the walk back to the stables.

Once again, the only animal to acknowledge his presence was Baker, who snorted and released a sound of flatulence that Pheonyx was absolutely convinced was directed at him. Petulantly, he stuck his tongue out at the horse before walking into his personal stall. He stripped off the tank top, tossing it back into his bag of clean clothes because he’d only worn it for a short time, and pulled out an actual t-shirt from the bag. He didn’t want Maggie to come in early and catch him before he could change. After slipping on the old shirt, Pheonyx fell back onto his cot and stared up at the ceiling. His fingers found their way down to the red bandana at his side and he twisted it around in his hand, the fabric was still damp and felt clammy against his fingertips.

The image of Daryl’s face flashed through his mind again and Pheonyx had to swallow a swell of embarrassment and sadness. He had truly been hopeful that the archer would be different. He hadn’t seemed to care about the fact that Pheonyx was trans. But when faced with the scars that lingered on his back, the man had fled, a look on his face that Pheonyx could only guess was disgust.

Steeling himself, Pheonyx decided it didn’t matter. He’d work with Daryl to find the girl. They didn’t have to be friends. Hell, they didn’t even have to talk to each other. Once they found Sophia, they could go their separate ways. It’s not like Pheonyx could change the fact that his back looked like minced meat. Even if he could, he wouldn’t, the scars were a testament to his survival. Especially not for a man he had just met. Even if the man did make his stomach feel like tv static.

The morning breeze and chirping birds were nature’s alarm clock, and one that Daryl had learned to abide by in order to become an expert tracker and hunter. Most animals were early risers, so if he wanted to keep a steady pace on their trail, he needed to work on their schedule. Daryl was used to waking with the morning sun. Sometimes he even woke before the moon had finished its descent into the horizon.

The morning after his jarring interaction with Pheonyx was no different. He had slept deeply after crashing into his tent but nightmares had infected his mind. Ones that involved his father and the things he had done to him as a boy. Those kinds of dreams weren’t unusual for him. In truth, he had grown accustomed to them. To the point that he didn’t even wake up screaming anymore. They were inevitable really. But that night had been different. Instead of Daryl being on the floor of the trailer, his back torn up like an eviction notice, it was Pheonyx. Those green eyes locked onto his, begging him for help as Will Dixon brought his belt down onto the fiery bird on the younger man’s shoulders. But Daryl couldn’t do anything. He screamed at his father to stop but Pa just smiled and brought the belt down harder. He tried to shove the man away but each time he ran into a wall. So Daryl was forced to watch. Over and over the belt smacked into Pheonyx’s skin, until the green of his eyes faded to a milky white. Despite the torturous images, Daryl had a hard time waking up.

His body was so entrenched in sleep that his brain came into wakefulness before the rest of him did. The dewy morning air was sharp, even in the tight space of his tent, and made his lungs ache from the slight chill. His ears perked at the sounds of birds trilling in the distance and he made out the low murmurs of Glenn and T-Dog divvying up chores for the day.

A musty scent reached his nose. His eyes still closed, Daryl’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. Over the past couple of months, he had become accustomed to the smell of his own body odor and this smell wasn’t that. He peeled his sleep-crusted eyes open, his vision swimming before becoming clear again.

In front of him, he was met with the sight of…….

Balls?

More specifically, Daryl woke to the blinding sight of a dog’s rear end. Asshole, neutered sac, the whole nine yards. The only thing that broke through his fog of shock was the tail attached to said rear end. It began to thump against the ground and ended up whacking into the archer’s forehead.

Daryl shot up and fell back on his hands, “What the fuck?!”

Having realized his human companion was awake, Kismet rolled from his side position onto his belly. He lifted his head up lazily, eyes droopy and a small string of drool hanging from his mouth. His upper lips were stuck on his teeth, showcasing his pearly white fangs. Out of context, and without the dopey look in his eyes, one might assume the dog was mid-snarl. Still half-asleep and teeth still exposed, Kismet cocked his head to the side in confusion at the look of distress in Daryl's eyes. Obviously deciding it wasn't his problem, the dog stood up, arching and stretching his legs out in front of him, making the muscles in his body bulge out even more than usual. He let out a big yawn and then shook himself, the metal pieces on his collar making a clinking noise with each movement.

A faint whistle sounded from the direction of the house. Despite the tent flap blocking their vision, both man and dog turned their heads in that direction.

"Kismet! Breakfast!", a female voice called.

Kismet's eyes widened and he didn't need to be told twice before he dove out of the small opening from the tent’s zipper that he had nosed open the night before. The dog moved so fast he didn't even realize his back leg had kicked out, subsequently knocking the archer's crossbow into his thigh. Daryl cursed again at the sharp pain and rubbed the area.

Daryl had always loved dogs, but he was starting to think he needed to make an exception for this particular one.

Taglist: @yoongibaybee @edgyboi10000 @dixonsboy19 @clairealeehelsing @mrrumplebottom

#the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x omc #daryl x omc #daryl dixon x trans omc #Daryl x trans omc #daryl dixon x ftm oc #daryl dixon x trans!oc #daryl dixon #twd daryl

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missmaywemeetagain · 2 years ago

Text

Broken Glass (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x OC Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis Presley - Elvis (2022)

Read More Here - Broken Glass Masterlist! (Coming Soon)

Prompt: You are Dolores Cannava, a young Italian-American nurse desperate to make her own way in the world and break free of her dysfunctional mafia-connected family and traumatic past. Elvis Presley is just returning home from his two-year stint in the Army, looking more handsome than ever, but feeling the pressure to successfully find his way back to the stratospheric career he was forced to leave behind. In a twisted turn of fate, Elvis finds himself in the hospital where your paths cross. Forced to harbor his potentially career-ending secret and needing to escape a terrifying future in New York, you are pulled into his unusual world and must endure a begrudging fake relationship with Elvis in order to protect his reputation (and his life).

TW: Hospitals, illness, allusions to abuse. Some historical inaccuracies.

Tags: Fake relationship. Slow burn. Angst. (Sort of) enemies to lovers.

Rating: PG (ish?) (but this story will eventually be Mature/NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: It’s good to be back, my lil’ darlin’s! I’ve missed y’all! Broken Glass has a decidedly different feel than Pink Scarf, and I really hope that you enjoy it. This will be more of a slow burn and not quite as smut heavy as PS, but we’ll get there eventually! The original character of Dolores can also be read as Reader, but her back story needed to be pretty specific so I decided to go the OC route. I’m excited to dive into some of my favorite tropes with this one, and hopefully I can do them justice.

Delicious 1960 Post-Army E has me in almost as much of a chokehold as ’69 E, so it was only right that I give him the attention he deserves!

As always, I love and live for your reactions, comments, asks, and reblogs, so thank you in advance for both reading and giving another one of my stories a chance!

I imagined it with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat.

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

I’ve used the tag list from Pink Scarf, so please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

Story is cross-posted to my Wattpad and AO3, if you prefer those reading experiences!

Bellevue Hospital

New York City, New York

March 1960

“Nurse Cannava!”

