#i fucked up. i should have just slipped meds entirely to not fuck with the results because i contaminated them

[bulldagger-bait]

Freaking out at 4am about a doctor's appointment... Completely fine and normal and good and healthy even

#like i know she's chill but i totally fucked up my gastric emptying study by taking valium on the day and what is its not enough #to get help. to be taken seriously. #will she even believe me? are my water numbers enough or do the solid numbers disqualify me #i cant do another year of this. i cant handle it. #i fucked up. i should have just slipped meds entirely to not fuck with the results because i contaminated them #I'm terrified my GP won't listen. wont hear me out. #I'm terrified this is just going to be seen as another one of my hysteria issues #legitimately if things keep going the way they are i don't know what I'm going to do #i feel at the end of my tether #there's only so many times you can face eating and have it end the way it does for me #i cant do this again. i cant have another year of this. i cant have another year of torture. i had one good year i cant go back #food is torture right now. i want to just be normal about it but i cant and I'm so fucking stressed that i fucked up #my one chance at getting help #its agonising to want to eat but to just know that everything is going to go to absolute shit the moment you try #and its my own fault #its my fault over and over again and i just cant do it. i cant take more of this but i also cant take the alternative

[actual-changeling]

i feel like all my meta posts just clicked and solved a puzzle in my brain. however i am also currently upping my sleep med dosage so if any of this sounds like the incoherent rambles of a mad man it's cause i am. incoherent and insane and rambling that is. (not a man)

but i have to write this post since i had a lightbulb realization moment.

because the thing is, besties, that aziraphale is a fucking horrible liar. he gets nervous and fidgety, he stutters, you can SEE him sweating anxiety. just look at him in the bookshop when the archangels inquire about their not-so-little 25 lazarii miracle.

his best "lies" are when he is actually telling the truth but twisted. he has never been a good liar (see job) and that has not changed in six thousand years. all smiles directed at archangels are visibly wrong, his discomfort is tangible.

whenever he panics it is written across his face clear as day, including, and this is the important bit, when he is talking to the metatron.

now, you are wondering why exactly that matters, and the point is something we have all talked and thought about for ages but my brain just. formed some new neural pathways.

because he is a terrible liar, he is horrible at hiding his emotions.

but you know who isn't?

crowley.

unless you know him, it is very hard to read his facial expressions with his glasses on. he can turn his emotions "off", he can put a wall in front of them and by extension around himself.

i talked about it more in this post, so for background info have a look at it (if you want to)

it's crowley's thing yet there is one moment, one, glorious moment in which aziraphale executes it perfectly. and that moment mirrors crowley putting on his glasses, it is aziraphale attempting to hide away all of his feelings and thoughts so no one can tell what he is really thinking.

the parallels besties. the fucking parallels.

what really sells it to me is that last comparison because it matches too well to not be intentional. honestly, after the sink story i think every little thing in this show is done on purpose and with attention to detail, so.

the empty look, the heartbreak, the pain - the realization. this is it. i am not walking away from this unharmed but i am walking away. or rather into the loneliness, the absence of the person i love.

for aziraphale also the realization that the world is about the get fucked and he is not.

after that we have the inhale of courage. taking a deep breath to calm yourself, to find your way back to your body. a kind of preparation we have all done at one point or another.

the mask slides into place. or at least you want it to slide into place, you are trying to fucking jam it into the spot you need it to be but sometimes it's like trying to push the square peg through the round hole.

it's a disconnect, it's putting up a physical and emotional wall. crowley does it to hide away from aziraphale.

aziraphale does it hide from heaven and the metatron, yes, but he does it to hide from himself. at his core, aziraphale compartmentalizes. he is so fucking good at cognitive dissonance it's scary, and that's what happens here.

he knows, he KNOWS, that he needs to lock up his feelings or he won't be able to get into that fucking lift and do what he thinks he needs to do.

and so he walks away from crowley just like crowley walked away from him, copying him and doing exactly what he has seen him do a thousand times: putting up wall after wall after wall. ripping out every sprout of vulnerability before it can bloom.

except that he stopped doing it after the no-pocalypse, and that is why it hurts so fucking badly when he puts his glasses back on.

he is not ripping out a sprout, he is uprooting an entire fucking tree

aziraphale cannot hide behind sunglasses by crowley so he hides underneath an angelic persona, the person he thinks he should be, needs to be, and the problem is that whenever he slips into that role, it becomes him.

getting crowley to take off his glasses again is going to be a herculean task and the same goes for getting aziraphale to drop his act. they're one and the same in shape and origin and purpose but they are not indestructible.

because listen. all of this is painful and it hurts. it really is.

the fun part, however, is the fact that we know exactly what it takes to destroy that barrier, we have seen it happen to crowley before.

my point is that we are missing the parallel for said destruction.

#alex talks good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #the final fifteen #good omens meta #if there's any spelling or grammar errors pls know i typed half of this with my eyes closed bc my meds are kicking in

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

can you do a ghost version of the Memories of Youth fic you did for price please?

Harvest Storms

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Daughter!Reader

SYNOPSIS: In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from.

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, emotionally distant father/Simon, injuries, arguments, mentions of Simon's past, hurt/comfort, fluff near the end, etc.

A/N: I know this might be controversial but I really don't see Simon wanting kids so I tried to keep this realistic but also cute, lmao. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon admitted that having a kid was never on his to-do list, and it wasn’t only his job that caused that. In fact, at any point in his life, the thought alone terrified him.

His icy eyes spaced out as the man unstrapped his combat vest in the on-base armory, hucking it over his head with a tiny grunt. Muscles ached; wounds burned. 

He’d known having that one-night stand wasn’t right—he should have just stuck to his perfected solitude of dark rooms and middle-of-the-night workouts. But there was only so much you could do before instinct overcame any sort of common sense; add a few drinks into the mix and the concoction had glazed over his mind like a honey-laced dream. 

And then nine months later a single text. A photo attachment. 

“She’s yours.” His child. His daughter. Simon had a daughter. 

It had taken weeks of self-isolation to figure out what to do. There were moments of very real panic—bone-deep worry and hatred. He couldn’t be a father and still be the Ghost that he was now, but there wasn’t a way to reverse his already damaged psyche. Home in Manchester didn’t feel like a real place anymore; home was a gun in his hands and his mask over his face. Slumping bodies and adrenaline-blown pupils. The high he got out of killing could never be topped by the joys of having a family he didn’t want. 

But then he remembered his own father and the guilt that had struck him at that moment left Simon physically sick. Head pounding and bile lacing his tongue as he retched over a toilet. It would have been easier to just promise money, and give over some of what he earned to give you a future. He could distance himself but still be a shadow on the wall if it all went south.

Yes, it could have been easy. 

Until your mother up and disappeared; leaving you all alone. There was no way in hell he could leave you in foster care. The stories he’d heard…

Simon’s gloved hands flex, joints cracking, before he checks the watch on his wrist with slow-blinking eyes. He needed to be home in two hours.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” A groan escapes, rolling his shoulders twice before grasping at his thigh holster—slipping out the X12 to place it down with a small thump of black metal. 

These movements were entirely routine and soon there was a neat line of multiple knives, the pistol, an automatic rifle, frag grenades, med pack, rope, and anything else that Ghost could have even the slightest possibility of needing in a tight spot. Through it all, the mask stayed; icy eyes behind the spread of black face paint numb. 

It’s one hour later that he’s done cleaning and putting everything away with tired fingers. Feet shuffle before he’s exiting the armory all together, snatching the large duffle bag near the double doors; a small grunt plays out of his chest. The strap is dragged over his head when Soap passes him in the base’s hallway.

All Simon could do is hold back a groan as a headache already begins to form.

“Lt.” The Scot calls, smile pulling his lips up, “off to go hide in back-alleys, then?”

“Jesus, Johnny, shut the fuck up already.” Ghost grumbles out, hands slipping into his pockets as he continues off down the hallway. Behind him, the mohawked Sergeant belts out a laugh before disappearing into the armory Simon had just vacated. 

“Copy and check, Sir!” Sarcasm bleeds out and makes icy eyes fall half-closed with subdued annoyance.

The large phantom continues on until he exits the base and digs his keys out of his pockets—finding his car in the underground parking garage exactly where he had left it two months prior. As if on autopilot, he shuffles open the door and tosses his bag in the back before sitting in the front seat and twisting the ignition. 

Reaching into the glove compartment, Simon pulls out a clean balaclava and holds it loosely—his opposite hand slipping up to the skeletal mask of his head and feeling the fibers on his fingertips. Replacing it swiftly, the clean fabric slips over his face with a stiff movement of his arm. Seconds later, his foot presses into the gas.

There are no words spoken, no comments under breath, just a silence that seems to stem from some underlying anxiety completely foreign to Simon on the field. Going home always made him nervous. A soul-digging kind of hesitation.

It takes him the rest of that last hour to drive home—a tiny little country house far removed from Manchester though still leaving it well guarded by local law-enforcement patrols. A perfect mix of safety and distance that had been the driving force in Simon’s initial purchase of it. But it wasn’t his only properly, not by a long shot. 

Like a rat, the holes of his paranoia ran deep into the earth.

He pulls the car into the dirt driveway and kills the vehicle. Outside in the darkening sky, his eyes slide to watch over the top of the garden wall; seeing tree branches sway in a subdued breeze. Sitting there for a few moments, the man just ends up shaking his head and shoving open the door with his shoulder. 

Veins tighten under his flesh.

“Kid!” Simon raps on the front door with his knuckles when his boots take him over and up the steps, voice gravelly. A house key slips into the lock, turning over before the barrier opens. Ghost stomps in and immediately knows the entire home is completely empty. 

He blinks in confusion, looking over the still air and dull noises. The AC unit whirls; the fridge shakes. No feet on the floor—no groan or sly comment.

You were a teenager now, but the absence of your aura was harsh to him. You were supposed to be here. The Manchester man’s lips thin.

“Christ, don’t go and tell me she’s fuckin’ gone again…” Simon kicks the door shut and lets his bag fall from his fingers, feeling his chest tighten slowly. He beelines to the kitchen where, sure enough, a note from the far-off neighbor who keeps an eye on you when he’s gone was sitting with its delicate font.

Fast fingers snatch it like a snake, jaw clenched and tight grip creasing the paper. He reads with a growing disappointment.

“She got into a fight out of school again—black eye and bruised knuckles. I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but I couldn’t get a hold of you to tell you about it. I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father. When you read this, I’ll have tried to make her come back inside but I was unsuccessful. I left supper at the base of the hill and a blanket. I’m sorry. I’ll be at my home if you need me.”

Simon places the note down and runs a hand up and down his face, a deep sigh exiting his lips as his fingers cover his jaw and chin. Like the definition of fatigue, his body lightly bows forward. Slouched shoulders.

This would make the fifth fight this year. 

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

After a minute of mute irritation, the man drops his hands and goes to the freezer, taking out an ice pack with a small glint of further emotion stinted in his gaze. There are so many things that Simon feels for you—some of which he would never be able to properly express. 

He’s not a good man. Not someone to look up to or place on a pedestal. He’s in the 141 because he can do a job; a job that not many others can do simply for the fact that something in him was broken. Shattered beyond repair. 

Simon was never meant for this.

The blond placed the ice pack into a rag from the drawer and exited through the back door of the house. Grunt stuck in his throat at the thought of the delinquent activities you seemed to always get up to when he was gone which, admittingly, was more often than not.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

But wasn’t he doing a good thing by staying away? He took you in—provided food, water, shelter, and anything else you could need. What was he doing wrong? 

Simon’s brows tighten as the chilled air hits him as a winder wind would. By now the sun had fully set and the darkness was becoming more black than blue by the second; dim twinklings from stars dancing in the pupils of his eyes. His feet take him off the back porch and easily finds a small trail that leads through the barren garden all the way to a hill in the distance.

Icy blue easily finds the tiny hunched being at the very top. His hand tightens over the ice pack. 

Ghost was unable to understand, of course, he hadn’t had the kind of childhood people would want—was never around kids in general. No friends with little brats running around, obviously. Was this a normal kind of thing kids did? Start fights? 

He’d heard some things about teenagers. 

Closing his tired eyes for a moment, Simon silently walks past the plate of food at the foot of the hill but snatches the fluffy blanket that had been beside it. If you don’t want to eat he won't force you, but it was getting cold out quickly. 

Simon wasn’t letting you catch a bug.

He huffs as he ascends the slope, all the aches and pains finally making themself more known in his thighs and abdomen. 

You hear him coming when he’s three-fourths of the way there. 

Your red eyes widen in shock, hands that had been trapping your legs to your chest rising to wipe the tears on your cheeks away aggressively; frantic. Three seconds later a heavy fabric hits your head and you tense, widely looking up into the dead eyes of your father. 

The blanket thumps to the ground beside you in a heap. 

“Put it on,” he grunts from behind his balaclava and your surprised expression slowly sours. 

You turn away with a growl. “Don’t want to.”

“Bloody ‘ell, just put it on,” there’s no acidity behind the words, but the annoyance is clear. “Asking to get fuckin’ sick at this rate, are you? I’m not cleanin’ up your vomit from the floor when you're hunched over like a mutt on drugs.” 

Not a stranger to his humor, but with a venom-laced look, you grab the blanket as Simon sits next to you and end up throwing it over your shoulders. Your face hurt too much to talk for long periods—right eye swollen and radiating heat; hands weren't that much better, the knuckles puffy and blood-flooded under the skin. It made you flinch when you had to clench your fingers. 

You’re acutely aware of your father’s presence. How he sits with his spine bent with one hand behind him; legs laying out flat. You should be happy he’s back safe in one piece, but in reality, there would be little change if he never showed back up at all. 

The house was always silent anyways. Dead. Simon was as much a stranger to you as he was to everyone else. 

“What did I tell you when I went away, eh?” The man asks you lowly when you’ve settled, and you grit your teeth and look out over the landscape, long grass swaying in the wind. “Kid.”

“Don’t get into any more fights.” Words are stiff, reflective of both of your muscles and hearts. 

“Affirmative. You want to explain to me what you did?”

“Got into another fight.” An icepack is tossed near you, bouncing in the grass. You scoff but take it, softly applying it to your face with a concealed flinch. Shame permeates in your ribs, a desperate need to prove yourself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s not an excuse.” Simon glares at you from the side of his eye, utterly serious. “When I tell you something, you listen, yeah?”

“...Yeah,” you grit your teeth and clench your hands, a bitter huff leaving your lips. “Sure.” 

A tense silence keeps you in its clutches, the kind of silence that stems from two people who really have no idea how to speak or understand one another.

