#it's this wound in me i can never heal it scars

[rriavian]

Major spoiler warning for the end of The Sandman comics below. Please scroll if you haven't read that far or just if you'd like to avoid them. I've tried to make sure I've tagged properly but just wanted to add an additional warning.

Ok so a while ago @two-hands-toward-the-sun made a post about Daniel Hall and Calliope meeting after he becomes Dream, and it made me curious so I started thinking about what that would be like. Below is the resulting ficlet :)

-

There was a question to be asked when Calliope arrived.

The Furies attack had made its mark, scars left on a realm whole but still healing. Despite that she found the Dreaming felt unchanged; still ever shifting, a constancy in how it reflected every Dreamer, in how it reflected Dream.

That same quality carried, that sense of the new in the old, observed when Calliope met Dream of the Endless in his palace and found him at once so recognisable and yet so very unfamiliar. She found it in hair as white as she knew it had been once before, as she knew it had been so very long ago, Calliope found it in eyes that had never been green but had always been starlit. This was the same sky, just as likely to turn black, currently content to match shades with the emerald hanging around a pale neck, its gold chain glimmering against the now white clothes. It made the pain somewhat easier to feel, made the loss somewhat clearer too, the cut cleaner.

Perhaps it would never heal but the wound wasn’t ragged.

Calliope smiled. “What would you like me to call you?”

For the first time he smiled too.

It was a fine thing for that to be the first thing she witnessed, the first discovery she made of him. Calliope had not seen it on this face—younger, so similar and yet not that at all—watched and learnt the way these features softened and found it lovely. 

“Daniel.” He said; still Dream’s voice, low and soft, not quite like hearing a ghost though, not when the voice of a dream had always been so much more than what was left by the dead. “I chose it.”

There was pride in that.

A child’s. Not immature, just fresh, untainted. Calliope's smile widened even as tears began to well in her eyes. “Very well then Daniel.”

“You may also call me Dream.” He added. 

Calliope nodded. “It’s who you are.”

Another smile.

“It is.”

-

Calliope had been invited.

She found herself curious as to why now.

“What has made things different?” Calliope asked, knowing she was here for more than to attend a funeral. “Morpheus was never ready, you are all he was…”

Daniel waited once she trailed off.

He stood silent while confirming that Calliope wasn’t going to continue. It was only then that Dream picked up the thread Calliope had dropped, it was only then that he revealed that he'd caught it as it fell. “You wish to know what I gained?”

It wasn’t a surprise that he’d untangled her question so effortlessly.

Calliope found that remained just as unsettling as Dream’s perception could so often be. Precise in the way a scalpel was; it cut out only what was needed, went as deep as was required by the wound, cut expertly but it still cut. He was right. Calliope did wish to know what he’d gained, though until he’d said that she’d not been sure it was the right word, the right definition. Daniel Hall had been human. Morpheus had always been Endless.

Calliope didn’t know what to think of the amalgamation of that.

Perhaps she never would, but she could still use a perception all her own to try and find both sides of its coin. “Yes, what you gained…and what you lost.”

“I…” Dream paused but didn't stumble, paused not to find the words but to feel them. “I lost them both. I gained them both. We joined and so became new.”

“Changed.”

“Yes.” He shrugged, so simple a motion for so large a truth. “What is that for one such as me? What can it be. To change is to die, and to die is to change.”

“Our son died.” Calliope said quietly.

“I know.” Daniel said. “I know what that is now.”

“I don’t.” Calliope admitted, her own simple statement for far too large a truth. “Not like a mortal does. How can I mourn when—“

Daniel took her hand. “You can mourn with me.”

Oh.

He was kind, wasn’t he?

So very kind, just like her Oneiros had been. Daniel was dark like him too; sharp, resplendent in it, somehow refreshed like a mortal was after a long sleep, less worn and weary in a world the same as when they'd closed their eyes. The nightmare in him reborn too, as it should be, that cruel aspect rejuvenated because it had never been a wound to cast out. Calliope had never needed to find Dream in the darkness, had never forgot enough of him to try, had known no hand was needed to pull him out of what might be dark but would always be him.

The full spectrum of what a dream was; Dream was as soft as he was sharp, the hand that now held Calliope's was as cold as the action was warm, Dream was cruel—

He was kind.

“It takes time, doesn’t it? For us.” Calliope said quietly, part of her always standing two thousand years away. “How long can grief last when one lives forever.”

Daniel considered that for a moment, heard its threat, its hope. “Perhaps even grief must die.”

“Must change?”

He smiled, this time a little impish, a mischievousness familiar and utterly unique. “Indeed.”

Calliope sighed. “I do not think mine can change the way yours did.”

“No.”

“I suppose that is true for humans too.” Calliope continued, then tested specifics, tested going as far down another thread as she could and wondering if he might once again pick it up. “For other parents. Other mothers.”

Calliope didn't trail off this time, dropped the thread all the same, deliberate and—

It changed hands.

“I have lost a son,” Dream said, his eyes as green as the place where the Bacchante had torn Orpheus apart, as green as the forest that had continued growing nonetheless. “And I have been a son who is lost. I have been taken and I have been taken from. I know what hurts you, Calliope the muse, and I would mourn with you if you’d allow me.”

“You lost a mother.” Calliope realised; breathed it like an ode, where grief expressed the fullest, felt an answer resonate as what could only be given as poetry.

“I am Daniel.” He said, somehow agreed, somehow refuted too, both acknowledged what grief that was and what it couldn’t be. His pause was what lay between stanzas, what inspired the next one to begin. “But I am not Daniel Hall.”

Oh Dream. 

A baby had died—oh that hurt, the thought of Orpheus dead like that, the thought of him having so little time—a mother grieving what could never, ever come back. They had spoken of loss, of Morpheus, of Daniel, because there were really two deaths in this one life. A new pain in that to match what else was gained. Refreshed Dream may be but there was always a burden to bear, always one to carry. That was life, was dreams and nightmares, was balance and perhaps it was restricting to call that a caveat. It was neutrality perhaps, a scale that could tip both ways.

It wasn’t failure that made this hurt.

Calliope nodded. “Then perhaps we can mourn him too?”

Perhaps Dream had tested the dropping of a thread this time. Daniel stilled, looked at her searchingly; eyes now black and aglow with stars, the wonder of looking up at the sky, the wonder of looking down at the earth. They shared that between them. Calliope found herself remembering Orpheus—a child asking to stay up late, an adult asking if she’d like to meet his future wife—remembered a searching look that said I need to be sure.

That said do you really mean it?’

She’d never seen it in Dream, found it now. This fragile sort of wondering, this want revealed as if he’d not yet thought he’d be given the gift. 

As if he’d not known he’d be granted the right. 

Dream nodded at last. 

“Yes.”

#dream of the endless #Daniel Hall #Calliope #Calliope & Daniel Hall #sandman comic spoilers #sandman spoilers #major sandman spoilers #this has been a wip for a while #hope you enjoy! #sandman fic #rria writes #ficlet

[meetinginsamarra]

mayprompts2024, #25 intuition

White Pony Tattoo - Part Five (intuition)

Sherlock took a sip of his tea and John felt a wave of jealousy for the teacup that was embraced by this perfect cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock swallowed and John mirrored the movement subconsciously, fascinated by Sherlock’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

He’s far too beautiful to concentrate, John sighed internally, how will I even survive getting tattooed by him, with his hands all over me? Well, all over my arm at least. But he will be so close. I’ve never met a person who at the same time is such a seductive menace and an annoying dick. Seems like he’s just my type, dear me.

“So,” Sherlock stood up again, unable to contain his excited energy about explaining his deduction, “how did I know?”

“I’m all ears, oh great Meastro.”

Sherlock flashed John an amused smile.

“When I first saw you, you had pulled off your jumper and were looking with disdain at the Virgin Mary tattoo on your upper arm. It sports the face of a real woman, your ex-wife apparently because of the marks on your ringfinger where your wedding band had been. Ergo she left and betrayed you and you’ll be divorced soon and want to eradicate every memory of her.”

“Okay, I get this. But the soldier? Getting shot and surviving in Afghanistan?”

“Your whole stance and demeanour screamed ‘military’. You still cut your own hair in short military style. Scar tissue on your shoulder peeked out under your vest. You’re not shy about showing off your naked arms but hate the scar. I’ve done a lot of research on skin and also cover-ups. I know a gunshot wound when I see one, one that got severely infected by bacteria and you survived sepsis. The skin is badly healed, so a quick emergency job. There are tiny spots of sun damage on the skin of your neck, they are fading but still visible. Ergo, you’ve been in a hot country with a war going on and got shot not very long ago where the British have fought, so soldier in Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“Amazing!”

“You think so?”

“Sure. What about the doctor part? Intuition?”

Sherlock snorted. “No. I don’t deal in intuition. I knew you were a doctor already, even before we talked about achieving perfection in our respective trades.”

“How so?”

“The position of getting shot in your back while you were kneeling. Exit wound is on chest, causing an intermittant tremor in your hand. You hate the scar tissue on your shoulder, you conceal it as it insults your ideals as a doctor. Only a doctor would have scrutinized my frontroom for cleanliness like you did. You saw the flyers about proper hygiene and skin care after getting a tattoo. You appreciated the skin care products I sell in this shelf here, obviously acquainted with them and knowing they’re the best you can get.

Also, a doctor because it’s the only logical reason why you should have been kneeling and bent over in such an unusual angle, so helping a comrade wounded in action. You wouldn’t have been distracted otherwise and missed the shooter because you automatically scanned the shop for any possible dangers when you entered and subconsciously stand at attention when you have to face a perilous task…”

“Perilous task as in getting you to tattoo me?” John intterrupted with a grin.

“Obviously, do keep up, John! You loved being a soldier and wanted the happy memory erasing the one of your ex-wife. You’re attracted to dangerous situations and people, they make you feel alive. Final conclusion, you wanted a soldier in full combat gear for a cover-up.”

“Holy Christ, you’re spot-on.”

Sherlock beamed, not hiding being very satisfied with himself.

“And are you?” John continued.

“What?”

“Dangerous to me?”