The shrill call of Charge Nurse Irma Hunt grates on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard, but you don’t dare show it on your face. Instead, you take a deep breath through your nose and hurry over to the severe woman.

“Yes, Nurse Hunt?” you say as evenly as possible. You’ve only been an official Registered Nurse for a few months and cannot afford to make a wrong step with this drill sergeant of a woman. You’d rather be extra deferential and placating than looking for a new job, no matter how much you want to run in the opposite direction any time she calls your name.

She looks at you critically, peering down over her glasses with her sharp stare. “Nurse Calhoun was pulled away to surgery before she was able to finish her other duties. I need you to change the sheets for our VIP patient while he’s upstairs for x-rays. I need you to be quick. In and out, no funny business, you understand me?”

“Of course, Nurse Hunt,” you nod frantically. It’s the middle of the night, so it is strange for the patient to be doing tests at this hour. Though if they are trying to keep his identity under wraps, it makes sense that they would choose an hour where less people were involved.

“And absolutely no telling anyone about our patient. We must uphold the strictest confidentiality, now more than ever,” she adds with a glare.

The threat is clear:

Don’t mess this up.

“I understand.” Curiosity of who it could be itches at the edge of your mind, wondering about this VIP that has the woman in more of a harsh mood than usual.

Maybe it’s Ricky Nelson or Mario Lanza or Marlon Brando, your mind titters, but it’s probably just some stuffy politician. You figure it’s better to have low expectations and be pleasantly surprised than to have high ones and be disappointed.

Ever the realist.

Regardless of who might be, you don’t have time for silly schoolgirl fantasies. There is a job to do, and you best be getting to it before getting into trouble.

You scurry away to gather fresh linens, then make your way back to one of the few private rooms on the floor. Most patients are relegated to the open wards here in Manhattan’s biggest hospital, but there are special cases, such as this, it seems, where a more private setting is needed.

There’s a large man at the door, keeping watch, and he looks you up and down with narrowed eyes longer than you’d like, sending a chill into your gut. But this is nothing new. You hold your ground, straightening your spine and lifting your chin.

“Nurse Hunt asked me to change the sheets,” you say, clipped. He smiles, as if in on a joke you’re not privy to, then opens the door.

At 20, you are the youngest nurse on the ward. People, especially men, tend to underestimate you, but you have something to prove and no time for nonsense. Graduating high school early, you were thrilled to be accepted to Bellevue School of Nursing, one of the best programs in the country. The four-year experience had been grueling, but since you had to live in the dormitory, it got you out of the house and away from your damned father and his cronies.

In the process, you discovered that helping people truly is your calling. So, while young, you are good at your job and take it seriously.

This is why you hurry in and start stripping the bed as quickly as possible. As curious as you are as to who this mysterious man might be, getting the job done is much more important than snooping around the room.

You tug and pull the sheets as taut as possible, perfect hospital corners making the bed crisp and neat. Your attention to detail and cleanliness are a sense of pride, so spending a little more time than necessary making sure the bed is perfect is worth it. The intention isn’t to linger, but if this VIP is as important as everyone is making him out to be, you want to make sure everything is done right.

Finally, after inspection, you gather up the dirty sheets and make your way around the bed, just as the door opens to the room.

Damn. You weren’t fast enough.

Your gaze cannot help but drop to the man in the wheelchair. A bandage is stuck at the edge of his thick chestnut locks. Although he is obviously ill, his sapphire eyes rimmed with dark circles and his pallor pale, there is absolutely no mistaking who the VIP is.

America’s biggest rebel-turned-G.I., the one and only Elvis Presley.

You are not a fan, but your heart unwillingly kerthunks against your ribcage anyway because he’s still one of the most famous men on the planet, and you are shocked at how pictures barely do the man justice.

Dear lord, even sick, he is wildly gorgeous in person, you catch yourself thinking. His essence seems to fill the room, pushing all the oxygen out, because suddenly you can’t catch your breath. Suddenly, you understand why millions of ladies fall faint at his feet.

Surprised to see someone in his room, his eyes rake up your body from your toes to your little white nurse’s cap. You hold back a shiver as those famous bedroom eyes finally land on yours.

“Well, hello there, little bird.”

Little bird? You know you shouldn’t let it bother you, but the pet name rankles you in its familiarity. You’ve been called all manner of things by all manner of men, both in and out of this hospital, but this is a new one, and though certainly not the worst, it bothers you all the same. Perhaps it’s because he acts as though he is owed this familiarity and expects you to be grateful for it.

His lilting Southern drawl is creaky and hoarse from illness, making him a little less mystical, which allows you to quickly recover your wits. Trying not to show annoyance on your face, you straighten your posture while moving aside to let the orderly push Elvis into the room and help him onto the bed.

“Goodnight, sir,” you say politely, as pissing off this VIP will do you no favors, but your eyes harden at the way his gaze openly lingers on you. You attempt to skirt around him as quickly as possible, but the room, though private, is not large, and the wheelchair and the two men take up much of the space.

“Hey, little bird, wait!” he calls out before you even reach the door.

Stopping in your tracks, your infernal heart continues to pound in your ears. All you want is to get out of this suffocating room, but you inhale and turn around instead. The orderly gives a wink before sliding out of the room behind you. You resist the urge to huff.

“It’s Nurse Cannava, sir,” you say firmly, trying to take the edge out of your voice, albeit unsuccessfully. “Is there something I can help you with?”

That sly, signature grin spreads almost bashfully across his face and if you weren’t so perturbed by the suggestiveness of it, you might keel over from its brilliance filling the small space.

“Call me Elvis, little birdy,” he drawls, blatantly ignoring using your given name, as requested. “Could ya be so kind as to get me some water? Please?” he asks kindly, which is far more than you expect.

“Yes, certainly, sir,” you reply, equally ignoring his request to call him Elvis. You turn on your heel and escape as quickly as possible before he can ask any more of you.

A breath shudders through you once you’re out in the hallway. You hadn’t realized you were holding it. You are as bothered by this reaction as by the fact that you must get this man water and go back in there without showing him that you are in any way affected by the fact that he’s Elvis Presley or that his behavior has you decidedly on edge.

He’s a patient, you remind myself silently, and this is part of my job. A job I desperately need to keep if I want to get out of that nightmare of a house...

This thought steadies you more than anything. You’ll do almost anything to be in a position to permanently leave home and to do so without having to marry that mook Gianni. And hell, you’ve dealt with much worse in terms of patient behavior. Getting Elvis water is objectively the easiest thing you’ve had to do all shift.

You can’t seem to help straightening your starched white apron before taking a deep breath and marching back into the room, pitcher of water and a glass in hand.

“Here you are, sir,” you say, trying not to sound terse, trying not to look directly at him. It’s almost like the feeling that you shouldn’t be looking at the sun, yet your eyes want to do it anyway. Even without looking at him, you can sense his heavy gaze lingering over you. You blush involuntarily, the blooming warmth a betrayal of your modesty. In response, you place the pitcher and water down on the table near him and turn to flee as quickly as possible without making it seem like that’s what you are doing.