“No more fighting,” Simon grits out, “now show me.” 

“It’s not that bad—”

“Show me it.” Your face burns as you slip the ice pack away and turn your face his way, meeting your father’s gaze head-on and seeing his lids slightly pull back. You spy his hand clenching in the grass, ripping strands out like hair from a head. 

“Happy?” You sarcastically ask, turning back forward and putting the ice pack back into your socket. 

It’s a long while before he speaks to you again, and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face when he does. Your heart rampages at the deathly slow and tiny voice.

“Why?” The question makes your body flair with anger and you grip the pack tighter, feeling the ice shift in your grip as you clench it violently. You feel your fingers twitch when you answer, unconsciously closing into fists.

“Why?” You glare at him, “Why the hell do you care?” 

Simon’s eyes go blank, brows going up his head. Gazes lock and you’re suddenly standing to your feet, chucking the ice pack right into his chest. It only makes you madder when he catches it easily, glancing down at the object before slowly shifting his numb eyes back to you.

“You’re never fucking here, what’s the point in telling you anything about me?” Your father’s face is covered, but the mask is more than just physical—it’s a part of him in every sense. You don’t know what he is, but you see his lungs going still in his ribs. You splay your hands around you as the blanket hits the ground at your feet. “It wouldn’t even make a difference if you never came back! Even when you’re here it barely even matters beyond who’s dishes are in the sink.”

Bitter tears spring to your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, a tight itch in your skin. Slight guilt hits you when you shove out such harsh words, but you don’t care enough right now to think about what you’re saying. Everything just hits a breaking point. Shaking your head you scoff again, weaker this time. “You don’t even know the first things about me and you want me to try and explain why I do the things I do?” 

Simon watches and listens, stone still. It’s as if he doesn’t even breathe; his pulse doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. If you would have been able to see it, you’d have noticed the way the large man’s lips were slightly parted. 

He wasn’t averse to arguments, he yelled on Ops and cursed aggressively on duty, but he had made a stark promise to himself to never yell at you. If there was one thing that reminded him of his father—it was that. Explosive fights that only ended one way. 

What you were saying was everything he knew to be true. This came to him in a slow and silent realization of growing pain. Simon didn’t know your favorite color or what food you loved. Your interests or your goals. 

He knew how much you spent on snacks at the store, but didn’t know what you bought. 

Ghost clenches his jaw and watches your resolve deteriorate with a heavy heart. What was he supposed to do? He was your father, sure, but…he didn’t know the first things that went with anything beyond giving you items and objects.

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

How could he be a father to you?

Simon clears his throat, for once in his life completely unable to pull on any sort of skill to rectify this situation. You take his silence as blatant disregard. 

With a burning face, you sniffle and twist on your heel, speed-walking down the hill back into the house. Your brain is pounding in your head, just as fast as your heart when you finally stomp through the garden and shove open the back door. 

Simon doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Left on that hill, he watches your back disappear into the house and gets a rabid pain in his stone heart. You were his daughter. You were hurt; neglected. He’d never felt like this before.

Simon had failed the only job that he knew was far more important than any other. Blue darkens into a color reminiscent of storm clouds.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Standing, he snatches at the ice pack and the blanket, lightly jogging down the mound of earth. In no time he’s standing in the house again, having completely forgotten about the plate of food outside. It’s the tense set of his shoulders that really give away how unprepared he feels. How out of his expertise. 

Give Simon a gun and he’d be able to take it apart and reassemble it in one minute; a knife and he’d have it sharp in seconds. 

Simon Riley has no idea how to be a good father and he’s suddenly very aware of how fast the window is closing to try. You were his blood and his responsibility. He can’t end up like his own father.

The thought almost makes him sick again, stomach rolling with anxiety.

Inside the house, he tosses the items in his grip onto the couch and whispers past into the hallway to your room. Fingers twitching, he grabs at his balaclava before ripping it from his head; stuffing it into his pants pocket. Stopping in front of your room, Simon raises a hand. 

Just as he’s about to shove open the door, he instantaneously stops himself with a sharp thought.

Daughter, not soldier. Home, not barracks.

Hand lowering, he takes a long and deep breath and waits a moment; gathering himself. He still didn’t know what to say…but…

God, your words hurt, but he needed to hear them because they were true.

Simon’s knuckles rasp on the wood, a series of three dull thumps that echo over the stale air. There’s a shuffling of sheets and a dull, “God, just go away!” 

Cursing quietly under his breath, Simon runs his fingers through his hair tense-like; pushing back blond strands. 

“Open up for me, yeah?” He tries, awkward as his hips shift weight. “Need ‘ta talk to you.”

A cruel laugh exits from under the bottom of the door. “You? Talk?”

Simon keeps his mouth shut and closes his eyes, pulling from the deep pit of patience he holds for on-duty missions and not mastered yet for disagreements and verbal talks. He calms down and rolls his shoulders slightly. 

“Please.” A pin could drop. 

It’s a long, hot-air moment before there's the padding of feet over the floor and the slight shift of the door handle. The metal jiggles before it’s twisted back with a firm hand. 

Your face comes into view through the tiny crack of the door, injured eye on full display in all its swollen glory. A young face is laced with surprise at seeing your father’s bare visage—only the black face paint stuck to his skin—but even more so at his plea. There were only a few times you’d actually seen him and even fewer when you’d hear something like that. Simon stops himself from getting angry at the sight of your wound, staring down at you as his gaze softens just a fraction of a sliver. 

He recalls the moment he had first held your form when he had picked you up at hospital years ago. You were so small, squirming in his foreign grip. The nurse had to tell him how to hold you properly—what to do and what not to do. 

It had been the first time that Simon could really say he’d been terrified down to his marrow; sweating and lips pulled tight. This being so small it couldn’t do anything by itself had rendered him frozen with unease like he had been stabbed in the heart. Your eyes had looked up at him with trust and love. You hadn’t cried or screamed at his hidden face, even if he thought you should have…you’d done something worse.

You had reached up to his face and placed your little fingers on his brow, slapping his flesh with no strength or hatred. Simon’s gaze never left you for hours after you’d done that, uncharacteristically warm and rendered mute to all else. 

Tiny. Weak. Innocent.

How could anybody ever leave you? Hurt you? But the man had been petrified; utterly fearful to the point he would begin shaking when you’d begin crying for a bottle. 

In the process of trying to keep you happy and separate from him, he was leading you down the exact path he had tried to steer you from. 

“What?” Your crestfallen voice brings him back and he blinks, expression going blank once more. But he tries. 

“Can I come in?” 

“I don’t know—are you going to give a lecture?” You ask, eyes red and other hand still holding the door handle. Simon breathes out a grunted sigh.

“Negative, Moppet, no lecture.” He relaxes his posture, eye bags plainly visible. He was so tired his fingers had gone numb. “Jus’ need ‘ta…” Words fail him. What did he need to do? 

Simon clears his throat, looking off down the hallway before his eyes drift back to you.

“You land a hit, then?” You blink in silent shock at the graveled question, a hitch in your lungs giving way to confusion.

“I…” your feet shuffle, face burning, “what?”

One of your father’s large hands goes up to rub the back of his neck, fingers creating red lines across his flesh as his chest rises and falls. You could immediately tell he had no idea what he was doing. 

But…he was trying.

“A hit,” he vaguely gestures to your eye, staring intensely. “Did you get ‘em back?” 

It’s a vague few moments before you respond, oddly touched by the question. Your door opens the slightest bit wider.

“More than one person,” you admit hesitantly. Your father’s gaze darkens but you quickly continue. “T-they look worse than me right now.”

Simon nods stiffly, hands going to slide into his pockets. “That’ll do,” a pause, “...‘cause I can’t beat up teenagers without getting into a fuckin’ heap ‘o shit.” 

Your heart lurches with amusement and a small smile grows on your face. You stare, still just a tiny bit confused at the sudden shift, but unable to stop the chuckle you let out. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling in his chest when his ears twitch at the sound of your humor, yet Simon pulls a smirk to his lips. It made him…content, you could say.

“Who said they were teenagers?” you smirk, tinting your head, and your father immediately frowns, unamused. Brows pull in. 

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“No, it isn’t. Shut your bloody trap.” The air lightens to a degree you hadn’t experienced before. A silence settles before you break it, vision darting down to spy on the dog tags Simon wears. 

“...How long are you staying?” The man hums, licking his lips. 

I know you said your job is important but I think your daughter needs her father.

“I’m off as long as it takes to get you to stop picking fights, yeah?” Your fingers flinch and you stare into eyes that are always like ice, except now try to melt themselves into a chilled puddle. 

“Change of heart?” You ask, voice subdued. A bitter hope builds in your veins. 

Simon motions with his chin for you to open the door to your room and you do, elbowing it to the side before backing up—letting your father’s large frame enter. 

He looks around for a moment at the posters and the bits of personality, glaring internally at himself because he didn’t know what you liked at all. He seems disappointed with his own negligence.

He’d really fucked up.

“C’mere,” Simon goes and snatches your desk chair before he whirls it around, “lemme take a proper look at it.” His hand pats the top of the wood and you listen, going to it and sitting down softly. 

Your father kneels in front of you, bones cracking, and he delicately grabs hold of your chin to tilt your head to the side with practiced ease. You avoid his eyes, hands in your lap held tight together in this silence that brews from shared thorns. 

Simon has to take a deep breath to get his head out of his rage at the sight of your damaged skin; instinctual reaction to guard you rearing its head even more so now that he can see the injury in the dim light of your desk lamp. His thumb caresses the side of the swelling with intense care.

“Won’t die,” is all he can say, voice hard and strained. “Lucky you, eh?” You scoff and his hands leave—there wasn’t much he could do. “Moppet.”

Eyes slide up to his and his grip finds your bicep, squeezing once. You’re momentarily locked at the sight of real concern in his glinting orbs; a once in a blue moon occurrence. 

“Give me your word.” Simon levels firmly, feet shifting. “No more of this. You’re gonna end up gettin’ hurt—badly—you got that?” 

“They were calling soldiers cannon fodder.” You glare at your hands in your lap, mumbling out the truth with a burning face mixed with shame and honesty. Your father goes silent. “That they weren’t even good enough for bullets.” 

Jaw clenching, you rotate your wrist and feel the flare of pain from the joints. A deep sigh exits from Simon and with a hesitant clench of his jaw, his hand travels to the back of your head. He presses firmly, and your face finds the junction of his neck and shoulder with little fight. Tense in the beginning, you slowly breathe in sweat and tarmac with a gradual loosening feeling in your muscles. 

Eyes wide, you slowly begin to return the strange embrace. Your father flinches lightly when your fingers slip along his waist, hands grabbing into his shirt. But like you, time makes him calm—the side of his face connects with the side of your scalp, lashes fluttering closed tightly. 

It was you. His daughter. Innocent.

The emotions are so foreign to you that it brings a burning behind your eyes as the minutes lengthen. 

Simon can’t even begin to process it, it just felt natural to do such things for you. If there was one thing he did know—it was that he didn’t want to see you in pain or suffering; hurt or eyes filled with pain. His hands slip to bring you up into his arms like you were a baby again, carrying you easily as your nose sniffles with restrained tears. You’re placed in your bed with a delicate plop, icy eyes darting over you until it seems a decision is made with a quick nod.

You watch him leave and return seconds later with a pile of manilla folders in his hands. Your father grunts softly, “Go to sleep. It’s late out,” and drops the items to your desk, sitting down with a huff and a squeal from your chair. The air is warm and you sit in it a moment longer.

Eyes blink at the silhouette before a small smile builds on your lips—genuine and warm like a weighted blanket. 

“How long are you gonna be there?” You ask your father, grasping the covers and slipping under as your head hits the pillow; making sure to stay on the uninjured side.

He doesn’t turn around. 

“All night. Need ‘ta get this shite done for my boss.” You don’t know why, but you feel like he’s lying. Simon looks over his shoulder with a tone dipping to a whisper. “Sleep, Kid. We’ll get those knuckles sorted in the morning.” 

Of course, he’d noticed that, too. 

“Dad?” You ask and his spine straightens instantly at the title. It’s a long time before he answers and when he does his emotion is the softest you’ve ever heard him; gravel so deep you almost miss the words entirely. 

“What is it?” 

“Goodnight.” Simon’s hands shake as they open the first folder in the small stack, small tremors that are both horrible and endearing. He doesn’t say anything until you’re fast asleep behind him—when he stands up and walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pulling the covers farther up to your chin. 

Into your skin, he whispers, “...Goodnight, my little Moppet.”

Simon wonders if his daughter likes eggs for breakfast as his pen slides over the first report, one eye forever staying on your slumbering body to watch the rise and fall of your lungs.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #cod mw22 #mw2 #mw2 2022 #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #simon ghost x reader #x female reader #simon riley #ghost mw2 #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #cod fanfic #cod ghost #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare x you #modern warfare x reader #mw2 x reader #cod mwii #platonic #cod x female reader #x fem!reader

[silvercap]

Hi hi for the whump drabble game could I get some hurt Chris with either dangling or perhaps painkillers? No worries if not ❤️❤️❤️

For sure!! (From this prompt list)

Dangling/Painkillers

Chris's arm trembles with the effort it takes to cling to the cliff face, gloved fingers already slipping even as he forces himself to dig deep into the mud and rock in the desperate hope that it will save him. Below, the ocean thrashes at the vicious spires of rock reaching upwards like ragged claws, rain and wind lashing the frothing surf into a roil. He gasps for air, left arm stretched taut where Jill hangs below him, her limp, unconscious form held up only by Chris's hand around her thin wrist. Above them, BOWs growl audibly over the rush of the storm, scenting the blood that pours down Chris's side in hot rivulets despite being too dumb to tell where it's coming from.

Chris blinks rain from his eyes, gritting his teeth with a groan when an attempt to haul Jill higher leaves his head spinning. Below, the waves lap hungrily at the rocky cliff edge as if sensing his growing weakness, eager to swallow them up into oblivion. Chris growls. What a stupid fucking way to die--knocked over the edge of a cliff he should've seen, bleeding out and unable to reach his radio. There's no way he's letting Jill die here like this.

He clings to the rock, eyelids fluttering. No giving up, no matter what.

Chris isn't sure how long it is before the sound of gunfire and squealing bioweapons filters in over the ringing in his ears, arms burning from the endless, intolerable strain that's becoming too much to bear. He's so tired. Rainwater freezes the back of his neck in icy sheets, hair slicked to his forehead as he gasps in defeat. He doesn't even have the strength to call out.

"Captain!"