“Of course, I am. Firstly, I’ll come at you with a loaded gun…”

“…a tattoo gun…”

“…that still can cause a lot of pain and damage to your skin if wielded incorrectly.”

“I’ll give you that. And secondly?” John asked and took a sip out of his cup.

“Secondly, you find me dangerously attractive.”

John spat some tea onto the coffee table.

+++++

tagging some people @totallysilvergirl @peageetibbs @lisbeth-kk  @raina-at @calaisreno

#mayprompts2024 #number 25 intuition #my sherlock fanfics #white pony tattoo AU #no beta we die like (wo)men

[patrice-bergerons]

You know that the school of thought that says queer narratives focused on [insert]-phobia are depressing, trite and relics of the past, and what we ought to celebrate as true marks of progress are narratives freed from such -phobias even where doing so runs foul of accurate descriptions of the place/time period?

It always, always rubbed me the wrong way and there is nothing like watching a good Russell T Davies drama to remind you that exploring joy and humour and the impact of homophobia are not mutually exclusive. You don't have to pretend it doesn't exist to have a good story that's not only about suffering. And while there may be a space for stories completely free from this conflict we deny ourselves so much depth if we demand it of every story or else label it outdated.

#im actually angry #in that that school of thought always rubbed me thr wrong way #but i thought maybe that was a me issue? in that I was behind the times #that i had failed to embrace myself fully when everyone else was #when i see stories and shows praised for how they totally ignore -phobia even in a time and place it 100% would have existed #i always think but all MY stories are about homophobia in one way or shape or form #it's this wound in me i can never heal it scars #and id feel it was a shortcoming almost #but then watching rtds work #that is so lively and real and fun #and is also built on a bedrock of systemic pain and trauma #oof #i only wish i can be half as subtle and good a writer as he is #and anyone who does subsribe to that school of thought? can go fuck themselves idec

[arthur-r]

i ran out of storage while drawing this so i had to add the white parts in markup and call the rest of it good but this is “self portrait with future beard and pending scar” and i drew it after surgery this morning

#the outfit is stuff i have in real life and so is the scar except it’s not a scar yet it’s a wound #that’s what my mom keeps on telling me when i say wow this is such a cool scar #which is what i say to not terrify myself about how i might always have this scar #anyway if i had still been in ibispaint for the end of this i would’ve added some bright light behind me #because that’s what i was planning on but then i ran out of storage #anyway hi i did the surgery this morning and it went good the IV hurt and the anesthesia was scary but everything else was good #anyway i was gonna fix the shape when i was still in ibispaint but i would need 250 megabytes of storage and i don’t have it :( #so markup is all i have now shdhdf i can’t erase i can only draw on top #which is mostly how i draw anyway but still #anyway the surgery to make my face look regular again all the way would cost money and not insurance at all #so unless it heals really good on it’s own i might look like this forever #so i started thinking about forever and i reassured myself by adding a beard to the picture. and so. that’s why i drew this shdhdf #anyway i missed my dynamic brush and this was my first time using it in a lot of months and i had missed it shdhdf #idk if this is like. good. to people who aren’t on anesthesia. i will have to find out in the morning #but i wanted to break to you guys that it might never go away. but i did that by drawing instead of a picture #because i get nervous on the internet and especially today #and anyway i hope i still like this in the morning but mostly the point before is i have a scar there now #cause that’s what i had to get to not have a tumor there now. and so it’s better and it’s okay but also makes me nervous #but i’m gonna grow up and it will still be okay and this is scary but the worst dangerous part is over #and this is just maybe what i look like right now and maybe it will heal. but i will just have to find out #me. my post. mine. #my art #delete later

[autism-corner]

yayy i finally have a scar on my right hand <33

#I LOVE SCARS THEYRE SOSO COOL. #ive had a significant scar on the back of my left hand for 3+ years now. it got there bc i got snagged by a butterfly pinback something #and you know me. gotta pick at any open wound. #so it scarred <3 #it was actually a pretty deep wound by itself somehow. but i deffo made it way worse/longlasting. #not that i mind!! i fucking love it. #sillyposting #but yeah my left has had that scar for a while and now my right also has a scar that'll last!! #i get plenty of wounds on the backs of my hands bc. clumsy or whatevs. but they are rarely or never lasting scars. #but i think this one will be!! #its a smaller round one thats currently unlike any other scar ive seen on myself. #tbf it is still healing somewhat but :P #i actually have NO fucking clue how i got the innitial wound. which is a bit sad :/ but oh well!! #and yeah i picked the hell out of it o7 #I LOOVE SCARS. can you blame me???

[deadsetobsessions]

“Tim. Timmy. Ancients, kid, what are you doing?!”

Danny Phantom smacked away the instinctual terror of seeing an eight year old dangling out of a third story window.

“I gotta go take pictures of Batman and Robin! They’re out tonight!”

Danny thought that his barely healed vivisection wound might bust open from the sheer stress.

“Setting aside how you even know the patrol schedule of honest to god vigilantes, why’d you choose the window? The house is literally empty, just walk out the front door, for Ancient’s sake.”

Tim paused, a motion Danny was overwhelmingly thankful for, and blinked sheepishly.

“Um… for the aesthetic?”

Danny allowed the silence to settle between them before dropping his head into his waiting hands. Tim panicked.

“You- you can’t stop me!”

And yeah, Danny really can’t. In the months he’s been mooching off of the Drakes (not that they’ll notice), Danny’s learned that Tim Drake is nothing but relentless in the pursuit of whatever he sets his mind on. Whether thet might be putting hot chocolate in his cereal (which Danny doesn’t actually mind) or, apparently, stalking a pair of vigilantes.

He wanted to hack into the library cameras? Danny had to hover just to make sure the kid didn’t get caught after arguing for an hour about it.

He walked out of that argument with a loss, yes, but he also let Tim know that Danny cared about him. Danny also walked out of that argument with a new hatred for Janet and Jack Drake and his mind (just as diabolical as Tim’s) whirring with plans to haunt them.

Tim is never ever introducing his new little brother to Tucker. Ever.

“Okay. I don’t want to see you take unnecessary risks, but I’m also aware that I can’t really stop you. So. I’ll go with you.”

Maybe this is like… Tim’s obsession? When he put it that way, Danny lost the fight to prevent this tiny kid from what clearly is the only joy in his poor life.

“But…!” Tim’s eyes darted to Danny’s chest, the vivisection scars still fresh in his mind.

“They’re healed.” Danny pulled his dumbass little brother off the window sill, core settling as Tim follows willingly. “I’ll make us invisible and fly with you behind Batman and Robin so you can get even better shots. You can’t make any noise, though. That camera got a shutter sound, right?”

“Yeah!” Tim’s face brightened and Danny melted. He shoved a bottle of the (incredibly stinky but helpful in a pinch) ecto contaminated tap water into a backpack, along with some snacks and a blanket for when Tim gets cold. Danny’ll be fine, he’s got a Space Core. The cold his kind of his thing.

“Cool. We’ll stay out of earshot. If things starts to get too dicey, we’re heading home, okay?”

“Okay!” The look Tim shot him is full of trust and adoration and it makes Danny’s human heart squeeze painfully. “C’mon! I don’t want to be late!”

“We need to talk about your stalking tendencies later,” Danny said fondly.

“I’m not stalking them! I’m observing them!”

“Uh-huh,” Danny drawled, picking Tim up and making them intangible and invisible. “They’re not a bird observatory and also, even the birds in the observatory knows they’re being watched. Batman and Robin clearly doesn’t.”

Danny felt more than saw Tim’s pout.

He laughs as they fly just below the Gotham-brand of toxic smog. He waves to the City’s Spirit as Tim cranes his head around to catch sight of Batman and Robin.

“There!”

Danny obliged. With Danny’s flight, Tim got much better- much closer- photos than he would have originally.

Danny hung back as the pair of vigilantes swooped down to take care of a mugging.

“Wanna mess with them?” He grinned down at his little brother, canines glinting.

Tim looked up at him, admiration and mischievousness in his gaze. “Yes.”

Gotham parted her clouds in response to their glee.

——

Dick Grayson, AKA Robin, finally understood why criminals are so creeped out by him.

Other than the whole flippy child kicking grown people’s asses and winning thing, obviously (that, and Batman loomed menacingly behind him everytime a criminal even looked at Robin wrong).

Batman had picked up on it first, but the for entirety of their patrol, they kept hearing eerie little giggles and laughter. Haunting them. Never distracting. But persistent. And so creepy. He got goosebumps.

“B, I wanna go home.”

“Hm.” That’s a resounding yes if Dick’s ever heard one.

Maybe Alfred can chase away the giggles and chuckles.

Robin shudders and follows the Bat home.

——

Danny lowered the temperature as he held Tim up near Batman’s cowl so his brother could giggle menacingly. He knew for a fact that any recording device would get completely cram led by the sheer output of ambient ectoplasm he’s emitting. Plus, it freaked Robin out and raised the hairs on the back of the vigilantes’ heads. He tones it down when he noticed Tim rubbing his hands together.

He let out a quiet laugh, enjoying the flight with his brother in his arm and the light of the stars (thanks, Gotham) at his back.

——

Danny: oh, this kid’s got an Obsession, gotta let him do it safely, he’s a liminal from all that tap water

Danny: *forgets Tim isn’t a ghost nor is he from Amity and is therefore extremely breakable*

——

Danny and Tim: doing crime is a good bonding activity

Batman and Robin, who wants to say no it isn’t but they’re literally a pair of illegal vigilantes:

——

Dick as Robin: *cackles*

Tim, learning habits from stalking them: *giggles*

Gotham Criminals: *fear*

#danny phantom #bamf danny phantom #dick grayson #tim drake is a menace #tim drake #baby tim drake #Tim Drake is a little shit #Danny Phantom is a little shit #they’re messing with the bats #and getting away with it #inspired by dick’s iconic Robin cackle #that creepy lil shit #i love them your honor #they’re brothers your honor #Gotham’s F grade tap water #thanks scarecrow #Gotham’s tap water #dc x dp #dp x dc

[yawnderu]

K-9 — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | Part II

Sick as a dog, and just as vicious.

1 2 3 4 5

Simon scores a date with his favorite medic

Or

Simon has to be under her watch after getting a knife to the gut.

