#literal hurt/comfort

[leighsartworks216]

No Alarms and No Surprises, Please

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I had this idea and decided to write it "real quick" (it took like two hours). I meant to do just like a really short thing so I could eat lunch and then get back to work, but then my brain was like no we gotta set up context

Titled after the song "No Surprises" by Radiohead. It doesn't exactly fit, but it felt right in my mind

Warnings: mentions of murder, tense moments, injury, burning flesh, bruises, bones breaking, blood mention, nausea mention, angst, literal hurt/comfort, soft Astarion moments

Word Count: 1,863

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You peeked slowly around the corner, holding your breath. Astarion hovered just behind you, almost touching you as you both surveyed your surroundings.

It was a palace, that much you knew. You also knew the guards were exceptionally strong. You already wasted enough healing spells and potions on the two guarding the door - you were just lucky they didn’t call for reinforcements. You also knew there was an artifact deep within the heart of this place that could provide some insight into removing the tadpoles.

“We’ll have to go around,” you breathe out slowly to the spawn. He gives a slight nod. As much as he loved bloodshed, sneak-killing all of them would be too high a risk. You almost came face to face with him when you look over your shoulder. He gives you a knowing smirk as he backs off. You nod down a side-hall. “That way.”

You gesture to Gale and Shadowheart, making sure they knew the plan. They nodded, waiting. You turn back to the patrolling sentinels. Their movements are constant and predictable, each pace following the same amount of steps. They sync, facing away from your destination, and you wave a hand for a companion to go.

Gale, ever the gentleman, lets Shadowheart go first. She hides behind the wall, out of sight. You wait again and gesture for Gale to go. He bites back complaints about his knees that creak under the duress of sneaking. He arrives just as a guard turns. Astarion could hear your heart thumping wildly in your chest; it pounds so loud in your ears you can’t even hear the guards’ footsteps anymore.

He wraps a hand around your waist, carefully pulling you away from the corner. You stare at him, worried he’s noticed something wrong. He nods toward the hall where your companions wait. “You first,” he whispers.

You want to argue - he can see the wheels turning in your head as you frown at him. As the de facto leader, you always worked to ensure everyone else was safe before you. You rested a little easier knowing you’d be the one in harm's way should something go wrong. But Astarion was a rogue, and used to sneaking around to boot. He would be much better at timing his dash to the hall than you could.

After a moment, you nodded. He pushed you back to his prior spot as he takes your place, poking an eye around the corner and studying them. He thought you’d die of a heart attack if this went on any longer. When the guards turn, he taps your waist. You crouch as quickly as you can to Gale and Shadowheart. They greet you with a tense nod.

You wait in silence for Astarion.

He almost spooks you when he comes silently around the corner. But now, further from the immediate threat, you have a chance to breathe.

The hallway stretches on for what seems like forever. Closed doors and open arch-ways line each side, perfectly mirrored. At the end, there’s a very small statue - but you’re sure it’s life size up close. The prospect of a maze with the ever-looming fear of getting caught doesn’t exactly thrill you, nor any of your companions, but nothing can be done for it.

You sigh and lead them onward.

It’s too risky to peek inside the rooms - if there were patrols inside you’d all be jumped and killed within minutes. At each arch, you glance around the corner, down the other equally as endless corridors. It’s oddly quiet. Not a guard in sight, even on grander doors that seem like they should be protected. It leaves you on edge. Waiting for the boot to drop and leave you in mortal peril. At the very least, you feel safe enough to stand up. It saves you from Gale’s grumbling.

You peer around another corridor and try to imagine the layout of the palace. You’d found a map once, but it was too tattered to make anything useful out. The most information you gleaned from it was where the staircases were. If you could find your way to one of those, you’d be able to go down, deeper into the belly of the beast. You believe, if your slipping memory of the map was correct, you could turn down this way and go all the way to the end, and there would be stairwells on either side of the very-tiny-life-sized-statue.

Resolved to your plan, you step through the ornate marble arch. You feel the pain before you register where it’s coming from. You collapse to the floor, cushioned only by a strong arm and solid body. A hand clamps over your mouth, pressing down tight to keep any sound from slipping through.

Oh. That breathless tightness in your chest is not from the pain. It’s you screaming. Trying to, at least. Your eyes dart frantically around as your body writhes against the person holding you. Gale and Shadowheart appear in front of you, kneeling down and working as fast as they can to help.

One of your legs feels weighed down. You stare at the chunk of metal for too long before it finally registers the trap clamping down on your leg. It looks and acts like a bear trap, but it’s been improved to burn red-hot when activated.

Fear grips you like a vice. You become conscious of the fact the teeth of the trap are almost meeting. It’s bitten through your bone. Or nearly through, anyway. You didn’t process it, too busy being victimized by the sadistic mechanics of the device, but Astarion, Shadowheart and Gale all felt nauseous as the crack continues to echo in their mind.

“Shh,” comes a whisper by your ear. You whimper and gasp and struggle, but the arm around your waist only re-wraps around you to pin your arms down. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

Astarion looks away from your injury, peering down the halls. The sound of the bone snapping was loud enough to attract attention, he just didn’t know how much, or when they’d be coming. Not to mention where they’d come from. For all he knew, their luck had run out, and any second a swarm of golden-armored bastards would be charging down the hall they were in.

“We need to get out of the open,” he hissed to the cleric and wizard.

Gale cast an ice spell, focusing all his energy in freezing the hinge of the device. If he could get it cold enough, it would become brittle, and they could dismantle it and pull it from your leg like cracking open an oyster. Shadowheart focused on healing the burns being inflicted to your skin as they were happening. It smelled uncomfortably like meat roast. Your blood vessels were cauterized. Astarion could hardly take solace in the fact when the usually-delicious scent of your ichor was replaced with the smell of cooking flesh.

“We can’t move them yet,” Shadowheart whispered, barely biting back her panic. She couldn’t keep healing you forever.

Gale grunted, brow furrowing further as he willed the ice to freeze faster, freeze colder around the metal.

Astarion felt useless, watching and unable to help. Holding you while you thrashed in agony was all he could do. He hoped to the gods he wouldn’t reveal a bruise over your mouth when this was finished. “I’m here,” he whispered sweetly in your ear. It was all he could think to do. “You need to keep still, love. It’ll be over soon.”

The words didn’t reach. You knew he was speaking when his breath fanned over your ear, but the speech-centers of your brain were thoroughly turned off. As were any of the logic-centers. Anything that could have told you they were helping, to calm down and stop moving, was replaced instead with klaxons and sirens urging you to struggle and fight back against the pain.

Footsteps. Loud and clanging. Getting closer. Astarion cursed. “We have to hide,” he hissed again, panicked.

There was no time to argue. They all seemed to have the same idea as Astarion pushed himself across the floor with his legs, pulling you with him. Shadowheart and Gale stopped casting in favor of moving your legs, as carefully as they could possibly manage. Hot tears slipped over Astarion’s hand as you thrashed violently with the motion. But now, at least, you were tucked into a corner. Hidden behind a pillar that framed the arch of the hallway. Everyone held their breaths. You didn’t catch the memo, but the spell-casters held your legs down so you wouldn’t make as much noise.

The clanging of armor rose in volume until the echoes through the corridors nearly deafened everyone. You momentarily stopped fighting. Though, Astarion couldn’t tell if it was because the sound had reached past your pain, or if your body was giving out under the duress.

The steps - 3 guards, if Astarion had to guess by ear - slowed from a run to pacing the juncture of the halls. They circled around, stopping occasionally. One set of steps stopped mere feet away. If Astarion leaned forward slightly, he could make out the point of a nose. Shadowheart and Gale slowly pressed themselves back into the shadow of the pillar.

Something touching his hand startled him. He had to fight not to physically jump and draw attention. A hand, your hand, rested weakly over his. He let go of your arm and turned his hand to hold yours. He could feel you whimper in his hold, the shake of your breaths as they hit hot against his hand. You were scared. He was, too.

He squeezed your hand and looked back at the pillar. The steps hadn’t moved. The sentry was still there.

Seconds ticked away at a snail’s pace. They all worried for a moment the guards had chosen to stay there and patrol the intersection. Then the sentinel stepped back from the arch. More footsteps followed. A pause. He could only imagine they were silently saying they did not find anything. And then the cacophony of armor drowned out any last doubt as they retreated back down the hall.

They all let out sighs of relief, even Astarion who had no need for air. He turned his focus back down to you. Your eyes were shut, your breaths were evened out. You’d fallen unconscious. It was a small mercy.

“Hurry up so we can get the Hells out of here,” he huffed. Shadowheart and Gale nodded, equally as eager to get back to safety, and returned to work.

Astarion slowly removed his hand from your mouth. Light bruises where his fingertips had been began rising through the surface of your skin. He sighed, upset at the pain he caused even through necessity, and brushed a tender kiss over the darkest of the bunch. He was too overwhelmed with relief to care if the others saw him. “You’ll be alright,” he whispered again, even though they did not reach you. He was reassuring himself more than anything. It would have been pathetic, if he could think about anything other than your wellbeing. “I’m here, darling.”

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars

#fanfic #fanfiction #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate tav #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate tav #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #angst #literal hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort

[ginnyw-potter]

Ambush

This was meant to be a short drabble but turned into a whole oneshot. I know people love reading about Harry saving Ginny but I thought it was about time that Ginny saved Harry for once and that is how this oneshot came to be.

Following a Death Eater into a building quickly turns out to be an ambush and they are outnumbered. Ginny has to come to the rescue when Harry takes a fatal hit.

AO3

Fanfiction.net

#harry potter #hinny #ginny weasley #hp #harry x ginny #literal hurt/comfort #fic

[starrystevie]

hurt/comfort | mentions of anxiety and trauma | crossposted to twitter

"what's that?" eddie murmurs into the quiet darkness of their bedroom.

dread piles into steve's stomach. he wants to tug his sleeve over his hands so eddie can't see the writing on his palm anymore. wants to hide the pen marks by holding onto his hips instead.