He doesn't have to, though, because one of the men who'd been part of their backup team--he can't tell who over the rain--is staring down at him wide-eyed, two measly feet above where Chris is clinging to his crumbling lifeline. The man reaches down as another soldier appears behind him, already wrapping his hand around Chris's wrist.

"No," Chris snaps raggedly, unable to hold back a cry as he drags Jill to his chest with a sudden burst of superhuman strength. His heart is pounding, vision flickering, but all he knows is that he needs to save her. "Jill first."

The men bicker amongst themselves as they do as they're told, taking Jill's weight a split-second before Chris's arms fail entirely. He whimpers as his grip slides further, left arm useless as his right hand aches from the effort it takes to hold himself in place.

"Captain!" He hears someone shout, and then the cliff is breaking apart under his fingers, solid earth giving way to open air and the drop of free fall in his stomach. His eyes widen, and then he's slamming into the dark abyss of the boiling sea, and Chris knows no more.

He comes to to the sound of shouting and helicopter rotors, rain dotting his face as the sky above him swims. He's moving, he recognizes vaguely, a blurry sillhouette holding something plastic over his mouth and nose. Chris frowns, shifting--only to meet resistance over his chest and hips, a strangled noise of protest escaping him.

"Can you hear me, Captain Redfield?" The figure slowly squeezes the plastic thing as air floods Chris's lungs, leaning down to reveal the concerned face of a medic. "You're alright, we're just taking you to the emergency chopper. Captain Valentine is safe."

Safe. Something warms blooms to life in Chris's veins, tension he didn't know he'd been holding slipping away as his muscles go limp. Well, more limp.

"Hang on a little longer, Captain, you're doing great. Those pain meds should be kicking in right about now."

Chris is too far away to respond, eyelids fluttering closed with the hazy warmth that swallows him into oblivion.

#whump #ask game #hehe thanks abby #sorry it posted prematurely #drabbles

[thotthumb]

Robert Chase x Older! Man/Reader Brainrot

ADULT CONTENT UNDER THE CUT. DO NOT READ IF UNDER THE AGE OF 18

This was made with transmascs and men in mind! Please know that the reader has a dick or strap in this one!

Content Warnings: Chase is giving head to an older guy, power imbalance due to the positions held, office blowjob, under the desk blowjob, somebody walks in at the end, sex in front of somebody else but they don’t explicitly know

Word Count: 628

Authors Note: I’m just posting some brainrot that I’ve been sitting on. Should I try to make a part 2 of this one or just leave it?

“Four years of college, four at med-school, two years residency, another four years of sub-specialty training, and where do I end up?” “Between my legs with my cock down your throat, now stop talking and put this back in your mouth, Dr. Chase.”

How the fuck did he get himself in this predicament? He had a old ass but very attractive man fisting his hair in one hand and with their other hand pressing his fingers into the sides of his jaw to keep his mouth open wide. His throat had been bullied by what he’d personally call an oversized cock for what felt like hours but he knows it hasn’t. There was a clock on the shelf behind the desk he was currently hidden under that he could read. Yes, he’s under the desk of the Administrative Assistant, in his office at the hospital that they both work at.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, he knows he shouldn’t be giving head to his technical boss and especially not at his place of work! But there’s something about an older man just using his mouth to get off that seemingly fixes something (somebody get this man a therapy session and a dilf).

“Come on, put it in your mouth and make me feel good.” He urged, leaving Chase to grind against the older man’s outstretched leg with a slight shudder before finally taking the throbbing dick back into his mouth. He reached a hand down to the tight tent in his pants, borderline humping his hand in an attempt to relieve some of his need for friction. “There you go,” he grunted before a guttural groan slipped past, causing the older man to look towards the door to his office. He couldn’t tell if it was locked but he didn’t have any meetings scheduled so there shouldn’t be any interruptions. He wasn’t going to pull the young man off his length anyways.

“You can go farther than that, take it all,” Chase looked up to him through his lashes, asking if he had to because the amount he had taken was already a lot. “Don’t give me that look, you’ve taken all of it in every hole you have. You can do it again, brat,” He looked down at him with his lids half closed and a type of lust written on his entire face. Chase moaned lightly (to the best of his ability given his mouth being full) at his words. How can a professional speak that vulgarly?

His boss felt that he was taking too long to comply so he lifted up his hips, thrusting deep into his mouth and causing the poor man to gag, choking at the sudden intrusion. His hands immediately shot up to grip at his thighs, his lashes now clumped together with tears. He was trying so hard to even out his breathing and relax his throat, his nails digging into the flesh and leaving little crescent moons in the skin. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment only to open them widely when he heard the door to the office open.

His boss scooted forward in the chair, pushing Chase back further under the desk but also pinning him so he couldn’t take his cock out of his mouth. He grunted and the feeling of having his dick so far down his throat that he could feel Chase’s nose pressing against his stomach slightly. Chase could really only hope that this would be a short conversation otherwise with how sensitive the Administrative Assistant is currently he might end up just blowing down his throat. Especially with how he’s still rocking his hips in and out of Chase’s mouth while talking to.? Who came in again? “House? What are you doing here?”

Oh shit.

#smut #house md smut #house md #robert chase #Robert Chase smut #Robert Chase x reader smut #x male reader smut #Robert Chase x male reader smut #Robert chase x reader #Robert Chase x male reader #x reader #x reader smut #x male reader

[gloomzombie]

I'll Bury You For This

Pairings: Jeff the Killer X Male Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3,554

Chapter Five: The Pros and Cons of Breathing

Ch.1 , Ch.2 , Ch.3 , Ch.4

August 21. 12:34pm.

Gage’s arms around me aren’t enough to pull me out of the blurry and noisy state my mind is in. His lips press against my cheek before he pulls out of the hug. “I’ll see you Monday, then?” He asks, and I nod. Though he’s right here, he sounds so far away. “See you,” I responded. I hesitate for a second before giving him a small kiss. “Bye Gage,” I whisper. His face flushes. “Bye, Y/N.” I get on my bike that was left just outside his door, and take off down the pristine pavement.

The ride home is quick, not only because of the relatively short distance, but also because I’m not paying attention. I got to the house faster than I really wanted to. I’m putting my bike down against the house without really registering it. Only when I’m at the door do I take a second to slow down. I sigh heavily. I don’t want to go. Why did I waste my time with Gage like that? I wish I could’ve stayed. I shake my head and stick my key into the knob, twisting open the door.

When I walk in, John isn’t there. Thank god. I shut the door behind me quietly and make my way down the hallway just as silent. I peek into his room to see him passed out on his bed, snoring. I quickly go into my room, then shut and lock the door. I sit my backpack down next to my bed and lie down in it. Ugh. Going from Gage’s back to this is terrible. I take my phone out and check the time. 12:47pm. I bite my lip. I guess I should start getting ready.

I got up and changed outfits, because for some reason I didn’t bring some for today; this morning I changed into what I wore yesterday, which did not smell good. The stench of cigarettes and beer isn’t exactly pleasant. I slip into some more comfortable pants that I got from the last time I went to Hot Topic, along with a My Chemical Romance shirt I got the same day (with a long sleeve underneath of course). I slide a studded belt through the loops on my pants. I don’t feel like being extra today, so I leave the accessories at that. 

I unzip my backpack and take out my meds along with the water bottle I left in there yesterday. I press the capsule pill to my tongue and swallow it down with gulps of water. I hope I don’t get a headache this time because I never did take one yesterday. I sit back down on my bed. I’ll just listen to music until it’s time to leave, starting with Siouxsie and the Banshees. 

August 21. 1:54pm.

I took the familiar route to my favorite bookstore. I figured I should walk since he usually drives me in his car once we meet up. I’m not entirely sure how that’s gonna go. The last time I was in his car, he made me drive (illegally, I don’t have a license) while he and his ex made out drunkenly in the backseat. All throughout the walk, my mind was swarmed with a buzzing sound. Not literally, but it might as well have been just sound with the way I couldn’t stop fucking thinking.

I’m sweating by the time I reach the store, only slightly, but enough to make me feel disgusting. The lovely breezes at night have been getting cooler, but it has barely dented the warmer weather during the day. I wish I wore a tank top today, but even just the thought of having people stare at my arms and wrists makes my skin crawl. I hate attention, especially the bad kind.

I sigh as I sit down on the sidewalk, beside the door. I watch cars and bikes pass by as I listen to music, waiting for Xander’s car to show up. I hum along to the lyrics of I Will Not Bow by Breaking Benjamin. I will not bow / I will not break / I will shut the world away / I will not fall / I will not fade / I will take your breath away.

I sit up at the sight of his black toyota pulling into the parking spot in front of me. I pause the song and take out my earbuds, putting them back into my pocket. I stand up, brushing off my pants and sliding my phone into my back pocket. I suddenly wished I wore a light jacket so I had something to do with my hands, though that wouldn’t have been great due to the heat. I could’ve worn just the jacket if I had thought about it.

I think he trimmed his hair up, because it looks all choppy, much more so than before. His hair’s been freshly dyed black too, some dye still staining his neck. He walks up to me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his skinny jeans somehow. “Hey Y/N.” He smiles at me and it makes me feel nervous. He’s gonna want to talk to me about whatever it is later it seems.

“Hey Xan.” I respond coolly. I’ve already decided I’m letting him do all the talking until he wants to address the elephant in the room. “Well, let’s go.” he responds after a second of staring at me. Weird. I lead the way inside. “Where do you wanna go?” I ask and turn to look at him. He shrugs. “I dunno. I guess wherever you go the most.” I roll my eyes and walk down the countless bookshelves into many different rooms. 

I can feel his hand touch mine a few times, which makes my eyebrows furrow. I don’t say anything about it, as his touch doesn’t linger, but it’s still really weird. He doesn’t usually do physical affection with me; that’s something he saves for his girlfriends and hookups and crushes, even though that’s not the word he likes to use for them.

We make it to the familiar Y/A + Horror section, a section that I always visit. I tap my finger on my chin as I look down the aisles. I didn’t think about buying any books today, but I probably will- especially since Xander’s paying for lunch. “So, what do you usually get when you come here?” I hear him ask from the front of the area. He’s looking at the Stephen King books, though I doubt he’s gonna buy anything from a bookstore. 

“Whatever’s on my list. I just finished a series, so I don’t have much to really start with now.” I bend down at the knees to look at the bottom of the fantasy shelf. I carefully picked out a book- Realm Breaker by Victoria Aveyard. “You have a list?” I stand up straight and walk down an aisle back to the novels. I picked up one of the books that they stood up straight and examined it- Girl in Pieces by Kathleen Glasgow. I’ve heard really good reviews about it. 

I take the books in my arms, holding them close. “Yeah. How else am I gonna keep track of all the books I’ve read, and all the ones I want to read?” I ask, walking up to where he’s standing. He’s looking at the Twilight books. “Think I’m gonna get one.” He mutters. I stare at him, my eyes widening. “Really?” I ask. “Twilight?”

“Well yeah. Is there something wrong with that?” He gives me a glare. I shake my head. Why is he being so defensive? “Of course not. Just, why Twilight?” I ask, looking not at him, but at the bookshelf. “Because I know you really liked those books, and hated the movies apparently,” He murmurs in the last part. His words rattle in my brain. I don’t understand them. He’s never shown interest in my interests like this. So what changed? Maybe he feels bad about practically leaving me to deal with my shit alone for months straight. But, then again, I know him well enough to know that probably isn’t true. Xander suddenly gaining a conscience? Please.

“Well, yeah. They left out so many important scenes from the books, and oh my god, don’t get me started on how they changed the way Rosalie tells Bella her story in Eclipse.” He laughs. “Guess I’ll have to read the books first then.” I look back at him and he’s already looking at me, a small smile on his lips. My face heats up. “Yeah. You will.”

I shake my head a little and step back. “But you really don’t have to buy one. You can borrow mine. I have the whole set plus Midnight Sun.” I offer. I’ve underlined stuff in the books, but it's just a romance- not anything personal, so I’m really not worried about him reading them. He looks down at the book in his hands. Slowly, he shakes his head. “Nah. I think I want to start collecting books the way you do.” He looks back up at me. “Do you think I should get New Moon too?” 

We make our way through the endless hallways to the front with our books. I placed mine on the checkout counter. “Just these two?” Melissa asks. I still have to thank her for the last time I was here; she rounded my total down because I didn’t bring enough cash. But not while Xander’s here. As I go to speak, he interrupts me. “Four. I’ll be paying,” He places his books beside mine. Melissa nods and starts scanning the books. I glare at him. I can feel my face grow unbearably hot. Why is he paying for me?

“Your total is 48 dollars and 34 cents for two used hardcovers and two new paperbacks. Cash or card?” Melissa smiles at me, then looks at Xander. After he hands her the cash, he takes our books into his arms before I get the chance to take mine. He smiles at me, then leads the way to the door. As soon as the door shuts, I pull my books from his arms into my own. “I can pay for my fucking self, you know.” 

I don’t wait to see his reaction. I step down onto the pavement and stand by his passenger door, waiting for him to unlock it. I stare at my reflection in the glass. I grimace and open the door as soon as I hear it unlock. I slide in and place my books down in my lap before closing the door. I put on my seatbelt and stare at the books, running my hand over the cover of Girl in Pieces. I distract myself by thinking about how different the cover feels than most paperbacks I own. It’s soft somehow; pretty looking and pretty feeling. 

“I didn’t know that’d make you so upset,” Xander speaks through the silence, starting the car. I chew on my bottom lip, tearing the skin. I fight the nerves and look over at him. His eyes are on the road as he pulls out of the parking lot. Have his hands always looked that good? They’re more veiny looking than I remember. He’s probably practicing with his guitar again. 

I sigh. “Sorry for that. There’s a lot on my mind and I-” “No, no. I’m sorry. For assuming you wanted me to pay, and, well…” He trails off, and as I look at his face, I see how he looks different, even there. There’s a softness to his features that wasn’t really there before. He looks somehow different than he did a few months ago.

“Where do you want to eat?” he asks, his fingers tapping the wheel to the beat of the music. I look away. “I don’t know, really. Anything is fine.”

He takes us to the diner we used to go to every other day. I think it makes me emotional, but I can’t really tell if it’s this, or if I was already feeling it. When our food is ready, he takes it in one hand and, weirdly enough, mine in the other. What’s happened to him that he’s wanting so much physical affection from me? When we get in the car, I place my books in the backseat with his so I can hold the food. I lean my head up against the window as he drives silently to the park, with A Day To Remember playing in the background. 

As he drove, I kept my phone by my leg. That’s usually not a great sign, when I don’t use my phone the way I always do. It’s getting bad again, I’m sure. I never realize it until I’m already deep in it.