“Hey, now, little bird,” Elvis says, catching the hem of your skirt, halting your exit. “Why ya tryin’ to fly away so fast?”

“Oh Madone,” you mumble under your breath, your Italian heritage making an appearance as you roll your eyes to the heavens before turning back around and pulling the fabric from his long fingers. Heat washes over you in an angry wave, turning your blush a deeper shade of red.

“I have other patients to tend to, sir.” It’s not a lie but sure feels like one with the strained way it falls off your tongue. Your lips press into a thin line of a smile, desperately trying not to glare at him but catching his eyes with your unamused ones all the same.

“Elvis,” he corrects me, maddingly, that smirk playing on his lips, a playfulness in his glassy, feverish eyes. “And I was just wonderin’ if ya could pour me a cup, since it’s all the way over d’ere?”

The water is on the table right next to the bed, and he certainly looks able to pour it himself, and you both know it, but he just smiles, playing this infuriating game, wasting your time.

Finally, you sigh and relent. It’ll be faster to just do it than to try an argue about it. He’s a patient, after all.

You still feel his eyes on you as you turn sideways and dutifully pour the water out. His presence, especially when focused on you alone, feels incredibly overwhelming, mixing a healthy dose of trepidation in with your irritation. You keep your face as neutral as possible and hand over the glass.

What you don’t expect is for him to touch you, his fingers circling over yours, blazing hot from the fever he looks to have. You loathe the way your heart flips in your chest when he looks up at you through impossibly long, feathering lashes, those gemstone eyes of his expressive beyond imagining and conveying more than just playfulness.

“Thank you, little bird,” he whispers. The sound swirls up your spine, breaking through your annoyance just enough to see the blithe, handsome boyishness of him. It promises an unfamiliar temptation, one you’ve seen only in movies and never willingly and truthfully experienced for yourself. Your mouth goes bone dry.

He is dangerous, you think, but not because you are afraid of him in a physical sense (and lord knows you’ve feared too many men already in your short lifetime). No, his is a danger of an entirely different sort. He makes you want to trust him, and in your experience, men are never, ever to be trusted.

“Nurse Cannava! What are you doing in here?” Nurse Hunt’s shrill admonishment startles you out of the hypnotizing stare of the teen idol, causing you to jump back as though he was on fire. You let go of the glass, slipping your hands out of his, but he does the same, and the glass spills water all over the newly changed sheets before tumbling to the floor where it shatters with a crash.

The tinkling of the glass explodes in your head, and a latent and all-too-familiar fear associated with the sound freezes you to the spot. Try as you might, you cannot stop the involuntary trembling that rushes through your limbs. Air attempts to fill your lungs, but the breaths are too short and shallow to do any good. The wave of panic threatens to undo you, right here, in front of both your superior and the most famous man in the world.

It's just broken glass. I’m safe. I’m at work. He can’t hurt me here. The mantra plays in your head over and over as you clasp your shaking hands in front of you, trying to pull yourself together before anyone notices anything amiss.

“I told you to be quick and quiet, not go around cavorting with our patient!” Hunt hisses harshly, glowering, but it snaps you out of the trance-like state that has overtaken you.

Now, instead of fearing things that cannot hurt you here, you are suddenly afraid for your job. Nurse Hunt is a terrifying and formidable leader and being on her bad side means a world of hurt going forward. Your heart feels like a hummingbird’s, fueled by anger, embarrassment, and lingering panic. You resist the urge to give Elvis a scathing look, knowing it will likely just result in more trouble. Instead, you quickly raise your eyes and catch a strangely curious yet concerned look from the man.

“I-I’m s-so sorry, Head Nurse,” you finally stammer out, realizing she is waiting for you to say something. “I’ll clean that up right away.” You start for the bed but are stopped by the crunching glass beneath your practical white nurse’s shoes.

“Ma’am?” Elvis croaks out suddenly, gently, capturing the older woman’s attention. “I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t mean to be a bother, but it wasn’t the young lady’s fault at all. I asked her for the water. She was just doin’ her job, and I distracted her. It’s my fault.” His bedroom eyes widen with an almost childlike deference as he looks at her through those long lashes.

Elvis oozes an effusive charm that makes the formidable woman’s hardened veneer crack. It might not be obvious to one who doesn’t know her, but her gaze softens ever so slightly.

You almost want to roll your eyes and scoff, but the strange thing is that it doesn’t feel at all like a put-on. It first strikes you as some sort of malevolent manipulation, like he wants to impress you somehow by getting you out of the mess he got you into, but he seems nothing but honest. He looks truly sorry.

You stand stock still, hands still clasped in front of your apron, needing to know your fate before moving. Nurse Hunt finally sighs, having weighed her options of denying her VIP’s puppy dog eyes or making your life miserable.

“Alright, Mr. Presley. Nurse Cannava will help you move to that chair there so she can change your sheets again and clean up this mess,” she says through pursed lips. “And you let her be and do her job, you hear? You’re not the only patient on the ward, young man.”

“Of course, ma’am. I really am sorry about the mess,” he says softly, seriously, nodding.

“Quickly, Nurse!” Nurse Hunt barks. Picking your jaw off the ground, you hustle to the other side of the bed, still amazed he was able to soften the old goat in any way.

It’s not until your arm is around his waist while the other steadies him in a well-practiced and trained move that you realize that you are holding a barely clothed Elvis Presley. A brief but decidedly improper and embarrassing thought flirts in the back of your mind as you help him into the chair in the corner. His skin is hot with fever, easily felt where your skin touches his and it radiates through his thin hospital gown. It burns into you, through you, melding with the unnerving, angry fire that already consumes you. You can feel his eyes on you but don’t dare to look at him, not with Hunt watching, making sure you don’t drop the prize patient.

You suppose you are glad for the fact that your cheeks were already on fire from humiliation, so neither can see just how uncomfortable and ashamed you feel right now. The way emotions flash rapidly through you, you’re amazed you can concentrate at all, but you manage to deposit the singer in the chair, unscathed.

Nurse Hunt huffs a little, but seems satisfied, and takes her leave, on to the next crisis.

A relieved but shuddering breath releases from you and without looking at the man in the chair that has caused so much trouble tonight, you jump to removing the sheets you made so perfectly not minutes ago.

“Hey, little b—Nurse Cannava,” Elvis catches himself, “I-I-I meant what I said—I really am sorry I made things harder on ya.”

You refuse to look at him. Instead, you grit your teeth and yank the sheets off, furious. Storming out of the room, you quickly retrieve a new set of sheets and a broom and dustpan for the glass on the floor.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he mutters as you stomp back in the room, dutifully ignoring his presence. You busy yourself with the glass first, sweeping it into a pile, then bending over to sweep it into the dustpan. You realize too late that you’ve just effectively but unwittingly shown Elvis your rear end. You can practically hear the smirk on his face, which is confirmed once you flit your eyes over to him.

A new wave of heat flushes over your cheeks, but you pretend you don’t notice his leering. Nothing good has come tonight from you paying any sort of mind to what Elvis is doing. You go about your business as swiftly as possible, counting the seconds before you can remove yourself from his suffocating presence.