"it's nothing," he whispers back, attaching his lips to the underside of eddie's jaw. he knows his boyfriend melts at the kisses he puts there. knows it will distract him from asking any more prying questions.

the ink is smudged, hardly legible anymore after a day at work. between washing his hands and shuffling papers and rubbing subconsciously at his palm when that certain type of anxiety knots into his gut, the pen marks from earlier are halfway to disappearing until he starts it all over again the next morning.

steve can't help it. he thought that moving in with eddie, having his support, would make it easier to cope with it all. thought that having someone else to help hold him accountable was the answer.

yet here he is, writing a list on his hand every morning, just to help him remember simple things.

he turns on the coffee pot in the morning, makes a note of it on his palm, crosses it out when he turns the pot off and tells himself over and over that it's actually off and he's not imagining it.

he locks the door and writes "LOCKED" in all caps so he doesn't come home halfway through the day to check and make sure it's actually locked.

he brushes his teeth, he feeds the dog, he puts his wallet in his briefcase, he closes the refrigerator door after breakfast and writes reminder after reminder on his palm in sticky black ink.

it helps, really it does, when steve's mind starts to wander in a boring meeting and he gets that hot rush of guilt of forgetting something burning through his veins. he'll look at his hand under the table and scan over the notes, find what's looking for, and try to breathe.

he'll read it over and over, the crossed out "coffee pot" or the "wallet in bag" or the "fed duke", until he feels like it sinks in, blinking back into real time to focus.

it's some strange mix of anxiety and lack of control and head trauma, robin thinks.

steve can't talk to a lot of people about it, embarrassed that he can't remember doing simple fucking tasks, but robin gets it. gets him. robin lets him swing his legs into her lap and pulls his hand up to her face so she can inspect the notes from the day to piece them all together.

it was her idea in the first place to write on his hand. she had suggested paper first but that was too easy to lose especially if he couldn't remember setting it down. she traces over the ink and lets him vent about feeling like a failure or stupid or some type of broken, reminding him gently that none of them got out hawkins without scars.

but steve hasn't let eddie see that yet, too afraid of breaking whatever they've made together, too afraid of scaring him off with his cracked brain and clenched jaw. too afraid of being built so wrong that he'll look like a once shiny penny covered in rust-colored problems.

so he digs his fingers into his palm, nails slicing into flesh & ink, and presses his lips fiercely into eddie's jaw to stop him from spilling any secrets. lets his tongue sneak out as an apology for not showing him his jagged edges. lets his teeth bite against the words he wants to say.

"baby," eddie whispers, his gentle callused hands trailing over steve's arms to settle on his clenched fist. he shakes his head against eddie's chin, bites at his neck again, ignores the way the love of his fucking life is trying to peel his fingers open to see it. see him.

steve feels raw, a live wire, one second away from snapping into sparks of electricity. he shakes his hand free and curls it around the small of eddie's back, tugging him closer, hiding his shame.

"it's nothing," he repeats, voice shaky and rough against eddie's skin.

if he just slots his leg right, if he just presses into eddie right, if he just tips his head and rolls his hips and plays his cards right, he can avoid all of this all together. he can take eddie's mind away from the writing on his hand and convince them both everything is okay.

but it's not that easy, it never is, because there fingers wrapping around his wrist at an awkward angle to pull his hand back and heat flares up in his cheeks. eddie's going to see, going to ask, going to figure out that steve is broken beyond repair and it's all thanks to one too many blows to the head & one too many times of fucking up & one too many times of leaving the goddamn door unlocked.

"i just-" he bites out, trying and failing to pull his arm out from eddie's grasp. maybe some part of him wants to come clean and get the inevitable over and done with. "-they're just some notes okay?"

and now eddie's looking between him and his palm with those eyes that hold love and the pity that he hates, so he blinks away, jolts to get his arm free again. he doesn't want pity, he doesn't want puppy dog eyes, he doesn't want the reminder that he can't-

but then there's lips pressing oh so gently to the hand he rubbed raw earlier when he could have sworn he didn't triple check that he paid the water bill. there's the flutter of eyelashes against his fingertips as eddie trails kisses over the thing that makes him feel less than.

steve doesn't fight to pull his arm back anymore. his shoulders drop, his muscles relax, and that ball of dread in the pit of his stomach eases away into something that feels more like acceptance.

"that's smart," eddie mutters against his palm. "to help you remember?"

and just like that, it isn't secret anymore. just like that eddie's peeled back the layers of bravado and nonchalance and seen steve for the mess he is.

he kisses the notes like it's the easiest thing to do and maybe for eddie it is. maybe taking a piece of steve's hurt is what they found each other for. maybe eddie was made to understand every inch of steve from the inside out like the way a vine instinctually knows to follow the sun.

steve resettles his face in eddie's neck, nods and breathes him in so he has him deep in his lungs. "it was robin's idea."

"she's smart too, then." eddie hums and drops steve's hand gently, letting it wind back around him so he can tangle his in steve's hair. "does it help?"

"yep," steve mumbles.

"how have i never noticed you scribbling on your hand everyday?" eddie asks with his lips pressed into the crown of steve's head.

"i didn't want you to see. i'm pretty good at hiding."

he can feel when eddie takes in a deep breath. feel when his chest expands and collapses before whispering "start adding 'eddie loves me' on there."

steve shakes his head with a small grin, his heart beat slowing from an anxious jack-rabbiting speed to something more eddie paced. "i never need a reminder of that one."

#this headcanon is brought to you by my own head trauma and anxiety causing me to forget literally everything!!! #zoom in on the 4 photos i took of my curling iron this morning to prove it was off #steddie #my writing #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #steddie hurt/comfort

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

Hades’ favourite thing to rant about is how much his family forgets about and sidelines him. Nico has literally never once given the lecture his full attention, because why the fresh fuck would he subject himself to that, but he discovers, lying facedown on the floor of Cabin Three, that he must have internalised enough of it to remember some key points.

He is loathe to admit it, but Father is right. How come the Poseidon cabin floors are so nice and comfortable? The floor of Cabin Thirteen sucks. Whenever he has Floor Time in his own cabin, he gets bruised and cold. Injustice.

“Could you suffer quieter? I’m trying to study.”

“Shut up, Percy.”

“I’m not the one groaning in misery.”

“Shut up, Percy.”

Percy sighs heavily. There’s a loud thud as he snaps his textbook shut, and the creak of mattress springs as he shifts.

“You’re so fuckin’ irritating, you know that?”

“Coming from you,” Nico says indignantly, pushing up to glare at him. Percy makes a face back. “I am here, having a crisis, being vulnerable in front of you —”

“Oh my gods.”

“— like you suggested, to rebuild our tenuous relationship —”

“I wish the prophecy had killed me. Either one, I’m not picky.”

“— and you are studying! Nose in a book! You hate reading! You are doing this just to spite me!”

“I am doing this to pass my classes,” Percy snips. “Someone should send you to public school. You need to experience that particular level of hell.”

“Experienced hell already, thanks. Don’t need a redo.”

“Tartarus references don’t shut me up, Zombie Boy. I’ve been there too.”

“Ugh.”

Percy rolls his eyes, turning back to his textbook. Nico contemplates rolling back on the floor to Ruminate and Think (after the second failure in a row he has a much to think about, like what the fuck is he supposed to do, should he even fucking bother, is he doomed to life without love, etc, etc) but finds himself, instead, sitting upright. Watching his — friend. Watching his heavy frown, listening to the bit-back curses and the crinkle of pages when he holds the book too tightly.

He’s moody, today. Sullen. Ate his breakfast in silence and stomped off to the sword fighting arena, raising hurricane downpour around the open theatre to deter anyone from joining him. Coincidentally, Annabeth has not been seen all day.

“Are you okay?” Nico asks quietly.

Percy shrugs, glancing over then glancing quickly away. “Fine.”

“I mean. You flooded half the camp. So.”

“Just drop it, Nico. If you’re going to stay in here, be quiet.”

Nico bites back the automatic, scathing retort. Be quiet, Nicolò! Lalalalala! Don’t tell me what to do! Ugh! I hate having a little brother! Yeah, well, I hate you too!

A quick, cut-off choking sound cuts through his thoughts. He looks up, startled, to find Percy’s face red, to find him swiping angrily at his cheeks.

“Woah,” he murmurs, climbing hastily upright. He ignores the loud chanting in his brain telling him to leave, the discomfort swirling in his stomach at seeing someone cry, seeing another man cry, instead hovering awkwardly. Percy shrugs off the hand he touches hesitantly to his shoulder, and Nico holds it there, suspended, in between and outstretched.

“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

Nico hesitates. Of all people, he…nobody wants Nico around, when they’re —whatever Percy is. Upset. The only thing he can probably do is make it worse.

But what can he do? Leave him? Get Annabeth? Jason? None of it seems right. Instead he stands, frozen, hand still half-outstretched, eyes wide.

“You can —” He clears his throat. “Um. Did something happen?”

Percy shrugs. His eyes remain glued resolutely to his textbook, although the pages are wet and warped.

“Cause you can tell me, you know. I won’t — tell anyone. Or anything.”

Gods, he is so far out of his depth. Could Kampe come back and attack? That would be easier to deal with. Nico could handle that.

“I don’t —” the pages of the textbook crinkle under Percy’s grip — “it’s fucking stupid, is what it is.”

Hovering is not the right call. He knows that much. He scans the cabin, evaluating his options — sitting back on the floor feels like a bad plan. He doesn’t think any kind of touch would be welcomed, nor is he entirely comfortable in giving it. He doesn’t want to crowd. He doesn’t want to seem too distant.

Slowly, carefully gauging Percy’s reaction, he sits on the bed, across from him. He leaves the textbook between them, letting Percy keep pretending to read it, and tucks his legs up under his knees. He fiddles absentmindedly with his ring, chewing his lip every time Percy sniffles.

“Why’s it stupid?”

Percy shrugs again. Nico resists the urge to shake him. How does anyone deal with this shit? What the hell is he even supposed to do? He’s not Jason. He’s not Annabeth. Hell, he’s not Will, who seems to read emotions intuitively, who seems to know exactly what to do when someone is scared, when someone is upset. Even when someone is angry. He tries to imagine Will, in his position. Sitting across from a crying Percy Jackson, saviour of the world. Yesterday, one of the younger kids had tripped and scraped half the skin off their arm on the basketball court. Will had been there with a soft smile and gentle, glowing hands, speaking quietly and cracking small jokes until the kid was laughing again. Nico tries to imagine that here, soft words and lighthearted jokes. It doesn’t seem right. Would he — touch Percy’s wrist, like he did with Clarisse? Drag the fight right out of him?

Is Percy even angry? Nico has seen him angry before. Murderous. Fuming.

He’s never seen him cry.

Percy’s voice is like palms scraping hard over sharp gravel stones. “I made Annabeth cry this morning.”