He parks the car, but sits there for a moment. “Y/N?” he asks. I look over at him. He’s got this sort of pained expression on his face. One I’ve only ever seen once. When his dad cheated on his mom and the yelling, throwing things, and beating started; he’d come sneak into my room through the window I’m not allowed to open. It was the only time I really felt like we could’ve been something more, even though I knew even then it wasn’t happening. 

I’d let him cry into my shirt, clinging onto me as if I was the only thing he needed. And I was, but not in the way I really wanted. He’d talk to me about it through sobs while I rubbed his back, and wiped the tears from his eyes. Those were the moments I really knew I loved him. And even now, some twisted part of me still does. God I can’t think about that anymore, can I? 

“Yeah?” I bite my lip. He turns to meet my stare, and it looks as if he’s about to cry. “Y/N..” He whispers, and his hands move from his lap up to my face. It feels like my throat is closing up. I can’t breathe, so I turn my head away, his hands retreating back. “Let’s go,” I say, opening the car door quickly and sliding out. I shut the door and look around.

This place used to have more woods, but then they started adding to the playground- more climbing rocks, swings, and other weird stuff I can’t put a name to. I start walking to the picnic tables when I hear his door shut. I sit down on one of them, Xander taking a seat in front of me. We take the food out of the bag and start eating in silence. 

I can’t help but think about the way he’s been acting today. It’s so different from how I know him. It’s kind of worrying me. I gaze at him, his attention on his food. I examine his face more. His eyes are sunken, though the lines under his eyes are only slightly noticeable. I look him down and I notice he’s gotten skinnier. Skinnier than usual of course, as he always was twig like. 

His eyes meet mine and my face heats up, my eyes drop down to the fries I haven’t finished. I eat a few more, and after a few seconds, Xander speaks up. “I’m 3 weeks sober, y’know.” I raise my eyebrows and look up at him again. He’s still looking at me, but his facial expression is serious. Of course it is, this is something serious.

“Really? From what?” I ask and immediately regret it. He grimaces and I realize that’s really not something I should ask since there’s so much it could be. “Sorry.” “No, it’s fine.” He sighs, looking back down at his food. “Everything, Y/N. The drugs, the alcohol…the cutting too,” he mutters. He jams a fry harshly into the ketchup dumped onto his hamburger wrapper. “Well, everything but cigarettes. I won’t be able to quit those for a while, or at least not anytime soon.” I nod. “Hey, that’s awesome Xander. Really, I’m proud of you.” For the first time in months, I reached out to touch him, caressing his hand. He looks back up at me, and I can see the tears welling up in his eyes. 

I can’t help but feel like crying too. In the past few days, I’ve been getting more and more prone to it. I usually don’t cry nearly as much as I have this week. More reason to believe it’s getting bad again. Though I guess this is different. Reasonable. My best friend is sober for probably the first time in years. This is the farthest he’s gotten with it; he’s only ever been able to get to one week before he starts with, “Y/N, please let me drink some of your beer. I promise it’ll be just one drink,” or “Pass me the bong, will you? I know, I just couldn’t take it anymore. You understand, don’t you Y/N?” 

He turns his palm upwards, holding my hand in his. “Thanks. That means a lot.” I smile, and he smiles too. A sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. I pull my hand back, and his smile drops. “Besides that..” He starts, and takes a deep breath. “I wanted to…apologize.” Well, that I did not expect. Hoped for? Yes. Expected? Absolutely not. 

I wait a few seconds before responding. “For…what?” I ask. His fingers tap on the wooden table. “For…well, being an asshole. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out before, or come to school, or-” He inhales sharply, looking anywhere but at me. “Did you not come to school because of..me?” I ask, my jaw dropping a little. I never thought he did that because of ME. 

He nods, still not looking at me. “Not all of it was because of you. There were a lot of reasons. Mainly because of how fucking hard it is to go there and want to stay sober, but it was also because I can’t stand all the attention anymore. It was because I didn’t want to see my shit ton of exes again or..” he sighs before looking at me, finally. “I didn’t want to see you because looking at you made me feel...bad.” 

I blink. How do I feel about this new information? How am I supposed to feel about it? I chew on my lip as I process what he’s just said. He doesn’t like all those girls that follow him around? All the girls that surround him constantly? And looking at me makes him feel bad? “Why?” I ask. I have to know. 

He hesitates, his fingers scratching at the table. “Uh..Well…” He groans, moving his hands up to cover his face. He mutters something into his hands, but I can’t understand it. “What?” He slams his hands down on the table and I flinch. “Because I can’t stand to look at you when you don’t look at me.” My brows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stares at me, his deep brown eyes piercing into mine. Suddenly, his hands are cupping my face the way they did in the car. In a quick motion, he pulls my head forward and his lips meet mine. I’m so taken off guard by this that I sit still for a bit. What the fuck? I push him away from me, swing my legs over the bench and stand up quickly. “What the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you?!” I’m screaming at him and I don’t even care. “Who the hell do you think you are doing that to me?” I’m breathing in and out so harshly, it feels like my lungs are on fire. 

“Y/N-” “Kiss my ass, Xander. I loved you. I loved you for so many fucking years. And when I’m finally, FINALLY, getting over your ass you go and do this? And I’m supposed to just go along with it?” My face feels so wet; my throat feels like it’s closing up and I’m choking on the words that spit out of my mouth.

I start to laugh, but it sounds and feels so wrong with all the crying mixed with it. “What the hell is wrong with you, Xander? And I started to believe you were getting your shit together,” I pick up my trash and move as fast as I can to the nearest trash can. The sound of crunching leaves follows me. “Y/N please,” He whines as I throw out my trash. I spin on my heels to face him. I don’t think twice about it; I punch him in the face as hard as I can. 

He’s shocked, flinching away from me as soon as my fist pulls back. His nose is bleeding, and I’m sure it feels even worse with the tears streaming down his face. “I loved you too. I just didn’t realize it,” He’s sobbing; there’s so many cracks in his voice I barely understand what he’s saying. “Just leave me alone, Xander.” My voice is just as pitiful sounding as his. He pleads with me more, begging me not to leave. I don’t care. I don't care. I take off, sprinting out of the park as fast as my feet will let me.

#jeff the killer #creepypasta #creepypasta x you #jeff the killer x male reader #jeff the killer x reader #jeff the killer x you #slenderman #x male reader

[softquietsteadylove]

Spicy Thenamesh Doctor AU!

In the ambulance!

Thena inhales between kisses, "I should go."

"Why?" Gil whispers, and she's not sure if he's being a tease or if he's really asking. His hands are still on her waist, under her scrub top just to feel her bare skin.

"Because I'm on call," she laments as Gil continues to kiss her neck with that very talented mouth he has. "And if we get interrupted neither of us are going to be very happy about it."

"Hm," Gil muses, seeming to almost consider her argument until he pulls her shirt up a little bit more. "It's been a quiet night. I don't think they'll need you in the next...fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen, hm?" she laughs faintly as she does a very poor job of pushing him away. In fact, instead of pushing against his chest all she manages to do is bunch up the material in her hands as she paws at him.

"What can I say," Gil chuckles as he pulls her scrub top and shirt off in one clean swipe. "I'm feeling adventurous."

Thena gasps as he does away with her bra just as easily. He's a bit of a sucker for her boobs, but she doesn't mind. Her spine tingles as he toys with her nipples. "Fifteen minutes worth of adventure--and not a second more."

"Yes, Doctor Thena."

"Wh-!" Thena squeaks as Gil flips them around, letting her brace herself on the inside of the wall while he slips his hand into her scrub pants.

His fingers are immediately in her panties, swirling around the wetness that was already collecting from their make out session and soon pushing in two at a time.

Thena lets out a long, loud groan, "Gil!"

"Sh, baby," he croons in her ear, leaning over her shoulder as he fingers her as if they're horny med students getting caught in a stairwell. "I'm just warming you up."

She's already more than overheated, thank you.

Thena bites into her bottom lip as his fingers move in a beckoning motion inside of her. He always knows just what to do with her. Every once in a while she'll wonder if Gil has always been this proficient a lover or if there's something unrealistically special about her (and her with him). But she doesn't really want to know the answer, so she always forgets it part way through.

"Come on, sweetheart," Gil whispers, moving his fingers faster, holding her hips with his other hand.

Thena whimpers, her knees buckling as she comes around his fingers. Gil likes things hard and fast or he likes sweet, slow love-making. There's never an in between with him. But she is likely to get both in one evening, if they have the time.

Gil pulls his fingers from her slowly and gently, careful of her tender sensitivity. He pops his fingers in his mouth as he moves her to sit on her knees on the ambulance bench.

Not before her pants find a way under and around her knees, leaving her ass out entirely. She whines at him, "have to clean this."

Gil kisses the back of her neck, under her ponytail, "I had to clean it before the next shift anyway."

Thena moans again as Gil braces her hips back against his. He seems so sweet and docile in nature, but she's quickly learning that he's ready to fuck at a moment's notice. She pushes her hips against his.

Gil pushes into her and immediately starts rocking his hips. The ambulance is shaking faintly from them both pushing against it with their palms meshing clumsily. Gil's hand covers hers, "fuck, baby."

"Fuck," she whimpers in reply, echoing his statement. Gil from behind just as a certain...feel to it. He's thick in all the right places--for her, at least. It's like they're made for each other! Not that she needs to be that sappy when he's fucking her in an ambulance up against the wall.

"Kinda hot though, right?" he asked, and she just knows he has that devilish grin on his face. Like when he's asking her if she's left any of her panties in his car by accident (just so Kingo doesn't find them, he says, but she thinks he just likes embarrassing her a little).

"Gil," she drawls, trying to sound like she's scolding him for it, even while he's inside her. She listens to the creak of the bus metal and groans, "not now."

"You're right," he purrs, and she knows she's about to get truly and deeply railed. He picks up one of her thighs and angles her hips differently, "I have more important matters at hand."

Thena's jaw drops open as his hips crash into hers. He holds her thigh up, careful of the tightness in her hip flexors (because of course he is). "Gil!"

"Shit," he pants, basically hugging her thigh to his chest, "you close?"

"Yes, I'm close, fuck--I'm close!" She lets her knees - or one knee, rather - go in preparation. Gil catches her at the waist which grinds them together even more closely and firmly. She comes.

"Fuck!" Gil bellows in response to her coming around him, pulling him to follow. His hips buck against hers.

She moans, all of her muscles becoming useless. She might as well be a pile of gauze on the floor, she has so little bone structure left. She whines.

Gil lets her leg down gently and pulls her into his arms. He kisses her forehead, as if he wasn't just rocking the ambulance so hard she feared it might topple over. "You okay?"

"Hm," she purses her lips, eyes still closed but wiggling in his grasp. "I told you to carry some with you."

"Well, I can't exactly keep 'em in my pockets, hon."

No, maybe that isn't the kind of thing an EMT needs to have that on hand at all times. Thena pushes against his chest, "towel."

He tosses one to her, "we don't really keep them in here, either."

Thena rolls her eyes, using the towel to clean herself up as best she can. No, there isn't much of a need for condoms in the ambulances. But still! "Gilgamesh."

He chuckles, kissing her cheek as she offers it to him for his part of the cleanup. He sighs as she pulls her bra back on, "fine, I'll keep some somewhere on me from now on, okay?"

She huffs as she tugs on her regular t-shirt first and then her scrub top, "y'know, I changed my mind. Maybe the rule is simply no more sex while we're at work."

Gil has the audacity to give her a smirk, "you really think we can stick to that?"

She turns and crosses her arms, warmth in her cheeks, "I'm not talking about the call rooms!"

Gil comes over to her again, leaning over her hunched shoulders and kissing her hair, "okay, honey, whatever you say."

She rolls her eyes; he'll be extra affectionate (unprofessional) tonight. "I've got two more hours on call. Just behave for that much?--if you can, that is."

He gives her a mocking salute as he opens up the doors for her to make her escape, "yes, Doctor."

She purses her lips at him.

He blows her a kiss, "see you soon, dear."

She sighs, turning around to make her way back into the Emergency Room. With any luck, she can avoid Ajak and the accusation that she was using her break time to rendevouz with Gil...again.

#Thenamesh Doctor AU #Thenamesh 18+ #not rated E but rated...a little bit spicy #I like #variety is the spice of life! #and listen #this Gil...fucks #he f u c k s #he's up for a wild time #they work very stressful jobs! #and obviously it works well for them #Thena isn't really opposed to it #she just doesn't want to have to be there when someone asks hey what happened in the ambulance Gil is hosing out? #or you seem happy where were you? #or don't you have better things to do on your break? and your shirt is inside out #listen they're maybe not very subtle #it's why everyone basically already knows about them even if they're not 'official' #they basically are #let's face it they basically were long before now anyway #everyone in Emerge knows #and the nurses knew better than to go after Gil for a long time before now anyhow #no use in getting on the Goddess of War's badside

[sunflowersoldat]

All is Fair in~ Wounds & Woes

Chapter 20: Wounds & Woes

Previous Chapter

Main Master List

Series Master List

Series Summary: Family is important, but so is the Family business. Everyone has secrets, some are deadly. Your the best in the business, but no one knows who you are. Tensions are high, will you raise the stakes or fold under the pressure?

Series Warning: 18+! Mentions of blood and violence, bad language words, smut, manipulation, gaslighting, death, trauma, please follow the warnings for each chapter.

Chapter warnings: 18+ Only! Emotional trauma, Bad language words, mentions of death and physical trauma, nightmares.

Pairing: Mob!Steve x Assassin!Stark!reader

Word count: 4.2K

A/N: It feels like I haven't posted in years, even though its only been like a week, if even. The Holiday season really fucks me up... as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always welcome! Anyhow, enjoy!💕

You must have been out of your damn mind bringing him into the lion’s den. After everything the two of you had been through, you should have left him with his people. They would surely hunt you down. Especially if Barnes was running things in Steve’s disappearance, and as Steve’s second in command, you knew he would be.

You shouldered your way into a separate part of the casino; a safe house if you will, an entire miniature apartment. You shared a floor with the others, but you knew they weren't home.

You hadn’t used your safe house in over a year when you decided to retire. You hadn’t needed to use it, but most of the time it felt more like home than your actual house near the museum, nonetheless, you slipped your keycard from your pocket, nudged open the door then kicked it shut when you finally stumbled through with Steve.

Making your way into your room, you gently lay him on your bed, wincing when pain shot through your side, your hands stained red, along with Steve’s shirt. Panic threatened to take control, but your instincts went into overdrive, you reached for your side, a bullet had grazed you, but not deep enough to cause this amount of blood. The realization had you tearing open his shirt, a deep bullet wound sat right above his hip, pouring blood. You tore through the rest of his shirt, using the fabric to apply pressure and stop the blood flow, you needed the med kit you kept in the other room. You dared a glance at his face, the color had drained, leaving him unnaturally pale, his skin sticky with sweat.