"Oi, doc." Simon calls out and you sigh softly, gaze drifting from your patient report to him, his unmasked figure lays on the medical bed, gauze wrapped tightly over his abdomen, keeping his newest injury guarded from anything that could rub on or mess up the stitches.

"Why'd they call you K-9?" One of his thin, eyeblack stained eyebrows lifts as he looks at you, already feeling bored from having to stay still for so long, movement limited by the patched up stab wound on his stomach.

"Long story." You dismiss him, looking back down at the patient report you were writing for him. His medical file was interesting, indicating no pictures of him should ever be taken, as well as additional personal and professional information.

"You got surgery in 2020, what's that about?" You didn't notice any bigger scars whenever he was injured, having already seen his naked torso and part of his legs.

"Curious 'bout me, doc?" His tone is slightly teasing, the smug bastard thinking he's funny by asking that. A single eye roll is enough to get him to speak, a deep, gravelly chuckle escaping his lips before he answers.

"Took a nasty gunshot to the leg, was fadin' fast." He lays back down, gaze drifting towards the ceiling as he thinks about it. He was so close to death himself, only three years ago.

"Thought it'd be more interesting." Your bluntness never fails to make him double take. It's not passive aggressive or mean, just... way too honest. More than he's used to.

"I'll get a proper grand injury just for you, lass." You roll your eyes again, taking a sip from your coffee to hide the way the corners of your lips are tugging up. It's amusing, really, to find out how much Simon has changed throughout the years. Price told you he used to be much more quiet, though after 4 years of working with the task force, he was able to open up, getting more and more used to interacting with a team rather than being a lone wolf.

"That's not necessary, I can give it to you myself if you'd like." Your gloved hand presses on the scalpel on your white coat before going back to writing his medical report, tone laced with subtle humor.

"She can joke." He taunts, trying to sit up before a sharp hiss of pain escapes his lips. You frown, the report taking way too long to finish because you keep getting interrupted.

"Hold on." You walk up to him, hands holding onto his strong back before you try to help the behemoth of a man sit up. His calloused hands hold onto your forearms, a few low, deep groans escaping his lips at the strain his flexing muscles are causing to the fresh injury.

"Fuckin' hell." He mutters and you look up, eyes focusing on his pained expression for a second too long. Simon isn't ugly, really, but when his face is all scrunched up in pain, sweat gathering in the form of clear specks all over his eyeblack stained skin? He looks almost majestic. You get your head out of the gutter, placing some soft pillows behind his back to help keep him up without much strain.

"You should be healed up soon enough, got lucky the bastard didn't stab that deep." You shrug, looking back at the tiny coffee maker in your office before you look back up at him, his brown eyes already staring back at you, pupils blown, as usual.

"Want some coffee?" He shakes his head politely, eyes closing in pain as he tries to get into a more comfortable position.

"A cuppa would be nice." You flick his forehead softly, tired eyes drifting towards the clock on the wall. 0100, yet you simply nod and grab your phone from the desk.

"Try not to die while I'm gone." The door closes behind you before he can reply, brown eyes closing as he sighs when you're gone. He doesn't even know how it all started. Simon is a man of discipline, a soldier, a Ghost, yet the way his heart quickens and his cock hardens whenever he's with you is something he can't control, as if a parasite made home in his brain and is using his body as a vessel, ridding him completely of any self-control.

You come back 10 minutes later, a tray with a cup of hot tea and food placed on his lap, the almost comforting warmth quickly spreading through his legs and body.

"Thank you." He moves the spoon around the cup of Earl Grey, letting the sugar mix in for a hot minute before he takes a sip from it, nodding his head once in approval. He was starving, really, but he tried his best to eat slowly, ignoring his hungry stomach begging him to wolf it all down. His eyes drift back to the tray, attention caught by the singular orange left there.

His hands fumble for one of the knives in his clothes, finding all of the straps were removed by you and placed too far away for his injured body to reach. He looks back up at you, admiring you in silence and truly taking you in. The way you lift your glasses every once in a while even before they can slip down the bridge of your nose, the way your hand fiddles with the pen and your lips turn into a small pout whenever you're not sure how to describe something in the report, the way you look so angelic under the dim lights of the infirmary—

"What are you lookin' at?" You don't even bother looking back at him, feeling his stare on you for the past two minutes. He has such an intense gaze that makes you feel as if he can see through your soul, yet it never intimidated you.

"Nothin', bird, nothin'. Peeled you an orange."

[PREVIOUS] [NEXT]

#cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost cod #simon riley x you #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x f!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #ghost x female reader #ghost x medic!reader #medic!reader #mw2 ghost #mw2 x reader #mw2 2022 #mw2 fanfic #mw2 141 #call of duty #cod modern warfare #cod #call of duty mw2 #mw3 x reader #Mw3 ghost #ghost

[m-musings]

Crawl Out Through the Fallout with Me: Cooper "The Ghoul" Howard X Fem! Reader

A/N: never played an official fallout game in my life but i still love this man so it's time to bullshit some stuff, let's gooooooo

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: After a fight with raiders, a argument between lovers ensues when one of them gets hurt.

Warnings: typical fallout vibes, mentions of fighting, blood and wounds, pre-established relationship, Cooper being Cooper but also being a bit ooc, this is cheesy as hell and def not canon compliant lmao

"Damnit, (Y/n), just what the hell were you thinkin'?!"

An upset voice rang out into the evening air of the Wasteland as a pair of figures rested up inside the crumbling walls of an abandoned building.

Lit by the fading light of the sun, (Y/n) hissed in pain as her irradiated companion tried to sew a sizable gunshot wound on her arm shut.

As he passed the needle back and forth through the gash, the girl rolled her eyes with an exasperated groan as a few rivulets of blood rolled down her arm.

"Gimme a break, Coop! Did you wanna be the one to be shot?! I don't- ow!- think so!"

During a journey to find their next cash-out, the partners were ambushed by a large group of raiders & fiends. After managing to get rid of most of them, one had managed to sneak up and send a bullet flying straight for Cooper.

Noticing the weapon before Cooper could even turn to see the shooter, (Y/n) dashed over and shoved the ghoul out of the path of the shot, causing her arm to be hit instead.

Now- a few hours after killing the remaining enemies- they took shelter in a decrepit shack in order to patch themselves up in peace and rest for the night.

"I'd still be better off than you are right now. I mean, for fucks sake, darlin', I'm a ghoul. I've been through worse than just being shot at."

"Well then, that's the last time I try to be helpful. Next time, I'll sit back and relax while you get absolutely slaughtered by raiders, how about that?!"

"Go right on ahead, see if I care! Now, hold still. Can't close this cut if you keep on squirmin' around." Cooper huffed as he gave the suture one final tug before snipping the end off with a pocket knife and tying it into a knot.

After he was finished, (Y/n) rolled the pain out of her bicep before reaching into her bag to grab a somewhat clean cloth to wipe up any remaining blood.

With a sputter of her lips, she got up from her spot next to Cooper to sit upon the old mattress in the other corner of the room in order to apply a stimpak to herself. It wouldn't be enough to heal the wound completely but it would be enough for her to be able to use her arm properly.

Satisfied with the sight of her flesh knitting back together, Cooper finally relaxed in his chair as he crossed one leg over the other.

"Now don't go doin' anything that stupid again, y' hear me? Don't wanna have to use any more stims than we have to."

"I just... don't understand why you're so worked up about this. Something like this was bound to happen eventually, it's literally a warzone out here. A scar or two isn't unusual." (Y/n) griped as she fell back onto the bed while crossing her arms.

"Yeah, for someone like me it isn't. But it shouldn't ever happen someone like you. You shouldn't have to get hurt like that..." Grumbled Cooper as he leaned back against the wall.

"I'm not made of glass, Coop, I can handle a few hits."

"Don't care. You're way too valuable for me to lose."

(Y/n)'s glare softened at that, realizing the true intention behind the cowboy's scolding was worry. As Cooper sets up a small lantern on the floor to combat the growing darkness, (Y/n) watches the man with a fondness gleaming in her eyes.

"Is that what this is all about? You didn't wanna see me get hurt?" Whispers the girl as she turns onto her side.

Although the action is rather subtle, the ghoul's body visibly tenses up as he fixes his gaze away from the woman across from him.

"I never said that."

"It's clear that you thought it, though." (Y/n) chuckled as she softly grinned at the cowboy.

Heaving out an irritated sigh, Cooper hunches over to look at her as he readjusts his hat.

"What do ya wanna hear from me, sweetheart? That I care about you? That I love ya? Well, if you don't know that by now, then you might be much dumber than I thought you were."

"Hey, I resent that! You'd be lost with me and you know it!"

"Sure I would. Just like how you'd do great out there if you were all alone."

(Y/n) shakes her head with a scoff before she gets up from the mattress to walk over plop herself onto Cooper's lap after he sits back down on the beat-up dinner chair.

As she shuffles into place, Cooper places his hand on the small of her back to ensure she doesn't topple over. He silently glances at her face, analyzing her now troubled expression as she fiddles with the lapel on his duster.

Mouth opening and closing as she tries to find the words to say, she presses her lips together before finally speaking her thoughts.

"Y'know, I worry about you too... I'm always so worried that there's gonna be a day where that one gunner you miss is gonna be the one that gets you." (Y/n) admits sadly as she rests her head on Cooper's shoulder.

Cooper's eyes widen slightly and peer down at her as he begins to rub a hand up and down her arm in an attempt to comfort her.

"Hey now, look at me. That'll never happen. Not on my watch."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I got too much to fight for. I already lost one family to this nonsense and I'll be damned if you get taken away from me too. I'll fight tooth and nail before I let anything touch me or you again, understand?"

"But why? What's so special about me?"

"If I allow you to get hurt anymore, I will never be able to live with myself again. I love you, so...so much, darlin'." Cooper states with a resolute nod.

(Y/n) eyes water and crinkle with a gentle smile before she leans up to place a couple light kisses upon his charred lips, which he returns immediately upon receiving.

"I love you too, Cooper..." Mutters (Y/n) as she closes her arm around his shoulders.