The way he says it makes it hard for Nico to actually understand his words. His tone of voice is — volatile, is the best way he can describe it. Loathing. Based on the curling self-hatred dripping from the sentence Nico would assume he’d tried to kill her — he says I made her cry like he doesn’t deserve to live for it. Like he’s hoping to be punished.

“That happens,” Nico says. He swallows. “When you — love people.”

He and Bianca made each other cry a lot. He just never — stopped, never gave her half a second. Sometimes she looked at him and he knew she wanted to hit him. She never did. But he knew and she knew he knew and sometimes it would well up in her eyes, and she would lock herself in the bathroom of their room and turn on the sink and cry and cry and cry. And it ached something nasty in the cavity of his chest.

Percy sneers at his hands, flexing his fingers. “People who love you don’t make you cry. That’s just — hurting. That’s people who hurt everyone around them.”

Nico frowns. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says venomously. “I’m supposed to be — I’m supposed to protect her. I’m supposed to keep her safe, keep her from people who cause her pain.”

“People like you?”

Percy nods.

Nico drags his teeth over his bottom lip. He thinks of bleeding fingers clinging to a tiny shaft of rock, thinks of dangerous green eyes, hard voices; thinks of a thick web clinging to a broken ankle and an abyss. Thinks of promises and oaths and choosing. Thinks of falling. Thinks of letting go.

“People who want to harm Annabeth do not jump into the Pit for her.”

The pages of Percy’s textbook have started to dry. The ink has bled, dark splotches in perfect circles. The fountain bubbles gently behind them, mattress creaking under shifting legs.

“You don’t understand what I —” He pauses, swallowing. “Did, down there.”

“D’you hurt her?”

“…I scared her.”

“Oh, well — Christ, Percy! Is that really what this — brooding is about?” He scoffs. “No shit you scared her!”

“…What?”

Percy looks at him, wide-eyed. Nico rolls his eyes.

“Aw, when you were fighting for your life in the place meant to tear your essence into atoms, did you do things that make you question your personhood? Your morals?”

“I —”

“Of course you did, dumbass! Of course you —” he takes a breath, trying to organize the jumble of thoughts in his brain — “of course the physical manifestation of darkness and distortion made you act differently than you would usually, Percy. Of course it — affected you. Gods. Of course you’re struggling.” He flicks Percy’s knee, looking at him with exaggerated exasperation. “Use your brain, why don’t you.”

A small smile quirks the corners of Percy’s mouth, although it fades as quickly as it comes. He wipes his face with his sleeve, breath shuddering.

“She didn’t scare me, though.”

“Not even once?”

“Not in the same way,” Percy admits. “I was scared, once, when I looked at her. In the death mist. But that wasn’t — her, you know? She could never scare me.”

“I mean,” Nico wrinkles his nose, trying to articulate, “I think that’s kind of abnormal?”

Percy tilts his head.

“I just mean that you have a very high threshold, Percy. For…what you’ll tolerate from people you care about.”

“Everyone has that.”

“Not in the same way you do.” He taps his knuckles, considering. “Tell me the truth — if Annabeth stabbed someone to death in front of you, in total cold blood, would you help her hide the body?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. He shrinks, a little. “Oh.”

Nico rushes to assure, placing a fleeting touch on his wrist. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I don’t think. It’s just —” He shrugs. “I’m used to scaring people, too. I don’t mean to. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand what I — do, it’s not intentional.”

Percy opens his mouth, but Nico stumbles on.

“But you’re not — a monster, Percy, gods. No one thinks you’re a monster. Especially not Annabeth.”

Percy wiggles his finger under his watch strap, turning it tightly around his wrist, cutting off the circulation. Nico watches but doesn’t say anything.

“You’re not, either.”

Nico blinks. “Huh?”

“A monster,” he explains. “You’re not, either.”

“Oh.” Nico shrugs. “Thanks, I guess.”

“No, I mean it, dude, I — look. Listen.” Percy sighs. “You got baggage. I put some of it on you. I’m sorry.”

Hands around his — throat — angry, angry eyes — harder — bruising — you promised! you promised! you promised!

“It’s fine.” A pause. “I did shit to you, too.”

“It’s not fine. And I know you did. We can still —”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He sighs again, a long, defeated sound, and curls in on himself.

“One day you’ll forgive yourself,” Nico murmurs. “One day I’ll — me too, I guess. Me and you.”

Percy smiles tiredly. “And we’ll be okay?”

“No. You’ll still be annoying.”

He snorts. “Whatever. Drama queen.”

“Oh, I’m the drama queen, Mr. I Don’t Deserve To Be Loved.”

Percy snorts. He turns back to his textbook, fiddling with the dried page, and snorts again, trying to duck his head. Nico bites the corner of his mouth, hard. Percy glances up again, and Nico meets his eyes, and they —

Gods, they’re bad at this.

But suddenly Percy can’t choke back his laughter, and it’s wheezing and self-deprecating and still kind of teary and Nico is laughing, too, because thank the gods that shit is over. Percy’s red-cheeked and Nico is red-cheeked and neither of them are going to look at each other for a week, Nico’s sure, but for now he can roll his eyes at Percy’s melodrama and dodge his embarrassed shoving, and it’s fine.

“You should talk to Annabeth,” Nico suggests, when the giggling has toned down.

Percy picks at the torn-up skin around his nails. “Probably.”

“Are you going to?”

“Why were you lying on the floor?” Percy asks instead. It is the least subtle subject change of all time, but Nico takes it as the hint it is and drops the subject. It’s not his business, anyway. They’ll talk. He knows Annabeth better than to think she’ll let it fester, at least.

“Oh, you know. Crushing weight of being alive, mortifying ordeal of being known, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Oh my gods. I’m sorry I asked.”

“Well, serves you right then, you selfish bitch.”

Percy snorts. “What, I cry all over you and now it’s your turn to vent?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it works. Transactional and eye-for-an-eye. Exactly as friendship should be.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Percy says, but he can’t tamp down his smile any more than he can stop his eyes from rolling, so there. Nico is exactly as funny as he thinks he is, thank you very much. A regular comedian.

Percy snaps textbook closed and sets it on the bedside table. “So.”

“So.”

Nico squirms. Suddenly he’s not sure why the hell he came in here in the first place. Are the floors in Cabin Thirteen really that bad? Surely not. Surely Floor Time didn’t have to be in Percy’s cabin.

(He blames Father for this. He’s horribly nosy. No doubt he’s passed his nosiness onto Nico, irregardless of his lack of DNA, and made Nico the way that he is. He can’t think of a single other reason he ducked into the cabin after lunch, when Percy still hadn’t shown his face.)

“Dude, come on. You came in here and whined and huffed and made a nuisance of yourself for literally forty minutes, and now that I’m giving you the attention you begged for you don’t want it? Nuh-uh. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill about,” Nico protests, “gods, can’t a man just complain in peace —”

“Ha! Not sure you can call yourself a ‘man’ if you’re voice is still cracking, squirt.”

“I literally hate you. Not joking.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” Percy raises an eyebrow. “Well, since my guts are already spilled out and flopping all over the floor —”

“Disgusting.”

“—so it’s your turn, now.” He pokes Nico’s bicep. Nico bats him away, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor, scooting over to put more space between them. Thankfully, Percy doesn’t follow, and he exhales, settling his back against the bed frame. The mattress springs creak again as he readjusts. “You can tell me, you know.” Nico can hear the smile in his voice at the cheeky repitition. “I won’t — tell anyone. Or anything. Ahem.”

“You’re so annoying.” Nico picks at a loose thread in the knees of his pants, looping it around his finger.

Will thinks ripped jeans are stupid. He hadn’t said so outright, when Nico came back from his Aphrodite-Cabin-enforced shopping trip, but Nico had noticed his pursed lips and deliberately schooled face. When he’d pressed about it, pestering him until he’d given up with the very southern passive aggressive if you like, Nico, I love, don’t you worry about it answer, he’d gotten a forty minute rant about jeans that “sold less jean for more fuckin’ money” that made him laugh until he cried.

He yanks the thread and pulls. The hole widens.

“Oh my gods, you’re actually whipped. Is that what this is?”

Nico flushes. “Shut up.”

“It is!” Percy grins widely, wicked delight in his eyes. “You are literally thinking about him right now! You might as well be kicking your feet! You —”

“Shut up, Percy, gods.”

“I’ve never seen you so red,” he says instead, because he is incapable of following instructions. His smile fades, face softening into something more pensive. “You must really like him.”

Nico shrugs. Is that what he feels for Will? Gorgeous. I’ve been crushing on you forever. He likes a lot of people. You always know just what I need. A lot of people aren’t Will.

“He’s not scared of me.” No matter how much he fiddles with it, the metal of his ring is always cold. Cold hands, he supposes. He never heats up much. “Or. intimated. Creeped out. He thinks I’m —”

He clamps his mouth shut. A bubble of something expands in his chest, growing out of his lungs, past his shoulders, pushing his throat closed. He swallows, hard, trying to shove it back, but — Nico! Hey! You think I couldn’t stand to see a friendly face? No way, Death Boy, no more Underworld-y magic for you! I can literally feel you fading! My hands are still shaking — here, feel.

“Gorgeous?” The smile on Percy’s face is teasing, but much softer than before. “I heard he — said.”

Maybe it’s the redness of Percy’s nose that hasn’t quite faded, or his still-puffy eyes, but finally the bubble pops, and Nico sighs, tipping his head back until it rests on the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes. After a beat of hesitation, callused fingers brush through his hair, ruffling it, lingering awkwardly before pulling away. He smiles.

“Yes.”

“…Really? He just up and told you, that he had a —”

Percy stumbles on the words. Nico peeks one eye open and grinning wryly. “Yeah. He’s a hell of a lot braver than I am. Or maybe he’s just shameless.”

“He was always really intense about being your friend.” Percy screws up his face, tilting his head as if envisioning it. “I didn’t understand what that meant, at first. I didn’t get…the reason? Behind it? If that makes sense.”

“You forgot about gay people,” Nico says drily. “I know.”

“This is true,” Percy admits. He grins, sheepish. “That’s an L on my part. Every time me and Annabeth went looking for you he’d somehow know about it and ask us a bajillion questions when we got back. I just thought he was really into necromancy, or something, but now it’s like…damn.”

Nico covers his eyes with his hand, fighting back an embarrassed smile. He thinks your eyes are a tie between moonstone and agate, in case you were wondering. There is literally not a single soul in this camp unaware about how much he likes you.

“You’d think it would be easier to get him to go out with me, then.”

“It hasn’t been?”