“You just gonna ignore me now, honey? Come on, I-I-I said I-I was sorry,” he stutters petulantly after another minute of silence.

Your response is to tug the sheets as tight as you can. You move around the other side, hating that your behind will be in his face while you finish the bed, but it can’t be helped. You grit your teeth and focus on smoothing the sheets instead of the hole Elvis is burning through your backside.

“Well, at least I got a nice view in the room…of the city, I mean,” he chuckles. The innuendo is crystal clear.

You whirl around and want to slap that stupid grin right off his pretty face. You’ve never felt so unprofessional or off the rails as you do with this man.

He’s a patient, he’s a patient, he’s a VIP patient, you remind yourself, trying to take calming breaths. But try as you might, you can’t seem to keep your damn mouth shut, that Italian temper flaring, boiling your blood.

“Eyes up!” you snap your fingers at him. “I have work to do and a job to keep, and talking with you only gets me in trouble, so leave me be!” Blood throbs in your ears as you attempt unsuccessfully to keep your fury at bay.

“Ooh, I heard New York cherries were feisty, but I hadn’t the occasion to see it for m’self,” he muses, thinking he’s just about the funniest thing since Lenny Bruce.

“Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” you mutter under your breath, fuming, turning around to finish the bed. Once it’s done, you breathe a sigh of relief and make to leave.

“Hey, little bird, you want an autograph or somethin’?” Elvis asks, still vying for your attention for whatever reason.

God, the ego on this one. “I don’t want anything from you.” You can’t help but turn towards him, even though you know you should leave as fast as your legs will carry you.

“Not a fan, huh? Bet I can change your mind,” he says, his left eyebrow quirking up suggestively. The man is as gorgeous as he is infuriating.

“I prefer Ricky Nelson, so no thanks,” you shoot back at him.

He fully laughs at that, a big, hiccupping, musical sound that under any other circumstance might be attractive and endearing, but now it just seeks to make you angrier. Your seething seems to amuse him all the more, however, as he erupts into more peals of laughter.

“You’re somethin’ else, lil’ bird,” he wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. But his face suddenly turns alarmed as he can’t seem to catch his breath, the laughter turning into gasps.

“Elvis, enough of that. Let’s get you into bed.” Your training immediately overrides whatever negative feelings you might have towards the man. “Try to take slow, deep breaths,” you say calmly, crossing the room quickly.

His face turns red and panic starts to bloom in his darkening, churning eyes as he wheezes. You help him up and out of the chair, and he shudders, leaning all his weight on you. His breathing is too labored and he’s burning up, and you’re not sure he’ll make it the short way to the bed.

Indeed, the two of you only make it a single step before his long legs give way, and it’s all you can do to brace his tall, lean body and keep him from hitting the tile floor hard. Instead, you slide down together, and you make sure to cradle his head as he collapses.

You don’t panic. In fact, you are the calmest you’ve been since meeting the superstar because this you know you can handle. This is what you were born to do.

“We need some help in here!” you shout out to the ward before turning your attention back to Elvis, now sprawled on his back on the floor. You quickly grab the oxygen mask from his bedside and turn the nozzle to get the air flowing.

“Elvis, you’re going to be okay. I need you to try and breathe deep for me, as deep as you can,” you say, fitting the mask over his mouth. He coughs, struggling to get the air in his lungs. He seems in and out of consciousness, those panicked eyes of his now a stormy, glassy gray as they try to focus on you.

“That’s it, just breathe now,” you coo at him, taking his vitals. His pulse is too fast and thready. You give him a small smile, trying to keep him calm.

An orderly, a doctor, and another nurse rush in. You quickly rattle off numbers and facts regarding his respiratory distress.

“Let’s get him on the bed,” the doctor orders, and the four of you lift him on a count of three.

Elvis flails his hand, gripping your arm. It’s certainly not the first time a patient has grabbed you out of fear, but it is the first time you’ve ever felt a jolt of electricity running through you from it. Looking in his eyes, the terror you see there gives you pause.

He’s just a man, you think. A very frightened young man.

And he wants comfort. Care. So, despite wanting to throttle him earlier, you hold his hand. He clings to you as the team tries to stabilize him. Your touch seems to settle him a little, despite the way his eyes flutter and he still gasps for breath.

You all manage to get him breathing better, but he won’t let go of you. He starts to panic again every time you try to move away, throwing his vitals into a tailspin. As weak as he may be, that strong guitar-playing hand of his has you in a vise-like grip. The doctor looks at you judgmentally, and you make it clear that you have no idea why this is happening, that you’d rather not be relegated to hand-holding duty. But since his vitals are better holding your hand, the doctor nods his okay.

Give the VIP patient what he needs, is the clear message.

Elvis stabilizes. The room clears, and you stand at his bedside, waiting for him to fall asleep, to relax, to release you—anything that will allow you to leave and get back to work and forget the last half an hour ever happened. His eyes are closed, but every time you try to slip away, he just pulls you back. You try not to sigh audibly, to let your frustration show. You are usually much more compassionate and professional, rarely letting patients get under your skin. But Elvis…well, he seems to bring out an unwanted side of your normally mild and shy self.

He’s not consciously trying to be bothersome like he was earlier; he’s much too scared and out of it for that, you reason.

And at least this is better than cleaning bedpans, you chuckle, finally deciding to sit on the edge of the bed and make yourself a little more comfortable. You take this somewhat surreal moment to really look at him.

He is truly beautiful. There is an almost angelic innocence about him with his pale skin and high cheekbones, the way his cheeks are somehow both full and soft, but his jaw chiseled at the same time. His lips are pillowy and full, though nearly colorless now due to the lack of oxygen. His hair gleams, a deep, golden chestnut—a far cry from the rebellious black locks he was known for at the height of his fame a few years ago. With his straight nose and fanning, long lashes, it seems as though he was carved in stone by the masters and brought to life somehow.

Your heart skips, quite involuntarily.

Of course, there are imperfections. He’s got a day’s worth of dark stubble growing and you can see places where his skin is mottled from what was probably youthful acne. The circles around his eyes are too dark and…

I am really reaching here, you think. No, you are quite at a loss because even his “imperfections” add to his beauty.

Okay, so objectively, he’s pretty—when he’s quiet and sleeping. It’s just when he opens his big mouth that he becomes less attractive. This reminder makes you feel better and less like a fawning teenager.

Finally, his hand relaxes, and you slip out of his grasp without him reaching for you. As if trying not to wake a sleeping baby, you very slowly and quietly raise yourself off the bed. But curiosity gets the better of you, halting your leave, and you quietly open his chart at the end of the bed.

Your eyes scan the pages quickly, widening, hardly containing your disbelief. They glance up at the unrealistically beautiful young man in the hospital bed. Though you barely know him, and what you do know of him has already driven you mad, you can’t help but feel a sense of sadness and dread.

It’s the thing all his bravado and beauty distracted you from.

Elvis Presley is a very, very ill man.