A sudden knock on the door ripped you from your panic.

“Death?” Wade’s voice pierced through your skull.

“Wade! In here, hurry!”

You heard the door unlock and slam open, followed by Wade’s swift footsteps, you turned to him as he slid to a stop in the doorway, his face falling as he took in the room. 

He doesn’t think, he just moves, gently taking your place on the bed and applying pressure to Steve’s wound.

“Focus kid. Get the medkit, we need to stop the bleeding.”

You stare wide-eyed at the man bleeding on your bed, dread seeping into your bones; this couldn’t be it, after everything you had been through—

When you don’t move Wade turns to you quickly, his hand meeting your cheek with a loud crack. Snapping out of your trance you glare at him, “Do you want to die?!”

“No, but he will if you don’t focus. Medkit. Now!”

His words crash over you sending you into motion, you hurry from the room, slamming into the bathroom door, scrambling to find your medkit. When your fingers finally wrap around the thick military-grade box, a wave of relief crashes through you but is crushed when you enter your room again to see Steve even paler than before. 

You take a deep breath and focus, he needs you. You shut your emotions down, letting Wraith/Death take over. You move like a machine, going through the motions of cleaning the wound, a sliver of the weight lifts from your shoulders as you and Wade realize, it was a clean shot. When the two of you are satisfied with ensuring the wound won't get infected, you help Wade stitch the wound closed.

Steve is still deathly pale, the pit in your stomach gapes open as the wall you threw up breaks back down, what if he lost too much blood and this was all for nothing? What if you lose him anyway? What if you never get to properly apologize and tell him you—

“Death.” Wade's firm voice rips you out of your thoughts, his tone tells you this isn’t the first time he has spoken your name, “Do you know his blood type? He needs a transfusion.”

You numbly shake your head, “A hospital, we should take him to…” you swallow thickly, your eyes darting back to Steve’s unconscious form on the bed.

“There’s no time for that…” Wade breaks off, scowling, “I’ll be right back, watch him.”

You reach after him, but he is too quick, there one second then gone the next. Before you can move he is back, a bag of blood tucked under his arm to warm it. He pulls it out, nailing it to the wall, before placing a needle into Steve’s arm.

You cock your head, eyes flickering from the door Wade came through to the blood, to Wade, then back to the blood, “Where did you get that?” 

“My room.” His answer is so calm, and nonchalant like it was normal for them to have bags of blood in their rooms. He continues as if you aren’t staring at him in utter confusion, “We really need to talk to the boss about having a stockpile in case of emergencies…” he turns back to you, raising his brows, “What?”

You scrunch your face, “What do you mean what? You just pulled a bag of O-negative blood from under your couch cushion? And you expect me to not be dumbfounded?”

He purses his lips, “Like that is the most absurd thing I’ve brought out of there…”

Frowning you raise your brow, before nodding, he isn’t wrong, Wade’s apartment is off limits, solely because no one knows what is in there. One time you were walking by as he closed the door, and you could swear he had a rainbow unicorn onesie on a mannequin, riding a rocket. And you're ninety-nine percent sure there was a full-grown alligator chilling on his couch two weeks later.

Wade sighed as he stood, stretching, “Well, my work here is done, consider that my apology for having to bossnap him…” he grimaced, “Think he’ll forgive me?”

You stifled a laugh as if he really cared… Wade left the room heading for your apartment door, “Put in a good word for me dearie…” your door clicked shut, leaving you alone with an unconscious Steve, who was still quite pale.

You looked back at Steve lying on your bed, before plopping into the chair next to him, you will get up in a couple of minutes to shower and fix your wound, the medkit lay discarded on the bed, within reach, but for now, you just want to watch over him. The color is slowly creeping back into his cheeks, his chest rising and falling in a more steady rhythm. His face and body were covered in wounds and bruises, your brother had done a number on him before you arrived; it was nothing compared to what Steve’s men had done to you, but it was enough. Leaning over him, you brush the hair from his forehead, placing a soft kiss there, before settling back in the chair, your eyes drifting shut, despite your efforts to stay awake, sleep yanked you under.

—

A few hours earlier— 

Bucky’s mind was reeling, he didn’t understand how you were alive, but at this point, he didn’t care. There were too many coincidences where you were involved. You show back up in town the same night Peggy Carter dies, then you miraculously don’t die after he leaves you in the upper bay? That is a big red flag, a normal person wouldn’t have been able to survive half the shit he did to you that night, yet you were standing in Steve’s office mere minutes ago. That was a major red flag, they had just been attacked by Tony’s men at the penthouse, you want Steve dead, and Tony wants Steve dead, why? Bucky couldn’t understand. All he knew was you were dangerous, and his best friend was blind to that danger, Bucky wouldn’t let Steve make the mistake of trusting you and losing his life because of it. 

You had almost outed him in front of Steve earlier, lapdog, who did you think you were, calling him such a thing. He had half a mind to go back into Steve’s office and talk some sense into the man, but he thought better of it, he knew Steve needed his space, needed to blow off steam. Hell, the minute the door closed he could hear glass shattering and all of the furniture clattering on the floor. If Steve hadn’t put a hole in the wall he would have been surprised.

Bucky descended the stairs into the main foyer, Sam and Peter were already making their way in from the kitchen, Peter’s mouth full from whatever dish Wanda had prepared for them. Bucky ran his hand through his hair as they approached,

“What the fuck was all the commotion? Was that gunfire?” Sam questioned as he took in Bucky’s agitated state.

He shook his head, “It was a misfire, don't worry about it.”

Peter piped up, raising a brow, “We heard yelling, a female’s voice…”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed on the two of them, “Listen, do the two of you have a problem or something you would like to ask? Because both of you have been on my ass for days now!” taking a deep breath, Bucky lowered his voice, “As I said, it was a misunderstanding between Steve and me, and a gun misfired. Period.” he gave them both a pointed look, before walking back towards his room.

“You killed Ace.” Peter’s voice was a knife’s edge slicing through the air. A pin-drop silence followed. It wasn't a question, but a statement, but Bucky could hear it in Peter’s voice, he wanted it to be false. He stiffened, not wanting to turn around, but not wanting to take another step away,

“That is quite the accusation, Queens.”

“Yet you don’t deny it. You killed her, even after Steve spared her life. You killed her. Why?! What gave you the right to take her from him?!”

Bucky turned to face Peter, his movements agonizingly slow, his face a hard mask of emotion, “She had all of you fooled.” his eyes flicked between Peter and Sam, his voice rising with each word, “She didn’t care about you! This was a job to her, another fucking hit, nothing more!”

The crowd in the foyer began to grow as Scott, Wanda and Barton joined to see what was happening. Sam stepped between the two of them, his hands raised, “Easy Buck, just calm down, and tell us what happened…”

“I don’t owe any of you an explanation! I did what I had to do to keep Steve safe, as his second in command! He trusts me to keep him safe! —”

The lights in the mansion flickered out, leaving them all in pitch darkness, the front doors exploded open, the ground shaking as gunfire broke through the air, followed by the cacophony of men yelling orders. 

Instantly Bucky bolted for the stairs, he had to make it to Steve…

He was cut short when a hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around, “Hello Barnesy…” Bucky knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it, “Hey! Don’t you dare touch the kid, tie him up, and put him to the side, if a single hair on his head is misplaced, I’ll kill you myself!” The figure turned back to Bucky, his hot breath puffing in his face, “Sorry Buckaroo, where were we? Oh yes, Death isn’t one for revenge, but I am…”

All Bucky feels is pain, his consciousness slips from him, as his assailant laughs.

Later– 

There you were again, outside of Stark tower with Steve, broken and bloody from whatever you and your brother had done to him. You were probably taking him with you to finish him off and get paid for finishing the job. His blood boiled, and he ignored Sam and Peter next to him screaming as he aimed for your head. Peter slammed into him as he pulled the trigger, Bucky watched it hit its mark on your vest instead, momentarily knocking you off balance. Then you were on your bike and gone from their reach. 

He turned to Peter, seething, but the little shit stood tall against him, he wasn't afraid of Bucky… 

Bucky furrowed his brow, taking a deep breath, Queens didn’t need to be afraid of him, he was his brother, not his enemy. Shaking his head he threw the pistol into the passenger seat as he settled behind the wheel, “Get back in the car, we need to regroup…”

—

The two of you were on the roof, your gaze meeting his, so much pain swam in those beautiful eyes, and his heart stuttered in his chest. “Do you trust me?”

He couldn’t help the reply that drunkenly left his lips, “I used to…”

He watched your heart shatter at that moment, but your reply was swift, full of conviction, “It’s time I earned it back…”

The next moments were a blur, you shoving him backward, the air rushing from his lungs as he began to freefall, then your warmth surrounding him. He felt the hard asphalt under his feet, and the screeching of tires pierced his ears.  Followed by yelling—

Bang

The memory has Steve jolting awake, his body involuntarily convulsing, a fire erupting in his abdomen searing through the rest of his body. Grimacing, he stifled a groan, his eyes peeled open, the room he’s in isn't one he recognizes, but the sleeping form in the chair next to him he does. You had fallen asleep next to him, the medkit he assumes you used to patch him lay discarded on the bed at his feet, your head hanging uncomfortably on the back of the chair. You hadn’t even taken off your uniform, his eyes began to droop again, sleep slowly pulling him back under as his eyes landed on the blood that coats your hands, from the stitched wound on his abdomen, he knew it was his own.

—

Blood. There was so much blood, you couldn’t find the wound it was coming from. It coated your hands, it was covering the floor, thick pools of crimson blood. It rained down onto your skin, dying your hair and mask, it seeped from the walls. 

And in the middle of it, all laying in a pile were the ones you couldn’t bear to lose, eyes glazed over, all the color drained from their faces. You dropped to your knees in front of them, your tears mixing with the thick liquid as you reached for them with a trembling hand. 

A hand shot out of the pile with breakneck speed, wrapping around your wrist, their vacant eyes pleading, their mouths agape with words unsaid—

You jerked awake, eyes flying open, limbs stiff, neck aching from the unnatural position you had fallen asleep in. 

Your heart is hammering in your chest as you straighten in the chair, your gaze finding Steve still lying in your bed, the color is mostly back in his cheeks, the bag of blood no longer nailed to the wall, Wade must’ve come in to check on him after you passed out. 

You rise from the chair for only a moment, heading into the kitchen you grab a glass, and one of your bottles of vodka. The wound on your side is still biting at you, an annoying reminder to stitch and clean it before infection sets in.

As you entered the room again, your eyes locked on his, he was tense against the headboard, eyes fixed on you. Not on you, no they were glued to the weapons strapped to your body, and the obvious bullet hole in the middle of your kevlar vest.

He had seen you like this before, in your uniform, but you could tell it still stunned him.

“Do you usually sleep in that?” his voice wrapped around you like a brisk autumn breeze, as you discarded your gloves, pouring yourself a drink, your brow creasing. When you didn't respond he continued, “Or is it only when you need to make a clean break?”

Oh…oh. Shit, you reached up to your eyes and face, gently removing the contacts, and mask, you give him a small shrug, “Sometimes I forget I have it on…” your eyes traveled his body, and though he was no longer restrained, he kept himself still, until your mask and contacts were discarded, you noticed his body finally relax.

“Steve… Listen I–”

“I didn’t kill Howard and Maria.” the words left his mouth in a whisper so soft you almost missed it.

Your shoulders sagged, dropping his gaze, “I…I know…” you leaned forward, gathering the antiseptic and towels from the bed, “Tony didn’t hire me to kill you…”

“I know… he told me.”

You paused, but he continued, “I mean not blatantly. We had met at a restaurant, and threatened each other, I told him he shouldn't have sent you to kill me if he didn't want you hurt…” you locked gazes again, his beautiful ocean eyes so full of sorrow and pain, “He didn’t even know you were an Ace?” his voice wavered on the last part.

You shook your head, your gaze again dropping to your hands, where you mindlessly pulled at one of the loose strings. “No. No one knew… well except you… and your men.”

Swinging his legs off the bed he scooted closer, a grimace pulling his face tight as he pointed to the hole in your vest, where your heart would be, “I never thought your brother would actually shoot at you…”

You batted his hand away, huffing, “Neither did I, but that isn't from Tony…” you gesture to the bullet hole, “it’s your men’s third attempt at killing me.”

His face pales further, the only color on his beautiful face is the full brown beard that now adorns it, “Third? What were the first and second?” His voice was raspy and strained as if he were trying to force the words to the surface, like the thought of you dying pained him.

You couldn't help the laugh that clawed its way out of your throat as you searched his face, but when he stares at you full of confusion you elaborate, “Steve, the basement? You tortured me, I was this–” you gesture with your fingers only millimeters away from each other, “close to bleeding out. Then, you send Bucky to strap cement boots to my feet and throw me in…” you trail off, the rest of the sentence no longer important because he is looking at you like he did that night in the warehouse; heartbroken and full of disbelief. 

Your face falls, the anger you held toward him slowly melting away, “You didn’t know…” 

He shakes his head numbly, tears lining his eyes, the color finally rising to his cheeks, “I heard the jab about him being my lapdog at the mansion, but I hadn’t realized…” his jaw clenches, “Believe me, Angel,” the use of your pet name stirs something in your chest, “I never sent him to kill you…” his fingers trace up your vest and you hold your breath, “Did he do this too?”

You look at his hand, gently tracing the spot on your chest, then slowly raise your eyes to his, letting out the breath you were holding. The nod you give him is barely discernible, but he sees it.

“There will be consequences for his actions.”

One corner of your lips tilts upwards, “It’s not entirely his fault… I may have threatened to kill you–”

“It doesn't matter, he almost succeeded in killing you. He disobeyed my wishes, he will be dealt with.”

A lump began to form in your throat, “According to the world, he succeeded. Besides, if it hadn’t been him, it would have been another one of your men. Like Ronin, he would kill me on sight—”

Steve shook his head, “No, Barton follows orders, he is good at his job, and efficient at retrieving information, but he knows his place. If he would have seen you, he would have known I kept you alive for a reason…”

Your brows shot up, “Oh? There was a method to the madness? A reason for my suffering?”

“Angel,” Steve's voice lowered, “you attempted to kill me, I had to find out why… Taking you to your brother’s was the only way to keep you safe—”

Your lip trembled, “From who?! You? Did you really think it mattered?!”