Nico throws his hands up. “No! He doesn’t — I got him flowers, Percy, and he ground them up to make a poultice. He thought the rock I got him was a bribe. I open every door for him and I always pull out a chair for him at counsellor meetings. I make sure to stand up first when we’re sitting together and offer him a hand. I don’t know what else I can — do, gods.” He makes a noise of frustration, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m being as obvious as I can be. What am I gonna have to do to get him to realise? Fuckin’ — tattoo his name on my forehead?”

Percy slides his hand into his pocket, pulling out his pen. He twists it around his fingers, fiddling with the cap, picking at the plastic casing. He uses the end of it to trace mindless swirls on his thigh, which Nico can’t help but feel is dangerous. One wrong move and he better hope Nico can drag him to the fountain fast enough to stabilize him. But his eyes are far away, teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

“There is a chance,” he says slowly, “that he…knows.”

Nico frowns, turning to face him properly. He looks resolutely at his lap. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I — well.” He does finally uncap his blade, staring at the soft glow of the bronze, rubbing his thumbnail over the leather handle. “I. Knew,” he says haltingly. “That Annabeth liked me. I —”

Nico watches him carefully. This is…news, to him. He didn’t keep up much on camp drama about the two of them — for obvious reasons — but he hardly had to. Even during his brief, one or two day stops at Camp, Percy and Annabeth gossip was impossible to avoid. People talked about them constantly, about how much they obviously cared for each other, how oblivious, especially, Percy was. It used to give him a twisted sort of hope.

“You…knew? And you didn’t do anything?”

Percy winces. “She got frustrated with hiding it. She kissed me, once, before I blew up St. Helens. And I just —” He shrugs. “I couldn’t believe that someone like her would want anything to do with someone like me.”

It’s impossible to miss his meaning, to miss the self-directed bitterness at the end of his words. Nico recognises it because he practically invented it. Someone like me. Someone disgusting, ugly, unworthy. Someone bitter and twisted and wrong. Someone so undeserving.

“I think Will is like me,” Percy continues softly. “That — insecurity.” He says the word quickly, like he might be able to hide it in the rest of the sentence. “I think he thinks very highly of you. And I think it’s hard for him to believe that you want to — to lower yourself, to be with him.”

“That’s inane,” Nico argues. “He’s — bright and kind and smart and — he’s fucking everything, what is he —!”

“He grew up a healer in a camp full of warriors. Full of talented people,” Percy murmurs. “When you’re surrounded by people who know what they’re doing, it’s easy to feel like a loser.”

Nico opens his mouth, closing it again. On principle he doesn’t agree with Percy. It doesn’t make sense. Every single person at this camp has relied on Will in more than one way for as long as he’s been here — as long as he’s been healing them. How could he not know what his purpose is? How could he not realise his talents?

Ace bandage, sound and unwound. Hard blue eyes, self-directed sneer. I’m just a healer.

“He’s not a loser,” Nico says eventually. “I don’t think he’s a — loser.”

Nico thinks he’s quite a bit more than that, actually. In fact if all words in the any language he knows, ‘loser’ is probably the least apt to describe him.

“How do I make him realise? Make him —”

Percy shrugs. “Took Annabeth several years and I still think I’m — well. I still struggle. You’ll have to be patient.” He glances over, and that mischevious smile is back on his face, the one that promises trouble and guarantees Nico an excuse to kick him. “Or, you know, you could just tell him that you think he’s bright, and kind, and smart, and beautiful, and —”

Nico does indeed kick him. He falls back against his pillow, laughing, curled against his side.

“I did not — I did not say beautiful,” Nico says hotly, “that was not on the list, you total jackass —”

Percy only laughs harder, no matter how many times Nico kicks him.

———

next

#oh the percy nico dynamic….i literally want to put them in a cage and study them #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #nico di angelo #percy jackson #percy & nico #percy jackson & nico di angelo #complicated relationships #angst #hurt/comfort #percy jackson angst #solangelo #nico/will #will/nico #nico di angelo/will solace #pining nico di angelo #modern courting #my writing #fic #longpost #WILL AND PERCY PARALLELS BABEY

[thatwriterchick222]

snakebite (arthur morgan x f/reader) oneshot

summary: you get bitten by a snake and arthur has to suck the venom out... what could go wrong?

----------------

“Shit…” You cursed under your breath, clutching at your thigh as you fought to push down the pain of the snake’s venom coursing through your veins. It was a deep bite, and you barely caught a glimpse of the thing before it slithered away. But the throbbing in your flesh was enough to know it was venomous.

Your horse had gotten spooked by the snake and bucked you off, fleeing for the treeline. The wind was knocked out of you as you hit the ground and unfortunately landed right on top of the reptile. Deciding it had had enough, it lunged and bit your thigh, rightfully so. Its fangs shot through the material of your skirt and bloomers, down into your muscle. 

Thankfully, Arthur wasn’t too far behind.

“What the hell?” He asked as he pulled his horse to a stop, seemingly confused by your horse running off and finding you lying on your back in the grass.

You were lightheaded. Nauseous. “A damn snake bit me.” In an effort to sit up, you pressed down harder on your bite, hoping to at least slow the venom as it seeped further into you.

What an embarrassing way to go. Especially in front of Arthur, of all people. 

“Christ.” He said, quickly stepping down from his horse. He made his way over to you as you managed to sit up against a tree, breaking out into a sweat. 

“I don’t feel too good.”

Arthur knelt down to your level, his eyes scanning yours with a sudden urgency that made your throat close up. “Don’t look too good ‘neither.” 

“Thanks.” You chuckled.

He reached forward and felt your forehead with the back of his hand, and your heart fluttered in your chest.

Even on your deathbed, you could not suppress your lasting crush on Arthur Morgan. Pathetic.

“Where’d it getcha?” He asked, looking down to where your hand clutched your leg. 

You lifted your hand, “My thigh.”

“Okay…” He thought for a quick moment, scooting closer to you. “Lift your skirt up.”

You froze, swallowing thickly with your dry mouth. “I- Alright.”

Trying to ignore his wording and the pit in your stomach, you did as he said, pulling your linen skirt up to expose the small patch of blood on your white bloomers. 

Without a word, Arthur grabbed the fabric, pulling at the holes where the small fangs had broken through, and ripped them wide, exposing the wound. 

“What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ the venom out.”

You blinked, feeling the warm pads of his fingers brush your skin. “How?”

His hand reached under your knee, pulling your leg up, and you nearly flinched. Not because you were scared, but because you didn’t want him to know how much you liked it. 

His eyes darted up to yours. “I gotta suck it out.”

You took a sharp breath in, adjusting your body awkwardly. “Oh.”

Then, as quickly as he had ripped your bloomers apart, he bent down, gripping your thigh tightly as he brought his mouth to your bite. 

And it stung like all hell. He created a suction and you felt as if you were being bitten all over again, a searing pain overcoming the area as you gasped. 

But there was still something very erotic about all of this. And you scolded yourself for thinking it. If someone were to pass by, they would see a cowboy with his head buried in your lap, and that brought a blush to your cheeks as he pulled away, turning to the side and spitting the venom out into the grass.

When he went back in, it hurt even worse, the numbness from your adrenaline wearing off. He sucked especially hard, and you grit your teeth, instinctively reaching forward and grabbing his arm. “Arthur–”

He pulled away again, spitting into the grass. When he turned back, he looked at you, his eyes strangely dark and his brow furrowed in concentration. Why was his face so close to yours? Maybe it was the venom. It had gotten to your head. Your skin was heating up, and your heart pounded hard in your ribcage. His hands were on your thigh, your fingers digging into the arm of his shirt, and you only stared back at him.

He broke the eye contact and went back down, this time only sucking lightly. You assumed he had gotten what he could out of your body. But your belly was warm and you felt the overwhelming urge to get closer to him, your body pulsing with pain and… arousal.

You pressed your lips together in pain, and when he sucked one last time, a whimper fell from your lips. But he didn’t suck anything out of you like he did before. His lips were on your skin and then they weren’t, and then they were back, landing higher up your thigh. Your hand loosened on his bicep and you didn’t know why, but you started rubbing him with your thumb. 

You couldn’t see his face under the brim of his hat, but you felt him move his mouth higher, his teeth grazing you and his beard scratching against your skin. It tickled. His fingers dug into your thigh, and you drew in a breath, a suspenseful silence overtaking you.

A sudden bravery took over your body. You scooted closer to him, and he moved even further up, his lips pressing lightly against your skin. Was he… kissing you?

You swallowed when his nose brushed your inner thigh. And then you spread your knees further apart.

Any pain you had was replaced with the burning ache for him to touch you. 

“Arthur.” You finally got the willpower to croak out his name, but you didn’t know what else to say. You said his name like a question, but also like a request. A demand. Like you wanted him to stop, but you also never wanted him to stop.

He halted anyway, lifting his lips from your skin, the coolness of the breeze on it telling you that you were wet with his saliva. He didn’t look up. He kept his face hidden by the brim of his hat. 

You could slice the tension in the air with your knife. But why would you want to? You had been waiting for a moment like this for the entire time you had known him.

He was always shy, and barely ever spoke about how he felt. You figured you would have to make some move or give him some hint… but now, at such an inopportune time… he seemed to want something from you too.

Were you drunk on adrenaline and snake venom? Probably. Was he taking advantage of you in a vulnerable state? Maybe. 

You lifted your leg, shuffling even closer. You couldn’t speak. And neither could he. But somehow there was this silent agreement that you both wanted something. You lifted your skirt higher, and he finally looked up at you.

He almost looked like a different man. His jaw was clenched, his pupils large and his eyes burning into yours like a wolf hunting its prey. There was a smudge of your blood on his bottom lip.

You nodded. Please don’t stop.

With just as much urgency as he had when trying to potentially save your life, he quickly reached for the waist of your bloomers and pulled them down. If it had been any other man in any other scenario, you would have hidden yourself in embarrassment and covered your eyes so you didn’t have to see him see you.

But it was Arthur. And he was quickly lifting your legs, pulling your hips up and closer to him, and burying his face in between them. He didn’t have time to take it slow, and you didn’t care, your insides pulsing and your face going hot. Your bloomers were still around your ankles, and his hat was still hiding his face as his breath was on your cunt. 

You lay back against the tree and he dove into you, his tongue exploring you aggressively, drinking you in with such passion you thought you might pass out. It suddenly occurred to you as you cried out that you were only meters away from the dirt road, barely hidden by the grass. Now, if someone passed by, it would look like you had a cowboy’s face in your lap because… you did.