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thevegandarkelf · 2 months ago

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Finding Myself, Finding You: Chapter Fifteen

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AO3 link

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3 (18+ only, MDNI)

Story is 18+ for mature content/themes, minors do not interact please

TW/CWs for this story--implied/referenced past rape, canonical violence, non-canonical violence, blood, gore, referenced past suicide, swearing, surgery, excessive drinking, nightmares, panic attacks, mention of scars, vomiting, amputation, medical procedures, non-con medical procedures, referenced past medical torture, referenced past drugging, attempted sexual assault, panic attacks, mental health struggles, referenced sibling death, referenced parent death

Each chapter will have its own TW/CWs listed

This story, Lydia Vector, her family & bestie (c) me, TheVeganDarkElf

TWD & its characters (c) AMC & Robert Kirkman, the writer of the comic series

TW/CWs for this chapter--swearing, discussion of past suicide, discussion of parent death (suicide, house fire), mention of scars (Daryl's), medical procedure (stitches), blood, allusion to child abuse (Daryl's), men being creepy, reference to sibling death, we got some big emotions in this one

Word count: 3.3k

Daryl and I began to get much closer after that second run. Eating dinner together became sort of a ritual of ours, other than the nights Daryl had duty in the watchtower. At first, it was him in the chair and me on the far end of the couch as I didn’t want to spook him. He never explicitly said it, but I got the vibe that he wasn’t big on physical touch. He always maintained at least a few feet distance between us, never getting too close. Eventually, I tested the waters and sat on the end of the couch closer to him, and that’d been our dinner arrangement ever since. Over the next few weeks, Rick had us go out on more runs. It was strange to me that I always heard about them from Daryl and never from Rick. I didn’t want to do anything that could get me in trouble, like leaving the sanctity of the walls when I wasn’t supposed to, but I was simply following instructions that I was told came from our fearless cowboy leader.

I joined Daryl once when he was working on his bike, and he showed me some stuff about it. Though he was so beautiful that day, I’ll admit, it was hard for me to keep focus. He was wearing one of his classic button-ups with the sleeves cut off, that angel-wing vest he loved so much, and a pair of ripped jeans that hugged his body just right. It was warm, so he was sweating buckets. I was practically drooling as I watched his arm muscles flex and relax as he worked. The way he glistened with sweat, the little hints of joy I heard in his voice as he talked to me about his motorcycle, his gorgeous accent…he was mesmerizing.

He still came and checked on me every night after I fell out of bed, another ritual of ours I suppose. It had evolved to a point where I would stay lying on the floor and give a thumbs up over the side of the bed when I heard the door open, then he’d leave. We’d sometimes spend mornings together, but usually one of us was always up and out before the other was awake, or if Daryl had overnight watch, he’d be just going to sleep when I got up. Typically, the one who got up first made coffee and left the rest out for the other. Sometimes, if he was coming back from an overnight watch, I’d wake up and go downstairs to find the pot just finishing up brewing.

It was obvious one of Daryl’s love languages was acts of service. He didn’t so much have a way with words, but damn he was good at showing how much he cared. Not just towards me, but the way he cared about the whole of Alexandria. He was always volunteering to go on watch, runs, hunts, you name it. He cared so much about the people here and would do whatever he needed to do to make sure we were all safe and protected. And that only made me fall for him even harder.

Though he typically wasn’t one for expressing his emotions with words, there was one morning when he left me a note. I came downstairs, and he was already out as he had gate duty all day. He had poured me coffee in a white mug with daisies on it that I once casually mentioned was my favorite mug of the ones in the cabinet, and there was a short but sweet note with it.

Have the best day

See you at dinner

I kept the note folded up in the back of my notebook where I kept some photos and a note from my brother.

Today, Daryl was teaching me how to hunt. Well, it was the start of that process. First, there was target practice. And I was getting to pick up and shoot that infamous crossbow.

Daryl had carved an X for a target on a tree, and my goal was to hit as dead center as I could. I knelt on one knee behind a fallen tree, which I was instructed to use to steady the crossbow and practice that way first. I could throw a knife over my shoulder and hit a walker square in the forehead. How hard could a crossbow be?

“Does this thing have recoil?” I asked as he handed it to me, “wow, it’s lighter than I thought it’d be.” I flipped the bow around and examined it, running my fingers over its smooth surface but was careful to make sure I didn’t touch anything that looked like a lever or a button. Didn’t wanna go causing any accidents right out the gate.

“Hardly any,” Daryl said, kneeling next to me. We were almost shoulder-to-shoulder. This was the closest we’d ever been, and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach breaking free and trying to crawl their way up my throat.

“You ever kill anyone with this thing?” I asked.

“Yeah. Sometimes, people are more dangerous than them walkers,” he explained, and I nodded. I was all too familiar with the dangers of other human beings during the end of the world.

“I know what you mean,” I replied. I rested the bow on the fallen tree and kept my gaze on the X carved into the tree in front of me. “I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t know if I could. It goes against the oath I took.”

"Hate to burst your bubble, but that don't matter no more."

“I guess not,” I shrugged, “but enough of that, let’s get to practicing.”

“‘lax your shoulders,” he said, gently placing his hands on both of my shoulders and lightly pressing to help me relax them. This was the first time he’d touched me on purpose. My stomach dropped like I was on a rollercoaster. “Geez, you’re tense woman.”

I wouldn’t be so tense if you didn’t make me so nervous, I thought. I propped the crossbow up onto my shoulder like I’d seen Daryl do a thousand times.

“It’s no good if ya don’t load it,” he said. He picked a bolt off of the front of it and reached around me to load it. His arm rested against my back as he strapped the bolt in. It was like he was testing the boundaries of physical closeness, though I didn’t know whether it was mine or his that he was testing. But I didn’t mind one bit. I steadied the bow on my shoulder and the fallen tree, aiming it at my target.

“Ya really gotta relax,” Daryl said, “can’t have this gettin’ in the way neither.” He took the end of my ponytail and draped my hair over my opposite shoulder, “damn, ya hair’s real soft.” I felt myself melting into a puddle, and my hands started to shake a bit as my heart rate picked up.

“Thank you. I grew it all by myself,” I laughed.

“How long'd it take ya to grow it out?”

“Oh God, I think the last time I got a drastic haircut was when I was like 13,” I explained, “sometimes I think about chopping it all off because it gets in my way so much. And it feels like it weighs 20 pounds when it’s wet.”

“Ya should keep it long. Looks good.” I smiled and looked down at the ground, trying to hide that I was obviously turning red.

“Thanks,” I said. I took a deep breath and tried to steady myself again.

“Hey, you’re shakin’,” Daryl said, placing a hand on my shoulder in an effort to help me relax, “just take a breath. You’re good.” His voice was soft, soothing, and calming. Still laced with his gravely accent, but there was genuine caring and compassion behind his words.

“Nervous jitters I guess,” I said, taking another deep breath in through my nose. I lied straight through my teeth.

“Alright, look through the scope and aim it at the target,” he said. He kept his hand on my shoulder.

“Looks easy enough,” I said, perhaps a little too confidently as I did as he instructed.