His jaw clenched tightly, “I spared your life.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, couldn’t stop the scoff that left your mouth, “You condemned me! You tortured me within an inch of my life! Then sentenced me to live in a gilded cage!” you shoved up from the chair, the force causing it to clatter onto the ground behind you.

“Don’t act like you have no blame for how this turned out.”

“Excuse me?! I was doing my job! Not all of us have the luxury of choice! You chose to do all those things to me, chose to keep me alive as punishment.”

He rose to his feet, his hulking frame towering over you, even injured he was the embodiment of power.

 “Punishment?! I didn’t keep you alive for punishment! I could have done worse things. After what you did…” his face fell, his eyes clouding as his hand raked through his hair, “You lied to me Angel, played me for a fool.”

He stepped closer to you, crowding you against the wall, your blood roaring in your ears, your body felt too hot, his breath puffing in your face, “You betrayed me, Angel. In the worst way possible.”

“Then why not kill me.” you spat the words, like bile on your tongue.

He growls “Because I fucking love you!” his hand slams against the wall next to your head, the impact reverberating in the room, his chest is heaving now, “I know I shouldn’t. I can’t, but I do.”

His shoulders sag as he pulls away from you. Turning he walks towards the bed, shaking his head, “I can’t get you out of my head… I kept you alive because I couldn’t bear killing you. I know it doesn’t make what I did better, what I allowed Barton and Bucky to do to you is unforgivable…” he pauses, his voice now barely above a whisper, “I have hated myself every day for even letting them lay a finger on you. I was angry. It isn’t an excuse, I know that.”

You swallowed thickly, his back was toward you, but you could see the light tremble in his shoulders, the sharp intake of breath.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Your apology was genuine, you hadn’t meant to hurt him in that way, everything had gotten so out of hand…

Steve sighs loudly, “I wish I could believe that, I really do, but I don’t. After all the lies, I can’t trust a word you say. I can’t trust you.”

His words sting, but you understand, if you were in his position, you wouldn’t trust you either, but you won’t accept defeat, you can’t. You’ve come this far, you’ve been beaten, shot at, and lost everything you ever worked for. Because you thought he was worth it. Pushing off the wall you stalk around him, you are toe-to-toe with him now, your hands trembling as you reach up to caress his cheek. 

He stiffened at your initial touch, before closing his eyes and relaxing into your palm. Thumb lightly brushing his plump lips, “I don’t think you understand,” you whispered, your other hand sliding around his neck as you rose onto your toes, “I would never kill you…” you brushed your nose against his, “if I had to choose my life or yours, I’d give mine in a heartbeat.” You breathed against his lips before crushing your lips to his, as he stumbled backward, his back colliding with the wall. His mouth melded with yours, you could feel the fight within him, he wanted to pull away, but couldn’t. The familiar taste of bourbon and mint filled your senses. Breaking the kiss, you scrunch your brows, and tears begin to stream slowly down your cheeks, “Steve, I would burn the whole world down to keep you safe.”

He only allowed you a moment of control before he had you flipped, your back hitting the wall, breath leaving your lungs. The two of your hands held in only one of his, his other hand lightly brushing the tears from your face. His voice was low and menacing, sending a shiver up your spine and your stomach doing flips, “Such beautiful promises mean nothing when they fall from a forked tongue that has told more lies than truth.”

Your eyes searched his sapphire ones, he was trying and failing to hide behind his anger and hurt, you could read him like an open book. He wanted to crumble to give you his heart and soul until there was nothing left of him, and so did you, you wanted it so badly you couldn’t breathe. His name left your mouth in a broken plea, no violence would break you, no amount of torture or broken bones, but him.

This beautifully broken man in front of you would be your undoing, “Tell me one,” he took a shaky breath, “tell me one truth.”

You released a breath you weren’t aware you were holding, “I love you.”

@dontbescaredtosingalong @texan-tazzy @tianamontag @daiseychaindisaster @silently-killing-you @buckyfan12 @leyannrae @justlovelifeblog @austynparksandpizza @captainson-of-coul @betareader7 @vicmc624 @bigphattygyal @calwitch @buckysteveloki-me @curlyladylazarus111 @talesofadragon

#mafia au #steve rogers #bucky barnes #marvel au #mob!steve rogers #mob!steve x reader #assassin!reader #all is fair in... #steve rogers x bucky barnes #bucky x steve #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader smut #steve x reader #tony stark #stark!reader #Stark!sister #sam wilson #Howard Stark #the howling commandos #captain america #mob au #marvel #avengers #bucky #yelena belova #mafia!steve rogers #mafia!bucky #loki laufeyson #thor odinson #peter parker

[magdaclaire]

ch 5 of my katemary fic

find ch 1 here

find ch 2 here

find ch 3 here

find ch 4 here

now on ao3

Fuck, this is bad. 

Maybe it’s luck that she’s so close to Kate when she goes down in a werewolf fight and can barely drive herself thirty miles, and maybe it’s because she’s been keeping her hunting scope to a two hundred mile radius of Windom, Minnesota. Hell, maybe it’s both. Maybe she’s got a claw sticking out of her back and she has to lean forward so that she doesn’t push it in further and maybe she should be more scared of that. Maybe she could take care of it herself, if she wasn’t so ready to head up the highway to Kate’s for any reason at all. Maybe that’s all true. All she can think about is the look on Kate’s face when she makes it up those stairs to knock on the Milligan family door, hoping against hope that Kate doesn’t have a shift tonight. 

She’s never been so relieved to see another person’s face as she is when Kate opens up the door. 

“Mary? You didn’t- oh Jesus, you’re bleeding,” Kate says, her hand coming down on Mary’s shoulder to pull gently on the sluggishly leaking bandage on her collarbone. 

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed,” she jokes. Kate gives her a hard look. 

“Come inside, the neighbors’ll talk,” she says, and then she’s hauling Mary inside by her good arm. Mary barely gets her feet beneath her, trudging awkwardly into the house with all of the grace of a newly born gazelle. 

“Wouldn’t want that,” Mary mutters on the neighbors’ gossip, though the pain in her back from moving makes her wish she was silent. She just can’t help it sometimes, words spilling out of her in sarcastic tones even when she wishes they would just stop. Kate gives her a perfunctory lookover in the entryway. 

“Whatall’s wrong with you?” she asks, slipping into that professionalism while her words still drip with familiarity, hands on her hips. Mary feels the need to straighten under that gaze, but she pushes it down; she can’t risk straightening her spine when there’s as much risk as now. She clears her throat to answer. 

“Werewolf claw in my back is the biggest thing. I think I need stitches in my collarbone, if it hasn’t stopped the bleeding yet. I’m not sure what else,” she admits, trying to do a mental assessment of her body. She can’t seem to focus long enough to try and figure out her own body. Well, at least Kate is here. 

“Alright, let’s get you sorted. Take off your shirt, I’ll grab you a pain med,” Kate says, sliding into that professional place that Mary has seen a few times when she’s come to see Kate at work, and yet it’s still odd to be under the attention of it. 

“My shirt?” Mary says, bowled over by the implication. Kate pulls at the bottom hem of her button up, loose over her t-shirt. The layers are supposed to stop monsters before they make it to your skin, are supposed to make it so that she won’t have to have care like this, but just this once. Just this once, she wants it. 

“Yeah, I’ll get your back first. It seems more serious than the collarbone, werewolf claw and all,” Kate answers, clearly with something to say about the implications of werewolf claws, but not putting it to words at current. Mary takes off her shirt obediently, feeling more in a trance than any time Missouri has tried to use those powers of hers to make Mary see what she sees. Kate takes her shirt, her outer shirt, her jacket, all from her delicately, helping her remove them around the hole in the back of each. She’d have to patch those up. She hates patching things up. Daddy always made her feel like it was her responsibility as a kid, as if it was hers just because she was a girl. Brian Joseph had always enjoyed it more anyway. 

Now is not the time. 

Kate cleans the wound silently, an air of tension pouring out of her every pore, and Mary, for once, feels small. Typically, she feels large enough to take up an entire room, her presence spilling out past her fingertips and making everyone in the building uncomfortable. She feels small beneath the careful hands of another woman, Kate’s chilled fingertips working their way across her spine; the wound is wide enough that it hits across the chord, but shallow enough not to do any damage. That’s for the best, for more reasons than one. When it comes to damage, Mary can’t help but try to control it. 

“You don’t have to do this. I can drive another hour and some to Bobby’s if you’re-” she starts, but Kate cuts her off with a hand on her shoulder, fingers gripping her from behind. 

“I’m not uncomfortable, I’m concentrating, Mar. I don’t wanna hurt you anymore than this already has,” Kate says, her voice modulated low and calm, so near to a soothe that a shiver goes down Mary’s spine. She doesn’t remember the last time someone soothed her when she was hurt, held her when she was bleeding, patched her up and cared whether the bandages were too tight. Even when she was a kid, it wasn’t like her mom was coming to her with a bandage in hand and a hug on the backburner, she was expected to take care of herself. Expected to take care of Brian Joseph, too. She shoves it down, focusing on Kate and her hands. She barely even feels it when the claw comes out, as the stitches pull beneath her skin. Kate’s careful. She’s certain. 

It’s those hands, steady and sure, that place brick after brick in the foundation of Mary’s comfort. When Kate moves to care for her collarbone, she can’t help but look at Kate how she is: reverent, careful, like she’ll never be able to look her fill. 

“You’re the first person who- no one’s ever- I’ve always taken care of myself, I guess, is the thing,” Mary decides on finally, but she might as well have said it all; Kate connects the dots between the words she won’t say right before Mary’s eyes. 

“So John never-” 

“Oh god, no. His stitches are so sloppy, I’d rather do them myself than let him near me with a needle,” she says, trying to make a joke, but it falls flat. Kate keeps her still with that hard, serious gaze. 

“But you trusted me with it,” Kate ruminates on this like it means something, and maybe it does. Mary doesn’t know her own mind well enough to say it doesn’t, like her mind is a labyrinth, an ocean, a thousand unexplored things she’s only ever allowed herself to explore the entrance of, wanting not to become lost inside. She’s never had the time to come up with the answers to questions she knew she should ask herself: do you like girls? are you a girl? do girls think about how they would look in a straight cut suit, different from the women’s suits she wears for cases? why do you trust a girl you hardly know? why do you feel warm whenever she’s in the same room? All she’s ever had was the questions. She comes up with an answer from the surface of it all, skims it off the water within her. 

“Well, you’re a nurse,” she says, and it’s not enough, but it works. Kate gives her a look of consternation, hand laid on Mary’s thigh. 

“Yeah, but I- I’m not in this like you are. I’m… a civilian, I guess. And you didn’t trust your husband. John,” Kate says, her voice dropping off at the end. She’s gotta be confused about the relationship that Mary has with the man she married. Instead of answering any sort of inquiry in that department, unspoken or not, Mary lays her hand over Kate’s on her own thigh, just barely coming short of lacing their fingers together. She wants to lace their fingers together. She doesn’t lace their fingers together. Instead, she speaks. 

“We do tend to call you guys civvies, but… you’re different. You’re Kate,” she says, which is less of an explanation and more just something to say while she scrambles for one. She skips directly over the comment on John, unable and unwilling and a whole bunch of other un- words to discuss that particular subject as far as right now goes. Kate tips her face down in that sweet way that has her looking at Mary through her lashes, fingers flexing beneath Mary’s. 

“And what does that mean?” Kate asks, those pretty eyes looking at her steadily, unafraid. Mary reminds herself to breathe.

“You’re already in the know. And- well- I trust you. I trust you,” she repeats, unable to stop herself from that haunting desire to clarify every sentiment she’s ever expressed. She swings wildly between that and not wanting to tell anybody a goddamn thing, which is a complicated sphere of things to cycle through when one has two children beneath the age of thirteen. She knows that Dean is beginning to pick it up from her, that her gentle, careful boy is gonna close himself up one day and she’ll never be able to crack him open again, but she can’t manage to get herself to stop. 

“If you trust me, how about you spend a few days?” Kate suggests. Mary’s mouth pulls together tight without her really thinking of it; the boys are still with Missouri. Mary can’t just leave them there. Miz has a boy of her own to take care of, and Adrian’s temper for Missouri’s more hunting related ventures has never gone far. He’s not a hitter by any means, doesn’t have it in him, but Mary can always tell when he’s coming apart at the seams. Adrian may not be her friend, but Mary knows people. 

“Adrian won’t like it,” she contemplates aloud, not much mind for the fact that Kate has no idea who Missouri is, let alone Adrian. She forgets sometimes that all of the people connected to her are not connected to each other, that she is the centerpoint of a web too complicated to traverse, that hunting both connects her and disconnects her from people who could stand to love her. 

“Who’s Adrian?” Kate asks right on time, and Mary gives her a wry smile. She’s still in pain, that much is true, but Kate’s hands and the pain meds have taken care of the worst of it. Everything’s just that edge of fuzzy it gets when pain meds are beginning to kick in, and Mary’ll probably be asleep before she can finish arguing her points not to stay. Still, she persists. 

“He’s my friend’s husband- Missouri’s. The boys are with them right now,” she explains. Kate’s expression goes a little tighter for a moment, probably because talking to Mary is still like pulling teeth, but it smooths out after a second. She’s back in that professional sphere, her tension all productive and clean. 

“When are you supposed to get them back?” she asks. Mary thinks back. 

“Well, not for another few days seeing as how I thought this hunt would run longer, but-” she starts. Kate interrupts. 

“Then you can stay. We’ll figure out the boys in a few days, okay?” she proposes, and Mary doesn’t know that she’s ever had someone say it like that. We’ll. We. Like she and Kate are partners in this if in nothing else, like they share the burdens and triumphs of being parents even just for this second. She and John parent separately. As many aunts and uncles as the boys have, their responsibility for the boys ends at their own front doors. Mary, God love her, just wants to make that feeling, that commiseration, last for more than a second. 

“Okay.”