With a laugh rumbling in his chest, Cooper wraps both of his hands around her waist as he holds her as close as he can.

"Your sweetness is what's gonna be the death of me one of these days, doll... Not some dumbass bullet." Cooper jokes quietly, placing a kiss atop her hair & resting his head on hers as he rocks back and forth to lull her to sleep.

Listening to the calming sound of her breathing as she slumbers, Cooper thinks about how lucky a man like him is to have found a love like (Y/n) in such a desolate situation.

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard #fallout the series #fallout imagines #fanfic

[luveline]

Can I request a fic involving a reader with a skin picking disorder, please? I have one that started up around the same time as my anxiety disorder started ramping up, and now my arms are riddled with scars. I've been trying to break the habit for years now, sometimes I do good but sometimes I don't and I'm so self-conscious about it all.

thank you for requesting sweetheart!! fem, 1k

Eddie thinks there may be no better feeling than your hand in his as Eddie lays on your shoulder. You have this thing about your arms where they can get a little sore from picking, so you can’t always let him lean on them. Good thing he takes his super hot babe angel any way you’ll have him. 

“Super what?” you ask. 

“My super hot babe angel,” he says into the top of your shoulder, slouched in the dark, TV burning his eyes. 

“I missed everything you just said,” you murmur apologetically. 

Eddie forces himself to stop laying so heavily against your side and gives you some space. He’s worried he’ll elbow you as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. “I asked if you wanted to go to bed, super babe.” 

“Is that what the rock stars are calling their girlfriends?” you ask. 

“Just me.” He clambers off of the couch with a groan. His hair falls in his eyes and he’s too hot for the weather tonight. “I’m gonna brush my teeth.” 

You’d already done yours. You usually get ready for bed in one process where Eddie drags it out all night; you’re in your pyjamas with spearmint on your tongue already, while Eddie’s groggy and overdressed two hours later. 

You go separate ways for a few minutes, the bed squeaking as you drop yourself in it, while Eddie puts his hair up to wash his face and brush his teeth. He takes his shirt off when he’s done, his jeans next, kicked into a pile by the hamper and ready for tomorrow’s laundry. 

“That’s forward,” you mumble, having made yourself comfortable with his worst pillow, the blanket pulled back on his side of the bed in wait for him. 

He rushes into new pyjama pants, eager to slide into bed beside you, though the sheets are a bit much. You’re still in your long sleeve tee. 

Eddie knows what you’re doing. Most summer nights you wait for him to fall asleep before you take off your shirt, too hot to suffer it but too afraid he’ll see your arms. He has, of course, seen them before. He loves them just as much as any part of you, even if you hate them. 

And he wants to see them to know you aren’t going too far. 

“Shirt off,” he says, fingers on your hip. “Come on, super babe. Too hot for that.” 

“Eddie…”

“Take it off, sweetheart.” 

He wouldn’t talk to you like that if he didn’t know you’d say no if you really couldn’t handle it; he’d never force you to show your insecurities, even if he’s seen them and loved on them before. 

You don’t bother sitting up any more than you need to, peeling off your shirt and shucking it onto the floor, leaving you in your tank top. Lengths of your arms exposed. 

He can see the worst of it quickly. You’ve picked yourself bloody at the crook of your elbow and the scar at your wrist is irritated. Your non-dominant arm takes the brunt of it every time, but besides those two cruel places, the rest of your skin is unharmed. Scarred in places, but healed. 

“Look at that one,” he mumbles, taking your arm, his thumb close but not touching the wound. “Does that hurt?” 

“Not really.” 

“Let me get something. You need a dressing–”

“Eddie, please don’t.” 

Eddie likes smiling. He can be pretty moody, but you bring out the best in him. Even when you’re hurting, he has a smile waiting for you, locked and loaded. He shifts in bed so he can lean over you, weight braces on his elbow, his face in his hand. “What’s worrying you so much?” he asks. 

“Everything.” 

“It’s tough.” He blows a breath at your eyelashes. Your eyes shutter closed. “Babe, it’s really tough, but you don’t have to hide it from me.” 

“It’s weird.” 

“It’s not weird, it’s sad. It’s not nice that you feel so worried you start hurting yourself, but it’s not weird.” He leans down to kiss your furrowed brow, but he doesn’t quite get there, nose smushed to your hairline. “You’re perfect.” 

“M’not perfect.” 

“Yes you are,” he says, cupping your face. His hand is gentle, his kiss less so. He hopes it emphasises his point. 

“Your hair is really tickling me.” 

“I can’t go anywhere, I’m sorry. I have to stay right here,” he says, hand trailing down your chest to weave between your arm and side, and then soundly under your back. He doesn’t want a ring or bracelet to snag on your sore arm. “Give me a hug, super babe. Please.” 

You bring your arms up tentatively behind him. 

“I just wanna know when you’re upset,” he says. 

“Sorry. I don’t really think about it, I just do it.” 

“I know, but… this stuff doesn’t bother me. You don’t have to wait for me to be sleeping before you take your shirt off, you have nothing to hide from me.” 

“It’s so stupid.” 

He hates the shame in your tone. “It’s not stupid. We need to find better ways for you to feel better, that’s all.” His cheek rubs against yours. 

He can rebuke your worries all night, but he doesn’t need to. He shifts onto his side to let you hug his chest with more force, your face in his neck, the cold tip of your nose and your warm lips. “I wanna be pretty like you.” 

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks. 

You hum a yes. 

“Even though I always have at least one zit, and all those weird stretch marks on my shoulders, and my hair’s frizzy every day?” 

“None of that stuff matters,” you say, startled. 

“Exactly. None of this stuff matters.” He finds your arm to feel down to the sore scab on your wrist. “I just need you to tell me about it more often. Okay? Deal?” 

You breathe in the side of his neck. “Okay, handsome. Deal.” 

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

[tteokdoroki]

☆༉ — KATSUKI BAKUGOU. in good hands.

about. katsuki experiences phantom pain in his hands from quirk usage and you try to massage the pain away.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! sfw, hurt comfort, fluff, angst, phantom pain/limb, war arc references, ptsd, mentions of therapy, descriptions of pain, bakugou being loved so tender, afab!reader + pro hero!bakugou.

the idea of giving bakugou hand massages is so intimate.

his quirk is so raw and powerful, i feel like becoming a pro-hero would only make his palms more calloused, cause aches between his fingers and scars that burn like with a phantom pain at random points during the day. and even though katsuki is smart enough to know that his scars have healed, his wounds have scabbed over and new skin has grown — he can’t shake the stabbing, tingling feeling that crawls up his arms as if a thousand tiny needles are pricking him.

the massages start when you catch bakugou on his knees in the middle of your shared bedroom, his hands clenched in fists so tight his nails have made his palms bleed. you set the fright in his eyes, the ache intertwined with the mauve brown that forms a rim around the ruby centre.

“what…what happened kats?” you’re quick to fall to your knees by his side, hesitant to touch him, worried for his safety — because katsuki hasn’t been like this in years. he’s been doing so well, seeing his therapist and taking his meds — ever since the day he came back to life.

but you know just by looking at him and listening to the ragged breaths just barely escaping his lungs, that bakugou is not okay. “i don’t fucking know,” his voice is strangled and panicked, like a deer caught in a hunter’s trap it can’t escape. “it just…it just fucking hurts a-and i can’t get it to stop.”

that day, you hesitantly reach out to touch katsuki— trying not to spook him as if he’s a frazzled wild animal. “let me see,” you whisper evenly, avoiding a croak in your voice because seeing him hurt, hurts you. slowly but surely, the blonde uncurls his fists, letting you take his hands into your own — smaller ones. at first, his strong and muscular stature flinches back, crumbles down to the ground in chunks of the brash man he used to be. “it’s okay, baby, i got you.”

your words wrap around katsuki like a tender hug, safe and secure between each and every one. your finger tips trace softly over the marred flesh of his hands, guiding katsuki through each of his painfully relived memories. trembles wrack the blonde’s body like a high magnitude earthquake — he can barely hold it back now, the tears that gather in his sun kissed lashes and burn tracks down his cheeks. but you don’t want him to hold back. you want him to feel.

thumbing the parts of his hands where the pain is centred, you lean forward to kiss bakugou on the forehead, providing an epicentre of relief. he wouldn’t call you a cure, no, it’d be too selfish to put the burden of his ease on the person he loves most. instead, he says that you help him heal, soothing the fuzziness locked between his cramping digits and extends up the muscles of his arms.

when you touch him as if he’s made of glass, katsuki knows that he can be vulnerable with you and that dull ebb of phantom agony seems to dissipate under the gentle drag of your fingertips over his skin. the two of you stay on the floor for a little longer, working through the aches pulsing in katsuki’s palms and arms until they eventually stop — just like his tears do.

“thank you,” he says, voice as quiet as you’ve ever heard it. “‘m sorry—“

“never be sorry for being in pain or asking for help.” you cut him off before his words take residence in the quiet hum of the air. shifting to your knees so that you tower over him (sitting legs crossed on the floor), you drag katsuki’s head to rest in your chest — cradling him and shielding him from the cruel world. “i don’t ever want you to be sorry for this. i’ll by your side no matter what. you hear me, baby?”

katsuki only nods, knowing doesn’t need to respond with words while his hands hesitantly come up to wrap around your waist. he pulls you into him so that you don’t disappear. and while you stroke back his hair and squeeze him so tight — katsuki realises that as long as he has you, he’ll never be weak or have to hide how much life hurts sometimes.

as long as he’s with you, he’ll be in good hands.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou fluff #bakugou angst #bakugou imagines #bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugo x you #bakugou drabbles #bakugo drabble #bakugo imagines #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha fluff #bnha imagines #bakugo angst #katsuki bakugou x reader #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki #angelshubnetwork

[gh0stsp1d3r]

hiii! i hope ur doing well, if you wanna can u do a luke castellan x gn!reader fic, maybe jealous luke??

𝒥ℯ𝒶𝓁ℴ𝓊𝓈𝓎

A/n: i love jealous bfs anon mwah

Warnings: jealousy, luke gets in a fight, mentions of blood, overprotective luke in here as well, Luke is the god of daddy issues, abandonment issues

You knew Luke was a jealous person- he just managed to hide it very, very well. Usually, you calmed his rage and sadness by reassuring him that he was the only one you wanted.