Your hand flew to your mouth when he began to suck on you, those same lips that had just been sucking snake venom out of your leg moments prior. Your thighs clenched around his head, threatening to knock his hat off, but you kind of liked it on. He couldn’t see you, and you couldn’t see him. There was some level of anonymity to this act, like maybe for just a moment you could be different people and not have to deal with the aftermath of your actions.

But fuck, he was good. It made you question if he had been practicing on someone. Who had he been practicing on? He could practice on you for the rest of your life if he wanted.

You bucked your hips into his mouth when he groaned into you, already finding yourself nearing your breaking point. His tongue was rough but rhythmic, and it was so quiet outside you could hear the squelching of your wetness against his mouth. 

The feeling was building up inside you. You were floating, you were grinding yourself on his nose. Your eyes darted to your snake bite, red and swollen, and to your torn bloomers around your ankles, and to Arthur’s arms holding your legs as he bent over, doing something fucking incredible with his tongue.

You cried out as you came in his mouth, your hand finding his forearm, digging your nails into it. Your back arched and your hips bucked, shuddering with the feeling of it. He groaned into your core, seemingly just as pleased to feel you come as you were to come, and he slowly let you ride it out.

Catching your breath, you looked around, slowly coming back into yourself and realizing where you were. What you both had done.

Arthur’s grip on your legs slowly loosened, and when he pulled away from you, his eyes avoided yours. He lifted your leg and untangled himself from you and your bloomers. You wanted to rip his hat off and look at him. You wanted to kiss him. To taste yourself on his lips.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, clearing his throat. “Sorry.”

You sat up, your bare ass scraping against the dirt. And you couldn’t help but laugh. 

Sorry? He was apologizing? Like he didn’t know what came over him. Like he couldn’t help but make me come on his tongue. A simple mistake. Oops. You laughed harder, pulling your bloomers up. The pain of your bite suddenly came back to you, and you winced as the fabric rubbed against it. 

He finally looked up at you from under the brim of his hat as you managed to get your bloomers back up. Then he let out a chuckle.

You wanted to return the favour. You sat up and were about to reach for him, grab him and touch him and maybe provide him with an ounce of the pleasure he just gave you, but suddenly a voice came from the road.

“What the–”

You and Arthur both quickly looked up, seeing a man on his horse staring at the two of you with confusion. 

You were still flushed, and coated in a sheen of sweat, and your skirt was pulled up as Arthur knelt beside you. Oddly enough, it actually was exactly what it looked like.

“Snakebite.” You fought your smile, looking down at your leg as you spoke to the man.

Arthur nodded, “Had to… suck the venom out–” He stood up, and you noticed the bulge in his pants. Thankfully, he turned away from the man before he noticed. 

“We should get you to a doctor,” Arthur said, reaching his hand out to you as if nothing had happened. You were still burning from your orgasm, but you pushed your skirt down and grabbed his hand, allowing him to pull you up.

“Well,” The man cleared his throat. “Good luck, then.”

###

You both rode back to camp in silence. 

You wanted to pretend nothing happened, but you couldn’t help but watch Arthur keep adjusting himself in the saddle, clearly uncomfortable with how hard he was. To be honest, you had never experienced a man do something like that and not expect you to return the favour. But, you liked the idea of it, the taste of you in his mouth making him harder than ever. It clearly wasn’t going away, either, because he probably couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You smiled, kicking your horse to ride up next to him. “Need a little help there?” Your eyes flicked down his body, and he looked at you out of the corner of his eye. His cheeks were adorably red, and he looked away again. 

“Let’s just get back to camp, first.” He reached down and moved his belt slightly, trying to ease the pressure. “Make sure you ain’t dyin’ on us.”

You smirked. “And what if I am?”

“Then we’ll need to work fast.” He shot you a look.

You felt your cheeks go just as red as his. “I can do fast.”

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan nsft #smut #rdr2 fanfic #oneshot #rdr2 smut #arthur morgan smut #hurt/comfort #literally so random #imagine

[sayurinn]

If there was a competition for who can draw avdol and Polnareff hugging and crying the most I would BODY everyone here and that’s a challenge. Anyway have these for Avpol April day 13: nightmare 😣

#avpol #avpol april 2024 #mohammed avdol #jean pierre polnareff #jojo part 3 #stardust crusaders #jojo fanart #jjba polnareff #jjba avdol #yupppp #hurt/comfort literally MY TURF

[booasaur]

Vigil - 2x06

#vigiledit #bbc vigil #amy silva #kirsten longacre #suranne jones #rose leslie #vigil spoilers #vigil 2x06 #amy x kirsten #femslash related stuff #okay so I hadn't been feeling well saturday night so when the eps dropped I literally just watched the last scene on iplayer #just to make sure nobody freaking died #and it was amy saying I'm coming home on the phone #and given the ''come home''/''I can't'' moment in the trailer I thought amy was legit gonna stay in wudyan these whole last 3 eps #which I didn't love the idea of I truly wanted an amy/kirsten reunion but I was like oh maybe rose leslie's pregnancy interfered #as long as they're both alive and we got that lovely scene in ep 2 it's fine #so this was all a COMPLETE surprise even more than usual #I made it a twist to my own self #and then it was like the perfect hurt/comfort scene you'd want for an action detective couple like this! #amy so focused on the job and then dropping everything to rush to kirsten's side #sitting there all night and that classic waking up in the chair next to the hospital bed scene #and they even had their cake and ate it too by having amy *choose* kirsten over the job #only for kirsten to then push her back to it #and going from this soppy soft teary version of amy to a pissed off black suit badass #because they'd hurt her girl #such a good couple to build a series like this around #lol amy really didn't want to leave! #she's just sitting and gazing at kirsten #man those years ago kirsten would never have imagined getting to see amy like this and meaning so much to her

[melissa7102004]

"I heard...these voices talking to me"

"Voices? Of...who?, my love"

"Of....you"

Okay so gaslighting!mare, brainwashed!dream and ghost!night

#its like a gilded cage situation #but his brother is still there #like literally #haha dreammare but they'll never be happy #i like reading fluffy hurt/Comfort dreammare #but i always draw the opposite #idk why lollll #dreammare #sanscest

[muirmarie]

honestly the funniest thing is coming across ppl who are like "bones is so mean to spock 😡😡😡" like spock doesn't go out of his way to be just as big a cunt to mccoy??? it's their LOVE LANGUAGE!!! some of y'all didn't grow up watching tv shows with old broads and old queen-coded men being as cunty as possible to each other OUT OF LOVE. spock spends half his shift on the bridge coming up with mean things to say to his dr the moment mccoy flounce onto the bridge to flirt with jim (affectionate) and spock (derogatory and bloody, there will be no survivors except for them, THEY'RE having a BLAST).

listen when the cards are down they will be thoughtful and worried and touch each other SO gently and fight over who gets to die for each other. all of that is the floor they're standing on. they KNOW that. but GOSH in the meantime they're BOTH having an absolute blast bullying the shit out of each other, bless <3

#c word #since i know a lot of ppl aren't comfortable with it #but i really don't think there's any other word i could substitute because that's THEM lmao #star trek #st:tos #spones #star trek tos #leonard mccoy #spock #mccoy will be having a genuine emotion and spock will go up for a layup and literally dunk the ball ON MCCOY'S HEAD #don't you DARE say he's a poor little meow meow he has TEETH and he will BITE and mccoy's got half-lidded eyes saying BITE MORE PUSSY #and that's LOVE!!!!! #(if you can't guess I've come across one too many spock's a poor little meow meow things recently lmao. he is.......VERY not.) #(EXCEPT when he's hurt and mccoy's trying to help and spock is literally trying to bite his hand off and MCCOY is calling him a poor little #meow meow while PROFUSELY bleeding. that's the ONLY time he's a poor little meow meow) #(if JIM is there then spock will STILL bite mccoy but JIM will be calling him a poor little meow meow and mccoy will be calling him #a sonuvabitch bastard while spock looks up at jim with sad little eyes. jim is wrong in this scenario. mccoy is right. spock is smirking.)

[samijey]

Sami and Jey holding each other after a loss to the Judgment Day 🥺🥺

#sami zayn #jey uso #samijey #wwe #wweedit #jeysami #stuff i made #i'm gonna ducking vomit excuse me #that's how l*vers hold each other pardon me excuse me etc #i'm begging them to stop for one second just ONE #they're literally doing hurt/comfort sh*t IN FRONT OF MY SALAD????? #on god imma start swinging if they don't stop

[medicbrainrot]

you make me wish i could disappear

A/N: Soooo, it’s been a while, hey? Instead of studying for my immunology exam, or even going to bed at a reasonable time, I wrote 1460 words of angst/hurt/comfort instead. Apologies in advance for any poor writing, I’m running on not enough sleep and not enough dopamine, hence this new piece after months of nothing. Spoilers for MW3 kind of. Let me know what you guys think!

It’s the middle of the night; she suddenly bolts upright in bed panting heavily, her hair wild from sleep as she gasps, trying to hold back tears. She clutches at her chest as she tries to catch her breath, disoriented to her surroundings. Simon is currently asleep beside her, but begins to stir when he feels her moving and hears her gasping. He cracks open his eyes, alerted to his love’s distress. 

“Sweetheart? Are you alright?” He reaches up slowly as he sits up, trying not to startle her in her disoriented state. “What’s wrong?”

Still half asleep and half panicking, she turns to Simon and immediately starts conducting a trauma sweep, the muscle memory of her training kicking in as she checks him for injuries. 

Simon doesn’t fight the inspection, letting her check him with the understanding that it might take a bit for her to snap out of her frantic nightmare-induced state. He gently brushes his fingers across her cheek, hoping that the gentle touch will pull her back to wakefulness and help her feel safe again. 

“You’re okay, you’re safe here love. It’s just a nightmare.” He murmurs gently, cupping her face. 

Although still frantically checking Simon for injuries as she presses on his collarbone followed by his facial bones, she slowly starts coming back to a more coherent state, her frantic search slowing down as she calms down. 

With his other hand he gently reaches to rub up and down her back, looking at her with worried eyes. He takes one of her hands and places it on his chest, letting her feel his heartbeat. 

“Slow down babe, you’re okay. You’re fine, I’m fine. You can calm down.” He says softly, sliding his fingers from her face into her hair. 

He lets her get herself oriented, softly brushing her hair back as she rests her hand over his heart. “You’re okay, nothing’s wrong, I promise.”

“You’re alive.” She pants softly, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill.