#katemary #kate milligan #mary winchester #contentnatural #sapphicnatural #mine #i don't know if i'm gonna do my tag list reblog this time #. ch 5 seems hard for tagging idk

[delusion-of-negation]

Ok but real question, if someone was to have there body reversed to a 12 year old sould they beable to drink?

that's going to entirely depend on a bunch of factors re how the magic works, how they feel, who they are, etc. is their neurology reversed? are they 12 forever? are they comfortable? I think if an individual woke up in a new body their first thought won't be like damn... better go grab a pint. but ultimately, bodily autonomy is generally going to trump anything for me, so it's a very high bar, you've genuinely got to adequately demonstrate that this isn't a person capable of making this specific decision - hence why I'm honestly in favour of raising the driving age but not the drinking, somebody at 18 can have a pint, somebody at 17 is not ready to operate a massive bullet in a row of other massive bullets. not in metrics I've seen anyway. an alter has the body's metabolism, a neurology and psychology that isn't that of an actual child but a complicated mental health issue. if I can't consent, no alters can because nothing about me is unique to my age, and again meds literally taken every few hours would also render me incapable. I functionally cannot fuck in that world, and I don't like calling the consensual encounters we've had the same as the shit that was traumatising and basically did this to us. so idk why people have massive issues with us saying this, when we don't even say your alters should view themselves this way, just that it's best for us. answering your question as if it is entirely unrelated to prior shit, genuinely, it depends, but unless you can demonstrate that the person isn't safe to make decisions right now to a very very high standard, I think we'd best let them decide what's best for them.

re

[msnbutterfly]

September 9th

its 2am. its been months of hibernating since I quit my job and just living off of and depleting my savings, up all night sleeping during the day. I know I should take sleeping meds and try to sleep so I can attempt to have a semblance of a normal day tomorrow, but im having a really hard time fighting the urge to get up and clean and do a whole self care routine.. ive had so many manic nights like this and they always lead to a tired/headache filled day the following day and never any actual sustainable growth.

overall just feeling weird since it seems like residential treatment isn't going to work and ive just been wasting so much time waiting for something to lift me out of this completely consuming depression. At the end of the day I don't think anything really will. part of me is committed to staying as sick as I am so I can slip into treatment at my lowest and get help, vs actually actively trying to get better but never really getting to the level of health im proud of or desire.

its stupid but I feel hopeless when I think of famous people I admire (Anthony Bourdain, Sylvia Plath) having tons of success and working to overcome their depressions ultimately to succumb to them. it makes me feel like any progress or periods of improvement are inevitably temporary and this will be an uphill battle my entire life.

I think my meds are working a little, but I don't know if I need to go to a treatment center, that its the only place or environment that will allow me to focus and heal. Or if I just need to take my life into my own hands and take fucking control and reparent myself and nourish myself... although Ive literally never been able to implement consistent and healthy change. I don't want to waste more of my life and 20s lying to myself that "tomorrow" things will be different and "tomorrow" I'll start living the life I want to.

[bylightofdawn]

Today was a long day at work. My back is just...ruining my life at this point. I thought it got better after I stopped taking the new meds but no go. I cannot even explain how much agony I am in when I wake up in the morning. I cannot even sit up. I have to kinda roll over, swing my legs in hopes I can roll to the edge of the bed. I am worried I've actually slipped a disk or something. My GP has not called me back despite my calling them three times. Tomorrow I'm gonna get nasty on the phone and demand they send me a referral for an MRI because I think I need to explore getting some cortisone shots in my back or something. Or give me the referral I asked for PT. I cannot live like this.

My evening was improved by my brother sending over the cutest video from my six year old niece asking me which MLP was my favorite. So I sent her a reply back with my bright purple/pink hair clearly visible telling her I had not seen the new MLP and we'd have to watch it when she's here next month. Which....on one hand god help me, did I just sign up to watch MLP? But on the other, quality time with my niece so I'll take it.

Now, I find myself at an impasse. I could write, I'm in the middle of writing a very fun scene with lots of verbal sparring with Walon Vau. But I also kinda want to read but my reading history is in A B S O L U T E shambles.

I've been reading a lot of Grashir the past few days but I have a couple of D&D HAT fics written by some authors who I adore like Weatherlaw who have been posting WIP's I just haven't had a chance to read yet. On top of that I have like three or four COD fics I stopped midway through because of ADD. And now I'm teetering on the edge of falling down a FR rabbit hole. Cause there's new fics in the Notorious verse which I have not read.

I also kinda lowkey want to see one angsty Jarlaxle/Zak fic where they realize maybe two centuries of separation has changed Jarlaxle and he's not the person Zak used to know and maybe they're not suited to be lovers anymore and should they maybe start as friends. Meanwhile Artemis is totally not lowkey freaking out about this super important figure in Jarlaxle's past who has shown up out of nowhere and is potentially going to upset the delicate balance of their relationship.

BUT I HAVE NOT FOUND THIS FIC SO FAR AND I AM SAD.

Not because I want to see some divisive this pairing is superior to the other so much as people change and it gives you this bittersweet realization that when you see someone you haven't seen in a decade or two and you realize despite being best of friends or maybe something else in the past, you've both changed and you need to examine your relationship and come to terms with the ghosts of that previous relationship and whether you need to redefine it and give it a new meaning.

So any enterprising fic writer out there in the FR fandom, please take my bunny and give it a good home. I don't have the time or attention span for it. Or the brain power to read the most recent books. I still have the entire Generations trilogy sitting on my kindle which I haven't read so for all I know that's been addressed in some way, shape or form.

I thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiink I'm going to be good and write. I'm getting closer and closer to finishing Seeds.

I think I might actually do something super special when I finish this fucking fanfic because yanno what? I will have written essentially two full length novels or one god damned GRRM/Robert Jordan length novel by the time I finish this damned fanfic.

#el writes #el reads #so many fanfic #the adhd is real right now #fanfic bunny adoption #forgotten realms #jarlaxle x artemis #jarlaxle x zaknafein

[38riku]

CAMPUS BOYS

synopsis; which stereotypical college boy I think they would fit in. (includes eren, armin, porco, connie, and jean)

warnings; mentions of drugs

ATHLETE EREN

athlete!eren that constantly wears sweats and jersey shorts with fitted shirts and hoodies, ties his basketball shoes on his backpack with a beat up pair of runners on his feet.

athlete!eren who is smart but has trouble with time management and seeks out you — a med student who balances extracurriculars and your studies — for some advice and tutoring sessions.

athlete!eren that asks you to come to his games and his eyes light up when he sees you in the stands. pointing at you when he makes a 3 pointer and winking in your direction. introduces you to the team after the game but he has to pull you away because they almost let his crush on you slip.

athlete!eren that lifts you in the air and spins your around after his team won the state championships. short circuit’s when you kiss his cheek to congratulate him, and he thinks today might be the best day of his life.

LEGACY STUDENT ARMIN

prep!armin that walks around like he owns the place because his parents literally could if they wanted to. always dressed to impress even at 8am lectures because he has a reputation to uphold.

prep!armin that tells you he’ll do the project to ensure it’s done right and is taken aback when you decline his offer, giving him a time and place to meet up and work on it. he shows up to the cafe because 1. he wants to get it done and 2. you scared him.

prep!armin who was surprised by your intellect and creativity. completely transforming the boring topic into something manageable. he actually looks forward to your meet ups now as watching you work is his favorite past time.

prep!armin that asks to meet you at the cafe after you both received a perfect score on the assignment. buying you your favorite drink and pastry and asking to hang out outside of class with a cute blush on his cheeks.

FRAT BRO PORCO

fratboy!porco who is the life of the party on campus. everyone wants to be him, be with him, or fuck him. smells like tom ford cologne and smirnoff but in the best way.

fratboy!porco who spots you casually talking with one of the guys and doesn’t hesitate to be a “proper host” and greet you. learning that the two of you share the same major and that maybe he should attend classes.

fratboy!porco that has adopted you as his friend. by your side during lectures, in the library, just confirming his spot in your schedule but not too much — he doesn’t want to push you away.

fratboy!porco who sits with you in your apartment to watch the disney marathon instead of going to one of the BIGGEST parties of the year. but he doesn’t care. because having you cuddled against him and sharing a blanket is better than anything.

GAMER BOY CONNIE

gamer!connie who falls asleep in lecture because he stayed up all night playing call of duty. his grades are starting to slip so sasha recommended you to him — her roommate that made the deans list.

gamer!connie that didn’t expect you to walk into the library with sweats and a graphic t-shirt of his favorite franchise, multiple pins on your backpack strap of various game symbols. the triforce symbol standing proud.

gamer!connie who asked you if you okay and was elated when you went into an entire spew of your likes and dislikes in gaming. the two of you now ending your tutoring sessions in his dorm room with PS5 controllers.

gamer!connie who’s GPA went up at the end of the semester and as a thank you bought tickets to comic-con. they were expensive as hell but when you pulled him in a gleeful hug with a giddy smile, he knew they were worth it.

SMOKER JEAN

smoker!jean that hotboxes his car with you — the lovely girl that stays in the dorm over — as you guys eat McDonald’s and complain about your classes. watched your glossed lips as you take a hit, and smoothly blowing out the smoke without a hitch.

smoker!jean who uses his tall, intimidating demeanor to scare off anyone that tries to flirt with you. often joking that the two of you have kissed (indirectly) on multiple occasions.

smoker!jean that takes you to the rooftop of the dorm where he’s laid out a blanket and snacks for your smoke sesh. wrapping his jacket around you when you get cold and insisting you sit in his lap.

smoker!jean that squishes your cheeks together after he takes a hit, kissing you and transferring the smoke inside your mouth until he pulls away with a satisfied smirk. happy that he can now say you’ve actually kissed and not some indirect bullshit.

a/n pushing the galliard and armin agenda as always. not proofread excuse any mistakes.

© 2022 38riku do not copy, repost, or plagiarize my work

#black reader #black y/n #eren x reader #eren x black reader #armin x reader #armin x black reader #porco x reader #connie x reader #jean x reader #jean x black!reader

[undeadromcom]

sometimes your adhd is so bad you remember you have it

#yeah my friend once said i have the most obvious case of adhd they’ve ever seen #but #it’s easy to be Distractable and unable to focus on chores and just be like haha i’m scattered! #and sometimes the entire day passes and u realize you’ve done nothing and can focus on nothing and you can’t even be bored bc you’re too #distracted to even remember #you think about something you SHOULD do or WANT to do it feels far away and not even real #and not even caffeine and meds is helping #i can’t even stay focused long enough to choose something to do #dude i fucking hate it here! i don’t feel real! nothing feels real! time is slipping through my hands and i can’t even do my art because #what the fuck is focus #as soon as i stand up i’m going to forget what i want to do #a list. i’m going to make a list. #adhd

[sukirichi]

overtime

You let your boyfriend release stress from working overtime.

REQUEST. med! student au / doctor! au + forbidden relationship + praising kink + dacryphilia

CONTENT/WARNINGS. praising kink, dacryphilia, face fucking, huge age gap (Nanami is like 20 years older), mentions of gloomy atmospheres expected of medical centres, gagging, mentions of previous lovemaking sessions

NOTES. ah thank you for this request anon, i’m really in love with the whole med student / doctor au ingredient cuz well...it’s sorta self-indulgent. i hope you liked this as much as i did!

The familiar stingy aroma of disinfectant looms at every corner of the wall, pressing down beneath your scrubs and deep into your scrubs. You find it ironic that the walls are always so white, barely any colour to surround the entire building. Growing up, you believe that white represents tranquillity, silence, and serenity – which is the exact opposite of what university hospitals really are.

You’re no stranger to the pained moans echoing at the ends of the hall, the sight of children with sunken cheeks playing with a cannula almost too painful to look at.

The clock above the front desks reads that it’s a little past four in the morning, and you’re beyond weary. You’ve grown used to just being high off caffeine and being satisfied with quick ten minute naps before you’re summoned again. People always ask you, why choose this profession? You could make as much money without having to be this tired, to which you always respond with a frown, claiming that it’s never about the money and actual working professionals are a lot more exhausted than you are, yet not once have they complained.

They do have their days though, and it just so happens that it’s one of your superior’s days as he tugs at your wrist, dragging you inside the nearest empty room before soft lips dive down to capture yours.

You don’t have to open your eyes to know it’s him.

You’ve fooled around long enough with your superior to know it’s his scent washing over yours, that all too familiar tent growing in his pants pressing between your legs and bumping your core as a silent promise of what’s to come next. A stuttered, breathy moan immediately greets his ears when he pins your arms overhead, his lips falling into the sweet column of your neck.

It’s clear that this is wrong – both of you know this – but the pleasure and need to relieve stress in such an overwhelming environment clouds both your consciousness that neither parties pull away.

Your relationship with him started off with just curiosity.

Doctor Nanami is a well accomplished man, earning beyond money and titles in his twenty years of service in the field. He knows he looks good, knows he’s irresistible every time he comes in front of the class, looking equally dashing in either a nude suit or in white coats. Someone of his age and experience definitely is no fool to the way his bright eyed student’s gaze lingers over his lips as she stays behind in class to ask about something she doesn’t get far longer than should be necessary.

He’s an expert at the human body more than anything else – Nanami knows lust when he sees one.

And he’s always been such a kind, concerned doctor who only wants everyone to feel better that how could he say no to you, especially when you’re only so eager to suck him off under the table, getting off to the fact your pretty lips are wrapped around his thick and veiny cock?

What once starts off as a mutual agreement to use each other for pleasure while still keeping the faux professionalism to not lose face, something shifts during the stolen kisses during break times and heated touches as promises of I’ll see you later after overtimes. Private tutoring sessions turns into moments of reminiscing childhoods, hands splayed all over his chest while he tucks you in his arms, mumbling something about always have wanting to be his own version of a hero.

Things move faster than both of you realize, the titles dropped and replaced with sweethearts and good morning sir topped with a sweet, intimate smile that only he could ever know the meaning of.

It’s simple, longing, and definitely unprofessional, even more so when Nanami pushes you down on the floor, eager hands unbuckling his belt to spring his cock free. Your mouth salivates at the red pulsing tip already leaking with pre-cum, your tiny hands on its way to wrap itself around his base when Nanami takes matters into his own hands and slips his cock through your lips in one thrust.

Your back hits the wall and your eyes spring with tears, gurgled sounds of Nanami fucking down your throat lewd and dirty in the empty room. He sighs, chest panting and hands cradling your head. “You feel so good, sweetheart,” he praises, bucking his hips further inside. “Don’t know what I’d do without you here, always so ready to make me feel good.”

The moan you let out vibrates around his cock, fuelling his desire intensely.

Nanami has always been gentle with you; as a man who values time over anything else, he likes to savour each second he has with you, slow, rough hands running up and down the curve of your spine before he flicks his tongue deep within your pussy, wanting to make you cum countless times before he makes love to you. Had you both been home, he’d cradle your face and stare deep into your eyes as he fucks you, sweat tinged from the slight burrow of his brows as he commands, “Look at me. Look at me when I’m fucking you, angel.”

And you being you, you’ll remain submissive to the pleasure he’s more than glad to give you, leg wrapping around his waist all to feel the way he’s hitting deep inside your sopping cunt.