But this jerk would not stop talking to you. It’s been 40 minutes, and no matter what Luke did he would not stop, and Luke suddenly entered that rage that where he had no clue what he was doing as he stepped forward.

Throwing his cup down, pushing past the partygoers, and making his way towards you. His jaw clenched as he set his eyes on the man, how much he just wanted to squeeze the fucking life out of him. He wanted to see the man suffer.

You noticed Luke, and you were going to stop him, but there was no stopping Luke when it came to you. He landed a punch on the man, the man groaned.

“What the fuck, man? What’s wrong with y-?” The campers came over and formed a circle, none of them dared to try and stop Luke, knowing that if they tried they would probably get punched.

“Luke!” You yelled, desperately trying to pull him off the man. Luke continued landing blows on the man’s face, it was bloody, and you finally managed to get Luke to stop after a little.

“Jesus, Fucking..”

Of course the man’s wounds had healed, he was a child of Hades, Luke soon recognized.

The man went to attack Luke now, but you just grabbed Luke’s hand, pulling on it. You both darted out of the party, seeing Chiron making his way there to see what all the noise was.

“Luke, what the fuck is wrong with you?” You asked him, breathless as you hid behind your cabin.

“He was flirting with you! You both were talking for like 40 minutes!”

“He wasn’t flirting with me.” You shook your head rapidly. You noticed him gripping onto his bloodied and bruised hand.

“I know he was, I know how guys like him think.” His raised voice faltered as you softly grabbed his wrist, examining his wounds.

“Oh, Luke.” You mumbled.

“I’m fine.” He grabbed his hand away, and you just looked at him again.

“Even if he was flirting with me, why would you do that?”

He stayed silent for a moment. Tears welled in his eyes, begging to be let out.

“Because, what if you left with him?” He admitted it quietly, you sighed and shook your head, your hand reached up to his face, and you ran a thumb over his scar. His other hand reached up to grab your hand.

His abandonment issues. Most of it is rooted in his dad, leaving Luke when he needed him the most. He’s terrified at the thought of losing you too.

“I would never. I’ve told you this so many times, Luke, I love you and only you. I would never want to leave with anyone other than you. Okay? So, next time, just talk about it with me. Don’t go punching people.” You whispered the words quietly.

He laughed and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

“I’ll apologize to him. But I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. Let’s go clean up that, okay?”

#luke castellan x you #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan fluff #charlie bushnell x reader #charlie bushnell #pjo #pjo tv show #percy jackon and the olympians

[dr3c0mix]

Hello, I'm the person who requested the yandere orc and I just wanted to say I loved it! At the end of that request I said I would ask for minotaur if you didn't do orc. But I still want to request yandere minotaur because I am a big fan of how you write yandere stuff. So can you please write yandere minotaur x reader.

(I would like it if the minotaur was just a hunk of muscle that no one would dare mess with, but becomes putty for reader. If you have another idea, use it!)

Flowers For My Cleric

Yandere! Minotaur x GN Reader

Edit!! Nsfw content removed! Replaced with some extra fluff!!

🌾 Ashvan was a part of a clan of warriors, ones that are feared and respected for their strength and brutality throughout the land.

🌾 He's seen fighters of all kinds from the biggest orcs and golitaths to the smallest goblins and kobalts. He's seen almost everything and everyone on the battlefield.

🌾 But nothing prepared him for you.

🌾 You looked so small and soft compared to everyone else. So out of place from the rough and tough warriors with bodies decorated in scars and tattoos.

🌾 It was during a welcoming feast that he first met you. You were the newest member of the clan and everyone welcomed you warmly.

🌾 He asked one of his close friends what your deal was and he learned that you were supposed to be their healer.

🌾 Vibrant music played in the tavern, but all he could see and hear was you and your adorable little laugh.

🌾 Your smile shined like the sun and your movements were so graceful and soft.

🌾 You went around meeting everyone, occasionally healing a fresh wound or two until he came face to face with you in all your glory.

🌾 "H-hi.."

🌾 "Hi!.."

🌾 He's almost crumbling at the sight of you. It's the first time he's ever been nervous.

🌾 Never before has he felt such a feeling, not even when he was facing the deadliest foes. How is a big and tough minotaur like himself shaking at the feet of such a gentle creature?

🌾 You start to laugh awkwardly the more he just kept staring at you. You pat his arm comfortingly before moving on to greet the rest of the clan.

🌾 It felt as if he was touched with the finest silk!

🌾 You'd run into him quite often while in the clan. You'd see him laughing with his friends with confidence and pride in his walk, but the moment you say hello, he'd be reduced to a stuttering babbling mess trying to say hi back. His friends would have to bring him away from you so he won't embarrass himself further.

🌾 "O-oh! Hello cleric! W-we were just uh..going to spar, you can join us if you want..b-but you don't have to! I mean you're probably busy but I would love to have you there..n-not to spar though! I mean you can..but you can watch..I-I'm not calling you weak or anything! You probably can take care of yourself pretty well, b-but if you ever need anyone to protect you, you know..o-only if you want to-"

🌾 He follows you around sometimes, pretending to be doing something else like carrying around some supplies or sharpening his weapon. When you turn away, he would have a lovesick smile on his face.

🌾 If you catch him staring, he'd panic and try to hide behind a barrel or crate, doesn't really help that he's a large minotaur. You'd giggle at the sight of a tall and fearsome creature hiding from you as best as he could with his tail and horns peeking through the crate.

🌾 "M-me? Hiding? Noooo! I-I don't need to hide! I-I'm a warrior!..heheh.."

🌾 His friends would try to help him out, telling him advice that may or may not work. I don't think gifting your crush the head of your enemies is pretty romantic though...

🌾 You would be fixing up your medical supplies when you feel a tap on your shoulder, you turn around and Ashvan would be towering above you, shakily offering you a small, sort of roughed up bouquet of wild flowers in his large cloven hand.

🌾 Some of the stems look a bit bent and most of their petals have fallen off, but it's cute either way.

🌾 "C-Cleric! I uhm...found these uhm..flowers and uh..thought of you!..Well they're small and cute..n-not saying you're small! I-I mean you are because I'm bigger and stuff and uhm...j-just take them.."

🌾 You giggle and thank him, taking the flowers from him. He huffs out from his snout as your hands touch. As you take the flowers from him, he grunts, nodding as he awkwardly walks away.

🌾 As soon as he's out of sight, he's giggling like a little schoolgirl at the thought of you liking his gift, he's going off to get more flowers for you if you don't mind.

🌾 He might confuse normal plants he finds cute as flowers, so you now have a vase full of yellow wheat he got from a field one day.

🌾 The first time he was sent to be healed by you was like being in heaven. He watched you closely as you gently healed the gash on his chest as if it was a seam on a fabric.

🌾 He took the time to study your face, how you stuck your tongue out or pursed your lips when you concentrate, or the way you ghost your delicate fingers over his rough skin, it took a lot not to swoon as you touched his chest.

🌾 "You're uhm...very good with your hands! hahah.."

🌾 Yes he steals your clothes, and its ok because you have more anyway that he'll also eventually steal...

🌾 He would get hurt on purpose to see you again and be touched by you, going to bed that night and fantasizing about you coddling and cooing over him. Hey! Even a big burly minotaur wants to be treated right!!

🌾 But for now, he's just a shy and nervous bull man who adores you from far away <3

#yandere x gn reader #yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere #oc yandere #yandere male #yandere oc #tw yandere #x reader #yandere x you #terat0philliac #terato #monsterfucker #monster lover #monster x human #monster smut #teratophillia #minotaur #minotaur x reader #minotaur boyfriend #minotaur smut #monster boyfriend #monster x reader #monster fluff #yandere fluff

[cocklessboy]

I see a lot of people saying that gender-affirming health care like top surgery for trans people like myself should be freely available (which is correct), but one of the reasons they often give is that top surgery is very safe and has a very low rate of complications compared to other surgeries. And I often see transphobes clutching their pearls over the few people who do have complications. What about them?! What if you're one of the unlucky ones?! Should we really let those transes risk it??!!!

Setting aside the fact that no one raises such concerns over other types of surgery, I'd like to use myself as an example for anyone who needs one.

In May of 2022 I had top surgery (double mastectomy). The surgery was done by a gynecological surgeon, not a plastic surgeon, because that way my insurance would cover it.

The surgeon did his job and removed the breast tissue, but he did not make it look pretty. I have dog-ears at both ends of both scars (extra bits of skin that hang off in a very unappealing fashion), my chest still looks unnaturally flat with no muscle or fat despite a lot of working out, and one of the stitches didn't heal properly and was left as an open wound through "secondary healing" for several months before it finally healed over into a very large scab (and eventually a very large scar). My nipples are uneven and irregular and look... well, just awful, really. Due to bad genetic luck, I wound up with keloid scars which, instead of getting smaller and lighter over time, have instead expanded, becoming thicker and darker. Worst of all, I now have chronic nerve pain in my chest. My GP thinks the surgeon must have hit a nerve during the procedure, and now I have random sharp pains all over my chest even now, nearly ten months later. The pain might improve with time, or it might not.

I basically had almost every possible complication one can have from this surgery short of infection or death. Some of the aesthetics might be fixable with more surgery (though plastic surgery will be expensive). Some are probably permanent. I might never feel comfortable taking my shirt off in public again. I might have to tattoo over the scars.

And pay attention to this next bit, because it's the most important part of this whole post: I do not regret the surgery. Even with all the complications and the ugly state of my chest and the pain. If someone said they could push a button and make it so that the surgery never happened and I'd have a perfect, unmarred chest with C-cup breasts again, I would tell them to take their button and fuck right off. Because even with basically the worst of all possible outcomes, that surgery was the best thing that ever happened to me.

I don't feel good about taking my shirt off in front of people now. I do think my chest is ugly. But it's a male chest now. When I put on a t-shirt, it rests flat against my chest. No one will ever mistake me for a woman again. I'll never have to wear a bra or binder ever again.