“I’m safe, I promise.” He reassures her, rubbing her back in soothing motions. “It was just a nightmare, I’m right here.” He knows he needs to be gentle with her right now, she can be on edge for a while after a nightmare like this. 

She relaxes onto her knees a little bit, leaning into Simon’s shoulder as he pulls her close. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his lap, holding her tightly to give her the comfort she needs. He can tell she’s still tense, so he encourages her to lean into him as he soothes her. 

They sit there in charged silence, curled into each other as he gives her a few moments to gather her thoughts together. 

“Makarov came after the 141 again.” She sobs softly, pressing her face into Simon’s neck.

Simon knows exactly why she’s been having recurring nightmares about Makarov, he’s been having similar ones alongside her. They almost seem to take turns having fitful nights of sleep, interrupted by each other’s nightmares. 

He sighs, knowing there’s not much he can do at the moment except comfort her. “It’s okay, it’s over now. It was just a dream.” He turns his head to press a kiss to her forehead, hoping his touch soothes her frayed nerves. 

He lets her melt into him, his arms around her tightly enough to keep her pressed to him, his heartbeat thudding in his chest as he recalls the events of a few months ago. They simultaneously feel as if they happened yesterday, just like they feel as if they happened a lifetime ago. 

He shifts their bodies across the bed so that he can adjust them from sitting into laying down, encouraging her to rest her weary body on his. He keeps her curled onto him, running his hand up and down her back to try and comfort her. 

After several moments of sniffling, she finally bursts into tears, breaking the silence in the room. “I’m scared….”

As soon as she starts crying, he knows she’s one step closer to getting it out of her system for the night. This is a recurring event, and he knows how to comfort her so that they can eventually both fall back asleep. He gently rubs the back of her head, encouraging her to let it out. 

“I’m here, everything is okay sweetheart, I’m here. You’re safe here.”

He holds her tight to his chest, knowing that all he can do right now is comfort her. It’s easy for him to do so, he knows her like no one else. He allows her to press herself into him and cry, letting out intense sobs as she processes the nightmare and the events that caused it. 

After several minutes of intense crying, it seems she’s gotten through the worst of the breakdown. She continues crying, but a little less intense, eventually shifting to sniffles instead of sobs. 

He kisses her forehead again as the tears start slowing down, his comforting touch doing its job of calming her down as she cries it out. “It’s okay love, it’s okay. You’re safe here with me.” He whispers soothingly.

“I miss Johnny.” She sniffles into Simon’s neck. “He’d laugh if he saw us like this.”

“He called it from the beginning, didn’t he?” Simon agrees softly, holding her a little tighter. He knows Johnny’s death had hit her extremely hard, the two of them having become fast friends upon the formation of the Task Force.  “I miss him too. I just know he’d be teasing us about being right.”

“It was cruel of the universe to not let him see he was right.” She sniffles softly.

“I’m sure he knows love, I’m sure he knows.” Simon chuckles softly. 

A few more moments pass before Simon nudges her with his shoulder. “Are you feeling a little better?” He asks gently as he swipes his thumbs across her cheekbones. 

She nods, sniffling away a few remaining tears. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” He inquires hesitantly.

“The first time you kissed me.” She mumbles.

Simon recalls the incident in question. It had been her birthday, just before midnight to the next day. They had gone out for a quiet dinner to celebrate, neither of them being in a particular mood to do so, but using it as a reason to get off base. 

On the walk up to her door, Simon had finally gathered up the courage to kiss her, but she had started crying after he did so. 

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t remember the moment. It was certainly… unique. Had I’d known you’d cry, I might have held off.” He says softly still inwardly cringing at the idea that he’d made her cry. “You never did explain why you cried…”

After the tears started, she had bid a hasty goodnight and shut the door in Simon’s face rather abruptly. Things had been a little awkward afterwards, but upon her insistence, Simon eventually accepted that it wasn’t necessarily his fault she’d shed tears. 

“It’s kind of silly now, in retrospect.” She mumbles into Simon’s shoulder. “Before… Makarov… There was one night Johnny and I had gotten a little drunk, and he’d bet me that you’d wait until something like my birthday to kiss me.” She sniffles, trying to clear her nose. “When you kissed me, I remembered that bet and the memory kind of startled me, because it felt like Johnny was shouting ‘I told you so!’ from the afterlife or something. So I guess I owe him a drink the next time I see him.”

Simon chuckles slightly at the explanation, relieved that her tears hadn’t been exactly his fault. “He was right on target with that one. I didn’t think I’d have the guts to do it, but I’m glad I did.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, the warmth of the bed helping them both feel a little more relaxed after tonight’s ordeal. 

She yawns, the adrenaline from the nightmare finally starting to wear off. “Sorry for manhandling you earlier.” 

“It’s alright, it was just a nightmare, it can be incredibly disorienting sometimes. I’m just glad you’re feeling a little better.” He smooths his hand across her hair before pulling the blankets back around them. 

She takes a deep breath, letting the warmth of Simon’s embrace comfort her. He tucks the blankets around them, settling into the bed as they get sleepy again. He continues rubbing his hand up and down her back a little longer as she drifts off to sleep, feeling at ease that he’s there to comfort her. 

He presses one last kiss to her head before drifting off to sleep himself, comforted by the fact that his lover is safe in his arms. 

A/N: Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated! (Requests are also still open)

Masterlist

#medicbrainrot #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #simon riley fluff #simon riley hurt/comfort #cod mw3 #ascensionism #and #take me back to eden #sleep token #were the songs on repeat for this fic #i will never get over how beautiful that album is #a literal year and i'm still obsessed #also it's been almost a year and a half that i've been hyperfixated on cod and the dopamine still hasn't worn off #i'm pleasantly surprised that it's lasted this long

[desertduality]

Potential for Scar angst this episode was insane so I wrote this in one sitting. Alternate scene for when Grian finds Scar hiding out in his egg house :)

Here it is on Ao3

———

No one talks about it, but the tasks they’re given tend to mess with their head. There’s— There’s a pull, there, to comply. Scar still remembers the way his tongue had tangled on that first day, the way his throat had closed when he’d even thought about calling someone by their real name. He still remembers the sharp, punishing pain behind his eyes when he’d slipped up and said Mumbo’s.

There’s a sort of urgency, once the task has embedded itself into their minds. Scar feels it, that frenzied energy that sends him knocking down torches until he can finally hit the succeed button without doubt. The secrets pull at them, tug at them. Scar is trying not to compare it to an Evoker’s command, but it’s hard when the feeling is so similar. When trying to fight it now hurts the same as it did back then.

He’s been running for a long time when he finally collapses in Grian’s egg house, panting and sweating. The stupid helmet is still on his head, and every time he raises his hands to take it off there’s that same pain shooting through his head. Joel had told him to take it off, everyone had told him to take it off, so no matter how much he wants to he can’t. He can’t do anything that they want him to do.

None of them will want to ally, after this. He’s burned a lot of bridges, and while he’s not against a little arson now and again, he usually likes to have a choice. He values having a choice very much, ever since he and Cub had broken free all those years ago. He wishes Cub was here, now. It’s a cruel thing to hope for.

There’s a loose feather on the ground beside him, and he picks it up with trembling hands, twirling it between his fingers. It probably fell out when Grian was cleaning his wings. Preening, he’d called it, back in the desert. Scar hadn’t heard of it before. His own wings were the wispy gray of the vex, and even at that a pretty poor specimen. No preening required, and with a bit of magic to keep them hidden, it didn’t matter anyway.

The feather is still in his hand when Grian appears in the doorway, and Scar can only hold his breath.

———————————

Grian… did not do well underground. A creature of the sky scuttling around in caves was bound to come with its issues, and so by the time he gets out, he’s near starvation and has just over seven hearts left to his name. His wings feel grimy with dirt and dust, his legs weak and unable to sprint. His only consolation is that he’d had the good fortune to resurface relatively close to his base, and it’s with an unholy mixture of desperation and relief that he drags himself up the stairs to the egg.

He’s already stuffed about a dozen sweet berries into his mouth before he finally registers that Scar is there. He’s sitting in the corner behind the bed, quiet as anything, and alarm bells start sounding in Grian’s head. Scar usually has a presence that can’t be ignored. He seems almost diminished, now. It makes unease twist in his stomach.

“What are you doing in my house?” Grian asks, baffled.

He rounds the bed, and unease twists into full blown worry when he sees the way Scar is shaking, pupils small and breathing shallow, like he’s been running. He looks— hunted. Scared. Grian suddenly doubts he’s here to steal anything or cause trouble. He’s here hiding.

“Scar?” Grian says tentatively, crouching to eye level. “How are you doing, buddy?”

Scar looks even more panicked, if possible, his mouth opening and closing several times as if unsure what he should say — or what he’s allowed to say. Finally, Scar winces, a frustrated furrow between his eyebrows.

“…Neutral,” Scar says, a tired smile tugging at his mouth, not quite looking at him. “I mean— Good. No. Bad.”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Getting some mixed signals here, Scar.”

Scar sighs, and fidgets with something in his lap. “I’m— All of my allies are mad at me. The whole server is after me,” he says.

“Why?” Grian asks, because usually it takes a little bit longer for Scar to do something bad enough to warrant that type of server-wide behavior. Scar tilts his head forward as he sighs, and Grian realizes something else. “Why do you have a helmet on?”

Scar huffs a laugh that sounds more like a sob, and makes like he’s going to stand up, arms and legs moving in jerky, frantic movements. The feather he’d apparently been holding drifts to the floor, and Grian reaches out to grab Scar’s wrist without thinking.

“Everyone’s so concerned about the helmet,” Scar says, voice strangled and high. “It was an accident.”

“Why don’t you take it off?” Grian asks, genuinely confused, and Scar makes a noise like he’s been hit, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed, head in his shaking hands.

It’s his task, Grian thinks, dropping Scar’s wrist, brow furrowed. Something to do with his task.

“Never mind,” Grian says, and sits next to him, wings stretching behind them. “It’s fine, Scar, just— Why don’t you just sit down a minute.”

Scar jerks to his feet, stumbling with the force of the movement until he catches himself on the wall, panting. Grian makes a noise in surprise, eyes wide in confusion as he looks at the tense line of Scar’s shoulders.

“I think I feel like standing,” Scar says, hoarse with forced humor.

“…Okay,” Grian says slowly, mind spinning. “You can stand, that’s fine, too.”

Scar sits back down, breathing like he’s run a marathon, annoyance flickering in his eyes like torchlight. Grian just stares.

“Nice bed,” Scar says, like nothing strange has happened. “Very soft.”