He’s impatient this time around, and you can’t blame him. You’ve barely seen each other from hours of working overtime, with you staying up late to study for finals and him barely leaving the operating rooms. You gladly let him use you like this just as he’s allowed you to cum multiple times before despite his clear order to hold back, but Nanami is a soft man at heart, unable to resist his precious lover when you’re trembling around him like that.

Nanami places a palm at the back of your head to prevent you getting fucked into the wall, his pace not slowing down a bit. He gazes at you under his lashes, cheeks hollowed and drool dribbling from the edges of your lips.

He finds you utterly filthy, a complete contrast to the well-put med-student who’s always admired and looked up to by their peers. Nanami groans as his tip hits the back of your throat, your nose pressing down on the neatly trimmed blond hairs brushed on his base. You gag around him, the tears crystallizing your cheeks. Filthy, yet still so pretty his little angel is, and for a moment, Nanami pauses, captivated by your beauty.

His cock is still pulsing inside your mouth, a thumb running across your tears to wipe them away. Nanami grabs your chin to tilt your head up, and he swears he could cum right then and there. You’re kneeling on the bleached floors, eyes wide with a tinge of innocence, tears collected in your lashes and cheeks sucked to take him in deep.

“Always so pretty for me, angel,” he coos, sliding his drenched cock out your mouth gruesomely slow, stopping only with the tip in. “Is my cock making you cry? You’ve taken me before, angel, this isn’t difficult for you now, is it?”

You hum around his cock as a response, and Nanami bucks into your mouth by accident, causing his length to slip past your walls until he’s right at your throat.

He’s big and long, his dick always having been a blessing to the both of you, but at this time, it feels more like a curse. Drips of cum paints the back of your mouth but you only grip your thigh harder, ignoring the painful throbbing of your cunt that’s so needy for him already. You remind yourself not to be selfish and focus on him instead, to your precious superior who needs you to help get his mind off things.

Eager to be of service as always, you swipe your tongue all over the ridges of his cock, making sure to press the wet muscle harder on the prominent veins. Nanami throws his head back to moan, his nails gently scraping your scalp with each thrust.

It’s hard to tell who’s setting the pace, but it becomes clear as you kneel there motionlessly, squeezing his ass instead while he relentlessly fucks your mouth. His groans are growing louder, breaths falling out of rhythm with each passing seconds. Your eyes are shut tight as you let him abuse your throat, hitting deep inside you with each precise thrust in addition to his balls slapping your chin.

Your face is sopping wet, both from drool, tears, and his cum. You stay there like a good girl, doing your best to breathe through your nose as he throbs inside you. Nanami’s words are garbled and incomprehensible, enticed to only snap his harder when he sees your tears streaming down your face and wetting your scrubs.

His length slips past inside your mouth into an impossibly deeper angle as he tugs your hair up, his knees bent just to continuously pummel against your tonsils as if it was his own winning goal. Your cries increase in volume at the way he’s losing himself in you, forgetting to watch the back of your head before he thrusts all the way, keeping you flat and frozen gagging on his cock, nose nudged against his hairs.

Nanami’s groan is accompanied by the twitching of his cock, and he cums, thick spurts of white shooting down your throat. You try to pull yourself away from him after that, thinking that he’s satisfied, but he only grips your hair harder as a warning.

Still struggling to breathe, you swallow around his thick saliva-drenched length, the mere motion of you gulping making your walls close down on him.

Nanami grunts at the oversensitivity and he pulls out, his dick growing boneless and soft.

He’s utterly spent, your drool and his cum dripping down to the floors in audible plaps. Nanami sighs as he takes sanitary wipes from the unused desk to wipe his dick clean, while you stay on the ground, palms flat beneath you as you pant for air.

You can tell you’ll have a sore throat by tomorrow because you utterly fucked, voice growing hoarse with each failed cough. Falling back onto the wall, you close your eyes, only to snap them open again when you feel something wet and warm rubbing your skin.

Nanami is in front of you, his touch gentle and eyes soft as he cleans your face, thumb absentmindedly cradling your bottom lip.

You don’t fight back the smile that matches his. Even after everything, Nanami is still your boyfriend, someone who isn’t just a good fuck to you anymore. This is only one of the reasons you’ve fallen so madly in love with him; his effortless ability to take care of others truly meritorious of him.

He dunks them into nearest bin and kisses you flat on the lips, his large hand cupping your cheeks. You sigh into the slow kiss, enjoying what little – and fleeting – time you have with him.

Nanami pulls away with a popping sound, a lovesick smile on his usually stoic expression. It makes you feel giddy and even a little shy, forgetting the fact he just fucked your skull seconds ago, but it’s rare that he lets his guard down anywhere that isn’t the comfort and safety of his home. You’re his home though, and he kisses you one last time, the gesture telling a thousand more words than he’s ever able to.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “I promise I’ll make it up to you when we’re both home.”

You don’t stop him once he finally leaves the room, his rushed footsteps to make it back to the operating room a signal for you to get back to work too. It’s already five am when you’ve made it back to your post, but instead of feeling tired, you’re a lot more energized compared to when you first got here.

Perhaps working overtime isn’t so bad after all, not when there’s always a promise you and Nanami are never leaving the bed for the free weekend.

You’ll just have to be patient.

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[bakubub]

In which racer!kuroo is your roommate, and seems to only like it when you treat his wounds... (word count: 1.9k)

Ngl quite proud of this one!!

Warnings: 18+, a whole lot of swearing, a whole lot of blood, innuendos and implied nsfw, reader almost vomits (NOT from pregnancy chill, I know we're all scarred but its going to be just fine) and if you're squeamish perhaps skip the scene where reader stitches his wound?

Also bit of a disclaimer: I am in NO WAY a med student and literally all of my knowledge is from movies and other fics... so if you acc know what to do in this situation this may be a torturous for you :D

All due credits go to @aikk00​ for this AMAZING fanart!!!!

I watch as my roommate enters the penthouse, once again scratched up and bleeding, covered in so much blood there is no possible way that it was all his- if it was he would not be standing.

I launch myself off the couch- where I was sitting for the past hour nervously waiting for his return- and slip my arm under his, supporting him as we inched towards the bathroom.

"I can do this by myself you know," he grumbles, his grimace revealing just how much pain he was actually in.

"Mhm, I'm sure you can. Just like you boiled that poor egg by yourself last week, hmm?" I say sarcastically, trying to keep my mind calm and clear, because oh my god it looks really bad this time...

"Oi, its not my fault it fuckin' exploded," he mutters, voice laden with pain.

"You put it in the microwave because 'the shitty water wasn't doing its job.' Of course it would explode," I say, gently seating him on the closed toilet seat and taking out my supplies that I unfortunately have become rather accustomed to using. He's made it a habit to get himself injured.

"Where's the injury?" I ask, setting down my half-empty bottle of antiseptic and box of bandages. He peels off his shirt, cringing at the pain it brought him as the fabric was stuck to the gash that went from his left pectoral down to the middle of his chest.

"Pissed off a bidder after winning a race, fucker took out a knife once he realised he couldn't beat me up," he huffs out, arrogance still lacing his tone even with sweat dripping down his brow as he leans the back of his head onto the tile wall behind him. His Adam's apple bobs down his bloodstained neck as he speaks, and I quickly look away, focusing on the injury at hand.

Not his blood soaked, but nevertheless well defined pectoral muscles, nor the abs that my hands occasionally brush up against and know how hard they really are, and definitely not the trail of black hairs that lead down, down, down...

"What's wrong, the view too hot to focus on the work at hand?" He asks suggestively, raising his pierced brow, even in this state.

I'm quick to reply, having gotten used to his flirtatious remarks from the second I moved into his penthouse, "nope can't even see the view from that massive head of yours. Not to mention your permanent bed head."

He huffs out a laugh, then proceeds to flinch from the pain it must have caused.

"Stop moving, idiot. You're going to exacerbate the cut!" I say, quickly grabbing a damp towel and beginning to clean up his abdomen, whilst simultaneously pressing another rag to his wound to stop the bleeding.

“At least you admit that there is a hot view,” he says in his low voice, gazing at me from his position.

I simply roll my eyes.

No falling in love. That was the deal we had made on the day he offered me a place to stay in exchange for my services as a maid and apparently, a nurse. I cook, clean and basically keep the house running while this moron goes out and acts like the idiot he is. In my defense, dorms are expensive as hell, and his penthouse is nearby. Plus, I don't have to pay rent. It's a win-win situation.

But the feelings stirring up inside my heart might just ruin the dynamic we have going on and simultaneously take out a whole lot of cash out of my pocket.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Once his skin isn't completely saturated in blood, and the wound has (thankfully) stopped bleeding, I add some antiseptic onto a make-up pad and begin to dab at his wound, earning winces and slight grunts from the massive man.

"The cut looks deep, Kuroo. You need to go to the hospital," I say, worry lacing my tone as my eyebrows crease and earn yet another huffing laugh.

"Do you want me to rot in prison for the rest of my life?"

I roll my eyes at his response, deliberately dabbing just a little harder which earns me a yelp and an attempted glare in my direction.

"First off, illegal street racing won't send you to prison for your entire life, just for like, half a year. Second, this wound needs stitches, and believe it or not, I'm not a fucking licensed medic. In fact, the only experience I have is with you!" I say, immediately regretting my choice of words as I wait for his remark.

"That's what she said," He says, chuckling at his own innuendo.

I sigh in frustration, pouring more antiseptic to make sure there was no chance of infection from whatever grimy ass knife stabbed him, and beginning to gently scrub the wound with a soft towel, so as to make sure there was no debris left in there.

"You're gonna have ta do it," he mutters, his hazel eyes boring into mine.

"I- I can't Kuroo, you can't possibly think-"

"Fine. I'll do it. Go get me a needle and thread," he states, struggling but nevertheless, sitting upright on the red stained toilet.

I stare at Kuroo in disbelief as he utters these words. Was he dumber than I thought? Does he have some sort of head injury too?

I examine his face and all I come up with is unnerving determination. I exhale out of my nose sharply, "fine, dammit. I'll sew your fucking wound shut."

I am extremely handy with a sewing needle and thread, used to really be into embroidery back when I had the time so...it should be fine.

He just shrugs, leaning his head back against the tiles and closing his eyes.

"Fucking asshole. Can't believe I'm saving your damn life," I mutter, leaving the bathroom to dig through my wardrobe for my sewing box and taking out a gold silk thread that I was saving for a special project.

Well, I guess that will never happen.

"Hey, I found some silk thread. It's literally known for its strength and durability in high temperatures, so it should work like a charm!" I say, walking back into the blood stained bathroom and trying to psych myself up.

He grunts in response. I sigh as I begin with mopping up the excess blood and sanitising the needle and thread before chucking on gloves.

I wipe the antiseptic over the wound once more, and examine it carefully.

Well, if his condition worsens, I can always knock him out and call an ambulance...

I decide, screw it, and thread the needle, pretending it was just another embroidery project.

It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I chant as I puncture his skin with the thin needle.

Kuroo gasps in pain, and I place a hand on his knee, telling him to suck it up and deal with it, half talking to him but also to myself.

To my surprise, he listens, stretching his head back once more and gritting his teeth.

"Don't do that, here put this in-between your teeth," I say, grabbing yet another towel and shoving it into his mouth.

He obeys as I continue to stitch. I feel my gag reflex kicking in as I think about how stitching skin feels as though I am stitching leather, it feels hard and tough while pushing the thin needle through.

Must hurt like a bitch.

Once I've completed my neat stitches down the wound, without vomiting, I tie it off as I would with any embroidery, and clean the area free of any remaining blood. After rubbing some antibacterial ointment over the gold stitches, I stick on a particularly large bandage over the wound and start tidying up.

"Thank you," Kuroo mutters, still seated on the toilet seat and practically panting for breath.

"Ah, the criminal knows his damn manners!! Now get up and get in the damn shower. You ruined my pristine bathroom!" I complain, putting the last of the materials away before walking to the door.

"Wait, I- I can't get up." I turn around and look at him incredulously as he utters his next few words, "will you... shower me?"

My eyes just about pop out of their sockets at his request. "Are you insane?! I'm not your mother, nor your wife! Call your pudding haired friend and tell him to come shower you!"

He shakes his head, a rare pleading look taking the place of his usual arrogant smirk, "Kenma's too lazy to shower himself, Y/n, please!"

I contemplated it for a moment. Sure, I've seen him naked before, accidentally of course, and so what if I have to scrub him clean. God knows he can't do it himself with that damn injury.

Fuck this shit.

"Fine, get up right now." I bark at him, leaving to change out of my blood soaked pjs into a pair of shorts and a tank.

"...I just said I can't."

---

"Ow, y/n, you're scrubbing too hard!" He complains, his exfoliating glove around my hand as I rub his toned back clean of any dead skin-cells and blood remains.

"But look how much stuff is coming off!" I say gleefully, enjoying this a little too much.

Kuroo, seated on the built-in bench in the open shower with his red boxers on, looks back to see the satisfaction dripping from my features.

"Are you secretly a sadist?" he whispers. In response, I begin to rinse off his raw back with hot water, causing him to screech like a cat.

"It burns, it burns-”

“Shut the fuck up, moron! It's 4 in the morning, you’re going to annoy our neighbours. I tried very hard to get in their good graces, and Mrs. Suzuki still doesn’t like me! She definitely thinks I’m some kind of hooker…” Kuroo laughs at this, and I can’t help but watch as his whole face brightens up from his usual emotionless expression. I find myself smiling in response.

I grab his expensive shampoo and pour some into my hands, beginning to massage it into his scalp. With wet hair, his raven strands are for once flat on his head and reach down to his defined jawline. Kuroo groans under my touch, leaning into my fingers. I snatch my hands back and pour hot water over his head.

"ARGH! Y/N!" He screams, hastily getting up and wetting me in the process.

"Ah- what are you-" I don't get to finish my question as he grabs my arm and yanks me next to him under the hot water, soaking my clothes and my hair.

"You asshole!" I screech as I reach up to pull his hair in defiance, but he only grabs my arm and hooks it around his neck, leaning down to look directly into my eyes.

Our noses brushing against one another, he mutters, "You look pretty with your hair wet and your shirt see through."

It takes me a moment to get past the compliment and to hear the perverted comment that he just uttered.

He sees my look of confusion and laughs, bends over, clutches his stomach and laughs, before bellowing in pain because of his injury.

Smiling smugly down at him as he grimaces, I force him to sit back down and continue massaging the shampoo into his hair, warning him that if he so much as moaned I would leave him in here, dripping wet and in pain.

"That's what he said," is his reply.

I smack his head in response.

Notes, interactions and reblogs are highly appreciated <3

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