“Once ya got it lined up, ya just pull the lever on the bottom,” Daryl explained, “helps if ya breathe out when ya do it.” I took a deep breath and fired, exhaling like he told me to. The bolt went flying right past the tree, not even grazing it. It landed far off in the grass somewhere I couldn’t see.

“I stand corrected on it looking easy,” I said, feeling horrifically embarrassed, “I missed the tree completely. How did I even do that?”

“It happens. Gotta get used to holdin’ it still. C’mon, I’ll show ya how to load it.” He gestured for me to hand his bow to him.

“At this point, I’ll just be happy to hit the tree at all,” I said, giggling a little to try to make myself feel better.

That’s how we spent the next couple of hours. Me attempting to hit the tree, somehow missing it completely or just grazing it, which was starting to feel like a win, and trying to find the bolts in the grass. He never seemed to get impatient or frustrated with me, even when I was starting to get frustrated with myself. He reassured me, helped me set up and reload, and tried to help me feel more confident.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally did it. I hit the very outskirts of the giant X target, but I hit it nonetheless. I about jumped into the air with how excited I was.

“Oh my God, I did it!” I cheered, nearly dropping the crossbow to the ground in surprise. A gigantic grin spread across my face as I looked at Daryl. “I did it!”

“Knew ya could do it,” he congratulated. He had reached out and was stroking the back of my arm with his fingers. His touch was so light, it felt like being tickled with a feather. I could feel goosebumps forming, but thankfully, my sleeve hid them. “Think that’s the first time I seen ya do that too.”

I looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Seen me do what?”

“Smile like that.” It occurred to me that he was referring to the fact that I was smiling with my teeth out. And he was right—this was the first time I’d smiled like that in months.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That evening, I found myself working late in the infirmary. A couple of the kids had gotten into a fight, and while their injuries weren’t too bad, they still required attention. A couple of scraped knees and small cuts later, I was supposed to be going home for the evening, but as I was getting ready to leave, the infirmary door swung open one last time, and in came Daryl. He’d been covering gate duty for a couple of hours, and I figured he must’ve seen the infirmary light on and came to check on me.

“Hey, there’s my little Georgia peach,” I said, giving him a big smile. He looked at me with a solemn face, which concerned me a little. “Daryl…are you ok?” He didn’t say anything at first. He simply kept eye contact with me as he stepped closer.

“I, uh, need your help with somethin’,” he said. He took his bow off of his back and turned around. There was a sizable gash across his mid-back, his clothes stained with dried blood.

“Jesus, get your ass up here,” I ordered, gesturing to the exam table. I started grabbing things like gloves and antiseptic. “What the hell happened?”

“Couple of ‘em pricks was talkin’ ‘bout ya,” he said as he sat down on the table and scooted back to the edge. I froze and swallowed hard. I hadn’t really gotten to know any of the men who typically had gate duty, and the only times I saw them were when I was coming and going through the gate, and I was always with Daryl.

“You got this defending me? Jesus, I’m so sorry. I feel awful.” I continued grabbing everything I would need, like cotton pads, medical tape, tools for stitches, and antibiotics.

“Nah, jackasses had it comin’.”

“What did you do to them?”

“Roughed ‘em up a bit. Let ‘em know not to say nothin’ like that ‘gain,” Daryl explained.

“Do I wanna know what they were saying about me?”

“Probably not. Bein’ a buncha creeps.” The never-ending list of things they could’ve been saying swirled through my mind, and I felt sick. I suppressed the nausea that quickly made its home in my stomach.

“Great. Just when I was starting to feel safe here,” I sighed. I thought I’d finally found a place away from the prying eyes of creepy men, but unfortunately, I was wrong.

Daryl looked back over his shoulder at me with kind eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t let ‘em give ya any trouble.” I gave him a smile and a nod.

“Alright, I need you to take your shirt off. Then I’m gonna clean it and stitch it up. I’ll talk you through each step so you know what to expect since you can’t see it,” I explained. I slipped my gloves on after washing my hands thoroughly and scooted a stool over with my foot so I would sit higher up. Daryl fidgeted a little on the table, and he seemed nervous. I could tell he was in pain from his injury, but something else seemed to be bothering him.

“If you’re not comfortable taking your shirt off, that’s ok. I just need you to lift it enough so I can work,” I said, “don’t wanna go stitching your shirt to your back.” To my surprise, he lifted his shirt up and off over his head, letting it slide down his arms into his lap.

When he did, I understood why I’d never seen Daryl shirtless before.

There were scars all across his back. Not the kind of scars you’d get from being in a motorcycle or car accident, or burn scars, or from taking a really bad tumble as a kid. No, these scars were intentionally inflicted by another person. My heart shattered, but I kept my composure.

How could someone do something so awful to someone so good?

I made sure to utilize my calming bedside manner voice. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about. I have seen anything you can possibly imagine. Plus, I have scars of my own. I know better than to ask about anyone else's."

I grabbed a cloth soaked with some warm water so I could clean up some of the dried blood, and I gently started rubbing it on his back. “I’m gonna try to get as much of this dried blood off as I can.” He tensed a little bit under my touch, so I tried my best to be even lighter, but I could only press so lightly while still getting the blood off. I decided to clean just enough around the wound to make the process quicker, and he could take care of the rest when he showered.

“Alright, I have to clean it now so it won’t get infected. I won’t lie, this is going to sting a little. But I’m just taking a cotton pad with some antiseptic and patting around it,” I explained. I started patting his wound with the cotton pad, and he flinched just a tiny bit. I placed my other hand on his arm and stroked it gently with my thumb. “Hey, you’re ok. You’re doing great.” As I stroked his arm, I felt him start to relax.

My heart was breaking for him. The sensation of the antiseptic in his open wound must’ve felt similar to whatever created the scars on his back. I tried to think of something to talk about to distract him.

“I like your tattoo, Daryl,” I said, “does it mean anything?”

“Jus’ thought it looked cool,” he replied.

“I actually have a few tattoos of my own,” I told him, “I know, there’s something you didn’t know about me. I have a sternum piece with flowers on it, bumblebees on the back of each of my thighs, and a bouquet of daisies on the front of my right hip. I liked the idea of having tattoos that only certain people get to see. People that I get to choose." I hoped that, maybe one day, I’d get to show Daryl my tattoos. I set the cotton pad on the table next to him. “I’m done cleaning it now. Could you straighten up for me? I’m gonna stitch it up now. It’ll probably hurt a little, but it won’t burn like the antiseptic did.”

"They mean anythin'?" he asked as he sat up straight.

"I really like sternum pieces, so that's why I got that one. Daisies are my favorite flower, and the bumblebees are for my mom.” I got to work stitching him up as I talked. “Gardening was her favorite hobby, and we had a huge one in our backyard growing up. She taught my brothers and I about the different kinds of pollinators and how important they were. Bumblebees were her favorite. I got them a couple of years after she passed.”

“Lost my mom too,” Daryl said. It was the first time he’d mentioned his mom in any capacity. “What happened to her? If you’re ok talkin’ ‘bout it.”