“Thanks,” Grian says flatly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Scar just shakes his head and closes his eyes, still breathing much too fast, hands fisted in the blanket they’re sitting on.

“Alright,” Grian says, letting himself relax a little bit, and he lays a hand on Scar’s arm. “Just breathe, Scar. It’s fine.”

A beat passes.

Scar stops breathing.

Grian looks over, questioning, and is met with eyes more panicked than Grian has ever seen before. Scar’s face is pale and his eyes are wide and terrified, a hand now raised up to his throat and starting to claw at the skin there. He is utterly silent, mouth opening and closing as he struggles, and Grian feels his own chest tighten, his own breathing quicken. He reaches for Scar with both hands, grabbing at him desperately as he tries to figure out what’s going on.

“Scar, breathe!” Grian shouts, but Scar only shakes his head violently and grabs right back at him, like he’s searching for support.

His task, what’s his task? Grian dives wildly into his memory for any clues, trying to make sense of the strange behavior from the past few minutes.

All at once, it hits him.

He’d asked Scar to sit, and he had stood. He had told Scar to stand, and he had sat. He had asked Scar to breathe, and he had stopped. It’s almost too obvious, looking back.

“Scar!” Grian shouts, panic forcing his voice louder. He ducks his head to meet Scar’s wet eyes with his own. “Scar, don’t breathe.”

Scar gasps and coughs, collapsing forward into Grian’s shoulder as he takes in greedy lungfuls of air, chest heaving and stuttering. A low whine of pain builds in Scar’s throat, and Grian just sits there and holds him, one hand on the back of his neck and one on his back. It’s hard to tell which one of them is shaking, but he suspects it’s probably both.

“I’m sorry,” Grian says, quieter now. “I’m sorry, Scar. I didn’t know.”

“…That’s kind of the point,” Scar says roughly, and coughs again. “Secret.”

Grian just sighs, and for a few minutes they sit there and breathe in the waning light.

“They keep telling me to take the helmet off,” Scar says, sounding distant and drained.

Grian feels a stab of sympathy and unwarranted anger. The others didn’t know, either. “Don’t,” Grian says. “Don’t take it off.”

A moment passes, and Scar reaches up with trembling hands to remove the helmet from his head. It makes a dull clanking sound when he drops it to the floor. Grian runs a comforting hand through his sweaty hair, and a bit of weight seems to leave Scar’s shoulders.

Fighting the pull of the tasks is difficult. If Scar had been able to focus enough, maybe he could have fought the impulse to stop breathing. Actively suffocating tended to make concentrating hard, though. He hadn’t had a chance. Not really.

“I’m going to fail this one,” Scar says, resigned.

“Maybe,” Grian allows, and thinks hard about how to word the next thing he wants to say.

“I don’t have any friends,” Grian says eventually, slowly. “I’m in the market.”

There. Nothing that could be construed as a command.

“Oh?” Scar says, muffled into Grian’s shoulder. “Me too.”

Grian hums, wings enclosing around them just a bit more. “How about that,” he says softly.

“How about that,” Scar repeats, tired but lighter.

Outside, the same stars as always hang over them, and they fall asleep without another word.

#secret life smp #secret life #grian #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #my writing #desert duo #please pretend they are not having this heartfelt interaction in a literal egg house /lhj #anyway campaigning for scar centric hurt/comfort

[minzis]

I’ll Crawl Home To Her

✦❘༻Summary: Keegan’s finally back from one of the longest deployments he’s had since you’ve been together. Since the last time you spoke the gap between you was only furthering by the day.

✦❘༻Tags: Angst turned to comfort? 1.3k words.

✦❘༻A/N: This fic is based off ‘Work Song,’ by Hozier :3

•┈୨♡୧┈•

His loud footsteps followed the slam of the front door. You rose in excitement rushing towards the door. "Keegan?" You called his name out with a bright smile on your face. It had been months since you've seen each other. A long aching 6 month deployment, you stood a few feet in-front of him as he stayed near the doorway. He wasn't smiling with his usual wide grin. He wasn't scooping you up in his arms kissing at you like his life depended on it.

He was standing there bags on the floor with a grim look on his face. What was worse then it all something told you that the sadness in his face was meant for you. As if you had done him wrong and tore him apart mercilessly. Your hand clung at your chest, shirt wrinkling between your fingers as if it would sooth the sudden pangs in your heart.

It was hurting in a way you weren’t sure you could fix, racing erratically. The pounding in your chest that was almost deafening. You weren’t sure if you should reach for him asking what had happened? What you must’ve done so damning or was this it?

He’s finally going to say it wasn’t he? You stiffened under his gaze as you broke apart, praying the the words would never come. ‘I want to break up,’ you knew it was coming the signs were continuous. Your heart couldn’t take it, you were going to say no. Beg him to stay, beg him too love you one more time. Your eyes watered at the thought of him leaving of that door and never coming back and it only furthered the pain.

You bit down on your lip harshly the taste of metallic coating your tongue as you remembered the last time you two were face to face. You yelled, he yelled, a screaming match between who could be the loudest. It was a stupid fucking argument hell you couldn’t even remember why you were ever mad at him in the first damn place.

The thought of pleading, even begging for forgiveness of the words you hardly remember saying during the argument. You knew you didn’t mean them. A lump formed in your throat as you choked back a sob. He stared at you with an expression you’ve never seen him make. You blinked back the tears that threatened to fall at any moment choosing to speak before he could.

“Don’t leave me.”

“Why didn’t you reply to my letters?”

Your voices lapped over each other both looking up at the same time surprised by the other. Both sounding like desperate pleads. “Letters?” it was a one worded question as you looked over him stepping closer. “I wrote you every week? And you never replied!?” He was shaking, his voice sounded pained as he spoke. Letters? There were letters, “you wrote me?” It was a question but one for yourself as you tried to understand the situation. Nearly feeling sick as you replayed every scenario over in your head.

“Keegan what letters?” Another question this time for him, he looked confused as if you were simply trying to joke. You shook your head almost silently confirming his thoughts, “Y/n do you know how many times I wrote you?” He was tapping at his chest almost laced with anger but it never reached you like he was angry with himself. “I poured every ounce of my being into those letters and you never replied?” Rhetorical, spoken in hints of disbelief. Desperation, his hands clinging and pulling at his own hair.

You felt a sense of relief wash over you one that hoped he was still your Keegan. Yet it was quickly formed into a panic, there were letters you never received. Days upon weeks he sat in a stillness that you were ignoring him. He never called cause he was writing instead, his assumptions that he was losing you. Just as you felt you were losing him.

“I never received any letters, I-I thought you-,” your voice crumbled once more, the thought he didn’t love you itching at your brain. The sinking feeling in your chest that never went away as you used to think over the years you’ve spent together. Laughter echoing in the memories of what us used to feel like. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” you choked out looking over his confused eyes.

“You never got any letters?” He questioned in seriousness grabbing at your hands, he looked relieved? Despite the months of pain and anguish at the aching thoughts of coming home to an empty house. A cold house without you to keep it warm. Levels of fear he had only know when it came to the thought of losing you. He let out a chuckle hoping it’d sooth his own pains. You shook your head at his question clinging your arms at his waist.

“I’m telling you I never got any letters,” you clawed at him hoping for all the things he’s heard you say he’d believe this one. That he would understand you would never purposely put him through what must’ve felt like hell. How many times he asked if he had any mail, an answer that always remained the same further crushing his beliefs of being happy with you.

“I don’t know wether to be relieved or upset,” he laughed weakly as you rested your head on his chest. The restlessness left your body as you felt a sense that you and him were going to be fine. “I thought I lost you and that you didn’t want-,” he didn’t even allow you to finish the sentence cutting you off his hands moving too your face.

The warmth of his hands soaking through as they always used too. How they always should be, “Y/n, l’ve never love someone as much as I love you." His voice paused as it seemed he was choking back his own cries. “You are who I live and breath for, the person who keeps my heart beating so don’t you ever dare think that I could ever stop loving you,” you sniffled in repose unable to stop the tears any longer. His hands pulled at yours placing it over his heart. “You feel that? It’s yours, all yours and it will only ever be yours. I will never be capable of loving someone that isn’t you.” His heart raced underneath your palm as your cries turned into sobs.

“I love you more than words will ever describe,” your voice cracked and splintered as the words poured out from you. “And it frightens me Keegan,” your heart whispered sitting open on a platter coated in prays he wouldn’t drop it. Wishes that he’d only ever love you and you alone for the rest of your lives.

The man who you wanted to grow old with, each grey hairs showing the years you’ve spent together. How could you ever dare to think he didn’t love you? As if he’d ever give up on being with you. He kissed the top of your forehead, his fingers wiping at your tears. He was trembling as he held you, his chin resting up on top of your head. Scared is what he had been all them months, scared of loosing the last thing he’d ever care for more than himself.

“I love you,” he repeated once more to make sure you heard, that you knew. You could only cry harder with this shaking feeling it was suddenly going to up and disappear. “Promise, I need you to promise me you’ll always come back through that door,” your fingers dug at the edges of his jacket in fear he’d still change his mind. “Always and forever,” he whispered.