The dysphoria I felt from having breasts was so severe that a hideously scarred chest and chronic pain are vastly preferable. The euphoria I feel when I look in the mirror with a shirt on is something I never knew I was capable of feeling.

And it's my fucking body, and it's up to me what I do with it. If I wanted to tattoo myself from head to toe, or file my teeth into fangs, or have a doctor break my legs and surgically implant extensions to make me taller, that's my right because it's my body. The fact that all those things are regarded as basically acceptable (if a little weird), but I had to have a dehumanizing interview with an old cis psychiatrist who hates trans people and wants us all sterilized just to get a piece of paper giving me permission to have my tits removed, is fucking absurd.

Top surgery (of any kind) is generally very safe, and complications are rare. But even with the worst outcome, a trans person will basically never regret it.

And frankly, if a cis woman wants her tits cut off, or a cis man wants a pair of boobs to play with on his own chest, more power to them because literally who gives a fuck what people do to their own bodies? I saw a dude on TV when I was a kid who'd tattooed his whole body to look like a cat, filed his teeth into fangs, and had loads of plastic surgery to surgically implant whiskers and make his face look more feline. It was weird! But literally no one said that should be banned because he might regret it. It's his body to do whatever weird shit he wants with.

The next time someone clutches their pearls and kicks and screams about how you can't let someone permanently alter their body in a way they might regret, feel free to point to me and my complete and utter lack of regret.

(Or have a little fun with it, go hard in the other direction, and say you absolutely agree, which is why we should ban ALL non-emergency surgeries until the patient has been FULLY evaluated by three psychiatrists - along with tattoos and piercings. Oh, and ballet lessons for anyone under the age of 25, since ballet changes the structure of a child's body FOREVER.)

#transgender #transmasc #trans man #lgbtqia+ #queer #top surgery #gender dysphoria

[cringe--is--dead]

Can I request headcanon of Jason Todd/Red Hood (Under the Red Hood movie) being with fem s/o who can magically heal just about anything no matter how severe the wounds are and how deadly the diseases, but she can't heal herself; she is serene, gentle and soft spoken please?

I think Jason Todd deserves the world, so yes, I shall! Thank you for the request!

You Playing Doctor Now? Jason Todd x Meta!Reader

The door slamming open and shut had become a sound you were used to. Months ago it would have startled you, made you jump nearly out of your skin, especially given the area you found yourself living in. Now, however, the sound was almost comforting to you.

The slam of the door meant your boyfriend was home, alive, but from the sluggish sound of his footsteps, not uninjured. You paused what you were doing, carefully chopping vegetables for the stew you had been planning on making.

You set the knife down, washing your hands rather quickly, before making your way into the living room. Sure enough, Jason was sat on the couch, having taken his helmet off himself, sweaty and breathing heavily, his eyes shut.

His hair was nearly plastered to his forehead, and he didn't open his eyes to your entrance, despite hearing your footsteps grow closer. You took stock of his appearance, cuts and fresh bruises lined his cheeks, and you were sure there were other injuries beneath his armor if the thin trail of blood from your doorway was any indicator.

"You should see the other guy," Was the first sentence he offered you, lips curled in an attempt of a smirk, but his labored breathing made it appear more of a grimace.

"I'd rather not waste my time looking at dead bodies," Despite your worry, you joked back, voice soft as you knelt down in front of him.

He cracked open his eyes, sighing as he took in your sight. Your eyebrows were furrowed with worry, eyes raking over his appearance, no doubt calculating just how injured he was. He shifted, leaning towards you, prying a glove off before caressing your cheek, thumb softly brushing the cheek bone.

"I'm fine."

You rolled your eyes, rather used to hearing that line fall from his lips, "You and I both know that's a lie," You stood up, hands on your hips, "Take the armor off."

He raised an eyebrow, trying to deflect your concern, "Take me to dinner first."

You barely rose to the bait, "Dinner will be ready sooner if you let me treat your injuries without a fight."

The two of you stared at each other for a silent moment, before he relented. He had never thought he'd meet someone whose stubbornness outweighed his, and he never would have thought that someone as sweet as you could be harder-headed than him.

"Alright, alright," He hated that he was struggling to remove his own armor, muscles sore and screaming at him.

You shook your head as he dropped his clothes onto the ground, stepping forward, tender hands pressing gently to his skin. You started on his face first, palms cupping his jaw, and he relaxed into your hold, the warmth of your hands fighting the nippy cold from outside that still lingered in his bones.

You made a soft tsk, and he felt the odd sensation of the cuts on his cheek closing themselves up, not having to open his eyes to know that your gaze was unwavering, eyes glowing inhumanly, the color a brighter hue of the normal ones he fell in love with.

"The scars will fade quickly," You murmured, voice low as you moved your hands from his face, gently pressing against his shoulders, biceps, forearms, taking assessment of the damage.

He opened his eyes to watch you, a smile forming on his face as you continued muttering to yourself, cursing him for trying to hide his injuries, easily reversing the damage that had occurred to him hours before.

"Jason Todd," You scolded, pressing your hands against his ribs, eyes narrowing into a glare, "You were going to hide broken ribs from me?"

He chuckled sheepishly, "I've handled worse."

"Doesn't mean you have to now," He felt energy buzz under his skin, sucking in a quick breath as he felt his ribs fuse back together, "I'll do whatever I can to make sure of that."

He knew that, he knows that. But more often than not he feels as if he's taking advantage of you, of your abilities. He didn't know if your powers made you selfless, or if your selflessness manifested your powers. But he does know that you would run yourself ragged if it meant you could help every injured or ill-ridden person you came across.

He didn't want to admit it to anyone, let alone the rest of the stupid bird family of his, but he did go out of his way now to avoid massive injuries. If he came back with just a few scratches or bruises, he could talk you out of healing him, telling you paper cuts hurt worse than the injuries he had now.

He had less luck when he came home with cracked bones or bullet holes. He knew, and you knew, he would heal faster than normal thanks to the Lazarus Pit, but your powers worked almost instantly. You'd rather heal him immediately, rather than let him set for a few hours, body healing itself.

In a matter of five minutes, all his injuries were gone, leaving nothing but dried blood and faint scaring in their places. You sat back on your heels, eyes their normal shade, smiling up at him.

"There you are," You stood, leaning to place a soft, quick kiss to his lips, pulling back to run a hand through his hair, "Good as new."

"You enjoy playin' doctor, huh?"

The blush on your cheeks had him grinning like mad, and you rolled your eyes to avoid eye contact. He caught your hand in his, resting your knuckles against his lips, "Thanks doll."

You went to move, more than likely heading back to finish tonight's meal, but a flash of white caught his eye, and he grabbed your hand, turning it palm up. You stood, eyebrow raised in confusion as he ran his fingers across your skin gently, feeling the rough bandage across your palm.

"What happened?"

Your lips formed a quick 'o', grinning almost sheepishly, "I nicked myself cutting the carrots a bit earlier," You let him fiddle with your hand, your fingers for a moment longer, shrugging, "It's fine, I dressed it."

"I wish you could heal yourself."

He had found himself saying that so many times, wishing you could use your abilities selfishly. You healed him, no questions asked. You used to babysit some of the kids in the area, kissing away scraps and bruises under the guise that kisses healed everything when they looked at you in wonder. You held injured birds, cats, and dogs in the alleyways, taking care of their illnesses brought by hunger, correcting broken wings and crooked paws like it was as simple as breathing.

But whenever you were injured, struck down by a fever, found yourself in a situation where you needed help, you were helpless to do anything for yourself.

Your powers, Jason thought, were a blessing and a curse.

You shrugged, "Even if I could, wasting my abilities on a little cut? I'm fine."

His gaze met yours, and you understood the look he was giving you. You were repeating his own sentiments to him now, but you stood by it. Even if you could heal yourself, there were others who needed your energy and powers more than you did. Why would you have been born with this power if not to help others?

That's the notion you were raised on, and while Jason wanted you to put yourself first, protect yourself over strangers in the streets, he also knew that mindset was why the two of you met.

No one else would have rushed to the side of a downed Red Hood in the streets, covered in a mixture of his blood and the blood of those he killed. Everyone else would have run off or ignored him, but you rushed to his side, not asking questions, not trying to remove his hood or armor, hands placed where ever you could put them, and before he knew it, the dizziness brought on by blood loss was gone.

The rest was history.

He stood up, "Let me redress it at least," He squeezed your hand gently, "A lifetime of healing and you don't even know how to properly apply a band-aid."

You pouted but laughed along as he dragged you behind him to the bathroom, the first aid kit he forced you to buy still laying out on the counter.

You chattered away, talking about how your day had been, the kittens you saw coming back from the store earlier, how you got rid of their flea-ridden infections, and how you went back a few hours later and set up a box with some blankets in it for them. You mentioned keeping an eye on them, and bringing them home if no one claimed them in the next few days. He listened intently, cleaning the cut and dabbing some neosporin on it, wishing he could do more for your injuries, regardless of how small there were.

He'd do whatever he was able to though, wrapping any cuts you got, icing any bruises that appeared, he'd carry you everywhere if you required him to. He'd do that for as long as you'd let him.

Sorry, I had no idea how to end it. I hope you liked it!

#dc x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd request #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #red hood x you #meta!reader #jason todd x meta!reader #dc x meta!reader

[groguspicklejar]

part 6 of medieval ghoap x reader

warnings: angst by the bucketloads, deception, anxiety, brief mentions of Simon's abusive upbringing, reader is fearful, blood, implied murder, themes of forced prostitution, elements of sexual violence and trauma, fluff.

"let me see.” she gently angles your head so she can take a better look at it under the candlelight. "that's quite a nasty bruise."

the healer’s gaze had focused on the mark on your cheek before her thumb grazed the cut on your lip. you sat stiffly on the king’s bed as the elder woman examined your wounds and tended to them as best as she could.

though you suspect she only handled you with the utmost care because Ghost was hovering nearby, watching her every move or listening to what she says because he doesn’t trust that she would be kind to you. of course, you know this is true because she has tended to some of the men and women in the harem and she wasn’t nearly as gentle as she was with them as she is now. she never failed to voice her dislike for the “common whores” in this castle.

for once, you appreciated Ghost’s presence.

she spares you one last look after she was done, she gives the king and the knight a bow before she leaves. at the very least, you can now breathe easier without feeling like someone might curse you for your existence. well… almost.

you’ll take the healer’s disapproving glare over Ghost’s scowl any hour of the day.

in the meantime, you were kept in the king's chambers. the wounds on your face didn't look too bad anymore. less swollen now. hopefully, there won't be a scar.

you doubt you'd earn a good coin with a marred face. men don't ever like broken little things, even though they often cause the damage.