“She umm…she killed herself a couple of months after Preston died. Hung herself in his closet. My dad was the one that found her.” I blinked back some tears. Stitching up someone’s wound was not the time to be crying. “Her mental health really declined after his passing. I mean, all of ours did, but hers was the worst. She couldn't stand losing one of her children, so she left the other three behind. At least that's what it felt like. The anger stage of my grief lasted a very, very long time.”

There was a heaviness that hung in the air as I finished stitching his wound. It felt suffocating, like it was a heavy weight pressing on my chest. I lowered the volume of my voice a little to keep myself from crying. “Alright, I’ve just gotta wrap it up and you’re done.”

“Mine was a house fire,” he started to explain, and as he talked, I continued wrapping his wound, using as gentle of a touch as I could and offering small comforting pats and strokes in between. I felt his muscles continue to relax into my hands as I worked. “I was a kid. Ran home after we saw fire trucks comin’ down the street. Finally caught up to the other kids and saw it was my house. Mom was inside. Some combo of her wine ’n smokes. Didn’t feel real for a long time.” Before I finished patching him up, I ran my hands over the back of his arms and offered small squeezes, like tiny hugs from my fingers. This was by far the most vulnerable he’d been around me, and I wanted to make sure he felt safe, seen, and comforted.

“I’m so sorry Daryl. You didn’t deserve for that to happen.”

"Didn’t deserve yours neither.” I ran my fingers over and flattened out the last piece of medical tape.

“There we go, you’re all patched up now,” I said, grabbing a small bottle of antibiotics and handing it to him. “you’ll have to change the dressing every day. I can help you with that. And you’ll have to take those for like a week. Make sure you stay on top of that.”

“Do I gotta? Didn’t think it was that bad,” he said, flipping the little orange bottle around in his hand.

I sat myself up on the exam table next to him, “Daryl, what kind of doctor would I be if I let you get an infection?”

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forget-you-morelike-fuck-you · 1 year ago

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Dialogue Prompt #14- E.M.

Sorry this took so long! I got really busy with work for the past couple of days. And I know this isn't fully smutty like the request asked for, but I hope you love it anyway!

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Dialogue Prompt List

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TW- 18+ Minors DNI!, Cursing, mentions of violence, mentions of blood, vague mentions of abusive ex, pet names (sweetheart, princess), a bit of heavy petting, allusion to smut at the end

Pairings- Eddie X Reader

Word Count- 2,653

(Gifs not mine! Credit to owners!)

When you see your ex standing at the other edge of the bar from you and your best friend, Eddie, you freeze. You hadn’t seen him in years, and the memories that flash in your mind make your forehead break out in a sweat. Let’s just say he had not been a very loving boyfriend in the brief time you had been together. As he turns his head, as if knowing you were staring at him, you jerk your gaze away and step toward Eddie in an attempt to shield yourself from his eyeline. Blood pumps frigid through your veins as you chance a glance around Eddie to see that your ex is starting to weave through the crowd toward you.

“Eddie,” You hiss as loud as you dare. He looks down at you with an easy smile before letting it fall upon seeing the obvious panic written on your features.

“What is it, sweetheart?” The light, friendly tone he was using with the bartender was long gone, replaced by a hardened focus that only put your nerves to ease slightly. Your brain is moving too fast for you to even form a coherent thought, but you do your best.

“He-he’s coming. I don’t know what to do.” Your eyes flit past Eddie’s shoulder to see him coming closer, only a few yards away now. His eyes are on you and it sends a block of lead down your throat to land in your stomach. Eddie puts his hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer to him protectively.

“Who’s coming?”

“My ex.” You spit it out like poison and Eddie immediately understands. You can see the cogs turning in his head, trying to find a way to help you.

“K-kiss me,” He blurts out. Your head reels for a moment.

“What?” You can’t imagine how that would help, though the idea is endlessly tempting. Eddie puts his hands on your face, gazing into your eyes with a surety that sends butterflies through to eat away at the lead in your gut.

“Kiss me.” You nod slightly, and with one lightning quick glance back at the approaching figure, you lean up and capture Eddie’s lips with yours. Your eyes squeeze shut, dreading the feeling of your ex tapping you on the shoulder or Eddie’s, but it never comes. Eddie’s lips are warm and tender on yours, and after a few moments, you let yourself soften under his touch. Your lips move together with ease, like butter melting over a warm pan, but soon, you feel Eddie pull away, leaving you wanting more. You open your eyes to see him still looking down at you with those big, brown, concerned eyes, and he brushes a thumb over your cheek.

“Is he gone?” You don’t dare look behind him or turn around to see if he just kept walking. Eddie gives a small, reassuring nod. You take a deep breath, the weight on your chest lifting.

“You wanna get out of here?” Eddie asks, and you nod tensely. Eddie grabs your hand and doesn’t let go as he slaps a $20 down on the counter for your tabs and starts pulling you behind him for the door. You hang on for dear life as you both weave through the crowd, and finally, you get out the front door. The chill air is a wake-up call for you as you walk toward Eddie’s van, and you’re almost there when you hear your name called from the other side of the parking lot.

“Y/N!” You feel a jolt of fear streak through your body. You hear the heavy creak of the back door to Eddie’s van and you gasp harshly as Eddie pulls you behind him.

“Get in,” It’s not a request. You break out of your terrified stupor and follow his instructions, clambering into the back of the van before Eddie shuts the door behind you. You press yourself up against the wall of the van, trying to make yourself as small as you can in the shadow in the hopes to become invisible. You perk your head up when you hear Eddie, “She doesn’t want to talk to you, man!”

You don’t hear what your ex’s reply at first, but you start hearing the tail end as he comes closer to the two of you. “I think it’s a bit late for that. She’s with me, now.” You hear a bark of laughter, cold and snide.

“Well, I should warn you that she’s a fucking liar. And a whore. She’s fucking psychotic!” You press your hands over your ears, not wanting to hear the venomous words your ex says about you. It took you a long time to stop believing them. You focus on your breathing for a few minutes, letting yourself hone in on the sound of it flowing in and out of your body, until a bang against the doors of the van pulls a shocked scream from your throat. You get up on your knees to peek out of the window to see Eddie hovering over your ex, his fist cocked back, red and wet with blood. It’s definitely not his own. You let yourself sink back against the wall of the van, not wanting to see any more.

You can’t tell if it’s been a few minutes or an hour before Eddie swings the driver side door open, huffing in the wake of the fight. He says nothing as he turns the key in the ignition and backs up out of the parking space. You’re halfway down the road before the silence is broken. “Come here and put your seatbelt on, doll.”

The softness in his voice takes you aback slightly. You had been expecting him to be angry, to yell at you for putting him in this horrible position. Still, you follow his instructions, bracing yourself on the sides of the car as you climb up toward the passenger seat. When you get yourself settled in the seat and put your seatbelt on, Eddie lays his hand palm up on your knee. You take his hand gently, minding the split skin on his knuckles. “I’m so sorry,” You murmur. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, only at his hand, so rough and big and warm in yours.

“It’s not your fault.” You can see him shake his head out of the corner of your eye in rejection. You sigh, appreciative, but not believing.

“If I hadn’t been there...”