#keegan p russ #keegan russ x reader #cod keegan #keegan x reader #keegan angst #angst with a happy ending #cod x reader #call of duty keegan #angst to comfort #bruh my head hurts literally send help #minzis suga

[starrystevie]

as if they belong there, because they do, steve's hands will always cradle eddie's face when they kiss. it feels all too natural how he guides his hands up and lets his fingers brush over eddie's cheeks before finding a home on his jaw line. his hands might not be the biggest, but they can hold him, hold his universe between his palms. they're big enough to have his pinkie brush over the veins in his neck to feel eddie's heartbeat picking up, big enough to scratch his nails over his scalp and feel the way he shudders against him.

keeping his hands on the sides of eddie's face lets steve pull back and look at eddie whenever he pleases, like when he can feel the heat flooding the cheeks under his palms or when eddie smiles into the kiss and he feels the joy of it against his fingers. he can watch eddie's eyes flutter open, watch as they come back into focus only to get a little crossed trying to look at steve's lips. with his thumbs stroking his cheekbones and his fingers tangling in curls, steve can pull eddie back down to him when he can't take it anymore and push their lovesick smiles together.

it's not about control, never has been, not when he's holding a wildfire in his hands. it's about connection, it's about what he thought he could never have the chance to grasp onto real and there and solid under his fingertips. it's about feeling what eddie feels and following where eddie wants to go and knowing that he can drop his hands to curl over his shoulders to bring him in closer and closer until their breaths and heartbeats and worlds feel like one.

as if they belong there, because they do, eddie's hands will always curl around steve's waist when they kiss. he lets steve guide him where he wants him but eddie is the one to ground them, holding tight to the soft sides. his fingers need to stay busy and drum over steve's waist like he's an instrument of his own that eddie's learning how to master. he lets his hands pull their bodies close, close, closer until there isn't space between them, pressed one against the other like one entity.

eddie particularly likes steve's left side, where his scarring was worse after the bites, and how the bumps under his fingertips make steve shudder as he runs his hands over it. it's their common thread, their red string of fate, their missing pieces from an unsolvable puzzle, the scars that they share. feeling them against his palms, under his fingers reminds him that they're alive, they made it and they have each other. keeping his hands on steve's waist, he can feel him breathing his very much alive and there breaths. every stuttering gasp and sharp inhale and whimpering exhale are music of a different kind under his hands.

it's not about owning him, like he's just another piece of eddie's ever growing orchestra for him to use as he pleases. it's about knowing what makes steve tick, it's about knowing what he likes and doesn't like and having the the way he moves underneath him in approval as his evidence. it's about holding steve where he's vulnerable, about holding him where his own hands replaced bandages and cleaned off antiseptic and placed featherlight touches so as not to hurt the only person he could ever let himself fall for.

it's about having the most precious thing in your grasp and knowing how to keep it safe, keep it warm. it's about feeling like your hands can do good when they've caused pain and damage in the name of fear. it's about steve and eddie, being the only thing to hold each other together when they're afraid of everything else falling apart.

#yeah... this literally was going to be two paragraphs what the actual fuck happened #oh yall wanted some steddie fluff? here take it #does bee know how to use commas in a grammatically correct way? the world may never know #steddie #steddie headcanon #my writing #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #steddie fluff #steddie hurt/comfort

[idk-bruh-20]

Irondad fic ideas #129

In an AU where everything is the same except Tony survived the snap in Endgame, MJ and Ned are both very aware that something is up with their memories. Huge, overlapping chunks of their lives are gone. And Spider-Man has something to do with it.

The only public figure Spider-Man has ever been closely associated with is Tony Stark. In need of answers, and not the types to just let something like this go, the kids hack and heist their way somehow onto Tony Stark's secret lake house property. It's weird that no alarms go off when they get close, but they manage it. They're about to knock, when Tony Stark, savior of the universe, opens the door.

He does not look great. Aside from the general post-battle healing and the fact that they have literally caught him at home, there's just something...off. It doesn't take long for them to realize that it's the same thing that's off with them, too.

Something important has been taken from all of their lives. Someone.

After Tony calms down from his initial freak-out, MJ and Ned (though mostly MJ) manage to convince him pretty quickly. The fact that FRIDAY never alarmed because they're in her system already is a huge point to their side. 

And, the fact that he agrees with them. He survived the battle, everything should be fine. But something is so, very wrong. He's grieving someone he doesn't even know.

So, a new team is born. A trio united to find their shared missing person, the eraser mark in their memories none of them can bear to lose, all for different reasons.

They don't have much to go on, but Tony agrees with them on one thing: Spider-Man is involved somehow. And that's a good place to start.

#irondad fic ideas #banging pots and pans: hurt/COMFORT fic hurt/COMFORT fic dON'T FORGET THE COMFORT #peter needs hugs in so many different categories #best friend hugs gf hugs and dad hugs are literally the bare minimum required for my soul #irondad and spiderson #nwh fix-it #peter parker #tony stark #michelle jones #ned leeds #spideychelle #ironfam #just imagine that ned and mj rock up to the stark cabin during their winter break #like they tell their families they're going camping or smth and end up spending an entire two weeks of frantic holidays w The Stark Family #even better when they all get their memories back and that family is finally COMPLETE #and then when it's time to go back to the city #ned is just like: #flash will NEVER believe us #irondad fic idea #spider-man no way home #additional clues that mj happens to notice in Tony Stark's house: #a teenage boy's BEDROOM. a desk in stark's private lab labeled The Kid's. #btw tony & mj are two sides of the same fake stone cold bitch #if either of them were going to crack open the emotions in front of strangers those strangers would be each other #just something to think about #tony: you loved him. the person we're looking for is your boyfriend #mj: the person we're looking for is your son #queueueueue

[starry-bi-sky]

more cfau miscellaneous things because Childhood Friends Danny and Jason have my head and heart always and I need to finish rewriting chapter two dammit (and redo the half-finished chapter 4 because its just Not The Vibes). i'm almost through I need to get through the graveyard scene. (i just stubbornly refuse to have it be shorter than the original chapter and thats the little death. that is the mind killer.)

Danny and jason’s ghost forms both smell faintly like burnt flesh and cigarettes. However, Jason has a more smokey smell while Danny’s smells almost,,, electrical? In a sense? Like he just straight up smells like burnt flesh and sulphur while Jason smells like someone put him in a smoker first.

It’s very much an unpleasant smell but Danny finds an odd comfort in it just as much as he finds a comfort in the smell of nicotine.

(Jason post-revival smells burnt flesh once and is immediately offput by the fact that it brings him an instinctive comfort. He doesn’t realize its because it reminds him of Danny, and is uncomfortable by it.)

-

In an au of an au, Danny’s altercation with Rath ends with Rath regaining enough of his sanity to snap out of the grieving state and ends with him breaking down. Instead of being souped and imprisoned, Rath, who is permanently 14, decides to Move On into the unknown. He’s exhausted, heartbroken, and tired.

(Is this influenced heavily by the ParaNorman scene where he talks to Agatha and helps her move on? Yes. But it doesn’t fit with the Original Storyline so im shoving it into an Au of an Au.)

Rath tells Danny that Jason lied to them (which he genuinely believes), and that he’s tired of waiting/looking for him/grieving. Jason is gone. He isn’t coming back, he abandoned them. And he wants his mom and dad, and his sister, and his friends. And he’s ready to join them.

He leads Danny out to Gotham, which other than Amity Park might’ve been the only city left untouched due to Rath’s own mental block on the place. They go out to the park he and Jason used to frequent or up to one of crime alley’s rooftops, and there Rath lies down and goes to sleep. Only to never wake up again, materializing into nothing as his soul moves on.

Before Rath leaves, he forces Danny to promise him that he’ll only wait for Jason for ten years. After that if he doesn’t find him, or if Jason doesn’t show, then Danny has to move on. Whether that be like how Rath does, or if its inly mentally/emotionally, doesn’t matter. He has to move on. Don’t wait for him. Don’t waste his time any more.

(“Oh, and if you find him, kick his ass for me.”)

Danny reluctantly agrees, and Rath lies down. Danny sings to him as he falls asleep.

(Angsty points if the vigilantes including Red Hood caught wind of their presence and were silently watching from the shadows. Rath might know they’re there, but Danny’s too focused on Rath to notice.)

(If only so that Red Hood realizes that this is what happened to Danny, and that Danny is gone before he can make things right. The tragedy, folks. The angst. The initial realization that Danny was Rath, and then also that Danny was dead and has been dead for years, and that before he moved on, he moved on believing that Jason abandoned him.)

(like i said it doesn't fit in the original timeline/storyline hence why its an au of an au and isn't nearly a fleshed out, but i was largely just focusing on the tragedy of Rath moving on and Jason being alive to see it and realize just who Rath is.)

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Just like how the Lazarus pits shot Jason's twiggy 4'6-5'4 (depending on what you find) feet tall and 86lb ass up like a tree an essentially fixed his malnutrition, the portal did the same thing for Danny.

(granted i forgot about malnutrition and danny's likely stunted growth at first -- his family lived in crime alley and despite both his parents working, I don't think they had enough food all the time. He probably wasn't as badly malnourished as Jason was, but he wasn't healthy either.)

Granted his ghost in its "natural" state (14) is short, and his growth spurts were slow at first, it did result in him reaching his dad's height. There were points where it just happened overnight, like a baby. He went to bed one night 5’6 and woke up the next day 5’10.

Jazz is shorter than him. Although I have't decided if she's even liminal at all (and if she is, it didn't cure everything because she would have also suffered childhood malnutrition, and since in au canon their parents didn't get their hands on physical ectoplasm until after they got to Amity Park. So the exposure is less.)

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Danny's voice absolutely sounds like canon Dan's. It kinda just dropped one day when he was 16-17 and never went back up. Sam and Tucker sometimes ask him to just talk about anything because they find his voice soothing.

I'm not sure yet how Danny would feel about it at first considering Rath, but I imagine that Rath, when he did speak, would have had a quieter and scratchier/weaker voice considering he's spent the last decade shrieking and crying.

(and i suppose technically that shouldn't have any effect on his throat considering he's a ghost and idk if that would actually affect him, but i like the idea so im keeping it)

In the beginning you could hear him from a mile away by the sound of his loud, echoing wails, but ten years later you can only really hear him by the soft, shuddering sobs he makes. Like he's gasping for air that isn't there. The future is full of very quiet survivors.

And it's much easier to speak when you pitch your voice upwards (especially when whispering/speaking quietly) so he might've spoken in a higher, airy pitch in order to be heard. So Danny might actually find a comfort in having a lower voice.

#tw mentions of gore #cw gore #i suppose this counts as gore #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #dpxdc crossover #childhood friends au #cfau #really leaning into the idea of rath just being a horror. the horrors! i am delighted in the horrors! #im having fun with it #i swear to god turning 19 turned a switch on in my brain because i am much more comfortable with gore and heavy injury now than i was l #literally a year ago. the urge to write about some of danny's most horrific injuries in his fights is STRONG #like the hORRORS folks. *th horrors*. i dont think i'll ever write a dissection fic because that icks me out but the idea that danny's had #to stitch up his own throat because it got slit in a fight nd he cant shift back to human until he's done because his ghost will survive bu #his body wont #the idea that he's been impaled multiple times before and it hurts each fucking time but he still gets up and hurls the hurt right back in #equal measure. because that's how you wanna play? okay. lets play. he's 14 and his best friend is dead. he can play. #and the idea that all ghosts have 'corpse' forms where their ghosts look exactly like how they died. and danny is utterly unrecognizable #jazz being liminal or not just isnt important to me because she's barely gonna show up in the story anyways #same reason why i hardly use the headcanon that ellie becomes danny's daughter because what use is she to me like that? she'll hardly have #an impact on the story and i refuse to treat characters like props. if they can't help progress the story then they aren't included