"it'll heal, bonnie. don't ye worry." the king plucks the small mirror from your grasp and puts it away before he pulls you onto his lap. "right, Si?"

Ghost doesn’t answer him. instead, he walks over to sit down next to you and the king. his dark armour, all sharp edges and hard steel contrasting against the soft sheets. a testament to what he is; a warrior, a conduit of death.

you try not to bristle as he settles so close when you're sitting on his beloved. it's not usually out of his own volition too, so that is yet another thing you're conscious of. you hate how it churns your stomach, the thought of instigating his rage by being anywhere near the king while he watches.

“is there anything you need, love?” he asks.

and for a moment, you are momentarily stunned that he even cares enough to inquire.

yes, you do need a lot of things, actually. safe passage back to your aunt’s manor, for one. though you’re not certain that the king would even agree to that. let alone allow not one, but two of her best saddles to leave.

you’ll continue working on that as time goes on.

“Madam Victoria has something of mine.” the king rubs your back, trying to soothe you. “a letter.”

"a letter." Ghost muses, tilting his head. "from who?"

you still feel the sting on your cheek. too often, you've faced Victoria's wrath. it comes back to haunt you in this quiet moment, making it exceedingly difficult not to squirm on the king's lap.

"my aunt." you quietly said, gaze casting off to the side. "she lives far from here, but... she's the only family i have left."

you miss her. dearly. you haven't seen her in so long but you still remember the warmth of her voice. it was the same as your mother's.

you don't try to shift away when the king holds you a little tighter. "the letter she sent had arrived two days ago and..."

and you have yet to read it, to hold it in your hands. you miss the scent of her perfume. of a home long lost to you. a home you're trying to return to.

"was Victoria the one who hurt you?" it's the king who asks.

your eyes shift to him, blinking rapidly to try and simmer back the tears.

"no, it was her guard and—" you nearly choke when you remember the sting, but you take a breath and continue. "well, i'd like to have my letter, please... if that's not too much to ask."

you want to crawl into a dark hole and stay there for all eternity when the silence falls on their end. when they look at you like... like... you don't know.

you hate it. you don't want to be looked at anymore.

"alright." Ghost concedes, nodding softly. "alright, i'll speak to that old hag."

you were alone in the tub of steaming water, contemplating the events that had led you here.

Victoria had ordered you to come to her study, where she had cornered you and confronted you about your aunt's letters. you weren't surprised that she read them. she reads everyone's letters. no respect for privacy and whatnot but you had grown used to it and you had nothing to hide.

but she was furious that you were planning to leave. why?

"you have the king's favour." she hissed. "you can't leave."

frankly, you wouldn't call it favour. a fleeting interest, more like. soon, he'll tire of you and discard you like the rest. the only reason he's kept you around this long is because Ghost wouldn't let him have you, which only deepened his desire for what was denied of him.

it's nothing more than that. and you don't doubt that desire won't fizzle out like water under the weight of the sun on a hot summer's day. it is simply a matter of time. you were only trying to secure the only future you could once that came to pass.

unfortunately, Victoria didn't care. she was far too concerned with making more of a profit out of your labour.

you didn't much appreciate that. and you did voice you objections to that. she didn't take it well. neither did her guards. he backhanded you for standing up to Victoria like that, for speaking out of turn. the metal on his knuckles hurt and cut your lip. you had fell down from the impact.

"are ye sure the water's not too hot?" the king asks, eyes brimming with concern. he can barely dip his fingers in the water's without wincing.

"it's fine." you rest your chin on your knees, ignoring the sore bruise on the left one. you hugged your legs, eyes drifting away from him. "i like it this way."

it usually helps to scrub off the disgusting feeling of men's touch on your skin. you felt better after a hot bath. not as clean as you'd like to be after fulfilling your duties with some entitled lord, but the scorching water leaving your skin raw made you feel less filthy.

you cling to that feeling now more than ever. Victoria tends to have that effect. she was just as vile as the men she catered to. which is why you cannot stay here for much longer.

since the king picked you, you never had to sleep with another man. the incident with Graves had granted you some protection and your responsibilities only shifted to the king and his knight only.

once the king's vested interest in you wanes, you'll be forced to going back to serving the other lords again. and you can't have that. you're too exhausted, too weak to go back to that life again. it'll break you this time. you can't go back to that again.

you won't. you won't—

"bonnie." your eyes fluttered open, blurry gaze shifting to him.

you hadn't realized the prickle in the corners of your eyes. the king had knelt next to the tub, his hand grasping the back of your neck.

"what's wrong?" it's a plea. "tell me."

the storm in his blue eyes calls to your heart. you want it to whisk you away, far from here. far from this castle, this madness.

but he's a man. he's always had a choice, a freedom he'll always take for granted. a freedom you might never reach, even with the tips of your fingers. he wouldn't understand.

you don't have the words, nor the energy to make him understand the agony of the things you've been forced to do. so you do what you only been taught to do.

feign a smile, despite how frail, despite the tightness in your chest, and say, "it's nothing, your majesty."

you don't know what he finds when he takes a moment to look at you. though it feels more like he's looking through you. it's easier not to ask.

but there's something in his gaze, something in the way he frowns and the way his shoulders drop slightly. something akin to disappointment, almost a quiet... grief.

what could he possibly be grieving?

instead of pushing for your honesty, he relents and gives you his own smile. just as artificial, though softer. "how about a cup of tea to soothe yer nerves?"

you don't say no to that.

Simon sat opposite from Madam Victoria with her desk being the only thing separating the two. her study was quite large. books lined the walls and a low flame burned in the fireplace opposite them.

the pointed ends of his metallic claws lazily tapped on the wooden table from pinkie to index, slowly taunting her with the noise echoing through the deafening silence of her chambers. she watched his gauntlet move with a vested interest in staying away from it.

her two guards stand sentinel behind her, silver armour polished and shiny, limbs tense and poised for an attack. good. the weight of Ghost's presence had better crush them for what they did.

although her appearance seemed neat, she struggled to hide her terror. Ghost glimpses the sweat lining her forehead, the wrinkles around her wicked eyes straining. she looks paler than usual.

good.

"where's the letter, Victoria?"

Ghost nearly smiles when she jerks at his words. it's a small comfort, a small retribution for the way you often flinch around him and Johnny. he thinks of your fear, barely restrained behind tight smiles, curtsies, clasped hands and a lowered gaze, he thinks of how you shy away from Johnny's touch when he seeks it out, how your voice has remained quiet ever since they met you.

how afraid you were when you were faced with his ire, so ready to remove yourself from Johnny's side if only to be spared of any consequences.

all thanks to this wretched hag sitting in front of him.

the horrors you must've endured under her 'care'... Ghost's fist clenched before he could even think about it.

"so she sent you to retrieve it..." she says as she pulls an envelope from the drawer in her desk. "i thought you didn't like her."

"what i like is none of your concern." he snatches the letter from her, relishing the way her hands quickly retract from his metal claw as if it'll snatch them instead.

if she's not careful with her words, he just might. the guards shift, only slightly, cautious of his movements. he wants to laugh at them.

the envelope has already been opened, its red seal broken. his metal claws scratch the paper, testing the texture of it. "and was this worth slapping her across the face?"

"i didn't do that." she quickly spoke before her expression shifted to that similar to disdain. "and she's planning to leave." he stiffens. his eyes heated and dark quickly shifting to meet her gaze. "she and another one of those filthy whores."

leave?

something in his chest seizes uncomfortably. the words in his throat lodge there. his eyes lock on the letter. he suddenly wants to read it. to see if it's true.

no—

he shouldn't want that. he can't be selfish. it's only warranted your fear. your privacy has been violated enough. it wouldn't be right. but...

the thought of you leaving...

believe me, if i h—had a choice in the matter, i—i wouldn't be here.

had you actually meant what you said that day? and if so, how far away would you be? just how far? so far neither he nor Johnny could reach you?

how far, sweet girl? how far would you be?

"no one would want them." Victoria hisses, drawing his attention away from the paper, her face marred with a rage that tinted her cheeks red. "they're better off here than anywhere else."

fucking bitch—

he pictures her limp body hanging in the courtyard for all to see. along with the men who hurt you, who used you like you were nothing more than a toy at their disposal. sooner or later, all of them are going to rot.

Ghost vows that he will make sure of it.

"i won't kill you." he waits for the relief to bleed into her eyes before yanking it away. "for now."

her ease crumbles, just as he expected and he lapped up her despair. oh, he's going to enjoy tormenting her. toying with her the way a pack of wolves play with their food, giving her a little sense of illusion, of freedom, before taking it away.

just like she took away yours.

"but i do have to ask..." his head tilts. "which one of these fuckers laid their filthy hands on her?"

when Simon returns to the king's chambers with his cloak stained red, he senses something is wrong.

first off, you were all alone in the enormous room. and you didn't look any bit comfortable as you should've been. you had scrambled off the bed as soon as the door opened for him.

his heart breaks at your immediate fear of him. is this how his mother felt around his father? the thought makes him want to throw himself from the highest tower in the castle.

"where's Johnny?" he takes careful strides towards you and stands a good distance away, conscious of the way your hands clasp tightly at your front, of how you keep your gaze at his boots.

please look up. please, look at me—

your head shifts as you gesture to the door. "he stepped outside to speak with one of the nobles."

there's a tremble in your voice that he doesn't quite like. your eyes were red and swollen. you've been crying. here, alone. when you were sure that no one was looking.

something in his being screams for more blood. that of the guard that hit you wasn't enough. Ghost wants to bathe in the blood of every person who so much as looked at you the wrong way—

"did you... did you speak to her?" you ask, eyes shifting upward. he waits for your gaze to meet his, but it never does. it only fixes on his chest. "does she still have it?"