“It’s not his business where you go or what you do. He fucked that chance up a long time ago. You should not have to be afraid to go have a drink at a bar on a Friday night.” You turn your head toward the window, knowing Eddie’s right.

This is what that prick does to you. He gets in your head, under your skin, and makes you think that you’re at fault for everything that goes wrong.

When you pull into your apartment complex’s parking lot, you insist that Eddie come in with you so you can clean him up. You finally looked up at him after a few minutes of silence to see that while your ex was definitely worse off, he did get a couple good licks in. Eddie’s eyebrow is split open, a deep purple crescent moon blooming around his left eye.

You sit him on your kitchen counter and bustle around looking for your first aid kit, and then you get to work cleaning his hands and his eyebrow, wincing in sympathy whenever you hear him hiss in pain. “Can you distract me?” Eddie asks with a humorless laugh. You give a small smile and nod, trying to find something to talk about.

“Can I ask you why you thought to kiss me?” You flick your eyes up at him with the question, trying to gauge his reaction. There’s a little smile forming on the edge of his lips, though he doesn’t hold your gaze.

“It... was just the first thing I thought to do. If you had some new, scary boyfriend, he’d leave you alone.” He gives a little laugh. “Guess that didn’t work as well as I had hoped.” You shrug.

“Well, it worked for the moment. Maybe you should’ve kissed me again when he called for me.” You joke, though thinking back to the feeling of his lips on yours makes goosebumps rise over your thighs.

“Yeah, maybe I should have...” He looks back at you then, a glint in his eyes. You’re the one to look away now, back down to where you’re bandaging his hands. You tie a knot in the gauze and step back to admire your work.

“Okay, all done. Are you hungry? I could cook us something.” You watch as Eddie slides down off the counter, hitting the linoleum floor with a thump in his heavy combat boots.

“How about I just order us something? I think we’ve both been through enough tonight,” Eddie suggests, taking a step toward you. You look down toward the floor, but nod.

“Okay, but I’m paying. You paid for the bar tab and took a fist to the eye for me,” Eddie chuckles at that, and relents. You cross the room over to the phone hanging on the wall and make a call to your favorite pizza joint, a place you and Eddie have ordered from at least a dozen times. It’s pretty late, so you’re thankful that the delivery time is relatively short as your stomach grumbles.

After hanging up the phone, you look back to Eddie, so beautiful and warm even sporting the black eye, and you’re so filled with appreciation for him that you walk back toward him and wrap your arms around his middle. “Thank you,” You whisper, leaning your head against his shoulder. Eddie’s quick to reciprocate, pulling you closer and setting his cheek on your head.

“Of course. I would always do anything to protect you.” You pull your face away to look up at him, eyes sparkling in gratitude. You can feel his breath on your face, smell the beer and cigarettes you shared back at the bar.

“You’re kind of my knight in shining armor, ya know.” You feel a warmth break out over your face, the brazen words sending a streak of nerves through your body. Eddie gives a smirk at that.

“Does that mean I’ll end up with the princess at the end?” Your breath hitches in your throat as his nose just brushes yours.

“I think it does,” you breathe. Before you can even close your eyes, his lips are on yours again, but it feels different this time. There’s more urgency, more passion as you press yourselves against each other, opening your mouths to taste each other as you pull each other impossibly close.

“I will never hurt you,” Eddie whispers against your lips, brushing the hair away from your face.

“I know,”

“I love you. So much,” You breathe a gasp as his lips find your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses there.

“I love you.” There’s no hesitation in you as the words leave your lips. The weight that lifts from your body makes you feel like you’re actually truly breathing for the first time, the scent, the taste, the air all distinctly Eddie. “Stay with me tonight?”

“You couldn’t pay me to leave.” You giggle as Eddie captures your lips again, spinning you so that now your ass is pressed against the edge of the countertop. You yelp in surprise as you’re suddenly lifted to sit on the top, your hands moving under the hem of Eddie’s shirt to splay across his back. Eddie breathes in sharply at the contact of your hands on his warm skin.

Eddie’s hands move down your face, over your shoulders and your arms before he lifts them to settle on your hips. The tiniest sound leaves you as you feel him squeeze at the meat of your hips, sending a shockwave through you down to your core. You let your hands wander up his sides under his shirt, scratching lightly over him as you lose yourself in his touch. “I want you,” You murmur, your head rolling back to accommodate for his lips trailing over the other side of your neck. Eddie squeezes your hips again, and you let out another sound, a little louder this time. Eddie lets his hands feel down your hips and he wedges them under your butt, moving in one swift motion to lift you off the counter, lips still attached to your skin as he begins carrying you toward your bedroom.

He kicks the door open with much more force than you were expecting, making you laugh against his shoulder before he lets you drop onto your bed. You both kick your shoes off before he comes to hover over you on the edge, one hand cradling your face while the other sneaks under the hem of your shirt. Goosebumps break out over your skin at the feeling of the soft gauze and his rough fingertips meander up your body. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Eddie whispers. Your eyes flutter when you feel him begin to kiss along your collarbones, down to the tops of your breasts. He sucks hard there, eliciting a high-pitched whine as you find any part of him to anchor yourself to.

“Eddie,” You plead, the need for him to satisfy the ever-growing ache between your thighs boiling in your veins.

“I know, princess, I know.” The hand under your shirt leaves to find your pants zipper, and he pulls it. Your hips roll under this simple touch, and you do what you can to help him as he pulls your jeans down your thighs and off your feet. He then tugs at the back of his collar and pulls his shirt over his head. You’ve seen Eddie shirtless before, but knowing now that he’s doing it for you, it makes your head spin.

Before he can come back to kiss you again, you hear several loud knocks on the door. Both you and Eddie whip your heads toward the sound, then you look to each other, panting lightly as you shake free of the sex-craze clouding your minds. You hear the knocks again, and you move to get off the bed. Eddie puts his hands on your chest to push you back down before pressing a hard, wet kiss to your mouth. “Don’t you move, gorgeous. I’ll get it,”

“Okay,” you nod breathlessly. Eddie bends down to pick your wallet up off the floor where it fell out of your jeans pocket before getting a $20 bill out to take to the delivery person at the door, who knocks again, more impatiently this time.

You stare up at the ceiling with a smile as you listen to Eddie’s footsteps creaking the floorboards down the hall toward the front door. You faintly hear him say something along the lines of “Yeah, yeah, keep the change, kid,” Before slamming the door shut. You giggle at that and a second later, Eddie’s back, carrying the pizza box in his hands. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m having a hard time deciding if we should have our pizza or finish what we’ve started first.” He says, eyes raking over you. You roll over onto your stomach and prop your head up in your hands.

“Why not both?” You suggest, quirking a playful eyebrow. A full smile breaks out over Eddie’s face as he frisbee’s the pizza box onto the bed before flipping you back onto your back and kissing you roughly.

“I knew there was a reason you were my favorite person in the world,” You both laugh as Eddie pulls out a piece of pizza, feeding you a bite of it before diving back in to kiss you again, and hopefully never stop.

@gvf23 @eddiernunson

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