Simon restrains the urge to reach for you, to hold you. but he doesn't want to startle you. you're already uncomfortable under his gaze, he doesn't want to make it worse.

but it is worse. for him. his throat constricts painfully. the envelope burns in his pocket.

secondly... he doesn't think he wants to give you the letter just yet. not until he's sure if Victoria was telling the truth. that you... that you want to leave.

he wants to prevent that if he can. he wants— he hopes he can change your mind, make you want to stay here. with him and Johnny.

"no." he grits out. "i didn't find it."

he feels sick as soon as he says it. even more so when the frail hope in your eyes melts away.

"oh..." you utter solemnly, and it follows a nod and a sad smile. "well, thank you for the effort anyway, sir."

you offer a quick bow and move past him, light on your feet and hurrying to the door. he half turns, looking at you. "where are you going, love?"

in an instant, you stopped, startled by his inquiry. wide eyes glanced at him. "to my— to my chambers—"

"no." it's sharper than intended because you shrink at his tone. he's softer when he adds, "you can't go back there."

"i..." your gaze lowers as you take a step back, confused. "i—i'm n—not sure what you mean. i don't know where else to go."

he's silent. how can he make you understand that you're meant to be here? that you're not unwelcome here?

"he's yours, i understand that. i always have. and i swear to the gods that i'm not trying to come between you two." you tell him with as much truth you can muster from your heart. "i'll try my best to not draw the king's attention. i'll stay away—"

"that is not what we both want." he takes a step closer and for once, you stand your ground, your expression hardening.

"since when?" it's quiet. it's a challenge. "he might want me here, but you don't. you said so yourself."

Simon holds your gaze as the words hang like daggers pointed at him. but very quickly, your soft glare melts and your eyes fill with dread.

"sir..." you utter, your expression churning his stomach, morphing into horror at what you'd just done, hands clasped over your mouth. "i—i apologize, i spoke out of turn. i meant no disrespect, please forgive me—"

there's nothing to forgive. he couldn't care less that you spoke out of turn. you were well within your right to say whatever you want to him.

"you're not supposed to go anywhere." he softly commands. "when we say you stay here, you stay."

your mouth seals shut, gaze fixed downward, muttering one last quiet "yes, sir."

it's an agonizing sight. watching how you would rather be anywhere but here, anywhere near him. he thinks this is how he and his mother were around his pathetic excuse of a father. he detests it. he hates this sickening pit in his stomach, this fear he induces in you. it doesn't sit right with him.

he doesn't want you to look at him like that. like he's a much worse version of his father, of the men who hurt you.

he wants— no, craves that dazed look in your eyes when you're flooded with pleasure. he craves the joy in your eyes. he craves your curiosity. hell, he'll even take your anger. anything but fear.

quite the irony, considering he doesn't mind anyone else (except for Johnny) being afraid of him.

if he can give you fewer reasons to be frightened and more reasons to be comfortable, then he might be able to breathe easier.

he offers his hand instead. "you may call me Simon."

as he expected, you bristle at the name. he wonders why. you seem to avoid first names, even when you've been given the liberty to use them. that little fact didn't escape him and it didn't bother him much because he was too blinded by jealousy.

until now, that is.

"y—you have blood on your—" your eyes widen, you take a step back. "on your..."

his gaze shifts to where yours are fixated. his gauntlet. shit, he forgot about that. he takes it off and drops it to the floor, reaching for you.

"come here." the yelp escaping your throat when his hand touches yours, pulling him toward him, guts him. "no need to be frightened, sweet girl—"

he's not proud of the way you flinched when he took a step closer.

"s'alright, love. you're alright. you're safe." he wraps his arms around your frame, holding you close. "no one's gonna hurt you."

you didn't deserve his ire. nor his indifference. Johnny was right all along about you.

even when he embraced you, you remained as stiff as a cold branch with the leaves trembling in the wind. he feels the unsteady flutter of your heart under his palm, feels your petrified bones shaking in his grasp. terrified. of him.

it pains him that he cannot even fault you for that. he's given you plenty of reasons to be afraid. and he hates that did.

from there, Simon promised himself that he would never direct his rage towards you. never again.

his hand cups the back of your head, arm tightening around your waist as he whispers, "i will never hurt you again, sweet girl. i promise."

but even so, why does it feel like he's already broken that vow?

[part 7]

i was choking back the tears as i wrote this. please accept my humble offering. i know it's a bit salty, but it'll do for now. banners by @saradika and @cafekitsune offer a coin to the picklejar

#what's in the picklejar #cita!ghoap au #ghoap x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley imagine #call of duty #ghost x soap x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x reader #141 x reader #141 #task force 141 #x female reader #x fem!reader

[mystra-midnight]

In the Mountains Shadow

summary: in which he comforts you.

tags: panic attacks. ptsd. hurt/comfort.

w/c: 1.1k.

a/n: no one will ever convince me that the 100 delinquents that were sent the earth, and the subsequent 48 of them that survived mount weather don't have serious ptsd. none of them are okay.

In the late afternoon hours, there was no peace to be found—not for her.

The feeling had come from nowhere, starting so small that she hadn't even noticed it before it crashed against the shore of her emotions, where it shattered into a thousand pieces, and infected her blood. If she could, she'd pull the blood from her veins to stop the feeling.

She was breathing in shallow gasps as she stared at that mountain of death—its shadow looming over her, blocking out the sun until she felt swallowed by darkness. She clutched the handle of the rover to ground herself; her fingers wound so tightly around it that they ached; and her legs wobbled and threatened to give out.

It was getting harder to breathe. It felt like someone had punched her in the chest, grabbed her heart, and squeezed the air from her lungs. Why had she agreed to come back? She never wanted to see this place again, not after...

She gasped loudly and suddenly.

The memories assaulted her all at once, without warning or mercy. The humming of the drill replayed in her ears, a haunting melody that accompanied her torment. Pain scored through her limbs, radiating from the scars on her thighs. Screams echoed around her—Raven's, Abby's, and her own. She could hear Marcus begging and pleading with Cage to stop, insisting that they would donate their bone marrow.

Her stomach twisted into knots, threatening to bring her breakfast up and dump it on the ground right there beside the rover. Waterfall tears fell from her eyes, streaking down her cheeks, leaving her vision blurred. Her body shuddered as a sob welled up in her chest.

"Bellamy..."

Her voice was impossibly soft, so full of fear as the memories of her time inside the mountain continued their relentless assault. She reached out blindly for him, needing something real and warm to hold onto—someone to ground her in the storm that was threatening to undo her. "I don't think I can do this."

She hated this place; no, that was too kind of a word. She loathed this place with every fibre of her being and with every beat of her broken heart.

The mountain was filled with so much needless death—not only the mountain men and grounders but their own as well. Another sob spewed from her trembling lips—the sound gut-wrenching, cutting the dark-haired man to the core—as she remembered being trapped on level five while guards took her friends one by one. They had fought. They had screamed. They had run. None of it mattered in the end.

She remembered Fox's face when they'd found her after everything had been said and done. The blank look in her eyes, the blood dripping from her mouth, the expression etched upon her features, forever frozen in time.

"Oh god."

And then he was there.

Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and dragged her into the shelter of his body, where she buried her face against his chest, hiding from the world just as she'd done when he found her wandering the halls of the mountain. He felt her ball his shirt in her trembling hands, the material being pulled taunt across his back as her tears soaked the front. Bellamy held her tightly as the tears shuddered through her body. He wanted to cry with her, to break down and be weak, but he couldn't.

They had all been broken by the mountain, left tired and scared, but he couldn't break down. He had to be strong when the delinquents couldn't be; he'd bear it so that they didn't have to.

PTSD ran wild through the survivors of the one hundred, all forty-eight of them, and no amount of talking or time would help. Sure, their wounds would heal and scar, but the psychological trauma—the torment—would remain with them every day until they died. None of them would be okay again.

"She doesn't have to go," Bellamy said, his voice gentle as he patted her head, running his fingers through her hair in a soothing gesture. She didn't have to do this, and he wouldn't make her; he wouldn't let anyone make her.

There was a very strong loyalty that Bellamy felt for the delinquents in particular. He had a great deal to make up for, and going into Mount Weather to save them barely covered it. He would go in again, alone; he could find the things that would make their lives on post-apocalyptic-and-current-apocalyptic earth more comfortable.

Her breath was wild and erratic, impossible to catch. Inside, her lungs were burning, desperate for air, as she sobbed and hyperventilated against his chest. She clung to him without shame, her arms wrapped around his torso. He was the only thing that kept her grounded when the trauma threatened to consume her. "I can't, Bell, I can't." She repeated the words, babbling mindlessly.

She remembered how peaceful the mountain had seemed and how utterly perfect it was—a paradise found in a world trying to destroy them. She had loved being inside Mount Weather. All the history at her fingertips, real food, a soft bed, and books!

There had been so many books.

It was home.

Until Clarke pointed out the flaws and inconsistencies, and then the bubble burst. The mountain men's secrecy had come to light, and the superficial charm of Cage Wallace had peeled away like a snake's skin. She remembered Clarke escaping and how hopeless she'd felt while still trapped inside. But most of all, she remembered the feeling of the cuffs around her wrists and ankles—how her skin had been rubbed raw, cut open, and her bones drilled into.

She had been left devastated. Even the whirring of a power tool at Camp Jaha would send her into a panic. There was no concern that she was appearing weak in front of Bellamy. There was only a fear that she might not escape the mountain alive this time.

Bellamy waved for the others to go on ahead, ignoring their concerned stares. When one of them took a tentative step forward, his arms tightened around her, iron bands of muscle pressing her into his body. Above her, he shook his head, silently telling them not to look or touch.

He knew her; he saw her.

And he knew that comfort from anyone else, especially one of the adults that had been responsible for sending one hundred children to earth, would only break the little resolve she was holding onto. So Bellamy held her as she cried; he let her bury her face against his chest and hide from the world. And when her legs gave out, he went to the ground with her, and he held her still.

"I promise you're not alone," he whispered, his lips pressed against the crown of her head, his own heart breaking. He pulled her closer, held her tighter. "You'll never be alone again."

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